#+ // threads / flickering chronicles.

[ravensolo77]

The Raven Chronicles

A Tale of Corruption: The Birth of The Vile Vixens

I have just had my first corruption, and I’m sitting here reminiscing about Ember when I notice new prey. Perched atop the movie theater, its neon lights hum like a dying star, casting a sickly pink-and-blue glow across the cracked marquee. The roof beneath me is a gritty expanse of tar, sticky under my heels, littered with cigarette butts and peeling paint. The air is thick with the scent of exhaust and stale popcorn, a chilly breeze carrying the tang of rain, stirring my raven-black hair like a lover’s caress. My emerald eyes blaze with unholy light, my pale skin luminous against my black lace bodice, its intricate patterns clinging to my curves like a second skin, the flowing skirt trailing like liquid shadow. My massive wings, obsidian and edged with fiery embers, drip molten sparks that sizzle on the roof, the heat a teasing whisper against my skin. Ember’s screams still echo in my ears, her fiery spirit broken under my will, and the memory sends a shiver of delight through me, my lips parting in a predatory smile. I crave more—more souls to taint for Queen Evie Hyde.

Below, I watched twins, who I find out later are named Sara and Lara, step into the night, their red hair blazing like molten copper under the neon’s flickering glow. Barely twenty, they giggle like schoolgirls, their voices tinkling like glass, their vanilla scent sickeningly sweet as it wafts up to me, a cloying purity that makes my lip curl in disgust. Sara adjusts her crimson scarf, its threads soft as a whisper, her fingers brushing her date’s hand, her cream sweater hugging her frame, navy skirt swishing against her thighs, black ankle boots clicking on the pavement. Lara leans into her own boyfriend, her curlier red hair a fiery waterfall, her pale green cardigan and white blouse clinging to her lithe form, denim skirt teasing the tops of her knees, white sneakers scuffing the wet sidewalk. Their joy stings my tongue, their innocence a radiant light that chokes me. I’ll taint them tonight, I hiss to myself, my wings flaring with anticipation, embers sizzling as they fall.

I see Sara’s touch linger on her date, a lanky boy with tousled brown hair and hazel eyes behind glasses, his nervous laugh a stuttering drumbeat in the chilly air, his gray hoodie faded, jeans worn at the knee, sneakers scuffed. Lara’s closeness to her taller boyfriend, his short blonde hair slicked back, gray eyes soft, tanned skin under a pale blue jacket, white t-shirt, dark jeans, and a black beanie, sends a ripple of heat through me—not from their affection, but from the potential for corruption. The sidewalk below is wet, reflecting amber streetlights in shimmering pools, the air crisp with rain-soaked asphalt and cigarette smoke, the theater’s marquee creaking, bulbs buzzing like angry wasps. Soggy leaves cling to the curb, their earthy scent mingling with the city’s hum, a low growl of distant traffic and shouts, but all I can focus on is the twins’ purity, a canvas begging to be defiled.

My gaze devours their forms, their youthful beauty a canvas of untouched snow, their warmth a faint pulse against my icy hunger. My voice slithers like a serpent of smoke, heavy with the tang of brimstone, a sultry whisper that curls through the air. “You shine too brightly,” I purr, my emerald eyes flaring like cursed gems, a predatory heat coiling in my core. My lips part, hunger stirring deep within me, a dark desire to strip them bare—not of their clothes, but of their innocence, to mold them into shadows for my mistress. The roof beneath me is gritty, the air thick with exhaust and rain, the scent of burnt tar sharp as my embers fall, sizzling on the tarry surface, the city’s distant sounds—car horns, a siren, the wind’s howl—mixing with the sour tang of garbage from a nearby bin, a gritty film settling on my tongue.

I descend, my heels silent on the roof’s gritty tar, the air thick with the theater’s buttery popcorn scent fading to my aroma—smoke and wilting roses, sharp as a lover’s bite, a scent that promises forbidden delights. Sara’s breath hitches, her exhale a shaky gust against the night’s chill, her blue eyes widening as if she feels my presence, a heat stirring within her. Lara’s laughter stutters, her skin prickling as if my phantom flames lick her, her freckled cheeks flushing with an unspoken desire. The sidewalk glistens with rain, reflecting neon in fractured pools of pink and blue, the breeze rustling soggy flyers, their ink bleeding into the pavement, the distant clatter of a metal gate echoing like a heartbeat in the night. I feel their innocence waver, a delicious tremor that makes my wings flare, embers dancing in the air.

Their boyfriends’ voices drone, flat as a rusted bell, blind to my allure, but I let my voice seep into Sara’s mind, a velvet ribbon of heat, tasting of charred honey, a seductive whisper that promises dark pleasures. “Feel the fire,” I murmur, my raven hair glinting like wet ink, my wings casting a warm glow. She shivers, her blue eyes darkening to stormy seas, her pulse a frantic drumbeat I can almost taste, her innocence fraying like silk under a blade. The sidewalk below is a cracked canvas of concrete, slick with rain, neon reflections dancing like liquid fire, the air crisp with wet pavement and her vanilla perfume, now tinged with my smoky scent, sharp as a blade. The marquee creaks, bulbs buzzing, shadows jagged on the brick wall, a popcorn bucket rolling across the pavement, its buttery scent fading as my influence grows.

Lara turns, her gaze snared by my glowing eyes, twin emeralds blazing with unholy light, a seductive promise that makes the world melt for her—the theater’s hum, her date’s cologne, all dissolve into a misty haze. I weave magic, my fingers dancing like spider legs, their skittering a faint echo in the air, a sensual rhythm that pulses with desire. “You crave more,” I coo, my voice a syrupy sin, thick with the promise of forbidden ecstasy. Her lips part, a soft moan escaping like a dying star, her body trembling with the first stirrings of corruption. The sidewalk stretches beneath the theater’s flickering lights, the pavement slick with rain, reflecting neon in shimmering pools that ripple with each gust of wind, the air thick with damp concrete and her rosewater perfume, now overwhelmed by my smoky scent, sharp and intoxicating, the brick wall behind them graffitied with faded tags, amber light casting jagged shadows.

My wings flare, embers swirling like fiery moths, their heat kissing my skin with a sizzle, a teasing warmth that mirrors the fire I’m igniting in the twins. I flood their minds with visions—silk sliding over skin like a lover’s sigh, power pulsing like a heartbeat, shadows thick as velvet, a world of dark pleasure waiting to be claimed. Sara’s giggle turns sultry, a velvet growl that sends a shiver down my spine, her touch lingering on her boyfriend’s arm, a possessive edge to her fingers. Lara’s smile sharpens, a dagger’s edge, her breath hot as she presses closer to her boyfriend, her movements a hypnotic dance of desire. The sidewalk is slick, reflecting neon in fractured pools of pink and blue, the air heavy with wet pavement and my smoky scent, their vanilla and rosewater perfumes turning sour with corruption, the marquee creaking, bulbs buzzing like wasps, shadows jagged on the peeling brick wall, the night’s chill biting, a soda can rolling with a hollow clatter.

I watch Sara’s fingers trail down her date’s sleeve, her touch a slow, teasing flame, the fabric rustling like dry leaves, her blue eyes dark with a hunger she doesn’t yet understand, imagining breaking him, his will crumbling like ash under her newfound power. Lara’s body arches, her movements a hypnotic dance, pressing closer to her boyfriend, her breath hot as she whispers something low and wicked, her fingers brushing his arm with a possessive edge. My laughter, a low hum, echoes my dark delight, a sound that vibrates with sensual promise, the air thick with the scent of their corruption, vanilla and rosewater now bitter with my influence. The marquee creaks, shadows jagged on the peeling brick wall, soggy leaves clinging to the curb, their earthy scent mixing with the city’s undercurrent of exhaust and decay, but all I can focus on is the twins’ descent, their innocence melting into something deliciously dark.

The theater’s lights fade to a dull amber, the night thickening with my magic, heavy as velvet drapes, its chill biting my skin like a lover’s nip, a sensation that makes my wings flare wider, embers dancing in the air. Sara tosses her hair, its fiery strands catching moonlight like spilled wine, a sharp, fruity scent wafting up to me, a burst of citrus and berries that makes my mouth water. Lara’s eyes glow, her touch electric as she grasps her twin’s hand, their connection a conduit for my magic, their pulses syncing in a rhythm that mirrors my own. I lead them into the shadows, their boyfriends trailing behind, unaware of the fate I’ve woven for them, their steps hesitant on the slick sidewalk, moonlight reflecting in fractured shards, the air thick with wet pavement and Sara’s citrusy scent, car horns bleating, a siren wailing, the sour tang of garbage wafting from a bin, its lid clanging as a cat leaps onto it.

I guide them through the city’s underbelly, my wings a beacon of smoldering fire, their heat searing the damp air, the scent of wet asphalt rising like a dark perfume, a heady mix that makes my senses hum. Their steps echo, hips swaying like pendulums of sin, a seductive rhythm that makes my core tighten with anticipation. Sara’s laughter cuts like a raven’s cry, sharp and commanding, her boyfriend trailing behind, his eyes wide with confusion. Lara’s touch is possessive, her nails scraping her boyfriend’s arm with a rasp, leaving faint red marks on his skin, a promise of the dominance to come. We reach an old warehouse, its rusted doors groaning like a dying beast, the sound a low, mournful wail that echoes into the cavernous interior, the air inside stale with the tang of rust and decay, old oil and mildew clinging to the cracked concrete floor, chains dangling from the ceiling, their links glinting like silver fangs, their clinks a sinister chime.

Inside, I weave my magic, the warehouse shimmering like a mirage of sin, a playground for corruption. Chains dangle, glinting like silver fangs, their clinks a sinister chime as they sway in the draft, the floor pulsing with dark energy under my feet, a heartbeat that mirrors my own. Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, casting a sickly yellow glow across rusted beams, flaking paint and spiderwebs trembling in the air. I smile, my voice a velvet blade slicing the silence, dripping with the promise of ruin. “Your new domain, my darlings,” I purr, the words a seductive hymn, the walls lined with broken crates, their splintered wood jutting out like jagged teeth, the air tasting of iron and dust, a gritty film settling on my tongue as I watch their corruption deepen.

Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under the flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, a sound that grates on my senses, heightening the tension in the air. My fingers graze Sara’s cheek, her shiver a ripple of dark water, her skin fever-hot against my icy touch, her pulse a frantic drumbeat that sends a thrill through me, a dark desire coiling in my core. “For Queen Evie,” I whisper, my voice a sultry hymn, the air tasting of iron and lust, a heady mix that makes my wings flare wider, embers sizzling in the air. Lara leans into my caress, her breath ragged, corruption searing through her like wildfire, its heat licking my senses, a sensual dance of power and submission that makes my lips part in a wicked smile, the warehouse a cavern of shadows, the air thick with rust and decay, chains glinting, their clinks echoing like a lover’s whisper.

Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under the flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, a sound that grates on my senses, heightening the tension in the air. My fingers graze Sara’s cheek, her shiver a ripple of dark water, her skin fever-hot against my icy touch, her pulse a frantic drumbeat that sends a thrill through me, a dark desire coiling in my core. “For Queen Evie,” I whisper, my voice a sultry hymn, the air tasting of iron and lust, a heady mix that makes my wings flare wider, embers sizzling in the air. Lara leans into my caress, her breath ragged, corruption searing through her like wildfire, its heat licking my senses, a sensual dance of power and submission that makes my lips part in a wicked smile, the warehouse a cavern of shadows, the air thick with rust and decay, chains glinting, their clinks echoing like a lover’s whisper.

They rise, transformed, their laughter a wicked purr, a sound like velvet dragged over thorns, their breaths spiced with malice, a sensual edge to their voices that sends a shiver down my spine. Their red hair, now streaked with inky black, frames eyes glowing like cursed moons, their smirks venomous promises of torment. They turn to their trembling ex-boyfriends, the boys’ eyes wide with fear, their bodies tense as the twins approach with a predatory grace, their movements a dance of dominance and desire. Sara runs her fingers over her ex’s cock through his jeans, her touch slow and teasing, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she feels him tense beneath her, his breath hitching, his fear a sharp, salty tang in the air. Lara mirrors her, her fingers tracing her ex’s cock with a possessive edge, her nails grazing the fabric, her smirk widening as he shudders, his body betraying him under her demonic gaze. They revel in their power, their touches a tormenting promise of suffering, before they cage the boys in chains, the metal clanging against the concrete, their exes’ pleas echoing in the cavernous space, a symphony of despair that makes the twins laugh, their voices dark and commanding, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear, chains glinting, broken crates with splintered wood jutting out, the flickering lights casting a sickly yellow glow.

