#his name is UN-WIN…because he LOST

[ashnnix]

JJK MEN X MALE HUSBAND READER

Tw: Dark, Gojo is a shitty husband, degradation, noncon, cum inflation, dry cumming,masturbating, filming

Summary: When Gojo bet his own husband in a gamble to make those men who want his husband stay away from them, but lost now he has to face consequences

Part 2

"Come on, Satoru, just a simple gamble game will make us stay away from your husband three countries away." Geto smirked in front of his best friend, whos clenching his fist

Gojo let out a sighed deciding if this is the right choice to make

These men in front of him had asked him to gamble his husband in a simple card game. If Gojo wins him and Y/N will live happily alone, no men are running up to him again. But if they win, Gojo will have to share Y/N to them. Gojo didn't like that, but his ego was high, and he always won, so he agreed

"Fine"

Hes so fucked, he lost to Suguru

"I won, it was a nice game. Now lets talk how we would have our husband tomorrow"

Suguru smiled reached his ears the men behind him let out a chuckle. Gojo clenched his fist already regretting what he did

He has to face the consequences

Now the present Gojo is holding back to beat up the men whos currently fucking you. Getou fucked your ass while you layed limp still passed out fron the previous orgasm

They didn't care if you unconscious, they wated for so long to have you they deserve to do what ever they want with your body

"Fu-fuck ahhh haaa nghh Y/N! Even if you- ahh! shit tight!" Getou whined as he continued to hump your un clenched ass

Getou saw your face eyes completely shut down, he wants to see your face go dumb like a slut

He stopped his hips and slapped you in the face to wake you up

"Y/N come on darling wake the fuck up" The pain from your cheek woke you up. Getou smiled and continued his harsh thrust that sent another electricity to your brain that made you go dumb again

FWOP FWOP!!

"Oo-h wa-wait guru! Wai- Suguru! Hu-hurts ahh haa mmh!!" You moaned helplessly. You can't feel your body and legs anymore, only pleasure coming from your ass

Getou stopped thrusting his hips as he smirked darkly

You sniff your snot while glaring, looking at him straight in the eyes with deep hatred. Betrayed that they even hurt you and use you like a fuck toy

Getou felt his dick twitch. Your glares just made him more horny

Getou cupped your cheeks and turned your head to look at Gojo, your eyes clashed with his beautiful blue eyes thats filled with regret

"Blame your husband, he lost a bet now hes facing the consequences"

You bit your lip in anger heart dropped for the information Suguru just said. Feeling betrayed your eyes let out pathetic tears as you sob quietly. You looked away from Gojo turning your head to look at your tummy, a buldge forming because of Sugurus dick

FWOP FWOP!!

"Ahhh, Guuruu n-not so rough"

You moaned helplessly, Getou continued his harsh thrust ignoring your pathetic please. Your cock bounce hitting your cum stained stomach

"Now you completely augh- belong to us" Getou moaned as he hangs your left leg to his shoulders

All the men except Gojo who wrecked your hole sorrounded your body as they stroke their cock. Ready to shower you with their semen

"Ohhh! Ughhh hmmm!mhm ahhh haa!♡︎"

FWOP FWOP!!

Your eyes rolled back of how Suguru dick continue to hit your prostate, his cock reaching deeper and deeper as if he wants to impregnate you completely

"Fuck hes so hot"

"Your dick twitches cutely"

"Smile for the camera Y/N..."

"Ahhh ahh Y/N your so lewd"

You hear all of them groan and whimper your name while they all continue to stroke their dick in front of you

"Y/N smile♡︎"

Your eyes made contact with the camera lense, you gave your most lewdest smile a drool coming out tears staining your flushed cheek. Noaya bit his lip liking how his dreams came true

"Y/N focus on me please" Suguru whimpered your name, you twitch when you felt him suck on your sensitive neck leaving purple marks

FWOP FWOP!!

You can feel your orgasm coming, you can't even say a word completely fucked and wrecked

As Getou hit your prostate again your dick squirted your semen staining the sheets and your cheek

"AUGH OHHH~ C-CUMM♡︎♡︎♡︎!!"

Your eyes rolled back as your back arches

Your hole squeezed Getou so tight he also let out his semen inside your hole completely filling you up

"Ohhh sh-shit I c-came inside..." Getou groaned he also twitched again when he felt your hole clench him tighter

Your body shivers as your brain goes numb, you didn't even notice all of your husbands showered you with their cum

Completely fucked

You passed out from overstimulation again

Getou catched his breath, his eyes made contact with Gojo, giving him a closed eye smile

"Thank you Gojo, for sharing your husband"

For some reason, Gojo felt happy

[unforced3rr0r]

GREEN MONSTER || CA

————————————————————————

+18, MINORS DNI

summary: After a painful defeat in Doha, Carlos is less than pleased to see you cheering on his rival.

pairing: carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

warnings: smut, 18+, p in v, oral (male and female receiving), unprotected sex (don't try this at home), teasing, edging, degradation.

a/n: Carlos losing irritated me, so you're welcome. Also, I’m going to start a tag list so if you want to be added lmk.

MASTERLIST

Carlos was pissed. From the second he left the court after losing because of a dumb mistake he was seething. Usually, he found a way to take a deep breath, calm down and find the good in every loss.

But not tonight. Usually, you would be waiting for him the second he got off the court, win or loss, ready to throw your arms around him and tell him everything was okay.

But when he emerged from the changing room looking desperately for you and the comfort you touted around with you, you were nowhere to be seen.

He turned to his coach who had the same perplexed look on his face. "¿Dónde está ella?" (Where is she?) Concern laced Carlos' tone.

You hadn't been to Doha before, and with only a few matches done, you didn't know your way around very well. Suddenly Carlos' anger was gone and replaced with worry.

"Ella estuvo aquí hace un momento." (She was here a moment ago.) Juan Carlos began looking around as if you were a racket he had misplaced rather than a person with legs and free will.

Carlos immediately reached for his phone and began texting you, but just as his thumb hovered over the send button, Juan Carlos tentatively called his name.

"Carlitos mira." (Carlitos look.) His brown eyes flitted to the screen in the hallway. Instead of seeing the match between Draper and Berrettini, like the cameras were supposed to be focused on, your face illuminated the screen.

The camera panned out slowly, you smiling widely and clapping as Draper scored a point. Then it hit Carlos. You were in Jack's box.

The worry was long forgotten as the rage returned tenfold seeing Draper smile at his box while you cheered enthusiastically.

You were supposed to be here comforting Carlos in the wake of his loss and instead, you were sat in his rival's box cheering him on.

Carlos picked up his phone again and furiously typed away on his phone. The camera had moved back to the on court action but he spotted you in the background of the shot glancing down at your phone.

Carlos: I’ll see you back at the hotel, then maybe you can explain why the fuck you’re in Draper’s box.

You glanced directly at the camera and smiled, as if you knew Carlos was starting at the tv. He let out a frustrated grunt, “vamos al hotel,” (let’s go to the hotel) Carlos called out to Juan Carlos.

When his coach gave him a questioning look the tennis player just shook his head, picking up his tennis bag and heading to the exit.

Juan Carlos let out a laugh behind the angrily stomping Spaniard.

…

Opening the hotel door your heart beat picked up its pace. You had known that you were tempting fate when Jack asked you to watch his game. You knew it was going to get worse when Jack won and Carlos lost.

When your phone had buzzed in the middle of the game you known it would be him, and the blatantly angry tone had lit your insides on fire.

Carlos was always sexy, but there was something about him when he was jealous, the glint in his eye and the way he held you.

You knew what you were doing slipping into Draper’s box and you couldn’t deny you were slightly excited at what you would face on the other side of the door.

When you walked into the hotel room, Carlos was sat on the sofa, his posture rigid as he mindlessly scrolled through his phone.

At the sound of the door closing his raised his eyebrows but didn’t turn to look at you keeping his focus on his phone where he angrily typed away.

You moved across the room putting your bag away in the bedroom along with your coat. When you returned back into the living room Carlos was watching you, his gaze waiting for your figure to appear in the doorway.

As you opened you mouth to speak, Carlos stood up, his eyes narrowing on you as his brown eyes stared you down.

“Have fun watching Jack?” His snarky tone cut through the silence.

Under his gaze you saw your options play out, you could diffuse the situation and lessen the repercussions, or…

“It was great, he has such an incredible playing style. It was quite an easy win for him really.” Carlos murmured under his breath the annoyance he felt earlier beginning to rise to the surface.

You decided to be brave, moving towards the Spaniard, closing the distance to the point where you could reach out and touch him. His soft brown eyes had sharpened, and with each step you took towards him his shoulder tensed.

"¿Crees que es mejor jugador que yo?" (D'you think he's a better player than me?) Carlos taunted, "¿Quieres sentarte en su palco como su novia para que todos puedan verte?" (Do you want to sit in his box as his girlfriend so everyone can see you?).

He reached his hand out to lift your gaze to his, his grip on your face tight but not painful. You watched as he leaned into your ear his voice low and domineering, "Answer me."

The way he spoke and held your face had you feeling lightheaded, the kind of attitude that Carlos only exhibits when he's truly pissed off. He spends so much time worshipping you usually that to have him standing over you now caused shivers to encompass your body.

"You're a better player than Jack." you whimpered, his other hand finding a tight grasp on your waist.

His hand slid from holding you by the jaw to resting on your neck, "and, do you want to be his girlfriend or mine because I guarantee he can't fuck you half as good as I can."

His words went straight to your core, and you found yourself whimpering at the thought of Carlos proving his point with you.

In the most delicate tone you could muster you nearly whispered, "I want to be yours." His eyes softened briefly before returning to their rage-filled view, the facade cracking just enough to remind you that this was your loving boyfriend standing in front of you.

"Pruébalo, ponte de rodillas." (Prove it, get on your knees). Stood in the middle of the living room you wasted no time lowering yourself to the ground, you held Carlos' gaze the entire time, fluttering your eyelashes as you looked up from the floor.

He stared patiently as your hands reached his shorts tugging them and his underwear down in one pull. He was hard, the tension of the afternoon so far visibly riling him up.

You wrapped your hand tightly around him pumping up and down, precum leaked from the tip and Carlos let out a groan as you moved forward to take him in your mouth.

Immediately his hand threaded through your hair, gripping tightly as you began to bob your head up and down. You licked a stripe from the base of him to the tip, as Spanish profanities poured from his mouth.

You took as much of him as you could in your mouth feeling him hit the back of your throat as you used your hand on the rest of him, you picked up the pace as Carlos praised you.

"Fuck this mouth was made for me and only me." Every word that left his lips hit your core harder, and you knew you were dripping as you tried to keep your attention on Carlos.

His breathing began to get shallower, and he began to direct your head with his hands. You braced your hands on his thighs and he began thrusting in and out of your mouth.

"God, you're such a good girl letting me fuck your face, would you let Jack treat you like this? huh? let him treat you like his own personal whore?"

You moaned into him at his words, as he pulled your head to his abdomen, your nose brushing the hair that you admired every time he worked out shirtless.

Your eyes watered from how deep Carlos was getting himself in your throat, his thrust faltering slightly as you could tell he was close. His moans grew and as you hollowed your cheeks around him and he came down your throat. You felt the hot spurts hit your taste buds the salty taste filling your senses.

Looking up at him you pulled away, smirking and noticeably swallowing. He groaned out of pure attraction, pulling you off your knees and into a desperate kiss.

The hunger was undeniable as his tongue found its way into your mouth, his hand gripping the back of your neck tightly. He pulled away moving to assault your neck, as his lips moved up to your ear he growled, "I'm going to fuck you with my tongue and fingers, and you aren't allowed to cum until I say so, okay?"

Your legs weakened just at the thought of Carlos between them and your mind was foggy with his lips attached to your neck. Briefly, he pulled away from his assault, eyes boring into you. "Yes?"

His demand for a response snapped you slightly from your daze a pleading tone hitting his ears, "Please Carlos."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me." Carlos didn't hesitate to push you down onto the sofa behind you, lowering himself so he hovered over you.

His lips found yours as he roughly kissed you, trailing his lips down your neck, and to the skin on your chest not covered by your top.

His hand pulled on the bottom of your shirt and you moved slightly allowing him to pull it over your head, exposing your black lacy bra to him.

“It’s like you knew exactly where you’d end up.” One of his hands pulled at the cup of you bra allowing you to spill out of it. He roughly pulled on your sensitive nipple as you moaned at the sensation.

He attached his mouth to the top of your other breast, harshly sucking purple marks into your skin which would serve as a reminder of this moment in the days to come.

Each action drew moans from your lips as Carlos' hand trailed down from your breast down your body, his lips following eagerly after.

When he reached the waistband of your jeans he looked at you, his big brown eyes waiting for you to beg for him. His fingers rested on the buttons of your jeans and your head fell back against the sofa in frustration.

"Carlosssss." He flicked the button open, pressing a light kiss to your stomach just above the zipper,

"Dilo de nuevo." (say it again).

"What?"

"di mi nombre otra vez." (say my name again) His lips kissed your stomach again as his fingers slowly pulled down your zipper.

"Carlos." You whimpered, your hands reaching for the pillows on either side of you. He pulled down your jeans sliding them down your legs and throwing them out of sight. Met with black lacy underwear a smirk enveloped his face and he rubbed his thumb softly over the material.

"Matching underwear? Were you planning this?" You smiled briefly, but when his fingers pulled your underwear to the side and ran them through your folds you cried out. Your hands weaved their way into what small strands of hair were long enough to grab onto trying to pull him closer to you.

He laughed at your whining and the way your hips moved, desperate to feel more of his fingers against you. He paused for a moment, watching you squirm leaning forward and kissing your clit.

Your breathing deepened, the anticipation of the moment killing you. Just as you were about to beg him to touch you he thrust his finger inside you.

Loudly moaning his name as his fingers curled inside you, hitting every spot perfectly. His mouth attached to clit, his tongue trailing around it causing your legs instinctively to close around his head.

Every movement made had your hips edging close to him. He moved one of his large hands to hold your leg away, while the other hand brought you to tears.

The sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of you was a clear sign of how desperate you wanted him. Your hands tugged harder on the ends of his hair as your abdomen tightened and your back arched.

Feeling your high fighting its way towards you, Carlos added a third finger and sped up his pace. The brutal speed fogged your vision, and your legs began to shake as you teetered on the edge.

Just as you felt your high about to hit, Carlos pulled away leaving you whining in frustration.

"Fuck." Your head fell to the side, looking down at the devilish grin and brown eyes staring back at you. You were still dripping, and as your hips subconsciously moved, trying to find friction with anything Carlos rubbed his thumb over your clit.

The jolt made your legs shake and you groaned in annoyance at the Spaniard having far too much fun teasing you. "Only girls who sit in my box and mine only get to cum."

His nonchalant tone infuriated you, grabbing him by the collar of his t-shirt and pulling him over you.

"Are you going to fuck me, or am I going to have to get Jack to?" You knew you shouldn't have said it, but seeing the way his eyes darkened and the feeling of him gripping your thighs tightly made you sure you were in for the best sex of your life.

"You think he could make you feel half as good as I could?"

"Maybe I should go find out." You made a move as if you were going to get up and go find Jack. Carlos wasted no time, gripping your hips and throwing you over his shoulder. You yelped as he moved to the bedroom and threw you down on the soft sheets.

He pulled his shirt over his head with one hand, exposing his toned torso, his V-line carved into him, disappearing beneath his boxers.

You sat up, you nails trailing him his body other each ridge and dip in his body, your hand slips over his pecs and around his neck pulling him into a desperate kiss. His hand gripped the back of your neck as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

Carlos slowing moved over you while his lips moved to your neck, attacking the skin just below your ear. He pulled away from your neck and moved to pull you underwear from your legs, his hands travelling behind your back to remove your bra.

You lay bare in front of him and suddenly a wave of vulnerability engulfed you. He kissed up from you chest, to your neck and he whispered in your ears,

“Get on all fours for me.” His tone was deep and you know he was serious so you wasted no time moving so your ass was facing the Spaniard.

You head met the pillows and you felt Carlos’ rough grasp on your ass. He ran his hands over the soft skin before slapping it, jolting through your body and core.

He gave three slaps before he settled himself again you, feeling his clothed bulge against your dripping core.

One of his hands moved to slip through your folds collecting your slick with his fingers,

“You think Jack could make you this wet.” You were tired or teasing him, lying there desperate for him inside of you,

“Never, only you can Carlos. Only you.” For a moment it was silent behind you but just as you went to turn your head, Carlos entered you, bottoming out inside.

You both moaned at the feeling of him inside you, no matter how often you found yourself in this position it felt like the first time. He stayed for a moment, leaning down to kiss your shoulders.

"Carlos, please move." You tried to move your hips back against him but his hands steadied your body.

"Apuesto a que Draper no podría hacerte gemir así con sólo estar dentro de ti. Mira lo desesperada que estás." (I bet Draper couldn't make you moan like that just by being inside you. Look how desperate you are.)

You moaned at his words, your whine muffled by the pillows. You begged for him again, and this time, you felt him pull out and ram himself back into you, setting a brutal pace.

You tried to call his name, but incoherent moans were all you were capable of producing. Every thrust seemed to hit deeper inside you.

"Carlos fuck-" you managed to choke out praise as he railed into you, his hand making contact with your ass cheek again. You gasped at the contact, making your core grow wetter.

After teasing you before, it didn't take long before you were nearing the edge, at which point your whines turned into incessant begs for him to let you cum.

Unfortunately, the Spaniard had other plans, pulling out of you and leaving your core clenching around the air. You whimpered, gripping the sheets beside you in frustration before hitting your hand against the pillow.

Carlos flipped you over so he was on top and immediately lined himself up with your entrance again. You tried to move your hips allowing for any friction but it was pointless.

He kissed you roughly then smirked, "Si quieres correrte, será mejor que gimas mi nombre en voz alta, Draper está en la habitación de al lado." (If you want to cum, you better moan my name out loud, Draper is in the next room.)

Suddenly your heart stopped as you saw the shit-eating grin on his face. You may have known what would happen if you went to Draper's box but Carlos had put just as much thought into the payback.

He thrust inside of you again, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hand met his shoulder blade digging your nails into it as he returned to his harsh pace.

You did as he asked and moaned his name loudly with each thrust, his lips finding your neck and attacking it as he focused on how deep he could thrust inside you.

The room was filled with the sound of your moans and the sound of him moving in and out of you, Carlos groaning about how good you felt around him as he picked up his pace.

He moved your legs so they rested on his shoulders and the angle change was earth-shattering, your moans turned to incoherent screams, and his thumb found your clit which had your mind going foggy.

"Fuck Carlos, I'm so close." You cried out, begging that he would actually let you tumble off the cliff you were so nearing the edge of.

"Correte para mi" (cum for me). His words pushed you over the edge, seeing stars as your vision went white and you screamed the Spaniard's name while you came around him.

He fucked you through your high and as you clenched around him his thrusts began to falter and he came inside you groaning. His head fell to the crook of his neck, your legs falling from his shoulders and his arms held up his body.

"Fuck." he grunted into your neck. You took deep breaths as your hand snuck into his hair nails scraping along the bottom of his scalp.

After a moment he pulled out of you and lay beside you. His hand reached your face, thumb caressing your cheek gently. He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes as he gazed lovingly at you.

"Espero no haber sido demasiado duro." (I hope I wasn't too harsh.) His angry tone from earlier was gone and replaced with the gentle voice you loved so much.

"If I knew you'd fuck me like that I would've sat in Jack's box months ago." Carlos groaned and you laughed, enjoying the moment of peace and laughing at the Spaniard's jealously.

"Jack me va a matar" (Jack is going to kill me) the Spaniard chuckled, leaning across the bed to pick up his phone. He returned to his spot next to you, one hand caressing your hip while the other showed you his phone.

Jack: Bro come on? Could you two be any louder?

Carlos let out a hearty laugh and you covered your face with embarrassment. Jack was a good friend of you both and knowing that he had heard everything that had just happened was not something you wanted to think about.

Carlos moved your hands out of your face, holding your cheek and pulling you in to kiss you. His gentle kiss was the opposite of his early mood but he smiled as he pulled away.

"Eres mia" (You're mine), you pecked his lips softly, looking into the brown eyes you loved so much.

"Yours."

[justageekk]

Marc Bernal x madridista reader 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

IN WHERE : You are very Madridista and your boyfriend very Culé.

THIS ONE SHOT IS : fem!reader x marc bernal

note: i don't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.

w: madrid vs barcelona dynamic.

request open!

El Clásico had ended 4-3. Real Madrid —your team, your everything— had lost. Again. And it wasn’t just any defeat. It was one of those that made your chest ache, that got stuck in your throat like a scream that never quite came out. One more frustrating loss against the eternal rival.

And, as always, it didn’t take long for that to seep into your personal life. Because yes, you were a madridista through and through… and your boyfriend —for some ridiculous twist of fate— was not just culé, but a first team player for Barça. Whether he started or sat on the bench, whether he was injured or not, just seeing his name on that jersey made every defeat sting more. Dating a culé was exhausting. Dating one who celebrated Barça’s goals like his life depended on them, even from the sidelines, was straight up punishment.

You fought with him every day. Over jokes. Over stats. Over who had more Champions, who had won more Clásicos in the last five years. But today’s Clásico had hit a nerve. They didn’t just lose. They came back from behind… only to lose again. They had the match —and they let it slip.

And Marc… Marc was being unbearable.

He didn’t do it out of malice —or so he claimed—. But the way he texted you during the match, the smug little smirks, the way he walked into the house with that “told you so” grin after a Madrid loss… it made you want to throw the TV remote at his head. And worse, he was hot. When he wasn’t rubbing Barça victories in your face, he was the best boyfriend ever. But when Barça won? He turned into a demonio.

And today? He was on another level.

Marc walked in while you were still watching the replay of the match on loop.

“Are you watching Lamine’s goal again?” he asked, grinning.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

“Okay… silent treatment. That’s new.”

You moved to the far side of the couch.

“Not even a ‘congrats’?”

“Do you want to sleep here or out in the hallway?” you snapped, dead serious.

He laughed. The bastard.

“Come on, amor. It’s football. You win, you lose, you cry, you laugh. Today you cry, tomorrow I might—actually no, not tomorrow, because if we win the league, I won’t cry for a while,” he said, flopping down beside you.

You turned toward him, teeth clenched in rage.

“You’re such a dick. You know that?”

“Guapo, injured, and a dick. Full package”, he winked.

“¡Marc!”

“Vale!” he lifted his hands. “No more teasing. Promise.”

“You always say that. And then you make me watch the Barça goals on loop while saying ‘look at that placement’. I’m done!”

“You knew I was a culé when we started,” he said, tilting his head. “You can’t expect me not to enjoy a Clásico win. ¡Es un Clásico, joder!”

“Yeah, but you rub it in.”

“In 2021-2022 you did the same when Madrid won five Clásicos in a row.”

“Shut. Up.”

Marc tried to hold in a laugh. Failed.

“Vale.”

You threw a cushion at him. He half dodged, and it hit him in the shoulder.

“¡Auch!”, he whined, rubbing his arm. “What if I kiss you? Will you forgive one?”

“If you touch me today, I’ll tear off your good knee.”

“You’re kinda sexy when you threaten me, you know that?”

“You’re insufferable, Bernal. Seriously.”

Marc leaned in slowly, ignoring the fire in your eyes, his face inching closer. You could feel his breath —mint gum.

“Just one kiss. Consolation. Even if it’s on the cheek.”

“If you so much as graze me, I’m kicking you out.”

And before you could react, Marc closed the distance in a flash and kissed you.

Then kissed you again.

And again.

Short, insistent kisses, and then finally, he slipped his tongue between your lips without asking, claiming your mouth like it was just another match he’d won. No warning. No time to think. Just him —invading you.

His hands stayed firm on your face, holding you like it was tender, but you knew better. It was control.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, he was still right there —close enough to count his lashes. His breathing was uneven, his lips wet. So were yours. You could still feel his saliva on your mouth.

Then came the smile.

That unbearable, smug, culé smile.

And he whispered:

“Visca el Barça.”

You shoved him with both hands, hard against his chest. He stumbled back a few steps, surprised.

Then, without a word, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Not gently. Not subtly. Like you were erasing him.

“Disgusting, Marc”, you spat. “Get out.”

“You’re seriously kicking me out?”

“I told you not to kiss me. You mocked me. And then that phrase. Leave.”

He laughed —right in your face.

And then, without warning, he lunged at you.

Literally.

You didn’t have time to fight back. You just felt the soft cushion of the couch behind you, his body on top of yours, and his arms locking you in.

“Marc, get off!”, you shouted, trying to shove him, but he was stronger.

“Shhh”, he whispered, pressing his face into your neck. “I just want a hug. I’m celebrating, joder. No seas pesada.”

You squirmed to get away, but he was faster. He grabbed your wrists —not tightly, just enough— and with a swift move, placed one of your legs around his hip. Then the other.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”, you snarled, writhing beneath him.

“Getting you to stop fighting me”, he said. “You’re always calmer when I hug you.”

“Don’t hug me!”

“Too late”, he murmured, pulling you tighter against him, face buried in your neck again. “You’re warmer like this.”

“I’m warm because I’m furious!”

He chuckled against your skin. “Yeah, yeah… mi madridista enojada. Just stay still. Five minutes. I swear if Madrid wins next time, I’ll let you stomp on me.”

“¡Marc!”

“Just five.”

❝ justageekk, 2025 ❞

[lustjunkiie]

oh, father! where art thou?

part two.

highschool au, long lost lovers, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy and sunshine-esque dynamics, simon riley & fem!reader.

cw) angst, use of 2nd person, allusions/vague depictions to intimacy eventually, drinking eventually, breakdowns, motherhood, simon riley is father, un-canon lore! all of it eventually

tw) super short and i’m so sorry

also, scarf scene inspired by @girl-lostconnection ! please read her “Unsweetened Lemonade” AU! <3

previous part

Winter in Manchester was never easy. It marked the beginning of a new term, new classes, new people in these new classes. Not to mention the Manchurian weather. Fog, humidity, and wind.

