#forbidden city things

[im-too-emotionally-involved]

Kotlc things

Keefe LOVES musicals. No one knows where he's finding them or how he discovered them in the first place. Hamilton is his favorite.

Stina ships Sophitz.

Biana writes y/n fanfics.

Fitz cries when the sad dog ads come on.

Marella stole Sophie's iPod once and now is secretly obsessed with human music.

Jensi reads Biana's y/n fanfics.

Dex really likes strawberry lemonade.

[unaside]

WTF?????? WTF????? NOBODY EVEN BATTED AN EYE??? HE WAS SIX???? GOING TO THE FORBIDDEN CITIES???? BY HIMSELF?????

[robo-dino-puppy]

return to meridian

[bookwyrminspiration]

very confused by whatever happened to me yesterday unraveled was announced and i am suddenly not a hater anymore

[wlwaerith]

wait wait wait. wait. what if zofeia was never allowed to leave the manor, like a rapunzel-adjacent situation. what if, after her father made her kill lillina, he locked her away unless it was convenient for him to let her out. confining her to her chambers, shutting her away in her own little wing of the house and allowing her to see none but him regularly so he could turn her into his perfect little heiress. his pretty little bargaining chip, the key to further social mobility — because which lesser noble is content to remain lesser?

[megaclubdiolis]

柄本 佑 || 「光る君へ」 (2024) · 第十五回 「おごれる者たち」 ​​​

[synonymroll648]

👀

Before Keefe goes down a rabbit hole of debating whether or not that’s an upgrade or downgrade from his girlfriend’s (girlfriend’s!) usual, he glances down at the ground, and wow, okay. Depth perception hates him as much as the rest of the world. Including his retinas. Awesome.

[axperjan]

okay... this takes place immediately after this interrogation while Maksim calls Ilya to warn them, but obviously they're very good at following instructions and wouldn't spiral into a plan of their own completely unprompted

~5.1k, maybe... only a very light warning for some passing surgery references

—

For once they’re pretty sure the eyes boring into their back aren’t imagined, Ilya taking their time to study their commlink and try to intuit the direction of the observer before scoping them out. When they look up they don’t have to adjust their gaze a lot to find them: human, dressed in expensively bland clothes and a cocktail glass in hand, squinting at Ilya with a look that either spells confusion or disdain. They jolt when they realize they’re being glared at in return and Ilya takes some satisfaction in their eyes ensuring the human notices even in the dim light, and then they scurry off.

Normally Ilya doesn’t make a habit of coming here alone, Maksim usually having, or being, an excuse to bring them to ritzy places like the Outpost… and right now that’s the problem. They haven’t had any contact from him in… two? Three days? It could be that they can’t help letting the paranoia seep in now that they know about Alabast, that he’s just busy or hasn’t felt the need to talk after diffusing the tension their unexpected visit caused. If that were the case maybe it would be easier to feel a bit slighted, but Violet noted his absence as well the last time ey contacted Ilya, and that’s enough to make it feel reasonable to check on him… if they knew where to look.

So far it has only amounted to waiting, they’ve scanned the crowd several times and despite any arrivals and departures it doesn’t seem likely he’ll be here tonight at all. It’s making them wonder if they should check somewhere else… even though it would prolong the stifling discomfort these bored socialites inflict on them, there’s no guarantee he’ll answer another call-

Only seconds after Ilya checks their commlink again an instantly familiar number flashes across the screen, half relief and half frustration welling up in them but they only get halfway through their greeting before Maksim speaks. “Hey where the fuck have you been, Violet’s-”

“Ilya-” His voice, whatever complaint they had fizzles out at the exhaustion clear in his tone, and when he continues it sounds like he must be injured. “Where are you right now?” 

Ilya frowns to themself while casting a look around them, unsure what to answer and if they should at all… their location seems trivial compared to whatever situation Maksim might be in. “I-”

Again Ilya’s answer is cut short. “Wait don’t answer that. I…” a momentary silence, they can hear some shuffling as if he moved away from his commlink, or it got knocked against something before his voice slightly crackles through the speaker. “I don’t know if this line is secure anymore.”

The words send a chill down their spine, but they try to suppress it and the myriad of thoughts bubbling up for their most pressing and simple concern. “Are you okay?”

Maksim makes a sound that they know could’ve been a laugh at another time, but it’s closer to a ragged cough. It makes them wince. “Послушай,” at that they turn into themself a little more, shielding the conversation from anyone that wants to listen in. “Где бы ты ни был, мне нужно чтобы ты ушел. Иди в безопа��ное место. Не говори мне ничего. Хорошо?”

Ilya bites their tongue despite how badly they want to ask why, if it has anything to do with Alabast’s people and whether he’s stuck somewhere or on the run. Instead they get up more abruptly than they meant to, trying not to turn their head as they scan the people in the lounge for anyone like the elf or his lackey from before and then they finally answer. “Да, я понимаю.”

Then the call unceremoniously ends, like a thread that slips through their hands.

After one last glare at their commlink they put it back in their pocket as well as shoving their hands in them, trying to keep their shoulders low and slouched to avoid looking too alert. Too noticeable. As far as they can tell no one in the room seems to be tailing them, allowing them to make it to the entrance swiftly. But once they’re outside they speed up their pace, fast enough to either outrun or lure out anyone that could be after them if they’re willing to go loud. They don’t have a route in mind yet, taking random turns down the alleys weaving away from the club to buy themself a minute and remember…

Another turn and Ilya realizes where they’ve ended up, close enough to where they hoped to go and they only have to make another turn around the building to find the fire escape attached to it. At some point the ladder must’ve gotten stuck half-extended, no one considering it worth fixing since the building itself hasn’t seen much use with this district’s funds going to higher class locations. But for them it makes a decent vantage point after they manage to jump onto the ladder relatively quietly, hoist themself up and make their way to the roof of the building. Up top they take a moment to listen for any climbing or clattering following them… nothing. At least nothing loud or close enough to make them feel like they set up a trap for themself.

Then they approach the edge of the roof looking down on the alley they followed, and that’s when they see one… no, two figures hurriedly entering the little street. From the way they’re investigating their dimly lit and bare surroundings Ilya suspects they took too much time keeping their distance, and missed where Ilya went once they got here. Придурки they think, letting out a snort they’re reasonably sure won’t draw any attention up. Still as they pull back to sit on the ledge, hunched over and reasonably out of sight, they don’t like the thoughts resurfacing and reforming themselves in their head.

Already they can’t shake the feeling that this has something to do with Alabast. It’s a fact that their people made it here, although it unnerves them to think they caught Maksim so fast it makes sense Ilya’s own encounter was more of a formality than necessary to find him. But it’s quickly followed by frustration at that being the extent of their speculation, neither of them even know the syndicate’s goal… 

Then Maksim’s words drift back as well, pulling Ilya away from wondering and towards what they should be doing next. Мне нужно чтобы ты ушел. Иди в безопасное место. They keep turning it over in their head, in the hope it’ll dredge up a suitable place and save them a search but beneath that… has he ever addressed them like that? As far as they can remember there was the pointed formality, the kind that’s more distant than polite yet they’d gotten familiar enough with it that maybe they assumed it was just part of his usual demeanor… not something that could change. Another time they might’ve teased him for such a slip but it just invites the awareness that they can’t, and the more it draws attention to itself the more something insists in their chest.

Getting somewhere safe won’t be enough. They can’t be certain they’ll get any word from him soon if he needs to lay low, but if they can settle down somewhere… they could try to reach out to him despite his warning. As safely as they can manage.

As Ilya’s thoughts define themselves more clearly their attention gets drawn back to the street behind them, the two figures now facing each other. They can’t make out the conversation from here, but still they lean in a little closer to catch the echos. 

“No idea… somewhere” drifts upwards within earshot, Ilya isn’t sure from which but one of the lackey’s posture is puffed up in a way they would call annoyed or uneasy. What follows is more muted, although what they can make out from their tone sounds frustrated as well.

After some more mumbling they make out something like “... tell you?” only for the conversation to get interrupted by the beeping of a commlink. The curse the other lets out is loud enough that Ilya can guess the shadow doesn’t appreciate what a giveaway it would’ve been if they were still tailing Ilya, making them smile to themself. But even when they lean in just a little more, praying neither of them looks up, they can’t catch anything from the call itself. For an irritated second Ilya wishes they could just crash their conversation and interrogate them… if only that didn’t seem the exact thing Maksim wouldn’t want them to do.

Once the call ends a more animated discussion seems to follow, and it’s quickly cut short by sudden movement that makes Ilya jolt back until it seems like neither of them noticed Ilya. Instead… are they leaving? They cast a few cursory looks around them, Ilya can’t tell if it feels hesitant or something else… but then the shadows do pick up a brisk pace. Ilya still pockets a bit of broken off brick from the wall they’re leaning on, in case they need to send some encouragement.

