#the-mighty-tangerine

[hoseoksluna]

STEAM | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: smut

word count: 9.2k

summary: one video call awakens your neediness for two cocks.

playlist: steam / pinterest board: steam

warnings: female masturbation, mentions of shower sex, praise kink, toying with the idea of polyamory, a hint of voyeurism, oc rly goes through it and faces mental battles, fear, intoxication, punishment, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, choking, cum eating, manhandling, degradation, provocation, mutual masturbation, rough & raw sex, brief oral sex (f. receiving), pet names

note: IT'S FINALLY HEREEEEEE SKFDSFLSFJ, okay so—let me introduce to you a new yoongi series featuring JUNGKOOK oh my god. i am SO EXCITED about this and i wanna apologize for my insane ideas in advance... i'm so sorry, guys. nevertheless, i hope you like this as much as i do, i literally went mad writing this and i smoked so many cigarettes i lost count. please, let me kNOW UR FAVORITE PARTS CUZ I HAVE SO MANY AND I WANNA TALK ABOUT THEM. oh fuck, guys. ENJOY READING SDKFJSD. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

side note: btw, the playlist i made is literally perfect and depicts the fic wonderfully. you can listen while you read! <3

The scent of mangoes finds its way up your nostrils, heating your senses through its balmy touch as you rub the body butter over the damp skin of your arms. Fingers graze along your décolletage, tucking in the fragrance for your boyfriend to breathe in when he comes home. He’s out for the night—said something about his friend finishing his military service, so the whole group was going out to celebrate it. Yoongi was so frantic in his excitement, hastily putting on the first outfit that sparked his eye. Didn’t even touch his hair, only sprayed a mist of his sandalwood and tangerine-tinged perfume. Grabbed his phone, keys, wallet. Barely kissed you goodbye before he fled out of the door.

He didn’t even ask you if you wanted to come along.

You didn’t mind, though—you’re only in the early stages of your relationship. It hasn’t even been half a year since you’ve started dating. And you figure he deserves a night out with his closest friends because you’ve been attached to the hip since the beginning. Funnily enough, you no longer live at your own place. Somehow, you’ve settled in Yoongi’s apartment, never setting foot outside, save for your walks, grocery shopping, the few dates with your friends and work. There wasn’t any conversation about it; you just mostly spend your free time with your boyfriend.

And all you do is fuck, eat and watch movies.

The last time Yoongi took you out was during the first two months you’d been getting to know him. The realization of how long it’s been sends a trail of chills down your arms and you rub it away.

But because you’ve been spending all your time together, you’re glad to have a moment to yourself—glad to be able to take a long hot shower, to do your hair and skincare. Perhaps, you’ll even have time to do your nails and that energizes you, propels you to spread the body butter further down the rest of your body. It is your rose garden, these night times reserved for your hot showers. The place you go to—your hideaway from the pressure and nerves of life that the steam loosens and soothes, especially when you let your sultry playlist echo through the mightiness of Yoongi’s bathroom, your favorite singer’s voice reaching your veins like the growing stems of those roses; pretty, pink and so feminine. Yes, Yoongi’s therapy sessions and thick length might have been a great help, the best in fact, but there’s something about letting yourself be burned off of all that’s been weighing you down and watching it trickle down the drain that is just so satisfying.

It was all that you were once used to. That is, until you met Yoongi.

Showers with him are something else.

Something you never thought you could ever have the blessing to encounter. Showers with Yoongi are intense, so out of pocket that you find yourself thinking about them fondly whenever you’re alone with your thoughts. There, beneath the downpour of the warm water, he lets you see the other side of his ever unyielding stern façade. While holding you, he would make you laugh, then make you moan and break that sound with each hard plunge of his cock. Hair slicked back, smirk adorning that delicious wet mouth, causing him to look like a Mafioso bent on absolutely ruining you. He would tell you the most insane story he heard from his friend, then talk you through the build-up of your orgasm while continuing to the point of that story—seamlessly waving through, never losing tempo. “Then, he went up to his hyung to ask him about what he did—yes, just like that, honey, take it. I know you’re almost there, just listen.” You would come all over his cock, sprinkling him with your essence, right there at the end of his story and like a hungry man, he’d get on his knees and eat you up, muttering how good you are and how well you did along with each swipe of his tongue. Your lungs would heave due to the overstimulation, your legs would tremble, unable to stand and he’d gather you into his arms, fold you like paper into the crooks of his body and let his thick duvet drape over you. He’d fall asleep first, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, snoring softly behind you while spooning you, never letting go of his deathly grip around you. And while you would breathe in the haze of lilac sprayed on his pillows, you’d become aware of the drowsy rhythm of his heartbeat, the lift and fall of his chest against your back, the snug heat of his body and it would lull you to sleep.

That has become your new version of hot long showers.

And if it isn’t this, then it’s Yoongi letting you quickly wash yourself before he’d steal you away, dragging you into this bed, only to carry you back there an hour later.

You speculate he has a serious, adorable case of attachment issues.

That is why you enjoy your exceptional alone shower all the more—you haven’t had it in so long. Only this time, it’s quite different.

You feel him everywhere.

You feel him in the drift of your hand down your tummy because you recollect the way he likes to pepper kisses there on his way to eat you out. You feel him when you round your palms across your backside because you know he particularly likes to leave traces of saliva when he presses open-mouthed kisses there. His love for you circulates in your bloodstream, mingling with the little love you have for yourself, making it bigger, turning it into a turbulent rush of liquid. You sense it tapping beneath your skin, asking for more of your body just like Yoongi does, always begging, begging for more—for more skin to kiss and lick, for more sensitive parts of you to find and nibble on.

Your hands sense the ghost of him even when your fingers slip past your mound and realize that the film of your memories dampened your cunt. You hear the words of praise he’d utter into your ear at the discovery and you sigh at your tender touch. 

That’s a good girl. Messy for me. 

The rotund case of your body butter remains opened, forgotten. You suddenly have better things to do—like give your body the self-care, the self-love it deserves.

It’s a part of the solo girl's night.

A mewl comes out of your mouth at the first round of circles on your clit. Furrowing your brows at the pleasure, you prop your free hand on the edge of the bathroom counter, riding the pads of your fingers. And then, just like Yoongi taught you, you take your digits away, edging yourself, taking them elsewhere. You cry out at the contact of your wet fingertips on your stiff nipple and you pinch the nub, a spasm of delight coursing through your sensitiveness.

You imagine Yoongi standing behind you. Not touching you, merely guiding you, telling you when to stop, when to pick up the pace—when to fill your hole. Watching you in the mirror, hands in his pockets, having a perfect view of your slick-caked folds, of your clit swollen and asking for his tongue. Determined to make you lose your mind by teasing you, letting you only slap your pussy once you’re close. Your essence drips out of you at that thought, making a mess on the floor and you plug it in with your finger, fucking yourself steadily, inflamed by how slippery your heat is, how easy it is to slip the digit inside. Hot flashes close over your body, pearls of perspiration kissing the crook of your neck. You fuck yourself faster and—

A sudden ring of your phone jolts you. And the picture of your boyfriend, half dressed, with the early morning sunlight leaking over the scars and tattoo on his shoulder, crammed inside your screen, greets you.

You pant hard, your finger still inside of you. Delirious.

He must be on his way home. You don’t even know what time it is. 

Leaning forward, you hide your breasts behind your forearm and you swipe your finger to accept his video call.

Blurry Yoongi. The night sky, starlit and alive, behind him. A shoal of silhouettes, some lanky and some buff, all short-haired and all as woozy-lidded as you. The picture smooths into a crystal clear view and there you see your boyfriend, the nocturnal breeze brushing his ebony hair back. Not just him, however, but another male craning his neck to regard you fully. 

His eyes flicking from your neck to the smallest of your exposed décolletage, a smirk blossoming on his face like your imaginary roses. 

Yoongi slaps his phone face down. You withdraw your finger from your heat, a cacophony of giggles, whiny cries and the exclamations of his name emitting out of your mouth. 

He is not, in fact, on his way home. 

It is a warning, his low and strict call of your name back and, heeding it, you take your phone into your hands, so he’s only able to see your deeply flushed face. Device back in his hand, he’s not looking at you at all. As a matter of fact, he’s shooting daggers fueled with deadly nightshade at his friend, grumbling something that you can’t quite make out amidst the chaos and bustle of the outing. The shoal of the rest of his friends and strangers disappear out of the perspective, as if threatened by the cold energy. 

You wish you knew what he’s saying to him. Even your pussy aches to hear it. The principle of him scolding his friend for looking at you at your most private moment scorches you and you’re red, flattered and majestically horny. 

Yoongi turns his head to see if you’re well-behaved and you beam at him, the pulse on your clit intensifying, forcing you to say, “come home, Yoongi.” 

He chuckles, aware of the reason behind your words, pretends he isn’t. “What were you doing, baby?” 

The growth of your grin doesn’t falter. You show him the sheen of your wet finger in the ivory bathroom light, the glint, the stickiness as you push your index finger to your middle and pull away, your arousal on full, filthy display. 

He curses under his breath. Doesn’t give a fuck that his friend sits beside him and adjusts in his seat. Bites his lip briefly. “Stick it in your mouth for me.” 

Doesn’t say the words that so very often follow after in that sentence. Taste yourself. 

Why he doesn’t step aside to take this video call eludes you, but something about you being watched by two pairs of eyes excites you. Enough for you to do as he says. Perhaps it’s due to the fact you don’t know the male sitting beside him and Yoongi is letting him keep his sight glued to the screen. 

Two sharp inhales of breath. Not one of yours. Yoongi readies his hook to feignedly lash out at his friend and you press your thighs together to alleviate yourself of the unbearable feeling between your legs. Confidence, a bad, bad version of confidence suffuses you whole, turning you into a person gone mad by lust. You swirl your tongue around your digit, the tanginess of your taste causing your eyes to narrow, the principle of driving not just one, but two men mad just the same intoxicates you, as if you were there among them, drinking. 

A pair of round eyes peek at the corner of the screen. Soft, naive, so terribly innocent. A dash of sobriety washes over you, owed to those brownish effervescent orbs, a sprinkle shame pooling low in your core. A reality check. You sense some kind of stability of that reality beneath those eyelashes of his, the stability that whispers—is this the right thing to do? 

It’s not rough, it’s not stern, it’s not Yoongi coded—it’s anything but. Gentleness is what you detect, free of any prejudice. 

You sigh. Millions of thoughts about how you could toy with them pass through your mind, but you decide against them, the stability a pillar that blends into your spine, helping it unbend. You can’t do this; you can’t do this to Yoongi and you need to keep your dignity intact in some way, despite the fact that every fiber of your body compels you to do the opposite. You distract yourself by screwing the lid of your body butter back on. 

“Good girl,” Yoongi coos, causing you to whisk your eyes to the screen in perhaps disbelief, shame or your still pending arousal—you’re not sure. How can you be a good girl when you let another man see something so lewd? How can your boyfriend validate something like that? “One more beer and I’ll be home. Wait for me on the bed. As you are.” 

Naked. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, to the surface of every part of your skin, dragging away small ounces of shame. You curse, mentally, running a hand down your face. Yoongi downs his drink without taking his gaze off of you, watching your reaction, adds once he swallows, “and don’t touch yourself.” 

And with that, he hangs up. 

The harsh comprehension of what the fuck just happened envelops you in a confining embrace, the precipitately increasing weight of shame now a burden on your shoulders that you just can’t shake off, even when you slink your arms through sleeves of your silky robe and welcome in the summer breeze coming to caress your face on the balcony—even when you burst your lighter to a flame and light up your cigarette, inhaling the smoke that you hoped would rid you of its such uncomfortable hold around you. 

You licked your cum clean under the gape of a guy you don’t know in front of your boyfriend. 

His friend heard the order. Don’t touch yourself. Yoongi didn’t whisper it. Didn’t camouflage his words in any way. Uttered them straight and bare, allowing his friend to hear them, despite the fact he almost fought him then and there for sneaking one glance at your moderately naked form. 

Question marks hover in your mind and the pulse on your clit cries, seemingly knowing the answer. 

Did Yoongi like it as much as you did, the aspect of having an audience? 

The wetness in your heat dribbles out, staining your thighs. You squeeze them together, the drag of your cigarette hard and long, expecting to feel your nerves burn off. You gain no such thing—no relief, no lifting of the burden, just constricting tangles in your tummy, zippy spasms of butterflies going mad, mad, mad. 

Perhaps Yoongi didn’t like it at first until he perceived the auspicious debauched look on your face. Saw the way you didn’t hesitate to oblige him when he told you to stick your finger in your mouth. And perhaps the fact that you didn’t express any signal of discomfort was the key to unfastening the leash on his possessiveness over you. 

What have you done? What have you so selfishly and disgustingly done? 

You hang your head in your hands, the white smoke intertwining with the burden on your shoulders and pressing down harder on you. 

That’s why he let his friend hear the command. Don’t touch yourself. He saw the way you indulged in it, and that awakened his liking for it.

Yoongi lied when he said he’d have one more beer. 

By the time you hear the thunder of his voice, all the roses in your garden have wilted, leaving faded, withered petals in its wake—leaving a path of your internal battle all around the apartment for Yoongi to follow. You’ve paced, your bare feet stepping on them. Tried to untangle yourself from the incarceration of your mind by chain-smoking, but to no avail. The only change that took place in your body was the decline of your shame, for you couldn’t help but imagine what could have happened, had you let free rein to your desire—had those round eyes never looked at you with such purity. You figured there wasn’t anything bad about letting your imagination be colored like that, and so you sat on your boyfriend’s couch, cigarette switched to a coconut-flavored vape, and dreamed.

You dreamed about those two men being of service to you, right here on the same couch, where they would lay you down and make you squirt over and over again, betting between each other who could make you come the fastest, counting down your orgasms until the number was a mere blur to you. 

The throb on your clit heightened to heavenly levels and when you emerged from your dream, you found yourself being able to breathe—your momentary disappearance tricking your shame into leaving. It was difficult for you not to touch yourself and you opted to adhere to Yoongi’s wish, not risking to feel worse than you already had. 

The war ended, undeterred by the fact you never expected it to. 

Loud swear words roar in Korean. You rise to your feet to open the front door for Yoongi and you discover that he’s not alone at all. 

