#phantom of pine hill

[sincerelyang3l]

My Comfort Characters..💕

(Different than my kins. Don’t come for me 😭)

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Alliance of Shadows (5)

A/N: I'm thinking this will end up being between 10-12 parts so we are only halfway through!!

Pairing: Adar x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: slight violence, no spice yet but I SWEAR it's coming- patience is a virtue lovelies.

Taglist: @zoya-olenko, @annatartastic

Previous- Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The path to Eregion stretches out before you, winding through dense forests and craggy hills. The air is crisp, the scent of damp earth and pine heavy in the air. Your horse's hooves clatter against the uneven stones as the path narrows, forcing the party closer together. Two of your apprentices, Revan and Ysha, ride slightly behind you, ever-watchful, their dark blue robes marking them as members of your inner circle.

Adar rides beside you in silence, his eyes sharp, scanning the wild landscape with a practiced gaze. His Uruks—silent, powerful figures draped in shadow—move with an eerie coordination around your group. Though they had been bred for war, there is an undeniable discipline to them, a loyalty you hadn't expected.

The tension between you and Adar had only grown since your duel, the memory of his hand around your throat, the burning fire in his eyes, lingering like smoke in the back of your mind. While you might have claimed victory then, it had opened something—a crack in the walls between you. That spark flared with every passing glance, every moment of silence.

Still, you focus on the task ahead. Eregion lay far to the west, and there are many dangers between you and your destination. The farther you travel from your hidden domain in the mountains, the more exposed you become. Wildmen, beasts, and worse roam these untamed lands.

Adar’s voice cuts through the stillness. “We are not alone.”

He didn’t need to say more. You feel the ripple of foreign minds brushing against the edges of your awareness—wild and unfocused, but dangerous. The apprentices sense it too, their postures stiffening, hands inching toward their staffs.

Then, from the shadows of the trees, they appear.

Wildmen, scraggly and desperate, with crude weapons raised high. They surge from the underbrush with guttural cries, their faces twisting with greed and hunger. Their disorganized charge is met with the thunderous roar of Adar’s Uruks, who spring into action with frightening precision. The clash of steel on steel fills the air as the two forces collide.

The first attacker comes at you, swinging a rusted axe in a wild arc. You extend your hand, drawing on the magic that hums just beneath your skin. His eyes widen in surprise as reality itself shifts around him—the air rippling, bending—and then his body stiffens. You’ve reached into his mind, twisting his will with the ease of a puppet master. The axe falls from his hand as he turns and, without hesitation, buries a dagger into his comrade’s side.

Beside you, Ysha’s magic flares in bursts of violet light, weaving illusions that send the wildmen stumbling, attacking phantoms that aren’t there. Revan, more brutal in his methods, unleashes waves of force that send enemies flying through the air, crashing into trees with bone-shattering impacts.

But the wildmen are relentless, their numbers greater than you had anticipated. More spill from the forest, overwhelming the Uruks with sheer volume. You feel the strain as you pull harder on your magic, manipulating the minds of those around you, sending them into confusion or turning them against one another.

Next to you, Adar fights like a storm incarnate, his blade slicing through flesh with deadly precision. He moves like a shadow, slipping through the chaos with terrifying grace. His Uruks follow his lead, cutting down the attackers with practiced efficiency. One of his lieutenants, Sherak, shouts orders in their guttural tongue, and they respond as one—unstoppable, ruthless.

Had you a moment to spare, you would be more than a little impressed. Still, the battle presses on. You feel the sharp sting of fatigue creeping into your limbs, the constant strain of bending reality and controlling minds weighing on you. From your peripheral you notice a rogue figure moving toward you—a wildman, silent and quick, slipping past the Uruks’ defensive line, eyes locked on you.

You turn too late.

The wildman lunges, a wickedly curved blade aimed directly for your heart. In a heartbeat, you raise your hand, ready to summon a defense, but exhaustion makes your magic falter. The world seems to slow as the blade comes closer—too close.

Then, a shadow slips between you and death.

Adar.

With a roar of fury, he slams into the wildman, knocking him aside with brutal force. His sword flashes, and the wildman crumples to the ground, lifeless. The space between you and Adar shrinks to nothing as he turns, his face inches from yours, his chest heaving from exertion. His hand lingers on the hilt of his sword, the other hand brushing against your arm as if to steady you.

For a heartbeat, the world falls away—the battle, the danger, all of it fading into the background as your eyes lock with his. His breath is warm against your skin, his gaze intense, burning. You can feel the weight of the moment—the pull between you, raw and undeniable. There is something primal in his gaze, something that mirrors your own desires.

His hand moves from your arm, up to your neck, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw. Your heart pounds, the air between you thick with the possibility of what could happen if you just leaned in, closing the distance. His lips hovered so close, the taste of the moment electric.

“My Lord!” Sherak’s voice slices through the tension, shattering the fragile spell. “We need to move. Now.”

Adar’s expression shifts, frustration flashing briefly in his eyes before he steps back, the connection between you severed. You swallow the rush of disappointment, steadying yourself as you turn to face Sherak. The Uruk is covered in blood, his eyes sharp with urgency.

“There are more coming,” he growls. “We must move quickly.”

Adar’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Fall back,” he commands, his voice steady once more.

You are regrouped quickly, with Revan and Ysha taking up the rear as you press on. The battle has slowed your progress, and now the urgency to reach Eregion weighs heavier on your shoulders.

______________________

You ride hard for the next several days, the adrenaline of the battle slowly ebbing away, replaced by exhaustion. You glance at Adar, who has resumed his silent vigil at the front of the party. His presence is steady, his leadership undeniable, but there is something else—a tenderness beneath the stoic exterior that you hadn’t noticed before.

One of the Uruks, a scarred creature with a sharp intelligence in his eyes, rides beside you. His name is Ghor. He speaks in a low voice, careful not to draw too much attention.

"You fight well," Ghor grunts, his voice respectful. "But our Lord Father... he saved you."

You raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“He does not save lightly,” Ghor continues, his gaze flicking to Adar. “He calls us his children, and he means it. He fights for us, protects us. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He would fight for you too- if you asked it of him.”

The words send a ripple of realization through you. You glance at Adar again, seeing him in a new light. He is not just a leader of his people, but something far more complex. His devotion to his Uruks is fierce, paternal, and their loyalty in return seems unshakeable.

As the final stretch of your journey comes to an end, the dense forest gives way to an open plain where Adar’s legion of Uruks have made camp. The setting sun bathes the rugged terrain in a deep crimson glow, though you notice most of the Uruk stick to the shadows where they can, pulling up hoods when they must step into the fading sunlight. It is a stark, harsh place—little more than a collection of crude tents and hastily dug fire pits scattered across the rocky ground.

The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and earth. It is a people that have known no peace, no luxury—only survival.

Your horse slows as you approach the camp, and your eyes sweep across the scene before you. Uruks move about in near silence, a few sharpening weapons, others tending to their injuries. Their faces are hard, lined with the scars of countless battles. Their armor is mismatched and battered, but there is a determined resilience in their movements, a kind of discipline borne from years of hardship.

You catch sight of the tattered furs they wear to protect themselves from the sun, the meager rations they share—little more than scraps of dried meat and stale bread. Even the water they drink is drawn from muddy streams, unfit for any other race to consume. Yet they endured.

Your gaze lingers on the ragged tents they sleep in, barely enough to keep out the cold of the night. And though their eyes are sharp and their bodies strong, you can see the toll their endless war has taken. The Uruks have known no home, no place of peace. Only this. Only the battlefield.

"They’ve lived like this for years?" you ask, the question slipping from your lips before you can stop yourself.

Adar, riding beside you, gives a small nod. His expression is unreadable, but you sense a deep, quiet sorrow beneath the surface.

“They have had no home," he replies, his voice low, steady. "The one they gained they may lose just as quickly."

You pause as you take in the weight of his words. These Uruks—his children—had been cast out, much like you and your people. They have lived in the shadows, in exile, scraping by with nothing but each other and their will to survive.

Your heart aches as you watch a young Uruk, barely old enough to fight, crouch by a fire, his eyes hollow and tired. The living conditions are brutal, a testament to their resilience, but it is clear they can not continue like this forever.

"They deserve more than this," you say softly, almost to yourself.

Adar’s gaze flicks to you, his eyes dark and intense in the fading light. “That is why I fight,” he says, his voice carrying a deep, unspoken promise. “To give them the home they deserve.”

There is something in his tone—something raw and true—that stirs something deep within you. You have always believed in protecting your own people, and have kept them safe in the hidden sanctuary of your mountain. But now, as you look out over the Uruks, you see a reflection of your own past, your own people’s struggle.

They have been denied safety, denied peace. And in Adar’s eyes, you see a fierce determination to change that.

"I will ride with you," you say, your voice firm with newfound conviction. "Not just for my people’s sake, and our allegiance, but for your children as well."

Adar’s gaze holds yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you. Respect. Understanding. And something more. He gives a slight nod, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest hint of a smile.

“Good,” he murmurs. “For they will need someone as powerful as you by their side.”

As the moment lingers, a slow awareness of your shared purpose settles between you. You had both fought your own wars, built your own defenses, and now—perhaps for the first time—you were aligning your strength with another.

The night was creeping closer, and the urgency of your mission pressed in. In a few days time, you would leave this camp behind, and the true battle would begin. But tonight, as you stand at the edge of the Uruks’ camp, you make a silent vow to fight for more than just power. You would fight for something far greater.

And you know Adar will be at your side.

[gardenwalrus]

Brian Epstein & Diz Gillespie's relationship

So I put together most of the quotes on Brian and John 'Diz' Gillespie's relationship from Peter Brown & Steven Gaines's book The Love You Make & Jim Irvin's MOJO article on Brian's death earlier to make it a bit easier for me to look at in full - I'll put it on here too if anyone wants to read.

(Some of the quotes from the MOJO article are in the BBC documentary The Brian Epstein Story. It's available on YouTube here but its also available on BBC iPlayer for the next three weeks in better quality)

//

In spring 1965, Brian meets and quickly falls for 'Diz' Gillespie, a young Californian actor living in London, who soon moves into his Whaddon House flat. 

'Dizz was an aspiring actor-singer in his early twenties, with dark hair, mischievous eyes and an impish, upturned nose. Brian was so taken with him he seized upon Dizz’s phantom acting career to play Svengali. … Using the excuse that Dizz was a NEMS artist, Brian paid many of his debts and began to dole out a small allowance from his own pocket. Naturally, all of Brian’s friends warned him against being used by this boy. “He may be manipulative,” Brian said, “but he’s different than most. There’s something special about him, something that I can’t name.”'  - Peter Brown, The Love You Make: An Insider’s Story of The Beatles (1983) p.172

Despite Brian's infatuation, the relationship is evidently volatile and unhappy - 

'But Diz was bisexual and upset Brian by bringing women back to the flat and causing scenes in public, once in front of Brian's parents. Their doomed relationship lasted too long and clearly made him miserable.' - Jim Irvin, “The Death of Brian Epstein”, MOJO (November 2002)

- and this instability was further intensified by the pair spending many nights at Brian’s flat ‘ingesting large amounts of uppers, Tuinals, and Cognac’, which would often turn violent:

‘…these drugged, drunken nights ended in some sort of unhappy confrontation. They ran from simple arguments to all-out fistfights, which included breaking vases and mirrors. One night, unhappy with Brian’s largesse, Dizz worked himself into a rage. When Brian ordered him out of the house, Dizz raced to the kitchen, grabbed the largest knife he could find, and held it to Brian’s jugular vein while extracting an additional sum of money from Brian’s wallet.’ [Brown, p.72] 

As a result of the incident, Brian ends the relationship, yet according to Brown ‘[Brian] only pined away for the boy, lovesick over him.’