While the shadows move down another path then what led them here, Ilya briefly holding their breath as they pass the alley with the fire escape only for no looks to be exchanged, a location finally comes to mind; the first place they stayed at when they came to the city was a safehouse, and they even offered to fix its security protocols for the owner when they got irritated by how basic they were. Maybe that would let them call in a favor, even though it wouldn’t be necessary to secure a stay. They still wait another moment until the shadows are out of sight and they’re certain they can’t hear any footsteps close by. Then they carefully make their way to and down the fire escape again. Dropping down from the ladder they almost lose their balance and bite back a curse, but when they look around them a bit too panicked… there’s no one else to witness it. All they can do now is try and remember where to go, taking their commlink out of their pocket again.

It might’ve been faster to take a cab to Haight-Ashbury, but the nervous feeling in Ilya’s gut insisted it’s better for keeping an eye on anyone still tailing them, and it saves them someone who could remember them or where they’re going. The safehouse itself isn’t too far from an underpass, just enough you’d have as long as it takes someone to pass the other few buildings to notice someone’s approach from the inside. Ilya however knows the side you face from that angle is a defunct little front that doesn’t stand out to anyone if they don’t have any business here, and don’t notice the real bulk of the building.

They’re still a little surprised when the door opens on its own after they knock, despite remembering there’s a mechanism in place to do it remotely. Maybe the elusive caretaker recognized them and doesn’t want them lingering around the entrance too long at this hour.

Inside it’s the same as last time, nothing remarkable except that it feels like some lights have been replaced, maybe the cracks in the floor have been fixed… the hall feels a little more whole, if not just familiar.

Then Ilya hears another door open followed by a few taps of a cane. “You’re lucky,” is how the owner of the safehouse greets Ilya once he comes out of the room next to the door, a slightly stern but short orc they’re pretty sure must have several decades on them, “it’s quiet right now.” After giving them a quick once over and a nod, as if to confirm he recognizes them, he adds. “Why are you here?”

“I need another stay,” Ilya answers, and they look away to think about the rest of their words. “Probably not too long but… I don’t know yet.”

The owner looks at them long enough it makes them square their shoulders a little. Maybe they’re still on edge but a feeling creeps up on their shoulder to say mistake, until he continues with another slower nod, gesturing up. “Then you should settle down, it’s already late.”

Huh. The last time he wasn’t that talkative either, they weren’t even entirely sure if he was around that much or just quiet. But they still expected a bit more interrogating than this. “Just like that?”

The owner is already half turned back to the room when he looks at Ilya again with a raised brow. “You know the rules already, so yes.” To punctuate it he doesn’t spare another moment to wait for their response, leaving them to shrug and go upstairs.

Past the stairs and smaller hall on the upper level, Ilya can’t tell if the space feels a bit roomier than before or they’re just relieved to be in an easily surveyed space, ignoring everything else in the room after the door shuts with a soft click to sit down on the edge of the bed. As they let out a deep sigh they run their hands over their face and through their hair. Suddenly it feels like the full weight of their thoughts catches up with them, paranoia shifting and coiling in a way they haven’t felt in a while. Not since… not since they ran.

A shudder they can’t stop makes Ilya pitch forward, lacing their fingers together behind their head as they lean on their knees. They force the bristling dread down, no matter how familiar it feels and how much room it leaves for them to think up the worst, it’s not about them this time. And they’re not sure if that’s better or worse. Better because by now they know NeoNET would make a beeline for them, and they want to believe they have better chances at dealing with the syndicate than a corp. Worse because they don’t know what to expect, they’re not even sure how to start except that they don’t want to risk blind guesses. That’s where they went wrong at the clinic. They didn’t think, they didn’t consider how easy it would be to track them if they stopped at the wrong place. It’s why they felt the need to enter the city like this even after the distance they had put between them and Boston, with the certainty that standing still wouldn’t immediately betray their path again.

With a snap Ilya sits up straight when they feel their left leg twitch, tugging at why the clinic was a necessary risk even though they don’t want to remember. A nasty injury across their shin had been the excuse for that procedure, just like any other time the techs promised to do more than just heal and left out what a risk it would be if Ilya got hurt outside of their care.

They don’t want to remember, but the feeling insists under their skin.

At that point the procedures had gone so steadily the techs hadn’t considered if their body would acclimate to the meds and anesthesia, rendering them less effective as everything carried on as it should. Until one surgery they saw… a glimpse of bone… metal and kevlar… all reduced to disassembled parts, purpose and meat lifted from them with each cut. The doctors only noticed something was wrong when their heart rate spiked and wailed through the operating room. Then curses and arguments chased after it and turned everything into angry static as they went back under, distantly grateful for and terrified of the silence.

And again, everything carried on as it should. The only sign it happened was a footnote about increased dosages among their suite updates.

After a while once the spite had been eating away at Ilya long enough they wondered if someone put in a fortunate recommendation for the run. Someone bitter enough to force a corp association on them, like Maverick who they figured would’ve jumped at the chance to ruin their reputation after Ilya ruined hers. But over time it became clear that must’ve been their paranoia trying to dampen the cold and sharp truth that no one knew, and no one cared. A corp wasn’t about to let on what the run was really for. And there was nothing weirder about Ilya’s absence than about the idea that they simply skipped town.

Most of the time that’s how these incidents fade into obscurity, stragglers fall through the cracks once never to be seen again, except in rumors and on morbid threads. Ilya isn’t sure they would’ve made it out if the contract hadn’t come to a halt…

They ignore the urge to dig into the grooves of their mods, try to pry them apart as if they could take out the despair with them.

They can’t let that happen to Maksim, even if all they end up doing is checking on him they don’t want to lose him, not when…

They frown to themself for a moment and then sigh, rubbing their temples to mutter գրողը տանի to themself. Maybe they should’ve caught on sooner, the feeling in their chest bright and painfully easy to name. Daring them to acknowledge it. The intensity of it makes a sense of unease settle alongside it but… have they ever worried about someone this much? Never. Not willingly, not like this, just because they can’t bear the thought of letting go and not risking anything for him. But at the same time they can’t, they can’t pin it down now, not when it’s clinging to their ribs with nowhere else to go. If whatever they feel means anything they need to find out if he’s safe.

When Ilya gets up their limbs already feel sluggish, eager to rest and cool off. They only stand long enough to fish out their commlink and take off their jacket to fling it on a chair close by. But they don’t have it in them to lie down, only to rest their back against the headboard as they try to stare a hole into the wall and idly tap on their commlink.

It's only when Ilya jolts awake and their shoulders and limbs protest that they realize they've fallen asleep, the heavy discomfort rapidly spreading underneath their skin and trying to convince them to stop, don't move. It doesn't stop weighing them down immediately but they do reluctantly, slowly, try to sit up. Their limbs quiet down again when they lean on their knees instead, and now they can feel a lingering resentment underpinning the pain. Maybe it’s the aftertaste of the memories coming up for air, or maybe they should’ve tried to lie down after all.

With a deep breath they resolve not to think about that and instead focus their attention on their hands. Slowly flexing them, they can feel the wiring smooth itself out and their arms starting to warm up as well. They keep doing it until they manage to stand, although stretching still makes them wince.

It’s fine. It should be fine. When they look at their commlink they first see it could use a charge, second that it’s still early in the morning. They don’t know how much sleep they got, but it doesn’t matter if they can figure something out by tonight.

Their movements are still a bit stiff as they make their way downstairs, uncertain if the owner is in until they spot the thin strip of light cast through the door of his room. They take a moment to crack their neck before knocking and hearing a faint “intrați” in response.

The room itself is more of a study than a bedroom, although Ilya thinks the other door in the corner neatly separates it. More private than being surrounded by the screens and documents littering the space. Maybe safer. They spot the owner seated behind his desk, some folders and a datapad tucked away on one side of it and a teapot on the other.

Ilya doesn’t actually know his name so they just greet the owner with “hey” as they lean on the desk. Not that they ever asked, they probably shouldn’t when he might need his anonymity as much as Ilya does, and to his credit the most invasive questions he ever asked just had to do with the security measures. Truthfully they also don’t care so long he stays this lenient.

He simply looks up at them in acknowledgment, a brow raised instead of a question. “You mind if I take another look at the network?” Ilya continues, they doubt it’s necessary if he didn’t tamper with anything, but they need something else to focus on. Something easy and routine.

“I was hoping you would while you’re here,” he says as he reaches over to the datapad next to him and holds it out to them. But before he leans back into his seat he does fix them with a pointed stare. “Just don’t wander off with it.”

In response Ilya frowns and rolls their eyes, but they do make sure the datapad is within sight if he feels the need to check what they’re doing. And after they find the charger on a cabinet next to the desk and plug it into their commlink they turn back to the screen.