The same pair of round eyes, the cause of all the ruckus you just departed from, meet yours, hauling you back there with a force. Your mouth falls agape and before you can react any further, Yoongi stumbles into you. You almost topple over, realizing you didn’t care to steal a glance at the state of him, but the male grabs a hold of Yoongi’s jacket and pulls him back. You wish you had tumbled over and the floor had opened up and swallowed you whole. It would have been less embarrassing than to be stuck in this situation. You want to run, you want to scream— 

“He’s drunk out of his own mind,” the male says, his voice deep like the warm wind before a tumultuous storm, fitting just right with the thunder of Yoongi’s intonation, his gaze wandering over the entirety of your shock-stricken face, taking it in; giving you the same attention that fucked you up hours ago. Yoongi begins to mumble something you can’t momentarily focus on, his hands grasping your waist, lips latching onto your neck. No, you cannot for the life of you focus because the man steals you all over again and you hate how easy it is for him to do that, when you’re far from being available. “Don’t ask what made him drink this much.”

Did Yoongi get drunk because he let his friend in on your most intimate moment? 

Humiliated, turned on and angry altogether, a concoction that simply worsens everything, you draw back from your boyfriend. You want to beat at his chest with your fists just to have some sort of relief from blaming him—because if you blame yourself, only doom consumes you. Why did he call you? Or, essentially, why didn’t he step away to take that damned video call? 

“Thanks for walking him home,” you say eventually, your voice smooth, despite the violence of your feelings, despite wanting to say something else entirely. Your first words to him and, wholeheartedly—despite it all, you hope they aren’t last, even if that possibly makes you a despicable person. 

Yoongi’s friend nods. Chews his bottom lip and lowers his gaze to the ground for a split second. You wonder if he feels the need to remove himself from this uncomfortable situation as much as you do because you can’t read anything in that paleness of his countenance. Not a hint of any emotion whatsoever, just blandness of expression, slightly dimmed by the few thick strands of black hair that have fallen from his disheveled, pushed back mullet. As if they did fight after all, perhaps on the way home, or wrestled if Yoongi was being difficult. 

You don’t realize you and the male are just staring at each other until Yoongi places his hand on your cheek, brushing back a wisp of your tresses. Only then do your eyes flick to Yoongi’s and you finally notice him, the gloss in his hooded irises searching and searching for you, the rosy blush on his cheeks, dry parted mouth and the dart of his tongue as he wets it, softening the flecks that have been created there. 

This is it. If you are focused on him, all things are made right—all things that have been stained get purified and dreams get turned into dust. This is the man you’ve fallen for, who puts you before himself and has done so every day since the moment he made you his. You can’t let anyone else get in the way of the home that your relationship has become, you can’t let your feelings flee—

“For the record,” Yoongi’s friend starts, hand massaging circles on the nape of his neck, the leather of his jacket tight around his arm. Your heart jumps and beats against your chest ferociously. “I didn’t see anything, if that helps you sleep better tonight.” 

It’s such a fat lie and you’re about to shake your head, but then he looks at you with such sincere regret that, ultimately, you choose to believe him. Just to keep your peace of mind unscarred. 

Yoongi tightens his hold around your waist, which grounds you, and a small part of you begins to bloom in healing, disseminating little by little across your whole body. 

A healer with big, round eyes. A good man. 

With a swing, Yoongi closes the door but you don’t hear the click. No, the light spills in from the hallway. Your hands reach for the doorknob but Yoongi blocks them and wraps them around his waist while swaying on his feet. He traces the shell of your ear with his lips, his alcohol-reeking breath wafting over you, and softly, you whine his name. Shuffling beyond the door, feet never entirely moving—the male is still standing outside and he hears as Yoongi hums at your call, as the sound grows into a groan at the feeling of being alone with you at last, at the feeling of all that makes you feminine under his hands. He hears your gasp as Yoongi pushes your chest flush to his body, kisses you harshly and cups your bare pussy. Hears the smack of your mouths, the pop once he withdraws, the squelch of your wetness. Hears as Yoongi murmurs, “you been horny, baby? Wet for me, hm?”

It’s those words that make him shut the door for you.

You made Yoongi drink a lot of water. 

And while he downed the glasses, you ordered him Thai food from his phone, which he now devours. You had wanted to change out of your flimsy robe into your plush pajamas, but Yoongi stopped you with a tight grip on your shoulder and with the nastiest puppy eyes he could manage, considering his plastered state, he begged you not to. Informed you that he wanted to fuck you in your little robe and you told him that if he wanted that, he needed to get sober. 

He’s your boyfriend and you trust him, but you don’t feel comfortable having sex with him while he’s wasted and you’re not. It’s a dangerous territory you don’t ever want to cross. 

So, now he eats as quietly as a mouse, feeding you every other bite with his chopsticks, meanwhile you’re jittering your leg with your arms crossed across your chest, mind full of the male who walked him home. Of the way he pulled you under and resurfaced with you soon after. Of the calm peace you feel all over the perimeter of your mind that peculiarly stresses you out. Of what would happen if you voiced your little dream to Yoongi, especially. 

Was it out of the question or would he consider it? 

Your leg jitters harder. 

You want to tell him, badly. Seeing his friend in real life changed fucking everything. If you hadn’t, you would’ve forgotten about it in the days to come. Yoongi would’ve fucked it out of you in most probability. But those eyes… those eyes got under your skin. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Yoongi scolds with his mouth full of food, no hint of slurring. The hot meal and hydration worked a miracle. “You’re making me nervous.” 

He picks up two cut pieces of chicken with his chopsticks and stuffs your mouth, adding a few pieces of vegetables as you’re chewing. Watches you swallow it, noticing how your eyes are focused on nothing in particular on the other side of the room. Tucking his utensils under his palm, he places his hand on your thigh, halting your restless motion. 

You still won’t look at him. Too lost in the overthinking maze, debating whether you should speak or remain quiet about your desire. A strong part of you fears his reaction and the other half is horrified at the possibility of being turned down—

Yoongi takes his hand away. Props it on his cheek. 

“I can see your pussy from here,” he says, licking his lips. “You’ve shaved?” 

You breathe a soft laugh, turning your head to face him, covering yourself with the small fabric. Dark, but tender eyes, void of any glossiness, awake and stirred—amused. Cheeks awash with color. Lips puffy, a dark tinge of red coating them. A sturdy fist on his cheek, the milky jawline underneath. That messy hair, the slicked-back look ruined by the constant rake of his fingers through them, now falling to the side from the middle. That slender body, clad in the night from head to toe—legs outstretched under the table. So fine, so delicious. A beautiful strong man—all yours. Why do you want another one? 

You slide your leg across his thighs and Yoongi slouches in his seat, discarding his chopsticks. 

“I shaved everything,” you respond, cocking your brow at him—a sly invitation for him to feel its smoothness. 

And he does. Runs his hand up and down your skin. Goes as far as lifting your other leg onto his lap, cradling them both, thumb caressing your calf. The movement causes your robe to expose you again and, cursing the fabric, you go to cover yourself, but Yoongi stops you. 

“Don’t bother,” he mutters. “I wanna look at it.” 

You raise your brows altogether, looking up at him. “You wanna look at her?” 

Yoongi smirks. That dangerous tug of one corner of his mouth to the side. Your death, your undoing, the root of your submission to him. “I want to have her at my disposal.”

You gulp and Yoongi catches it, chuckling. Drifts his hand down your calf, to your heel, to the middle of your foot up to your toes. He plays with your pinky. You note the fact he changed the pronoun after you did. 

Your arousal returns at full speed.

“Did that make you wet?” Low, low is his voice—you feel it prodding at your core, thrumming vehemently. 

You blossom like your roses, thoughts put to the side. 

“I’ve been wet this entire time,” you say, zeroing in your gaze on the flick of dimness that whirls past his eyes. “For hours.” 

He makes a sound of pitiful nature. “Poor baby.” Furrows his brows and juts his bottom lip out, making you weak. Lets his hand roam on your thigh. “So you listened? You didn’t touch yourself?” 

You merely nod your head quickly. You were too distressed to give your body the pleasure it sought. Too busy flaring your lungs with the burn of smoke. And you respected his wish enough to keep your hands to yourself. 

Yoongi coos. “Good girl.” 

A flashback—your lips wrapping around your slick-coated finger, Yoongi praising you and… another pair of eyes watching. Chills spread across your arms, your stomach flipping. Thankfully, your shame is kept at bay. It relieves you. 

“Can I feel how wet you are?” 

A sweet, devious smile. “If you can manage to get to her.” 

You press your thighs tightly together. Yoongi looks at you as if you’ve greatly offended him and alas, he turns your chair so you face him head-on. Forces your thighs apart without any strain at all—and there you feel it, the embarrassment of fucking with him, once your pussy is at complete disposal to him just like he wanted. 

“If your pussy wasn’t so pretty, I’d make you regret your words,” he purrs, eyes fixed on your drenched flesh, hands pushing your thighs back until your knees are at level with your shoulders, folds parting with the movement, revealing more of you. Yoongi wets his mouth with his tongue. 

He thumbs your gleaming lips back and forth, collecting your essence, mesmerized by them. Looks at you intently. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to say sorry, though,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Would it?” 

You grin at him. “Sorry, Yoongi.” 

He rubs your swollen clit in slow circles, still with his bedewed thumb, still with his eyes on you. You choke out a moan at the delight permeating through your being. “That’s not the proper way to apologize, now is it?”

You lean your pelvis into his touch, a natural body reaction unfolding. He disapproves. You scrunch your face. “What should I say?” 

Yoongi tuts. “I’m barely touching you and you already forgot your manners?” 

The only answer you emit is an uncouth whine. 

He shakes his head, putting pressure into his circles for a mere beat of time before he slaps your pussy curtly. A vivid spasm of pleasure fills you and you moan. “Needy girl. Don’t I take care of this pussy enough? What’s this behavior?” 

Another whine. A roll of your body, asking for more of his touch. “Spank her again.” 

A cock of his brow. Harsh, stern, evil. His hand remains propped on his thigh, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t hear you say please. You wanna be bad? You want me to make you cry?” 

You know just how much he’s capable of doing that. You shake your head ‘no’. You want gentleness, the kind you saw in his friend’s eyes—

You flutter your own shut to get rid of that thought. Take a deep breath. 

“Spank my pussy again, please.” 

Yoongi massages the apex of your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt, squeezing the flesh every once in a while. 

“Apologize first.” 

“You didn’t tell me how.” 

He clicks his tongue and pinches your folds and your clit between his fingers. You cry out, and then Yoongi gets up to his feet, leaning over you, propping his hand on the back of your chair. He begins to swiftly spank your pussy over and over again. You just jump at every contact, moaning, eyes flicked to his, never breaking apart. Taking it, taking it so well that Yoongi kisses you nastily, licking into your mouth. Then, he grunts. Fingers flat against your clit, he moves them from side to side. Roses, a myriad of them, flood your form with their freshness and dewiness, with their beauty and delectation and you shudder, you scream, you arch your back off of the backrest—

“Say, ‘I’m sorry, Yoongi. I’m such a bad girl that I deserve every spank and I’ll take it until it hurts.” 

Flabbergasted and horny beyond measure, your mouth falls agape. Your brain turns into mush, the pleasure paralyzing you, your sounds now loud and obscene, the roses in you flitting, growing and murmuring. Yoongi adds more pressure to your clit and your eyes sink back into your head, his darkness wafting over to you, seeping into your skin—now completely yours. 

You repeat after him—word for word. With a simper on your face that causes him to scowl at you, as if you dared to toy with your punishment he bestowed upon you. But then, a tongue prods the inside of his cheek and he laughs, taking a hold of his dominant role and making sure you know. He spanks your clit twice in a row, hands lifting to fondle your nipples. 

“Good,” he praises. “You like that, don’t you? Spanks on your pussy?”

You don’t like that softness. Like the personified thunder he is, it is the calm before the storm. It unnerves you, the expectation of what might come next and your disliking of it. Nonetheless, you brim with the craving to have his fingers inside of you. Your hole clenches at that and Yoongi notices, hissing under his breath. The language of the darkness rises on your tongue and you figure that if you let loose, you’ll get your wish fulfilled.

“Yeah, it feels so good—” He pinches your nipples between his knuckles and you mewl, your lashes shaking at the impact, another set of wetness coating your folds. “Please, fuck me with your fi—”

You don’t even get to finish your sentence. Yoongi plunges his middle finger into your heat, cursing at your tightness, at how slippery you are and at the delight of being filled at last, you knit your brows. With his other finger, he traces the outline of your puckered mouth, his breathing hard and ragged. 

“I’ll do anything for that pout of yours, fuck, no matter if you deserve it or not,” he utters, slipping the digit inside. Instinctively, you suck on it and only then does Yoongi begin to pump you slowly. “You just need a little roughness to be good, don’t you?” 

Dumbly, you nod, swirling your tongue around him, but a faint, silenced part of you begs for the gentleness that you know hides somewhere deep inside his chest, never once unfurled during such intimate times. 

You pay it no matter, too fucked out to think. 

When he adds a second finger into your heat, he does the same thing with his other hand. Two fingers in your cunt, two fingers in your mouth. And he fucks you with both until you gag and a light flashes in his eyes—then, he withdraws all together, leaning against the table, his bedewed fingers coming to rest at his hardened length in his pants. 

Roses, opening. Roses, sighing. 

You breathe heavily, needing to finish, needing to have him in your mouth—

“You liked being the center of attention today?” he husks, surveying your whole body, bent in half. 

There it is—the storm. Just what you expected. Cold sweat dribbles down your spine. And it is fear, what you feel, even when you refuse to admit it. Stiff, tempered fear that pervades each and every vein on your body, regarding being possibly degraded, being made feel dirty—regarding, even, tasting the dark wine of his wrath. 

Such a stark, sudden change. 

You don’t want this. You don’t want any of it.

Abruptly, an internal question comes and pokes you in the middle of your forehead.

Will you succumb to it or will you, with the wildly fresh darkness within you, fight against it?

You take a deep breath, and in with the air also follows, with the little rationality you have amidst the sensuality of your lecherous appetite, the decision to take a hold of it all. To take charge. Just like he did.

You shall prioritize yourself. Your feelings, your desires—your roses.

Your choice envelops your fear in bubble wrap. It doesn’t dissipate. And as much as it pains you, you take a mental note of that. 

“I did,” you spit out, angered by the fact you’re afraid of your boyfriend, and so you stand your ground. “It made me so fucking needy and I want more.” 

The relief that hits you almost causes you to weep and you lower your legs to the ground. Not wanting him to see the film of tears clouding your eyes, you avoid his gaze. Yoongi crosses his arms across his chest and clicks his tongue at you, disapproving. 

“Keep your legs where they belong.” 

“No.”

A lift of his brow. He crouches down to your level and cradles your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him. And there he sees, under the waterfall of your hair, your emotions at his disposal. Yoongi studies you, frowns at you and you want to sob, you want to go home. Shame slithers towards your spine like a ghost, and although it keeps a distance, you feel its presence prickling your back. You cover your cleavage. 

