#Hand carved authentic doors

[indiatrendzs]

Effortless Guest Room Ideas Featuring Mogul Interior Carved Doors

Transforming an ordinary space into a functional and stylish guest room doesn’t require a major renovation. With a little creativity and the right design elements, you can create a welcoming retreat for visitors in no time. One versatile and unexpected tool for this transformation is the carved door. These stunning pieces of art can be repurposed in a variety of ways to bring both beauty and…

[your-local-simp-writers]

Masks and Revelations

Word Count: 801

Warnings: None

Terry Mcginnis x Fem!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The crisp October air was filled with the scent of fallen leaves and the distant laughter of children planning their trick-or-treat routes. You had always loved Halloween, the one time of year when everyone could be someone else, if only for a night. This year, you had a special surprise for your significant other, Terry McGinnis.

You slipped into your Batgirl costume, the fabric hugging your form like a second skin. The cowl was the final piece, and as you looked at yourself in the mirror, a thrill ran through you. Terry, with his love for all things Batman, would never see it coming.

Meanwhile, Terry was in his room, struggling with a decision. Halloween was complicated for him, given his nightly escapades as Batman. He chuckled at the irony of it all—here he was, trying to choose a costume when he already had the most authentic one at home.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. “Terry, are you ready yet?” his brother’s voice called out, muffled by the wood between them.

“Just a minute, Matt!” Terry replied, finally settling on a simple Robin costume. It wasn’t the real deal, but it was close enough.

When you arrived at Terry’s doorstep, Matt greeted you first, his eyes wide with excitement. “Wow, you look just like Batgirl, Y/N!” he exclaimed, twirling in his mini Batman costume.  Matt, the mini Batman of the house, was running around, his cape fluttering behind him as he practiced his best superhero poses. 

You laughed, ruffling his hair. “And you make a perfect Batman, Matt. Is your brother ready?”

Matt nodded eagerly, and as Terry stepped out, you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him in the Robin costume. “I thought I’d keep it in the family,” he said with a grin, taking in your Batgirl outfit.

You teased Terry about his choice of costume. “I never took you for a sidekick,” you said, a playful glint in your eye.

Terry just smiled, a secret dancing behind his eyes. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of child laughter. Terry’s arm slipping around your waist.

“Happy Halloween, Y/N,” he whispered, and you leaned into him, feeling the contours of his costume against your own.

“Happy Halloween, Terry,” you replied, unaware of the true depth behind his mask, the real hero that stood beside you.

“Alright, team,” you announced, “let’s get these pumpkins carved. Batgirl and her sidekicks can’t have a dull doorstep on Halloween!”

Matt was the first to dive into the task, his small hands scooping out pumpkin guts with a look of fierce concentration. “I’m gonna make the scariest face ever!” he declared, his eyes alight with the excitement that only a child on Halloween could possess.

Terry leaned over to whisper in your ear, “I bet he’s going to give us a run for our money.”

You smiled, taking up your own carving tools. “We’ll just have to step up our game then, won’t we?”

As the three of you worked on your pumpkins, the front porch became a canvas of creativity and laughter. Terry was meticulous in his carving, creating a bat symbol that looked almost professional. You went for a more traditional approach, crafting a grinning jack-o’-lantern that seemed to reflect the joy of the evening.

Matt looked between the two of you, his eyes wide. “You guys are so good at this!” he exclaimed, his own pumpkin taking shape under his determined hands.

“You’re not so bad yourself, little man,” Terry said, ruffling his brother’s hair. “That’s going to be one spooky pumpkin.”

Once the carving was done, you all stepped back to admire your handiwork. The pumpkins were lined up on the steps, their candles casting a warm glow against the darkening sky.

Terry wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Not bad for a night’s work,” he said, pride evident in his voice.

Matt bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to show off your creations to the neighborhood. “Can we go trick-or-treating now?” he asked, his voice tinged with impatience.

You laughed, nodding. “Yes, we can go now. But first, let’s get a picture of the Bat-family with their pumpkins.”

The three of you huddled together, the camera capturing the moment perfectly—a snapshot of Halloween happiness.

As the night progressed, you, Terry, and Matt wandered the neighborhood, collecting candy and compliments on your costumes. The air was filled with the sounds of Halloween—shrieks, laughter, and the rustling of leaves.

It was a night of masks and merriment, of heroes in costume and the simple joy of being together. And though you didn’t know Terry’s secret—that he was the real Batman—it didn’t matter. Because tonight, he was just Terry, your Robin, and that was more than enough.

[nomsfaultau]

my trick or treating rounds this year involve any [and possibly all] of your Philzas, so… trick or treat!!!

[Yes, I scaled the cliff wall to the Ravengence nest]

[my costume is a witch, I have a crow, he sits on my shoulder :3 ]

(in order)

Where do babies come from!Philza: *You approach a normal house. When you knock there's a flurry of activity and laughter. When Philza opens the door he's batting off a hoard of kids trying to grab the treat bowl that he's holding over all of their heads. Philza blinks at you in surprise. He's also wearing a witch costume.* Hey mate! We're twinsies! Haha here you go- *Gives small piece of candy. He's poor lmaoo*

Where, then, do your loyalties lie?Philza: *The house is dim, and there is no response from within even after a few rings of the doorbell. A faint shuffling inside, lethargic, as if it's too much effort to try. When you call for Philza, there is a soft, choked sob. The door never opens. When you leave, you are tailed by people in soldier uniforms that are a little too authentic to be costumes. They want to know why you're looking for him.*

Golden Apples (Gilded Atrophy)!Philza: *There's a loud swearing when the doorbell rings, and a harried assurance he's coming. A winged man props open the door, clearly digging through a bag to try and find some type of treat to give you. At last he pulls out a shimmering golden apple, and he freezes, staring longingly at the magic pooling at his clawtips. You, too, are drawn in, instinctively reaching for the golden apple, and Philza scrambles back.* Trick, *he snaps, slamming the door in your face so you can't steal it from him.*

Where Hearts Roost!Philza: *The witch stares at you, large claws digging into the floor a little. He half laughs.* Now that's cultural appropriation, there. Almost enough to earn you a trick! But no, here you go. *A flick of his hand, and a cauldron flies over, some type of caramel sweet floating out and into your waiting hands. A second one flies over to the fake crow. Or- it was a fake crow too seconds ago, but now he lives and breathes. Philza grins at him. The candy tastes like laughter on a summer day and the spray of a waterfall. When you skip back, your feet barely tough the ground. You round the corner. The cottage isn't there when you look back.*

Mandatory Family Reunion!Philza: *Klaxons start going off. Bars slam down over the windows and doors. Helicopters whir overhead. The sound of sliding metal and thumps and steel toed boots. The doors burst open to find an out of breath Philza. Well maybe. A blanket has been thrown over head to make a very last minute ghost costume, and the draping doesn’t really hide the many many guns strapped to his body armor.* Haha trick or treat mate! Here yah go. *Philza hands over a full sized candy bar. You will be stalked for the next month*

Fault!Philza: *The chatter inside immediately dies the moment there's a knock on the door, almost fearfully so. A passing buzz of a bee, by your face, and an argument starts inside, raucous enough you can make out what sounds like a debate on murdering you. Uhhh...was this supposed to be a haunted house? Someone marches through the house...in the wrong direction, like they aren't familiar with the layout. Eventually the door is thrown open to a cool dragon costume. He's holding a very recently and messily carved turnip with an ember glowing inside.* And a happy Allhallows' eve to thee! Uh. Haha forgot to get candy or soul-cakes this year... *He hands you a napkin with a chunk of roasted squirrel and morsel of bread* That should be enough to appease the spirits of your loved ones. Good luck with the fairies!

The Altars We Sacrifice Our Futures On!Philza: Uhhhhh huh. You do realize this is a cult, right? *The man squints at you as if utterly baffled why you'd come to the dark forbidding temple well known for serving a god of Blood and Misery.* Very very evil cult. You should leave before you're sacrificed- TOMMY! *A young kid races past and Philza scoops up the wriggling giggling brat. Peeking around Phil, you find a gaggle of scruffy orphan kids racing after a giant wolf covered in bows* Evil dastardly cult. This squirt right here is the newest sacrifice to The Blood God. *Philza rolls his eyes as Tommy blows a raspberry at him, and gives up the ruse.* Look if I give you some altar offerings will you not tell anyone we're here? It's a lot easier if no one realizes we've disbanded the cult.

116 East Normal Street!Philza: *A man in authentic 2nd century BCE Chinese attire throws open the door and showers you with homemade candy the likes of which you've never even heard of before from so many cultures you can't keep track. There appears to be a party for introverts going on in the living room, and you are invited for tea.*

Worth far more than your weight in gold!Philza: *Lots of confused squawking. Like a LOT. The sonic force almost sends you flying off the cliff you scaled. Your ear drums are ringing. Out of the questioning words of his chicks, Philza pieces together an awful lot of questions about murdering you. Luckily he's calmed down, although is skewering you with a suspicious look and shoving all gold out of reach. Tommy gives you a slice of stolen berries with jam. Techno convinces Philza to fly you back down, and soon you are safely delivered to the ground. okay well the Ravengence is definitely doing a few fake out rolls and dive to scare the bejesus out of you, but you don't die.*

Lord, what fools these mortals be!!Philza: Ahh! A guest! How wonderful. You must be quite the powerful sorcerer! *The King of the Winter Court is an incredibly courteous host and provides a full feast of food you probably shouldn't eat. He is utterly and ridiculously convinced that you are a real witch, and blabbers on about spells and rituals that you somehow manage to bluster your way through a magically academic conversation, convincing him you're a magical genius in the process. You end up freezing to death sorry happens to the best of us. Honestly that's a good ending compared to what might've happened.*

Lighting Lanterns to Bring You Home!Philza: *The door opens on a man leaning upon his cane. Philza nudges a giant fat pig, who grumbles upon the topic of festivals but showers upon you fruits and vegetables till your knees bow and buckel. Lo! What a bountinous blessing the gods hath bestowed! A bit of prompting and Technoblade boasts of how much work he accomplished that the earth would produce all it had to give.* It's a balance, mate. We must enjoy the fruits of our labor with celebration lest it be for naught.

A ghost is a tragedy reliving itself!Philza: *The old man welcomes you in. There is no choice. Forced into a comfy chair that you practically melt in. In time it becomes a refuge, some place soft to sink into as he fills you with warmth and food and relieves you of the burden of life. You come to the house more and more. The old man is always there, always kind, always welcoming. You come to the house more and more and more. Tired and worn out from the world outside, ache filling your bones, stiffening joints, greying hair. You talk of your woes to the young man, sinking into the chair once more, not quite able to recognize him. The dementia is getting to you. But he helps you around the house as it gets harder to walk, until at last one day he helps you sink into a comfy chair one last time. You never get up. The young man continues to talk kindly to your bones.*

The Lambs Wolves Wear!Philza: *His eyes dart nervously back inside. Someone walks up behind, and he slips out the door, firmly shutting it behind to block off the approacher. Philza shoves a lump of hardened maple syrup in your hands, closing your fingers around it, and firmly nudging you to leave. He's insistent that you leave. Please leave. Please.* You shouldn't wear that. People will only get hurt if they start looking for witches. That aren't there.

[saffusthings]

prologue.

ceo!oscar piastri x reader

summary: the one where they meet

Oscar Piastri wasn’t one to stroll aimlessly through the city. His world was defined by precision and purpose: chauffeured cars, towering office buildings, and a schedule planned to the minute. But today, fate—or more accurately, a temp's scheduling mishap—had conspired to pull him into the heart of the bustling streets. Oscar couldn't wait until Logan was back. This scheduling mishap was the second this week. Oh well, not everyone could be as good an assistant as Logan was.

The winter air nipped at his collar as he weaved through the waves of of commuters and tourists alike, his tailored coat standing out against the muted greys and blues of the city’s commuters. His steps were brisk, purposeful, until the unexpected happened—a slight misstep, a weight knocking into his side.

She stumbled, wobbling as she tried to regain her balance, and without thought, Oscar’s hand darted out, steadying her elbow. For a fraction of a second, their lives touched as her weight shifted under his grasp. They both apologized at simultaneously, voices overlapping one another.

“I’m sorry—” "Sorry! Oh my god—"

His words were clipped and efficient, hers softer, laced with a breathlessness that hinted at a life lived at a different tempo. When she looked up, he felt his composure falter.

Her face wasn’t one he would have expected to captivate him. She wasn’t meticulously polished like the women who frequented galas or graced glossy magazine covers—those he could admire from a distance but never feel truly drawn to. Instead, there was a startling authenticity to her beauty. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the cold, her dark eyes framed by lashes that fluttered once, twice.

