#she reminds me of my own Maureen I love her a lot she’s so evil she just chooses not to be & I adore her for that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

drfate · 4 years

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Dr. Fate: In the Dungeon of the Damned

An old school Dr. Fate novel by Rex F Dorgan

Chapter 1 – Salem Tower

The tall blond man stepped from the train onto the platform at Salem Station. It was only 5 p.m., but the sun had already moved behind the train-and-bus depot building, leaving the platform and track in shade. He glanced down the track at the tunnel from which he had just emerged, and then began the climb up the stairs, to street level, with the mob of commuters and tourists departing the train with him. It occurred to him that much of his life had been spent on journeys through various underworlds followed by ascents back into the light. He smiled and laughed quietly at himself; he really needed to curb his habit of finding portentous metaphors in every little activity.

He normally used much faster modes of transport, but today he felt like taking things at a slower, more human pace, especially after all the inhuman things he had witnessed recently while working on site in Iraq. He was returning home now, having stopped first to deliver a guest lecture about this expedition in the city of his birth – Cambridge, where he had spoken before a packed room at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology at Harvard. He now began the final, happiest part of his journey, back among the familiar vistas of his adopted hometown of many years, Salem, Massachusetts.

“Witch-haunted” Salem, as it was so often called, an epithet confirmed commercially, and somewhat comically, as he strolled down Washington Street on his way home. In every direction, the town was overrun with reminders of its claim to infamy. To his right was the Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street and to his left the Salem Witch Museum off Church Street. There was the Witch House and the Gallows Hill Museum, the Witch Village and the Salem Wax Museum. There was even the Bewitched Sculpture in Lappin Park, depicting television’s favourite housewife-witch, which he spotted as he passed Essex Street.

But then he came to Front Street, which led to Charles Street and the Witch Trials Memorial, and the true, sombre reality of the town’s supernatural past asserted itself. If they only knew, the man thought to himself with morbid amusement as he glanced back toward the ridiculous Bewitched statue, if they only knew. Salem had in fact truly been haunted by dark witchcraft in its colonial past (and since), but it was not the work of the young women who had been accused, tried, and executed at the Witch Trials, but by some of the very men who had sat in judgment of them. Isn’t it always the case, the man thought to himself, that great evil resorts to even greater evil – the greatest evil – when it sacrifices innocents to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of its own dark deeds?

His grim reverie was broken by someone shouting at him.

“Kent Nelson!” A very old man teetered on a walker directly in front of the tall blond man, pointing at him and accosting him loudly.

“Yes?” the tall blond man asked, a little confused. The old man seemed vaguely familiar.

“You’re the spitting image! Of him. Kent Nelson, that is. Except for the beard, of course. Kent Nelson was a clean-cut man, he was. A gentleman.”

Kent Nelson understood now.

“My grandfather. I believe you’re thinking of my grandfather. ‘Kent Nelson’ is my name as well. I’m named for him, as was my father. Dad just never went by ‘Junior,’ and I don’t go by ‘the Third.’”

“Why, it’s like looking back in time when I look at you Mr Nelson! Or is it Dr Nelson, like him?”

Kent Nelson smiled. “Well, technically, I’m a doctor, too – but only a simple Ph.D. in Archaeology. Not a medical doctor like him. Although he had a Ph.D. in Archaeology, as well – and Physics, too!”

“Oh, I recall all about the archaeology! He was like Indiana Jones, he was! Better! The real McCoy. He was always in that bomber jacket and those khaki desert pants when we saw him walking these streets, and then later after the war always so smartly dressed, being a doctor and all, in his dark blue suit. Like the one you’re wearing now. And with a gold tie. Like yours. And his wife, what a beauty! We were all so smitten, you know, all us boys. What a face! And what a body!”

Kent Nelson smiled more broadly. “Yes, she was quite a looker, ol’ grandma. People tell me she was as pretty as Maureen O’Hara – and twice as feisty!” He and the old man shared a laugh.

“And you still do the digs? Like your gramps? Looking for pyramids and the like?”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve only just returned to the states on a mission in Northern Iraq, evaluating the damage done to the Ezida Temple – the Temple of Nabu – and the Nergal Gate – by ISIS. And trying to help the National Museum recover precious antiquities that were stolen in the wars from whatever black marketeers and crooked billionaires they made their way to.”

“Iraq? Worse than ever, I reckon?” the old man asked, arching an eyebrow in a manner that indicated a kind of general scepticism toward every story he’d heard about the place for the last two decades.

“Yes, in some ways worse than ever, sadly. The birthplace of Western civilization, and we’ve lost so much so quickly. The destruction of the Northwest Temple, the ‘mermen’ statues, much of Nimrud in fact…”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the old man grumbled.

“I flew into Logan and stayed in Boston for the night, and gave a talk at Harvard this afternoon to please my benefactors. A TED Talk, very au courant, I’m told. You’ve heard of them?”

The old man shrugged. Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, I hadn’t either before this one. My publicist,” he said, as if that explained everything. And it apparently did; the old man nodded knowingly. “But now I’m finally heading home – and I can’t wait to get there. It’s been too long!”

“Well I won’t keep you, then,” the old man said, shifting his walker to clear a path forward for the doctor. “No doubt you got a pretty wife of your own to run home to. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Mr – Dr – Nelson.”

“And it was a pleasure to meet you too, Mr...?”

“Moore. J.D. Moore.”

“A pleasure, Mr Moore.” Kent nodded his head in a slight bow toward the man and continued on his way. He remembered Mr Moore, all right. Or Little Jimmy Moore, as he had been called back then.

At Norman Street he turned right to head south to Margin Street, which led to Jefferson Avenue and the more prosaic part of his journey. Off the beaten tourist path, with architecture less enduring and much less quaint, he now entered a part of town that grew increasingly quotidian the farther south he travelled. He passed the Post Office, which sported a “ye olde” colonial brick façade on its otherwise prefab form, and then the police station, the red brick of which was even more utilitarian and bland. He passed parking lots and auto parts stores, and a nest of large, boxy buildings constructed primarily of sheet aluminium, which gave the impression of being the office-building equivalent of a mobile home park. He proceeded into an area where Jefferson Avenue was lined with old homes, some of which had businesses operating out of them. He stopped at one of these, a quaint little flower shop with the name “Rose Red and Snow Lily” hand-painted in a flowing script on a wooden sign above the porch.

He had known the shop’s proprietress, Eliza Grey, since the time he had first arrived in Salem, which seemed as if it were only yesterday – while at the same time, it seemed as if their acquaintance had spanned centuries. He supposed both impressions were true; he knew that for Lady Grey, as he called her with an odd mix of irony and respect and affection, it had seemed forever. Time, and the perception of it, was as personally relative as it was fleetingly elusive, even for him.

No sooner had the little bell atop the door jingled upon his entrance than he was greeted by a voice that was at once shrill and melodious, upper-crust British mixed with the sharp, flat edges acquired from too many years in Boston, “Kent Nelson! What a plez-zhah!” The old woman rushed over to him and hugged him, her head only reaching his belly. She released him and looked up, smiling. “And how is that lovely wife of yours?” she asked.

“When last we spoke, she was doing very well, thank you. But that was last night on a sketchy WhatsApp connection and we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I’m on my way back home now. In fact, she’s why I stopped in.”

“Well of course she is, dear! Who else would you ever be buying flowers for?”

“Oh, the occasional funeral – maybe my own if I don’t get moving a little faster,” Nelson quipped.

“Well, then – the usual?”

“You say that like I order them every day.”

“Every time I see you.”

“But what is that – every five years?”

“Three, four – but who’s counting?”

“Yes, two dozen of the Rosa Richardii.”

“The Rosa Sancta – the Holy Rose of Abyssinia?”

“The Holy Rose of the ancient Egyptians, too.”

“Oh, yes, that’s where you two met, isn’t it? Alexandria?”

Nelson smiled. “As well you know, Lady Grey.”

“And you only want two dozen? I hear that when you first met her, you bought out a vendor’s entire market stall and had her hotel room stuffed so full of them she couldn’t move without knocking over a bouquet. You might have asphyxiated her with perfume blooms.”

“I have no idea where you might have heard such a ridiculous slander, Lady Grey,” Nelson laughed.