“Why are you crying?” Yoongi asks, a silky murmur, eyes flicking between yours. His fingers don’t caress your skin; they merely hold you firmly, making dents in the skin. 

You don’t trust that voice, dismayed by what might lie under. 

“Why did you do that to me?” you ask in return, and it’s a blue fire shooting out, engulfing the room in stifling heat. You catch a glimpse of its sparks in the dimness of his eyes, of how he’s momentarily stricken by it before it folds beneath the shadows.

“You want to get fucked by someone else?” 

A question for a question. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat, caused by your frustration. 

Your devotion to him didn’t let you go as far as to imagine being fucked by his friend while Yoongi watched, but the brief flash of it in your mind is enough incentive for the heat to spill into you, mingling with the darkness, turning you candescent, traveling through you until it finds your core—and there, it stays. There, it finds home. 

The pulse on your clit returns, filling you with abrupt energy. 

There’s something about him coming up with it that makes you unhinged, but you’re so utterly sick of the instability of your feelings. You need it to stop.

“And what if I do?” you retort. “What will you do?” 

Truthfulness, at last.

Yoongi takes in a sharp inhale of breath, and that is the only reaction you receive from him. Nothing else on his face flickers; no wrath, no sliver of jealousy, not one thing. You stare at an empty canvas, ready for you to paint on. And you simply decide that you want to start. 

You push his hand away from your face. Stand up to your feet. But the hardened look he gives you inclines you to sit back down. 

You fight against it. 

Untangling the knot on your robe, you let him see your bare femininity. The perkiness of your breasts, the long dip of your stomach that he likes to pepper kisses on. Yes, you’re aiming for his weakness. 

And you decide to repeat history. 

You reach your hand down, lower and lower while he stares you down, and you collect your glimmering essence. Sinking your finger into your mouth, you make a show of rolling your eyes back and moaning faintly, softly. Your other hand, in the meantime, unbuttons his pants. 

The breath Yoongi inhaled hitches in his throat. 

“Is this not evidence enough?” you purr, dragging down his zipper. “How else am I supposed to show you?” 

You pull his manhood out as you suck on your finger, all while maintaining eye contact. You don’t touch him beyond that. In fact, you withdraw your hand altogether. 

And then, you collect your essence again. 

This time, you smear it across his bottom lip. Yoongi lets you. Your heart thuds, threatening to jump out of your chest. 

“Your actions during the video call told me everything,” you whisper, catching the sliver of wooziness scattering along his narrowed eyes. “And I think you liked it more than me—the thought of sharing me. You can’t hide it. Not when I saw it.” 

Yoongi growls. Then, he surprises you. 

He parts his lips for you. 

And the contact of the pad of your finger with his wet tongue coaxes a string of your dewiness to drip down the side of your thigh. You moan for him. Relieved, fucked up, woozy just the same. Finally, finally, finally. 

You’re in charge. And it feels divine. 

His length twitches against the fabric of his T-shirt. Long, hard, drooling. Such a delight for you—and so you continue. 

“I also think it made you hard. Not just because you called me when I was touching myself, but because your friend was right there beside you,” you purr, your voice a seductive sound of silk—leading him to wrap his lips around your digit. You moan for him, showing him how much you like that. “Isn’t that right, baby?” Your walls clench at the pet name, solely due to the fact that these soft terms of endearment have always been addressed to you, never the other way around. It thrills you. “I’d always be devoted to you, even if he fucked me. I’d look at you the entire time. If that’s what you want. I had a different idea, but yours is just—” you pause, and again you make a show of sighing and rolling your eyes back, “better.” 

A straight hit to his core. A glee for you. 

But you don’t realize how much you fucked up until Yoongi grips your waist and the hold hurts enough that you wince. 

And then—then he manhandles you. 

Lifting you and laying you down on the table, Yoongi spreads your legs. Watches you drip, watches as the satiny fabric follows the movement of your limbs and reveals you in all your entirety. He pulls you closer to him with a sharp tug until you collide with the tops of his thighs. Bends over you. Hovers his lips above yours. You expect him to kiss you—he even angles his head and rubs the side of his nose against yours—but he never does. 

He only leaves you waiting. Leaves you submitted to your empty expectations, taking charge, taking his control back from you. You shiver in anticipation, reaching for him, however he pins your hands down on either side of you. An angel in a rose garden. 

Yoongi chuckles, darkly, his teeth glinting in the yellow light. You fight against his hold, hips rolling against the underside of his length, beckoning him to do something, anything. You merely manage to prolong the thunder of his laughter. 

“One cock isn’t enough for her, so baby wants two,” he spits. That smirk, the crinkles around his eyes—he’s enjoying this. The hint of degradation doesn’t reflect what’s swarming inside of him, doesn’t reflect the face of pleasure coursing down his body. You smile and he scoffs. “I have enough friends for you to choose from in case you want more. I think you’d be stellar at taking three cocks. Four, even, huh? Would you have enough then? One in your tight little virgin ass, two in your cunt, one down your throat?” 

You gulp, frozen, eyes widening. 

Yoongi bites his shiny lips, nudging the tip of his nose against yours. Kisses you once. Begins to rock his hips, his length sliding across your wet fleshiness. The moan that escapes your throat trembles with each delicious motion. 

“You watch too much porn, honey,” he coos, giving you tiny kisses on the mouth. “I’d kill anyone who would come near this pussy. And I’d kill Jungkook, too, if he so much as glanced at her.” 

So that’s his name. You mewl, knitting your brows. That’s his pretty name. The entirety of your form shivers at the discovery, at the pleasure given to your throbbing clit. 

Yoongi pulls back, setting your hands free. 

You prop your elbows on the table, pouting. Yoongi grasps his length, spreads his arousal and begins to jerk himself off. 

“You’re not fucking Jungkook. You’re mine.” He groans, squeezing his tip; your hole clenches. “Rub your clit.” 

Like him, you spread your arousal on your seashell, the arousal long caused by his presence and now the mention of his name—the reason behind your frustration and his, the reason why you’re spread on the dining table, why your boyfriend is hard. You rub your clit from side to side, amused. 

“No,” Yoongi disapproves, knowing you do the motion when you want to prolong the build-up. “Circles. Make yourself come.” 

You change direction, obeying him. A sly grin blossoms on your lips, dark eyes looking up into his, permeating them, permeating into his soul. You pick up the pace, moaning into your expression of elation. 

“Jungkook is such a pretty name,” you provoke and you heighten your sounds in volume and intensity just to piss him off, just to have your way. 

A grunt escapes him, matching your pace. He wraps his fingers around your throat and squeezes. You hum. 

“A pretty name to moan in my opinion.” A layer of sweat coats your body. Yoongi grasps your jawline firmly and your satisfied laughter inches you closer to your orgasm. You feel the hot flashes, roses surrounding you—its tender petals grazing your feverish skin. You give in, watching Yoongi do the same, his mouth in a tight line, hissing and sizzling, an open fire, an open fire you want to be radiated by, burned whole by. “Just imagine him here, watching us. Oh my god, imagine him knowing he’s the reason why you and I are doing this.” 

Yoongi has had enough. 

He pushes you down harshly. Fills your hole to the hilt without letting you adjust, observing himself disappearing inside of you and begins to pound you into the table. The sound of skin slapping, the hard and quick strokes, the ravaged grunts he lets out, the fast change—it all takes your breath away, so much that you can’t, in fact, breathe. He grabs your face and makes you look at him. The dead of the night captured in his features, you absorb it, whining like the brat you are onto his mouth, mingling into your noises your approval, your yes’. 

Swallowing it, he kisses you, keeping his eyes open. “He could never fuck you like this.” 

You laugh. He swallows that, too, moaning. “What if he could?” 

He taps you on the cheek, a warning, giving you an exceptionally hard stroke that causes you to scream. He pauses. Does it again. Over and over—and your screams echo across the room, your own soul slipping out of your body. Petals flutter against you and you’re done for, hanging off the edge. You’re close, so terribly close. Your eyesight blurs and Yoongi pulls out entirely and rams into you. Again and again, abusing your cervix. 

You moan his name, gone—entirely gone. 

“Yes, moan my name like that. Just mine,” he mutters. “Who’s fucking you this good? Who’s gonna make you come?” 

He rams into you more rapidly than before. Your senses leave you until all that you know is Yoongi. His name, his scent, the wholeness of the night encompassing him. 

“You, Yoongi, you. Fuck, I—”

Yoongi laughs maniacally. “Yes, that’s right. That’s my good girl.” 

He rolls his hips, slowing down the coming of your orgasm, owning you. Lets your senses come back to you momentarily. You swallow, your throat dry and you blink, dazed still. Yoongi kisses you, giving you all that he took from you. 

“Who’s only capable of fucking you like this, honey, hm?” he asks, his voice tender and sing-song. “My pretty honey, so fucked out. So out of it.” 

You whine and you don’t control what comes out of you, your body answering for you. “You, Yoongi. You’re fucking me so—so good. I can’t—fuck. You’re the only one.” 

He smiles down at you fondly, kissing your nose, then your lips, parting your mouth and swirling his tongue around yours briefly. Then he withdraws, begins to fuck you again, slowly, reaching to the side for something. 

Once you see his phone in his hand, your heart stops. And when he puts the device to his ear, your throat dries up even more. You suddenly become aware of the silence all around, especially in your chest. You can’t breathe, you can’t blink—

Yoongi jackhammers into you, purposefully luring your loud noises out of you. “My girlfriend wants to fuck you.” 

You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut, the suddenness, the quickness of pleasure you haven’t yet felt piercing you. Fuck hot flashes and petals, you feel a heavy urge of your orgasm closing down on you. 

“She’s so desperate for you, even when I’m fucking the life out of her.” 

You flutter your eyes open to see Yoongi surveying you. You scrunch your face—so close, so fucking close—and then he puts the phone to your ear. Breathing, hard, ragged breathing fills all of your senses and you come. 

It’s an explosion. Roses bursting, their dew soaking you and Yoongi whole and you exit. You exit out of this situation, this world, this universe while your soul remains here with them. Vibrancy, colors so beautiful and sensations so vivid, ardent and fierce. You don’t know what it is you’re feeling or where you are. That is, until Yoongi’s voice yanks you back to planet Earth, back into this world, this situation—back to them. 

“In fact, she just came for you. Squirted.” 

You sob. Overstimulated, rhapsodic, but effulgent. Yes, you emit light and glow. You can see it in Yoongi’s softened eyes. 

“Think about it. No pressure. Just know she won’t shut up about you. I recall her saying your name would be pretty to moan while she played with her pussy. I think it’s only right you fuck it out of her.” 

With that, he hangs up. 

You brim with so many emotions that it numbs you. Happy tears flow out of your tear ducts—and happily, endearingly, Yoongi chortles. You don’t even feel humiliation or shame. On the contrary, you’re ready to come again. 

Yoongi kisses you and the sounds he slips into your mouth divulge how happy he is about this, how pleased he is with himself. 

You pout, burning your eyesight into his. He begins to rut into you. 

“What, you’re not even gonna thank me?” he says, grinning, as if he wasn’t fucking you at all, as if you two were still sitting at the dinner table, conversing. 

You stammer, head empty, silencing yourself and trying again. “What—what made you change your mind?” 

Yoongi places open-mouthed, wet kisses along the bone of your jaw, and there he seals his answer. “I made up my mind the moment you admitted you wanted to be fucked by him, but you wouldn’t shut up about him. I wanted to hear you babble for me. About me. I just had to mess you up to get to that point.” 

You mewl, running your hands through his sweat-slicked hair. Like a cat, he perks up to your touch, lifting his head, angling it. He kisses you, deeply. Kisses your relief. 

“Where are your manners, hm?” he whispers onto your mouth, giving you hard strokes that erase your vocabulary. You want to make him come and so you push against his thrusts, but to no avail. The intensity won’t allow you. 

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmur, cradling his face, pecking him, giving him the softest eyes you could muster so you can show him how much it means to you. 

He approves of your effort on bettering your manners and to reward you, he lifts you up and fucks you in the air. Your breasts bounce against the material of his T-shirt, stimulating you and he alters between jackhammering into you and sliding you up and down on his length. Your pussy squelches around his girth, tightening and Yoongi—

Yoongi loses his mind. 

And it’s him who begins to babble when you snap your hips down on him in circles. 

“Just like that, honey, oh fuck. So good, so good for me.” 

He takes it until his sounds grow in volume and you focus so much on his pleasure that you forget about yours. 

But you don’t let him take charge. 

“Let me fuck you, please, Yoongi. I wanna make you come.” 

Just like you, he’s out of it and because of that, because you asked so nicely, he lets you. 

His chest heaves, staccatos of his choked out breaths sail through the room and you can see it on his face that he’s close. Brows furrowed, bottom lip bleeding due to the way he bites hard on it, the way his mouth pops open and his eyes flutter closed. 

You hold onto his neck with your dear life. 

“Look at me,” you demand and swirl your hips in slow circles around his tip. “I want you to look at me when you come.” 

You’re so stunned that he allows you to be in charge, even more when he truly does open his eyes and pierces his gaze into yours. 

“I need to pull out,” he breathes, but you shake your head, snapping your hips down on him harshly.

“No, I want your cum in me. And I want it to be inside of me when Jungkook fucks me.” 

Yoongi grunts and this is it for him. His cock twitches in you, over and over again and then you feel it—the hot, thick ropes of his cum stuffing you full. You’re so mesmerized by the feeling, by the blissfulness evident on his face, by the smoothness between his brows at last that you can’t even milk him dry. You’re frozen, stupefied by his beauty, by his personal rapture and you want to feel it in unity with him. You kiss him. 

It’s him who fucks him cum into you, burying it deep, moaning into your lip lock. 

It’s him who lays you down to your original position and briefly, feebly licks the sheen on your spread lips before devouring your clit. 

It’s him who gives you the fastest orgasm of your life. 

And it’s him who tells you—in the shower—the story of how he almost beat up Jungkook black and blue once he heard him say how pretty you are.

And it’s you who checks up on him. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” 

You’re stroking his hair in the bed, the duvet heavy and warm around your body and his, the night overflowing into morning—Yoongi, too. 

He’s falling asleep, but still conscious, still here with you, purring. 

“I wouldn’t be waking him up in the middle of the night if I wasn’t,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you, to see you enveloped in the extra blanket of the dawn’s rosy light—glowing, throwing the sun off of its throne. “Poor guy just got out of the military and you’ve already rocked his world.” 

You smile, fondly, thumb caressing his temple. Yoongi hums in appreciation. 

“I’m happy for him he’s getting pussy—one that’s mine. Before he enlisted, he spent all his time painting and getting drunk alone,” he pauses in a thought, blinking at the light. “You still want this?” 

You nod, settling into his chest. Yoongi pulls you closer, tucking the duvet into the lines of your form, bringing in comfort and sleepiness. 