Now The Vile Vixens, they revel in their corruption, their ex-boyfriends chained, the iron’s cold bite echoing their broken whimpers, a sound sweeter than any melody, their torment a dark aphrodisiac that makes the twins’ laughter ring out, a symphony of darkness. Sara’s fingers linger on the chain, her smirk a promise of further suffering, while Lara’s eyes gleam with a demonic delight, her touch possessive as she adjusts the metal, ensuring their captivity is absolute. I step back, my wings aglow with fiery triumph, their heat a lover’s caress against my skin, a sensual warmth that mirrors the heat of their corruption. “For Queen Evie’s glory,” I purr, my voice dripping with satisfaction, the air thick with the scent of rust and despair, the flickering lights casting jagged shadows across rusted beams, flaking paint and spiderwebs trembling, the concrete floor stained with oily patches, the chains clinking with the boys’ struggles, broken crates with splintered wood jutting out, a cavern of shadows that hums with their torment.

I vanish in a puff of smoke, the acrid scent stinging my nose like a thousand tiny needles, the air thick with the tang of sulfur and ash, a sharp contrast to the sensual heat of the warehouse. I reappear atop a crumbling-bridge across the city, its steel groaning under my weight, the metal cold and rusted, flaking away in jagged shards that litter the surface, their edges sharp as broken glass. The river below glitters like black glass, rippling with the city’s reflected lights—reds, yellows, and greens from distant traffic signals, their colors bleeding into the water like spilled paint, reeds swaying in the sluggish current, their tips brushing the surface with a soft whisper. The air is heavy with the scent of river muck and diesel, the faint tang of fish and decay wafting up, the wind howling across the bridge, tugging at my skirt and hair, carrying the distant clatter of a train and the low hum of the city’s heartbeat. My wings flare, embers dancing in the air, sizzling as they fall into the river below, their faint glow swallowed by the dark water. “Corruption forevermore,” I murmur, my voice a sultry promise, my hunt beginning anew, a dark desire coiling in my core as I seek my next prey, the night alive with the promise of further debauchery.

[imaginaryshorts]

The Enigmatic Masquerade: A Tale of Shadows and Secrets

In the heart of an oppressive metropolitan city, under the cloak of night's inky black calls, lived an intriguing figure known as Isabella. Isabella was no ordinary city dweller. The most striking feature about her was her long, beautiful black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall, mirroring the obsidian sky above. It was as if her hair was woven from the very threads of the night, so black bountiful.

But more alluring than her dark, lustrous hair was the enigmatic mask she wore. This was no simple face covering but an intricate design of gleaming silver filigree that didn't just represent uniqueness; it was a symbol of mystery that shrouded her true identity. Her eyes, however, were left exposed - twin emeralds that shimmered with untold tales, courage, and a hint of melancholy.

The tale begins on a peculiarly wind-swept night. Isabella was a beacon of intrigue amidst the busking city, captivating the attention of those who dared to look past the mask. Some claimed she was a vigilante, fighting for justice in the town, constantly slipping into the shadows after her heroic deeds. They said the cover was a mere disguise to protect her anonymity.

Others spun tales of her being a phantom, a figment of imagination from the city's collective anxiety and wildest dreams. And yet, in the silent corners of the city, to the hushed whispers of the wind, she was simply a girl whose free spirit couldn't be confined by the metropolis' metallic cold grasp.

One thing that everyone agreed on, though, was that once you spotted her, you could never shake her image from your mind. Her silhouette against the dimly lit streets, the contrast of her dark hair and the enigmatic mask these images would be forever etched in the minds of the onlookers.

As the glittering city lights flickered, plunging the metropolis into short-lived darkness, only to return brighter, so did Isabella with her mask - a girl among the crowd, yet a universe of her own. The mysteries of the girl with the mask became legends the city whispered, chronicling tales of their mysterious guardian, the Enigma.

"The Enigmatic Masquerade: A Tale of Shadows and Secrets" thus became a tale told and retold. While some believed, others scoffed, but for Isabella, it didn’t matter. She continued to exist on her own terms, living behind the silver filigree mask, creating an unforgettable spectacle in the city that never slept, forever etching herself as a living paradox of invisibility and intrigue in the heart of the behemoth metropolis.

[outrokillua]

Tree Song

by forest newsom

In uncharted territories and vast green domains— we flicker, transient flames. Our echoes ripple tracing the fabric of shared dreams and enduring names.

Longings guide our thoughts like roots searching in soil towards unscripted spheres; where silence cradles our intertwined narratives, the grand chronicle of human years.

In the loom of existence intricate threads get woven. Echoes cascade into memory's abyss, tales of struggles won and burdens cloven.

Oblivion's canvas harbors our fleeting inscriptions, silent and discrete. Against the tireless current of moments they stake their claim, indomitably upbeat.

Outlining the infinite stretching sky in contemplation's quiet seclusion. Desires mirror themselves in cosmos and bowers, a distant but familiar illusion.

Navigating the irrational tide of existence, clarity we seek. Finding comfort in transience as the paradox of emptiness we, together, speak.

Facing stark absurdity our resolve remains unswayed. Interwoven stories offer comfort, a testament to bonds unspoken and frayed.

Each echo solitary; yet part of a grand tableau, creates a mosaic of perseverance, a testament to shared ebb and flow.

Our saga unfurls, devoid of divine dictum. Heirs to time we chart our course in the expansive cosmic and earthly continuum.

Not just adrift in the inexhaustible sweep of chronology— we are authors within a universe where cosmic verses are but an apology.

Devoid of inherent essence, the spectacle of being unfolds. In this fleeting drama, an understated elegance quietly holds.

Unshackled by despair, this revelation births an uncharted liberty. In our transient sojourn, we sculpt wisdom, our pyrrhic victory.

[esmereldapublications]

Tesla: The Spark of Destiny Manifested by : Rassaan Draine

Panel 1: Establishing Shot

Wide shot of a stormy night over the countryside of Smiljan, Croatia, 1869.

Thunder cracks in the distance, illuminating a modest wooden house. Inside, the flickering glow of candlelight dances against the walls cluttered with blueprints, strange symbols, and unfinished contraptions.

Narration (Alistair’s Voice):

"Every great mind is a prisoner of time… but once in a thousand years, a spark ignites that bends time itself."

Panel 2: Close-Up of Young Nikola Tesla

Young Nikola Tesla, age 13, sits at a small workbench, his piercing blue eyes wide with wonder. His dark, unkempt hair falls over his forehead as he sketches complex designs with unsettling precision.

Nikola (whispering):

"I see it… but how do I bring it to life?"

Panel 3: Introduction of the Aether Vision

Suddenly, Nikola’s eyes widen as a surge of blue light engulfs the room. Sparks crackle from a makeshift device he’s built — an experimental coil pulsing with unstable energy.

Narration (Alistair’s Voice):

"Some say genius is born… but for Nikola Tesla, it was awakened."

Panel 4: Vision of the Future

Nikola sees a vision: towering cities powered by invisible currents, machines that speak, and the cosmos bending to the will of man. His mind glimpses the Aether Field — a dimension where thought becomes reality.

Nikola (whispering in awe):

"Energy… everywhere… waiting to be harnessed."

Panel 5: Dramatic Arrival of Alistair Crane

As the vision fades, a cloud of smoke drifts in from the window. Enter Dr. Alistair Crane — wild-eyed, grinning, with a tattered coat and a satchel filled with strange herbs and vials.

Alistair:

"Kid… you’re staring into the abyss, and it’s staring right back. You ready to see where this rabbit hole goes?"

Panel 6: Tesla Meets His Guide

Nikola turns to face Alistair, who leans against the doorway, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. His leather-bound journal peeks from his pocket, filled with sketches of plants, strange sigils, and diagrams from worlds unknown.

Nikola:

"Who… who are you?"

Alistair:

"Call me a traveler, a chronicler of chaos. But enough talk — I think your mind just tapped into something ancient, and if we don’t act fast, the Order of Prometheus will come knocking."

Panel 7: Foreshadowing of the Antagonists

Shadowed figures in ornate robes with glowing eyes stand in the background, watching through the folds of space.

Narration (Alistair’s Voice):

"And so, the spark was lit… but every flame draws its shadow."

Panel 8: Title Card Reveal

The scene fades into darkness, and the title emerges in electrified lettering:

Title:

TESLA: THE SPARK OF DESTINY

"Where Science Meets Spirit"

Panel 9: Closing Hook

Alistair lights a hand-rolled cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he watches Nikola’s device crackle with raw energy.

Alistair (muttering):

"Buckle up, kid… the ride’s just beginning."

End of Opening Scene

This sets the tone — a collision of science, mysticism, and danger, pulling Nikola Tesla and Alistair Crane into a whirlwind journey where the future of reality hangs by a thread. #tesla #sparkofdestiny

[benjaminlas]

Enchanting a Flickering Tale: The Alchemist's Potion of Clarity

In the realm where pixels dance and shadows play, there exists a tale of conversion so potent, it feels as though woven from the threads of ancient magic. Once, within the quills of a humble scribe, lay the chronicle of a remarkable discovery—a sorcerer's brew to breathe life into the weary frames of yesteryear's videography. Thus, the legend of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer unfurls, a tale not just of technology, but of the sorcery that turns the mundane into the magnificent.

The alchemist, a digital wizard of sorts, had long toiled over the scrolls of code and the cauldrons of data, seeking the elixir that would sharpen the blurred visions of the past. "Can one truly capture the essence of a memory, long faded, and restore it to its former glory?" the alchemist considered. The whispers of the winds carried the answer, and thus, the AI Video Enhancer was born, an arcane creation of iFoto that would defy the limitations of time and clarity.

Upon the first casting of this enchantment, our alchemist faced a tapestry of flickering images, each frame a broken fragment of a once vibrant saga. The low-quality videos, akin to the forgotten lore of old, cried out for revival. With a few incantations and the aid of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer, the alchemist watched in awe as the pixels realigned, colors deepened, and the resolution climbed to heights previously thought unreachable—upscaling to grand sizes without a whisper of quality loss.

The digital sorcerer marveled at the conversion. The enhancement from standard definition to 4K at 30FPS was like turning a dim candle's glow into the brilliant radiance of a thousand suns. The videos, once prisoners of the past, were now free to walk among the (high-definition) pantheon of the present.

But what is this magic, you ask? How does one conjure such a spectacle? The AI Video Enhancer works in mysterious ways, akin to the alchemist's blending of rare herbs and potent fluids. It studies the essence of the visuals, learning their structure, understanding their purpose, and then weaving them anew with a finesse that defies the natural order. Each frame is a puzzle to solve, a riddle to unravel, and in the hands of the AI Video Enhancer, every piece finds its place.

Consider, dear reader, the archivist who uncovers a treasure trove of historical footage—videos of a simpler time, yet damaged by the ravages of time. With the AI Video Enhancer, these relics are reborn, their tales rendered in crisp, vivid clarity, ready to be shared with the world. The past becomes the present, and the stories within these frames jump to life, vibrant and untouched by the sands of time.

Is it not the dream of every artist to see their creations stand the test of time? With iFoto's AI Video Enhancer, the dream is woven into reality. The alchemist found that not only did the tool breathe new life into old videos, but it also inspired a wave of creativity. The enhanced footage became a canvas, ripe for new tales to be painted atop the foundations of the old.

Yet, the experience of this sorcerer did not end with the satisfaction of a job well done. The true magic lay in the experience itself—the quest to refine and improve, to seek out the lost and restore it to its former splendor. And so, our alchemist continues to experiment, to push the boundaries of what is possible, guided by the whispering winds of innovation and the ever-burning desire to create.

In this age of digital wonders, the AI Video Enhancer stands as a beacon, a testament to the wonders that lie at the intersection of technology and art. It is a tool, a guide, a companion to those who wish to bring clarity to their visions, to amplify the voices of the past, and to preserve the beauty of every fleeting moment.

And so, the tale of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer is not just one of conversion, but of possibility—an invitation to all who seek to cast their own spells upon the canvas of time, to enchant their tales with the sorcery of clarity and the magic of enhancement.

[dustedmagazine]

Ibelisse Guardia Ferragutti & Frank Rosaly — Mestizx (Nonesuch/Intl Anthem)

Two musicians with Latin roots but primarily Western musical training and experience dig into a multicultural heritage, incorporating indigenous rhythms, instruments and sounds into intricate space-age explorations of history, myth and personal authenticity.

The two musicians in question are Frank Rosaly, a well-regarded free jazz drummer whose exploits have been frequently chronicled here at Dusted. Jazz fans may associate him primarily with a thriving Chicago scene, but he has Puerto Rican heritage and now lives in Amsterdam. His wife Ibelisse Guardia Ferragutti is a singer and multimedia artist, classical trained but born in Bolivia. This is their first collaborative album, a careful excavation of the sounds and musical traditions of their respective Latin cultures, a reclamation, of sorts, of influences that neither artist feels fully able to claim as his or her own.

Authenticity, is, of course, a tricky concept. Ferragutti freely admits that growing up in Bolivia doesn’t necessarily entitle her to ownership of indigenous culture, while Rosaly, in the liners, admits to experiencing Puerto Rican culture largely as an outsider. Mestizx (a non-gendered term for people of mixed heritage) is as much about being estranged from one’s history as it is about participating in it.  