“Oh, I heard it from the most trusted source, Dr Nelson, the beautiful woman herself.”

“Yes, only two dozen. I learned my lesson not to overdo my displays of affection. With flowers, anyway.”

The old woman laughed and pelted him in the chest with a large delphinium she had been holding. “You are ever a character, Dr Nelson,” she said as she assembled a pile of flowers from two different refrigerated cases.

“As are you, Lady Grey.”

The old woman placed the flowers on the counter, pecked daintily at her register, and announced a price that was clearly too low for the rare flowers that Nelson had picked up and organized into a bundle appropriate for carrying another mile or so.

He tossed a $100 bill on the counter and said, as he headed toward the door, “Thanks, Lady Grey. Wonderful seeing you again.”

“Stop by any time, Dr Nelson,” she said. “Always a plez-zhah dealing with a gentleman. And such a wicked handsome gentleman,” she added with an exaggerated South Boston accent, accompanied by a playful wink.

He laughed and turned to leave the store and saw his face reflected in the glass window of the shop door. He’d allowed crow’s feet to form at the corners of his deep blue eyes, and, mixed in with the gold that the desert sun had spun in his straw-coloured hair, there were here and there strands of silver, but he realized he had hardly changed in all the time Lady Grey had known him. Not bad for a man of 112, he thought to himself.

Before long, he had come to a collection of four gambrel-roofed houses, two red, one blue, and one white, that struck him as a playful bit of coincidental Americana, and which served as a sign that the last leg of his journey lay before him. He turned onto Willson Street and followed it until it led to the entrance to the Highland Park golf course – or, as the purposely anachronistic green and gold wooden sign referred to it, “Olde Salem Greens.” This park was part of the larger green space known as Salem Woods, where his home was located.

As the sun started to set, he crossed the parking lot to a little asphalt trail that led into the park, then crossed the golf course until it ended and the trees began, where he picked up a narrow dirt hiking trail that continued on into the woods. As he walked through the remaining forest of an area once sacred to Native Americans, he passed what he had long known to be three sites of intense spiritual energy. Powerful guardians still watched over this patch of woodland from the higher planes, and they bowed, and the birch trees that sensed their presence likewise bowed, as be passed.

At last he came to the base of Monument Hill, the tallest point in the woods. From the top of this hill you could reliably see the smokestacks of the power plant in Salem to the northeast, but on a clear day looking due east you could see over Swampscott all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

At the top of the hill there had once been an observation tower that had belonged to the Forestry Service and then to the local Boy Scouts. The tower had been mostly demolished by 1933, at which point a new owner had purchased the hill, and the land around it, from the town and built a large, two-tiered granite tower that one local wag had likened to a rook from God’s chess board. The tower had no windows and no doors; its builder, one Kent Nelson, had declared that it was not to be inhabited but was instead merely a monument to the town and to luminaries such as Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau, who had all reputedly derived spiritual sustenance, at one time or other in their lives, from visits to these woods. The town was perfectly fine with this construction, since the remains of the Boy Scout tower had been an eyesore, and this seemed to be a perfectly satisfactory memorial, along the lines of the obelisks that city fathers were forever erecting in plazas and traffic circles, but with a Northern European flavour that had greater appeal for the WASP city fathers of that era.

But whether because of or in spite of this tower’s vague function, the locals set about immediately creating legends about the tower and its alleged inhabitants. Ghosts, witches, the ghosts of witches, Mothman, aliens, vampires - even Bigfoot - had all allegedly been seen coming and going from this tower, which apparently could only be accessed by beings capable of passing through its walls as if they were mist.

Kent Nelson grinned and let out a quiet, satisfied sigh of excitement at seeing his home, then bounded up the hill until he stood by the tower wall that faced north, hidden from the view of the condos to the south and west of the woods. He raised his hand and touched the cool granite blocks of the tower wall, the tower he had built with his own hands, with his own craft. And then he walked right through the wall as if it were nothing more than mist.

The world inside Salem Tower was not a place the untrained human mind could easily apprehend, much less comprehend. Here the laws of physics did not strictly apply. As in Faerie, the four dimensions of spacetime, and the rules governing it, were violated here in ways that could be literally maddening. But unlike Faerie, which grew more disturbing the longer one lingered there, the interior of Salem Tower was ordered, logical even, something a mere human could adjust to, given time (or a magical facsimile thereof) and an easy-going imagination. While its bowels were vast, covering an area that seemed enormous at first glance and never-ending to one attempting to traverse it, and while its many staircases and rooms were set at Escehrian odds with one another in defiance of gravity and three-dimensional causality, it still had a lived-in humanity about it that made it, over time, knowable and even comfortable to those who dwelt there. Bookcases filled with ancient volumes, odd but beautiful artworks and artifacts stood in hallways or sat on tabletops, Persian rugs of great size and greater value (but none of them – any longer – capable of flight) covered floors of ancient hand-hewn oak, maple, and ash, and stone archways and hallways were so captivatingly constructed that one could walk through them for hours and never feel fatigued, or see the same place twice. This fantastical homescape was where Kent Nelson and his beloved wife Inza Cramer had lived the better part of their lives.

But entering Salem Tower now, this is not what Kent Nelson saw.

He saw, instead, a scene that reminded him of the Coventry Blitz: splintered walls, broken staircases, carpets ripped to shreds and stained with something resembling viscous bloody ink that seemed to be spreading even now before his eyes, the loose leaves of books scattered everywhere, their gutted hardcover carcasses lying spread apart like dead soldiers on a field of slaughter. Statuettes and ancient musical instruments lay in pieces on the tables they had rested on, or on the floors they had fallen on.

And in his right hand, two dozen roses drooped, withered, shrivelled, turned a sickening ashen grey, and then flaked into dust before his eyes.

But while all this registered, none of it mattered. Only one concern came to mind.

“Inza!”

He rushed from room to room with inhuman speed. “Inza!” Up and down broken staircases. In and out of crumbling archways. In every room, it was the same. Devastation. Desolation. And no Inza. He knew without a doubt that whatever had come here, whatever had worked its evil will here, had made her a captive pawn in its deadly game.

He fell to one knee, head in one hand. He felt the closest thing to panic he had felt in years. It was not that his many years labouring in the supernatural had rendered him any less a natural being, or that his many journeys among the superhuman, the inhuman, the dead, the demonic, the angelic, and even the godly had left him in some way less capable of emotion. Or that his own superhuman powers rendered him any less human at his core. It was simply that his many years of training had taught him discipline and calm in the face of adversity, and his experience and triumphs had given him confidence facing the most powerful of foes. But being attacked like this in his own home, in his heretofore impregnable fortress, and to have had the one most dear to him apparently abducted, held hostage, or, the unthinkable, dead – this shook him as nothing in many years had. And… there was something else. A dark grey shadowy pall hung over everything – less substantial than mist, almost as if a kind of veil had been cast over his vision, or a scentless smoke were choking the very light. It seemed to instil in him – even in him! He considered, amazed – a kind of irrational fear. It reminded him of what the ancient Sumerians had called puluhtu, an almost physical dread of the divine, the twisted opposite of ni, the awe one experienced in the presence of melammu, the aura or garment making manifest the glory of a god.

“No! It can’t be!” he said to himself, but the thought caused him to spring up and race to his watchtower room, from which twelve “windows” – mystical mirrors, in fact - looked out onto various planes of existence from the windowless tower. As he expected, these were all cracked and filled with a hideous grey film. In the centre of the room, in a pile of shattered glass below the wrought-iron stand where it had nested in its centuries-old circular oak frame, was the remains of the Eye of Merlin, an orb that had been the scrying glass of the famous magician, given as a gift to his friend and peer after the two had defeated the chthonic demon trio of Abnegazar, Rath, and Ghast. What power on Earth was great enough to destroy this supremely potent magical engine? He gestured to the pile of broken glass and willed an unspoken command at the glistening shards. A flash of golden light, a radiance halfway between a blast of lightning and the glow of a saint’s halo, flew from his fingertips to the pile of glittery rubble. The light subsided; the pile of rubble remained.

