windchiming

auscore post #343

that auntie that is really into spiritual things and has a house full of things like tarot cards, windchimes and burns lots of sandalwood incense. Her daughters middle name is celestial or sage and she visits Nimbin every summer

windchiming replied to your post “i am so, SO disappointed that i cant find any consensual loki gangbang fic. like, that would be THE IDEAL scenario for loki. all these people focussing solely on him and paying loads of attention to him? he’d be in heaven.”

Aaaaaactually, I found this fic before. /twiddles thumbs quietly. Though I would love to see your take on this kind of fic, Lise. :3 coyandsundryad .tumblr .com/ post/29037769734/thorki-pwp-nws

hmmm I am pleased. but now I need more this was so short /cries

EE: if i’d known you were curious, i would’ve dug out the albums! john’s baby pictures are organized into several large volumes, which i store at an undisclosed location. he doesn’t seem to like it much when i take them out to show guests, but i’m sure he’s just embarrassed about what a well-behaved sweet potato he was as a baby.

EE: as it is, let’s see if i can pick out a good one from the collection i keep in my wallet…

EE: ah! this one is one of my favorites!

EE: the little scamp wobbled a bit out of frame at the last moment, but as you can see, he just loved playing with my hats.

EE: we really liked to play peekaboo, too. i’d put a hat on him and it’d flop right down, and it was lights out! where was daddy?

EE: and i would whip the hat off, and every time he just laughed and laughed, fit to burst!

EE: if i left the hat on too long, he’d flop over and go to sleep, just like a parakeet.

EE: i wonder if that still works…? 

EB: dad, please! oh my god! they do not need to see this! no! not the wallet pictures!

EE: john, your friends asked to see some baby pictures, how could i refuse? i was just telling them how we played peekaboo with my hats

EB: daaaaaaaad!! XO

EB: no more stories! just– no! 

GG: don’t worry john, i’ll go next!

GG: but, um, sorry, i don’t really have many baby pictures or stories or whatever. :(

GG: bec is pretty much the smartest dog, but i guess he didn’t really think to take any pictures? and grandpa was never really into photography….

GG: usually if he wanted to remember something, he’d stuff it and mount it on the wall……..

GG: i don’t remember much from being a baby, but i do remember that i spent most of my time with bec!!

GG: we’d explore all over the island together! which, in retrospect, was probably a reeeeeally dangerous thing to let a baby do, but i know i was always safest when i was with bec.

GG: hehe, he probably let me crawl around so much on purpose, so i’d go to sleep faster!

GG: maybe it’s dumb, since i can’t really remember it, but i think i was a happy baby!! 

BB: okay prepare yourselves for a baby blitzkrieg alright

BB: let me tell you baby dave wasnt some egbertian stroll through the park oh no this infant was the iron man competition in the middle of the carpathian mountains during a typhoon

BB: he had a personal vendetta against furniture and was determined to smash it into splinters using only the softest parts of his stupid fucking skull

BB: any consumption of food was preceded by a mandatory redecorating of the apartment in a fine layer of mashed veggie particulate matter

BB: even at a young age he showed massive talent for being a massive pain in my ass and getting away with it scott free because what was i gonna do he was just a wiggly throw pillow wearing a loaded diaper you cant fight back against that you just have to roll over like a bitch and hope they dont pop awake as soon as you fall asleep and wake the whole building with their otherworldly devilscreeches

BB: god when he was teething the thing he liked best was the neck of an ice cold beer to gum on

BB: hold on i have pics

BB: gonna send em in to corona and live off the royalties

TG: thats pretty much the best picture thats ever been taken of me

TG: shit look at the way the light plays on my fat rolls

TG: glorious

LL: I believe Rose is left?

LL: Well, in contrast, Rose was an extremely quiet and withdrawn baby. She rarely had any troubles that didn’t resolve themselves. She was well-behaved, dignified, and mature, even as an infant.

LL: And also extremely portly.

LL: I accurately documented most of Rose’s holidays as a baby. Halloween, I believe, was her favorite.

LL: I certainly enjoyed picking out her costumes. I think the most successful one was the year that she went as a genius female scientist with impeccable taste in fashion and avant garde house design. 

LL: You can see that, despite the layers fleece and the nice, soft, tailor-made cloth wig, she was in fact quite rotund.

LL: And although she has now bloomed into a slender and developing young woman, Rose will always be mummy’s little butterball. 

TT: Mother, what a heartwarming statement.

