#some banging relics

[centrally-unplanned]

There are two big "AI Art Discourse" events of note recently, which I thought were interesting: ACX's "AI Art Turing Test" and the new paper on "AI Poetry Beating Human Poetry". Both of these I think reveal the shape of "what is AI art for", and also say a lot about how these results were utilized in discourse.

To take the latter first, some academics quizzed people on some poetry and had these results:

We found that AI-generated poems were rated more favorably in qualities such as rhythm and beauty, and that this contributed to their mistaken identification as human-authored. Our findings suggest that participants employed shared yet flawed heuristics to differentiate AI from human poetry: the simplicity of AI-generated poems may be easier for non-experts to understand, leading them to prefer AI-generated poetry and misinterpret the complexity of human poems as incoherence generated by AI.

More human than human poems! This certainly seems impressive - and it is. You couldn't have gotten these results ~5 years ago. But that maybe doesn't mean as much as you might think? Because here is the opening half of the winning "Walt Whitman AI" Poem:

I hear the call of nature, the rustling of the trees, The whisper of the river, the buzzing of the bees, The chirping of the songbirds, and the howling of the wind, All woven into a symphony, that never seems to end. I feel the pulse of life, the beating of my heart, The rhythm of my breathing, the soul's eternal art, The passion of my being, that burns with fervent fire, The urge to live, to love, to strive, to reach up higher. I see the beauty all around, the glory of the earth, The majesty of mountains, the miracles of birth, The wonder of the cosmos, the mysteries of the stars, The poetry of existence, that echoes near and far

This fucking sucks. Straight up 2/10 poem. Did this bitch seriously establish the world's most predictable rhyme scheme only to try to rhyme wind with end? You had one job that you chose for yourself, and you screwed it up! This poem has been written a million times before, and says nothing - the Miley Cyrus lyrics of verse.

The reason this won is, yes, because AI tools have advanced heavily in the past few years. But it is also because it is being tested on a dead art. No one cares about poetry - certainly not the survey respondents:

We asked participants several questions to gauge their experience with poetry, including how much they like poetry, how frequently they read poetry, and their level of familiarity with their assigned poet. Overall, our participants reported a low level of experience with poetry: 90.4% of participants reported that they read poetry a few times per year or less, 55.8% described themselves as “not very familiar with poetry”, and 66.8% describe themselves as “not familiar at all” with their assigned poet. 

"Or less" is doing a LOT of work there; "yeah I read a few nonfiction books a year" oh sure, totally. 90% of these respondents haven't read a poem that wasn't displayed in the end credits of Minecraft since high school. No one does, poetry as a medium is essentially a relic. That isn't an insult to poets, by the way! There is no shame in being a niche. Not everyone can have the reach of hentai doujin artists; the community is small but they get a ton out of it. But you can't take the art of the community and expect that art to hit outside of it.

This survey didn't ask people to evaluate art; it asked people to evaluate their stereotypical impression of an art they don't care about. It was ~600 people hired off a website, they banged it out ASAP and moved on. This is not to invalidate the results; I am not actually claiming that "real" poets would have scored much better? Maybe, I don't know - that just isn't very relevant.

Let's swing to the AI Art Turing Test results to get more into why. Again, AI art is absolutely "art" in the sense that it is able to pass the test handily. You have to be head-in-the-sand at this point to think that AI can't make an impressionist painting a la the "most liked" art in this contest:

I have seen the "well real paintings have physicality this is a jpeg" discourse points and the cope couldn't be more real - 99% of art consumption in the modern world is digital or at least prints, let's get you back to bed grandma. But I did find it pretty funny that Scott noted this AI piece as one he particularly liked:

Because it is nonsensical, right? All that "faded paint", how was it originally painted - just bucket splashes of red and blue? What are those random doors, the random stairs going nowhere on the sides, the vague-nothings engravings? Scott just didn't care about that - he liked the vibe, right? Ancient ruins, epic scale. It isn't a coincidence that the Impressionist art did the best - current AI tools are always impressionist, they have an idea of the vibe and invent the details in between. In Impressionism that is the whole point.

Now the trap is to go "REAL artists can tell because of this or that" because idk, the tools might get better, they might fill in more and more details. The real revelation here is that you don't need the tools to get better - visual art isn't so different from poetry. Most people don't pay attention to it all that much. You see thousands, thousands of pieces of art a week; you probably don't even realize how many. Do you really care if the fading paint makes coherent sense on a billboard ad or a doctor's office wall painting? So much art that is made is "industrial" in this sense - it has no need to be good. Only good enough to fulfill its utilitarian role. In these fields AI absolutely is going to Take Your Jobs in some form, and already is (though imo not a ton of them). And it won't really bother most people. This can go pretty deep - I promise you people are "utilizing" AI porn right now. They are ~appreciating the details~ way more than is typical, the product is working.

All this works until it doesn't, though. When it is an art book by a favourite artist whose vision you want to pour over, learning that all the individual details were just made by AI completely defeats the purpose, right? Imagine reading a book of these poems. Outside of the novelty, "AI is the point" factor you would rather watch infomercials on repeat, I can't imagine a more pointless use of my time. "Reading arbitrary poems" is never fun, regardless of the quality of the poems. Most people don't care about poetry! The reason you care is that you care about the poet, and what they want to say. You read poetry with context, it being inserted with intent into the pages of a manga, at the end of a video game, because you like the artist and follow them on twitter. The quality of the prose isn't more important than that.

Which is a harsh limit for all of these kinds of tests. They essentially aren't testing art, right? You do not ever get paid twenty bucks to sit down and read a dozen poems and score them. That has no bearing on how you would actually ever learn to care about a poem. Which doesn't make AI art useless or anything, more that these tests will very quickly run into their limits of what they can meaningfully tell you. The actual bar is "creating something someone cares about". From that lens, I fully believe hybrid methods that privilege artistic intent are currently working and will improve. But I think for "solo" AI art getting that to work is going to be complicated.

[dieseldame]

𝗠𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗙𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗵

Sevika x Mechanic! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika arrives at your workshop late at night, battered and bruised from a brutal fight, seeking urgent repairs for her damaged mechanical arm.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, slow-burn, first kiss, mutual respect, found family vibes, detailed mechanics, strong female lead, emotional vulnerability.

In the Lower City, time doesn’t move the way it does above. There’s no rhythm here—only chaos. Machines wheeze and hiss, drunk men stumble out of alleyways, and the Shimmer lights the night with its sickening purple glow. A place where even silence feels heavy, where danger coils in the shadows like something alive.

And yet, there’s always the hum of a machine shop somewhere—your machine shop.

Most nights, the noise keeps you company. The grinding of gears, the hiss of steam, the soft vibration of metal meeting metal. You’ve carved a life out of this grimy corner of Zaun: hands blackened by oil, skin marred by burns, heart stitched together with the same steel you shape. You mend what others break, piecing together scraps to give back function. If there’s one thing the Lower City respects, it’s those who can make things work.

But not tonight.

The shop is quiet. Tools lie idle on the workbench, scattered like forgotten relics. You sit slumped against the wall, head heavy, breath shallow—your body aches, but it’s nothing you can’t endure. A stitched wound at your temple pulses faintly; the bruises across your ribs feel tight when you inhale too deeply. It was worth it, though, for what you’d built.

The machine gleams under dim lamplight.

A marvel of metal and innovation, an appendage worthy of the woman it’s meant for. State-of-the-art sensors—so small you nearly went blind assembling them—thread through the new limb like nerve endings. You’d spent months on it. Scavenging parts. Trading favors. Getting into fights when “negotiation” failed. All for this: a piece of art wrapped in cold steel, capable of letting her feel again.

Capable of giving Sevika back something she’d lost.

She doesn’t know. She wouldn’t have let you—wouldn’t have wanted you to bleed for her, as she would say. Sevika was stubborn like that. Built of sharp edges and gruff words.

And yet she always came to you.

As if the broken parts of her knew where they belonged.

The door bangs open, hard enough to rattle the hinges. You don’t jump—Sevika never knocks. She storms in like a thundercloud, leaving the door yawning wide behind her. Smoke curls from a half-burned cigar clamped between her teeth.

— Thought I’d find you sleeping. — she says, her voice rough, but she pauses when she sees you.

Her sharp eyes track the bruises at your jaw, the bloodstained stitches above your brow, the stiff way you’re sitting. A subtle shift passes across her face—something unreadable, but heavy.

You lift a brow. — You’re late.

Sevika scoffs and strides inside, her boots loud against the floorboards. The flickering lamplight catches on the dark red smear down her cheek and the gouge in her mechanical arm—a deep tear through the metal, sparking faintly with exposed wires. She looks worse for wear: hair tangled, coat torn at the sleeve, shoulders tight with the lingering strain of a fight.

You stand, biting back a wince as your ribs protest. — What happened?

She shrugs off her coat with a grunt, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her ruined arm whirs as she flexes it, and for a moment, you think she might try to downplay the damage. Instead, her lips pull into a humorless smirk.

— Some idiot thought he’d try his luck.

— Clearly, he didn’t win.

Sevika snorts, the sound dark and pleased. — Didn’t even come close.

You’ve heard this before—her coming in late, bruised and bloodied but alive. You’ve always admired that about her: the way she endures. Survives. Sevika’s not invincible, but she wears her damage like armor.

Tonight, though, something feels different. You can see it in her posture, the heaviness in the set of her jaw.

— Sit, — you tell her. — Let me look at it.

She does, with minimal grumbling, lowering herself onto a stool by the workbench. Her damaged arm hangs limply at her side, and you kneel beside it, fingers brushing the jagged metal edges. Sparks hiss where the wiring has frayed. It’s worse than you thought—too far gone to repair tonight.

— Damn it. — you mutter.

— Don’t hold back on my account. — Sevika drawls.

You shoot her a dry look before rising to grab your tools. The lamp casts your shadow long across the room as you search for something—anything—that could be a temporary fix. Sevika watches you, one brow raised, her good hand braced against her knee.

— I can’t patch this up, — you admit after a moment. — Not tonight. The damage is too deep.

Sevika grunts, not surprised, but her eyes narrow slightly. — Then what are you waiting for? Find another way.

You hesitate. It’s now or never.

— You’re right. I do have another way.

She frowns, leaning back slightly as you turn and cross the room. Your hand moves to the edge of the sheet that covers your secret—months of work, pain, and sacrifice hidden beneath it. You look at her then, at the woman who sits in your shop like she belongs there, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

— Consider it an early birthday present.

And then you pull the sheet away.

The room seems to hold its breath.

The new arm lies on the table—a masterpiece in steel and precision. It shines silver under the light, sleeker than Sevika’s current appendage, but heavier somehow. Something about the design demands respect. The plating has been shaped to fit her perfectly, every joint reinforced and seamless.

But the real wonder lies in the small, intricate workings beneath the surface. The sensors, invisible to the eye, hum faintly with potential energy. Capable of transmitting touch—real touch. Warmth. Pressure. All the things Sevika’s flesh had lost.

You’d made her a gift.

Sevika doesn’t move. Her eyes rake over the arm, slow and careful, and for the first time in a long while, she looks… surprised.

— You made this? — Her voice is low, quieter than before.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. — For you.

She doesn’t speak. You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep talking, filling the silence. — The sensors are custom-built. Took me weeks just to get the design right. They’ll let you feel things again. Temperature, textures. All of it. — You glance at her, searching her face for a reaction. — I thought maybe… you’d like that.

Sevika’s gaze drags from the arm to you. Slowly, her expression shifts, softening in a way that feels dangerous. Like something she doesn’t let anyone see.

— You didn’t just make this, — she says, voice low. — Where did you get the parts?

You look away.

Her eyes narrow. — Tell me.

— I got them, — you reply, a little too quickly. — That’s what matters.

Sevika rises then, moving toward you with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse quicken. She’s too close now, towering over you with that sharp, unreadable look.

Her gaze drops to the bruises at your jaw, the healing wound at your temple. She takes you in like a puzzle she’s solving piece by piece—her good hand lifting to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

— You fought for this. — It’s not a question.

You swallow hard. — Zaun’s not exactly a charity.

— Idiot, — she mutters, though her voice lacks any bite. Her thumb grazes the edge of your jaw—light, careful, as though testing her own ability to be gentle. — You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.

— It was worth it. — you say softly.

She blinks. For a long moment, Sevika just looks at you—searching, measuring, as though trying to understand something she doesn’t have the words for. You hold her gaze, unflinching.

— You’re a fool. — she says finally.

— Maybe.

Her hand drops, but she doesn’t step back.

— Sevika, — you start, — I just —

— You didn’t have to do this for me.

— I wanted to.

The words hang between you, raw and undeniable. Sevika stares at you, something unspoken passing through her eyes. You’ve seen her fight. Seen her spit blood and laugh through cracked teeth. But this is different. This is vulnerability—quiet and unarmored.

— You’re too soft for this city, — she mutters, but there’s no malice in it. Only something close to affection.

You smirk faintly. — And you’re too stubborn to accept a gift.

She snorts, shaking her head, but her mouth twitches at the corner—an almost-smile.

— Sit back down, — you tell her. — Let me fit it.

Sevika hesitates, then moves. When she lowers herself onto the stool again, you begin the careful process of removing her damaged arm, piece by piece, before fitting the new one in its

place.

The process is slow, deliberate. You work in silence, your fingers moving with the precision of someone who knows their craft intimately. Sevika doesn’t speak, but you can feel her watching you—her gaze heavy, lingering on your bruises, the faint tremble in your hands as you lock the new appendage into place.

The final connection clicks with a soft hum, and the arm comes alive. Its joints shift smoothly, a near-perfect mimicry of organic movement. Sevika flexes her fingers, and the sensors respond, lighting up faintly as they adjust to her.

— How does it feel? — you ask, watching her carefully.

Her brows furrow slightly as she tests the arm, running her metal fingers over the edge of the workbench. The faintest smile pulls at her lips when she feels the texture of the rough wood beneath her touch.

— Strange, — she admits. — I didn’t think… — She trails off, her voice softening. — I didn’t think I’d feel anything like this again.

Your chest tightens. — Good strange?

Sevika looks at you then, her expression open in a way that feels rare, like she’s letting her guard slip just for a moment. — Yeah. Good strange.

Relief washes over you, and you take a step back, suddenly feeling the weight of the night settle over you. Your ribs ache, your head pounds faintly, but it’s worth it—worth every bruise, every drop of blood.

— You’re something else. — Sevika mutters, shaking her head.

— What do you mean?

— You fight, you bleed, and then you do this? — She gestures to the arm with her good hand. — You didn’t have to. Hell, you shouldn’t have. But you did it anyway.

You shrug, trying to play it off. — Like I said, I wanted to.

She leans forward, her new arm resting against her thigh, the metal gleaming under the lamplight. — You’re not Zaun, you know that? Not like the rest of us.

You raise a brow. — What does that mean?

Sevika smirks faintly, but there’s no edge to it. — It means you’ve got more heart than sense.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. — And you’re just figuring this out now?

Her gaze softens, her smirk fading into something quieter, more serious. — I noticed it the first time I walked in here.

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of her confession—small but significant—hangs in the air.

— Sevika…

She stands suddenly, towering over you, her new arm flexing as she tests its range of motion. Then she reaches out, her metal hand brushing your cheek—light, tentative, as though she’s still adjusting to the sensation. The coolness of the metal contrasts with the warmth of her touch, and your breath hitches.

— You went through hell for this, — she murmurs, her voice low and rough. — For me.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. — I told you… it was worth it.

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, but her eyes stay on yours, searching, unreadable. — You’re a fool. — she says again, softer this time.

— Maybe. — you whisper.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. The noise of the Lower City fades, the sharp scent of oil and metal dulls, and all that exists is Sevika—her presence, her touch, her quiet intensity.

And then she leans in.

Her lips brush yours, firm yet hesitant, like she’s testing the waters. It’s not soft, not sweet—this is Sevika, after all. It’s rough around the edges, but there’s something real in it, something that sets your pulse racing and makes the ache in your ribs worth forgetting.

When she pulls back, her gaze holds yours, unflinching.

— Thank you. — she says, the words rough, almost grudging, but filled with a sincerity that takes your breath away.

You smile, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. — Anytime.

Sevika chuckles faintly, shaking her head. — You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?