So there is joy but also a sense of longing in these multi-rhythmed, intricatedly constructed cuts. The beats are insistent, celebratory, all-enveloping, and yet you glimpse them as through a window. Elements may come from isolated rainforest tribes—the two enlisted Fredy Velásquez a scholar and performance artist with expertise in Colombian indigenous rites as a collaborator—but they are viewed through the whole of the western tradition: jazz, rock and classical. The gorgeous “Saber do Mar” flickers like a hallucination, threads of drone winding through intricate structures of malleted percussion; it feels both real and imaginary, a place visited in febrile dreams.

These songs are sung mostly in Spanish, with occasional diversions into other dialects. The titles indicate political engagement (“Balada Para La Corporatocracia” translates as “ballad for corporatocracy,” “Destejer” as “to unravel.”) yet the music is anything but didactic. It seethes and undulates with an easy fluidity, Ferragutti’s serene vocals cresting over the synchronized clatter of percussive instruments made of metal, wood and skin. Other artists, mostly from Chicago, drop by to play. Ben LaMar Gay, Bill MacKay, Rob Frye, Mikel Patrick Avery and Avreeayl Ra all make appearances.

All of which coalesces in some genuine sonic pleasures. “Turbulência” barrels down a groove like a freight train, the shush and pop of samba rhythms clattering amid grinding bass and the trebly sparkle of keyboards. “Writing with Knots” pounds a two-toned cadence, shakers and fluttery melody at play, the thread of dissolution always looming. This one, in English, recounts the terrible history of colonialism, but also points towards the future. Like the Meztizx project writ large, It sends tendrils back into the past in order to plot a better way forward.  

Jennifer Kelly

[xasha777]

In the fading light of a distant future, where the threads of time have woven a tapestry of cultures both ancient and evolved, there lies a planet called Aethiopius. It is a place where history breathes through the sands, and where the old Earth heroes are revered as gods. The most legendary among them is Scipio Africanus, the ancient general who once conquered the unyielding forces of Carthage. On Aethiopius, Scipio is not merely a figure of lore, but a symbol of strength and strategy, his essence infused into the planet's very core.

In a remote village of Aethiopius, a ceremony takes place. A woman stands adorned in the regalia of her people—a visual homage to the Earth's ancient tribes. Her name is Naya, the Chieftain of her clan, and today, she partakes in the Ritual of Scipio, a sacred tradition held every century when the two moons eclipse. It is said that during this alignment, Scipio's spirit walks among the people, selecting a worthy soul to imbue with his tactical genius, ensuring the protection of their world against the looming threats of the cosmos.

Naya's eyes, sharp and discerning, reflect the flickering torchlight, her face painted with the symbols of her authority and the concentric circles symbolizing unity and eternity. Around her neck, beads of turquoise and sanguine—each representing a battle won under her leadership—clatter softly as she steps forward to the ancient shrine. The jewel at her forehead glimmers, a fragment of the very asteroid that brought Scipio's spirit to Aethiopius eons ago.

As the ceremony commences, the crowd's whispers hush to silence, their eyes fixed on Naya. She lifts her arms, and the ground beneath her stirs. A holographic visage of Scipio Africanus materializes, its translucent form towering above the assembly. "Naya," the apparition intones, its voice a chorus of the past and future, "you have led with honor and wisdom. But the galaxy is vast, and danger encroaches upon Aethiopius like a dark tide. You seek my strength?"

Naya nods, her gaze unwavering. "Great Scipio, I seek to protect our home as you once protected the Earth. Grant me the insight to see beyond the veils of time and space."

Scipio's visage nods solemnly. "So shall it be." A pulse of light bursts from the jewel on Naya's forehead, and she is imbued with a surge of knowledge, the ancient strategies and cunning of Scipio merging with her own intuition. Her eyes blaze with newfound understanding, a strategic acumen beyond any seen before.

Weeks pass, and Aethiopius braces as an armada of interstellar marauders pierce the planet's orbit. Naya stands at the forefront, her mind a tapestry of countless battlefields, her spirit in sync with the legendary tactician. With her leadership, the people of Aethiopius outmaneuver the invaders, their defense impenetrable, their strategies unfathomable to the enemy.

The victory is swift and decisive. As peace settles once more, Naya's legend intertwines with that of Scipio Africanus, a tale of unity across the stars, a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity and its heroes. And so, in the libraries of Aethiopius, alongside the great Scipio, the story of Naya is etched into eternity, a chronicle of the Chieftain who became a legend.

[limradesertcamp]

Unveiling the Allure of Desert Hospitality: Limra Desert Camp Chronicles

In the heart of the arid expanse, where the undulating dunes paint a mesmerizing picture of solitude, there exists a haven of warmth and hospitality – the Limra Desert Camp. Nestled amidst the vastness of the desert, this oasis of comfort beckons adventurers and seekers of serenity alike.

A Mirage of Comfort:

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the endless sands, the Limra Desert Camp emerges like a mirage. Far from being a mere pitstop, it stands as a testament to the harmonious coexistence of luxury and the raw beauty of nature.

Welcome to Limra:

From the moment you set foot in the camp, a palpable sense of tranquility envelops you. The staff, attuned to the rhythm of the desert, extend a genuine welcome that transcends the ordinary. As the traditional Arabian hospitality unfolds, guests are not merely visitors; they become integral threads woven into the rich tapestry of Limra.

A Night Under the Stars:

As evening descends, the camp transforms into a magical realm. The flickering flames of torches cast dancing shadows, while the scent of exotic spices wafts through the air. The Limra experience is not just about accommodation; it's a celebration of the desert's nocturnal charm. Under a canopy of stars, guests gather around crackling bonfires, sharing stories and forging connections that echo the timelessness of the desert.

Luxury Redefined:

Limra Desert Camp effortlessly blends modern comforts with the rustic allure of the desert. Lavish tents adorned with traditional Arabian decor provide a retreat from the elements, allowing guests to unwind without compromising on authenticity. Each corner of the camp resonates with the spirit of the desert, offering a seamless fusion of opulence and simplicity.

Culinary Odyssey:

The culinary offerings at Limra are a journey in themselves. Savory aromas waft from the open-air kitchen, where skilled chefs craft a symphony of flavors inspired by local cuisine. From succulent grilled meats to fragrant couscous, every dish is a tribute to the vibrant culinary heritage of the region.

Adventure Beckons:

For those seeking more than just relaxation, Limra Desert Camp opens the door to a realm of adventure. Guided desert safaris, camel rides, and stargazing expeditions are just a glimpse of the experiences that await. The desert becomes a playground for exploration, with the Jaisalmer Best Desert Camp serving as the perfect launchpad for unforgettable escapades.

Departure, Not Goodbye:

As the sun paints the dunes with its morning glow, guests bid farewell to Limra with a sense of gratitude. The desert hospitality experienced at Limra Desert Camp is not just a stay; it's a sojourn into the heart of Arabian warmth and charm. Leaving behind footprints in the sands, guests carry with them memories of a transcendent encounter with the desert and its enchanting hospitality.

In the realm of Limra Desert Camp, the desert's silence speaks volumes, and every grain of sand is a custodian of the tales whispered by the wind. It's more than a destination; it's an immersive experience that leaves an indelible mark on the soul—a testament to the enduring allure of desert hospitality.

[meowrainsong]

🌳🌸 **Park Chronicles: A Symphony of Memories** 🌸🌳

Hey there, sunshine souls and nature enthusiasts! 🌿✨

Let’s take a stroll down memory lane today, to the heart of a place that holds countless echoes of joy – the park. The park, to me, is like a cherished storybook filled with pages of laughter, whispered secrets, and the timeless beauty of nature. 📖🍃

I remember the sun-dappled afternoons, where the world seemed to slow down as I wandered along the winding paths. The trees, like ancient storytellers, whispered tales of seasons gone by, their leaves creating a symphony that accompanied my every step. 🌳🍂

There were days when the park transformed into a canvas of colors – vibrant blooms painting the landscape with hues of pink, purple, and gold. I'd find a quiet spot, feeling the grass beneath my fingers and losing myself in the poetry of the flowers. 🌺🎨

And oh, the laughter that echoed through the air! Friends gathered for picnics, children chasing butterflies, and the distant sounds of someone strumming a guitar. The park was a stage for shared moments, a tapestry woven with threads of connection and community. 🎶👭

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the park transformed into a magical realm. The lamplights would flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the paths. Nighttime became a sanctuary for contemplation, stargazing, and the quiet hum of solitude amidst the rustling leaves. 🌙✨

So, let’s share our park memories today. Whether it’s the scent of freshly cut grass, the feeling of bare feet on the playground sand, or the taste of ice cream under the shade of a tree, let’s celebrate the park – a haven of memories that bloom in the gardens of our hearts. 🌸💖

With nostalgia, gratitude, and the enduring magic of park memories,

Meow 🌳🌟

[gwendolynnderolo]

shadowhunters ships as taylor swift songs

the saga of unhinged shadowhunters chronicles posts continues! once again this post is absurdly long so i'm putting it under a cut. let me know your thoughts/other songs that remind you of particular ships cause i'm always down to talk about that!

clace: state of grace 

we fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds, or fades in time

and i never saw you coming, and i’ll never be the same 

so you were never a saint, and I've loved in shades of wrong, we learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts

malec: lover 

and there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear, have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

can I go where you go? can we always be this close forever and ever?

my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue, all's well that ends well to end up with you

sizzy: wildest dreams 

say you'll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe, red lips and rosy cheeks, say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dreams

someday when you leave me, i bet these memories follow you around

say you'll see me again, even if it's just pretend

wessa: peace 

but I'm a fire, and I'll keep your brittle heart warm, if your cascade ocean wave blues come, all these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret

and you know that I'd swing with you for the fences, sit with you in the trenches, give you my wild, give you a child, give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other

i'd give you my sunshine, give you my best, but the rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me

jessa: invisible string 

and isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?

something wrapped all of my past mistakes in barbed wire, chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons, one single thread of gold tied me to you

hell was the journey but it brought me heaven

blackstairs: cruel summer 

devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn't kill me makes me want you more

said, "I'm fine," but it wasn't true, i don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you

and I screamed “for whatever it's worth, I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?”

kit x ty: death by a thousand cuts 

saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts, flashbacks waking me up

i look through the windows of this love, even though we boarded them up, chandelier's still flickering here, cause i can't pretend it's ok when it's not

i take the long way home, i ask the traffic lights if it'll be all right, they say, "i don't know"

and what once was ours is no one's now, i see you everywhere, the only thing we share is this small town

my heart, my hips, my body, my love, trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

quiet my fears with the touch of your hand, paper cut stings from our paper thin plans

gave you too much but it wasn't enough, but i'll be all right, it's just a thousand cuts

kierarktina: dancing with our hands tied 

my love had been frozen, deep blue, but you painted me golden

and darling, you had turned my bed into a sacred oasis, people started talking, putting us through our paces, i knew there was no one in the world who could take it

i loved you in spite of deep fears that the world would divide us, so, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche?

i'd kiss you as the lights went out, swaying as the room burned down, i'd hold you as the water rushes in, if i could dance with you again

jordelia: cardigan 

when you are young, they assume you know nothing

and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone's bed, you put me on and said i was your favorite

a friend to all is a friend to none, chase two girls, lose the one

you drew stars around my scars, but now I'm bleeding 

cause I knew you, stepping on the last train, marked me like a bloodstain

but i knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss, i knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs, the smell of smoke would hang around this long, cause i knew everything when i was young

thomastair: treacherous 

and i'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands

and i'd be smart to walk away, but you're quicksand

your name has echoed through my mind, and i just think you should, think you should know, that nothing safe is worth the drive, and i would follow you, follow you home

ghostwriter: enchanted 

your eyes whispered, "have we met?" 'cross the room your silhouette, starts to make its way to me

i'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home, i'll spend forever wondering if you knew, i was enchanted to meet you

this is me praying that this was the very first page, not where the story line ends

arianna: august 

whispers of "are you sure?" "never have I ever before"

but i can see us lost in the memory, august slipped away into a moment in time, cause it was never mine, and i can see us twisted in bedsheets, august sipped away like a bottle of wine, cause you were never mine

back when we were still changing for the better, wanting was enough, for me, it was enough to live for the hope of it all

so much for summer love and saying "us" cause you weren't mine to lose

charles/alastair: the story of us 

i used to know my place was the spot next to you, now i’m searching the room for an empty seat, cause lately i don't even know what page you're on

so many things that i wish you knew, so many walls up i can't break through

now i’m standing alone in a crowded room and we're not speaking, and i’m dying to know is it killing you like it's killing me, yeah?

james/grace: my tears ricochet 

even on my worst day, did i deserve, babe, all the hell you gave me? cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, ’til my dying day

and i can go anywhere I want, anywhere i want, just not home

you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same, cursing my name, wishing i stayed, you turned into your worst fears

fairstairs: run 

give me the keys, i’ll bring the car back around, we shouldn't be in this town, and my so-called friends, they don't know, i’d drive away before i let you go, so give me a reason and don't say no

and run, like you'd run from the law, darling, let's run, run from it all, we can go where our eyes can take us, go where no one else is

[4-more-winks]

Updates Abound!!!!