“I’ll make sure you have the time of your life. I’ll be here the whole time, taking care of you,” he promises against your hair and you squeeze him. 

“He hasn’t said yes, though. He could turn me down.” 

“I’ve seen the way he looked at you. You have nothing to fear. He’ll come to you like a puppy.” 

Yoongi sinks the promise onto the plane of your forehead and holds you as you drift to sleep. Happy, relieved, steamed off of all the negative things you went through. It evaporates into the dawn—far, far away from you. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part two 

#yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts smut #bts imagine #yoongi imagine #min yoongi #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #yoongi one shot #jungkook smut #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook #jungkook imagine

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Hi!!

I don't know if you've already done something like this(if so you can skip this), but I'm curious how you think Tangerine would comfort his partner who downplays their own pain because of how easily he handles his own.

Have a great day hun! Yer so wonderful <3

hii bb!! omg I love it!! thank you for requesting, hope you like it angel💌

READER THAT DOWNPLAYS PAIN AROUND TAN.

sooo im thinking..

there is no fooling this guy, nothing gets past him. and I do think that he often knows things about you before you even know them yourself/ or without you having to say anything. like that mf just knows you so well it's literally disgusting

it doesn't matter what kind of pain it is. he just knows. cramps? migraine? bad back? earache? broken nail? sore throat? tummy ache? anything. and no matter how well you hide it (or think you do) he'd still notice it. it could be a subtle face pull or an uncomfortable noise when you move - he'd know

starts with an "alright?" and if you don't reply properly, it goes to a "hm?" but he can tell when you lie, so he'd try again. "what's up with you? you okay?"

and bc i love this shit, you do a quick nod and then pull a face immediately after bc the motion caused you more pain. and then he comes closer and says "liar," he's gentle with you, eyes scanning you, sorta thing. "what's the matter? what hurts?" then you reluctantly tell him the source of your pain. then he says "should've told me right away, you div," (btw it sounds like he's talking hatefully, but he's really not, I promise. he's being sternly affectionate (maybe it's an english thing?))

he has the answers to your problems, all you need to do is tell him and he'll have the trick. bag of frozen peas as a compress? his special work kit of plasters and bandages? really fucking good painkillers from his secret work stash? heating and cooling pads?

and while he's helping you with the issue, he's next to you, touching some part of you - arm, hand, knee and he'd ask you why you couldn't tell him straight away, and you say how you were embarrassed or something about how he's always in pain, and you didn't want him to think you were being a baby

he shushes you, telling you that's not true. he never wants you to shy away and downplay your pain. he wants to know how you're feeling. "you tell me right away next time, yeah? no more of this high and mighty shit," then he kisses you bc he's cute like that, and waits/cuddles with you until the pain has subsided. "when you hurt, I hurt. let me help you." (fucking kill me)

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine bullet train #tangerine headcanon #tangerine fluff

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

#twisted wonderland #twst #Floyd Leech #Tweels #Octavinelle #Jade Leech #Azul Ashengrotto #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #I’ve been dreaming… #twst anniversary #rwst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twisted wonderland anniversary #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twst imagines

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

The Arcana HCs: M6's ringtones

Julian

For Asra: Hot n Cold by Katy Perry

I mean, does it even need explaining? Yes, Asra knows this is their assigned ringtone, and no, they don't mind it at all

For Nadia: Run the World (Girls) by Beyonce

Nadia didn't know that this was her ringtone until you told her, to which she looked flattered and Julian began to stutter

For Muriel: Why Can't We Be Friends by War

Does Julian respect that Muriel is allowed to feel however he wants to about him? Yes. Does the dislike still bother him? ... maybe

For Portia: Sweet Child O' Mine by Guns N' Roses

This was the most sentimental ringtone Portia would allow him to set for her, and only because of the sick guitar intro

For Lucio: Mean by Taylor Swift

He's not going to lie, some of Lucio's accusatory words did hurt a little, especially after he saved his life with that amputation

For you: Can't Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley

A classic. It sums up his feelings for you perfectly, and if you happen to dial him in earshot he'll croon along for you

Asra

For Julian: Dumb Ways to Die by Tangerine Kitty

There's no hard feelings between them anymore, but the moment Julian decided dying counted as a solution this became his song

For Nadia: That's My Girl by Little Mix

She might not remember how close they were, but after the tea parties they had together, he'll always be rooting for her

For Muriel: Lean On by Major Lazer

Never let it be said that they can't be sentimental. They'll just do it to EDM and cheesy lyrics for maximum teasing potential

For Portia: Drama by AJR

If you think for a second that he and Portia didn't eventually bond over their love of collecting tea, I beg you to reconsider

For Lucio: Stupid Hoe by Nicki Minaj

You can try to shame them for this all you want. They are humming along, and have been known to keep singing after picking up

For you: Tear in my Heart by twenty one pilots

You're the tear in his heart, and that means he's alive. Changes it sometimes to lighten the mood, but always switches back

Nadia

For Julian: Rasputin by Boney M.

She doesn't remember him, but there's one thing she knows for sure - the only thing he does more shamelessly than flirt is dance

For Asra: Daydreamer by AURORA

Doesn't the title of the song say enough? Even if it didn't, the dreamy music fits them too well too deny

For Muriel: Lean on Me by Bill Withers

Here is what she knows about Muriel: Vesuvia failed him, and she wants him to have better. Now if she could just get his trust ...

For Portia: Count on Me by Bruno Mars

The person who sat by her as she slept and took care of her needs after awakening and stuck by her side? She can count on her

For Lucio: Shout Out to My Ex by Little Mix

Never let it be said that Nadia is afraid of growing and getting stronger. Though saying he broke her heart is an overstatement

For you: Halo by Beyonce

Just ... read through the lyrics. She's never going to hear you call her without remembering what you mean to her

Muriel

For Julian: D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F. by Kevin Bloody Wilson

Specifically the chorus - "Do I Look, Like I Give A F***: DILLIGAF." He doesn't plan on getting chummy with him any time soon

For Asra: Stressed Out by twenty one pilots

He knows they both had to grow up and suffer, but he still gets nostalgic for the quieter years they spent as kids in the woods

For Nadia: Kings & Queens by Ava Max

Is she intimidating? Yeah, but he'd pop champagne to celebrate her succeeding Lucio any day. More queens on the throne, please

For Portia: W.I.T.C.H. by Devon Cole

Nadia may be intimidating, but Portia's the one he truly fears the most. This woman is small and mighty and way too unpredictable

For Lucio: When Will You Die? by They Might Be Giants

Does he have any murderous intent towards the count? not really. Will he sleep easier when he knows he's all the way gone? ... yeah

For you: All of Me by John Legend

Well it's true, isn't it? You pulled him back out into the world and earned his total trust. But he's never letting you hear his ringtone

Portia

For Julian: Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance

As all younger sisters must, she chose this solely to make fun of him. Julian, on the other hand, is flattered at the iconic song choice

For Asra: Jericho by Iniko

She knows there's better choices out there, but it's just the vibes, y'know? Try convincing her that they haven't been to outer space

For Nadia: Best Friend by Saweetie

Can't resist singing along to it every time it goes off. Which means that she'll always answer with "hi bestie!!" even when she shouldn't

For Muriel: Y.M.C.A. by Village People

1) She doesn't know him that well, 2) it's a really good song, 3) telling him not to feel down is what she wants to do anyways

For Lucio: Girl on Fire by Alicia Keys

*cue gremlin face* sure, she never met him personally, but the dude wasn't a great husband for her bestie. giggles each time

For you: I Will Always Love You by Dolly Parton

Likes to belt this out to you when she picks up. Whether she squeaks on the high notes each time is up to the listener

Lucio

For Julian: House of Memories by Panic! at the Disco

You can't get amputated on the battlefield by a newbie without trauma bonding at least a little bit. Besides, it's catchy

For Asra: Teenagers by My Chemical Romance

Ohh, he remembers when they were a teenager, and he does not want to go back. He had good reason to be uneasy around them

For Nadia: We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together by Taylor Swift

Yes, he knows their marriage ended because he died, but indulge him a little if sometimes he likes to fantasize that he called it off

For Muriel: Sorry by Justin Bieber

Well, what other song are you supposed to give the victim of your past self? Okay so maybe it isn't the best apology, but it is "sorry"

For Portia: Sweet but a Psycho by Ava Max

Oh, he knows that the force truly worth fearing is not the woman you did wrong - it's her loyal and unhinged best friend.

For you: Teenage Dream by Katy Perry

You do make him feel like a teenager again! It's not nearly as glamorous as life used to be, but having you there for it is exciting

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[augustghosts]

Stake Out

Tangerine x fem!reader

This is just… this is just filth!!! I came up with this while i was sitting alone in my car eating mcdonalds lmao, i’m not sure what that says about me. Idk if this is even what Tangerine’s “job” entails but uh, inside my brain it apparently does. This is short but i’m already working on some more tangerine stuff, what can i say? he’s inspired me <3

also i didn’t proofread this soooo lmk if you spot any mistakes <3 hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: It’s a blowjob in a car, what can i say?. (so minors walk back out that door pls). Dirty talk and Tangerine being cocky blah blah Established relationship. Smoking. Swearing, of course.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Tangerine sighs beside her, adjusting his position in his seat. She tries her best not to stare at his thighs as his ringed hand settles on one of them. They’ve been sitting in this vehicle for the better part of 5 hours now, they’ve done longer jobs before, but never one as boring as this.

“You’re the one that signed us up for this.” She grumbles back at him. She’d been in a mood all day, but with good reason. At this point she wasn’t sure whether he was talking about not being able to take any more of the job or of her. He decides not to reply, he doesn’t want to argue with her in this small car and risk compromising their job. For the temper Tangerine had, he was mighty good at holding himself back when it came to her. And Lemon. He hopes that they consider themselves lucky.

He looks at her when he hears her rummaging around in her bag. She pulls out his pack of cigarettes, pulls one out of the pack and sets the pack down on her lap. She begins rooting through the glove compartment for a lighter.

“Give us one.” Tangerine holds out his hand.

“Fuck off.” She mumbles, she’s getting angrier as she fails to find the lighter. He isn’t even offended, in fact- he smirks as he watches her. She was so much like him, and he fucking loved it. He would never say that to her though, he doesn’t want to risk getting slapped. He digs into his own pocket feeling the lighter immediately.

“Looking for this?”

He snaps his palm shut when she reaches for it. He can’t help but think about how attractive she looks with the unlit cigarette hanging between her lips. Her eyebrows furrowed, the pissed off look in her eyes - one he was very familiar with. God, he wishes they were watching someone from a hotel room with a bed. Or a couch. Then he could have her right now.

He tuts, clicking his tongue and grasping the box out of her lap. He makes sure to brush the inside of her thigh with his fingertips as he does. He feels the muscle there tense. He takes a cigarette for himself and lights it before offering it to her. She goes to take it from his hand but he moves it out the way. She rolls her eyes and leans forward, letting him light it for her. He watches the way she inhales, her eyes closing.

“Asshole.” She mumbles as she exhales. Her eyes catch the way his hand that’s holding his own cigarette is hanging out the window. Why is that attractive?

“Technically, this is a company car.” His voice snaps her out of it. “We shouldn’t even be smoking in here.”

“As if you give a shit.” She says, “Besides, we have the windows open.”

“Lemon should have taken this job.” She continues. “He would have loved sitting here, he would have brought a book or something.”

“Probably,” He agrees. “But, I would much rather be sitting here with you.”

He finally decides that he’s bored enough to initiate something, his hand lands on her knee as he speaks. His signature smirk gracing his face when she turns to him.

“I’m not getting naked in this car.” She says sternly. His fingers caress her knee and begin to move upwards. Caressing the soft skin there as well - lightly. The contrast of warm skin and metal from his rings made her shiver. His other hand, still holding his cigarette between said ringed fingers, is hanging out the window.

“Did I say that?” He asks, his hand that was on her knee takes hers into it and guides her palm to his crotch. He knows it’s kind of selfish, but he also knows her too well. He knows she’s being serious in saying she will not take any clothing off inside this car where someone could see. She thinks for a moment, glancing over to the house they were supposed to be watching - it remains dark and still. She looks down at her hand resting on his clothed cock, and she looks back up at his gorgeous face.

Fuck it.

She stubs out her own cigarette on the dash - she’ll clean it later, and she cups his jaw instead. Prompting him to lean towards her and join their lips. She has to twist slightly in her seat, it's an awkward position considering her right hand was still pressing on his dick. She removes her hand and stops his protest by pushing her tongue into his mouth. She turns completely in her seat and goes back to work. His hand travels to her hair and slightly tugs. Her insides tingles as his fingers touch her scalp, it took almost nothing for him to get a reaction from her. The soft moan she lets out and the smirk upon his lips as they pull away tells her that he knows that.

“Hurry up then.” She whispers breathlessly against his mouth, gesturing to his belt. He takes the hint and hurrys to undo his trousers with a smile on his face. Bastard. The clinking of the metal almost makes her more impatient, his attractive hands pulling his even more attractive and semi hard cock out of its confines makes her mouth water.

“Hurry up then.” He jokes, mimicking her statement from before and guestring downwards.

“Watch it.” She mumbles, leaning over to kiss him again and wrap her fingers around his length. It’s her turn to smirk against his mouth as he takes in a sharp breath.

She moves to kiss his jaw as her hand works him. They’re lucky that this job required them to be in a pretty secluded area, she thinks - as she suddenly remembers that they are literally parked up on the side of the street right now. She takes one more look around, all clear, before whispering in his ear: “What do you want? You want my mouth?”

“Fuck.” He drags the word out. “Please.”

“I like hearing you say please.” She smiles, pressing one last kiss to his jaw before lowering her head.

“Fuck off.” He whispers, his hand coming up to rest on the back of her head as she takes him into her mouth. Her warm tongue teases his head and his hand tightens in her hair. “You look fuckin’ beautiful like this. Shit, look at you.” His voice is deeper now, spurring her on.

He lifted his hips slightly off the leather seat, holding back from thrusting into her mouth. His lips parting, his eyes closing as she started to properly take him inside of her mouth. She moaned around him, relishing in the rare sight of him practically trembling above her. She broke away for a second to take a breath, flattening out her tongue to brush his sensitive head on the way up. He jolted as she did so, cursing again. His hand on the back of her neck unconsciously pushed her back down when she took him back in again.

“Jesus, baby.” Tangerine practically squeaks, his voice tense. She loves being able to see him like this. So different to his usual demeanor - so beautiful.

“Do that again.” He pleads. She pulls back off of him and lazily twists her hand around his shaft. She leans up to press a messy kiss to his lips before sticking out her tongue and making her way back down. Tangerine watches her closely, panting and groaning beautifully above her.