Once they’ve pulled up the security window they first go over the logs, no signs of any intrusions or bugs anything might’ve left behind. It doesn’t seem likely there’s anything of note here anyway, it would be counterproductive to keep official logs and you’d be better off planting bugs around the building if you wanted to spy on anyone. If you could even do that unnoticed. Then they check the servers and response time. The last time they were here it was pretty stable, on average there couldn't be more traffic than the owner's and whoever happens to stay here. You also can't get in anymore without his explicit permission thanks to Ilya. It should hold up while they're here…

In the middle of more irrelevant troubleshooting a feeling creeps up on them unbidden, an impulse to turn to Maksim and inflict a sentence full of techspeak on him. They know he wouldn't understand, and maybe catch on they're doing it on purpose. But all they can do is pinch the bridge of their nose instead and screw their eyes shut. The last thing they need is a reminder of the routines they've fallen into.

Still… it doesn't take long before Ilya runs out of excuses to root around the system, and their mind drifts back to the call Maksim sent them off with. Did they miss anything? What could they use? All that comes back is how it sounded wrong, they’re too familiar with the difference between exhaustion and having been beaten up and somehow it still sounded like he was doing rougher than that. A clinic should’ve been his first impulse if he had the sense to…

From where? A stray little thought crosses their mind and wonders. Being gone for… three days? It doesn’t feel likely he could’ve contacted them any sooner, which means if any goons got him they probably kept him somewhere. It’s quickly followed by a familiar frustration at how little that narrows their speculation down… but they absentmindedly bring up a map of the city anyway.

They’re not sure what they’re looking for at all, flitting through the various neighborhoods hoping it will lure something to the surface. At the very least they avoid anything too central and busy. The syndicate seems at least competent enough not to risk something that easy to intrude on, but what else does that leave them?

When they hover over Bayview they stop, the name gently tugging a memory up from some kind of discussion, or a bout of complaining when the two of them settled down somewhere no one would look twice at metahumans; it’s where Maksim first entered the city for the same reason. Coincidentally there’s also a string of closed up buildings along the edge of the neighborhood, adding to why people tend to call it a slum. It would be remote, quiet, and most people have something better to do than snooping around.

But someone who’s been there before, who had just enough time to get familiar…

Ilya almost jolts out of the thought and snaps the tab closed, before they do anything more targeted despite the myriad of measures between them and any eavesdroppers. Behind them the owner wasn’t even looking at the datapad but his eyes flit in their direction at the sudden movement. “Everything in order?”

They answer with a quick nod, “все в порядке.” One corner of the owner’s mouth turns up into a grateful smile when they hand the datapad back. Holding onto the spark of an idea Ilya makes to leave the room, until they hear a snap behind their back and they’re about to aim a frown at the owner until they notice him pointing at their commlink. “Черт,” they reach over and pocket it again, muttering a quick thanks before going back up.

It still takes Ilya some searching to dig up any clinics and their contacts in Bayview, even more pacing to see which is the closest to conveniently derelict hiding places. For a brief moment they wonder if it would be easier to pull up their files directly, before shamefully remembering what a massive breach of privacy that would be. Only corps stoop to that.

It’s on a particular shadowlands thread that they track down one, Abele’s clinic, and a number they’re willing to risk first. If they’re lucky they only have to try a few before this could form a trail.

After some more checks on their commlink, and a more extensive one on the state of the server, Ilya finally sits down and dials it. It takes a moment for the call to be filtered through the security measures but just as they think this is stupid, why would this work? … someone picks up.

“Good morning, are you calling because of injuries or inquiries?” Not the greeting Ilya expected, but they’ll assume it’s Abele themself.

“A bit of both, I’m… trying to check on someone.” For a second Ilya mentally chides themself for the pause, they don’t want to seem suspicious but for all they know it only lasted for a second. Maybe they just sound nervous. Worried. “Have you got any recent visits from a troll? Dark curls, sounds Russian?”

A static silence stretches the conversation for a moment, the call’s feedback accompanied by some kind of shuffling Ilya can’t decipher from here. Until “ah, that would be… Maksim,” drifts a little more muted through the speaker, as if it was more of an aside than to Ilya directly to be cautious. His name is still clear enough to break through the bundle of uncertainty in their chest.

“Yes,” they only just manage to suppress a sigh but their shoulders still slump with relief. An impulsive little voice insists they ask can I talk to him? but they push it down. There’s no reason to think the doctor could or would let them is what they think, but they don’t want to risk the disappointment of a no either.

But before Ilya can think of their next sentence, only getting halfway through "I don't need to-"

“And who is this, how do you know him?” Ilya catches the apprehension in the doctor’s voice, and in a way it’s a relief they don’t accept their call so easily.

Their first impulse is still to lie, make something up to avoid as little information as possible… but they might not have to do too much if they can keep the nerves out of their voice. They’ve checked too many times to doubt the line is secure now. “Naspok, a friend,” they quickly append it with “he told me beforehand he was heading to this clinic,” trusting Maksim can play along with that. On the other end they hear an agreeable hum and they press on before they get cut off again. "You don’t have to put him on the line but I just wanted to pass something on, for when he can leave."

“I think we can do that,” the doctor responds slowly, it’s followed by muffled movement and some distant clicking. “Is it enough for a note?”

“Yeah, just tell him he can come here when he’s able.” Ilya moves to look at the commlink and check the current location, slowly reciting the address. When the doctor recites it back to them correctly they answer more confidently.

“That’s all?”

A few seconds of thoughtful silence pass. It should be, there’s no need to let anything more on… certainly nothing Ilya would rather say in person. “Not unless you speak Russian,” they feel a little more like themself when the humor slips back into their tone.

A brief chuckle and “sadly no” volleys back, “I’ll make sure he gets the rest though.”

With a click the call ends. Ilya stares at their commlink a moment longer, then they take a deep breath and stand up to settle the nervous energy still running through their system, and throw the commlink on their bed which lands with a soft thump.

The relief starts settling in when they roll their shoulders and drag a hand through their hand. Somehow they got it right, they didn't need to risk more guesses and people that could confirm they were asking around. But it doesn’t take long for another feeling to crash down on them, what if the doctor doesn’t pass it on? What if Maksim opts to leave instead, if that’s safer? Or whoever got him finds him again before he can go anywhere else? They wouldn’t even know if his commlink is out of commission, and briefly wonder if they should’ve offered to secure it for him. As if they could’ve known this was a risk…

This is useless, somehow that’s enough to swat the creeping doubt back down again. It’s had its time to consume them and now that they have to wait it would only be more agonizing. It almost turns into frustration when something still nags at their mind, insistent but lighter. Warmer. 

It feels… selfish, almost. Still wrapped tight around their ribs. Regardless of what’s safer, smarter, anything rational, the only consistent hope they can settle on is that Maksim doesn’t leave. And there’s no point in ignoring it, Ilya conceding to the obvious fact with a deep sigh. It’s somehow easier than they would’ve expected and yet… they don’t know what to do with it, knowing they’re in love with him.

[eldritchamy]

INTERNAL DOCUMENT - FOR REVIEW PURPOSES ONLY

Proposed Anomaly Classification for Recovered Object #01039-A, pending approval

SCP-[PENDING] - "Inside Out Hurricane"

Containment Class: Euclid Keter Disruption Class: VLAM EHKI Risk Class: Danger

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-[PENDING] is contained almost entirely within the boundaries of SCP-[PENDING]-A. [PENDING]-A should be kept closed and locked at all times unless otherwise directed by Research Supervisor [Unassigned]. A perimeter is to be maintained around the lot where [PENDING]-A sits at all times by Foundation staff posing as private security. A gated fence no less than 25ft in height should be placed around all entrances to SCP-[PENDING]-A to obstruct view from publicly accessible areas near the site. Description: SCP-[PENDING]-A is a large industrial facility with hangar-style doors at either end as well as 5 smaller staff entrances. The building is approximately 150' by 490' by 35' in volume. Brand markings on the hangar are heavily degraded, but the logo appears to have superficially resembled an unusual crown-like shape composed of four sets of horns, below which is the text "Ekur Industries, est. [indecipherable]" The exterior of the building is otherwise unremarkable. SCP-[PENDING] is an intense storm contained entirely within the interior dimensions of [PENDING]-A. The storm features extraordinary wind speeds and heavy rain that fully obscures vision beyond 2.1 meters, though lightning flashes are occasionally visible through the storm. No recording equipment has been recovered after entering the storm barrier. A specially constructed anemometer anchored from outside the building measured a sustained wind speed of at least 287.4 mph (462.5 km/h, 421.5 ft/s, 128.5 m/s), exceeding the highest reliably recorded non-tornado wind speed on Earth. Gust speeds were recorded up to 422 mph before the device suffered a catastrophic failure, prior to the completion of a 5-minute mean speed test. The maximum structural integrity of the device was designed to withstand wind speeds up to 465 mph. Water samples collected after expulsion from the storm barrier are consistent with that of non-anomalous Earth seawater. A best-fit analysis suggests the water originated somewhere in the north Arabian Sea or the Persian Gulf. The internal dimensions of the storm are unknown but believed to exceed the external dimensions of the building by a considerable margin. A successful method of measuring the scale of the storm has yet to be devised.

