#i do like the working title of beyond the horizon

[ranger-kellyn]

given the novels are the main inspiration for wanting to take on a deep dive like this in the first place, i really want to come up with a "The ____ of Suki" title instead of Beyond The Horizon :T

[allmyocsarebritish]

A passion for exploration

(Known in my notes as ahkaeology)

Pairing: Ahkmenrah X reader

Warnings(?): Grave robbing

A/N: okay okay I know it's really odd that a wednesday blog is now posting for natm but I went down a rabbit hole and I'm afraid I lost the entrance. History nerd has shown through well and truly :')

Also my first multi part fic :D

Title is courtesy of my mate Abi using AI

Ch 1

Grave robbing

Was desecrating the tombs of these once honoured, omnipotent kings of Egypt really something you were willing to do? Had the circumstances preceding the grave robbery been less bleak, the answer would have undoubtedly been an definitive no. These rulers commanded the uptmost respect in life, and here you were, excavating the only memory that remained. There wasn't a day that went by during your expedition in which guilt did not infiltrate your mind, suffocating your conscience and depriving you of any sleep, even before you came close to finding an ancient tomb. But it wasn't like you had any other choice.

Pushing down your gnawing feelings of dread, you trekked on through the Egyptian desert. Rough sand brushed against your lower legs beneath your simple, calf-length skirt, chafing at the skin. You were the only one of the troupe resigned to walking, as the youngest and the lowest class. Astride camels, the two men had a better view of the surrounding plains, though the blank, barren flats stretched on long beyond the horizon.

"The valley of the kings shan't be too far from this place" called Lord Carnarvon, map still in hand.

You held back a scoff, rolling your eyes as you knew he wasn't looking at you. If only he would admit none of you knew where you were going. The only clue you were given was that the gold rich landmark was announced by a grand pyramid at the end of a hollowed valley consisting of a multitude of others. What a shame that this was the Egyptian desert.

Filled with pyramids.

Days and days stretched on of travel, and eventually, you stopped counting the sunrises, resigning to the fact that this would only stop when the valley was found, however long that took.

As with most great things, the discovery of the valley occurred at a time when you least expected. You had taken advantage of a small oasis, resting for a few hours and permitting the camels an indulgent drink. Howard Carter dozed beside you, hat pulled low over his face, in order to shield his resting eyes from the blazing fire of the sun. Carnarvon had taken his liberty and ran off, or so you had hoped. No, in fact he was continuing the investigation alone and on foot, clutching a worn, shoddy map, which was twinged a grimey brown with years of filth accumulated around the edges of the paper. He never strayed far, though attempted to work out his bearings, using the wind or some pretentious bullshit you never bothered listening to. No, you were perfectly content drawing in the sand with a stick you had found and claimed an hour or so prior.

You were more than unimpressed when the sketches you had so tediously etched into the sand were scattered by Carnarvon sprinting back to the small camp. Jolted awake, Carter sat up sharply, alarm etched across his features.

"Blimey, good sir! You gave me quite the fright!" He exclaimed as you nodded in agreement.

"Are you alright?" You asked, though your eyes may have given away your disinterest (had either man been paying an ounce of attention).

"Shh!" Carnarvon interrupted your pleasant concern, to which you rolled your eyes and began attempting to recover your drawings. "Carter, good sir! I dare say I've found it. I've discovered the pyramid!"

A bold statement, and not the first time either. No, twice prior you had been dragged into the colossal ancient skyscrapers, only to find they were far from your true destination. Empty of any treasure or historical worth beyond the buildings themselves, you continued on, fruitless. Grand structures were quite an obvious goldmine, and previous grave robbers had left the tombs void of, well, anything.

Though of course, it was more than worth it to explore this fresh discovery, not taking any chances.

Time was of the essence, or so you were told. Camels saddled up in record time, you were hoisted up from your seat on the floor by Carter, borderline dragged up.

"Come, young Y/N, you heard his lordship. We may have found the Valley. Hurry on, now" his words were gentle, still treating you as he had done in your childhood, despite the fact you were now 19. It was something that you both appreciated and hated simultaneously. Howard was kind to you, much more so than Lord Carnarvon, who cared as little for you as you did for him. The mutual disinterested made for some long, awkward silences, and many threats to leave you in an unknown grave.

Still dragging you by the arm, Carter began to untie his camel, before finally letting go of you. The rush was honestly needless, you had been expeditioning for months at the least, what harm would a few mere minutes cause? But the men were adamant, and there was no arguing, especially not from a useless child as yourself.

"Can I at least keep my stick?"

Recieving no reply from Carnarvon and an incredulous stare from Carter, you concluded the answer was yes.

The journey from the oasis to the pyramid was shorter than anticipated, though still rather long. Another day passed, spent entirely wandering through the desert. Exhaustion washed over your entire body, and it was a war every minute to keep your eyes open. But, alas, you must continue, and eventually your trek drew to a close as with further examination, it became clear this pyramid was not what you were searching for.

Disappointment and rage filled Carnarvon upon the realisation that this was, in fact, not the Valley of the Gates of the Kings, but rather a singular, sandy pyramid. "Why, there must be some mistake!" He complained impetuantly, always one to shift blame elsewhere. You exchanged a look with Carter, who for once was willing to admit the incompetence of the troupe's leader. After all, what were the chances that a random pyramid would mark the infamous, esteemed valley?

From a distance it appeared mighty, though in fact that was more than likely a mirage caused by the monochromatic nature if the desert. Upon further examination, however, the pyramid was far from the grandeur anticipated by Carnarvon and Carter. Huge gashes and rifts in the brickwork jumped out from metres away. Crumbling brickwork was cratered, resembling a sponge with many holes, as dusty gravel avalanched down the sides of the architecture at every other interval. Overall it was worn and aged, therefore more likely to be looted and barren.

"I do say it's worth taking a look around, my lord." You spoke, addressing him clearly. Carnarvon waved his hand dismissively, wishing you out of his presence.

"Yes, yes. Go ahead child." Did you expect that? No. Did you need to be told twice? Also no. A small grin gracing your features, you took off into the pyramid.

Racing across the gravely surface of the desert, the sand provided a slight level of resistance. Nevertheless, you persevered onwards, stride refusing to falter. Basking in the glorious heat of the warm Egyptian sun's rays casting down on your face, you closed your eyes as you ran, chin tilted upwards. Naturally, this obscured your vision, rendering you blind, and therefore leading you to miss the gaping hole in the ground.

A short squeala of surprise passed your lips as you suddenly found yourself unexpectedly falling through the earth. The drop was rather long, and you landed in a heap on the floor of the dugout with a large thud. You weren't aware of how long you were unconscious, but judging by the severe lack of any source of light, sunset had passed. Pain shot through your body, coarsing through your veins and ricocheting off each of your bones in turn. Head pounding, you groaned slightly, trying to work out what in the hell just happened to you.

Darkness continued to fill the room, prompting you to fish within one of your pockets, pulling out a match and striking it aflame. The hidden chamber was large, that much you could tell even despite the dim lighting. Blinking twice as you began to, very slightly, register your surroundings, you noticed the sheer obscurity of this interior. You'd heard of the saying 'paintings that seemed to follow you around the room', but this gave a new meaning to those words.

No, wait.

Those paintings were moving, and not metaphorically. Eyes widening, you began to notice everything in the tomb writhing like a cluster of cobras. Onyx black cats prowled upon shelves, worn linen bandages slowly unfurling from being bound around each of their limbs. Animated drawings of men, deities and horses alike moved naturally, as though it were a perfectly normal occurrence. Shabti servants, the colour of oxidised copper and ranging from 5-30cm tall formed an army scattered throughout the tomb. Then, slowly, as though delaying the inevitable, your eyes trained upon it.

The sarcophagus.

Shuffling away rapidly, your back hit the decrepit wall of the hidden grave. The embodiment of terror plastered over your face, you watched in horror as the coffin began to violently shake. Your blood ran cold as bangs from the inside began to echo across the acoustic chamber. The rusted hinges were worn and flimsy, and the bolts began to unscrew from their holdings. Padlocks had become frail with ages and popped open, one almost smacking you square in the forehead, to which you responded with a short yelp. For a moment, all movement ceased, as though whatever was inside had begun to listen to the intruder in their grave. You took liberty of the fleeting moment, and began to craft a way out. The quiet was short lived, however, as, with one final, mighty heave, the final lock was broken.

The sarcophagus had been opened.

Your breath caught in your throat, the air thick and suffocating as you watched a wrapped hand emerge from the tomb. The coffin lid was ajar, though it didn't take much pushing to be removed almost entirely. Almost at once, the creatures residing in the grave marched forward, crowding their newly awoken master. Hidden in the shadows, you froze, hoping to remain unseen and ignored, and thus leaving unscathed. Soon enough Carter and Carnarvon were bound to find you?

Right?

A huge open grave couldn't be subtle, you only missed it as you eyes were closed. A stupid decision really, and you mentally cursed yourself.

You remained rooted to the spot on the freezing floor, as the reanimated corpse continued to rise from its grave. Surely this was an affect of your concussion; for all you knew this was just an unconscious dream. Besides, with all the travel in the desert, dehydration had undoubtedly left you delirious. It was at that split second of slight relaxation (if you could call it that) in which you spied the piles of treasure sloping at every corner of the tomb. What could you say - you were a grave robber. Carnarvon would be so proud - if you returned alive that was.

It began to claw at the ancient, frayed linen covering its face, causing your heart to race: it thumped so hard you swore you'd be given away. Praying you didn't go into cardiac arrest, you continued staring bug-eyed as the bandages unfurled in front of you, like the dramatic unveiling of an innovative new invention. Closing your eyes for the second time that day, you winced, raising your arms to shield your face from the horrors you were undoubtedly about to witness. Bile rose in your throat as your mouth drew dry. Images of rancid, rotting flesh peeling off bones flashed through your mind, prompting your whole body to tremble.

'I'm just delirious. Any moment now I'll open my eyes to be met with a chamber of riches.' You thought to yourself. Awoken mummies were the stuff of fairytales, and despite what Carnarvon and Carter believed, you were most certainly not a child.

Your internal monologue was cut short however, interrupted by the gentlest of touches placed on your arm. It prompted you to flinch away instantaneously, a soft whimper escaping. Eyes shooting open, you came face to face with the pharoah himself. And he was not what you had anticipated.

He wasn't the scary mummy you were expecting, he was a teenage kid.

Kind, cerulean eyes rimmed with a smoky black eyeliner stared into your own, azure oceans plagued with concern. Concern for you. Such a colour must have been pricelessly rare, sapphires amongst stones.

His golden, tanned hand had felt cold and lifeless against your arm, yet the heat it had radiated was electrifying, continuing to shoot jolts throughout your entire body. His skin was soft and smooth, betraying the fact that this royal had almost certainly never worked a day in his life.

Slightly unruly brown curls and a toned slender figure - he was actually rather cute.

"Are you alright? You seem a little... Lost?" He queried, to which you seemed unable to form a response.

"I- what.. who? What's going on?" You managed, stumbling over your words as your voice cracked slightly.

He gave a small smile, clearly sympathetic of your utter confusion, before gesturing at a golden tablet, as though that were supposed to help you in any way. Noting your expression of utter bewilderment, the undead Pharaoh elaborated.

"That's my tablet, blessed by Khonsu himself. It holds the power to awake the dead at night," he gestures to himself and the cats, who stared at you, blinking and unsure whether it would be safe for them to approach. Then, he pointed to the paintings in the walls and dragged his finger towards the mass of shabti dolls, both of which watched you with the same confusion. "Along with anything else resembling a life form that finds it's way into the presence of the tablet."

"Right." You answered, holding your head and still in shock.

"You needn't be afraid, you know. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Thank you, that is a relief." You swallowed thickly.

He hummed in response, smiling with an amused frown at the fact you feared him.

"So, who exactly are you?" You asked after a short yet not uncomfortable silence.

His lavish outfit betrayed the royal status he claimed in life, only accentuated by the Red Crown, or Deshret supporting a golden snake - the symbol of monarchy- resting atop his sarcophagus. Around his neck fastened a Usekh collar, adorned with teal and umber jewels and beads, and topped with golden accents. Sleeves of cloth draped over his arms, the fibres of the fabric woven with pure gold. The metallic shine of the element was evident in the chromatic sheen of the cape resting over the Pharoah's shoulders. At his waist there hung a Shendyt kilt, fastened with a cloth belt, also elaborately decorated. Beautiful gold jewellery decorated his figure, your eyes drawn in particular to the stunning gold bracelet cuffs he supported on either wrist, encrusted with gemstones, potentially aquamarine or topaz. Once again your attention was drawn to his face.

"I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king. And you are...?"

Stunned into silence for a moment by the regality of the ancient king before you, you blinked and paused briefly before answering.

"Y/N. Y/N L/N."

"So, Y/N, what are you doing in my grave?" Ahkmenrah asked you, barely trying to surpress an amused smile. Your cheeks flushed as you tried to form a lie. This ruler seemed nice, and regardless, you couldn't exactly tell him you were intent on raiding his tomb for riches.

"It was an accident. Really, it was. I was running, and, well, I wasn't exactly looking where I was going."

"Clearly." He smirked. "Why were you in the desert though? Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you don't appear to be Egyptian."

"What? Oh, no I'm not. I'm English. I came out in an expedition with two other men; Lord Carnarvon and Carter. They're archaeologists." You winced at the manufactured truth. It wasn't entirely a lie, that was what the men claimed to be. Though all your troupe really planned to accomplish was glorified tomb-raiding, a fact that made you sick.

"And they left you here?" Ahkmenrah questioned incredulously, unable to fathom why on earth they would abandon you like this.

"Well, no. Not exactly. They allowed me to go check out the pyramid about 10 yards south, but, as o said, I fell down a hole." You blushed again, this time due to your own stupidity and clumsiness. This was not how to earn the respect of an esteemed king.

Ahkmenrah frowned. "So how long have you been down here?"

"Uh. I don't actually know, I was unconscious for a short time. Or possibly a long time, that I'm not sure of either."

Concern once again crossed the young Pharoah's face. "You poor thing! Are you alright? You're not concussed, are you?"

"Probably." You shrugged, further alarming him.

The next few hours were spent talking to Ahk, discussing everything from the legal affairs of ancient Egypt to the cats that accompanied him in his tomb. Over the course of the night, the two of you had grown closer, both in terms of friendship and literal distance. Most of the other inhabitants of the grave had deemed you safe, returning to their regular routine, and the most curious of the mummified cats, an (aptly) Egyptian mau apparently named Tivali, had become rather taken to you. Eventually, the exhaustion of the day had caught up with you, and you slumped against Ahk's shoulder. Revelling in his presence, contentment washed over you as, for the first time on your quest, you relaxed, finally at ease. Perhaps it was delirium, but in your sleepy state you swore you felt his fingertips grace against your cheek, the ghost of his lips pressing gently against your temple.

"Sleep well, my dear."

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— WONDERWALL

SUMMARY : teasing beau during work and leaving without finishing. when he gets home he wants to pick up where they left off.

PAIRING : beau arlen x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : jenny hoyt, emily arlen

WARNINGS/TAGS : nsfw (18+), smut, unprotected sex (it’s only for fiction), fluff, implied softdom!reader

WORD COUNT : 2.3k

A/N : song title from oasis. hey, I said I’d be back and I beat the procrastination (in which I did my hobbies and homework while thinking about how easy it is to just post for my lovely readers) XX

Beau grunted softly against Y/N’s lips, his fingers digging into her hips the harder she ground against him. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, kissing sloppily in his office, his dick hard in his pants and pressing into her core. He leaned his head back into the chair, dragging his large hands down her legs, squeezing her thighs before sliding back up. This time his hands slid up under the dress and her teeth gently grazed his throat, a low sound rumbling in his chest almost like a growl.