— Not if you’ve got my back. — you reply, grinning.

She smirks, and for the first time all night, she looks at ease. — Damn right I do.

As she steps back, flexing her new arm with an almost childlike curiosity, you can’t help but watch her, a warmth spreading through your chest. The bruises, the fights, the exhaustion—it’s all worth it.

Because this is Sevika.

And for her, you’d do it all over again.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[cozymochi]

“Gosh, I wonder what kind of day my birthday will be… Please, please have things go my way for once...!”

happy [redacted] birthday Cecil Mugwort here’s a makeshift “cozy loungewear” iteration. but with 60% less quality control because i had second thoughts on nearly every aspect halfway through, but i was too far in and already made a commitment publicly 🫠

pretend voiceless lines were collaborated on with @/oddberryshortcake under cut. If that’s anyones speed.

Summon: “Being able to tend to my plants at the end of a long day is my favorite part of my dorm room, I can’t think of a better way to spend the night before my birthday.”

Groovification: “There goes those clocks again…It’s practically telling me to get up and start another day.”

Home: “Late nights are so peaceful.”

Swap Looks: “Ugh, I need to get my unruly hair out of my face!”

Home Transition 1: “Having Silver as a roommate isn’t so bad… If you forget the whole ‘sleeping through five alarm clocks’ thing he does.”

Home Transition 2: “It’s a little embarrassing, but I love how soft and fuzzy these pajamas are. They keep me warm all night.”

Home Transition 3: “THE Vil Schoenheit gave me eye cream for my dark circles. Does he think they look really bad? I was so nervous I dropped the bottle right after getting it…”

Home Transition - Login: “My birthdays are usually spent celebrating my twin sister’s birthday too. But here at NRC, I can celebrate my birthday just by myself. It’s nice not having to share for today.”

Home Transition - Groovy: “Nyoka Wadjet gave me some fancy looking cup as a gift. I told him it’d make a nice new home for my Ice Lilies , but he almost seemed upset I’d be using it that way. Did he just want me to let it collect dust?”

Home Tap 1: “I mustn’t let Ollie trick me into feeding him his dinner twice. Tricky ol’ bird.”

Home Tap 2: “I made sure to send my twin sister a card for our birthday. I actually got one from her today too! For once, she didn’t brag about herself in it… She even pressed a small flower into the envelope.”

Home Tap 3: “Housewarden Malleus Draconia approached me earlier. He just wanted to tell me happy birthday but I was so scared I nearly collapsed where I stood… Ahem! Of course, I still said thank you!”

Home Tap 4: “Just one more page of this ancient magical relics book and then I’ll turn in for the night. Oh, but next chapter is on amulets. Maybe a few more pages then…”

Home Tap 5: “Do I dye my bangs? No, its just a condition I was born with. It spreads a little further every year. At this rate, I’m gonna go gray before I graduate…”

Home Tap - Groovy: “I try not to stay up too late, but I can’t help it! Everything is silent, it’s just me, my bird, my books and my plants. It’s such bliss at night.”

Duo:

[CECIL]: “T-Thanks for celebrating, Nyoka!”

[NYOKA]: “It's no trouble, Cecil.”

Birthday Login Message: “Oh, you’re wishing me a happy birthday? I didn’t think you’d remember. You know, the science club pitched in and got me a new plant today. It was a pleasant surprise to know my seniors had been paying such close attention to my interests. …Hm? Is this your present? You made a card all by yourself? …This is much more thoughtful than the ill-fitting sweaters and mugs I normally get, thank you.”

[usedpidemo]

Knockin on heaven's door (Lee Chaeyeon)

> ​​5 minutes in heaven with chaeyeon (just something inspired by the knock mv and her being inside a wardrobe) - @idevian

——————

“God dammit.”

The worst thing about college wasn’t the outrageous student debt, nor the mountains of units and classes you needed to juggle. It was the parties. 

It was always the parties.

Not a couple of weeks passes by without some wild party hosted by some rich nepo kid. There isn’t really a reason that justifies the occasion except to celebrate for celebration's sake. An excuse to let loose and relax from the stresses of the semester; a reasonable justification—if not for the copious amount of drugs, alcohol, and sex that happens in them. Every scene plays out like a parody, an ironic twist of fate that realizes your worst assumptions and stereotypes of college after graduating high school. 

And the worst part is: no one escapes completely unscathed, not even you.

You make one thing clear: you don’t despise parties—you just didn’t want any piece of it. It stands to reason then that you usually take refuge in the many corners of the house, away from the madness and debauchery of it all. Exposure to their degeneracy proves to be near-unavoidable. You’re essentially the designated driver for your friends, who are none the wiser. Often, they’re the first ones in, last ones out. The moment they step foot inside, they basically forget your existence until dawn. They’re insufferable, but you’d otherwise remain a loner without them, for better and for worse.

In a sea of people, someone manages to spot you. It’s not the gaze of a burgeoning romance or friendship; their eyes evidently spell out drunkenness, and their zombie-like motions toward you are about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. A little push and pull. You suddenly find yourself being escorted to a huge circle that raises immediate red flags. Even the slightest whiff of the room laced with crack triggers your fight or flight impulses. Thankfully, it only takes the simplest and most cliche of excuses to create a path of escape.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

With their impaired judgment, you’ll soon be an afterthought to them—or at worse, a horde of makeshift zombies banging at the door. The bathroom would be too obvious. It was never the destination.

Sneaking around the crowd, you find a door conveniently tucked away from the madness and rush toward your freedom. On the other side lies complete darkness, and if not for a foot teetering on the edge of some hidden stairs, you’d be a dozen steps away from a concussion and several stitches. A hidden basement sealed away from the house, blocking most of the noise.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

As expected, the actual basement is nothing but clutters of dusty boxes and forgotten relics, with a few tiny windows hidden behind the piles. Little light peeks through the otherwise pitch black room, but a bit more exposure runs the risk of your retreat getting exposed. You’d more than happily sit here until you can weasel your way out in the morning, when everyone’s blacked out and completely fucked from party overdose, or when the rich kid’s angry parents find you sleeping on the floor. 

You’ve taken overnight shelter in far worse, unforgiving places. 

Suddenly, you feel a breath of warm air tickle through your ear and skin. “Guess I’m not the only one stuck tonight.”

It’s a ghoulish whisper that impulsively causes you to drop your phone while opening its flashlight. What little the light reveals is a hint of pale flesh and blonde strands covertly moving like a predator stalking its prey. You feel something on your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine. Clawlike nails thread through your hair, slowly entrapping you beyond escape. Your eyes tilt to the side, only to find the groove of lush dark lips forming a pretty smirk.

All it takes is another whisper. “Boo.”

“Shit!” You flail your arms panickedly, swinging them around like a child with no fighting experience. You hit nothing but air. If not for the darkness concealing you, it would be a humiliating sight, the kind that gets posted and clowned upon on social media. 

The figure grabs you by the wrists, stares so sternly it warrants attention. Its tone is just as sharp, too. “Don’t get us caught, goddammit.”

You pause, take a moment to gather yourself, then another to scan the shadowy stature, looking at you now with wary and concern. Peering through the darkness, its eyes glint with a distinct sparkle. It speaks again with a more tempered voice. “You okay now?”

A silence briefly falls. You stare back to familiarize and scan the figure. A moment of clarity comes upon you. “Wait—aren’t you—”

You recognize her face plastered on the accomplishment board, primarily under athletics and sports. It simply couldn’t be anyone else but Lee Chaeyeon, a polarizing figure within the student body. You’ve heard whispers from varying accounts. For some, she’s practically the greatest athlete to ever grace the institution, a generational talent in every department she excels in. To her teachers, she barely shows up to classes because of her athletic commitments, and a peek through the records shows she’s barely holding on in her academic obligations. 

At times, she’s felt like a myth, mainly because you’d only hear her from others. You never saw her once in a school uniform. Hell, you only knew she was around because other people claimed to have seen her, but they could have been spreading misinformation.

“What? Chaeryeong?” She raises an eyebrow, puckers her lips, partially confused and mildly annoyed, while lowering your arms before finally letting them go. She knows what you said. “That’s my little sis. She’s a lot cuter than I am. You need to get your eyes checked.”

“No, no.” Blissfully unaware, you’re quick to emphasize your point. “You’re Chaeyeon, head of the dance club and athletics division.”

“No? I’m Chaeryeong, head of the music department,” she says, sarcastic, but now with a playful smile. “No shit, I’m Chaeyeon.”

“I—I never expected to meet you here of all places,” you say, awkwardly smiling and tapping your fingers together nervously.

“I didn’t expect anyone would find this spot.” Chaeyeon turns around, brushing her long blonde locks in an alluring way that leaves you awestruck. Admittedly, it’s a little bit attractive how unabashedly sleazy she looks. Even in her clean pictures, you can tell she hates the idea of looking clean. While everyone else attends these parties at their best, only to come out a complete mess, she clearly recognizes the pointlessness in such vanity. “Great timing, too. I was gonna make a run for it.”

“So, why are you here again?” 

“Boredom.” Her reply is almost immediate, flippantly delivered, that it’s convincing. She has better things to do than hang around at random parties. “I just came for the free food.” She chuckles remembering the thought, while her eyes wander around the room, searching for something, anything.

“Just like me, huh,” you respond with blind confidence, as if it’ll give you both a common ground to share, when in reality, she doesn’t care. If anything, she only amuses you because she allowed you to entertain her, and you’re doing about as good of a job as anyone when it comes to catching her attention—a.k.a failing spectacularly. 

Chaeyeon turns around and faces you again with a curious, intimidating look. “And what do you know about that?”

Gulp. “About what?”

She tilts her head and doesn't utter another word, as if expecting you to know what she means. You clearly don’t. On her lips is a dour pout, disappointed by your impulsive tongue. None of it makes any sense, and trying to figure her out seems like a fool’s errand. 

“Thought so,” is the only thing she ends up saying, and an air of awkward silence falls on you both as she roams around the basement, presumably searching for a passage out. “You wanna be useful?” she suddenly snaps at you, her stare peering through a valley of boxes.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You wanna get out of here or what?” she spits, turning to you, gaze grimacing and tone scathing. Joining her, you both take note of a narrow hatch hidden behind even more dusty packages.

—————

Well, you may have just played the most awkward game of seven minutes in heaven in your life. 

The ride home is even more unsettling.

Chaeyeon remains dead silent, comfortably slumped back against the passenger seat of your car, keeping you at arm’s length. Occasionally glancing to your side, you’re driving, focused on the road ahead. The muted sound of radio blaring through the speakers is the only thing that keeps awkward silence from permeating throughout the vehicle. 

You can’t get her to show any form of emotion other than apathy.

Wanna have something to eat? Nothing. 

Where’s your place? Also nothing.

Where would you like me to drop you off? Still nothing.

Got any friends to meet up with? Again, nothing.

Most people would have given up by now. It’s not a good look, the kind that encourages ostracizing. Patient as you are, though, you still hope she opens up, but whenever your eyes meet, she gives you the coldest shoulder imaginable. She wants nothing to do with you. The way she stares, the tiredness peeking through her brown irises, the slow, detached gaze that examines you before lightly looking away—the very idea of interacting with people poisons her, ruins her, breaks her.

You pull off at a gas station a few blocks away from your apartment. Shutting down the engine, you gently say, “I’m gonna buy a snack. You want anything?”

She slowly turns back in your direction, very disconnected from you she can’t be bothered to look you in the eye. Her lips twist, as if ready to speak her mind, but only air ultimately comes out. As you expected by now.

“Fine,” you follow, deflecting her cold demeanor back at her. “Just wait here, then.”

After stepping out of your car, right as you’re about to enter the shop, you hear a sharp thud sound. Looking back, you find Chaeyeon, also outside, rubbing her arms from the cold air bothering her, trembling nervously. 

You call out to her, loud enough to draw anyone’s attention.

“Borrow my jacket?”

She doesn’t pay you any heed.

—————

“I seriously don’t understand you,” you murmur, as if it’ll bring her out of her shell or change anything, if your previous attempts at reaching out to her in a friendly manner are any proof. It’s late at night; you’re both casually staring at your car—the only noteworthy thing in this gas station—and you couldn’t be any more different. You’ve almost emptied your little cup of instant noodles, while she smokes through her dwindling cigarette, blowing smoke in your direction, still purposefully uncaring. The vapor doesn’t make you crack, but her coldness does. “Why did you ask me to drive for you? What’s the point? I don’t know what you want.”

It’s probably not the best time to show even the slightest frustration. Then again, she’s been deliberately dispassionate the entire time. Anyone else would have given up at this point, but there’s an allure to her, you admit, that keeps you interested, and not just because she’s a known name within the student body. Popularity was never the goal, but like everyone else, you simply wanted to know who Lee Chaeyeon is. She’s one of the biggest mysteries within the school; an all-star athlete with a peculiar aura surrounding her. From what you’ve seen so far, it’s not all that remarkable. She's sassy and apathetic, dry, sarcastic humor is her primary weapon, and she dresses like an escort. Perhaps this is all just a mix up, that this isn’t really the Chaeyeon, one of the best athletes to ever grace the university.

If not for the resemblance with her younger sister, the sweet girl from the music club, they couldn’t have been any more different. Are they really from the same family?

“Much better.” She returns her cigar to her mouth, huffs another round, then releases a new wave, thankfully not in your direction this time. Facing you, she looks you right in the eye. It’s different. There’s no apathy behind them, but instead, genuine interest. “I just wanted a free ride outta there.”

“That’s it?” is your reply, confused. Maybe you’re thinking these words through a bit too much, trying to find deeper complexity from a simple answer. You’ve met more complicated characters before, and to a certain degree, you can relate to her.

“Yeah.” Chaeyeon drags another whiff, but intentionally smokes away. “People just suck.”

In a strange, twisted way, she reads through your mind, says something that, quite frankly, leaves you even more in disarray. “Don’t think hard about it.”

Wide-eyed, you try averting your gaze in a poor attempt to feign ignorance. “Think about what?”

“You know,” she says, songful, gives you a rather taunting stare, eyebrows raised, as if expecting you to understand what she’s on about—deep down you know what that is—while flicking the ashes of her cig down on the table. Admittedly, it’s somewhat cute. Smirking, she adds, “Do I have to make it obvious to you, bird brain?”

“Fuck off.”

“There you go.” Chaeyeon leans back, chuckles, takes delight in making you look like the bad guy, that wicked, mocking grin on her lips a few inches wider than before. Only now do you perceive the true predicament; both of you secretly playing mind games, examining each other, trying to get on the other’s nerves until they eventually break. “I guess I win.”

“Win? We’re not playing games.”

“I got you to drop the nice guy act. I won.” 

Another huff, another smoke.

“That doesn’t mean much.”

“That’s what every loser says. Remember what I said? People suck.”

“We just met a few hours ago, and you’re telling me I suck?” Your volume grows slightly louder.  “After giving you a free ride out of that party?” 

“And who got you out of there first? Hmm?” Chaeyeon’s driving you mad, but now for a completely different reason. “Let me make it clear: I knew about the secret passage even if you hadn’t stumbled your way inside that basement. You were just lucky to find me at the right time.”

“Forget about the basement!” You find yourself slowly unraveling, slowly coming undone, your screws on the brink of loosening. She licks her lips, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It’s sudden, it’s loud, it’s sharp. The words reverberate around the shop resoundingly that in any other setting, it’s what incites a public incident, gets both of you expelled and shamed in school. Maybe just you, knowing there’s a high likelihood of preferential bias the faculty may have for one of their most accomplished pupils. Regardless, you find yourself covering your mouth, as if you’ve just spoken some unspeakable destruction into existence. Even she ends up speechless.

The next moment is even more destructive: Chaeyeon’s lips suddenly cover yours.

—————

“Fuck, that’s good,” mutters Chaeyeon, between a shower of seemingly endless kisses on your lips, shoving you against the wall of the bathroom beside the convenience store. The doors are locked, with not a single soul’s around to interrupt you. Either way, she proves to be too much—too much to fight, with both words and actions, that you quickly give in, much sooner than she expected.