All of Simon’s adversaries. His clothes were too thin, too ratty for all of this nonsense. You noticed this, more closely — perhaps, for the first time when you caught him smoking outside of the orchestra building again. He’s lucky Dr. Harris was too senile to really care about busting him for smoking.

You sat and watched him. Effortlessly blowing the smoke from his chapped lips, like he’s already setting a somber tone for his day. Fucking weirdo, also, what’re you doing just standing here and watching him?

Since when did you become so interested in him?

You approach him again — before you can think better of it — and thrust your scarf into his chest, same as you did with the granola bar just a few weeks earlier. He’s puzzled, but almost unsurprised. He flicks some ash in your direction and snickers to himself as you flinch away from it.

“Wot’s ‘is?” He asks. You’re dumbfounded by how dense he must be.

“S’a scarf.” You respond, and you’ve must’ve made a face because he rolls his eyes at you.

“Yeah, gathered ‘at much. Wot’s it for?”

“It’s 5° celsius outside, and you’re asking why I’m giving you a scarf?” She asks, her eyebrows aching from her confusion.

“No need for lip, princess,” he chuffs back at you. Princess? Wot? “Was jus’ askin’ why you’ve decided to gimme your scarf.”

“‘Cause I ‘a clearly see you’re cold.” She says, reaching the point of exasperation.

He scoffs, as if that’s the most ridiculous idea he’s ever come across. “Come off it,” he chuffs and passes the scarf back to you unceremoniously.

“Mate, ‘at’s so hard to understand?! Givin’ you a scarf, ‘ot a billion quid!” And he snickers, having found you riled up again. He seems to let go of his grief a bit easier now. Especially in your presence.

He towers over you, as lanky and awkward as he is. Seeing you with your hands on your hips is quite funny, and he can’t even remember your name. Just knows you’re sweet and well-respected. All the things he will never be.

“Don’t need it.” He says, and you give up on conversation. Shoving it against his chest again, you storm off to first lesson. It’s some arithmetic class you wished you could’ve opted out of, but alas.

And who walks in? The boy with the scarf! Oh my, God. Oh, my God! You physically coil back into your seat when you see him search the room for his desk, before slipping into the one beside you. Your scarf is poking from his jacket. Your scarf. He’s wearing it! Well, hiding it. But a win is a win.

You peak onto his desk, learning his name wordlessly.

Simon Riley.

Short and sweet.

“Got a pencil, luv?” He nearly knocks you out of your seat with how abruptly he’s spoken. Shit, when did the teacher start talking?

“You’ve come to school without a pencil?” You asked, reaching into your bag for one nonetheless. You hand him a sparkly pink mechanical pencil, and he looks at you like you’ve got two heads. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” you teased him, all too proud of yourself.

Oh, doesn’t he know it, sweetheart.

“Some station’ry you’ve got,” he chuffs, but your chest almost physically puffs when he starts writing in his scratchy handwriting with the frilly pencil nonetheless.

You grumble under your breath, mocking his voice and sticking out your tongue. Appropriate rebellion, you think. He smiles for a split second, his home life forgotten. How do you have this effect on him? With the scarf and the stupid ass, girly ass pencil? Has he actually gone mad? Would be the most likely explanation.

You catch glimpses of him during the lesson, and the scent of him. It’s strong, musky, and mature. A grown man’s cologne. You wonder where it’s from. Smells expensive. But with every glimpse you catch, you can’t help but notice his lips. They’re chapped beyond oblivion and you’re wondering how he’s not chewing them till he draws blood.

You forget paying attention to the lecture entirely, and start rummaging through your purse. You find it! Aha! Your blueberry flavored “healing” lip balm.

“Here,” you all but slam it on his desk. He snorts at you and doesn’t give the tube a second glance. You don’t give him a chance to before you’re forcibly applying the lip balm for him, a rough grip on his chin and another tightly holding the lip balm. “Better?” You ask, and he’s again looking at you like you have two heads, but at least his lips are shiny.

And the second term of Year 11 continues like that. You offering him small things to help him cope with the Manchurian winter and him begrudgingly accepting.

The last day of the second term roles around, the winter snow and harsh winds bygones. And you still haven’t seen your scarf. Hm.

Simon sits down in his desk, the desk you two have shared, the desk you two have bonded over and fought over just as much. He is a bit dejected today, but he’s been looking a bit better. His arms are fuller and his face is a normal color this time of year. He begins speaking without even glancing your way.

“Been workin’ ad’a butcher shop.” He says, as if this has been the secret to the universe all along.

“Is’at the answer to the ‘omework from ‘ast night?” You tease, just getting under his skin. He’s ready to give up on this whole being honest and being vulnerable thing.

Ready to give up on telling you that you were the highlight of his year, as much as you two fought. That he prays he’ll classes again with you come Year 12, and that you helped him get over all the grief he’d been harboring. That as much as he didn’t understand you in your entirety, he adored you. That as much as it was a hurdle to allow himself to get to know you, he’s enjoyed it all. And he’s glad he jumped that hurdle and not that ledge. Because where would you be without him? He allows himself the one cocky thought.

“‘N’ I thought I’d told her she waddn’t in’ited but she’s comin’ anyhow and I’ve ‘iven up try’n to convince ‘er not to.” Oh? You were speaking? You were actively telling him something?

“Sounds like a piece’a work.” He chuffs and you nod in inordinate agreement, believing that he was listening.

“Anyway, wot’s ‘is ‘bout you workin’ in’a butcher shop?” She looped the conversation back to him. Fuck. What did he have planned to say? Why’d he throw away those damn flashcards he’d made?

“Been makin’ some money, yeah?” He starts slowly.

“Lucky prick,” she chuckles softly.

“Nah, ‘ot the point, luv.”

“Oh?”

“Got you sum’n.” He says, and she’s shocked. Did she really mean this much to him? She’s caught up in her emotions, before she feels it in her hand.

A fucking granola bar.

Simon is chuckling heartily, and she’s thrown the damn thing back in his face.

“Not funny, Si.” And he stops laughing.

Did you just give him a nickname? Oh, honey. If only you knew what you had now.

This poor sod, on a leash that you didn’t even attach him to. And he’s shortened it, too, for your courtesy. Don’t worry about him running, off, luv.

“My boss ‘ave me some cuts.” His voice slices confusion in half. “You got any plans ‘or dinner ‘onight?”

What?!

“I. . . dinner?”

“Yeah, you never ‘eard of it?” He teases. Because he’s so positively hilarious.

“‘Re you askin’ me’a come over for dinner?” She says, a bit louder this time.

“Not if you’re gettin’ your knickers in’a twist ‘bout it.” He looks at you like you have two heads. Jesus, is there something you didn’t see in the mirror this morning?

“No! I. . . I’ll check with my parents but that’s probably fine. Eh, wot time?”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

“Seven.”

next part

[2cutie]

A Touch Possessive

Kung Lao x Female!Reader

summary: 18 + content! Kung Lao doesn't particularly enjoy when you train with Tomas. He thinks that's a pretty fair thing to feel all things considered, and whether or not it was true outside his head was another thing. Whether it was his ego or denial, he doesn't think you'd be too upset if he comes up with a pretty little lie to steal you away.... You won't be, right?

a/n: pretty lil thing, innit? *pats his shoulder* dimples make my brain a bit feral. also this is longgg because I was feeling very self-indulgent. (i should probs start bulleting) but enjoy sharing my sins.

Kung Lao's gaze scans the proximity of the training field, his eyes narrowing in the sun's rays. He was looking for you - of course. When was he not?

It became more of a habitual trait at this point, and he couldn't really help it. But he had a reason this time, at least.

He was just… annoyed that you were spending time away from him. Specifically with other people.

Yeah, it was totally a reason. And no, he wasn't jealous. He had this monologue in his head everyday and every time he settled on not being jealous - therefore he wasn't.

You were a champion that Lord Liu Kang had collected; Modest, sweet, kind. A quick learner. Additionally, a great fighter. So it was really nothing short of due time that Liu kang instilled your assistance in training the rest of the champions.

Lao relished in that! He would purposefully do a poor job just to feel your hands position him to a better stance. He would work harder just to strip off his shirt because he was "sweating too much". He sent Raiden a winning smirk and wink every time you fell for it. Raiden always shook his head in disapproval.

But, that delight deflated when he realized that you would be doing the same to the others as well. Your hands on Kenshi's chest? Raiden's waist?

And when you spread out Johnny's legs with your own to show him a better way to dive out of the way? You didn't actually believe Johnny needed assistance for that, did you? The actor was totally stealing his idea!

Besides, he was your boyfriend, not Johnny.

So there he was, sulking, as he searched the Wu Shi Academy for where you were.

It was after the day's training, one where you were separated to different groups. Not only did he not get to see sweat drip off you, but he didn't get to show off for you either.

Unfulfilling.

His eyes finally fell on you. You were a small distance away, conversing the shade with Tomas at your hip. Part of his mind knew you two were discussing your martial arts - after all, Tomas was most likely your instructor of the day - but the larger, more illogical part of his brain overruled that. Tomas was looking at you with those doe eyes of his after all.

He crossed over to you in record time. He called your name, purposefully interrupting the ninja mid-sentence.

You perked off the wall, looking over Tomas' shoulder upon hearing his voice. "Kung Lao?"

He stopped when was beside Tomas. Well, until he was semi-blocking assassin purposefully but not enough for it to seem on purpose. He was smart when he wanted to be. "You, uh, busy? I need your help with.." Oh, he didn't get this far. "..Something."

You blinked. "Ah." You were mildly disinterested, but who were you to deny those dimples? You turned to Tomas, who only shook his head, dismissing you. You apologized, excusing yourself to fall in step beside Kung Lao. "What's up?"

Kung Lao couldn't resist the creeping smirk on his face. He intertwines is arm in yours, pulling you closer as if to prevent you from turning around. "I kinda lost a paper this morning. You don't mind helping me, right?"

Your face scrunched, both in confusion and disbelief. "A paper?" Seriously? That's what he wanted? You turned your head around, debating about returning to Tomas. Kung Lao walked faster. "Why not just be more organized?"

"That's more of your thing. I'm more unbothered."

"So even you admit it?"

Your cheeky comment didn't go unnoticed as he glances down to you. "It's not like I'm a mess all the time, I mean… most of the time. But not all. That counts for something."

You held back several retorts to that as he guided you to his room. He released you only once you were there, opening the door to his room. He gave a nonchalant shrug and stepped inside.

Unsurprisingly, it was in disarray, but not as much as you expected from him. You eyed it over quickly. A part of you semi-hoped this cursed paper would be in the middle of the floor or somewhere in sight so you could just leave. "What paper is it exactly?"

Chinese decor was sparsely scattered, being a spare room for the monks of the academy before their arrival. There was a crest of his heritage on the wall and the desk pushed to the wall was filled with scattered papers in his messy handwriting, all in mandarin. It seemed a fair place to start.

"Training data. I think I left it somewhere around here." His eyes follow you to his desk, some sort of shallow pride swelling in his chest to have you in his shared space. He closed the door.

"Training data," you repeat, deftly shifting through the papers. "You keep track of that? I mean, that's great. I just didn't really… expect it, I guess."

He comes closer behind you, peering over your shoulder as your muse around on his desk. He feels a little offended at that, even despite it being a lie. "I always keep track of progress and achievements."

A partial lie, anyways.

You hum in response and continue to dig through his litter. You notice that he is not at all helping, but it's not much of a shocker, really. You eyed a familiar receipt in the corner of his desk. "You know.." You pick it up, holding it over your shoulder accusatory. "If you kept track of things the same way you keep tabs of this receipt with your favourite food on it, you'd be fine."

Kung Lao snatched it back. ""Hey, don't look at that! It's the only thing that makes my life worth living, so don't you dare laugh at it!" His tone was playful and exaggerated, but it was a perfect ploy for him to move closer to you.

"Ugh, you are so dramatic," you huffed, rolling your eyes. But you couldn't exactly stop the faint blush that creeped on your cheeks upon feeling the warmth emitting just behind you.

And yes, of course - of course - he noticed. He stood right behind you as you continued your fruitless search, really just keeping your mind busy. He brushed some hair off your neck to get a good look at your face. He smirked at your reaction. "I'm simply passionate about what matters to me."

Ignoring that, you pulled away from his hand and attempted to stay focused. "You could be helping."

"I know." You sent him a look over your shoulder at his dismissive tone. "But I am helping." He continues in a low tone and his arms come beside you, his palms pressed on either side of the desk, trapping you between them. Your fingers stop rummaging when you feel him press against your back. Your eyes narrow suspiciously.. "What's wrong?" He asks in feigned innocence, his lips brushing your ear. "Did I make you lose your concentration?"

"This paper doesn't exist," you state. Not a question.

You felt Kung Lao's smirk grow against your ear. He moved down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck, nodding slowly. "I know." He really couldn't even put up a lie? "I just wanted an excuse to pull you away from Tomas. He can be annoying.."

You really, really wanted to be mad at him. But his warmth, almost scorching against your back felt a little too nice and he pressed tigher to you, encasing you. You felt yourself flush. You put a hand on the desk to stabilize yourself. Focus…

"I wasn't annoyed," you attempted to argue back, keeping your tone straight. "And that's not for you to decide for me."

His right hand shifted from the table to your hip, keeping you in place. "It doesn't matter, I just don't like seeing you with him." He whispered against your neck, mouthing his lips on your skin. He moved towards your ear again, his timbre taking a firm, and almost possessive murmur. "You shouldn't be talking with him."

You felt your gut churn. That tone wasn't doing you any favours. And he knew damn well what he was doing pressing himself behind you while pushing up against the wood, the friction pressing at your core. You knew he heard you thickly swallow. "He is still my mentor," you defend, even through your stuttered breath.

"Yeah, but you don't need to train with him. You train with me too, you know?" Kung Lao defied, voice firm and possessive. His warm hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back to him tighter.

You grunted, placing your other hand on the desk. You were trying so damn hard to keep your composure, to not prize him for his actions. But feeling him press so suggestively to you, feeling the brief hard on against your ass was maddening.

He felt so annoyingly good. Your hand snaked to his wrist, squeezing a pathetic warning to him. "I am also a student. I cannot stop training simply because you're feeling left out."

You felt his chuckle vibrate beside your ear. It was too easy to sense your failing composure. His hand crept from your belly to interlock his fingers with yours, trapping it against the wood under a firm grasp. "Whatever you say," He mumbled, dripping with a smug, amused tone, knowing damn well he wasn't listening to a thing you were saying. His lips kissed the nape of your neck, his tongue running to taste your skin.

A shiver thrummed through you. How was he so good at this? You're attempting to stay determined, but your facade was crumbling. Your hand clenched beneath his, and you squirmed.

On the contrary, Kung Lao loved the way you were involuntary grinding against his hips. His lips pressed more firmly to your neck, his lips sucking at your delicate skin. His free hand went back to the side of your hip. "Ah, ah, ah," he mocked, "don't move so much."

You let out a huff through your nose. You were done with avoiding him.

But you wouldn't let him win.

In a display of insubordination, you wrapped your arm behind his neck, pushing him closer to you. You ground back on him, firm and deliberate, stealing some power back from him. He groaned, and you felt him twitch against your ass. Your fingers sank into his hair, grabbing at his ponytail.

The hand on your hip gripped tightly and he meets the angle of your hips. "Playing dirty?" He managed to get out, the natural smugness of his voice replaced by arousal.

"Like you don't like it." You leaned your head back against his shoulder, drinking in the tremors of his response. He bit at your earlobe. "You're so annoying."

"I'm taking it as a compliment," He conceded, his tongue caressing a path behind your ear. His hand trailed lower on your stomach, his thumb swiping over your underbelly.

You heart stuttered as his fingers trailed under the layer of your shirt. You tugged his head down to your height, kissing his dimple in permission to continue. You littered kisses along his strong jawline, spreading your legs and grinded against his cock encouragingly. Kung Lao leaned it to your lips, meeting your motion in return easily.

Kung Lao's hand dipped below the pants of your uniform, his dexterous fingers grazing your awaiting folds. "Gods, you're so impatient," he grunts, the rumble reverberating both beside and behind you. His voice was a blend of desire and lust as you melted into his touch.

"You're just slow," you retaliated and nipped at his neck, trying to get him to go faster already. There was no need for him to tease; you were so wet already.

He grunted at the sting of your teeth, a shudder running through him. His head pulled off your shoulder just to look down to you, his dark eyes lusted over. "I'm slow, huh?" He questioned in a low mockery. Before you could even question his response, two fingers dipped easily into you, deep. "Because I'm slow, right?"

Your whole body locked, spine arching back into him at the sudden intrusion. Neither your body or your mind expected to be stuffed so suddenly, and an absolutely pitiful whine broke from your throat. "Ah, fuck, you asshole," you panted, his fingers already setting a steady pace in fucking you open. Your slickness made you take him easily.

"Oohh, look who's getting bratty now," Kung Lao taunted with a sharp flick of his wrist. His simper spread when he felt your hot walls clench around him.

You didn't - couldn't - manage a reply to his irritable remark. Not when his fingers worked you skillfully and steadily.

And by the gods was he good with his fingers.

You were practically convulsing gently against his frame, trying to escape from the growing pleasure that was already gnawing inside you at his fingers alone. Your unbound hand gripped at his forearms, his wrist, his fingers - anything you could reach, trying wordlessly beg him to ease up.

You were eating your words now, feeling yourself mend to a moaning debauched mess, so pliant and submissive. His fingers scratched you deep and practiced; he knew your body all too well.

His eyes burned on your skin as he watched your every reaction. You writhed against his solid frame, but your body was at the mercy he didn't feel like giving you. His sighed, so satisfied, as his gaze fell on how well your pussy swallowed his fingers and drooled over his wrist. "Now look at you, so desperate and helpless.. all from just my fingers." He punctuated his words with a crook of his knuckles, hitting just right to release a whine of pleasure from you.* "You were saying you wanted me to go faster?"

Your mind took too long to process what he had said, and by the time it did, his fingers fucked were pumping in you faster, rougher. His gaze swallowed you, watching your crumble of power.

"K-King Lao, Lao, please, L-Lao," you spluttered, clenching around his fingers as you nearly sobbed. Your hips jerked in time with the thrusts of his wrist, your body chasing the pleasure without your mind's permission. His arm wrapped around your waist, enforcing you to keep partaking in the assault of pleasure. "I-I can't-"

"Yes you can. You can take it," He intercepted, keeping you pinned against him, taught. His fingers were relentless. "Don't tell me. You're overwhelmed by my fingers alone?" He purposefully hit the same spot within you, abusing it over and over again, just to feel that delicious jerk of your hips against his hardening dick.

You want to say more, but you find yourself unable to do anything more than just to stutter out breaths and broken sobs. You feel his other hand snake from your hip down, and you blush hard at the realization of what he's doing.

He spreads your folds lewdly, just for the added torture and for his own satisfaction of having a better look at his assault on you. You were dripping for him, your pussy looking so abused and full as your swallowed around his knuckles, painting them in a clear essence. Your pants fell off your hips and to to the floor finally. You kick them hastily off your ankles, not caring where they land.

You're thankful he's mostly supporting your weight. Your own legs were not an ally anymore, not having the strength as you only leaned back into him, seeking his touch and warmth. Your head fell into his strong bicep, muffling your moans into the muscle. You had half the nerve to sink your teeth into him for torturing you like this, but you were enjoying it more than you were willing to admit.

"All spread out in front of me. How can I not just take you?" Kung Lao's own breath was turning hot and ragged, the puffs hitting against your skin. He was so hard against you now, his eyes lusted over. His tongue darts out to wet his lips while his thigh snakes inbetween yours to open you up further for him.

You felt so exposed, so vulnerable and yet with him it felt so right as he admired you, devoured you with his eyes. Relentless, he pressed his thumbpad against your clit and you let out a shrill of a moan, tears hazing your eyes in pleasure. You felt your clit tremble. "L-Lao, gods, Lao.. I.. I'm going to.."

Lao chuckled deeply at the song of your shattered moan. "You're gonna what, hm?" His fingers kept their steady pace, fucking up into you while his thumb applied more pressure, swirling. He was determined to see you fall apart, to see your fall from grace. "Are you gonna come for me?"

You nodded quickly. There was no use in lying. Your mind was completely unraveled, only focused on the rising glow inside of you. Your hips rode in time with his wrist.

"Do it. Come for me." The command was a hiss in your ear, low and gravelly.

That sent you over, as if his permission held power over you.

Your release hit you - hard and crashing. You convulsed in his hands, her body arching and twitching. Kung Lao worked you through it, working you through you even as the white started to faze out of your vision. He held you firm, wanting to feel each twitch of your climax.

You sobbed and moaned his name, the only thing your mind could process, quivering as you came undone and when he worked you into overstimulation. His fingers slowed as you started to drift away from your high. The new wetness making his coating his fingers thickly.

You stuttered at the movement on your oversensitive walls. Your grimaced, shuddered. "Kung Lao," you warned. "Please."

Alright, he could be nice.

He let his fingers slip out of you, missing your encompassing heat as soon as they left you. His fingers were stained with your mark, your release dripping down his fingers. He held his hand in front of you both, forcing you to get a good look at it all the same. You painted him so beautifully.

There was a primal satisfaction he felt thrum through his body. Kung Lao took a moment to admire the sight, feeling the slick between his fingers. "Gods, look at you," he murmured, full of pride and desire. His eyes shifted to yours as he brought his fingers to his mouth, pressing them to the flat of his tongue. He slowly, savoringly licked them clean.

You groaned at that, a spike of heat bubbling in you again. You took the moment to shallow out your breathing. "You're so gross."

"You love it," he hauntingly responds, his tongue running over his thick fingers, cleaning every last drop you left on him. When he was satisfied, he hugs you to his chest. The same hand finds course to your chin and tilts your head back.

Your mouth was parted as you panted, meeting his eyes back with your glazed ones. Kung Lao's eyes scanned over your face, committing the painting of your features into your brain

"You look so beautiful when you come undone by me." He leaned his mouth forward, hovering just above your lips. You think he's going to kiss you, until his fingers press your lips. The same fingers you came on. "Taste yourself," he ordered.

You didn't protest. His fingers dipped into your mouth and you pressed your tongue to them. Your taste was faint, but still you obediently listened to him. As his fingers pushed deeper, your tongue wraps around his index, slick and warm before you swallow. You suck on them, your eyes never leaving his as you watch his desire unfold in his eyes.

"That's it," he praises. "Taste good, don't you?" You had enough sense to glare harmlessly to him. He takes his fingers out when he's content, a trail of saliva falling disconnecting. "You look adorable trying to glare at me when you're flustered and dazed."

"I can't believe you lied about some paper just to feel me up." You tried to break out of his hold, your mind catching back up to remind you that you should be annoyed with him.

"Hey, hey, don't get mad at me. I was just having some fun." His grip was unrelenting. "I feel like you should reward me for even letting Tomas flirt with you in the first place."

You were allowed enough room to turn in his hands, facing him with an unamused look. "He was not flirting with me," you argued back. "And you don't get anything just for being jealous."

Kung Lao sent you an incredulous look. "Are you really truing to deny it? You must be completely clueless then. It was so obvious. And I wasn't jealous," he added on petulantly.

"Tomas was not.." You trailed off, thinking back to some parts of your conversation with the assassin. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lao had a point. "It's not important," you ignored his smug 'hah!'. "I wasn't flirting with him, anyways."

"You're just as oblivious as always," he retorts. "And just because you weren't doesn't mean anything. I don't like how he was all over you. He knows I'm yours."

You ignored how your heart clenched when he said that. "You are still not getting anything just because you got jealous. And yes," you tacked on quickly, "You are jealous."

"Wha-" He sputtered. "I am not jealous! Why would I be jealous of him of all people?" He huffed, an indication that he was, in fact, incredibly jealous but refused to admit it.

"Possessive then? Infatuated?" You crossed your arms over your chest. "Envious? Bitter? Which synonym would you prefer?"

Kung Lao releases a frustrated huff, knowing this was going nowhere. His eyes flicked away as you continued to drive in your point. "Fine, I was.. a little jealous. Are you happy now?" His tone was still defensive, but there was a small glint of resignation.

"You were all of the above," you corrected, eyeing him.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, you got me. I'm infatuated, envious, whatever. Anything else you wanna add to the list?

"Sure," you practically purred and reveled in the way his shoulders slumped. "Egotistical, flamboyant, cocky…" He were enjoying the sulking look of his. "And looks so damn good when he admits it."

His brown eyes look back at you, that smirk returning to play on his lips when you mentioned the last part. His ego never took a bruise for too long. "You forgot humble and modest.'

"Oh, right," you muse, matching his energy. You smirk up to him, unfolding your arms as you cock your head to the side. "The great Kung Lao."

His eyes seem to gleam back to you, enjoying the banner. A sense of confidence washed over him at the title. "Greatest warrior of all time." So self-assured.

"And exactly what does the great Kung Lao think he deserves since he so believes he's entitled to something?"

"I think as the Great Kung Lao I'm deserving of many things. Recognition, respect, admiration…" his eyes flicker down to your form, his gaze walking over you "Among other things Tomas won't get."

You give him an unimpressed look. "And what do you want now?" You ask instead.

"Well, for one" He stars, "For you to stay far away from Tomas. And for two.." Kung Lao moves in, backing you up against the desk once more, the back of your thighs digging into the wood "I think I deserve a little reward. For being honest about my feelings." Your legs bend until you're sitting on the edge, and neither of you care about the papers you may be crumpling. His hands are on either side of you again. "A nice, hard, long reward."

Your hands rest of his shoulders, eagerly squeezing at his muscles. His hands come to pull apart your thighs to slot between them. Your turn to lick your lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Lao's body is firm as he pulls you by your legs to him. "And I think I'll take here, right now."

"On the desk? Seriously?".

"What? You don't like the idea of it?" His hands explore the contours of your sides. "You didn't mind a moment ago."

You sigh, defeated, and instead pull at his vest. "You're overdressed," you mumble, rising your eyes to his expectantly.

"I can fix that, easy." He moves away just enough to start undoing the buttons. Each undone button is a tease to his tanned skin below, a shade that has your mouth watering in anticipation. He pulls it off his arms, tossing it somewhere on the floor. His chest is bared to you, muscles rippling with the movement.