“It’s totally alright,” she laughed awkwardly. Her hand brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face as she straightened herself. Her lips curved into a smile, hesitant but warm, like the beginnings of a sunrise. “I definitely should’ve been paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he replied, though the words felt inadequate. His hand slipped from her elbow, reluctantly releasing the connection. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, all good,” she said with a nod, her coat shifting slightly as she adjusted her footing, now on level ground. “Thank you—for, um, catching me.”

And then she was gone, swallowed by the sea of movement around them.

Oscar stood still, an island in the city’s current, watching as her figure disappeared. The rhythm of the bustle resumed, but the sounds—the chatter of pedestrians, the distant wail of a siren—were dulled.

By the time he retrieved the documents and returned to the office, he told himself it was absurd to still be thinking of her. It was a fleeting moment, inconsequential in the grand scheme of his life. But as he sat at his desk, the city skyline stretched before him, the image of her face lingered in his mind.

There had been something about the way she’d looked at him— or perhaps it was that smile, awkward and authentic and not at all like the practiced smiles that surround him all day long. For someone he hadn’t even exchanged names with, she had carved out a space in his mind with concerning ease.

A knock at his door broke his reverie. “Oscar? The board meeting is in five minutes,” the temp prompted. Poor kid.

“Right,” he replied, his voice sharper than intended as he straightened his watch and grabbed the file he'd had prepared.

He walked to the conference room with his usual air of quiet authority, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He was a man who prided himself on control—control over his emotions, his decisions, his success. McLaren Enterprise would not be the empire it is today otherwise. But today, for the first time in years, he felt the slightest shift in his perfectly ordered life.

Something—or someone—had brushed against the surface of his world and left a ripple behind. And for reasons he couldn’t yet explain, Oscar wasn’t sure he wanted it to fade.

[msdarkwoodsworld]

The Subscribers of Madness

By Ms Darkwood

“What’s up, freaks and seekers!” Jake grinned into the lens, raising a clawed, seaweed-wrapped hand. Behind him, the jagged coastal cliffs of Daggerreach loomed like teeth, the waves crashing violently below. “This is Jake the Snake coming at you live from the abandoned town of Innsmouth’s twisted cousin—Thornhaven. We’re about to do something nobody’s done before: reenact an authentic Cthulhu ritual from real artifacts and tomes we found in the old lighthouse. Stick around. Sh*t’s about to get weird!”

The camera panned out, revealing the rest of the crew.

Amber, the ever-skeptical skeptic in thick eyeliner and Doc Martens, rolled her eyes. “And by ‘found,’ he means stole from the boarded-up museum that said ‘Do Not Enter – Under Investigation.’”

Beside her, Marcus adjusted his mic and grinned. “Relax. We’re resurrecting content, not gods.”

Eli, the quiet one who handled editing and had a morbid fascination with lost civilizations, said nothing. He clutched the tattered, foul-smelling book they’d recovered—Codex Visceris Noctem. Its leather was oddly warm, and its cover bore a sigil that seemed to shimmer under the pale moonlight.

“Alright, people,” Jake said, throwing on the heavy black robe with a stitched tentacle symbol. “Cameras rolling. Ritual site’s lit. Let’s go viral.”

The town of Thornhaven had died sometime in the early 1900s, buried under rumors of occult worship, disappearances, and whispers of inhuman shapes seen along the shore. Its remaining structures—the stone ruins near the cliff, a rotting church, and the barnacle-covered lighthouse—were left to rot beneath centuries of ocean spray.

The group set up the ritual atop a stone dais covered in moss and lichen, candles flickering against the growing wind. They arranged rusted relics—shell-shaped idols, bone flutes, chalices carved from coral—and placed them around the bloodstained sigil etched into the rock.

“Ready?” Jake asked, his voice lowering. “Amber, light that censer. Marcus, get a good angle. Eli... uh, start chanting whatever the hell that thing says.”

Eli hesitated. His voice cracked. “This is... some of it’s in Aklo or R’lyehian. I’m not sure we should—”

“Dude, we need a hook,” Jake snapped. “You saw the numbers on that demon TikTok video. This’ll blow it out of the water.”

The wind picked up. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

Amber sneered. “Fine. Let’s wake the squid-faced bastard.”

Eli took a breath and began to read:

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn…

The words bled from his tongue like oil, coating the air with a sickly weight. The candles dimmed, then flared with green flame.

Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn!

The ocean responded. The waves crashed louder. The ground trembled.

“Whoa,” Marcus whispered, lowering the camera. “Is that... part of the show?”

Behind them, the sea roared—and something answered. A groan, deep and ancient, rolled from the abyss.

“Did you plan that?” Amber asked, spinning on Jake.

Jake went pale. “No. That wasn’t me.”

Eli dropped the book. His nose bled.

They turned toward the cliffs.

Where once there had only been sea and stone, a column of water twisted upward, writhing as though alive. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating something massive rising from the ocean depths. Wings like cathedral vaults spread outward, eclipsing the moonlight. Tentacles uncoiled like serpents.

It had no name they could comprehend—but they knew it.

Cthulhu.

It had heard them.

And it remembered.

“RUN!” screamed Amber.

They fled, robes flapping behind them, but the air itself had grown thick—like syrup laced with screams. Each breath became a labor. Each step, a struggle against the dread pressing into their minds.

Eli fell to his knees, clutching his head. “It’s inside... It’s in my head!”

Marcus grabbed him, dragging him toward the lighthouse. “Come on! Inside—now!”

The door splintered under their weight, slamming shut behind them. The lighthouse groaned under the pressure of a storm that hadn’t existed moments ago. The sea was boiling. Thunder danced.

“Is it following us?” Jake whispered.

Amber peered through a cracked window.

The cliffs were no longer cliffs. They had shifted, warped into stone faces—screaming, wailing, fossilized in agony.

And in the water, He stood.

Cthulhu’s eyes glowed like twin emerald stars. His face, if it could be called that, pulsed with unspoken madness. Each tentacle writhed independently, brushing the veil between dimensions.

Amber turned from the window, her face drained of all color. “This isn’t content. This is a mistake.”

Jake pulled his hood off. “We didn’t mean it!”

Eli laughed. It was cracked, dry, and unnatural.

“Oh, but we did. You read the words. You offered the rites. You made the call.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Marcus snapped.

“I’m saying,” Eli whispered, “that Cthulhu is awake. And he knows us.”

The lighthouse shook violently. Saltwater burst through the floorboards, rising like a tide from below. The sea was inside the land now, leaking through dimensions like a hemorrhage.

“Basement—GO!” Jake barked.

They descended the spiral stairs, each step slick with water. At the bottom, the room was filled with crates and seaweed-choked relics. And in the center—another altar. This one pulsed with a greenish hue, like a heartbeat.

“What the hell is this place?” Amber muttered.

“A temple,” Eli said, eyes wide. “The lighthouse was built on it.”

The book had followed them. Somehow, impossibly, it was already on the altar.

“Maybe we can undo it,” Marcus panted. “Read it backward or... I don’t know. Close the door!”

Jake snatched the book, flipping frantically. “It’s gibberish. It’s all—”

He stopped.

The pages were changing. Ink spreading like mold across parchment. Words rearranging.

The price is paid. The door is open. The watchers return.

“No, no, no...” he whispered.

From the floorboards, tentacles slithered up.

Marcus screamed, grabbing a rusted axe and hacking at them. “Keep reading!”

Eli spoke again, this time in another voice. A voice that didn’t belong in this world. A tone older than language. More were coming through him.

He rises. He rises. The dreamer is awake. The stars burn out one by one.

Amber slapped him. “Shut up! That’s not you!”

But Eli just smiled—and his eyes were glowing green.

From above, the roof caved in. Water gushed in like a broken artery. Through the hole, the monstrous face of the Great Old One loomed—indescribable, grotesque, but undeniably aware.

Jake sobbed, clutching the book like a child. “We just wanted views. Just a few million clicks.”

Amber backed into a corner. “We were pretending! This wasn’t supposed to be real!”

But the cosmos did not care.

Cthulhu’s thoughts flooded their minds. Images of cities that defied geometry. Of skies aflame with dead stars. Of civilizations swallowed by the sea before time was time.

Madness... sweet, endless madness...

Jake was the first to burst. His mind cracked like porcelain. Laughing, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to the sea.

And was taken.

The others watched as the storm swallowed the land. The town of Thornhaven vanished beneath a wave not made of water, but nightmare. The lighthouse trembled, then crumbled into the black ocean.

Amber held Marcus’s hand, her voice soft. “Do you hear it?”

He nodded, tears streaming down his face. “It’s singing.”

Eli turned to them. “The ritual was never to summon him. It was to remind him.”

He walked into the rising water, the green glow in his eyes now burning.

“Let’s get that final shot,” he said, lifting the camera one last time. “This’ll be the only upload the world needs.”

The footage was never found.

But sometimes, deep in certain forums, you’ll hear about a corrupted video that crashes systems. It starts as a vlog. Four friends in robes. Candles. Laughing.

Then screaming.

Then... silence.

A green light lingers on the screen.

And if you stare too long into it—

You dream of the sea.

And the sea dreams of you.

Ia. Ia. Cthulhu fhtagn.

[aneurinallday]

The Elster Man

The antique shop on Allenbrought Street was, to me, the most magical place in the world. Even though it was the first paying job I’d managed to get after university, I was in no particular rush to move on - it was preferable to the waitressing job I’d had at school, and it appealed to my love of the vintage and forgotten. For as long as I could remember, I’d been fascinated by the concept of antiques, so this was the closest I thought I would ever come to a dream job.

I’d only been working there for about six months, but to me, the shop had become a safe haven - a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance, while the minimum wage trickled into my pocket. The ticking of the grandfather clock was like a lullaby to me, and sometimes I would doze off with the book in my hands, until being woken by the sound of the bell above the door, signalling a customer’s entrance.

My life changed on a Monday afternoon - always the quietest time for our shop, since people were too busy with work or school to come and gawk at antiques. The owner was sick, so it was just me: the only employee, diligently manning the till, sweeping the floor, and dusting the shelves. I’d only had two customers that day - an old man searching for photo albums or soldiers’ diaries from the Second World War, and an elderly woman looking for vintage ornaments - but I didn’t mind. I liked the peace and quiet.

As I pottered around the shop, I was struck, as I often was, by the cosy, cluttered charm of the place. The shelves were stacked high with a beautiful chaos of miscellany - ballerina music-boxes, candlesticks, lampshades, silverware, egg cups, biscuit tins - while the walls were hung with framed photographs and wooden cuckoo clocks.

Sitting on chairs were stuffed animals with button eyes and porcelain dolls with real human hair, and looming over everything was a large, ornately carved grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung to and fro almost hypnotically. Every object had been crafted by skilful hands, whose owners were long-dead; and I took my role seriously as the caretaker of their legacies.

I finished rearranging a teapot, teacups, and saucers on a tray, then looked around for something else to do. I took advantage of the down-time to start unpacking a delivery we’d received the previous Friday: several beat-up cardboard boxes of items from Elster House, an eighteenth century manor-house somewhere in the south.

In order to fund the upkeep of the twenty-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mansion, the aristocrat who lived there was in the process of converting it from a private residence into a public attraction. Tourists and history buffs would come flocking to admire the topiary and old paintings, and hopefully leave a few coins in the donation box. But first, the attics needed to be cleared out.

And so here I was, kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in a cardboard box stuffed with old bits-and-bobs, sorting the tat from the treasures.

Porcelain figurines of blushing cherubs and graceful Regency ladies gazed down at me as I worked. With a keen eye, I inspected each piece closely, looking for any scratches, scuffs, or discolouration that might decrease their value. I set aside a gilded snuff-box, and my gaze fell upon a rectangular tin at the bottom of the pile.

It wasn’t an antique, but a fairly modern storage tin, maybe from the 1970s or 1980s, painted with a rather gaudy floral design. It looked out-of-place among its Victorian companions.

I picked it up, and turned it around several times to admire the pattern. Then I attempted to open it, struggling to dig my fingernails under the lid. Gritting my teeth, I exerted more pressure. The lid finally gave up with a wheeze of escaping air, and the contents were revealed: a mess of old photographs, grey or sepia-toned, unmistakeably and authentically Victorian.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my stiff knees protested. I hurried to fetch a pair of cotton gloves, specially bought for protecting old, fragile documents from skin oils. Hastening back to the box, I sat cross-legged, put on my gloves, and reached into the tin.

The first photo I picked up was an unremarkable portrait. A young man sitting in a chair, wearing full Victorian garb, staring off into the distance in an aloof, regal fashion. His expression was dignified and stoic, his pose statue-like. When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded; but having one’s photograph taken had remained a serious event, and smiling hadn’t yet become acceptable.