It’s not that you never considered the thought of kissing Chaeyeon—at times, they were a little tempting if not for the fact that she’s a smoker—but rather how delectable her lips are, even with the tainted scent of smoke etched on them. She passionately makes out with you, drives her tongue between yours, drives the wedge that seemingly kept you both apart, and no amount of self-righteous character can bury that want, that craving for affection—and sex.

“You do this with every man you meet?” You forcefully rip yourself from the kiss, only to find your lips dragged back in almost immediately. She knows it’s a futile effort to gain control, something you never had right from the start. 

“Fuck no,” she mouths between even more pecks. “Consider yourself incredibly lucky.”

She’s tugging on opposite ends of your shirt, threatening to rip them apart, something you recognize. Even as you continue to make out, with your hands exploring and marking new territory in the form of her divine figure, you make time for her, letting her freely own you by lifting the obstructive clothing over your head before she promptly tosses it aside in return. Her lips gradually slide down and make themselves familiar with you; your neck first, then your collarbones, smiling to herself as she marks each part as hers with her teeth, while creating more friction by palming your bare chest.

“Finally, someone who’s actually hot,” she quietly mouths to herself, though you can hear her loud and clear. You’ve got a response, a retaliation, but you choose to bask in the moment, acknowledge how good she already makes you feel in the form of a light groan.

Her hands slide down the steep hill that is your torso, until they find more difficult fabric. Locking eyes with yours, she works on your pants, keeping you suspended as she figures out how to claim her rightful prize. Behind those brown pupils is a burning lust, a raging flame consuming her from within, eager to take what she wants; it’s not the same cold stare from before. 

“How long have you wanted me?” she asks, followed by the gentle whir of your zipper as she slides down your pants and boxers in one swing. Before you can formulate a reply, you suddenly release an airy gasp—your only response—caught unaware by her deft, silky hand pressing on your balls and your raging cock. Her smirk widens, amused and absorbed by your electric reaction. 

She continues to fiddle with your cock, giving it one slow, but delicate pump after another, as you fall under her dizzying spell. Forget about the question; the answer is quite clear, based on the stickiness slowly building up between her hand and your cock. Pleasure begins to spike all over your body, and almost single handedly ends you, if not for her other hand keeping you steady against the wall. It’s a little too soon—a little too much for your brain to comprehend.

Her gaze lingers on yours, watching you gradually crumble in real-time; you’re no better than anyone else in this situation. It’s amusing, gets cute, sweet, playful looks that seemingly brighten her day after what seemed to be an absolute disaster. She knows what she’s doing and she loves it. Your hands cling to shoulders, feel the softness of her skin, and it sparks a fire in her eyes, quick to spread and consume.

“Tell me how long you’ve wanted me,” she repeats herself, the bright glint in her eyes and her grin more mischievous than serious. Determined to get the answer out of you, she tightly cups your balls, drawing out a deep groan. “I know you’ve been staring at me since we met.”

She’s not entirely wrong. Even in the darkness of that desolate basement, you knew she was drop-dead gorgeous. It became clear under the pale moonlight that she was even hotter: a black crop that teased the subtlest of cleavage, exposed her toned midriff, and jeans that accentuated her shapely ass. Yes, even when you thought she wasn’t interested, she knew your stare never departed. 

“Since always.” Not the best answer; you both literally just encountered each other earlier that night, but it’s the most logical. Not a single girl in college made you hot and heavy like this. Sure, some of them were cute, her sister included, but none of them had that appeal, that love at first sight attraction that Chaeyeon carried. 

Her free arm reaches up to the zipper of her shirt, presses her cleavage together a little. There’s amusement on her features watching in your eagerness to watch them slip. She contemplates the thought, painfully stalling the inevitable by a few precious seconds, then she unzips her top down. One side of the sleeve slides down her shoulders, then the other, until only a matching black bra remains. 

It promptly joins the other clothes on the opposite end of the bathroom, completely irrelevant. 

You and Chaeyeon make quick work of her jeans before you’re quickly drawn together like magnets, feeling each other’s hot, sweaty skin, entangled like a complete puzzle making out against the walls. It’s an intense back and forth, a tug of war as you both desire complete ownership of the other’s body. Each torrid kiss screams of desperation, not intimacy, to be used, to be consumed. 

Spacious as the bathroom is, you can’t seem to find common ground. One moment you’ve got her pinned against the furthest stall, the next she has you fastened in another, until you eventually acquaint yourselves with all three cubicles. Both of you know where this is going and where it should lead; you just don’t know how you can get there. There’s plenty of distractions in front of you, mainly Chaeyeon’s perfect naked figure, a leg wrapped around your hip, and the gleam in her eyes wanting and yearning. It’s dangerous; temptation lurks everywhere you look. If not for the arms wrapped around your neck, occasionally dictating that you only look at her lust-filled face between kisses, the rest of her body would earn your worship. 

Chaeyeon moans, writhes in your grasp, slowly relinquishing control over to you. From her bottom lip, you slip them down to her neck, and she trembles, clings tighter, feeling weak. Her hands pinch the back of your hair, mouth mumbling airy, faint words. It’s passionate, sinful, and tender—something you never expected with an otherwise rough woman like her.

“God, you’re so hot—” you hiss, gasping as her touch arouses you. “Mmm—”

She suddenly regains composure, stops you a breath away from her chest, then pulls you back toward her face. Another deep kiss. “Enough. I’m not in the mood for love making tonight.”

Regretfully, she removes herself from your clutch, pulling you by the hand instead to lead you to the bathroom sink. Every time she kisses you, her lips smell of alcohol and lipstick, and it never gets old. You wonder if she simply likes kissing or if she’s conveying some kind of message that you somehow have to decipher. She notices the curious expression on your face, lets out this droll laugh that gives off the assumption you’re onto something, when really, she’s as unpredictable as ever.

There’s nothing funny, nor is it supposed to be, but it makes no sense, perfectly in line with her character.

Before the awkwardness looms over you again, she grabs you by the waist, pushes you forward to impale her. Her back arches against the sink, perfectly spaced between her torso and legs. She spins around, flaunts her shapely curves that immediately capture your attention—and your hands. Ignore her steely glare that pierces through your reflection in the mirror; her flesh melts, molds comfortably in your grasp, as if they were tailor made for you. 

She grunts, loses control again, but it’s only momentarily. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Even though you’ve seen her look vulnerable, her sharp attitude keeps you on edge, stops you from committing a sinful act. Your cock is in the perfect position to ruin her, break the facade and the space between you, but it’s not a fight worth contending, especially when she follows up with a dagger that almost pierces your heart. “Keep it between my legs.”

You immediately knew what she meant. To be quite honest, it’s a little disappointing. All that preamble, pleasantry, the tease of something more, only to be shot down before it even starts—it’s almost disheartening. Of course, you had no room to complain, not when she’s splayed out in her barest, practically giving you free reign over every other part of her, but something feels—off, incomplete.

Chaeyeon spreads her legs wide, gracious to space your cock right in its center. Her cunt is on full display, ripe and ready to be used, to be fucked. Unfortunately, you won’t get to have any piece of it without her word. It’s near-impossible to look away, spellbinding you with an unforgettable mental image. The thought of—or the lack thereof—filling her pussy torments you. Even as her smooth, perfect thighs sandwich your cock, the notion poisons your mind, leaves you wandering and aimless, until the perfect amount of friction strikes and—

“Fuck.”

It’s smooth, suffocating, devastating. Now you truly have nothing to whine about, except to whine about how tight her legs feel around your cock, rubbing and stroking yourself between her thick thighs. Barely hanging on, you press your hands on her shoulders, losing yourself in the pleasure quickly. Thanks to the little flecks of precum from before, sliding between her heat proves to be much easier. 

Slowly but surely, you grow accustomed to her asphyxiating warmth, unable to process anything beyond the slickness and powerful sensations around her flesh. Eyes closed, you moan in prolonged, deep spurts, resting your head beside hers. Her feelings don’t matter at this moment, only yours. You don’t realize her hand is gripped to your thigh, only that it amplifies the surge of pleasure coursing throughout your body. A possible reminder to keep your cock away from her cunt, but you didn’t need it anymore—her thighs are more than enough.

“Yeah. Fucking enjoy it, horny bitch.” Chaeyeon’s tone and expression seemingly derives no enjoyment from watching you lose it, as if it’s only an obligation and not something both of you share pleasure in. She moans, but it’s faint and weak. “That feels good, right?”

“It does,” you blurt, trapped in the heavenly bliss between her legs, loving every little motion. “So good, Chaen, holy fuck—”

She sees you visibly struggling and helplessly trying to gather air, smiles and laughs at your predicament. It’s a mess; it’s her schadenfreude. Delightful, she thinks to herself, now playing along with her lewd expressions plastered on the mirror. Unconvincing, if not a bit too much leaning towards parody. She’s waiting for the opportunity to get the edge over you, the killing blow. 

Tightening her grip around your cock, her toned legs collapse, and you can feel the fire in your loins gradually building and hurling toward a calamitous explosion. There’s nothing you can do to stop—not that you ever want to, watching your cock slide in and out her thighs at a perfect rhythm is its own reward—only praying that the moment lingers a bit longer. You’ve got both hands pinched to her taut nipples, thankfully unresisted, kissing around her collarbone and ear, trying in vain to stifle the endless string of curses and moans leaving your lips.

It doesn’t help that her voice is seductive, downright merciless, repeatedly goading you into submission, staring at your reflection expectantly. “That’s it. Cum for me, bitch. You won’t ever get this kind of opportunity with anyone else but with me. No one else will ever make you feel this good. Just cum, and cum, and cum—”

The word rings in your head, hypnotic, borderline leaning toward brainwashing. It isn’t gaslighting when she has a point; she feels so fucking incredible, so tight and hot and suffocating—no one else can possibly compare. Then again, ecstasy is the only thing running through your head, clouding your better judgment. You’ve got a hand digging through her endless sea of blonde locks, pumping between her thighs, each thrust sorer than the last, like you’ll regret the action in the morning. 

“I’m so close, Chaen. I’m going to cum,” you say desperately. 

There’s that familiar twinkle in her eyes, and a mischievous grin forming on her lips. Troubling. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you say, your cock aching painfully between her wet, toned thighs. 

“Please.” 

“Please!” you shout, teetering dangerously close to the edge, threatens you and Chaeyeon. Again, slowing down proves to be impossible. You’re so far gone.

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum! Please let me cum, Chaen, oh God.”

“That’s it. Cum—”

As soon as she lets that word out, the lights immediately turn green. Releasing all your inhibitions, your eyes widen, pumping your cock hurling to that oh-so deserved orgasm between her legs. Her thighs receive every last shot, every single drop. You both moan into each other’s ear, with Chaeyeon finding comfort and satisfaction from feeling the warmth you’ve given her. 

She throws her head back, cranes her neck, brushes a hand around your hair while you pump through your climax. Eventually, your cock slips, winds down to a complete halt. You find your lips returning to her collarbones, taking solace on her sensitive flesh as you remain intimately attached together for a little while longer.

“Shit.” You look down, past the curves of her chest, see the puddles and drops of slick on the floor. She mirrors your gesture, checks the damage between her legs, and it’s a disaster: her thighs are dripping with cum down to her feet, with two noticeable blots parallel to the other. 

“So needy.” Chaeyeon says with a laugh, caressing your cheek, her voice a temptation in your ear, goading you for more. “Not lucky with the ladies, hmm?”

Wistfully, you reply, “Yeah.”

Chaeyeon slowly releases your chin from her hand, slips from your clutch to grab a stream of tissue rolls to clean herself up. You cling to the sink with wobbly legs, staring down at the basin, overcome by a wave of both regret and exhaustion. Unwelcome thoughts creep in. A lack of protection, a return of her dour persona, and your reputations at stake—you’ll entertain them all in the morning, when the honeymoon period ends.

When you look up, you see Chaeyeon in the mirror, almost finished dressing up, fixing her cleavage before zipping up her crop top. She stares back, grinning. “You know you still have to drive me home. So when you’re done pining over not cumming in my pussy—”

“Where? Where's home?”

“Yours.”

—————

(A/N: Finally got to one of the four selected requests! I'm sorry this one took a lot longer than expected, but what can you expect from me XD I still have PCD as I write this down and no amount of copium can help me recover haha. I loved the request as it gave me the perfect excuse to write Chaeyeon again; she's an underrated hottie and I'm glad she (1) quit Queendom Puzzle instead of pushing through and (2) Knock became a surprise hit. It's only a matter of time before her star rises even further. Thank you for reading!)

[durrtydawg]

The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 7 | 'You up for a little spelunkin'?'

masterlist ✨

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 8

A nice chunky chapter for you, set slap-bang in the middle of Umm ar-Rasas.

CW: blood mention, bad language, mysterious goings on etc, etc.

Word count: 5k-ish. I promise they won't continue to be this long x

“You know,” Sam says, turning back to the jeep as he watches her lean against the hood, scrawling something into her notebook, “if this place doesn’t pan out, at least we’ve got that relic to fall back on.” He points at the pen in her hand, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing grin.

She looks down at the biro, instinctively brushing a thumb over its chewed-up barrel. “What, this?”

“Yes, that.” Sam deadpans. “Could fetch a fortune at Sotheby’s.”

“Oh, sure,” she shoots back, flipping to another page. “And if I frame your scowl next to it, we might even make the front page of National Geographic.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head. Hilarious. She’s quick. Too quick, sometimes.

The stars are out now, sharp pinpricks of light cutting through the deepening navy sky. Sam leans back against the passenger door, finishing off a cigarette, letting his eyes wander upward for a brief moment. The quiet vastness of it was the same as always - familiar, humbling. A way to ground him no matter where he is in the world.

He could still see her grinning at him across the car hire counter, the corners of her mouth tilting in that defiant way she had when she knew she was about to win an argument.

“Now or never,” she’d said, scribbling her signature on the insurance forms. She hadn’t even looked up when Sam had muttered about her lack of experience with left-hand drive cars, though the knowing twitch of her eyebrow told him she’d heard every word.

It had been a pointless debate, of course. She got her way, as usual, and Sam - begrudgingly - let it slide. Something about the sheer confidence of her felt immovable sometimes, and hell, it was getting harder to argue with that kind of enthusiasm.

They hadn't planned to come here until tomorrow, but after Petra's dead ends and an hour or two of thumb-twiddling back at the hotel, waiting around for the next day felt pointless.

Now or never, indeed.

His lips twitched, but before the thought could settle into anything softer, Scott’s voice yanked him back to the present.

“Flirting” was all he caught at first, and his head snapped toward the younger man, crouched near a crumbled pillar, smirk firmly in place. “You two done flirting,” Scott repeated, louder this time, “or do I need to come back later?”

Sam didn’t even have to look to know she was rolling her eyes, probably already armed with some sharp comeback. Shaking his head, he forces himself to focus on the ruins and not the way her laugh carries. He clears his throat, stubbing out the cigarette on the scuffed wheel trim.

“I can flirt with you if you want, Scott?” Sam retorts, barely missing a beat - much easier to play it cool whilst deflecting. His grin lingers as she shakes her head and flips through her notes.

The stars above remained steady, and unbothered. If only Sam could say the same about himself.

“Focus, gentlemen,” she says, shifting the subject back to their search, “There’s supposed to be an entrance here - at the east of the site. Something that goes underground. Maybe a stairwell, or-”

“Or a cleverly hidden trapdoor,” Sam interjects with a teasing squint. “Right next to the neon X marks the spot.”

“You’d know all about finding those, wouldn’t you, Captain Smart-arse?”

Before he can shoot back, she’s already on the move, her attention snapped up by a cluster of crumbling walls partially swallowed by dried out shrubbery.

“I’ll check over there. You two keep looking around here.”

“You sure you want to go solo?” Sam asks, his tone only half-joking. “Wouldn’t want you hogging all the treasure.”

His eyes narrow as she flashes a quick grin in his direction - the kind that’s starting to feel like a fist to the gut. Knock it off. “Thought this was a dead lead.”

As she skips off, notebook tucked under her arm, Sam watches her go for a moment longer than necessary. Scott clears his throat, shooting him a knowing look.

“What?” Sam mutters, voice clipped as he turns back toward the ruins. He doesn’t need Scott of all people reading into this. Even if the faint flush creeping up his neck betrays him.