He panted heavily, squirming in his chair trying to get more friction. He bit his lip to keep himself quiet when she sucked at his pulse point. His hands slid up to squeeze her ass, bringing her impossibly close. Her fingers gently tangled in his hair, softly combing through and tugging at the strands behind his head and kissed her way back up to his lips.

She nibbled on his lower lip, pulling it gently as she circled her hips against his and moaned softly. He kneaded her ass in his hands, encouraging her, even wishing she’d give him more. She just released his lip and slipped her tongue into his mouth, bringing his head closer as she licked into his mouth. She swallowed his loud moan, wet beyond belief, her underwear sticking to her folds and probably leaving a wet spot on his pants.

She’d only intended on bringing him lunch, both of them eating together, enjoying the delicious food. Despite it being made by a criminal, it was better than anything she’d tried. And as he ate, he stared at her darkly, eyes filled with lust as they traced over her body wearing a short summer dress. She couldn’t exactly ignore it, not when he sat back in the chair and spread his legs, inviting her to sit on his lap, his lips swollen and pink from the jalapeños in his burger.

“Beau?” A knock on the door made Y/N nearly jump off his lap. Beau cleared his throat, eyes dazed and cheeks pink, his lips swollen and red, more than before. His hair looked alright but he ran his fingers through it anyway when Jenny opened the door. “Emily’s here,” Jenny smiled, stepping in and opening the door to reveal Emily who waved at them, just a little shy. Y/N leaned against the table with her back facing the door to recollect herself. She looked over her shoulder as Beau leaned over the desk to hide his excitement.

“Emily, hi,” Y/N smiled, turning to face the two women.

“Hi, Y/N,” Emily smiled back and Jenny left after giving Beau a final glance. “I didn’t know you were here, sorry.” Emily looked at the paper bags and the crumpled napkin on her dad’s desk.

“I was just gonna leave, we finished eating.” Y/N gave Beau a teasing kiss on his lips, smirking at him when she pulled away. He looked at her in disbelief, amused and excited, but he cleared his throat again, watching his girlfriend clean up the trash and throw it away. “Bye you two.” She gave Emily a hug and made her way out of Beau’s office, closing the door.

When Beau got home the sun had already set and all that remained in the sky were the last hues of dark orange in the horizon. The house was lightless but the living room was illuminated only by flashing lights from the television.

Y/N was reading from a thick packet, deeply concentrated on the couch, random sheets of paper were spread out in stacks on the coffee table where only she could know the order in which she separated. Beau kicked his shoes off at the entrance the way Y/N always instructed him to do, and shut the door a little loudly to announce his presence, which made her jump slightly.

“Beau, hey, sweetie,” she turned to look at him, smiling lovingly with eyes bright and full of love. He smiled softly and took his hat off, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door before making his way to her.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a sweet kiss before getting distracted by the endless paperwork around her. “Work was pretty busy today. I'm sorry I didn’t get to eat dinner with you,” he apologised, stroking her cheek. She shut her eyes, leaning into his touch, before looking up at him again.

“It’s fine, Beau.” She pushed the papers away from her lap to stand up on her knees and turned to face him. “I can warm it up right now if you’re hungry,” she offered, cupping his jaw to kiss him. His hands quickly found her waist, deepening the kiss and pulling her closer to him.

“I’m not hungry right now,” he murmured against her lips, then returned to kiss her again, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. She gasped softly, her fingers moving into his hair to keep him close to her mouth. His hand moved down her waist, squeezing her ass gently over the dress she was still wearing. “We have unfinished business.” He pulled away from her, eyes tracing the look on her face hardly illuminated by the TV every now and then. “You left me at the office like it was nothin’ after makin’ me hard…”

At that, she bit her lip to stop herself from laughing, patting his chest playfully. A little smile twitched the muscles of his cheeks and he eventually gave in, leaning forward to kiss her, but he got started immediately with his hands sliding up the back of her thighs under the dress. He toyed with the waistband of her underwear, his tongue sliding across her lip and pushing the wet and soft muscle into her mouth as soon as she opened up to him.

With her heart beating fast and her body becoming hot, she shoved his jacket over his shoulders, not letting him pull away as he tried to take it off and finally dropped it on the floor. The kiss quickly became desperate, pressing their lips hard against each other so their teeth occasionally clashed. With shaky hands, she started to unbutton his shirt, tugging it out of his jeans.

He slowly started to move her back, forcing her to nearly bend all the way into the couch again, his fingers hooked on her underwear to pull them down slowly. She let herself fall onto her back, smiling up at him from the couch. She finished sliding her underwear off all the way as he undid his belt expertly, eyeing the way she wiggled her hips and lifted the dress up past her hips.

“You’re the prettiest, darlin’,” he murmured, unzipping his pants.

“So are you,” she chuckled, watching him pull his pants down his legs. He snorted at her words, a blush heating up his face.

“You’re cute,” he shook his head, flattered. He just hopped over the couch and settled between her legs, leaning over her, he gave her a long kiss. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, feeling herself melt into the couch, blooming and opening up like a plant the longer he kissed her.

He leaned onto one of his arms, his blunt nails grazing her shoulder as he lowered the thin strap of her dress. He pulled back slightly to do the same to the other one, pulling the dress down to reveal her breasts, kissing her cleavage and taking his time despite how much she’d started to squirm.

Her knees squeezed his sides, her hips attempting to roll against his as he dropped kisses over her chest. His lips move up higher instead of lower, pressing soft kisses along her neck, licking softly and sucking the way she had done to him early. She gasped, throwing her head back into the couch to give him more access to her neck. His beard tickled her sensitive skin and he squeezed her hip when she started pulling him closer and wrapping her legs around his waist too.

“Beau,” she whined, pressing his boxer-clad erection against her wet cunt. A deep chuckle followed his quiet groan when he chose to ignore her.

This was payback for the way she left him wanting more for hours, his mind constantly fogged with fantasies, distracting him from work. Even after he’d softened, he’d started to harden all over again remembering how she felt earlier in his lap.

Moving back down to her breasts, he lapped at her nipple, flicking her neglected nipple with his fingers, gently brushing, pinching, and squeezing. Her back arched desperately, heavy breaths and occasional moans tumbling from her lips, sweat starting to break out on her skin the longer he teased her, avoiding the one spot where she was dripping and throbbing for him.

He carefully sank his teeth into her breasts, his teeth grazing against her hot flesh drawing out a moaned curse from her. He pushed up slightly, sucking his way back up to her neck, nibbling on her jaw before nuzzling her cheek. She squirmed at the feeling of his beard tickling her skin, his hand still busy tweaking her nipple. His hips pushed hers down onto the couch, preventing her from trying to rub herself on him.

“You’re sorry for teasin’ me, right?” He murmured, kissing her cheek, a smug smile growing on his face. “You’re sorry for leavin’ me in the office like nothin’ happened after makin’ me hard?” He gently bit down on her earlobe, his lips brushing gently over her cheek when he pulled away to look at her. “Come on, darlin’, answer me and I’ll give ya what you want,” he promised, standing up on his knees, forcing her to unwrap her legs from around his waist.

“Of course I’m not sorry.” Y/N laughed through her nose, wrapping her calves around the back of his thighs to trap him, then reaching over to slowly pull his boxers down. “I did it on purpose, because you’re just way too pretty for me not to tease you.” She grinned at him mischievously when he rolled his eyes and tongued his cheek in disbelief, his eyes playfully and amused when they met hers again with a shake of his head and a smile on his face.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mumbled, laughing softly. He leaned over her, shooed her hands away from his stomach to wrap his hand around his cock, slowly dragging the leaking tip through her folds.

“You know you like it. It’s exciting, sheriff.” A little breathlessly, she moaned as he drew circles on her clit with his cock, teasing her still for what she did to him. He didn’t disagree, just bit down hard on his lip before slowly sliding through her folds again knowing she wasn’t going to surrender.

He could tease her endlessly and really, the only one who’d truly be suffering was him. She loved to tease and even if he tried, she’d never really give him the upper hand. That was something that he loved. He loved how gentle she was with him despite always being in control, despite having his heart at the palm of her hand, she was caring and loving, so heart-wrenchingly tender.

He gently pushed his cock into her and dropped kisses over her face lovingly. Her hands slid up his freckled back, fingers carding through his silky hair, pulling him closer. He gently pulled out, then rolled his hips against hers again, his lips brushing against her jaw. His hot breath hit her neck, just when she decided to move her leg up over the couch to deepen his thrusts. The position caused him to just barely graze her cervix when he thrusted into her again.

He was still teasing her, just pretending to enjoy every agonising thrust into her wet heat, deep and slow. Arching her back and moving her hand down to his back, her nails digging gently in his muscles and scratching down his skin. Desperate, with her orgasm just barely there, on the edge of dying out, balancing right in the middle.

“I’m gonna do it everyday,” she threatened breathlessly. “I’m gonna walk into your office and walk out without giving you what you want, and I’ll make it worse by sending you pictures of myself, or even videos all day.”

“Fuck,” he muttered softly. He pouted at her, gave her a long kiss, and gave her what she wanted. He angled his hips differently, leaning to the left and putting his weight onto one of his arms by her head. He brought his other hand down to her clit, using the slick that glistened on her folds, he drew tight circles, thrusting deep and fast so his cock would brush against her g-spot over and over.

With a moan of his name, she trembled as her orgasm hit her. He grunted softly against her neck, gasping at the squeeze of her walls around his cock. Wave after wave, the pleasure she felt was elongated with how slowly he rubbed her clit. She tugged roughly at his hair, squeezing his shoulder to hold him close, barely giving him time to pull out of her.

He finished on her stomach with a moan of her name, his warm cum spilling onto her skin. She was catching her breath, excited with the sound he was making, with his head buried in her neck, his lips brushing against her shoulder, his breath hot on her already flushed skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his head adoringly.

“You’re amazing,” she mumbled, dropping another kiss on his hair. She heard him hum deeply in appreciation as he pulled his boxers up, then he rested his weight on her, working his arms under her back to hold her.

“And you’re perfect, Y/N,” he murmured, not caring that his cum was sticking to his own skin. He smiled peacefully, his entire body melting over hers like chocolate on a cake. He nuzzled into her neck, enjoying how lovingly she played with his hair, occasionally feeling her lips on his temple or his hair.

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do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

[thelightsandtheroses]

there's art to life's distraction | marcus pike x female reader

Summary: A meet cute on Valentine’s Day? That only happens in the movies, doesn’t it? Word count: 1564 Warnings: mentions of wine and canapes. Otherwise this is just slightly anxious meet cute fluff! Pairing: Marcus Pike x female reader Notes: Hi @burntheedges, here is your gift for the Space Sisters valentine's gift exchange.I hope you don’t mind me trying Marcus P for the first time. I saw him on your prompt list and meet cutes and couldn’t resist. I so hope you love this meet cute which had to be set on Valentine's for the extra vibes 💕 The title is from Hozier's Someone New because I saw some hozier lyrics on your blog bio and wanted to make a little link to that.

You meet him at an art opening. It was a personal goal to attend the gallery, expanding your cultural knowledge; self-development or something like that. It might have been because more that you hadn’t left the house except for work or groceries in weeks and you were easily seduced by warm white wine and free canapés.

The canapés were actually pretty good.

It feels less cliched than sitting alone in your apartment on Valentine’s once again, or better than some terribly organised ‘singles’ night’. Why shouldn’t you go out and spend some time appreciating art just because it’s Valentine’s Day?  You weren’t meant to be on your own for this, but your friend now is working late, your other friends are all with their partners and so here you are.

You’re okay with this though. You can be cultured and sip your … well, you’re not quite sure it’s legally classifiable as wine.

It’s a mistake, this evening is a mistake.

This isn’t a nice simple introductory art gallery. This is beyond Avant Garde or a modern exhibition. This is highly experimental and bold. Apparently, it has a reputation for this, one you didn’t know about before seeing the flyer. It’s a baptism of fire and you suddenly feel so unprepared.

You’re surrounded by couples, or by art students analysing each work carefully, and your loneliness feels starker than ever. You’re not sure if you’re analysing the works correctly, but it’s all about feeling anyway, right?

You’re here though and this is meant to about broadening your horizons, appreciating art.  Maybe you should have eased into this though - gone to the National Gallery of Art or Portrait Gallery, rather than straight into this.

You can do this. You’ve got this.

 You move to a quieter corner of the gallery and carefully try to analyse what a particularly obtuse modern installation could mean.

Five minutes and you can go home. You’ll even treat yourself to a coffee, you think.

“Interesting,” you mumble to yourself.

“How so?” a low voice asks behind you.

You turn around. The man is good looking, there’s no denying that. He’s all deep, dark eyes and stubble, wearing a smart coat over what looks like his work suit.

There’s a warmth that radiates around him, something that makes you want to answer him, rather than ignore him and move on.

“Uh, well -” Shit, what if he’s the artist? “It’s very blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yuh huh.” You have a fucking postgraduate degree and all you can think is it’s very blue? You curse yourself inwardly. Maybe, just maybe you should have taken that art theory class in college instead of introduction to media.

Or perhaps you shouldn’t be so distracted by the good-looking man beside you.

“I see.” There’s a devilish twinkle in his eye, one that draws you in immediately.

“What’s your take then?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s really, really blue,” he replies, deadpan and without meaning to, you feel your mouth twitch, the hint of a laugh or a smile teeters.

He looks cute when he smiles.

“Well, I was onto something there clearly.”

“It’s uh, got some feeling though. Sad but hopeful. That’s my take.”

You look at the painting again. “It’s raw. Very blue, but raw.”

“Exactly.”

“Actually, I think it’s kind of pretentious.”

“Hmm, that too,” he says with a smile.

“Oh no, you’re not the artist, are you?” you ask, horror dawning on you. Why did you have to add that? Of course it’s pretentious, it’s an art gallery in DC.

“No, no, not at all I just - I like art. All art really. I think there’s something special in capturing a moment, or a feeling, or - it’s real.”

“I can understand that. I’m not really I’m much of an art expert but that’s how I feel about music.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t want to let this fleeting moment go. You want to hold on to it just a little longer, a little tight.

It’s Valentines and you’re surrounded by couples and here’s this very attractive, well put together man talking art with you and he’s not being sleazy or weird, but he seems genuinely interested in talking to you. 

“So, what do you think of this one then?” you ask, moving to the next painting.

“Ooof, where do we start?” the stranger jokes.

“You’re not the artist on any of these, are you?”

“Nope, and I don’t know any of the artists, so don’t worry about my feelings. You can tell me just how blue something is. Or pretentious.”

“I think the second thing is almost taken for granted at a gallery like this.”

“How did you hear about this place then?”

“I pass it on my way home and I uh, work -  I like art.”

You haven’t missed his correction and immediately ask, “Collector or historian?”

“Neither.” There’s a twinkle in his eye that implies he’s certain you won’t guess his profession.

“Appraiser?”

“Nope.”

“Critic?” you ask sceptically.

He laughs at that one. “No.”

“Aha? I know, art fraudster.”

“So close, but so far.”

“Oof, mystery man then. So mystery art lover, do you have a name?”

Who are you right now? You never act this bold, never initiate flirting like this, there’s something about him though. He makes you feel at ease, calm and reassured. It’s novel, especially considering he’s a stranger.

“Marcus,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you say before you share your name in response almost automatically, noticing the way it sounds on his lips as he repeats it back.

His smooth voice fills your stomach with butterflies, a tingling hint of desire surfaces on hearing him say your name. You think about what it would sound like outside of the art gallery, outside of this context, with him closer so you can smell that heady cologne more or have him whisper.