Once again, he made the mystic healing gesture, but more forcefully this time, exerting himself with such grim determination that every muscle in his body tensed and strained. The pieces of glass slowly, ever so slowly, began to rise and reassemble into the shape of a crystal globe, but he could see black fracture lines where the shards joined, and realized that these dark lines represented a destructive force repelling the shards from each other, preventing an undoing of the globe’s destruction. He struggled with this force for several minutes, contesting with it, his raw will against this nameless, mindless force. At last the black lines faded and the orb seemed to settle into a restoration of its whole, intact state. Nelson let out a long sigh of relief. But no sooner had he done so than the black lines swiftly reappeared, seemed to quickly expand, and the globe shattered into a pile of shiny debris once more.

Nelson let out an angry epithet, then cast a summoning spell. His form was quickly enveloped in golden light until it became a blinding blur. When the light slowly faded, in Nelson’s place stood a form clothed in a golden cloak, gauntlets, boots; a blue body suit covering his body from his torso to his legs; a golden amulet on his chest, and on his head a golden helmet. This quiet, private man now stood revealed as a figure known around the world – and on many other worlds, as well – as the master mage and supreme sorcerer, Doctor Fate.

Something had declared war on him, and likely had also declared war on the entire world. Doctor Fate would answer it.

He gestured toward the broken globe again, but this time with his left hand; his right hand pressed the golden jewel set in the centre of the golden metallic disk on his chest: the Amulet of Anutu. The power of the greatest of the ancient gods, Anu, the Creator of All, the Lord of Heaven, transmitted through the sigil of his scion, Utu, god of the sun. He rarely used the amulet’s power; it was too great, too unwieldy for anything but the most extreme situation. But he knew such an occasion was upon him now. Power flowed into him from the wellsprings of creation itself, until he knew he could barely contain it. Dropping his right hand to his side, he expelled the tremendous force from himself through his outstretched left arm.

The tower shook and for a split second all the familiar reality of it seemed to blink into something else entirely; for a split second, time and space, even such as they were in the Salem Tower, were rendered entirely irrelevant. Everything was something entirely other. But then reality reasserted itself, as did the Eye of Merlin, for when Kent Nelson – Doctor Fate – had recovered his sense of reality, the globe was fully restored. Holding his breath for a few seconds, he let out a sigh of relief. The restoration spell held; the dark force had been completely expelled.

But at such a cost. Despite possessing superhuman strength and stamina, he was exhausted. But there was no time to rest. Inza’s life was at stake. Certainly, he knew that some unknown enemy was setting a trap, that he was the prey and she was the bait. But that hardly mattered. He would rescue Inza or, immortal or not, perish trying.

Taking a deep breath and concentrating, he muttered an invocation to the spirit of the Annunaki and a supplication to Anu, to Enlil and Enki, and to his former mentor, Nabu. Give me strength, and more, give me wisdom, he spoke in the ancient, forgotten, forbidden tongue of the original Ubaidian sorcerers. He then laid his palm over the Eye of Merlin and exerted his will upon the orb, directing it to locate Inza.

The globe seemed to come alive with a golden light that radiated from it as if it were a warm electric bulb, but this glow dimmed and lost its lustre until it was a smoggy yellow-grey, and inside the scrying glass grey mists swirled and grew darker, until they appeared to form a grim shape.

The shape became the shadow of a misshapen head, and then in an instant it resolved into a hideous face, one that clearly had once been human long ago, but had become so corrupted as to appear demonic. It was completed bald, and its pale, bluish-grey skin appeared to be ravaged by some disease that had left it pocked and mottled with dark pits and patches. Its ears were of differing sizes; one seemed to have been partially eaten. Its teeth were long and yellowish and appeared to have been purposely filed to points; its tongue was long and appeared to have been similarly altered by surgical means: it was forked, like that of a snake.

But the most disturbing aspect of this creature’s face was its eyes: the whites were a cirrhotic snot-yellow, the irises a chthonic fiery red.

It couldn’t be, Fate muttered to himself. The demonic face laughed as if to answer, But it is!

“Nergal!” Fate exclaimed. The word sounded half curse, half question. The creature laughed again.

“What have you done with Inza?” the distraught sorcerer demanded.

The face grinned widely, exposing all the pointed yellow spikes in its hideous mouth., then turned and gestured to the form of a woman, floating in the middle of the great hall of a stone temple. The image grew closer to him until he could see that it was Inza, stiff as a board, pale white, and dressed in sombre sheer black silks with a grey rose and a grey viper perched on her breast – in the manner of ritual sacrifice to a dark god.

“NO!” Fate shouted. But then the face appeared again. Its mocking laughter filled the orb, and evil emanated from it like the wicked gravity of a black hole, depleting all heavenly light in its vicinity. The black veins again appeared in the orb, and it threatened to shatter, but it held firm. A look of surprise appeared briefly on the hideous face, but then it just smiled again, and pointed again to the floating form of Inza. Then the view inside the globe seemed to scan the room, so that Fate would be certain where his beloved was being held captive. But he had known that room from the first second the face had ceased to fill up the entire orb. It had once been home to him, after all.

Then the face vanished completely, the darkness drained from the globe, and it was once again no more than a large crystal ball.

Fate shuddered. He was shaken by unreasoning fear, as if under the spell of the fear-inducing Mask of Medusa. He had faced some of the most powerful beings in the cosmos – Darkseid, the Anti-Monitor, Mordru, even the Spectre – and never felt fear like this. He knew it must be the primal power of the creature’s aura, powerful enough to induce extreme puluhtu, even in him. And for the first time in his life, Nelson – Fate – experienced the sensation of his life flashing before his eyes, his life compressed into an infinitely faceted, self-reflective crystal. Under pressure like the grip of a collapsing star, he saw his life reduced to an atom of time upon staring into the face of the god of death.

#drfate #doctor fate #dr fate #dc comics #fantasy #fiction #comics #superhero #supreme sorcerer #kent nelson #inza cramer #nabu #justice league #justice society #jla #jsa

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breanime · 5 years

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Heartworm (Part One)

Guess who got her internet baaccccck! This gal! So @songtoyou sent me this request and I IMMEDIATELY started getting ideas. This could be up to or past 5 parts, I don’t even know! It all depends if you guys like it and want more! This is kind of a soft re-imagining of season 2.

Request: How about instead of Billy going to his stupid psychiatrists place to seek refuge, he goes to the home of a girl who he was in a serious relationship with. Like, this girl is the only person Billy could ever see himself settling down with. However, once he got money, status, and power from Rawlins he pushed her to the side and eventually dropped her from his life. But once she sees the state Billy is in and how sad, scared and alone he is she wants to help him.

Part One is based on Halsey’s Without Me, particularly these lyrics:

Found you when your heart was broke I filled your cup until it overflowed Took it so far to keep you close (Keep you close) I was afraid to leave you on your own

I said I'd catch you if you fall And if they laugh, then fuck 'em all (All) And then I got you off your knees Put you right back on your feet Just so you can take advantage of me

*gif not mine* (I gotta stop using this gif lol)

You stood frozen in your living room, eyes glued on the TV. The news was saying that Billy, your Billy, was a murderous traitor and a danger to society. You watched as they showed footage of Billy’s apartment up in flames. They said he bombed it himself after killing a handful of Homeland Security agents, they also said that he hired mercenaries for his Anvil staff. The government seized his assets. He shot Curtis in the shoulder. He knew about Frank’s family. He set them up to be killed. Billy. Your Billy.

Except he wasn’t your Billy anymore; he hadn’t been your Billy for three years. You sat down on the couch, legs numb with shock, as you took in what the newscaster was saying about your ex-boyfriend, the only man you’ve ever loved. They flashed a picture of him on the screen. The caption read: “Armed and Dangerous, Do Not Approach”. The newscaster was saying something about Homeland and Frank going after Billy, but it was all starting to sound like white noise to you. Your mind said to get out of town and run until it was all over, but your heart wanted to reminisce, wanted to remind you why you even cared in the first place.

“…and I’m gonna have a Rolls Royce,” Billy said, one arm behind his head and the other wrapped around your waist, “I’m gonna drive it to meetings, rich assholes love a power play.”

You smiled up at Billy, you loved listening to his grand plans for the future. “Are you gonna be a pocket square kind of rich asshole or a ‘Maureen, hold my calls’ kind of rich asshole?”

“Mm,” Billy pulled you closer to his naked chest, “I’m gonna be a pocket square kind of asshole,” he answered, “that’s the best way to run a business.”