“Are you gonna come for me?” She pulls away once more before going back to caressing him with her wet mouth.

“Fuck yes.” He groans, pushing her head down more forcefully this time. She lets him, loving the feel of his hand tugging at her hair. “Just like that, sweetheart.” He moans as he bucks his hips, the tip of his cock hits the back of her throat and the moan he lets out when she gags around him is downright sinful.

“Gonna make me cum baby. Let me see em’.” She knows exactly what he means. She pulls away for a second and begins to undo the first few buttons of her blouse, just enough for him to have a fantastic view of her chest when she bends down. And a fantastic view it is, the sight of her tits and the feel of her warm mouth around him sets him off. She moans around him when she feels ropes of his cum trickle down her throat. He flinches as she does - his cock sensitive, it makes him buck his hips and pull her off of him using the grip he still had on her hair.

“Oh my god.” He sighs, leaning back in his chair. She sits back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and fixing her hair and shirt. He smiles wide as he watches her.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy.” He laughs as he begins to sort himself out and redo his belt.

“Me?” She reiterates, “It was your fucking idea! You’re lucky we didn’t ruin the job.”

“Well,” He glances over to the house they were supposed to be watching. “We might have because… his car is gone.”

Her head whips around so fast he swears it almost came off.

“Oh fuck! You fucking-“ Whatever name she was about to call him will have to wait till later, she’s interrupted when Tangerine’s phone stars ringing furiously. It makes both of them jump, they both stare at it. Knowing what was coming. Tangerine takes a deep breath before picking up the device and putting it to his ear - she watches as he doesn’t even get to say hello before he’s holding the phone away from his ear and cringing as the loud voice on the other side begins to yell. Shit, they were in big trouble. Worth it? Absolutely.

#bullet train #tangerine bullet train #tangerine #aaron taylor johnson #tangerine fics #tangerine smut #tangerine x reader #bullet train smut #bullet train fic

[tribbetherium]

The Middle Temperocene: 150 million years + 1000 years post-establishment

United We Stand: A Second Encounter

The two suns had begun to fall upon the western horizon, and Wildwind began to prepare.

She was one of the highest-ranking members of the Firethieves, the clan of Outlanders led by none other by the dreaded Ashfall himself. She held more sway, more power over most of the rest of the pack, with even the fiercest of them drooping their ears and tails in submission in her intimidating presence.

Yet she was but second-rate.

For she was Ashfall's second mate since the death of Wind-Storm, the late Whitesmoke's mother. She fought by his side, laid waste to their foes in tandem, and, some time past, bore two pups from him: pups that sported the pale white marks on their faces and upon their backs, like their father had.

Yet she was but a replacement.

She was a competent leader, a fierce but nurturing mother, a trustworthy partner, but she never seemed to be enough. The great leader mourned his lost mate, and now lost son, and Wildwind was eclipsed by the shadows of the dead.

"We come now, Mother?" asked Darklight, the male of her two pups. He perched upon a small outcrop of rock, watching the small specks of the shore-people, the Them, moving faintly in the distance, blissfully unaware.

"Tonight. When dark. We have light. Not Them." Wildwind replied.

The Firethieves and their stolen flame gave them an upper hand. There was darkness, and they could force it away with their light. The enemy were shrouded in it, and would be consumed in the blackness.

The pack of the shore-people were sure to fall, she thought.

One of them had slain Whitesmoke, had not they? The beloved eldest of Ashfall?

Perhaps with their destruction, and thus Whitesmoke avenged...she would finally be enough for him. Worthy of the devotion of the Half-Spirit, the great leader, the mighty warrior who would lead them to victory.

"We go soon," she said, as the last tangerine sliver of the yellow-sun slipped beneath the horizon, swallowed by the dark, inky sea.

-----

"What for?" asked Threestripe, the female of Wildwind's pups, as, under cover of night, the Firethieves began to mobilize.

"We kill them who kill brother!" Wildwind snarled. "We destroy the Them for Ashfall-father!"

Threestripe silently twitched her folded-back ears in resigned agreement. She was but eighteen seasons old, and cared little of what ideas he spoke to all the pack. He was barely a father to her. Whitesmoke was barely a brother to her. They were almost strangers.

And she didn't know why she was now to rush to war, to kill, and probably die, for them.

The Firethieves began their march, slowly, in single file. Back across the same path they had taken not long before, along the coast by the sea. Their paws trod across accursed ground, ground where blood was shed in their fateful defeat, ground where Whitesmoke had been struck down--where, had they taken a closer look had they passed, only small, scattered bones remained: the rest of the once-proud Outlander long since disposed by the wind, the earth and the many small, ravenous creatures that returned death back to nature. Forgotten, consumed and dissipated, like he never were.

Yet while his flesh had long rotted to oblivion, his memory endured in the darkest of ways.

"Here coast-folk home?" Wildwind asked another Outlander.

"Not no more," came the reply, with a sniff of an old, empty cave. There was the faint, old, distant smell of the Them. But the cavern was barren and abandoned.

"They move. We too must."

"MOVE!" howled Wildwind, an urgent command to the rest. There was but one place they could flee, to the north, where the Outlanders had not reached, and she was determind to find their trail.

The suns would not rise with the coast-folk still living.

--------

In the quiet, seaside cove, shaded from the sky by a rocky outcrop, Sharpstripe arose from a troubled sleep.

Beside her, her two youngest pups snuggled close to her warm body. Her three middle pups, Sunbeam, Brushtail and Shade, curled up further back near the cliff wall, while her eldest, Switch-Eyes, lay next to his father Strange-Eyes together to keep watch if anything happened. Tonight, it seemed safe, and both slept-- but lightly.

She, too, felt a sense of unease.

The recent couple of seasons and their unpleasant turn of events had been much for her to bear. She had been lost, confused and afraid. She wanted the best for her pack--but in doing so, had become what she despised.

Almost.

She glanced around at the cove, where nearby, other packs slept, together. On one side was Narooo-a and her plains-folk, gathered warmly around the gently crackling fire-pit, with at least one always awake to keep the fire burning, and on the other side, Star-Watcher and his dark-ears, huddled tightly together in an affectionate pile, packed so densely it was hard to tell where one dark-ear ended and another began.

Her tail began to wag in an expression of joy.

She had once feared them. Hated them, for no reason.

Yet their packs, their differing peoples, had plenty to learn from one another. They had taught her many things, from the tongues they spoke to the manners they lived. And she taught them many things in return.

In time, her mind and heart became more open.

Different ones weren't always to be feared.

Slowly, as days went by, stories were exchanged, and friendships formed, blossoming in the union as young pups learned each other's dialects, the three peoples had gotten closer. They were no longer visitors, but neighbors. And perhaps, even more than just that. They began to feel like extensions of Sharpstripe's own pack.

They were like family.

Sharpstripe's gentle contemplation was suddenly ground to a halt when at the corners of her eyes, she saw something moving. Slowly, but steadily, along the distant, meandering coast.

A light.

A faint, orange light that stirred terrible memories.

She felt the hair along her mane stand on end, but tried to calm herself. Perhaps it was only more plains-folk? Friends of Narooo-a, maybe? She had judged them too soon before, and she had been wrong.

But this time, she could hear the distant cries. The calls of war.

The chants of fury.

The cries of rage.

And this time, her hunch was true.

"OUTLANDERS! OUTLANDERS!" she shrieked with a piercing yelp that brought Strange-Eyes and Narooo-a and Star-Watcher to their feet, interrupting their tranquil slumber. They rushed to rouse the rest of their packs without further delay, and began to arm for battle.

They were asleep, but they were not unprepared. They had awaited, with bated breath, for the unexpected and unwelcome return, for many seasons.

History had repeated itself, in more ways than one, in a smaller scale and in a far greater one, as a force of hatred and violence that wrought fire and destruction rose from the darkest of thinking minds to crush the weak.

But this time, it would not strike unopposed.

As the young pups were herded to the safety of the cove Sharpstripe bounded to the front line, bearing her wood-tooth, honed sharper than before this time for war and not food, joining Strange-Eyes, Switch-Eyes, Narooo-a and Star-Watcher in defending the cove from a familiar evil.

She would fight without hesitation to defend her family, as she had before.

But now, her family was far bigger than it ever had been.

--------

"LET THE FOLD-PAW PUPS NOT GROW!" roared Wildwind, leading the charge. The foul stench of the Them's grew ever stronger, and as they neared the small cove the sound of their panicked scrambling became louder.

Good. They were afraid.

At her side she was flanked by Darklight, her eldest pup, next in line to be his father's second-in-command. Darklight gritted his teeth in determination. He was the son of the legendary Ashfall, after all. Whitesmoke was weak, Whitesmoke was foolish, but he would not be. He would be a worthy successor.

And at the back, trailing behind, was Threestripe.

She did not want to be here.

"DESTROY ALL! KILL!" Wildwind howled as the Firethieves rounded the edge of the cove and poured into the bay's coast like a blazing tide. The panicked scampering of the Thems had fallen silent. They were trapped, cornered like flyer-beast pups in their nest, waiting to be devoured by scaly-creepers and hunt-beasts. They were helpless. This would be an easy victory, for the glory of Ashfall and the memory of Whitesmoke--

She rushed headlong into the fray, expecting to see them cowering, or at the least, vainly putting up a pathetic resistance--

--but instead, found herself face-to-face with the most terrifying sight she would ever see in her life.

A wall of Thems, standing in defiance. Numerous. Powerful. Unafraid.

They bore torches that burned brighter, fiercer, than even those the Outlanders sported. By their smell, she could tell that the torches were fueled by the greasy fat of grazer-beast innards. Yet coast-folk did not know that! That was knowledge of the plainsfolk! The plainsfolk--

--the plainsfolk that now stood among the coast-folk, their unmistakable speckled coats and three-toned tails visible in the brilliant light of the grease-torches.

Grease-torches affixed to the blunt ends of the coast-folk's wood-teeth, some held to one side and some to the opposite side, all ready to cover one another in any direction.

A cry of command broke forth from the foremost of the coast-folk, one whose eyes gleamed with the brownness of the earth and the blueness of the sea, and the Thems, coast-folk and plains-folk alike rushed forth to defend, in numbers easily almost twice that of the Outlanders' forces.

Wildwind was taken aback, but she was no coward.

She had something to prove.

"FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK!" she demanded, and the bloodlust of the Outlanders toward the Thems for the moment drowned out their fear and reason.

They sieged forth with fangs bared, but their stealth and ambush were left null by the brilliant gleam of plainsfolk's torches. They were exposed, and visible. Their main tactic was foiled.

They darted low to the ground, in near silence, yet their fur gleamed in the torchlight. And the defenders took notice.

There were gaps in the wall, but those quickly closed as they approached. The defenders could see them!

With stealth left in vain, they switched to what only else they knew--brute force.

Some Outlanders pounced at the throats of their enemies, sinking their teeth into their soft vulnerable necks, only to cry out in pain as they realized too late that their foes were not only prepared in offense, but defense as well. Their bleeding jaws instantaneously loosed their would-be lethal grips upon the necks of their enemies, which were defended by strips of dried, leathery grazer-beast gut, armed with barbed thorns.

But they could not know that, either!

That was a tactic of the snow-folk of the south!

Snow-folk--

--snow-folk who, at a closer look, stood among the crowd, their great shaggy forms towering above the stocky coast-folk and the lithe plains-folk, yet standing by their side.

"THEMS FIGHT AS ONE! THEMS FIGHT AS ONE!" cried a frightened Outlander voice amidst the paltry forces of the invaders, as the defensive wall of defenders began to slowly march forward, jabbing away at any who dared rush in to attack.

Some were struck down as they lunged, as the proceeding column stood their ground, more well-armed than anything the Outlanders have ever fought.

Their weapons were one-sided, and some Outlanders tried to attack torch-side, only to be struck by another defender, who carried their wood-tooth torch the opposite way.

And even those struck by the torch-end hurt, as the blazing grease stuck to their fur.

It was the Firethieves' worst nightmare, and one they never expected to see.

The fiery light of the plains-folk, that left the former advantage of their own fire useless. The collars of the snow-folk that made them harder to kill. The lethal stabbing wood-teeth of the coast-folk to round it all off.

What tactics did they have left, to fight all three, at once?

Why were they united? They were enemies!

To the Outlanders, who divided the world in Us-es and Thems, such an alliance was impossible. Improbable. Utterly incomprehensible.

Yet it stood before them, a testament against their very ideals.

Let the fold-paw pups not grow, they had chanted.

And now it had grown too big indeed.

Bigger than they could have imagined.

"FALL BACK!" cried the Outlanders at long last, some wounded, some smoldering, bailing out on an unwinnable outcome. They dropped their torches and fled. They were not prepared. They were not ready to face the wrath of a foe the likes before they had not seen, and chose their well-being over their leader's agenda--

--save for one.

"COWARDS! WEAK STUPID! RETURN! RETURN!" urged Wildwind, standing her ground, as the morale of her troops began to falter. But she refused.

She would prove her worth, still!

Ashfall will see her as great as his equal!

Whitesmoke would still be avenged!

In the chaos Wildwind tried to find an opening, where she could perhaps steer around, strike from behind, confuse them, break their ranks--

--but found herself being intercepted by a coast-folk with a wood-tooth, her eyes pointed and fierce, and before Wildwind could properly respond, the sharp point pierced deep into her shoulder and locked in tight.

Wildwind cried out in agony and struggled defiantly against the wood-tooth--

--until, with a sickening crack, the tip broke, and she too fled yelping, limping, the broken end of the wood-tooth still embedded in her bleeding shoulder.

As the leader of the charge turned tail, whatever remained of the Outlanders' courage slipped away in an instant, and they bounded off into the darkness, dropping their torches along the way, bloodied, bruised and broken, and defeated once again.

------

"They running. They running!" Narooo-a whooped in joy.

"Safe now?" pondered Star-Watcher, huffing from exhaustion.

"Not sure," Strange-Eyes replied. "Might return. Ready."

A chorus of weary cheers and howls of victory echoed through the cove, and with it the terrified pups of the three packs slowly clambered from their hiding places and were once more met with the gentle, reassuring licks and nuzzles of their elders. Gestures whose message to the young pups was clear.

"You are safe so long we are around."

They had learned much from one another, and stood stronger as one. They had all fought the Outlanders alone before with what they had, and barely survived. But with their skills combined, they had become a nigh-insurmountable force obstructing the Firethieves' path of devastation.

Even the young adolescents, Shade, Brushtail and Sunbeam, who, even in their youth, were no strangers to war, at this point.

A thought that saddened Sharpstripe. They were but children.

The defenders watched as the attackers disappeared from sight, the few torches they managed to carry with them flickering away in the distance like stars waning in the dawn light.