“So what bought you here?” he asks.

“I saw the flyer earlier in the week and it seemed like fun, or at least a better way to spend an evening.” You take a sip of the wine and wince slightly.

“That was until you tried the wine, huh?”

“The canapés really implied it would be better wine.”

“That’s how they suck you in.”

You both laugh and are immediately glared at by another patron. Marcus’ smile is magnetic though and you find yourself not feeling embarrassed.

“Would you - would you like to get a cup of coffee? If you’re finished here, of course,” he asks. “There’s a decent coffee shop around the corner and we could uh, finish our conversation? Only if you want.”

“Sure.” You get to hold on to this moment for just a little longer.

The air outside is cool but not overtly . The night has reached that moment where it’s dark but not menacing while the streetlights gleam around you. You walk side by side, your fingers very occasionally brushing as you feel the featherlight hint of his fingers against your own as you turn a corner. You brush against his coat, catch a lingering hint of a woody cologne that immediately entices you closer.

“I want to get more into art,” you admit. “It’s not something I’ve necessarily prioritised before. I mean, we’re in DC and there are amazing galleries and museums.”

“But you dived right into one of the most experimental galleries in DC?” he asks with a smile.

“I believe it’s important to immerse yourself fully,” you lie smoothly.

He coughs, suppressing a chortle. “I can respect that. There are some amazing galleries in this city to explore though. It’s one of the reasons that I like that I moved here.”

“Where were you before?”

“New York.” You don’t need an art or a psychology degree to notice the way his face shifts; how his lips tilt slightly downward, eyes avoid you. There’s a story there.

“I’ve never been,” you admit and then change the subject, sensing his unease. “What are the other reasons?”

“Coffee and we’re here,” he says lightly, indicating a small hole-in-the-wall cafe just ahead of you both. There are no fussy or brash valentine’s decorations and while you notice a couple of couples inside, it doesn’t feel as high pressure as another cafe or restaurant would.

Five minutes later, you’re both perched at a small table with steaming, hot cups in front of you.

“At least we can talk here without any glares,” you say.

“Ooh, yeah, you don’t want to mess with artists or art students. Trust me.”

The conversation flows naturally; music you like, books you’ve read and it feels like you’ve known Marcus so much longer.

There’s no pressure, no impending sense of alarm or panic. It feels right. Sitting here with Marcus feels like where you need to be now and like you’ve known him for years.

It’s shaping up for more than friendship. There’s a fission, a flare of desire and sweet anticipation.

It’s you who suggests a real date, to your own surprise. You love the way he responds, the way his eyes light up and brighten, the crinkle of his brow, the smile that feels so sincere.

“You beat me to it,” he says softly, “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to go to the art opening alone on Valentine’s Day, you think. Maybe, just maybe, it was kismet.

[parkjayist]

ESSENCE OF ROMANCE: PROLOGUE

sum park jongseong is in denial, but the truth is undeniable: he's hit a dead end. how can he maintain his title as a world renowned chemist if he can't even advance his own research? meanwhile, you, an aspiring chemist, have faced constant belittlement from your male colleagues as you pursue your own groundbreaking research in isolation. when jongseong finds you conducting experiments in HIS own lab, he's enraged. he's enveloped in fury when he realizes that you two are trying to research the same topic. yet, buried beneath his rage lies a deep sense of desperation, and he's willing to do anything to finally finish his research he's been putting off for so many years. perhaps you're the missing piece in his research (and life).

pairing chemist!park jongseong x female chemist!reader

genre written series, slowburn, angst, fluff, " enemies " to lovers, coworkers au, 1960s au, smarty pants x smarty pants

warnings misogyny, swearing

an okayy here's the (short) prologue! i decided to write it separately from chapter 1 because i want to build the personality for yn first. expect the first chapter soon! here's a PLAYLIST you can listen to while reading! notes would be greatly appreciated ^^

wc 870 (0.8k) SERIES MASTERLIST

abiogenesis – the basis of life. you were always fascinated by the concept of life from the moment your teacher talked about it in your highschool chemistry class. how could one element hold such power, such significance in the grand scheme of existence? how are we, mere compositions of atoms and strands of DNA, capable of achieving feats that transcend the limits of our imagination?

in the bustling chemistry lab of darkwood laboratories, you find yourself cast in the role of a humble lab assistant. you’re definitely not satisfied with your title, but it’s the best you can get for now. once you publish your research, no one will ever look down on you again, and you’re determined to embarrass every man who has ever doubted you with the newfound research you hope to conduct. 

but for now, your days are spent in a whirlwind of activity, as you juggle the demands of fetching coffee, replenishing supplies, and assisting the male chemists in their experiments. their commands are curt, their expectations high, and their acknowledgement of your presence fleeting. you often find yourself biting your tongue as you witness the male chemists make mistakes in their experiments. when you try to point out their errors, they brush you off with a dismissive wave, their voices dripping with condescension. 

miss (___), let me remind you that you’re just a lab technician, they sneer. let the real chemists handle the hard stuff. they would laugh, pouting at you condescendingly. 

with a tight smile and a resigned nod, you comply, masking the frustration that simmers beneath the surface. it's a routine you've grown accustomed to – the sidelining of your aspirations in favor of catering to the needs of your male colleagues.

every day, as the sun begins its descent beyond the horizon, casting long shadows across the laboratory benches, the energy of the lab shifts. as your coworkers leave one by one, you finally have the opportunity to pursue your true calling: researching abiogenesis, the very essence of life's origins. tonight, however, as you begin to immerse yourself in your research, a nagging realization dawns upon you – you're running dangerously low on essential materials. 

“shit,” you groaned in frustration.

you hated when you were interrupted in your work. whether it was someone else, yourself or nature, it was one of your worst pet peeves. every interruption felt like a disruption of the delicate balance you had worked so hard to maintain. whether it was the incessant chatter of your colleagues, the nagging doubts that crept into your own mind, or the unexpected intrusion of nature's stupid whims, each interruption grated on your nerves like sandpaper against skin. there was a rhythm to your work, a flow that you slipped into effortlessly as you delved deeper into your research. every moment lost to distraction felt like a step backward, a missed opportunity to uncover the secrets of life that lay just beyond your grasp. and yet, despite your best efforts to shut out the noise and focus on your work, interruptions seemed to come at the most inopportune moments. the clatter of footsteps in the hallway, the incessant ringing of the telephone, the sudden flicker of the broken lights – each disturbance pulled you away from your work, leaving you frustrated and irritable. 

navigating the dark corridors of the lab, you can’t help but feel a sense of uneasiness. as if something was going to pop out and chase you. however you shove these feelings at the back of your head, and you find yourself at an unlocked lab. the faded name of the door reads “J. Park” with a sign below it stating in bold red, “DO NOT COME IN.” 

well, he was the one who left it open, you thought. plus, you were only going to in there for a minute ... just to get the materials you needed. 

with cautious steps, you enter the dimly lit space. jongseong's lab is, simply put, a chaos of clutter and disarray. test tubes and beakers litter the countertops, their contents long forgotten or left to evaporate into a sticky residue. papers and notebooks are strewn haphazardly across the desks, their pages crumpled and stained with mysterious substances. the air is thick with the scent of chemicals, mingling with the faint aroma of stale coffee. empty coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches dot the landscape, and random pieces of clothing are placed randomly around the lab. 

you brush some crumbs off the table. “what a careless scientist,” you murmur to yourself. “he can’t even follow basic science procedures … i wonder how much money he paid to get his own lab.”

while trying to find the materials you needed, you suddenly felt yourself drawn to the chalkboard at the back of the lab. although the drawing was messy, you could make out the equations and drawings that you assumed the owner of this lab did. just as you were about to piece together what it was about, a voice shatters the silence, sharp and unexpected. you turn around at the sudden intrusion and you find a man standing at the door – his expression mixed with irritation and confusion.

“what the hell do you think you’re doing in my lab?” 

next.

-----------------------------------

tagged: @sophiko22 @minseongsworld

[mortalityplays]

Only tangentially related to today's ask discourse but I was thinking about this- do you have advice on pushing more out of your comfort zone ie media? I feel like its really easy to say you like or want stuff thats making you uncomfortable or is less palatable to wide audiences etc etc but I have trouble going out of my way to actually experience things like that over more popcorn you know

a good way to start if you're intimidated is to look for curated recommendations close to your cultural comfort zone (I'm focusing on US/UK lists here but you can look for recommendations from museums, libraries, and national award bodies just about anywhere in the world). e.g. the BFI Sight & Sound list or the National Film Registry (for movies), Booker Prize or National Book Award winners for literature

Don't feel like you have to watch/read everything all at once, it's fine to skim for something that sounds particularly up your street and start there. It's also fine to jump right into something intimidating and find out what all the fuss is about! the absolute worst case scenario is that you're bored or underwhelmed and can pick something else next time.

a lot of my film knowledge comes from when I was at university. I discovered that there was an A/V library and viewing room on campus that I could use for free l, so I just looked through the catalogue and started picking out things I'd never seen that sounded interesting. every day between classes I'd go, pick a title, and spend a couple of hours giving it a try. I watched Blade Runner for the first time in a darkened basement booth with headphones on, and The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, and Wild Strawberries, and Persepolis, and countless other weird and wonderful things. sometimes I picked something incredibly boring or something that annoyed me, but I always came away feeling good that I'd expanded my knowledge of what was out there.

once you do start finding new things you like, a whole other path opens up to you. you can dig deeper into the work of one writer or director or actor, look up interviews and find out who inspired them. if you loved a specific book, see if the author mentioned any direct influences, or if critics compared it to something else you might enjoy. you get to start building these maps in your head and getting a sense for where different things fit, and it becomes easier and easier to hunt for hidden treasures.

finally! if you can find a group of friends (or even just one person) who is interested in taking this journey with you, start a club. take turns to pick something you want to explore, share the journey, and discuss it as you go along. keep sight of your purpose, whether that's to broaden your horizons beyond your home culture, take on more challenging works, or just be better informed. take it a step at a time, and learn to enjoy the experience of exploration even when you don't like something. figuring out why we hated Lady Chatterley's Lover is some of the most fun I've had with our book club yet. introducing friends to The Left Hand of Darkness and getting hype about it with them was just as good. love the process and you'll change your life.

[saltsicklover]

Part One - STCHT

Here's to a new adventure! Enjoy!!

Title: Someone To Come Home To

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2200+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talk of Secrets, Swearing, Jake's mothering being A LOT, talks of death and trauma.

Best Friends to Lovers Romance! Marriage of Convenience!

Disclaimer: I do not own Jake Seresin, or anything related to Top Gun Maverick within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

---

The Dagger Squad is good at keeping secrets- they make their living under Top Secret clearance, their fighter jets being a means to an end, really. They fly with a prayer on their lips, they compete their missions, make miracles, and come home. That's the job. 

They do it, and they do it well, because that is the job. From the moment the step onto that aircraft carrier, it no longer matters what they are leaving behind. They may fight for what's behind them, who is behind them, but none of that matters the second they step into that jet. All that mattered from that moment on was the mission, the job, the next step or twelve they had to take in order to get back home. 

Maybe that's why they have so many secrets. 

They tell people it's so information can't be tortured out of them- if they can keep their personal lives a secret, they can damn sure keep professional information from falling into the wrong hands. They say it's because they are just quiet people, they don't like their personal lives out in the open for anyone to see. Sometimes they even say it's so they can focus on the job. If no one is talking about home, there will be nothing to miss on mission, on deployment, or while they are stationed across the country. 

Those were never the real reasons. Each Dagger had their own. Nobody ever questioned each other until they became a permeant detachment out of San Diego and things that were once kept secret slowly began working their way out. 

The secrets, physical fitness standards, uniform regulations, and bureaucracy were just added bullshit on top of the contracted nine to five job that Jake Seresin accepted when he signed on that dotted line. Again, and again, and again. 

The job was good, really good. It brought him all over the world, seeing things that people didn't even think to wish for. From the deepest blue hues of the ocean and their white crested waves that lap themselves up against the sides of aircraft carriers to the clearest sky that surrounded him each time he flew. No matter where he found himself, the world seemed to stretch so far around him and a feeling of absolute awe filled him. 

He swore up and down that there was nothing like it, the feeling that the ever expansive Earth was just beyond of his fingertips, and he ached to see it all. Seresin crossed his heart, claiming there was nothing more beautiful than watching the world form the seat of his jet- the sun cresting over the horizon, the blue from both the sky and sea being interrupted by a streak of brilliant sunlight. 

He knew the sky was where he belonged from the moment his Father's best friend took him up in his private prop plane. It was just a little two seater Cessna, but Jake sat in the back, fighting the the seatbelt the whole time. He wanted nothing more than to push his face flush up against the glass and take in everything the eye could see. It was that moment, his world broke open, his future crystal clear- he belonged in the sky. 

Getting into the Navy was all that mattered, so, he fought like hell to claim his place, to fly with the best pilots, to be a navel aviator. He started young, first with good grades and model planes before moving onto high school, his plucky neighbor in tow. 

Seresin had first met his neighbor, who he affectionately refers to as Spurs, when his Mother dragged him over to their home with a Bundt cake to welcome them to the neighborhood. The gesture was meant to be friendly, the Texans with kind hearts and hospitality to boot. 

The Jett family was less than impressed with the gesture, but, they took the cake anyway in an attempt to seem nice. It's never the best idea to upset new neighbors on the day you move in, even if the cake that Mrs. Seresin held out to Ms. Jett felt more like an excuse to snoop than it did to actually be kind. The thing the Mrs. Seresin didn't know was that her presence was more of an interruption than a welcome party. That, however, didn't stop the wide eyed girl from pushing around her mother's legs, sticking her hand out towards Jake with gusto and self confidence. 

"Good afternoon!" Mrs. Seresin's cheeks bore too much blush and not enough of a smile as Mrs. Jett opened the door about 45 degrees. She stuck her head out onto the porch, her daughter quickly hiding behind the door, a finger laced through her mother's belt loop. 

"Hi," The greeting is short and Mrs. Seresin pulls her lips into a tight line, still trying to keep the corners ticked up to allude to a smile in response to her new neighbor.  

Mrs. Seresin's blond hair is styled tall and proud, no doubt giving her about four more inches in height, adding to the extra couple she gets from her strappy heals. She wears a beautiful dress, one that wraps her upper body before flowing down into a skirt to hide her tummy and hips. Things that, no doubt wouldn't be considered 'lady-like' to show off. The neckline is modest, but there is enough room to layer a set of dainty pearls around her neck. Her blue eyes sparkle against her thick layer of makeup. 

Her son is clad in jeans that are just a hair too long for him, even with the little bit of height he gets from his cowboy boots. A t-shirt is tucked into this jeans, a belt buckle on proud display. His cheeks are rosy with heat, unclear if the cause is from the weather or the embarrassment his mother is subjecting him to. 

"My name is Patricia Seresin, and this is my son, Jacob," She runs her well manicured fingers through his hair. "We live just across the way and we wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!" The cheeriness laced in her voice is fake but well rehearsed; a tone of voice that would sound wonderfully condescending with the right words. Ms. Jett takes note of the tone and the way her new neighbors lacquered nails stand out against her son's hair, the shining red paint against the bright blond of the boy's too long hair. Jacob's hair falls unceremoniously over his forehead, a hat line worn into his bangs, no doubt from the dark brown Stetson he cradles against his chest. 

Patricia holds the cake out towards Ms. Jett expectantly, her eyebrows inching up her forehead as she shakes the plastic wrap covered dessert at her new neighbor. Patricia mutters something about it being a "Bundt" and so, with a sigh,  Ms. Jett pulls open the door a bit further, trying not to notice the way her new neighbor's eyes rake over her form. Her hair is tied back, bandanna tied tightly around her head, almost obscuring her dirty blonde hair. Her white t-shirt is tucked beneath a pair of cutoff overalls, a pair of high tops adorn her feet. 