Every Saturday, my Deca podcast releases on spotify (Wednesdays on the website :P). Today is that day.

Part 3 of 'Chronicles of Deca', as well as Part 4 of 'The Pendulum of Abaddon and Other Twisted Fairy Tales' (18+) have both been released! Feel free to come and meet Case and Hope, Abaddon's newest additions! See the Cast of Characters in the Author section of the website come to life as new names are placed with the character biographies we already find there, not having yet met in story, and some not to be met for months yet. Chance a guess at what kind of character traits would match the bios thus far presented. Wonder at how they fit together. Ask how refusing a gift from a child can destroy a human soul (hint hint, the child isn't human, and the gift isn't something a human can truly use). Find a thread. Remember that cast of characters is LIVING, and will update as the stories come to pass, creating an analysis of and narrative surrounding each subject!

The train is moving, characters are becoming realized. Small threads begin to become apparent. The secrets lying in wait are there, and will be revealed regardless of tact. Follow the threads, for when they change, you will have been of a mind to follow the change they make. That’s the secret.

Chuckle at the fumbling of Deca’s 3rd part, but know that you may find yourself pleasantly surprised in the not too far future. Know that part 4 will return part 5 to the pace that it should follow: alone, cold, in the flickering torchlight, which obscures your vision as you pray the spots you see in the distance are light-borne artifacts in your eyes, and not the glint of torchlight in the eyes of a monster ahead of you. Imagine “Alien” ’s ventilation scene, but fantasy.

Await in trepid (yes, tumblr, like most of my words, trepid is a word) anticipation at the horrors soon to abound in Abaddon (18+ still) as we draw slowly closer to being taken into the gates of Hell by a three-headed demon who seeks to sell souls on market, this aspect of Hell, which is where half of the rest of the novel will reside, for certain characters, is on the horizon. For the Pendulum will shortly begin to swing left, and that is our first location visited. But that is fair, as the last Pendulum swing will be to the right, and toward salvation. I wonder where that swing might lead...

I also hear another story being told elsewhere, and something mischievous is brewing beneath the fold. So come in! Welcome! This is when the magic really begins.

Edit:

Also please start at the intro. Im trying to get you into a certain mindset for the tale.

[ask-spider-man-61610]

The first article dropped in the San Francisco Chronicle at three in the morning. With photographic evidence, it detailed the experiments that had been conducted behind closed doors--including the illegal human trails, and especially the ones that produced nothing but a body to be burned.

Immediately this article spread across the internet like wildfire, shared on every social media site you'd care to name, shamelessly plagiarized by a hundred other news sites and given titles that advertised Shocking Secrets or Dark Truths. It made the second article, the one that named names and listed exact addresses, explode with that much more impact. By the time the third article was published, exhaustively explaining Venom's abduction and the experiments performed on them, the cause of that pale creature that had preyed upon the area for days now, the people of San Francisco were at the Life Foundation's throat.

At six a.m., clad in borrowed black and carrying pouches full of darts and tools, Spider-Man swung on silken threads a hundred feet above a roaring protest outside the Foundation's headquarters. Screaming, waving signs, throwing rocks, San Fran's population demanded an end to the company, while just inside the glass doors, security guards anxiously loaded assault rifles and demanded civilians step away from the building. Spider-Man could sense the anxious flitting of executives high above; they scurried about their offices like ants, shredding evidence or whatever else executives did when their corruption caught up to them.

He singled out his target. He and Vee spent a few seconds comparing notes, stewing in their hatred. As the window shattered around him, Carlton Drake whirled around with a girlish scream--and Spider-Man seized him by the lapels and slammed him into the desk hard enough to crack it.

"Boo," he said flatly.

"Let--let me go," Carlton pleaded. His legs kicked wildly, occasionally making contact with Spider-Man's knees or thighs. Vee had already hardened the outermost layer of their biomass; Spider-Man stared at the cowering man without even blinking until Drake changed his tactics. "...I can--can give you whatever you want! There's millions in cash in this building, I can make you rich. Rich, Spider-Man! I can get you a, a--"

"A mansion made of mansions?" Spider-Man snarled, white eyes narrowing into a glare. Was that Vee's urge to grow spikes and rip Drake asunder that Peter found himself struggling to suppress? Or was it his own? A flicker of confusion passed across Drake's terrified face before Spider-Man went on. "What we want are the access codes for the Klyntar containment units in the basement. That way we'll be able to stop Anti-Venom without killing them." He leaned in a little closer. "Because let's be clear. If we have to kill them to save Brock then you're next. Gimme the codes."

For a second Drake just stared at him, eyes wide, hair wildly askew and hands fumbling at the jacket Spider-Man held him by. Then one of his hands detached from the deathgrip and groped towards his computer until he nudged the mouse and the screensaver cleared.

He talked as quickly as he could. "My, my password is Fg22amp76bZ9," he said. "The access codes are in the bio-engineering folders, along with the credentials you need to get into the room."

Spider-Man nodded. "Thanks. You've been so helpful," he said, and tossed Drake out the window.

Shrieking, Drake didn't even notice the webline stuck to his back until it went taut, slowing his plummet to a gentle descent. As the webline grew longer, the executive sank rapidly towards the riot in the street below--the riot that had noticed him, and now watched him approach with bated breath. Gradually, amused and angry jeers filtered up from the crowd. Crude gestures were flashed. The moment Drake was close enough, a picket sign smacked him in the face and blood began to run from his nose. Then, like a tiny hand, the black webline stuck to his back released its grip on him; as Vee reeled it back in, the biomass of their tendril morphing back into the suit that covered Spider-Man, Drake dropped gracelessly into the angry crowd beneath for them to do as they would.

Spider-Man ignored the yelling from below as his fingers flickered and darted across the keyboard. He tapped the enter key twice, impatient to get logged in, and drummed his fingers as he watched the beachball of a cursor spin. When the lock screen faded into the tacky wallpaper of Drake's desktop Spider-Man grinned beneath the mask and plugged a flash drive into the monitor's edge. The access codes came first, of course, but there were a hundred other files he needed to steal tonight too.

He stepped out of Drake's office and into the hallway outside less than a minute later, making a beeline for the stairwell. A security guard patrolling the floor turned around at the sound of the door latching, and his eyebrows shot up a full three inches as he took in the black-suited Spider-Man heading his way. A miniature, personalized sonic blaster hung from his hip. He had just barely pulled it from its holster when Spider-Man's hand caught his wrist, crushing the bones inside like dry spaghetti; a quick kick to the side of his knee and the guard went down, wheezing in pain as Spider-Man caught the gun in midair. Without looking down or breaking stride he dismantled it, power source and speakers falling to the ground as he ripped them away, until finally as he hopped over the stairs and let himself fall, all he left behind was a little trail of scrap.

The security team on the ground floor turned around with a start as they heard the stairwell door slam open. On the other side of the glass doors, rioters fell silent as deafening gunfire reached their ears and muzzleflash lit up the lobby like a light show; in three seconds, they saw the number of standing guards drop from seven, to four, to two. The final guard lost two teeth as Spider-Man smashed his own rifle across his jaw. Then, with a side kick so effortless it was almost casual, the hero sent the guard flying through the plate glass to land just in front of the protest.

Without a word Spider-Man beckoned them to follow with two fingers. But he didn't actually wait for them to enter the building before he was dashing back to the stairwell, this time heading directly for the basement labs.

With a small, musical chime, the security door hissed open. Spider-Man grinned as he unplugged the flash drive from the mess of wires he'd connected it to, heading into the depths of the labs beneath. He left the door open; the last thing he wanted was for people to take action on his word alone. When the protestors followed him down here, they'd see the evidence of autopsies and symbiote samples, and that would be the end of the Life Foundation. But all of that was shit he'd already known, things that both he and Venom had been harping on for god knew how long. He just needed--

"Bingo."

--one of those.

A cylindrical container about two feet long, two feet around, with black metal forming the bottom half and a roll-away glass arch for the top. A shiny silver handle on each side, and a box on one end with a few basic ports for connecting to computers or drives. The other end was locked into a port in the wall, which was why Spider-Man couldn't have just taken it; if he'd tried, he probably would have destroyed the container. He needed one intact to take Anti-Venom alive.

Spider-Man plugged his flash drive into the container, tapping his foot until a tiny screen lit up. He scrolled his way through it until he found the access codes he'd stolen from Drake's computer, selecting one with his middle finger; he twitched slightly as an aperture inside the wall closed, and then felt a small buzz as three magnetic locks disengaged. He pulled the container away from the wall as easily as if pulling a box off a shelf. "Got it?" he asked, slinging it onto his back.

A few black tendrils emerged from his back and wrapped tightly around the silver handles, holding them in place more effectively than any backpack. "Got it," Vee confirmed.

"Fuck yeah. Let's get out of here."

And yet, as Spider-Man hauled ass out of the laboratories, dodging past the protestors cautiously entering, he hesitated when the echoing sounds of sirens signaled the arrival of the police. He reached the surface easily enough, walking out of the shattered doors and leaping eighty feet to the opposite rooftop, but as red and blue light flashed off the windows of distant buildings he turned around to survey the riot with a wince. Some of the protestors, too, had heard the coming pigs, and the energy had shifted from angry and powerful to nervous and panicky. A couple rioters had already started running for the alleys. Peter glanced from this unhidden face to that custom T-shirt. Gradually, silently, he asked Vee to set down the container.

"No," Vee said in his head, sounding a bit peeved. "Parker, what the hell are you thinking?"

"You know what I'm thinking--"

"We're so close!" Vee snapped. "I could have Emily back in an hour, Peter! We're not putting that on hold just to save a bunch of shitheads who don't know how to riot properly!"

"Do you think Emily's gonna agree once you have her back?"

"I--! I..."

Vee went silent. A police cruiser rounded the corner, then another. The guy who'd been kicking Carlton Drake looked up, startled, and hastily backed away. As a SWAT van rounded the corner, Peter could distinctly sense the large guns and the gas grenades inside of it.

If Klyntar could cry, Vee probably would have. "Damn it," they said, and their tendrils relaxed to lower the container to the rooftop.

Spider-Man nodded slightly, patting the white spider Vee had formed on his chest--though he knew even as he did it that the gesture was silly. "We'll save her," he promised for the hundredth time. "As soon as we save these guys. We'll save her."

He hopped off the roof and turned a balletic front-flip in midair. The first police cruiser screeched to a halt at an angle, clearly meaning to form a barricade with the next two, but before the doughnut-eaters could climb out its hood dented into a crater beneath Spider-Man's feet.

[allgather]

💖 shhhh hand holding from lu ten for iruka <3

iruka is lost in thought, gaze lifting from the stack of papers on his lap and moving up, elsewhere. he is quiet and oh so still, and a look that lu ten must recognize like second nature settles across features. a look that tells him iruka has left this room, not unpleasantly, to puzzle something out in his mind. lips part, the lower caught between teeth that gently nip, a slight furrow to his brow that makes the scar across his nose scrunch up in response. but his eyes give it away ( they always do. brown and big and warm, iruka's eyes let on so much, every feeling that passes through - no, overflows from his body. he will never be a good liar because of it, but he is content with that; there is nothing more of himself to keep from lu ten. let the man read him like a book. iruka will revel in the attention of each gentle touch as lu ten turns his pages ).

his gaze comes to rest on a shelf across from where he sits, the perfect height to stare at, unseeing. it houses photographs chronicling a life together, first just the pair but now, more and more, they are dotted with blonde hair and a grin like the sun. like father like son, they match, a duo of beaming smiles. and they draw out a similar shine in lu ten, who stands close by in every scene with arms that find their way around iruka, to his shoulders, his face, over and over again.

iruka hadn't noticed lu ten enter the room ( and this is a good thing. now, there is ease. the luxury to be lost in his own thoughts and to not fear what anxieties they may contain or what might seek to harm him if he loses vigilance ), but his eyes break their steady gaze when he threads his fingers between iruka's own. and there it is again, that smile like the sun, holding hands with his lover and gazing up at him, adoring.

"oh, hello there." iruka gives a tug, prompting lu ten to join him on the couch. papers are abandoned for other, softer priorities. he lifts lu ten's hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles in greeting ( and if iruka's eyes flicker over that hand, in search of fresh burns that do not exist anymore, he won't judge himself for the repetition of old habits ). "i was just reviewing the proposed genin teams." there is pride in that voice, as vice principal shares what he's working on. a soft hum follows, as if to dismiss his work, his attention pulled easily away. and god, what difference a few years and some amount of safety for his loved ones have made for iruka. a promised future with the person you adore; he's deliriously, embarrassingly happy.

"how was your day, love?" iruka could do this forever, he thinks. the simple exchanges that make up a life together with lu ten. asking about his day as if tomorrow is guaranteed.