Your eyes roam him appreciatively and your hands find his skin again, massaging into his toned chest. He's well aware of how built he is, and even more aware of how much you appreciate it.

Kung Lao leans back, his face close to yours as he sends you that cock-eating smirk. "You like the sight, huh?" He teases. Like he had to ask.

"So obnoxious." You pinch his dark nipple in retaliation.

"Hey!" He lets out a shocked gasp, and his chest twitches at the sudden pinch. "Watch it now, that's sensitive." He pouts, rubbing a hand over the abused peck. He gives a brief glare before his smirk creeps back. "Do it again."

You let out an exasperated huff. "Ruining the moment."

He laughs, settling his grip on your hips. "You never complained before. Besides, you're the one who pinched my nipple."

"As if you didnt' like it," you retorted. You brought your hands to his face, carressing over his soft skin, your eyes drinking in his spellbinding features. Your fingers trail over his soft lips, the curve of his smile before tracing the dents of his dimples, staring at them in awe.

The dents deepened. "A fan?" His lips kiss your fingertips.

"Unfortunately."

"Only unfortunately? That hurts." His large hands squeeze you. "Can't help I have a handsome face. Lucky you, hm?" His self-assured confidence was back in full force it seemed.

"Hm," you repeated, matching his tone. "Looks ever better between my thighs."

There was a nice reaction. His eyebrows shot up at your boldness, his teeth peeking beneath his lips. "Is that an invitation?" He asks, voice lowering to a more seductive undertone. His hands shifted the inside of your legs, pushing them.

"Take it as a suggestion, if you will."

His hands stopped the junction of you pelvis. "I think I'll have to take you up on that." He kneels on the floor, quick and impatient, forcing your legs to expose yourself in the process. He's practically drooling already, and you were already bare, ready for him from the previous sin. Your pussy was a delectable sight but he still managed to trail his eyes back up to you when he heard the quick intake of breath.

Your hand shifted to the back of his head.

"Eager?" He teases, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin. You have half the mind to tell him to shut up but the words are lost when he leans in, his tongue licking a long stripe up you.

Your whole body jolts from the contact, and his hands have to hold you down atop your thighs, keeping them spread so you don't squeeze him. Not just yet, anyways. When he presses his lips to yours, sucking, a squeak leaves you and your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at his scalp.

He can feel you twitch and squirm, both beneath his palms and on his tongue. His ego inflates at the sound of your pleasure. He chuckles, the deep vibrations coursing inside of you. "Sensitive, aren't you?" He teases between licks, his tongue lapping at the wetness unfolding before him. You can feel yourself opening to him. His fingers dig dents into your plush thighs, keeping you in place as he continues, dipping his tongue inside of you.

"Oh gods," you whimper. You can't manage a reply, not right now. You undo his ponytail, letting his hair fall free to his shoulders, and you grip it to ground yourself.

Kung Lao lets out a low moan as he swallows your lather, a taste he can never be filled of, and you jolt at its vibrations. His eyes open to see you, drinking in that delicious look of ecstasy on your face. It spurs him on, his tongue working inside your hot folds with more fervor. "You're shaking," he murmurs between sucks, and his eyes are blown wide as watches between your thighs, full of hunger.

You know that, damn him. But your face still flushes deep red from hearing it from him and you whimper, trying to stifle your moans. Seems you're being stubborn. He can't have that; He'll just have to pull them out of you.

Kung Lao sucks on your clit, grazing it just lightly between his teeth, before his tongue flattens against it to soothe it. He places open mouth kisses to your folds. He wants to hear every sound, feel every whimper and gasp of pleasure on his tongue and lips. He wants it all to be for him. His tongue rides inside you, moving quick and with purpose.

You pull him more taught, pressing the both of you closer, to have him deeper. He sucks and you jerk, a moan leaving deep within your chest. His hands fall away from your thighs, instead dipping underneath your hips and crushing you to him. His mouth covers the whole of you, and he moans in satisfaction as your thighs instantly squeeze around his head, twitching and trembling. An approving grunt follows.

He has more access to you, his tongue exploring each wet cavern and crevice of you, and you can feel each path it takes, each thrust the appendage pulses into you. You're not sure if you can decide if you like his tongue or lips on you better, but fortunately you don't have to decide.

He loves every second of this, loves every drop you make for him to swallow.

Your lips are parted as you heave your breaths, the blush running down your chest and dusting your shoulders. He doubles his efforts, his tongue fucking furiously against you. He wants nothing more than to see you writhe and cry out beneath him.

And yet, when you feel yourself fading, can feel yourself getting too far gone, he stops. Sudden and short, and you feel empty as his and unfulfilled as his tongue sinks out of you.

You hear him growl as he pulls away, not entirely wanting to himself. But he's craving you carnally.

You whine in protest, panting. His chin is wet with your slick and it makes your body flame hotter.

Kung Lao's eyes are darkened with desire, his own breathing ragged. He can still taste you on his tongue, can feel the evidence of his work on his chin. "You taste so good," he praises as he licks his lips. His hands squeeze you encouragingly. "But I need more. I need you."

He rises to his feet without another warning, his body towering over yours since you slipped down to your forearms. One hand stays upon your thigh, the other coming to caress your face, his thumb tracing your plump bottom lip. "I need inside you," *he mummers, voice rugged. His body presses against you, his aching cock pressed right up to your clit through the confines of his fabric, but you still felt it twitching when he feels your wetness touch it. It's evident how much he desires you.

"I think you may have a kink for desk sex," you comment idly, your breath ghosting his lips. You shudder at how hard he is.

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a deep kiss. But it's short before he pulls away, his breath hot as he responds. "Maybe." His hand slips to your neck, a shiver running through you. "I think it's just you." He pushes you backward until your back is laying on the desk.

"That's so stupid and cheesy," you comment but bite your lip. He grabs at the top of your uniform and slides the rest of it over top of you, leaving you just in your bra. His eyes soak in the sight hungrily, greedy. It cups your breast so nicely…

But no as perfect as it would be with his hands. With that though, he gropes your bust, pushing the plush of it up against your bra, plumping the skin. He nearly pants at that alone. Maybe he was a boob guy afterall.

It takes his mind a moment to process you responded. "I know you don't mind it." His hand continues to knead over the lace of your bra, a touch possessive. His eyes have a dark gleam to them.

His hand pushes beneath the band of your bra, pushing it up until your bare breasts bounce out below and he wastes no time in pressing his palms to them. You arch into his touch.

A hum of approval sounds in his throat. The peak of your nipples are enticing, and he runs it between his fingers, feeling it harden at the attention. He presses the peak with his thumb, his eyes roaming to your face to watch your expressions.

"You're being handsy," you comment, pretending as if this was having no effect on you.

He tilts his head. "Can you blame me? You're just too tempting." He shifts the bra off you afterward, another garment falling somewhere to the mess of his floor. "There's so much I want to do to you.."

"Why don't you start with kissing me?"

A soft chuckle leaves him. He presses flush against you again, taking in the sight of your flustered skin. "I'm definitely doing that," he mumbles over your lips, teasing you before finally capturing yours in a deep, passionate embrace.

His tongue wastes no time in licking into your mouth, tasting, his hands holding you in place as he tastes you hungrily. You kiss him back with the same fervor, but you let him dominate the path of your lips, the ferocity of the moment. Your legs encompass him, wrapping over his sharp hips. You grind up into him. moaning as he meets your movement, his desire so hard as it slides against your wanting folds. Your fingers find their way back to his hair.

"I have a question," you murmur inbetween of kisses and you nibble on his bottom lip before salving it with your tongue.

Kung Lao shudders. He breaks his next kiss, keeping close as he looks down with lidded eyes. "Listening."

"Can you just get the fuck inside of me already?"

His tongue rolls over his teeth, dimples returning. "So bossy." But his hands are already moving down to the waistband of his pants, pulling them down without a waste of another second. There's a bit of arrogance in his expression when he's there nude above you. "I like it. But can't you wait a little bit longer?" He's purposefully teasing you.

"Make me wait any longer," you started, a grumble in your chest, "And I'm going back to Tomas."

A laugh escapes out of him, his head dipping back in amusement. When the laugh ends, his head dips toward you again, his eyes gleaming with annoyance and a flash of possessiveness. He leans in, his lips hot against your ear, his voice dipping low and dangerous as he speaks. "Don't you dare every joke about that," he nearly growls.

"Then get on with it." You lick a hot stripe from the curve of his collar bone, up the length of his neck, tasting his sweat and pulse beneath his tongue. You stop at his chin, placing a wet kiss there. The sight of his thick, twitching and curved cock nearly makes you feral. Precum drips out of its slit and your mouth waters.

Kung Lao shudders overtop of you, a moan escaping past his lips. His self-control is fading, the desire of how badly he wants you surging forth. It was driving him wild.

He finally kicks off his pants completely.

You are both bare and exposed, the heat between the both of you scorching. Your hands seek his skin, following the valley of his contours before finding purchasing in wrapping around his neck, keeping him close to you. Your breaths mingle, tasting each other's. You're so ready for him, it almost hurts with every pulsing throb that runs through you. You peck his lips, looking into his eyes as you await him.

You don't dare to blink. You always loved watching his expression when he sunk into you, afterall.

He sigh when he finally, finally, lines himself up to you.

His chocolate burn you, committing the feel of your legs around his waist to his vast memory of you. His heart is pounding in the confines of his chest, his body tight with need for you. "You're beautiful," he can't help but mutter, his words barely more than a whisper. He drinks in your every feature, his breath catching in his throat as he finally, slowly, pushes into you.

His girth stretches into you and your warmth envolpes him, so easily encompassing, your body familiarized with every part of him. You grunt at his entrance, your head dipping back onto the desk. Your hips arch up into him, his cock curving into you deeply. He holds you steady.

You're so tight, so hot, so wet. So perfect for him.

Your hand squeezes the back of his neck, the other raking your nails into the curve of his back as you ground yourself into the moment. "Kung Lao," you moan out his name, watching his eyes dilate, his eyebrows scrunch in pleasure as he hilts into you.

He's always so expressive in that moment, with how his lips part open, his eyes haze beyond his control.

"You feel so good," he grunts, ragged and deep, his lips still parted as he breaths out the words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment at sensation of your nails dipping into his skin, his body rigid with pleasure. He loves that sound of his name on your lips, the way you say it; the way you need him in this moment.

He begins to move, his hips thrusting into you slowly at first. His hand bruise your hips as he tries to maintain the last threads of his control. His eyes open to fixate on your face.

He didn't need to wait for you to adjust. Not when you were so used to him, not when he prepared you so well. He moves inside of you deeper, accumulating you to his increasing movement. His breath fans off your skin, both of your moans slipping into the other's mouth.

You're so slick around his cock. He opens you wider for himself, a hand holding you down on your thigh, while the other glides to the dip of your knee and raises your leg up, settling it over his shoulder to spread you. His angles his hips a new angle, delving into you deeper.

You can practically see the moment in his eyes when he feels you fully adjust to him, the flash of lust over his pupils when he knows he can pummel you. He marks your plush skin possessively, his thumb stroking the skin that plumps under his grip. He drinks in every twitch, every pass of pleasure on your face and every moan that escapes from your lips. His pace increases steadily.

"You're so pretty, Kung Lap," you praise and he kisses your knee. "I like when your hair is down. Fuck, you feel so good." Your hips undulate as his thrusts turn more purposeful, more pointed.

Your compliments wash over him, his pulse jumping. Something in him always burned when you praised him, something primal. "You feel amazing," he responds, hips thrusting faster into you, your skin slapping off each other, the sound filing into the background.

You pussy clenches around him, pulling a moan from the both of you. You shiver at the sound of his moan, a ripple of pleasure coursing through you. You can hear how wet you are becoming, the lewd sound of your sex filling the room, amplifying your shared lust. The desk begins to creak beneath you as he picks up his pace to something more relentless.

Kung Lao's eyelids flutter again. You were going to kill him with how much you twitched and clenched without realizing. The desk was a countertenor to your lyrics of pleasure, urging him on, riling him to to pull more from you.

"You're so tight," he grunts.

You cursed below your breath. He hits into you so deep, so bruising. "You make such pretty sounds, Lao," you whisper. "Please keeping moaning. F-for me."

Your words course a shiver down his spine. He ruts into you, and it earns a deeper and more guttural sound from him. He pushes your thigh further up on his shoulder. "Don't stop talking," he growls out, his breathing coming out more heavy and broken as his thrusts stutter.

You poke an eye open, watching his sanity crumble. Your other eye opens. "You like when I talk to you?" You ask around broken moans. "Like when I praise you for being a good boy?'

Your eyes paint with lust when he nods, his eyes nearly rolling back at the title. "I love it," he gasps, steadying his weight on an arm as his thrusts slam into you. Your voice, your choice of words, drive him wild. His hips buck into you more urgently, less rythmatic, relying more onto his fraying instincts. You know his you a bruise in shape of his hand by tomorrow. "Do not stop. Please don't stop."

Who were you to deny that? "The great Kung Lao falls at such simple words.. So beautiful when he's like this." You moan at a particularly harsh thrust, spine jerking into him* "So pliant. My good boy.. good puppy."

Kung Lao nearly whines at that. You both demean and praise him as one, and he can't resist the pull it has over him, his movements turning sloppy as he ruts into your hips. He released a loud moan, his eyes practically pleading with yours. "I'm your good boy," he agrees, his body all but melting, his hips driving into you with a desperate need.

And yet you crave even more. You know he can give you more. "Don't be so gentle with me, pretty," you coo. "Go harder. Be rough. You can do that for me, can't you? Baby?"

A guttural moan passes his lips at the neediness in your request. He likes it rough. He loves it even more when you give permission to be rough.

"Anything," he nods. "Anything you want." He rightens his grip on and does an experimental thrust into you, harder, brutal as he drags you down onto him in time with his plunge. He doesn't wait for a response, diving right into a savage pace, jackhammering into you at an animalistic rhythm. His muscles strain, but gods he needed this.

The force of his hips send the desk into an endless creaking state that threaten to splinter, scraping against the floorboards. The back of it bangs against the wall with each calculated thrust, but neither of you can find a care to stop. A large part of him is riled knowing someone could hear you both, knowing that they're hearing him claim you.

"T-that's it," you affirmed. "Y-yes, Lao. Doing.. so-so good. Feel so good."

"You're mine," he states with a deep growl," the thought of someone - hopefully Tomas - hearing this was driving him to an almost overwhelming state. His hips bounced off yours in an impairing force, the sound of your coupling growing desperate, urgent.

"Yours," you confirmed. Your head throws back, your throat presented to him. Tempting… "F-fuck, Kung Lao..!"

That smirk returns to his lips, seeing the expanse of your throat bared to him. His head dips to it, his lips sucking over your pulse point. His teeth graze it, teasingly. "You have no idea how good you look like this.."

Moans spill from you, falling from your lips in an overflow and he soaks the vibrations of them, bites them. Your nails leave crescent dents into him, red marks burning into his back.* "Tell me about it," you request in a helpless whimper.

His teeth pave a burning pathway to the side of your cheek, his deep grunts filling your ear. "The way you open up for me." he starts, his voice sensual and gravelly with need, his body practically molding itself against you as he bounces you off of him. "The way your pussy takes me, the way your body responds.. Your moans.."

"Yeah?" Your urge him on, your own body responding to his words. "How wet I get for you?"

Kung Lao moans, the sound guttural. His lips find your jawline, pressing nibbles across it. He's driven by your words. "So wet, so tight."

The best part about that was just how amplified it made the sounds between you two. The loud, wet squelch. It made everything so much more intoxicating.

"You do it to me, it's all you, K-Kung Lao," you sputter out. Your lips messily find his.

This was so obscene, so disgustingly perfect. "All me, no one else," he growls between your tongues' intertwining, his pants hot and heavy as his thighs slam off yours. "No one else can make you feel this."

The hickeys he left tingle on your neck, and you relinquish in their burn. Your tongues dance in a heated, messy display, hands groping any part him you can reach. You find the column of his throat and you squeeze, firmly. "Only you," you agree. "S-so keep fucking me, Kung Lao. Make me come on you, let me feel - fuck - feel you inside me.. Please? So I know I'm yours. I-inside and out."

Kung Lao's lips part in delight, in pure pleasure at the restriction around his throat. The sound of your light begging, telling him to make you come? He would do anything you asked in that moment. "Fuuck, you're mine."

His hands grip onto the underside of your hips and lift you, the change of inclination allowing him to thrust into your warm cavern deeper.

Your moans leave you without any sense of control or restraint. You can only willingly take what he's pounding into you, your mouth agape as moans stream out of your raw throat. You're burning, so is he, and you can feel the familiar urge settling in your stomach.

He knows you're right there on the edge because he's there too, but his focus is entirely on you. "Come for me, baby girl," he grits out, driving into his hips. "I need to feel you." He grunts out your name, and you think that was the thing that truly breaks you.

You bury your fingernails further into him, ground yourself, overwhelmed by him. You moan his name loudly, the only thing your mind could process onto as you came for the second time, more immense than the last.

He watches you you fall apart beneath him, your climax painting you into the perfect picture of debauchery. Your inner walls tremble and grip him, aside your spiraling cries, and it's almost enough to send him following right over the edge. Almost. "You're perfect," he gasps out, gripping your thigh closer to him, using it as an anchoring point to plow into you.

Your breath remains shuddered, moans still slipping past your lips as he continues to fuck into you even in your hazed, barely there mindset as you tried to find solace after your release. Your hips jerk gently out of your control, bucking back up to him as he chases his own ecstasy. Your eyes are blurred, pupils blown wide as you keep your vision trained on him.

One look at your eyes and he knows he's done for, but he holds on, stuttering with more urgency. "I'm close," he rasps out, strained. "So close."

"Please," you beg to him in a soft, needy whisper. He leans back over you, pressing his head into your shoulder. He can practically feel himself tear apart.

Your arms wrap around him in a secured embrace, feeling the way you claw onto him in anticipation for his own release. He faltered, if only for you.

It pushes him into his own pleasure, a lengthy moan escaping his throat, his body tensing while his hips mercilessly still plow into you, burying your head deeply into the crevice of your neck as he comes inside of you. "Fuck," his hisses as he rides through his orgasm, "I'm so-I- you-"

He's sputtering nonsense, his mind so far gone.

"That's it," you whisper encouragingly, shifting your hips to feel his warmth cradle the inside of you, the heat spreading into you deeply. You milk him for all his worth and when he doesn't have more to give, he slows speed down, his thrusts turning soon shallow.

Kung Lao can feel himself shuddering against you, his body reeling from the pleasure still coursing through his veins, the adrenaline that still pumps through him with every hammering pulse of his heart. He's completely wrecked, utterly spent, but he can't bring himself to move away from you, not just yet.

You are in no rush to escape from him either. You just hold onto him there, your bodies intertwined intimately as you bond in the mutual afterglow. He's still inside of you, entrapping his release inside of you, hot and filling. Your fingers glide over the skin of his mark you marked, a comforting sensation for him, while your others glide themselves through his hair. It's quiet between you two as you share a few silent moments

. You nuzzle your cheek on his head, peppering kisses to the crown of his hair. Your pulse steadies in his comfort and you let out a small, content noise. "So good for me," you praise after a pause, when you trust your voice to speak again.

But apparently his mind was already back because you can feel his ego practically bolstering, his senses flooding back into him. He pulls slightly back, hovering closely above you with a self-satisfied look in his eyes. "Perfect, aren't I? He grins. "I do come from a long line of-"

"You're so unsexy." You push his face away from you.

He cackles, his lips widening honestly. He grabs at your wrist, holding it so you can't push him away. "So what? You love it. Don't deny it, you think I'm great."

You make a noise, shaking your head at his pride but even you can't help the sound of affirmation that leaves you. You caress his cheek and you sigh again, silently, your eyes softening in adoration. "Yeah," you begrudgingly agree. "I do love you."

Oooh, he's never letting you live down those words. He cranes into your touch. That winner smirk of his dissolves into a genuine one, his eyes softening. "You better love me," he answers, tone turning more affectionate. He places a kiss to your palm. "You're stuck with me forever, you know that right?"

"Only if you don't burn the world down before then," you confirm.

"I'm not that bad," he protests but there's cheekiness bordering his voice. "I might destroy a few things. But I'm a perfect angel, really."

You want to scoff at that. This saint just committed several sins with you. You raise yourself up and he pulls himself out of you, humming at the loss of your contact. You feel the mess pool between your legs and you grimace. "If you're such a saint, how about you being so generous and carrying me to the shower?"

Kung Lao isn't really listening to you, passive as he takes satisfaction in watching his come pour out of you instead. But he eventually looks back to you. "Demanding as usual." He shakes his head in mock disapproval. "But," he concedes, lifting you easily into his arms. "I suppose I can indulge you once in awhile."

"My hero," you pride him flatly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His chuckle runs through you in his chest and he squeezes you as he carries you into the adjourned bathroom with prideful strides. "You really should be more grateful, you know," he teases. He sets you gently down in the shower, ensuring your legs can stand on their own before he releases you.

You don't reply for a second, focusing on stabilizing yourself. "You're staying, right?" You don't voice it, but it's an obvious plea for him to shower with you.

Lao raises an eyebrow at you, clearly saying: 'Of course I'm staying', as if he was offended you even thought differently. He steps inside of the shower after you, closing the distance between you and him again. He smiles down at you and walks you back under the water spicket.

You smile up to him, your hands finding trails over his arms to take. You know you really shouldn't tease him, but you just can't help it… "Wanna invite Tomas, too?"

Bad choice for you. His hand was on the nozzle and upon hearing your words, he stops and looks down on you. Did you seriously just ask him that?

"He has his own." His answer was short.

He just.. can't help it when he feels a bit vindictive, twisting the shower on to rain freezing water down onto you. His expression clearly communicated that that's exactly what you deserved and he holds you there tight as you shriek and try to escape.

He watches the water crusade over you, your body shivering and he doesn't fight the satisfied look on his face.

"Lao!" You shriek, your hair weighing down under the cold divets of water. "You asshole!"

He sighs in exaggerated bliss, obviously enjoying the desired effect it had on you. He holds you tighter to him, his body radiating a warmth that contradicts the cold water pouring down on you. "You know you deserved that."

You shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin. His gaze follows the trail of water running down your body, following the lines of your curves. Your nipples perked, hardened. But when you shiver again, your teeth clattering, he finally finds some mercy and turns the water to warm. He moves himself under the stream of water as well, letting it rain over you both. He sighs at the contact.

You harmlessly glare up at him. "You are such…" You honestly had no good comeback.

"Can't help it." His voice lacked remorse. "You provoked me."

"Pain my ass," you mutter beneath your breath, but you know damn well you partially deserved that.

But hell, if you didn't absolutely adore him...

"You have a nice ass," he adds after a moment.

"Lao, if you don't shut up for at least two minutes.."

[withclawandvine]

those olympic edits of athletes running to celebrate with their partners had me thinking about my gadge high school au again so here’s a drabble about that state qualifier that gale secured for his baseball team ok bye 

After a rocky start to the season, the Covington Jays had found their stride; going on a fourteen game winning streak that put them back in play for the state championship for the first time in over a decade.

But only if they won this final regular-season game, and the Fort Treze Rebels were putting up a hell of a fight. Enough to drag the game into extra innings, going run for run. 

From where he stood at second base, Gale watched the raucous welcome for the runners he brought in turn into shouts of Send it, man! as Bristel jogged up to the plate. Behind him, a reinvigorated home crowd. And at its center, a cluster of tar-black hair and keen gray eyes. 

Noticing they had his attention, Posy jumped up, her gap-toothed grin brighter than the stadium lights as she waved at him enthusiastically with both hands.

No, not just waving — pointing. 

To a girl wearing a pretty white dress, emblazoned with a cobalt pin featuring her own last name in bold letters. Gale blinked disbelievingly at her; she winked.

Returning to the field up only one run, the Jays couldn’t afford to give anything up — and that started with Gale. But despite that pressure, he stepped onto the mound with a clear head and something bright and buoyant in his chest.

The first strikeout was swift and decisive: three hard swings that hit nothing but air and shoulderblade. The second — drug out by two fouls and a rogue pitch so high Thom had to jump for it — wasn’t earned so easily. 

The first baseman stepped up to the plate. He was a heavy hitter, and Gale knew that if he got the right pitch, that ball was a goner. 

Gale was known to throw a lethal fastball, but the pitch that really got him attention from scouts was his change-up. It wasn’t something many of his peers had in their arsenals. Batters fell into it like a trap: thinking the ball was coming in hot, only for it to drop to a breezy 78, sailing right below the bat. 

The un-countered momentum of that final swing nearly brought the Rebel to his knees.

The umpire hadn’t even finished calling the strike before a tide of blue and white  swarmed him — rushing in from their positions, tripping over each other clearing the dugout.

Teammates clumsily worked their shoulders under Gale’s legs, lifting him up. And as they jostled him up and down, fellow classmates and family members ran onto the field to join the celebration.

A coach once said that you’d never be able to tell if we was winnin’ or losin’ by lookin’ at Hawthorne’s face. Up five runs or down, Gale remained unruffled and unreadable — getting emotional stimied his game, and letting his opponents see it bolstered theirs. But that was hardly the reason he tolerated hero treatment for only another minute before rolling, throwing his weight down so the team had no choice but to drop him.

And when his cleats hit the ground, and he took off, it wasn’t because he wanted to run away from his team, or their riotous joy. It wasn’t because he wasn’t feeling it himself. 

Gale was running to home plate. Or rather, to the blonde girl in the white dress standing next to it, diamond dust already smudging her glossy heels. 

He swept her right off of them, wrapping her in a spinning embrace. 

Madge clung to him, her legs locked around his waist and her fingers interlaced behind his neck. She was saying something, but it was lost to the celebrations and the thunder of his own heart. 

As cliche as it seemed, Gale was on top of the damn world.

Trusting Madge had a strong enough hold on him, Gale let go of her waist to cup her face in his hands and kiss her. His lips met hers once, twice, before his smile was too big and toothy, and he had to settle for just staring at her in astonishment. 

His cheeks were starting to hurt. “What’re you doing here?” 