Addendum 01039-A.02: An exploratory mission was conducted at Entrance B, one of the staff entrances to SCP-[PENDING]-A located on the southwest exterior wall. Entrance B leads to a raised section of the facility interior presumably used by a site administrator. Much of the accessible area is unremarkable, containing various maintenance equipment and standard water and electrical infrastructure. A door of unusual construction sits at the highest accessible point within Area B. The door is a seamless, dusty tan stone that leaves no gaps around the edges, has no visible handle or opening mechanism, and is featureless apart from an adjacent sign that reads, "IT IS FORBIDDEN." Addendum 01039-A.03: EXPLORATORY LOG FOR AREA B, ██/██/20██ The first sign of something unusual was Research Advisor 2381. As soon as he saw the warning sign outside the stone door, he stopped dead and pointed at it. What follows is an audio transcript for the exploratory mission, consisting of Research Team 2381 (Dr. █████ ████████), 2607 (████ ███████), Research Lead 1670 (Dr. "█████ ███" ████████), and Mission Supervisor 0983 (Dr. ██████ █████), as well as several D-Class security personnel. 2381: "No one said that sign was in Spanish." 2607: "It's not. 2381: "Exactly." 2607: "Come again?" 2381: "I'm seeing it in Spanish." 1670: "Cognitohazard?" 0983: "Not necessarily." 1670: "[2381], what was your first language?" 2381: "Spanish." 0983: "Psychic. Everyone here have anti-memetic training?" [various noises of assent} 0983: "Good. What we're dealing with just got more interesting. If there's anything conscious behind that door, it could be anything from a low level psychic to a reality bender. Keep that Kant counter on. [2607], if you hear so much as a BLIP on that thing you call it out IMMEDIATELY."

Approximately 1 hour 16 minutes later, the team successfully opened the door and proceeded inside.

2607: "Clear so far." 2381: "Let's hope it stays that way." 0983: "Well, well. What have we here?" 1670: "Mission control be advised the room looks like an office, but everything in it is...out of place. It looks more like a museum than anything. Various maps and texts pinned to the walls. Some old artifacts. Very old statuettes and things. Normal looking desk with a lot of papers on it. There's a large viewing window overlooking the storm. Can't see a fucking thing through it, of course. Can't hear it either, though, so the glass is VERY solid. Soundproofed somehow." 2381: "Map on the wall shows ... Middle East, but it's not modern. It LOOKS like it was taken from a satellite, but there's ... it's like civilization hasn't happened yet. There's almost no cities on here at all, and I don't recognize any of the names. Might need to bring in [REDACTED] from Site-██, she has a background in Assyriology." 1670: "What is that thing MADE of? Looks like leather." 2381: "Very old leather. Sheep skin, maybe? God I hope it's sheep." 1670: "Desk is covered in old writing. Paper is all falling apart old. There's a tablet, too." 0983: "Is it on?" 1670: "Uh, not that kind of tablet, sir. Some kind of clay or stone. There's writing on it, but ... it's weird." 2607: "CLICK." 0983: "What was that?" 1670: "It's ... I can read it." 2607: "Clicks, sir. Something on the Kant counter." 1670: "I don't even know what LANGUAGE this is." 2381: "I'd guess Sumerian, based on this map. If not older." 0983: "What are you reading, [2607]? 1670: "'You who would come so far, for what do you come?'" 2607: "It's coming from the statue, I think." [several audible pops from the Kant counter] 2301: "Statue ... plaque under it says ... 'The Founder, N. Lil'?" 1670: "'For what do you invoke my name? This place is not your place, our purpose is not your purpose...'" 0983: "[1670], stop reading that right now!" [popping sounds increase in frequency and volume] 1670: "'Petulant children of Amar-Utuk, things of clay and breath, by what right do you seek the unseekable, upon whose honor do you hope to know the unknowable?'" 2607: "Sir... this thing is reading something big." 0983: "I am ORDERING you to stop. Everyone out of the room, NOW. If he keeps reading it, shoot him. He's lost." 2301: "N. Lil. Where have I heard that before?" 1670: "'As I separated the sky and the firmament-'" [multiple gunshots] 1670: "-as I separated the earth from the waters, so shall my winds separate the waters from clay. This domain is not your domain, for all domains by rights are mine alone to rule. You have come too far, and you shall trespass no further." [Kant counter emits a near constant pitch until the sound of glass shattering can be heard, and the storm overtakes the room instantly. The remainder of the audio recording is 10.3 seconds of wind, rain, and thunder before the transmission abruptly ends.]

Addendum 01039-A.04: All members of Exploratory Mission 01039-B are presumed deceased. The exterior of SCP-[PENDING]-A seems to have contained the storm and prevented further breach. Entrance B has been welded shut and all pending exploratory missions are terminated until further notice. Precisely 24 hours after the mission was terminated, a Kant counter was found outside the welded door to Area B. After drying and data recovery, it is believed to be the Kant counter used by EM 01039-B. The final recording logged by the counter showed Akiva radiation and Hume distortion consistent with an Apex tier pluripotent entity. The mechanism by which the entity is contained by [PENDING]-A is unknown. Additional research funding has been requested.

Addendum 01039-A.05: Attn. Research Team 10139-A.05, Your request is denied. We were given a clear warning. Maintain perimeter and take no further actions without authorization. MTF Eta-77 and MTF Psi-7 have been notified of your status and will be in touch. Regards, O5-11

.

[voluptuarian]

its so weird to me how people will freak out if they visit a historical site which may have had any connection at all to trans-atlantic slavery, meanwhile every day thousands of people go visit the giant stadiums built with slave labor where ancient romans used to watch enslaved people kill each other, criminals get eaten alive, and animal cruelty be performed on a massive scale for fun and entertainment and nobody bats an eye

[literaryvein-reblogs]

commonly confused words

accept: to receive except: with the exclusion of

advice: recommendation (noun) advise: to recommend (verb)

adverse: unfavorable averse: opposed to

affect: to influence (verb); emotional response (noun) effect: result (noun); to cause (verb)

aisle: space between rows isle: island

allude: to make indirect reference to elude: to avoid

allusion: indirect reference illusion: false idea, misleading appearance

already: by this time all ready: fully prepared

altar: sacred platform or place alter: to change

altogether: thoroughly all together: everyone/everything in one place

a lot: a quantity; many of something allot: to divide or portion out

angel: supernatural being, good person angle: shape made by joining two straight lines

are: plural form of "to be" our: plural form of "my"

accent: pronunciation common to a region ascent: the act of rising or climbing assent: consent, agreement

assistance: help assistants: helpers

bare: nude, unadorned bear: to carry; an animal

beside: close to; next to besides: except for; in addition

boar: a wild male pig bore: to drill a hole through

board: piece of wood bored: uninterested

born: brought into life borne: past participle of "to bear" (carry)

breath: air taken in (noun) breathe: to take in air (verb)

brake: device for stopping break: destroy; make into pieces

buy: to purchase by: next to; through the agency of

canvas: heavy cloth canvass: to take a survey; a survey

capital: major city capitol: government building

choose: to pick chose: past tense of "to choose"

clothes: garments close: to shut; near cloths: pieces of fabric

coarse: rough course: path; series of lectures

complement: something that completes compliment: praise, flattery

conscience: sense of morality conscious: awake, aware

corps: regulated group corpse: dead body

council: governing body counsel: advice; to give advice

dairy: place where milk products are processed diary: personal journal

descent: downward movement dissent: disagreement

dessert: final, sweet course in a meal desert: to abandon; dry, sandy area

device: a plan; a tool or utensil devise: to create

discreet: modest, prudent behavior discrete: a separate thing, distinct

do: a verb indicating performance or execution of a task dew: water droplets condensed from air due: as a result of

dominant: commanding, controlling dominate: to control

die: to lose life; one of a pair of dice dye: to change or add color

dyeing: changing or adding color dying: losing life

elicit: to draw out illicit: illegal, forbidden

eminent: prominent imminent: about to happen

envelop: to surround (verb) envelope: container for a letter (noun)

everyday: routine, commonplace, ordinary (adj.) every day: each day, succession (adj. + noun)

fair: just, honest; a carnival; light skinned fare: money for transportation; food

farther: at a greater (measurable) distance further: in greater (non-measurable) depth

formally: conventionally, with ceremony formerly: previously

forth: forward fourth: number four in a list

gorilla: animal in ape family guerrilla: soldier specializing in surprise attacks

hear: to sense sound by ear here: in this place

heard: past tense of "to hear" herd: group of animals

hoard: a hidden fund or supply, a cache horde: a large group or crowd, swarm

hole: opening whole: complete; an entire thing

human: relating to the species homo sapiens humane: compassionate

its: possessive form of "it" it's: contraction for "it is"

knew: past tense of "know" new: fresh, not yet old

know: to comprehend no: negative

later: after a time latter: second one of two things

lead: heavy metal substance; to guide led: past tense of "to lead"

lessen: to decrease lesson: something learned and/or taught

lightning: storm-related electricity lightening: making lighter

loose: unbound, not tightly fastened lose: to misplace

maybe: perhaps (adv.) may be: might be (verb)

meat: animal flesh meet: to encounter mete: to measure; to distribute

medal: a flat disk stamped with a design meddle: to interfere, intrude metal: a hard organic substance mettle: courage, spirit, energy

miner: a worker in a mine minor: underage person (noun); less important (adj.)