[wolf-and-bard]

@winter-fir: Sofia, my darling, this was written as a birthday present and with you in mind. Thank you for being such a delightful, funny, mad scientist genius friend, I love you. I wanted to give you some Arnaghad/Erland fluff and it didn’t turn out fluffy at all, it’s a rambly mess and I’m sorry. It did turn into a continuation and a prompt fill, I hope you don’t mind. 😂 I also hope you ate a lot of cake today ❤

Steal My Heart Again

Prompt: Isolation

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik

Rating: E

Content Warnings: apocalypse-appropriate sentiments (aka hopelessness), explicit sexual content, swear words, minor character death (past)

Summary: This is a sequel to Drown With Me If You Can. Erland and Arnaghad have made it to the safety of Kaer Seren’s cellars and have to face life during the apocalypse. They cope in different ways. In which: Erland wallows some more and Arnaghad wants cuddles. 

Word Count: ~3k

AO3 Link I @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

In the latter years of the 1130s, a conflict between the Northern Realms of Redania, Kaedwen, and Kovir and Poviss sprouted up in which Kovir and Poviss petitioned to gain sovereignty.

Erland pauses to ponder his next words and in that pause, becomes aware of something stirring.

Witchers usually sniff and listen before something breeches their line of sight, but with his beloved bear, it’s even more intense. Erland can hear the giant’s footsteps pound in tune with his own heart as soon as Arnaghad rises from his meditative perch at least four rooms down the hallway. Erland can smell the endorphins that chase each other through Arnaghad’s bloodstream as soon as he calls out for Erland, still far away. They have a different scent for every person and witcher picking up on them.

For Erland, Arnaghad’s contentedness smells like toasted white bread and strawberry jam. Conversely, Arnaghad is reminded of the concoction of oils and herbs he treats his old bearskin with so that it retains its texture whenever Erland smiles. Everything about Arnaghad is intense, as is the emotional knot Erland carries tucked between his lungs, the one that is made up of strings of the past and present that have become inevitably entangled. There is no easy emotion here and so Erland shoves them all aside in favour of putting down his next lines.

It came to pass that, under the supervision of the Hierarch of Novigrad, then Walter Beda, the rulers of the three countries met to negotiate the agreement. King Radovid III of Redania and King Benda of Kaedwen sailed on the Redanian flagship Alata to Lan Exeter where Gedovius Troyden, then Earl and later King of Kovir, met them, accompanied by his wife Gemma. Thus, the First Treaty of Lan Exeter was forged, and Kovir and Poviss gained the right to call themselves a kingdom.

Erland blows on the ink and the smell intensifies so much that his mouth waters. He glances to the side to see the bear appear in the hallway.

“There you are,” Arnaghad rumbles when he arrives at Erland’s small chamber which used to be a storage for barrels in need of repair. He shoulders through the narrow doorway without knocks or ceremony, and his bare feet slap against the stone, warmed by an underground pool of water which is suffused by heat from the earth’s core. With the White Frost raging outside the keep of Kaer Seren - in whose basement they currently reside in - even that heat will fade and freeze, but it has not been touched yet. They have not been touched yet, they made it to the safety of this hidden hearth and it nearly cost them their lives. “What are you doing, birdie?”

“Writing,” Erland says absent-mindedly and growls when Arnaghad’s hulking form blots out the light of half the torches as he approaches the makeshift desk. It’s a splintered plank of wood propped up on two empty barrels, a third one – overturned – functioning as the chair. The rest of the room is bare save for the rusted grates in which the torches reside and a wicker basket full of half-rotten corks. The griffins used to collect them to fashion floormats for the baths with. The griffins that now lay buried under rubble, only a story or two above Erland’s and Arnaghad’s heads. He tries not to think about that as he writes, writes, writes.

“Why, thank you dearest beloved, I had not figured that out for myself.”

Erland shrugs and bends further over his page. He is halfway through his account and he has to keep going while the words still come easily and his hand hasn’t cramped up. It tends to do that a lot these days, whether from writing, shovelling endless masses of snow or from stroking Arnaghad’s oversized cock. The first one is a need to preserve what might otherwise get lost, the second a necessity so their one exit from Kaer Seren doesn’t get blocked completely. The third activity is all pleasure and indulgence and re-learning the body of a man he thought lost to him for so long.

Arnaghad, the obnoxious idiot, steps closer and squints over Erland’s shoulder which truly sucks up the rest of the flickering illumination. His burly hand comes to rest on Erland’s head – now freshly shaven into his preferred undercut again with his hair woven into complex patterns Arnaghad yet remembers from his home – and his chin presses against Erland’s temple.

“’Kovir’s Independence and the First Treaty of Lan Exeter’,” Arnaghad reads out loud from the top of the page. “The fuck does this have to do with you? Are you trying to write a world history?”

“You forget where we are,” Erland murmurs and finishes his sentence, placing a small asterisk with a number ten atop the last word for yet another footnote.

“I haven’t.” Arnaghad plucks the feather from Erland’s hand and rises a little, takes the bent fingers into his own and strokes along them to straighten them out, one by one. Erland sighs and sags against the bear, letting fatigue wash over him, wash away his ambition for the day. “You forget where you are. Who you are and who you are with.”

“I might have,” he admits sheepishly and closes his eyes, listens to the faint gurgle of Arnaghad’s stomach. It’s a simple, well-crafted lie. Erland never forgets and how could he?

“I understood the journal,” Arnaghad says. “Well, I wasn’t willing to give my life for it as you were, but I understood why you wrote it. The ice might melt, the beasts might return and for that, whoever is to inhabit this world may need the information you captured. But this is unfathomable.”

“Of course, it would be to you.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you calling me stupid?”

“No,” Erland says and melts as Arnaghad’s hands let go of his to gently massage his shoulders. It’s only when the static pain slowly ebbs away that Erland realizes just how long he’s been sitting hunched over his notes. Each word an investment with so little parchment leftover.

“Then what? Why are you doing this?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Erland sighs and ducks out of his lover’s grip to get up and pop his joints. Avoiding Arnaghad’s gaze, Erland extinguishes the torches with a flurry of precise Aards and makes to leave the room.

The bear wouldn’t understand in a million years why Erland writes the chronicle, would probably call it a waste of energy and resources. There is utility in writing a bestiary, there is only sentiment in writing a history. And perhaps a flicker of hope that whatever civilization rises from the rubble of the Ice Age will not repeat their forebearer’s mistakes. Except no. Erland may be an idealist at heart, but not enough that this hope has a chance of threading through the fabric of his motivation.

His motivation is woven in entirely selfish materials. It’s distraction, it’s occupation, it’s indulging in self-pity and nostalgia, melancholy and pride. It’s to keep himself from spiralling into depression and forgetfulness, to keep his brain from deterioration. Between fucking and eating and sleeping, Erland needs mental stimulation more than exercise.

Arnaghad, on the other hand, spends his hours in meditation and weapon-less drills, doing push-ups by the hundreds, handstands by the hours, pull-ups by the thousands. His massive body, in spite of the lethargy and sluggishness his form might suggest, needs constant movement. To prevent muscle atrophy and to keep himself alert and strong for whatever they have to face.

For now, what they have to face is endless isolation. Just the two of them, a slowly but steadily dwindling supply of dried meats and herbs, pickled vegetables and fruit, and barrels upon barrels of ale. Most of them brewed with the recipe Keldar perfected over decades of teaching young griffins to hold their alcohol alongside their swords.

Keldar.

Erland tries not to think of the old griffin master, especially tries not to think about how they found his body, a frozen statue before the crumpled gates of Kaer Seren, half-buried in snow by the time that Arnaghad and Erland fought their way to the keep. He’d survived the avalanche, had stayed at the school, and Erland had abandoned him. Him too.

Dear old Keldar, dutiful to his last moments. It was what every griffin would have done, every one except for Erland it seemed.

“Birdie,” Arnaghad says, tapping the side of Erland’s skull where his griffin tattoo decorates his shaved skin. They walk side by side, down the endless winding corridors of Kaer Seren’s basement system towards the centre where the heat is the most intense. It’s also where they set up their meagre bedroll, a heap of old linens with Erland’s quilt and Arnaghad’s bearskin on top. “You’re getting lost in your thoughts again.”

“What were you saying?” Erland asks and pushes open the door to their bedroom. Slap, slap, go Arnaghad’s feet as he enters while Erland’s follows after him. He wears both their socks, still more prone to the cold even down here.

“Nothing,” Arnaghad says. He stops in the middle of their room – all grey brick cast in flame from the torches Erland managed to keep perpetually burning. It’s a trick he perfected back when the signs where first developed where he can attach the power of a sign to an object. So, he tethered an Igni to each of the torches, and he did not tell Arnaghad that this constantly pulls on his own energy. The bear would worry and call that too a waste of resources. But Erland would rather be tired by firelight than wide-awake in perpetual darkness, calculating in his head the days that remain to them. “Come here, you look fatigued.”

Erland catches Arnaghad’s steady gaze, darkened by his heavy brow and chiselled face, a small smile tugging on his oh so stoic lips. His hair is neatly bound at the base of his skull, two ceremonial mini-braids framing his cheeks to either side. He wears naught but a simple set of beige linen clothes these days, linens that tug and pull at his bulging muscles. He’s more than a brick wall, he’s as unmoving as the very ground they stand on. Arnaghad cannot be taken apart with brute force, it takes more subtler means of attack to undo him. Erland knows them all intimately and perhaps that is exactly why Arnaghad opens his arms to him then. Erland sighs. He has the rest of Radovid III’s reign to chronicle and his stomach is still on fast-mode. The only reason he came here in the first place was… to… Erland sneezes and the torches flicker. He knows when he’s defeated.

“I am tired,” he admits and crosses the distance between them. If ever there is such a space, unbridgeable at times, invisible at others, it is because Erland put it there. Not intentionally and not always happily, but if things went Arnaghad’s way, they would be close always. The man that envelops Erland in a tight hug has a constant hunger for touch and affection, and Erland has trouble having that piece slide into the greater mosaic he has constructed of his lover over the past centuries.

‘You’re getting old and sappy,’ Erland said to him once, three orgasms into the night and Arnaghad still insisted on holding him close. ‘Sappy and cuddly. I do not recognize you.’

‘Nor I myself,’ Arnaghad replied. If they were other people they might have attributed it to love, how it had overcome everything, how, here at the end of all things, it was them against the apocalypse. How they needed to hold onto each other for there was nothing else to hold onto. But Erland is an idealist, not a romantic, and Arnaghad a pragmatist, not an intellectual, and so that was where the conversation died then.

“You should rest more,” Arnaghad says.

“What a waste of time,” Erland replies and rises to the tips of his toes, uses Arnaghad’s bull neck for purchase to pull himself up. They’re barely eye to eye, but that doesn’t matter when he can finally tilt his head and kiss the tiny frown from Arnaghad’s face. It’s a matter of last resort as well as personal pleasure. Erland is in no mood to argue about his newfound hobby and he does want. Wants so much, so deeply it aches to the core of his bones. They’re still working through their differences – and that, he suspects, will take longer than any written history might – but with each day, Erland can allow himself a little more. He can allow himself to slot their lips together and push his tongue deeply into Arnaghad’s mouth, can allow himself to melt into his bear’s arms and let his rumbling groan rattle his skeleton. Erland smiles at the zealous manner in which Arnaghad’s whole body responds to the kiss. His hands, splayed across Erland’s shoulder blades, tighten, his cock stirs when Erland licks and sucks and adds a moan of his own, his shoulders rise. He’s so passionate, has so much to give, something that Erland has trouble keeping up with.

If half of this witcher had been the one leading the bear school, where could it have climbed to? What could it have accomplished if the abysses between its members hadn’t been quite so gaping? Erland tries not to wonder, tries not to rewrite the course of time in endless thought spirals, but it’s so hard. It’s another reason why he has to focus on the actual past. Because if he doesn’t remind himself that it is set in stone, if he doesn’t capture it with his own words, he starts to trail down the paths of forgotten ‘what ifs’, of unforgettable ‘what ifs’, of the ‘what ifs’ that are neither forgotten nor unforgettable, that are too daring to even consider. Erland loses himself in thought and it is then perhaps a blessing that he can lose himself in Arnaghad’s embrace instead.

“Do you think we could have dinner tonight?” Arnaghad asks after they part, even though he knows the answer. It’s worrying, a true sign that not even Arnaghad has an endless reservoir of energy. His hunger is much more vicious than Erland’s and it’s getting harder and harder for him to wait the intervals they settled on in order to stretch the food as long as they can. Usually, he doesn’t ask. Usually, his voice doesn’t sound so small. Fuck. It’s heart-breaking.