Madge leaned back as far as her grip on his neck would allow, getting a good look at him, that rare smile, before answering, “As if I’d miss this.” 

Gale was too caught up in it all — the thrill of victory, the reignited hope of getting another, the girl in his arms — to notice the reporter for the local paper until after the blinding flash of the camera.

[stonathans-mystical-realm]

So why did Steve slap Nancy's name on it instead? [Who is Steve describing - 7]

Now that we've established that Jonathan is really Steve's dream 'wife', now we need to ask….So WHY did Steve say it was Nancy when it wasn't about her?

Remember the 4 scenes combined help explain it:

Eddie telling Steve to win Nancy back. [S4E7 26m] The un-answered phone call [S4E8 24m] The six little nuggets dream [S4E8 40m] Steve telling Nancy it was her he was describing in the six little nuggets dream. [S4E9 24m]

Steve altered the story later on [about who it was about] because getting back together with Nancy was his last chance to have something real. He wasn't in love with her, but out of all of the women in Hawkins, they had always had a connection/understanding because of Jonathan. He at least didn't feel ALONE even when he was with her. She understood him/his love for Jonathan/what it was like being in love with a guy who was un-attainable and put his family before anyone else. Steve didn't want to end up alone or be alone during this Vecna thing. He needed someone and if that person couldn't be Jonathan, Nancy was the next best thing. So later on, he lied about who it was actually about in a last ditch effort to have

something 'real'. Nancy and Steve weren't in love, but they did love each other/care about each other/and understood each other better than anyone else because of their love for Jonathan. So he backtracked and slapped Nancy's name on it instead, like she fits the description, when she doesnt at all. It obviously wasn't her/about her.

When he first told her about his dream of the future with Jonathan, it was because Nancy is the only one that would understand and its why he was so touched when she did and she said 'it sounded nice'. He doesn't have to tell her its Jonathan in the story hes talking about in order to tell Nancy about it and connect with her. Like I said many times before, Steve has a fondness for Nancy over everyone else because she is the only person in all of Hawkins or the world that truly understands how he feels because she loves Jonathan too and gets how special he is and how they feel so lost right now without him. And Steve needs that connection and understanding right now.

And he can't tell her the truth about who the dream was about for obvious reasons. Not only not wanting to come out but….. THAT'S HER BOYFRIEND! So he tells her as much of the truth as he dares because he is desperate to have that closeness and connection with someone who truly understands him and knows exactly how he feels right now while the other people in his life do not. She is the only other person in hawkins who understands what its like to be in love with Jonathan Byers and how it feels to lose him forever.

Steve spent almost his entire life trying to be everyone elses [Hawkins townspeoples] idea of ''perfect'' [straight/king of Hawkins high] and as a result lost Jonathan because of it. Nancy chasing after Jonathan made him realize his mistake and Steve changed and tried to be more heroic and smarter like Nancy to get Jonathan's love and forgiveness.

Before Steve found the courage to tell Jonathan he was in love with him though, once again, time had run out on him. Jonathan left Hawkins like he always wanted to. And as we discussed, Steve already was having a hard time accepting that. Steve was also falling back into old bad habits [dating women instead of accepting himself for who he really is/caring about popularity more because what was the point of being himself/coming out, if he couldn't be with the person he loved [Jonathan]. But he was struggling with moving on in one direction or the other and kept holding onto the hope that Jonathan was going to return and he could tell him the truth and tell him he was in love with him, even though he knew it was hopeless.

But when Nancy saved Steve from the demo bats and Eddie told Steve to 'win her back' combined with the fact that they have been calling Jonathan for days and couldn't get ahold of him, Steve started to think more and more that maybe this is what was best. To stop being in love with a ghost. And to give up on his real self completely. Jonathan wasn't coming back. Even Eddie knew that or else he wouldn't have suggested going after Jonathan's girlfriend in the first place. Eddie thought it was an option NOW because it seemed that…. Jonathan wasn't ever coming back. Not even for Nancy Wheeler. So Jonathan had left them behind and Nancy and Steve had to accept that and….find the next best thing.

If the dream 'wife' story was about Nancy to begin with, why didnt he tell her then? It seemed like when he told her it was her, it was ONLY because Eddie told him to win her back and Steve thought about it for a long time + Jonathan not picking up the phone for days lead to that result. Like that story was never originally about her and he was just telling her that it was her now because Jonathan wasn't coming back. That's why Eddie was encouraging Steve to win her back in the first place [even though they all knew Jonathan and Nancy were dating]. Because they thought Jonathan was never coming back. So Steve stops chasing after a dream and accepts he can never be with Jonathan and settles for this instead.

Nancy's talk with Robin [so similar to Eddie's talk with Steve] shows us that Nancy is feeling the same way as Steve. She fears he is never coming home and that hes 'moved on' from her. Nancy wants Jonathan. Steve wants Jonathan. Neither of them can have him so at least they'll be connected through 'shared trauma', even if its not what they really want. They don't want to be with each other. They want to be with Jonathan, but they can't have him, so they start to slip back into their old bad habits. It's like the finale of S1 all over again! We already discussed then why Steve and Nancy got back together at the end of S1 because they couldn't be with Jonathan...

[mariacallous]

Despite the overwhelming scale of former president Donald Trump’s victory in the Iowa caucuses on Monday night, some of Trump’s most ardent supporters have already claimed that the vote was rigged because he lost one single county.

“After it was reported that President Trump won every county in Iowa tonight, Democrat shenanigans ensued and now it’s being reported that Johnson County in Iowa, which is a Biden +40 county, flipped to Nikki Haley by ONE VOTE,” Laura Loomer, a far-right activist who has been embraced by Trump, posted on X in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

Other Trump supporters on far-right online platforms also claimed electoral conspiracies, even though Trump won 51 percent of the vote in Iowa, with Florida governor Ron DeSantis a distant second at 21 percent and former UN ambassador Nikki Haley in third place at 19 percent, according to results shared by the Iowa Republican Party and AP’s election tracker.

“We need a recount in Johnson County RIGHT NOW!” an X account named Red Eagle Politics wrote.

On Trump’s own platform Truth Social, Seth Keshel, a retired US army captain who has become a leading voice in the election denial movement in recent years, wrote: “Haley by one vote in Johnson County screws my prediction of 99/99 to Trump. Audit!”

Some of Keshel’s followers claimed those who voted for Haley had been “paid” to vote against Trump, but provided no evidence to back up this claim.

On pro-Trump message board The Donald, where a lot of the online organizing of the January 6 riot took place, users took issue with Haley’s Monday night claim that Iowa voters made the presidential election a “two-person race.”

“They rigged that county by a single vote just so she could say this,” one user wrote.

Others said the one vote loss was the work of the so-called deep state. “To win by ONE vote is just too conspicuous,” a user wrote. “It looks like a ‘Fuck You’ from the Deep State.” Responses in the same thread urged Trump to call for a recount in order to “trigger” his opponents.

Some Trump supporters also claimed that tens of thousands of Democrats were being paid to switch allegiances for the caucus and vote for Haley.

“The Iowa Democratic party has reportedly pushed for and paid TENS OF THOUSANDS of its registered voters to temporarily switch their party registration from Democrat to Republican so they can caucus for Nikki Haley,” Joshua Hall, who was once convicted of threatening to kill Democratic congressperson Eric Swalwell, posted on X.

While there was no evidence anyone was paid to vote, CBS reported that in at least some Johnson County precincts, election officials ran out of forms printed to allow people to switch party affiliations on the night.

As has been the case since the first false claims of a stolen election emerged in the wake of Trump’s loss in 2020, none of those claiming wrongdoing on Monday night provided any proof to back up their claims. With a long primary season now underway, those peddling lies about election integrity are just getting started.

[fizzingwizard]

My favorite things ever created for Lupin III were Mine Fujiko's Lie, and The Woman Called Mine Fujiko

Not because I don't love the fun, energetic, quirky vibe of the classic series. Not because I prefer Fujiko to the boys (though I do adore her).

For me, The Woman Called Mine Fujiko resurrected not just Fujiko, but every female character written by a man who assumed he knew what makes women tick - or didn't care whether he knew, and just wanted to write her that way.

In the classic series, Fujiko's both a strong, dangerous woman who regularly betrays Lupin, yet she's also a helpless damsel in distress who needs Lupin to save her. How much she is of either depends on the writer and the story. Her saving grace is that, even back then, there was already more than just a sense that Lupin enjoyed getting outmaneuvered by her. They were the kind of perfect rivals who make the fan girls drool when it's two men, and start to see secret romantic longing in every look. Lupin and Fujiko really were rivals in love, but instead of making them more interesting, it hurt them. It made Lupin seem stupid, and it made Fujiko seem cold, heartless, selfish, and arrogant. What's more, because the story always favored Lupin and the boys' POV, we rarely ever got a glimpse of what Fujiko thought or felt - so fans were free to attribute to her whatever motivations they wanted. And fans, when it comes to beautiful, treacherous women, aren't very open-minded, let alone forgiving.

So The Woman Called Mine Fujiko was desperately needed. It somehow managed to pull Fujiko out of the grip of the male gaze without turning her into some kind of angel. It subverted the whole "she turned out like this because she was damaged as a child," by making us think that's what happened to her and then making it all a lie. She's still a criminal. She still betrays and uses people and is less spiritual and more practical about taking life than the romantics Jigen and Goemon (and often Lupin) are. And the underlying message was, it really doesn't matter what made Fujiko. She's a woman, and she's free to do what she wants. Even if it's bad. If we admire Lupin, we really have no business hating Fujiko. (Specific episodes can make most anyone hate her, but that should be chalked up to bad writing and low respect for characterization. This is, after all, fiction.) And, we learn, Lupin isn't in love with Fujiko just because she's beautiful and dangerous. He's also in love with her because he loves freedom, and freedom is Mine Fujiko.

In Mine Fujiko's Lie, we once again get this amazing, nuanced Fujiko who subverts tropes as neatly as she high kicks in heels. Her antagonist is a warped version of herself, a master manipulator who doesn't realize how he's manipulated by others, whose freedom comes with his first taste of desire - and which ultimately leads to his destruction. Nothing ventured, nothing gained - or lost. In her usual style, Fujiko defeats him by seducing and betraying him. While the art avoids the gore of Jigen's and Goemon's episodes, the eroticism highlights Fujiko's body's softness and vulnerability in a way that makes her seem desperate but determined as she uses psychological manipulation to win over sheer male power. Thematically, yeah, she's still talking about love and sex. But there's something existential about the way she talks, something deep that digs into the human psyche.

And the reframing of Fujiko's skill as psychology rather than seduction is only part of what's modern and liberating. The other is her relationship with the little boy (whose name I can't recall atm :P). We're primed to think (or dread) that Fujiko is about to tap into her latent maternal instincts. She's a woman, so of course she won't be able to resist a motherless child! And, as un-Fujiko-like as that would be, the alternative - her stealing the boy's only chance at a healthy life along with stranding him as an orphan - was too distasteful to hope for. The story string us along, making us think it'll be one, it'll be the other... and then, in the end, she's neither drawn into motherly sentiment, nor does she turn out to be utterly irredeemably (the usual fate of women who don't perform femininity in an acceptable way). She gets what she wants and the boy gets what he needs. He probably won't have stellar memories of her - and she's still far, far from an angel. But she's worked the job the way that she wants to work it, with resourcefulness and independence. Unlike her helpless charge, or her helpless antagonist. It's telling that this is the only movie of the three in this series which results in a direct kill (of the main antagonist, I mean). If there's anything Fujiko can't stand, it's helplessness. She's going to survive. She doesn't wax romantic about what it means to be a warrior. Someone came for her, she gave as good as she got - that's Fujiko. And yet, though she can't afford to be weak, she isn't so hard that she can't fall asleep on Lupin's shoulder.

I needed both of these stories to love Lupin III. Without them, I don't think I'd be able to look at it as anything more than a boy's fantasy. Fujiko's gotten some better development and overall treatment in some of the more recent anime series - but I will say that I was really disappointed in her in season six, because I felt she was rewritten to be more like ScarJo's Black Widow than anyone who could function as Lupin's rival and lover at once.

rabbit trail: The bit in Goemon's Blood Spray, where Fujiko walks off because Goemon's self-punishment is too ridiculous to watch, and Jigen and Lupin are all "This is how men are," about it, gets a mixed reaction from me. On the one hand, I tend to feel like Fujiko, that as confused yet determined as Goemon was, him killing himself through training is just wasteful. As is his friends letting him, because that's what he wants and he's got a warrior's spirit and yadda yadda. But on the other, my real issue is claiming this is a gender difference. It's glorifying the warrior philosophy yet again, when in the real world strong, war-hardened men run from battle every day, not because they aren't real warriors, but because they have sense. Live to die another day. (Which, incidentally, is what happens for Goemon, because he survives the training.) IMO Fujiko left because she's practical. Goemon did what he did because he's spiritual. Jigen didn't understand him, but went along with him anyway, because Jigen is emotional. And Lupin did understand him and deliberately didn't get in his way because he's a mix of little bits of all the other characters.

[omelette-archives]

OMELETTE LORE ACCOUNTS

Question: Do you think Luigi freezes a rectangular block of water and when it's frozen, he chops it up into ice cubes?

Answer: Yes and he would purposefully do it whenever there were other people over and would maintain prolonged heavy eye contact whilst doing it.

(I honestly thought you were gonna say he puts the entire rectangle into a water bottle and whoever drinks from the bottle has a 80% chance of being stabbed in the throat by a block of ice)

Question: Do you think Tomathy at some point tried to do a found footage type horror film and forced his roommates to help make it and it was so bad it was (un)ironically enjoyable?

Answer: Yes and even after the film's finished, Jerard would assume it was still being filmed so whenever he saw Luigi just doing some Weird Shit™, he'd just chalk it up to the film.

Question: Do you think it's Eustace who brings the yolks over to eat at random restaurants and in the middle of them eating, Eustace just casually says that this is the restaurant his parents died at or something that's factually wrong but sounds true and the yolks won't question it anyways?

Answer: Eustace whilst cutting into a steak "did you know that this place was closed down for a month because both of my parents were brutally stabbed and murdered here by one of the kitchen staff?"

Question: Do you think it's funny that Andrew and Eustace met through a mutual class? Ever wonder what they were like together, what class it was, and if them being friends was even intentional? Like was there a seating plan, was it a forced group project?

(Man it's wild how they stayed in contact after school. The wonder of friendship [and (d)rugs])

Answer: Yeah but also I just know Andrew would've tried to scam Eustace. It was probably English. I think they did get along to some extent like less 'we're friends' but not 'we're just classmates' vibe.

Question: What are the yolks' opinion on pavlova?

Answer: Jerard - neutral. Luigi - strong hate. Tomathy - doesn't mind it but wouldn't be eating it as a first choice. Eustace - likes small amounts but if it's a big pavlova, he'd rather not eat it.

PROMPT: Yolk spa and relaxation day.

Answer: Luigi would obviously be wearing the cucumber face mask and lying face up but also eating just a raw cucumber.

Eustace would probably go straight to the massage as well as Jerard but for different reasons. Eustace to find out what it feels like and Jerard for obvious reasons due to his back.

Tomathy would probably try out all the baths including the weird green-looking water in the very corner. He'd first try the cold baths and then when he finds a really toasty one, he'd accidentally end up taking a nap to which Eustace would find him and splash water at his face. Very hard.

Question: How would the yolks cheat in games? [ORIGINAL QUESTION REDACTED DUE TO DETERIORATION REASONS]

Answer: Contrary to popular belief, Eustace would cheat at card games just because he is that bad. It's honestly a 50/50 chance where he either wins or he spectacularly loses and he's lost $2 to his name.

Tomathy would probably cheat at Cluedo since he doesn't have a single braincell and he just peeks at the paper card where it says the murderer. Because he's been caught trying to cheat, they've just stopped playing Cluedo to Tomathy's relief.

Jerard would probably cheat at Scrabble or that game where you have to press the button and inside it has a dice where you have to finish at the center in order to win. He'd make up new words.

Luigi is a god at all board games. However, he will always lose in videogames with his screentime reaching into the hundreds.

Question: How would the yolks survive/manage in a horror movie? [ORIGINAL QUESTION HAS BEEN UNABLE TO BE RECOVERED SUCCESSFULLY]

Answer: I know Luigi's immortal but I feel like he'd die first. Not 'cause of stupidity but 'cause he just wasn't afraid of the killer and stood there until they killed him.

The rest would stick together until Eustace would accidentally get lost or separate from the group but he'd find shelter. That being said, he'd probably see the killer in the window and try to run away to no success.

Tomathy would get mad at Jerard and storm off stupidly. He'd try to find Eustace but in the woods, he sees a shadow/dark figure in front of him with the moonlight shining on them and he'd run but he'd accidentally go to a dead-end to which he dies.

Jerard is surprisingly the "final girl" and obviously confronts the killer to which he loses 'cause he's not that athletic and he slowly dies from losing too much blood.

Bonus: Dave is just Eustace but whereas Eustace would've blamed himself for his parents' death, Dave would've hated the world.

Eustace: I made them go out it's all my fault

Dave: the people driving the other car are at fault. The people who made cars are at fault. The people who called the ambulances were too slow and at fault. The emergency responders were at fault. The government was at fault. God was at fault. The earth was at fault. Everyone was a-

[anotherwvba]

An Origin Story pt. 1

Two days after the Minor Circuit Fight Night and the history-making fight between Niki Binary and Cutie Hondo, WVBA Headquarters was still buzzing. The monitors in the lobby replayed highlights from the weekend’s card and displayed results on a lower third ticker…

Women’s Circuit Preview: Cutie Hondo TKO3 Niki Binary… Narcis Prince TKO2 Glass Joe… Piston Hondo KO2 Mad Clown… Minor Circuit Championship: Bald Bull (c) KO2 Disco Kid…

Nicole Gordon, Niki Binary herself, was behind the receptionist’s desk. Dressed in a smart business casual outfit, she was answering the phone when one of the WVBA’s Minor Circuit fighters came through the door.

“WVBA Headquarters, this is Nicole, how may I assist you today?”

José Vasse, better known as Glass Joe, approached the desk and smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with recognition, "Ah, bonjour, Niki Binary!"

Nicole smiled and held up a finger, “Yes, sir, I’ll transfer your call. Please hold.” After tapping a few buttons on the phone, she looked back to Joe, “Hello, José, but when the gloves are off, it’s Nicole.” She tapped her name tag.

"Ah, pardon, Nicole. Um… where is Vonnie? She usually mans the desk."

"Vonnie's out sick today," Nicole explained, "and since I was the only one in I.T. that looked presentable, I got drafted."

José chuckled. "Ah, a woman of many talents and, I must say, you look très magnifique.  Congratulations on your fight, by the way. It was quite the spectacle."

Nicole raised an eyebrow. "Congratulations? I lost, you know."

José leaned on the counter, his expression turning serious. "Ah, but you see, it is not always about winning or losing. It is about the fight itself, the spirit you show, the lessons you learn. I have learned more about myself in my twenty fights, twenty losses, than most people will ever learn.."

"Thank you, José. That means a lot," Nicole said, touched by his words. "I did give it my all, and I learned so much from fighting Cutie."

Just then, the phone rang, and Nicole picked it up. "WVBA Headquarters, this is Nicole. How may I assist you today?" As she listened to the caller, the door opened again, and in walked Cutie Hondo, gym bag slung over her shoulder.

Cutie caught sight of Nicole behind the desk and couldn't help but laugh. "Wow, this is just wrong. You lose your first fight, and they stick you on the front desk?"

Nicole hung up the phone and grinned. "Yeah, my punishment for not being able to hit you with the ‘System Crash.’"

Cutie grinned. "Well, you'll get another chance. But first, they need to fill those six spots left in the Women's Circuit Tournament."

José, who had been listening intently, joined in. "Ah, yes, the tournament. Any ideas on who might fill those spots?"

"I've heard that Mac's girlfriend, Alice, has been training," Nicole said, her hands dancing across the keyboard.

Cutie’s eyes twinkled mischievously, "Yeah, but rumor has it that Mac doesn’t know."

Nicole’s eyes widened, “Seriously?”

“Girl, he’d flip is tank top if he found out,” Cutie chuckled.

José chuckled. "Ah, the secrets we keep for love. What about Sandman's sisters, Sahara and Nanshe?"

“Oh God, I’d hate to fight Nanshe,” Nicole sighed. “She’s dominated Majestic Boxing for a year, as in undefeated, undisputed champion.”

“Yeah,” Cutie said as she adjusted her gym bag on her shoulder. “I bet it’s just like fighting her dad, just with a sports bra.”

“I’ve seen Sahara fight,” Glass Joe spoke up. “She is une frimeuse. How you say? A show-off. I think maybe she’s a bit too arrogant for her her own good.

"Maybe, but she can back it up," Cutie added.

Nicole leaned back in her chair. "Well, whoever they are, they better be ready. Because next time, Cutie, I'm not going down so easily."

Cutie grinned. "Is that a promise or a threat?"

"A little bit of both," Nicole retorted, her eyes meeting Cutie's in a playful challenge.

José laughed. "Ah, the fire of competition. It is a beautiful thing."

Cutie picked up her gym bag. "So, Nicole, will I see you in the gym later?"

"Absolutely," Nicole replied. "I'll be off at 3 pm, a couple of hours early as a thank-you for filling in here. So, you better be ready."

Cutie winked. "I was born ready."

Nicole reached under the desk and pressed a button, buzzing them through to the gym. "Alright, you two, go on. Show the gym what you're made of."

José tipped his hat. "Merci, Nicole. Until later."

Cutie gave Nicole a quick hug. "See you in the ring, Niki."

As the door closed behind them, Nicole couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. With a smile, she picked up the phone for the next call, already looking forward to the challenges and opportunities, friends and opponents, that lay ahead.

[boysplanetrecaps]

Hello, I hope you don’t mind me sharing my opinions on the songs with you.

Switch. When I heard the song for the first time I thought “oh my gosh baby what a mess”, but it was so much better live! I loved the pixel art aesthetic and costumes were not bad. I liked Kamden, Jongwoo and Shuaibo the most, the others kind of gotten lost for me. Everyone did great (on average better than supercharger) so I really enjoyed it.

Supercharger. I hated the song from the moment I first heard it and my opinions have not changed. The chorus gets stuck in your head and it makes me hate it even more. The only part that I like is the ending “that’s right”. Haruto was a star. Takuto looked like a fifth grader hanging out with high schoolers. Everyone else did good/ok.

Over me. The song was made to win, so it’s really good. I enjoyed KuanJui’s and Jay’s performance the most, they get the song. Everyone else had “I don’t know what I’m singing about” energy.

Say my name. Nothing new but very pleasant to listen to. I finally saw Yujin and he’s amazing! Before he kind of blended into the background. Matthew did fantastic (but I also thing he was amazing in KTL and love killa, he can totally transform to fit this type of concept), Jiwoong was dead inside….

En garde. Loved the demo of the song, but the full song felt underwhelming, it was missing a bit of a stronger baseline. Gunwook killed it as he should, Hui was THE highlight, Gyuvin didn’t deliver in my opinion, he was much better in Love killa. I’m still waiting for the moment I get Gyuvin, cause now he’s just “long legs” for me.

Thank you for doing these recaps!(and for reading my word vomit) I highly suggest you watch BP side content. You’ll see friendships between trainees, Haruto knowing a bit of Chinese (in addition to Japanese, Korean and English), Keita making everyone’s catchphrases, Wumuti being amazing, Ricky being a shy boy and more!

Hi! It's been four months so I thought I'd reply to your message finally, ha ha. I enjoyed reading it at the time and mostly agreed anyway so in my head I'd already replied if that makes sense?

With my four months to think about it, I have softened a tiny bit toward Supercharger. It was at least memorable, which is both a blessing and a curse. I still don't like it, but I think I'd rather listen to it than En Garde. I still think it's one of those cheap NCT-esque knock offs that is hard to really pull off. It kind of reminds me of "Attitude" by ATBO in that it feels calculated rather than a song that someone wrote because they wanted to write a song. But that particular criticism can probably be applied to all five songs.

And my liking for Switch has only increased. I think it's a really great song, actually -- the only one of the five (other than maybe Over Me) that I think I just straight up like. Is it because Phanbin and TaeRae were both in it? Maybe? It's so hard to un-bias your bias from your bias, you know? But I don't generally find myself hitting skip when it comes up on my shuffle.

I'll have to see how Gyuvin and co are all doing in ZB1. I haven't caught up with them yet -- life has been busy and the only newish kpop song I've heard since like April is Cream Soda (of course).

[stringoflights93]

Chapter 7: The Deadwood

Tyril remained in silence all the way back to the ship and excused himself to be alone the moment you were back aboard the Wraith. It was disappointing, but not altogether unexpected as you watched his silhouette… you even got to learn how to row out of it alongside Imtura. It was exhausting and a new strain upon your back and shoulder muscles you’d once thought iron hard from your years with a bow, but worth it.

The feeling of release every time the boat moved, the way Imtura kept grinning over at you to gently correct your tactic, the way the air whooshed in and out of your lungs filled with invigorating salt and life.

Nia was eager to help Imtura how she could getting the Wraith underway, and you saw the first hand pull her aside to begin teaching her navigation while the captain kept things in order with stern delegation.

You longed to collapse into a hammock yourself after the day you’ve had that feels as if it’s lasted an entire week, your muscles still tremble with seven new kinds of exhaustion and terror and there’s a nightmare waiting to pounce, but you have something important to do first.

Mal’s in his usual haunt up in the crow’s nest. He’s all but made it his own slice of home he’s staked his claim up here so often. You see him winding bandages around his shredded hand and feel your stomach clench, and solidify its resolve as he gives you a surprised nod. 

Wordlessly, you pull some herbs out of your pack and offer them to him. 

He hesitates for a moment, but then accepts them and expertly adds it to his own self-care. “Something I can help you with kit? Thought you’d have collapsed and I’d find you passed out on the toilet, and not even in the fun way.”

“I need you to promise me something Mal,” you say without further hesitation, your grasp on your bag solidly real fills you with the same iron determination that had gotten you this far.

