#i had fun with the dappled lighting lol

[that-g3-artist]

happy mermay! have some fish boys

(Buy me a coffee? Requests are open!)

[chaoticxrobotic]

Annd here’s another ficlet lol, based on a fun little ship between @shookethdev‘s SOA Y/N and @crazybookcat‘s Cursed Shoes Y/N. Started as a one-off crack ship, now unfortunately unironic and slowly rotting my brain. Sneakers. Every night I dream of sneakers.

Hanahaki Hospital

(Hanahaki disease: A fictional trope in which a person’s unrequited feelings bloom into flowers, choking them from the inside until their feelings are returned, forcibly removed, or until they perish.)

Hurt/Comfort, 2263 words. CW: Hospitalisation, talk of death, mild injury.

The sun is beating through the windows, the air is thrumming with the sound of distant birdsong, and Shoey is flinging themself down the hallway, leaving a trail of blood drips in their wake. They stagger down the ever-expanding corridor, holding themself upright against the colourful array of noticeboards and poster-lined walls that frame their path. Every few steps they pause, stagger, and almost fall to their knees as a fresh wave of agony punches them in the gut, reminding them of just how shredded and tender their insides are.

But they gather themselves and press forward. Blind determination fuels their body, turning each muscle into a tireless piston that drives them ever-onwards, past gasping nurses and quietly concerned receptionists. Neon lights blink at them as they pass, each one marking a branching passway through the endless network of the hospital. They ignore most of it. Only one stands out to them, a beacon that guides them through each confusing twist and turn:

Visitor Waiting Room.

It seems like both an eternity, and like no time at all when Shoey finally finds themselves on the visitor ward. The room is decorated in bright colours, with a children's playpen nestled in one corner. Magazines are strewn across the coffee table, right next to a carefully arranged vase filled with-

A wave of nausea rises up, and Shoey forces themself to turn away, breathing carefully through their mouth. Their eyes fall on a figure, curled in on themselves, sleeping despite the uncomfortable rigidness of the plastic waiting chair.

A familiar mop of curls frames a face that is forever etched into a terse frown. Black face mask pulled high over the bridge of their nose, beanie pulled firmly down until it kisses their eyebrows. Their arms are crossed over their chest, defensively, even as they sag forwards slightly in sleep.

Shoey can feel their heart leap into their mouth, any lingering pain chased away by the surge of butterflies that tingle in their chest, spreading out until even their fingertips begin to tingle.

"Afty," they breathe.

A tentative step, then another, treading so lightly. As if the slightest vibration might unsettle this miraculous mirage, shaking Shoey from their own slumber. Might force them to wake up from this glorious dream, leave them stranded in whatever unfortunate reality was waiting for them.

Because this had to be a dream, didn't it? There was no way Aftyn would have come for them, would have been content to wait patiently in this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by people, and bright lights, and screaming children, and-

And they were holding one of Shoey's boots in their hands. Clutched tightly, as if they couldn't bear to lose it. As if it were an anchor, keeping them weighed down.

Shoey can feel their heartbeat pounding away in their ears, as if trying to convince them that this was no mere illusion. Each breath snags in their lungs. They pass a shaking hand through their hair, a small movement that might help this feel like less of a dream.

And then a sob leaves their throat, tense and tight and hopeful, as they stagger forwards. Stopping just a few inches away from Aftyn, they reach out with a trembling hand. Gently, oh, so painfully gently, fingertips crest over the soft curve of their cheek. The skin there feels warm, as if it held a piece of the sunlight that shone determinedly outside, casting the room in a golden haze. It dapples across Aftyn's face, making them glow softly. Like some kind of sombre angel.

Shoey lets out a strangled laugh, throat bobbing around the lump that is quickly forming. It's getting harder to drink in Aftyn's features, now that their eyes are growing clouded with tears. But their fingers are content to map out their face, already tracing softly over the bridge of their nose. Then, they dart to coil a few strands of hair around each digit, marvelling at how springy and soft and alive each curl feels.

When they finally pull their hand away, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill molten hot over their cheeks, they find Aftyn's eyes boring into theirs.

Neither of them dare to speak for a moment. It all feels so fragile, this closeness: As if the entire world were spun glass, fragile and beautiful, and the slightest wrong word would shatter it all over again.

Aftyn's eyes are lingering on their face, steel-grey eyes pausing to drink in every detail, to imbibe themself on each slight contour and curve of their form. The muscles of their face are quivering, cheeks twitching minutely as if they wish to say something. To ask what they were doing out of bed, perhaps, still clad in their hospital gown and leaving a hansel-and-gretel trail of bloodstains behind them.

Instead, Shoey breaks the silence first.

"Hey, stranger.”

As their surprise visitor sits up, blinking the uneasy sleep from their eyes, Shoey traced their tongue over shaking lips. Each word felt like a concentrated effort, so at odds with their normally easy, rambling way of speaking.

“This isn't a dream, is it? Because that would suck pretty hard, considering everything that just happened." Their hand reaches out again, unable to resist, as it gently cups Aftyn's face.

Afty allows it, shockingly. Their only protest is their urge to look away, eyes instead pretending to examine the dental hygiene display board that lurks to the right of them. Shoey silently files the uncharacteristic lack of resistance as another point in the "This Isn't Real" column.

Shoey feels their jaw shift as they swallow, brushing their thumb over where the edge of the mask meets the edge of their skin. Tenderly, they tilt Aftyn's head to one side, then the other, as if weighing up every feature. Looking for any discrepancies that would prove all of this to be a cruel facade.

Hesitant, cautious, aware of how they hold their heart exposed in their hands, Aftyn speaks.

"I wasn't sure when you would wake up. If you would wake up. The doctors- They said visitation was for family only, even though I tried to tell them that... You know."

"That my entire family is six feet under?" Shoey chuckles weakly, going to move their hand away. "Don't worry, I'll plead our case. Doubt they'll be able to argue when they see my-"

A hand closes around Shoey's wrist, holding them fast. Incrementally, as if on the verge of reconsidering, Aftyn tilts their head and presses it into their palm. They stay still, blinking quickly with shadowed eyes. Shoey notes the bags that have formed underneath their eyes, so heavy that they more closely resemble suitcases. How long have they been out for? How many naps has Aftyn been forced to take in this chair, hunched over and struggling to filter out the hustle and bustle and brightness of the hospital?

Even fifteen minutes here is enough to make Shoey feel nauseated, the stench of disinfectant and desperation filling their nose and causing their stomach to flip inside out. The forced joyfulness of the decor only serves to highlight how morose the place is, people pacing anxiously as they wait for the news that could change their life completely, for better or for worse.

And yet… Aftyn has stayed. For them. Alone, mired in uncertainty, watching the hands of the clock tick along with each agonising second. Losing hours of precious sleep and study time, just to make sure they were okay. Shoey swallows thickly, lost for words. It feels unusual, to search their mind for a quip or tease, only to find it empty.

"Did you rip your IV out-? You know how dangerous that is, don't you? If you were in that much of a rush to get out, you should have called a nurse. That's what the call button is for... Idiot."

Aftyn's words are familiar in their roughness. Almost comfortingly so. Their tone, however, is less of a growl and more of a chiding rumble. Steel coated in velvet. It leaves Shoey wrong-footed, caught between elation and wariness. Unsure of how to take this new Afty.

"I had to see you. I had to know what had happened, if you were- If I'd scared you. I didn't want you to see me like that, sweet bean.." They laugh hollowly, their free hand moving to clasp the back of their neck. Nervous fingers skating over numbed skin. Their feet, feeling naked without the comforting weight of their shoes, shift and rub against one another.

Aftyn shifts slightly, the grip on their wrist adjusting. Their hand cups the back of Shoey's, fingers interlacing with theirs. The closest thing to pda they can manage. Shoey flushes with pleasure, some colour gradually seeping back into their cheeks.

"Well, I'm here. Clearly. You should have waited - I'm not going anywhere."

"You- Really? You promise?" The words stumble out of Shoey's mouth in an uncertain rush, as if entirely unable to believe it. "Not even after I- With the- And you saw me, covered in the..?"

Aftyn's gaze flickers from Shoey's hopeful, spreading smile, to the vase of flowers that have begun to droop on the table. A single white petal trembles and then falls from the head in a slow, drifting arc. Gently, it rests on the tabletop with a shivering sigh. Aftyn sighs with it. Their eyes turn back to Shoey's.

"Back then, in your apartment-" Flashes of that awful night appear in their mind, of finding Shoey all alone, engulfed in a forest of their own misery. Suffocating in succulents and fighting for breath amongst the flowers. How they had cried, then, tears mingling with flowing blood until they streaked crimson. Every time they close their eyes, Aftyn is back there. In that room. Holding Shoey close, prickling their hands on the endless sea of thorns, and feeling each shuddering, struggling breath go ever weaker.

In their dreams, Shoey would crumble to mulch in their hands. Leaving only stains.

In reality, Aftyn grips them tighter. Their flesh stays firm and warm, and wonderfully alive.  

"In your apartment," they try again, turning their head minutely so Shoey's knuckles can brush over mask-covered lips. A kiss steeped in plausible deniability. It was a start. "I made a promise to you, then. A bargain. I wouldn't leave you, if you didn't leave me." Their eyes are half-lowered, uncertain. Unable to hold Shoey's own. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," Shoey breathes. Every inch of skin that Aftyn touches seems to come alive, tiny fireworks bursting in each little cell. It’s almost overwhelming, and they feel their toes curl against the cold tile. "I remember. I'm just surprised, I guess. That you wanted me to stay."

At Aftyn's disbelieving glance, they chuckle breathily. "I know I'm too much for you, beanstalk. Even when I tried to water myself down, I was too intense. Obnoxious. Overwhelming. You'd said it yourself: You guess you didn't hate being around me. You guess you could tolerate me."

Shoey can hear Aftyn saying their name, buzzy and faint, but they’re too mired in their own doubt to pay too much attention. Yes, Afty was here - but it would take a monster not to be concerned by someone who was willing to perish from their own self-pity and stubbornness. They were a good person. They would stay, just long enough to ensure Shoey didn't end up putting their life in peril again, and then they would sneak out of their lives once more. As stealthy and silent as an assassin.

"I don't blame you, spitfire. I'm just happy you tolerated me for that long." They can feel that sickenly-familiar stirring in their guts, something pushing a slow path throw weakened organs, seeking to claim territory briefly lost. "It's fine if you leave. I'm a tough bean, I can handle it. You don't need to stick around for me."

"Shoey-"

"I don't want you losing sleep over this, Afty. I don't want you to throw your study time away, sitting in this awful chair and feeling your spine give out on you. You have to focus on your classes, right?"

"Shoey."

"I mean, who would want me, right-?" They chuckle shakily, hands moving to card through their hair, tugging fiercely at the short strands. In the corner of their eye, something shifts, chair scraping across the floor. They pay it no heed. "I'm- I'm constantly in people's space, I steal shoes just to 'improve' them, and the beans! Afty, how could you ever love someone who's so obsessed with bea-"

Their rapid spiral into uncertaintly is cut off by sudden pressure, arms moving around them to pull them close against a firm, steady body. Aftyn holds them fast in a hug, each muscle tense, face set in a grimace as they try to ignore just how unnatural it feels to initiate such a physical display of affection. The difference in height means that Aftyn's mouth is pressed against the crook of Shoey's neck, their fierce growl rumbling right through their body.

"Do you really think I'd go through all this out of pity? I'm here because I care about you, you idiot-" Their arms squeeze them a little tighter, as if terrified Shoey might fall apart without the pressure holding them together. "So get that through your thick skull, before you go and try to die on me again."

It’s the closest Aftyn could get to saying I love you. Shoey circles aching arms around them, mindful of the blood still oozing from protesting wounds. They can feel Aftyn's heart thrumming against their own, steady and refreshingly alive. The twisting remnants of vine still in their gut, then recede, and finally began to die.

It was going to be okay. They were going to be okay.

[identityarchitect]

4, 7 or 38 for any of ur RW ocs 👀👀 and if u want to, A >:3

How easy is it to earn their trust?

ill just answer for the equinox local group, if i went thru all my ocs we'd be here forever lol

no peaceful ending - precollapse decently easy. post collapse basically impossible unless she knew you before

fibres of silence - not necessarily difficult, but they have a good sense for bullshit

glowing wind between speckled trees - not easy or difficult. altho she's not very social (doesnt talk one on one very often) so there's not a huge amount of opportunities to gain her trust

dappled light over decaying leaves - same as w/ wind

hallows of fate, damned - im honestly not sure he lets himself trust anyone (because of his whole religious guilt thing).

awakening winter - if you work with him on the solution he'll trust you, but its easy to break it, especially if he suspects you're going to try and stop him

What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

for all of them i'd say anything that relates to when the ancients were alive.

pre-collapse peace is probably indifferent to nostalgia, post-collapse she despises it (because she hates the ancients).

silence probably also dislikes the ancients, so similarly dislikes nostalgia.

wind doesn't like nostalgia, because she prefered it when the ancients were alive, and wishes they were still around.

light enjoys nostalgia. i think she's probably quite interested in ancient culture, so being nostalgic is fun.

fate absolutely doesn't like nostalgia. it triggers her guilt to hell and back, being a reminder of how she failed her citizens.

winter doesn't care for nostalgia. dwelling on his creators is a useless distraction from finding the solution.

What memory do they revisit the most often?

pre-collapse peace, she probably thinks about talking to wind and light. i dont know if they got together but if they did, that's what she'd think about.

post collapse peace would spend a lot of time going over her interactions with winter to try and figure out the tipping point, but i think she thinks about talking to her citizens in the void a lot. the way they were so happy, so calm, and she and her kind were made just to suffer.

silence - their last conversation with peace before she shut off communications. wishing they knew what to say to get her to stop.

wind - probably any conversation she had with her citizens about tea, or overseer footage of peace's can collapsing.

light - probably also overseer footage of peace's can collapsing.

fate - its mistake. trying to find any possible way he could've stopped it, or some days trying to rationalise away any way it could be anything but his fault.

winter - peace's final communication with him. she travelled to the local communications array (which had survived her collapse) and sent a message to him, that she was coming. he's unconcerned, mainly because worrying about it would get in the way of finding the solution before peace shows up to destroy him.

a) Why are you excited about this character?

i like all the angst potential. i also like playing around with different opinions of the solution, which is really fun and has ended up being basically the main thing with this group

(ask game here)

[cayennecrush]

YEEEEE i mentioned doing some lighting practice a couple days ago so here they are!!

i had a ton of fun with these but also like, excellent practice so 👌✨

[linksthoughtbrambles]

My official ask submission lol:

As the village seer, you peer into the mystical to give the villagers sage wisdom from beyond. The problem is, you're not magical, you're just smart and you live in an exceptionally dumb village

A bit nsfw.

Half-Right

Zelda watches him walk into the clearing, sunset-orange light dappling against him sideways as he swallows a tremulous breath, lowering himself to sit on his heels, hands open, palm-up in his lap and head bowed in uncertain offering, and a pang of sympathetic guilt spears its way out her chest—she'd let this situation get out of hand, a flippant remark ("Link has caught the eye of a powerful creature and may soon be devoured"—honestly, no one had the brains to understand Zelda was capable of both physical attraction and sarcasm?!) turning into many questions hurriedly answered to the point that the entire village became convinced Link's inescapable fate was to be eaten by some monster in these woods at sunset; she hadn't meant to frighten him, truly, and she's a bit surprised he is frightened considering he's the one villager who always seems smart enough to be on to her (she had, after all, predicted the eclipse via mathematics, not mystical future-sight, just as she'd predicted what years would bring high populations of mosquitoes, ticks, biting flies, and other pests to name a few things).

It isn't her fault she has a functional mind—she simply sees things, and no one else seems to (except Link, who squints at her suspiciously every single time, and the older they'd become the more heated she'd grown under that piercing blue gaze, especially when, like today, he went shirtless in hot weather)—but it is her fault Link's kneeling there trying to even out shaking breaths, and she makes up her mind, stepping toward him with a rustle that snaps his head up, his eyes widening first in fright and then in something unnamed; when she reaches him, she opens her mouth to apologize but lets out a gasped "oh!" instead as he pulls her suddenly into his lap, legs on either side of his, and all the heat she'd felt with each of his stares slams her gut hard.

"I hoped it would be you," Link whispers, his lips feathering over hers as she begins shaking as violently as him, that heat moving directly to where her lap meets his, realizing her so-called-future-sight has been blind where he's concerned, for his trembling isn't a sign of fear but of anticipation and desire—her hands thread through his soft hair and explore the definition of muscle along his shoulders as she presses her open mouth to his, as he probes hers then pulls back to bite his way to her ear where he says, "You were wrong this time, Zelda," leaving her wondering for just a moment, his breath fluctuating against her skin before finishing, "you're the one who'll be devoured"; he lays her back and begins making quick work of her body in a line from her ear down her torso's center, and as he reaches his goal her last glimmer of logical thought is how very, very pleased she is, just this once, to have only been half-right—she'll correct him later.