Scott quickens his pace with an easy smirk, catching up to help her pull aside the wispy branches obscuring part of the ruins. Sam feels something twist in his chest. His jaw tightens. Task in hand.

He scans the area with a practised eye, approaching the others, before circling around to investigate the other side of the overgrown shrubbery. Just past the dense foliage, he spots a narrow gap in the crumbling wall. It’s clearer, more accessible, and immediately promising. Finally, something to work with.

“Hey, you two,” he calls out, motioning for them to join him. “Found a way in.”

Scott, of course, decides to take the plunge into the unknown first, the cocky ease in which he slides in grating on Sam more than it should as he shines his flashlight down into the gap. He’s half tempted to switch it off as the younger man finds his footing.

“It’s clear! Come on down!”

Sam lingers by the opening, hooking his torch securely onto his belt loops, glancing over his shoulder at her.

His lips quirk into a grin as he teases, “You up for a little spelunkin'?”

She steps closer, her notebook tucked under her arm. “Is that a euphemism?” She smirks, before throwing her bag, then herself through the gap.

Sam takes a look behind him, mouth twisted into a self-deprecating grimace for a moment, before he follows them in.

The narrow passage is quiet, save for the faint shuffle of their footsteps against the worn stone. Sam’s flashlight flickers briefly, then steadies, illuminating walls etched with faint carvings. Some numbers, some characters, Scott snapping photos as they go.

They walk for a while, wandering their way through narrow tunnels, dug purposefully - though they’re struggling to find anything specific so far.

“Hang on,” she calls, skidding to a stop. Her voice echoes faintly in the confined space.

Sam halts, turning back with a curious frown. “What is it?”

She points to a narrow staircase branching off to the left, partially hidden by a jut of stone. “Stairs.”

Sam’s expression hardens slightly, his protective instincts flaring… but as Scott looks at him expectantly, most likely waiting to unleash another smart remark that Sam’s not in the mood to tolerate, he doesn’t stop her. So, he nods.

“Be careful, alright? We’ll check out this room and be down in a minute.”

With a nod, she descends into the darkness, leaving the faint glow of Sam’s flashlight behind.

As she disappears down the stairs, Sam feels himself hesitate for a second, staring into the dark before Scott’s voice snaps him back.

“She’ll be fine, y’know.”

Sam grunts, his focus already shifting back to the carvings. Fine or not, he’s sticking close.

//

The descent feels endless as you make your way down the narrow, steep flight of stairs, your free hand skimming the uneven wall for balance whilst your other tightens its grip around your phone.

The air grows colder, more biting, each step stripping away layer after layer of humid heat lingering above ground.

You reach the bottom and pause at the threshold, fingers pressed into the rough sandstone as you survey the space ahead of you.

Shadows stretch long across the sandy stone walls, shifting in the beam of your phone’s light, and you watch them recoil and reform as you tilt the light.

Hmm.

You hop down the last step, gingerly unhooking your backpack from your shoulder. You pull out your notebook and rummage around for your signature biro, tossing the bag aside as you bite off the pen’s lid.

You flick to the next empty page and write:

Little cavern: ⚝ What is it for? ⚝ Any connection to TSI? ⚝ Bedouin warnings: oooo, ‘tragedy’, ohOooo, ‘whispering walls’, whatever that means.

It’s different down here - colder, darker, and heavy with an eerie sort of stillness. It excites you. Cools you down too, thank God. So you move further in. It’s some sort of burial chamber, you think. Small. There’s a small alcove - a shelf, for a shrine of sorts, perhaps?

The harsh light from your phone reveals weathered stone. Some kind of vessel - a sarcophagus of some type, you think. Plain, bar from a few engravings here and there, but unmistakably meaningful.

You hum in thought, chewing the pen lid. You teeter clumsily as you lean the open book against your thigh, holding your phone just high enough so you can see what you're writing.

⚝ What’s it for? ✔ I’m 92% certain it’s a mausoleum.

The distant murmur of Sam and Scott’s voices fades with each letter you scribble down, until all that surrounds you is quiet. You close your notebook, using the pen as a bookmark, placing it on top of your backpack.

You let out an anticipatory exhale as a tightness sets off in your chest - slight anxiety (you’re alone, eager to impress etc, etc), yes, but also excitement. The secret optimism of finding something and being able to say you got there first.

This place might not have anything to do with Emaan. But you’re eager to find something that quashes your doubts. More eager to stick a cheeky middle finger up at Sam and tell him ‘I told you so’. Anything to see him fumble for words. It’s cute when he fumbles.

Fuck, you want to find something here - you want to show S- show them that they were right to take you on this trip.

It’s neat, this small room. As though the design has been carefully thought out, despite the sandy veneer adding a rusty tint to it all.

And that’s… odd, right? Given that this place is so secluded. And unassuming. Just like any old cavernous ruins out in the open.

You lean in closer, running your fingertips over the engravings along the lid of the sarcophagus.

There’s a plaque affixed to the stone lid - the script is slightly worn, but you can tell it was done with careful craftsmanship that probably wasn’t cheap. Though the words are foreign to you, the arrangement of them - carefully etched - is enough to give you pause.

You brush off a claggy layer of sand and tilt your phone, bending over the stone to get a closer look.

The layout of the room, the casket’s reverent placement, the beautiful tiles lining the floor - the overall disparity between care and intricacy versus the secludedness and complete lack of grandeur of the exterior location… it all sets off a spiralling of questions in your head. Who built this? Who, or what was it made for? Why here?

You lean closer still, letting the light skim across the old inscription. The Arabic characters are faint, softly eroded by coarse sand over time. Totally illegible to you. What does it translate to? You return to your notebook.

⚝ Any connection to TSI?  Who’s buried here?

With a frown, you call out up the stairwell.

“Hey, Scott?”

No reply. He must be too far away. Your mouth twists in thought as your eyes trail down the side of the sarcophagus, down to the floor.

The cavernous quiet of the tomb presses in as you kneel, one hand brushing across the dust-covered ground, flecks of debris and sand digging into the skin of your palm, making your eyes narrow instinctively as you take a moment to look at the relatively well preserved pattern on the tiles beneath you.

The torchlight follows your fingers as they trace along the rich gold and teal pattern painted on each rectangle. Again. The pattern is unique and the artistry is on point. There’s meaning behind all this that extends beyond ‘they died and I’m rich’. This was personal - money spent out of love, or appreciation, not out of vanity or the need to flaunt wealth.

Your hand moves over something rough and uneven - a ragged seam where the polished tile gives way to coarse cement, scarring the pattern. You shift the light, and there they are - dark stains splattered across the floor, clinging to the cracks in the grout, the patterns broken by the unmistakable rusted-brown of dried-

“Blood?” You whisper. Old, dried blood.

You squint to confirm your suspicion, bringing your phone’s beam closer. You pull your hand back, unsure whether to recoil or lean in, a sick, inexplicable urge tugging at you to reach out and feel it.

It’s unsettling, this compulsion - a thought you can’t shake, whispering that the blood, the room, this place, holds something meant for you. As though it recognises you. You swallow hard, resisting the pull, but you’re strangely rooted to the spot.

Something stirs. Your stomach tightens.

There, just beneath the surface grime and dust, are the remnants of something stemming from - potentially - violence, something that feels wrong amidst the centuries-old stillness.

You lean closer, squinting as the light glints across the blood, oddly fresh in a place so stale, like it’s waiting.

The urge to touch it creeps up on you, irrational and unsettling. You scoff at yourself. This place, these stains… it all feels... not lifeless, but patiently dormant, rather.

The compulsion sends a shiver crawling up your spine, but you stay there, transfixed.

“Scott?” You murmur once more, voice soft and thin in the dark.

No reply again. Only silence stretches out, taut and unfriendly. Something prickles at the nape of your neck. It almost feels like something’s here with you.

From the corner of your eye, a flicker of movement sends goosebumps rising across your forearms. Your head jerks up, scanning the room, torchlight sweeping over the empty walls and darkened corners.

Nothing. Until a small desert mouse darts across the cracked tiles, disappearing into a crevice along the wall. You flinch, heart racing, before exhaling in relief, your lips twitching in a half-smile.

You shake your head, half-scoffing at yourself. Get a grip, you think, glancing back to the floor. Though you still can’t shake the twinge of unease in your stomach.

You try Sam’s name next, but it comes out quieter, barely a murmur, and in that moment, the chill presses against your skin, heavier now, curling at your temples. You clear your throat.

A distant pressure builds in your head, dull at first. Then, almost as if you’ve lost control of your own movements, your fingertips stroke against the stained grout.

The pressure sharpens.

Then throbs.

And suddenly the colours beneath you seem too bright, too close, almost as if they’re pressing against your mind with a force not your own. You hiss in discomfort.

Your head swims, and the room blurs; an invisible weight pulls you downward and - “s-shit-”, it feels like your brain is swelling- as though something is prying your skill apart, clawing its way inside. You grunt, teeth clenched, clutching your temples with one hand as the other is fixed against the floor, forcefully, sharp grit digging into your skin. It hurts.

Static creeps at the edges of your vision, but your eyes refuse to close, held open, locked in place, forced to endure whatever is happening to you.

What’s happening?

Your fingers clench, nails scraping painfully against the grout, as you try to stop your hand’s abrasion against the floor, but your body doesn’t respond; you can’t move on your own accord, can’t cry as the skin on your palm is punctured to the point of bleeding, only watch as the walls close in around you, shadows seething, pulsing in time with your erratic heartbeat.

You try to turn your head. Open your mouth - scream out for someone to come and pull you up, but your body won’t allow it. You’re frozen in place, dizziness taking you over, and a whisper - foreign, angry, alive - starts echoing in the back of your mind - it feels like someone’s behind you. Watching your torment. Enjoying it.

Then, all of a sudden, it stops.

Your breath hitches, suspended in thick, frigid silence as the excruciation that gripped you vanishes in an instant, leaving a cold, almost hollow sensation in its wake. The pressure in your head dissipates so abruptly it’s as if it was never there; the force that had held you still simply… gone.

The grip of invisible hands lets go, and you crumple forwards, palm smacking the ground to steady yourself, feeling weakened and absolutely fucking bewildered.

Tremors still flit through your hands, your fingertips clammy against the chill of the floor, but the silence that follows is unnervingly… normal. It’s as if whatever fuckery that had stretched out and swallowed the room, that had taken a bite out of you, has released its hold and retreated back to wherever it came from.

“F-fucking hell,” you just about manage.

You look at your stinging palm - grazed as if you've tripped, skin scuffed with small pricks of blood rising to the surface. You look at the floor, tiny flecks of your own blood freshly smudged over the oxidised brown already there.

And then - footsteps. Soft, unhurried, descending down the stairs.

“Hey,” Scott’s voice carries, casual, cutting through the silence like he’s interrupting nothing more than a daydream. He appears at the top of the stairs, flashlight bouncing lazily as he peers down. “You call me?”

Your heart is still hammering, but his presence snaps you back, grounding you against the unsettling silence. You push yourself up, stumbling as you try to shake off the lingering chill.

“Uh-” you stammer, still dazed, your pulse loud in your ears. The sight of him feels surreal, a return to normalcy that’s almost jarring. You blink, struggling to focus on his words as he cocks his head, his flashlight partially blinding you.

“Y-yeah,” you manage. You barely recognise the sound of your own voice.

Scott cocks an eyebrow, hopping down the last few steps with casual curiosity. “You alright?” His tone is wary. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His tone is casual, but his eyes study you with unusual intensity. You glance down at the stained tiles, and back at him, feeling… absurdly rattled by it all.

“Yeah-” You clear your throat again, scrunching your sore hand at your side, feeling the flecks of sand and stone crumble off of your stinging skin. “I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a small, nervous smile. “Just…” Do you tell him?

No. You’re already burdening them by being here. Keep your mouth shut.

You pick up your phone, scratching your eyebrow in a deliberate display of nonchalance.

“This room is something else. Creepy. But… different compared to up there.” You say, pointing up the stairs behind him.

Scott watches you carefully, a flicker of something not entirely unamused crossing his face. He raises a brow as he waits for you to expand.

“I, uh, thought you could translate this?” You gesture to the plaque, wanting a distraction from the unsettled feeling still festering in your chest. “Hoping there’s… a name somewhere there.”

He steps down to join you, his gaze flicking to where you pointed with an inquisitive frown. He crouches, shining his flashlight over the area, his expression unreadable as he briefly examines the stains.

“S’that blood? Ominous,” he mutters to himself with an almost amused chuckle, before brushing some sand off a cracked plaque you referred to.

You let out a heavy sigh, willing yourself to feel normal again. “Where’s Sam?”

Scott doesn’t look up from the plaque. “He found some alcove he wanted to check out. Told him I’d catch up.” He pauses, inspecting the stone under his hand. “Can’t miss it.“

“Right. I’ll go grab him,” you murmur, swiping your phone before backing away.

You turn towards the stairs, focusing on the rhythm of your steps, trying to shake off the strange hold this place still has on you. But as you reach up to steady yourself against the wall, you pause.

And then there’s… wet. Something warm against your upper lip. You swallow tightly, the taste of copper thick against the back of your throat.

Your hand jerks up, fingertips coming back stained red. You watch, half-dazed, as the warm droplets splatter against the stone at your feet, starkly rich against the dusty floor.

“Shit.” You murmur, pressing the back of your wrist under your nose to stanch the flow, feeling your point of view tilt slightly as you sway in place.

The pounding headache returns with an overwhelming vengeance, and before you can blink, the dim shapes of the stairs in front of you fade.

Scott’s voice seems to echo strangely, growing distant as your pulse drums louder, drowning everything out.

“Are you-”

But his voice warps out of earshot, and everything blurs as you feel your spine smack against the ground...

The next thing you’re aware of is the throbbing throughout your head and a ringing in your ears. Then the hard tile beneath you, the relative coolness seeping through your t-shirt. After, the slight coppery taste at the roof of your mouth and a dull ache across your shoulders as you blink yourself into focus.

And there's a tightness around your wrist, just erring on painful... you’re abruptly aware of a hand clamped around it, knuckles white against your skin.

“Scott?” Your voice cracks, weak and disoriented, and he quickly loosens his grip, his expression wavering between confusion and something else you can’t quite place.

“You-” he starts, before his mouth presses shut, brow furrowed. There’s a wariness in his eyes that leaves you uneasy. “You passed out.” His eyes flick to your face, and his fingers raise in an instinctive gesture as he lets go of you, before falling away, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. “Gave me a hell of a scare, girl.”

You press a hand to your temple, grimacing. “Ugh… what- how long was I out?”

Scott hesitates, his expression uncharacteristically unsettled. “You, uh… you were gone for a good few seconds. Like I said, scared the shit outta me.”

“Great.” You sigh, wiping a smear of slightly tacky blood from beneath your nose as you pull yourself upright. You frown.

“You alright?” he asks, voice softer now, though his tone still holds the note of surprise that seems so weirdly... not like him.

“Think so.” You grimace, wiping at your nose again with the edge of your sleeve, though the motion only spreads the drying blood. You feel a rush of irritation - not just at the mess, but at the situation itself.

Humiliation, too.

Your head still feels foggy, and the skin along your spine prickles. “Well, my head’s spinning a bit, but yeah - I’m good.” you say, trying to inject more certainty into your voice than you feel.

Scott doesn’t look convinced, but before he can respond, footsteps echo from the stairwell.

“Hey, so I found a-” Sam’s voice cuts off abruptly as soon as he sees you. He locks on the blood smeared across your chin, flickering to Scott and back to you with razor-sharp focus. “What the hell happened? Y’alright?”

Here we go.

You groan inwardly, forcing yourself to muster a weak, dismissive smile. “I’m fine. Just - I lost my balance, I think.”

Sam’s jaw tightens, and he finishes his descent down the narrow staircase, his eyes scanning you with the kind of intensity that makes you want to squirm a bit.

Sam doesn’t bite. His brow furrows as he steps closer, eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Lost your balance.” His voice is low, edged with sarcasm.

“She passed out,” Scott interjects, his tone measured but still carrying a little tension. “Had a bit of a fall. She seemed… I don’t know… spooked when I came down here.”

This makes you tut.