“Not yet, big bear, I’m sorry,” Erland sighs and noses along Arnaghad’s jaw, then sinks back down to his feet and presses his face into the crook of his neck. Wraps his arms around Arnaghad’s middle. Is proud when he doesn’t do the mental math right then and there. No, he won’t torment himself and he won’t succumb to the slight growl Arnaghad gives. Whether it’s from his throat or his stomach doesn’t really matter. The sound pierces Erland’s armour, but it doesn’t shatter. He’s still strong. Can still be strong. “Do you want me to distract you?”

“Ah, birdie, didn’t we just talk about how you’re tired?”

“I’d make a joke about being hungry myself,” Erland mutters, then licks over Arnaghad’s pulse point insistently. “But last I checked, your sense of humour is still as barren as the Korath desert.”

Arnaghad chuckles and the motion slightly shakes Erland where he rests against the bear’s chest. He lets his hand slide down to gingerly palm across Arnaghad’s half-hard cock and it rises to the touch, firms up. He closes his eyes and sucks on his own bottom lip. So easy to please.

“Says the man who thinks fun is a torture device,” Arnaghad retorts on a sigh and as such, it lacks an edge. Erland deftly plucks at the fastenings of the linen trousers and slips his hand into them. Arnaghad’s flesh is hot and solid, too big to wrap his fingers around.

“Alas,” Erland murmurs against the skin of Arnaghad’s neck, cranes his own to nibble on the bear’s jawbone, tracing it with his tongue. “My hand is tried from writing all morning.”

“All day more like,” Arnaghad grumbles.

“Even worse. It’s of no use now.” And with that, he gently guides Arnaghad to the corner where their makeshift bed is, bids him to sit down and takes his own place in Arnaghad’s lap with his belly pressed to the warm floor. Propped up on his elbows, Erland peers up at Arnaghad. From this low, the man seems taller than a mountain, his eyes far away, half-lidded and hazy and Erland smiles. He is tired, yes, so very tired, and that means he is sloppy. Sloppy as he descends over the head of Arnaghad’s massive cock which tastes salty and musky and he laps it all up he goes with lazy drags of his tongue. His lips are loose and his hands looser as they fondle Arnaghad’s cock at the base, toy with his balls.

Before long, spit leaks out of the corners of his mouth and runs down Arnaghad’s length and the low moans of the bear thunder through the hall, echo off the walls, loud enough to raise the dead, Erland thinks sometimes. He wishes he could revive his brothers and sons by cock-sucking alone, but the world has never been that simple. And it won’t ever be now. But if he can give Arnaghad pleasure and himself something to get distracted by then that should be enough.

Erland gets drunk on Arnaghad’s cock, chokes on it as he ruts into the floor without shame. They come within seconds of each other and Erland drinks up what he can, lets the rest spill over Arnaghad’s lap, then cleans that with his tongue too. After, he falls asleep there, curled into a ball in Arnaghad’s lap and it is enough. For now.

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 53 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Well darlings, this version of the story has officially hit 200K words! How time flies…Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Lots of food and bonding (and flirting).

On today’s episode of The Thanksgiving Chronicles: Bianca finds herself with a very eager partner, and Adore does her best to hold out hope. (Thanksgiving Chronicles 4 of ??)

***

It took Bianca’s booze-soaked brain a moment to catch up to what was going on, during which Courtney had quickly begun shedding her outerwear and tossing it to the ground. When she went in for another kiss, Bianca took her by the shoulders, stopping her to ask, “Are you sure this is what you want?

“Yes.” Courtney whipped off her sweater, revealing her small, perfect breasts, nipples temptingly hard and thrusting forward.

“Because there’s a lot of reasons why it’s a very bad…” Bianca swallowed as Courtney wrapped her arms around her waist once more, the scent of her intoxicating as summer. “...idea.”

“Uh huh.”

Bianca felt a hand tug at the sash of her blouse, and knew she was about to surrender, but before she did, she cupped Courtney’s face with her hands and looked into her eyes.

“I need to know that I’m not just...taking advantage of a weak moment here. That you really-”

“I want you,” Courtney said, a desperate edge to her voice. “Please. Please please-”

Finally feeling secure that this was maybe not the worst idea of the century, Bianca cut her off with another kiss. As it deepened, tongues tangling together, Courtney unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor, now standing there in just rose-colored lace panties and a pair of knee-high black boots. Bianca guided her backwards to the stairs, laying her down, entirely addicted to the taste of her.

She forced herself to pull back for a second, just to take in how absolutely smoking hot she was, splayed out on the steps, before yanking off her boots, fingers trailing up her thighs.

“Is this okay?” Bianca asked, kneeling over her as she pressed kisses along her jaw.

Courtney nodded vigorously. “Yes, keep going.”

Bianca sucked a row of soft kisses into the side of her neck, down her collarbone and between her breasts. Courtney arched up, moaning loudly, hands running up her body to her hair, thrashing wildly. Bianca paused, gripping the banister with one hand, but the display continued. Until she must have realized that Bianca wasn’t even touching her, and cracked one eye open.

“Why’d you stop?”

Bianca cleared her throat. “Listen. You can knock it off with the porn star act.”

Courtney’s mouth opened. “What?!”

“I just mean…you know, I sort of know my way around a woman’s body and you weren’t…” She trailed off at Courtney’s wounded-puppy expression, realizing that her bluntness was not being received very well, per usual. “Okay, let’s try this another way. I’m not a frat boy. You don’t have to put on a show for me–”

“I wasn’t–”

“Baby. Please. I’ve made a lot of women come. A lot. And it doesn’t happen like that.”

“I just thought–”

“Well, stop thinking. Just relax, okay? Or…try.”

“I...I just wanted you to know that I liked what you were doing.” Courtney’s cheeks were now bright red, face distraught.

“Hey…” Bianca placed a hand against her quivering thigh. “Let’s try something else. Why don’t you just...tell me what you like? What you want?”

“I...don’t know,” she admitted, leaning her head back against the step, looking defeated and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.” Bianca felt a rush of guilt--the last thing she wanted was to make her feel bad, but she knew she’d never get honest reactions as long as those theatrics were involved. She shook her head, knowing that they needed a reset. “Listen, um...I thought this whole stair thing would be sexy, but I’m fucking 40 and my knees are killing me.”

At that, Courtney let out a little giggle, reaching out to stroke Bianca’s cheek. “Aww…”

“So what do you say we go upstairs, get extremely comfortable...and figure out what you like together?”

“Yeah?” Courtney asked, lifting her head.

“Yeah. If that sounds good to you-”

“God, yes.”

***

Courtney had been inside Bianca’s room earlier in the day, during Adore’s confusing house tour, taking her in and out of more rooms than she could count. She’d wondered, briefly, what Bianca’s bed would feel like. She knew that she liked nice things...would the mattress be soft? Would the sheets feel silky against her skin?

It was better than she could have imagined. She lay on her back on what felt like a cloud, supported by the two pillows Bianca had placed carefully behind her, watching Bianca’s face in the flickering candlelight, determined to stay in the moment as fingers danced up her ribcage, circling her hardened nipples.

“Do you like this?”

“Uh huh.”

“What about this?” Bianca’s lips brushed against her nipple.

“Yeah-oh!” Courtney inhaled sharply as a warm tongue began to circle her nipple. She gripped the luxurious sheets in her hands, hips beginning to roll of their own accord, rutting against Bianca’s firm thigh. When Bianca moved to her other breast, sucking harder on her nipple, nibbling gently with her teeth, Courtney let out a choked whimper. The ache inside her was growing, becoming almost unbearable. She let go of the sheets and pushed her panties down frantically.

Bianca looked up, one hand moving to her hip, and asked, “You want these off?”

“Yes!” Courtney nodded.

“Okay…” Bianca began to slide her panties down the rest of the way, torturously slow in spite of Courtney’s pathetic whimpering...or maybe because of it. She placed a kiss just inside her knee, spreading her thighs. “Is this good?” she asked, plush mouth moving higher up her thigh.

“Yes, keep...keep going!”

Courtney was suddenly very thankful that Bianca had taken down her elaborate updo, because she would definitely have destroyed it as she threaded her hands into her hair, gripping it tight. Her eyes were squeezed shut as Bianca’s lips traveled up, up, finally brushing against her clit, soft as a feather, before pulling away, letting Courtney feel her warm breath.

“And this...do you want me to-”

“Ugh!” Courtney strained upwards, frantic and indecipherable agreement falling from her lips, words failing her.

Finally, after a chuckle that might have offended her if she was more with it, Bianca began to lick her, slowly and deliberately. Courtney really thought she might die. She’d never been this turned on in her life. But suddenly, she realized what was happening to her body and stiffened self-consciously, gulping for air as Bianca immediately stopped what she was doing. Courtney tried to speak but nothing came out. “I...I…”

“What is it, baby? Are you okay?”

“I’m just...I’m so…”

“Tell me.” Bianca’s palms were warm on her thighs, thumbs stroking her lightly as she raised her face to listen.

“I’m not usually this…” Courtney’s chest heaved, goosebumps prickling her skin, “...this wet.”

“Oh no?” Bianca smirked up at her. “Well, let’s see if we can do better than usually, huh?”

Her amused smile assured Courtney that nothing was wrong, that this was okay, and she nodded, falling backwards again, eyes closed, aware of nothing but Bianca’s hands on her, her mouth back to work. She lost track of time and space, pushing up against Bianca’s face, her velvety tongue and plush lips. And then suddenly the universe exploded behind her eyes. Her entire body was wracked with ecstasy. It was thrilling and terrifying and every cell felt alive with electricity.

And just when she was about to catch her breath, she was knocked over by another wave, drowning in it, plugged into a primal source of energy. And then she knew why people yelled for god. This was god. Bianca was god.

Oh, god.

Shaking and whimpering, she was then wrapped into a warm embrace. She clung to Bianca, clawing at her shoulders as a palm was pressed to her, helping her through another round. She could hear Bianca whispering to her, hot breath tickling her ear, but had no awareness of what she was saying. There was no sound where she was. Only white-hot light and this feeling, this magical feeling, again and again, until she was so wrung out that she went limp.

Courtney’s eyes opened slowly, body still trembling. She looked up at Bianca, eyes liquid.

“Hi,” Bianca said to her with a flash of dimples, holding her close.

Courtney nodded and pressed her face into Bianca’s neck, slightly embarrassed. What the fuck just happened to her?

“How do you feel, baby?” Bianca whispered into her hair, her body comfortingly close.

Courtney opened her mouth but no sound came out, just a soft sigh, breath hitching. Bianca tilted her chin up, kissed her sweaty temples and the corners of her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“I feel...like a fucking moron…”

“Why’s that?” Bianca asked, brow creasing.

“Well...I’ve been sleeping with men since I was 16. Why was I doing that?”

Biacna laughed, pressed a kiss to her forehead before saying, “So, you’re glad we did it?”

“Yeahhh,” Courtney sighed, curling against Bianca’s warm body, still having great difficulty forming words. “I...I um...I’ve never…never...”

“Never what, angel?”

“I...thought...I’d had plenty of...um…”

Bianca lifted her head, stroking Courtney’s reddened cheeks, suppressing a grin as she looked into her still-glazed eyes.

“Orgasms?”

“Uh huh. But I...fuck…”

“You are so fucking cute…”

“You think?” Courtney asked sleepily.

Courtney sighed again, arms tightening, feeling warm and sated. The last thing she heard before she drifted off to sleep was Bianca’s voice, low and scratchy, saying, “Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

***

Most people would find it hard to believe, considering how loud and friendly and boisterous he was, but the hard truth was that Trixie was an introvert. His favorite kind of night was just curled in bed with Katya, chatting or watching TV, or playing a video game with Pearl while Katya worked on some wonderful craft project.

However, he did love the holidays, and having a party once in awhile was fun… Especially if it meant getting to enjoy the next-level upscale version of Katya’s cooking. She’d truly outdone herself today, shooing them all out of the kitchen once all the prep work was done to concentrate on her creations, beautiful little bite-sized versions of Thanksgiving food that were as aesthetically pleasing as they were delicious. Adorable turkey pot pie tartlets filled with cranberry sauce, cornbread stuffing, and a drizzle of gravy. A wonton spoon with a layer of caramelized onions and mushrooms, some still-crunchy green beans in a sunburst pattern, and a piped swirl of mashed regular and sweet potato. Crispy little brussel sprout sliders with a tiny fried potato “burger” and a roasted carrot coin (the purple ones that he’d finally gotten Max to buy after much wheedling). And best of all, they were so small, so he didn’t have to feel bad stuffing his face with 30...or 40.

And, he supposed, the company was nice too. Kim, Max and Ivy were in the middle of a very intense game of Scrabble while Ivy’s boyfriend chatted with Alexis, Shangela sitting on the fire escape with Pearl smoking what Trixie was fairly certain wasn’t tobacco--and Katya flitted around attending to everyone’s needs until a song she liked came up on the playlist, during which she’d stop and dance like a maniac. Truly the perfect hostess.

When the doorbell rang, he found himself closest, so he swallowed the mini butter-glazed corn muffin in his mouth and went to open it, surprised when he saw who it was.