"I'm Lizzy- Elizabeth Varon Jett" She introduced herself as she took the cake being presented to her. Once she let go of the door, it swung open the rest of the way, her daughter's hand on the knob. Her daughter is still hidden a bit behind her legs. "This is my daughter, Captain," Lizzy introduces her daughter with a little smirk.

"You named your daughter, Captain?" The judgement leaks through Patricia's voice and Lizzy can't help but laugh.

"Heavens, no! But she won't actually respond to anything but Captain, so that's what we go with. My late husband was a Naval Lieutenant, and used to call her Captain because it's a superior rank.  It's silly," She dismisses with a wave of her hand, a light wash of tears flooding her eyes. "Captain, this is Mrs. Patricia, and her son, Jacob," 

"Mrs. Seresin,"

"Jake," 

The neighbors speak at the same time.  Captain's eyes drifted from Mrs. Seresin to the boy standing next to her. He smiles widely at her, a couple of his front teeth missing. She smiles back, showing off a tooth gap of her own. Lizzy laughs at the exchange, Patricia doesn't. 

"Captain starts at the Elementary school just down the road in a couple of weeks," Lizzy says, more to Jake than to his mother, "Fourth grade, a big year! What about you, Jacob?"

"I will be going into fourth grade as well, Ma'am," He informs her, a smile playing on his lips. 

"That's very exciting, maybe you two will be in the same class!" Lizzy nudges her daughter a bit with her hip, a smile on both of their faces. The words go unspoken between mother and daughter, a new friend. 

Captain looks Jake up and down before making a decision. She moved out fully from behind the safety of her mother's legs, a new confidence taking over. She didn't even bother to give her name, real or the nickname she had been using since she was seven, instead opting to ask a question, one that would stick in the back of Jake's mind for the rest of time, "Where are your spurs? I thought everyone here in Texas wore spurs!"

The laugh that escaped his lips sealed the deal for her. Jake would be her best friend. Jake's mother nudged him between the shoulders, apologizing for his inconsiderate attitude. As their mothers continued their conversation, Spurs stuck out her hand again, this time, he took it in his own, grip firm and assured. 

With a few more spoken words between the women, they bid each other a good afternoon, each mother having to pull their own child into the house and off the porch, respectively. Captain knew form that moment on that didn't plan on letting anything get in her way, not the new house, the new school, the new life without her father, nothing. Especially when it came to the green eyed boy who lived across the street, who was in her new fourth grade class. The moment she laid eyes on him life swept them up, tangling them together, whether they like it or not- but little did each other know, they would like it an awful lot. 

---

Over the years, Jake and Spurs came to know lots about each other, probably more than they knew about themselves. Jake's family owned a large ranching business but after his father, Richard, got injured, they moved into town leaving the ranch in their employees capable hands.

Jake learned how Spurs' father, David, died. He was in a helicopter that went down, the ocean swept the wreckage under and no one made it out. They shouldn't have been flying with the storm, but the Navy remains adamant that there was appropriate weather when they took off. Spurs doesn't speak about her father, much to her Mom's dismay. 

Jake loves math even though he would never admit it, and Sunny was fantastic in history. He could spell, she couldn't. She always slipped him her carton of milk in exchange for his grapes. They balanced each other out, the way best friends should. 

Their mothers took photos of them together every year, the first day of school, and the last, posed in front of the large tree outside the Seresin house. They traded birthday gifts and homework. They got caught cheating in the sixth grade as they slipped each other answers for the reading quiz. Neither of them cared for the books they read, so they each read half and swapped answers. It wasn't a fool proof plan, but they didn't find that out until they were sitting outside the principals office, bumping knees and waiting for their furious mothers to get through with the principal. 

The years went by quickly, between school work and first time job, first kisses and parties. Not before long, it was graduation and the pair were happy as could be, posing for photos together. They were clad in cap and gown, hanging off of each other, smiles brighter than the Texas sun. Jake was headed for bootcamp a few weeks later, more than ready to begin his Naval career. 

Spurs was headed north, school in Minnesota calling her name. She didn't really want to go, but she promised her Mother she would give it a try. When she finally made it to the tiny college town, nestled right up against the Mississippi river, she barely lasted through the first winter. Between the homesick feeling that never left her chest and the fact that Jake was due home for Easter before shipping out to his first duty station for Flight School, she was itching to get home. 

She told herself she didn't need the fancy degree anyway- it wasn't what she wanted out of life in the first place. Spurs wanted to travel, to work with her hands, to meet new people and figure out what life was outside of her little corner of it all. She was ready for whatever the world was going to dish her- at least, she thought she was. That was until she walked through the front door of her house, bags in hand, only to find the Seresin's and her mother waiting for her, each wearing a more intense look than the last. Absolutely nothing could have prepared her for the words that left Richard's mouth. 

[dear-mrs-otome]

Chapter One - Ansare

Pairing: Silvio Ricci x Emma...eventually Word Count: 2.1k+/??? Author's Note: If Cybird won't give me a proper Beauty and the Beast story, I'll write it myself. This is a slowburn fairytale AU that hews closely to canon, but veers when needed.

Summary: A curse, of sorts. A rose, of sorts. And one prince's long, tangled journey to answer an eternal question...What separates man from beast?

It all began, as so many things do, with a love poem.

Emma lifted the top off of a crate, and was greeted by the rich waft of old books. Leather and glue and that indescribable patina that only the echo of many long years could leave behind. Wisdom crowning wisdom.

“There’s so many,” she said with amazement as she dug through the first layer of packing straw and pulled a title free. Running careful hands and a practiced eye over the condition of the bindings and the gilt lettering that traipsed up their spines, she began sorting them into loose categories. Histories, the classics, poetry and novels, geography and the sciences. She paused long enough to linger over a detailed map of the continent in one of the gorgeously illustrated atlases, a wistful sigh escaping her.

The bookstore was her life - she knew every nook and cranny of this shop like the back of her hand. Had skinned her knees tripping over the single uneven floorboard in its stacks as a coltish child, had stained the pages of more than one romance with tears while nursing the first tender bruises of young love curled up in the nearby battered armchair. She’d scrimped and saved and squirreled away every penny she could pinch, ever since Akatsuki had handed her the first of her wages, determined to buy it from him one day when he retired. She knew that would make her the happiest woman in the world.

But some days, it was hard not to wonder what was over the jagged rooftops of town, crowded and gnashing the skyline like snaggled teeth. What mysteries might lay just beyond the hills that cradled their city so gently, rolling away towards the horizon as she imagined waves upon the sea must. In her dreams some nights she tasted the salt spray of the ocean, only to awaken, baffled to find it was tears on her tongue.

Some days, it was hard not to wonder if she was settling her future comfortably…or merely settling.

Putting the atlas and those maudlin thoughts aside, a delighted grin stole over her face as she plucked the next book from the box, a slim volume of poetry with an aging, cracked cover and worn edges. The obscure missing volume in her exhaustive collection of Benitoitian sonnets. She flipped eagerly through the pages, her gaze devouring the metered lines upon them, lingering over one poem in particular that was redolent with the bittersweetness of longing. “You found it! You actually found it! Is that what took you so long this time?”

“Partly. I didn’t want to disappoint you, not when you’ve been looking to round out that collection for so long.” Akatsuki’s ever-stoic face thawed with the first hint of a smile as he wove a far defter path through the piles she was creating than one would expect from a man of his years. But then again, the passing of time never seemed to touch him, she’d noticed, beyond kissing a few more strands of silver into his dark head of hair. He still moved as spryly as men a third his age, and had never in all of her years of working for him ever taken a single day off ill. “And partly I was busy with business meetings.”

“Business meetings?” She slipped a bookmark at the page with the poem that had caught her eye and looked up, wrinkling her nose at the implications of that. “Oh, no. No. Don’t tell me that means-”

The rest of her sentence was robbed by a resounding crash, the deafening clatter of a door thrown open - or rather, kicked open, as she knew better than to believe otherwise of the man who sauntered in. The violence of his entrance setting one of her nearby newly built towers of books swaying precariously. 

“-Him,” she finished flatly, before plastering on a smile even more obviously fake than the forgotten vase of forlorn silk orchids gathering dust in a nearby corner. “Welcome in, Your Highness. Thank you for testing the resilience of our hinges. Again.”

His Highness in question - Silvio Ricci, the crown prince of Benitoite - drew to a halt and spared her a scathing look, shaking his fur-lined cloak back imperiously. “I’d start charging for the service, but there’s no way in hell this dump could afford me.”

“Strange. For being such a ‘dump’, it sure seems to keep you coming back,” she returned fire, cloyingly sweet, before forcing herself to take a deep breath. She would not let this goblin masquerading as royalty get under her skin and ruin the high of a delivery day. Not this time.

He snorted. “It’s the impeccable customer service, clearly.”

She ground her teeth together and shot Akatsuki a pleading look, noticing the amusement that clung to the wrinkles fanned around his eyes as his attention bounced between the two of them. Spectating his favorite sport. 

“Prince Silvio,” Akatsuki said at last, wading into the fray.

Dismissing her, the prince turned a dauntless, charming grin on the man who owned the shop, and she did her best to ignore the nip of envy that inspired. 

He’d never smiled once at her like that. But then, why did she possibly care?

“Signore.” Prince Silvio inclined his head ever-so-slightly in the older man’s direction. “I trust you found the details of the documents I had couriered to you acceptable?”

“Well, yes. But I…” He broke off, and his gaze bounced off Emma before landing back on Silvio. “Wasn’t expecting you quite this soon. I had hoped for a bit more time to explain things.”

“Explain what?” Emma interjected, unease a cool hand curling fingers around her stomach.

Akatsuki seemed at a loss a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Circumstances being what they are and all…”

 Silvio made an exasperated sound that bordered on rude. “This bookstore is the second-most profitable one in the city. I could make it number one.” He paused a moment, and lifted his chin imperiously. “I will make it number one.”

Emma shook her head. “We don’t need any advice from the likes of you. I’m certain.”

“You may not want it, but you’re getting it. And it won’t be advice…it’ll be orders.”

“Says who?” she countered, eyes narrowed in challenge.

“Me. The soon-to-be owner of this enormous heap of paper.”

She’d heard the words, but they rang hollow, refusing to make sense. She whirled towards Akatsuki as if he might somehow be able to translate. 

He had the good grace to wince. “Emma, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out. But I’m not getting any younger, and the traveling of a merchant’s life gets harder and harder every year.”

“So you sold the store to Prince Silvio? Of all people, him? But…” She’d never felt betrayal before, but this nausea that clawed acrid at the back of her throat couldn’t be anything else. “I was going to buy it.” 

The forlorn admission slipped free before she had time to snatch it back, falling helplessly to the ground. A fledgling taken to wing too soon.

Silvio blinked, and chortled. “You? You were going to buy the shop?" 

Her cheeks stung pink at the slap of his incredulous laugh. “Yes, me.”

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about running a business like this,” he scoffed.

She shook her head fiercely. “No, you wouldn’t know the first thing about running a business like this. Could you recognize an incunable if you saw one? Do you have the faintest idea what an octavo is? Or who Madame Rochefort’s favorite author is? What genre you can sell Monsieur Martin on without fail when he comes by every Tuesday afternoon? All you see is coin to be made. Numbers in a ledger. Profit and loss. Not people. And certainly not their stories.”

“This ain’t a library, lady. It’s right there in the name - bookstore.” He paused, as if considering something. “Although, if you’re so eager to make sure things are done in a certain way, I suppose I could let you keep your job.”

“Let me…” A logjam of words crowded her throat for a moment, indignities all clamoring for space at once until one finally jostled free. “You want me to work for you?”

A petty smile slanted his lips. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it.”

That expression of his was like a door being thrown open on a smoldering fire. Rage exploded through her in a backdraft, a mindless wave of fire and fury that vaporized the calm logic she prided herself on. “Listen to me, you tacky, tasteless, tawdry, tinsel-clad affront to the eyes. I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last thing standing between me and utter destitution.”

Answering sparks flew from a blue gaze turned flinty, as the blood drained from his face. “That could be arranged. One word from me, and I could make it so that you never work in this city again.”

Her mouth fell open, eyes stinging from the salt he had just rubbed into every last one of her open wounds. “And now you think you can threaten me into keeping the job that I already have? All while you buy the shop I already planned to?”

“Oh, I don’t think I can.” His grin was more a macabre baring of teeth than any thing of mirth. The snarl of a hound treeing its quarry. “I know I can.”

“Forget it. You can own this shop, you can own this city. You can own this whole damn country. But you will never, ever own me.” The world had gone strange around her, red and wavering, like water spilled through wet paint. It took her three tries to see through it well enough to snatch up her book of poems from the top of the pile. “I quit.”

It occurred to her, as she took her first wobbly step towards the door, that it might have hurt less to have simply driven her paper-knife into her own heart. She clutched the book tightly to her chest, as if it could staunch the blood she swore poured from some wretched wound, though her blouse remained as pristine as ever.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His snarl stopped her in her tracks, but she didn’t do him the courtesy of turning around to reply. Etiquette when dealing with royalty be damned.

“I’m leaving. Like I said, I quit. Have a nice life, Your Highness.”

He lunged forward, snatching at the book she held. “You can’t just walk out. That’s store property. Which means it’s my property now.” They tussled over the tome, wrestling, neither willing to back down - until finally it fumbled from their grasp and fell to the ground, open to the page she’d slipped her bookmark in.

They both dove for it at the same time, the childish squabble continuing until they were brought up short by the harsh sound of tearing paper, freezing where they stood.

Emma forced herself to look down, dread a swallowed lump of lead sitting queasy in her stomach. Gaze shifting from the book in her hands to the page now crumpled in Silvio’s fist, a forlorn flap of ragged paper still standing accusatory in the spine she held. 

“Look what you’ve done,” she managed, through lips gone stiff and numb.

“What I’ve done? You started this. If you’d just handed over the book - or better yet, not thrown a tantrum and tried storming out - this wouldn’t have happened at all,” he retorted fiercely. But when she found herself at a loss for any sort of response, and the silence drew out long and stilted and awful, he thrust the rumpled page at her abruptly. Refusing to meet her eyes. “Here.”

She glanced down at it, and let out a humorless laugh. It was the only reaction she could muster when she saw familiar words of poetry between his fingers. The exact one that had warranted a bookmark from her in the first place.

Would I could come, O lovely one, to you just in a thief’s disguise, unknown to all!

It figured that he'd manage to ruin even this for her, too.

“I bought this book. It belongs to me. Akatsuki’s been looking for it for me for almost five years now. But you know what? Keep the page, and the poem. My parting gift to you,” she told him, no longer trying to keep the bitterness coating her tongue from seeping into her words. She was too sick with it, choking on the wretched feast as she ever-so-carefully closed the book. Ever-so-carefully tucked it under her arm, before flinging a razor edged glare at him like a flechette. “It’s the closest to love you’ll ever get, Your Highness.”

He flinched, as if struck, but made no reply. Made no other movement at all, as she left him holding those words and walked out.

Next Chapter >>

If you’d like to be tagged for future chapters, let me know!

(Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune, header image commissioned from @/sbeep)

[jacksprostate]

My boss invites me into his office, he's telling me, we've got a problem. It is always, "we." "We" are all in this together. "We" need to put a little more effort in, if "we" want our yearly bonuses. "We" have got to up profits by next quarter, or "we" are going to lose our jobs.

"We" don't all have half a million salaries and a three letter job title, but what can you do.