“Of course,” you agreed, snuggling up against him, “you’re gonna be a big shot. And I’m gonna have to make an appointment with Maureen just to see you.”

Billy tsked and put a finger on your chin, lifting your face so you were eye-to-eye. “That ain’t never gonna happen,” his dark eyes bore into yours, “I’ll always have time for you.”

You smiled and pressed your lips against his. You felt Billy’s arms tighten around you, lifting you up until you were laying on top of him. You kissed him again, slowly parting your lips, inviting his tongue into your waiting mouth. His eyes were heavy-lidded with lust when you pulled back. You rubbed your nose against his. “I love you.”

His smile made your chest heave with adoration. “I love you too, Y/N.” He kissed you again. “I promise I’m gonna make you proud one day, baby. I’m gonna get us outta this shit hole and out you somewhere nice, where you belong.”

You shrugged. Money and status meant a lot to Billy, meant success, but you were happy enough where you were. Yeah, your apartment was kind of small, and yeah, the heat stopped working every few months, but you’d lived in worst places. Besides, you had Billy. He made you so unbelievably happy; you could have lived in a cave—as long as Billy was with you, you’d be fine. “You know I’m already proud of you,” you told him, “You’ve accomplished so much already.”

“Mm,” Billy kissed the top of your head, “I can do more.” He kissed your nose. “I’m gonna get this security shit together.” He kissed your right eyelid. “I’m gonna get us a place uptown.” He kissed your left eyelid. “And I’m gonna make it so you don’t ever have to work again.” You sighed as he kissed your cheek next. “I ain’t gonna let anyone look down on us anymore.” He kissed your other cheek. “I’m gonna make you so happy, baby.” You felt yourself melt when he finally kissed you on the lips. “I’m gonna take care of us…

…I’m gonna take care of you.”

You turned the TV off, cradling the remote to your chest. You felt your breath getting shallower and casually recognized your erratic heartbeat. You didn’t know what to do. You believed the news—you weren’t sure about the details, but you knew Billy well enough to know that he would do anything for power. You had seen the change that money bought him firsthand, and you didn’t like it at all. You thought about calling Curtis, but you didn’t want to bother him. He was probably up to his neck in cops and paperwork and…Homeland Security, apparently. You wondered how it came to this. Frank was alive. Billy was a wanted man. Curtis was wounded. And you…were alone.

You spent the night on the couch, too numb and confused to get up. You dreamt of Billy and woke up shivering. You got up and made yourself a cup of coffee. Your phone was on the counter, and you frowned as you picked it up. You had missed calls from your mom, your best friend, your boss, and your sister. You had no desire to speak to any of them. You also had a call and voicemail message from an unknown number. Hitting the speaker button, you played the message.

“You’re gonna hear some things on the news.” Billy. “They’re true. I…I did all those things they say I have. By the time you get this message, I’m either gonna be on the run or dead.” It sounded like he took a breath before continuing. “I wanted to see you before I go, but…that’s not gonna happen. So just… Just know that I…” A sigh. “…I think about you all the time. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, a lot of bad choices, done a lot of shitty things, but… I only regret one thing: letting you go. I wish… I should have fought for you more. I should have…” There was some shuffling, and you thought Billy might have put the phone down for a moment. “Listen, they’re gonna say a lot of things about me, and people are gonna try to tell you that I’m heartless and evil, but I want you to remember…You loved me once. You’re the only one I could ever be honest with, the only person in this world who knows who I am. Just… Remember that. And… I’m sorry, Y/N. Goodbye.”

You stood in your kitchen and listened to Billy’s message for at least another 30 minutes. By the time you went back to the couch and turned the TV on, Billy was pronounced near-death and was being kept under constant surveillance at the hospital. Frank Castle was said to be ‘in the wind’ and Anvil was being torn down and all the profits split up. The news interviewed a medical professional about the chances of Billy making any kind of recovery. They predicted he would be dead in six months.

You turned the TV off and wept.

It had been nearly a year since everything went down with Billy. The coverage for Billy’s case had pretty much stopped after a month, and people were onto the next scandal now. Curtis had stopped by your place and told you that Frank left town. The visit had been brief, but he told you what Billy had done—confirming what you’d heard on the news—and said that his orders had come from someone named Rawlins. Rawlins, you understood, was dead. Curtis had word from Frank to tell you that he had been given a new identity by the government and was going to hit the road for a while. When you asked why he’d want you to know that, Curtis had just said: “you needed to know it was over”. You should have felt anger, or pity or sadness but… you felt nothing. You had been operating on auto-pilot, swimming in a thick fog of numbness, since Billy had been arrested. The last thing you could remember feeling, really feeling, was a deep and intense sorrow when you listened to Billy’s message. He had broken your heart, left you, and then revealed himself to be a monster and you…You were just tired.

“I don’t know what you want me to say Y/N,” Billy’s back was to you. You had barged into his office at Anvil, demanding to see him, but now that you were there… The way he was talking to you was cold and detached. His stance was rigid, his focus was on the recruits below him, not on you. This Billy—CEO Billy—was not what you had signed up for.

“I want you to say you’re sorry,” you said, “I want you to say you care.” Billy didn’t say anything. You clenched your fists. “Look at me, Billy.”

He turned. He was wearing an expensive three-piece suit and his hair was impeccably cut. His eyes, the eyes you loved, the eyes that looked at you with such care and affection, were hollow.

“What happened to you?” You asked, looking him up and down with disgust. “You never come home, you barely spend any time with me—”

“What do you want, Y/N?” He said, irritation clear in his voice. “I’m busy. I’m working. I’m trying to afford the penthouse we live in and the car you drive.”

“I bought my own car,” you reminded him, eyes narrowed as you glared at him, “And I work, too, but I make time for the people I love.”

Billy sighed, rolling his shoulders. “I told you, you don’t have to work.”

You sighed then. He was missing the point. “Billy,” you tried again, “I’m tired of this. I can’t keep being an afterthought for you. I need you.” You tried to look in his eyes, but he avoided your gaze. “I miss you.”

Billy walked over to you and put a hand on your waist. He pulled you towards him and kissed you. “I miss you, too,” his voice was husky as he moved his lips to your neck, “I know I’ve been working a lot lately, but we’re so close…”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to have a conversation, but it was hard to think of words—let alone form any—with his mouth on your skin. “Will you come home tonight?” You asked, breath short and voice heavy with lust.

“Mm hmm,” his hand slid to your ass as he kissed you again, “I’m gonna be all yours tonight.” He licked into your mouth and smiled when you moaned.

You felt his hardness pressing against your front and you deepened the kiss. “I don’t know if I can wait that long,” you whispered.

Billy chuckled and released you from his grip. You glared as you watched him walk over to his desk. He pressed a button on his phone and leaned over to speak. “Hold all my calls,” he ordered, smirking over at you, “I don’t want any calls or interruptions for the next hour.” He walked past you and you heard him lock the door behind you. His eyes were gleaming when he turned back to you and he looked like himself, like your Billy, again. His smile made your heart skip a beat. “Take your clothes off, baby. I want to spend some time with you.”

You sat up with a start. It had been months since you’d last dreamt of Billy. You looked around you and cursed under your breath. You had fallen asleep on the couch. No wonder you were off. You hadn’t been able to have a full night’s rest without sleep aids since…since Billy had left that message on your phone. If you didn’t take a pill before you went to bed, you would dream about Billy. You didn’t want to dream about him, you wanted to ignore the ache in your chest and the emptiness in your life and just… Get over it. Get over him. You felt a headache coming on, so you shuffled to the bathroom for a quick shower before bed.

Your mind kept going back to Billy as you got ready for bed; you remembered the strain in his voice in the message he left you, how he used to laugh when you stuck your cold feet on his back, the way he stared down at you as he shifted inside you, driving you wild. You could see his eyes, dark and expressive and so full of love when he looked at you, every time you closed your eyes. You gave up on sleep and went back to the couch, deciding to just spend the night watching horrible night time TV until you could get Billy out of your head.

You were finally getting into the Real Housewives marathon you had been watching when you heard a knock on your door. You glanced at your phone: it was 11 pm. Who the hell would be at your door at this time? You grabbed your phone in case you needed to call the police and stood on your tip-toes to look into the peephole. Your mouth fell open at the same time your phone hit the floor with a dull thump.