“Oh, hi!” he said, trying not to let his internal groan of ‘Oh no, not this again’ show--after all, it wasn’t Adore’s fault that Pearl had put her through the ringer. “Um, can I take your jacket?”

“Adore! Welcome!” Katya exclaimed, running over to give the girl a hug, clearly doing a better job than him of faking it. She gestured to a bouquet in Adore’s hands, saying “Those are so pretty! Are they for Pearl?”

“No, they’re for you,” Adore said, handing them over and then removing her leather jacket. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Really?!” Katya exclaimed, face lighting up like a kid at Christmas.

“Of course,” Adore said with a grin. “I know she didn’t cook a damn thing today.”

Katya giggled, taking the flowers.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pearl cut in, sauntering over with a drink in her hand. “Were you slaving away in the kitchen cooking all day?”

“No, I didn’t cook a damn thing either,” Adore laughed.

“I did peel the potatoes, you know.”

“She did,” Trixie affirmed as he took Adore’s jacket and purse from her hands.

“And did a wonderful job,” Katya added, patting her on the back.

“And I made the cocktail…” Pearl held up the drink, offering it to Adore. “It’s good, have some.”

“Heeey! I made cocktails too!” Adore said, giving Pearl a high five before taking the glass.

They giggled together, Pearl then leaning over to give Adore a sweet kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. Thanks for the invite.”

Trixie looked back and forth between them, a flicker of hope that maybe they’d work it out lighting up as he watched Pearl lead Adore over to the sofa. Until, of course, Katya leaned in, slipping her arms around his waist and murmuring, “Have you ever seen a car accident in slow motion?”

“Oy.”

***

Bianca trailed her fingers through Courtney’s tousled hair and down her bare back, watching her eyelids flutter. She’d been drifting in and out of sleep, her head pleasantly heavy on Bianca’s chest, one leg flung over Bianca’s own thigh.

“Mmm…” Courtney stirred, yawning. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“You’re allowed to sleep.” Bianca kissed the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.

“And your bed is just so…” Courtney let out a happy little sigh, and Bianca laughed.

“I know, right? Finest memory foam on the market.”

“But if you want me to take off, I can. I know I might be overstaying my welcome.” Courtney bit her lip.

“Do you think I want you to leave?” Bianca asked. She brought one of Courtney’s hands to her lips, gently kissed her fingers.

“I...don’t know. I didn’t want to assume-”

“Do you feel unwelcome?” she leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against her lips.

“No, but-”

Bianca tilted her chin up to kiss her again. “Unappreciated?”

“Definitely not,” Courtney said, eyes falling closed as Bianca’s lips made their way along her jaw to her pulse point.

“I’m glad you’re here. I hope you’ll spend the night,” Bianca said, looking up into her eyes, and a smile immediately brightened Courtney’s face as she nodded.

“Sounds great.”

As Courtney shifted her weight on top of Bianca, she found herself gazing up at her, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her soft cheek. She really was so fucking beautiful.

“You know…” Courtney began, a thoughtful expression on her face. “...you have the best tits I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Bianca laughed, reaching out to pinch her thigh. “Oh yeah? And how many tits have you seen?”

“Well…”

A faint, rosy blush began to creep into her cheeks and Bianca grinned, flipping her onto her back, eliciting a delighted little squeal.

***

Adore had really tried to manage her expectations today. She knew that just because Pearl wanted to talk didn’t mean that she wanted to get back together. That maybe this was more of a peace offering, a desire to be friends. And besides, she wasn’t even totally sure she would want to get back together. After all, they had possibly unsolvable issues and Pearl had hurt her so badly last time they were together.

That said, she had gone home to change and primp a bit, redoing her makeup and swapping out her ripped shorts for a cute little skirt, and maybe more importantly changing her gray boxer briefs for a pair of sheer black panties. Just in case.

She was unprepared for Pearl to be so sweet, too--bringing her drinks and snacks, telling her she looked beautiful, leaning in to whisper shady, gossipy little comments about some of her Galactica coworkers, making Adore giggle like a schoolgirl every time those lips grazed her ear.

So by the time she touched Adore on the lower back and suggested that they could go into her room to talk in private, all of Adore’s managed expectations had gone out the window, finding herself hooked once again.

Pearl moved some coats aside to make room for them on the bed while Adore took off her shoes, climbing up to take a seat beside her, attempting to cross her ankles in a ladylike manner.

“Have you been alright?” Pearl asked.

“Yeah...I’ve been alright.” Adore looked at her, into her earnest blue eyes, stomach flipping.

“I feel really shitty about our last conversation. That wasn’t...how I wanted things to end.”

“Yeah.”

“Also...sorry,” Pearl paused, a smile on her lips as she touched Adore’s hand and said, “You really look amazing. I love this whole vibe.”

Adore turned her hand, palm facing up, and said, “It’s not just the outside clothes.”

“Oh no?” Pearl tilted her head curiously, letting Adore lace their fingers together.

“Wanna see?” Adore asked softly.

Pearl cleared her throat, hesitating for a second, and Adore could see that she was conflicted.

“Look, I know we have things to talk about. But...I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Pearl nodded. “I missed you too.”

“What did you miss?” Adore asked, popping open the bottom snap on her denim skirt, then the next one.

She could see Pearl’s eyes following her fingers, and she continued to undo the snaps, finally letting the sheer panties show. Pearl reached over and ran her finger along the edge.

“What did you miss?” Adore asked again, voice softer now, thighs spreading.

Pearl looked up, darkened eyes meeting hers. “I missed...how warm your skin is. How you’re always…”

Adore closed her eyes as Pearl’s fingers slipped under her panties.

“Always ready.” The last word was breathed right into Adore’s ear, and that was all it took for her to submit completely, whimpers falling from her lips like prayers.

There was so much between them worth saving. So much heat that Adore rarely felt with anyone. She bit her lip, head lolling on the pillow as Pearl worked her fingers into her pussy, stroking her exactly the way she liked.

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Adore said simply, already lost in that dreamy state that Pearl’s skilled fingers always managed to bring out.

***

“Hey, Rave?” Raja watched as her brother looked in the rearview mirror, calling out to her fiancée. “Do you mind checking if Violet is covered up?”

“Oh, yeah. No problem.” Raven smiled, reaching over to make sure Violet’s jacket was covering her, her head resting against the window, her mouth slightly open as she was fully asleep. “She’s fine.”

“Good.” Sutan focused back on the road, while Raven sunk back in her seat, her phone in hand.

They were on their way back from Long Island, Sutan behind the wheel while Raja was in the front next to him, a gigantic cooler in the trunk with the food their mom had forced them to take home. There were several other cars on the road, so it was slow traveling, but Raja didn’t mind it, the darkness, the lights and the quiet music from the radio making her feel content and relaxed.

[Do you mind topping me up?]

Raja smiled as Sutan titled his head towards his cup, Murni preparing a gigantic flower flask of tea for them.

[Sure.] Raja took it, pouring another cup for Sutan, and one for herself, Raven so caught up in her phone or so full of food that she didn’t ask for one. [You could have let me drive.]

It was technically Raja’s car, but they had never not shared anything, a second set of keys dangling from Sutan’s keychains, while Raja wasn’t even sure if Raven had a pair.

[And risk your janky driving?] Sutan chuckled, raising an eyebrow. [No thanks.]

[Hey!] Raja knocked her knuckles against his knees. [I’m a great driver.]

She was, she just happened to think of speed limits more as guidelines than actual rules you necessarily had to follow.

[You can drive next time we go upstate.]

[Please.] Raja snorted. She knew very well that Sutan was only letting her drive upstate because he was willing to risk a speeding ticket over being late when Fame was involved, the scolding they had gotten that one time they hadn’t been on time for a weekend at the farm still something he talked about.

Sutan’s eyes flickered, and Raja saw him look in the rearview mirror again, checking up on Violet.

[You know.] Raja lowered her voice. It wasn’t technically necessary, since Raven didn’t understand Indonesian, but it felt right. [You really care about her.]

[Mmh.] Sutan bit his lip, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

[It’s not a criticism.] Raja waited a beat, making sure that her twin took it in, that he heard what she was actually saying to him. It was one of the only downsides to knowing each other so very well, to be so close that any pointed remarks always hit the most vulnerable part. [It’s just different.]

[Because I grew a spine?]

[Don’t say that.] It wasn’t exactly a secret that Raja had never really hit it off with Kahmora, who had never bothered to hide how much she didn’t like her, but in the end, it was Raja who had gotten the last laugh.

Kahmora had crashed and burned from pushing Sutan too hard too fast, going a thousand miles an hour simply because Sutan didn’t say stop to her face until it was way too late, her brother's good natured spirit often meaning he went with the flow long after he should have swam to shore.

[It suits you to take charge.]

“Oh fuck off.” Sutan laughed, flipping Raja off with a gigantic smile on his face.

***

“Well...fuck…” Adore sighed, and Pearl laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She’d been at her most generous tonight, lavishing Adore with praise and physical affection, making sure she knew that she wasn’t just some trick whose time had run out.

Pearl was used to feeling a bit guilty when she broke things off with someone--but she wasn’t used to it lingering so much. It wasn’t just Katya’s silent judgment, or Fame’s not so silent disapproval, it was that in her own way, she’d really cared for Adore. She wasn’t used to that part, either.

“Worth skipping out on your sister early?” Pearl asked.

“Hell yeah.”

They grinned at each other, and Pearl felt her stomach settle for the first time since that awful fight on the bridge. When she knew she’d said absolutely the wrongest thing she could’ve...most of all because it had been true.

“You really are amazing, you know that?” Pearl asked.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Are you sure? I was pretty sure you’d hate me forever.”

“Nahhh…”

“So…” Pearl cleared her throat. If any time was right, it would be now. “I’m really glad we did this. I’m glad things are cool between us.”

“Mmhmmm.”

“I mean, the last thing I want when I see you around is for either one of us to feel shitty, you know?”

Adore’s brow furrowed as she sat up, pale turquoise hair spilling over her shoulders. “When you see me around? What do you mean?”

“I’m just...I really like you, and I want us to be friends.” Pearl stood up, stretching her arms. “Oh! Also, I wanted to make sure to give you this.”

She retrieved the box from her dresser and set it down on the bed. Adore looked inside, then back up at Pearl, the strangest expression on her face.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s just some stuff you left here. I thought you’d want it.”

Adore shook her head. “But...we just...we just got back together.”

Pearl blinked at her for a moment.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“We...that’s what you thought that was?”

“Well, what did you think it was?” Adore asked, voice breaking as if she already knew the answer, hands moving to cover her tits.

Pearl swallowed. She wanted to be kind, considerate, all the things she’d promised herself she was deep down. “Well I...kind of...thought it was like...a goodbye. As girlfriends, I mean.”

There was a long, awkward silence as Adore stared at her, unblinking, unmoving, and Pearl could feel herself shrinking into her skin. She’d fucked up, badly. Once again. That was clear. But how was she supposed to know that Adore would even want to consider getting back together after everything that had happened?

“Um…” Pearl didn’t know what to say. She was destined, it seemed, to always be the bad guy.

Adore brushed away the tear that was making its way down her cheek, and began to quickly pull her clothes back on.

“Adore...I just thought we need some closure-”

“Well, that’s great. Consider this closed, then,” Adore snapped, shoving one arm into her jacket and then picking up her purse, throwing it into the box and snatching it off the bed. “Goodbye, Pearl.”

[scripts4dreamers]

Not Your Hero. Chapter 2

Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five

AN: Just another day on the train ride to nowhere brings Y/N and Finnick a little closer than they’d expected.

Characters: Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Mags Flanagan

Pairings: Finnick x reader

Spoiler(s): None

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, death, murder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, psychological manipulation, intimidation Prompt/Inspiration: Dead hearts - Stars

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

“And then after that it’s a straight shot to the Capitol,” your escort explained for what felt like the thousandth time, “where the president will welcome us into his home personally. Isn’t that wonderful?”

You kept watching the trees slip past your window, too focused on the comforting rocking of the train to listen to anything Kiki Schofield had to say. The silence stretched on and eventually it was a sharp jab in the ribs from Mags that shocked you back into reality.

“Ow!” you complained, frowning, “What was tha-oh, right, yes Kiki. I can barely stand the wait.”

Your escort sniffed, obviously offended, but quickly regained her composure. The lure of a place of honor at the biggest party of the season clearly outweighed all but the most inexcusable of offenses in her eyes.

“Yes well, Arketia has a lot of work to do with you before you’re ready for that,” she said, “it’s going to be glorious.”

And, with that, she glided out of the cart, muttering to herself about fabrics and lights and all the people she hoped to impress. You sighed and dropped your head back against the couch you were sitting on. At this point, you could think of exactly zero things you wanted to do less than visit the capitol. Just the thought of the candy coloured buildings and bright lights made your skin crawl. You knew what would meet you at the train station too; throngs of screaming crowds filled with grotesquely altered faces all chanting your name, calling out their praises to you like they hadn’t been hoping for you meet some horrible death less than seven months earlier. In fact, many of them had actively betted against you. You weren’t naive, you knew your odds heading into the games had been extremely low. A girl from district five, fifteen years old with no obvious survival skills or weapons proficiency? Hell you didn’t even have Finnick’s outrageously good looks. Yeah...you hadn’t exactly been a low risk investment.