-----

[Thank you so much for the fun ask, Deilia!!]

[melk917]

Weird writer questions (randomized)

3,8,12,28,32,

Ahhh this took me a bit because I had to think through all the quotes I wanted to include, haha.

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

To be most successful I feel like I have to do it first thing in the morning on just coffee. Some times yes to music (but it has to be the perfect vibe for the story), other times silent. And I really need to turn off all sorts of chat type things.

OR

That like.... middle of the night clarity sort of writing when the rest of the world is asleep and you just hit a flow.

They're all cursed because I am 1. not a morning person, so wtf how does that work??? and 2. hitting a flow is great but then its 4am and I have a 9am meeting I have to be human for, lolol.

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

Ohhhh.... I would enjoy both, but dialogue I think? And just all filth, lol. Straight up dirty talk porn, I think.

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

The ability to mind dump the images and flow and dialogue and movie scenes I see in my head straight to the page without needing to type anything out.

The mental fortitude to finish things

Motivation. LOL

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

Ohhhhh, who is entirely mine???

Ok, well fanfic-wise, Ava, Rafa's cousin in the Full Ratchet universe, who no one has met yet because she's only in stuff I've planned. She's a ton of fun. And Mike McKinnon, the other ADA from The Full Ratchet, that she normally works with.

(Do dogs count? Because then also Junior & Socks from the Lawyer Club Sandwich w/Italian Sausage universe with @lannister-slings-and-arrows, too LOL)

From my own personal work? (stuff no one has ever seen and only lives in my head, LOL), Gustav, who pretends to be the main character's uncle in this fantasy trilogy I have planned out. He takes her in after she just lands in the world and brings her with him to her life in the palace. But it turns out he is actually also from our world, he's just been there long enough that no one questions him. He's fun. He's a bit wild, throws huge parties, plays chess with the main male character/love interest.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

This is by no means the only quote from literature that I love, but one I think of often when I need to pump myself up is from Henry V: "We'll bend them to our awe, or break them all to pieces."

From fanfic? Listen. I can not even begin to say how obsessed I am with 29 Songs. I re-read it ALL the fucking time. The storytelling, and the incredibly well crafted emotions and build up. But there's two quotes I think about a lot:

From Chapter 11:

Sonny was about to push himself up into a sitting position to seize that smirking mouth once more, but Barba surprised him by swinging a leg over him and straddling high on his thighs. Sonny drank in the sight of him, beautiful in the dappled morning light, soft and naked and sumptuously formed. He wanted to touch him, to drag his hands along his body and take in the shape of him, to spit in his hand and palm their dicks together, to feel the slide of Barba's thick cock against his own. He wanted to grip his firm thighs and sink into his round, luscious ass. More than anything, he wanted to spend several sunlit days pressed against him, kissing him.

Like -- "soft and naked and sumptuously formed" GAHHH. And then after all that filth: "More than anything, he wanted to spend several sunlit days pressed against him, kissing him."

The contrast and the language. Fuck yes.

And from Chapter 15:

He had the absurd thought that fucking Rafael Barba was what Plato had imagined when he described leaving the cave.

I... I just. GOD can I not even tell you how much I fucking love this line. Like, the reference? It's just so good???? And then to use it like this in this context? God.

Like FUCK ME I wish I wrote like this. So big, massive shout out to that fic & it's author. They're a genius. Any Barisi fans who haven't read it need to immediately.

[penname-artist]

You know what while I’m looking at those horse AU designs-

- Cabbie most likely is a lot whiter than the design I gave him. He’s likely that kind of grey that grows lighter and lighter as he ages, and considering he’s, what...fuck I have no idea, “old”, let’s just call it what it is, he would be light enough that if he did have dapples they would be extremely faint. My gut tells me he would also be way stockier, likely Percheron or Shire (although I need to double check that Shires can be dappled, otherwise totally just going with Percheron). I’m keeping the short-cut mane and tail because that also makes a lot of sense, and if/when I redesign I’ll need to add scarring. Big boy’s been in some fights after all.

- Windlifter is probably a cross between an Appaloosa and a larger draft because otherwise he wouldn’t really be that tall. But I could see him being like an Appaloosa warmblood of some kind, I’ll have to see what’s out there in terms of what the coldblood breed is. I went with that dark brown-grey since horses aren’t, you know...green...but honestly I might change it to a bay. His hair is also easily the longest of the team members, they’ve probably never cut it but they might braid it up oftentimes (listen we are fully ignoring the fact that as a mounted rescue team their ruling is likely the same as mounted police because if that were the case none of them could be under 16hh, they had to be only geldings, and they would have to have their manes cut short. But I’m gonna have my fun, damn it). He probably also wears painted markings on his body.

- Blade was likely a television show horse before mounted rescue so he’s likely trained some otherwise “odd” things. If you’ve ever seen videos of actor horses, they teach some really interesting things to them like how to look out of control while also perfectly controlled, everything from head tossing to rearing and bucking to making a fake lunge at someone. (Note: not all TV horses are trained that way but the good ones are done right. Otherwise *cough cough* most horse trainers are fucking stupid *cough*) Not that those come in handy to his different line of work, but they’re probably still in there somewhere.

(I’ll make more observations later lol)

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 43- Remember

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Finding Mumbo isn’t the only challenge facing the hermits. They need to remind him who his family really is. 

_______________________________________

“....i….a….n….? Gri…..Grian!” Iskall’s voice, tainted with fear, breaks through the empty unconsciousness that gripped Grian. He winces, pain shooting through every nerve and muscle of his being, his heart aching and fingers numb. xB is hovering over him, bending water to ease the pain and electricity that still runs through his body. Jevin’s slime runs across the burns that lightning has left behind. In the air, a faint scent of burnt chicken permeates around Grian. 

He sits upright, terror ricocheting and intertwining with the pain in his body. Despite the horrible pain of electricity conducting through him, and the Forest of Memories using his proclivity for pain to drag him deeper into despair, his first worry is Mumbo lost in the woods.

Mumbo’s a city boy. He doesn’t know anything about the wild. Even if he’s just lost, he could fall down a ravine, or get caught in carnivorous vines, or hunted by a beast. But this isn’t any forest- this is the Forest of Memories, haunting him with his past, his fears. And haunting him with what just happened. 

But it’s not just that Mumbo is from the city. He also knows his best friend's brain will turn his memories, his thoughts, his actions against him. It couldn’t have been any other hermit, one that wasn’t so insecure about their position among the guild, their ability to be a mage. It had to be Mumbo, the newest, the most fearful. It attacked him knowing he saw himself as the weakest link. And it made him believe it, see it. 

“We have to go after that spoon.” Grian states, standing. He wobbles like a newborn shleep, falling to his knees. 

“Hold up, Grian. You literally just had 300 million volts use your body as a lightning rod, I know you’re the guild healer and all but you can’t go running after him.” Cleo holds him down, keeping him from trying to run off into the woods. “Grian stop! You can’t run off on your own, or the Hangman’s Playground will turn your thoughts against you. We’ll go together.” 

“How will we even know where he’s gone?” Keralis questions, reaching out to pet a shleep that had wandered into the clearing. The second the bug mage’s fingers sink into the galactic wool, red bolts of static zap him with a yelp. 

“I think he went that way.” BDubs points, seeing other shleep going to the east, static bolts of red energy dancing between swirls of starry fur. Zed is positively delighted to have the company of the shleep in the terrifying forest, and he makes sure to keep the ruminants spirits high to help with the sanity of the rest of the group. 

Iskall helps Grian to his feet, letting the angelic being rest lean on his shoulder, his friend stumbling along with the group. Joe casts a spell which enchants a compass that Wels had, pointing the direction of Mumbo. Though the poem rhyming ass with compass was a bit much. 

The longer they spend within the Forest of Memories, the longer it’s effects linger and worm their way through their defenses. Stress’s amulet shatters, breaking in a burst of darkness. Immediately, the memories of her life before the hermits flood back in. She ignores the laughter, the empty parties and emptier people, running forward and grabbing another amulet to protect herself. They’re all fighting off their own demons, but the knowledge that Mumbo may be fighting his alone keeps them moving forward. 

Ren tips his head up, sniffing the air and wagging his tail. “I smell a change in the air, I think we’re close.” 

“You can’t possibly smell Mumbo, he’s not that stinky.” Iskall jeers, pushing a copse of brambles out of the way. 

“It’s not Mumbo I smell- it’s his magic. It smells like ozone.” Ren disappears through the green foliage, though his tail gets stuck on the way out. He yanks it free a few times. 

“Why would magic smell like oz-” Iskall’s cut off when he gets his answer. A bolt of lightning burns the grass at his feet, red lightning branching and crackling through the sky. 

Grian let’s go of Iskall, stumbling forward. “Mumbo…” 

Hovering in the air, surrounded by bolts of lightning striking at random intervals and places, the multi-mage is lost within his own magic. A power surge, fully realized, and well beyond Mumbo’s control. He was alone, with no one to calm his fears, to help him reign in his magic. Mumbo’s eyes are open, though glowing and crackling with energy. His arms hang limp, his feet at least a meter off the ground. 

Mumbo’s in a power surge. TFC tries to step closer, but with every forward step any hermit takes, they’re forced to retreat two lest they be struck down like Grian was. He’s not even conscious enough to realize what he’s doing. And the surge is getting stronger. Lightning begins to burn the trees around them, setting the wood on fire. The shleep that were following Zed scatter, their wool turning a misty black. 

“He’s going to destroy everything!” Beef warns, jumping back and stomping out a fire started by the lightning. 

“He’s going to destroy himself!” Xisuma adds. “But how in the world are we going to get close enough to talk him down?” 

Iskall and Grian look at one another. They’re Mumbo’s best friends, if there’s anyone that could bring him back to reality, it’s Iskall and Grian. The architechs. Iskall casts his magic, his own radioactive iskallium negates the energy of Mumbo’s magic, and Grian wraps his arms around Iskall and flutters into the air, within shouting distance of Mumbo. He struggles with his wounds, but refuses to drop Iskall. At least, not this time. “Mumbo? Mumbo!” 

Grian’s shouts fall on deaf ears, the hollow form of Mumbo possessed only by magic. Iskall and Grian look at one another, then back at Mumbo. “Mumbo, look! Grian’s fine, it’s not the worst wound he’s ever gotten, you know that!” 

“Mumbo, I know you think we don’t want you.” Grian ducks, his hair standing on end as a bolt of lightning nearly hits him again. “But that’s not true! You’re a part of this family, you’re a hermit! We aren’t like other guilds, we aren’t like your parents were. I asked you to join us because you were fun, and unique, and different. That’s what this guild is for.” 

“You’re so strong Mumbo, because no matter how many times things don’t seem to work out, or your magic is just out of reach, you still keep trying! We all admire how no matter what happens, you still get right back up and try again. I mean, Grian and I have mega thrashed you before, and you just stand up and go for it again!” Iskall notices Mumbo’s eyes blink, and the loud roar of cracking lightning and thunderous roars begin to deafen. 

“Yeah, Mumbo we know you’re strong! You’ve beaten us before, and we’re two S-class mages! But we also understand your struggle. We see how hard you work.” Grian floats toward the ground, following as Mumbo’s feet touch down on the grass. Iskall kneels beside Mumbo, Grian wrapping his wings to coo and comfort all three. “Mumbo, we want you around. You are a hermit and you are a part of this family.” 

“You aren’t our weakest link, man. You’re our best friend.” Iskall breathes. He watches Mumbo blink once, then twice, and on the third time they can see his grey eyes once again. The last of the lightning fades away, Mumbo collapsing into his friends’ arms. 

“I’m so sorry, I hurt you.” Mumbo whimpers, turning his head. Embarrassed to look at Grian. He hurt his best friend. He could’ve killed all the others. 

“You know me, Mumbo.” Grian chuckles. “Nothing can keep me down for long.”

The other hermits join the architechs on the ground, reminding Mumbo how much he means to them. How he’s made their lives better, brighter, more fun. 

And the Forest of Memories can’t hurt them. 

The dark shadows lurking in the foliage instead show the dappled light of the sun through the trees. Rather than focusing on the negative, they see the light. Sunshine burns away the voices of those who wish to tear each hermit down. Doubtful family members, cruel guildmasters, even the voice of Magistrate Dolios himself is eradicated by the group’s sentimentality of each other. 

Instead, the Forest begins to play the best moments of their times together. Mumbo and Grian meeting, Team ZIT meeting TFC on the side of a road, the day Cleo beached her ship on an island that should never exist. Days spent basking in the sun, too hot to train, playing on the beach and in the waters of the Ashioll sea. Cheering on and betting during duels, but always there for both the winner and the loser. Training feeling more like play with the hermits, dinners are bright and happy even in the dark, the island flourishing with life during festivals as the hermits grow excited. Even when it rains, they can be the happiest days on the island. Huddling close to warm fires with mugs of cider, blankets wrapping around friends. Playing in the puddles, dancing in the rain, enjoying every second of their lives. 

They’re a family, though not by blood, but by choice. A family that nothing, not even the Hangman’s Playground, can tear apart.

[bangtanfancamp]

Into the Garden (JJK)

∴ masterlist

∴ series masterlist (part one of 2 )

∴ pairing: Jeon Jungkook x reader

∴ word count: 5k

∴ rating: pg-13

∴ genre: fluff, romance, strangers to lovers, dinner theater au? Lol

∴ warnings: none to speak of, eventual affection? sexual tension? Probable future make out sesh

∴ summary: It’s a Friday night out with your friends— a perfect opportunity to try out that mysterious new restaurant everybody’s talking about. Always game for new things and a good time, even you never expected to stumble upon the smart, incredibly handsome waiter you meet there who knows his flowers. Who knows where the night will take you now?

∴ vibey playlist that kept me company during writing

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“God, this place is gorgeous.” You gasped.

You felt yourself go still once you’d finally managed to push the heavy wooden doors open. Was it unreasonable to wish you lived in a restaurant if it looked like this? Because it was beautiful in here. Every corner was immaculately decorated- rich, emerald velvet in the waiting area, cognac wood floors, industrial light fixtures… each element carefully designed, but aged and warm, like maybe this place had been here forever, and you’d only just noticed it.

And the plants- there were plants everywhere, on every available surface. Shades of green wrapping and weaving around iron railing. Ivy crawling up the side of the exposed brick like nature was trying to take this luxurious place back for itself. You’d never seen anything quite like it.

This place was all anyone could talk about lately, but you’d never seen it first hand until tonight. It had been your coworker’s bright idea to get a bunch of the staff together and blow off some steam here this Friday night. She’d even wiggled her way into getting the company to pay for it by calling it a “team building experience,” a.k.a “let’s all get drunk together and moan about our problems on the boss’s dime.” You’d be skipping the alcohol tonight, but this place was a million years beyond your “guac at chipotle is a treat” personal budget and there was no way you were going to miss out on a free dinner here.

So far, no regrets as you wandered across the hardwood. You hadn’t even eaten any of the food yet, but it was already your new favorite place in the city on decor alone. And on top of that, you had something else to look forward to. Apparently, the hook here — not that it really needed one— was an upscale version of dinner and a mystery. You wondered how that was supposed to fit with this whole industrial utopia theme.

You hadn’t been to a restaurant that did a show with dinner since you saw Cinderella at a children’s dinner theater in eighth grade, but the shabby, primary colored castles of your memory clashed distinctly with the elegance of this place. The gaping imbalance made you chuckle. Sherlock dinner theater and artisanal hand glazed pottery seemed like an odd mix to you, but you were intrigued nonetheless, knowing you’d have fun whether the plot was brilliant or not.

After gawking an appropriate amount of time in the foyer, you realized you should probably check in for your group since you’d arrived first. Gliding through the Garden in search of the hostess booth, you found it hidden away beneath the shade of an almost prehistorically large fiddle leaf fig tree. You smiled up at the gargantuan plant, fingers tracing the edge of a leaf. If the millennial garden of Eden interior of the place hadn’t already been an indication, this alone reinforced what a miracle worker their main gardener must be.

Every fiddle leaf fig you’d ever owned had died many a gruesome death long before it ever even reached two feet, but this one almost brushed the exposed ceiling beams. You wished you could ask whoever was in charge here for some pointers, but they’d probably smell your plant mom failures on you from a mile away and decide not to waste their time. Plants just never seemed to like you back the way you loved them… oh well. That’s what plastic is for, you supposed.