Sam doesn’t reply right away, his eyes still locked on you, scrutiny grating on your already frazzled nerves.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you insist, though the words come out more clipped than you intend. “Really.” You turn to Scott. “And ‘she’ wasn’t ‘spooked’,” you lie, “whatever that means. I was concentrating.”

Scott purses his lips, raising his hands in defence.

Sam’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepens. “Uh-huh. And the blood?”

“Dry air. Nosebleed. It happens.” you snap, then sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. You hate how defensive you sound, but the tightness in your chest won’t ease. You’re done with this room. You need out. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Can we move on?”

Sam folds his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Not if you’re gonna keel over again.”

Your irritation spikes. “I’m not gonna keel o- Jesus.”

“Maybe some fresh air, then.” Scott adds, his voice calm. “Look, no harm in stepping outside for a bit, right?”

The patronising tone - however subtle - sets your teeth on edge. “What I need is for everyone to stop talking for me.” You stand slowly, ignoring the way your knees wobble slightly. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you two go check out whatever it is Sam found, and I’ll head back to the car? Alone.”

Sam’s frown deepens, and he glances toward Scott, who shrugs lightly. “I don’t think-”

“I’m fine,” you say again, cutting him off. “I’ll drink some water, take a minute, and sit down. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Sam hesitates, his jaw working as he weighs his options. Finally, he huffs out a breath, stepping aside to let you pass but not without muttering under his breath, “Stubborn as hell.”

Oh, the irony.

Scott claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, grinning faintly. “C’mon, man.”

You ignore the subtle pang of guilt that lingers as you head back up the stairs, Sam glancing over his shoulder one last time.

You make your way up slowly, gripping the uneven wall for balance as your head continues to throb. Every step feels heavier than it should, your legs trembling faintly under the strain.

It’s not just exhaustion, though - it’s something deeper, a dull pulsating that seems to ricochet through your skull. It starts faintly, a bit like an errant heartbeat behind your temples, but it begins to intensify the closer to the top of the stairs you get.

You grit your teeth and keep walking. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you just need to rest. You’ve been thinking too hard - too overexcited. Not sleeping. Maybe it’s beginning to all catch up on you.

You pause just as you see the soft moonlight coming from the exit round the corner, leaning heavily against the wall to catch your breath. The sensation intensifies, sharper - more rhythmic now, as if the ruins are drawing you back in, pressing their presence into your skin and beckoning you near.

Like it’s saying you’re not done here yet.

The idea seems ridiculous, yet it’s impossible to ignore. Your hand drifts absently to your temple, pressing against it as if that might alleviate the strange pressure.

Does it hurt? Not particularly, though it is uncomfortable

Your logical brain protests. It’s just a wall. You’re exhausted. You need to get to the car and sit down.

But your body doesn’t listen. Mere seconds later, your fingers brushing over the edges of the stone, tracing its faint irregularities.

And as you do so, the discomfort begins to wane - only slightly, but it’s enough to persuade you to keep going.

The sensation is strongest near one particular part of the wall - a small arch no bigger than the width of your shoulders, just slightly more untidily constructed than the surrounding rock. A strange compulsion washes over you - it’s… irrational, you tell yourself, but you’re undeniably drawn to it. Just like the blood downstairs.

You press your palm against the stone experimentally. It doesn’t feel quite as solid as it should; there’s a subtle give beneath your hand, a faint shift that sets your pulse racing.

Before you realise what you’re doing, you remove your water bottle from your bag and swing it lightly against the base of the stone.

Thunk.

The sound echoes, louder than you expected. A fine puff of dust sifts down from the crack, making you cough. You glance over your shoulder instinctively, half-expecting to hear Sam’s voice berating you for still being here or Scott’s cool, curious tone asking what you’ve found. But there’s nothing - just silence. Good.

You roll your shoulders and swing the bottle again, harder this time. The metal clangs and the stone shifts further, crumbling at the edges. By the fourth hit, the brittle mortar at the top of the arch gives way entirely, and a portion of the stone collapses inward, revealing a hollowed-out niche. Dust billows out in a faint cloud, making you cough.

“Ha.” You mutter in mild disbelief, wiping dust from your face with the back of your hand.

You put your bottle down and turn your phone torch back on to shine it around inside the gap. Standing on the toes of your trainers, you try to get a better look, but the angle is awkward, and you’re still too short to see properly.

And then you pause, letting your heels drop back to the ground.

A thread of doubt curls in.

What are you doing?

You’ve been chasing a few mere sentences from a man serving tea, working yourself up to the point of passing out. Overactive imagination making a mountain out of a molehill.

Was Sam right?

Was Scott?

You were just struck with a migraine. That’s all. Was it? Ugh.

You can practically hear them now - Sam, irritated but worried, Scott’s patronising charm softening the blow.

“You’re being ridiculous,” they’d say. “You’re not thinking straight.”

Are they right? Are you imagining things, clutching at straws because you’re desperate to find something - anything - that justifies being here? That proves you belong here with them? The late nights, the over-excitement, the way your mind won’t quiet itself - it’s all spiralling into this headache, this… this irrational load of what can only be described as nonsense.

No.

You clench your jaw, swallowing the rising frustration. You’re not about to let yourself be babied any longer.

Turning back to the arch, you glance over your shoulder. Your surroundings are silent; they haven’t heard you.

What have you got to lose?

Taking a deep breath, you plant your hands against the rough stone and pull yourself up, gritting your teeth as you hook your arms over the now-broken archway, the sore skin of your palm agitated against the rock, shoes dug into the uneven stone to relieve the pressure and keep yourself held in place.

You hesitate, squinting into the darkness, the light on your phone only doing so much. Your head throbs harder now, the pulsating feeling so intense it makes you wince. With trembling fingers, you reach inside, brushing against something coarse and rough. Leather, perhaps.

Your hand curls around it, and you let yourself fall back to the ground with a dusty thud.

You look down at a small, worn book, the edges of its cover frayed and cracked with age.

Your lips part in search of words. But for the time being, you can’t find any.

It’s heavier than it looks, and as you turn it over in your hands, you notice faint embossed designs along the spine - Arabic calligraphy, though the letters are worn. The leather smells of earth and age, the scent stirring a strange, fleeting sense of déjà vu in your chest.

And then the pressure in your head eases.

Not entirely, but enough to make you exhale shakily. It’s like a taut string inside you has loosened. The hum lingers faintly, but it’s different now - softer, almost satisfied.

You stare down at the book, your fingers brushing lightly over the worn cover. Surely not. This… this has to be a coincidence.

It’s just a book.

Right?

Forcing yourself to move, you climb the last few steps and emerge into the open air. The warm breeze brushes over your skin, grounding you somewhat, though your chest still feels tight with unease.

You press forward.

The car is parked just beyond the ruins.

You make your way to it, your hand brushing over the bonnet as you lean against it and exhale shakily.

You set the book down on the warm metal and carefully flip open the cover.

The first few pages are blank, the edges yellowed.

But as you turn further, names begin to appear.

Arabic script fills the left-hand margins, and, much to your excitement, English - what you assume are - translations run alongside them in elegant, looping handwriting. The ink is faded in places, names, numbers, and currencies from all over the world are written, and some crossed out, but one name catches your eye, repeated over and over:

Emaan Sadir.

What was this book? A ledger? A diary? You’re not sure yet, but the sheer weight of its presence and the slightly sickening bubbling of excitement in your stomach makes your chest tighten.

The sound of voices echoes faintly from the ruins behind you, drawing your attention back. Sam and Scott must be wrapping up. Quickly, you tuck the book back into your bag, zipping it shut as you slide off the bonnet.

Whatever this is, it feels significant - far too significant to just brush off. And far, far too significant to give them the satisfaction of knowing about just yet.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

fun fact, I actually had a heavy nosebleed in the shower a mere 5 minutes after writing the nosebleed bit. this means that i will also fuck samuel drake for real one day.

[iznaekkoya]

secrets ~ bang jeemin

1111 words, rated G

tags: friends to lovers, secret pining, happy ending

You and Jeemin, for all the many years you’ve been friends, are still allowed your personal secrets. This isn’t the movies––you don’t have to tell each other absolutely everything, and having secrets isn’t inherently harmful.

Like when you had that hipster blog in middle school where you painstakingly curated a feed of girls in cozy flannels or denim, pictures of beautifully arranged cups of coffee and tea, of tastefully blurry sunflowers with four or five different filters layered on top of each other. Jeemin could never––can never––know about it, because you’d never hear the end of it. She would probably think it’s a cute relic of the past, but then every artisanal coffee shop and infinity scarf you see will come with a pinch on the cheek and a reminder of something you’d like to stay dead and buried, thank you. Fall time would be miserable.

Or that time that you almost crashed your mom’s car trying to drive to the store in the middle of the night before you got a license. Jeemin didn’t need to know where that ice cream came from, not when she looked so excited to suddenly have a pint of cookie dough.

All of this to say, secrets are normal. Healthy, even.

That’s what you’re telling yourself, anyway, since the thought of her figuring out your massive crush on her is life-shatteringly embarrassing.

“Y/N,” She hums, holding up two different blazers in the mirror. “Which of these two would you say is more business formal?”

Heat rushes to your face. “I don’t even know what that means. How is that different from regular business wear?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you might have a clue, because I was prepared to show up to the interview in that red dress with some kind of cardigan. I mean, I’m glad I saw their message about attire being business formal before I left, but now I feel like I’m overthinking it,” she huffs, dropping down into the desk chair behind her and rolling closer to where you sit on her bed.

The red dress looks amazing on her. You’d hate for a bunch of stuffy office workers to get to see it and not fully appreciate how radiant she looks in it, how that shade of red isn’t too orange or too blue, and how it brings out the warmth in her eyes. Not that you can say any of that.

Instead, you say, “Definitely not the red. Maybe just a blazer over some kind of collared shirt, and a pencil skirt? That’s how all the girls on Suits dress.”

Jeemin giggles into her hand. “Not sure if I should be taking fashion advice from the legal malpractice show.”

“Megan Markle looks so good in it, though.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to appeal to any workplace romance fantasies. Just want to do my job, get paid and leave.”

Thank God, you think, stewing with jealousy over just the thought of some random coworker making moves on her. You’re no stranger to watching people flirt with and date Jeemin over the years, and it’s never gotten any easier. Not when so many of them just liked her because she’s pretty, and didn’t take the time to get to know her as a person. Jeemin is so much more than just pretty, and you’re sick of people tossing her to the side once they realize the fantasy of her wasn’t enough to keep them interested. It drives you crazy.

“Y/N?” Jeemin asks, wheeling over and poking you in the thigh. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” You can feel your cheeks reddening. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just thinking about you having workplace romance. I don’t think you’re the type, honestly.”

“You’re right. I’ve always preferred having a preexisting bond with my partners. Plus, it would be too much, having to see my girlfriend at work and at home. We’d never get a break from each other, it’d be exhausting.”

Are you hearing that right? Since when? Jeemin went on so many blind dates, used the dating apps more than any person you know for years––she only deleted them a few months ago, and that was just because of one too many bad dates. Where is this coming from?

“I didn’t know that,” is what you choose to say, after much deliberation. “I always thought you preferred to keep them separate.”

“Nah,” she says, desk chair spun so she can rest her elbows on the foot on the bed. Her forearm knocks into your thigh. “I’m over that. It took a while, but I realized I would only consider dating someone if they were a friend first.”

You chose a little bit at that. Through what you’re hoped are well-masked coughs, you fight to keep this little nugget of conversation going, hoping to prod further.

“Did something change your mind?”

Her gaze rakes down your body, sending chills up your spine. “Someone, yeah.”

Another cough wracks through you, this one unable to be concealed. You can only hope now that your face isn’t embarrassingly red. “Oh,” you say, through coughs. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” she says, using your knees as an anchor as she slides the chair to be directly in front of you, leaning forward. Being on the bed, you have a lot of height on her, but it doesn’t matter. This is Bang Jeemin, her very existence can send you into a panic under the right circumstances. “Do you want to ask me who?”

“Do I?” you manage to spit out. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says. Now she’s getting out of the chair to loom over you, which makes you infinitely more nervous. “Ask me who.”

“Uhh…” you say, dumbstruck. “Who?”

You know the answer. It feels like some kind of fever dream, but you’re not that obtuse.

Instead of an answer, you get a kiss. You’ve spent enough nights dreaming about it to know that her mouth would feel incredibly warm on yours, but her slightly chapped lips take you at first by surprise, but becomes what pulls you in more. The reality of it: the imperfection as you two find your rhythm, mouth gently gliding together like two slightly worn but connected puzzle pieces. It’s amazing, and it’s over too soon.

“You’re terrible at keeping a secret, y/n.” She cups a hand against your warm cheek, noticeably cool. “You always get so red.”

You just laugh, and bury your face in her tank top. “Shut up,” you say, not meaning it.

She hums for a moment, pretending to consider it.

“Make me.”

[theladyofbloodshed]

Hunt x Nesta - Epilogue

Life sucked.

Hunt could split his life into two chapters: before Nesta and after Nesta. Both chapters sucked. But that little blip in the middle – the one week where life had been better than he ever expected was good. He’d always have that.

‘Stop moping, my goodness.’

Isaiah groaned from his desk then dropped his forehead onto the cheap wood.

‘Everything reminds me of her,’ Hunt replied, holding up a sugar sachet from the crappy coffee machine.

It was true. Hunt could draw a correlation to Nesta regardless of the topic; she liked it, she would have hated it, he wished he could show her it, they’d tried it.

He had loved Shahar but it had been intense from the start. The rebellion had intensified every moment of it, pushing them both towards a zenith that he free-fell from. Losing her was different. It was a loss that held finality – but Hunt had lost so many that day, had suffered so much as a result, the grief had been for Shahar and all the others who'd fought alongside him.

To Shahar, he had been Hunt, a powerful angel plucked from the bowels of Pangea to command her legions.

This was different.

To Nesta, he’d only ever been Orion. Grumpy, sleepy, teasing, serious, or goofy, she’d wanted all of him. And Nesta wasn’t dead but it would have hurt less if she was.

Night after night, Hunt scoured the internet on any whiff of something similar to the Horn to try and find a way back to her. He’d deal with breeches and no hair dryer if it meant they were together again. He’d even wondered if Ruhn Danaan would know anything about another fae relic because Isaiah couldn’t be persuaded to get another warrant to search the Autumn King’s home for hidden artefacts.

‘I know that you miss her, Hunt, but it’s just not possible to find her again,’ he said calmly.

Those same words had been said to him a month earlier, also by Isaiah, when he’d found Hunt deliberating in the street. He’d gathered is hard-earned coins ready to dump them all in the Astronomer’s lap so that he’d use his mystics to locate her. In the end, it proved too risky. Hunt wouldn’t dare to expose Nesta that way.

‘It fucking sucks,’ replied Hunt before shuffling back to his desk for a long night of paperwork.

When Nesta left, Hunt expected a depression to come and drown him. He’d been there before and it always lurked in his periphery. But she’d given him hope and it felt different. The light didn’t abate in her absence; the flame remained burning. So he worked and worked. Did what Micah asked. Treaded every single line without complaint. And he thought of her. Thought of her smile, her curiosity, the way she had him wrapped around her finger in a single day.

***

‘What now?’

Emerie’s brown eyes had dulled from their week of absolute hell. She sat on the cushioned windowsill of the river estate with mud still caked over her face. Nesta looked down at her own hands. They were splattered with a mix of blood. Some was hers, Cassian’s, Bellius’, and Feyre’s.

Her stomach was empty enough that it hurt. She’d see a healer soon. Gwyn had the worst injuries so was with Madja in a separate room.

A small cry rang out down the hall from the baby boy, Nyx.

Feyre had died. Her heart had stopped beating. Nesta had felt the whole world turn colder, felt the knife coming for Feyre’s thread, so Nesta did the only thing she could think of. Still beaten and ruined from the Blood Rite, she gave her power back. She gave it all back.

And Feyre lived. The boy lived.

Nesta wedged her aching body into the windowsill next to Emerie, wishing they were a different set of wings cradling her shoulders.

It had been a tough few months since her little jaunt to Lunathion.

To his credit, Lucien did not speak of what he saw. He simply pretended the entire event had never happened and acted with all the quality of one the males from Fangs and Bangs when it was discovered by the others that Nesta had returned. It was their secret, never to be mentioned. She was grateful for that.