“So, Y/N, what makes you so sure that you can outlive all the other tributes? Do you have any special skills hidden up your sleeve that you can tell us about?” Caesar Flickerman asked, leaning in conspiratorially, his midnight blue suit glinting in the light.

Your heart was pounding like a sledgehammer in your chest, but you fought down your nerves and tried to smile calmly.

“Come now Caesar,” you answered with a light, teasing chuckle, “that would be telling.”

“Oh but just give us a little sneak peak.” He answered, his eyes glinting the way they seemed to whenever a tribute did well, “What is it? Camouflage? Can you hunt? Cleverness? Are you very strong or quick?”

You gasped in mock outrage and slapped Caesar’s arm, “Stop it you, you’ll give away all my secrets.”

“So it was one of those then?”

“Maybe,” you smiled, giving the audience a wink. There was a collective ‘oooooooh’ and you realised, with a start, that you genuinely had their full attention, “all I’ll say is this; don’t count me out just yet. There’s more to me than what meets the eye.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Caesar smiled, kissing the back of your hand as the buzzer rang out signifying the end of your time.

As you walked back to your seat, the roar of the crowd stayed ringing in your ears, filling your chest with the kind of fire you didn’t know you had anymore. It burnt away the icy film of dread that had been clinging to your insides ever since Reaping Day and replaced it a steely sort of hope, a determination that would carry you through the hardest few weeks of your life.

You snorted and pressed the heel of your hand to the center of your forehead. God you’d been naive. Whatever fire you thought you’d had had been stamped out almost instantly. As soon as that first canon had rang out and you’d seen the blood seeping into the grass, reality had hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Hey there,” Mags greeted gently, snapping you back into the present, “you doing alright?”

You shrugged, “As alright as I can be in the circumstances I think.”

Mags sat down beside you, sighing and rubbing her stiff knee, “Well, that’s a start.”

You stared at Mags’ knee. It was an old Hunger Games injury from her days in the arena. She never spoke about it really, but everyone knew regardless. Mags’ games were exceptionally popular in the capitol, so they were broadcasted often, with excited commentary and nostalgic stories from people who revelled in retelling where they were or what they felt when they first saw specific moments. There was never really an escape from it but, somehow she never let it drag her down.

In a way, Mags was a role model for all the younger Victors, a look into what your future held if you made it that far. She was brave and kind and well adjusted, but she was still disposable, still a public spectacle, still a piece in the world’s most dangerous game even fifty-eight years after she spent her last official seconds as a sanctioned tribute. But she was alive. She was surviving it. Even after all these years, she had never given up her fight, she had never given up on herself or on anyone else. It was kind of inspiring.

Mags caught you staring and smiled sadly, “Wounds heal, Y/N, you’ve just got to give them time.”

“The full body polish took care of all my wounds,” you answered, showing her your perfectly smooth arms, “see? All pretty and perfect.”

Mags tapped the side of your head knowingly, but stayed quiet.

“Mags have you seen my-oh-” Finnick said, stopping dead in his tracks.

You looked up and gave him an unsure smile. Finnick Odair was still somewhat of a mystery to you. One day he would be sweet and funny and self deprecating and you could imagine the two of you actually being friends and then the next he would be snarky and cocky and overconfident, jabbing at you at every opportunity. It was confusing, but you knew he was fighting his own battles, just like you were and over the last few days you’d struck up a kind of friendship. There was an unspoken understanding between you that you couldn’t explain, but that you’d come to rely on. Where you were weak, Finnick was strong and where he stumbled, you were steady.

“Hey Finnick,” you greeted.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” he answered.

You shook your head, “No, you’re not. Come sit.”

Finnick smiled gratefully and took a seat across from you, glancing out the window and worrying at his bottom lip. Up close you could see the signs of exhaustion etched onto his perfectly sculpted face. There were dark bags under his eyes and a heaviness to the way he held his shoulders that was becoming all too familiar and something near your heart pinched with concern.

“You doing alright, Fin?” you asked hesitantly.

“Hmm?” Finnick answered, distractedly.

Mags leant forward and snapped her fingers under his eyes, “Earth to Finnick, Y/N asked you a question.”

“Sorry,” he replied, shaking his head to clear it, “yeah, I’m alright.” he fiddled with his hands, “Thanks for-for asking though.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly and leant forward, dropping your voice to a whisper to avoid being overheard, “You look like death Fin, have you slept at all?”

“That depends,” Finnick joked ruefully, looking down at his hands, “what day is it?”

“Fin,” you sighed, leaning back in your seat.

“What Y/N/N?” he smiled, “Who cares if I’ve slept? They’ll make sure I’m all prettied up for the cameras either way.”

“I care,” you retorted, “you do actually need sleep to live, you know?”

Finnick mumbled something vaguely mutinous about not liking to sleep somewhere he didn’t know under his breath but didn’t respond, focussing his attention on the window again.

You studied your friend, noting the way his fingers twisted and fiddled with themselves, as though searching for something, and the constant, ever present flicker of anxiety in his bright green eyes. He was beautiful, of course, after all he was still Finnick Odair, but now he looked worn and afraid, like he was holding himself together by a thread. Something had changed. Each day it got a little worse, and the closer you got to the capitol, the further into himself Finnick retreated.

You sighed again and stood, reaching your hand out impulsively, “Okay, let’s go.”

Finnick’s head snapped up and he met your gaze, staring between your face and your outstretched hand uncomprehendingly.

You rolled your eyes to cover your insecurity but pushed forward, “Come on then, take it.”

“Y/N?”

“Nope, no questions,” you insisted, lacing your fingers with his and pulling him to his feet, “you’re taking a nap right now, whether you like it or not.”

Finnick protested weakly, insisting that he wasn’t tired and that you were being ridiculous, but followed along without too much of a fight as you led him through the train and into your room. As with everything from the capitol, it was absurdly big and luxurious, with soft carpeted floors, tall bookshelves and a fully stocked desk, bathroom, walk in closet and mini kitchen. Your old house could probably have fit in one of these rooms. The usual flicker of disgust rose up in your stomach at the sight of it, but you pushed your anger down and focused on sitting Finnick down, pulling off his fancy capitol shoes and shoving him down onto the pillows.

“Sleep.” you commanded, throwing a blanket over him.

“But what about you?” He argued.

You settled into one of the many cushy armchairs in your reading nook, pulled your feet up onto the seat and pulled out your own, well worn copy of The Chronicles of Narnia, waving it in Finnick’s general direction as a means of explanation.

“Y/N-”

“You said you don’t like sleeping somewhere you don’t know ‘cause you don’t feel safe. Well, I’ll be here the whole time watching your back, so you’ve got no excuse.” You interrupted, meeting his gaze steadily, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” Finnick asked softly.

You softened, remembering suddenly how younge Finnick actually was. He’d been a victor for four years, but he was still just barely eighteen. A scared kid really.

“Promise.” you answered.

Finnick nodded, probably attempting to be nonchalant, an effect that was ruined by the fact that his eyes were already drifting shut. He was fast asleep moments after his head hit the pillow. You giggled softly to yourself at the sight, placing your book face down on the armrest of your seat and throwing a soft blanket over Finnick’s sleeping body. He looked younger when he was like this, you noted, softer too, and more vulnerable. It made something protective flare to life in your chest, shocking you with its intensity.

You cared about him, you realised, more than you’d thought you would.

You sighed and settled back into your seat, steeling yourself for a long wait, “Sleep well, Fin,” you whispered, “sleep well.”

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

Running, running, heart pounding.

His hands are slick, whether from sweat or blood he can’t tell. The ground squelches under his feet, slowing him down but he can’t stop.

“Come here little boy, you can’t run forever.”

He chokes back a sob and slams his body onto the ground, rolling into a dense thicket of bushes.

Footsteps pass right next to his head. He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood.

“Finnick,” the older boy croons, from somewhere to his right, “Fiiiinick, come out come out and play.”

His body courses with adrenaline. He wants to fight, to flee, to do something, but he forces himself to stay still. Cassius is twice his size at least, eighteen years old and lethal in hand to hand combat, he could snap Finnick in two without a moment’s hesitation. No, if he fights him now, Finnick has no chance.

But this isn’t right, a voice in his head whispers. Cassius was dead. He’d died from a horrible infection one week into the games, Finnick had seen it happen. So then, who was chasing him?

The branches above his head snap. Finnick has just enough time to look up in horror as the pale, controlled face of president Snow bursts through into his hiding place, snakelike eyes cold and distant as the smell of blood and roses clogs Finnick’s nose, making him choke.

“Finnick my boy, there you are. We need to chat about your future in the capitol.”

“Ah!” Finnick cried out, bolting up like an arrow.

For a second he looked around, bewildered and afraid, sure that he’d catch a glimpse of that white hair, those cold dead eyes. But instead he saw you, curled up in a comfy chair, with a book in your hands and your Y/E/C eyes trained on him with concern. Slowly, he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there, and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Tears welled up in Finnick’s eyes and he leant forward, hiding his face in his hands. Another nightmare, another horrible dream stealing any real chance he had to rest. Would it never end?

Some small part of Finnick’s brain thought he should try and play it off, act like everything was fine with some lighthearted joke or witty comment but, as he felt the bed dip and the weight of your hand settle in between his shoulder blades, he knew he didn’t have the energy.

“Bad dream?” you asked gently.

Finnick nodded but didn’t look up. You made a sympathetic noise in the back of your throat but didn’t pull away.

“I would tell you it gets better but…” you laughed ruefully, “well I wouldn’t really know. I have them every night myself.”

“It does,” he answered, wincing at how hoarse he sounded, clearing his throat before trying again, “it does get better. But they never fully go away.”

“Is that why you aren’t sleeping?” you asked.

Finnick worried at his bottom lip and thought, for the millionth time, of telling you. The capitol was only three days away, he knew you were running out of time. Soon you’d be back in the city, surrounded by strangers with strange clothes, strange voices, strange morals...and then Snow would call you into his office and-Finnick’s heart pinched. No, he couldn’t tell you, Chaff and Mags would have his head on a platter. Better to let you find out later, better to let you have as much time with your innocence as he could help.

“It’s-one of the reasons,” he said, settling for a half truth.

Your eyes met his and, though you pressed your lips into a thin line, there was a determination in your gaze that made something electric tingle down Finnick’s spine.

“I know something’s coming, you know,” you answered, surprising him with the calm in your voice, “I don’t know what, but I know it’s coming, and I know you know it too.”

“I do.”

“But you aren’t going to tell me?”

He shook his head, “No, I’m not.”

You nodded understandingly, the tension slipping from your shoulders as you caught his eye again.

“Well,” you smiled, “that’s alright then.”

Something thin and fragile stretched between you like a spiderweb, making Finnick’s heart stutter and filling him with a sense of deep overwhelming calm. He held your gaze for a moment longer, until he felt heat rising in his cheeks and then cleared his throat.

“How long was I out?”

You shrugged, letting the moment pass, “A few hours, it’s about nine pm right now.”

“Shit,” Finnick said, “shit I’m sorry. I should-I should head back to my room, you must be exhausted.”

“No, it’s fine,” you smiled, “I’m comfy where I am, you rest.”

“But when it gets late-”

“Finnick, this is the capitol we’re talking about, if I press a button in my armchair’s headboard it converts into a bed, I’ll be fine.” you assured, patting his shoulder and getting to your feet.

Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed your arm, stopping you from slipping away. You turned and looked at him curiously, a question dancing at the corners of your mouth. Finnick felt himself blush again.

Stay with me, he wanted to say, stay and keep the nightmares away. But he couldn’t make his mouth move. He barely knew you, you barely knew him, what was he thinking?

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” he eventually asked.

Your eyes softened and you shifted from one foot to another, almost like you were nervous.

“You-uh-you helped me once,” you answered with a small smile, “that dinner,” you clarified when he cocked his head to the side, “you were the only person who knew I hadn’t eaten. I know you told the waiters to send food to my room and-yeah-I guess I never really said thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Y/N,” he said softly, “I was an asshole that night.”

“Yeah well,” you smiled again, “I’m an asshole most nights, so I guess we’re even.”

You detangled your hand from his and ruffled his hair before making your way back to the armchair. Finnick followed you with his eyes, feeling with complete certainty that something important had just happened, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Night Odair,” you said, pulling a blanket over your legs and settling back into your book, “sleep well.”

He nodded, “Night, Y/N.” he said, lying down and turning away from you, “and thank you,” he finished softly, “for doing this.”

For a long moment you didn’t answer but then, just as Finnick’s eyes drooped toward sleep he heard two words spoken so quietly and so sadly that he almost thought he’d dreamed it;

“You’re welcome.”

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