I peered more closely at the faded image. The man was strikingly handsome, in an angular and somewhat haunted way, his dark hair slicked with pomade. His large, shadowy eyes seemed full of secrets and deep, unknowable thoughts. A Gothic beauty, complete with an aura of mystery. Judging by his fine clothes and aristocratic bearing, he was probably an ancestor of the current owner of Elster House. The plain background and lack of other objects ensured that my gaze focused on him.

I turned the picture over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

Richard Mariah Elster

His Lordship on a fine Friday

October 13th 1843

To my chagrin, many of the photographs were heavily damaged - covered in splotches and scratches, the corners faded and curling. It seemed as though they’d been tossed carelessly in the tin with no regard for proper storage, yet a loose chronology seemed to exist. As I flipped through, I realised that they were all of Lord Elster. It was a collection dedicated to one man - one beautiful young man (or young to my admiring eyes, at least).

In most of them, he was alone, sitting or standing in various attitudes; but in some of them, he had companions - an elderly couple that I assumed were his parents, a male contemporary who was probably a university friend, a young woman whom he may have been courting. All of them seemed to pale in comparison; my eye was always drawn to him.

Each picture was its own little enigma. Who was he, and what circumstances had brought him to be photographed that day? Was he marking a significant event in his life, or had he simply wanted to show off his new clothes? My gloved hands carefully turned them over, checking for writing, but most of what I found was illegible.

As I searched, my fingers found something that wasn’t paper - something soft and ticklish. I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could detect the lingering, sweet fragrance of perfume. I wondered if he’d requested it as a keepsake, or if his lover had offered it as a token of her affections.

Picking up another picture, I experienced a momentary shock to see Lord Elster’s dead body propped upright, bereft of its head; but I quickly identified it as a joke photograph. In the 1880s and 1890s, there had been a humorous fad for “headless portraits”, in which the subject posed for two photographs in succession, and both photo negatives were combined to create the illusion that they were holding their own severed head by the hair or cradling it on their lap. Sure enough, the lord’s “decapitated” head was sitting nearby while his hand pretended to stroke its hair. I snorted with laughter, and put the picture aside.

The one that followed wasn’t a single image, but a collection of eight, arranged in two rows of four. I recognised it as a “visiting card” from the 1860s or late 1850s. At the time, it had finally become possible to take quick, casual photographs and print them onto a single sheet of thin paper, usually showing a person in the same setting but in different poses and attitudes. The low cost and simple production of such photos had led to their boom in popularity, as they could be easily traded among friends and family - one of the earliest examples of social media.

In all images, he was standing with a top-hat and cane in his hands. Sometimes he was posed in a serious and stoic manner, but sometimes he appeared grinning and playful. The images were too small to make out details, but I was struck by his humour - a long-dead man captured forever in a moment of amusement. It was a jarring reminder that people had been just as silly seven generations ago as they were now. Looking at him, I realised I was smiling.

But when I put it aside and saw the next picture, my smile died and my heart dropped. The young lord was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack, his mouth a sliver of blackness as it hung ajar. He looked like he was fast asleep, but I knew that he was dead. The sight came as a gut-punch to me. I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Now he sat in front of me, dead, motionless, his existence reduced to a scrap of paper.

There was nothing written - no date, no tribute, no expression of grief. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he died peacefully or violently? In bed after a terrible illness, surrounded by the tender care of his loved ones? Or in the middle of the street after a sudden accident, surrounded by gawking strangers? Morbid curiosity compelled me to peer closer at the photograph, looking for any clue as to what may have killed him - but he was fully dressed and immaculately hairstyled, hiding any possible sign of injury.

He was undeniably dead, and in accordance with the customs of the time, his family had decided to take one last picture of him.

I hadn’t come to work that day expecting to get emotional. Perhaps it was just the dust, but my eyes had begun to sting. I moved on, eager to shake off the image of his lifeless face.

The following photograph was decidedly less formal - probably a private memento. He was standing up, one foot crossed in front of the other, leaning his arm on the back of a chair in a casual manner. His hair had grown longer, and hung in easy-going curls to his neck - quite unusual for the time period, when most men had worn their hair short, slick, and sensible.

He appeared to be in an exquisite garden lined with marble columns, with a fountain in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real place or a studio backdrop. Maybe it was a corner of the Elster estate, or maybe it was just paint on a canvas.

I held the precious picture in both hands, glad to see him alive again, then gently put it aside.

What I saw next caused me to freeze for a moment, as if my heart had skipped a beat. The young man was sitting naked on the floor, and smiling at someone out of frame. His long, dark curls were gathered loosely back, exposing his pale shoulders, and his expression was one of eager delight. Compared to the formality and pomp of its companions, the image was shocking in how alive and intimate it was. The subject was aroused, happy, and in motion.

I turned the picture over. Scribbled on the back in messy cursive were the words:

My darling, delicious Rick. A souvenir. Nothing tastes sweeter.

Something about the penmanship made me think it was a man’s. I felt a sudden guilt. This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

Moving on, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire - the next picture was even more scandalous. His unrestrained hair tumbled in disarray about his face, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown that hung open, revealing that he was nude underneath. He was draped over a chaise longue in a languid pose, one bare leg crossed lazily over the other. To my modern eyes, the pose was no more shocking than a Greek statue, but for the time, it must’ve been outrageous.

Staring at him, I abruptly realised that it was his hair I had sniffed. His perfume I had imagined a whiff of. For some reason, the fact was embarrassing.

On the back of the scandalous photograph, I discovered the words:

To my dearest Rick. I found this and had to share the memory.

Wednesday 6th June 1866

This time, the handwriting felt feminine to me - painstaking, graceful, the result of years of strict schooling. I wondered how many lovers he’d had in his life, and which one he’d married to continue the Elster line.

Wait…1866? I squinted at the number. No, I’d definitely read it correctly.

I returned to the first portrait, dated 1843, and examined his face with a more critical eye. If I was generous and assumed he was in his early twenties at the time, he still looked remarkably youthful two decades later. Perhaps the hand holding the pen had made an error, or perhaps Richard was simply blessed with good genetics. Oh well, this mystery was above my pay-grade - correctly identifying the pictures would be the museum’s job.

I was approaching the bottom of the tin, and already wondering which museum to call first. These photographs belonged in a safe place, not a dusty antique shop, and I felt curiously protective of them. This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt.

Suddenly, my eye was caught by a pop of colour. Something blue amid the grey and sepia. I reached for it, drew it from the pile, and my blood ran cold.

It was a Polaroid, and the face smiling back at me was Lord Elster’s. From what I could see, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over an unbuttoned tie-dye shirt, and his hair was gathered back in a loose mess. Seeing him in colour came as a shock to the system. Even in the faded, washed-out Polaroid, his curls were a rich and lustrous brown, his eyes a deep green. Even his pale skin seemed to be a dozen hues of pink.

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

I knew it was him, but I also knew the idea was impossible. Although colour photography had ceased to be experimental in the 1930s, it hadn’t become the norm until the 1960s, and the Polaroid Corporation hadn’t dominated the world of instant cameras until the 1970s. If the man in front of me was the same man who’d sat patiently for a portrait in 1843, he would be almost two centuries old.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jolted me from my reverie, a resonant chime informing me that a customer had entered. Sure enough, I heard the door swing shut with a decisive thud, and a male voice calling cheerfully:

“Hello?”

“One moment, please,” I answered, quickly returning everything to the tin and putting the lid back on. I heard his bouncy, blithe footsteps striding across the floor towards me, and realised I was covered in dust. I brushed myself off and emerged from behind the shelves, the floral tin in my hands. “How can I help - ” I began, but then I saw his face and the words died in my throat.

“Ah. I was looking for that. Thank you.”

His voice was youthful and sweet. He plucked the tin from my unresisting hands, paused, and peered closely at it. I realised I’d failed to rotate the lid back into the same position I’d found it, resulting in the flowery pattern being disrupted. My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

“You’ve been nosy, I see,” he said, “No matter.”

He smiled brightly, and slapped a stack of bank-notes down on the counter without counting them.

“There. Whatever awkward questions you have, this should be all the answer you need. If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

He turned, and with a flick of his dark curls, was gone.

For @rmelster

[justabigoldnerd]

Thank you so much @pippinoftheshire and @prettyboynapoleonsolo for the tags!!! 💕💕💕💕

I'll combine both your lists because I know I don't have a few from either lmao and also if I have a word in a finished work I'll use that too!!

My Words: molasses, anticipation, survivor, grace, sunlight, vitriol, gleam, sharp

Your Words: grass, veil, background, training

Molasses - "A Thousand Teeth (And Yours Among Them)"

The saloon is old. Some say it's the oldest building in town. That some lonesome cattle-driver erected a bar and four walls and the rest of the city oozed out from the bottles like fermented molasses. The railroad even carves a dark river past the bar and deep into the heart of the city. It's been a long time since anyone remembers the train stopping here, but every now and then an old steamer will rattle the dry-rotting walls and knock a poor drunk's glass onto the floor. Dust rains down around them as the midnight train roars past, coating every surface and leaving granules in Illya's drink. He scowls into the clouded amber liquid and makes a disapproving sound. Swipes his tongue over his teeth like he can taste the grit.

Anticipation - "Blood In Your Teeth And Mud On Your Hands"

“Point taken, Gaby,” Solo laughs breathlessly as she drags him by the hand through the crowd again. He finds himself scanning the gathered racers for a slavic giant in crimson and gold, but the throng is too thick. His heart flutters in anticipation of meeting Illya after things die down. “Point taken.”

Survivor - Nada

Grace - "Single Dad Solo / Ballet Instructor Illya"

None of that matters. The center of his universe blots out the rest of the people in the room, and he exhales softly as he watches her focus on perfecting her balance. Claire has the grace of a petal on a spring breeze, and her natural talent paired with her fierce determination makes Solo certain that she could become a principal dancer some day. In fact, he is certain that she will find endless success in any path she chooses to follow. Solo is so wrapped up in the warm glow of pride that he doesn't see the glowering Slavic instructor until he pauses near Claire.

Sunlight - "Domovoy"

At the end of an isolated, gravelly road, an old-wood cottage with intricate trimmings stands proudly. Sunlight filters through the trees that dot the property, spilling dappled light onto the beautiful latticework and shutters, painted white in contrast to the dark stained oak. It is cozy and not too big, with enough bedrooms to host his friends after dinner and too much alcohol. Solo sighs with enough content to fill the large box in his arms and shoulders through the front door. He finds it rather funny, actually. His whole life, he dreamed of owning a nice house, complete with a white picket fence and a family– the typical American Dream. And yet, where he found his home, his people, was an entire ocean away in the sprawling hills of England.

Vitriol - Nothin'

Gleam - "Which Side of The Wall Really Suffers That Cost?"

"I want to hear it from you. I'd like to know what's got you on edge this morning.”

Authenticity was not an accessory Solo often wore. Today, it sat gleaming in his eyes so brightly that Illya almost told him. Guilt gnawed at his insides as he stood up straight again and denied, “It is not your business.”

Sharp - "How To Cook A Wolf"

He scrawls his name in jittery letters, right on the line, then lets the pen clatter to the desk. He looks up at the man he once respected, even admired, with enough venom to kill him in half a second if Solo had fangs. Sanders only smiles wider in return, sharp like the straight razor that had knicked his carotid. A foreboding sense of dread settles deep in his stomach. “We done here?”

No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @bighandsforabigheart

@kcscribbler @mybelovedillya @cha-melodius @the-golden-comet @thattripleabattery

@too-young-to-fall-in-love @times-up-alone-tonight @vnyu73 @nicijones @fandom-meet-fanthem

And an Open Tag for anyone else who wants to join!!!

[ren14554]

Want to start from the beginning? Chapter 1

Eternal

Chapter 20: Mexico - Deja Vu

They wait the two agonizing days for the museum to reopen, filling the time with restless lounging or wandering the city in search of distractions. Sofia drags the group out for authentic Mexican food, which is inhaled by all—especially an overly enthusiastic Sarah.

Sofia discreetly observes when Rafe holds the door open for Kiara. Sure, it is an absentminded gesture he extends to all the women. Still, when Kiara throws him a quick— intentional— thanks, Sofia notices. And later, when Rafe makes a sarcastic remark about Groff, his penchant for expensive suits, and his perpetually disheveled appearance, Kiara laughs—the loudest out of everyone. For the first time in days, Kiara looks more at ease.

The morning of, over plates of chilaquiles from a tucked-away restaurant, Pope finally mentions the inevitable. No one protests. Unlike the tense separation of two days ago, this time, they all agree—they go together.