“Oh?” Mal quirks a brow, you can see a joke forming as he takes in your serious demeanor. “Whatever could that be? My eternal gratitude getting you this far isn’t enough-”

“I need you to promise that if anything happens to me, you’ll take this.” You needlessly shake your satchel, and he knows exactly what you’re talking about. “That you’ll get Kade out, no matter what.”

The way his jaw goes slack might have been a delightful moment of shocking him into silence any other time. But he winds back up fast enough, shaking his head, scoffing and waving his hand around so the un-tied bandages flutter as he looks away, “relax Syrum, nothing is going to happen to you-”

“Promise me Mal!” You grip his arm tight, not letting him look away from your eyes. “I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve nearly died, today’s just been the most recent! Nia and Tyril, they’re in this to save the world. Imtura’s never met Kade, and, she isn’t you! She’s never even met him- You’re a survivor, you’ve made that more than obvious! I need to know that if something happens to me, someone else will get him out of that place! I, I can’t bare the idea of- that he’ll think I abandoned him-”

“Okay, okay,” Mal gently places his hand over yours, and nods. “As ridiculous as this promise is, you have my vow. I’ll never stop trying to get Kade out of the shadow realm, but it’s a silly thing, because you’re going to be right there with me when that happens.”

You sigh in relief all the same, and then fling your arms around him. He doesn't hesitate to hug you back, patting your shoulder gently. “All right kit, let it out, it’s okay.” You hadn’t realized you’d been crying, and you don’t care as you press your face into his shoulder and stay like that as exhaustion finally wins out. 

The nightmare does come, same as it always has. Just blackness. Kade’s screaming your name, pleading for help, but all you can do is stand there frozen, doing nothing as your hand is outstretched. Now, there is a change. You’re hand is glowing… but it illuminates only unknown faces, the shadows take form into darkness of substance laughing at you through skulls and nothingness as Kade’s screams echo in the shattering darkness of your world collapsing-

You startle awake propped against the warm wood of the crows nest, a blanket thrown over you. It’s dark out now, but it hasn’t been long judging by the moon still glimmering on the edge of the horizon. 

Everything hurts as you stretch and sit up, but you don’t really care that your hands are shaking just a bit, that something pops as you force your knees to get you moving, that your muscles feel like someone had yanked them out and shoved them back in as a twisted ball. You just force one foot over the other as you swing yourself down and find out where you’re headed next.

You find your friends among the rest of the crew merrily enjoying this most recent victory. It’s a full blown party among the duties of keeping the Wraith going full speed, honestly it is insane now that you’re awake you were sleeping through it all. 

Attendance is one short though, and he’s the one you really want to talk to next as you watch Nia and Imtura laughing together, showing each other dance moves. Nia looks so small and fragile under Imtura’s huge hands, but their smiles are equally delightful as the pink of her dress and her furs mix together in the crowd.

Mal’s at the center of a large group, telling another of his many insane stories. His bandaged hand is seeping a little red, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care as he waves his fingers energetically. You smile to yourself, recognizing the escape of the dragon den adventure from just that little tick he gave his fingers pinching together.

So you turn away, and find him down in the scullery. He’s inspecting a bag of potatoes with faint disinterest.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he looks over at you with a mild smile. “Mal made it seem as if he’d struck you over the head and knocked you unconscious for the next week.”

“Probably could have, almost wish he had,” you agree around a yawn, still stretching… your heart is jolting in your chest as you wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. With a sigh, you bluntly address him as your hand curls inside your pocket where the gemstone Nia had given you still presides. “So, I did magic.”

“Yes,” he agrees, but the icy wall of his words is already trying to slam shut this conversation. “I saw, it was quite impressive. You did well disposing of that minion.”

There’s sincerity in his words, but that’s it. He’s already turned back away to continue going through the cupboards.

You don’t have the appetite to join him. You want to stomp your foot and scream at him, that what you did was no different than the display of magic he’d used to blast away his enemies. What more did you need to do to prove you could learn elven magic?!

But you don’t. You’re still exhausted. You just do not have the energy to deal with the most perplexing person in your life right now as you turn away in disappointment and go find yourself a hammock to sleep the rest of the night away, nightmares can join you be damned if they like.

To your utter amazement the next day, you are all caught up in the events you missed, namely that you were to be docking soon and taking the rest of the trek on foot. 

Imtura delivered this news with the kind of grave misfortune one would of a dearly beloved and departed friend.

The way she looked back at the sea as you all trudged up to land from the docks for what was going to be the next leg of this excursion was the expression of true love you had rarely seen in your life. Only but a few instances in your village of couples gazing at each other, not caring who else saw. But she sighed, and plunged ahead with the rest of you as the people of this town parted and murmured uneasily around your party.

She’d given orders for the Wraith’s crew to go off any way they liked and not to tell her mother where they’d left her. Other than that, they were free to roam the seas at their leisure, she’d find them again.

Everything about her was truly so fascinating. She had no problems talking to people collecting supplies, but she was clearly aware of the slight horror in a few of them who had only heard rumors of brutish orcs as likely to to pillage as purchase a sack of grains as you’d once been. She was still quick to laugh, still looking on in excitement for the road ahead at all hours.

Nia doesn’t offer you any more magic lessons, and you decide against pestering her for it… but you did start taking out the purple gem she’d given you and had taken to tossing it around eagerly, just a hint that you were ready when she was.

You stopped doing that quiet so much at the dry look Tyril always gave it. Somehow, you feared he wanted to toss it away with all his strength.

Tyril had always been as approachable as a skunk-porcupine, and on his bad days, a porcupine-skunk. Since the day you’d docked though, he’d become somehow even more elusive than prior, and that was truly saying something. He rarely spoke unless spoken to after he, Imtura, and Mal scoured over a map of the path you’d be taking together while you and Nia watched eagerly over their shoulders.

It wasn’t as detailed as she’d like, and Imtura kept muttering about how it was hardly worth the gold she’d spent. You couldn’t help but chuckle sadly, knowing what she was really missing was the expanse of what she was leaving behind rather than the mountains ahead, but she never complained once. On the contrary, she greatly enjoyed several new things in your path, never having bothered delving to deep into many shores in her past.

The wide expanses of grass delighted her, she called it the strangest grassy sea. While hills and rock formations didn’t make her look twice, you could find plenty of those on an island or two, the farther your party got from civilization, she was shocked at the few small, sporadic villages you often gave a wide berth to. You spent hours trying to explain to her how such small places with such few people could thrive.

It was strange to stand there sometimes, staring down at them. They had no clue how close the world was to falling into darkness…

About a week after you set sail from the cursed isle, you find yourself encamped at the border of the Deadwood, a massive sprawling forest. It’s a place you’ve only heard the vaguest of rumors about, and not named so lightly if even one of those stories were true. You were all resting for the night before braving its path on first light.

 Your party relaxes around a campfire, even as the trees loom dark and ominous ahead, and Mal tells a tale of one of his many adventures.

“-so, I got out, but the contessa wasn’t going to be very happy with that, lemme tell ya. I had to lose the necklace again in the card game, and of course every hand they dealt me was a winner. Finally I just flipped the table over and ran!” His hands motion with every detail, he even makes a grand table flipping gesture and you can all but hear the crash and screams it would cause as you laugh. 

“But what about the real necklace?” Nia gasped.

“Oh,” he brushes his massive length of hair flowing down his neck a sweep with his hand in expert fashion. “I went back to the manor house, seduced the contessa, and stole it back, naturally. I always get the job done in the end!”

“How many of your stories rely on you seducing a contessa?” Tyril asked flatly. His eyes were closed, you’d have mistaken his disinterest as sleep talking if you didn’t know better. “Because this is at least the third.”

“They’re good stories!” Mal laughed.

“That’s what I like about you, Mal,” Imtura is chuckling right along with him. “By wit or your own dumb luck, things always seem to work out for ya.”

“My luck is highly educated, I’ll have you know,” Mal wags his finger around in a sturdy impression of wisdom. Your chuckle is a sad bit tinged though in agreement with Imtura as you catch his eye, and he quickly looks away. He hasn’t tried to bring up your promise again, but you get the sense he’s not pleased with you all the same. You don’t care. 

“You do know that doesn’t make sense, right?” Threep sighs, licking his paw and cleaning himself upon Nia’s lap. “You can’t just say words with that flirty little smirk and hope no one notices? I mean you c-“

Mal reaches into his pack and tosses Threep a dried fish. He stares at it, then at Mal, then with a roll of his eyes, snatches it and rushes off to eat under a nearby bush with a delighted flutter of his wings.

“Knew that would shut him up. What about you, kit? Got any fun stories?” He gives your leg a nudge with his own. 

You chuckle and wipe off some of the sticky juice from the fruit you’d been contently chewing on off your chin. “There was the time Kade tried to steal a pie. We were only ten, maybe twelve mind you. I really should have known better, but we’d been out scavenging in the forest all day and we were exhausted. That pie looked like a little slice of heaven. It was sitting in the open window of one of the cottages on the path back to town, no one around… so I convinced Kade to run up and snatch it real quick!”

“Syrum!” If Nia weren’t sitting between Tyril and Mal, she’d have reached over and smacked you. “You didn’t!”

Fighting off a laugh, you try to continue, “except we didn’t realize this cottage had gained a new acquisition upon their last trip to the market... now guarding them was a vicious, giant, bloodthirsty, goose!”

“Oh no,” Tyril’s actually starting to sit up with a look of dread. “Those are the worst!”

You flash him a grin of agreement. “That monster chased us halfway back to town,” you groan, “screeching and hissing, trying to peck our eyes out! Kade tripped over a root, still holding the pie, and landed face first in it. That’s when we realized it was an eel pie, and not even an apple one like we’d hoped.”

“Eel pie?” Nia’s pressed a concerned hand to her stomach. “That sounds horrible.”

“It’s not so bad, but the goose didn’t care about our demise. It charged up on Kade, and we had to fling fistfuls of the slimy buggers to escape.” You shrug with an old laugh. Mrs. Foster had eventually figured out it was the two of you, that smell lingered, and she’d even come around and given you two an extra one a few days later… not that either of you had been very enthusiastic in your thanks. 

“Now that’s my kind of adventure,” Imtura laughs, tossing her head so that her hair flickered over your shoulder as vibrant as flames.

“Can we go back to the part where Tyril is afraid of geese?” Mal asks politely. 

“I’m not afraid of geese,” he said sharply, giving him a level look over Nia’s head. “I just loathe them! Filthy squawking, dung-spewing white devils with beady little eyes,” his face is a mask of anger, and something far off in his eyes no longer glowering at just Mal.

“I feel like we’re unpacking some childhood trauma,” you try your level best to say without a laugh. You’d been the one chased by the thing and didn’t have half as much venom for them. 

“I hate them,” he agrees flatly as if that had even been in question. He throws himself back into his log and closes his eyes again, probably thinking of elven parties with goose legs or something.

 With a commiserating grin at him, you decide to offer another story instead that had no such fowls. “Or, there was the time I messed up a festival cake. It was going to be my first spring festival as an adult, so naturally I wanted to impress everyone in town. I stayed up all night trying to figure out how to make a blossom cake. But in my exhaustion, I must have mistaken a bag of salt for sugar…”

“Uh-oh,” Nia agreed at the utter dread you trailed off with.

“I woke up in the kitchen and it was too late to waste time checking the cake to see how it had turned out,” you groaned around an old laugh. “We had to rush to the festival in the town square. So they added my cake to the lineup of desserts, and everyone came up to get a slice, and, well, you could see the horror on their faces once they took a bite. Then everyone, I mean everyone, raced to the well. I think the mayor got so thirsty she started drinking out of the horse-cow trough.”

Imtura’s boisterous laugh would have blended right in with the memory of Kade’s. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“Needless to say, I didn’t win the dessert competition.” You conclude grandly. “Kade buried it and did a whole funeral bit for the poor lost ingredients and everything.”

“Do humans not like salt-cakes?” You truly cannot tell if Tyril is joking as he cracks an eye open for you. “They’re a delicacy in Undermount.”

Everyone’s now staring at him.

“…that was a joke,” he mutters, crossing his ankles and closing his eye back.

“Was it, though? Was it really?” Mal’s looking at him like their first meeting all over again. Hostile concern for this guy. At least now it was centered wholly around his sense of humor.

He doesn’t answer… guess you’d find out soon enough. You can’t help but cackle, and it echoes strangely in the darkness the fire can’t reach as your eyes wander off to the mountains far off from you where you can see.

Imtura unearths another flask of strong ale from her bag and passes it around. “You lot aren’t so bad, you know. For a bunch of humans and elves.”

Your breath catches hard in the back of your throat and you look quickly back to see her grinning between you all.

“Yeah, I can’t complain,” Mal agrees grandly, happily taking a long swig at his turn. “Not that the brigands and mercenaries I usually get stuck with on a job are that hard to beat.”

“I’m just thrilled to finally see the world, and with such amazing company,” Nia says, head held high, smile brighter than the scattering of stars. She even takes a hearty sip upon her turn, and her face doesn’t flush nearly as red as that first time.

“If I must be saddled with others on my quest, I suppose it could be worse,” Tyril agrees around a lazy yawn and trying to settle himself more comfortably against the log.

Nia elbows him with a grin. You’re once again astounded at that dress if she doesn’t have a bruise from that armor for the stunt. “Admit you like us!”

“… I find your company tolerable,” he agrees, and you’d swear it wasn’t just the flickering shadows on his face making him seem to smile in the dim light.

“Wow,” Mal’s fanning his face and rolling his eyes as grandly as a contessa would. “That’s practically marriage proposal coming from you.” 

You can’t help but join in the teasing. He’s more than earned it after that salt-cake stunt. “We find you tolerable too. How can we appreciate the sun without a little rain after all?” You reach over and pat his boot across the fire. 

Tyril lazily opens his eyes and smirks at you full force. “I’m glad my presence can serve some purpose.” Then he sighs, and sits up straight, and you feel a sinking pit as he clears his throat and looks away from you. “All nonsense aside, we need to discuss how we’re going to make our way into Undermount.”

“What do you mean?” Nia asks with a blank confusion you were wondering yourself. “The map says we’re only a few days away from it now? Wouldn’t we just, walk in?”

“Going strictly by road, yes,” he agrees kindly. “But if you haven’t noticed, we’re on the edge of the Deadwood. And the next few days travel will take us straight through the Deadwood’s heart.”

“Well, with a name like Deadwood, how could it go wrong?” Mal snorts. Tyril shoots him a withering look.

“There, isn’t some other path we could take?” Nia asks, though the fact she’d waited until the last second to ask already speaks of the answer as she glances over at Imtura.

“It’s the only way to Undermount now,” Tyril reminds, he doesn’t need the map to know clearly. “It’s a sprawling, dense forest teeming with all kinds of horrifying creatures.”

“Sounds like my kind of place!” Imtura laughs, pulling a bag of nuts loose from her sack. “When do we start?” She throws a handful in with force and there’s a massive crunch like a tree beginning to fall. Then she offers you some, and you happily accept. You can’t toss half as many into your mouth, but it makes the same satisfying crunch. Their salty tang makes you ‘mph,’ in joy as it couples well with your berries, and feels like the best meal of your life as you take a good long swig of the last at your turn.

“At sunrise. We want to travel in as much daylight as possible.” Tyril patiently repeats, though none of you had really questioned why you’d made camp so early in the evening.

“Will that actually keep the monsters at bay?” Nia asks with mild hope.

“No,” Tyril says bluntly, but not unkindly. “But it’ll make it easier to see them coming.”

“Real assuring,” you sigh.

At sunrise, you pack up your belongings and head into the fearsome Deadwood. The sturdy clothes Imtura had given you still hold up surprisingly well, they’d only needed a little patching here and there. The forest was quickly going to make whatever needle and thread you possessed through its paces though.

Dead gray trees twist their leafless branches into a thick canopy overhead, blocking out the sun. It makes the whole world have a haunted green feel, like looking through a veil of how the world should be. Everything around you is twisted, smoky, as if a fire had just raged through here, and nothing had healed around it as every single thing you pass feels as if it's going to reach out and snag you, pull you in for a final breath.

“I can feel the sorrow weighing down these lands. The Light’s hold here is very tenuous,” Nia sighs, brushing her hands against the ancient plants with sorrow. You can’t help but flash back to the first time you saw her in such a place, so different a world away as she’d skipped merrily through.

“What happened to this place?” You ask, not even sure you wanted the answer as the dirt stirring across your feet looks more like ash and a new evil ready to swallow you. “Was it always like this Tyril?”

“At the height of Xaius’ empire, it was a bountiful forest, and a safe haven for the more sylvan elves,” Tyril’s somber tone leading the party carries back on the flat air.

You mouth the word sylvan to yourself and tuck that word away for a later time in confusion.

“But the Shadow Court’s venomous actions changed all that,” he gives a perfunctory huff that’s as close to losing his composer as you’ve ever seen of him.

“Such a waste,” Nia agrees, the tragedy in her tone as genuine as if she were in that home for orphans. “It would take an incredible amount of magic to cleanse these lands. Certainly, more magic than I can ever wield.”

The path winds through rocky outcroppings and past thick brambles with razor-like thorns. The roots creeping up from the ground are gnarled and thin so much so you’ve all tripped over at least five in the gloom. You get another dose, trying to throw your arms out for balance, and find you can’t. “Ouch! Ugh, I’m stuck,” you huff, twisting your arm this way and that.

Without you noticing, a knotted purple vine has entangled your arm. You pull but it doesn’t budge, instead digging further into your shirt and scratching your arm beneath unpleasantly. You reach over and try to pull it away, but your fingers instantly reel back from the painful bushel with a hiss.

“Hang tight kit,” Mal says patiently, only the faintest hint of amusement in his voice that this might be another story someday as he comes over, knife out. He moves around close to unhook your clothing from the needly vine one thin bit of fabric at a time, working his blade expertly. “Almost, got it- damn!”

“What? What’s the matter,” you yelp, pulling yourself taught and unable to see quite what he’s looking at a side look from the violet, violent vine… something about them is vaguely familiar…

“I, erm,” he coughs. “Seem to be caught too.” He looks down sheepishly at yet another vine wrapped around his leg, now limiting his movement as much as yours.

You bite your lip hard, but cannot stop a laugh. “So much for Mal the Magnificent. He died like he lived, caught in a trap of his own making.”

He gives you a droll look. “Hey, I was trying to help you! Guess I won’t make that mistake again,” he sniffs, turning his blade towards himself now. “Seriously though. Any idea what we do here? Because this is kind of funny, but also, I’m not loving how these vines are moving.”

You glance down and see he’s right. The vines are writhing, tightening, and you feel a pain start to course through your arm as your heart skips a beat.

Any other day, this would have been deeply fascinating. You’re half tempted to call the others over to see such a spectacle… but instead you sigh, and try something else first. “Kade’s read about these, I think. They’re called Pythonas Vines, and they’re actually pretty dangerous. They grab living creatures and squeeze them, constricting until the bones break, then absorb the remains for nutrients.”

“You couldn’t have warned me about that before I came over?” Mal demands at your rather blasé tone.

“They’re usually not powerful enough to hurt anything larger than a squirrel-bird or the like,” you shrug. “They can’t exert to much of their own energy after all. The trick is to convince them you’re not alive. If they think they’ve just grabbed a passing bramble in the wind, they’ll let go.”

“So we, hold completely still?” Mal clearly thinks you’re trying to pull his other leg.

“Think you can manage?” You snort.

He rolls his eyes, but, with a deep breath, holds his body statue still. You’re already doing the same.

And a moment later, the vines release, falling limp to the ground.

“Well, would you look at that. The kit was right,” Mal chuckles, giving you a firm clap on the shoulder.

“I’m always right,” you sniff, crossing your arms with the most hilarious sense of superiority. “The sooner you learn that the better.”

He’s chuckling with you as you hurry to catch up with the group, Imtura and Nia still easily being spotted as they begin lingering and looking around for you two. The moment he does, he’s already giving them the rundown of your little excursion.

It’s not until he casually puts his knife back away after having swished it around for emphasis of those deadly needle points do you wonder to yourself if he’s been in here before. He truly hadn’t seemed to know what those vines were, either that or he’d actually massively just been goofing off letting you figure it out. He hadn’t once told a story about being in this area of the world. It made a bit of sense if not, he usually just stuck to cities for his loot.

You find yourself walking a bit straighter as you realize, you really might be better in your element than him for once.

The forest around you somehow grows darker, stiller, eerier with every step. In a quiet moment, Nia presses alongside you, looking around nervously. “Syrum, I might just be imagining things, but, I kind of feel like something’s watching us.”

“You mean besides the creepy vines that crush your limbs to paste?” You ask.

She gives you a deeper frown, she hadn’t found the story nearly as funny as Imtura. “Honestly, yes. I keep seeing movement out of the corner of my eyes, shifting shadows up in the trees.”

You put a gentle arm around her and hug her close. “Nia, you’re creeping me out a little,” you admit, looking about nervously.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, still putting one arm around your side too and squeezing. “It’s probably nothing. I’ve just never been in a place like this before and I-“

Just then, something skitters by overhead, and Nia leaps farther into you, utterly losing her balance. You catch her in your arms. “Did you see that?!” She demands, voice only an octave off from a squeal of terror.

“We should stay on guard,” you agree, giving her a comforting squeeze, and letting go.

She pulls away from you reluctantly but stays pressed close. “For, what?”

“I would also like to know for what?” Mal huffs, somehow appearing close by again when you’d swear he’d been up front bothering Tyril a moment ago. He seriously had a knack for that. Tyril had very obviously been bickering about some kind of ointment for the closing scabs on Mal’s hand, but you really hadn’t been paying attention when that had stopped.

“They’re talking to you, elf,” Imtura calls in case Tyril had chosen this as one of his selective moments to ignore you all. “You know these woods. What do we need to worry about?”

“Too many evils to name,” he calls back, not slowing his pace.

“Just once, just once, I’d love a straight answer from you,” Mal groans.

Tyril sighed, and clearly, reluctantly elaborated, still without stopping his pace. “These woods are a deeply unholy place, a site of great cruelty. All manner of darkness congregates here. Ghouls, drakna, fleshdrinkers.”

“I don’t know what that last one is, and I don’t think I want to,” Mal doesn’t seem anymore pleased at having finally gotten his straight answer.

“Let’s all just stay sharp,” you remind, pushing your way forward to keep up with him in the only kind of encouragement you can think of. To press on, to get out of here.

Suddenly, there’s a rustling in the underbrush, and several small creatures come darting out.

They’re some amalgamation of a rabbit and something with antlers, a deer perhaps…. But neither of those creatures had six eyes and fangs.

Nia yelps like a frightened bunny herself and skitters off. Tyril looks back and finds himself in front of her, arm up to stop her getting any farther away, looking at the hoard coming out with a bored expression. “Ugh, lapna. Watch out, they come in hordes,” he sighs, sounding more as if he’d run into a horde of nesper kittens than truly worried.

You wonder vaguely if that’s an elvish word for these guys, if perhaps these animals you’d known all your life had proper names people in the city knew them as? The creatures dart toward you with shocking speed and a cacophony of angry squeaks.

It honestly seemed a waste of one of your few remaining arrows, you’d rarely found the material to make more along the way and hadn’t come across any salesman for them back at the port. These little guys were child’s play to you, the only new obstacle being you couldn’t just manage a shot right through their skull if you weren’t careful taking those antlers into account. But, it was fresh meat.

You knock arrow after arrow and fire in quick succession. Every one strikes true and the lapna fall, and those that don’t scatter with little, “eeee!” squeaks of protest.

“Target practice, love it,” you smirk.

“Hoo-ey,” Imtura’s eyes flash between you and the seven or so you’d downed. “That’s some nice bow work.” She shakes her hand out as if remembering an old wound.

Your heart still flutters like a traitor as you stand taller for her praise, smiling like a dope-

“Lapna are far from fearsome, but their number make them pesky little beasts,” Tyril says cuttingly, already moving to walk off with an icy chill in his wake. “And their noise usually draws larger creatures.”

You swallow and try not to shrink into yourself with the ridiculous urge to apologize.

“Great, just what we need,” Mal manages somehow more scathingly than him as he begins scooping up dinner and tying all their feet together with a rope. You get the feeling Mal’s not complaining about the noise the jackrabbit-antelopes had been making as you go around and try to collect any of your arrows back that hadn't splintered on impact, but there were only three.

Tyril pauses, and glances back, and something of his tense shoulders ease. “Were those lapna what you saw a moment ago, Nia?” He asks much more kindly.

“I’m not sure,” she admits, still hovering beside him wearily and looking around from when the melee had started. “I thought, I thought what I saw was larger. It still feels like something’s watching us,” she looks all around insistently, pleading with you all not to call her crazy.

“If so, it’s keeping its distance,” Tyril’s sharp eyes are flickering around nonstop, clearly believing her much more than even you’d like him to. “For now. Let’s keep moving, and stay alert.”

After a few more hours of travel uphill, the road starts to level off.

“Look! I think there’s a clearing up ahead!” Nia calls in relief, even moving as if to take the lead just for some fresh sunlight being hinted at.

“Careful,” Tyril’s gently caught her arm before she could dart past. “That may not be such a blessing.”

Weak sunlight filters through the clouds overhead, revealing a gap in the trees, and an abandoned campsite. 

“Blood in the air. I smell it,” Imtura says grimly, shifting her weight around unhappily, fingers already itching for an ax most likely.

“Look, a caravan,” Nia frowns, again trying to dart ahead.

You follow warily in confusion, knowing she fears hurt people, and your head is on a swivel for what caused it to crash. As you move closer, you spot three wooden caravan wagons hunkering in the clearing. They’re all painted in bright colors of blue and red, with quilts over the top and gold inlaid across their front. They’ve very intricately crafted, far more complex than you’ve ever seen, but the wheels are crushed, spokes broken, axels in pieces. All of them are on their side.

“They’ve been overturned,” Imtura sounds grudgingly impressed as she circles one, looking curiously about the ground and running her hand over the groves of wood in the back of one. “Smashed open. Like someone raided them.”