Yet it isn’t long until Gillespie appears again in August 1965, contacting Brian, who was in New York two days ahead of the Beatles’ Shea Stadium concert. Brian appeals to his New York business partner, Nat Weiss, to keep Diz away. 

In a meeting with Weiss, Gillespie pushes for a car in exchange for staying away from Brian. When told this information, Brian insists that Nat Weiss gives Diz $3,000 to buy a car. Weiss therefore strikes a deal with Diz - that he was to ‘be kept locked in a hotel room at the Warwick Hotel on Sixth Avenue - with a private guard hired by Nat - until the Beatles and Brian left town.’ [Brown, p.185] 

After this event, Gillespie disappears again, only to appear a year later in LA on August 28 1966, the day of the Beatles’ penultimate live performance. Brian, overjoyed, believes it to be a true show of Diz’s love for him, and the pair spend the day together at a house in Beverly Hills - despite Nat Weiss’ scepticism: 

‘At first Nat was incredulous, then angry. “Brian, you must not have anything to do with that boy–”  “Now, now,” Brian interrupted, “he came all this way to find me. He said he came because he loves me.”  Nat sighed but said nothing. As preposterous as it was that Dizz Gillespie had any real affection for Brian, Nat could see by the smitten look in Brian’s eyes that he believed it. ... Brian had been so skittish lately that one wrong word could send him off on a three-day snit.' [Brown, p.205]

Weiss’s caution was not unfounded - the following day, Diz had disappeared and taken briefcases belonging to Brian and Weiss. Weiss’s case had contained important business documents, whereas the contents of Brian’s case would have been even more damaging if made public: 

First, there was his large and questionable supply of pills, obviously the property of a junkie. Then there were half a dozen or so billets-doux containing explicit references to his conquests, along with Polaroid photographs of his young friends. Lastly, there was $20,000 in brown paper bag money skimmed from concert funds to be distributed as a bonus [Brown p.206] 

Nat Weiss soon received a blackmail note from Gillespie, demanding an additional $10,000 for the return of Brian’s personal photographs and letters. The suitcase was eventually recovered, however $8,000, the pills and Brian’s photos and letters were all missing - as was Gillespie, who had not been found by the police. 

Alongside the fear that the content of the suitcase may still at some point be made public, as well as the realisations that:

‘...he'd been duped by someone he trusted – coinciding with the last performance by his boys – seemed to tip Brian into despair. "That accounts for his first major depression," says Weiss. "That was the beginning of Brian's loss of self-confidence." [Irvin, 'The Death of Brian Epstein']

--

Also of note - this livejournal account pointed out that a ‘vendor’ mentioned in the descriptions of two Christie’s auction items in 2006 was most likely Diz Gillespie. The items were a 1962 Beatles handbill and an autographed copy of John Lennon’s book In His Own Write, which was addressed ‘To Diz, You're a great turn, good God, from John Lennon’

The description of the 1962 handbill: 

‘According to the vendor, he was given this handbill by Brian Epstein in 1966. The two met at a party in Los Angeles in 1964 and maintained a friendship for many years.’

The description of the autographed book: 

The vendor first met John Lennon and Brian Epstein in 1964 and was given this book by John Lennon when he visited him at his home, Kenwood, in Weybridge, Surrey. Diz was the vendor's nickname.

[theyjusthowl]

WIP Monday

I'm trying out a new thing to be more consistent with my writing, so maybe my beta won't have to wait a month for the next installment of this WIP from hell.

I'm currently working on a Sterek longfic that somehow got away from me and is now 50k of pure hurt/comfort, and this is one of my favorite scenes, so cue the angst.

---

Lydia says, “We could use a place of our own.”

Her gaze hungrily prowls around Derek’s loft like it’s Versailles, as sterile and empty as it looks. The cheap pieces of sparse furniture he bought to appease Stiles back when they were together remain the only clue that this space has been lived in.

She knows his bedroom is still presided by a bare mattress and a busted alarm system.

Peter hears, “Derek could use a place for himself.”

His mind helpfully supplies, one that’s not littered with phantoms.

Isaac broaches the subject with Derek, one morning, in the small office space of the warehouse, as Derek works on an invoice.

“All I’m saying, Derek, is that the pack could benefit from a bigger place,” he says, towering over the desk. “I could move back in if we had enough room for everyone. You don’t have to sell the loft, you’re still running your business from here so maybe turn it into a decent office space?” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion. “This is still a great headquarters. Keep a guest bedroom in case you end up working late.”

Derek nods. He thinks of the key he gave Stiles, two years ago, the last time he asked him to not to leave them behind.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to Peter, see if he can find a plot of land that’s to his liking.” He stacks a thin ream of papers on top of a folder, closes it and stands. He files it away in a cabinet behind him and looks at Isaac. “Are we done?”

Isaac leaves the warehouse triumphant.

Peter donates the Hale property to Beacon County to do as they please, on the condition that no private businesses are to be raised on the extensive terrains. They set up a few cabins for lost campers and a small wildlife shelter. Scott is more than happy to volunteer as often as college will allow; Isaac fixes a coyote’s paw after the animal stepped on a pine needle and tells the whole pack approximately twenty times before Derek snarls half-heartedly to stop, for fuck’s sake.

The Sheriff finds a parcel, just fifteen minutes from the western border of the preserve, and it’s not exactly Beacon Hills but it isn’t anywhere else either and still within the county limits, which is apparently relevant for werewolf politics. He makes sure to push forward the copious amounts of red tape and Jackson hooks them up with a magnificently expensive and completely booked contractor, probably under duress. He’s still hell bent on crawling back into Lydia’s good graces. They raise the pale, solid bones of the house in two weeks.

It’s still three more months of plaster and tiles and wood boards and hanging wires before the smooth walls wrap around the house. They’re bare, but the light shines through the windows and bathes the stark white rooms and the sandy floorboards in a warm glow. Cora stands in the middle of the foyer, right under the big skylight, and imagines the first full moon run starting and ending right there.

Lydia commandeers Derek’s soccer mom SUV a little too gleefully and Peter side eyes her, unsettled for the first time in many years. She chooses all the furniture, the decorations, the full works, and Derek pays, only mildly infuriated. Scott sends Lydia a few pictures he took during the house works. Isaac is in all of them, front and center. She chooses one of Derek and Isaac going over the blueprints on a makeshift table, with a few workers lifting the first panel off the floor; she wraps it and gives it to him as a housewarming gift and Derek smiles and runs his fingers over the silver carvings and the edge of the frame.

The last screws are tightened into place the first week of June, and Peter brings in a landscaper to finish up the backyard. There’s one room though, and Derek won’t allow anyone in. Isaac thinks it’s a sanctuary, some sort of hideaway. It’s probably full of the stuff that survived the fire and what little he salvaged from Laura’s apartment in New York, and no one gives it further thought. If Derek wants to be left alone, they can only oblige.

The construction crew wraps up just in time for the summer of their third year. Isaac is unrelenting about a housewarming party. Derek acquiesces, on the condition that Cora and Peter tend to the barbeque.

Just about everyone Derek knows drops by: Lydia tells Allison, and she comes with Chris Argent and Melissa McCall, who somehow make it work, despite having the odds stacked against them. She’s been doing diplomatic work, restoring the Argents’ reputation as fair hunters, writing treaties for warring packs. Lydia fawns over the engagement ring on her finger and Scott hugs her warmly, the same old puppy eyes he used to put on for her, but it’s friendly and Derek knows that he’s sincere in his congratulations, genuinely happy that she’s happy. Isaac tackles her the moment he sees her, picks her up in the air and twirls her in a bone crushing hug. They catch up over a beer, Isaac casually leaning on Scott, with that unaffected demeanor of his. Scott’s hand wanders, subtly scenting Isaac. Isaac’s eyes go soft. Allison smiles and nods and hugs them both.

They’re all out back, milling around the yard. Derek watches on as he grabs two beers from the fridge. One for him, one for the Sheriff. Over the years, they’ve come to a quiet understanding, one reserved for family. Derek calls him Noah now. Noah is still convinced that they’re just one tiny hiccup away from being family. Derek’s not so sure. He entertains him, though, and more importantly, doesn’t pester him about his eating habits.

He leaves through the kitchen and finds Noah talking to Melissa, hands him his beer. They talk about the Mets’ performance, Derek nods along enthusiastically. Then they switch to cars; Melissa’s old sedan has finally given up and she’s looking to buy. Noah tells her he knows just the guy and claps Derek’s back, laughing.

When the initial bustle winds down a bit, Derek offers to do a house tour for Noah.

“They’ve all seen it, helped build and decorate,” he explains offhandedly. “Isaac’s moving in next week.”

He walks Noah through the kitchen, the living room, the study on the ground floor. He points to the basement door offhandedly. “It’s empty now, but we’ll find a use for it. Let’s show you upstairs.”

The upper floor consists of an open space that overlooks the foyer, and a corridor littered with doors. Derek points towards them. “Plenty of room for everyone up here. Peter insisted. Extended packs live together,” he explains.

Derek stays behind while the Sheriff ventures into the room to the far right end of the corridor. The room that’s off-limits to everyone else.

The walls are painted a soft shade of slate gray, with a white upper trim. To the left, a double door awaits, wide open, leading to the master bath. There is no back wall, just a continuum of floor to ceiling glass panels overlooking a deck that wraps around the corner of the building and continues behind the right-hand wall. In the distance, the woods get denser. The view is breath-taking and the sun shines high in the sky. It’s the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the forest.

There is just no furniture. Not a single piece in sight.

“It’s the master bedroom” Noah notes, words carefully measured. “It’s empty.”

Derek chuckles lowly and stares him back bemusedly. “I have no use for it. The architect insisted. He had a vision.”

“He might have been on to something,” Noah says.

He walks further into the room and waits for Derek to join him.

“It’s proofed, I assume.”

Derek nods. “Sound and scent.”

“Ah,” Noah sighs. “That explains that.”

Right there, on the right hand corner, the only clue that this room has a purpose lays in plain sight. There’s a wooden clothes rack. Neatly zipped on a hanger, Stiles’ lacrosse hoodie presides the room. It reads Stilinski, 23, and it looks well worn. The sun coming in through the back wall casts a long shadow on the floor.

(Just as Isaac had suspected, it is, in some ways, a sacred space.)

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 ║ ⓞⓝⓔ๏ⓞⓕⓕⓢ

|| fic masterlist || main navigation ||

This Side of Forever

| PAIRING(s): Marcus Pike x fem!OC Bodie Edunn

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT:  6.6k | CONTENT: angsty!Marcus throughout, pining?, Bodie talks a lil whimsical but that’s bc she’s based on a Goddess ok?, half of this is me self-therapizing, lots of allusions to magic and fruit, following your dreams, is somebody gonna match my freak? vibes, accepting fate, overly sentimental bc it’s Marcus duh

| SYNOPSIS: After back to back failed relationships, Marcus tries to find meaning and distraction in his work. When he's presented with an offer that appears to be a nudge in a whole new direction, he isn't sure he can make the leap of faith.

The consultation offer had come through at just the right time. Marcus had been burnt out with his work despite the change in scenery and job title. As it turned out, being head of the International Art Theft Task Force in D.C. wasn’t a whole lot more gratifying than being Special Agent Marcus Pike with the Austin Art Squad Unit. It was a bitter pill to swallow, the rhapsodic thrill of getting a second chance at love and life in Texas turning to nothing more than ash and heartache come Virginia. 

It was torment being back in Austin for an assignment and learning that he’d ultimately been nothing more than a bridge for his would-be fiancé and her now other half to finally realize what they felt for one another. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had told him that night at dinner she, too, felt the same things for him. That she couldn’t deny their chemistry and connection. He loved that she was independent and really thought about his offer to move to D.C. with him before she’d accepted.