Billy Russo was standing in the hallway of your apartment. And he was covered in blood.

*************************************************************************************

I have the next two parts locked and loaded! Pleaaase comment and let me know if you want the rest. The more feedback I get, the more I update! Thanks for reading, and may Billian be with you.

BTW, I got the title from this “emotion that’s hard to describe word”: Heartworm: a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.

TAGLIST: @delicatelilyflower @doneobrien @ladyblablabla @banditthewriter @something-tofightfor @starsfragments @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @hisgirlwednesdayaddams@fictionwillneverdie @maria-beretta @sadnessxvodka @ymariejp @sunnycolors @moonlightsay @its-all-o-kay @damagelove @keyeluh @itsmylife98 @funerals-with-cake @littlemermaidprobz @teacuplotus @king4thesirens @mrsjaxtellerfan @thebabblingbook @tartelette-aux-fraises @madamrogers @charlylama @iaintnofurry @k-buggz2001 @whitewolfslittlesilverfox @drinix @elanor-of-imladris @floralpeaceofmind

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo imagine #the punisher #heartworm

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badnewtattoo · 6 years

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the gang makes paddy’s great again- thoughts.

i wrote this whole thing and then tumblr refreshed and i lost it.. this is why i use mobile. these are basically my overall thoughts and feelings on the episode with as much intelligence as i am capable of. i’ve never been one of those people who writes long analysis of iasip or anything, this is as close as we’re getting. also if you can’t tell already, i absolutely love meellisday.

-i can’t believe they all had sex with the doll... especially my boy charlie kelly i mean i expected it from mac (duh) and frank is kinda gross but... my boy, pls

-i don’t remember what i already wrote here because this is my second time doing this becauseeeee it got deleted

-there was more positive content i swear

-i liked cindy and the fact that she radiates pure evil. she was really weird, man. she was strange, i am a fan. i hope she comes up in the future here and there suggesting that they do more freaky shit and acting like a groupie for success.

-ok my biggest problem was the dialogue of this episode. there were a lot of cases of things just being straight up repeated? there was a line that dee said out loud at the dinner table and then repeated under her voice as a kind of ad-libbed chatter type thing and that was rough for a show so strong historically with its talking over each other scenes, improv, and fast dialogue. the jokes about mac banging the sex doll were ok to be repeated, i guess, but they kept making the same jokes about him with the exact same words and tone. in fact i don’t really get why they made the “mac is having sex with the doll” joke so often. since they all ended up having an orgy with it i rlly think there was a missed opportunity, they should’ve made fun of him for having sex with it after it was confirmed they all did because there could’ve been a moment of “..... wait but yall arent any better.... the” does that make sense? it does to me? like i know they did make a comment about it when dennis got back but it was a missed opportunity to not point out the irony.

-the storyline was not good. or the whole liberal tears thing was just very strange. it felt like they abandoned the show’s usual character driven aspects for the sake of driving the plot. they went with a humorous plot i guess but no jokes were made about the liberal/conservative thing from the gang so therefore it wasn’t funny? the gas scheme and the garbage schemes, for example, wouldn’t have strictly been funny on their own or excecuted by different people but they were good episodes and were funny to me because of the gang. the door to door song, the misspelled sign, the entire ridiculousness of the limo. maybe the plan was meant to be very run of the mill and unimportant because cindy was running it, like schmitty, but it was weeeeiiird and i think could have been done differently in a way that would have more positively impacted the story and overall episode quality. the labels, for example, could’ve been much better. my favourite part was the strip club and their interactions there, i wish there had been more of that vibe. also i think there was more to be done with charlie fighting the sex doll.

-dee didn’t have sex with the doll so ha, go 2 hell incest supporters

-dee was pretty great in this episode actually. the only thing i disliked was her reason for wanting cindy gone being that she felt that she wasn’t special anymore because there was another girl. that was kinda dumb and i would’ve easily accepted had she just decided to go back with the gang without any reasoning. it doesn’t seem like dee to hate on another woman like that without reasoning, sorry if i’m wrong i really don’t know shit. it just didn’t sit well.

-the waitress!!!!!!!!!! i love her!

-ok so i think mary elizabeth is a great person and is also a very good comedic actress. she’s on santa clarita diet (i literally went through the show just to watch her) and i’m not even being biased when i say she is really good on that show. she’s so talented and funny on that show and shines in a way over there that i never really felt she did on sunny. not by any fault of her own but i don’t think the writing for the waitress has ever been all that interesting or with potential to stand out. i like the waitress because although she thinks she’s better than the gang and then charlie she is so obviously just as garbage as them but also has that quality of being just about the most mundane person on the planet. what i’m getting at here is she deserves better writing and could be as iconic and funny as all the other side characters and i think finally bringing her down to living with charlie could be a really good change for her character. you still have the potential for delusions of superiority, similar to how mac thinks people like him and thought he was straight or how dennis thinks he’s a lady’s man, the waitress similarly thinks she’s better than these people while being a garbage person who uses charlie and is now literally living with him. she’s always been pretty similar to charlie (more so as it’s gone on) but tells herself that he’s worse and again.. now that they really are in the same living space and are more clearly placed beside each other in the eyes of the viewer, i hope she can have more coooool and exciting story lines. hope that wasn’t too repetitive. i just want everyone to know how funny and awesome she has the potential to be and she deserves shining moments that characters like cricket, maureen, and the mcpoyles get. etc.

-hearing charlie kelly call the waitress “honey” and “sweetie” is so, so weird and again, that’s a testament to how good they are at acting

-also i wish they’d addressed the pregnancy thing they were going for (she could’ve at least been annoyed at him that it didn’t work out or whatever) and it didn’t make sense to me that the season 12 finale saw charlie as being uncomfortable with the waitress expecting a relationship with him and this episode didn’t see him as really annoyed or uncomfortable, or at least it seemed to be at a different degree and from a different angle. how charlie treated her was a bit similar to how he treated dee in rules the world but i wish the waitress hadn’t been at all submissive? like she slept with the sex doll and was being funny/rude about it?? i wish she had been that way the whole time or at least more significantly? i get that the joke was that she now was desperate like charlie had been but i can’t say it was done all that well or consistently, from my perspective? i wish they had more fighting and banter and whatever. idk man.

-they said it was their apartment so i kind of wonder if frank is still living with them?

-also i felt like there wasn’t enough frank!!!!!!!!!!!! he was hardly there. i also missed the charlie/frank dynamic. if you can tell by this point,,,, i am a big charlie fan.

-but yeah the first thing i noticed was a lack of frank. my deal is that it felt as though the gang hardly really interacted within themselves? everything felt pretty impersonal. usually there’s scheming and yelling and really fast/smart dialogue but it felt more plot based and focused on getting across a specific set of events as opposed to thoroughly being true to the characters. the sex doll orgy felt out of place and these stranger elements of the episode reminded me of the ski episode and flowers for charlie in the way that they were detached from how i recognize the gang’s personalities. yes.

-dude!! i missed dennis! i didn’t realize how much i would want dennis back until he showed up and started doing that thing where he makes black and white judgements based entirely on personal preference. like in charlie rules the world at the end, i love that stuff.

-i actually think dennis was the most true to form in his character, my only things i’d change would: i’d add in a “move past it” in his explanation of his return, i’d make the bird thing more natural, and i’d have him be more protective of the 80s (that was the insult, right? she said he dresses like the 80s? anyways we know den loves that shit pls)

-mac was cool too! as i said earlier i wish they’d repeated that joke a wee bit less but aside from that i absolutely loved the mac content because he doesn’t always get the best stuff to work with. rob, as i’ve said before, is truly underrated for his performance as mac because the character is so easy to read. mac is very easy to understand as someone who craves validation and easily speaks his feelings while also have distorted versions of self, though that seems to be going away (with the coming out, the obvious truth of him being ripped, and him straight up asking if they like him) which is really funny because instead of him being wrong about who he is and being oblivious, everyone else is oblivious about him because he used to be?? yes, her. though he’s still a denial ridden dumbass in many ways, now the gang is in denial about his apperance. anyways rob killed this episode and i hope people come to see that is equally as distinctive as charlie and dennis.