“Right. I’ll root around inside,” you frown, edging closer, skirting the edges and starting with one at the front, the biggest and grandest. Some of the doors you pass are hanging loose and nearly blown off the hinges, and rumpled curtains loll from windows just begging the elements to whip them away.

“These were nice wagons too,” you call aloud. “Look at the gold filigree and carvings. Maybe they were hit by bandits?”

“I don’t think so.” Tyril’s keeping pace close to you. “If you’re a bandit,” he pries open the loose door from the one still in the middle of the procession, revealing glittering sacks of gold and bolts of silk. “Why would you leave this behind?”

Your stomach sinks in horror at this very valid point.

“Why would we leave it behind!?” Mal says, a cheer in his voice as he bends down to inspect them.

“More importantly, if bandits killed however was in this wagon, were the hell are the bodies?” Imtura says warily.

Also an excellent question, and one you like even less after the last time you went looking for bodies considering what you found. “New theory. Something spooked the people so bad they ran off and left their wagons behind?”

“Scared them off, or took them prisoner,” Tyril cheerfully adds, his face bleak as stone.

“This just gets worse and worse,” Mal huffs, tying off sacks of gold as easily as he had the rabbits and rolling up the silk for his pack. “Let’s get out of here before you guys start imagining the Dreadlord himself.”

You all look at each other uneasily, waiting for someone else to vote, something. You stop where you are, looking at the abandoned wagon at the head, but already weary at how much space there is between you guys spreading out over just these two.

“Mal’s right,” you agree, feeling unreasonably tense the longer you look around, and not just because Mal willing to leave the rest of this treasure unturned was cause enough for alarm. “The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

“I mean, we could take a moment to see if there is more gold,” Mal says with a curious head tilt, but you can’t help a laugh, knowing he’s kidding as he backs away towards you.

“And end up just like whoever was in this wagon?” Tyril scoffs, more than happy to move on. His restless energy is infectious and leaves you more fidgety and on edge than being back in a forest ever should have been possible.

“Fair enough,” Mal raises his hands, already falling into step with him.

You start to move on, when Nia’s satchel stirs, and a familiar head pokes out. “Hmm?”

“Well, well,” Mal gives him a friendly enough pat on the head as he passes. “The great nesper finally stirs.”

“I can’t help my sleep habits. I’m nocturnal,” he says around a grand yawn.

“You sleep at night constantly,” Tyril could have been taking lessons from Mal with that kind of sarcastic tone.

“I’m adorable?” Threep tries, blinking up at you with wide adorable eyes indeed.

“Regardless,” you chuckle, “Threep, we’re kind of having an intense moment here.”

“Oh I’m sure,” he manages between licking at his paw, “but, something stirred me awake.” He hops out of the satchel and looks around the caravan, sniffing.  “I sense something. Someone fled into the wood, that way,” he’s glancing off to the shadows ahead. “Carrying something of great value…” He tips his head to the side, still sniffing the air delicately.

“Greater value than this chest here?” Mal gives the heavy crate a light tap with his foot. “Now I’m interested.”

“It is getting dark.” Tyril interrupts his wandering eyes. “We need to be preparing camp, not going on some wild goose chase.” You don’t need his tone and closeted childhood trauma choice of words to get his feelings on the matter.

“This isn’t just some trinket,” Threep insists, stretching and padding off with his tail high. “What I’m sensing has power, magic. Something, something ancient. And not far from here.” He wanders back and begins circling your feet, looking up at you of all people. “I must confess, I’m fiendishly interested in this. I must know what it is!”

Ah, well, appealing to your sense of curiosity was always a quick way to your heart. You’re unsurprised he’s learned that as you bend down and scoop him up to give his ear a good scratch.

“You do know what curiosity did to the cat, right?” Imtura smirks.

“I find that expression deeply offensive,” he glowers over your shoulder at her, and you’re grateful he can’t see your brief smile as you run your hand soothingly down his back, stopping to scratch behind a wing this time.

You lean down, and just barely, focusing as much as your elvish senses will allow, you detect a stirring of power from within the brush. “Threep’s right. There is something out there.”

“I’m in!” Mal claps your shoulder, instantly on board, the two of you exchanging invigorated smiles. “Let’s go get this magical whatever!”

“Tyril’s right, I think we should be setting up camp before night falls,” Nia cautions too, glancing nervously at the dim lighting and over to him as if expecting him to somehow stop the pair of you.

“A compromise then,” Mal said graciously, leaning his weight on the shoulder Threep isn’t currently lolled out on. “The cat and I’ll go check it out, and the rest of you make camp. Syrum can join us.”

“I would be most amenable to that,” he agrees with a purr in his voice.

“What do you say kit?” His sparkling, mischievous brown eyes are already darting off and back impatiently. “You in?”

“Of course I’m in,” you chuckle. “Let’s take a quick look for this magical relic. We’ll be back before you knot it,” you assure Tyril.

He sighs, but seems much more amiable to not arguing with the pair of you wandering off anymore. That’s some improvement. “I don’t like it, but, be careful.”

“When am I not?” Mal gives faux hurt as he presses his hand to his heart. The dirty bandages on his hand does not make a compelling point.

Tyril deigns not to answer as the three of you go off, the sounds of the others setting up camp chores falling quickly behind you.

               “I’m surprised you let them go off, as weary as you are of this place,” Nia says cautiously to Tyril at their retreating forms.

“Kind of wondering if I shouldn’t go,” Imtura agrees, but she’s kicking off her boots with a sigh of relief as well and leaning over to where Mal had dropped the bag full of antlered rabbits to begin skinning them.

“They’re perfectly capable of looking after each other, and it would only cause more harm than good to try and tell them not to go,” Tyril says with the kind of exhaustion deep in his voice from far too much personal experience… but his eyes linger the longest upon their absent shadows… 

                   Threep flutters his wings and pulls himself up to your shoulder completely as you push through the trees with both hands, smiling rakishly back at Mal as he lags behind. “C’mon, Mr. Magnificent, keep up!”

“Of course,” he sniffs, swatting a lingering web out of his face. “Can’t have you rushing off ahead and getting ambushed by another one of Nia’s spooky shadow monsters.”

“You think she really saw something besides those lapna?” You ask, looking back in sudden concern for them.

“Could have,” he agrees, not nearly as strung up about it. “I’ve come across stranger things lurking in dark corners in my day. Nothing I can’t wriggle out of, if you’re worried.”

His confidence is as instilling as it was once annoying. “You’re saying that nothing in these woods scares you huh?”

“Please,” he snatches up a stick and uses it to whack a passing trunk. “The things in this forest should be scared of me!”

“Oh yes,” Threep agrees with a laugh, kneading his little paws into your shoulder. “I’m sure your routine of running away at the first sign of danger will certainly inspire fear in the shadowy hellions of the deep.”

“And you think they’ll be scared of a snarky little housecat like yourself?” He demands with a casual glance at you giving his furry chin a friendly tickle.

“Hmph,” Threep pulls away from you, giving Mal a little hiss. “Maybe they’d at least have respect for an ancient and noble being, unlike yourself!”

“Aw, the widdle kitty’s tail is all puffed up,” Mal snickers.

Threep’s tail swishes back and forth sharply against the back of your neck, and he licks a paw imperiously. “May I remind you that I am a nesper, imbued with nearly two millennia of wisdom, from a far more glorious age than you can even imagine?”

“Ya know, I think you’ve mentioned it a time or two,” Mal nods mock seriously.

“Okay, we get it,” you groan, swatting a hand against Mal’s shoulder. “Threep, you’re very impressive. Mal, you’re a bad bold and intimidating adventurer!” They both huff but seem ready to let it go. “What was it like back then Threep?” You ask of him, going back to letting him rub his face firmly against your crooked fingers, bending your nails to his will.

You had found him as just a kitten, but in just the span of a few weeks he’d already lengthened himself out into a respectable mouser any farmer would keep on his property with a few scraps of food. You were determined not to underestimate your friend's knowledge again after your mess up with Nia as you ask him point blank if there was some ancient wisdom he wanted to share.

“Well,” he spreads his weight comfortably upon you, foot dangling over your chest. “For one, everyone universally adored and revered the Nesper!”

“Yeah, yeah, you were practically a god, whatever,” Mal snorted harshly enough to drown out your quiet one.

“Magic was everywhere,” Threep continues piously, ignoring him. “And it wasn’t something to be feared or kept in reserve, it was just part of the tapestry. Like the perfect sunset. Unimaginably beautiful if you’ve never seen one, but easy to overlook if you take it for granted.”

“I bet Nia would've loved to see that world,” you grin. 

“She asks about it often,” he agrees, nuzzling into your neck, but there’s a sadness lingering in him now, a small chirp to his voice. “But, because some people wanted to hoard that free, wild magic, it’ll never exist again. Not like it was.”

You sigh, and cuddle him closer. “Oh Threep, I never realized how much you missed it. The way things used to be.”

“It’s not that bad,” he gives the cat approximation of a shrug, his wings fluttering as he nestles and spreads out more of his weight upon you. There is still joy in his voice you’re used to hearing. “As the only nesper left, once I get the ball rolling on the hero worship, I’ll get all the reverence and adoration to myself.” 

You can’t help but bust out laughing, he sounds just like you used to. A kit, a little kid, and in all honesty, he still was just a baby in most ways. Though the ratio of cat to others aging was something you knew little about. “While you’re working on that, we can all work on making the world just a little bit better.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mal chuckles. “I’m just gonna make the world a little bit better for me.”

“Does anything scare you Mal?” You can’t help but turn back around on him, asking with indulgence of expecting an answer. 

“You certainly do a lot of running away for someone who claims to be so fearless,” Threep agrees slyly. 

“There’s plenty of stuff to run from,” Mal sniffs, flipping his hair out of his face with a casual toss of his head. “Doesn’t mean any of it scares me,” he concludes with a sniff, that old malice back in him you hadn’t seen in weeks now.

“What are you running from then?” You can’t help but challenge with a raised brow.

“You’re really trying to get personal huh?” Mal asks, not sounding intolerable as he gives you an appraising look. “Maybe wait for the fifth or sixth date for that.”

Fall back into flirting huh? That’s where he was at? This was definitely a high-level problem avoidance. “I think that answers my question Mal Volari.”

“Oh yeah,” he’s being so flippant and starting to drift away from you as if that patch of rocks would be much more fun to walk upon. “And what do you think you know about me, Master Detective Syrum.”

“You’re scared of getting personal,” you admit out loud for the first time. “You’re literally running from it right now.”

“Shows how much you know,” he runs his fingers through his hair and very purposefully falls back into step beside you as if he’d been doing nothing of the sort. “I’m all about getting personal.” He smirks and you can just feel the salacious comment he’s about to make to get you to blush, maybe one of those things he’d hinted at seeing in a brothel… but then he stops, and his expression turns thoughtful as he catches your eye. He opens his mouth-

“Shhh, we’re close!” Threep murmurs hastily, sitting up abruptly upon your shoulder. The change in weight makes you tense right along with him, fingers itching for your bow.

The trees part, revealing a delicate magical grove. Lights sparkle from the trees, and a gentle mist hangs over the ground. It’s like a beautiful new world you’d passed into. The trees are full of life and bloom in shades of purples and greens, the grass is thick and springy, full to bursting with energy, and even glimmers a bit as you walk through it as if ready to shower you with pollen floating from above. 

“There!” Threep calls in excitement, bouncing back to his own feet and jumping from each of your shoulders with an agile twist of his hips. 

Lying in the center of the grove is an elegant dagger, pulsing with magical energy. 

“Magical dagger? Don’t mind if I do,” Mal’s already eager to swoop in. But as he approaches, a low growl sounds from a nearby bush. “... or not,” he sighs, already reaching for his own with well oiled experience. He jerks back closer to you, blade at the read as a creature emerges from the shadows.

It’s a puppy.

It is an angry puppy, but a tiny little guy all the same. Thick black fur, massive paws, he’s got thick spines on his back that glow as purple as the tips of his tail, ears, and a ring upon his chest that merges up into his creamy white face. Even his tongue looks as if he’s just had a tongue-melting oyster or two. He’s got little horns forming out in front of his ears that are also typed the same shade, and a spackle of purple upon his forehead in the shape of a stone. He gives you a little menacing, “grrrr!”

“What is that,” you ask curiously, eyes darting around for mama cautiously. 

The creature paces to the dagger, protectively baring its fangs. 

“I’ve seen them in Whitetower, pets for the wealthiest and most powerful nobles.” Mal sighs, looking a little pitiful for the poor creature… or the knife it's protecting, you really can’t decide. 

“The worst of the worst. A voxper,” Threep says with deep disgust, crouching low in your hair like an angry scarf. You can feel his own growls radiating off of him.

The creature's eyes light on Threep, and a low voice emanates from its jaws. “Well, well, well. A nesper.”

You can’t help but scream bloody murder and backpedal far away, hand flying up to press your talking cat deeper into your shoulder. Great, how many animals could actually talk you’d never heard of?!

The voxper isn’t done, following your progress attentively. His voice is deep, regal… and still as childlike as Threep’s had once been when he’d emerged from his crystal. “I thought we’d seen the last of your kind.”

Threep’s deep hiss from his throat is blood chilling against your ear, his nails digging painfully into your shoulder as he continues to growl. You don’t need to look over and see his eyes are flashing, hateful slits. 

“Hang on, the dog talks too?” Well at least Mal’s as surprised as you are! It’s not much of a relief, but all you have to cling to right now. 

“I am not a dog!” The dog snaps, puffing up his tiny chest. “I am a voxper! A noble hound, friend of elves and man!”

“Ha! Please!” Threep’s hurting you, his wing cutting deep scratches into the back of your neck, his nails dug deep, he’s sitting so tight and yet longing to jostle in place to wiggle for the right pounce. Your hand presses tighter against his back to keep him in place, but you’d seen how fast he could be when he wanted to, fluid as liquid squirming out of Nia’s arms. There was little hope of stopping him if he launched off for a fight. “Voxpers are crude and unrefined beasts! There’s nothing noble about you!”

 “Oh, and you’re so great? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” He snarls back, tail wagging menacingly as he crouches low.  

 “We had the decency to die with the elves, not grovel before the first master who came along!” Threep snarls back, you can feel his back legs quivering and ready to spring.

“Decency to die?” The voxper lets out a barking laugh of a scoff. “Do you even hear yourself, fleabag?”

“How! Dare!” Threep’s beyond words, you are now clutching his scruff upon the back of his neck to stop him. 

Mal leans over, whispering in your ear, “Did I suffer a head injury earlier? Or are you seeing this too?”

“No, I’m seeing it, working on the believing it,” you agree, feeling light headed at where your life was, and it’s not just from the blood loss as Threep gives a horrid HISSSSS right against your face to be let go.

The voxper gives a ferocious little, “GROOOWWWWW,” back.

“Hot damn, they’re ready to go at it,” Mal sounds vaguely impressed.

And then they are. With a wild wrench, Threep breaks free and tackles the voxper to the ground, and they roll around in a chorus of hisses and snarls. 

“Mal, help me! Grab the voxper, I’ll get Threep!” You’re already trying to lunge after him, empty arms feeling cold.

“I don’t really want those razor sharp teeth anywhere near my gorgeous-”

“Grab. It.” You snap, shoving him forward. 

“On it,” Mal groans in reluctant agreement.

He dives for the pup, while you swoop down and snatch up Threep around his middle. “Syrum!” He’s wiggling in protest, looking at you in betrayal. “Unhand me! You’re interfering in a matter of pride and honor-” he sounds very much like a kid being scolded, and you would have laughed if you didn’t want to throttle him as your shoulder throbs in pain.

“How utterly predictable,” the voxper sneers, Mal’s hands holding tight as he crouches over the little guy holding onto his middle too. “The Nesper needs his master to come to his defense. A guardian defends his master, not the other way!”

“Having a real hard time keeping hold of this pup Syrum!” Mal reminds, actually having to dig his heels in and pressing the dog firmly into the ground.

“I did not ask him to come to my defense!” Threep yowls, batting in frustration at your arms but only managing to catch your shirt, for now. “And he’s not my master! We’re companions! ”

The animals wriggle free and glare at each other, only a patch of grass separating them, still puffed up and ready to circle each other and begin again. 

“All right, as hilarious as this is, we have a camp to get to.” Mal impatiently cuts in.

 You give him a withering look and already know you’re going to need to put the last of that salve on your shoulder. This certainly wasn’t funny to you! “You, dog-thing.” Mal wedges his foot between the two little beasts and wiggles it back and forth. “What's with the dagger? Can we have it?”

The voxper actually looks away from Threep to give Mal a look of contempt. “This dagger belonged to my master, Lord Goffrey of Whitetower, his most prized possession! I held on to it when we were attacked!”

“Oh, you were with the caravan,” you sigh in understanding this did make sense.

“Losing the master but saving the dagger. Classic voxper,” Threep sniffs, still pressed low into the grass, prepared to launch himself at a moment's notice. 

 “What exactly were you attacked by?” Mal prompts hastily. You did at least agree, better to keep them talking than going back to attacking. There was a patch of blood on Threep’s hip you were not happy to see, and the pup had the same red trickles around his neck.

“I’m, not sure,” the pup admits, tail hanging low and even tucking close underneath him. You hear shame in his small voice. “They came from the trees. Scaly, chittering. I couldn’t see much else. They came fast and vicious. Hurled me into the brush. By the time I came to, my master was gone.”

He’s so small by the end, he even lets out a little whimper, and it takes every grain of loyalty you  have not to have him back near Threep that you aren’t trying to cuddle him close. 

“That’s, not comforting,” you groan, running your hand through your hair. 

“Right then, so about the dagger,” Mal’s already moved on. You resist the urge to kick him.

“Back off it brigand!” The voxper springs right back to full, diminutive form and pounces back towards it.

“Listen,” you begin wearily. “We can return your dagger to your master.” At least, you very much hope so.

“How so?” He asks, tipping his head to the side, his tail beginning the smallest wag.

“We’ll be wandering these woods, right? If we encounter your master, we’ll give him his dagger back. And if we don’t, we can take it back to Whitetower and give it to his family. We’re headed there anyway.” You say with absolute conviction of your words being truth.

“Well…” the voxper makes a soft whining noise of protest, but he’s inching closer to you still. “I suppose I wasn’t having the best luck carrying it in my teeth… Do you swear to keep your word?”

“I do,” you vow, inclining your head, even offering out your hand for him to sniff. 

 “Swear on the Old Gods and the new. On Annalis and Nithrax, on Calper and Varlan.” He insists, but he gives your hand a cautious sniff of hope. 

 At hearing the names, the anger fades from Threep’s expression. He steps forward, head bowed reverently, and speaks in unison. “On Nifara and Vaelor, and Ittar and Bakshi.”

“On Ellara and Xaius and Midys,” the voxper continues in the same deep tone you associated with Nia’s praying. The names even ring the same bells.

“And the Mother of Grey in the stars above,” Threep finishes with a bow of his head.

“Drah’alla nar toreth….” the voxper’s voice is deep with love in prayer.

“Vendar na’tolleh,” Threep concludes with a purr in his voice.

The two animals stare at each other for a moment, then the voxper drops his head. “The dagger is yours.”

“...thank you,” Threep says, and he’s standing tall, proud, tail swishing in the exact same cautious hope as the voxper’s. An awkward silence lingers over the clearing, when Threep clears his throat. “If you’d like you can travel with us. For a time.”

Mal immediately makes a face and mutters something about mouths to feed, but he doesn’t even get the chance to see your glare as the pup shakes his head. “I, appreciate the offer. But I’m on a journey of my own. Honoring my master’s last request.”

“Are you sure?” Threep actually sounds disappointed, his wings drooping, taking a few reluctant steps forward.

“I am,” he agrees, firmly, but kindly. He seems just as sad.

The two animals come together, sniffing gently, noses touching. 

“It was good to hear someone speak the old tongue again,” Threep sighs, rubbing his face gently against the voxpers neck.

“Agreed,” he says around a panting tongue lolling in and out. “Even if it was a mangy nesper.”

“Mph, why you,” but Threep’s tail twitches in a playful way as he bats lightly upon the voxper’s head. 

With a playful laugh, the voxper bounds off without looking back.

Mal lets the moment hang, just barely, then bends down to pick up the dagger. “Now this is what I’m talking about!”

It is a beauty of a weapon, you see now in the lighting. The blade is gleaming brighter than moonlight, glimmering like ice. It looks elegant, double edged, deadly to its very point. The handle is almost leaf-like in pattern, and for some strange reason it seems to have an ornamental incision where base meets metal.

“Magically sharpened steel that never dulls,” Mal’s giving it an elegant balance between his fingers, his voice as rapturous as the two animals had been in their praying. “Perfectly balanced, an edge that can cut through glass…” with a shake of his head, he tucks it into his belt. “Oh yeah, this’ll come in real handy.”

You cross your arms… but decide it’s not worth reminding him you just put your vow on the line that wasn’t his to keep. Not yet… honestly you’d never put your vow on the line for anything before. It was a strange weight settling in your chest to contemplate. “Should we get back to camp then?”

“Yes, it, it’s time,” Threep sighs. With one last miserable chirping noise, he turns, and pads off, leading the way. Walking.

The three of you return in silence. As you do, you glance down at Threep who flutters up onto your shoulder again much, much longer after the fact than he normally would have. “Hey, what you sensed out there, that you were so drawn to, was it the dagger? Or was it the voxper?” You wished you’d asked the pup his name, it had vaguely occurred to you half a dozen times, but it had almost felt rude too, somehow. He would have told you if he wanted to.

Threep doesn’t answer, but his expression says it all as he presses his face apologetically against your neck and begins gently licking at the blood. For one moment, it almost looks like he’s tearing up. “I hope he’s okay out there.” His voice is soft, a gentle murmur just for you.

“Me too,” you whisper back, brushing your hand gently through his fur as he begins to purr.

You push through the trees, returning to the others, who have long since set up camp and have started on supper. It smells delicious.

“Why is it every time you two come back someone is covered in blood,” Tyril said with a morbid frown at your shoulder upon arrival.

“This time, it was friendly fire,” you sigh, slumping down onto the nearest log. Those claws had gone deep. You shrug your shirt off and wince as it clings to the sticky life-sap of yours with a sigh as Threep flutters over to Nia’s arms.

“Did you find anything?” Tyril asks instead, tipping his head curiously.

“What happened?” Nia agreed in concern, running her hands in a fret along Threep.

“A weapon,” Mal says with pride, patting his bag, already winding himself up to tell his next epic story. You wouldn't be surprised to hear the voxper was now at least seven feet tall with three heads that he still managed to hold back one handed while you and Threep cowered in fear.

“And an old friend,” Threep says with an actual joyful flutter of his wings.

“Right then,” Imtura snorts as she continues stirring the pot. “Who’s getting first watch tonight?”

“How about you, oh hardened warrior of the seas?” Mal says with an obnoxious yawn. “Aren’t you itching for a fight?”

“Yeah, well, I’m also itching for some sleep,” she says with a leveled look at him as she takes out a spoonful and gives it a curious sip.

“I’ll keep watch with you,” you offer, prodding around on the back of your shoulder cautiously. You’d been hoping it wasn’t too deep and would heal, but you can feel fresh, sluggish blood still making its way down your back and tickling unpleasantly. “I’m not getting any sleep any time soon, this is going to drive me nuts.”

“Sorry,” Threep says genuinely from Nia’s lap where she’s giving his chest deep, hard, fond scratches.

“Eh, I’ll take the trade,” you shrug off, giving him a smile as he’s still glowing with a deeper happiness than you’ve ever seen him, and it’s not from the attention.

“And what exactly did you have in mind,” Imtura slams back into the conversation… and with a flush you realize she’s eyeing you in a strange way. And you flush a deeper shade of violet in embarrassment as you realize what you’d just said… with your shirt off…

But you meet her eyes and grin, some old flare of your natural charm rearing its head. You refuse to let the implication pass now that it’s started, it would truly be a waste. “You and me, side by side, huddled together in the dark…” you trail off with a curious brow.

“Oh, you have no idea what I’m like in the dark,” she matches your tone with a husky one of her own that absolutely makes your blood boil and your pride rise sky high.

“Can’t wait to find out then,” you chuckle eagerly.

-But then, you hear a rustle, and with a, “riiii!”, another lapna is jumping its way right into your path. There’s a devilish feeling about it as it zeros in on the fire as if it can sense its brethren in the pot simmering away into a delicious smelling stew.

A whole horde is soon to follow, bursting into the campsite.

“Oh come on!” Mal groans. Honestly, your sentiment.

“I told you they were pesky, did I not?” Tyril’s scowl doesn’t seem to know where to settle as he shoo’s the nearest one away and answers Mal.

Your friends draw their weapons as the lapna charge once again with, “ri ri ri!” upon every hop.

With burning frustration, exhaustion, and hunger, you stand up and snap, “hey, lapna! Listen real good! Sri sri, and stay away from us!”

You mimic a few other lapna noises, and then the horde skids to a stop, squeaking in surprise. 

“What, in the depths….” Imtura trails off as monstrously confused as ever about this obscene talent you truly had no idea where you pulled from. “Where’d you learn to speak their language?!”

“I dunno, but I think it’s working,” Mal’s head is wiping painfully between you and the little rascals just as much.

“Ri riri, sri! Iii,” you chitter after them, ignoring them with no better answer than when it had happened the first time with the grobtars. The point was, it was working. With a, ‘sri!’ of their own, the lapna turn tail and scamper back into the forest.

“That, was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” Somehow Tyril’s completely vexed expression on you makes you feel more like a freak of nature than the six eyed rabbits.

“Um,” you rub awkwardly at the back of your neck, and give a helpless shrug.

“All right, change of plans!” Mal’s quick to jump to his feet, now the center of attention. “I’m not sleeping out here so a lapna can gnaw my face off during the night!”

“Actually, we might be in luck,” Tyril turns away from you with one last quizzical look and sheaths his sword. He gestures toward a small stone resting at the entrance to an overgrown trail. “The carving on that stone, it’s a symbol in Elvish for ‘refuge.’ There must have been an old hunting lodge here once.”

There isn’t an ounce of curiosity in you to go and examine it as you wearily take a step away from him, from everyone, feeling woozy for no good reason.

“But, it wouldn’t still be standing, would it?” Nia asks in disbelief.