moral: distinguishing right from wrong; lesson of a fable or story morale: attitude or outlook usually of a group

passed: past tense of "to pass" past: at a previous time

patience: putting up with annoyances patients: people under medical care

peace: absence of war piece: part of a whole; musical arrangement

peak: point, pinnacle, maximum peek: to peer through or look furtively pique: fit of resentment, feeling of wounded vanity

pedal: the foot lever of a bicycle or car petal: a flower segment peddle: to sell

personal: intimate; owned by a person personnel: employees

plain: simple, unadorned plane: to shave wood; aircraft (noun)

precede: to come before proceed: to continue

presence: attendance; being at hand presents: gifts

principal: foremost (adj.); administrator of a school (noun) principle: moral conviction, basic truth

quiet: silent, calm quite: very

rain: water drops falling; to fall like rain reign: to rule rein: strap to control an animal (noun); to guide or control (verb)

raise: to lift up raze: to tear down

rational: having reason or understanding rationale: principles of opinion, beliefs

respectfully: with respect respectively: in that order

reverend: title given to clergy; deserving respect reverent: worshipful

right: correct; opposite of left rite: ritual or ceremony write: to put words on paper

road: path rode: past tense of "to ride"

scene: place of an action; segment of a play seen: viewed; past participle of "to see"

sense: perception, understanding since: measurement of past time; because

sight: scene, view, picture site: place, location cite: to document or quote (verb)

stationary: standing still stationery: writing paper

straight: unbending strait: narrow or confining; a waterway

taught: past tense of "to teach" taut: tight

than: used to introduce second element; compared to then: at that time; next

their: possessive form of "they" there: in that place they’re: contraction for "they are"

through: finished; into and out of threw: past tense of "to throw" thorough: complete

to: toward too: also; very (used to show emphasis) two: number following one

track: course, road tract: pamphlet; plot of ground

waist: midsection of the body waste: discarded material; to squander

waive: forgo, renounce wave: flutter, move back and forth

weak: not strong week: seven days

weather: climatic condition whether: if wether: a neutered male sheep

where: in which place were: past tense of "to be"

which: one of a group witch: female sorcerer

whose: possessive for "of who" who’s: contraction for "who is"

your: possessive for "of you" you’re: contraction for "you are" yore: time long past

commonly confused words part 2

[lord-hunkyhair]

believe me, i do

rip keefe sencen u would've loved sweatpants and hoodies

[bookwyrminspiration]

people will just say things about characters sometimes

[zhongrin]

zhongrin © 2024 ❥ do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or feed into ai.

when your heart screams within your sealed lips…

(…. i hope i can at least be there to hold you.)

featuring... ❥ zhongli, al haitham, wriothesley, neuvillette, jing yuan, blade

involves... ❥ gn!reader, deeply personal blurbs (very self-indulgent), hurt with comfort (vague, with mentions of someone/people wronging/impacting you badly), probably ooc characters, mentions/implied retaliation by the characters

gilded golden lined fingers of a god dethroned gently weaves through your hair. for once, no words fell from your beloved’s lips, for zhongli knew that despite the silent night and the faux tranquility blanketing your dark bedchambers, your heart was screaming and writhing in pain.

the past few days, his amber eyes had followed you as you stumble and trudge through the thick mud of this whole mess you found yourself entrenched in. you may not realize his vigil over you, and countless times he had wished with all his heart, dreaming that you would sit with him to verbalize your troubles, seek his counsel, sought his aid - anything. anything but this foolish game of pretend, because he is not sure until when he can tolerate ignoring the vermin who has given you such unjust treatment.

perhaps in the morning the sky will darken and his wrath will descend upon the land you both walk on towards those who had wronged you. but for now, his anger simmers, bubbles, forges itself silently within his chest, tempered with the eons of expertise of molding metal. for now, he holds you like he’s holding a shattered bone china, like a craftsman appraising its damage before reshaping it with molten gold.

the price of violating the sanctity of a contract is steep, but the price of breaking your trust and betraying your kindness is steeper.

“you need not worry, my love. if there are moments where a god - retired as he may be - must pass judgment, it is now. a contract has been breached… and consequences shall follow.”

there aren’t too many things that can ruffle al haitham’s feathers. but seeing your eyes clouded with hurt and rimmed by veins of reds while you force a trembling smile on your lips as you welcomed him back home… it most definitely exceeds the annoyance from being forced to work overtime on a friday.

he’s glad he’s gotten used to reading you like a familiar book; your form fits snugly within his arms and your weight rests just right on top of his lap, not unlike the way a familiar book fits within his hand and weighs comfortingly in his hold.

“do you want to talk about it?” his comforting skills are a mixed copy of what he remembered from his grandmother and your own actions, carefully threaded and analyzed to fit the situations and the various variables within the scope of the equation. it’s methodical, logical, yet comforting all the same; it’s uniquely your al haitham.

whether you agree to open up to him or not, he’ll eventually find out. researching is one of his strongest skills after all, and when it comes to investigations, he has two strong cards to play: kaveh knows about almost all the gossips circulating in the city, and cyno is a strong advocate of justice who would be able to move independently given a whiff of the possibility of committed transgressions. if they wouldn’t do it for him, he’s sure they would at least feel empathetic towards you.

and if this perpetrator still insists on weaseling their way out of the law… well, he had been looking for a way to dispose that forbidden knowledge capsule, anyway.

wriothesley has never looked forward to arresting and 'welcoming' a criminal so much before.

impartiality is expected when you work in such field, but the agony you’ve gone through and he’d witnessed firsthand due to such heinous individual had been permanently etched in his brain. with each silent tears falling down your cheeks, it adds yet another scar upon his heart. he never fails to hold and comfort you every night, tries his very best to piece you together the best he can. but with how broken you were, he fears that you’ll never be the same.

he never wanted you to obtain a wound that cut so deep, it would leave a mark on your skin or your psyche. he’d take the bullet for you if he could. but with your insistence of dealing with the matter alone at first, he could only watch as you were ripped, torn, beaten.

he’s never felt like he wanted to utterly destroy a man as he catches your falling form and cradles it close to his chest.

so could you blame him when he personally goes on his way to make sure his newest, permanent prisoner feels absolutely unwelcome inside the fortress sunk deep beneath the waters?

after all, when the duke wants a criminal under his jurisdiction to suffer a fate worse than death, he needs no justification.

the word “guilty” had always tasted bitter on his tongue, like a sour, days-old water which had gone through several harsh conditions and became contaminated with environmental causes.

this particular “guilty”, however, he had said with the most conviction, with no pity nor sympathy, and its palate was of the freshest spring water of an untouched stream in the very nation he’s looking after. if the audience observes that the iudex looked colder and spoke with a voice so calm it’s almost obvious he was trying to conceal his fury, they did not say anything. it’s always been clearer than the reflection in the fountain of lucine; the fact that neuvilette holds you in the highest regard as his spouse.

so when you’ve been wronged?

naturally, when the opportunity for him to deliver justice on your behalf comes to him on a silver platter, he takes it with the most gratuity and takes the chance to personally hands down the verdict.

guilty, for the nights he had to hold you to sleep, for the mornings he had to assure you that you could go through the day, for the afternoons he had to check in to make sure you were busy and not wallowing in the murky depths of negative thoughts. guilty, for all the tears, the frustration, the mental strain, the self-hatred, and the bleeding wounds they’d inflicted upon your heart.

guilty, and for once, he finds himself wishing he could have handed down a death penalty.

“what’s troubling you?”

your husband loves his cuddles as much as his feline companions, and he’s just as sensitive to the changes in your mood as they do. with mimi sleeping and being your makeshift pillow, your cat curled right behind you, the fuzzy blanket pulled up to your waist, and your jing yuan holding you close as he continuously strokes your hair… if your heart weren’t so weary, it would have been a peaceful afternoon.