Getting back to the task at hand, you leaned up on your toes to look for assistance, quickly noticing that the station was empty. Maybe they’re busy watering the crops, you chuckled to yourself wondering if this place really was pretentious enough to grow their own inventory-they certainly could- when you were suddenly greeted by the most stunningly handsome boy you’d ever seen.

“Hello, welcome to the Garden.” The living, breathing Adonis statue could speak apparently. You tried not to stare as he smiled back at you politely, his silky curls shagging about his face as he slid behind the hostess booth. Holy crap. Did they grow him in the back too?

He was beautiful- some undiscovered demigod with broad shoulders and a jawline so strong it could cut glass. He lifted his eyebrows pleasantly, waiting to assist. “I apologize for the wait—how may I be of service this evening?”

You couldn’t help the silly grin that spilled across your face when his wide chocolate eyes smiled your way.

“Um, Hi. I need a table for, lets see… 1,2,3,4...10 people I think?” You counted unashamedly on your fingers as the host’s lips quirked into a smile. “Oh! Actually, you know what? What am I doing—do you guys take reservations? My friend Beth might have called about us earlier?”

“Let me see…” The boy’s amused doe eyes drifted over a computer screen. You fiddled with the edges of a particularly plump succulent on the counter as you waited. “Here it is. Beth party of 10. Now usually when we have a group that big, we do offer the option of one of our private rooms. You guys would have your own separate narrative from whatever the main restaurant is doing….Would you be interested in that this evening?”

“Sure! Why not—that sounds amazing!” You answered, a bit too enthusiastically admittedly, but when his face lit up at your bubbliness, you found you couldn’t be bothered to feel embarrassed. Not when a boy who looked like that was looking at you that way, all soft around the edges. Will you be there? you wondered.

“Okay, then you’ll come right this way. Oh! And you’ll need this.” Dipping into a crystal bowl behind the counter, he fished out a crisp white piece of paper and slipped it into your hand, fingers brushing over yours as he did.

Something in your belly reacted sharply to the contact. Apparently, the electric crackle affected him too. His already round eyes widened, a nervous chuckle tumbling from his lips as your cheeks blossomed a warm, soft pink.

Suddenly, a ruckus erupted behind you, crashing into the tranquil silence. You turned over your shoulder to see your friends piling in the tall front door, laughing and smiling widely at you.

Tearing his eyes away from you with a self conscious gulp, the host cleared his throat before leading you all back past fountains, lush greenery and elaborate floral installations into yet another beautiful space. This room was just as intricate as the rest of the restaurant, with its warm terra cotta-colored walls dripping with ivy and orchids, lit with the dappled light of melting pillared candles piled atop the elaborate raw wood table spanning the length of the room.

As everyone happily clamored to find a seat along the banquet table, you noticed your friend, Erik, crashing along its opposite edge. Erik had been a football player in college, some defensive position you didn’t know the title of. He was a mammoth of a man, his blonde Nordic hair making him look like an off brand, out of shapeThor.

He paid little to no attention to where he threw his weight around like a puppy who didn’t yet know his size. So when he dropped himself onto the neatly slatted bench (gosh, every detail here was dripping in aesthetics) and promptly leaned against the wall, crushing the intricate orchid display, you couldn’t help but laugh. You heard the host’s strangled gasp and giggled at the beautiful boy's wide eyes as his horror-stricken face went pale across the room. Before he seemed to realize he was even doing it, his feet began to march across the floor to say something to your friend, until his politeness overtook him and he froze a few feet away. He grumbled to himself as your friend carelessly peeled himself off of the bench, annoyed complaining about something scratchy digging into his back. The host was positively fuming as irritation ticked in his jaw, but His big brown eyes betrayed his disappointment and downright bewilderment as the bedraggled orchids limped back into place.

“No.... They’re ruined. Now what am I supposed to display?”  You heard him attempt to mutter under his breath, but his anger seemed to make his volume louder than intended. He was so flustered—it was oddly...kind of adorable. You couldn’t help but laugh. You knew your friend had meant no harm. He was a sweet guy, but generally oblivious, so things like this seemed to happen a lot. Chuckling under your breath, you couldn’t help but notice the strain in the host’s angular jawline, not to mention how good he looked with his eyebrows furrowed like that. Intense. It made you want to kiss the creases to relax him. Man, this guy was really getting to you...

Maybe it’s time to have some fun, you thought.

Leaning over the edge of the bench, you whispered surreptitiously, “Hey, maybe you should consider wheatgrass instead.” You sent a quick wink in the host’s direction, a thick cloud of giggles falling from your lips. Lashes fluttering , the poor guy seemed startled by your comment. He had been so wrapped up in blinders over his restaurant being ruined that he hadn’t realized anyone had been watching the entire interaction. For a quick second, embarrassment flashed over his features. The sudden chagrin on his face as he nervously ruffled his hair softened him. The Greek god of a man suddenly a soft, flustered boy. He looked so... sweet.

The whole scene gave you the oddest urge to pinch his cheeks and tell him how cute he was. But just as fast as it had appeared, the innocence in his wide eyes was gone, his composure swiftly resettling itself as his shoulders rolled down, his posture lifting him back up to full height. His confidence was back, and so was a lopsided smile that you decided you quite liked. “Might not be the worst idea.... certainly less overhead,” he sighed resignedly, hands hanging low on his hips as the tick in his jaw loosened, replaced instead by the beginning of a smirk.

“Much less upkeep. Less horizontal space. Equal level of pretension. I see no downsides,” you shrugged nonchalantly. You felt your own smile bloom wider the longer your gazes stayed fixed on each other. His eyes were dazzling- coffee brown and deep- as they glittered back at you. “I’ll look into it...might be a solid option. Have,” he hesitated. “Have you been here before? I don’t think I’ve seen you... I get the feeling I would have remembered you.” His face was so soft and unguarded, his pretty mouth just a bit too open as he searched his memory for a glimpse of you. You pulled your lip between your teeth as your smile threatened to grow.

“No,” you shook your head, hair bouncing around you. “It’s my first time here. First time for all of us actually. Hence, my friends lack of good graces with your horticultural displays.” you offered an apologetic shrug.

“May my orchids rest in peace,” he sighed with a shake of his head. “Not your fault though. You guys, uh, celebrating something?” He was suddenly too close for a stranger, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“Oh, no. We just work in that massive upstart down the block. Kept hearing about the place, and Instagram kept hacking our feeds with ads for it so we finally caved. Figured we’d try it out. ” You waved across the table gesturing to everyone. There were all so deep in their own side conversations that no one seemed to pay any mind to you lingering oddly with the wait staff. “Glad to see the marketing is working out,” he chuckled. “Well...if it’s your first time, then you’ll need a proper guide through the story.” A glint of mischief sparkled deep in his chocolate eyes, and you felt something effervescent glitter up your spine in excitement. “I suppose we will.” With a bow from his hip and a nod, he turned on his heel with no explanation, leaving you to smile down at your menu like an idiot in his absence. Trying to read was pointless honestly. The letters might as well have been in Arabic as they swam across the page- you weren’t processing anything. Far too lost in a dreamy eyed splendor over the boy you’d just met until a bony elbow nudged its way between your ribs. “What was THAT all about?” Eileen’s eyebrows bounced with curiosity. “ I don’t know.” You answered honestly as your head shook. At this point, you were smiling so much your cheeks were beginning to hurt. “But my God, isn’t he CUTE?” You hid behind your hands. “Cute??” Eileen shoved you in the shoulder. “He’s not a corgi, y/n. He’s a grown man.” She bit her lip. “A GORGEOUS, full grown man....did you see him when he walked away? God, what a view.” You pressed your forehead into her shoulder and whimpered, “I knowww. His smile, those thighs, my god...and his butt. Did you see it? It’s better than mine.” You both fell into a fit of giggles.

“All I know is that if you don’t give him your number then he’s definitely getting mine tonight. Or anything else he’d like for that matter.” Your jaw fell open at her brazenness. “Hey! slow your roll. You can’t call dibs before I’ve even gotten his name!” you laughed.

“Then you better work fast, babe. Cuz butts like that don’t stay single for long.”  She tipped her head to the side matter of factly.

“Oh my gosh, shut up! You don’t know when he’ll come back. He might hear you.” You breathed.

“Let him. It’ll make my job easier.” She bit down seductively on her red straw. Swatting at her, you both giggled before back into the table’s office gossip.

Apparently, Elliot had shown up to the office wasted again today- either from getting trashed the night before or from getting sloshed the morning of, no one was quite sure at this point. Either way, everyone was annoyed as hell that he’d never get more than a slap on the wrist for it since his dad managed their branch. Nepotism still alive and well. Clearly.

Popping an entire potsticker in your mouth, your belly ached with laughter as Sean told you all how his assistant had accidentally walked in on two higher ups making out in the supply closet this morning and how traumatized the poor intern had been. He described in detail how the poor slob had still tried to get around them to get the extra printer paper, and what a mess the whole ordeal had been. He owed you a clean fifty bucks now.

With your keen eyes, you’d been the first person to be suspicious of them- you’d called it a solid month ago- and had put your money where your mouth was. You’d started the office pool that they were in fact a secret couple- a bet you’d clearly just won if Sean bleak expression was anything to go by. Lunch on him all week. Potstickers til i burst? Don’t mind if I do.

It had been a great evening, full of unwinding and bonding. So great, that you’d completely forgotten about the mystery element of the dinner. That is, until a crystalline voice spoke above you, snapping you to attention.

“Pardon me, everybody. But it’s time for the mystery of the evening to begin.”

Surprised, your eyes darted up to see the cute guy from earlier. He was standing right behind you. Your pulse spiked as he sent a smirk your way. What were you supposed to do with that? He was so close now that you could hear the fabric of his dress shirt rustle every time he shifted or gestured above you. With every movement, a burst of his scent surrounded you. It was something citrus, something fresh. A dizzy smile tugged at your lips as it enveloped you like a cloud. God, you wanted to bury your nose in it. You were such a sucker for a good smelling boy...

And this one was so in your personal space. Which should have been off putting, honestly. Especially since you’d barely known him for half an evening. It was a bold choice on his part, to get so close to you. It should have been a turn off. Should have. But it wasn’t. Instead, you found yourself almost vibrating with excitement at the proximity of him. Whatever this gravitational pull was around him, you were perfectly content to get pulled straight into it.

If you’d had the nerve to, he truly was close enough that if you tipped your body back just a few degrees you could’ve rested your head against his lean stomach if you’d wanted to… which, of course you did want to do… but you’d only just met him. So instead, you bit down to stifle your smile, eyes flicking over to Eileen who was just as giddy on your behalf.

God he’s so cute, you thought. Wait- is he still talking? Crap-focus, you scolded yourself, tuning back into his monologue.

“As everyone knows, we all have the same five senses. But what happens when we lose one? How does it affect our instincts? Our gut? How does it change the way we listen to each other?” he paced around the edges of the table, hands clasped behind his tailbone. It made his dress shirt bunch deliciously in all the right places, and you bit back a smile. It was getting harder and harder to hide your little infatuation.

“When each of you arrived,” he continued, “you were each given a character and a backstory- No one should know it but you- but only one of you received the card that said killer. Someone at this table has committed a murder, but who? Often, our eyes can deceive us, so as part of tonight’s story, your sight will be taken from you as you try to decipher the truth. Can you rely on your other senses, your hearing, your intuition to solve this case?” A few other waiters approached the table with baskets in hand before the room went dark- completely.

Not the “the lights are off but we can all still see” kind of dark. It was the “it's so black in here that you can feel it” kind of dark. The kind of complete nothingness you never get with the ambient glow of street lights and screens everywhere. It was heavy and consuming, the absoluteness of the suddenly inky black room.

Swirling your own fingers in front of your face, you saw absolutely nothing. Not even the glint of your own jewelry, and something fantastic bubbled up in you. This is going to be so fun. Your heart began to race in anticipation- you didn’t even know what for yet. You felt your knuckles wrap around the bench beneath you, bracing, waiting, holding your breath, wondering when the night would finally be-

Only to have your thoughts stop. Completely.

Each individual one of them halted in their tracks by the sudden contact of warm fingertips against your skin. The gentle press of a large set of hands melted into the tops of your shoulders, thumbs bracing on the back of your neck. It was him again, wasn’t it?

He squeezed once, tense and hesitant despite his obvious strength, like he wasn't sure touching you was the best idea, but he couldn’t back out now that he’d started. The delicacy of it left you buzzing. In the silence, the pads of his fingers sunk deeply into your skin, and your breath caught. You’d never been this grateful for off the shoulder clothing in your life.

“May I?” he asked, tone honeyed and sweet.

You realized he meant the blindfold you’d heard so much about before you came and nodded your head just once, tension sticking in your throat as you tried to swallow it down. It was only then that you realized he probably couldn’t see you in the darkness. You’d have to gather your wits enough to verbally respond. You hoped he wouldn’t catch the way the “yes” that left your lips was embarrassingly breathless.

You heard him hum in response, holding whatever was left of your breath as his fingertips slowly fell from the tops of your shoulders, dragging across the edges your sleeves like he was in no rush to let you go. It was a strange intimacy from a stranger, but to be honest, you didn’t want him to let go either.

Until, quick as a whisper, his warmth was gone, leaving you alone in the dark. The shift so abrupt that part of you wondered if you’d imagined the last thirty seconds. His lingering hands had fallen away so abruptly at the end. Where had he gone?

It all felt like a fever dream you’d cooked up, like your own subconscious was mocking you for wanting him so bad. For a second, you wondered if you should be concerned by how obviously attracted you were to him. Should you be ashamed by how quickly you welcomed his touch? By the way your traitorous body showed no intention of pushing him away? Maybe you should, but he didn’t give you the time to overthink it before he was beside you again.

“Jungkook.” He whispered, only loud enough for you to hear.

“What?” You breathed, face turning toward his sound in the blackness.

“That’s my name. Jungkook.” He repeated, his voice airy and soft. You hadn’t realized how beautiful his voice was until it was the only thing you had to focus on. You could feel that he was bent low, his chest just brushing the tops of your shoulders. You felt dizzy at the sensation of his warm breath ghosting over the shell of your ear as a cool satin ribbon was draped over your eyes.

“In case you were wondering.” He whispered, pulling the edges of the fabric into a soft bow as he dipped to the other side of your shoulders. “But I’ll also answer to ‘guy with the butt that’s better than yours’ if you prefer.” His breathy laugh filled your ears, and you could practically hear him smiling. “Oh god, you heard that?” the back of your hand smothered your mouth, a smile emerging even as you cringed.

“Oh absolutely. Acoustics are insane in this place. It was kind of nice though... I mean, how often do I get to hear such a pretty girl compliment me ?” You could feel the rush of blood practically crashing into your cheeks. You knew the whole world would see you blushing if the lights were on. “I’m out of witty comments for that one.” “Don’t smile. You’ll mess up the blindfold,” he warned, the endearing softness in his voice undermining his words. “I’ll try. Don’t think I can help it though.” A satisfied hum left Jungkook’s lips as he pulled away and went back to the task at hand.

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And just like that, the mystery began with Jungkook as the narrator and weaver of your tale.

Your group had been given a story set in feudal Japan. Clashing samurai, feuding houses, forbidden love- Your friends all got surprisingly into it, losing their normal voices into the adopted lilts and pitches of their newfound characters.

It really was incredible the nuances you caught when you focused on your hearing. Jin’s voice, for example, was far more nasal than you realized. He had a tendency to react dramatically any time someone pressed him for details- clearly signaling how close they were to the truth the more he tried to hide it. Lina’s expressionless monotone was nearly impossible to read on voice alone, but it made her all the more fun to try to figure out. Despite focusing on the story, you couldn’t help but notice that while Jungkook had the entire table to canvas as he narrated, he still stayed suspiciously close to your side the entire time- like he couldn’t help himself. His fingertips would brush the fabric of your blouse when he’d pass. His taut arms would graze the swing of your ponytail as he walked by. He had no mercy on the fragile hummingbird flitting with wild abandon in your chest at each of his actions. In fact, you could hear the distinct note of something that sounded an awful lot like laughter in his voice anytime he gave instructions to your character specifically. Smug son of a gun. Soon, the story unraveled as it was revealed that Jin had, in fact, been the murderer. He was jealous of Lina’s love for samurai Hoseok and had killed him in a drunken rage but tried to frame Bobby for the dishonorable act.