“Anything’s better than sleeping out in the open,” he reminds her gently. “Let us eat, and then we will rest.”

“You’re mentioning this now?!” Mal demands, but he’s quick to pour himself a bowl without further hesitation.

“As Nia said, it may just be a slab of stone abandoned to the elements, but I see no more harm in relocating to check it out if we can’t even escape the most mild of inconveniences otherwise,” Tyril shrugs, moving to get his own.

You sink back down onto your log, still feeling itchy, vulnerable, and not a small amount of near tears as you pull out some bandages from your bag instead, hoping your long dark hair is hiding your face and deciding the scratches really weren’t that bad as you try and plaster them on in the edge of the light's reach. The leather vest had taken the worst of the damage and still come out reasonably intact anyways. 

You heard her get up, you felt her approach, but you don’t dare look up until she’s sitting silently behind you and takes the bandages gently from your hand. With a small splash, she’s got a wet rag brushing gently against the wounds and then is tenderly applying the bandages.

Her rough hands are gentle, and precise. You dare to do nothing but hold your hair out of the way as she works, knowing she can probably hear your heart thundering every single time her warm hands brush against you again. 

All cleaned up, her hands linger in place, one gently upon your arm as if you’d been squirming, and with the other, ever so softly, she presses the pads of her fingers in around the curve of your shoulder into your neck. You can’t help a soft gasp of surprise as she moves her fingers tenderly right there, and finally force yourself to look over your shoulder and meet her eyes.

“…let me know if you want me to add to those,” Imtura whispers softly, giving your shoulder one last squeeze, letting one rough nail catch, and then getting up to walk off.

You sit paralyzed, afraid to move a single inch as your loins quiver and inflate painfully fast. After several long, deep breaths, you throw your shirt back on, excuse yourself to the bathroom, and come back to your own helping of rabbit stew… and sit as close to Imtura as ever.

It takes no time at all to pack away the bit of leftovers and break camp to begin walking carefully down the path, but it is full dark now.

Tyril leads you down the trail, hacking through dense vines and twisted branches with his sword. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Imtura murmurs, seeing well over his shoulder before the rest of you can.

The trees part to reveal the old lodge in decent, if not stellar, shape. Wood beams and mossy stones form the building’s frame. It resembles something of a fancy cottage you’d see in a story book if there wasn’t half a tree growing out of its blue gabled roof. Something of its leveled, rounded tops and beautiful arches gives it a timeless feel you quite enjoy looking at.

“Look, the Deadwood’s decay hasn’t touched the ground around it,” Nia utters in awe, bending down to brush the earth with her fingers. Threep squirms in her arms, his little paws coming out to clutch her arm in a hug for stability. 

As your party moves closer, cautiously, you see what she means. Stubborn shoots of green grass poke through the ashy, dry dirt. Even the gnarled trees are bent away from the lodge. It’s not as preserved as the little clearing you’d found the knife, but it imbues a sense of hope in you for this forest not being out of a chance to be what it once was.

“There must be an ancient protective magic cast on these grounds,” Tyril nods his head happily. “Let’s hope it’ll keep us safe through the night.”

He leads you all into the lodge. Though it’s in decent shape, the inside is gloomy and worn-down. You can’t stop yourself from smiling at every new elvish thing your eyes rest upon, not caring it’s just a house to him. It is literally as close as you’ve ever been to something so primally a part of yourself. The room is as large and wide open a space as the Wraith, and you could study the fine detail in every gold thread of decoration upon the walls, the bare stone floors for hours…

“The air feels so heavy in here,” Nia frowns, twisting her fingers through it strangely. “Like a sorrow that can’t be lifted.”

“Someone’s been reading too much poetry,” Mal chuckles, giving a curl in her hair a friendly tweak as he walks past.

A massive hearth stands in the center of the lodge’s great hall, a few sooty smears the only evidence it’s ever been used. “It looks like there are several rooms branching off this main hall.” Tyril brushes his hands curiously over the centerpiece for only a moment before turning away with a satisfied nod. “Nothing fancy, but at least it’s shelter.”

“Are you kidding?” You laugh at his dismissive tone. “I could fit our old home back in Riverbend inside that fireplace alone! This’ll do more than fine!”

“I’ll be taking the room furthest from the front door,” Mal says with a cheery wave to you all. He's already dropped his bag inside the doorway of said room with a punctual yawn. “Just in case we get any unexpected guests in the night.” He flashes Imtura one last lingering, obvious look.

The others poke around the lodge, claiming their own rooms, but you’re to distracted by still taking it all in, and notice something hanging on the mantel thickly shrouded in dust. “Hmm,” you mutter, heading cautiously over and wiping gingerly at the grime with the sleeve of your shirt…. revealing an elegantly carved wooden longbow.

Your mouth is already falling open in shock and awe. It is a genuine ancient elven hunting bow! Truly the most intricately crafted weapon you’d ever see in your life, even more so than the knife you’d just found. It’s sinuous gold and white material all but hums with magic from just your first non-touch. The string is a fine glimmering thread that twinkles in the nonexistent light. The handle looks smooth and well used in a thick golden plating that you already know will be warm to the touch.

“A bow of Gal’dariel,” Tyril makes you startle hard, whirling around to see he’s joined you. You swallow painfully, but watch him eagerly as he leans close to study it. “Incredibly powerful and precise. A true weapon of power. There were only a hundred made. Surprising to see one here.”

He sees the awe with which you stare at it, and he smiles. No hesitation, nothing at all in his gentle eyes except warmth. “You should take it, if you want.”

“M-me?” You stutter, not believing your ears. “Are you sure?”

“Who better than you? Certainly none of us have your skill with this weapon,” Tyril doesn’t look away for a moment. “It was left here to be found, which means it was your destiny to find it.”

You glance down at the cheap imitation bow Nia had bought you so long ago in Port Parnassus that, in all fairness, was literally the best bow you’d ever had in your life. It was sturdy and had lasted you longer than any others you’d ever made for yourself… but every time you looked at it, you were reminded of the one you’d lost at the Temple of Ellara. 

What had you done to earn such a thing as this ultimate upgrade? You didn’t even know how to pronounce a single word in elvish. You’d learned your skill by teaching yourself for years on end of practice, it was that or go hungry as foraging and pity had only taken the two of you so far. Surely Tyril knew of a dozen bowman who had been taught by the finest masters who could put this thing to better use…

“I, I don’t know what to say,” you stutter.

“Say yes,” Tyril says it so simply.

So with a gentle, shaking hand, you ease the bow down from its display and turn it over in your hands. The thin carvings depict an idyllic forest scene imagery, complete with prancing deer, just deer?, lush waterfalls, and bright, blossoming trees that almost move every time you tip it another way to see like a picture that won’t be contained. “It’s, it’s beautiful…” You test the bow’s heft and check the notches for the bowstring. It’s in remarkably good condition, and feels perfectly molded to your grip. “Tell, tell me how you pronounce it again,” you ask, feeling light headed.

“Gal’dariel,” he pronounces slowly and elegantly as ever on that silver tongue, putting emphasis just where it was needed. There is no hint of disdain in his voice, just the same gentle speech he’d given that first night you spoke. You hadn’t really spoken much since.

This felt like an enormous huge leap forward in terms of… gods, you didn’t even know what to call it other than friendship. Companionship? You’d honestly started to begin wondering if he was growing to loathe your presence as some sort of lacking and holding him back up to this moment.

You test the bow out, nocking one of your precious remaining arrows, and pulling the string taught. It glides so smoothly in your hand it’s startling, and you almost release. The pull, the weight is there in your arm and shoulder, but the draw is like you're gently tugging on a string with no resistance. You reluctantly don’t fire and sling it over your shoulder, setting the other down in its place back on the mantel. A paltry comparison.

Much like you and Tyril.

“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “I’ll use it well.” … maybe with this bow’s help, we can restore the woods to their former beauty … it’s an inane thought. You have no idea where it came from except the beautiful weapon itself filling you with hope for something better. 

Tyril hesitates, and then gently clasps your shoulder. “I know you will.”

He turns, walks off, but then hesitates a moment more and turns back. “Your arrows have been blessed now.” Then he departs.

Blinking after him like he’d just made a joke, you pull your quiver down to see- he was right! It was fully stocked with strange new arrows! With a wild yelp, you pull one out to see they were of the same grand material as the bow. Lighter than the feathers for the fletching, gold and silver! From the space of where you’d just pulled one out to inspect, there is a strange glimmering in the air, and then a gentle clatter of a new arrow appearing in its place.

You were never going to be able to go back to a regular old bow and arrow again as you wipe a bit of drool off your chin and hastily straighten up, looking around- only to abruptly remember Kade isn’t here to gawk with you.

Your companions rejoin you all in the great room, and Nia kneels down before the fireplace. 

“We should probably gather some more firewood before it gets any darker.” Mal groans, digging his knuckles into his back at the idea of the task.

Nia presses her palms together and whispers under her breath. When she pulls her hands apart, a spark leaps out and into the hearth. The room is instantly brightened and warmed as if her spirit itself was infusing the room through the crackling flames. “There! Problem solved.” She says in delight as the soft golden glow washes over you all. Though there are no logs burning, the room feels cozy and inviting at last. 

“Ah! That’s just what I needed to warm my bones,” Imtura nods in appreciation, stepping right up and nearly putting her hands inside she leans so close with a groan of appreciation. “Thanks priestess.” 

“Anything I can do to help,” Nia says brightly.

“When are you teaching me that spell?” You laugh in delight, sitting down eagerly next to her.

“-Hmph,” Tyril’s scathing voice quickly cuts in. “You shouldn’t be wasting your Light like that, Nia.”

“It’s her Light. She can use it how she wants!” You snap at once, only restraining yourself by the barest thread not to get to your feet and punch him. You’re so tired of his whiplash moods and his near negative opinion on all of you. The only thing he ever seems to enjoy doing for long is bickering with Mal!

You take a deep breath though, and ease your tone back into something light and teasing, you are not angling for a fight. “Besides, I didn’t see you rushing to gather firewood for us. Admit it, these woods scare you just as much as the rest of us.”

“The Deadwood is beside the point,” his voice is even sharper than usual as he glowers down at the pair of you. “The point is she’s squandering what she has.” He takes in your blank expression as you glance at Nia. “You, you really don’t know, do you?” He struggles to articulate.

“Know, what?” You prompt, admitting to yourself you’d clearly missed something… not a great showing putting your foot in your mouth after getting a brand new bow-

“Tyril,” but Nia’s voice is cautious… almost a warning. 

This was getting stranger by the moment. 

“The Light isn’t free,” to your astonishment, Tyril bends his form gracefully to sit in front of you, and there’s a sudden lump in your throat at how he leans forward. It’s a zealous light in his eye to explain. This energy almost scares you, and you have a feeling it's almost his intention as he seems to look all over you as if expecting the rock to appear in your palm again any moment. The tense set of his mouth in fact almost guarantees that’s exactly what he’s thinking as his eyes flicker between you and Nia. “Like everything, it comes with a price. A hefty one, particularly for humans. Every time someone uses their magic, it’s fueled by some of their own lifeforce. They’re literally trading away their life for it.”

Nia ducks her head, not looking at any of you, but not fast enough to hide the shame in her eyes.

“ What?” You help, honestly wishing you’d misheard. You can’t help a painful look at Nia, the sting of betrayal washing off of you nothing you’d have ever expected from her gentle form.

“That’s, dark,” Mal says slowly. You’d almost forgotten he and Imtura were still there, but they’ve backed cautiously away from the fire now, and are eying Nia with the same level concern dominant in Tyril as if he fears she’s about to drop dead.

“Nia! You, you taught me that spell and- were you going to tell me this?!” You choke out.

“I was!” She says hastily, reaching for your hand. You let her, your fingers curling in confusion around hers, wanting to understand as she hastily looks at you. “I was just, looking for the right moment.” You almost wish to pull back, but she wraps her other hand around yours tighter. “It’s not as bad as Tyril makes it sound!” She insists earnestly. “A simple spell like lighting a fire or making an Orb of Light is just worth minutes of lifeforce.”

… so she does know exactly what Tyril is talking about, and it still hurts.

“Minutes add up Nia,” Tyril’s still gauging her with new calculating eyes. You can clearly see the question he longs to hurl at her he’s resisting, to know exactly what tutelage she’d been given up to this moment. “They become hours. Days. Weeks. Years.” He seems truly sad as he settles his gaze back on you.

A long ago conversation echoes back in your head, Our magic doesn’t mix, our costumes, our way of life... this was absolutely one of the things he’d meant that night.

“That’s, horrible,” you’re almost shaking at this new altering to your world, but now find yourself clutching Nia’s hand back. “Why didn’t you tell me this? You can’t just trade your life away to help, for what?! A stupid fire!”

“A fire spell is nothing,” she insists. “And, besides, it’s my choice! It’s, my strength.”

You flinch at her throwing those words back in your face. You finally pull your hand away, and she lets you as you wonder how many years of your life you lost throwing all of that magic at that old pirate orc captain. Surely not enough it would be too noticeable…

“Is it really though?” Mal snaps, he really can never stay silent. It’s almost impressive, but there’s a painful burning in the back of your throat as you can’t look at anything but the merrily crackling fire. “As I recall, you didn’t have a choice about joining the Temple of Light! You were just a child when they took you in!”

“They exploited you, used you,” Imtura agrees, wrath evident in her tone as she stares down at her as well. 

“No!” Nia scrambles to her feet, her skirt flowing around wildly as she tries desperately to defend, not herself, but some idea you can’t really wrap your head around right now. “They fostered me! Gave me a home, a calling!”

“The Light has great purpose,” Tyril agrees, his tone wavering between terse and gentle like only he can. An elven blade that can slice a throat as easily as it could cut you free. “But it shouldn’t be spent so frivolously. It deserves reverence.”

“What, you don’t trust her to decide when she’s best served using it?” Threep yelps from her bag, wigging out to join in. You’d almost forgotten he was here to be honest. He makes himself known now as he flutters over to her shoulder without further hesitation.

Far from looking reassured at anyone coming to her defense, Nia rubs a gentle hand over the nesper in quiet contemplation for a moment. “I guess, I see your points.” She turns back to look at you, nothing but weary curiosity. “Syrum? What do you think?”

You know what she’s really asking. If you want her to continue teaching you. 

Honestly, you don’t know anymore. You need to think on it.

With a feeling of gut wrenching pain, you force a smile into place and say, “Maybe it wasn’t your choice to become a priestess to begin with, but you’re clearly very passionate about it.” 

“Precisely my point,” if a cat can smirk, Threep is doing it. “It is ultimately her choice!”

“I think you’re the best judge of when and how to use your own Light, and no one else should tell you otherwise,” you sigh. You wish you could rage and storm at her to take this more seriously, to care about herself and those minutes… but she knows the consequences to her own actions. She already knows that, and you yelling it in her face won’t change who she is. 

OR BOLAS OR

“I’m sorry Nia, but I do agree with Mal on this one,” you admit, bracing yourself for, you don’t even know what, but the sickening feeling as you gaze at her necklace with a gemstone missing makes you feel ill all the same. “It doesn’t sound to me like you had much of a choice if you were raised not to take this seriously. You didn’t ask to take this path at all, you were forced into it when you were just a kid. That’s not fair.”

“Thank you!” Mal spits into the fire. She flinches, and you resist the urge to punch him. He really knew how to make the right point sound wrong sometimes. “It should have been her decision!” There is something deeply personal in his anger though, something you’d only seen hints of up to this point. 

You reach out for her, and she still gently takes your hand, but there’s only familiar sadness now in her deep hazel eyes. “Even if it’s your choice how to use it now, I think it’s sad the priests would ask children to make such a commitment,” you frown.

“I guess, you’re right,” she sighs, and you know she’s thinking the same as you, those orphans she’d once been so appalled to see as thieves. “But, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to use the Light,” she says more earnestly, that smile you knew so well lingering. “I never thought about it like I was being forced.”

You were sure those other children didn’t either. They were happy to do what they were doing just to survive, have the praise and protection of an adult looking after them. You’d never had that, not really. The amount of times you and Kade had fallen asleep next to the river out in the open, exposed, talking and lazily skipping rocks with only water to fill your empty bellies two days in a row because there just hadn’t been any extra to go around… if somebody had appeared to you and said they’d teach you magic in exchange for a few measly minutes of your life, you probably wouldn’t have hesitated either.

OR BOLAS OR

“But, I agree with Tyril,” you can’t help but say, looking away from her wide eyes, down at your boots. “You only have so much life to give Nia. You should save it for when it really matters. To you, not the priests, not anyone else.”

You glance cautiously back up at her to see her biting her lip, looking near tears.

“Exactly,” Tyril’s cutting, acid agreement feels no better. “We’ll need every bit we can get to fight the Shadow Court!”

Yeah, definitely not what was on your mind, but also, kind of a valid point.

“I hate to think I’ve made you take weeks off your life just for me and my brother,” you hastily add, looking back at her.

“I see your point,” she says graciously, but there’s a new tenseness to her shoulders you’d have never imagined there before. “But, I’m always happy to use the Light to help someone in need!” She says with the same burning passion of the day you met her, desperate to do anything for her Scholar. She smiles weakly at you. “Thank you Syrum, but, I do hate for you all to worry about me. Shall I, erm, well, what should I do moving forward?” She twiddles her fingers nervously and looks at the other three as if expecting them to chastise her in your absence. 

“You should-” the words catch painfully in your throat, but you clear them out hastily and force yourself to say to her, “you should use it whenever you wish Nia. It’s, your life. At the end of the day, it is your Light, not ours. We don’t have the right to tell you what to do with it.”

She kneels back before you, causing Threep to flutter and be dislodged as she throws her arms around you. You’ve never felt so ill accepting a hug as you pat her back and she trills in your ear, “thank you Syrum!” She leans back, leaving a new pit in your stomach as she does. “But I will be more careful going forward, I promise. We have many trials ahead to purify the Shards and hold off the Shadow Court. I have not forgotten.”

Mal yawns loudly in the following silence. You probably owe him a good non-ill hug or two for being how he was. “You are all welcome to continue this riveting philosophical debate. But I am going to hit the hay!” There’s an edge to his voice, but he gives Nia a cordial nod all the same. Respecting her decision, but very clearly not done with this.

“Me too,” Imtura sighs, rubbing at the edge of one of her horns. “The sooner we’re back on the road, the better I’ll feel.”

Tyril gives the two of you one last look that is reminiscent of Mrs. Foster watching her kids run off, knowing they’re doing something she doesn’t approve, but knowing she can’t stop them. There’s no tutting and snapping of a towel, but the look is there all the same as he gets up and leaves.

Nia too gives you one last smile, but it’s a sad, small thing compared to what it usually is as she squeezes your arm and gets up to her own room. You scoop up Threep and cuddle with him on the rug by the fire in silence for a while as he “mrrows” in your lap in content. Broken memories swivel in your mind of everything that had happened in your life up to this moment. How was it every new thing you learned about the world somehow made this more complicated by the day?...

The wind whistles through the dead trees of the Deadwood, strange howls and cries ring through the night. You can’t help but snort as you eye Imtura’s door and realize nobody exactly set up camp near the entrance for guard duty. Apparently they all felt plenty safe in these walls. 

You, on the other hand, were not getting any sleep any time soon. 

… you were scared. There, you admitted it. Scared, and lonely… you missed your brother, the kind of ache that was nothing you could ever shake… but for the first time, since that first night he’d been ripped away… you find your thoughts aren’t on your old room sleeping only a bed bundle away from him as you stare at the door Imtura had gone into… and the back of your neck tingles.

Not giving yourself a moment of hesitation to talk yourself out of this, you lay Threep on the rug. He doesn’t even stir in his sleep as he grumbles and folds his wings tight.

You knock forcefully on Imtura’s door. 

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute,” her rumbling answer doesn’t have a hint of sleep in it from the other side of the door as the rustle of material is shifted around. “Ah, Syrum, what bring you by?” She leans casually against the frame and eyes you with interest.

You almost do chicken out. The amused, flashing gold and green of her eyes you get lost in so easily resting solely on you… Had she changed her mind… but no. She’s just standing there, her smile inviting. She’s waiting for you to have the orc-balls to say it. “I, I can’t sleep, and I thought maybe-”

“Need some company do you?” She chuckles, and steps aside. “Me too. Come on in.”

You step inside to see a sparse but fairly comfortable room. The bed is large and sturdy, and the warm glow of Nia’s life-fire reaches even through the door she closes behind you. You swallow and force yourself not to start fidgeting as Imtura lounges out in the chair in the corner of the room with a stretch. “I don’t do so great sleeping alone myself. Too used to the close quarters on my ship. Doesn’t count as a good night’s sleep if my crew’s snores haven't woken me up at least twice! Not a sound of the ocean out here to even drown them out!”

“You miss being out there,” it’s not really a question as you voice your, admittedly minimal, regret for her being here.

“A little,” she agrees, tipping her head curiously as she watches you. “The open water was always soothing. So full of possibility, y’know?”

“It sounds so freeing,” you agree, a longing of breathless salt air yourself as you grin. “I can’t imagine how exciting it must feel, getting to sail the world, knowing your next big score could be up ahead.”

“Ha! That’s the spirit!” She sits upright properly in the chair so she can smack her leg in agreement. “Although it isn’t all raiding and rum-drinking. Sometimes there’s nothing up ahead but an even meaner crew than mine. To say nothing of sea-monsters,” she gives an exaggerated shutter and mutters something about a kraken.

“Something tells me the sea monsters are more scared of you than you are of them,” you chuckle, shifting restlessly in place. You want to move closer, but that feels presumptuous, you want to sit down, but the bed feels presumptuous-

“You know your stuff Syrum,” she nods, leaning forward in her seat, resting her elbows comfortably. “It ain’t just the pirates I’ve got a reputation among on the seas. Besides, no sea monster’s as scary as my mother when you cross her.” Her chuckle is rather forced.

You frown and take an automatic step towards her now without thought. “I can’t imagine she’s going to be too pleased you ran off with us,” you manage to say with a teasing grin, still half expecting to look over your shoulder and see Ventra pointing a spear at you some nights when you wake up.

“I’m, trying not to think about it too much,” she sighs. “To be honest, I’ve always hoped that if I run long enough, or far enough away, she might give up on me.”

“Is that what you want her to do? Forget you exist?” You ask, not really able to wrap your mind around such a thing.

“No. Yes? Maybe. I, really don’t know,” she sighs again, running her hands through her hair now in frustration and glaring at the world beyond. But she turns back, and looks at you. There’s something in the air between you, a current, a charge as she takes a ragged breath. “Syrum, what do you think I should do? I feel like I’m outta options when it comes to her.”

“Me?” You want to protest. You didn't even have a mother, what right did you really have to go giving her advice. 

She only nods once, her horns, her eyes flashing in the low light have nothing on the dark flush of green that is her radiant skin. She did ask you all the same. You give her your honest answer. “Put your foot down. You don’t have to rule, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” It was the exact same thing you’d said to Nia, and you’d say it to every orc’s face too if you had to. “It’s not your mother’s place to decide what you do with your life! You just have to tell her plainly that you’re not interested in leading the united Clans, and she can go find someone who is.”

“Hah,” her little laugh is exhausted and strained as she shakes her head. “Tried that. Still have the scars from the duel she challenged me to after.”

A wave of horror slams into you harsher than any ocean wave could manage. “ Duel?!”

“She’s not the kind of lady used to being told no,” Imtura shrugs, scratching absently at her ribs. “Even from her own daughter.” She blows out a frustrated breath through her lips. It makes a strange whistling noise against her tusks. “My life’s much easier the way it is. I’m only responsible for as many folk as I can count on my two hands. And it’s a lot more exciting than endless council meetings.” She says with a suggestive look at you and a real laugh.

“Well I can’t argue with that,” you match her laugh.

“I dunno Syrum,” a frown still tugs at her lips, but she swallows and continues looking hungrily at you like you’re still holding an answer hostage. “Maybe I’m just being immature about all this, like Mother says. Do you think I’m being irresponsible? Have you ever had to do something you didn’t want to?”

“You’re more capable than you think,” you’d moved closer with no conscious decision to do so. Just out of arm's reach now, your voice a low, fervent whisper. “You’re a natural leader. And sometimes being a leader means doing the hard thing. You’ll know what’s right for you.”

“Like running away from my mother?” She demands with a sad chuckle.

“Like deciding to take on the Shadow Court with the rest of us, putting yourself in the path of a worse danger than you’ve ever faced before,” you remind her with a burning passion, clutching your satchel tight and bursting to share the pride you had in your group with her. “Trampling through the Deadwood instead of sailing your beloved seas,” you add lightly.

“I’ve seen enough trees to last a lifetime,” she groans, throwing a distasteful look at the window.

“My point is,” you grin, “you’re doing this to help the rest of us, help the world. When you have other people counting on you, you’ll do what has to be done. I know it.”

She tips her head to the side again, appraising you. “Thanks, Syrum. That, actually means a lot, coming from you.”

You’re not sure what she means by that. An elf? You specifically? You don’t get a chance to ask as she bounces to her feet and takes that last step toward you. “You’re so good at leading our crew, after all, and putting everything into perspective. You’re a hell of a captain.”

Leading?! There is a painful rush of emotion drowning out everything in you as she gently brushes your chin. Just that light touch, and you cannot think past a murmuring, “you think so?” Your voice does not shake under her strong grip.

“I know so,” she whispers, her lips a breath apart. “Syrum, I know this might sound like I’ve lost my mind, but I think meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to me.” Your breath makes a painful catch as it snatches in and out of your throat, mingling with hers blowing right in your face. Your foreheads are nearly touching. Her hand rests on your hip, hot to your core, sending a shiver running through you as she pulls you closer. “I’m honored to fight for you. To know you. I, erm, I-”

You kiss her. You lean forward that last arc of parting skin, your lips finding hers in a tentative, gentle press. Her tusks press firmly against you, framing your lips. They’re cool to her flush, warm skin. There’s just one moment of hesitation, and then she kisses you back heartily, passionately, her hand tight on your chin now.

“Mmph,” the noise that escapes your throat is like nothing you’ve ever felt in your life as your hands snap up to clutch her vest, needing more.