-i really did like dee here, as i said earlier. she was also rather true to form. no complaints, and i like how she seemed more integrated into the gang. i love when they all work together, or at least work with dee, and everyone is equal and none of them continually put down dee. that’s way more fun.

-alright i think this is all i have to say for this episode? it seemed pretty foreign to sunny’s usual formula and reminded me the most of “flowers for charlie” in how it definitely strays from how what i view as a normal episode for the gang. there were good enough moments but it isn’t going to be one of my favourite episodes of the season. i really hope they don’t fall into the same hole arrested development did where they once would reach a conclusion every episode and stick to a format which changed in the 4th season for sure. i am ok with change but i hope not much is sacrificed. anyways, i am still a fan and am anticipating the rest of the season still! yes i’m aware that this is overwhelmingly negative but every negative i have for any sunny episode is usually leaps and bounds better than episodes of pretty much any other show.

#sunny 13 spoilers #s13 spoilers #iasip 13 #my post #long post #sunny spoilers #idk what else to tag sorry

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patheticphallacy · 4 years

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I want to disclose before I even start this post that the day I started writing this, BookTube came out with a whole load of videos inspired by Jin’s birthday that follows the exact same concept. I promise I’m not trying to plagiarise any of their ideas behind the videos, I’ve been planning this series of posts for months! This is a link to a whole playlist of those videos that meltotheany created, I highly recommend watching.

If you haven’t been around the past year, I have fallen very deep into the BTS rabbit hole. I was always aware of BTS, because I’ve listened to K-Pop for a few years alongside my other music interests, but it was only once I got into BTS in April this year that I fully dedicated invested myself to actually listening to their music as a whole.

With music obsessions comes associating random things with the people in the group, and, as a result, I came up with a whole load of books that remind me of the members of BTS, as well as individual songs/albums/concepts/etc., so I’m… starting another blog series!

Starting off: BOOKS TO READ BASED ON YOUR BIAS. I love all of them, but I always think of my favourite as the one who, if they are in teams, I always hope they will be the one to win the challenge. I’ve done this for pretty much everything I enjoy.

For me, the person I always want to win is Jin, so I’m going to go eldest to youngest, recommending books that remind me of them.

KIM SEOKJIN

Sadie by Courtney Summers: While Jin is very down to Earth and willing to dick around with the younger members of the group, he is very protective and has his serious moments. Sadie is a dual narrative following teenager Sadie as she hunts for the man that she believes murdered her younger sister. It’s a very difficult read– content warnings for pedophilia, sexual abuse, and violence– but I feel like it hits hard when you’re the eldest sibling, which Jin technically is.

The Adventure Zone: Here There Be Gerblins by the McElroy’s and Carey Pietsch: Okay, so this is a very different approach to Jin, but Taako… really reminds me of him? I can’t shake the vibes. My original notes for this post literally just say ‘look: jin and taako have the same energy’, I am adamant.

The Immortalists by Chloe Benjamin: Another sad pick unfortunately! The Immortalists follows four siblings who all learn the dates they’re going to die, and the book follows them in order. It’s kind of a tragic read, but the exploration of mortality and fate is great. The familial relationships are complicated and layered, with people drifting apart, and as an older sister, it’s quite terrifying to look into the future and realise I’ve got my whole life ahead of me with these people I’ve grown up with. And that, again, reminds me of Jin.

Scott Pilgrim VS The World Series by Bryan Lee O’Malley: Finish off on a happy one! Jin likes video games, and Scott Pilgrim reads a lot like a video game, if that’s possible. It’s about a guy in his twenties who is kind of a loser and has to beat his new girlfriend’s evil exes. Quite a popular read, and the movie is solid, but the graphic novels are just better. They have more Wallace Wells, and Wallace is a character I could see Jin appreciating.

MIN YOONGI

Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink: If it’s possible for a book about a woman searching for her dead wife and accidentally uncovering a world of horror to be quiet, Alice Isn’t Dead accomplishes that. Keisha Taylor, our main character, openly struggles with her anxiety throughout, and Yoongi is very open about mental health and struggling to carry on. The book is about finding your strength and refusing to accept apologies until you’re ready to accept them, and I think Yoongi would like the messages this book sends.

I Want to Eat Your Pancreas by Yoru Sumino: Another one I struggle to explain. A teenage boy finds the diary of his classmate, who is suffering from a pancreatic disease and isn’t certain she’ll live through it. A boundary-crossing friendship blooms between the two, and there are so many unexpected moments. It’s a real tearjerker, I’ll tell you that. Something about how real the narrative is makes me think of Yoongi.

Radio Silence/I Was Born For This by Alice Oseman: Yoongi is, again, very open about struggling with his mental health, and mental health is quite a big theme in both of these books. Radio Silence is focused on the pursuit of what makes you happy in a world telling you to focus on academics instead of being creative, a very Yoongi theme; and I Was Born For This has a POV of a frontman of a boy band who struggles with anxiety and is disillusioned with fame.

The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo: Just now realising all of my choices for Yoongi are super serious, which is going to be the direct opposite of the next member. The Poet X is written in verse– a great introduction to the form– and follows a young girl who struggles and attempts to understand her mother’s religion through the poetry she writes. Xiomara’s passion for the form is so beautiful and she flourishes in writing, truly feeling herself when she’s performing, and I think that’s something I see in Yoongi, too.

JUNG HOSEOK

The Monster of Elendhaven by Jennifer Giesbrecht: This is a very strange choice, but let me explain. Personality wise, Hoseok is a Gemini: very happy and hopeful, but his mood switches can be scary as heck. The Monster of Elendhaven made me laugh out loud, but it’s really dark– the narrator is a serial killer in a miserable fantasy world, and the main relationship is toxic but entirely consensual. It’s bizarre, and the contradictions remind me of Hoseok. Also, if you search up Hoseok’s Cypher 4 Live outfit where he looks like a Victorian aristocrat about to do nefarious science, he’s exactly how I picture Herr Leikenbloom.

Lumberjanes written by various: Lumberjanes is a series I’ve read for literal years, and it’s the right balance of lighthearted and heartfelt that it reminds me of Hoseok. Ripley, one of the main girls, is so energetic and passionate that I can’t help but think of Hoseok! Lumberjanes is set at a camp where our characters go on fantastical adventures and have to save the day, even if nobody else knows the day is being saved.

Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne: Don’t @ me, Winnie the Pooh is everything to me and I won’t be shamed for my passion. So many of the stories turn into ones of hope and friendship, literally the core of Pooh’s character, and Hoseok is like that for me. Him and Jimin, honestly, but Jimin isn’t until later! No getting ahead of myself!

Bravest Warriors by various: You can tell I love my comedies, can’t you? Bravest Warriors constantly edges on ridiculous, reminiscent of Adventure Time, and I love it for how scatter brained and funny it is. It’s just fun, plain and simple, and I think that’s good for us sometimes. Remembering to enjoy yourself, even when the going gets tough, which Hoseok shows.

KIM NAMJOON

In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan: Namjoon, as the leader, has to be very in control and can sometimes seem like he’s drawing himself out of the fun in interviews to focus, but is very driven to change things for the better. In Other Lands focuses on Elliott, a boy who finds himself at a magical school and, against the expectations of magical society, begins to change it from the inside out using pacifism, quick wit and a reluctance to do anything energetic, but finds himself ostracised for it. I think Elliott staying true to his own nature and finding happiness even when it’s difficult is admirable, and also very much a Namjoon thing to do.

Aquicorn Cove by Katie O’Neill: After losing her mother, Lana moves to an island and begins to uncover a hidden magical world that’s at risk because of over-fishing. It’s a soft take on a wider issue, but Katie O’Neill is very good at handling themes like this and making them explicit without losing direction. I think Namjoon would really enjoy O’Neill’s work, but this especially is a very current issue.

No One Is Too Small to Make a Difference by Greta Thunberg: Speak yourself! Express your passions! Greta Thunberg is the embodiment of ‘speaking yourself’ and changing the world for the better, no matter who tries to knock you down.

Taproot by Keezy Young: I don’t know what it is about this that reminds me of Namjoon. In Taproot, Blue is a ghost, and haunting Hamal, his best friend whom he is in love with. There’s a focus on natural colours because Hamal works as a gardener, but it can be quite dark at times, looking at loss and fear of moving on. It just yells ‘Namjoon’ to me. I’ve definitely focused on more environment-focused writing for him.