With the crime solved, the lights were turned back on, a fuzzy halo emerging around the edges of your vision as a staff member came behind each guest to remove their blindfold. You were unsurprised when you were met with a gentle waft of clean citrus as Jungkook appeared once again to help you with yours. The warm pads of his fingers grazed your cheeks when he removed the satin ribbon. It was so quick- it was so hard to tell if it had been on purpose- before his touch was gone again far too quickly for your liking. “I must say, you were particularly clever.” He offered softly as he stood behind you. You dropped your neck back to look up at him, eyes wide. “Anyone paying attention would have known that wasn’t Bobby’s blade work.” “Still, most people don’t catch it on their first time through the story.” He tipped his head matter of factly. “Maybe I just had a good guide,” You winked, tucking your chin back to normal when you saw a faint pink color his cheekbones. He cleared his throat before addressing the table. “You’ll find your individual checks have been placed in front of you, along with a complimentary dessert. Thank you for dining with us this evening. It has been our pleasure.”

He bowed at the waist as he gave his farewell, making his last words spoken dangerously close to your ear. Adrenaline spiked in your veins at his proximity for the thousandth time tonight. As he returned to full height, another man approached the table, this one taller, leaner than jungkook, with a smile so innocent and wide it could have belonged to a child.

“Good evening everyone! How was your experience with us tonight?” His voice. It boomed like a clap of thunder. It was oddly deep for someone who looked so young. Everyone at the table chattered with random superlatives about how amazing the night had been as the man's smile glowed brighter.

“I’m so glad to hear it!! You had a real treat tonight- guided by our finest story teller.” Pride swelling in his eyes, the man clapped an embarrassed Jungkook on the shoulder. “Such a shame it might be the last story he tells here.” The baritone lamented. “What am I supposed to do without my partner?” The man used his other hand to clutch at his chest dramatically, face scrunched in distress, as you felt your heart free fall into your shoes.

Last story? “Calm down, Taehyung. You make it sound like I’m dying.” Jungkook rolled his eyes and swatted at the man. “You might as well be!” Taehyung huffed. “He’s leaving us tomorrow to start his new life! Off galavanting in the mountains somewhere with flowers and goats. Leaving all his old, true friends behind.” He wrapped an arm around jungkook’s shoulder, dragging him against his will into a side hug jungkook vehemently tried to escape. “Quiet down, bro. You’re making a scene.” Jungkook balked, face pale at the unwanted attention.

He’s…. leaving? Your stomach took a swan dive. No. But I just met him. How... where was he going? Your eyes fell back to the table as you steadied yourself.

You’d been so excited about where this all might go. It was hard enough to accept that you’d already gotten this attached to him. Let alone invested enough to be this disappointed…..but, you’d felt something so strong around him. The kind of glittering spark you hadn’t felt with another person in a long time, if ever.

Every time his eyes had lingered on you or his body had brushed against yours, a supernova had ignited in your chest. You’d spent the whole night going mad with the electric possibility of him- just to what? Feel like a fool for being infatuated with a stranger? Look like the naive girl you were, pining over a daydream?

This was ridiculous. You shook your head at yourself. This boy didn’t owe you anything. He was a stranger two hours ago, he’d stay a stranger when you left twenty minutes from now. But no matter how you tried to convince yourself, your poor heart still felt sick about it all. He’d just seemed so— you don’t know, special. So magnetic. And You’d thought he’d felt the same pull bringing him to you too.

Because why else would he have flirted with you half the night? He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to lead you on if he knew it was going nowhere. An assumption you realized was a heck of a leap. You didn’t actually know anything about him, but somehow, something about that narrative just didn’t sit right with you. The look he’d had in his eyes each time he smiled at you tonight had seemed too sincere to be a lie. But from the way his loud friend was still talking, he made it sound like Jungkook was moving to the Alps.

So even if his sweet eyes had genuinely meant every smile tonight, was it really all for nothing? You knew the night was ending, and it was a long shot, but you’d really been holding out hope it might go somewhere beyond this. Apparently not. In an instant, he reappeared by your side, having broken free from the grip of his affectionate friend’s grasp. Jungkook dipped beside you once again as you stumbled to rearrange your now troubled features into something resembling disinterest.

“Hey, Sorry about that. But, I um, really do hope you have a great night. So your uh, your check is on the table.” His poise seemed a bit more rattled than before, but you were too glum to give it much notice.

You sent an out of focus glance in the ticket’s direction and nodded. He’d already told everyone that. Most of the table already had their debit cards out for their tickets. You didn’t know why he was bothering to mention it again when all you wanted to know was where he was going and if it was far.

“I um...didn’t get to catch your name earlier,” the smile he offered you was gentle, hopeful, as his wide brown eyes looked down at you. You felt yourself sigh withought meaning to. You’d have found the sheepish look in his eyes hopelessly adorable just a few minutes earlier, but now all it did was make your chest hurt. “Not a detail you need if you’re moving away though right?” You asked, a sadness creeping in your attempted smile. God, you weren’t fooling anyone. This was pathetic. His brows dipped at your response, confused by the shift in your demeanor. “I’m... I mean, i told you mine.” His gentle eyes tried to salvage the situation. The confidence he’d exuded all night was slipping away, a boyish vulnerability taking its place. There was no harm, you supposed. “Fair enough. It’s y/n.”  you conceded. “Y/n.” He repeated, like he was trying to make the shape a new habit for his mouth. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

The smile you gave him back was a limp, pitiful thing, but it was the best you could give. Half an hour ago, you definitely didn’t think him calling you pretty would have made you so sad. Compliments didn’t usually send you into a craving for solitude and halo top ice cream, but this one certainly did.

“Well, y/n, I may not be as far away as you think. Have a good night.” And with that he was gone.

Bummed, you looked over your shoulder as he disappeared into the kitchen. “Shoot. Well, that was a fast track to nowhere,” you sighed to Eileen, slouching in your seat. “I know. Bummer. Seemed like he liked you too.” Eileen commiserated. “Right? So it wasn’t just me? You could tell too?” “Oh, he was totally obvious about it! He  also gave you more ice cream than me. Shameless. Boy has no subtly.” You chuckled at her accusation, but sure enough, you did in fact have one scoop more ice cream in your jadeite bowl than the rest of your friends. This boy already knew the way to your heart.

“Still. Why act interested if you’re disappearing the next day?” You pouted. “Why show interest when he’s just a server you’ve never met before?” She asked pointedly, eyebrow arched as your eyes fell away. “People react when they feel something- and clearly you two were feeling something the entire night. His eyes didn’t leave you for a second....We don’t get to pick the timing of when we’re attracted to people, y/n. Nobody’s working with that kind of control.” Flopping onto her shoulder, you heaved a heavy sigh. “Again... you’re right. I just, I don’t know. There was just—something about him. He felt... special.” “He looked special in that outfit. Those buttons were crying.” She mockingly bit her lip as you swatted your napkin at her. “Eileen! Unhelpful! I’m aware.... I guess you just don’t always get to know where things could have gone.” You shrugged, wilting into her warmth. “I know, babe. Sorry.” She patted your head comfortingly.  You turned to your ice cream to heal the wound, accepting that beautiful Jungkook would just be a passing meeting and a quick deadend to nowhere. After polishing off your dessert, you pulled out your cash to at least leave him the memory of a good tip when your eyes caught on scribbled handwriting in the top corner of your receipt. Hey, I don’t normally do something like this, but there’s a place around the corner that stays open super late. Meet me for crappy coffee + good conversation at 11? -jungkook xxx-xxx-xxxx You choked on nothing as you processed what was going on.

“Eileen! Eileen!!” You grabbed at her sleeve. “What?? What is it?! Calm down.” She pried your clutching hands off her cropped leather jacket, brushing off any damage you’d done.

“He gave me his number!” You nearly shouted.

“What?” She almost spat out her cocktail.

“He gave me his number!!” You waved the receipt wildly in her face. “He invited me to coffee and gave me his number!!!” You squealed, shrieking at an octave usually reserved for wild piglets. “Shut up! No way!!!” “Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!” You rambled ecstatically. “But wait!” your face fell,“ we’re supposed to go out for drinks with everybody after.” “And? Is that a joke??? You see us every day! What are you doing talking to me?? Text him! Go meet your man, honey. I’ll cover for you.” She winked as she swung her purse over her shoulder. “Really?? I love you! I owe you!” You yelled as she made her way to the door. “Um, You really don’t, but I’ll never turn down a favor. Let me know how it goes. See you on Monday.” She waved back at you, flipping the platinum ends of her ebony hair over her shoulder. “Hey! Where’s y/n? Isn’t she coming with us,” Jin seemed to be the only one alarmed by your absence. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, dear. I’ll fill you in later.” She grabbed him by his shoulders and nudged him out the door frame. “Ooo, bulking up are we, Kim? Feeling solid these days.”

“Yes actually!” His face glowed. “I have been! But you know, muscle tone is 80% genetics anyway. You cant just make yourself handsome, you know.You have to be born this good looking to start with and work from there.”

She knew there was no quicker, sure fire way to get Jin off topic than to ask him about himself. Once that train had left the station, there was little hope if any of ever turning back.

Eileen really took one for the team there. “Call me” she mouthed back at you as they slipped off into the night. You chuckled to yourself at the scene, finally realizing the turn your own evening was about to take. You plugged his number into your phone and shot him a quick message. [10:35pm] Hey, how did you know I was always down for quality conversation? Moments later, your phone began to buzz. Jungkook [10:36pm] Just went with my gut ;)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[amymel86]

Please, please, please, PLEASE post anothe snippet

A little sneak peek please

Everything you write is amazing

asdkjshfhddfdfd!! Thank you so much, anon! Sending this message was so incredibly sweet and I really appreciate it!

I wasn’t sure what to share that I hadn’t already but as I’m currently working on the epilogue to Redamancy and I am just so weirded out that *I* am about to finish a long fic, I thought I’d share a bit of that on this fine sunday :) ...

Seven Years Later...

The morning filters through their curtains in dappling light. Jon blinks his eyes open to be met with his nose buried within a mass of copper silk. Sighing happily, He tightens his arm around his wife and begins to grow hard against the curve of her backside.

“You’re needed at the treehouse today,” she mumbles into her pillow. “So don’t get any funny ideas.”

Sansa had sold the apartment that Jon had fatefully rented from her when they’d first met. With that money, they saved Robb from having to carve out the ancient Stark lands to finance his Tree House Event Rooms. They bought the old Gamekeeper’s Cottage and both returned to living in the North, complete with little Melody of course.

“My idea isn’t particularly funny,” he tells her, voice a tad raspy as he grinds his erection into her ass. “But it is very fun though.”

Sansa giggles and arches back into him. “As tempting as that is, Mr Snow, my brother is the one who needs your energy today.”

Jon groans and rolls to his back, his hand slipping under the waistband of his boxers to grip himself and will his lust away. Impossible - what with her right beside him. He’ll never not want her.

She’s right though. He’s wanted early to help Robb set up for a wedding they’re hosting at the tree house. Their business is doing well and both Jon and Sansa can be found pitching in for the many bookings at Winterfell Events.

Rising, Jon manages to calm his libido while taking his morning shower. When he’s done, the thought of breakfast pulls at him as he descends the staircase. He expects to find his wife at the stove, but the sight that greets him is of her on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, carefully picking broken shards of glass from spilt milk.

“I’ve told them not to move,” she says, gesturing to the three children stood, barefoot in the kitchen.

“We were helping mummy make your favourite pancakes!” Melly says proudly.

“But Olly dropped the glass jug,” her sister, Rosie Lyanna  -hastily (and accidentally, although happily) conceived not long after her big sister’s birth- pipes up.

Olly has retreated to the corner, his face turned down and scarlet red.

“It was just an accident, Olly,” Sansa says as she mops up the milk with a tea towel. The boy says nothing, continuing to study his toes. Sansa exchanges a look with Jon.

Olly is their first foster child. He is eight and has been in the care system since he was four years old. His file says he is suspected to have learning difficulties that sets off his frustration which in turn leads to shows of anger. As far as Jon and Sansa can see, he’s very bright when he’s engaged, but so far not much has been done to help him.

Even though the boy has a head of dirty blonde hair and big, brown eyes, to say that Jon can see himself in Olly is a bit of an understatement.

His heart lurches just looking at the expression on his tucked down face – he remembers it well; expecting to hear the disappointment, the punishment.

“Be careful!” Sansa warns as Jon tip-toes over with socked feet. First, he picks up Rosie (named because of the authentic blue winter roses both he and Sansa had been determined to find and take to Old Nan and his mother’s grave. They had still been in her King’s Landing apartment at the time and the whole place had nearly been turned into a fragrant rose greenhouse with the amount of failed fake white ones they had dotted around the place. One of them had bloomed winter blue for the second time on the day they’d brought their second daughter back from the hospital.) Jon kisses her nose as he puts her down safely in the lounge area. She giggles, making her little ginger curls bounce. Jon goes back for Melody, swiping her up in his arms and making her shriek and laugh as he throws her down on the sofa.

Tiptoeing back into the kitchen, Jon approaches Olly. “Want me to lift you too, buddy?”

The boy shakes his head. “I’ll wait until she’s done,” he says, nodding his head toward Sansa.

“Ok,” Jon tells him. “We’ll wait together. You wanna sit on the kitchen counter?” he offers, holding his hands out ready to lift him up. Olly looks behind him at the counter and then tentatively back at Jon. He nods and allows himself to be lifted.

“He was really keen to help,” Sansa tells Jon after all had been tidied up and the children were occupied. Olly had retreated to the safety of his room. “But then he accidently dropped the measuring jug and it’s like he just shut down.”

Jon smiles softly at the worry in his wife’s eyes. He’s reminded of a hazy, whiskey-soaked night where she was picking up shards of shattered glass then too. He’d been so consumed with the thought that no one would ever give him a chance at love.

“Do you think we should give him his space or go and talk to him? I just wanted to hug him so much but I don’t think he’s ready for that,” Sansa says, worrying her lip.

And there she is. Jon’s heart swells in his chest.

Wrapping his arms around her, Jon gently kisses her cheek. “Let’s get the pancake ingredients out again and ask him if he wants to come and mix the batter.”

*Olly might get changed to an OC since I’m not 100% sure about invoking the memory of the show character lol He might become ‘Olyvar’ instead.

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: A Royal Screw Up

Author: @emmakoneko

For: @keisethsattic

Pairings/Characters: Hajime Hinata/Nagito Komaeda, A few background + mentioned SDR2 characters

Ratings/Warnings: G, None

Prompt: “They want to join the rest of the group but their vehicle breaks down, they’re stuck under the rain, by the road, in the middle of the night, bad day overall.”

Author’s Notes: This was actually a really challenging prompt, lol. I hope it turned out okay.

It was a bad day which meant good things were coming.

Nagito tumbled out of bed that morning, jarred into motion by a fading nightmare that settled into the shadows of his mind. He stood and rubbed his back. Beside him, Hajime snored obliviously, his rough features softened by sleep. The sight calmed Nagito’s stiff limbs with fondness. He fell back asleep as the sun rose.

At breakfast, he spilled Hajime’s coffee, burned his hand, and broke the handle off his favourite mug. He meandered towards the sink and sluggishly screwed on the faucet.

“Tired?” Hajime knelt on the floor with a rag.

“How perceptive of you, Hajime.” Nagito said. “I had a nightmare last night. I’m afraid my luck is in a downswing. Maybe you should go alone to the gathering.”

“They’re your old classmates.” Hajime said. “I’d feel awkward.”

“You were closer with them than I was.” Nagito turned off the sink. “They’re probably looking forward to seeing you more than me.”

The coffee mishap left Nagito’s cereal a gloopy mess. He studied it, played with it, but didn’t lift it to his lips.

Hajime, meanwhile, swore at his phone. “My battery didn’t charge last night.”

Nagito raised an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘what did I tell you’.

Hajime glared back, determined. “We’ll have to use yours.”

Nagito’s brand new iPhone was already in a sorry state. A massive crack ran through it and each corner was smashed to varying degrees, rendering almost all text unreadable. Hajime persistently nagged Nagito to replace it, but Nagito couldn’t be bothered. He hardly used the thing anyway.

He handed Hajime the sad device and shoved a soupy spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

-

Hajime’s car was old, beat-up, and ugly, but it was his. Early in their relationship, Nagito had offered to buy him a new one, but Hajime emphatically declined.

Nagito himself, of course, didn’t drive, afraid that the world would end in chaos if he so much as touched a steering wheel.

The door to the driver’s seat was jammed. Hajime clambered over the passenger seat, Nagito waiting dutifully behind him, gracious enough not to make fun of him for how poorly he climbed.

Heat hung heavy in the air, clinging to Hajime’s skin and making him sweat through his shirt. Nagito, meanwhile, wore his favourite ratty jacket, as if he was immune to heat.

The car started with a rumble and Hajime’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. He turned them onto the road.

Nagito produced a container of crisps from the bag at his feet. “Want one?”

“You’re already digging through that?” Hajime said. It would be a long trip to Sonia’s place in the countryside.

“I didn’t exactly have a wonderful breakfast.” Nagito crunched on a crisp. “And you didn’t have anything but coffee.”