Walking back through the museum now feels a little more important. Everything here now feels like a clue to some grand, ancient treasure people deem worthy of seeking. What that treasure is is now the question to answer. 

"It should be just through here," Sarah says, leading the way. John B trails at her heels, the rest of them following. 

The museum is crowded today, with handfuls of guided tours, families taking their kids on a fun day excursion, and school kids and their teachers running about, not so much as glancing at anything on display. 

When they step into the exhibit, Sofia is struck all over again. Art surrounds them, breathtaking in its precision and the sheer skill of its creation. The Mayans carved stories into stone, bone, and the earth itself. It amazes her.

It also reminds her of the paintings that gather dust in the back of her closet.

"This is it," Pope breathes, standing a few feet away. He glances between his phone and the massive tapestry hanging above them. The group converges around him, eyes following his.

"Is this what you guys found?" Sofia asks, seeking confirmation.

Sarah nods.

Wow.

The tapestry dominates the upper half of the wall, fifteen feet up, faded yet strikingly vibrant. Woven fibers depict an intricate landscape, a winding path stretching across its expanse.

It's definitely a map.

But to where?

A yellow symbol at the bottom resembles an abstract mountain or cave entrance. At the top, a white glyph is shaped like a human face marked with unfamiliar symbols. The path starts near an oval shape with motion-like markings—water, maybe? Off to the side, clusters of pointed triangles suggest mountains.

As the path winds upward, it cuts through twisted, crooked trees before reaching an animal-like glyph speckled with small dots. From there, it veers northeast, skirting the mountains before encountering a tangled mess of squiggles and hooks—what the hell is that? But the trail doesn't stop, curling into an enclosed shape with a thick border. Beside it, a creature—curved ears, elongated snout, fangs bared.

The depiction unsettles Sofia.

Finally, the path ends near three wavy blue lines. The strokes are deliberate and precise.

"Look at this," Pope murmurs, angling his phone to compare. "These symbols—they're like trail markers." His finger hovers over a particular point, a distinct, prominent hill-like glyph in the middle of the trail.

"What does it mean though?" John B asks, stepping closer.

"I'm not sure," Pope admits. "But it's different from the others. It could be important."

Sofia's gaze drifts back to the end of the route, lingering on the blue lines. The longer she stares, the more confident she is—this isn't just water.

"Could be a river," Cleo suggests, eyeing the symbol.

"Or the ocean," Sarah adds.

"We need to decode this properly," Pope mutters, rubbing his jaw.

A few feet away, a glass display case gleams under the overhead lights. Sofia steps toward it, scanning the aged parchment inside—ancient glyphs, carefully drawn translations in Spanish beneath them.

"Guys," she calls. "I think we just found our decoder."

The group crowds around as she reads silently, eyes flicking between the parchments and the tapestry.

"What do you see?" John B asks. The others glance between her and the Spanish codices encased in glass.

Sofia shifts her focus between the two. "The yellow symbol at the bottom and the white at the top are cardinal directions. The yellow is south, and white is north."

"Okay, so it's oriented like a normal map, always pointing north," Pope nods in affirmation.

"The oval with the flowing lines is lago—a lake."

"So we start at a lake," Kiara muses. "There can't be that many nearby, right?"

"The pointed shapes are mountains," Sofia continues, trailing her finger along the glass to keep track.

"So a lake between two mountain ranges," Pope confirms. "Okay, we can work with that."

Then she stops. Her eyes flick back to the symbol Pope pointed out moments ago—the one that stands out among the others. She glances down at the parchment.

Ciudad.

"The hill-like symbol," she murmurs, voice tightening. "It's a city."

Sarah's brow furrows. "Another lost city? How many cities did the Mayans lose?" A few chuckles scatter through the group.

Sofia moves down the list, zeroing in on the enclosed square. "This one translates to cave. And the creature beside it… murciélago."

"What's that mean?" Pope asks.

Sofia's mouth quirks grimly. "Bats."

"So, a cave and bats?" Kiara deadpans. "A bat cave?"

"Looks that way," Sofia mutters, glancing back at the tapestry. Her stomach twists. Her eyes skim the papers again, searching for the final piece—the wavy blue lines. The ink is faded, which makes it harder to make out, but then she sees it.

She squints. "Cenotes."

She peers closer at the worn ink. The adjoining notes are complicated, an older form of Spanish bordering on the Mayan dialect.

"Life." She shakes her head. "It's hard to fully translate, but… life."

Rafe, who had been uncharacteristically silent, finally speaks. "Shit."

A family passing nearby throws him a disapproving glare, quickly ushering their kids away. Rafe rolls his eyes.

"Supernatural sacrifices," Sofia mutters, eyes still moving over the parchment. Muttering the last only to herself, "Life beyond."

"So just everything they could throw at it to make it sound mystical and alluring?" John B grunts. "Perfect."

Cleo snorts. "No one ever said the Mayans made sense."

Sofia suddenly straightens, realization lighting in her hazel eyes. She turns back to the top of the tapestry, something clicking into place.

"Shit," she murmurs.

__________________

"Shit." Rafe curses again, narrowed blue eyes staring out of the room. 

They all turn as Dalia and three of her men walk with purpose through the previous exhibit; their eyes scan the space, searching. Headed straight for the room they've found themselves currently occupying. 

"Fuck." John B mutters, grabbing Sarah by the arm and gently pulling her towards another room off the side. Kiara quickly slips out after them, vanishing into the moving crowd.

Rafe takes a step to follow, but a flood of tourists bottlenecks at the next exhibit's entry, halting him in his tracks. A group of seniors shuffle past, cameras up, while a family with three kids fans out in front of one of the glass displays.

His jaw clenches. Perfect.

Cleo acts fast, gripping Sofia's wrist and pulling her toward a short partition wall. Rafe and Pope follow close behind, pressing themselves against the wall's spackled surface as they inch toward the far end.

Rafe risks a glance—Dalia's men are in the room now. Eyes sharp. Searching.

He can feel Sofia behind him, closer than she's been in days. She doesn't shy away from his closeness.

"We need to move. Now," Cleo whispers. "We're outnumbered."

"They wouldn't try anything in here. Too many eyes," Rafe murmurs, but even as he says it, he's not sure he believes it.

"You willing to gamble on that?" Cleo fires back.

He grits his teeth. "Two more of Dalia's guys near the next entrance." His stomach sinks as he spots them standing near the only way out to the lobby. Watching. Waiting.

"Great," Pope mutters. "Because this wasn't hard enough already."

"We'll never get around them." Sofia murmurs.

"We can't stay here either," Rafe says.

Cleo scans the shifting crowd. Her expression hardens. "Then we don't."

No hesitation.

She steps out from the low wall, head down, slipping through the crowd of tourists and disappearing among them, headed towards the other room. Pope follows hurridly. Rafe holds his breath as one of Dalia's men glances their way. The guy pauses, scanning, brow furrowing. Then he turns away.

Sofia hesitates for half a second, just long enough for Rafe to see her fist curl.

Then she moves, and he stays close, his hand hovering near her lower back. He doesn't touch—just shadows her, keeping her within reach, almost worried he may need to encourage her.

He doesn't trust Dalia.

Or the confusion on her merc's face as his gaze passes over them briefly with suspicion.

They weave through the room's entrance into the next exhibit, nearly running right into some kids running about, before ducking behind a semi-opaque display where Pope and Cleo are currently stopped, peeking around it cautiously.

They all move on to conceal themselves behind the next statue's display, trying to make quick work of getting close to their exit.

Then—

"Shit," Cleo hisses, pulling them to a sudden stop.

Another man. A third merc. Standing in their way.

Rafe reacts before he thinks.

He grabs Sofia's wrist and pivots them toward a massive pillar. Presses her against it. Cages her in. Trying his best to keep her out of any line of sight.

The air locks in Rafe's chest. Too close.

Her breath catches.

His does, too.

Her face is inches from his chest, so close he can see the flicker of confusion in her hazel eyes. The heat of her body radiates onto his, their heartbeats thunderously out of sync. But the moment is gone before he can think too hard about it.

Dalia's guy lingers only briefly, eyes scanning the room diligently.

Rafe forces himself to stay still, every muscle tight, with fear if he shuffles too noticeably, the guy's eyes would surely zero in on him. 

Finally, out of the corner of Rafe's gaze, the guy turns, stepping away. Walking back to the other side of the room, now surveying the other open areas.

Rafe exhales.

"Close one," he mutters. Sofia doesn't say anything. Just glances up at him.

Cleo gestures sharply at him, coming out of her own alcove with Pope. Move. They swiftly inch past the last few displays, getting closer to the exit. However, the two men at the large opening haven't moved, still watching.

Pope pauses, glancing about before he spots something—a museum worker shoving a supply cart through a side door. "There," Pope mutters.