And then he’d gone and followed his heart again with the proposal. The words felt like poison clinging to his lips almost the moment he uttered them, her expression one of stunned anxiety making his stomach turn.  Then it all seemed okay again when she said she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, too. Looking back it was easier to see that she didn’t feel as strongly for him as he did for her, but in the moment he’d thought that maybe it was just a lot for her to take in. He had a tendency to be too much for the people he cared about.

He spent a lot of time in the aftermath of the breakup lamenting over every word and action, playing them over and over again in his head to try to figure out where he’d gone wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully regret honoring his emotions in the moment. He’d been forthright and honest from the start with her because it felt real. It was real. Until it all fell apart.

So, he finished his assignment and returned home to D.C. with nothing but an empty, cold apartment waiting for him. The thought of just leaving all this behind and starting over from scratch was becoming more and more appealing. The ghosts of the past followed him everywhere, and it was beginning to feel like he’d always be chasing some phantom of a dream that resembled happiness. His voluntary sabbatical might not have been the best idea with all this inner turmoil brewing, but he had to take a step back and at least attempt to get himself together. The third night in a row of packaged ramen noodles for dinner, ass firmly parked on the couch with reruns of Antiques Roadshow playing back to back, her email had come through.

He read it twice to make sure it hadn’t been sent in error. As the sole owner of the wildly successful spa and wellness center Eternity Hill Orchard, Bodie Edunn was looking for a consultant regarding the yet to be established Art Director position and coinciding Art Program for her resort. A former colleague and shared mutual had passed his name along to her with a soft endorsement for the job. The referral name checked out and everything seemed legitimate, but Marcus had been burned too many times to believe his luck could be this good.

A phone call with her the next day had that thought going right out the window. He could hear the smile in her voice and how genuinely excited she was that he received the offer and reached out. Before he knew it, agreements were outlined and plans were made. The last few weeks of his sabbatical were going to be spent back and forth between the few hours of travel from D.C. to the mountains of Virginia where Eternity Hill Orchard was located.

The payday was already enough of an incentive, but the picturesque scenery as the vehicle climbed switchback roads wasn’t too bad, either. The ascent felt like he was heading to some other world entirely, and perhaps given the constant grind of life in D.C., this was a completely different life up here in the mountains. His first step onto the grounds already felt energizing, the inhale of fresh air crisp in his lungs. 

He could just make out a distant figure atop a rather grand set of steps leading up to a striking manor structure. It was somehow modern and antique all at once, as if it had been built here so long ago that it simply transcended the concept of time. Lush greenery at every opening and slope gave an impression of liveliness and growth. Small, warm white bulbs danced in the darker recesses of the flora, and Marcus could imagine the balmy, intimate glow it would emit come nighttime. 

Despite the impressive scene, he found himself eagerly skimming back to the figure coming into focus as they climbed down the stairs towards him. The pictures and videos he’d seen of her on the website did no justice to the firsthand encounter. He’d thought it was high quality editing – something to sell the whole wellness image the business touted - but seeing her here in person made it clear there was no alteration involved.

It was hard to pinpoint an age, but she looked like she’d sipped on every enchanted youth tonic from every fairytale ever told. A “glow from within” hue to her skin. Soft, supple curvature of pink appled cheeks. Piercing but kind green eyes. A sharp mouth with a delicate cupid’s bow, all balancing the mesmerizing smile underneath.

How old was she? How could someone establish and develop this level of business acumen all before the age of 50? Was she just the face of the business while some gnarled, hunched octogenarian hid away in the shadows and counted his payday? Was she some sort of trust fund baby? Was this all just an elaborate babysitting project to keep her out of the trouble that wealthy, bored children often found themselves in?

“Marcus, I’m so glad you made it,” Bodie softly greets him as she makes it to the bottom of the stairs. She envelops him before he has time to insist on a handshake, pulling back after a moment and rubbing each of his biceps in a welcoming gesture.

He isn’t sure where to put his hands, and he internally cringes at the realization of just how touch starved he is. His mouth feels a little dry, and he can only attribute some of that to the higher altitude. “Wow. Hi. I mean– Yes. You’re– It’s beautiful,” he responds a little breathlessly. “Glad to be here.”

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes blooms into the grin curving her mouth. “I’m partial, of course, but I really think there’s nowhere else as special as here. I hope you’ll come to find the same thing.”

The closer she was to him, the thinner the air felt. The sun cast a hazy blur of light around her long flax tresses, forming a little halo of brightness that made her seem all the more ethereal and divine. Bodie had several science degrees according to the website, although it didn’t say from where or when. Maybe this place was the real deal after all. Usually these retreat spaces offered little more than a whopping dose of placebo laden manipulations meant to drain desperate people’s wallets. He tried not to be so jaded about it all, very much aware of the more bitter version of himself he’d been morphing into for the past several months.

Obliging staff appeared from nowhere and whisked his things away. He really didn’t care where his things were going or where he was being led as he walked along quietly while Bodie conducted a guided tour of the grounds and the buildings. She carried herself so effortlessly and spoke so confidently. None of it sounded rehearsed, either, as they both meandered through the picturesque backdrop of the plot. She shared all the history of the resort and the scientific approach to wellness that incorporated the native resources as much as possible.

Everything he sees is nothing short of magnificent. He can envision sitting out here and painting a quick oil landscape while Bodie sits nearby and chats. He can hear her unwavering knowledge and commentary in his mind’s eye, but he forces himself to focus on the present. The sprawling backdrop of mountains and trees and orchards frame the welcoming facilities and services here. An expansive natural swimming pond lined with large rocks that lead to private cabanas and plush lounge chairs. He wonders if Bodie ever goes swimming. 

An indoor heated pool with adjacent teak sauna. Three stories worth of amenities built right into the mountainside with multiple buildings above that she explains are guest rooms. One building has a long, shared balcony with large potted trees and rooftop gardens. The other building has private balconies with big, round lounge beds and floor to ceiling fireplaces. He wonders which one of them is hers and what she sees when she wakes every morning.

The winding decks that slope into each other feel endless, and yet Marcus could enjoy hours of hearing her talk about anything and everything. It was infectious and calming, almost like walking through an art museum and discovering all the tiny surprise gems amongst the overarching beauty of artistry. Even the staff looked young in the way of someone who has never experienced a day of stress in their life. They don plain uniforms – soft white linen shirts with loose taupe colored pants – with some sporting half aprons or utility belts, depending on their job.

It was one thing for every patron thus far to look relaxed and content, but the workers also appearing well and youthful? How on earth did Bodie manage all of this? She was still talking about some sort of zero gravity massage clinic when the intrusive thoughts got the better of him.

“So how old are you anyway?” he blurts out.

The back of his neck blazes with embarrassment, but he forces himself to maintain eye contact. She smiles at him again in that easy sort of way, and his stomach flips. Whatever secret restorative methods she had up here were certainly doing something to him. Either that or he hadn’t adjusted to the altitude yet.

“I’m thirty one,” she answers graciously.

His jaw parts, all agog and inelegant, while she titters and waves off his unspoken compliment. 

“I apologize for the question. I’m usually not so–” He motions with his hand aimlessly in the air, floundering for a coherent end to his sentence. “Your methods and programs are obviously very effective.”

“I guess you could say between the mountain air and enough apples a day to keep the doctor away for a lifetime…,” she trails off and shrugs with a lopsided smile.

God, he could really get used to seeing that. It made his knees all jittery every time she directed that energy his way. He’s so wrapped up in it that he misses something she said and has to ask her to repeat herself.

“I said: I’m proud of everything we’ve built here, but I’m always looking for what else we can incorporate to enhance the experience,” she says again. “It’s always been a sort of bad habit of mine, always looking for something to take everything to the next level.”

She doesn't even know how much it resonates with him when she says it. If he had to identify a singular fault of his, it would be the hope of the next best thing. He had a well-worn pattern of romanticizing things and letting his thoughts run away, all buoyant and hopeful. A big part of that had been stripped from him after the failed marriage, divorce, and then failed proposal, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe he wouldn’t get hurt so much if he didn’t put himself so far out there.

“I get what you mean,” he commiserates. “It can be hard to feel like you’ve done all you can. That you’ve upturned every stone and made something as good as it can be.”

Bodie eyes him thoughtfully and, after a moment of contemplation, nods. “Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly it.”

“So, am I the ‘taking it to the next level’ in this equation?” he jokes, attempting to steer the conversation back to the consultation at hand and away from things that remind him of past failures.

Her grin is devastating and intoxicating, and Marcus turns a lovely shade of pink at the poor phrasing of his question.

“I-I meant– not me personally. I meant the art director and art program,” he stammers. “You know, me being here to help with that.”

“Something like that,” she replies with a gentle laugh.

It’s not until she’s finished showing him around and walking him to his private suite that his head feels clear. Every syllable that fell from her lips felt like a tugging thread, whipstitching musings and what-could-be’s across the divots in his mind and suturing them together with thoughts of her cinched in between and tucked away tight. The feeling doesn’t let up over the next few days where every interaction with her feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. 

This wasn’t the same sort of draw he’d experienced before with his ex-wife and ex- fiancé. This was the opposite pole of the magnet hurtling towards him and grabbing hold. This was some sameness, some kindred nucleus of existence. A funhouse mirror reflecting parts of himself back, a warped delineation. Something metaphysical and mystic putting him exactly where he was meant to be: here in this side of paradise with Bodie coming to drip soothing words of perpetuity into his ear. He belonged here, although he couldn’t exactly explain why or how he knew it to be true.

It took everything in him to focus on the task at hand. He’s better acquainted after a couple of days with the grounds, resort scheduling, and “wellness lifestyle” habits being taught and practiced. He wasn’t expecting the legitimacy in some of the newer programs, like the accredited and licensed therapists onsite who conduct group sessions as well as individualized, immersive sessions for select guests. The idea of an art based therapy program felt like a natural addition, according to Bodie. It was the “next logical step” in what Eternity Hill Orchard could offer, and he couldn’t agree more.

By the time he knew it, he’d extended his stay by three more days, but she didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, she seemed delighted that he was even able to. For some reason, he divulged his voluntary sabbatical from work and the fact that he was only able to take this job because of it. She’d simply smiled warmly and said it “sounded like fate.”

It should’ve been hokey. It should’ve been an eyeroll the moment she turned away. Instead, he found himself inclined to agree. Throughout his rapid appraisal of the resort, it started feeling less like work and more like a challenge, something stimulating and meaningful. The overwhelming sense of magic in the atmosphere had him questioning himself almost daily. He’d take breaks from his assignment and join Bodie in several of the offerings at the resort, and every time without fail his head felt cloudy and light and elastic. He hadn’t felt this way since his first few months in the FBI when the world was laid at his feet for the taking.

He almost wished this bubble would pop already so he could fall back to reality, but day after day it remained intact. Gentle brushes of her hand. Leaning closer when they spoke. Angling her body towards him whenever he sat down next to her – and there somehow was always an empty seat, like she’d saved it just for him. The warm, dizzying embrace the first day he got here was just the beginning of an endless well. He wanted so badly to know how her lips would feel against his. He tried to stop himself imagining the sorts of sounds he could pull from her, all the ways he could make her feel good. They could fall asleep here every night together, dreaming up new programs and projects.

As much as he wanted to stretch out his time with her, he loathed the idea of wearing out his welcome or, worse yet, letting hope fester long enough to make him entertain all his delusions about a life here. The trek back home to D.C. is tedious and pallid. It’s as though every foot of elevation lost on the ride down leached color and life from the world.