PARK JIMIN

Truly Devious by Maureen Johnson: I like to describe Jimin as being sweet, but the most likely to commit a crime and get away with it, especially amongst the other members of BTS. So many of Stevie’s actions in this book as she investigates an unsolved crime remind me of Jimin, just because only he could get away with it. He’s been voted as one of the top idols like, 50 times, he’s very intimidating. If I caught him sneaking through my belongings, I’d be too scared to say anything.

Check, Please! by Ngozi Ukazu: Yes, Jimin is intimidating, but I also said he’s sweet, and Eric Bittle is the exact same. Bitty becomes a hockey player after years of competing as a professional figure skater, and finds himself making a home amongst men a lot bigger and a lot physically tougher than him. He overcomes a lot of hardships and works hard, and that’s something you see in Jimin’s dancing and own behaviours in being a part of BTS.

Neverworld Wake by Marisha Pessl: God, this is the exact same reasoning as Truly Devious, I’m sorry. I just really do think Jimin could be sneaky and get away with what these characters do! Neverworld Wake follows a young woman who reunites with her highschool friends and finds herself in a Groundhog Day scenario, repeating the same day over and over again as they attempt to uncover who murdered her boyfriend the year before. It’s very dark and atmospheric, I adore it.

Lovely Complex by Aya Nakahara: I’ll be honest, I’m mostly saying this series because Jimin is short. Lovely Complex follows Risa, an incredibly tall girl, and Atsushi, a boy well below expected height, who become reluctant friends in their pursuit to find romance. It’s very light and cute, probably one of the easiest manga series I’ve ever read.

KIM TAEHYUNG

Animals by Emma Jane Unsworth: This is almost a joint pick with Jimin. Animals follows a young woman in her twenties who parties more than she probably should with her American roommate. Her life slowly begins to unravel as she notices more faults in her relationships, and begins to question if this is what she actually wants from life. There’s something about people in their mid-to-late-twenties partying and making terrible decisions as they have a crisis that reminds me of Taehyung, just because him and the rest of the group have been so open with how much he’s changed and attempted to make himself into a more in-control person.

Snotgirl by Bryan Lee O’Malley: Look. Taehyung is very bougie, and Snotgirl follows socialite and fashion blogger Lottie as she tries to combat her chronic allergies and not get sent to prison for murder. It’s a very exciting series, the characters are self-centred and awful, and I think Taehyung would love it. They are all rich and dress impeccably.

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio: Taehyung is an actor, we all know this, and If We Were Villains follows several actors at a prestigious (and fictional) conservatory specialising in Shakespearean acting who end up embroiled in a murder plot. It’s dark academia a la The Secret History, but its focus on Shakespeare means it’s much suited to Taehyung. Dark, dangerous and dramatic.

I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson: I couldn’t not have a book on art in here when I’m talking about Taehyung, and it was only going through shelves upon shelves that made me realise I have read so few books on art. I’ll Give You the Sun is a dual narrative novel, following artist twins Jude (in the present) and Noah (3 years in the past) as they tackle romance, art and loss. There are so many twists and turns, and the writing is beautiful.

JEON JUNGKOOK

A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay: Ah, the book that started it all. This is the one I’m most confident in. We follow eight year old Merry, who finds herself and her family exploited in a reality TV show based on the assumed demonic possession of her older sister, Marjorie. It’s a very difficult read. Even though it’s not clear cut, Merry clearly loves her older sister and wants her to be okay, and that’s something that reminds me of Jungkook. He’s said more than once that watching the older members of the band struggle has impacted him most throughout their career, and that’s really embedded in the narrative of this novel.

The Avant-Guards by Carly Usdin: I had to pick at least one athletic narrative for Jungkook, okay. In this series we follow former sports star Charlie, who ends up being recruited by the basketball team at her new College, and begins to carve a place for herself where she belongs. It’s an easy story and all of the characters are likeable, balancing out the competitive nature of the characters. Jungkook is someone who works out a lot but also comes across as very happy, and that’s what these characters are like!

The Magnus Chase Trilogy by Rick Riordan: One of the things I love about Jungkook is how much he cares about the other members of BTS, and Magnus Chase is exactly the same. He almost becomes a background character in the later books in order to help his friends succeed, and it’s that trait that saves their lives in the end. This is actually my favourite Rick Riordan series, so do with that what you will!

Heavy Vinyl by Carly Usdin: I literally only just realised I’ve recommended two Carly Usdin comic series’s for Jungkook, so that must mean she just writes very Jungkook-esque comics. Heavy Vinyl is set in the late 90’s and follows Chris, who has just got a job working at her favourite record store. Only there’s a bit more to the store than first meets the eye, and she’s about to be embroiled in something far larger than she ever expected. I think the active qualities of Carly Usdin’s characters remind me of Jungkook, very willing to involve themselves and do what’s right.

And those are all my recommendations!

I would love to know if you agree with any of my choices, and if you have any you’d suggest. It was so fun working on this post and I cannot wait to work on future posts in the series.

If you liked this post, consider buying me a coffee? Ko-Fi.

Goodreads|Twitter|Instagram|Letterboxd

BTS and Books #1: Books to Read Based on Your Bias I want to disclose before I even start this post that the day I started writing this, BookTube came out with a whole load of videos inspired by Jin's birthday that follows the exact same concept.

#bangtan #bias #book #bts #gift guide #jeon jungkook #jung hoseok #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #kim taehyung #kpop #min yoongi #music #park jimin #recommendation

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dawnajaynes32 · 7 years

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HOW Design Live 2017: A Recap (Part 2)

Editor’s Note: This is Part 2 of a full recap of HOW Design Live by Maureen Adamo. Check out Part 1 here.

HOWies, as conference attendees call themselves, share a language designers really don’t get to use all that often. Creative folks can work a little to get some of the design-speak to rub off in client communications, or maybe help a significant other understand a frustration with the Google clip art they used to make the logo for their Meetup group. Though there’s always a ceiling there, and you can really only expect a fellow designer to dig into the conversation about why you never ever use that typeface.

The HOW Design Live 2017 conference presented designers with a chance to use that language in a dialogue largely focused on four themes: honesty or authenticity, seduction or the role that love plays in communication, change and the technologies that can revolutionize design in the coming years, and the boldness designers can bring to their work and life to create bigger impact in the areas that matter to them.

Thursday

Design Thinking is Bullsh*t

Natasha Jen, Pentagram

“The ultimate operating system will be our minds.”

OK, so, as someone who’s dabbled in work with startups and played around the think-speak that comes with the territory, I admit there have been aspects of the design thinking philosophy that felt pretty good on the surface. Like, finally, people are beginning to see design is more than a pretty face! But there’s always been this tiny bit of unease with it that I couldn’t really pin down, and Natasha Jen helped put that to rest.

Design thinking is not design. It sounds a lot like it, though, with the ‘d’ word right at the beginning, so the confusion is understandable. Have you ever tried to ferret out the actual definition? It’s incredibly self-referential and circular and Natasha Jen throws out all the cliches and bywords that never communicate anything concrete: solutions, alignment, co-creation, traction, ideation, deep design (???), radical innovation and user outcomes, among others. Design thinking, she says, is literally trying to think like a designer. “Design thinking packages a designer’s way of thinking for non-designers in a strict methodology so that anyone can solve design problems.”

Jen goes on to say that real designers surround themselves with evidence, since they’re always studying artifact and interaction. She says design is too complex to be distilled into a single methodology, and goes on to imagine some pretty radical futures for what design looks like when it’s actually designed, forecasting that the next great interface will be no interface.

5 Things Keeping You from Being a Great Creative Director

David Lesué, Workfront

“‘A’ players hire ‘A’ players; ‘B’ players hire ‘C’ players.”

David Lesué immediately apologized for the assumptions baked into his conference title. A) Who says you’re not already a great creative director? And who says he can tell you how to be a better one? B) It’s not really what he meant to say anyway. A more accurate description for his talk, he said, would be something like “Five misconceptions about being a creative director and five replacement beliefs.” It’s not as sexy, but it’s real.