She pulls away, forehead against yours, her horns cool to your heated face, her hands running down your sides. Your satchel falls with a slight thump to the ground, and you let it. “You know what I say to that?” She asks, a growl deep in the back of her throat.

“What?” You say, trying to do anything other than gasp and blink. 

With a hearty laugh, she scoops you up by your hips, her hands resting on your ass and hitching you right against her so you’re now perfectly level. “It’s about damn time,” she smirks. She hauls you up against the wall, pinning you there, and kissing you eagerly, hungrily. Her mouth plunders yours, her tongue knowing exactly where to curl and press, the taste of her is a new breathless thing as your fingers move deep into the roots of her hair to have more.

“Mmmmph,” you wrap your arms around her shoulders and try to match her fierce kissing with your own. Imtura runs her mouth down your jaw and nips at your throat with a sly grin on her face, leaving you panting and the air feeling like poison with even that bit of her gone as the wall behind you molds your back firmly from how much closer she moves.

“I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw you fight that grobtar,” she pants, one hand already slipping past your shirt to start running up your back however she can. Her hand rests for a moment on the back of your neck again, and she squeezes lightly. You squirm against where she has you pinned, but her grip is secure on your hip as your legs do nothing to draw her solid hips in further.

“... that’s what did it for you, huh?” You laugh in delight. Somewhere in the far back of your mind, you realize Mal had been right. You might owe him an apology or two. The room is also spinning everywhere except where she is.

“I’m a gal of simple tastes,” she shrugs, then she flings you onto the bed and climbs on top of you, laughing at the blast of air that escaped you while she peppers you with more kisses, waves and waves of them as your fingers card through her hair. Then she takes hold of both your wrists and pins them to the bed. 

“Well, this is what I’ve been imagining since I saw you fight that grobtar,” you breathlessly agree.

Imtura lets out a hearty laugh, gaze rich with affection, desire as she stares down at you shifting her weight eagerly above you. “Syrum, it’s about damn time you were all mine.” She leans down and laps at your neck, your shoulder, nipping and sucking as she goes. Your leather vest had vanished at some point, probably when she flung you over here. Your tattered shirt is clearly in her way, and she’s not having it well as she keeps roughly pushing it aside, up and down at her leisure.  

“Mmhm,” the moan resonates from deep in your chest, you strain against her iron grip and it only makes her press down harder as your eyes roll into the back of your head. With a hungry snarl, she nuzzles against your throat. 

“You gonna stay the night with me?” She asks breathlessly, shifting her weight around very deliberately against you. 

“I’m all yours,” the simple way you said it sounds ridiculous, nothing like the profound feeling of how you’d felt intrinsically tied to her presence the moment you’d laid eyes on her. 

“I’d hoped you’d say that,” she bites at your earlobe before kissing you again, hands squeezing your wrists, her intensity sparking an equal ferocity within you. 

“Imtura!” Even the way her name rolled off your tongue felt electric, new, before she swallowed you again for more.

The two of you kiss again and again, over and over, chasing after the other when that pesky air problem gets in the way, and somewhere in the way she tightens her grip upon your hip and keeps you pinned beneath her but after she’d finally taken off your shirt you realize she’s just as nervous as you are.

There’s a deliberate feel to the air as each of you waits for something that doesn’t come, but neither of you want it to stop as you take the brief second your hand is free while she flings your shirt aside to run your fingers under her vest, across the broad plains of her shoulder.

She doesn’t snatch your hand back, instead hastily laughs, but there’s a nervous energy as she takes her vest and furs off and bares herself before you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur, twisting your fingers in her hair as it cascades all around you both, setting the world on fire. You run your hand more deliberately over her broad shoulders, mesmerized by the smooth planes of her skin beneath your fingers and even more so where a catch or scar is as you trace all the way down to her hand. She catches you there, and twists her fingers with yours.

“You’re like no one I’ve ever met,” she murmurs, retreating your captured digits back to lock up where the other one was scrabbling into the bedding as she bends down and continues kissing all senses out of you. 

She’s everywhere, she’s everything as her weight, her breasts press into you. The feeling of her nipples pebbled and rock hard moving against you, her taste, her skin against yours. Your legs scrabble uselessly on the bed for purchase, hips trying to twist yourself closer, desperate for more, but it only makes her chuckle and press down harder, angle herself against you, closing her eyes and murmuring little nothings you can’t quite make out. 

Imtura moans as you keep trying to wrench your wrists free with one hand, the other traces back down to your hip, your ass as her fingers dig in with bruising force and her legs spread wider eagerly, she only swallows your whimpers of need as she rocks against your hard length, and this goes on, for what feels like hours, years… she wants it, wants you, but for whatever reason she doesn’t take you and this makes your head swim and leaves you breathless. 

Frankly, your miracle for the year was that you lasted as long as you did as you feel the tension in yourself come loose with one last desperate buck from your hips that still does nothing as her fingers trace your wrists, pressing her thumb eagerly into your palm and it only makes you cum harder with a deep, needy moan.

Her sigh of ecstasy matches yours, her lips are trembling as hard as your jaw as she presses one last desperate, eager kiss against you.

You both collapse, exhausted and happy. “Fuck,” she gasps into your neck.

“Yeah, that,” you murmur in a daze. 

With a groan, her breathing is still heavy, she rolls onto her back off of you and you instantly follow, still clinging to her, your hands tingling as blood rushes into them and she chuckles, her hand sliding up only far enough to hold your waist as she drifts off into a deep sleep. There is not a moment of hesitation as your eyes sink closed and you follow, smiling, nuzzling against her neck, resting upon her bare , warm chest as her breaths ease gently in and out.

Elsewhere…

                      There’s a sharp knock not to be ignored, and Tyril opens the door impatiently. “What is it now?”

“We need to talk,” Mal says, inviting himself inside.

Tyril stands there for a count of ten before he releases a weary breath and closes the door.

One kind thing Tyril had to say about him, Mal wasn’t much for preamble. “I swear if you make that kid feel like a freak one more time, geese and lapna will be the least of your concern! Is it impossible for you to go five minutes?! ”

"I do not care whom Syrum courts," Tyril says flatly, clearly not appreciating the insinuation. 

“This isn’t just about Imtura,” Mal sneers, waving his hand impatiently through the air, "though you might want to tell him that, because neither of us got the memo. He's had a rough enough go of it, he doesn't need the likes of you making a face every time he wants to laugh with the damn girl or talk to animals or whatever other thing he doesn’t know about!"

"I-" Tyril tries again, before swallowing and forcing himself to explain rather than what he clearly wanted to do, which is lop off Mal's head. His eyes dart from the aggravating human before him, to the mountains beyond. "I, agree."

Mal is so rocked, he actually stumbles on the spot. Tyril watches inquisitively, as if to rate his landing if he goes into the fireplace before Mal catches himself.

"I said I do not care, and I don't," Tyril shrugs. "It is, unorthodox to be certain, but what care have I for whom the young lad chooses to be with? She makes him, happy."

There it was, Mal's eyes narrow. "But?" He scowls, at least confident enough Tyril isn't the kind of petty person who would wallow at someone else's happiness and make it so obvious…

"But, others will not see it that way," Tyril sighs, again looking far off to where his home...their home could lay. 

"Ah," Mal says, though he's no more impressed. Syrum wasn't from there, but gods it had been painfully obvious from the start he'd sure dreamed of it a time or two since meeting Tyril. "Well," Mal's still wound up. "Then they can have the same answer of a fist in their mouth if they say anything. You have got to stop making this harder on him!”

There’s a flash of deep respect in Tyril’s eyes, but it’s clouded over with regret at once. "It is not so simple Mal, and you know that," Tyril's frown is apologetic, as if trying to convey to him of all people the world at large. "He may not even admit it to himself, but when he enters there, he will want to be accepted by his own people.”

Mal opens, and closes his mouth, and knows he can’t argue with that. Tyril nods. “Having an orc and a few humans along will be strange enough, he has no idea of what he's about to encounter and I can't begin to prepare him. Being entangled with an orc on top of that, as flagrant as he is about it too," there's some small affection in Tyril's voice he doesn't bother to hide as he smiles to the door, but it again tapers right back off into a frown. 

"I am trying to think how to, prepare him, brace him for this, for everything. I did warn him once of how, divided the world was, how we keep ourselves apart for a reason… it shouldn’t have been Nia to teach him magic. I know that, it should have been me, to warn him properly of all this, but I didn’t think, I don’t think I have grasped how little," he trails off with a sigh, clearly still assessing himself to realizing the utter ignorance in their young charge who carried the word on his back.

Mal gives his shoulder a gentle nudge, startling Tyril to turning back to see Mal's smile now matching. Still far more flippant than the elf's could ever be, but also, vaguely apologetic. "We can't. We support him, and we offer him whatever advice we can, but we can only be there for him when it doesn't go his way, Tyril. That's what friends do."

The elf looks again off to the distance, but then looks just as quickly back, and even nods in agreement. "You are right. I will, apologize for my behavior. I want Syrum to know I think no ill will of him, or Imtura of course. She has been nothing but a good friend to all of us since her initial arrival of trying to murder us."

"Funny how that seems to find you the closest companions," Mal agrees with a wicked grin at Tyril, who even manages a small laugh back. They both knew there had been that one, brief second Tyril had been considering cutting down Mal just for the sheer annoyance he was of being in the way of his path. 

…”your bandages are filthy. When’s the last time you cleaned your hand?” Tyril says abruptly.

Mal looks down at his hand in surprise, and shakes off the crumpled brown mess now also covered in fur. “It’s fine, it’s almost healed,” he shrugs, prodding around the scabbed flesh.

Tyril huffs and rolls his eyes. “Fine by me if you get an infection.”

There’s an awkward pause for a moment as they both look away. Mal scratches absently at his beard, and Tyril sighs. “May I go to sleep now, or is there something else you’d like to get off your chest?”

Mal looks back, opens his mouth. Tyril can all but see the crude joke he’s about to make… but then he doesn’t. He shrugs, and stalks out.

Humans.

When Mal gets back to his room, he sees Nia’s made herself comfortable on the chair in the corner. She blushes and won’t meet his eyes. “Sorry, I’ve never slept alone before, and, Syrum’s, erm, not, well-”

“Let me know if you’d like another blanket Nia,” Mal shrugs, throwing himself on the rug in front of the empty grate without further ado. She blinks once, tries to utter a soft protest about him being out a bed, but he’s already snoring with great exaggeration.

She pads softly over, takes the blankets off and gently places them over him, but then climbs into the bed with a smile. 

The next morning…

                     Just as she’d promised, you did wake up with a few extra scratches. You can feel them as a slight raise in your skin as you stretch,  everywhere her tusks had scraped against you. All over your neck and chest. Your hand flutters up to your swollen lips to find them smiling before you even open your eyes.

Gods you’d never woken up feeling so warm and content in your life as her chest rises and falls in a blazing heat, you can feel her heartbeat where yours overlaps. There’s a pale, watery dawn settling around the air of the Deadwood beyond the flimsy curtain of the window. You slide out of bed, careful not to wake Imtura sprawled out comfortably on her back, but can’t stop your heart trembling as she grumbles and shifts her weight at the absence of your warmth as you glance back. She’s kicked the blanket off, but then snatched it tight to her chest instead, covering her breasts, nuzzling into its warmth you’d both been wrapped in. You very much wish to just crawl right back into that blanket, her arms…. but gods you needed to take a piss.

With a regretful sigh, you find your shirt and vest and shrug them back on… not sneaking out of the room… but certainly relieved to glance around and see you are the first one awake. 

That taken care of, you’re rummaging around for breakfast, wondering in frustration who had tucked away the dry rations, as sadly that stew was long gone. They were barely edible, but it was better than going hunting which would only draw you out alone. 

As you dig through another storage pack, you hear shouts from the forest!

“HELP!”

“-keep your head on straight, you fool!”

You race to the window to find two well-dressed human men running out of the forest. They’re in robes, finer than anything you’ve ever seen with actual gems embedded into their thick furs. One’s a little shorter, a little chubbier in the face, but they both have distinct curly black hair and the same angular noses and eyes.

Brothers. Running for their lives.

“Is someone there? Let us in! HELP!” The younger one in red pleads, the gold of his attire flashing with every step as he makes a beeline for your cabin. 

Out of the tree line behind them come creatures chittering in a hum of excitement. Horrifyingly large insects, with four wings slamming the air so violently you can feel their buzzing in the soles of your boots from here. With jagged yellow needles erupting over every inch of their purple bodies, their mandibles clasp hungrily at the traces of their torn clothing, the stinger of ones abdomen is swollen and glowing a faint violet only a shade lighter than the rest of their putrid purple body. The ‘bzzzt!’ it makes as it swivels and tries to stab at them makes your heart ache in pain.

They’re about to die.

[junkdrawerfan]

I have a new thought about this. Bernard is a character who clearly craves emotional stability.

Considering his past: he fell in with a cult, he has an unstable relationship with his parents, and he latched onto inconsistent/unreliable Tim Drake with a semi-frightening urgency.

Bernard needs to be wanted and he wants to want. Yes he has some silly conspiracy theories and he’s overall a happy guy. But I’d argue a lot of the heroes are relatively happy people. Does not mean they are emotionally stable.

And now you have Tim, who is emotionally unavailable not because of fear or insecurity but because he is the KING of compartmentalizing. Tim who is inconsistent at best and will drop you for more important things like saving the world. Tim who is genuinely a good, kind, attentive person when he is in front of you but will not call or text or remember your birthday because he’s stopping a gang war or saving strangers from cults.

And in a lot of ways… how can Bernard be mad about that?

Bernard benefits, as all of Gotham does, from the relentless tiring work of the heroes who strive to make this city just a few inches better. He loves the Bats. He loves Tim because he is that heroic self sacrificing hero who will put his own needs last to save a kitten from a tree and help a lost kid find their parents.

And so maybe Bernard wanted that ring because even if Tim has to drop everything to save someone, even if Tim forgets dates and birthdays and dinners with the parents, Bernard will have that promise, that commitment, that Tim will always try to come home to him.

It’s proof he’s important to Tim. It is proof he’s important.

But Tim can’t even give him that.

And in Tim’s defense… he’s lost his whole childhood. He’s give everything to the Mission, molded himself to becoming the best Robin he can be. And he’s happy to. It’s his childhood dream to be Robin!

But now he’s not Robin anymore. Like those ice skaters who spend their whole lives training to compete at the Olympics, what happens after you win gold?

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be a hero or that he’s not happy to help and save people. Tim believes in heroes. Tim is a hero.

But he’s still clinging to Robin, right? He’s Red Robin. He’s been dragging his feet on making a new hero name even if Jason keeps teasing him about stealing his shit and Dick’s not so subtle encouragement to strike out on his own hasn’t been grating.

So when Bernard, this guy he really likes and who makes him so stupidly happy, starts talking about the future and marriage and settling down, Tim can feel his skin crawling. He’s not ready. His dating life has been so messy, so awkward. He’s had what… two girlfriends (Cassie doesn’t count. They’re in agreement for the sake of the friendship to pretend Tim’s grief fueled guilt trip to try and stay together is best forgotten after Tim spent an adequate amount of time groveling). And both of those girlfriends have been awkward and fraught with issues as he balanced Tim Drake and Robin. For gods sakes! He’s just starting to understand his own sexuality.

He doesn’t even know who Tim Drake is!

Oh… he doesn’t even know who Tim Drake is…

So he turns down the ring, runs away, and tries to just… figure out what he needs.

And it’s fun! It gets him and Dick talking again, his big brother, his guide. And for Dick’s part he’s happy to help his little brother avoid the mistakes he’s made, a guru of sorts. And of course Tim will involve Kon. Kon is his best friend. Kon has been in his life for so long, who has seen so many of his ups and downs because he’s been there. Kon who Tim feels so safe with… of course he’d invite Kon.

And as he experiments and tries to figure out who he is now that he’s not Robin, he’s reminded how much he loved Kon, how much he cares for him. And there is a part of him that can’t help but think.

And then Bernard comes back, tracks him down and holds his hand long enough to beg for a second chance. Bernard who maybe actually does understand him, understands what he needs, when he suggests an open relationship.

And Tim does love him… so maybe? Maybe Bernard can be part of the new Tim Drake!

In honor of messy bitch Tim who deserves a maneater era after his womanizer era in the 90s. Here is a fic concept:

Bernard wants to get engaged young. 22-23. The minute he’s done with school he wants that ring on Tim’s finger.

Tim — allergic to commitment outside of the cape — is like “nope!” And it’s their biggest fight. It actually ends with them taking a six month “break” which Tim reads as a “break up” and proceeds to enjoy a voluminous ho phase, slipping in and out of the clubs of Gotham and Metropolis with Kon, Bart, and Dick as friends/guides.

It’s during this time period that Tim starts sleeps with Kon. They might have experimented when they were younger (no homo was said at some point because that closet was made of glass). A part of Tim, the part that has been in love with this boy even if he hadn’t had the language for it just yet, wants to cling to Kon with all the spite and terror of a bat. But the other part, the same part that ran away from Bernard, knows he won’t be satisfied if he ties himself to Kon just yet. There’s so much more to explore, to experience. He’s a researcher at heart after all. A scientist and an archeologist. He wants to experiment.

And Kon… Kon wants. And if this is how Tim will have him, he’ll enjoy it. He’s a “life is for living” kind of guy. If it becomes something more, Kon would be delighted. But he’s lasted this long as one of Tim’s best friends by meeting him where he’s at. And it’s fun. The sex and the partying and experimenting. Tim and Kon make it fun.

(Dick is happy to be Tim’s guru on all things safe, sane, and consensual. Honestly, Tim’s crisis of the week is small potatoes compared to most of the family DRAMA Dick deals with.)

And then Bernard comes back into the picture. After six months of licking his wounds and realizing he’d rather have a part of Tim instead of nothing at all, asks for another chance. He even suggests keeping an open relationship, as long as Tim doesn’t say “I love you” to anyone else and agrees to a date a week. Bernard can live with it. He’s not… thrilled, exactly. It’s not his first choice but he’d take some of Tim instead of none.

Tim introduces Bernard to Kon three months after settling into the new arrangement. They hadn’t met before then because Tim had no way to explain their connection out of the capes. Now Tim can say, “Bernard, this is my most frequent partner, Kon. He’s been my best friend since I was 14.”

And so the messiness commences!

[felosia]

Transgender Athletes In Sports (Jubilee Fact Check Edition)

Starting off I genuinely think trans women athletes is a discussion that needs to be had with open minds because there are some genuine biological differences that come when the athlete is extremely young but this entire issue needs to happen outside of Congress and outside of random people on the internet such as me.

Anyways, I recently watched the Sam Seder Jubilee episode and saw one about with a conservative against LGBTQ activists and decided to watch it. The topic of Trans Women in sports was one of his topics and he cited the UN as having said that in 2024 900 medals were lost by cis women which is a staggering number. While I didn't doubt that trans women would win some games that seemed like a staggering number so I did some research.

This factoid is technically true but extremely disingenuous.

Firstly, "The UN." It's not the UN. UN reports allow organizations to suggest additions to the report if they consider it relevant. That is what happened here. This is not a UN run statistic or heavily researched by the UN but rather CITED in a UN report. These conservative circles just know that we love to trust the UN reports and so attribute it frequently to the UN instead.

This is the report btw

Anyways let's see what group suggested this factoid should be included.

So footnote 29 got it.

Let's see these three organizations (I for the life of me could not find information on Lavender Patch because it's definitely not Lavender Rights). Women's Liberation Front about page:

Okay pretty clear that they are an transphobic group. Not a moderate one either. Doesn't want trans people to be legally recognized transphobic.

ICFP? Well this is the first thing you see going into it

Okay I think they are also solidly against trans people. While many of the resources on their page are devoid of explicitly transphobic statements they very clearly have an agenda.

Dianne Post is more interesting here. I had never heard of her before so I did some research. She is a lesbian and women's rights activist who uses inflammatory commentary sometimes in her writing but is probably the most moderate of these three groups. She primarily tries to lobby the UN and write pieces. She often actually uses statistics although will sometimes not paint the full picture. (Honestly I don't often see people on either side of the isle point out problems with their statistics.) Ex: She had a substack article on trans women in prisons and primarily focuses on the number of people who applied for a transfer and chooses a few examples of situations being covered up. For example she cites 33.8% of the people applying for a transfer to a women's prison as having sexually assaulted a women in the past. On the other hand she does not mention that these prisoners are then rated on their likelyhood to be assaulted where they are and how likely they are to assault someone and only 1/10 prisoners actually get approved with most likely those 33.8% being among the 90% rejected.

Overall not the worst not the best person.

Anyways time for the actually source they cite. They cite shewon.org. Huh. Seems unbiased /j

Their stated purpose? "Dedicated to archiving the achievements of female athletes who were displaced by male athletes in women sporting events."

Okay let's get into the actual content rather then just looking at the purposes. Let's look at the about page to see how they get their data.

"Run by a team of volunteers who accept submissions to the page then review them to make sure that the winner of the award was trans and check the official records."

Okay then. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they do fact check everything but I just want to make it even more clear that this is NOT UN backed information and so it truly peeves me how many people cite this as UN information.

Slight side note: They simultaneously misgender every trans athlete and say the right name. They will say Stephanie and he in the same sentence. I honestly don't know how to react but I'll leave that up to any readers of this post.

Now for my big problem with the data: They over represent the number of awards the may be lost by a AFAB athlete to an AMAB athlete. This is done through placement awards. If a trans athlete gets first place then 3 medals are counted for first second and third that were knocked down.

This isn't a lie or anything and I do fully understand why they might want to do this but it severely inflates the number when most competitions where a trans athlete wins are multiplied by three.

One other big section that can be talked about is the inclusion of some sports that there is no evidence men have any biological advantage in. Poker is included? (Admittedly only 3 medals are reported lost but still) Snooker and Billards? How many of these do AMABs actually have a "biological advantage" in?

Bigger is the introduction of some sports where research is actively being done right and still inconclusive such as disc golf which contributes 181 of their medals and biological advantage is still being debated with multiple studies being done as we speak (Although maybe not anymore with Trump's research cuts :( )

Anyways have a good day and thanks for reading this and THIS IS NOT A FUCKING UN STATISTIC NEWS STOP SAYING IT IS.

[rmfantasysetpieces1]

The following is the link to the article in completion shared in part in the sportsburst fans group

but the article refers to a question and answer from a publication called flashscore which is from the united kingdom, which is odd, pintinho who lives in spain did a an interview with an english media publication that a spanish one cited hmmm.

here are some quotes which to me invalidate pintinho as a source of anything

"They went to Rio, not to watch the match. They went to see the match, but they were in Copacabana and they practically destroyed my Rio de Janeiro."

Rio de janeiro was not destroyed. This is the talk of a sensationlist, a provocateur.

"I'm with Dorival because I don't like Casemiro at all. I always said that. When I played in Brazil I played in that pivot position. He is a midfielder who recovers a lot of balls but then doesn't know what to do with them.

Casemiro is older and fatigued, but it is funny cause casemiro was in the midfield that got brazil to a copa america final that brasil won and the next one brasil lost so casemiro helped brasil reach two copa america finals but pintinho suggest casemiro doesn't know what to do, which is also funny cause i don't know how many great forward passes casemiro did for real madrid but... ok. Casemiro is older, his time is passed in the selecao. It is that simple. Saying you never liked him is funny as he did a lot for brasil + real madrid not just in recovering balls but attack but ok.

For me, that sort of player should be out of Brazilian football. Because, look, I should say the coach who won the 1994 World Cup, he was my physical trainer at Fluminense, right? So Brazil won the 94 World Cup with Dunga ... I played as a pivot in the position of Casemiro, Fernando, Fernandinho, all those people that I don't like.

I believe this player is called a hater. He hates everyone who plays in the position he played today. That is a hater. and funny how all of these players have been admired heavily and all won copa america or could had.

To have this problem and to have players who, as we say here, the coaches who are from the south-eastern part of Brazil, we like to play good football and the players from the south of Brazil are more combative, they are more European as we say.

The problem I have with this statement is this is a more complex issue. The question asked was about the attacking quadrant and he goes on to talk about the coaches, well everyone knows brasil has a very bureaucratic background with futebol so...

They have to win because the truth is that Brazil suffered a decline in football after 1994 because the coaches wanted to put people in to run like crazy and what I was saying here in Europe, right? In Europe, I ran a lot and played little football, now in Europe they don't play football and in South America what we do most is run."

To be blunt the goal is to blend athleticism with skill. This is a rare thing. it isn't common for a player to have great athleticism while great skill. Brasil have had generations with multiple players doing that but it isn't common.

"It is good that the players are trained first and then take that step, but since now everything is going on, grandpa or dad is trying to solve their financial problems and the players play three good games in Brazil and are already going to Europe.

"People have to be more aware of getting better preparation so they can truly succeed because there are players who come here with a big name in South America, not just in Brazil, then they arrive here and disappear from football. The kids, the family should think about that a little."

Money is tight that is the reality. and anything can happen the reality is, a bad injury has killed many youth careers. If brasilian players leave at 24-25 more regularly, then that means they have to accept AFC not UEFA more. and this goes into the culture of players, their clans and media.

Rodrygo is a player that I particularly like, we'll see if he has a chance to play. If not, he'll look elsewhere, because he's a player who disappears from the map if he doesn't play. I hope he plays for Real Madrid, which is a team that always has a very large squad and that's good for the coach, I would like to have Real Madrid's squad. But I particularly like Rodrygo more than Vinicius."...Now the kids who are young, they have two beers, they go to the football pitch and they provoke him so that he drops his guard and doesn't do what he has to do on the football pitch, which is to play, which is his profession. I've been very critical of him, but now he's a bit better, they've given him a little nudge and he's a bit better in the head. But the truth is that he still hasn't convinced me as a player... in any way, I'm not just talking about football.

So in his opinion viniiciusjr isn't even a man ok:) again, that is called a hater. I love how he pitched himself as a coach with the real madrid squad. Funny how viniciusjr is the most active player on the pitch for real madrid most of their matches last year but viniciusjr isn't focusing on the game.

#rmsoccer