The dreary silence in his apartment might be the worst of all as he sets his things down and takes a long breath – one that doesn’t feel satisfying no matter how deeply he pulls for air. At least there was an objective and a deadline to keep his mind occupied and distracted from his stifling abode. He compiled his recommendations with due heed, never rushing through the retrospection and assessment he was being generously compensated to produce.

He didn’t have any legitimate reason to go back for another visit since he’d extended his initial one by so many days. Any clarifying questions could be answered via email or phone, and it better served his timeline to not travel again right now anyway. The Art Therapy Degree Program tabs in his browser stare loudly back at him. It was initially a portion of his informational findings, but he’d made the mistake of venturing into the curiosity of what it would take for him to obtain such a degree. Turns out, not very much. The extensive training and education accrued throughout his years before and during his life as an Agent meant he was fit for most bridge programs out there.

He didn’t know what to do with this new possibility, and the knowledge of it was more disquieting than anything. The awareness that something else existed out there for him felt cruel and imposing, like it was trying to force his hand to take the leap of faith. He’d done that before, and it’s what got him into the shadowlands in the first place. It started to eat at him the longer he sat with it, and what irked him most was the sole thing he knew would make him feel better: a trip to Eternity Hill Orchard. 

He racked his brain for a reason – any reason – to go up there again. He concocted some weak excuse about needing to evaluate some of the spaces before making a final recommendation, and of course Bodie was immediately receptive. He steeled himself to remain professional and impartial about things as he made his way back to the fated resort. His late start out the door meant the sun was nearly setting by the time he arrived, but it was just as enchanting as he remembered it. Bodie wasn’t at the top of the stairs to greet him this time around, but he attempted to quell the disappointment of not seeing her by reminding himself that he was here for work and that he’d see her when it was appropriate. It was bad enough that he’d let his whims bring him here again.

After checking in and getting settled, he figures a walk around the grounds is his best bet at coming across Bodie organically. So, he sets off and silently scouts potential spots for an art studio and corresponding office space. The dwindling daylight makes the endeavor less than fruitful, but he isn’t really focused on it, anyway. He’s really just out here hoping to find her. When he turns onto a secluded pathway off the side of the natural pond, the first instance of dissonance in this place emerges: a man’s aggravated voice. A few beats and then what Marcus thinks might just be Bodie’s more neutral voice. He edges closer to the sound.

“Because it’s bullshit, and you know it,” the man fumes.

“I don’t think it’s anything of the so–”

“I come here spending an ungodly amount of money, and for what? For this sham of a place?”

Marcus picks up his pace and follows the voices until he finds Bodie standing face to face with a visibly angry man. She appears in no distress despite the aggression being hurled her way. He keeps his distance until he can fully assess the situation, but his extensive federal training has him ready to intervene if needed.

“You feel like your time here has been unproductive?” She poses the question tactfully, but the man doesn’t waver.

“Well I sure as hell thought I’d get more out of it than I have! I mean, how much time and money can I throw down the drain before I speak up for myself and demand answers?”

“And what is it you were hoping to get out of your visits here?”

“I dunno! Maybe some-some sort of control back in my life?! All this wishy washy feel good bullshit hasn’t done anything! It’s all some scam to take advantage of people like me who are desperate!” he snaps, taking a step forward with arms raised to the side.

Marcus starts to close the gap but stops when Bodie gestures for him to hang back. A glance isn’t even spared his way as she focuses her attention on the angry man.

“I hear you, and I hear your frustrations. I do, however, feel that you are missing a key consideration.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” the man laughs through his nose.

“Finding and using tools to help you regain control of your life is much more beneficial than some external force coming through and offering some temporary illusion of control. And, above all that, there are things that will never be under our authority.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”“It means that, yes, we could create some fantasy of the self-actualization you’re after and make you feel like it’s true, but the whole illusion would fall apart the moment you left because it wouldn’t be real. There is no handing ‘it’ over to you – by us or anyone. The entire notion that control is something we give or take from you defeats the entire purpose of you learning to take hold of things yourself. And, you can learn all the coping skills and interventions under the sun, but they will never be useful if you try to pit them against something that will never be in your control no matter how hard you try to force it.”

The man stands straight and blinks a few times, the words overtly taking hold of something inside him.

“Part of control is acceptance, Gordon,” she explains and extends a comforting hand to his bicep. “You have to accept there are things you cannot and will not ever be able to control, and those are the things you have to learn to let go of. No amount of fighting them or screaming or anger will ever change that.”

The man – Gordon, apparently – deflates a bit at this and hangs his head. His voice becomes so quiet Marcus can’t make out half of what he’s saying. His body language speaks to remorse and embarrassment, but Marcus moves in closer just in case he is misreading the energy. He can hear the apologies now and the all too understanding acceptance of them from Bodie. Gordon catches sight of Marcus and quickly excuses himself with Bodie calling after him that she will follow up with him tomorrow.

“Well that’s a first,” Marcus quips, trying to break the dissipating tension altogether. “I was starting to believe nobody could get upset here.”

“Glad to have you back, Marcus,” she deadpans with a budding smile that gives her away.

“In all seriousness, that was, uh, that was pretty impressive.”

“What?”

“Deescalating that situation. Keeping your cool. Maintaining control of the conversation. Actually the sort of thing that makes a really great undercover or intelligence agent.”

“Well, you’d know what it takes, wouldn’t you?” she agrees warmly.

His smile falls a little at the reminder. He was, indeed, the person that would know. At the end of the day, he was still employed with the FBI. This fairy tale in the mountains was on borrowed time, and a couple of weeks from now, he’d be back to his usual responsibilities at work. It’ll be like none of this ever happened, the souvenir of a padded bank account the only remnant of this experience. The realization that he doesn’t want to be Special Agent Marcus Pike anymore hits him like a blow to the gut.

“Marcus? Are you okay?” She reaches out and slots her hand into his.

“Hm? What? Oh, oh yeah, I’m fine.” He forces a chuckle and waves off her worries, but he knows she won’t buy it.

“If you’re not too busy right now, I’d really love for you to join me on my walk.”

And of course he agrees. How could he not? Even if he knows he’s being led to the death of his guard, he can’t turn her down. The tranquil sky and mellow breeze amidst the lines of apple trees are no match for his racing mind. The last time he was here, it felt pacifying and calming. This time it feels as though all the defenses and excuses have been stripped from his brain, leaving nothing but the bare, candid emotions underneath.

“You know,” she begins, interrupting his storming thoughts, “I was thinking back to how you were talking about never being satisfied with what you’ve got. You know, how we’re both guilty of always looking for the next best thing. Worrying about ‘leaving a stone unturned’, as you put it. It made me think back to when I almost gave this up because I thought some place closer to the interstate was a better investment.”

Marcus listens in quiet disbelief as Bodie shares the memory of when she’d come across a great plot of land that was closer to the main highways in the area but located further away from the mountains. She was content at the time with the state of Eternity Hill Orchard, but it wasn’t anything near what it is today. It wasn’t even a fraction of what it is currently because she was so consumed with worry over whether or not there was something better out there. The new plot would’ve been more readily accessible for travelers, which could’ve potentially meant more patrons and a wider reach. It wasn’t until the last moment that she rescinded the offer and decided to keep what she already had and give it the devotion and nurturing it needed to thrive.

“I’m grateful every day that I didn’t go through with it,” she reflects. “The things that I thought were drawbacks were actually what made this place special. The seclusion. The terrain. You can’t get this atmosphere anywhere else. I could’ve lost all of it if I had let my fears override my instincts.”

“I couldn’t imagine this place anywhere else,” he concurs. 

“And I didn’t realize my unturned stone was right under my feet.” She levels him with a probing gaze and silently waits for him to speak.

“I’m supposed to start up my position again in a few weeks…..” he begins weakly.

She doesn’t respond beyond a gentle nod, and it compels him to keep going.

“But I don’t think– I feel like maybe there’s… maybe there’s something else for me.” He swallows hard and drops her hand, opting instead to lean against the sturdy base of an apple tree for some kind of support.

“You found a new opportunity, but you’re afraid it’s just another case of chasing after the next best thing?” she surmises.

“Yeah, I– Something like that. I think.” He laughs and drops his head back. “God, this is so unprofessional. I apologize. I really shouldn’t be talking like this.”

She ignores his appeal to decorum and instead pushes for candor. ��So, Marcus, where’s the line between romanticizing a hypothetical and following your heart?”

When he doesn’t have an answer, she leans against the tree beside him, and Marcus feels a thousand fiery licks of magnetic pull.

“This whole experience with you has made me consider leaving my work to become an Art Therapist.” It comes out before he can stop it, but he’s rewarded with a beatific smile that makes his insides feel warm and syrupy.

“You know, I have it on good intel that there’s a really nice place up in the mountains that’s in the market for an Art Therapist. I mean, they’re awaiting a report from a consultant about how to implement the Program, but still. I mean, hey, one lucky Art Therapist might just find themselves with the freedom of creating the entire structure of the Program from start to finish.”

Marcus shakes his head, unwilling to accept the insinuation of being offered a job he wasn’t even qualified for. Yet.

“And I bet that Art Therapist would be able to help a lot of people,” she adds softly. “Could really change the lives of the people he’s around.”

He turns to meet her gaze at that and fumbles for the right thing to say. “I can’t— I couldn’t possibly ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered,” she points out. 

“So, what? I’m just– I start tomorrow, just narrowing down a list of online bridge programs? Until I find one and apply? And then magically I just use that degree here?” he scoffs.

“Either that or you could spend the next few days trying and failing to talk yourself out of it,” she muses with a grin.

He balks and stalls but can’t argue with the assertion. Truth be told, he doesn’t even feel like trying to talk himself out of it. The fight left in him to ignore his heart is quickly faltering. 

“And, if I might take a turn being unprofessional, I really, really wouldn’t mind you being here on a more … permanent basis. It was nice having you around.”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Mmmhhmmmm.”

Marcus’s eyes flit between her glittery eyes and plush lips. All those years of unfulfilled promises melt away. Every unreciprocated outpouring of love and emotion, gone by the wayside. No more were the feelings of having so much to give without anyone to give it to.

“I really want to kiss you,” he admits in a hush.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she murmurs back.

He doesn’t give himself the opportunity to linger on hesitations. He dips his head and presses his mouth against hers and finds an ardent response. The kiss is  slow and deliberate, like so much time has been lost to the absence of it that every facet must be savored. Her tongue rolls along the ridge of his lip, and he opens with a soft gasp when she pushes their bodies together.

She tastes of sugar and earth, body firm and potent. Still, he holds her like a delicate, timeless artifact meant to be admired and cherished. He follows her pull to the cool grass below and groans at the weight of his body sagging against hers. She hooks a foot behind each knee and tugs, the shift of it sending him off balance. Her pliant body eagerly accommodates his searching hands. The dip and swell of her form under his touch has his mind tracing static orbits, something barely tethered to anything resembling cognizance.

When they finally part for a breath, chests heaving and lips swollen, he sees the incisive tenacity burning bright in her eyes. She rolls their fused bodies until his back settles against the ground, and he lies as a stone unturned beneath her feet, ready to be inverted and suffused by her entirety.

“I’ve known I wanted you from the moment we spoke on the phone,” she confesses quietly. Her hand drifts down his torso, stopping carefully at the button of his waistband.

His heart lurches at the disclosure, brazen in all its laid bare inelegance. “All I could think about was getting back to you,” he confides. “All I wanted was to be back here with you.”

Bodie’s lips crash against Marcus’s with unbridled force, the curve of her tongue licking and darting its way deeper into his mouth. The light blanket of night air ripples against their exposed skin as they hastily remove piece by piece of clothing until they’re laid bare against the strewn fabric. Bodie lies staring up at him, and Marcus somehow has the inkling of clarity left enough to pause and check in.