TT: Might I beg the favor of a copy of this tenderly preserved photograph, so that I may have it enlarged by several magnitudes and installed in a gilt frame?

LL: Of course, darling. Allow me to pay for it.

windchiming replied to your postRandom thing I think about sometimes oops. You…

People… actually got mad at John over that? When that update happened, a lot of people on my timeline were all gushy and happy and called John a sweetie. (But then again, I follow quite a few DaveJohn shippers so that may be why, haha.)

We must be following very different people then. And I don’t know if it’s necessarily the DaveJohn shippers since people I follow ship it too as far as I know? It was kind of like they were disappointed that he wasn’t being nicer about it or something, like when JohnVriska shippers got up in arms about John talking about her like she was nothing (which again I think was speaking too quick because then as soon as he saw a troll he asked if she was Vriska, so obviously he didn’t actually forget her name)

Who knows. But that’s interesting that we saw such different responses!

Father, Husband

Scherezade Siobhan

I will leave you for a different animal, I say. I loved you for your glass horse, for a morning as red as a murder, our bed draped in crêpe de chine the colour of hummingbird hyssop, the waxburned hyaline of your Achilles heel, a mirror-masked Pegasus, the crashing rumor of a brittle figurine.

We cradle the marriage. Bury its baby teeth under the purpura of delphinium minarets. We milk the poison. Arms anchored to thistle-limbed kitchen gardens, mouths as anemic as the wet, insomniac tongues of white thornapple buds. We make windchimes from viper fangs. Sculpt knuckles to cenotaphs. Raise Cain from each whiskey-throated hosanna. First idolatry, then betrayal. Between the trees, a pantheon of shadows. Breath brief as a bonfire. First, the tinder’s nervespeed, then the effigy of a holocaust.

We feast on flames. Spit out the soot. Whale-bellied floodgates. Blood on the bathmat.  A wrinkle of rust. A body cobbled from dirty bandages. A body burning into a blackhole. Then you say no - no to the mercenary medicine, the balsam of poultice. No to the bargain-basement placebo, the capsuled obloquy.

You say no to the curse of cures.

Then, the coral dusk of Debussy’s danse sacrée. Cathedral bells of cala lilies. Knees cutting wormholes in Himalayan salt bricks. Towers of smoke above the corpse of a charcoal briquette. Lachryma of meat melting from ribs. So soft as to corrupt. So clean as to salve. You ask – what do you fear most? I mishear fear for fire. I spell what as who. I say you.You say nothing. Years have taught me how to bed a ghost dressed as a god.

Afterwards, each with a fist the size of a small, dead crow. Each with an empire of ash.

art by federico hurtado

anonymous asked:

Since you're procrastinating (lol!)-generation shift in the Transcendence AU?

When your mother shifts the windchimes in the candlelight, shards of mirror wrapped in strips of olive soaked cloth, she says, “I read about this on the internet.” And she squeezes you so tightly, you hug her back. 

When you are at school, Noah tells you the proper way to bend wire around dream talismans, and sneak behind your mother when she is painting neat red symbols along the window lining to lay on her sloppy construction a single strand of shimmering gold. You bargained it from the pixies, but she would be absolutely furious to know. 

But how else are you supposed to get the proper materials? As if everyone could actually register every supernatural encounter. 

————

Your mother falters when she sees that telltale glimmer of enchantment in Ana’s eyes, you drag her hand down and Ana politely clasps it as your mother stands stock still. When she releases, a pretty blue spark crawls up her arm and you loudly laugh to cover up your mom’s terrified gasp. 

For a little while, she stops playing the piano. One day, she catches you scratching idly at the red symbols and yells so loudly you drop your marker to the carpet, she doesn’t understand. You take her arm and explain the strokes, how her symbols were neat but misspelled, filled with holes and loopholes for the clever sprite. 

She stays very quiet and only asks, “Where did you learn this?” 

You shrug. “At school.”

“Are they teaching this at school?”

“Sometimes,” you say evasively, and then you say, “trust me.” 

——–

“Don’t tell anyone your real name,” says your mother says, hands tucked into her elbows, always exaggeratedly careful about these subjects. “Especially witches. I saw that news story go out, you must always be very careful Kylie, understand?” 

You nod seriously, and reach up to clasp her hand. You’re trying to train her into it, the catch and release that witches like to do in this province, so she won’t end up being embarrassing at parent-teacher conferences. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself, she just has outdated ideas of what witches are like. She’s not trying to be mean.

“Except my close friends,” you remind her, searching her eyes. 