The second the door starts to swing shut, they haul ass and slip through one by one, pressing against the wall as the door locks shut behind them. Outside, the warm air hits fast, but they all take a collective sigh of relief.

~~~~~

They don't stop. Sarah and Kiara text them to meet a few blocks away, so they move quickly, winding through side streets, past vendors and storefronts, until they're far enough away to breathe.

Finally, they reach a set of stone steps near an old fountain. Only then does Rafe stop, inhaling deep.

John B, Sarah, and Kiara are already there, waiting.

"Took you long enough," Kiara quips, arms crossed.

"Yeah, well, we ran into company," Cleo breathes, rolling her shoulders.

Pope remarks. "Maybe Groff and his team aren't as ahead of us as we thought."

"Of course not. Unless it's us showing them to the treasure." Sarah comments. On the steps, she currently lounges comfortably back into her boyfriend. 

"What does it all mean though?" John B adds, glancing at Sofia as she paces slowly at the bottom of the staircase, "You found something right before we were interrupted. You were talking under your breath. Cenotes. What'd you find?"

Sofia stops and regards the rest of them. Rafe waits.

"Basically, it alluded to a cenote at the end of the path."

"You know something else?" Kiara states, calling her out.

Sofia swallows, an uneasy energy buzzing from her, "There are legends in Mexican culture. Grandparents telling bedtime stories to their grandkids," she states to curious ears. "My grandma sometimes told stories of young lovers who bathed in the waters and had eternal life and love. Others say these lagoons appear, and if you jump in them, they give you immortality, youth, or… whatever." She swallows. He almost wants to reach out in some way. He doesn't. 

She continues, "They aren't too popular in greater culture… at least not typically regarding Mexico." A few of them glance between her and themselves. Sofia adds, "Ponce De Leon was after the pool of eternal youth, but apparently, he wasn't looking in the right place."

Rafe speaks up. "So what? Are you saying Groff believes all this leads to that?"

"Is this man that deranged to think he can find a pool of immortality?" Kiara scoffs. "Truly, he has lost it."

"Did he ever really have his sanity to begin with?" John B retorts.

They all silently agree that probably not.

Cleo continues, "So he thinks the pools grant life. Does he want to live forever? Or maybe he wants to find them and expose them to the world for a price."

"That's the problem. The Cenotes. Like the one back at Dzibilchaltún. Most believe that back in ancient times, they were portals to other worlds. People would make sacrifices to them, hoping for prosperity in return," Sofia explains. "In reality, they're just natural sinkholes that most people have already discovered and swim in daily for a steep tourist fee."

"So they're useless."

"More or less. The legend still stands, and stories are still told, but I'm pretty sure no one in the present day has proven eternal life, and thousands of people have bathed in their waters. It's hard to miss them with the hundreds scattered about Mexico."

"We should get back to the house before they happen upon us somehow. Right now, they think we're decomposing in a tomb in the rainforest." John B states. He pulls Sarah up from her perch on the steps. "We can continue this there without potential prying ears."

The rest of them silently agree, choosing to follow without protest. Instinctually, Rafe passes a quick hand across Sofia's shoulder blades. She glances up at him with a look he can't quite trace but doesn't shy away. At least not physically.

__________________

The night air is a mixture of muggy, hot air and the cool breeze from the distant Gulf of Mexico. Sofia leans back in her chair, absently tracing the condensation on her beer bottle as the conversation drifts. They've all overeaten, the remnants of their takeout containers still clutter the patio table. A few dim lanterns cast soft light over the group, flickering shadows stretching along the rental's siding.

"So what if the legends are true?" John B says, his voice slow, thoughtful. "The path we plan to go down leads to a pool that could grant life forever."

"We monetize it?" Cleo jokes, lifting her beer in a mock toast before sipping.

"Well, Groff seems to want to do something similar," Rafe mutters, swirling the beer in his hand. "He sold the crown for money. No doubt he plans to sell this place—whatever it is—for a price too."

"You know…" Sarah shifts slightly in her seat, pulling her legs onto the chair. "I'm still stuck on some of those glyph translations. A bat cave? I don't know if I want to go down a path that includes a cave full of bats."

"According to a site I was reading, bats were seen as guardians of the underworld," Pope supplies. "A harbinger of danger, so to speak."

Sarah grimaces. "That's... comforting."

"I made a rough translation," Sofia says awkwardly, pushing her beer around the table. "The cave was definitely there, but it could be the name of the cave, not necessarily what's inside it."

"Sure," Sarah says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

"The first landmark was a lake, right?" John B checks in and looks at Sofia for confirmation. She nods.

"So we need to find a lake between two mountain ranges," he continues.

"Or hills," Pope supplies, glancing between his phone screen and the conversation.

John B nods. "Or hills. And then we follow the path. It can't hurt to at least see where it leads."

"Just like that?" Rafe asks, finally looking up. There's something in his tone—maybe skepticism or the same wariness she's felt since they walked out of the museum.

"We can't give up now," John B presses.

"But what does this actually benefit us?" Sarah asks. "What happens when we get there?"

"If there's a way we can make it impossible for Groff to find this place, the better," Kiara states with finality. "He doesn't deserve eternal life or to make a profit off the promise of it."

"Pope—"

"I'm on it," Pope interrupts, already clicking through his phone. "I'll start pulling up possible locations."

There's a quiet moment, the night settling around them again. Sofia takes a slow sip of her beer, letting the coolness contrast the warmth in the air.

"So we're on the hunt for another lost city or two," Rafe mutters, shaking his head slightly.

Sofia looks at him, studying how he's watching the others, almost like he's waiting for someone else to voice whatever doubt he's still holding onto. Instead of calling him out, she lets the corner of her mouth twitch slightly.

"You say that like you're surprised," she murmurs loud enough for him to hear.

He glances at her, something unreadable passing through his expression before he exhales, tipping his beer toward his lips. "Yeah, well. You all better hope there's more than just bats waiting at the end of this."

Sofia doesn't look away, the ghost of a smile. "Guess we'll find out together."

__________________

Next part: Chapter 21

[leaderpinhead]

Riddle - Precise Prank

Prompt: Chilled (TwstOber) + Prank (Blotober)

Riddle tugged on the knot with a ferocity to match the annoyance simmering inside him. How dare Ace imply he was too "tightly wound” to get into the Halloween spirit? He had been at the forefront of assembling Heartslabyul’s exhibit. He had measured the pumpkins to ensure the only used the ones with the most surface area to carve. He had even made use of his calligraphy lessons to add a little character to the gravestones they created, each one naming a student in the dorm to add “authenticity” to the theme. If there was anyone who had Halloween spirit right now, it was Riddle! 

Still, Ace’s little comment echoed in his ears: “Trust our housewarden to be strict even with Halloween. This’ll suck the spirit right out of us.” 

Riddle harrumphed. He gave the rope a final tug and stepped back to examine his creation. He smirked. Ace would have no choice but to change his tune when he walked right into Riddle’s carefully constructed prank. 

“Trey said he was back here grabbing more shovels.” 

“I thought you guys were done digging.” 

“Apparently, some of the gravestones weren’t functionally accessible for visitors to enjoy.” 

Riddle shuffled to the back of the shed. He held his breath and waited for Ace to walk through the door he had purposefully left ajar. Trey had obviously followed his instructions to a T, and Riddle would have to thank his friend later for not questioning such an odd demand. 

The door creaked open. Riddle had a split second to meet the prefect’s unaware gaze before Yuu’s entire head disappeared under the bucket that had been balanced on the ajar door. Green slime slowly oozed down Yuu’s shoulders. 

Riddle gasped in complete horror. He abandoned his spot in the corner and ignored Ace’s wheezing laughter to help free Yuu from the bucket. Yuu’s face and hair were completely green thanks to the color transfer spell Riddle had placed on the slime. “I’m sorry, Yuu! My prank wasn’t meant for you at all.” 

“Prank?” Ace wheezed. He doubled over, struggling to breathe. “You call that a prank? I saw straight through it the moment Trey sent me back here!” 

Riddle ignored Ace and recited the quick counterspell to remove the dye from the slime. The slime didn’t magically disappear, but at least the person blinking back at him in complete shock was no longer the same shade as a frog. He turned away from Yuu and searched the small shed. “Let me find a towel for you.” 

Ace’s laughter shifted to yelps. “Get off me!” 

Riddle abandoned his search for a towel and stared at Yuu now clinging to Ace. Ace tried to shove the prefect off him, but Yuu stubbornly clung to him. “What’s the matter?” Yuu teased. “It’s just a bit of slime.” 

“You’re ruining my shirt!” 

“That’s what you get for setting me up.” 

“I didn’t set you up! It was Riddle’s prank.” 

“And you grabbed me to come with you for absolutely no reason. After admitting you figured it out the moment Trey said anything.” 

Ace groaned and tried to shuffle back down the path to where the rest of the dorm worked on their exhibit. “Why is it cold?” 

“Embrace the slime.” 

“You’re such a loser.” 

Yuu glanced back at Riddle. Riddle stiffened, unsure how he should carry himself now thanks to his prank. Yuu gave him a wink before shoving slime covered hair right into Ace’s face. Ace loudly complained and shoved his hand against Yuu’s head. Riddle hid a grin behind his hand. 

When he returned to the group later after cleaning up the slime, several students congratulated him for his successful prank. Riddle was a little surprised by their overzealous praise until he overheard Yuu telling everyone how he managed to get them both with the same prank. His worry about spoiling any of the fun they had making their exhibit dissipated with each compliment, and he later agreed to teach them the spell he used to dye the slime. 

[solomonea]

Which interior style is usually the cheapest to implement: choosing from the 4 main ones

Many homeowners dream of a stylish interior, yet finances often guide their decisions. A well-chosen design can refresh a home and protect the budget.

This article reviews four popular interior styles and determines which one offers the most cost-effective approach.

Renovation expenses can surge if you pick the wrong approach. Selecting a practical style truly saves money.

Industrial Style

Industrial style features exposed brick, metal fixtures, and reclaimed wood. These elements often come from old warehouses. A Brooklyn loft with original brick walls, visible pipes, and secondhand metal chairs is a real example. Vintage lighting can raise costs, yet leaving surfaces untouched may lower labor expenses. Some homeowners incorporate large factory-style windows to bring in natural light and repurpose old lockers or metal racks as storage. These tactics often reinforce the raw appeal and keep spending within reason.

Scandinavian Style

Scandinavian design centers on natural light, simple lines, and functional furniture. A small apartment in Stockholm with white floors, streamlined sofas, and birch tables illustrates this look. Neutral-toned rugs and practical storage units maintain a lower budget. Decorative blankets or houseplants add warmth without overspending. Homes in cities like Oslo or Copenhagen exemplify how clean layouts, subtle textiles, and small decorative accents can form a restful atmosphere. Many people appreciate the bright color palette that reduces the need for expensive lighting solutions.

Minimalist Style

Minimalist interiors showcase an open layout, limited furniture, and sleek surfaces. A Tokyo studio with nearly empty walls, a single sofa, and a low-profile bed shows this concept. Premium materials like smooth concrete can boost expenses, but DIY solutions and reused pieces are budget-friendly. Plywood shelves or basic white cabinets often balance costs. Large mirrors can amplify available light and reduce the number of lamps you might need. This approach suits individuals who value a clutter-free life and prefer simplicity over multiple accessories.

Rustic Style

Rustic style prioritizes rough-hewn wood or stone. A country cottage near the Alps might feature thick beams, hand-carved chairs, and a stone fireplace. High-quality timber raises prices, yet salvaged barn doors cut spending. Specialized carpentry can add cost. Some rural bed-and-breakfasts demonstrate how natural fabrics like linen curtains and wool rugs integrate well with rough wood surfaces. The overall result is cozy, but material sourcing may require patience if you want authentic pieces.

Costs, Examples, And Practical Lists

Costs hinge on materials, labor, and project size. Many people choose industrial or minimalist as affordable options, though local resources affect expenses. One homeowner in New England converted an abandoned warehouse into a chic industrial loft by acquiring secondhand fixtures at auction. Another individual in rural France renovated a barn in a rustic manner by salvaging aged planks from a nearby demolition site. Each approach balanced creativity with financial control.

Here is a list of factors:

Budget. Always confirm how much you want to spend.

Material sources. Pick local suppliers or secondhand items.

Skilled labor. Check availability of builders or carpenters.

Personal taste. Select a style that fits daily life.

These points guide interior planning. Evaluating local prices and existing spaces helps reveal the best style.

When trimming costs, consider these:

reuse older furniture;

repurpose leftover materials;

compare prices from different shops.

That approach can spark creative solutions, such as using a vintage door as a coffee table or leftover tiles as a backsplash accent.

Cheaper Style Verdict

Minimalist design usually ranks as the least expensive. It needs fewer furnishings, and many parts can be built with simple tools. Scandinavian can be similarly thrifty with basic items. Industrial becomes cheap with abundant reclaimed materials, and rustic can be affordable if old wood is on hand.

Renovation alone might seem tempting, but it's not an easy thing to do. An experienced team knows color schemes and structural nuances. E&A Partners offers professional guidance. Another option might be Johnson Interiors, which coordinates labor and furniture.

Points Worth Remembering

Minimalist style often ranks as the most economical choice. Industrial demands caution with sourcing, Scandinavian emphasizes light colors, and rustic relies on reclaimed treasures. Local resources, DIY tasks, and expert insights strongly influence final bills.

Practical Takeaways For Homeowners

Each style can look appealing without draining your savings. Minimalism typically stands out for lower costs, but other styles remain viable with smart planning. It is wise to review local conditions and pick labor methods that fit your goals. Professional designers can simplify decisions and boost confidence.

[runwayindia]

Celebrating the Spirit of Nagaland: Runway India at the Heart of the Hornbill Festival

Nagaland, a land of vibrant traditions, exquisite handicrafts, and rich cultural heritage, stands out as one of India’s most unique and diverse regions. At the heart of this cultural treasure lies the Hornbill Festival, a grand celebration that showcases the tribal art, crafts, music, and traditions of the state. For Runway India, a platform dedicated to empowering artisans and promoting tribal art, collaborating with the Hornbill Festival represents a powerful opportunity to preserve and celebrate Nagaland’s rich legacy.