“Is this okay?” he pants.

“Stake your claim on your path forward, Marcus,” she purrs like it’s an invitation. “Leave your mark on what fate brought to you.”

All reason and restraint leaves his body at the call. His teeth graze and nip hungrily down her neck, across her chest, and tug at the hardened nubs he finds there all pert for his attention. Her body curves up from the ground to meet the wet slip of his mouth and rocks mindlessly when it connects with her sex.“I wanna taste you, I wanna taste you” is all she hears between greedy laps of his tongue. He ruts against the mounds of fabric laid about, desperate for any sort of friction after experiencing the high of her taste. Every little moan and gasp is a brush stroke in his portrait of her pleasure. He feeds off the taction and responsiveness, using those hues and depths of bliss to bring about the definitive, live rendering. A heavenly sound slithers up her throat when he slowly inserts two stacked fingers.

“I feel you. Christ you’re so wet,” he rasps. “Come on my fingers. I wanna feel it. C’mon, baby, come for me.”

She cries out under the careful movements of his mouth and fingers, the soft tufts of his hair gripped tight in her hands as she rides it out. His groans fill the air as he laps up each and every gush of arousal. She hauls him up to share another heated kiss, almost relishing in the taste of herself on his tongue.

Marcus breaks away first, pupils blown wide, with a small shiver running up his entire body. He knows going further is risky, and he knows, just like everything else about this moment, it’s driven entirely by raw connection and want. The feeling of finally having someone to pour himself into far too overwhelming to ignore, and there’s never been anything in his life that felt more right than everything in this moment.

“I don’t usual– I just– Can I….?” He trails off with a glance down at his thick length, bobbing heavily with every movement and demanding attention.

Bodie branches her legs out wider to make room for him – for the place he wishes to be buried in. “Please.”

He wastes no time notching himself at her entrance and slowly feeding his cock inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside. They groan in unison at the assimilation of their bodies merging into one synchronous entity. He’s rambling now, unable to stop the torrent of declarations and hopes and craving. Admitting to having already imagined pinning her down just like he is right now, legs pressed against her chest so he can drive deeper. Not hiding the multitudes of ways he wants to profess and display his affection for her.

Bodie responds in kind. Each kiss of his cockhead against the mouth of her womb punctuated with a rush of oaths and calls to freefall into one another. She clings to him like he holds her next breath. They sway and pitch in turn with heavy breaths and wanton cries of bliss released to the sky. Her lids are heavy with exertion when he brings her upright and back flush against his chest, both of their knees digging into the ground.

“I wanna fuck you slow,” he pants, gently rocking his hips against the swell of her ass. “Wanna feel this forever. Want to take my time with you.”

She grinds back onto him, meeting stroke for stroke, and hums contentedly. “You feel so good. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? You like when I make you feel good? You gonna let me make you feel good?”

“You always make me feel good,” she breathes.

He groans and rolls his hips faster, harder. She turns her head to kiss him, latching a hand onto his neck to hold him there. The momentum of his thrusts hastens and sends her to her hands and knees, and Marcus drapes himself across the plane of her back with an arm winding tight around her chest as he drives deeper. All the noises he imagined are nothing compared to the real thing. He can feel her getting closer, and he goads her on.

“There you go–there you go–yeah–let me have it–let me have it, baby.”

He sinks his teeth into the rounded skin on her shoulder and bares down as she moans and clenches around him. Her soft flesh pillows around his bite as the kick of his cock pulses against her walls. She cries out from the sting of his marking but leans into it all the same. Their bodies slump to the ground, still connected at the crux of her thighs, but it’s still not close enough for him.

They lay together in quiet content as their highs level off. He presses the wet of his lips to each little indentation he left, and he hopes they’ll be gone by morning. The guilt of having marked her so deeply – and the guilt of how much that turns him on – occupy his thoughts as he pays his penitence with each kiss. She interrupts his amends and turns to face him, a playful smirk emerging when he hisses at the last drag of her satiny clutches.

His half-lidded, nebulous expression is mirrored, and she can’t stop herself from seeking intimacy again by way of a kiss, which he readily returns. He cradles her to the sinuous line of his body, and it’s as though she was always meant to fit there. The night sky looks down on them as they struggle to not let sleep take them right then and there.

“We should really head back,” Bodie reluctantly points out.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Marcus agrees.

The task of dressing is much more appealing with one another’s help, and they do so until each is as put together as before they came up the hill. They walk hand in hand back toward the main buildings with easy, lulling conversation to pass the time. Marcus smiles ear to ear when Bodie asks a staff member to move his things to her room.

“Wow, moving in together already?” he jokes.

“I feel like it just makes things easier since we’re going to be planning the rest of our lives, you know?” she lobs back with a cheeky grin. “Logistics and all that.”

“So I guess tomorrow is the start of my new life, huh?” he half-teases, but the undercurrent of nerves still comes through.

“I think you knowing about it is new, but I’m pretty sure it was waiting here for you all along.”

And in that moment he wanted to tell her all the ways he adored her. Confess all the varieties of hope she instilled in him. Scream from the rooftops how much he loved her.

But there was no need to rush. Those things could wait, now that he had forever to say them.

This fic was my contribution to @perotovar's Frith Challenge where I received Marcus Pike x Idun. I don't even know where to start with how wild of a journey this fic was to write, and honestly idek if y'all would believe me if I told you lmao.

As always, thank you for reading and sharing!

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

[lectern-fullcauldron]

Season 6 minigames that you may or may not know that I very much enjoyed:

Boombox 2 by Tango - step into his flooded labyrinth arena with a redstone block floor. blow each other up

R.U.N by Iskall (modelled by Keralis) - put a diamond into the machine. RNG will decide if the doors open to a random, high paced game. There's a prize wheel!!

The RollerToaster by Joe Hills - if you make good enough animal sounds, you might survive the rollercoaster and get tickets for the 'fabulous' prizes (don't worry about the lava)

Sahara speedy pines raceway by rendog - formula one ice boat road race track that ren worked on for months. Ignore the doom guy suit debris on the finish line. That's unrelated

Ravager run by cubfan - charge through this ravager infested town to recover wool blocks at high speed

Undying by Xisuma - welcome to his series of rooms. You get a new totem in each room. Use them. Fastest wins

Diamond drop by scar - jump out of a plane and catch falling diamonds. Don't die of floor impact. You've got an elytra for a reason

False's quickdraw (as played by Truesymmetry) - one lives, one dies. Are you the fastest gunslinger on hermitcraft?

Jousting by Stress - ok so you get on a horse and then you get a trident. One of you will die. Try not to kill the horse

Mr Pumpkin by Stress and Iskall - it's a Halloween puzzle game!! Three games in one (in a pumpkin from false). How's your fishing, musicality and sliding? You'll need it

The mushroom casino by doc - put in a diamond to roll the dice. Who knows, you might get lucky? (Or not)

Phantom run by doc - there's phantoms in here. You'd BETTER run. Fastest wins

Guess whom by false - who said you can't build guess who in Minecraft?? Think again #jingled

The elytra course by grian - Ren's train line too slow for your high speed hermitcraft continent tour? Try grian's breakneck elytra course, now featuring extra bamboo courtesy of cub

Tag tower parkour by cub - oh you've been tagged? Unfortunate. Up the tower you go :))

Escape by Cleo - an escape room to earn grandpa's inheritance, from the mind of devious pirate captain Cleo

RGB by zed - he's just learned to launch blocks. It's time for you to learn to catch them!!

And so so many more. Honestly check out Hermit jingle land and the other season six attractions

[acornsandoaktrees]

Treat, please!! 🍬

tysm for the ask!!

i don't have time to write anything new yet so i wanted to pull from a wip within AaOT - but it was surprisingly hard to find something amongst them without even a pinch of angst 😭 so i had to dig a little deeper and pull from my sigriel fic, burning bridges

i'm still working on chapter 4; this is the first scene. the rest is... well, par for the course as far as my writing goes, it seems 😅

🔥

Sigrid regarded herself in the mirror. "I feel silly."

Smiling, Tauriel fastened the final latch on her bracers. "Nonsense. You look dashing."

The armour fit her measurements perfectly, plated gorget and pauldrons snug across her shoulders, leaving ample space to move under the quilted navy gambeson. Dale's new insignia of an arrow-pierced black dragon adorned her chest. Cloth tails swung by the sword at her side -- the same elven one, polished and shining gold in its scabbard.

If the armour felt clunky, it was only because Sigrid wasn't used to wearing anything like it. The closest thing she had ever known was a rusty mail shirt haunted by her ancestors. And that was far from close.

Her reflection frowned and brushed a hand over its gambeson, the fabric too rich for a girl from Lake Town.

"If you say so."

Fixing her sheathed daggers to her belt, Tauriel moved to stand beside her, and took in what the mirror showed.

"I do."

Nonetheless, anxiety swirled in Sigrid's stomach, and her pinched frown reflected it. Tauriel turned her by the shoulders and pulled her gently into her arms. Breathing in the fresh foreign pine scent the elf always carried, Sigrid set her chin on a joint between metal and cloth.

One hand folding through free springs of her hair, Tauriel pressed her lips to her brow and murmured, "You will do excellently."

Closing her eyes, Sigrid permitted herself a few moments more to soak in Tauriel's comfort. Then, inhaling deeply, she pulled away.

"Alright."

Moving around her, ever close, Tauriel stood at her back and placed her hands on Sigrid's shoulders. They made eye contact through the mirror.

"Ready?"

Their first official assignment as the Dale Guard: escorting King Bard on his diplomatic trip to Erebor. Dain owed him nothing but the comradery of battle, and the dwarves of Erebor had paid their debt in full. Beyond that stretched the realm of political friendship, something Sigrid was all too happy to leave in the hands of others.

She might've been thrust into the title of Princess, but that life was not hers. Nor was it Bard's, to be fair. Though he and his Council could handle the headaches if they wanted to.

Standing in front of the mirror, Sigrid decided this armour and these duties suited her much better than those of court.

"Ready."

Serving under this Captain was exactly where she wanted to be. Smile dimpled, Tauriel produced an olive ribbon from a pouch on her belt.

"For you," she said, in a whisper like wind over the hills, "my Lieutenant."

Sigrid watched in the mirror as the elf tied the ribbon below her right pauldron at the unarmoured hinge of her arm. Phantom roses bloomed upon her reflection's cheeks.

"I'll do my best."

"I know."

Trick or Treat my inbox

[queerofthedagger]

2, 7, 8 for the love fandom asks👀

Aeon!! <3 Thank youuu Imma be doing these for Merlin 👀💖

2: a headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like!

Elyan having magic! It kind of had to grow on me but now it makes SO much sense to me that it's more or less a thing in everything I write.

7: your favorite tropes to read/write/draw

Definitely magic reveals in this fandom I think, and generally canon era fics that have one small thing changed and things butterfly effect from there! Generally speaking, probably slow burn/mutual pining/angst (with a happy ending. mostly) <3

8: you hope more people will come to appreciate ___ (a ship, a trope, an episode, etc)

I'm always on the Ygraine agenda. Ygraine generally, Ygraine/Hunith as the rarest rare pair hill, Ygraine with some small amount of magic, Ygraine as the lingering phantom touch on Arthur that kept his heart a good one. I just think that Ygraine and I would LOVE for more people to join me <3

love your fandom asks

[whump-me]

Obscure: Chapter 18

Chapter 18 of Obscure, novel-length interrogation whump about a rebel leader who can erase memories with a thought, an interrogator who can see inside his subjects’ minds… and the connection they share that neither of them suspects.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the completed novel on Patreon

---

Kirill

The pine scent of the woods tickled Kirill’s nose. It smelled thick and almost spicy. Not like the stuff they sprayed out of a can in front of the Christmas shops every year in the malls. The trees stretched out dizzyingly high, seeming to converge to a single point at the top, far above Kirill’s head. Faint splotches of blue sky shone through the shadowy fuzz of the pine needles, which were so green they were almost black.