Yet they could feel it wasn't over.

Sharpstripe paced up to the huddle of the victors. "Wood-tooth broke," she said in dismay, dropping the destroyed weapon forlornly in the sand.

It had been one she'd used for a long time.

Strange-Eyes gave her a reassuring lick to the face. "Just stick," he said. "We find make new one."

Today was a victory Strange-Eyes and his pack could truly celebrate. For this time, no lives has been lost. He paused, momentarily, in recollection of his father, Pale-Beard, and of that bitter day. But this was not that day, and all of them were to see the suns rise once more.

All on their side, at least.

On the sand, drenched in fresh blood, several bodies lay, motionless and still warm. Pierced by the wood-teeth, or choked by the collar-thorns that had broken off in their mouths.

In the flickering yellow light, Narooo-a gazed upon them in sadness. They were enemy. But still, the grim aura of death cast itself over the victorious celebration.

Star-Watcher was forced to agree.

"Had to. Must do." he said, his deep, throaty voice tainted with sorrow. For while it was a death borne by necessity, a death of one who sought harm, it was still an ugly thing to behold.

A faint, coughing whimper rose from one of the fallen bodies.

"This one...still alive." Narooo-a remarked, stepping back warily as the wounded Outlander gasped and struggled to rise.

"My turn."

It was Shade, one of Sharpstripe's middle children, with a short, but sharp, splinter of her mother's broken wood-tooth.

Shade, the young, yet hardened fighter.

Who had seen great evil at such an age.

Who had been maimed and scarred for life by the Outlanders in their first encounter, scars that pained even now.

Who had watched, eyes wide with horror, as her grandfather Pale-Beard breathed his last.

Who had witnessed first-hand how her brother Switch-Eyes gave their pale leader his inglorious and well-deserved end.

"My turn."

The wounded Outlander yelped, pleading in a foreign tongue that Shade did not understand and would not have cared to listen. She paced toward him, eyes fixed and unblinking, stride unfaltering.

He struggled to rise, but his back had been broken, his rear legs limp, and he was powerless to resist as, to the shock of those around to witness, Shade threw herself upon the fallen enemy, pinning him to the ground, piercing him again and again with vicious snarls, even as he screamed in terror and pain, even as he went limp, even as the glow faded from his eyes.

She struck for the murdered Pale-Beard.

She struck for her pack and her lost home.

She struck for her newfound family that had suffered under the Outlanders.

She struck against the wounds she suffered in her face and in her spirit.

She struck again and again and again, until she was too exhausted to strike any more, until she was showered in the vile Outlander's foul blood, until the panicked cries of Switch-Eyes finally reached her ears.

Panting, she dropped the splinter of wood-tooth next to the still-spasming body of the Outlander, and looked up to meet her brother's wide, asymmetrically-hued eyes.

Frightened eyes.

"...Why?" was all Switch-Eyes could say.

He had slain Whitesmoke long ago, but it was not something he took joy in.

It felt sinful and apalling, even to this day.

"They Outlander," replied Shade, breathing heavily from the exertion. "Deserve to die."

And an uneasy chill ran down Switch-Eyes's back with the satisfaction he heard in her voice.

------

The yellow sun began to rise in the dawn, obscured and hazy in the morning fog as it cast its warm light onto the spectacle of defeat, both impressive and horrific.

The wounded survivors of the Firethieves slowly, painfully, hobbled back to the valley that had once been the highbrows' home. Now the Outlanders had conquered it and driven them away, and had been feeding well the past days upon the plentiful stolen grazer-beast herds, which Ashfall had fiercely rationed to keep enough to breed more next season.

The great leader himself arrived to the lowlands to meet the returning forces, expecting news of victory.

Only to be greeted by a dreadful and crushing sight.

His fighters came back gravely wounded, some with bleeding mouths and tongues embedded with thorns, some with grisly pierced wounds caked in dried blood, even a few with marks that appear to have had been burns. Amidst them, the wounded, was his second mate, Wildwind, and their two young.

And some had not come back at all.

"What happen? Why hurt?" urgently asked Ashfall with great concern.

"...I am enough good for you, now?" Wildwind replied, given a small bit of joy, in spite of her predicament, at the rare treat of genuine concern Ashfall now finally showed her.

"WHAT HAPPEN?" Ashfall demanded.

"Too many. Too strong," Darklight answered weakly, gazing up in shame at his father with his one good eye, the other injured and swollen shut.

"Coast-folk. Plains-folk. Snow-folk."

"Together."

The last part struck Ashfall like a wood-tooth, piercing him to his very core.

"Not be. NOT BE! Them...enemies! Not just us but each other! Why together?"

Ashfall could not believe the words, and for a moment, he wanted to think that perhaps they were but cowardly, making excuses.

Yet he saw the thorns that the wounded Firethieves were gingerly pulling from each other's mouths. Unmistakably, from the collars of the snow-people, which he had been told could only be attacked from behind.

He saw the burns on the bodies of some, deep charred gashes like if something sticky and on fire had stuck to their coats, burning through the hair and reaching the skin. Like the grease torches of the plains-people, even if they never used the torches themselves for war.

He leaned in to Wildwind's aid, pulling out the embedded wood-tooth tip from her shoulder. She cried out in pain, and Ashfall dropped the tip to the ground.

As he nursed Wildwind's wound with a few gentle licks, he looked at the broken tip, noting its even, serrated edge, like it had been gnawed into shape and given small notched barbs with precise bites--ideal for spearing small prey in shallow water.

The unmistakable mark of the coast-folk.

Ashfall couln't believe it, wanted to deny it, yet all the evidence was there, before his eyes to see. His troops spoke the truth, that they had fought all three at once.

United like never before.

He surveyed another long look at his army. The devastation wrought upon them. He feared the Them, for the threat they could pose. He waged the war for the sake of his Us, or so he thought. Or so he believed.

And for the first time, in a very, very long time, Ashfall felt truly afraid.

From a distance, Dungstain glared at him with contempt, as he often did now. Yet this time, he chose to keep quiet, for the sake of his self-preservation.

Still, he knew all too well what dreadful mistake the foolish, arrogant Ashfall had wrought. He feared the Thems, and attacked them all with reckless abandon.

Now he had given them all a common enemy.

Behind her mother, Threestripe gazed fearfully at Ashfall, as afraid of him as she was afraid with him. She had stayed behind in the battle, and watched from a distance. She didn't want to join the chaos that unfolded. She didn't know why there even was a war.

All she knew was she wanted none of it.

Ashfall gazed into the distance, in horrified realization, as the knowledge of the Them, now too powerful, now more of a threat than ever before, sank in. The rest of the Outlanders crowded around him, equally uncertain, equally anxious, in visible unease and with tails tucked beneath their rear legs. Despite the failure, he was still a leader most looked up upon for direction.

Most.

"What now?" asked one Outlander.

"More."

"Need many more. Too few," Ashfall concluded, after a tense and silent pause. "If together Them fight. Us...need more."

"Where get more?" others asked. "Us...not many."

"Them." he replied, pondering his last resort.

"Other Them. Make fight."

"For Us."

----------

#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise #the calliducyon saga

[hinatastinygiant]

9 | Tangerine Skies

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x Fem!Reader

Serpents and Roses

OMINIS' P.O.V.

"Hey, earth to Ominis," Sebastian says to me as he presumably waves his hand in front of my face after we finish eating lunch. "Whacha daydreamin' about?"

"Huh? Sorry," I say, snapping back into reality.

"You were thinking about her again, weren't ya?" he asks.

"No," I shake my head, turning away. "I was thinking about Thestrals."

"Liar," Sebastian scoffs. "You were thinking about Y/N."

"Was not."

"Yeah, ya were," he insists.

"How would you know? I'm blind, remember? Perhaps I was just ignoring you," I lie.

"It's not hard to see the way you stare into space after her name comes up. Or the way your eyes light up whenever you're near her. Or the way you seem to forget how to speak when she touches you. Hell, even the way you've been trying to act all high and mighty with that Nott guy has got something to do with her," he laughs.

"Shut up," I groan. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Why not just admit it already?" he asks. "You like her. It's pretty obvious. Everyone knows it, too. Besides, I'm the only one here, and I already know. Can't say I blame you. She's cute."

"She's a muggle," I frown.

"So?"

"So... I can't."

"Why not? There's no rule against it," Sebastian shrugs.

"Because I don't actually like her, okay?" I say, feeling a pain in my chest as the words escape my lips. "I'm just trying to be nice because she's got no friends."

"Alright, whatever," he finally gives in. "Let's go to class already. If we wait too much longer we'll be late."

"That's what I was saying before," I groan.

"You were? No, you were staring into space," he rolls his eyes.

"I'm not having this conversation again," I shake my head.

"Whatever. I'll see you after. I've got potions now," Sebastian says as he stands up and leaves the Great Hall.

I stay behind, finishing the last of my juice. When I'm done, I head towards the door.

SEBASTIAN'S P.O.V.

As I walk down the hall towards the potion's room, I notice Y/N laughing while standing beside that unmistakable red-haired Garreth Weasley. I didn't know the two of them were friends.

"Hogwarts is like a maze to me," Y/N then sighs. "Maybe you can show me around sometime? I'd love to see some cool spots in the castle."

Garreth responds with a mischievous grin, saying, "Oh, Y/N, navigating this castle is a skill only a true witch or wizard can master. But for you, I'd consider being your guide. Just be prepared for a few surprises along the way."

Y/N's eyes light up. "I'd like that. Thanks, Garreth."

I narrow my eyes and continue to observe the interaction. It seems innocent enough, but something about the way Garreth is smiling at her makes me uneasy.

"Hey," I say, interrupting them as I approach the two. "Class is about to start. Sharp won't be too happy if you're late."

"Since when do you care about being on time, Sallow?" Garreth rolls his eyes.

"Since you're making the new girl late to her second potions class," I shake my head. "What a bad role model."

I watch rather pleased with myself as Garreth's face turns bright red in embarrassment. He looks over at Y/N who gives him an apologetic smile before following me into the classroom.

"Thanks for the save, but I could've handled it," Y/N tells me.

"Could you have?" I hum without looking back. "We'll see. Now, take a seat."

"Why? So I can sit by you?" she asks sarcastically.

"Of course. What else would you want to do?" I laugh, gesturing to the seat next to mine.

She sighs and plops down beside me, pulling out her book and quill.

"Now, class," Professor Sharp says, clasping his hands together as he begins his lecture. "Today we're going to learn how to make..."

After class, Professor Sharp scolds me for not paying attention and warns me about my grades.

"Sorry, sir. I'll be sure to do better tomorrow," I say, trying to look as though I give a shit. It is my last year, after all.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Sharp frowns. "Get out of here, Sallow."

"Yessir," I nod, taking my leave.

Of course, as I walk out, I see Y/N surrounded by another guy. It's that Gryffindor again, Nott.

"Filthy muggle," I hear him say as he gets too close to her.

Y/N looks over at me and narrows her eyes, causing a chill to run down my spine. I'm used to her giving me that look, but it's never made me feel this uneasy before. I guess she doesn't want me intervening. She did just tell me she can handle herself, she might really begin to hate me if I keep intervening... But this guy is such an ass...

I watch as Y/N pushes Nott off of her and shout something in his face so, I shrug my shoulders. Looks like she really can handle herself. I better not get in her way.

Y/N'S P.O.V.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" you shout as you push Nott off of you. "What the hell is a filthy muggle, huh?"

"I'm surprised you don't know. Guess you're dumber than I thought," Nott laughs. "It means that your kind should just die. You should just give up, Y/N. Be mine and I'll protect you. It's what your brother would want."

"Go fuck yourself," you snarl.

"Hey," another voice calls out. You look over and see Garreth. "What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, nothing. Y/N and I were just talking about her future," Nott grins, placing his hand on your shoulder.

"Back the fuck up, Nott," Garreth warns him.

"I think she likes me, Weasley," Nott tells him, leaning closer.

"I don't," you say, pushing his hand away. "Leave me alone."

"I could show you a good time," Nott laughs. "What do you think, Weasley? Want to join us?"

"Get lost," Garreth growls. "Y/N isn't interested."

"We'll see about that," Nott smirks, rolling his eyes before finally backing off.

"Man, that guy doesn't get the hint, does he," Garreth shakes his head.

"Thanks for standing up for me," you say, biting the inside of your cheek. "He really freaks me out."

"Don't stress it. He's just an asshole," Garreth tells you.

"Yeah, but it doesn't help that I'm a muggle," you sigh.

"Forget about him," he insists. "Come on, I'll give you that tour now, if you'd like."

"Yeah," you smile. "That sounds good. Thanks Garreth."

Garreth returns the gesture as he wraps his arm around you and the two of you walk off together.

SEBASTIAN'S P.O.V.

"Dude, you've got to make a move soon," I warn Ominis as I enter our dorm. "You should've seen the way Garreth was all over her."

"And how would I go about doing that?" he sighs as he narrows his eyes in my direction. "Besides, half the population of seventh years is attempting to make a move."

"Well, for starters, you could try actually spending time with her instead of watching her from a distance," I scoff.

"Like that's not what you do," he scoffs. "Tell me, did you intervene?"

"Should I?" I hum, a grin growing on my lips as I sit on my bed and loosen my tie. "I thought you weren't interested in her?"

"I'm not," he mutters, averting his gaze.

"Sure. You just keep telling yourself that," I laugh. "Either way, you need to be the one to talk to her. Cause, seriously, you're gonna lose her to someone else."

"Yeah, maybe," he sighs.

"Hey, I noticed she's got a new necklace now. Guess some guy must've given it to her," I say, noticing the way his face freezes.

"It was me," he admits quietly.

"What?"

"I gave it to her."

"Huh," I mutter, trying to think of the right words.

"What's wrong with that?" he asks.

"You gave it to her... but you don't have feelings for her?" I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and I'm a fucking idiot."

"Shut up," Ominis sighs, turning away from me.

"Hmm, well, if you want, I could always steal it," I suggest.

"What? Why would I want you to do that?" he frowns.

"So she has a reason to talk to you since you're too damn afraid to go and do it yourself," I tell him, shaking my head.

"No, don't do that," he shakes his head. "I know she looks good wearing it. Plus, it'd be too risky."

"Yeah," I shrug, laying back in my bed and letting out a sigh of relief. It's been such a long day already. "Oh, by the way, I saw Nott talking with her after class."

"Really?" he hums, his interest suddenly piqued. "Did he try anything?"

"Yeah," I nod. "She's got a mouth on her, though. So, he backed off."

"Good. I hate that guy," he sneers.

"I don't like him either, but he's not so bad. Plus, his family has money. Maybe Y/N could use that," I laugh, trying to get a rise out of him.