This partnership not only highlights the beauty of Nagaland’s craftsmanship but also opens doors for people across India to buy unique Nagaland products online, connecting artisans to wider audiences and fostering appreciation for their work.

Runway India and the Hornbill Festival: A Cultural Bridge

The Hornbill Festival, known as the "Festival of Festivals," is a week-long event that takes place every December in Nagaland. The festival is a celebration of the state’s 16 major tribes, bringing together traditional dances, folk music, indigenous games, and, most importantly, the stunning artistry of local craftsmen. Each handcrafted item, whether it’s a vibrant handwoven shawl or intricately designed jewelry, tells a story of heritage and cultural pride.

For Runway India, participating in the Hornbill Festival aligns with its mission to create opportunities for indigenous artisans. By showcasing their products and skills, Runway India ensures that these talented creators gain the recognition they deserve, both locally and globally. This collaboration also emphasizes the importance of buying authentic handicrafts online, bridging the gap between artisans and consumers across India.

Promoting Nagaland’s Unique Handicrafts

Nagaland’s handicrafts are celebrated for their creativity and sustainability. Products made from banana fibre have gained popularity for their eco-friendly appeal. Banana fibre is not only durable but also reflects the resourcefulness of Nagaland’s artisans, who transform this natural material into stunning textiles, bags, and home décor items.

To ensure these crafts reach a wider audience, Runway India actively supports online marketplaces where people can find and buy Nagaland handicrafts online in India. From intricate bamboo products and hand-carved wooden artifacts to vibrant Naga jewelry, these items showcase the talent and ingenuity of the region’s artisans.

Supporting Handicraft Training and Empowerment

Preserving traditional crafts requires consistent effort and skill development. Runway India collaborates with artisans and training centers to promote the growth of sustainable handicraft practices. Some of the best banana fibre training centers in India are located in Nagaland, where artisans are trained to refine their skills, innovate designs, and meet market demands.

By supporting these centers, Runway India not only empowers artisans but also ensures the sustainability of indigenous crafts. Training programs help artisans modernize their techniques while staying rooted in tradition, enabling them to compete in national and international markets.

Nagaland’s Handicraft Industry: A Legacy of Excellence

The handicraft manufacturers in Nagaland play a vital role in preserving the cultural identity of the region. Their work extends beyond creating beautiful items; it is about sustaining livelihoods and passing down traditions to the next generation. Bamboo, cane, and wood are commonly used materials, with artisans crafting everything from furniture and baskets to decorative pieces.

Runway India works closely with these manufacturers, helping them adapt to changing market trends while maintaining the authenticity of their craft. This collaboration ensures that the artisans' stories and traditions continue to reach a global audience, providing consumers with the opportunity to connect with the culture of Nagaland through their products.

Why Support Nagaland Handicrafts?

When you buy Nagaland handicrafts online, you’re not just purchasing a product; you’re supporting a community, preserving a heritage, and promoting sustainability. Each piece of art carries the essence of Nagaland’s culture, allowing you to bring a part of this beautiful state into your home.

Runway India’s mission is to make these products more accessible, creating an online platform where people can explore and purchase authentic handicrafts. Whether it’s a handwoven shawl, a banana fibre bag, or a bamboo basket, every purchase contributes to the empowerment of artisans and the preservation of their craft.

Conclusion

The collaboration between Runway India and the Hornbill Festival is a celebration of Nagaland’s spirit, artistry, and cultural heritage. By showcasing the state’s unique crafts and empowering its artisans, Runway India is playing a crucial role in preserving these traditions for future generations.

For those looking to support this movement and explore the rich artistry of Nagaland, platforms like Runway India offer the perfect opportunity to buy unique Nagaland products online and connect with the stories behind each creation. With a commitment to sustainability and innovation, Runway India is ensuring that Nagaland’s handicrafts continue to shine brightly on the global stage, offering a meaningful way to celebrate and cherish India’s diverse cultural heritage.

FAQs

1. What is the Hornbill Festival, and why is it important? The Hornbill Festival is an annual cultural event held in Nagaland to celebrate the rich traditions, art, and heritage of the state's 16 tribes. It promotes cultural preservation and provides a platform for artisans to showcase their crafts.

2. How can I buy unique Nagaland products online? You can purchase authentic Nagaland handicrafts through platforms like Runway India, which connect artisans to buyers across India and beyond. These include items like handwoven textiles, banana fibre products, and bamboo crafts.

3. What are banana fibre products, and why are they popular? Banana fibre products are eco-friendly items made from the natural fibres of banana plants. They are durable, sustainable, and crafted into beautiful bags, mats, and textiles by skilled artisans in Nagaland.

4. Are there training centers in Nagaland for handicrafts? Yes, some of the best banana fibre training centers in India are in Nagaland, providing artisans with skills to innovate and meet market demands while preserving traditional techniques.

5. How does Runway India support artisans in Nagaland? Runway India empowers artisans by showcasing their work, providing access to online markets, and promoting their crafts globally. It also collaborates with training centers and manufacturers to support sustainable growth.

[cadiebugxox]

in the quiet

In the quiet of your room, you sit wrapped in the embrace of an old armchair, your thoughts a tangled dance of doubt and certainty. You have mastered the art of self-deception, telling yourself stories that paint your world in brighter hues, where the sting of a bad memory is nothing more than a phantom pain from an injury never sustained.

You hold the memory at arm's length, turning it over like a strange coin from a foreign land, questioning its authenticity. "It didn't happen," you whisper to yourself, your voice a soothing balm to the raw edges of your consciousness. The memory, a dark, amorphous shape, seems too sinister to belong in your collection of sunlit recollections.

Yet, there is a weight to the memory, a gravity that pulls at you with the inexorable force of truth. It anchors you, a silent sentinel that stands guard over the landscape of your mind. You can feel the texture of the moment, the cold bite of the air, the harsh echo of a calloused hand. But you shake your head, willing the clarity to dissolve into ambiguity, convincing yourself it was a story spun by your overactive imagination.

You live in the borderlands between reality and fiction, where every bad memory is scrutinized, doubted, and dissected until it loses its shape. You know, deep down, that the thing had happened, that it has etched itself into your being as surely as a name carved into stone. But to dwell in that certainty is to open a door you have fought so hard to close. So you choose the comfort of the question, the sanctuary of the "maybe," because sometimes the possibility of having made it all up is the only thing that makes sleep possible in the stillness of the night.

[void-damned]

[Worshipped Outsider | The Marked & Bone Charms ]

The treatment of the Marked is as described before, 'A life in a gilded cage, luxury, with everything at hand.' At least that is the pretty picture they like to feed to the public. The Marked are better off in theory, but they are under constant surveillance, isolated, treated like fragile beings. Until they are not. They are often taken out, to serve as a perfect image, some sort of Avatar of the Outsider, a Chosen one to spread his Words. One who's actively involved with the God. Their powers are always a hit or miss, so there is a high chance that some, like Vera, are brainwashed into helping the Empire prosper. The Abbey seeks to secretly use them as puppets in the grand scheme of things. For the Good of the People, obviously. Vera would have chosen an important Morley noble, a key player, to wed instead of those who'd begged for her hand. Later, she would end up bathing in his blood and carving runes into his bones for her beloved God. All while the Empire would prosper from such a tragic death.  [Kim: It sounds like the Marked are Not Having a Good Time! What's going on behind closed doors?] I admit, I haven't done much thinking on the fate of the Marked behind closed doors but it is advertised as them living in comfort while having whatever they need at their disposal. I'd imagine that there is a lot of psychological torture, blackmail, and mind-breaking going on. Not as much physical due to the fact that I think the Marked could easily recover from that; besides they are needed intact. It has to be subtle and severe enough for many to take notice only once it is too late - like Vera! She played into it willingly for her love for the Outsider, had killed her husband and carved runes into his bones for she believed that is what the Outsider willed her to do. Which is false. It was the Abbey and maybe even Burrows and Campbell behind that - something about human bones resulting in corrupt charms and powerful black magic conduits (which are most definitely illegal). The regulations of runes and bone charms are tricky, though. The runes themselves are rare aspects bearing power and in the hands of a normal human, they are very much useless, humming silently. They would be used as offerings to the God and his Marked, maybe working similarly to the Tooth Fairy myth but instead of money, it'd be more of a promise of good fortune or something like that.

The charms, though, oof. Surely the Abbey has a Bureau/Office of Regulations that keeps track of the charms or which has to approve them and provide some certificate of authenticity (here in allowance or whatever) and register them. Anyone can technically carve them, but few manage to get them to work (Paloma Attano was good at that) - it also depends on what exactly they do and how they function? If they are small bits of bone with innocent enough blessings, like smaller help for disabled people, or charms like 'stains wash out easily', then there likely isn't no regulation. Mild regulation when it comes to charms for stamina, 'asbestos hands' (aka, you don't get hurt when you are baking and shove your hands in the oven), etc, or basically anything that can be somewhat misused. Heavier regulations and strict regulations on anything beyond that - luck charms are some of those, or any bigger physical feats, etc. Depending on use and specifics, they have to be approved. Not sure about where Black Charms belong but they would very likely be heavily regulated and any Corrupted charms have to be turned in. There are specialised charm-makers too but they also need to carry documentation about being approved by the Abbey. It's probably a tedious and long certification process.

Of course, people still carry illegal charms and can face punishment if they are caught. Lending people charms which require regulation is also seen as a transgression. BUT. I like the thought of hereditary charms, or charms that have been present in a family for a long time and it is widely known or the charms are registered under the family name, etc. Like Cecelia carrying a charm which helps her blend in with her surroundings, which she inherited from her mother and which is tied to her name. Perhaps these charms only work through a Bond of Blood. That could also be a way to regulate charms! Tying a charm to one specific person's blood/spirit.

[breezybangtanbebe]

대취타 :Daechwita

Chapter 1: 하나

3.9k words

The rowdy group of high school students breaks through the doors of the museum into the sun.

"Alright, class! We meet back here in 2 hours. Do not be late" the exasperated teacher huffs as the students push past him.

He shakes his head in amusement as he watches his students disperse onto the courtyard of the campus.

One student lags, still transfixed by the ancient exhibits within the dark museum.

"Jungkook...are you coming?" Mr. Miller calls to the boy from the doorway.

Jungkook squints his eyes to read an inscription labeling an artifact.

"No, I think I'll hang back and check out the exhibit some more. Is that ok?" He turns his head.

Mr.Miller frowns. He knows Jungkook isn't the least bit interested in the exhibit. But he also knew that since transferring to a new school after a nasty divorce, Jungkook wasn't too keen on socializing with his classmates. He was going through a solitary brooding phase that Mr. Miller had to respect.

"Sure. Just be sure to be back on the steps in time to catch the bus at 4." Mr. Miller says before exiting the museum completely.

Jungkook sighs in relief at finally being alone. The museum was crowded at all, it being a weekday and near its closing time. So Jungkook enjoyed the free reign of the place as he strolled around with his hands in his pockets.

He found himself drifting towards an area marked off, a new exhibit that had yet to be opened to the public.

The sign above the area read "Daechwita: wars of the original clans: a South Korean exhibit coming soon."

"Hmm..sounds interesting..." he says to himself.

The entrance was marked with thick velvet rope clasped at both ends of the golden stands. Jungkook looked around curiously in search of any museum staff or security before ducking down and under the velvet barrier and into the exhibit.

"Wow..." Jungkook exhaled as his eyes circled the room full of artifacts such as authentic armor, scrolls of thick-lined calligraphy, war drums, and other instruments, tiny monitors playing recorded footage of the royal palaces of former south Korean kings.

It was a cultural overload.

Jungkook was indeed Korean, but since he'd spent the majority of his life in America, he hardly knew anything of his culture aside from the small glimpses he got when he visited his grandparents in Busan.

Jungkook walked deeper into the room until he reached the back wall decorated with tattered photographs and fades silk garments.

His eyes were drawn to one photograph, in particular, a king and what appeared to be his two sons. Beneath the grainy portrait was an enormous sword encased in a glass display.

It was beautiful, the blade thickness and black as onyx, stretching out to nearly match Jungkooks wingspan. The pommel was pure gold and on the handle, an inscription was carved neatly in Hangul.

"호랑이 송곳니"

Jungkook leans closer to see if he recognized any of the symbols, his hand touching the glass display unconsciously.

"Ya!! Don't you read?!!"

Jungkook jumps at the sound of a voice and whips around to face an elderly man in a navy blue jumpsuit.

Something about the man sends a sense of familiarity over Jungkook, maybe his tone and demeanor reminding him so much of his father and grandfather. He had a mop in one hand and the handle of a large bucket in the other, a deep scowl wrinkling his aged features.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, I was just..."

"Trespassing? Defacing museum property? Putting fingerprints on my glass??" The older man trudges forward, making Jungkook step aside. He sprays a blue liquid on the display and swipes vigorously until the glass is crystal clear of smudges.

"I was just trying to read the words on the sword." Jungkook mumbles.

"You shouldn't even be in here boy. Didn't you read the sign?" The elder hisses.

Jungkook frowns and looks back towards the display case.

The old man looks him over and rolls his eyes.