The needles only grew near the tops of the trees. It was like the trees had abandoned the older branches at the bottom, leaving them to die as the trees stretched ever higher, chasing the newer branches and pinning all their hopes on them. Kirill had never noticed that before. But then, he had never spent much time in the woods. His childhood had been all marshlands and meadows. He knew that now.

One of his girlfriends had been a hiker. Sandy, Shelley… he couldn’t remember her name now. Something that had some piece of nature in it. They had hiked every weekend, her patiently slowing her pace for his unpracticed legs. The woods hadn’t smelled oppressively spicy to him then, and the shadows hadn’t seemed so dark. The shade had been romantic as he pressed her against a tree to steal a kiss. The smell had felt like the headiness of new love. Because that was what love was—the happiness of becoming the embodiment of someone else’s secret dreams. A mirror of themselves. He had mirrored her until it hurt, and the pain had felt good.

There was nothing romantic about the woods today. It didn’t feel like pleasant dizziness and stolen kisses. It didn’t feel like home, either. Of course it didn’t. What had he expected?

He had been walking for two hours. Long enough for his absence at headquarters to be noticed. Two hours was long enough to get hopelessly lost. Long enough for someone to send the forest rangers after him if he didn’t come home. Not that anyone would know where to look for him. Camille would certainly never suspect that he had gone hiking. Like her, he liked his creature comforts too much.

He had followed the trail, or he thought he had. It wasn’t like the wide trails he had hiked with Sandy-or-Shelley, packed flat by dozens of weekend warriors and marked with reassuring colored triangles painted on the trees. This trail was a nearly imperceptible parting of the underbrush, a squiggly line of dirt painted through the fallen leaves by a slim brush wielded with a cautious hand.

Half the time, he hadn’t known whether he was following a trail he could see in front of him, or the map he had plucked from Elias’s memory. Either one could have led him wrong at any time over the past two hours. Maybe he had made a wrong turn in the first five minutes, and had spent the rest of the time following deer trails and phantoms.

Maybe he should give up and turn around in the hope of making it out of the woods by sundown. Assuming he could find his way back.

But as he turned, the smell of smoke caught his nose. He lifted his head and took a long sniff. He turned back around, toward the smell, toward the squiggling trail—or what he thought he was the trail. He kept walking.

The ground ahead of him swelled upward in a rise too mild to be a hill. The trail circled around to the right. And on the other side lay a cluster of cabins. He had seen these cabins in Elias’s memory. Only the details were different—a window broken and boarded up, laundry hanging on a line. Smoke rose from a chimney, even though it was too warm for a fire. Someone was cooking, maybe. There was no way they got electricity out here.

As he had the thought, the answer came to him from Elias’s memory, now his own—a wordless affirmation. Yes, they lived without electricity out here, aside from a single generator for emergencies. The answer came to him as swiftly and surely as if he had been here before. Would Elias’s memories always be so deep a part of him? Would he never be rid of them?

If only he could be rid of his own.

He took another deep breath, sucking in the mingled scents of pine and wood smoke. He closed his eyes. It still didn’t smell like home, unless he thought about the last time he had seen his home, when it had burned.

He didn’t know why he had thought it would.

Why had he come out here? He should have been back at headquarters, triumphantly striding into Ramachandra’s office with a thick folder full of everything Elias had given him. His proof of where his loyalties lay. Disappearing now, before passing on the information, would be one more suspicious mark on his record.

He had just wanted to see it first.

From the brief glimpse in Elias’s memory, he had imagined a place much like his own home. Even before he had regained the full memory of his childhood, the image had twanged some discordant string deep within him, prodded a bruise better left untouched. But now that he was here, he could see that he had been wrong.

It wasn’t just the sense of claustrophobia the tall and thick trees created, so different from the meadow that had stretched all the way to the end of the sky. There was no one outside. There were no voices calling out between houses, full of laughter or good-natured complaints. The sense of expansive joy, of family, had hung in the air back home, as thick as the smell of smoke was now. He had never known it was there until he had endured its absence.

These cabins sat like they had their knees pulled up to their chests and their arms wrapped around themselves. The whole place felt closed-off and tense, expecting the worst.

And it smelled like smoke. Like death.

Why had he expected something different? Because Elias had created it? He already knew from what Elias had told him that this place was nothing like his home. This was a temporary waystation only, even if temporary here was measured in years instead of days or weeks. When anyone left this place, their memories of it were obscured. It was safer that way.

Kirill had asked him, near the end, why he had never tried to recreate the place where they had grown up. Only he hadn’t worded it that way—Ramachandra would read the transcript, after all.

Elias had looked at him with dark and solemn eyes that reminded Kirill of Sammy, the father echoing the son this time instead of the other way around. All safe havens are temporary, he had said. It hurts less when you acknowledge that from the beginning.

This was no safe haven. Very soon, the people in those cabins would find that out. Whoever had lit that fire. Whoever had hung that laundry.

Kirill had no business being here.

He had a home. His home was headquarters. If he was so desperate for a place to belong, all he had to do was go to Ramachandra and tell her he was ready to give up his silly reluctance to take assignments involving Enhanced prisoners.

A door creaked open. Kirill jumped. He ducked quickly behind a thick pine tree. Pine sap smeared down the sleeve of his black suit jacket. It lay there like a slug’s trail, gleaming in the scanty light. He knew from his hikes with Sandy-or-Shelley that it would be nearly impossible to get out.

He peered around the trunk of the tree. A little boy spilled messily out from the door in a headlong run. Another boy followed, taller, slower, his steps more cautious.

One of the boys had dark, dark hair and dark, dark eyes. The other’s hair was white-blond, his eyes as pale as clear water. Then Kirill looked again, and both boys had ordinary light-brown hair. They were as similar as brothers. He wasn’t close enough to see their eyes.

The boys ran across the small clearing to another cabin. The quick-limbed one banged on the door; the taller one hung back. The door opened, and a round-cheeked woman with gray in her blond curls smiled down at them.

That string twanged again in that dark place inside Kirill, too deep for him to reach.

He didn’t hear what the woman said to the boys. Her smile was enough. That smile spoke of family, a family too big to be contained by a single house’s walls.

The smaller, quicker boy handed her something. Some kind of contraption built of sticks and leaves, about the size of his palm. The woman nodded and held it out in her upturned hand. She focused on it with unblinking eyes, and it sailed into the air. The leaves, transformed to wings, flapped slowly up and down.

The smaller boy clapped and cheered, but not like he was witnessing something out of the ordinary. This was simple childish happiness at witnessing a wonder so ordinary to him that he didn’t know he should be awed. The taller boy watched with a small, shy smile.

Then the taller boy jerked slightly, like he had heard a noise. His smile faded. A furrow appeared between his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder.

Straight toward the tree where Kirill was hiding.

Kirill froze. He held his breath. He did his best to still his thoughts, falling back into one of the old exercises from his training. The exercise had been meant as a challenge for the telepaths, forcing them to find a way around the rudimentary barriers in their classmates’ brains.

When Kirill looked again, the boy had turned back to the contraption, which now sailed through the air in lazy circles. But he wasn’t smiling anymore.

Kirill needed to get out of here. Before the boy or anyone else read his mind, and saw who he was and who he worked for. As quietly as he could, he turned and padded through the soft, half-rotten leaves. He didn’t allow himself another look.

He moved as quickly as he could without risking noise. His limbs were filled with a fierce, panicked energy—the sudden impulse to get as far away from this place as possible.

He didn’t belong here.

He had never even wanted to spend time with the other Enhanced in PERI. When his training had concluded, he had gratefully left the false pretense of community behind. He wasn’t like them. They shared no invisible bond. They had a genetic glitch in common, that was all.

It didn’t mean he owed them his loyalty. It didn’t make them family. He had no family.

As far as he had known then, she never had. The crayon silhouettes in his memory didn’t count.

But Elias had ripped the peace of amnesia from him. The cluster of cabins behind him wasn’t home, but it was the closest thing he had seen since his home had burned. Closer, certainly, than the false bonds of training—hardship and hard work substituting for friendship, even as competition drove intentional wedges between them.

When he looked at those cabins, he saw those two little boys… he remembered.

He had done far too much remembering already.

He was ready to forget.

He stumbled along the trail without seeing it. Somehow, his feet never veered far from the skinny squiggle of a path. The map from Elias’s memory was a more reliable guide than his own eyes.

The sounds of the boys’ voices disappeared. When Kirill looked over his shoulder, he saw nothing but the thick pines and the shadows between them.

Then a branch cracked behind him.

He went still. Maybe it was his own footsteps he had heard. But another crack came, closer this time. Then the sound of a deep-voiced man clearing his throat.

He had gotten too close, and waited too long to leave. They had spotted him.

What excuse would he give them? How much had they already seen in his thoughts? Was it worth trying to lie?

He sorted through the personas in his mind, like clothes hanging in a closet. But none of them fit right anymore. They hadn’t since his memories had come back. The memories had swelled his mind until all his usual personas were two sizes too small. If he tried to put one of them on, it would split at the seams. And what would come spilling out then? Maybe Max, whoever he was.

Kirill felt suddenly woozy, like he was coming out of one of Elias’s obscurings. But it was only his heart pounding too fast to do its job properly. His vision swam. His fingers tingled with the beginnings of numbness.

He didn’t move.

Should he try to make an excuse?

Should he come clean?

Should he warn them to run?

Whose side was he on? Why had he come here?

Just thinking of warning them proved Ramachandra’s suspicions correct, he supposed. Maybe just the fact that he had come here proved that. And after he had spent so long privately seething at her for questioning his loyalties. Sudden anger flooded him—his own anguish, not part of any act. At Ramachandra for not only harboring unreasonable suspicions all this time, but for being right. At Elias for waking up these memories. At himself, maybe, for coming here.

And for letting go of Elias’s hand that day thirty years ago.

At least the anger broke through his paralysis, allowing him to finally act. But he didn’t take off through the woods. He turned to face his pursuer, a warning on his lips.

The words died before they could make it out of his mouth.

In front of him stood a team of two dozen operatives. They wore white hazmat suits that covered everything, even their faces. Even someone who had stayed away from headquarters as religiously as Kirill could recognize a PERI team. Two full teams, it looked like. They were prepared to meet resistance.

Kirill thought about those two little boys. He smelled smoke—on the air and in his memory. His mouth went dry. He closed it without saying a word.

Then someone who wasn’t wearing one of those suits stepped out from the mass. Kirill’s mouth fell open again. It was Ramachandra.

As she met his eyes, her face was as expressionless as if they had been back in her office. If she was surprised to see him here, she gave no sign. He doubted she was capable of feeling surprise. Surprise, after all, was an emotion.

“Acting alone?” Her smooth voice held no tone of reproach, but he heard it anyway. “That’s not like you.”

He searched her face for something more dangerous than reproach. Some suspicion that she knew why he was out here—although that would mean she knew more about his motives that he himself did. But if she did, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Her face, as always, revealed nothing.

“I wanted to confirm the information I obtained from the prisoner for myself before passing it on to anyone else,” he said. “I thought it best not to put one of our teams at risk unnecessarily. This prisoner has proved to be more clever than I expected. He found a way around my abilities.” He didn’t elaborate. “I couldn’t be sure this—and everything else he gave me—wasn’t a trick.”

Lucky for Kirill, Ramachandra was easy to mirror. But it wasn’t as easy as it used to be. He felt himself swelling at the seams, feelings he didn’t have the practice to recognize spilling out around the edges. Feelings that had nothing to do with what Ramachandra needed him to be.