"What the hell would she need their money for?" he snaps, balling his hands into fists.

"Language!" I scold him teasingly. "But, maybe he'll pay her to go out with him? You never know."

"Shut up," he scowls. "Y/N wouldn't do something like that."

"How do you know?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I... because...," he stutters, unable to come up with a retort.

"Thought so," I laugh. "Look, if you don't do something, I will. I'll tell Y/N that you're head over heels for her."

"No, don't," he says, his face growing pale.

"Then make a move," I shrug. "Before it's too late."

"Alright," he groans, running a hand through his hair. "I will."

Serpents and Roses

#ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt x y/n #ominis x mc #ominis x reader #ominis x y/n #ominis x you #ominis x oc #x fem!reader #x reader #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts oc #ravenclaw #slytherin #strangers to lovers #slow burn #muggle x wizard #muggle reader #muggle born #serpents and roses

[krispyweiss]

A Golden God Goes Grey: Robert Plant Turns 75

How about a whole lotta love for Robert Plant.

Born Aug. 20, 1948, the formerly golden - now greyish - god turns 75 today.

There’s some physical graffiti on his face, too, but that’s to be expected. Seventy-five is a relatively large number and if even just 7.5 percent of what’s been written about Led Zeppelin’s debauchery is true, Plant’s squeezed at least 150 years out of life’s lemons.

Maybe he eats a lot of tangerines.

But Sound Bites digresses …

In any event, Plant has built a successful post-Zep solo career, rebuffing calls to reform the mighty Led, save for one-offs in 1985 and ’88 - which suggested Plant was correct - and 2007, which suggested he was not.

His latest thing was reuniting with Alison Krauss after 15 years apart - a weird and wonderful collaboration that works as well as it seems it would not.

A little rain has fallen in Plant’s life. He’s been shaken ‘n’ stirred. But in the evening, he’s generally ready to rock ‘n’ roll, so here’s wishing he doesn’t come to that confounded bridge - also known as a stairway - any time soon.

8/20/23

#robert plant #led zeppelin #robert plant and alison krauss

[toostrawberrygarden]

Reasons why Disney’s Brave is my favorite.

I just finished watching Brave, and it’s been the most wholesome experience. The last time I watched this movie was when I was 15 or 16 something and Merida has been my favorite Disney princess, mostly because she was not written for a man, and it was the apt choice for my fiery teenage years. Fast-forward to now, I’m 21. I saw the movie for what it was only now.

The dynamic of Merida and her mother is the sole cause of the story. And it was not boring to watch in any way!

A beautiful movie had me sobbing at the end. Everything fits with no broken trail.

It was quality time that they lacked. In the beginning, Elinor was sturdy and looked old. Her wrinkles and gray hair were prominent. Meanwhile, Merida was stubborn and was feeling miserable. The change that they both endured was pivotal to their relationship. In the end, it changed the whole dynamic. In the closing song, Elinor looked like a reborn lass, very fruitful and young. She is now riding horses with her daughter. Her elegance in etiquette and speech is admirable. An epitome of prime grace.

Merida is forgivable. She was angry at her mother just like any daughter. But the moments where she felt helpless and fell to her knees were heartbreaking. She loved her mother despite their passive-aggressive bond. She got scared of Elinor and did everything in her might to bring her mum back. Merida is a brave lass. Her hair, I’ve imagined that rich tangerine shaded locks living over my head multiple occasions.

Movies have become my favorite not for it’s making but for the experience it gives me. Certain films that I’ve on my top lists are not well-made or do not stand well in the eyes of other people. But it makes me feel things. That’s what Brave gave me. The sunshine is heart full. The forest is mighty and the idea of being an expert in archery looks perfect.

#disney #disney brave #merida #film #film review #literature review #disney princess #brave #brave movie

[cartoonfanaticmonsterrobotalien]

New Members of The Mighty Solars Pt. 1

Okay, happy news! A lot has been on my mind since I got into the Mighty Solars! I like to announce the new additions who are proud new members of the Solar Opposites as The Mighty Solars! Meet the new members:

Parker/Venus Tip

That’s right Parker is a Mighty Solar now. Her powers are gonna be like Pidge from Voltron: Legendary Defender, but different because this time her powers come from her hands.

Suit Color: Different shades of Neon Lime

Theme Song: “Just like Fire” from P!nk

Ms. Frankie/Night Saw

Her powers is just like Wolverine *which references the episode Apple Pencil Pro” when Yumyulack and Jesse turned Ms. Frankie into a Wolverine.* She became one after she redeems herself to help the Solar Opposites/Mighty Solars with a dangerous thing happen. In this version, Ms. Frankie became a good person and is now good friends with the Solars now. He suit color will be the same color as her shirt.

Suit Color: The Same color as her shirt

Theme Song: “Wolves” from Selena Gomez

Principal Cooke/Trailblazer

Since that episode “The Gargoyle Ray”, Principal Cooke instantly started to grow a soft spot for the Solar Opposites since Yumyulack and Jesse saved himself from being fired. After he got his powers of lightning dash, he became a Mighty Solar after helping save Pezlie.

Suit Color: Maroon

Super Powers: Lightning Dash

Theme Song: “By the Way” from The Red Hot Chili Peppers

Cherie/Shining Light

Cherie found out about the Solar Opposites as the Mighty Solars. At first, she was distrustful at them since Yumyulack shrunk her. But after Yumyulack apologizes thanks to Jesse forcing him and the Mighty Solars helped save her baby Pezlie, she made Korvo and Terry honorary godfathers of her child, which happened after she got the power of super stealth.

Suit Color: Cherry Pink

Super Powers: Super Stealth

Theme Song: “Titanium” from Sia ft. David Guetta:

Montez/Detroit

Montez is also Cherie’s new boyfriend since he was a mole for the Wall and defies Sisto’s awful orders. He got the power of electricity like Livewire from Superman and is even a member of the Mighty Solars since he began to trust Korvo and his family.

Suit Color: Silver Blue

Super Power: Electricity like Livewire

Theme Song: “Bad Company” from Five Finger Death Punch:

Pezlie/Jessie-us

Pezlie is now the godchild of Korvo and Terry and is even became the Pupa’s best friend. Pezlie’s powers is super sonic screams whenever someone threatens her or her mom Cherie or father figure Montez.

Suit Color: Cupid’s Blush

Super Powers: Super sonic cries

Theme Song: “I know The Way” from Ariana Grande:

Nova/Heartstar

After reeling from Halk’s death and finding peace with her life as well as making amends with Cherie, Nova became a member of the Solar Opposites/Mighty Solars as well as Phoebe’s best friend. She later gain the powers of psychic that can help her see through memories and thoughts from other people *just like Sunset Shimmer*

Suit Color: Neon Pink

Super Powers: Super Empathy

Theme Song: “Rise” from Katy Perry:

Ms. Perez/Core Burn

During a fight between two rivals, Ms. Perez accidentally got the powers of the Sun star, and ends up causing a mess. But after some help from the Mighty Solars, she manage to control her powers and became a Mighty Solar, since she found out about the Mighty Solars’ identities earlier before.

Suit Color: Tangerine

Super Powers: Based on the sun

Theme Song: “Towards the Sun” from Rihanna from Home:

Mia/Navigator

Mia, after being unshrunk and now helps with tours of Earth-4, became a Mighty Solar, which gave her powers X-ray vision that helps her see through villainous plots.

Suit Color: Blue-Green

Super Powers: X-ray visions

Theme Song: “Can’t be Tamed” from Miley Cyrus:

Kevin/Balanight

Since Kevin is a good friend of the Solar Opposites, he accidentally gained the powers of power blast from he he does whirlwinds and the ones that like the abilities from Tron.

Suit Color: Red

Super Powers: Like the ones from Tron

Theme Song: “Derezzed” from Tron: Legacy:

Jamie and Darcy/Firewall and Sonar Woman

Jamie and Darcy (I hope I got her name right) became the Mighty Solars after they, along with some of the humans, were kidnapped and experimented by a mysterious villain. Now Jamie has fire power and Darcy has star powers.

Here is Jamie’s Suit

Suit Color: Red-Orange

Super Powers: Fire Powers

Theme Song: “Feeding the Fire” from Disturbed:

And now here is Darcy’s suit:

Suit Color: Yellow

Super Powers: Star Powers

Theme Song: “Confident” from Demi Lovato:

Kevin’s Wife/Tsunami

Ever since she got back together with Kevin in Solar Opposites Season 4, Kevin’s Wife ends up getting water powers after a incident that involves two teenagers turned into mermaids. She would hurt anyone who dare offends her family and friends especially her kids.

Suit Color: Ocean Sea Blue

Super Powers: Water Powers

Theme Song: “Rain on Me” from Lady Gaga ft. Ariana Grande:

Now up next is Pt. 2

Parker belongs to @prospitdaydreamer

#solar opposites #solar opposites hulu #solar opposites au #solar opposites: mighty solars #mighty solars #solar opposites mighty solars #new members #redemption #forgiveness #super hero #super form #miss frankie solar opposites #principal cooke #mia the wall #solar opposites mia #ms. perez solar opposites #nova the wall #solar opposites nova #kevin solar opposites #parker solar opposites #Spotify

[dukeoftheblackstar]

High praise, bestie ♥ I'm at Balenciaga Daddy episode ♥ @saengak GET OFF WORK AND SIN WITH ME GD. e//////////////e

Tell me that doesn't scream money? Old money. Old, sugar daddy money. Old r u lost bby girl money.

You can't be looking that good, Plo. Just can't.

I seriously HC Baran Do Sages be mighty fine. Wizards, Warlocks, Seers, Sages, all the arcane-spellbound entities out there looking glam and fab.

NGL, I really want that design on a dress for a Christmas ball or an event. That would look so fine in royal blue though e//////////e or silver ;///////////////////////////////////////;

Royal Blue?

Teal?

Tangerine may not be ideal for it

Silver?

Oooh!! Mauve.

Baby pink.

#♝ #plo koon #my balenciaga daddy

[sunstranded]

INTJ: Sounding Smart

Highfalutin words are not paraphernalia. "Big words" are not accessories to impress. Just because that is the common effect does not mean it is its purpose. They may feel exclusive but the point of them is to capture that nuance, that impact, that ambiguity. The death of intellectual discourse is clarity.

First: I did mention my disdain for clarity before and this is not to reiterate and say I'm so right and the world is so wrong. This is my attempt to explore that idea of mine.

I do not enjoy self-studying. I can't bring myself to binge watch. The former makes me feel lonely and more uncertain. The latter makes me feel numb and restricted. Here's why:

In self-studying, you must first assume your interpretation and understanding is correct. Otherwise, you are not learning anything. Next is, there is a chance you've understood it differently but the world will tell you you've misunderstood it. For works so clear in their description of an orange, others will call you a dumbass for thinking it's a tangerine. By that, I meant to say, you can be describing the same thing but people can receive, interpret, imagine it all differently. And that is OKAY. That is the point of asking! That SHOULD be the point of written works. It should give answers, yes. It should be useful, yes. But it should not convince the reader that they have learned it all and need nothing else. It should not convince the learner that that is all there is to learn! That is an insult to the writer, the reader, the language, and the topic!

In binge watching, other than the obvious and commonly mentioned concerns, I cannot do it because I want to deep dive and explore a scene. From the implications, impact, interpretations, intended message and the like. I used to write stories for others and I found myself more thrilled when people interpret my work differently from my design. It makes me curious about people. I like being curious. Watching so much leaves so many things unexplored and taken at face value. I don't like that. Especially for shows I enjoy but this has always been the recipient of snide comments. People call me out for "overanalyzing" it or "overthinking" it. I'm sorry for making you feel like you don't think enough but don't make me feel bad for doing what I like.

So how the hell does this relate to the title, to clarity, to big words?

First, in clarity our intention is to deliver our point and ensure people are on the same page. That is a sensible thing to do. I agree in the importance of that. What I do not agree is the imposed and forced standards upon me. I have a lower score because I left you curious and questioning? Is that not the beauty in the pursuit of knowledge? Am I, the supposed learner in this equation, supposed to leave you satisfied with the object of knowledge? No! It is frustrating to have a lower score because my word choice had left people wanting more when they should! The very reason Plato (and I feel like I keep mentioning this) feared and hated writing is because it will be the death of discourse! Have people not wondered why he wrote so much anyway? Witness his writing style! The original version had nuances lost in translation, the details that is trapped by time! It leaves a reader to open interpretation, to continuous questioning!

I really think that is how writing should be. In researches and science, I understand the necessity of certainty and closed-endedness. It serves a purpose: to ensure the research question is answered. However, I find it ill-justified to have people tell a person that it is incomplete and lackluster when they are left curious, when they are driven to know more, when they are interpreting something more than once.

I do not like correctness for what it did to people's psyche. People would rather pretend they know than ask.

People act high and mighty for knowing better, forcing it on someone for "their own good." People fear mistakes like it creates situations that can no longer be solved. PROBLEMS are PROBLEMS because they have SOLUTIONS.

I do not like correctness for what it makes me feel. I feel restricted and forced into a standard that people call perfection. A standard so universally accepted that people recognize it as perfection and yet when they themselves attain it, they feel invisible.

For big words, I really think it is not exclusivity or insulting someone else for using the word that captures nuance. If they feel insulted when you use a big word, it is not your fault. It is theirs; they only feel insulted because they should have known. They would be curious if they had no idea.

I think using jargon and big words help capture nuance, keep people asking, and serve as an invitation for people to not take the obvious so seriously. Curiosity does not kill the cat. It tells you how it died then it will leave you asking who did it. Writing should be like that. It actually makes it more inclusive.

#intj #mbti

[xo-bug-ox]

Masterlist!