“you know you can tell this old man anything, yes, dearest?” a playful hum and a lazy grin rouses you out of your miserable thoughts, the muted colors filling with the warming golds of his eyes.

unlike inanimate chess pieces on a board, humans may veer off course from their planned routes and therefore proves finicky to handle to some. but to jing yuan, it is but one of the facets that makes human, human. so when you stubbornly try to avoid talking about it, he does not press further, nor does he feel anger.

time and time again, you’ve proven yourself stronger than steel; countless times you’ve proven you didn’t need his help, and it’s always reminded him of how resilient one could be in the face of adversity. still, he can’t help but fret whenever he’s deprived of witnessing the skips in your steps and the pleasant ring of your laughter. he may be patient, but he knows everything has its limits - both your tolerance and his fortitude, that is.

the general sighs and somewhat begrudgingly decides to give you a few more days. he’s gotten used to uprooting weeds growing in his garden after all these years; this, too, will not be any different.

“who did this to you?”

mara is truly a strange phenomenon.

while there are several things that could trigger his condition, if there’s one absolute causation which could decisively result in a mara-struck blade leading a whole carnage, it was seeing pearls of tears drop from your sullen eyes.

for a moment, he thinks it’s his fault. he’s not the best lover, and he has no doubt that you deserve better - but the moment you admitted you wanted him, broken and horribly disfigured as he was, you’ve filled the cracks in his being with you; you’re part of him, now. and he can’t bring himself to ever let go - but as you look into his eyes with the exhaustion of a broken soldier enduring one too many battles, he knows.

he knows he needs to fight a war you dare not tread.

“all i need is a name.”

through the desperation, there’s a hint of pleading in his voice. the hands cradling your cheeks are bandaged and bloodied with the blood of a billion lives, and he’s ever so grateful that you never flinch away from them. red spider lilies blooms ominously behind his gaze, lycorine bubbling like acid in his veins as he commits the memory of your lips forming the syllables, letter by letter. he’s not good at comforting people, so he does the best he could do: stay as close as possible as you rest against him, eventually falling into a tired slumber. blade carefully tucks you in, habitually presses a chaste kiss on your forehead, and sets off when you’re asleep.

if he’s already just a tool anyway, he would rather become the blade that pierces your enemies’ heart for your sake.

[highvern]

Steam (TEASER)

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

Genre: ATLA au, enemies(?) to lovers, forbidden romance, royalty au

warnings: violence (bending fight club), alcohol consumption, fire bender! wonwoo, water bender! reader, (more tbd)

Teaser Length: ~2.5k | Full Fic: ~20k

Note: anyway i did the thing! thank u to @caelesjjk and @shadowkoo for the banner! @tomodachiii @miniseokminnies and @gyuswhore for being my betas. im hoping to get this out in the next two weeks but we shall see... idk what it is about wonwoo that makes me want to write long as fics but it is what it is

summary: Wonwoo is the best fire bender in Capitol City. Or he is. But a water bender he's never seen before changes everything.

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Comment to be tagged when the full fic is posted or join my permanent taglist HERE.

Ranchous voices filled the warehouse, deafening as the hoard of bodies looking for a night of gruesome entertainment flooded the stands. Steam and smoke and dust clogged the air, only cleared by the occasional rush of wind the massive hole in the ceiling that showed the clear night sky above, the moon barely half full and the stars dusted across the sky.

Wonwoo watched from the catwalk criss-crossing high above the ring like always. He won’t fight until later, not until someone is dumb enough to challenge him once the adrenaline of the smaller spars bubbles to their head and they decide they would be the one to end his winning streak proudly tallied on the leaderboard. 

But for now he watched the metal platform below, where Jihoon launched a clay disk at his opponent with terrifying speed. With a wide swing of his arm, Chan knocked it aside before it could land, spinning off balance from the recoil.

Too easy. But no matter how many times the two fight, Chan never catches on to Jihoon’s tricks until it's too late. Jihoon hurled a second disc – cracking it into pieces with a squeeze of his fist – at Chan’s head. The airbender managed to dodge the first piece but the other two landed true, crumbling him to his knees. The crowd fell into a frenzy of starved animals, foaming at the mouth as a tally mark appeared next to Jihoon’s name on the victory board.

Wonwoo’s name sat on the next line above, so many tallies they nearly ran off the side of the sheet of repurposed metal. 

Wonwoo rarely lost. Dokyeom might force a draw for fear the building would burn down if a fight dragged on; but the last time that happened was nearly two years ago when Seungcheol demanded one final fight before retiring. They both walked away with matching black eyes and limps, his friend with singed uneven hair, and Wonwoo with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

It was one of the few fights Wonwoo didn’t mind losing. Defeat was much sweeter when he got paid half the betting pool for it.

The next fight gears up to start; another air bender and fire bender racing into the ring. Wonwoo rarely cared to watch their fights. Hoshi lacked finesse, relying on overwhelming his opponents, while Seungkwan’s temper historically ended the match before it could really begin. But it never stopped the audience from rushing to place their bets with Jeonghan like always.

Deciding he needed a drink for the chaos about to unfold, Wonwoo descends the stairs towards the crude bar in the corner of the upper tier of the stands. It’s nothing more than a shabby counter top, covered with colorful bottles and cracked cups..

The sting of fire whisky going down doesn’t shock his system nearly as much as the woman leaning against the wall; watching him, gaze heavy on his skin even in the dim light. 

Rounding the bartop, Wonwoo doesn’t look away as he approaches. If you balk under his gaze, he can’t decipher a tell; only a satisfied smile pulling the corner of your lips high and your eyelids lowering until his chest brushes yours..

His arm rests above your shoulder, pinning you beneath his gaze. “You’re staring at me.”

It isn’t a question, it's an accusation. And you’re more than guilty.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You asked, chin tilting back defiantly, eyes narrow.

Wonwoo makes the mistake of looking at your mouth, hypnotized by the tantalizing pout of flesh as it slips into a smirk. He walked right into your trap before he even knew what was happening.

He dipped closer, eyes still on your lips. “What's your name?”

Just as your nose brushed his own, you melted off the wall and under his arm. Wonwoo cut a glance over his shoulder to find you stalking backwards into the crowd, eyes never leaving his until you're swallowed into the fold without a trace.

The dare was so obvious in your gaze. Paired with the teasing words, Wonwoo felt something surge inside him. That hot need to chase, to tease you back. To find out if your boldness evaporated with enough attention or if you’d use the same haughty tone to chaste him in private.

Wonwoo moved to do just that but he’s called to the ring for the next fight.

“Our reigning champion, the man of fire,” Dokyeom preened dramatically into the mic. “The longest running victor in bending battle history!”

People parted as Wonwoo approached the walkway leading to the isolated platform surrounded by a steep drop off into a pool of water. Maybe he reveled in the applause and anticipatory cheers longer than necessary but if anyone’s earned, he has.

“And our newest challenger!”

The poor idiot who signed up to fight shouldn’t last too long, Wonwoo isn’t interested in dragged out humiliation. Especially not now. Hopefully, he can end this quickly and find you again, bargain his victory for your name and maybe some time alone.

But, as swiftly as his hope ignited, they crumbled to ash. Dokyeom continued his rambling as you flashed a smug smile across the ring.

He faltered for only a moment before continuing towards the center of the ring. Out of the dark, he failed to decipher anything that might give him advantage. You lacked the breezeness of an airbender, posture too rigid, the cocky defiance from earlier still present. Maybe an earthbender. Or better yet, a firebender.

Your eyes trickle down his form. Only one of you is at a disadvantage so far but it won’t remain that way for long. Wonwoo thrives on a challenge, and after so long without one his heart squeezed in excitement.

“Good luck.”

You remained silent, eying Wonwoo’s outstretched hand before ignoring it, turning towards your side of the platform with your nose in the air.

Gasps of shock erupted around the warehouse. The stands circling the platform were fuller than before, even the people who only come to socialize finding a sudden interest in the stranger bold enough to snub the best. Wonwoo paid them no mind. You’re the most interesting opponent he’s had in a long time.

Words from earlier echoed in his ears.

What are you going to do about it?

Wonwoo followed suit and retreated to his post with a few grounding breaths. The flame inside him grew in preparation, hungry. Vicious. It raged until there's nowhere for the fire to go but out.

The starting bell cut the air; immediately he's on the offensive, dropping into a low stance, arms drawn into his side before the shrill sound stops. A swift punch launched a huge fireball from his fist, a swell of heat surging through his veins as it sails over the ring with terrifying speed. Then another and another, fast enough that just as one dissipates, it’s already replaced with a new explosion of flames.