“Not even then,” she says, just as firmly, and the conversation is over for her. 

You make a decision, and you smile at her. “I’ll stay so safe, mom, so don’t worry!” 

She relaxes into a sweet smile. “I know, Kylie, it’s alright. Choose a good name, alright?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been having bad dreams about this.” 

You start to research charms under a darker cover, she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t understand. The world is changing, and just because she can’t comprehend a use, it doesn’t mean there isn’t one. 

She’s unsettled at all the cctv cameras, the sensors, the charms and jangling and magic, she actually doesn’t introduce herself by her own name. She takes to sound charms easy as water, it’s the people she has qualms about. Once she catches you edging softly towards a fairy ring, a small dead brown circle of mushrooms, and screeches so loudly everyone in the park looks over at her. 

“No, mom, he’s a harmless one, it’s good luck to rub the-” 

What did I tell you about magic?” she says, and calms, says more quietly, “I can’t lose you to this, Kylie. I can’t, not when I could have stopped it.” 

You pause. “Mom, everyone uses their-” you look at her face and change tactics, “he was just a-”

“I know what it was! Dangerous!” And that is so unexpectedly hateful that it shuts you up, that shuts up everyone in the vicinity. 

She drags you home, but you start to wonder, does she really? Does she really know what the world is capable of anymore? At night you sprinkle crushed mushroom, that harmless fairy dust, over her covers and your carefully researched wards thrum brightly through the covers. She sighs. 

Then, making sure her breathing is soft and even, that she’s absolutely asleep, you snap your fingers, and zip backwards as if pulled by an invisible force. If she knew the amount of normal transactions you had made during the week, she would have been mental. But it really made no sense to hold back. Ana, surprisingly, had nothing, but Noah knew enough from a secret carrier down the street. You had so much sage from the kitchen you could probably swim in it. Your mother had been slightly overenthusiastic with even the obviously false ward cures. 

She had been having bad dreams. “Hey, Alcor,” you whisper into the dark. In your hand, you hold a fully upgraded dream charm, glass full of worries and dreams and magic. “Is this enough?” 

A dark laugh comes from the shadows, and despite yourself, you start to realize what Noah means. He probably won’t hurt children, he said with his careless shrug. You really hope Noah’s friends aren’t dangerous, you were really hoping it was a minor demon using Alcor’s name or something. 

“Dear,” says the darkness, weirdly echoey, but warm, like a fire. “None of you will remember this.”

“That’s fine with me,” you say immediately, and unclench your hands. The dreamcatcher doesn’t fall, simply floats in midair, which means- a thrill of alarm crawls down your back- that Alcor’s power easily extends into the protective circle. Oh. Well.

“That’s quite the price,” he says, “the princess and her queen- a small and lovely dream-” and there’s a blinding flash of white.

When you wake up, it’s in your own bed, in the morning.

You can’t remember anything you did for the last week. That’s bad.

You jump into your clothes and scramble to your mom’s room– it must have something to do with her, it’s always something to do with her- but there she is, sleeping peacefully. 

“Kylie?” she says, her eyes clearer than they have been in days, despite the groggy state of her awakening. “Do you need something?”

“Uh-” what is it, why is there that crawling sense of dread- “no, sorry.” There’s a pause. “Should we have breakfast?” 

“Hm,” she says, rubbing her face. “If you want, Kylie.” 

And you shrug it off, because this is what happens in this day and age, and you grin to support your mom off the ground. It’s better not to question it. If it’ll hurt you, then you can be all the more prepared next time. There are certain things that may happen before you die. And it’s confirmed by this–

When you go to bed, the strains of your mom’s piano coil up through the air, filter through the moonlight, enchanting gold sparks that look like stars. Your mom still flinches when she meets witches, and still gives out her name as someone else’s, but now she sleeps soundly at night, under the net of quiet fairy dust- and that’s all that really matters. 

GA: I Dont Believe It Would Be Fair To Make Assumptions About Those Who Share My Sign Nor Realistic To Think That I Ever Could Begin To 

GA: I Still Find It Baffling That So Many Of You Could Have The Same Sign 

GA: Such A Thing Is Unheard Of In Troll Culture But I Suppose You All Seem To Get Along Well Enough With The Way Things Are 

GA: Once I Get Past The Strangeness Of The Thought I Suppose I Feel A Sort Of Fondness For You 

So I got my mom a windchime for her birthday/mother’s day...

And I was curious as to why it had a solar panel on

But when I went outside tonight

WHOA