With such a straightforward premise, the question begs to be answered. What are these misconceptions and beliefs?

Great work speaks for itself  Lesué says not so, that all work needs translation. Clients won’t naturally understand the work, because it wasn’t made for them, it was made for their audience. Concepts and ideas need to be explained so clients won’t pass on the best solution because it doesn’t feel right to them.

Process kills creativity  Think this instead: Just enough process unlocks creativity. You can figure out how to automate what he called the “roadie work,” the drudge production and organizational tasks, with good habits (like consistent file naming and project/task intake) and task management so that you have more time to pursue higher level thought.

It’s my job to the best  Nope, it’s your job to make your team better. You can’t be afraid to hire people who show more skill as a designer, or a whatever, than you have. The focus as a creative director is on building the best possible team.

The client is always right  High five, yeah? Instead of deferring to clients indiscriminately, Lesué says you get what you put up with and that you’re constantly training clients on how you’d like to be treated. An example: Lesue’s team works in a consistent cadence, so clients are familiar enough with the group’s flow to know any project requests have to be made ahead of their weekly planning session to make it into the schedule in a timely fashion.

If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right  Instead of sweating every last detail of every project that hits your desk, be uncompromising when it matters. Another example: Lesué doesn’t ask his team to hit home runs with they’re asked to clean up the company dodge ball team logos that have been designed by other departments.

How to Cheat: Creative Domination Through Villainy

Stefan Mumaw

“We’re given a box to work in. We must learn to circumvent the rules and cheat.”

Stefan Mumaw donned a black ensemble, complete with mustache and eye patch to teach designers how to be wickedly creative. He presented three steps, with exercises. First, you need to think like a villain. “Villains know the rules so well, they know how to get around them.” Second, you should live in the leading, which can be translated as, “What does the creative brief not say we can’t do?” And third, you need to understand the end game. A simple way to cut to the heart of a project’s goal is to ask “Why?” And Stefan suggests asking it three times. When you get to the third answer, you’re probably dealing with the really important objectives and the hows and whats you started with can then be bent to your evil designs.

Make What’s Important to You Important to Others

Jeff Greenspan

“We need to steal back, and we need to steal everything.”

Jeff Greenspan was tired of the media monotone and lack of good questions around the Edward Snowden issue. He decided to create a conversation the media could pick up on by installing a 400-pound bust of the outlaw on top of a park monument. We, too, can provoke debate over issues that matter to us. Though Greenspan highly recommends you have a lawyer on standby; the guerrilla installation almost landed the stunt’s co-creators in jail.

Using his training in advertising and communications, Greenspan launched other projects — some with less serious ramifications to his freedom — to continue to challenge assumptions prevalent in mainstream conversation, including issues of privacy and white-collar crime, with art. (Not all his work of such enormous gravity, he’s also the originator of the Hipster Trap.)

When attempting cultural subversion on your own, Greenspan says you need to be clear about your project’s goals and not be beholden to how you think events will unfold. Some things will fall into place in fortuitous happenstance, as he described in his Snowden project, that would have been impossible to plan for and can strengthen your statement if you’re able to go with the flow.

Friday

Speak to be Heard: Communicating Your Best Ideas

Eleanor Handley

“We come into the world knowing how to use ourselves, and somewhere along the way we constrict ourselves.”

You’re already good at communicating. You just forgot how to do it. Kind of like how we were born weird and open and passionate and creative, and then life happened and we pretended to be different people. To help us start using our voices again, Eleanor Handley reminds us that how we sound is more important than what we say — a concept any Eddie Izzard fan would be familiar with.

Spoken communication is more physical than we allow for and she offers three rules: It comes from using more of ourselves, not less (don’t confuse being authentic with being small), great communication comes from focusing more on the other person, and you do not need to feel confident to project confidence. So there’s no reason to delay your public speaking career until you feel like a big enough badass, ok?

Handley says since we have most control over what we do, more so than being able to stop a particular thought or feeling in the moment it happens, we can work to improve communication with specific actions and habits. Do some deep breathing exercises before a presentation, make sure to warm up your vocal cords (you can pretend you’re talking into a cell phone to sneak this into your schedule, if you need), and remember to pause anywhere there is a natural stop in your speech, like periods or commas between lengthy phrases. The silence isn’t as long as it feels like it is to you, and it gives you a moment to breathe and think about the words that come next.

Saturday

Master the Art of Seduction

Pum Lefebure, Design Army

“Pum, don’t think of yourself as a designer. Think like a seducer.”

As a perfectionist in recovery, it took me a while to realize how true it is that our vulnerability is what allows us to connect. So, I was immediately pulled into Pum Lebefure’s talk when she described a scene in which she was watching an H&M ad she created and acted in. She was gazing into her own giant face on the glowing screens in Times Square, then looked at everyone around her and realized, “Nobody cares!”

The market is beyond noisy, so she told herself she needed to launch an all-out campaign of seduction. She says the journey to purchase has now become the journey to fall in love and brands should learn how to flirt, romance and seduce, because consumers are looking for more than a happy transaction. When it’s done, she says, good design has to entice all the senses.

Change. Change. Change.

Alina Wheeler

“He was always leaving the earth, always going other places.”

An obsession with David Bowie is a unique kind of gift, especially when you’ve studied the man and the magician to the extent Alina Wheeler has. The session she presented was an electrifying homage to his genius and his legacy, imparting his life and art as one who has gone before to show us the way. The musically-punctuated presentation rocked through Bowie’s many personas, encouraging designers to become masters of their image, inviting the continual reinvention of identity and passions. Possibilities are endless, Wheeler and Bowie say, and nobody does it alone. Build creative collaborations, and use them as fuel for your own fires. Always keep moving and know when to come, know when it’s time to go. And because the legend made what he loved up until he knew it was time to go, he lived it well: “It’s never too late to become what you could have been.”

What Happens Next

David Carson

“If you want kid art, have a kid do it.”

I wish I knew for sure what David Carson thought was next. I heard his presentation went 45 minutes over time, and I had to duck out at the 15-minutes-over mark. Without having the benefit of that last half hour or so, it seems the thru-line of his commentary, as he playfully walked through slides on his extremely unorganized laptop, was about the honesty, transparency and humor with which he does his work — which is also the way he seems to view the world. He shared found art he had captured and unabashedly enjoyed (a wide array of visual puns and tomfoolery) as well as his advice on how designers might have careers as long and illustrious as his (comparison mine). Every image was perfectly captured with philosophical design epigrams:

“It’s important to put things where they don’t obviously want to go.”

“Just do it, but don’t always center it.”

“Never snap to guides.”

“My Helvetica poster was done in Franklin Gothic.”

And some of his direction was a little more … direct:

“Be open to things you’re not expecting while you’re working.”

“Don’t mistake legibility for communication.”

“The time you spend on the work is proportional to the time consumers will spend with it.”

It was especially amusing, as I listened to him describe his pieces, to remember all the conversations I’ve had in which the desired outcome was essentially the reverse-engineering of something David Carson has done. And when you hear Carson talk about his process and how he arrives at his destination, it’s just not possible to do what he does backwards, sideways, bent over or upside down. What he does is who he is, and that’s essentially what he’s asked us to do, too. Carson asks us to put ourselves in the work and get more personal. He says, “Nobody can pull from who you are like you can.”

Closing

This year was amazing and was again so much more than I could absorb with one set of eyes and ears. The Draplin pop-up shop returned to the exhibit hall mid-day Thursday to much fervor and excitement. The whole HOW community banded together to make sure Justin Ahren’s Wheels4Water fundraising campaign exceeded the week’s $10,000 goal, providing clean water for more than 250 Ugandans for life.

And when it comes to the big ideas, the message to take home, it seems like thoughts on strategy and technique, seats at the table (though we still want those, please), ROI, etc., were upstaged by a not-too-overwhelming, but sincere plea. At varying degrees of intensity, the experts, design leaders and visionaries I could cram into five exhilarating days of reconnection, was for more. Our design leaders and legends want more from us. They’re asking designers to be the more that we want to be. The more that has a voice, the more that gives and shares and grows, the more that boldly goes into the future designers are innately equipped to know how to get to when things get complicated. At the very least, it’s a vivid enough dream to wake us every day for the next year with the question, “What would be great? What would be amazing?”

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