Barely any smoke filled the air when they dissolved. They were nothing more than a cheap scare tactic; completely hollow shells aimed to intimidate rather than maim. The fight is just starting and there's no reason to throw his best moves just yet.

You sidestepped each blow, dipping close to the floor before rising again and twirling out of the way with catlike grace. Wonwoo lobbed the next one right in your path but you adapt without pause. Like you’re dancing around the fire. With the fire. 

Wonwoo rushed forward, taking the advantage to drive you towards the edge of the platform, refusing to grant an ounce of reprieve. Not that you needed it. Every blow is avoided even as he adds more punch to the moves, each burning hotter and brighter than the one previous.

He maintained a healthy distance, plenty of room to keep the heat away from himself as his arms sweep and a ring of fire slices at your feet, close enough to singe the edge of your boots before you can avoid it completely. But you dove through the opening and rolled back to your feet, as if you expected the blow.

Wonwoo sliced his hand through the air, a razor thin whip of flame bursting forth to lick against your chin, close enough to feel the heat but Wonwoo maintains control. You could’ve blocked the move but you retreat again, eyes furious at the smoke of burnt hair jagged from contact dangling next to your jaw.

Wonwoo can’t detect any attempt at bending. The clay disks stacked at the edge of the ring remained unmoved, the air undisturbed. There’s no pull at the flames he’s conjuring, no hint that you're manipulating his own fire against him.

After another one sided volley of hits, your refusal to fight began to wear on his nerves. He harnessed more flame with a sweep of his leg, a swift stomp sending it over your head before it exploded and knocked you to your knees. You controlled the impact and roll to a crouch, eyes blazing,

“Is that really all you’ve got?” you said, shoulders squared but lax. There’s no teasing in your voice, if anything it’s cold disappointment. 

To Wonwoo’s shame, a hot bolt of want ran through him. Images of you whispering the same words, with the same snotty tone, flashed in his mind; back in the dark corner near the bar where you started this entire game.

Your leg circled around and Wonwoo finally prepared himself for something of interest to happen but you only use the momentum to rise back on your feet and brace for the next round.

Wonwoo realized you must be a waterbender. The way you move, melting around every attack, shifting with impressive flexibility, it’s a dead giveaway. That or just plain stupid. If you walked into this fight with no bending then it’s only a matter of time before you cut your losses and yield. 

Only one way to find out.

A towering wall of pure flame, large enough it’d scare even him to be on the receiving end, swelled in front of Wonwoo. The crowd roared in excitement, feral for the inevitable end to the match. There's nowhere for you to evade this time. It’s into the flame or off the backend of the platform. 

A flat footed kick sent the wave barreling directly towards you, consuming more oxygen and growing wider with rapid speed.

The flood of fire finally forced your hand. A tsunami of water rises from the grates criss-crossing the ring, geysers gushing with enough pressure to shake the floor. A sharp hiss echoes as opposing elements collided in an explosion of steam thick enough to clog the entire warehouse. So dense Wonwoo can’t see in front of his own nose.

Wonwoo stood unfazed, even as the crowd distantly murmured in confusion. Now, the game begins.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called, listening. Waiting.

A splash behind him is the only warning of your presence. Wonwoo slashed his leg through the air, an arch of flame slicing through the fog providing a brief glimpse of visibility. However, it does nothing more, you’re still nowhere to be found.

“Longest running victor in battle history, and he can’t even land a hit,” you tsk.

Wonwoo jerked at the sound of your voice, so close he expected to find you right behind him but he’s only met with a faceful of powder.

A fucking snowball?

You must have been close enough to see the scowl twisting his face because you giggle before launching another.

“Can’t handle a little water?” you snorted.

Under different circumstances, ones not involving you pelting him like a child, Wonwoo might enjoy the sound. He might even want to find out what the sound tastes like on his tongue. 

Another snowball, this one more ice than anything, collided with his chin and that desire turned into cinders. He whipped fire towards the noise but missed.

Arms raised, he feigns as if to launch another and instead opens harnesses his breath and forces a wider arch of flame that evaporates the fog you’ve hidden in. Wonwoo finds you evading from the corner of his eye and uses the moment of weakness to spring into action.

Except you crumbled with a choked scream and the sudden rush of victory tastes like ash.

Three wide strides and Wonwoo is there, hunched and ready for the next blow. But your choppy breathing ends the match. The air reeked of burnt, the entire ring smoldered with heat.

He should’ve known better; especially with you. So clearly unprepared for the intensity of a fight like this. Dokyeom shouldn’t have let you put your name down to fight, let alone against Wonwoo.

Acrid smoke rose from the discolored collar of your tunic; too close to hope he hasn’t burnt your face but he does anyway. Wonwoo prepares for the worst as he rolled you over, already yelling for a healer.

He isn’t prepared for an icy fist straight to his nose with enough force to send him onto his back. “What the fuck?”

Another blow lands on the back of his head. Hot blood rushes forward as the next punch lands with a grotesque crunch against his nose. His skin burns with cold, eyes stinging from the sudden influx of pain.

Long channels of water with blunt frozen ends sprout from the grates like a watery forest. You stand unscathed amongst the pulsing curtains, smiling like a lunatic.

Wonwoo covers his head from the brunt of attacks. His nose is broken and one of his eyes is already swelling shut. A torrent of water collapses over him, bearing down with the power of a waterfall. His knees buckle. The air in his lungs abandons him.

In a last ditch attempt to save his pride, he thrusts his hand forward. The reek of ozone clouds the warehouse as electricity splinters towards you.

And as if it’s nothing, you redirect the bolt of lightning through the opening in the warehouse roof as Wonwoo watches in shock.

The warehouse is silent. Seconds stretched into minutes but no one moved as you rose into a lazy stance. 

Wonwoo watched through sweat and blood, dark spots floating in his vision as your boots grew closer.

“How disappointing,” you sighed just loud enough for him to hear before striding towards the platform and out of view.

When the echo of your footsteps faded, Wonwoo let the darkness swallow him whole.

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[motorsportbarbie13]

Forbidden - Part 1

In which you reconnect with an old friend, much to the dismay of your brother.

Warnings: None. This is mostly background and will be several parts.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader Word Count: 2.6k words Masterlist Here

It started slowly, this thing between your brother's best friend and biggest rival and you. So slowly that you hadn't been directly involved, you probably wouldn't have even noticed the clandestine brushing of fingers to skin in the paddock or the flickering looks that lingered just a bit too long. Even the way Max managed to stare at you from his garage went unnoticed by everyone but you. But what started slowly over one summer quickly snowballed into something that nearly destroyed you both.

You'd known Max since you were young, of course, so maybe that was why the pair of you managed to keep things hidden for so long. You two being friendly wasn't all that out of the ordinary so maybe that was why it took people longer to connect the dots. You two had always been friends, but it was a quiet friendship so not many people picked up on it, even back then. But he had always been firmly in the ‘my brother’s best friend and track rival’ category for as long as you could remember.

Did it drive you crazy that they were much quicker to involve your younger brother, Arthur, in their antics instead of you? Yes. But Charlie and his friends were like the untouchable super hero's you watched in movies: larger than life and totally invincible so you always lapped up any ounce of attention they gave you.

As you got older though, your trips to the track became less and less frequent with you picking up your own interests. You traded weekends at the track for weekends spent with friends your own age who didn't worship the ground your brother and his friends walked on. Before long, you were headed off to university in New York City, wanting a bit of space from your famous brother and his aura. You loved Charlie and Arthur to death, they were your favorite people in the world after all, but it was difficult being the 'normal' sister to such talented men and the space had allowed you to thrive on your own, in your own way. 

You went home to Monaco infrequently, the trip from New York to the small principality being just long enough to be annoying to do regularly and traveled to races even less. It wasn’t that you didn’t support Charlie. You always made sure to be at his home race in Monaco and the race in Monza of course, but your life was in New York. First it was your rigorous coursework for your degree in economics from NYU that kept you away and then you continued on with a Master’s degree in economics and international business, the intensity of both programs serving you well crafted excuses for years. 

“You’re really going to come travel with us?” Charlie was unable to hide his surprise and excitement this morning when you called to tell him your post-graduation plans. 

“It’s been the hardest year of my life, between my thesis, interning at the investment firm in Manhattan, and finishing up grad school, I’ve barely had a chance to breathe for years. I need a break Charlie.” You sigh, settling into your couch that faces the floor to ceiling windows in your New York apartment that was currently full of packing boxes. 

“I know you do. You’re the hardest working person in this family.” 

You chuckle, knowing that this wasn’t true. Your two brothers worked just as hard, if not harder, at their careers in motorsport. There was no way Charlie would have reached F1 if he hadn’t been a hard worker. You might be the smartest LeClerc though, although you knew Arthur would never admit to that even if Charlie would. 

“What happened to that job in London?” 