Picking up his glasses that sat on his neck on a chain, he places them at his nose and leans forward to read the inscription.

"Y..you're Korean?" Jungkook stutters with a tone of interest.

"No I'm Norwegian, shut up I'm trying to see.." he snaps, making Jungkook stifle a giggle.

"holang-i song-gosni...." the old man says out loud slowly. Jungkook blinks up at him in expectance.

"Oh, you want me to translate it too??" The old man grunts.

Before Jungkook can respond, he speaks.

"It means 'the tigers fang' "

"Cool...." Jungkooks eyes widen as he redirects them to the photograph.

"And who are they?" Jungkook points to the sepia portrait.

"Aish...you're kidding me, right? Why not wait until the exhibit is open to ask all of these questions? I have a job to do now, get going." The old man attempts to usher the boy away from the wall but has no luck.

"If you don't know then you can just say that.." Jungkook shrugs, side-eying the old man with a smirk.

"Who says I don't know? This is my culture! My ancestors. Of course, I know. "

"Prove it. Tell me who they are." Jungkook tilts his head stubbornly.

"It's not that simple, I cant just tell you who they are without telling the whole story. And it's long and I doubt you want to listen to it."

Jungkook regards the old man for a moment and to his surprise, he plants himself on the floor and crosses his legs pretzel style.

"Oh, no..what are you doing? Get up.." the old man grumbles

"I have time and I'm sure you don't have anything better to do." Jungkook grins.

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's called my job!"

"Tell me the story and I'll leave. I promise. You can summarize." Jungkook shrugs innocently.

The old man sighs and looks towards the exhibit's entrance then back at Jungkook.

"What the hell? I'm due for a break anyway...."

The old man huffs as he eases himself down to the floor next to Jungkook.

He clears his throat.

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

Long ago.

When ancient practices and modern technology were on the bridge of convergence...

there was a King...

Min Yongnum.

King of the Holangi Province and highest-ranking member of the Min Clan. Yongnum was a just and benevolent leader, deeply loved and respected by his people.

But peace among his land was short-lived in his reign when an opposing clan from the south set out to expand their claim over the four provinces.

War and bloodshed consumed the peace, leaving many households without fathers and sons drafted to fight under the name of their king.

Heads of their enemies hung like lanterns around the outskirts of the kingdom as a warning to any clan who considered challenging the fury of Holangi and her people.

And after 10 years of fighting, after hundreds to thousands of lives lost, and alliances were formed, King Yongnum and his men proclaimed victory over the enemy clans and maintained power over the vast land.

But unfortunately, due to the balance of nature, there was a cost to pay for victory.

With very few men to tend the fields and livestock, a time of famine seized the land, making it nearly impossible for the people of Holangi  to survive.

Fortunately, as the lone tiger would in the harshest of environments, Holangi prevailed and rebuilt anew.

As time pressed on to age the resilient leader, new death was on the horizon and Yongnum knew that his time as King would eventually set as the sun did.

So he decided it was time to create an heir.

The King chose a wife whom he loved and set out to extend his bloodline.

But after many years of disappointments and heartache, Yongnum grew desperate and sought out alternative methods to bring life to the baron valleys of his queen's womb.

Some practices were very modern and common.

While others were considered to be extreme, outdated, and unorthodox.

One of which he received from a spirit worker tucked deep within one of the oldest villages on Holangi land.

The king was told to embark on a journey into the wilderness to find the deity responsible for his clan and his kingdom's invincibility to seek her blessing in exchange for his show of bravery.

The tiger god herself, Holangi.

Many legends spoke of the majestic beast living high in the snow-capped mountains, or deep through the deadly jungles and beyond civilization. But there were very little stories of the god coming in direct contact with man where she let them survive to tell of it unless under dier circumstances.

It was said to be suicide to seek the beast, but Yongnum was desperate.

After trekking through the wilderness for weeks, the king found himself weakened and famished. He had caught zero glimpses of the enormous feline, but his will was stronger than his doubt. But unfortunately, his body was weaker than both.

Yongnum reaches the peak of the highest snow-capped mountain, trudging weakly to peer over the edge and take in the view over all of the provinces. It was truly a magnificent sight to behold.

He drops to his knees and directs his eyes to the bright sun above him, sending a plea of mercy to any god that would listen. But they fall on deaf ears as does the King.

His face pressed against the thin layer of snow, he's barely aware of the padded footsteps approaching him.

His eyes open and his shallow breathing hitches when sees the massive pair of claws only inches from his face.

Yongnum looks up and gasps at the sight of the most beautiful white tiger he had ever dreamt of seeing. She towers before him majestically and fierce, the wind of high altitudes blowing through her thick mane of striped fur.

Her tongue dashes out to lick over her whiskers as she stoops her head to lock eyes with the king, her cerulean irises connecting with the mortal's soul.

And from a place Yongnum cannot see, a voice speaks to him.

"You have shown great bravery seeking me out young king. I am impressed...."

The smooth feminine voice fills every corner of Yongnum's mind.

"....I am aware of your desires as I am privy to your sins. But I will choose to grant your prayers in exchange for your sacrifice...."

"...in the womb of your queen lives a son. He will be the greatest King to ever sit at the throne of this province. But you will suffer a great betrayal and great loss before this can come to be. Are you willing to suffer for the longevity of your people so that your son may rule them?"

Without a single bit of hesitation, Yongnum answers.

"Yes."

A low growl of acknowledgment grumbles from the deity's throat and the tiger bows her head.

"So be it. Now go." She says and as suddenly as she appeared, she vanishes on the icy breeze over the cliffs of the mountain.

Yongnum returns to his kingdom to find his wife caressing her protruding torso with tears in her eyes.

"Our prayers and your efforts have not been in vain my love." She whimpers as Yongnum pulls her into his embrace.

Months pass and Yongnum is pacing furiously just outside of his queen's private chamber.

Thunderclaps and lightning dances across the sky, still not drowning out the sounds of his queen's wails of agony.

This went on for what felt like hours until there was silence and the rhythm of the king's heart faltered at the absence of his wife's voice.

A shrill cry filled the chamber, making Yongnum sprint from where he stood pacing from just beyond the entrance.

He bursts into the room, his eyes widening at the graphic scene laying before him.

"Your majesty." The midwife steps to obscure the king's view of his wife. She bows her head and gazes up with somber eyes.

"The queen. She suffered a great loss of blood and I regret to inform you that she didn't survive the birth...My deepest condolences..."

Yongnum's chest caved at the midwife's news and he's frozen.

His queen. His love.

She was gone.

"....great loss...."

"Is this what the deity meant?" Yongnum thought to himself.

"...and what of my son?" He manages to say after a few moments.

Wordlessly the midwife steps aside, allowing the king to approach the bedside was a chambermaid sat with her arms engulfed by a large stained cloth from elbow to elbow.

Two tiny voices of different tones coo in tandem and the king gasps.

"Two.....I have two sons?"

The king's eyes widen at the sight of two tightly swaddled newborns with fair skin and distinct wisps of hair as white as snow.

"Twins your majesty. Blessed with the crown of the moon. A good omen. A blessing." The midwife says softly. She takes the slumbering infants from the chambermaid and hands them carefully to the king, who's eyes are filled to the brim with tears.

Bittersweet emotions overcome him as he gazed into the faces of his offspring, then to the still form of his beloved covered by the bloodstained fabric in an attempt to preserve her dignity.

In a matter of minutes, he has lost his queen, the love of his life...but an overwhelming sense of hope and joy flourishes within the king's heart.

And so King Yongnum cradled his two sons against his chest, the future of the royal bloodline sleeping soundly in the crooks of his arms.

Min Yonghwan and Min Yoongi.

The Princes of Holangi.

19 years later...

The sun was high in the sky as she ran on light feet through the field. The tall grass tickled her ankles as the wind of her sprint blew the fabric of her dress up against her legs.

She giggled with excitement when she glanced over her shoulder, spotting the dashing young man galloping after her.

His long white mane stretched out in his wake as he inches closer and closer to his prey.

She squeals when a quick hand reaches out and grasps her skirt, pulling her back into his chest. He embraces her tightly, panting hard against her windblown hair.

He plants a soft kiss to her nape and lets his lips linger on the curve of her ear.

"Caught you," he says, the sultry tone of his voice bringing chills down the girl's spine.

"It would appear so my prince" she responds with a smile. She turns her body to face him, not even attempting to escape his interlocked hold on her waist.

"What do you intend to do now that you have me?" She looks boldly into the boy's eyes, her bottom lip grazing her teeth at the heat in his gaze.

An elated smile spreads across his face, exposing the gums of his teeth just a bit as he leans his head down.

His lips press firmly against hers and she sighs in content at the feel.

Although chaste, his kiss held a deeply sated undertone of gentle need and adoration that lingered on the girl's lips as he pulled back.

"You shouldn't ask me questions like that Princess.." he murmurs, his lips a hairbreadth away from hers.

"Why? Afraid of what you might say?" She whispers.

He rubs the tip of his small nose against hers and she smiles.

"More of what I might do.." he says dryly, pulling back from her completely to look up at the sky.

He squints as he gauged the position of the sun and sighs bitterly.

"We should start back toward the palace." He says, looking over his shoulder and beyond the horizon of the knee-length grass field.

"Ah yes, you have your commencement to get to." She clicks her tongue.

He looks back to her face, sighing in appreciation of her soft delicate features.

Her wide brown eyes, her long and thick onyx hair, her smooth skin, and rosy lips.

Areum was the embodiment of beauty, given her namesake, and the young prince was completely enamored by her presence.

From the tender age of 7 when her father, a high ranking member of the neighboring Han Clan, would bring his daughter to Halgoni to meet with the King to discuss matters beyond the children's understanding.

She was bossy, tenacious, and bit rough around the edges. But one thing, not one would deny was her beauty and magnetic energy.

To know her was to love her.

And Yoongi did just that.

He tightens his hold on her hips and squeezes her waist possessively.

"Or we could just stay here. I could skip the ceremony and perhaps answer your question. But not with words.." Yoongi grins mischievously as he attempts to go in for another taste of her lips.

But Areum has other intentions.

She smiles sweetly, her eyes downcast to his lips the closer they drew to hers.

"Perhaps. Or..." Areum murmurs.

Yoongi releases his hold on her hips and reaches up to cup her face when...

She slips past him and turns around, walking backward with a daring look in her eyes.

"....you can race me back to the grounds and I actually show you that I'm still the fastest between the two of us." She grins cheekily and turns with the fabric of her skirt bunched up in her fists to give her legs more leeway.

He shakes his head in amusement at her challenge but he can't resist as he breaks into a swift jog that leads into a full-on sprint when he underestimates her speed.

The commencement ceremony was the mark of passage for the boys serving under the King's rule to emerge as men and take their place among his court, swearing to devote their lives and protection to the throne and crest of the tiger.

This was a very important day.

At least to most...

Yoongi stumbles as he rushed towards the training grounds. He glances around as he adjusts the band at his waist to secure his ceremonial robe and reaches up to ensure every strand of his long hair is tucked away.

The long line of young men standing at attention in the middle of the courtyard acts as a cover for Yoongi to scurry behind in an attempt to hide from the prying eyes of his father and other royal figures in attendance.

One of the young men in line spots Yoongi tiptoeing behind his human shield and sucks at his teeth in disproval before looking ahead patiently.

With finesse, he slides in to fill a small gap between two familiar faces and assumes the proper position with his shoulders squared and his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Cutting it a bit close, don't you think?" The young man to his left whispers out of the corner of his mouth. The man to his right chuckles under his breath.

Yoongi doesn't respond to Hoseok or Namjoon, making them both chuckle softly just as their teacher saunters through the large doorway of the dojang.

He walks down the steps, scanning the lines of highly trained young men, his students, speculatively until his feet meet the dusted ground.

"Your highness! Noblemen of Holangi and royalty of neighboring clans. I thank you for your presence in today's commencement of the next line of Halgoni stripes. These young men have trained diligently in leadership, integrity, strength, intelligence, and combat for 4 years. Today marks the final step in becoming true men in eyes of Holangi. "

As he spoke, Yoongis mind began to wander, effectively drowning out the usual introduction of the commencement.

The ceremony proceeded, each graduate earning their silk bands embroidered with the crest of Holangi in varying colors assigned according to ranking. Black being the highest.

Yoongi steps forward from the line and bows to his Sabonim, accepting his black band wrapped around the matching scabbard sheathing his sword, designed specifically for him.

The scoffing young man from before glowers in envy at the sight, his eyes flitting to the sidelines to spot the King beaming with pride as Yoongi accepted his stripe.

"Now First to demonstrate his adequacy....the one who has shown a natural affinity for the combat who remains undefeated amongst his classmates...."

"Prince Yoongi. Step forth."

Yoongi steps forward confidently, bowing to his teacher again and then to the audience. When he arrises his eyes lock with a particular raven-haired Princess sitting on the first row, nearest to his father and adjacent to her father.

Yoongi shoots her a subtle wink before walking to the center of the square, making her blush internally.

"And the opposing student who will demonstrate his adequacy is..."

One after one, a man stepped up to challenge Yoongi, all succumbing to his speed, strength, and skill.

All the while, at the end of the line, bitter eyes filled with contempt observed Yoongis agility and natural talent for combat. He seethes with envy, every snow-white hair standing on end at the sight of his younger brother. But he was not intimidated.

Prince Yonghwan knew his position. He was the heir to the thrown, having been the older of the two by a few minutes. It didn't matter if his younger brother surpassed him physically because whatever Yonghwan lacked in comparison, he made up for in cunning.

Another opponent falls to his knees, panting from exertion at the end of Yoongis bamboo staff.