None ever questioned her moroseness because it was no different to her capricious ways. She could feel herself pushing everybody away, as always, week after week without Hunt’s infectious joy. The idea of Cassian touching her churned her stomach. She’d put an end to it, dumbfounding him. And when her sister’s family had convinced her to seduce Eris through dance, it confirmed to Nesta that all she would ever be was a pawn to be used for their benefit. When Eris had shown interest, Nesta had considered it if only to have a lifeline out of the Night Court.

‘I don’t even know if it will work,’ Nesta said quietly, tilting her head to touch Emerie’s.

The pair of them absolutely reeked. Being dragged from their beds and dumped onto Ramiel for a week would do that. Only sheer grit and hoping had kept them alive. That, and Gwyn bringing a beast to slaughter eight of the Illyrians.

‘It’s worth a try,’ replied Emerie.

They’d huddled together in the dark, cold and tired but not willing to sleep. And Nesta had told Emerie and Gwyn everything about the male she’d found in Lunathion. How she could not even go an hour without thinking of him, without imagining a life together. They’d listened with rapture, delighted for her as true friends were. Even when she cried at the thought of leaving them behind, they encouraged her to take her chance if they made it out alive because they loved her enough to let her go and find happiness.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘What’s complicated? Toot the horn and fly off with your angel.’

Gwyn limped into the room in her filthy clothes. ‘Who’s tooting? Are we tooting?’

‘Nesta’s about to go to the future with her angel lover.’

Instead of indignation, colour heated her cheeks and she felt like a giggling, love-struck fool. ‘He is so handsome.’

The cell phone had died quickly from all the moments that Nesta had spent agonising over photos of the Umbra Mortis in his boxers, as he called them.

‘So we have heard,’ Emerie replied drily.

Nesta shoved her heart back into its cage. ‘It’s impossible. I’ve surrendered my power. The Horn won’t work. Hunt is a slave. It’s been almost four months. He could be sold by now to another owner.’

‘Then buy him back,’ urged Gwyn.

‘With what?’

Emerie braced a hand against her ribs as she stood. ‘Well, the High Lord did offer you anything for saving their lives.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Rhysand would never agree to let me go, much less give me a pile of his wealth to send me on way. They still think Cassian is my mate. That the bond will snap. If it didn’t snap when Briallyn had him try to kill me, it never will – and I thank the stars for that.’

The words hung heavy. It had been one horrific moment after the other. Cassian bellowing at her on a bridge crossing the Sidra that she was his, despite her refusals. Morrigan delivering her to Emerie and Gwyn as she trembled. Waking disorientated in the Blood Rite. Staring down Bellius as she held Ramiel’s pass. Briallyn controlling Cassian with the Crown, trying to kill her. Only the Mask coming to her rescue again had saved her life.

‘I made a list the other day of all the things I’d like to do in Prythian. Do you know what I wrote?’ At her friends’ expectant faces, she continued, ‘Finish my book. I have no desires or dreams here. I am simply an object.’

‘What did you write for the other side?’

The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘So many things. There are things I want to do that I don’t even know exist yet. I want to go to the amusement park with Hunt. To study. I’d study for my whole life. I want to throw my cap in the air when I’ve finished studying. I want to live with Orion – I want a life with him like I’ve never dreamed of a male before. I didn’t kiss him enough.’

‘It was not only the High Lord’s life you saved, Nesta,’ Emerie reminded her. ‘There is a High Lady of the Night Court.’   

***

Silver light poured into the room like molten metal, so bright that Hunt needed to shield his eyes from the glare.

A low, hissing noise had him scurrying from his bed and pressing his wings to the cream wall in anticipation.

‘What the fuck.’

The wall opposite was flooded with a silver fire that chilled him to the bone. The narrow window above his bed frosted over. On his exhale, his breath was visible.

Then she was there.

The fire fell away, revealing an ornate library with rows of leather-bound books. Light streamed in from the massive bay windows, bathing Nesta in its glow. Like the first day that Hunt had seen her, Nesta was other-worldly. Instead of tight leathers that sinfully kissed every curve, she wore a pale lavender dress with a square-cut neckline. Her hands were buried in the long sleeves although Hunt spotted the tip of the horn poking from beneath. The draping skirts couldn’t hide the sneakers that she’d bought in Lunathion and declared the comfiest shoes she’d ever tried.

‘Tell me I’m dreaming,’ Hunt murmured.

Twice, Nesta’s lips parted then sealed again. Tears rimmed her grey eyes.

‘Nesta,’ he said, stepping closer to the fiery portal. The hairs on his arm stood from the seeping cold that surrounded it.

A soft gasp emitted from her side and two females came into view, ushered into the library by the same male he’d seen months ago with red hair and a metallic eye. One cradled a baby to her chest. This had to be Feyre; she had the unmistakeable look of her older sister although freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose and her hair hung freely. A swirling, black tattoo covered the hand that stroked her son’s wings. The other female was darker haired with large brown eyes reminding Hunt of a faun.

‘It worked?’ Feyre asked.

‘Obviously,’ the male replied, making Elain giggle and cover her mouth to hide it.

Hunt took another step closer to Nesta who was still immobilised. In the chairs behind her were two more females. Hunt had heard all about them. The winged one was Emerie and the red-haired one was Gwyn. Nesta’s face had lit up as she spoke of her only friends in Prythian when they’d been together.

‘Hey, Starlight,’ he said, reaching his hand through to her side. He jerked his chin towards her sister and the baby. ‘They made it.’

‘They made it,’ Nesta repeated, face twisting with emotion. ‘I gave up my power for them. I didn’t know if this would still work. I had to choose between seeing you again and saving them.’

‘And everybody won,’ he said, grasping her shaking hand.

It took every instinct not to haul her through to his side and kiss her until every star went out.

Nesta did that for him.

From the force that she yanked him to her, Hunt was practically falling. His hands found her waist to steady himself and he could feel her breath on his cheek as he pulled himself upright. Their bodies knocked together, the softness of her curves feeling like home.

‘I missed you.’

‘There has been nobody to laugh with.’ He touched his forehead to hers. ‘There was a national crisis because demand for ice cream plummeted since you left.’

When Hunt moved to kiss her, he stilled. There were markings on her neck, a fresh cut that still had the scab on her cheek and more wounds on her hands. They had to be recent because fae healed as fast as malakim.

‘What the Hel has happened? Are you alright? Who hurt you?’

The two females in the chair exchanged a glance then he noticed that both of them had been wounded recently too. Emerie had a bruise above her eyebrow that caused the lid to swell and Gwyn’s hands were bound in bandages.  

‘It’s alright,’ Nesta murmured, holding his hands in hers. ‘Something happened. I was taken. The three of us. We woke in the Blood Rite.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

Surprising him, Nesta broke into a laugh. It skittered over his skin like static.  

‘What’s funny?’

‘That’s what I say to you, Orion.’

The male, Lucien, cleared his throat from his post at the door. ‘Nesta, I don’t know how long it will be open – or until they notice.’

‘Right,’ she said, nodding. ‘It was hell. All of it. That week on the mountain and all the months before. All I wanted was you. I told my friends that if we survived, if we made it through each night, I would find you.’

From the three-legged table, Nesta picked up a rolled-up piece of parchment. There was a line down the middle, splitting it into two columns. In an elegant script, lines upon lines of text had been written.

‘I wrote why I should stay here or why I should leave. There is danger on both sides, uncertainty, and it feels like leaping into the unknown. This is the world I know. My sisters are here. But the difference is in Lunathion, I will have you. And that makes all the difference, Hunt.’ She clutched the paper tighter. ‘I don’t care. All I want is you.’

When his day began, Hunt didn’t have Nesta appearing and offering him a forever on his bingo card. He blew out a breath. ‘Nesta, I’m a slave. I can’t give you a home. I don’t even know who my father is. If you want a life of comfort, you’re better off with Tristan Flynn.’

There was a brilliant shine of determination in her eyes. ‘I want a male who will love me.’

He’d loved her the moment she’d dropped out of the sky and told Isaiah she was a bard. These months without her had felt like living without the sun. He’d do another two hundred years in gorsian shackles strung up in the Asteri’s dungeon rather than spend another moment without Nesta.

Hunt stepped back through the portal to his room in the barracks and pulled out a prospectus for Crescent City University along with guidance on how to apply for funding. He’d gathered them just in case Nesta ever came back. He’d pulled legislation on the minimal rights of slaves. As long as Hunt answered when called, slaves could rent a property – they couldn’t own it, but it was a start, so he’d saved every penny of his pitiful wages, took double shifts and worked on his allotted days off to scrape together a few more coins because Nesta had given him that piece of hope that he hadn’t had before.

On the desk, there was photo album that he’d been compiling. It had provided an outlet instead of moping. Hunt had channelled all of his dreams into it.

‘There’s still space for more,’ he said, stepping back through and handing it to Nesta.

Her sisters and the other females peered over her shoulder at it. Every single photo that Nesta had taken on her cell and his, no matter how blurred, had been printed out and stuck in with his terrible handwriting beneath with a caption. Hunt had written about their day, about what she’d said, where they’d been or what they’d eaten. There was one of her bending down with the Istros in the background as Hunt had tried to get a scurrying otter in shot with her – but ended up with a smear of brown and yellow flopping into the river.

‘You look in pain there,’ said Elain, pointing to one.

‘She couldn’t decide on a milkshake flavour.’

Nesta’s lips quirked as she looked at the photo. ‘I regret banana.’

‘Is that why you drank mine?’

There were photos of him too. Ones she had taken. Ones that were blurry or zoomed in too far or ones in the elevator when she discovered that she could use the mirror to capture both of them. One of him with his fluffed-up wings and that rotten witch-ink halo on full display. One of them snuggled up on the bed on a pile of pillows. Lots of them together; Nesta appearing regal and poised whilst he looked surly or goofy to annoy her. One of Nesta in her gown before the ballet with Ruhn that she’d taken of herself in the bathroom mirror. A few of her when she’d put a cat-eared filter on and couldn’t work out how to take it off. Some even of Ruhn when he was driving, trying to block the camera with his tattooed hand.

‘I thought that was Rhys.’

Nesta chuckled, ‘So did I – and I gave him hell for it.’

‘They’re coming,’ said Lucien from the window where he’d been observing the skies. ‘They’ve likely felt the shift in the wards.’

On the horizon, three black shapes were moving quicker, wings beating rapidly.

Nesta turned to him, silver eyes shining with hope. ‘Will you have me?’

‘You were mine the day you fell from the stars. I love you. You think I make photo albums for every girl that lands in the middle of the road?’

Nesta silenced him with a kiss that surprised everybody in the room.

‘My bags are packed. I’ve already said goodbye.’

‘You’ll have to flirt with Flynn to get his credit card again,’ he said, grimacing slightly. ‘It will be centuries until I can afford somewhere for us to live.’

Feyre shook her head. ‘Finances are handled.’

‘I’m paying for your freedom,’ Nesta said resolutely. ‘There may only be one Umbra Mortis but I’m the bitch who stole from the Cauldron. That has to count for something.’  

 What she was, was a pillar of steel that could never be broken. Hunt didn’t care if she was sharp or unyielding, she was his Nesta. His girl from the stars.

Hunt slid his hands to her face, kissing her deeply. He didn’t care if her sisters watched. Didn’t care if the winged female whistled loudly at them. He had waited months to feel her again, to hold her.

‘We need to go,’ Nesta urged.

The two females had moved back to the chairs and exchanged a glance as the roof shook. A heavy landing. Feyre clutched her son to her chest, eyes going vacant as if listening to something else.

Three bags had been prepared and neatly tucked beneath the table. On her direction, Hunt hauled them up and through the portal back into the barracks. The final one tested his strength. It was bulky and ridiculously heavy, but with five females watching him, Hunt pretended the weight didn’t surprise him even if his muscles strained.

‘Are you bringing your Harp, bard?’

‘No. Only the Horn to close it then we’ll destroy it.’

Hunt pretended he didn’t just hear Nesta declare that she was about to break a priceless fae artefact that would have Einar Danaan, Micah, and the Asteri string her up from a dungeon for touching it.

They were doing this.

A cold sweat rippled down his back. They were really doing this. In the face of an archangel, a fae prince, and whatever the Asteri were, Hunt and Nesta were doing this for real.

His fingers enclosed around her wrists as steps grew closer. ‘Are you sure? You’ve known me a week.’

‘I have the rest of my life to know you,’ she said, before kissing him tenderly again. ‘Orion Athalar, you are my home. Maybe I fell that day, rattling the stars, because I was searching for you.’

The door swung open and shadows flooded in, sweeping the rugs of the library like a tidal wave that could no longer be held back. The first male had slicked back black hair and sparkling eyes so blue they appeared violet.

‘Shit, he does look like Ruhn,’ said Hunt.

In a soft voice, he said, ‘What is this?’

Two more males filed in, taking care to manoeuvre their large, leathery wings through the wooden doorway. These were the Illyrians she had spoken of which meant one was Azriel, who’d handed her a bag too heavy for her to manage, and the other was Cassian, a male who Hunt would delight in hurting.

Immediately, Hunt catalogued the subtle changes in Nesta. Whilst he would have expected her spine to go straighter, her chin to lift in defiance, instead Nesta curled in on herself as if she was deflating. Her shoulders hunched, making herself smaller and a flat, empty expression took up residence on her pale face.

The high lord’s eyes flashed to the Horn in Nesta’s hands. With a jolt of magic that Hunt felt fire across the room, he tried to lurch the Made item from her grip but it stayed firmly in her hand.

‘You have opened a portal to another world,’ he said, voice low and edged with warning. ‘You are endangering the lives of everybody in this city, Nesta. Endangering my mate and our son.’

Hunt couldn’t take it. It was as if all of the air was being pressed from the room. The two Illyrian sentries stood silent either side of their high lord in a display of cruel dominance. Neither would speak for Nesta. Hunt looked again to the females. Her two sisters were mute. The red-haired male had taken a not-so-subtle step closer to Elain, an arm extending ready to shield her. The other two females were as pale and timid as Nesta had become in their chairs; the winged one settled a hand on Gwyneth’s knee in reassurance as shadows lashed at the walls.  

These fae pricks.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

The urge to let his lightning loose was an instinct that proved difficult to deny – but not when Nesta was in the firing line, nor a child and a male with a metal eye that would send his lightning haywire.

The high lord blinked in disbelief then took a step closer to Nesta.

Lightning wreathed his hands in response. ‘Don’t even fucking think about it.’

‘If it hits Nesta?’

Hunt could play that game. He went into the place where Micah sent him where it was cold and empty. ‘If it hits your son? Your mate?’

He let the static tighten the room so strands of their hair rose. Hunt pulled the clouds closer, bringing in a storm from the mountains which darkened the room. Rain pattered upon the glass.

The male to the high lord’s left tilted his head, back hair falling across his pensive face. The blue stones on his leathers pulsed. ‘What are you?’

‘He’s not Peregryn,’ the male with red stones said.

He kept his brown eyes fixed on the threats in the room while he spoke softly to Nesta. ‘Go through, Starlight. We’ll go to the movies tonight. I realised you never tasted popcorn.’

The weight of her decision pressed on her. That, or the arrogant bastards shooting daggers at her.  

‘We can make out on the back row too.’

That shifted something in Nesta, like the final screw coming loose. She exhaled with relief and edged towards him. Hunt stretched out his arm towards her to sweep his love behind him, behind his wings, so she could step through safely to the barracks as if they were negotiating the transfer of a hostage.

‘Baby, can you get my gun? It’s in the holster at the bottom of the bed.’

With a trembling hand, Nesta placed the gun in the hand that was outstretched behind himself. Magic was great, but nothing could quite replace a steel kiss. Hunt cocked his weapon, keeping it trained on the high lord.

‘Which one’s Cassian?’

Likely the male whose face was purpling as he stared at Hunt like he wanted to wrap his hands around his throat. Join the club, buddy, Hunt thought.

‘The red stones?’

None in the room gave an acknowledgement to his words. He didn’t want this to turn into a standoff but now that Hunt was here, facing the bastards who’d made Nesta’s life a misery for the last couple of years, he couldn’t resist being a dick. The Umbra Mortis had earned his reputation. He’d survived torture and a failed rebellion. And he was going to have a beautiful future with his gorgeous Nesta – but first, these males needed to atone.