Masterlist of my works <3

* indicates Smut

Marvel

Raindrops - Erik Lehnsherr

Strawberries - Erik Lehnsherr

Late Again - Peter Maximoff

The Mighty Ducks

Sunshine - Dean Portman

Stranger Things

N/A

The Umbrella Academy

Bandaging up - Five Hargreeves

Musical Theatre

N/A

Harry Potter/Maraurders 

Bedtime - Remus Lupin

TimeTable - Sirius Black

Family Tree - Sirius Black

breakfast- Sirius Black

That All You Got? - James Potter

Dinner? - James Potter

Nail Polish - Luna Lovegood

Parks and Rec

(moved to my other account)

Pocky sticks - Jean-Ralphio

Bouquet - Jean-Ralphio

Community

(moved to my other account)

Pillow Fort - Platonic!Abed Nadir

Space Force

(moved to my other account)

Secrets Out - F. Tony

The Breakfast Club

Study date? - Brian Johnson

Testing me? - Brian Johnson

Sorry for the mess - Brian Johnson

See How They Run

Drunken Date - Inspector Stoppard 

Just Visiting - Inspector Stoppard

Next Morning - Inspector Stoppard

Napping - Inspector Stoppard

Long Night? - Constable Stalker

Let’s Dance! - Leo Köpernick

Jacket - Leo Köpernick

Bullet Train

Phone Charm - Lemon

Hand Over - Lemon

Early Mornings - Lemon

Stained Shirt - Lemon

Missing You - Tangerine

New Shirt - Tangerine

Happy To Be Home - Tangerine

Ticket - Yuichi Kimura

Stress Relief - Yuichi Kimura*

Speaker - Lady Bug

Star Wars

Thinking of you - Luke Skywalker

The Grand Budapest Hotel

The Café - Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis

The Darjeeling Limited

ABC’s - Peter Whitman

One Call - Peter Whitman

Rose Petals - Peter Whitman*

Pain Killers - Peter Whitman

07:12AM - Peter Whitman

Welcome Home - Francis Whitman

New Friend - Francis Whitman

Kissable - Jack Whitman

Dead Poets Society

Destress - Steven Meeks*

Blowing Off Steam - Steven Meeks*

#masterlist #ben schwartz #marvel #mighty ducks #Harry Potter #marauders era #stranger things #the umbrella academy #parks and recreation #community #space force #the breakfast club #musical theatre #see how they run #bullet train #the darjeeling limited #the grand budapest hotel #Star Wars #dead poets society

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Prairiewolf

Perhaps you've heard some distant howls, but now it's official — Prairiewolf's self-titled debut long-player is coming out on May 5, 2023 on the mighty Centripetal Force Records. You can go over to Raven Sings The Blues to check out "Roadside Bandit Type" right now!

RSTB Says: There’s an axis of psychedelic jazz, pastoral nodes of the German Progressive pantheon, and the elevated eclecticism of Sandy Bull. "Roadside Bandit Type" stretches between these leylines, finding its footing in a fragrant fog of keys and navigating through the dawnlight haze with rhythm and texture as compass and calculation.

Hell yeah. We're taking digital pre-orders and you can order the vinyl and/or CD starting on May 5.

Who the hell is Prairiewolf? This is the band I've been playing bass in over the past year or so with Stefan "Golden Brown" Beck and Jeremy "The Heat Warps" Erwin. It's been a good time and I think the album turned out great ...

Here's a quick descrip: Recorded 8,000 feet above sea level in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, Prairiewolf’s first long-player offers listeners a fresh and free-flowing slice of cosmic / organic Americana — spiritual instrumentals driven by Fender Rhodes, lap steel, Mellotron, guitar, synth, bass and an assortment of vintage drum machines. Sandy Bull communing with Alice Coltrane, Tangerine Dream finding common ground with Don Cherry, sweet kosmische jams rising out of the Continental Divide.

#prairiewolf

[perlen-gold]

A Moon lit in Paradise

💜🎁💜  A very late 🎂  birthday present for @kourvo​ who graced me with an early and cute birthday present AND a completely stunnnig fanart already! 💜🎁💜    

🌸 HaPpY BiRtHdAy my wonderful friend! 🌸

✨ inspired by Kourvo’s dazzling and crawling art 

(I wrote this in the last 24 hours with a bad pen and typed it in like a maniac without even revising it, so REALLY SORRY for all the mistakes you might find in it, gonna revise it once I’m properly rested and found my way out of this frenzy! I don’t consider this finished in any way and quite crudebut for the sake of scarce time, let this be your birthday present still until I find time to work on this again! If it’s not to your liking, please tell me and I might conceive something else!)

WARNING:

Proceed with caution!

May trigger anxiety and fear for themes of slavery and sexual abuse.

The mirror is an exquisite marvel.

A perfect, silverite-reflecting, superbly balanced oval, high and mighty enough to show a grown man’s face, neck and chest – yet, yet delicate with its sapphire-beads gleaming in a garland of immaculate, nacreous-smooth, swan white pearls.

Its pure-polished water-rippling sheen is poised exactly in the center between two windows; precisely in the impeccable middle of the longest side of the room; at the specific opposite of the curving wall’s touch.

And of exquisiteness this room too is, crescent-shaped as the reaping moon’s sharp-tender sickle, its edges, faultlessly, converging in exactly one single point, directly opposite the fabulous mirror.

Where those identical arcs touch, a wide, double-winged door opens into the inner room circled and ensnarled by the crescent room’s embrace.

This inner room beyond, this sun-drawn sphere, was rich and fragrant with rioting colors as a Rivaini bazaar street. Sweet dulcet-tangerine and tart-lilting lemon drapings, ample-spilling pomegranate cushions and pulsating-pink grapefruit carpets. All these breathed, heady, under a tall ceiling soaring on slim, swift columns. Below, every other tile was placed in a moon-shaped turquoise and lapis lazuli, meticulously smoothed against the tread of thin-sandaled feet, reaching to send a shiver of coolness into a touching finger’s admiration.  

Heavy gold embroidery adorns the walls, golden painting frames, golden vases abloom with crystal-grace and dawn flowers, golden hangings and busts, the circling walls flanked with narrow gold-inlayed mahogany tables placed with an curiosity of magnificent magical artifacts and heirlooms.

At all times, the waning sun slides through the skylights into the colorful vastness of the room in a shower of lit ornaments, a dancing pattern of moons and ovals and mosaics, of shade and light, but never straight or sultry, its rays constantly guided through soft arcs and cupped lattice work so the light only sprinkled the women and men’s feet below, never daring to bear hotly upon their heads. Draped seats and couches, abundant cushions and embroidered pillows strewn below.

Interspersed, between sun-caressed busts or gold-edged paintings on the circular wall are immaculately identical ground gold plates, beaten into exquisite beauty.

Behind these, there are small glass inlays in the crescent room. Through which eyes, vulpine or perceptive, greedy or insidious, could look on into the circular inner one. Without the glimpse of a scent’s detection.

The outer crescent room, however, is cooler than this one. Of a dark purple with silver lines, cooler and more quiet. Peaceful and secluded. It drapes itself around the inner room like a shawl of deepest silk translucent with the dark sheen of ripe grapes, slipping through fingers like water woven with lavender and silver threads.

On each side of the sapphire-splendid and pearl-brilliant mirror perfectly round windows, almost reaching the mirror’s width and length, cut into the curved wall.

They are powdered with filigree sylvan-wooden lattice work, delicate enough to delude a flower’s tender stem and ivy’s sinful vines, where only moonlight filtered silvery through.

It is so delicately wrought that only the blinking eye in front of it would notice its intricate dance, and one gazing up from the inner courtyard garden may believe the round windows to be perfectly open. And yet, nothing which ever moves behind them may be spotted by a parviscient eye such as theirs.

Down in the once dust-breathing, now lush and blooming garden. A small boy is crying.

A small crease eases and creates itself between Fenris’ brows.

It is unapparent why his tears as glistening rain stain his dark-hued cheeks or bedew his large-squeezed lashes as rock-crushed sea spray.

Fenris can only see him weeping.

In front of him, the exquisite mirror is silent, a dark and soundless image just as the boy outside.

It was a second’s flutter, an hour’s fraction of a thousand images, of measuring time.

Other reflections in the garden slant. A maid’s jug splashing silver water over an opulent oleander bush. A horse’s snickering, white-blessed hooves on the dust-leaping outer courtyard. An errand’s quick-fleeing, myrtle-swimming feet.

Behind Fenris, distant voice-paths waft high in the ceiling, some low as the plum-lilting pillows on the single reclined couch below the mirror, not as bright and sweet as the citrus-hymn in drapes beyond the walls. He can feel them swish around, drift to and fro, brushing his muscle’s taut attention or fleeing his skin’s bronze-smooth alert.

A small bead of water is sliding down Fenris’ neck. It carves out the hollows below the muscles in his shoulders as if from within the sheen of his dark-molded skin. Not a sun-honeyed warmth but silverite-molten moonlight. Another one glides down from the wet tip of his hair, riding further than the first, along his collarbone, a luster pearl of water almost as flawless as the hundred lacing the silver mirror. His hair is still wet from his bath, the marble tiles pleasantly cool against the soles of his feet, the hot flush, the chill rivulets of his skin damp as of yet.

A slow night has descended as a lyre’s soaring tunes, inventing dusk, transforming day into evening and evening into night.

With time, the lemon and pomegranate voices had lulled themselves into a dreamlike state, like flowers swaying gently, half-closed petals fragrant with paradise, only stirring occasionally by a dancer’s hand’s tender touch.

“They eased well,” a soft inflection of the room calls amidst the purple-velvet folds of the moonlit night. Fenris’ body turns when the voice spoke softly, “No.” The twilight smiles upon itself. “Such an easy fright.”

A step. Closer.

“Many a man and woman quiver so easily in face of strength and power. More rapidly so in the face of beauty.”

The pearl-woven emeralds ponder their own cobalt-night glow. “Why … amusement is in the new, the fools say. So it is in knowledge and anticipation, it seems.”

Fenris replies not. There is no need to.

His eye’s emerald sheen still pierces the night’s many pleats and creases.

Closer. Another step.

Streaming inside through the windows, the silver-blue bears a hot day’s warmth still, a drop of igneous honey with a breeze of thyme-tinted moisture, soaring from the far shores of the ceaseless sea.

“It feels better without it?”

Fenris’ lips move without the crest touching the shore.

“Yes.”

Seamless, like sand sliding underneath the surf at last, fingertips, sleek as the sapphire’s polished cut, glide up Fenris’ shoulder blades like fingers rubbing against the inside of a nacreous shell. Long fingers curve, cusp themselves to Fenris’ shoulder, contoured against his skin. Almost, they dip unholy long into the ascending night. As though their elongated shadows try to reach beyond their boundaries, beyond their allowance.

The silver moonlight brushes at the robe. Touch when the silk is slowly, almost reluctantly fleeing the long, curved hand as a sandpiper the rush of the incoming tide.

The moon-lit light and Fenris feel the silk rustle against his arms and lose wrists. The enameled fabric’s caress against his waist. Before it drops in a silken heap, crumbled around his ankles.

The long fingers slowly scatter across Fenris’ skin, spread against his still throat

Yet it is the whispering silk’s fragrant touch the other finger pads follow, a longing trace of  night’s blue outside his bones; inside his wrists.

Somewhere, Fenris can taste the silver light on his tongue, dipping into his own heart’s rapid beat.

A faint, ache-white trace of merest light streams off where the hands touch, carve, brush, spill. Soar weaving writing thinnest moonlight into sapphire folds.

The silk lies crumpled, bereft of its glorious sheen, on the floor.

“It feels better without this, too, my little wolf?” mutter twilight’s sapphire lips into Fenris’ ear, breathing into the silver rhythm of his heart.

“Yes, master.”

As Fenris’ lips stir to shape the moonlight into words, his eyes graze the mirror’s dark exquisiteness.

Startled, all but a slight frown evanesces from his eyebrows. He raises his low head a little, to observe. Almost, he touches them with the confused pads of his fingers, in silverite-redolent astonishment. 

To observe the silver smears below the hollows of his rising eyes.

But it is only a lingering memory. A resurfacing of the image of the small boy in the garden. It must merely be a reflection of the slivered light.

It is nothing but the moon-lit, sapphire-held pearls gleaming inside the exquisite mirror.

#Fenris #fenris fanfiction #Danarius #Tevinter #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age 2 #dragon age II #da2 #da 2 #da II #my writing #one shot #dragon age one shot #I'm sorry #SO sorry #:((( #fenris' past #dragon age #slavery #proceed with caution please!

[rockhyrax]

Spectacle Radio ep.100 :: 05.11.23 :: It's horrible, I love it, what is it?

Slava Tsukerman - Liquid Sky (1982) Main Titles from Quartier Mozart (Jean-Pierre Bekolo, 1992) Tokyo Kid Brothers - I kind of hate my father (Throw Away Your Books, Rally in the Streets // Shuji Terayama, 1971) De Kalafe e a Turma - Guerra (Awakening of the Beast // Joes Moijica Marins, 1970) Stelvio Cipriani - Week-end with Mary (Femina Ridens // Piero Schivazappa, 1969) Nicola Piovani - Main Titles from Footprints on the Moon (Luigi Bazzoni, 1975) - Michael Nyman - Squaline Fallaize (The Falls // Peter Greenaway, 1980) Zdeněk Liška - The Deadly Invention (Karel Zeman, 1958) Andrzej Korsynski - Main Titles from The Devil (Andrzej Zulawski, 1972) Vangelis - Entends Tu Les Chiens Aboyer (Do You Hear the Dogs Barking? // François Reichenbach, 1975)

Stelvio Cipriani - La Polizia Chiede Aiuto #4 (Massimo Dallamano, 1974) Rheingold - FanFanFanatisch (Der Fan // Eckhart Schmidt, 1982) Þeyr - Rúdólf (Rokk Í Reykjavík, 1982) Jean-Michel Jarre - Zoolook (Remix) (Magic of the Universe // Tata Esteban, 1986) Westernhagen - Celebration (Supermarkt // Roland Klick, 1974) J.A. Seazer - Buddha Child (Pastoral: To Die in the Country // Shuji Terayama, 1974) Toru Takemitsu - End Titles from The Ruined Map (Hiroshi Teshigahara, 1968)

Michael Nyman - Castral Fallvernon (The Falls // Peter Greenaway, 1980) - Phil Oakley & Giorgio Moroder // Together In Electric Dreams (from Electric Dreams, 1984) Rheingold // Fan Fan Fantatisch (from Der Fan, 1982) Hiroyuki Onogawa // from August In the Water (1995) Chuck Cirino // from Chopping Mall (1986) Yuji Koseki // from Mothra (1961) Shintaro Katsu // Otento-san (theme from Tale of Zatoichi, 1962) music from Out 1 (1971) Hussein al-Iman // music from Anyab (1981) Anna Karina // Roller Girl (from Anna, 1967) Fabio Frizzi & Cricket // You Are Not the Same (from Contraband, 1980) Stardust Brothers // Crazy Game (from Legend of the Stardust Brothers, 1985) BED: theme from 300 (2006) slowed down x3 -

Simon Boswell - It’s Horrible, I Love it, What Is It? (Hardware, 1990) Method Man - Release Yo Self (Prodigy remix) (One Eight Seven, 1997) Shriekback - The Big Hush (Manhunter, 1986) Tangerine Dream - Teetering Scales (Miracle Mile, 1988) Sue Saad - Looker (Looker, 1981) Sheryl Lee Ralph feat. Cedella Marley & Sharon Marley Prendergast - The Mighty Quinn (The Mighty Quinn, 1989)

#radio #mixtape #spectacle #spectacle radio #newtown radio #film score #soundtrack