The prince drops his weapon and steps forward to extend his hand to the defeated challenger and aids him to his feet. They bow to each other respectfully and step away, Yoongi to his corner of the square and the challenger to fall in line amongst the rest of the defeated.

Yonghwan sniffs and rolls his shoulders in preparation, knowing he was next to face Yoongi in a match.

Just as he moves to step forward, King Yongnum stands from where he sat at the sidelines, effectively making every man and woman in attendance focus their attention in his direction.

Yoongi drops to his knee along with the other students and their teacher in a show of respect.

Yonghwan is the last to kneel, his expression marred with confusion as he lowered his body.

"You all have shown great skill and adequacy. I am filled with honor to witness the future of our kingdom's protection. You should be very pleased with yourself. This completes our ceremony and I look forward to seeing you all tonight at the celebration of the newest line of our guard. Thank you." The king tilts his head at his bowing subjects.

He shoots a look of indifference towards his oldest son as he turns to leave, being closely followed by his guard and a few members of the royal court.

"What?" Yonghwan says to himself.

"He.....ended the ceremony...before.."

He turns his head as the rest of the graduates rose to their feet, cheering and congratulating each other happily.

Yonghwan blinks dramatically as he searched the small crowd of men until he spotted the bright blonde crop of hair among the sea of black. Yoongi grinned with pride and joy as he bowed and shook hands with the other men.

".....he knew Yoongi would defeat me. So he ended in the ceremony before I could challenge him..." Yonghwan admits to himself.

The realization hits Yonghwan like a wave and he clenches his fists as he turns to exit the courtyard, tearing the red silk band from his head.

[corner-stories]

new york is not just a town that you'll never lose

Bart Allen. Tom Bronson. New York Subways. Arm Chairs. Post-Graduation Possibilities. 2554 words. (ao3.)

It had been five days since Bart Allen had begun his “internship” with the Justice Society of America and only five days since he first arrived in Manhattan. 

On top of staying in the Battery Park brownstone free of charge, Bart was attending team meetings, participating in training sessions with the old man in the cat suit, and making sure to carve out time to appreciate the city.

New York was certainly a change of pace from the Bay Area university he had called home. Gone was the lively campus and salty sea air outside of his dorm. Now when he stepped out the door Bart was greeted to the sound of people yelling over rush hour traffic. 

During the last five days, Bart was fortunate to have lived through a handful of quintessential New York experiences. 

He had walked past an influencer recording a video of some kind of colorful, gimmicky instagrammable food item. He had gotten yelled at by a Yankees fan for daring to don his Keystone Salamanders baseball cap in public. He had visited the fabled “bodegas” that New Yorkers talked so lovingly about, only to be disappointed to discover that they were essentially family-owned corner stores. He had also tried the “chopped cheese sandwich” that the locals claimed was superior to every other American sandwich, and was even more disappointed to discover that it was essentially a deconstructed hamburger. 

Today Bart was going through something that he didn’t see on the various listicles and articles regarding “authentic” New York experiences.

Tom Bronson, Ted Grant’s son and the better-looking Wildcat, had found a “friggin’ steal” on Craigslist. Some NYU drop-out drowning in student debt was in desperate need to get rid of the furniture in their dorm. Apparently, after flunking out of school he needed to move out of the city ASAP and couldn’t bring most of his things. As Tom had been wanting an armchair for his room for the last few months, he had stalked the original posting until the last minute, when the original poster finally had no choice but to give the chair away for free just to get things over with. 

With most other JSA members too busy to help Tom with his errand, he had enlisted the team’s fresh meat to get the job done. Always down for an adventure and a reason to avoid training with the older Wildcat, Bart didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

Carrying the armchair out of the NYU dorm proved to be the easy part, as both the pretty boy Wildcat and the gangly Speedster had enough strength to lift the furniture down the flight of stairs. They didn’t even need to scream “PIVOT!” once.

Even walking through Washington Square Park wasn’t that difficult. Most of the New Yorkers in the area were too busy with themselves to pay attention to the two pretty boys playing the role of movers for the day. 

However, the difficult part was carrying the chair into the subway station. 

Tommy yelled every curse in the English language as he and Bart struggled to get the armchair over the turnstile. As Bart awkwardly held onto the legs of the item and tried to remain on his feet, he noticed that Tommy’s Brooklyn accent got even thicker with every word. 

The fact that the two hadn’t been stopped by security was some kind of miracle. 

After the nightmare that was getting the armchair past the entrance and swiping their metro passes, the plucky duo carried the furniture down a flight of stairs and onto the train platform. The only people that paid attention to them were the ones that bumped into the chair. Even then, the only words being exchanged were variations of the phrase “outta my way” or “ move, dickhead.” 

Due to both his cavalcade of curse words and the physical strain of carrying the armchair, Tommy was out of breath as they walked to the edge of the platform. 

“Okay…” he said, breathing in and out. “Just… drop it… here…”

From the other side of the chair, Bart nodded and did as he was told. Once the item was on the ground, Bart watched Tom collapse, just barely catching himself on the arm of the furniture. 

“Welp, that’s one for the bucket list,” said Bart as he glanced around the area. At this hour of the morning, the place wasn’t too crowded. 

“Yeah… can we… take five…?” Tom begged as struggled to pull himself onto the chair.

Once again, Bart nodded, then reached over to pull the Pretty Boy Wildcat off the platform. 

“Here, lemme help.” 

Tom looked relieved as Bart plopped him onto the chair. “Thank you,” he said, still struggling to get air into his lungs. 

Bart grinned as he rested his bottom against the arm of the chair. Despite Tommy heaving like a Prius driving up a hill, Bart felt assured to know that there was someone in the world with less upper-body strength than him. 

A few minutes passed as Tom recovered and Bart watched the trains move past the platforms. Still being new to the city, he had been relying on Google Maps just to get from A to B, and even then it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where he needed to go. 

It was times like these where Bart was thankful to have a local help him get around, as he had possibly no way to decipher which train would bring them back to the Battery. In fact, Bart was pretty sure he was just one mistake away from hopping on the wrong subway and disappearing into Queens forever. 

A few more trains passed by before Bart checked his phone for the time. He then turned to Tommy and asked, “So… which one’s ours?” 

Now in a much less tired state, Tom nodded his head towards the train just pulling up to the platform and pulled his ass off the armchair. 

“This one. Come on!” 

Once the subway train stopped at the track and opened its doors, Tommy and Bart lifted the armchair and rushed it to the car. Somehow the impossible was achieved and they managed to get it in with significantly less hassle then with the turnstile. And by the grace of the subway gods there were not too many passengers on this particular train. 

“Alright, set it here,” Tommy said as he lowered the chair. 

Just like before, Bart did what he was told. Once the chair was down on the ground, there was just enough time for Tommy to flop himself onto the cushions before the subway doors closed. The train began to move as Bart found a nearby seat. 

While Tommy reveled in a well-earned rest, Bart looked out the window to see nothing but the moving darkness of New York’s underbelly. Internally, he compared it to the Bay Area Rapid Transit system he used back at university, the train he had gotten used to riding for the last two years. 

Frankly, the smells and vibes were all the same, the only difference being that New York’s trains were a lot louder and more prone to two young men feeling a bit silly that day. 

Speaking of which, Bart glanced over to Tommy, who was grinning from ear to ear as he took in the sight of the Speedster on the train. 

“Look at you, Allen!” Tommy said enthusiastically. “Lookin’ like a real New Yorker already!”

Bart let out a chuckle. “I don’t think so, I haven’t yelled ‘I’m walkin’ here!’ at a total stranger yet.” Upon hearing his attempt at an angry New York accent, Bart internally noted that his Christopher Walken impression needed some work. 

“True, true,” Tommy replied, shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “You’ll probably do that by the end of the week.”

Bart gave a smile as Tommy looked at his newfound chair. Now that he wasn’t trying to catch his breath or cursing like the Brooklyner he was, he finally had time to bask in the glory of a good deal. 

“Damn, can you believe the quality of this thing?” he said as he ran his fingertips against the pristine, unblemished leather of the chair. “NYU trust fund babies really spare no expense.” 

Bart chuckled, amused. “I’m gonna assume that you’re not an alumni?”

“Me? Nah, I’m too smart for that,” Tommy laughed off. He crossed his legs as he settled into his seat, then pointed to his chest with both his thumbs. “Hunter College, represent!” 

“What’d you study?”

“Music… with an emphasis on composition and performance,” Tommy said with an air of ease. He then shrugged. “‘Cause why the fuck not, right?”

The Speedster let out a laugh. Bart had only been friends with the better-looking Wildcat for a handful of days, but during that time he learned three specific things about Thomas J. Bronson. 

He played a multitude of musical instruments and sang like a young Chet Baker. He worked two different shitty bar jobs while attending college part-time. He also had a killer stash hidden inside of his room at the Brownstone, something he used as both musical inspiration and to help him cope with the unbearable stress of being alive. 

Apparently, the old farts of the JSA were okay with it — their only complaints pertained to the smell. 

Taking in a breath of the not-so-fresh New York underground air, Bart quickly checked his phone. He swiped away a few of his university emails, promising himself to read them later, and quickly answered a text from Jesse, who was asking where he was. Unsurprisingly, Jay had wondered where Bart had run off to but was too technologically inept to figure out his smartphone and send a text. 

Smirking, Bart made sure that his reply was as blunt as possible. Knowing Jesse, it was very possible for her to interpret "riding the subway with Tomcat and an armchair we took from NYU” as Bart messing with her, which was exactly what he wanted. 

“So… when are you graduating again?” 

Bart looked up to see Tommy still relaxing in his chair. 

“Year and a half,” he replied as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Tom explained. He sat up in his chair just slightly. “I think it’d be cool if you came by more often, we could do more shit like this.” 

“Well, nothing’s ever far from me,” Bart assured with a simple smile. “I’m sure I could find the time no matter where I am. New York is pretty sick.” 

“Yeah, lived here my whole life,” Tom said. He placed one of his hands behind his head. “It never gets old, just more expensive.” 

Bart did not hesitate to nod along. “Oh, definitely. Why the hell is boba eight dollars over here?!” he said in genuine disbelief. “The economy’s in fuckin’ shambles!”

Somehow, Tommy managed a laugh, which prompted Bart to do the same. 

He had visited New York in the past, and every time he had been utterly enchanted by the city that never sleeps. In his heart he had held some affection for all the places he had lived — Manchester, Keystone, Central, Denver, even his sporadic stays in San Francisco — but there was something alluring about New York. 

There was a kind of spark to the city that Bart couldn’t deny, a spark that reminded him of the thunder in his heart before each adventure. He felt it in the sounds, the sights, and even the smells, as pungent as some of them may be. 

As Bart gave Tommy a smile, his mind pondered the possibility of New York being in his post-graduation future. Most people in his university department headed straight to Silicon Valley to begin start-ups or work for them, but the ones who didn’t either went to grad school or found their calling elsewhere. 

Bart wondered if his future could be the same. Many of his professors spoke at length about how much they enjoyed earning a master’s degree, some had gone on to study robotics while others had synthesized their engineering skills to explore the field of applied physics. 

Over the last few months, Bart had caught himself rifling through grad school brochures more than once. 

Sure, more school meant more tuition and Bart didn’t want to abuse the Official Bank of Jessica Belle Chambers for longer than he should. Besides, Jesse and Rick were likely putting away some money for little Johnny’s college fund. The last thing Bart wanted to do was to harm the future of his favorite nephew. 

Perhaps Bart would be lucky enough to find his own way to make it through. A dual degree in electrical engineering and computer science could certainly get him places, even if it was just a bachelor’s. 

New York was certainly one hell of a tech hub. Heck, during his first breakfast at the JSA Brownstone, Power Girl herself had encouraged him to apply to her company after he graduated. Apparently, Starrware prided itself on its robust, fulfilling internship programs specifically tailored towards fresh college grads. It would have to take a force of lovecraftian proportions to refuse an offer like that. 

It would also be nice to have a reason to be near the JSA again. 

“Yo, we’re comin’ up soon,” Tommy spoke, his words breaking Bart out of his thoughts. 

The Speedster glanced over to see Tommy standing up from his chair. Bart blinked as the mumbled, canned subway audio announced that the train was approaching Bowling Green station. 

“Come on!” said Tommy, and to that Bart nodded along and got onto his two feet. 

Fortunately for the plucky duo, the process of taking their precious armchair off the subway was slightly easier than getting it back on. Just like before, the stream of New Yorkers matriculating onto the platform paid no attention to the two randos carrying an armchair off the train. 

Bart looked to Tom for guidance again. The Pretty Boy Wildcat led the Pretty Boy Speedster to the nearby staircase, trying to not drop the chair as they went. Tom sucked in a breath as he and Bart worked together to slowly move the piece of furniture upwards, moving step by step to avoid death by staircase tumble. 

Once they got to the top, Tom and Bart set the armchair down on the ground as they both looked upon the next obstacle standing in their path — the final turnstile.

Tommy sucked in a breath as he glared at the gate, staring at it like it was the final boss in a video game he had sunk too many hours into. 

“Alright, just one more to go…”

He then looked towards Bart. “Yo, in engineering, you learn like… physics and shit too?”

Running a hand through his hair, Bart nodded. “Yeah, it’s part of the course.” 

“Good, then put that to use!” 

Without warning, Tom grabbed his side of the chair, prompting Bart to immediately do the same. 

As the pair of pretty boys made haste and rushed the armchair towards the turnstile, Bart held his breath as he prepared for the unknown. In the few seconds before truly hitting the barrier, Bart let out words that — amongst the chaos — he prayed that the subway gods would hear. 

“And they say university is hard…”

[unschool]

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