Hajime wordlessly stretched his palm out, intending to only have a few.

He ended up eating half the bag.

-

The downpour started as they exited a gas station an hour from home, but it continued well after that, thunder roaring in the distance.

Nagito despised storms. They were an example of how a singular event could bring a lifetime’s worth of disaster. He smiled as a flash of lightning struck in the distance. “Looks like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Hajime was quiet for a moment, seemingly focused on the road ahead. Nagito assumed he wasn’t going to respond, and didn’t mind it, content to listen to the raindrops pelting the car and ignore his own rapid heartbeat.

“Are you okay?” Hajime finally said. He shot him a concerned glance. “You’ve got that smile on your face.”

“I’m fine.” Nagito reached for the radio. “What do you want to listen to?”

“I don’t really have a… hey!” Hajime whipped his head around. “You really are bothered, aren’t you?”

Nagito folded his arms together. “It’s nothing. Focus on the road.”

Hajime switched on the radio and said nothing more. Giving him space, Nagito supposed, or avoiding an argument. It was something he never used to do, but he’d learnt and adapted. Nagito found it dreadful at times like this.

-

Their car broke down an hour from their destination. The storm had worsened, or maybe they were just closer to it, and the sun was setting.

Hajime swore and slammed his hand on the steering wheel.

“It’s okay.” Nagito reached for his battered phone. “I’ll call Sonia. We’re not too far off, right?”

Nagito dialled Sonia’s number with another of his smiles, nerves frayed from the storm and the car breaking down. He held the phone up to his ear and waited. His hands trembled. He knew something would go wrong.

The dial tone sounded. There was a rumble nearby. And then the world was flashing white and Nagito’s breath was stopping and the phone was falling out of his shaking hand, right into the space between the seat and the glove compartment.

Nagito froze, then wedged his thin fingers into the crevice, but to no avail. “We have to move the seat.” he said.

Hajime shook his head. “That seat doesn’t move anymore.”

Nagito wondered if anything in Hajime’s car actually worked, but didn’t say a word about it.

“Well,” he said instead. “It could be worse.”

Hajime shot him a deadpan look.

-

The effort to retrieve Nagito’s phone was quickly abandoned, as Hajime suggested they wait for someone to find them. He turned the hazard lights on.

“I don’t think anyone is coming.” Nagito said. “The road seems dead at the moment.”

Hajime sighed and retrieved a map from the glove compartment.

“There are a few places nearby where we could ask to use a phone.” Hajime said. “Including a gas station - once the rain clears up, we could go there. It’d be nice to get some food, too.”

Nagito frowned. “With my luck and this weather, I don’t know if I trust what could happen to you out there.”

“We don’t have a choice. There’s nowhere else we can go.” Hajime opened the door. “You can stay here. I’ll bring something back to you.”

“You’ll be soaked and you might get hit by lightning.” Nagito said. “I’ll go.”

Hajime opened his mouth as if to protest, but something stopped him from doing it. He slumped back in his seat and closed the door.

“Okay.” he said. “I trust your luck.”

Nagito beamed at him, warmth blooming in his chest, and left.

-

Hajime drummed his fingers along the dashboard in time to the rain. With his phone dead and the car broken, he was alone with his thoughts and nothing to do.

The sun had set fully, starlight winking overhead, blurred by the raindrops dappled across the window. Nagito had been gone for too long, although Hajime didn’t have a clock to tell him. Perhaps the gas station had been closed, or Nagito was lost. Perhaps he’d been struck by lightning.

Hajime was contemplating running after him when he heard a knock at his side.

Nagito’s jacket was pulled over his head to cover from the rain and he looked rather silly, and there was a bowl in his hand. Hajime opened the door.

“Kazuichi is going to take a look at our car.” Nagito said, passing Hajime the bowl. “We’re lucky - he just passed us.”

“Is this… shaved ice?” Hajime said incredulously.

“It’s hot, despite the rain.” Nagito shrugged.

Hajime laughed.

-

When they made it to Sonia’s mansion, Mahiru scolded them for being late. Mikan regarded Nagito’s damp jacket with concern in her eyes. Sonia welcomed them politely.

Everything was as it should be, but Nagito caught Hajime as he walked in and murmured - “I’m buying you a new car.”

[until-we-fall-in-love]

Into the Hush: Chapter One

Into the Hush Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader undertones

Summary: It's only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn't anymore.

(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.)

Warnings: Violence, gore, dark themes, A/B/O dynamics, smut in later chapters.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: howdy ya’ll lol don’t know how i came up with this one but it’s an A/B/O cowboy historical gothic au. it’s gonna get dark! also gonna be a real nasty slow burn lmaooo so mind the warnings, if you don’t do well with gore or violence, perhaps this isn’t the fic for you. also if you don’t like the Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, this isn’t for you, either, though i will be taking some liberties with this and trying to give my own take on it because there are aspects of it that i don’t like lol. im not quite sure how long this series will be, but i have plans for it. that being said, saddle up pardner lol and pls let me know what you thought of this first chapter!!!!

---

 Wyoming, 1872

The early morning air is crisp with new spring, cold and a little damp, dew glistening on the grass and glinting gold in the morning sun. Your breath still comes out in soft puffs that curl into the air as you step out onto your creaking, front porch. It overlooks the barren dirt road that leads up to your humble and charming farmhouse; weathered by time and storm and pleasantly cluttered with life and home at every turn. Off to the left is the freshly tilled ground that has been planted in; herbs and fruits and vegetables that will take over in the warm summer months. Trees have shaken the snow from them and have turned green and budding and new again. 

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, trying to gather more warmth from the worn cream, crochet wrap. You know once the sun rises higher into the afternoon, you’ll grow too warm for it, but now it’s needed. The wind curls around you, rustles your hair, lifts your skirts. It carries the promise of warmth, the reminder of winter. 

All is peaceful in the morning, before the day has broken over the hills. All that sings is the birds, lovely and bright and flitting from tree to tree. 

You lift your skirts, head over to the back porch, which wraps the entire way along your house. In the back is the barn, the pasture for the animals to graze when it’s warm. The creek towards the back, bubbling softly over the stones, crystal clear and cool. It’s perfect on a summer afternoon, but now would be too cold for you.

And you begin your day, head over to the shed where you ready the feed for the chickens, grab a basket for eggs. You enter the coop, greet the clucking hens with a coo, spreading food for them which they hurry to eagerly. As they eat, you gently reach for warm eggs in their nest, gather it into your basket and rush on to your other chores. 

Milk the cows, get them fresh water, fresh hay and in the afternoon, you’ll let them out in the pasture to warm in the sun. 

A few of them are round with calves, ready to give birth any day now. 

You tend to the single horse, only one now after your father’s male passed away last spring. The one left is yours; a dappled, brown mare you’ve affectionately called Clover. 

You’ll take her to town later, to sell extra eggs and milk, all the goods you can in exchange for bread or spices or money for the tax collector. By the time you’re finished with your chores, which is taking longer and longer as the farm extends and your father grows older and older, it’s around noon, the sun beginning to warm into pleasant rays of topaz and canary. 

Your father sits on the porch, in his old rocking chair, smoking a pipe. His knee has been bad since this past fall, has a harder and harder time helping you. Not that you mind; this farm has practically become yours, but he hates leaving you to it all alone. 

He’s been dying to set you up with an Alpha, find a good man to marry and help you with the farm. But none of the men from town pique your interest, few good Alphas in the small town of Longbrook, Wyoming. The train, not far from town, brings newcomers once and awhile, but it’s mostly quiet, tucked away in a valley, a river snaking its way through and out into the plains of wildflowers and fields. 

You know Longbrook’s secrets, the quiet, beautiful places that you run to when you have the time. Spend your evenings lazing in columbine and aster flowers, beneath old, crooked trees near quiet, turquoise lakes. Or on a bluff, looking high above the world, cool wind in your face and the fluttering of birds nearer to you than planted on the grounds below. 

You know where not to stray to, when the wilderness grows too rough and dangerous. Unrestrained in both it’s beauty and viciousness. 

So independent that you can’t quite imagine your life beside another, especially not beside an Alpha, with their combative, controlling natures. You can’t imagine a husband that wouldn’t mind you taking off, disappearing into the wilderness and returning when you fancy; like some feral cat, your father always remarks gruffly. 

He isn’t a fan of your disappearing acts, either. Alpha that he is, he’s kept careful and close watch on you since you discovered you were Omega, as irritating as it is. Controlling, but only because he means well. You manage to sate him by coming home before nightfall, when dusk is lavender and rose and the moon is only beginning to take the sun’s place. Besides, there’s not much he can do with his bad knee, can’t keep you cooped up the way he used to. 

Ever since your mother had passed, you had to step up around the farm, grow up a little too quick. Responsible and resourceful, you work hard for you and your father. But your father has grown rather overprotective, wary with the Alphas he let come around; well respected in the town, no one has dared disobey him. A few had tried; Brock Rumlow, the tax collector, was the most notable of them. Pushy and irksome, he’d tried to convince you to disobey, sway you to sneak out with him or let him come by but you always turned your nose up at him.

You have no interest in someone so aggressive, so controlling.

You aren’t one to roll over or lower your eyes submissively; many Omegas aren’t, in your opinion, but it’s expected. There’s no time for that, though, not for you. No use or desire for it. You have a farm to take care of, to keep running smoothly. You have a life to live, adventures to have, open sky to chase. 

And there’s  certainly nothing and no one that’s going to stop you. 

“Be careful goin’ into town,” Your father speaks up finally, smoke curling from his lips, voice rough and fogged, “Heard there was a few newcomers.” 

Your father is always wary of newcomers, prefers to assess them himself, rather than hear from others. 

“Yes, pa.” You respond, not particularly interested in them, nor sticking around for one of your father’s infamous lectures. You hurry on, grabbing all that you need, loading up Clover for the journey. You saddle her up, throw yourself over her with practiced ease, hitching your skirts up slightly and out of the way. 

“Be home by nightfall!” Your father hollers after you, but you’re already easing Clover onto the dirt path. 

“Of course!” You call back, just as you urge her into a faster pace, your voice carries on the wind, distant and as light as the new blossoms. 

You push her into a gallop; not because there’s a rush, but because it’s fun. Because the wind is in your hair and the sun is warm on your shoulders and Clover thunders across the ground, kicking up dirt and making a mess. 

You let a grin hitch onto the corner of your lips, lean forward, ease into the speed. The town is only a twenty minute ride, fifteen if you pushed, but you want to enjoy the ride. The landscape blurs past you in shades of olive and juniper, butter cream, robin’s egg blue. The pop of lily white, a sudden burst of dainty pink or blushing red. But it’s just you and the trees and the pounding of your heart along the beat of hooves against the solid ground. 

Free and open and bursting, you race away from home eagerly and into the wilderness.

You end up slowing Clover halfway through your journey, appreciating the spring air, new and linen clean, shadowed patterns falling over you beneath the trees. The wind tickles your cheeks, the distant sound of the river can be heard when you listen carefully, a soft rush of water. It’s soothing, like the creek by your house, the sloshing lake you visit often. You let it carry you into town, peaceful, lazily letting Clover step onto more worn dirt roads. 

Town people shout to you in greeting, wave as you pass by; you’re a familiar face to them. You give them smiles, holler back to some as you make your way to the grocers to sell your eggs and milk. You swing down from Clover, hopping easily onto your feet. 

You end up walking out of the grocer’s with some extra money and a few cans of preserved vegetables and fruits. You buy some bread at the bakery, a pastry to split with Wanda, who you’re hoping can join you for the afternoon. 

You catch sight of her outside the dress shop, peering at the finely made clothes through the window. She wears her own dress of dove grey, similar in fashion to yours rather than the ones she gazes at; your dresses are looser, easier to move and work and play in, aprons tied around your waists instead of the ruffles and frill of the dresses in the window. Her long curls cascade over her shoulders, near copper under the afternoon sun.

You call to her, watch as her features light up upon seeing you, before she picks her skirts up and bounds over to you. Her scent hits you; sweetly Omega, soft clary sage, warm rose, and damp patchouli. Mysterious and floral, she’s always been a little offbeat with her wide, wondering eyes that linger in darkness. 

Some of the elders call her a witch, little demon child, with her Eastern European ties and mischievous curl of her lips. But to you she is only Wanda, your dearest. 

Her fingers, nimble and quick, find yours, lock and lace together. “Hello, darling.” She says, pressing her lips to your cheek in greeting, her voice melodic and smooth; velvet dark and sweet twilight. 

You let your cheek brush hers, lean into the touch eagerly, soft, rosy and warm skin against yours. “Hello, Wanda.” 

She pulls back with a flutter of her lashes, wide eyes finding yours. There’s a familiar glimmer in them, which makes your heart leap amorously, excited and playful. “Are we going to sneak off to the meadow today, still?” She asks, dropping her voice to a hush and stepping nearer. Your hands tighten over hers as you draw closer, duck your head so you catch another breeze of her scent in her hair, the nape of her neck.

“Yes,” You reply, an eager smile pulling at your lips, “I bought us a pastry to split and a book to read.” 

“Then what are we waiting for?” She nearly purrs, bouncing lightly on her toes in excitement. You’re about to pull her along, drag her towards Clover when someone clears their throat behind you.

You both turn, fingers still interwoven, pressed to one another’s sides. Her warmth is welcome and comforting, especially as you both find Rumlow gazing back at the pair of you with depthless, cold eyes. His face, so marred and twisted, gleams pink and shiny with scarred and new skin under the afternoon light. The rays of white gold sunlight do nothing to lighten his features, nor the darkness of his gaze.

It pierces deep into you, as if he wants to pry and prod and pick you cleanly apart. It’s the gaze of a conqueror, you think, the gaze of someone who wants something that can never be theirs. It’s a disturbing hunger, the kind that sends a deep chill down your spine. 

Wanda squeezes your hand in comfort. So attuned to you, she perhaps can tell by body language or the dip in your scent that you’re frightened in some way, that Rumlow has caused you distress and he has yet to even open his jagged, scarred mouth. 

“Lovely afternoon for you ladies.” He says very coldly, as if he is not in fact concerned with the weather nor you both.

“Yes, it is.” Wanda replies for you, a dark, protective little gleam in her eyes. You can smell the shift of scent with her light aggression, the flare of sage that burns and tickles your nose. It sharpens and spices, makes you blink with it. 

“You’re both looking mighty fine, rich with spring. Omegas always were sweetest in spring. Isn’t that right?” He muses and it chills you to the bone, makes you press closer to Wanda’s side, as if you could fold into the safety of her body. 

There is old folklore; spring being associated with Omegas. It’s all about fertility and the new life that blossoms in spring, old wives’ tales of Omegas getting their strongest heats in the spring after long, dormant winters. Perhaps there is some truth to it, biologically, because winter can get so harsh and so sparse with food if one isn’t careful. Bearing children in winter would never be easy, but it’s something you don’t wish to linger on, particularly not with the way Rumlow is eyeing you.

Like ripening fruit to be picked. A flower blooming, awaiting the moment to pluck it from the earth.

Wanda grows uncomfortable now, too, you can feel it in the bunching of her slim shoulders. But she steps in front of you purposefully, a show of challenge to Rumlow, one of protection for you. 

“Isn’t that right, ladies?” Rumlow urges, taking a step forward and Wanda sharply takes a step back, forcing you back as well. You cling to the back of her skirts with tense, seeking fingers. 

“I sure hope you’re not botherin’ these girls.” Another voice speaks up, authoritative and strong and sure. The kind of voice that gives commands, ones you think many eagerly would follow. Not unkind, but unwavering. When you both turn to the source, it’s a blond man, broad shouldered and wide and tall. He’s dressed simply, the top few buttons of his shirt popped open to reveal a muscled chest. Pretty, light blue eyes. He has an honest face, a strong jaw, trustworthy and noble. 

His scent is distinctly Alpha, strong and commanding; cedar wood and leather. The soft notes of something gentler like cotton and the way your linen smells on a summer day fluttering in the breeze to be dry. It’s soothing, a deep comfort compared to the off-beat, metal tang and sour blood smell of Rumlow’s scent. 

Which, has become bitter and salty with his anger and aggression for this newcomer.  

“I wasn’t bothering them. Was I bothering you Omegas?” He asks sharply, prickling with agitation and it makes you grip Wanda’s skirts a little tighter. “And who are you, anyways?” He then almost growls, “Newcomer isn’t gonna tell me what to do.” 

You can tell Rumlow’s itching to pick a fight by the tightening of his shoulders and baring of his teeth. The air becomes charged with scent, territorial and angry and pungent. Wanda’s is still spiced and agitated, too, with the threat of Rumlow. Your own is dipped into distress, irritation, and the newcomer’s becomes stronger, cedar wood sharp. Rooted in place, he cocks his head slightly, challenging. 