“Noble of you,” she said, her voice so smooth it could easily have been either sarcastic or entirely sincere. “However, I thought it prudent to act on the information as soon as possible, before his people had any more of a chance to run.”

“I didn’t give you the information yet.”

“The cameras were running. When I saw that your interrogation had concluded, I reviewed the recording myself. There’s no need for you to do anything further.”

A reward for a job well done, or a dismissal? “And you came personally,” Kirill said with a question in his voice.

“This has been a pet project of mine for years,” she said, “since long before I brought you in on it. I wanted to see the first and largest part of the operation come to fruition in person. Call it sentimentality.”

Kirill would have laughed if she had given any sign that it was meant as a joke. Ramachandra was the least sentimental person he knew.

“You, however,” she said, her expressionless eyes biting into his with the impersonality of a sterile blade, “don’t need to be here. I’ll have one of my people escort you back to headquarters.”

He looked away before he could stop himself. He was sure it only made him look more suspicious. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but this isn’t about sympathy for Elias and the others. Quite the opposite. I was looking out for our own—”

“Of course you weren’t showing sympathy,” Ramachandra interrupted. “Don’t waste my time with unnecessary explanations, Kirill. That isn’t like you, either.”

He realized his mouth was hanging slack, and closed it too late. “The last time we spoke—”

“That was before you took my advice and followed through on the threat you made to the prisoner,” Ramachandra said. “Despite your reluctance, you did what was necessary, and it worked. As a result, we now have what we need. Congratulations.”

Her pause seemed to demand a response. “Thank you,” he managed.

She answered with a slight nod, barely more than an incline of her chin. “We’ll take it from here,” she said. “Will you be needing that escort?” As she spoke, she was already turning her back on him.

He shook his head, but she wasn’t looking at him anymore. “No,” he said. “I can find my own way back.”

She gave another nod without turning around. Then she said something to the team, brisk and businesslike, too low for him to hear. He had been dismissed and forgotten in the same breath.

He stared at their backs and thought about the two little boys only a few minutes away. What would it take to stop that team?

More than he had. His powers were useless here, far from an interrogation room. Some Enhanced, like Elias’s son, were made for combat. He wasn’t one of them.

For once, he couldn’t be what was needed.

Anyway, what was he thinking? He had no reason to warn them. They weren’t his family. Any passing resemblance was a mirage; any genetic similarity was a fluke of biology.

If he had thought—ever so briefly—of warning them, he should be grateful that this team had shown up before he could follow through on that temptation.

He had made his choice thirty years ago. It was too late to change his mind now. It was too late for regrets.

Elias had made that clear. Even if he were to be tempted, Elias didn’t want him back. Elias was ready to bury Max and turn his back on Kirill. If that had been true before what Kirill had done to Sammy, it was doubly true now.

Kirill started down the path that would take him out of the woods. He didn’t follow his eyes. He followed the map Elias had put in his head.

Like all Elias’s memories, it was painfully sharp and mercilessly clear. Like all Elias’s memories, he suspected it would never leave him.

He didn’t look back. He knew what came next. He had seen it before.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[elizabethswitch]

May 5

"As the evening fell it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep in the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut throught the pine wood that seemed in the darkness to be closing in upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carries on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost- like clouds which among the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys." (Harker)

June 24

"I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window.Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial gamboling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. (Harker)

1 August

"Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian." (Log of the Demeter)

[kbirbpods]

I thought I was not going to need to make major updates to my letter by the time ITPE popped up but I discovered a few changes I'd like to make so here we are.

But! You can always take a peak at my previous letters to see my broader interests: Summer Swap '24 | Purimgifts ‘24 | ITPE '23

ITPE 2024 letter below the cut!

Fandoms & Characters I Would Love to Receive:

I am hoping to have my main gifter make me something from one of the following fandoms!

(1) Star Wars: I love so much Star Wars that to split it into subfandoms would make this post too long. I think it’s easiest to say this: I prefer Clone Wars, Rebels, Rogue One/Andor, anything about Jon Antilles, anything about Hevy & the Domino Squad, anything Ahsoka Tano, Mandalorian culture (including Din & Grogu content!), and Mando'a as a language.

My main ships are: Cody/Obi-Wan, Kallus/Zeb, Hevy/anyone (consensual), Finn/Poe or Finn/Poe/Rey, blackkat rarepairs (mainly Jon Antilles/anyone), Jon Antilles & Fay (platonic), Waxer/Boil, Fives/Echo, Kanan/Hera, Quinlan/Fox(/Jon), Quinlan/Obi-Wan(/Cody), & Fox/Bail/Breha [also Clone OC ships!!] My favorite characters are: Hevy, Fox, Cody, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Leia, Poe, Fives, Luke, Jon Antilles, Fay (Legends)

(2) Batfam/DC: I can be picky and yet not? Basically, I just prefer no inner-Batfam fics of the boys because I truly view them as brothers. Jason is my boy forever & always. My favorite ships are Jason Todd/Roy Harper(/Kori), Dick Grayson/Wally West, Harley/Ivy, Tim Drake/Kon, Tim/Bernard, Tim/Kon/Bernard, and Wally/Artemis from Young Justice. I am pretty knowledgeable about comics, too, and I keep up with the current runs of: Poison Ivy, Gotham City Sirens, & Red Hood: The Hill. This is the fandom that I specifically am obsessed with found family in. – I love exploring Alfred being the boys’ Grandpa and Bruce’s complex dadhood!

Honorable mention here to Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton/Jason Todd as a ship I love.

(3) DPxDC: I have been tentatively eyeing this crossover since last year's Pod-O-Ween but I was fully flung into it during the summer. It got me writing again! This fandom is so rich with potential regarding like... when you fling them into one another's timelines, meaning my ships go EVERYWHERE. Take one of my DC ships and put a character from Danny Phantom in it and you will probably find a ship I like. But I really love: Tim Drake/Danny Fenton, Danny Fenton/Jason Todd(/Roy Harper), Steph Brown/(Cass/)Sam Manson, Cassandra Cain/Sam Manson, Jazz Fenton/Barbara Gordon. I've podficced some Danny/Dick, too!! Like I said, it really depends when you cross the timelines over. As always, I will EAT UP genfic for this fandom!! I REALLY love the "demon twins" AUs, which are Danny & Damian as twins (or Danny as one of the Damian clones). So, yes... I love this so much.

(4) A RARE ASK: I am super into both Dragon Age & Mass Effect. The former is much easier to find fandom for and there are a lot of fics with blanket permission statements. For Dragon Age, DA:O is my favorite (especially Alistair) or any sort of Hawke!centric fics. But in April 2024 I became re-obsessed with Mass Effect & it has continued. My rare ask is for Mass Effect fics - specifically Shep/Garrus or Shep/Liara (or them as a triad). Or gen fic!! But I feel like I am on an island here lol

Other fandoms I like but are not on my "fandoms I prefer to receive this year for a main gift" list are in the linked old letters, if anyone is looking for treat ideas!

Things I Like, Regardless of Fandom:

THEMES: trans/nonbinary characters (extra points for neopronouns); gender exploration in general; found family (genfic or otherwise); angst with a happy ending; polyamory; good asexual or aromantic representation; genfic

TROPES: fix-it fics!! extra points for time travel or time loops in fix its; fake dating/marriage; mutual pining; soulmates (AU or just clearly soulmates); crack treated seriously; rivals-to-friends/lovers; oops only one bed; secret identities; CROSSOVERS!

AUs: soulmates soulmates soulmates; regency era (or any different era); modern AU; crossovers, provided i know the other fandom or the fic doesn’t require knowledge of the other fandom!; college/sport AU; fantasy/fae AUs

Star Wars AUs/Tropes (yes they need their own categories): force sensitive clones; Jon Antilles lives; [insert clone here] lives; Anakin doesn’t fall; Palpatine dies; Domino Squad Lives; "no Order-66"/"Order-66 happens differently"; force sensitive Leia; modern AUs; trans clones

PODFIC SPECIFIC: anything epistolary (texting/chat fics especially but letters and such are also fun to explore); including music / SFX if you’re comfortable; including bloopers if you have them/are comfortable exposing them

RATINGS: Contrary to popular belief I do not hate explicit fics so really any rating but I generally prefer G-M because I can be picky about what explicit content I’m absorbing.

Do Not Wants (triggers, squicks, please no):

major archive warnings (major character death is okay so long as it’s temporary and resolved or implied/referenced)

I really don’t like pregnancy, which includes MPREG (I like omegaverse dynamics minus that aspect) - kidfic is cool I just don’t want pregnancy as a theme & especially not graphic depictions of pregnancy or childbirth

suicide/self-harm “on screen” (mentions of past suicidal ideation/self harm are fine if not a flashback/graphic)

non-/dub-con or any depictions of rape (once again, recovery is okay if done well)

adult/minor relationships or relationships with unaddressed/starkly imbalanced power dynamics

any sort of poorly depicted mental health tropes (no BPD or other personality disorder bashing, no institutionalization, no “split personality” as a trope) - i really like explorations of PTSD/trauma but it has to be handled with fidelity and gentleness

I have a random trigger about cockroaches

as a note: I do not like slave!fic but acknowledge that the situation of the clones is, at it’s core, a form of slavery. so while i ask for slave!fic AUs to be fully avoided, I do appreciate fics that tackle that aspect of the Clone Wars series with tact, fidelity, and honesty.

Authors with BP that I love, as a starting point:

Flowerparrish, trixree, wanderingjedihistorian, hoebiwan, blackkat, cac0daemonia, elismor_aswell, SunsetsOverLA, friendoftheJabberwock, ziazippy5379, Rivulet027

Offering the following fandoms & ships:

Anything I listed above with any of the caveats! This would get really long if I repeated those again. THAT BEING SAID: I will create content for those fandoms even if it’s not one of my listed ships.

However I will not create podfic for the following ships: STAR WARS: Rey/Kylo, Leia/Luke, Rex/Ahsoka, Cody/Rex, any Master/Padawan relationship, or Palpatine/Anakin. BATFAM: inner!Batboys as mentioned, Joker/Harley, Bruce/any of the kids (including Dick, yes)

Other fandoms I will create content for:

(1) Ted Lasso: Roy/Keeley/Jamie, Ted/Trent, Roy/Keeley, and Jamie/Dani. Ted & Rebecca as platonic soulmates/besties in general. (2) The Locked Tomb: Gideon/Harrow, Cam & Pal, Gideon & Cam. + I really like fics where one or both of them are trans/nonbinary. Nona is my favorite character. Modern AUs. (3) ATLA: Zuko/Sokka, found family, gen fic. (4) All for the Game: Jean/Jeremy, Andrew/Neil, Renee/Allison, Andrew/Neil/Kevin. Gen fics around the Foxes or Trojans, too! (5) Marvel/MCU: Steve/Bucky, Clint/Bucky, Kate Bishop/America Chavez, and Spideypool (as long as they’re both adults). (6) Stranger Things: Steve & Robin, Steve/Eddie, Robin/Chrissy, Chrissy & Eddie, Chrissy/Eddie

[fictional-actors-bracket]

Matchups round 1

The round 1A will release 15th of May, at 5pm GMT. Next quarter will start at the end of the previous one.

Round 1A

LilyMu, Kappa Mikey vs Wacky Delly, Rocko's Modern Life

The Fatheads, Rocko's Modern Life vs Romeo and Jules, Degrassi

Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Musical, Scott Pilgrim Takes Off vs Last Planet, A3!