If you asked my boss, he'd tell you about his. The guy above him. Yeah, "we" are all beholden to him. My boss, he's just regional. Small fry, really.

I'm entering his corner office, big tall windows gaping, stretching the condo construction happening across the street for as far as the eye can see. He sees me looking.

"Perks of the job," he says. A little laugh in his voice. He's not funny.

"We need to talk about your performance last quarter," he says.

We, unto me.

I am Jack's rejuvenated individuality.

My boss had his secretary let me in, so really I've spent the past minute standing awkwardly, insomnia haze locking my gaze some place beyond our broken city horizon. My boss had his secretary let me in because that means he could sit at his desk and pretend to be doing something important. Wave me in, make me wait, give him the opportunity to boast about his jail cell amenities.

You'd think it makes him feel powerful, the way he's clinging to it all. I tongue at the hole in my cheek as I take a seat. Managerial threat displays have lost their effect on me, I think.

It makes him antsier. I can see it, taste it like the blood in my mouth. Oh, iron. Oh, fear.

If Tyler was here, he'd lean on those windows and get them splotched with dirt and worse. Those windows, they're spotless because my boss pays into the building fund with company money to get an old spanish speaking lady to wipe the glass clean before he arrives each morning. I saw her once, at a support group for some combination of cancer and impoverishment. She coughed, introducing herself. Said she couldn't speak well, but wanted company. She has to keep working, but it's making her sick.

The building doesn't pay her enough that she can buy PPE in between their scant offerings, so she's without a mask most of the times I've seen her.

Truthfully, there's been someone else under the building's thumb for a while now.

I found a different group for Thursday nights.

I still think I'll hear Rosa's wheezing when I see her cart by the restrooms.

My prolonged silence, it's unnerving him now, so he's puffing up like a bluffing frog.

I am still with my boss, and I've been staring at a damp spot of drywall behind his head as he yaps at me about how I need to follow dress code. Raise my numbers. Be more engaged.

I should be a precious bouquet of flowers, brightening up the office.

He just wants to help me out. Get me back on track. We used to have amazing figures coming out of Compliance and Liability, my one-man department.

If Tyler was here, he'd be filling the janitor's Windex bottles with 90 proof and blue dye instead, so when my boss comes in early for once in his life and spooks Rosa's replacement, the bottle gets spilled all over my boss and his carpet and his desk and then my workplace smoking habit really would be a fire hazard.

I tune back in, and my boss is informing me that it's with his sincerest regrets that he has to tell me that I won't be getting my bonus this year, oh, maybe something if I shape back up, yeah, he's sure he could fight upper management for me if I showed a good effort. He just wants to help, but I have to help him help me.

Whatever is going on in my life, it's got to be over.

I imagine going to Tyler. Going to fight club. Saying, let's pack it up boys. Fight club's over. I need to sit pretty for my boss so he can feed me a quarter of the salary he always conveniently has to withhold each year, due to all sorts of things impacting the car industry. A typhoon hit mainland China. The US dollar grew too fast with the collapse of the Soviet Union. A sparrow chirped in Belgrade on a Wednesday.

The usual.

Fight club's over. I've got to go be a recall campaign coordinator full time. Working hours, waking hours, what's the difference?

Tyler is always telling me, I could follow my boss home, and when he goes to work on his stupid meaningless hobby in the nice little air conditioned shed at the edge of his two acre two storey home, I could lock him in with nothing but millet. And when he runs out of millet, I could drag his body out and drown him in his pool, laced with armagnac, just like the French do it. And I could pluck and roast the corpse and eat it uncovered, hoping God has no choice but to see me now.

Or I could just give him a poisoned bottle of whiskey.

There's many options, according to Tyler.

The thing is. The truth is, I like my boss.

It's Tyler who wants to come in in the early morning and when my boss pushes open the door to his office, it's Tyler who wants to have a block of concrete in a bucket fall down and crack his skull like a rotten egg, looney tunes style.

It's not me. I gave my boss soap for the mandatory holiday office gift exchange.

I tell my boss, thank you for the concern.

Unfortunately, my grandmother's diagnosis seems dire, and it's unlikely I'll be able to switch gears before the year rolls over in March. Apologies.

He looks at me, and my battered face, at stitches painted across my temple. I can tell, he wants to shake me. Demand from me, why I can't I even pretend to give him a real excuse? Why do I have to make his life so very difficult? Why can't I just keep the broken toddlers from coming out of the woodwork with a smile on my face?

But he doesn't. He says, my condolences. It sounds a lot like get the hell out of my office.

With that in mind, I get up and take a nice, long moment to watch nothing through his huge, sparkling windows. Papers conspicuously rustle. There's the ambient noise of pointless keyboard clicking. I take a sip of my coffee. Behind me, my boss starts to pretend to get a call in hopes it gets me to move on, and I'm watching construction crews like ants. Perks of the job, indeed.

[marvelstoriesepic]

WIP Game

Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPS.

Thank you so much @elixirfromthestars for tagging me!! 💎💕

I'm on this app for quite some time but only ever as a reader until I started writing myself a few months ago and I'm just loving the sweet interactions with others here, so this means a lot to me 🤍

I only write for Bucky so all these wips are about him.

There are quite a few I'd be happy to share and maybe one of those catches your eye, then please let me know so I can give you a little something. No title is really set in stone. I like to overthink it right before posting or come up with something better during the writing process. And some don’t have a title yet.

Also, I'm open for drabble requests

Enjoy ✨

Breaking Chains (5) [Biker!Bucky x Reader]

Beyond the Horizon [Sailor!Bucky x Reader]

Billions [Modern!Bucky x College!Waitress!Reader]

Rumor has it [Modern!Bucky x College!Reader]

Untitled [Barista!Bucky x Co-Worker!College!Reader/Coffeeshop Au]

Weakness [Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader]

Untitled [Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader]

Hallucinations [Avenger!Bucky x Enhanced!Avenger!Reader]

Untitled [Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader]

Untitled [Baseball player!Bucky x Reader]

Untitled [40s!Bucky x 40s!Reader]

Tags: @witchywithwhiskey @artficlly @scrumptious-delusion @sergeantxrogers @sarahwroteathing

Don’t feel pressured to do this. I tagged you, because I appreciate your work! 🌸

[wooyoungisbaby]

ATEEZ This or That game ùwú

first choice, second and third choices if applicable. if i've left smth blank it simply means i don't have strong feelings on the matter xox

Albums

Main series || Treasure · Zero: Fever · The World · Golden Hour

Treasure series || All to Zero · Zero to One · One to All · All to Action · Action to Answer

Fever series || Part 1 · Part 2 · Part 3 · Epilogue

The World series || Movement · Outlaw · Fin: Will

Japanese releases || Shift the Map · Map to Answer · Into the A to Z · Beyond: Zero || Dreamers · Limitless || Paradigm · Not Okay

Other releases || Season Songs · Let's get Together || Kingdom: Who is the King · Don't Stop · Spinoff: From The Witness

Songs

Vibes

Bright || Eternal Sunshine · Wave || Illusion · Aurora || If Without You · Time of Love || Dreamers · Dreamy Day ||  Celebrate · Light || Stay · Blue Summer

Simply epic || HalaHala · Say My Name || Answer · Wonderland || Treasure · Fireworks

Resistance™ || Guerilla · Halazia (screaming crying etc) || Cyberpunk · Wake Up || Outlaw · New World · This World

B) fun times || Crazy Form · The Real · Thanxx ||  Bouncy · Work

Swag tbch || Matz · Pirate King || The Leaders · Win · Rocky || To The Beat · Emergency || Django · Arriba || Blind · Shaboom

Yearning || Be With You · Utopia · Take Me Home (sobbing!!!!!) || Mist · Turbulence ||  Dazzling Light · Silver Light (;A;) || Empty Box · Not Too Late

Frenzied || Inception · HalaHala ||  Desire · Precious · Horizon ||  Siren · Not Okay

Hopeful, optimistic || Sunrise · My Way || Better · Still Here || Not Too Late · One Day at a Time (i am in pain choosing this) || Good Lil Boy · Let's Get Together · Limitless

Genres (idk shit about genres, i got help from here)

Moombathon || Wave · Dreamers || Let's Get Together · Promise · Stay

Ballad || Be With You · Everything || Not Too Late · Star 1117

Synth || Cyberpunk · Take Me Home (aaaaaA) || Silver Light · This World · Diamond

Rock || Guerilla · Rocky || Wake Up · Dancing Like Butterfly Wings

Various types of hip-hop || Illusion · My Way · Thanxx || Outlaw · Emergency || Django · The Leaders

Double title tracks on the same albums

Pirate King · Treasure || Illusion · Wave ||  Thanxx · Inception || Eternal Sunshine · Deja Vu (literally why am i doing this to myself wtf) || Turbulence · The Real

Units and solos

Unit songs || Matz · IT's You || Everything · Youth

Mingi songs || Untitled · Tunnel

Jongho songs || Wind · Gravity || A Day · A Fairytale of Youth

Seonghwa covers ||  At My Worst · Angel Baby Yeosang covers || Hug Me · To My Puberty

Hongjoong covers + song  || Space Oddity · Starman ||  Black or White · Purple Rain · Billie Jean || Numb · Lemon Tree || So Long Time · Draw & Draw ||  Last Christmas · Cupid · A Walker

Other covers  || それがあなたの幸せとしても (YH) · Etham 12:45 (WY) || Dear Name (CS, JH) · Breathe (CS)

Choreography

Bouncy · Say My Name ||  Thanxx · Work (i think??) || The Real · Crazy Form || Wave · Eternal Sunshine || Aurora · Illusion ||  Inception · Deja Vu || Answer · Wonderland · Fireworks || Halazia · Guerilla ( :(((( ) || Treasure · Pirate King || Be My Lover · Black Cat Nero || Rocky · Limitless ||  Not Okay · Paradigm || IT's You · Youth ||  HalaHala · Cyberpunk (im kms by the way) ||  Silver Light · Utopia || Django · Arriba · Outlaw ||  Good Lil Boy · Dancing Like Butterfly Wings || Horizon · Sector 1 · Desire

MVs

Pirate King · Treasure ||  Illusion · Eternal Sunshine (crying. tbh) ||  Deja Vu · Inception ||  Answer · Say My Name (once again i am kms) || Bouncy · Work ||  IT's You · Youth ||  The Real · Crazy Form · Thanxx || Guerilla · Halazia (im dying squirtle.) || Wonderland · Fireworks || Wave · Turbulence ||  Hala Hala · Don't Stop ||  Aurora · Promise || Rocky · Limitless || Paradigm · Not Okay ||  Dreamers · Utopia || Black Cat Nero · Be My Lover

Eras

disclaimer: a lot of this is based on their haircolours and official photoshoots, as i wasn't in the fandom for most of these

Put the members' names by your favourite eras for them :) Pirate King [] · Say My Name [HJ] · Wave [YH] · Wonderland [WY3, YH2] · Answer [WY2, CS2] · Inception [JH] · Fireworks [CS] · Deja Vu [] · The Real [SH3] · Turbulence [] · Guerilla [SH, HJ2, YS3] · Halazia [YS, MG, WY] · Bouncy [YS2] · Crazy Form [] · Work [SH2]

Who owned each era? (answers in order with the "winner" first) Pirate King [WY, HJ] · Say My Name [HJ, MG, CS] · Wave [YH] · Wonderland [YH, SH, MG] · Answer [CS, WY, SH] · Inception [uh probably SH??] · Fireworks [CS, WY, SH] · Deja Vu [SH, WY] · The Real [MG and YS i think?] · Turbulence [SH] · Guerilla [SH and HJ joined custody, CS] · Halazia [YS, SH] · Bouncy [HJ] · Crazy Form [idk genuinely they all ate] · Work [HJ, SH]

The Lads™

Bias || Seonghwa · Hongjoong · Yunho · Yeosang · San · Mingi · Wooyoung · Jongho

Dancer || Seonghwa · Hongjoong · Yunho · Yeosang · San · Mingi · Wooyoung · Jongho (incredible. there are tears streaming down my face. it's wild to see this put on paper bc i adore hj and jh's dancing and i love to see it)

Vocalist || Seonghwa · Yunho · Yeosang · San · Wooyoung · Jongho · (Hongjoong · Mingi) (ejecting myself into the stratosphere. goodbye)

Stage presence/performance || Seonghwa · Hongjoong · Yunho · Yeosang · San · Mingi · Wooyoung · Jongho

Rapper || Mingi · Hongjoong · (Seonghwa · Yeosang · Yunho) (this was SO hard to pick but Hongjoong is just such a funky little guy so i ended up putting him in the #1 spot)

Main ships/duos || Matz · Woosan || Yungi · Jongsang

Other popular dynamics || Woojoong · Woohwa ||  Seongsang · Sanhwa (i am Crying) || Sansang · Woosang · Woosansang

Styling

hair unless otherwise specified

Hongjoong Mullet · Oreo || Blue · Orange || White · Red · Soft pink || Fireworks · Grey w/ bangs and eyebrow fun · Rainbow || Cheetah · White bowl cut

Seonghwa Pink · Blond || Sidecut w/ shaved design · Long (wailing loudly into the sky) || Red · Grey || Kingderland coat · Deja Vu zipper outfit ||  Vampire corset · Elle dress

Wooyoung Oreo · Red (crying & throwing up) || Blue tinted · Blond || Pale purple · Dark blond || Hair band · Fur jacket

Jongho Red/Black · Dirty blond · Purple

Mingi Orange · Red || Hot pink · White || Grey · Oreo

San Black with turquoise · Black with red || Oreo · Pink (T_T) || Red · Blue

Yeosang Mullet · Green highlighter || Pale pink · Hot pink || Blond · Oreo

Yunho Turquoise · Soft pink (i am. in pain) || Blond ombre · Red/Black || White · Silver

Kingdom performances

Symphony No. 9 · Answer: Ode To Joy || Wave: Overture · Rhythm Ta · The Real || Colours · Wolf · Love Poem (i have no thoughts<3)

Conclusion: i am in pain. this was so difficult and i chose to do it to myself wtf<3 i am cancelt.

tagging: @hongjoongsgoat @sillyspero @igbylicious @leethinktherefore @sxcret-garden @ubernoona @hwakakeri @baldyeosang @desirehorizon @irlkpop @coffee-addict-kitten @wooyoungbites @sourkimchi @thetypingpup @halavibe @beenbaanbuun @haahka @shinestarhwaa as always no pressure ofc :)) im just promoting my game directly into your mentions lmfao

The blank template is here!!

[wanderingblindly]

first of all :) how…..do you have so many wips…..

secondly i need to be told more about october birds please <3

HEY you KNOW how i have so many wips and that's because my brain is hell and i can never finish anything (or admit when it's dead),,,,, AND FOURTEEN IS PERFECTLY REASONABLE THANKS

anyways, october birds.

I think I've talked about it on here before (titled Lando 'oops, wrong perth' Norris), but the general concept is: what happens when you finally achieve what you've worked your entire life for, and you don't feel.... right about it. When you just want to run away because you've realized that nothing means what you've dreamed of, and nothing feels like it's meant to.

That's Lando after winning his first WDC.