“Why don’t you move along.” The newcomer says, and he’s not asking, he’s telling. It’s bold of him, with the way Rumlow’s face; twisted and angry, settles on him. No one challenges Rumlow in this town. He holds too much power, is too strong; both physically and socially. Even protected by the law by being a tax collector for Alexander Pierce. 

Another man steps up behind the blond, eyeing Rumlow with particularly cold and dark eyes; midnight blue, the evening sky bleary with stars, depthless and all consuming. His hair is longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders, half pulled back from his strong face--

When your eyes settle upon his features for the first time, it feels as if you’ve been struck; a blow of lightning, the sudden shock of cold water, the gasp you take when you resurface. It’s damning, you think, as if you’ve seen him in your dreams or in hazy, unknown past lives. As if you’ve known him your whole life, somehow, as if you recognize him now and wonder how you ever could’ve forgotten him.

He looks like the tragic heroes you read about; the ones that rise only to fall, crumble down after being so noble and wide-eyed. He is breathtaking and standing tall and strong against Rumlow’s piercing gaze. There’s a warning in his eyes, a half-dare, begging Rumlow to try something and see what happens now. Where the blond is golden-hearted and bright-eyed, he seems darker, more eclipsed. 

And surprisingly, it works, Rumlow eyes the pair of them, weighs his options, and then promptly steps down. He mutters something about leaving, about how this isn’t the end. But you can’t help the quirk of a smile, the hint of cruel amusement you get from watching him ease away. Slink off back into the hustle of town.

Wanda smiles wider than you, sharper, a little more mischievous, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rumlow cower like that.” She says and turns towards the newcomers with a radiance that is hard to match. 

And the blond smiles, easy and gentle, “Glad we could help.” And then with deep courtesy, “Steve Rogers, by the way.” 

“Wanda Maximoff.” She pulls you back up to her side once more, offers your name to them, too.

Steve claps the other man on the shoulder, an ease is shared between them that is not unsimilar to you and Wanda. Steve adds, “James Buchanan. But we just call him Bucky.”

And Bucky nods, his eyes finally sliding over to you; his scent hits you at nearly the same time. Offbeat and pine, the sharp, cold smell of metal. There’s evergreen and winter, maybe the soft spice of juniper, the low cut of musk. It makes your eyes flutter, makes your head go soft and bleary with it. 

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Wanda says and her voice refocuses you, her fingers skimming yours to ground you. You flit your eyes away, but can feel Bucky’s suddenly sink over you the way the red sun will drop below the hills. 

You become keenly aware of your bare neck, hair pulled from your face and shoulders to reveal it to him. The cut of your dress suddenly seems both revealing and not revealing enough. Like it could constrict you, or maybe you’re showing too much skin.  

“What brings you here?” You ask, perhaps a little cooly, eyes seeking out the horizon rather than them. Anything but him. 

“Passing through. Looking for work for a few weeks.” Steve answers politely and his eyes glitter like the creek in the high summer. He’s pretty, you think, long lashes framing those eyes. 

“Oh!” Wanda exclaims and she loops her arm through yours solidly, her body warm and soft beside you, “You’re in luck! She needs help running her farm!” 

You almost choke. Throw Wanda a glare but she only meets you with that impish, precious smile you can’t stay mad at for very long. 

“I don’t--” You try to protest. 

“She does!” Wanda interjects, “Her father injured his knee awhile ago, been looking for someone to help out.” 

“Well, if that’s the case, then perhaps Buck and I will have to stop by.” Steve says easily, a half amused grin tugging at his lips as he gazes between you and Wanda. Almost as if he’s endeared by your antics. You bristle. 

“My father doesn’t take to newcomers very well.” You warn, as if that’ll scare these two Alphas away so easily after their little stunt with Rumlow. You worry that few things will scare these two off. 

Regardless you don’t need them on your farm, don’t need them trying to help or care for you or order you around. It’s always been you, and no one will change that. You’re not about to let them treat you like some soft, little creature who should be inside baking them pies and fetching them water. 

But you can feel Bucky’s eyes on your face still, as if he’s trying to burrow in there, make a home upon which he gazes. 

You grow even tenser, teeth grinding. No home to find inside you; just the unruliness of nature, the ever-changing seasons, or unforgivable storms. The river that churns too fast, dives between the mountains and the forests, the sly, sharp-toothed fox. 

You turn your nose up, “Besides,” You say, insolent and dry, “I don’t really need any help.” 

“‘Course.” Steve agrees and you aren’t sure if it’s to placate you or if he’s genuine, “But if you’re looking for an extra pair of hands to order around, we’re your guys.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” You say, though decidedly won’t. 

Daring yourself, you finally force your eyes to Bucky once more. His face is stern and closed off, reserved. He hasn’t spoken once, and stupidly, horribly, you long to hear his voice. You wonder what it sounds like, if it’s rough or smooth or everything at once. Does he speak loudly or softly? Will you have to lean in to hear him or will you step back at the crack of it? 

And yet, he hasn’t needed it once yet. His presence, formidable and strong and raw, is enough.

You blink, look away just as he glances back at you. This strange game of cat and mouse with eyes is making your fingers twitch and tighten in your skirts. 

“We should be off,” You tell Wanda, wishing to flee, to feel the wind on your face and Wanda’s body beside yours and the afternoon sun bursting on your skin. 

Steve wishes the pair of you well, gentlemanly and sweet. Tips his hat with a boyish sort of grin that perhaps would leave other’s swooning. 

And Bucky, gruffly, and with a sort of gentleness you aren’t expecting to find, says to you, “It was nice meeting you both.” 

Something warm settles into your chest, sliding down like molasses, dripping into your stomach and core, spreading throughout you like it owns you; settles deep into you like it won’t leave, real deep into the marrow of your bones. And you inhale, breathe as if this is your first real breath in the whole of your life.

You find yourself replying, almost as softly, “It was nice to meet you, too.” 

His lips twitch upwards in the barest hint of a smile, as if it’s the first time he’s smiled in a long, long time and he needs you to show him how again.

So you do, you give him your own smile that isn’t much bigger, but it’s much easier and sweet as honey, clever as a fox. Almost like you want him to chase you, follow that curve of your lips. 

Wanda giggles, before pulling you away and back towards Clover to begin your adventure for the day, but you think you can feel the dark of his eyes on the back of your neck still, the line of your shoulders. It lingers, until you ride off into the heather hills with her and disappear on the gauzy horizon. 

---

Wanda and you roll in the wild grass on the sloping hills. Laughing and chasing and playing like you’re girls again, half-savage and free and untempered. You tumble and shriek and hitch up your skirts, loosen your dresses and unbutton collars. The sun is a gold glow, warming the earth and your skin, shimmering dreamlike on the new green buds, the wheat yellow of the tall grass. You tip your face up to the sky eagerly, just as you let yourself flop back into the field, back hitting the ground that catches your fall, cradles you. Clouds pass overhead in cotton shapes, free and darling, and you’re still breathing a little hard from romping around with Wanda, feeling your heartbeat inside the cage of your chest. You feel flushed with life; ferocious and curious and excited. 

Wanda drops down by your feet, before slowly, languidly crawling atop you. She straddles your waist, her skirts spilling out over the two of you. You sit up on your elbows, jostle and try to dislodge her a little with another round with warm laughter, but she holds fast, nails digging into your shoulders. 

“I saw the way you were looking at Bucky.” She says and there’s too much mischief in her eyes, a clever glint that the sun turns amber and honey hazel. 

You roll your eyes at her, but even the mention of his name on her lips makes something inside of you stir. But you indulge her, leveling her with an unamused gaze, “And how was that, Wanda?” 

She leans over you, her fiery hair brushing your cheek, your shoulders. She fits herself closer, twines her arms around you all close and snug. 

 “Like you wanted to bare your throat to him right then and there.” She teases playfully, voice dipping into a warm, rumbling purr. Her nose drops, nuzzles lightly at the sensitive scent gland at your neck. It makes you squirm, your fingers tightening in the skirts of her dress. 

You allow her so close, allow lips and teeth and nose into the dips of your body because she’s so familiar to you. A piece of your heart is firmly in her small, warm hands. It blurs the thin, unsteady line between you two, though. Scenting at the neck is usually romantic in some way; often times sexual. Comforting, when it needs to be, but you’ve laid so many times with Wanda, gotten so close and tangled together that you often find your nose at her throat, the nape of her neck, tucking your face into the crooks of her body and she to you. You know her like a lover, you think, sink into her body beneath the sun and the moon and the open skies that spread out before you both. As if the whole world opens for you two. 

“Your scent got sweeter; milky lavender and dark jasmine.” Her lashes tickle your collar bones, her mouth warm and open against the skin there. It makes you flush deeply, sink into the earth beneath you, “Want him to bite you?” She jibes, flashes pearly teeth, her canine gleaming in that white sun. 

“Wanda!” You yelp, shoving at her and she throws her head back and laughs, “No!” And you begin to wrestle with her once more, pushing her off and sending you both tumbling down another hill. You shriek and peel with laughter, pulling and grabbing at each other until you roll apart.

She gets on her hands and knees, feigns a growl from an Alpha in her throat, the kind that rumbles out from deep within them, but the sound is a little muted, and too light in her mouth. She suddenly pounces for you again, playful and light, sending you belly up and onto your back, though. “You want him to tackle you like this,” She torments, grabbing at your wrists as you try and squirm and fight with her. 

With a grunt and all your strength, you roll her right onto her back now, hook your legs over her hips like she did. 

“You want to simper and cry under him,” She says and this time her voice gets soft and breathy and pouty and she is good at that. Her back arches beneath you and you push at her more, tighten your hands around her wrists, shove them down to the ground, feel her heaving chest and trace the curve of her smiling lips and rose touched cheeks with eager eyes. 

“I don’t!” You laugh, playfully bare your teeth at her and try and growl back the way she had. It’s better than hers, a little more bite to it, but it’s still too light and soft. She laughs with you at your attempt now, laughs and growls and yells with you until you’re both breathless because there is nothing and no one around to hear you but each other.

You howl and chase and fall into each other with giggles and wildflowers in your hair, get lost in her and the way the sun begins to fall from the sky and cast everything in a rosewood haze, slow and burning and beautiful. 

She lays her cheek on your back when you ride Clover back to her home, and she kisses you goodnight, lips at the corner of yours. Promises to see you tomorrow. 

And then you ride home, race fast and hard before the sun is swallowed by the moon, before the stars blink into existence and your father scolds you to all hell and back. 

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

Home seems eerie with the darkness that creeps around its edges, night drawing out all the creeks and aches and splinters in the old house. All the memories pushed towards the back of your mind rush forward like skittering spiders. The last sliver of light sits on the horizon, fighting, railing against that inky sky as you get home. 

And when you rush through the front door, shouting, “Pa, I’m home before the sun’s set!” You aren’t expecting to nearly run right into the broad chest of Steve Rogers.

You blink hard and he steadies you with a hushed, “Easy,” And his big hands on your shoulders. 

You look up at him in disbelief, brows furrowing, quickly lurching away from him, only to realize Bucky stands to his right. 

“What--” You start to snap, and this time your teeth are baring with aggression and irritation, gone is the lightness and playfulness you had with Wanda. Your eyes flash with the last cut of light that slashes through the old windows of your house. 

“There’s my feral cat of a daughter, fellas.” Your father says and your head whirls to him. 

He begins to introduce the three of you again, but you cut him off, “I met ‘em today, Pa.” 

“Oh, good.” He says dryly, unappreciative of your tone. You force back a wince, know you’ll get scolded for that one. “They’ll be helping you out on the farm for a few weeks.” 

You whip back to face Steve and Bucky, narrow your eyes at them, “Thought I told you both I don’t need any help?” You snap, unruly, wildflowers still caught in your hair that now slips free of what it’d been pulled back in earlier. You’re sure you look half-wild. 

Steve holds up his hands as if he means no harm, palms up to you and you see they’re rough and calloused and scarred. Used, working hands. Hands that have seen a lot. You glance at Bucky, notice that one of his hands is gloved, the other free. You try not to stare, flit your eyes back to Steve.

“In our defense, we didn’t know this was your farm. We were sent this way after inquiring in town for work.” Steve says calmly, and then puts his hand over his heart, “Honest.” 

You scoff lightly, turn back to your father, “I don’t need them, Pa.”

“No,” He agrees and pride swells in you, a small bubble of it for a heartbeat, “But they’d be a great help to you.” 

There’s no amount of arguing or protesting that’s gonna change your father’s mind once it’s been set. He seems settled on this, content and confident. You try not to pout, try not to stamp your feet or snap or glare them right out of your house. 

Final discussions are had; pay and what times they’ll arrive and leave. Your father, thankfully, warns them to listen to you, and if he finds differently, they’ll be kicked to the dirt as quickly as they’d gotten the job.

And then he warns them, quite frankly, to mind themselves around you and you can feel your cheeks deepen into crimson. Bucky and Steve dip their heads, though, say obedient and firm, yes sir’s, as if they expected it. 

Your father finishes with, “Alright, then. You two start tomorrow.” And then he looks to you, “Walk them out, will you?” 

You huff, but do so, walk them to the porch where the crickets and frogs have begun to chirp and croak and sing. The night crawls onward, the wind rattles this old house. A chill overcomes you, a little shudder. You think you can hear the far-off sound of baying coyotes, erie and high pitched in their frenzied yelping. 

“Suppose I’ll see you both bright and early in the morning, then.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Suppose so.” Steve says, lowers his eyes a little, “I did mean it, we didn’t know this was your farm.” 

You eye him, “Nothin’ I can do about it now, is there?” You counter, unwilling to give an inch, no matter how sweetly he looks at you with those darling, blue eyes. You’re sure that boyish charm works everywhere else, but you refuse to let it here.

He has the good sense to dip his head submissively, nodding slightly, “We’ll get out of your hair for the night then, let you rest. Goodnight, ma’am.” He says respectfully, before easing down off the old wood that protests beneath his heavy steps. 

And for a heartbeat, it is only you and Bucky and the rattling tree branches and the croaking night. A moment frozen, as if you’d captured it in a bottle like a letter that you’ll throw into the sea. Just this sliver of time that makes the whole world stand still, as if it’s been waiting or fearing for your coming together. 

You have nothing to say, but he inclines his head, holds your eyes like he’s holding the world in his arms, and murmurs all low and rumbling, “Goodnight, miss.” 

Then turns his back on you, and hustles over to Steve, to their tethered horses. 

And this time it’s you that watches him, eyes glued to his muscled back, the nape of his neck, as he eventually is swarmed by the darkened, reaching horizon.

---

You fall into bed, feeling strange and wary, a little weary, perhaps a little hopeful, too. For what, you don’t know. You can feel the wind changing, coming with new spring. But there’s something else, something heavier; the pressure is building, as if there’s a storm brewing. The kind of spring storm that bring destruction and clamor and the kind of rain that threatens to sweep you away in their flood and ferocity. 

Your bed creeks, the shadows are tall and reaching in your room. The moon spills in, but instead of painting you with wonder or lovely, pearl light, it only makes the shadows that much darker. The night brings the cold, makes you pull tight and inwards. You curl up beneath your quilt, try and ward off all that presses in. 

Eventually, you sleep. 

And you dream. 

You dream in visions of phantom grey and oil slick black, syrupy red, and flesh pink. You step lightly in a graveyard, the earth freshly turned and dark. Stones jut out from the ground like jagged, crooked teeth. It swallows you whole. The fog is thick and evasive, surrounding you and gathering around you, a train to your skirts that murmur and brush against stones and dirt and the hollowed out ground. 

A grave with your father’s name grows from the earth, forces you to stop, stutter backwards. Your teeth begin chattering, the clanking of bone against bone. You can feel the whispers of wind, something so near. Your heart plummets as you read his name, as you see his grave, which you now see is besides your mother’s. 

The ground trembles. 

Their graves crack, splinter like a dropped glass, bursting outwards in a wave of skittering, flaming stone. 

Frantically, you drop to your knees, try to put them all back together, as if that will somehow help. As if that will fix anything. You curse and cry and there are tears-- there are tears that drop onto burning stone. It sizzles and smokes but you can’t put them back together. You are alone, and you can’t. 

Your hands begin to burn, flesh pink and blister white. Mud sucks at your legs and your knees and then you are sinking, sinking, sinking--

Oil drowns you, forces its way down your mouth and your throat and clogs your lungs. Seeps into every part of you. It’s invasive, forceful in it’s push and pull of you, it sucks at you and you are forced downward, kicking and screaming. Forced to swallow and take and be filled.

You twist, frantic. Try to fight back, but you are caught in the thick of it. It devours your screams and cries and pain.