No Dames, Hail, Caesar vs I Want To Be Your Canary, Final Fantasy IX

Nocturnality, A3! vs The Bloodening, The Simpsons

Rogers: The Musical, Hawkeye (TV) vs Spy Wars, Spy x Family

Barbeque Monologues, Nerdy Prudes Must Die vs The Duchess Approves, Gravity Falls

The Steel Samurai, Ace Attorney vs Darkwing Duck, Ducktales (2017)

Round 1B

Galaxy Quest, Galaxy Quest (1999) vs South. Hill. Prison, A3!

Single Female Lawyer, Futurama vs Crying Breakfast Friends, Steven Universe

Praying Mantis Joe, Zach Bell vs Kniroun, A3!

Nightless Night, Alan Wake 2 vs The Nice Man Giveth, The Simpsons

The Boy in the Iceberg, Avatar: The Last Airbender vs Starfarer, Lego Ninjago: Masters of Spinjitzu

The Grey Ghost, Batman: The Animated Series vs Don Juan Triumphant, Phantom of the Opera

Santa Claus is Goin to Highschool, Hatchettfield series vs McBain, The Simpsons

Dangeresque 1: Dangeresque Too?, Homestar Runner vs The Adventures of Herbert "Daring" Dashwood and his Ghoul Manservant Argyle, Fallout 3

Round 1C

Hello Megan!, Young Justice vs Kill it Before it Dies, Charmed

MacKenzie Falls, Sonny with a chance vs Komedie Brute, Six of Crows

Reptar, Rugrats vs Sort Cinderella, Fruits Basket

Bolt, Bolt vs Camp Pining Hearts, Steven Universe

Horse in a Bookcase, Phineas and Ferb vs Joker (Theatre performance), Dungeons and Daddies

The Most Lamentable Comedy, and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe, A Midsummer Nights Dream vs Hail, Ceasar! A Tale of the Christ, Hail, Caesar!

Where are my pants?, The Lego Movie vs Musical Husbands, Merrily We Roll Along

Night Springs, Alan Wake vs The Thunderbolt Adventure Hour, 101 Dalmatians

Round 1D

The Adventures of Nuktuk, Hero of the South, The Legend of Korra vs Asteroid City, Asteroid City

The Rusty Venture Show, The Venture Bros. vs Los Dias y las Noches de Monsigñor Martinez, King of the Hill

The Mousetrap, Hamlet vs The Trial of Captain Hook, Arrested Development

Ducktective, Gravity Falls vs All My Circuits, Futurama

Ponce de Leon, Seinfeld vs Everybody Loves Hypnotoad, Futurama

Grolton and Hovris, Don't Hug Me I'm Scared vs Romeo Battle Royale, Project Sekai

Mac and C.H.E.E.S.E, Friends vs Hannibal, The Phantom of the Opera

Omlette: The Musical, Something Rotten! vs Scarlet Mirror, A3!

[babygirlpoll]

The Babygirl Bracket

the bracket has finally arrived. it's a little awkward looking and doesn't work perfectly but i'm a tumblr blog i'm not putting that much effort in. thank you to everyone who made a submission!!

Round 1 voting will start some time later tomorrow (Monday May 1st)

List of match ups under the cut

Left side

Yennefer (The Witcher) vs Fox Mulder (X files)

Neptune (the actual planet) vs Tim Wright (Marble Hornets)

Victor Frankenstein vs James (Pokémon)

James Flint (Black Sails) vs Wonder Woman (DC)

Shawn Spencer (Psych) vs Cassian Andor (Star wars)

Shane (Stardew Valley) vs Daud (Dishonored)

Enderman (minecraft) vs Ethan Winters (Resident Evil)

Robin Buckley (Stranger things) vs Eleanor Shellstrop (the good place)

Peter B Parker (into the spiderverse) vs Max Brinly (the quarry)

Thorin Oakenshield (lord of the rings) vs Milo Thatch (atlantis)

Mr Krabs (spongebob) vs Ken (Barbie)

Miles Edgeworth (Ace Attorney) vs Erik (phantom of the opera)

Right side

Heinz Doofenshmirtz (Phineas and ferb) vs Crowley (good omens)

Hank Anderson (detroit become human) vs greg house (house md)

diego hargreeves (the umbrella academy) vs will graham (hannibal)

ford pines (gravity falls) vs dale Cooper (twin peaks)

aaron hotchner (criminal minds) vs ash williams (evil dead)

clark kent (DC) vs Roman roy (succession)

obi-wan kenobi (star wars) vs father paul hill (midnight mass)

the narrator (the stanley parable) vs james wilson (house md)

kristoff (frozen) vs kermit the frog (the muppets)

simon ghost riley (call of duty) vs waluigi (mario)

jimmy palmer (ncis) vs herbert west (reanimator)

yusuf al-kaysani (the old guard) vs richie tozier (IT)

[oh-no-another-idea]

Find the word tag

Combining words from @blind-the-winds and @k--havok together, thank you both for tagging me so long ago! Just found out I might have to get up early tomorrow and go out in the cold, and I’m taking it well (NOOOOOOOOO). 😫😭

Kind:

“Get up, you lazy ass,” she said loudly, her voice ringing in her ears. “Losing blood is no reason for that kind of mooching around.”

“Is all this exposed skin making you anxious?” [Antonio] asked, mock concerned and making no move to redress himself.

Eyes:

“Fynn?” Came a different voice from out of sight, accented and softer. Fynn’s entire expression shifted, and with a wry smile, Antonio stepped aside and let them in.

Lewis was nowhere to be seen, but that was to be expected. Perched on Antonio’s berth was a tall slender young woman with hair like corn silk and gray eyes just like Fynn’s. Next to her was a tall redhaired man and three tiny girls, all with their mother’s fair hair.

Glass:

They loitered on the bank steps, waiting, waiting. After nearly a quarter of an hour, Crowley appeared, hopping up the steps like an agitated rabbit. The boys ducked back behind one of the pillars, leaving Velia to act as lookout. It was a rubbish job, given that Velia was barely tall enough to see the top of the staircase, let alone what was going on behind the glass doors.

Kiss:

“I believe in paying the bills,” Paris muttered with a shrug. “I believe in the freedom to believe what you wish. I believe in safety for all, no matter who they are.”

Velia studied his back; the pleat at the collar of his suit jacket, the soft brown hair that kissed his neck. “And not yourself?”

Paris held open the next door and waited for her to pass. “I’ve never needed to do that to live, Ms. Greene.”

Sky:

“I’ve heard [the ghost train],” Lewis answered. “Late at night when I’m crossing the top, alone with the sky. Heard her mournful whistle, asking where her crew’s gone.”

Velia held her breath, uneasy. “Surely it was just the wind?”

“She’s all but phantom now,” Lewis went on, ignoring her. “They say she doesn’t need tracks, just goes where she pleases. Through mountains, hills, anything in her way. Her front is just cables now, like a giant squid swimming past, feeling for something to snatch and devour.”

No pressure tags for everyone, and also @albatris @avrablake @blueinkblot @papercutsunset @penspiration-writing -- your words are missing, pine, silver, sword, and steel 🎲

[ukdamo]

Tobermory Bay

John Douglas Sutherland Campbell

In the vapour and haze on the ocean,   Where the skies and the waters meet, There's a form that drifts, phantom-like, onward   As it follows the grey clouds' feet.

O'er the sea come the winds and the billows,   And they howl to the rocks, and they cry, They will bring them a wreck on the morrow,   Ere the joy of the tempest die.

The shade looming dark in the distance   Is naught but a galleon proud; And the spray has long battered her turrets,   And loosened each yard and each shroud;

But not on the surf-beaten islands,   Nor yet upon Morven's land, Does she drive, for her rudder, unshattered,   Is firm in the steersman's hand.

No mist wreath, no cloud, was the shadow   That moved on the height of the seas; Like a castle how steep are her bulwarks,   Her spars like a forest of trees!

She is safe from the gales for a season,   In the shelter and calm of the sound; A harbour named after the Virgin,   The "Well of Our Lady" she found.

She may rest in that haven, hill-girdled,   Near the shade of the woods on the shore, Where the hush of the forest is deepened   By the waterfall's song evermore.

How grandly her masts rise to heaven,   How glitters the blest Mary's form, High placed o'er the stern, and upholding   The Prince of our Peace through the storm!

Now waters their orisons murmur   As they fold her bright robes to their breast, Where they mirror the galleried windows,   And the flag and the face of the Blest.

Again with that sign and the banner   Of the gold and the crimson of Spain, Shall this ship front the foes of the Virgin,   And the English be chased from the Main.

Yes, again on the heretic Saxon   Her cannon shall thunder in scorn, Till in triumph through insolent England   Shall the Faith and King Philip be borne.

But the rows of dark mouths that have spoken   Defiance with sulphurous breath, Glisten black, stretching forth in the silence,   And in vain ask the presence of death.

Yes, repose and surcease of all hazard,   A truce to all war for a time! The cliffs and the pines only echo   The laugh of a sunnier clime.

And gaily the dark-visaged seamen   Quaff, cursing the mists and the rain; Gravely drinking from goblets of silver   Sits their chief, Don Fereija of Spain.

But the souls of the men to whose nostrils   Had risen the smoke of the fight, Soon tired of the shore and of slumber,   Soon yearned for the red battle light.

And courtesy fled from the weary,   From idleness arrogance grew; And all they received as a favour   They haughtily claimed as their due.

Then answered the Islesmen in anger,   "The food you demand as your own, By our people's free favour long given   Shall be bought by your gold now alone."

"Now, down with the savage's envoy,   Set sail and away on our track! Carthagena's sweet girls shall deride him,   And jeer the red locks on his back."

Below, in the dark narrow spaces,   The Islesman gropes, down in the hold; Unnoticed, and one among many;   What harm can his hatred unfold?

Swarm the men to the rigging, and swiftly   Shine clouds of white canvas, and clank The links of the anchor's great cable,   Creaks, trampled on deck, every plank:

Swings round the huge bowsprit, and slowly   With motion majestic and free, The galleon, vast, gilded, and mighty,   Passes on, passes forth, to the sea.

Her colours still paint all the ripples,   Repeated her banners all seem, Her sails, and her gold, and her cannon   Float on like a gorgeous dream.

Came a flash, and a roar, and a smoke-cloud   Rushed up, and spread far o'er the sky; Sank a wreck, black, and rugged, and blasted,   While the sound on the winds swept by.

And the mountains sent back the dull thunder   As though to all time they would tell The vengeance that pealed to the Heavens   From the Harbour of "Mary's Well."

[whitepolaris]

Phantom Indians Still Battle on Whitney Portal Road

Here, in the shadows of Mount Whitney in Lone Pine, lie the Alabama Hills, a range of red stand stone cliffs and crags often used as a backdrop for western movies. The setting is highly appropriate for Hollywood’s frontier epics. In the late 1860s, the region was torn apart by battles between white settlers and Paiute Indians. The army was called in and its camp in the Alabama Hills, at what is now Whitney Portal Road, was attacked by several times by the infuriated Native Americans.

In the 1960s, a woman living on the road, who had never heard of the region’s bloody history, was preparing dinner one evening when she heard gunfire coming from a nearby creek. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw a black man dressed as an Indian warrior. He glanced back at her for a moment, then shouldered his rifle and looking forward. Several Indian companions near him, crouching behind a fallen tree, fired their rifles and fell back to reload. 

The battle raged on for about fifteen minutes, yet not one bullet hit the woman’s house. Then, all of a sudden, the Indians disappeared and the air was silent. The woman rushed to her neighbors’ house with the story. They believed her, having heard similar stories about phantom skirmishes along the road. 

Records show that the spot where the Indians stood had witnessed countless ambushes and firefights between natives and the U.S. Army. As for the spectral black Indian, he was probably one of the many ex-slaves who had joined the native tribes, preferring their way of life to that of the “civilized” whites.