You pick at an invisible piece of lint, wanting to avoid the question, as you shrug even though your brother couldn’t see you. “I told them I wasn’t interested. They wanted too much from me and I’m just so close to being burnt out. I’m taking on a consulting gig with the Bank of London. They’ve agreed to allow me to work remotely so I can live in Monaco and travel. I’ve missed so much of your career Charlie, I hate that I’ve been so absent from everyone for so long.” 

Charlie’s voice goes soft at the sound of regret in your voice, “Oh, petit papillon.” My little butterfly. You can’t help but smile at the nickname, despite the melancholy mood that had settled over you. “We know you did what you had to do to make you happy, we don’t blame you for being gone for so long. All that matters now is that your studies are done and we get to see you more.” 

Your heart warms in your chest. Of course Charlie hadn’t held your distance against you, it wasn’t in his nature to hold grudges against you, even when you fought the hardest. “I’m so excited to come home, Charlie.” 

*Six Weeks Later*

A faint tapping on the front door catches your attention from where you sat in Charlie’s living room, staring at the same spreadsheet you had been working on for the last hour. “Saved by the knock.” You mutter, getting up from your spot on you’re brother’s couch. You’ve spent so much time on the plush piece of furniture over the last few days, busy with work, that you’re surprised there’s not a permanent indent of your backside on the cushion. 

Finding an apartment in Monaco was proving harder than you had thought. Every flat you looked at in the city was either so far out of your price range or was missing something you deemed essential to have in your living space so for the time being you were staying with Charlie and Alexandra in their guest bedroom until the right place came around. 

“Coming!” You call out, hoping to alert the person knocking on the front door to your approach. Although you couldn’t fathom who would be at the door in the middle of the day on a Tuesday afternoon. You quickly run through an inventory of where the important people in your life were: Charlie was at a sponsor event while Alex was at doing some content creation in Paris for the gallery that she worked for. Your mother was at work of course and Arthur was off somewhere with his girlfriend Jade today. Everyone accounted for and busy. 

Without checking the peephole, you swing the door open wide, relieved for an excuse to take a break from the project that had found its way to your inbox early this morning. 

“Maxie!” You gasp, launching yourself into the unprepared arms of the Dutchman who you hadn’t seen in years. 

Max was thankful for his quick reflexes that were required of a world championship winning F1 driver because without them, the two of you would have found yourselves in a heap of limbs on the floor. “Beestje! You nearly took me out.” Max sets you down carefully but not before you have a chance to swat at his arm. 

“You know I hate when you call me that.” You pout, nipping at his finger when he teasingly swipes at your lip. Max had called you ‘little beast’ for as long as you could remember, always delighting in your cries of protest when he did. If there was one thing Max loved, it was teasing Charlie’s sister.  

He grins down at you, dimples winking out at the corner of his mouth. “That’s why I do it.” 

Rolling your eyes, you open the door wide enough to allow the both of you to enter the empty apartment. Max follows you into the living room, where your computer sits discarded. 

“I didn’t know you were visiting.” Max says, trying to remain calm as you settle down on the couch opposite of him. 

You had always been gorgeous, those good looking LeClerc genes that Charles was so famous for had obviously been passed on to you as well, but now? You were hands down the most stunning woman Max had ever seen in his entire life. Your social media presence was sparse, at best, so while he followed you, it was rare for you to post much of anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw you in person either, knowing that you much preferred to avoid the harsh light of fame that came with being a LeClerc. 

“Charlie didn’t tell you? I moved back!” You wave a hand towards your laptop, “I got a job with the Bank of London doing consulting work, fully remote.” 

“No, Charles didn’t tell me.” Max says, narrowing his eyes. He had just played padel with Charles and Carlos the other day and he hadn’t made a single mention of you being back. “Where is he, anyway? I came by to see if he wanted to go for a run tonight.” 

You shrug, trying to force your heart rate to slow to a pace that couldn’t potentially be heard by people playing the slots at the famous Monte Carlo Casino down the street. You had always had a juvenile crush on Max. Honestly, who wouldn’t? His demeanor on the track and in the paddock was completely opposite of who he was in private. You may have not spent much, if any, time with him the past decade but you knew that the Max that had been your brother’s childhood best friend and rival was the same Max sitting next to you right now. Nothing had changed.

“He’s at some event for Ferrari. I’ll never understand why people want to pay thousands of dollars to get to talk to the likes of you chuckle heads. How would those donors feel knowing they invested so much in a person that once got so drunk on their birthday they thought the Uber driver was trying to kidnap them because they, and I quote, ‘could totally make a killing with the ransom Christian would pay to get me back.’” 

“That was ONE time!” He croaks, blinking at you in surprise. “And how the fuck did you know about that? Charles swore he’d never tell anyone about that.” 

You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out and Max momentarily forgets how embarrassed he is that you know that story. It’s light and airy, the notes dragging their fingers down Max’s skin. “I’m not ‘anyone’, Maxie darling. You know that.” 

And boy did he. Just the way you wink at him while calling him ‘Maxie darling’ is enough to send his mind into overdrive, wondering how it would feel if more of your attention was turned his way. 

Max just smirks back, fighting to keep up the cool facade he’s usually got so carefully constructed in place. He expertly steers the conversation away from anymore potentially embarrassing stories and towards you. How you’ve been. The near year you spent writing your thesis paper for your Master’s degree. The life you’ve built so far away from Max. It makes his heart squeeze something fierce knowing that you two have drifted so far apart.

Before you know it, the sun is sinking low in the sky, casting a glittering glow over the water just outside the apartment. The sunlight filters in through the half-drawn curtains, bathing you in a golden light. Max had never understood why everyone raves about the beauty of ‘golden hour’ until he saw the setting sun reflected in your eyes. 

He was in so much trouble. 

You two are so lost in your conversation you don’t notice the front door swing open or Charles bustling through the door hours later. Charles pauses when he sees the two of you sat on the couch together. Somewhere between the first and second glass of wine that you had poured when it became evident neither of you wanted the afternoon to end, you had ended up quite close to Max. His hand sat outstretched over the back of the couch, hovering just out of reach of your shoulder. You were leaning into him ever so slightly, laughing at something Max had said moments before. The obvious intimacy between the two of you set off alarm bells for Charles, not liking how Max was looking at you over the rim of his wine glass. 

The thing was, Charles is quite protective of you. It was one of the reasons you always tried to leave the details about your love life out of any conversation you had with either of your brothers. Arthur was bad enough, but your twin? Charles was of the opinion that no one was ever good enough for you. Especially someone like Max. While he wasn’t as bad as some of the guys on the grid (lookin at you Lando Norris), Max still liked to party and take advantage of how often pretty girls threw themselves at him. He did not want someone like that interested in his sister. He knew how much you valued your privacy and that was not something someone like Max could offer you. 

“What’s going on here?” Charles fought to keep the hostility out of his voice, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Max jumped off the couch like it had suddenly burst into flames. He knew how protective Charles was over you and judging by the stormy look on your brother’s face, he wasn’t happy to find him there tonight. 

You, on the other hand, found it amusing how quickly your brother’s protective side reared it’s ugly head. There was nothing to be ashamed of, you knew that. You were just two friends catching up after being apart for so long. Totally innocent. Right? Right. 

“Max stopped by to see if you wanted to go on a run and we just got lost in conversation is all, Charlie.” You sooth, knowing your brother has a short fuse when it comes to you. 

Charles narrows his eyes at Max as if he doesn’t believe your words and to be honest, he probably shouldn’t. If he had known the thoughts racing through Max’s head over the last few hours, Max would have probably found himself in the gravel pit of whatever race was next on the calendar. 

“I was just leaving.” Max stutters, glancing down at where you still sit on the couch, amused grin playing at the corner of your lips. 

“It was nice to see you Maxie.” 

Max doesn’t miss the way Charles clenches his fists when you say his name like that. 

“Always a pleasure, Beestje.” He teases, hoping that Charles doesn’t pick up on the nervous waver in his voice. 

You tip your wine glass towards him in a mock salute before picking up your laptop where it’s sat discarded for the last few hours while Max makes a beeline for the front door. Charles follows him out, eyes trained on the back of his friends head, trying to calm the storm of anger that is swirling around his gut. 

“I don’t think it needs to be said but stay away from my sister.” Charles practically growls when Max’s hand closes over the doorknob. 

“We’re just friends Charles. I haven’t seen her in ages, we were just catching up.” 

“I don’t look at my friends the way you were just looking at her.” Charles grouses. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t want to give her any reason to leave again. If you hurt her, she’ll go running. Leave her alone.” 

Max nods, unable to find the words he wants to use because he has a feeling ‘fuck you, I’ll do whatever I want with your sister’ seems like a bad way to end the conversation. But as he waits for the elevator in the quiet hall, he knows that staying away from you is going to be near impossible.