And from above, there is a cut of silver, a star in the inky sky. A hand; metal and unnatural plunges in for you. And he pulls you clear out of the muck, the earth’s blood and into his arms.

When you emerge, it is as if you’re cleansed by the light. Gone is the slick oil, gone is the choking and drowning and thrashing. Bucky holds you to him now, crushes you to his chest where you can hear the live, thundering beat of his heart. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, cradling your skull as if it’s precious, something to be protected. Your nose is pushed to his neck and you--

You cling to him, swallow down clean gulps of spring air and the juniper bright and metal sharp smell of him. Pine, there is pine and evergreen, too. Clean and fresh and dipping into musk. Your heart slows, lulls, with his voice in your ear; that voice you’d so desperately wanted to hear.

You feel as if you’ve heard it your whole life now, as if you can’t imagine going another day without hearing it. And he says your name, not Omega, just your name. And he breathes and is warm and alive beneath you. 

When you look around now, the earth is fertile and bright and warm. Spring damp roses and sweet, honeycomb sunshine. The fauna is in full bloom, an overabundance of life that leaves you inhaling the fragrant air. It’s so thick, almost cloying. 

And there is no breeze, you think. 

And Bucky’s lips are at your neck. 

And there is a stirring in your stomach but its--

It’s all wrong. 

He tries to lay you down. And you don’t protest because there’s something so tempting about it all, so safe, or so instinctual. There’s an ache and a burn and you want to shed your skin, you want to let him in and never let him out, bury his body in the ground with you. Become the earth and fertilize the flowers and feed the foxes you love so much. You wanna lie with him until the crow calls, until you’re nothing but him and you and the gem stones deep in the ground. 

But when his face lifts from your vulnerable neck, it is not him. 

Rumlow stares down at you, his scarred face so close and imploring. He croons Omega and you shriek, you try to get away, but it’s like the oil all over again; you trapped and thrashing and stuck. Rabbit in a snare. Fox in a trap. You scream, scream for Bucky or Wanda or even Steve or your father. You scream until it tapers off and burns into something ragged, shredding your voice. 

He is just heavy atop you, and his face is morphing and shifting, like he’s a new creature altogether. Blackened eyes that are too wide, too large and there is a gaping whole where his mouth should be--

You claw at him, scratch with nails, pull at pink flesh and cartilage and bone until he starts dripping blood and saliva, growling like a rabid dog. You twist his face away so sharply, so horribly, that there is a sickening crack and then the full of him collapses atop you.

You squirm and you are crying, choked sobs because it feels like you are burning, or aching. Lonesome and longing or horrified and fearful of everyone. You want to be held in equal measures that you want to run away and never see another face again. You are torn, split in two and unraveling. 

When you scramble away, deeper into the fragrant wild grass. You realize there is wetness, slick and warm and--

There is blood. So much blood coating your legs and it seeps through your skirts, stemming from between your legs. It pools beneath you, waters the flowers and seeps into the earth as if it belongs there. 

You howl like an animal, fingers squabbling in the dirt and the blood and your body as if you can put yourself back together again--  

You wake with a hard, sucking gasp. Blinking hard in the darkness. Your hands pull at your nightgown, shift to feel your skin, still warm and dry and clean beneath your heavy quilt. Reassuring, gulping breaths bring back cool air into your lungs. I’m safe, you tell yourself, it was just a dream. 

But the night is still dark and the bed still creaks and the wind still howls, almost the way you had when you’d found all that blood-- No. 

But now you’re just awake, in a lonely room. And there is no comfort, no warmth or forgiveness in the hollowness of it all. 

You rise in the morning, heavy bags beneath your eyes, and begin your day in hopes of a better one.

[kaibacorpintern]

@emblematik requested “yuugi + datebook” and i was like “hm interesting” and then a few minutes later i was like “oh shit... IDEA.” 

no joke: i wrote 90% of this on my phone. i just checked the word count and it’s 2000 words. lol. casual rivalshipping, but it’s not about that. post-DM. enjoy the feels x

MONDAY, 8:26 AM

Yuugi sat cross-legged in the soft, shallow cradle of his bed, half-asleep, phone in his hands. Anzu was on the other end of the video call, wandering through the New York apartment she shared with four other girls.

“ -- so they come bursting out of the egg, and that's just how the show starts. It gets loonier from there. But it means every week, she has to make another big-ass papier-mâché egg for her guest performer, and this week, that’s me. Hey Tiff, love the space buns,” Anzu said, turning to someone out-of-sight, and Yuugi heard a voice call back, in a cheerful sing-song, thaaank youuu!

“So you're helping her make the egg?” Yuugi said.

“Yeah, she calls it 'laying the egg.’ Performance artists are so weird,” she said, as Yuugi grinned with delight. “Anyway, gotta run. Can you do next Sunday?”

“Let me see,” Yuugi said, leaning over to swipe his weathered datebook off his night stand, the pages dogeared with almost a year's worth of use. A blank datebook he'd filled out from June to June with every notable hour of his life, using a pen he kept tucked in the binding. He'd spilled water on it a few months ago and the pages had crinkled as they dried. Now it refused to sit flat, with gaps that rippled between the pages.

He held the phone in one hand and flipped clumsily through the datebook with the other, spreading it open on his thigh. After that Sunday, there was one blank week left in the datebook. “Nope, I'm booked. Let's just do Monday again.”

“Works for me,” Anzu said. “Love ya! Bye!”

“Love you too, have fun laying your egg,” Yuugi said, and she flashed him an exasperated grin. The screen went black, and a dreamy silence descended on Yuugi’s bedroom once more. Yuugi flopped back down into bed with a contented sigh, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. He held the datebook over his head, his week carefully penned in. Class, his shifts at the game shop, and on Tuesday, he was seeing…

TUESDAY, 6:37 PM

“Fuck,” Jounouchi said, staring in bafflement at the cards lying face up on the playmat between them. They sat at a long, wooden table on the airy patio of a cafe, with vines flowing thick along the walls, the cards illuminated in the soft, inviting light of the lanterns strung across the space. “How did you win? When did you win?”

“A few turns ago,” Yuugi confessed, idly churning the ice of his Italian soda with his straw. “But you had me on the ropes for a while there. If you played your Time Wizard combo a turn earlier, I would've lost.”

“Damnit! I knew it,” Jounouchi said, thumping his fist firmly on the table. “I keep forcing myself to wait. I just don't wanna blow it again, like Nationals.”

“I think your nerves are making you doubt yourself,” Yuugi said. “Your instincts are strong. Just listen to them, and you'll do fine.”

Jounouchi, gathering up his cards from the playmat, glanced up at him, the lantern light giving his faint blush a rosy glow.

“See, how the heck am I supposed to attack you when you say things like that?” he said. “Maybe I should get a practice duel with someone who actually pisses me off. Hey, ask your pal if he'll duel me.”

“My pal? Is that what he is?” Yuugi said, lifting an eyebrow as he reached for his phone; then he changed course, tucking his hand into the messenger bag at his feet and ferreting out his datebook. He checked the date. “I'm seeing him tomorrow, actually. I'll just ask.”

“Perfect. How's your Sunday looking? Honda said he’ll have my Duel Disk fixed by then.”

“I have plans already,” Yuugi said, dropping the datebook back into his bag and leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, okay, Mr. Popular. Don't forget I leave for the tournament Friday after next. That's in your book, right?” Jou said, and Yuugi hummed in reply. Mm-hmm. Then Jou leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table and his chin atop his hands, fixing Yuugi with a roguish look. “Who is Kaiba, if not your pal?”

Now Yuugi couldn't help but blush, his skin warmer than the summer air. “Uh, he's…”

WEDNESDAY, 9:57 PM

Sitting next to Yuugi on the couch, one bent leg tucked underneath him and one arm slung over the back. Studying the screen of Yuugi's laptop as Yuugi scrolled through the lines of code he'd abandoned, several days earlier, at dawn, surrendering to the frustration of a long and fruitless all-nighter. Lucky for him, Kaiba liked nothing so much as telling people they were wrong, why they were wrong, and how to stop being wrong.

Kaiba leaned closer, frowning intently, his force of presence buffeting Yuugi like a wave. A good wave, dense and heady, fragrant with his cologne. He had many, many things to say about object-oriented programming, all of which Yuugi had listened to very carefully, and none of which he'd actually heard.

“I found your problem,” Kaiba declared.

“Thank God, this assignment is driving me nuts,” Yuugi said, sighing with relief. “What is it?”

In response, Kaiba reached out and shut the laptop with a firm whap. “You’re distracted.”

“I am not,” Yuugi said.

“Tell me what I just said about using global variables.”

Yuugi bit his lip, scrambling through the last five, ten, fifteen minutes for whatever Kaiba had said about global variables, and found… nothing, except a keen awareness of the way Kaiba was staring at him now, leaning his cheek against his loosely curled hand, a wry smile tugging on his lips. 

“Uh,” Yuugi said after a moment, realizing he’d fallen neatly into the usual trap. “Don't?”

Kaiba snorted. “When is this due?”

Yuugi leaned forward, momentarily escaping the weightless swell of feeling in his chest, and plucked his datebook off the coffee table from where it lay beside his textbooks. “In a week.”

“Alright. I have a few hours on Sunday or Tuesday. When would you like to waste my time next?” Kaiba said, with a sort of laid-back disdain.

“I think I’ll squander your Tuesday,” Yuugi said, tugging the pen free, scribbling a note. He set both laptop and datebook on the coffee table and settled back, deeply, breathlessly aware of Kaiba's gaze on him, tracing lines of fire up and down his body.

“So,” Kaiba said, a low, teasing growl, his mouth inches from Yuugi's ear. “What is so distracting to you?”

“Nothing,” Yuugi said, smiling, about to vibrate out of himself with impatience. “You have my full attention.”

“Good,” Kaiba said, and the next thing Yuugi knew he was swept up in a dark rush of warmth, Kaiba pressing a kiss like a hot, wet star to the curve of his neck. He fumbled blindly with one arm, catching Kaiba by the back of his head, pulling him down as he twisted and fell backwards along the couch.

He huffed, a wordless plea for mercy, as Kaiba mouthed along the shell of his ear, making scandalous suggestions with his tongue, clearly enjoying himself.

“Problem solved,” he said smugly, and Yuugi groaned, laughing.

FRIDAY, 4:13 PM

A gentle chime broke through the cool, quiet air of the game shop. Yuugi, wandering the shelves with his scanner, conducting inventory, pulled his phone out of his back pocket.

RYOU: finished writing my new campaign!! want in?

YUUGI: duh

what days are u thinking?

RYOU: sundays? that's when everyone else is free

YUUGI: i can do sundays, but not this sunday

RYOU: not a problem. we can start next week. any plans?

The question turned over in his chest like a stone, a tremendous weight, heavy and slow and dull. Yuugi stood motionless, staring down at his phone, the scanner dangling in his limp hand and the silence of the store falling over him like a shroud.

But he shook it off. Ryou had given him the idea.

YUUGI: I’m going to the park with my datebook, you know the one

RYOU: oh

please send him my best

YUUGI: i will!

is this the space campaign you were telling me about?

Pulling out of the subject like pulling a boot out of the mud, with staggering release. Yuugi resumed his task of taking inventory, stopping every so often to answer Ryou's excited texts about Eldritch horrors and homebrew campaigns.

That night, he lay in bed and discovered the stone was still there, cradled in his straining ribs. So he opened the skylight in his bedroom, inviting the summer night to flow in. It sprawled open above him, hot and dark and flecked with stars, vibrating with the hum of cicadas hidden in the trees. The summer spinning its promise into a refrain. Every new day, each blank page of his datebook, beckoning him forward.

SUNDAY, 11:00 AM

Yuugi awoke to a bright, beautiful June morning, sliding his feet into the secret pockets of cool still tucked away between the sheets. The skylight in his room revealed a clear, hot sky.

He flew through the rest of the morning, as light and taut as a kite, unburdened by exhaustion or idleness. On a whim, he opened his laptop, giving a quick eye to his assignment; Kaiba wouldn't bring up global variables for no reason… and the solution presented itself, like a closed fist turning over to reveal the prize in its palm.

He didn’t cancel on Kaiba. They’d waste time some other way.

Buoyant, he left the house, with his datebook and a lighter in his bag. There were two stops to make before the park: first, a cafe, for an iced coffee, and second, the neighborhood bookstore, where he bought a brand-new blank datebook.

Then he began the long, pleasant walk down to the park, his phone on silent. The whole of Domino was cast in a drowsy summer light so smooth and liquid he wanted to cup it in his hands and drink it, to feel it run sweet and pure through his veins. Neither his mind nor his route wandered from their destination: the plank bridge in the park.

It sat in an isolated corner of the park, a leafy, overgrown grotto dappled with sunlight. The long pond slowed to a mirrored stillness here, cooled by the shade of the trees. Insects hummed in the foliage. As Yuugi stepped onto the plank bridge, the hollow thunk of his foot sent some small, shy creature plunging for safety into the water, leaving only ripples behind.

He knelt on the plank bridge and opened the old datebook, taking a moment to transfer the last remains of his schedule into the first week of the new datebook. His class schedule, his work schedule, his weekly call with Anzu, Joe's tournament dates, the new campaign. All of it carefully penned in.

Then he leaned over the edge of the plank bridge, seeing his reflection on the surface of the water. It was harder with mirrors: they were too crisp, too defined. They showed him nothing but his own face. But if he unfocused his eyes a bit, if he took a deep breath and snapped the last piece into place and made a wish, the face on the water wavered. Just enough to believe.

“I miss you,” he said, to the water. “I miss you every day. I still feel you… gone, here.”

He made a fist, motioning to the center of his chest. An absence with weight; a nothing and a something all at the same time. The kind of puzzle Atem would love.

There was nothing else to add. He’d said most of it already, last year and the year before. They would see each other again, some day, and he had long since understood that he was not meant to wait and he was not meant to run. He was meant to stay right here, in the heart of his own life, and feel it beating.

Yuugi readjusted, sitting cross-legged on the bridge. He flipped through the datebook, going backwards to the beginning. The memories burst open inside him, as raw and fresh as a ripe fruit, swollen with color and feeling. Deadlines for that art history class. Flying out for Anzu’s solo show in December. His first date with Kaiba, sometime in March, although neither of them realized it was a date until the morning after. CHAMPIONSHIP!!, on a weekend in September, when Jou had swept the Pan-Pacific. The pages were as crisp and dry as autumn leaves; they'd burn well.

He turned to the first page.

“Here’s what you missed,” Yuugi said, and began to read.

[avengeultrons]

Title: All Treats No Tricks (Reader x Steve Rogers)

Summary: Steve wants the reader in on an elaborate plan to make a haunted hosue for all of the kids in the community

Word Count: 1683 

A/N: WOW I’ve been away haven’t I. I hope you’ll forgive me, I’ve been SO CONSUMED with school and working and rehearsal that I’m now burnt out and I am just so... I dont know! I wasn’t doing stuff I liked but I am CHANGING THAT. Back to writing stuff I love to write. If you’ve made it this far in the note, congrats you are my fav lol. Enjoy! 

--

It was finally the day of Halloween and it officially felt like it, too. The air was cold and the wind whipped your hair around your face. A frigid drizzle fell steadily from the blanket of the gray, overcast sky above. Central Park, your favorite shortcut to get to Stark Tower, was decorated in all of the red and orange hues of falling leaves. Your fall playlist was playing through the earbuds in your ears as you walked on, humming softly to yourself. There was no way that anything could ruin your moment.

Incoming Call:

Steve Rogers

Steve’s selfie of him making a pouty face lit up your screen, automatically stopping your jam session dead in its tracks. Your heart began to pound in your chest and your palms sweat profusely. You let Michael Jackson’s Thriller fade into nothingness as you bit back a giddy, school girl smile and hit the glowing answer button. “Hello?”

“Y/N, so glad you picked up. I’ve been trying to reach Tony for ages but he’s decided to ignore me today. I have a favor to ask,” Steve rambled, hardly letting himself breathe as he spoke.

“Woah, slow down. I’m almost to the tower, is everything ok?” your pace picked up, the heels of your boots clicking on the pavement as you began to jog. The last time Steve complained about Tony was the time you all got into a full blown fight. You didn’t want that to happen again.

Steve began to laugh, causing your blood pressure to drop down to normal and your blood to boil. “Don’t tell me this is one of your silly errands?”

“Oh, this one isn’t silly. I’m decorating the fourth floor as a haunted house! You know, for the kids in the community? Y/N, I know you’re about to hang up but I know you love helping those kids. Think about how much they’ll love it if they can come and meet us and also walk through a room covered in cobwebs and eyeballs?” Steve was tugging at your heartstrings as he proposed a plan for his Halloween party, open to every kid who didn’t have any plans for the holiday. Steve’s plan was going to bring joy to a lot of little kids. Just the thought of this made your already mushy heart melt into a poodle of gushiness.