‘Listen, these ladies look as if they’ve seen enough violence so I’ll refrain from blasting your brains out on these lovely rugs, but you owe my girl an apology.’ Over his shoulder, Hunt asked, ‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’

‘Hunt, don’t bother. Let’s just close it.’

‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’ he repeated.

Nesta gave a sigh. ‘No. Lucien is fine.’

‘Good male,’ he said, offering a slight wink in the scarred-one’s direction.

A shadow that had been creeping along the skirting board made to lunge towards him but Hunt hit it with a bolt of lightning that crippled it. The male who’d bejazzled his leathers with blue stones winced as if he felt the blow too. Aha, that was the shadowsinger. Red stones was the prick who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

‘Alright, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to say sorry to Nesta then I’m leaving with her. We’re going to have a beautiful life together and never come back to this place again.’ Hunt gave a dramatic sigh. ‘If I’m honest, I think it’s less about my company and more about the fact you three have made her life so miserable here that she's willing to leave.’

‘That’s not true,’ Nesta called, and he caught the slight playful edge in her tone. ‘I want to go to university too.’

Little minx.

The three males were carved from stone. Every now and then, Hunt felt something trying to edge towards his mind like a tendril of smoke but his lightning zapped it without thought.

‘My finger is getting really sweaty holding back this trigger.’

The gun wasn’t even loaded – safety protocol – but if these fae were as clueless as Nesta had been, they’d have no idea.

‘Nesta, I am sorry that we did not extend the same warmth to you as we did to your sisters. I’m truly sorry that after the war, we were not a support for you.’

‘Well done, blue stones. Next one.’

The high lady shuffled the baby who was growing restless in her arms. ‘Is this necessary?’

‘Yes. Next question.’

Hunt lashed his lightning towards the males’ feet, making them leap back a step. Damn, he wished he recorded the sudden bloom of fear on their arrogant faces.

‘I’m sorry that I loved you,’ Cassian said. ‘I’m sorry that I gave you everything I could and it still wasn’t enough. Nes, what are you doing? In this life, we can have our time together. Think of our future.’

‘Didn’t you make her walk until she collapsed?’

The male blanched. ‘It was for her own good.’

‘No,’ Hunt uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I can't do this. I need to go before I shoot you.’

Behind him, Nesta’s snort of laughter was the confirmation that Hunt needed. Nesta would never get the apology that she deserved from this male – but the promise of a future free from him was good enough. A future with Hunt meant more.

His wings scooped low, tucking towards his spine, as Hunt took a backwards step. The cold bite of Nesta’s magic that surrounded the portal edged closer. He hoped he would look cool departing the library and wouldn’t fall on his ass through to the other side.

Once back in Lunathion, Hunt stood at Nesta’s side, proud to do it.

‘We won’t come here again,’ said Nesta, voice growing stronger with every word. Her eyes bounced between her friends and her sisters. ‘I love you but this is best for me. I wish you all the love in the world.’

Nesta lifted the horn to her lips and Hunt prayed to Luna that she’d hit that note on the first try or he’d laugh his ass off again. His hand enclosed around her fist, raising it in the air.

‘This is how we say bye in my world, assholes.’

Hunt prised Nesta’s middle finger up to flip them off – giving her only a moment to blow the Horn before she grinned.

Silver flames swarmed it then fell in on themselves like a star collapsing. They were left with the plain wall of his room in the Comitium.

‘You okay?’

Hunt touched her cheek in an attempt to read her expression. She didn’t need to wear the mask anymore. There would be no hiding her feelings or supressing her hurts. Nesta could be Nesta in Lunathion. And if she didn’t know who that was yet, it was fine. She could discover who she was.

Nesta slipped her hands around his neck, moving closer. ‘Oh, you are going to get it tonight, Orion Athalar.’

‘Oh?’ An eyebrow cocked up.

‘Defending me. Making them say sorry. What a male.’

Their lips crushed together. Now they had about a thousand things to do before they could relax, like storing the Horn somewhere safe, where nobody would notice the magic, find a place to live rather than keep her smuggled in the barracks, and figure out what the Hel was in that massive bag. With Nesta at his side, anything was possible. They’d weather the storm.

‘Your male,’ Hunt said between hurried kisses.

‘Mine,’ agreed Nesta.

‘Always.’  

[sandboxscenes]

A Halloween Reversal

Inspired by @matchaitham's post here and @i23kazu's post here.

A/N: My brain wouldn't leave this alone after I saw the posts. I thought the posts were cool and had a 'what if' moment. I haven't actually gotten past Sumeru's archon quest yet, but I wanted to write this anyway. Self-indulgent, but it's a fun idea to think about. Happy Halloween! :3

Characters: Diluc, Neuvillette, x gn!reader (hybrid), established relationship

Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst, Crack?

Summary: After some shenanigans, you ended up turning into a hybrid! How do they react?

Word Count: 3,203 (1,128 - Diluc; 2,075 - Neuvillette)

Diluc x Cat hybrid! reader

After Diluc had gotten his hands on yet another "supposed" Barbados relic, you volunteered to be the one to handle the exchange, as Diluc was supposed to get back from a trip that evening.

However, when the next day came and you hadn't left your room, Diluc was concerned. He heard your footsteps pacing around in your room, so he knew you were up. But yet, the door to your room was closed. He went up and knocked on the door. Then, he heard a muffled sound, a loud bang coming from your side of the door, along with a loud owww.

"Are you okay?"

The confusion and concern in Diluc's voice was palpable. It sounded like you had a cat in your room, but how could that be?

Diluc frowned. He checked in with Adelinde when he came back last night, and she didn't mention that you brought home a cat last night. All she told him was that you left the relic on the living room table for him, and that you were going to take a shower. She also informed him that after your shower, you curled up with a book and fell asleep in your room.

Adelinde's report seemed normal enough, so what happened?

Diluc knocked on the door again, more urgently this time. "Hey, are you-"

"Diluc," came your soft reply from the other side of the door. "Not so loud."

Diluc raised his eyebrow. He lowered his hand from the door. That was an odd statement. He didn't seem like he was knocking loudly any more than he did before. If anything, the way he knocked was perhaps a little more rushed, but not loud.

You continued. "I'm glad your home. I'm fine, and you saw the relic on the table, right?"

"Yes. It's a fake, like the others." Diluc paused. "Did something happen with the relic?"

"Um, yes."

Diluc froze. His heart sank. The idea that something could happen with the exchange was one of the possibilities he thought of, but didn't see as likely. Even though he figured the relic was fake, he didn't think the seller would give you trouble. In fact, since the negotiated price was close to what the seller wanted, there shouldn't have been a reason for the seller to be unhappy.

"It wasn't the seller," you hurriedly added. "It was after I got the relic. It was a little dirty, and I tried to clean it. I got all the dirt and dust off, but I felt sleepy. I wanted to take a shower to clean myself off, but when I got up, I…"

"You…" Diluc mirrored.

"Promise you won't laugh? Or get scared and run?"

"I've fought Hilichurls and Abyss mages. No matter what happens, I won't run."

"Promise me!"

From the other side of the door, Diluc was silent. Even though you raised your voice with him, he heard your voice quiver. He realized that whatever you were asking of him was serious, if it affected you this seriously.

Diluc nodded. "I promise. Please, let me see."

He heard the door latch unlock from your side of the room. The door creaked open. In a flash, you pulled him into your room, and shut the door.

It took a minute for Diluc to processed what happened. You literally dragged him into your room a single motion before he could blink. That was already weird, as you always seemed to have trouble catching him off guard prior. But now that his eyes could focus on you, he could see something was definitely weird.

Diluc saw two black cat ears poke out from the side of your head, and a long black tail behind you. His eyes widened. A light blush started to color his cheeks as he tried to look you in the eyes.

"This was from this morning?" he asked.

You nodded. "Yeah. I woke up, and I had these."

"Do you mind if I come closer?"

You shook your head. "Go ahead."

Diluc stepped closer to you. Now that he could see your eyes clearly, he saw that your eyes seemed bigger, in addition to everything else. Diluc raised his hand, unsure. It hovered in midair, until you took his hand and gently guided it to your ears.

"It's real, I promise. I found that out the hard way," you remarked. Your eyes traveled to the clock on your nightstand, as you sighed. "My alarm was twice as loud today."

Diluc ran his hand over your black ears. The fur on your ears was silky smooth to the touch. He felt how your ears twitched under his touch. Every slight movement seemed to bring you closer to him, and he felt you leaning into his touch unconsciously. He heard a purr, and pulled away, concerned that he was hurting you.

He watched you jolt back to reality. Your tail swang wildly. He saw your cheeks turned a deep red. He saw you pull away from his gaze and move away from him.

"I'm sorry," you said, "When you did that, I- I don't know what came over me. It just felt so good. But anyway, I think I ended up with some cat attributes as well."

Diluc's eyes widened. "When I knocked, that other sound I heard was from you too, wasn't it?"

"Guilty." Your head lowered slightly in shame. "I was surprised when you knocked. I didn't think you would be up. I thought you would sleep for a while yet, since you just came back and all. I was hoping these would go away when you got up."

You sighed and pointed to your ears. "Diluc, I don't think I can go out until these go away."

Diluc wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. He gently squeezed his arms around you, enough for a secure embrace. He rubbed your back to comfort you. He wasn't a man that was good with words, but he hoped that his simple action would be enough to communicate how he felt. He was here for you.

"Then, neither will I," he whispered.

"Then, do you mind if I can request something from you, Diluc?"

"Anything." Diluc paused. "Within reason, at least."

Diluc smiled as he looked down at you. He saw a red blush creep up on your cheeks, and saw your ears twitch. He could see the relief in your eyes, and felt you relax.

Hand in hand, Diluc guided you to the bed. Both of you took a seat on the edge of the bed. Diluc felt a weight on his shoulder. He turned to see your head on his shoulder.

"Can you pet my ears again, please?" The words came out softly and quietly.

"Of course."

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

Neuvilette x Electro Dragon!hybrid reader

Today's trial lasted longer than Neuvillette thought. But it was finally over. In the end, the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale rendered the final judgement, a judgement he agreed with.

Now, it was finally time for him to go home. His eyes fell on the Melusine that ran up to him.

"Monsieur Neuvillette! Monsieur Neuvillette!" A Melusine stopped in front of him.

Neuvillette's expression turned serious. "Are they doing alright? Did something happen?"

"They are, but they are asking for you. I tried to take a look to see how they were doing, but they locked the door. They said that they would not open it until you came."

"I see. Let them know I will be on my way soon."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur."

"It's not your fault. I will handle this. Please thank everyone else for their hard work, and have them take a break before going back to their job duties. Send my sincerest gratitude to the rest of the Melusines. Thank you for watching over them."

It took a little less than an hour for Neuvillette to reach you, given that there were some minor technical issues that prevented the Aquabus from leaving on-time. But to him, it wasn't quick enough. His hand subconsciously gripped the cane in his hand a little tighter. In his head, he mentally ran over the possibilities about what may have happened to you to warrant such odd behavior.

Yesterday, you told him that you felt ill, so while he had to leave to preside over the trial, he asked a few Melusines to watch over you until he returned.

For a Melusine to come to him and inform him today that you locked the door to the room, and even more so, refused to open it until he came home, meant something happened. He wasn't quite sure what happened. Perhaps your illness got worse while he was away, but it didn't make sense for you to lock the door for that reason. He and the Melusines have seen you when you were sick a couple of months ago. Was this new illness you had that much worse?

When Neuvillette reached the house you both lived in, the house was quiet. The other Melusines that had been scheduled to watch you, left. But perhaps that was for the best, as you requested for him specifically. He cleared his throat.

He knocked on the door twice, and announced his presence. "I'm home. One of the Melusines informed me that you were looking for me?"

Neuvillette heard the door open slightly. He peered inside, but it wasn't open enough for him to see inside or to see you.

"Yes," you hesitated. "Are you alone? Did everyone else leave?"

Neuvillette re-adjusted his hands on his cane. "I am alone. I have informed the rest of the Melusines that they can take a break before they resume their original job duties."

"Okay."

When you opened the door, Neuvillete wasn't sure what to expect on the other side. Perhaps you would still be in your sleepwear, wrapped with a blanket. Or perhaps you would have made a blanket fort on the floor of your room, when the temperature in Fontaine got uncomfortably humid.

But when Neuvillette saw the purple patches of scales that decorated half of your skin, the black and purple horns sticking out of your head, and the very long purple tail behind you. He was speechless. Such a transformation was something that shouldn't have been possible.

Neuvillette heard stories about the adepti and other beings in Teyvat that had human and animal features, but this was the first time he had seen a dragon human hybrid. Given that you were born a human, this did not make any sense to him.

Neuvillette's thoughts were interrupted by a low buzzing noise that seemed to resonate above him. He looked up and saw that the lights above you and him were dim, dimmer than usual. Odd. There was only one setting for the lights - On. There was no way to control how intense the brightness of the lights were, but compared to the lights surrounding him and you, they were noticeably darker.

One word escaped from the Chief Justice's lips.

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was when the Melusines and I explored Elynas last week? Or maybe it was when I went to look at the ruins of the old Fontaine Research Institute? Or when I went to explore the area around the Court of Fontaine?"

Your hand ran through your hair anxiously. Your tail swished frantically, and seemed to feed off your anxiety of the situation. "I don't know!" You cried, "I don't know! I don't know how this happened."

The lights above you and Neuvillette seemed to increase in intensity. But then, as you cried, the lights above you, cracked. Even with the cracks, the lights above you seemed to get brighter and brighter.

Your next words came out quietly. "Neuvi, I'm scared."

What happened next was pure instinct. Even if you asked, he couldn't explain it. Neuvillette grabbed your hand and moved both of you away from the lights, as shards of shattered glass came crashing down in the place you both were.

"Please. Let us go outside to discuss this."

You hesitated. "Do we have to?"

Neuvillette saw the hesitation in your eyes immediately. You were clearly uncomfortable with the idea of going outside. But then, his eyes noticed the lights above you increased in intensity. He kept his eye on the light and found that it was pulsing, and that the pulses were getting stronger. He didn't want the lights to shatter once more or for you to get hurt.

"We can stay near the house. We can go near the beach, away from people. I guarantee that there is no one there tonight."

You bit your tongue and nodded. Neither of you said anything. Up until you got to the beach, you didn't let go of his hand the entire time. Selfishly, Neuvillette found himself wishing that he wished it could last even a little longer.

Neuvillette stayed quiet while you sat down on the sand. You pushed your legs up to your chest, and cried into your lap. The clouds in Fontaine darkened.

It hurt watching you like this. Someone as strong and as capable as you, crying in front of him. You rarely broke down in front of him, and given how much you muffled your sobs now, he heard it in the way your voice cracked. He knew that this transformation affected you deeply. Even if he couldn't see your face, it hurt that he couldn't do anything for you. What could he even do? He didn't even know the whole story.

All he could do is watch silently as your tears fell and you cried.

After some time, the river of tears slowed, and the cries lessened to sniffles. More than once, he raised his hand in an effort to comfort you, but he was unable to follow through. He wasn't sure if you wanted him to touch you right now or if you would even accept it. Once he was sure you were more composed, he asked.

"If you want to talk, I will listen."

It was a short statement. Short, sweet, and to the point. Apart from listening, he was not sure what else he could do. In his observations of humans, he noticed that sometimes, being willing to wait for someone else to talk could yield more information than asking questions.

You nodded. "Neuvi, I woke up yesterday like this."

Once you were willing to look at him, Neuvillette noticed your eyes changed. Instead of your usual color, your irises were a deep purple. It was the same color as those Electro visions he saw people have, except deeper. Your hands touched your horns, and ran down the purple scaly over your right arm.

"I was scared. I wanted to take pictures to show you and ask you about it, but the minute I held my kamera, it buzzed, cracked, and then it started smoking. I did eat, but I wasn't able to finish the meals the Melusines cooked for me, so I threw it in there. After that, I shut off the lights, and locked the door. I didn't want anyone else to see me, and I didn't want to hurt anyone else."

Neuvillete stayed quiet. He wrapped his hand on top of your clenched one. He felt how tense you were underneath him and squeezed your hand securely. Enough so you knew he was there beside you.