It's inspired by a song of the same name, October Birds by Flower Face, which is just so beautiful.

long, unedited snip below (idk if this will make it in the fic, i'm at a bit of a stall with it, shocking to no one)

The grass under him is soft, dampened by the lazily drifting river. There probably isn't a soul between him and the horizon, this far out. He spares a glance to his watch, tracking his heart rate's quick descent towards resting, before laying back against the slope with arms spread wide – trying to embrace the blue sky above. He feels infinitely small beneath it, not dissimilar to standing before a massive screen flashing his name and prerecorded celebratory poses. What's he even meant to be doing? Max pushed him to go see Daniel, but what would that have done? What would he have done there, surrounded by the vaguely familiar red dirt of Daniel's sprawling land and dried out brush? His fingers toy with the blades of grass beneath him, catching them as they sway in the gentle breeze; it moves his curls, ticklish against his brows. Daniel probably would have taken advantage of their time away from the public eye, pushing him down by the nape with so much force that it bruised. He would have fucked him from behind so hard that Lando couldn't remember his own name, let alone the feeling of Jon's shaking hands pulling him close over the barricade in Qatar. And it would hurt, fast-paced stings like being tossed between ice and fire – the sensation of Daniel's burning skin slapping against his increasingly fuzzy edges – but it would feel better than nothing. The sun kisses his skin, delicate whispers on the high points of his cheeks, the sharp curve of his cupid's bow. In a way, it hurts more than Daniel's open palm always did, striking across his face and whipping his head to the side – popping his jaw and wetting his eyes while Daniel's cock twitches inside him. It's gentle, it hurts in its care. His lashes shift against his cheeks at the thought. The sun on his skin feels like Oscar's smile in the golden light of his kitchen. Maybe he's meant to do this, to let himself feel small in new ways. Or maybe he's meant to feel like… Lando. Whoever that is, a seemingly infinite distance away from what molded him and beyond every goal he'd ever worked towards. It's just shy of 11, he knows. With a groan and a lazy stretch, he gets back on his feet, looking down river towards town.

((original post))

[orqheuss]

Free and young and we can feel none of it

(Platonic!Ominis Gaunt and the Sallow's HURT/COMFORT)

Solomon Sallow POV

Summary:

Stability he could do. Stability was something Solomon was comfortable with. He could be the support beam to Ominis’ crumbling walls. And when they woke, his niece and nephew could help pick up the pieces and put them back in their correct places. They could do this. Together. *** The game dialogue hints at the fact that Ominis left his family home before the events of the main story. This is how I feel it would go. Title from the song "Sedated" by Hozier.

Word count: 3.7k

Tags: referenced child abuse, neglectful family, bruising/violence

AN: Little different from what I usually do. Hope you like it! This one's for my Solomon lovers.

The small town of Feldcroft was not one that people traveled to often, if they knew about it at all. It was not a popular destination for tourists to the area, and very few took notice of the communities there. Some would even say that the people of the town fit into the same cookie-cutter shape of everything else. That is, of course, if they didn’t pay attention to the finer details. Feldcroft, quaint, lively, but quiet all the same, stood against the rolling hills of the Scottish countryside. Each unique cottage breathed life into the fields— within, their walls were resolutely upright, bricks meeting neatly with the roughly tumbled cement below, and doors were sensibly shut against the calling winter chill beyond their sanded wood finish. Yes, it was a simple town, and the people there liked it that way, thank you very much. 

It was not a particularly special night in the tiny village when it was startled awake by a rapid knocking on the Sallow cottage door. The moon was high in the sky by this time, only the soft sound of handmade bone-chimes and settling snow singing in harmony could be heard outside of the incessant pounding— it would be a long time before the sun even considered breaching over the horizon. Solomon Sallow was the first to rise, a light sleeper by trade and with a plethora of enemies to match that could be at his door this very moment. With his wand tucked securely in the sleeve of his night clothes, he quietly made his way towards the home entrance, pondering what he would find on the other side of the wooden barrier. His work as an Auror made him fear the worst in almost all occasions, and this situation was unfortunately not a new one in his years and travels. The common folk of the wizarding world would be surprised by how many dark witches and wizards would knock first before storming into a building, hoping to catch the homeowner off guard and lower their walls for a friend. Whom else would be knocking with such vigor than someone with ill intent? Not a friend of the family— not at this time of night. 

As silent as he could possibly move he crept closer to the door, his steps timid as he tried to avoid the squeaky boards under foot that he never got around to fixing, lest he wake his niece and nephew sleeping in the adjoining room. They were still so young, just barely into their third year of Hogwarts. If something terrible was beyond the foundation of their house, he needed them safe, not on the front lines with him, no matter how much they would fight to be beside him. Solomon had only recently taken them in after the deaths of their mother and father— his brother and sister-in-law— and even now he could see remnants of their knowledge and fiery personalities in the young children. The youngest of the two, only born mere minutes after his sister, was the worst of the bunch. Sebastian was headstrong, resilient, and downright pugnacious at times. Smart as a whip, and can crack just as hard. Solomon saw a lot of his brother in the boy, not just in his unruly brown hair or how his hazel eyes glimmered with delight whenever he read about some knowledge he was not originally privy to, and if he was to be honest it scared him at times. That fire, that bullheadedness was what did his brother in in the end— he didn’t want to see the youngest fall prey to the same fate.  

As for the daughter, the eldest of the two siblings, Anne was not that different from the boy. She was less confrontational than him, but had just as much spark. Where Sebastian thrived in knowledge, she thrived in action. There was never a day where Solomon didn’t see her running up and down the Hamlet, practicing every and all spells she had learned so far at the school just north of their house, performing little tasks for her neighbors like delivering things or wrangling escaped farm animals, or just rolling around in the dirt after a heavy rain because she simply could. If Sebastian was his father, Anne was most definitely her mother— he was the scholar, and she was the experimenter. 

Sebastian wanted to understand why something ticked; Anne wanted to see what would happen if she set it on fire. 

Even still, with her proclivity for offensive spells and her desire to run rampant, free of all binds holding her down once her schooling is over, Anne was the more reasonable, the more docile of the pair. The boy could fly off the handle at a moment's notice, while the girl would be there to hear all sides and weigh everything out like the god Osiris, the feather of truth on one side of the scale and your heart on the other. 

Solomon believed she would make a great Auror one day, if she wanted it. 

The eldest Sallow stood before the door, his shadow no doubt peaking through the stained glass windows atop the low archway and hopefully intimidating whomever was on the other side. Still the knocking persisted, growing more frantic as the seconds ticked on. He sighed silently to himself, squaring his shoulders like his father always taught him to do before a fight and shrugging on his house coat, bracing himself for the cold winter air just beyond the range of the homely hearth burning away just beside their tiny kitchen. It was now or never, he mused to himself, as he cast one last glance over his shoulder, checking that there were no newly minted teenagers behind him before reaching his hand towards the door handle, his wand firmly grasped in his other. 

Just as his fingers just grazed the cool metal, the pounds stopped, bathing the room in silence once more. Solomon stood befuddled, his shoulders once again slumping as gravity took hold of his sleepy limbs. Could they have given up trying to get his attention? He didn’t think it took him that long to get to the door— it was a tiny cottage afterall. Still inquisitive, he forgoed just shrugging it off as a harmless winter prank and instead leaned closer to the door, pressing his ear against the wood and straining his hearing to identify anything on his land. The wind howled outside, rustling whatever remaining leaves clung to the trees lining the town and shaking the freshly fallen snow from their branches. It was sure to storm again soon, the air still smelled heavy with the scent of cold and incoming onding. He could hear some remaining jobberknolls flying south before the breaking of dawn, preparing their long flight as the yule tidings began across Scotland. Everything natural, he reasoned. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, as he was about to lean away from the door, content with crawling back into his warm bed and sleeping the night away, something else caught his attention. Just beyond the natural was a small slosh at his steps, like someone was toeing at the ground with the tip of their boot and digging into the icy path leading to the door. They were light in weight, that much was for sure, barely enough for their shoes to make a crunching sound as they paced. 

Steeling himself again, Solomon creaked open the door and peered out through the crack, casting his eyes to and fro in search for their late night visitor. Upon not seeing anyone at first, he opened the door more, pulling it until it was inches from the inner wall and wide open to the world. His eyes were hard as he glared into the night, his wand hand raised and prepared for anything while his other pulled his house coat tighter across his body. 

His voice was strong and resolute as he called out, careful to keep his volume low so as to not wake anyone. “Who goes there? Show yourself!” 

There was a moment of stillness before a tiny voice piped up from his feet, barely auditory over the banshee-ish wind. “Mister Sallow?” 

Solomon shot his gaze downwards, his eyes hardened and prepared to fight as he took in the form sitting on his steps. Curled around themselves was a young boy, his blond hair as pale as the stars above and skin littered with constellations of birthmarks. He had to be the same age as the twins, maybe even a bit younger if the eldest Sallow took into account how skinny he was. Once his sleep-muddled brain caught up with his eyes, Solomon realized he recognized the boy as the young Ominis Gaunt, a close friend of the children. He was shivering harshly, the cold seemingly seeping into his bird-like bones and chilling him to the core. 

The boy’s home life was no secret, even if the Sallow man wasn’t a retired Auror he would still recognize the last name. The Gaunt’s were known for their dark magic and pureblood status, their descendents going all the way back to the Hogwarts founder, Salazar Slytherin. Solomon had seen the family's cruelty first hand before, and because of this tried to forbid his brother’s children from talking to their new friend. That was, of course, until he met the boy. Ominis was small for his age, and definitely wise beyond his years. Not one ounce of dark magic could be found in his veins, and he detested the very idea of following in his family's footsteps. Not only that, he was exceedingly kind, something rarely seen from such high society families, especially to those that lived in the “slums,” so to speak, like Solomon and the children did. The boy helped around the house where he could, pointing out things with his location charm that even a sighted person could not find. He talked to Solomon about his work, and was often found playing games with the twins in their garden during summer break. If the boy was here, on his doorstep, that means something terrible had happened in the Gaunt manor. The ex-Auror startled quickly upon the realization, hastily ushering the trembling boy into the house before he froze to death. 

Now safely under his roof, the Sallow man took in the lithe child, his eyes moving across his figure as he analyzed the state he was in. Wrapped around his neck and lower face was a thin scarf, likely grabbed quickly as it was distinctly not weather appropriate. No winter cloak sat over his shoulders, just a thin housecoat hung loosely around him— more for propriety than functionality. Underneath was a sage green sleep shirt, some of the buttons in their proper place and others, particularly the ones near his collar, hanging on my the tiniest bit of string— like someone took him by the throat and shook him until they popped loose. Covering his legs was a matching pair of sleep pants, the knees dirtied from the muddy sludge outside— his left knee visible through a small tear in the fabric. Solomon could see some crimson blood decorating the edges of the slice. The boy’s slippered feet shuffled anxiously against the hardwood floor, the skin of his bare heels tinged slightly blue from the near freezing temperatures outside. 

It was clear that the young Gaunt boy had not planned on fleeing that night. 

Ominis had his wand clutched in his hand like a lifeline, his head downcast but still shooting from left to right, his ears straining to hear anything that could be deemed a threat. Every creak of the floor sent a jolt up his spine like he was being continuously struck by lightning. He was wound as tight as a spring, constantly on edge and ready to flee at the drop of a pin. 

What was most concerning, though, was that the smallest bit of bruising was peeking out from underneath his scarf. Just along the collar of his shirt, once likely covered by the cloth but shifted after his dash to the door, was a distinct ring of purple spots, so deep and dreadful that if Solomon looked close enough he could probably see the swirls of each individual fingerprint. The ex-Auror was sure that if he pried the fabric off of the child he would find a similar bruise in the shape of a palm wrapped around his tiny throat. No doubt his father was the culprit— Erebus Gaunt was not one to be trifled with, even if you were his kin. 

While one could argue it was part of the job, Solomon was not very keen on consoling fearful children. Sure he had encountered a few during his days as an Auror, but he was not proud to say that he primarily just shooed them away towards the nearest person that seemed equipped for the task. It’s not that he didn’t like children, he tolerated his niece and nephew after all, but he just didn’t know how to act around them, especially when they were processing some big emotions. 

Hesitantly, he kneeled in front of the trembling blond boy, trying in vain to get a good look at his face— if there was bruising around his neck, there was sure to be some wounds that he needed to tend to above his jaw. Solomon awkwardly raised his hands from his sides, moving them slightly towards the boy’s shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting touch, only for Ominis to take a shaking step backwards, a whimper unconsciously weeping through his clenched teeth. The man’s hands stilled in the air in shock, his heart cracking at the fear that seeped from the boy like a murky fog. 

Trying a different approach, the eldest Sallow held his hands upwards in a placating manner, still within touching distance but far enough away to show he meant no harm. His voice broke through the encompassing silence of the cottage, the tone low, hushed, and, he hoped, calming. 

“Ominis, you’re safe now. Nothing is going to hurt you here.” He sighed at the apparent trepidation that took over the young blond’s face, more anxiety than annoyance in the puff of air. Solomon tried again, schooling the shake from his voice, “I would like to take a look at your face and neck, is that alright?” 

The boy sighed to himself, a deep and foreboding thing that seemed to shake him to his very core— like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and it was only now safe for him to put it down and rest— and nodded, stepping closer to the elder man and more into the light of the dimly burning braziers. Solomon was gentle with his hands, more gentle than he had ever been in his life, when he touched the young Slytherin’s chin, tilting it upwards and revealing the damage done to his face by the people he had once considered his family. 

Solomon felt his soul crack when Ominis’ visage came into the light. Under the tufts of blond that fluttered across his temple were his ghostly blue eyes, both rimmed with red from his tears and the skin colored a dismal purple— whether from lack of good sleep or a slap to the face, he wasn’t sure. They sunk deep into his skin like they were permanently a part of his features. Across his left cheek, still plump with a bit of baby fat from his young— much too young— age was a long jagged scar, blood pooling at the surface and streaking down his face, just shy of dripping onto his once starched collar. The man thought of the onyx ring that adorned the ring finger of the Gaunt patriarch and had to swallow down his bubbling rage. Cradling the young boy’s face like one would cradle a fragile family heirloom, he carefully pushed Ominis’ bangs to the side, only to still when the boy winced. At the upper corner of his head, right where his hairline began, was a thin line of bruising. Solomon sucked in a breath as he peered closer, mapping out the injury to himself to see how well he can possibly heal it. There was a distinct diamond shape at one end, the dark plum and incarnadine colors blending together into a deeper, more concerning shade of maroon. Small curls, like scrapings of widdled wood or peeled fruit, could be seen in a pattern across the rest. The man felt anger spin into a burning knot just under his ribs when he realized what that could mean. A table. They slammed their son, their own flesh and blood and bone, into a table hard enough to leave indents. Finally, Solomon’s eyes flicked downwards towards the young Slytherin’s neck. His earlier suspicions were correct. The soft, pliable skin decorating the limb that kept his head afloat was covered in deep, angry fingerprints. Large ones. If he wanted to, he could put his own hand over the bruising and it would likely be a near perfect match— palm to palm, fingerprint to fingerprint. 

Underneath all the physical pain, though, there was something deeper. A glimmer in the young boy’s eyes. A tremble in his fingers. A stutter in his breath. Ominis’ hands shook at his sides, the tiniest of twitches sweeping through his small frame as if ants were crawling underneath his skin— biting at his fragile bone marrow. Through his years as an Auror, Solomon Sallow was well versed in the after effects of particular spells. This one, he was all too familiar with, and his rage knew no bounds at the thought of it being used against such a small soul. Such a gentle soul. Such an undeserving soul.

The cruciatus curse. 

The eldest Sallow’s eyes softened with pity, a deep frown turning down the corners of his lips as a soft sigh puffed out of his chest. There would be time to wreak havoc upon the heads of the people who did this to this young boy in the morning. Now, though, he was needed here. His hands trailed down the sides of Ominis’ face, smoothing his hair behind his ears before taking him by the shoulders and gently pulling the boy into an embrace. 

How heartbreaking it was, how quickly the boy clinged to him. Even after growing in a den of snakes, he sought kindness first.  

Solomon’s left hand raised into the boy’s soft hair, combing his fingers through the knots with his fingers as he leaned his chin against the top of his head. His voice whispered through the silent cabin, the words awash with sympathy and care. 