“Okay, deal. Exactly how many bags of cobwebs do you need?” you asked, crossing the street to the closest convenience store. A large orange and black sign swung from the ceiling and read: Your One Stop Halloween Shop. Hopefully this was the case.

“What on earth are you doing?” Tony stopped dead in his tracks as he stepped off of the elevator, an air of annoyance in his voice.

In Tony’s defense, it was a rather peculiar sight. Steve was standing on a step stool, nailing shiny plastic spiders from the ceiling with elastic strings.  You were dancing around the room to your playlist, painting a pair of fangs to look as though they were covered in blood. Tony grimaced as you stick them in your mouth and smiled over at him.

“We’re putting together a haunted house. You know, for the kids?” You nodded over at Steve, taking your fangs out. “It was all his idea!”

You pulled a stark white skeleton out of its packaging and held it up to the length of your body. Steve laughed as he spoke, “Looks too...science lab in high school esque.”

“I agree. He needs to be weathered and stained. Almost as if he’s been locked in a dungeon for years,” Tony nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. Your face lit up as he chimed in. “I guess I can help you guys get the word out and what not. It’ll be good to be involved in the community for more than just destroying aliens.”

“Wow, thanks Tony. That really means a lot. The kids will be so excited!” Steve smiled widely, a dimple on each of his cheeks as he grinned. “I knew you still had some love in there.”

“Don’t push your luck!” Tony rolled his eyes as he stalked past you to his office, a smile on his face.

“Do you think we can get him to dress up as a vampire and greet kids at the door?” Steve winked at you as you rolled your eyes and messed up his already disheveled hair as you walked past him.

It was Halloween night. You could feel the excitement in the air, the environment was electric. Everyone was pitching in with decorating the haunted floor of the tower. You were busy in the kitchen gathering snacks and putting candy bags together with Wanda, the two of you working in tandem to finish it all on time.

“Hey,” Steve jumped out in front of you in his costume, green corduroy pants and a purple vest. He had two tin foil bolts glued to his neck. “Can you paint me green?” Wanda took over your load of packing up the final gift bags before you could object, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

You smiled up at him. “The classic Frankenstein? Good costume choice,” you took the green face paint and makeup brush from his hand and pulled yourself up to sit on the counter in front of him. Just like an artist, you poured the paint onto a tray and dipped the brush into the green, painting a green stripe from Steve’s forehead down to his chin.

“What are you dressing as?” Steve asked as he closed his eyes, a small smile on his face as you painted his forehead in the light green paint that matched his pants.

A sigh escaped your lips as you concentrated on finishing Steve’s face paint. “I don’t think I am, I don’t really have anything to wear,” you said. The green boy in front of you gasped and Wanda’s eyes widened to the size of golf balls.

“You don’t have a Halloween costume? Y/N doesn’t have a costume!” Steve looked behind you as Tony came in, holding up a finger to shush Steve as he was on the phone.

Tony ended his call and reached for a piece of candy, yelping when Wanda slapped his hand away. She rolled her eyes and slid a piece of licorice candy across the counter to him. Tony simply frowned. “You can be Iron-Man. Do you know how many disabled suits I have up there in my office? Half of them are basically costumes now.”

“Just be a sheet ghost, Y/N,” Steve said as you dappled on the final bits of paint onto his cheeks. You laughed, rolling your eyes at him.

“You can be a princess! Wouldn’t Y/N look great as a Disney Princess, Steve? Oh, the kids would just love it!” Wanda clapped her hands together and tied the final bow around the last candy bag.

The pink tint of Steve’s cheeks poked through the thin layer of grin as he nodded in agreement. “She’s right, they would love it,’ he said.

Wanda jumped up and tore down the hallway as she shouted, “I even have a costume for you already!”

“Sounds like you’d better get ready,” Steve smiled. The green paint layered over his face made his smile even brighter.

The costume Wanda had for you was all sparkles and sequins. She even had a plastic tiara to match the purple princess dress for you. There you were, standing at the door in an uncomfortable costume made for a twelve year old and tiny heels that made a loud clicking noise when you walked.

“Look, it’s Iron-Man!” a small boy dressed as Captain America led the first wave of kids dressed in costume. They flooded the floor, squealing as they ran up to Tony. He was dressed in one of his old super suits, waving at the kids as they came to a halting stop in front of him.

You laughed as they practically tackled him in hugs. Then, the herd of kiddos turned and spotted you with a basket of candy bags. As if they weren’t excited already, their eyes lit up with glee as they spotted the treats in your basket.

“Are you a real princess?” a young girl in front of you tilted her head until her own costume tiara fell askew on her head.

A smile danced across your face and you shook your head in response. Steve came up behind you and threw an arm over your shoulders, stopping you before you could say anything. “She doesn’t think she’s a real princess, but I think so. Don’t you?” you rolled your eyes as Steve spoke softly to the little girl in front of you. She smiled widely, her face alight with joy.

“Thank you guys! Happy Halloween,” the young princess’s mom steered her away to where Wanda and Natasha were lining kids up for the spooky haunted house.

“You think I’m a real princess, huh? How much punch have you had?” you teased Steve, handing a girl dressed as Hulk a bag full to the brim of chocolates and lollipops. “Happy Halloween, sweetie!”

“Only princesses are able to give up their time to help a green monster give back to the kids in the community,” Steve commented, waving as another awestruck kid stepped through the door draped in spider webs.

You hoped that you had enough makeup on to disguise the red blush that was burning your face. “You’re so corny,” you said with a laugh, “I think they’re having a lot of fun. You did great, Cap.”

“Happy Halloween, Princess Y/N,” Steve did an exuberant bow in front of you. “Duty calls.”

As you watched Steve dressed as Frankenstein walk away to gather around the kids, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth and happiness. All of the children who wouldn’t have anything to do otherwise now had a safe space to enjoy themselves, hopefully for many more holidays. And the sweetest superhuman you knew was able to make it happen.

[digenova]

i was tagged by @catwlws to answer 21 questions about myself! thank you for tagging me, this was a lot of fun!

nicknames - primarily mo, i think, but people have called me morg/ morgs before too; my parents call me momo 😅

zodiac sign - taurus! ♉️

height - 5’6

hogwarts house - hufflepuff, babey!!!

the last thing i googled - oh sheesh, i can’t remember; i think the last thing i googled was the website i use for my work

favorite musicians - i really like hans zimmer if we’re talking about scores for movies but as far as artists go, idk! i have an everywhere (and embarrassing) sort of music taste, but i like little mix, panic!, one direction (lol) and queen to name a few!

song stuck in your head - immigrant song by led zeppelin LOL

following - 276

followers - 40

do you get asks? - not usually, no!

amount of sleep - i’ve been averaging around 6 but usually i get between 6-8 hours

lucky number - i love the number 4, so maybe that?

what you’re wearing - running shorts and a dry-fit tee shirt; my staple summer attire!

dream job - i still think that i’d secretly want to be a marine biologist or an astronaut! the dream is to work for nasa with my major, which is really unlikely, but still! it’d also be cool to work with all the sea animals - i’d love to swim with sharks

dream trip - definitely somewhere in europe! i think i’d like to go to london or italy

instruments - i can play almost any percussion instrument! i was on the drum line in high school; i’m not sure if it would be good anymore, LOL, but there’s that! i love playing the piano and really want to learn guitar

languages - english, and a little amount of spanish from high school & college classes

favorite song(s) - feeling good (michael bublé), lights down low (max), only human (jonas brothers), killer queen (queen), mr. blue sky (electric light orchestra) and probably more that i’m forgetting!

random fact - it took me forever to come up with anything remotely interesting about my boring old self but one could be that i’ve never broken a bone but i’ve sprained the same ankle 6 times and have had a lot of concussions (sports related and not!) 😅 i’m clumsy!

aesthetic - fields of sunflowers, the sun setting over the countryside, birds chirping, little succulents on shelves, dirt paths dappled by sunlight streaming through the trees, cats curled up at the foots of messy beds, patches of thistles swaying in the breeze, brown eyes, always laughing, and vases of fresh-cut flowers

thank you for tagging me!! i had fun! i’m not sure who to tag but please feel free to do this if you’d like!

[alexbrockart]

Gargoyle Process

This painting started from a sketch in 2015 that I didn't touch for a bout a year, then came back to after ruminating on it on and off over that lapse. It's loosely centered around this legend of the walled city of Agartha, and the guarding demons and djinn that would keep the unworthy from entering. 

Here I sketched out the environment surrounding the figure and arranged the composition a bit. I wanted the environment to have a sort of Mediterranean feel to it, almost classical ancient Greek/Roman with a little hint of tropical. I ended up changing the perspective quite a bit because I wanted to paint in a lot of texture in the landscape of the background, and also wanted to drive home a feeling of the figure standing on a really high wall far above the ground below. So I raised the horizon line almost to the top of the canvas and redid a lot of the figure to fit in with a more top down perspective.

Here you can see the new perspective and wings, and my attempt at dumping colors all over the place that I felt gave off the feeling I wanted for the piece, which was a sort of bright and sunny warm day in the afternoon, soon approaching the golden hour.

Here's some images that I felt captured the mood and lighting I wanted to portray

Let the render fest begin! As I was painting the torso my power supply for my computer started crapping out and it was pretty terrifying to paint for fear of losing work. I had finished just about the entire torso and arms when it crashed when I tried to save it, and had to do it over, about 5 hours of work. The second version definitely came out better though. I threw in a crazy weird mandala-lever-table-mechanism I thought would be interesting but ended up chucking it for the sake of time and it threw off the composition a bit. It's inspired by this talk I listened to about the physicist Wolfgang Pauli and his therapy sessions with C. G. Jung. From what I remember, through deep trance or in a dream, Pauli saw this mandala that represented perfect rationality and other dimensions or concepts like increments of time integrated into each other. The idea was to sort of have the Gargoyle in control of one of the levers, hinting that your perception of reality may be manipulated or something along those lines. I mostly wanted an excuse to make a shiny 3D object and render it so that I could have perfect shiny reflection in the painting. I got my jollies in that regard with the mace that I replaced this mandala with. 

Here's the talk and a picture of the mandala: 

Here's some of the references for the skin and torso. In the old master painting with the man pointing toward the sky I really liked the way their skin looked really pale in some parts and very tan or oily/dirty in others and tried to replicate that effect on the figure with a sort of red-grayish green and a more yellow green. I imagine there being less callous spots that would be lighter and more "juicy" like when the skin is stretched it'll lighten up in those areas, kind of like when some plastic bends it gets lighter in those spots that are really stretched out. It's sort of an effect or look that produces a sensation that I wanted to portray and think looks cool and not much more. 

Here's about where I had gotten before I lost my file to the dark lords of psd corruption. Lots of rendering and minute fiddling, pulling and pushing forms and moving around muscles underneath the skin. Reference is a lifesaver when it comes to anatomy, or anything really, but especially anatomy because of how complex it is and how easy it is for people (who all have bodies) to recognize when something is off. I remember this is where I really felt like I was going somewhere with the painting and it had some potential. 

Got the rest of the human parts nailed down. I almost went fully Egyptian with his undergarments but decided against it. I found out the name for this type of clothing though, "shendyt" if you ever need to know that. Lots of challenging but enjoyable intricacies worked out here. If I could give a tip on picking color it would be to learn how to really feel it out. If you try to do this with only your intellect and calculate every aspect of surface color and lighting and reflection you mostly end up getting in your own way (not that this isn't important). If you can grab a color that feels ok and run with it you're better off than being indecisive and worrying that the color isn't perfectly accurate.  Make a choice and observe the result. What happens when you lay that color next to the others, how does it feel deep down in your gut and heart. What does it need more of? It's like tasting pudding, when you put it on your tongue and smack it around in your mouth how does it taste? What would make it taste more like the most perfect pudding you can imagine? You also have to have good taste to make things that taste good. 

Focused heavily on the wings and tree here. I took a big leap with the dappled lighting and just went for it. I knew it would be really hard to make it look realistic and it kind of became abstracted, but I learned a lot. After having finished it I've seen multiple images that would have been much better reference for the dappled lighting than what I used, but such is life. In place of accurate lighting effects I had fun making cool shapes and swirlies. I tried to create an effect similar to some sort of vectoring of light blobs where their outer edge sort of merges with the nearby blobs, similar to when you squint your eyes and look at lights out of focus. On the upper/outer edges of the wings I tried to pull of the effect of something being in shadow on a sunny day and heavily reflecting the blue of the sky. Since that surface isn't being blown out by sunlight you can really see other ambient light sources reflecting on it. 

I darkened the shindyt loin cloth by plopping a multiply layer over it and touching it up a bit. I though the lightness of the previous color was attracting a little too much attention and contrast. But when I look at it now I almost like it better.

I also tried to get down some of the awesome patterning on eucalyptus trees that I see here around town. They're some of the coolest looking trees in my opinion and really wanted to capture that dramatic contrast of values and colors they have on them along with the smooth swirly lumps. This tree was extremely difficult and I redid it at least once. I still don't think I pulled off the look I was going for with it but I like it in it's own right. 

Here's the bottom before and after the redo. I really wanted to pull off a section of surface that's lit evenly but has two different values/surface materials and have it look cohesive. This was a pain but I'm starting to come around to the idea of doing stuff over even if it's really close to what you want or it feels like too much work. It almost always comes out better.

I also had a friend help out and do a paintover to try and tie up the values which explains the darkened corner on the ground. Much more moody and dramatic. He also taught me this technique to strategically adjust the levels with brush strokes using a mask.

Create a levels adjustment layer. Depending on how you want to adjust the levels (lights, darks or midtones) move the sliders around to a spot you like, and this is the awesome part is it doesn't have to affect the whole image, so you can pick an area you want to change the levels of, adjust accordingly, and target that spot. To do this click on the blank white square (red X) and paint bucket it fully black, then go back to the levels adjustments (click on the layer name or graph square) and start painting or lassoing in white in the spot that you wanted changed. This helps a TON.

More progress! I started experiment with texture in the background by making some brushes and messing with them. I was really inspired by the way Craig Mullins can pull off seemingly intricate detail with abstract shapes and textures and wanted to try something similar. Maybe next time lol. I was also inspired by Dean Cornwell and looking at his work for the texture on the ground, trying to make nice big juicy blobs of paint that almost look like clumps of mud or stones. I also really had fun with trying to make a compelling pattern that was still in perspective. For the background I was looking at the Walter Everett painting above a lot, trying to get a beautiful harmony of really light values and colors, having forms be defined with only hue and not much value change at all. It's really hard to pull off. 

I went nuts on the background. I replaced the original idea of a golden glittering canyon with a more earthy and gradient filled landscape. I also tweaked the values much brighter, which I think I darkened back down later. I was heavily inspired by Whit Brachna and had at least one of his paintings open the entire time I was working on the background. 

These are some of my all time favorite paintings. Just look at them, gotdang. 

3D mace! Mostly inspired by spiky black metal aesthetic. I made a very rough (but that's really all I needed) model of the mace in Cinema 4D. The most tedious part was obviously all the spikes. There's probably a way you could pull them out of the sphere in 2 seconds but I'm not versed enough to avoid tediously scooting each individual spike one at a time. I then took it into ZBrush and just scrubbed it over with a cool texture brush that gave it a bunch of amazing details that you can't even see in the painting. I tried to set up a scenario in C4D that was as close to the painting as I could muster to get the lighting right. I copied a bunch of disc tubes to try and replicate leaves and branches. Since the figures hand, and most of his upper body was cast in shadow I tried to strategically place some "leaves" over the top half of the mace. 

I messed with a bunch of different surface materials and render settings and ended up going with the shiniest one, heh. 

Here it is before and after being painted on, very minute adjustments. 

I'd say the rest is pretty straightforward and can't really think of any extraordinary advice except maybe doing more quick studies of your weak spots. I'm realizing I could get a lot of benefit from doing a higher quantity of less elaborate stuff to really improve more. 

  I really hoped this helped and if there's anything you'd like me to elaborate on or that you felt was left out please don't hesitate to ask!

Here's some meaty juice for you. I made a 2000px tall resolution gif of all the process images which is included in the .zip, containing over 30 of the aforementioned 2000px res process pics, some full resolution (8000px) crops of the final image, and a few other random in progress shots. And finally here's the full resolution (8000px) final .jpg, the final .psd file (2000px), and my brush presets. Enjoy!

I'm not sure how to export your presets as new brushes and you may already need the .abr file for the presets to work, so if you have any tips on that let me know. Most of the brushes I use are straight from other sets or slightly tweaked and saved as a preset. 

Anyway, I think this will conclude this massive post. I truly hope it's helpful, or at the very least mildly interesting. Thanks for reading!