“Oh, my boy…”

That was all it took for the dam to break. The youngest Gaunt child wrapped his shaking arms around the man holding him even tighter than before, his jaw clenched so tight that the creak of his teeth was near audible, his eyes shut as tight as the shutters lining the windowed walls, and openly sobbed for the first time since arriving. Solomon held Ominis as tight as he dared, feeling the young boy’s fingers dig into the fabric at his back as he clawed onto the first solid thing he could find. He quietly shushed him, the hand still in his hair softly carding through the silken strands and his other soothing up and down his back. Never had he been the one to comfort others, but this felt right. This felt like what he needed to do. 

All he could do was hold the small, trembling boy with every ounce of care he had in his body. No words needed to be said— no curses towards the loathsome family of his hiding behind their tall metal fences and mile-high blood wards— no words of sympathy whispered against heaving necks and snow soaked pajamas. Now, there was just kindness and silence. Everything else would fall together in time. 

Solomon held Ominis until the early hours of the morning, only taking note of the time change from the clouded colors of his little stained glass decorations streaming through the beige living room and catching on the soft blond head wrapped in his arms— like the sun against the melting snow just beyond his door. Through it all, his hand did not falter once in its path up and down the young boy’s back. The ex-Auror’s heart did not once change its ever-present rhythm against the sobbing child’s cheek. He held the Slytherin’s tiny world together for him, because the eldest Sallow knew that in that moment the youngest Gaunt could not hold it himself. 

Stability he could do. Stability was something he was comfortable with. He could be the support beam to Ominis’ crumbling walls. And when they woke, his niece and nephew could help pick up the pieces and put them back in their correct places. They could do this. Together. 

So when the boy finally fell asleep in his arms, exhausted from the journey to his tiny cottage and from crying until he had no more tears to shed for his uprooted life, Solomon did not hesitate to scoop him up and carefully tuck him into the armchair in the corner of the room, the family tartan blanket wrapped around his frail shoulders and the fire roaring in the handmade hearth. He did not question when he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to his alabaster temple, for it was as natural as protecting one's own. Because Ominis was his. Not by blood, not by name, but by choice. 

And as he would with any of his family, he silently, secretly, cared. He watched. He listened. He loved. 

Solomon’s voice did not stutter as he whispered a soft “Goodnight, my son,” against the blond’s temple.

And he pretended that his heart did not warm when he heard a hushed, almost inaudible hum of “Goodnight, father,” be spoken in return.

like what you read? here's more!

[piece-of-the-pie-if]

Hey author, how are you? 💕

I'm curious to know what kind of music the RO's like. Who are their idols? Any artists/genres that are a guilty pleasure for them?

Any kind of music they pretend to like just 'cos it's popular? *discreetly looks at Kinsley*

Hello nonie~ I'm doing good thank you!

this kind of question is hard for me, personally, to think about because of my own relationship with music and music artists (which is why this took so fucking long) which is to say I love music and don't really pay attention much to artists beyond the fact they make the music I love (lmao I really don't care about celebrities, I find it quite concerning that so many people idolise them so much... like your(general) fave is just a guy at the end of the day lmao) (that being said I can understand having an influence and following the *work* of an artist you really connect to) and I find it hard to make hard line distinctions between genres, aha 🤭

That being said, let's have a look at some music! (This is an excuse to show off my extensive and exhaustive music reach and taste, so thank you!)

Dylan──they're open to all types of music but they only really purchase R&B albums! Artists like Stevie Wonder, Chaka Khan, Tina Turner, Prince, Alicia Keys, Frank Ocean, SZA, Kehlani and Miguel are all artists Dyl owns albums (and vinyls!!) for! Dyl introduced Kin to R&B and they usually listen to the artists she likes more when they're together (Beyoncé, Victoria Monét, Lionel Ritchie etc) They like ‘Foreign Language’ R&B too, artists like BIBI, DEAN, Cherrie, Girl Ultra, Adi Oasis, ØZI, Yseult and Lous And The Yakuza.

Shay──the real eclectic listener! He likes next to every genre of music, Rap, Hip Hop, R&B, Pop, K-pop, J-rock, Folk, Funk, Phonk, EDM, Heavy Metal, Grunge, House, Synth, Soul... even Country... Country Fusion! Shay likes artists that kind of... don't have a genre? Like Sleep Token, Twenty One Pilots, Pink Floyd, Oingo Boingo, Lene Lovich, David Bowie, Gorillaz, Poppy, Bring Me The Horizon, Afterlife, Seventeen, Red Velvet and Hannah Wicklund. He definitely love finding new music as well as sharing new music! (Watch the YouTube/Twitch channel that's got a segment dedicated to reacting to new music!! Like HTHAZE!)

Kinsley──lmao she doesn't mind Popular music but, like, the last Taylor Swift album she actively sought out was 1989 (she's partial to This Love) and Kin would rather die than be subjected to Trap music. She's very into genres like Alternative Indie, Indie Rock, Neo Soul, and R&B artists like Hozier, Florence + The Machine, Lorde, Phoebe Bridgers, Lizzy McAlpine, Searows, Reneé Rapp, Ethel Cain and Noah Kahan. Her R&B influence is mainly from being Dylan's friend but she does love artists like Beyoncé (she really loved her self titled album and especially Virgo's Groove off of Renaissance), Victoria Monét (particularly the Jaguar II album) and Khalid as well as older artists like Mary J. Blige, Marvin Gaye or Lionel Ritchie!

J──they tend to listen to music for the beat, the bass, the instrumentals more than lyrics. They like heavier genres like Rock, Hard Rock, Heavy Metal, Alternative Rock, Punk Rock, Nu Metal, Grunge and other genres like EDM, Synth, Techno and Trance. They also listen to Italian artists quite a lot, mainly because J wants to keep up with the language (because their father refuses to speak it or teach them) so artists like Måneskin, Jovanotti, Lacuna Coil, Max Gazzé, Vanerus, and even Vivaldi. J also listens to anything their sister recommends them, even if it's the most bubblegum pink pop shit they've ever heard─if Bells likes it they're listening. Shay will also introduce them to the wonders of J-rock and K-pop which bend genre all the time!

Theo──a Pop lover! Or rather, Theo tends to stick to listening to the radio or the Popular Playlist on Spotify! They tend to like more instrumental artists like or soundtrack artists like Hans Zimmer, Hiroyuki Sawano, Danny Elfman, Vangelis, Rachel Portman (who was the first female composer to win an academy award for best original score!) and Michael Giacchino over anything else and they 'broaden their horizons' by being dragged to Jazz bars and open house cafés by C (and MC) so it's not like they're stuck in one/two genre's!!

Bonus! Some Modern/Nu Jazz artists C likes: Ezra Collective, Nubya Garcia, Masego, Cherise, Camille Munn, Blue Lab Beats, Kasami Washington, Esperanza Spalding, Snarky Puppy, GoGo Penguin, Mathilde Widding and Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah!

[quaranmine]

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Two)

Grian learns about fires, and the harsh reality of the wilderness.

Chapter Two: 4,695 words

<< Chapter One | Masterpost | Chapter Three >>

hello! I never mentioned it in the last post's notes, but the title is taken from one of the lines from the song Post Humerous by Gus Dapperton ("i confess the incandescence of a dying light") that I always liked the sound of. No content warnings for this chapter except....well, this is a story about loss, so be prepared for that.

June 29, 1988

Grian wakes up in his campsite at dawn, and the air is heavy and smoky. The smell burns his nostrils, and he turns over to cough. It seems worse today than other days, and he knows it’s going to be a tough hike.

He goes through his routine quickly, packing up his things. He’ll snack on a granola bar while he searches, in lieu of any actual food this morning. 

The vibes in camp are a little weird this morning. The ranger he’s with keeps glancing at him from the side, assuming he can’t see it. Finally, Grian breaks and snaps, “What is it?”

“Uh, I’m sorry,” the ranger starts, and that’s never a good sign, “I was going to let you pack up first before I told you this, but I have to take you back this morning.”

Grian drops the sleeping bag he’s in the middle of rolling up, and it unfurls back out onto the ground. “Huh?” he says. “What do you mean?”

The woman smiles gently. “They’re closing this trail now, so we’re not allowed to have any civilians on here, whether they’re hiking or part of a search party. My boss radioed in this morning before you woke up and told me to escort you back.”

“No,” Grian says. “I’m staying.”

“I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Why?” Grian cries, suddenly feeling a bit like his chest might fold in on itself. “My friend is still out there! I’m not leaving without him. You don’t need to coddle me or anything, I can keep up with the rest of you just fine.”

“It isn’t that,” the ranger says. “I’m sorry, I really am. But–” she gestures vaguely around. “I know you’ve seen it the past few days, but there’s wildfires in the area right now. They started in Yellowstone. It’s a really bad year and it’s so early in the season still that it’s going to get worse.”

Grian looks through the trees at the edge of the trail, catching the faintest glimpse of the horizon beyond. It’s hazier than before. He can’t even see the most distant mountains. 

The ranger continues her spiel. “Unfortunately, one of the fires seems to be heading this direction now, so we’re closing down all trails in this section.” She sighs, not in any sort of dismissive or impatient way, but in commiseration. “It’s not just you, you know. A lot of rangers are leaving as well, so we can leave the area to the wildland crews. This whole section of the park is now closed.”

And that’s just–

This can’t be.

Because Mumbo’s out here. And if it isn’t safe for Grian to even be out here to look for him, how could he possibly be okay? And he might not be okay even now, because if he hasn’t been found or turned up at a trail yet, then he’s probably needing help, and Grian is here to help, and now Grian can’t even do that.

“No,” he says softly. “Because–I told you this, my friend is still here. And he needs me.”

“We’ll find him,” she says, and–he’s heard that assurance many times by now. It doesn’t mean much anymore. 

“How can you?!” he shouts. “You’re leaving too!”

She stands her ground. “Everybody working these trails knows his description. If he’s here, he’ll be found, or he’ll try to leave. The firefighters are very thorough when documenting the area.”

“And if he can’t run?” Grian persists. “If he needs our help to be rescued from wherever he is? If he needs to evacuate from the fire, what happens then? If he can’t run? Does he just burn?”

The ranger just looks at him sadly. “Do you want to know the answer to that?” she says. “Because I don’t think it’ll help you.”

Her candidness stops Grian in his tracks. He doesn’t even know what to say, so he just finishes packing up the camp, tension in his every move.

It’s three weeks today since the last time he saw Mumbo, on the day he’d left for his trip. Four weeks since Grian had talked him into going alone. Thirteen days since he reported him missing.

The hike back out to civilization is lonely and quiet, despite the ranger at his heels. The smoke in the air burns Grian’s throat every breath he takes, and his eyes are drawn to every dark patch of forest just off trail. He’ll never know how close Mumbo could actually be.

No, he doesn’t want the answer to that question. 

»»———-　　———-««

May 1989

He likes to wander on his days off. 

He shouldn’t wander. He should be searching methodically, drawing grids on maps and thoroughly walking them. Every minute counts in a situation like this. 

It’s sort of hard to feel like every minute counts when it’s been hundreds of thousands of minutes.

Today Grian’s feet have taken him to a spot that’s somehow familiar. He’s never been in this area, but he recognizes it immediately just the same. There’s been a fire here. 

The forest thins out at the edges, with lush green underbrush filling in the gaps. The larger trees are still standing at the edge, but their trunks are charred and black around the base. Grian steps into the clearing, beyond the edge of the forest. 

It’s green, almost startlingly so, with new grasses and small shrubs and dotted with light purple wildflowers. Amidst it all, the tall and broken and burned trunks of trees stretch up from the ground. This probably used to be a stand of lodgepole pines. It’s almost grim, the way the sooty black trunks still stretch up into a sky they’ll never grow toward again, the tops jagged and snapped. Other dead trees that lost their fight with gravity lay across the ground, scattered and stacked over each other like burnt out matchsticks. 

And still, the burned trunks only make the vivid greens pop more. New life sprouting from the old.

Grian reaches into the side pocket of his bag and pulls his radio out, flicking it back on. If anyone ever asked, he kept it turned off to save batteries, but really he just wanted a little peace. 

“Hey Scar,” he says. “You there?”

The response, while not instantaneous, is rather quick. “G-man!” he says. “What a lovely evening it is right now, huh? What have you been up to?”

“I was exploring,” Grian says. “Came upon a burned spot.”

“Oh, that,” Scar says. “That’s probably from last year. Man, that was a bad year, I’m telling you. One of the worst ones in the books. Most of the fires were in Yellowstone, but some like this one burned into the national forest as well. The one you’re looking at is probably of the edges of the Mink Fire.”

Mink Fire, or Mink Creek Fire. He knew the name. He might not have been here in this specific clearing before, but maybe he’d been on that hill over there, or the other hill, before he was forced to leave. They’d closed all the trails in this area last year for it and sent him home–without Mumbo.

“It doesn’t look very large,” he comments critically. “This area isn’t very big, I can still see trees at the other end of the clearing.”

“That’s sort of one of people’s misconceptions, actually,” Scar says on the other end of the line. “The fires often burn in a mosaic, or in patches, instead of taking the whole mountain with it. They’ll burn really strongly in one spot but not another. You’re at one of those edges, I remember it came not too far from the Two Forks tower.”

“I guess I’m happy I wasn’t working here last year,” Grian says. “It’s very green here, though.”

“Really? Neat!” Scar replies. “They’re good for the forest, you know. Things grow back fast. Back in the day lookouts used to spot fires and it was policy to try and have them contained by 10 a.m. the next day–that was before me. These days we might spot a fire and just keep an eye on it and let it burn naturally. Last year was just…a lot at once. Really shook people up, especially the public.”

“It’s sort of pretty,” Grian says suddenly. “All this grass and these wildflowers. It’s like–like the forest is moving on. Making a new life for itself.”

“Honestly, that’s one of the cool things about this job,” Scar says. “You know, there was a big fire my first year working here, and I called it in and watched it ‘til the end of the summer. Over the next few years I got to see how everything grew back. It’d be just a little at a time, but right now it looks–hey! Don’t put your paw in that, it’s still wet! Jell–!”

The radio cuts suddenly, preceding the sound of crash on the other end of the line, as Scar presumably drops the radio in favor of handling whatever incident has happened in his tower. 

“Are you alright in there?” Grian says, bemused. “What happened?”

After several long moments, Scar responds again over the radio. “Oh, that, that’s nothing to worry about.”

“It sounded like you knocked something off the table.”

“I’m clumsy–Jellie! Off the table!”

“Uh-huh,” Grian says. “And what, or perhaps who, is this Jellie?”

“Nothing!” Scar scrambles to say. Unfortunately for him, this is punctuated by a very clear and distinct meow.

Grian puts a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. “Scar,” he says, word half-muffled, “do you have a cat in your lookout tower?”

“And what if I did?”

“I’d say you were insane.”

“Jellie is more than a cat,” Scar says defensively. “She’s my best friend, and yes she lives here in my lookout tower.”

“Are…are you even allowed to do that?” Grian asks. “Like, how do you feed her and stuff?”

“If Rob, the cranky old lookout on the southern end of the Forest and every other camper who walks in here is allowed a dog, then I don’t see why I can’t have a cat,” Scar huffs. “I bring stuff for her and get food for her in my supply drop–paid for by me of course, not the Service.”

Grian is baffled. “How do you get her here? Does she hike? Do you carry her? Does she have a little leash? Wait, do they make those cat sized? I’ve never seen a cat on a leash.”

“An artist never reveals his secrets,” is all Scar is willing to stay. 

“Oh, but I want to know all of them,” Grian says. “Will you please please tell me?”

Scar is silent on the other end of the line for a moment. “She sometimes rides in the top of my pack when I hike.”

“That is literally the cutest thing I have ever heard,” Grian says. 

“Yeah, well, she knows that,” Scar says. 

Grian looks around the clearing, making note about how the burned area does indeed skip a section and then are burned again on the top of the hill. There’s a lot of open space here, but for some reason it makes him feel uneasy, like maybe he shouldn’t keep his back turned to the more closed-off forest behind him. He’s been out here several days already, but for some reason this is the first time he’s really contemplated being alone-alone out here. 

“Hey,” Grian says. “What if I were to run into one of Jellie’s big cousins out here? A meaner kitty? Could I get eaten doing this job?”

Scar laughs on the other end. “There’s a couple of Jellie’s big cousins wandering about. We do have mountain lions out here. But they’re pretty shy. I’ve only seen one since working here. You might see a bobcat, though it’s more scared of you than you are of it.”

“Okay, uh, good to know,” Grian says. “Anything else out here that could eat me? You know, they didn’t really cover that in my orientation.”

“Didn’t you know?” Scar asks. “That’s part of land management in the Forest Service: providing wildlife a steady stream of innocent fire lookouts to feed on every year. You’d never apply for the job if you knew the truth. I’ve only survived this long ‘cause I’m so smart and handsome.”

Grian rolls his eyes. “So I’m not going to get eaten by a pack of wolves by stepping outside my tower?”

“Of course not, silly,” Scar laughs. “We don’t have wolves here! We do have grizzlies, though.”

“That’s not better!” Grian hisses. 

He’d seen a black bear once, a mother and a baby, in the car with Mumbo while driving on a winding road in the mountains to the west of Denver. It had just crossed the road slowly with its cub, causing a minor traffic jam to form. Grian was impressed with her beauty and strength, but had felt pretty strongly at the time that he was happy to be in the safety of a vehicle.

He also knows that black bears are, in fact, quite a bit smaller than grizzly bears. 

Now, he’s standing alone in the wilderness with just a radio and a mostly empty pack containing just a notepad, water bottle, and a half-eaten granola bar, and he’s beginning to wonder if he should leave the granola bar as tribute for the bears. 

“We don’t have any of these things in England, you know,” he says into the radio. 

“Maybe they don’t get a lot of Englishman to eat either,” Scar says. “That just makes you a delicacy. But if you’re really worried, there might be bear spray in your tower somewhere.”

“Shut up!” At the same moment, something moves at the edge of Grian’s peripheral vision and he freezes, feeling his heart skip a beat. “Scar! Something at the edge of the forest just moved, something is here!”

“It was nice knowing you,” Scar says mildly. 

“That’s not funny,” Grian whines, eyes glued to the dark edges of the trees on the other side of the clearing. “I could die, you know. Wouldn’t that reflect badly on you if the brand new lookout you’re supervising dies a week in?”

“Nah,” Scar says. “I’ve heard that jumping up and down and making a bunch of silly noises is the best way to scare an animal off, though. You should keep your radio button pressed while doing it so I can help you improve your technique.”

“Shut up,” Grian repeats, and then gasps. “I see movement again.”

The creature, or creatures since there are three of them, finally step fully out of the forest and into the open area. Grian takes a step back instinctively before his eyes catch up to his brain and…

Yeah, he’s not going to live this one down. It’s just deer. One hears the crunch of a leaf when he steps back and it freezes in place, staring at him. Grian stares back, and doesn’t dare move. It flicks one of its large ears and begins grazing again. 

The radio crackles to life again, but the deer all seem to have disregarded him as a threat for now, and do not seem bothered. “Earth to G-man,” Scar says. “Have you been eaten?”

“No, I’m…I’m fine,” Grian says. “It’s just…ugh, it’s just a deer, don’t laugh.”

Scar does, in fact, laugh, and makes a purposeful point to do so while pressing his radio’s call button, so that Grian gets to hear all of it. 

“It’s not just a deer,” Scar says, and he’s clearly got a joke ready but he’s nearly giggling too hard to say it, “it’s a mankiller deer!”

“I hate you,” Grian says. “I’m never speaking to you again.”

“Fine, fine,” Scar says. “But you’re missing a great opportunity to relay your last words to me before you go. You could pick a really good phrase to go out on, you know.”

Grian doesn’t even respond to that one. Instead, he observes, “They really seem to like this grass.”

“Deer love it!” Scar says. “The fire always burns up the old stuff so that new stuff can grow. Right afterward there’s always a lot of grasses and flowers first, before anything else grows. The deer like the fresh grass. It’s one of the reasons the fires are beneficial for the ecosystem, actually.”

“Oh,” Grian says. “Not a total disaster then.”

“Not at all,” Scar says. “It’s how it’s supposed to work! Seems like a disaster to us but it’s necessary for life to go on. Did you know some plants actually need fire in order to spread their seeds? It’s fascinating!”

“I didn’t,” Grian says. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

“It’s part of the job,” Scar says. “I’ve worked here for 8 years now. Sometimes the ranger office lets me borrow some of their reports and research papers at the beginning of the season to read. They have a lot of stuff on succession and fire ecology. It’s…well it’s a bit tough to get through, sometimes, but I have plenty of time up here.”

Grian puts his hand on the trunk of a burnt tree next to him, broken off just above his head. The movement startles the deer on the other side of the meadow, who retreat several steps closer to the edge of the burned area. Grian’s hand comes away black and sooty.

“I wonder how old some of these trees are, before they died,” he muses. 

“Lodgepole pines can get pretty old,” Scar says. “But that’s just how nature cycles, I guess.”

“Change always comes,” Grian says. 

“And ecosystems must adapt,” Scar says. 

And people have to learn to adapt, too.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian’s hands are frozen on the metal lid of the cache box he’s opened. He was out exploring again, and Scar had told him to look in the cache boxes for extra map information. Or for fun. Scar had told him with great amusement about the time he found someone’s car keys, one shoe, and a six pack of beer in one of them and all the stories he’d managed to extrapolate out of those three items. 

So Grian had taken to opening them whenever he found them. Most of the time they were filled with ancient granola bars, torn paperbacks, and dusty pinecones. Maybe a case of extra water or two with someone’s name sharpied on it. But this one…

He’s frozen. His heart beats loud in his ears. 

There’s a missing persons flyer taped to the underside of the lid. 

It isn’t Mumbo, either. Why is this guy here and not Mumbo? Where are all of Mumbo’s flyers, taped on the inside of every cache box in the forest, screamed from the mountaintops? And why is this guy’s flyer…still here? 

Grian scans over the information quickly. The man’s name is Mitch Michaels, he’s 31 years old, and he’s fairly tall. He has brown hair and a beard. He’s smiling in his photo. 

He was last seen in 1981. Eight years ago. 

Grian slowly uncurls his fingers from around the cache box’s lid, letting it rest open naturally. He pulls his radio from his pocket. 

“Hey Scar,” he says, voice detached from body, “do people ever go missing out here?”

They do. June 16th, 1988 was the second worst day of his life. The worst day of his life was June 17th, 1988, when the whole thing hadn’t been resolved by then. 

Scar is a minute or two late answering his radio, and in that time Grian just pores over the missing person flyer. He’s got one for Mumbo folded up neatly in his bag, and in a streak of meanness he almost wants to tape it over the top of this guy’s for visibility. But it’s the only copy he’s got, worn at the creases, so he keeps it close instead. 

The radio crackles to life again, and Scar responds, “Uh, hello to you too G-man. Did you find a missing person?”

“No,” Grain says. Soon, he leaves off. “Just a flyer–Mitch Michaels, 1981.”

“Oh, poor guy,” Scar says. “I remember that, it was my first year working here. He wasn’t even reported missing until some folks with the Forest Service caught on. Such a shame, nobody noticed when he didn’t come home.”

“Yeah,” Grian says, because it’s the only thing he can say through the stranglehold around his neck.

“They asked me if I’d seen him,” Scar continues, “but Jonesy Lake is out of my district. I can see it from the tower just like I can see Two Forks, but the angle isn’t so great since it’s partially obscured by the mountains. I doubt he made it over to Thorofare.”

“How,” Grian says, and then stops to repeat himself again, “How many people do you say go missing?”

“Hmmm,” Scar says. “In a year? Maybe one or two dozen–but those are mostly people who just missed their check in and came back too late. Most of them turn up at the trailhead a couple hours later without even realizing they’ve caused a fuss and the rangers don’t have to do anything at all. Not sure if I’d count them as actual missing people in those cases, but that’s what gets reported to us.”

Grian remembers driving down empty roads at 4 am. He remembers driving for hours, unreachable by phone, not knowing if everything would be fine when he arrived. It’s good that most people turn up a few hours late. Grian’s happy for them. 

It just didn’t happen to him, though. 

Scar keeps going. “A couple people genuinely do go missing here and there, though. Mostly people who are unprepared. Or maybe they were caught out in bad weather, or maybe fell and broke their ankle. Most of those people are found by the rangers or someone else, though.”

“What if someone did everything right?” Grian asks sharply. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off the poster, but the words blur in and out of focus in front of his eyes. “What if someone was prepared? What if they knew what they were doing? What if they did it all right?”

“Uh,” Scar says. “Stuff happens to anybody, G.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Well, it does. Oh man, you should hear about some of the stuff that happened to me. Did you know that once, I don’t know, maybe three years into the job, I was trying to hike some place and there was a rock slide across the trail? And I thought to myself that I didn’t feel like scrambling over those rocks, I knew where I was going, so I’d just go around!” Scar chuckles to himself. “Yeah, I got very lost that day. Wandered around in those woods until it was dark out and I couldn’t see a thing except the circle of ground my flashlight lit up.”

“I guess you didn’t get eaten by a mountain lion,” Grian says. “Shame.”

“If a mountain lion saw my abs, it would run away screaming,” Scar replies, completely matter of factly in a way that derails Grian’s spiral for just a moment. He finally drags his eyes away from the poster and huffs a small laugh. 

“That’s a bold tactic,” Grian says. 

“Hey,” Scar cries defensively, “don’t knock it ‘til you try it!”

“I will not be trying that,” Grian says. “I will be keeping my shirt on in crisis situations.”

“Fine, I guess you’ll just wander around forever and die,” Scar says. “I tried to give you advice! Anyway, I only eventually found my way back to the path ‘cause I left the light on in my lookout tower and I spotted it over a ridge. You know, we’re not really supposed to leave those on when we leave in order to save propane, but it definitely saved me then.”

“Do you think Mitch is still alive?” Grian says. 

Scar laughs a little on the line, a sad chuckle. “Nah. I keep hoping someone will find his body one of these days so we can send him back to his family, but it hasn’t happened yet. Poor guy. Poor family too, without that closure.”

Grian’s heart speeds up. “You think he’s dead?”

“Uh, yeah?” Scar says. He says it’s like it’s a given. Like everyone knows. “It’s been eight years without a trace. Nobody goes missing that long and turns up just fine.”

Grian pushes forward, startled at his own intensity. His stomach twists. “But how can you be sure?” he presses. “What if he turns up tomorrow?”

“I…I’d be happy for him,” Scar says slowly. “It’d be a miracle. G, it’s harsh out here, even without thinking about how cold the winters get around here. It would be hard for someone to survive.”

“But surely it’s happened before.”

Scar sighs. “I guess I did hear a story on the radio once about a guy who went missing and turned up a few years later. Went by a different name and everything. It turns out he’d just gotten amnesia or something and forgotten his old life. But he wasn’t in the wilderness and was living in like…a house for that time.”

Grian tries to picture a version of Mumbo’s life without him in it, a version where Mumbo doesn’t remember him at all and moves on unbothered under a new name and amnesia. He can’t, because it paints an incomplete picture of Mumbo. 

It occurs to him that he’s just as incomplete, now. 

They’re always part of each other’s lives, that’s why Grian moved across an ocean to join him when he’d received that job offer straight out of college. A Mumbo without Grian isn’t a Mumbo at all, and a Grian without Mumbo is…he sighs. A Grian without Mumbo is this.

“I hope they find that man soon,” Grian says quietly. “In any way.”

“I do too,” Scar says. “It’s sad that the case has been open the entire time I have worked here.”

Grian takes a shaky breath, trying to fill every corner of his lungs. He depresses the radio button and speaks again: “I heard another man went missing here last year,” he says. “I saw it on the news.”

He’d spoken to the news. 

“That was so awful,” Scar says. “I hope they find him soon too. Young guy, hiking alone. He was British just like you, you know.  I don’t think we ever found any of his stuff. I never saw him in my sector of the park but there were a few searches done over here.”

“Didn’t they have to close some of the search due to the fires?” Grian says. He remembers smoke stinging his eyes so viscerally that he blinks against it instinctively even now. “I saw it all over the news last year.”

“Yeah, a lot of sections of trails and backcountry were closed then. I had a lot of work trying to keep an eye out for fires here since a lot of the existing ones were jumping to new locations, but all that smoke made it hard to tell between old and new fires.”

“I hope they find him,” Grian says slowly. He’s got topo maps taped together and marked up folded in his bag, and it suddenly feels like it’s burning a hole in the canvas. 

“I wonder if we’ll ever know what happened,” Scar says. 

“You can’t say it like that,” Grian insists. “They’ll know. They’ll figure it out when they find him, right?” 

When Scar doesn’t instantly reply, Grian presses onward. “He’ll be okay, that was only a year ago. It’s not like with Mitch, he’s been missing for eight years, but this is just one year, you know. It’ll be okay.”

Scar apparently doesn’t know what to say to that, because the only thing he says in return, perfectly vague, is: “I hope they find him.”

“They will,” Grian says forcefully. “Scar? Do you think he’s still alive too?”

There’s a longer pause on the line. 

Grian speaks again, before Scar can find the words. “Nevermind. Just don’t answer that one.”

He pulls the cache box’s lid shut and locks it behind him.

<< Chapter One | Masterpost | Chapter Three >>

[royallygray]

@periwinklepaint

Peri Peri Peri Peri Peri the paint

So. I've been thinking (dangerous pastime I know). What do we think about the title of the au being around my soul and beyond your horizon.

LET ME EXPLAIN (I am defending myself from nonexistent haters)

So. Scar and Grian are soulmates, right, since they were soulmates in DL. And the common portrayal of them is that Grian's the sun and Scar is the earth

and so their soulmark looks smth like this:

okay well it looks like one of those two. also bonus Scottage and Boat Boys soulmarks bro rip the Scottage soulbond they crushed that thing also apologies for the lighting

ANYWAYS IM GETTING DISTRACTED (unsurprisingly)

Grian has always thought his soulmark was a sunset. This is supposed to represent Grian's (and the Azures in general, minus Jimmy until a point) more pessimistic pov.

Scar has always thought that his soulmark was a sunrise. This is supposed to represent Scar's (and Gem's) more optimistic point of view.

More literally, both of their soulmarks are horizons.

Also after the fact I noticed that Grian's soulmark being a sunset means that the sun will disappear, making the earth more consistent and valued, and Scar does the opposite.

Around your soul would mean that your soul is valued, and we love it, and all that shit. Beyond your horizon would mean that I value your soul and you as a person beyond your soulmark and whatever other pieces that are supposed to define you (either to the Watchers or to society).

It does need to connect to Pearl and Gem somehow, and I think that can happen because both of them would be on either side of that horizon. Pearl would be in the sky, as the moon, and Gem is somewhere on earth, as a mortal.

(shinyduo is doomed by the narrative. I'm trying to make them be together it's not working very well. desertduo is also doomed by the narrative but less so)

do you have thoughts?

(also do you have any prompts/questions to ask me about this au because I CAN AND WILL RANT ABOUT IT)