When you tugged on his other free hand, Neuvillette allowed you to guide it. He felt warmth through his gloves. You turned his hand over, and faced it upwards. Your fingers traced the blue eye shape embedded in the palm of his gloves. The way you traced the shape in his palm left an odd tingling sensation in it.

Quietly you asked, "Neuvi, do you think I'll be stuck like this forever?"

The chief justice quietly pondered your question as he flexed his hand. While he had heard of the Adepti and other people with animal features, this is the first time he's heard of a spontaneous human transformation. Not to mention, it seemed like you turned into an electro dragon hybrid at that. This was new territory, even for him.

"I am not sure," Neuvillette admitted. "This is the first time that I have seen something like this."

Your face fell at Neuvillette's answer. Your purple eyes clouded over. It was clearly not what you wanted to hear.

Neuvillette sensed your unhappiness with his answer. But he wasn't sure what to do. Gently, he took your hand by the wrist and held it up in front of both of your faces. You blinked, and looked at him in confusion.

Neuvillette's eyes settled on the tops of your fingers. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated. There was a small bit of internal satisfaction when he saw little bits of electro energy come off your tips. He watched you gasp in surprise when you realized it too.

When you traced Neuvillette's palm earlier, he felt something odd. When you would trace his palm, it was gentle, but this time, it caused his palm to tingle. Coupled with the way the lights flickered and shattered, he intuited that you were radiating electro energy. He also figured that the amount of electro you emitted was at least tied, in some way, to the emotions you were feeling, much like how it rained in Fontaine when the hydro dragon cried.

"Is that from me?" You asked, a shocked expression on your face. "But wait, how have I not shocked you?"

As an answer to your question, Neuvillette raised his hand to show the gloves he wore. He intertwined his hands with yours, and he felt the tingling sensation in his hands intensify. "I can still feel your electro shocks through them, but it is manageable."

Your face turned red at his comment, and you released his hand. "Well, if it's too much, you can stop."

While Neuvillette found your reaction adorable, he knew that you were not pleased by his answer. He needed to rethink this situation and his answer. Neuvillette cleared his throat. "That's not what I mean."

"Then what did you mean?" You shot back.

Neuvillette took a breath. "I mean, that I find you beautiful."

Your eyes widened. Your jaw dropped. You were shocked. Shocked.

"How- What- Why?"

Neuvillette looked at you with a soft smile. "Simply that." He took your hand in his and kissed the top of it. "Even if this is how you look from now on, you are beautiful. No matter what form you take, human or dragon hybrid, you are beautiful."

At this unexpected confession, you got flustered. You tried to hide your face by leaning into Neuvillette's chest. A red tint graced your cheeks. Your tail curled around you both, and pulled you closer together. Neuvillette could feel the electro energy building in your hands. Then, he released your hand.

Even after Neuvillette released your hand, the tingling sensation was still present in his palm. But he could still feel you nuzzled his chest. It was comforting and warm. After a few moments of silence, you spoke again.

"Even if I am like this forever, will you stay?" you asked.

"Always." Neuvillette replied.

[kandisheek]

Cap-Ironman Rec Week 2024

Cap-IM Sunday: July 28th

Prompt: Rec all your favorite works created for one of the Cap-IronMan challenges!

Finishing this week with a bang, here are some of my favorite fics that came about due to the tireless work that the mods over at Cap-IM do for us every year. Please take the time to browse their collections as well, because the talent in this fandom is out of this world:

-- Never Too Late for Love by Sineala

Steve has always believed that a soulbond is a blessing -- a rare and beautiful miracle, joining the thoughts and feelings of two people forever, from the first time they touch. Steve knows he's not going to be one of the lucky ones. He knows Gail isn't his soulmate. But he loves her, even if they're not soulmates, and he's going to do right by her. After the war's over, he's going to marry her, and they're going to settle down. They'll buy a house. They'll have children. He'll see his family again. Maybe Bucky will live next door. It's going to be a good life. He doesn't need a soulbond. He'll be fine without one. Then Steve wakes up sixty years in the future to find that his wonderful life has moved on without him. His family is long dead. His fiancée married his best friend. And the only purpose he has left is leading the Ultimates, a misbegotten team of superheroes with flaws too numerous to count. Steve hates everything about the future -- but most of all he detests Tony, flashy and flirtatious, who embodies everything Steve hates about a world he never wanted to live in. And, oh, yeah, Steve has a soulmate after all: Tony fucking Stark.

-- The Heart of the Temple by CSHfic, VSfic

After an expedition to find an ancient relic goes awry, Tony finds himself magically bound to a Roman soldier who has spent the last two thousand years guarding the temple, and who is now bound to protect him from harm. Stranger things have certainly happened, but Tony is having a hard time coming up with them now.

-- Therapeutic Guidelines by kellifer_fic

"Are you suggesting I get a bunch of bunk beds in here and squeeze us all into one room?" Tony scoffs and the woman just looks at him. "No, wait-"

MORE RECS BELOW THE CUT:

-- A Long, Lonely Time by asktheravens

Steve returned from the war injured in body and mind- and able to see the dead. At loose ends and desperate to get out of New York City, he accepts a fellowship through the Stark Foundation and retreats to a quiet lake house on the grounds of the Stark Mansion. He's supposed to be there to paint, but he quickly realizes that the house is more than he bargained for. Anthony Stark died here a decade ago, but was it an accident? A suicide? Or a murder? Obadiah Stane still lives in the main house just up the hill, and the past casts a long shadow. When Tony's ghost begins appearing to him, Steve becomes more entwined in the dangerous mystery surrounding his death. Even worse, he finds himself falling for a man who died a decade ago... Features lots of ghosts, murder, secrets, and supernatural revenge. Also Thor and Rhodey.

-- Personal Use by dirigibleplumbing

“It’s for. Personal use,” Steve says. Tony deserves a fucking medal for not commenting on that. Fuck, how is he supposed to get anything done after this? Or ever, for that matter. Every time he suits up he’ll know—he’ll know—that Steve Rogers fucks himself with a toy made out of Tony’s armor.

-- On Camera by FestiveFerret

Steve's heart skipped a beat. It was beyond ridiculous to get attached to one of his regular clients but somehow, over the last six months, he had. StarkNakedGenius wasn't logged on for every show, far from it, but he was on for a lot of them, and whenever he was, he tipped like mad.

-- Weighing of the Heart by scifigrl47

Steve Rogers hasn't really had a particularly easy life. He's struggled along, he's proud of himself, he's self-sufficient and capable and he works damn hard. He has friends and a purpose and he's only a few semesters from graduating college. He's managed, but his life has been far from easy. That's mostly because of a slight filing error. The last thing that Steve needed was someone to watch over him. The only thing that his Guardian Angel needs is a second chance to make a first impression.

-- Can't start a fire without a spark by gottalovev

The Avengers might be reunited, but they are holding together with a Band-Aid and a severe case of Tony pretending nothing happened. The superficial truce is shattered the day Steve takes control of Tony's suit and forces him to go to medical in a tense situation. When Tony is ordered to take a vacation, Steve volunteers to go with him.

And two of my own fics:

-- Gift of Consequence

Steve remembers the old wives' tale of the dragon in the mountain, sleeping on a pile of gold. He has never paid it any mind, but when his mother gets sick and time and money is of the essence... he might reconsider believing in fairytales.

-- We Are Briefly Gorgeous

Tony finds himself in a gay bar right after signing his divorce papers, drowning his sorrows. Turns out the handsome stranger that chats him up is just the distraction he needs.

[absurdthirst]

The Meeting Placer {Joel Miller x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Mentions of anal sex, FWB?, vaginal sex, period sex, fingering, unprotected sex. derogatory language, Joel being a shit, dirty talk, high risk sex, no pull out, Joel has his red wings. Basically just PWP

Comments: You supply Joel Miller with the contraband he sells inside the QZ. You meet up to trade the good for information - and sex. Joel fucks you just like you need, regardless of if you're on your period or not.

A/N: I HC that Joel prefers anal sex to prevent pregnancy unless you are on your period. PLUS....As soon as they went under that bus in Episode 1 - I wanted to write a fic banging in a bus. 😂

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Joel Miller MasterList ||

“Shit.” Joel glances at his watch, a habit he still has even twenty years later, and he glances at the clock on the side panel. Time is different in this new era. It is regulated by FEDRA mainly for the workers to keep track and Joel knows you’ll be keeping track of the time from Bill and Frank’s. He is going to be late if he doesn’t leave now. It’s late, Tess is hanging around his room and he needs to get away. “I gotta go.” He grunts, standing up from the sofa. 

Tess glances over at the clock, snorting when she sees the time, “give her my regards.” She has met you before, only once, but she’s not dumb. She knows what you and Joel get up to during these exchanges. You bring the supplies and contraband from Bill and Frank’s. Joel gives you intel…and his cock. She doesn’t have ownership over Joel and knows you are the reason he’s stopped seeking her out. She should be mad but this new world has hardened her to silly things like emotions. 

“I’ll see ya later.” Joel says, grabbing his pack and the spare one he carries to bring everything back. 

“Be careful.” Tess says and Joel nods, making his way out of the room under the cover of night to sneak out of the QZ. He can bribe a guard if they catch him with pills. Once he’s out of the QZ, he grips his rifle and makes his way through the forest to find the rendezvous spot you have half way between Bill and Frank’s and the Boston QZ: an old school bus.

Shuffling slightly, you keep a sharp eye out. Not exactly comfortable to be waiting for long periods of time, but you had wanted to get here before dark. It’s dangerous moving through the other parts of the city. The fungal growth as well as nature taking over increased your risk every time you made the venture. 

Kicking back on the ripped and sagging seat of the school bus, you sigh softly. Another 500 pills, a pretty fucking descent haul on its own, but you had also managed to score some real whiskey. A twenty-five year old bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in the pack, wrapped in an old blanket. Plus the twelve lighters you had fixed for Joel to sell. All traded for information and the added pleasure of seeing Joel again. 

You don’t know what it is about him. He didn’t sit back and shoot the shit with you. You weren’t friends, you were business associates. Associates who just happened to fuck each others brains out whenever you met up and right now, you’re waiting on him.

Joel cuts through the growth, sheathing his knife and gripping his rifle as he walks into the clearing where the old school bus is. It’s a relic from a time long gone, no longer full of happy kids heading home after school. Now, it’s abandoned and overgrown. He steps into the bus, finding you sitting there with your legs crossed. 

“Took you long enough.” You huff playfully and Joel rolls his eyes, setting his rifle down now that he’s satisfied you’re alone. 

“Fucking infected are getting more adventurous. Gotta take the longer way around.” He says, slumping down in the seat opposite you. He’s already half hard, always is around you. Your presence is like a fucking drug to him, almost as addicted to your pussy as the guards are to the pills you trade him. “Information first or you want me to get to fucking you?”

You snort and shake your head. “You get quieter after sex, Joel. Cumming makes you mute.” You don’t kid yourself, it’s not that he’s enjoying your presence or soaking up the intimacy of the moment. This is just a release for him, for you too. Joel Miller can fuck and you always enjoy the sharp ache that he leaves you with. Reaching into your pack for the other, smaller bottle of whiskey you had brought for yourself - not to give to him - you twist the unbroken seal on the cap and offer him the first swing. “What do you have for me?”

Joel takes the bottle, eyes wide when he sees it’s a bottle of Jack and not the shitty bootleg whiskey he tolerates. “Damnnnn darlin’, where did you get this?” He asks before he takes a swig, holding the bottle back towards you. 

“That’s for me to know.” You tease and Joel rolls his eyes. 

“Information…so I heard from some guards that FEDRA are considering lowering the population in some areas. Trying to make them more elite. Like the Jackson QZ, they wanna get rid of the workers and make them commute from the Madison QZ weekly to do the shit jobs but have the elites live in the QZ alone. It’s bullshit. It’s the end of the fucking world and we still have fucking elitism. Word is they expect people to riot and if they do…they are out of the QZ.” Joel hates the idea, certain that it ain’t gonna happen with the amount of workers needed to maintain the QZ for the FEDRA leaders and their families.

Your own swallow of whiskey goes down with a wince and a small hiss of pleasure before you frown. “Fucking FEDRA with their bullshit.” You grumble, knowing that whatever feelings Joel had towards the military dictatorship that runs the QZ, he won’t get involved. While you weren’t a member of the Fireflies, you believed that there were better ways to deal with this. It seems like more and more ground was being lost to the infected every year. “It’s all bullshit. End of the fucking world and they want to keep class systems.”

“The human way, right?” Joel scoffs, taking back the bottle to take another swig of whiskey. “I’m only there until I have what I need to head out and find Tommy. “Also found out that the factory down in Atlanta is makin’ condoms. Imagine selling those bad boys. People can finally cum inside and not worry about pregnancy again.” Joel smirks at you, knowing you know that very well.

You snort and shoot him a grin of your own, “tired of pulling out or fucking my ass, Miller?” You tease. It’s rare that he will fuck your cunt, many times these meet ups have him literally tearing your ass up and rubbing your clit. Not wanting to risk a pregnancy. The times that he does fuck your cunt, he’s pulling out and spilling on the floor of the school bus with groans that down sound quite as satisfied. “And here I was thinking you liked fucking me.” You pout playfully, knowing that he will roll his eyes and grunt at you.

Joel snorts at you, “you and I both know that ain’t true, sweetheart. Just would be nice to be able to cum inside that tight cunt of yours without having to pull out.” He says like he’s stating the sky is blue. He’s always a matter of fact, not wanting to blur any lines. You know what this is and you’re cool with it. “I guess the question is…what am I fucking today?” He asks, knowing you’ll tell him when he has to fuck your ass or the few times he’s allowed inside of your pussy.

You bite your lip, wondering how he will feel about it. “Well, I’m bleeding.” You admit, the cloths lining your panties are annoying but necessary to not ruin one of the few pairs of pants now. What you wouldn’t give for a tampon or a diva cup, but they are nonexistent now. “So I will leave that up to you. But I know you didn’t shower before you came so I’m not sucking your dick.”

Joel nods in understanding, knowing that he has to smell like fucking roses for you to suck him off. "You want me to fuck your cunt?" He asks, reaching out to slide his hand along your thigh until he is pressing his fingers against your jeans. "Or you want me in your ass. Your choice, darlin'. As always." He reminds you, his cock hardening at the thought of being inside of you any way you'll have him. You let him use your body for his pleasure, you don't ask questions or have expectations.

You moan softly, loving how Joel always makes it your choice. It’s easy when, if there’s an accident you would be the one dealing with the consequences, but some men wouldn’t care. You spread your legs wider, the feeling of his fingers not as vivid as it would be if you didn’t have the extra material. “Fuck my cunt.” You beg breathlessly, anticipating him feeling amazing inside your sensitive walls. “You don’t have to pull out since I’m bleeding.

Joel smirks, "yeah? No oral sex for either of us then." He doesn't go down on you unless it's a special occasion. He doesn't like the intimacy. "Better take those jeans off then baby." He orders, working on his belt as he shifts to stand up to pull his hardening cock out. There's no kissing, no pleasantries, he is all business.

You quickly start stripping down. The bus is secure enough that you don’t have to worry. Craving the feeling of him deep inside you. You smirk when you are bare below the waist and raise a brow at him. “On my back or do you want to fuck me from behind?” You ask, turning around and bending over one of the benches to shake your ass at him playfully. While it’s just fucking, you like riling him up.

“From behind.” He grunts, pumping his cock with one hand and he slaps your ass cheek. “Dirty little whore, ain’t ya?” He teases you, mocking you, as he hardens in his grip enough to slide inside of you. “You want to cum on my cock, darlin’?” He asks, slapping your ass again and he shuffles closer to swipe the head of his cock through your folds, groaning at how wet you are because of your period blood, his cock now coated in red.

“Joel.” You whimper, closing your eyes and anticipating the moment he shoves himself inside you. It’s not just your period that has you wet, you’ve been looking forward to this. He doesn’t make you wait long, cock sliding teasingly through your folds one moment and you’re being split in two by him the next. Crying out loudly, your nails dig into the seat at your body lurches forward to try to absorb the intrusion, but he holds your hips and drags you back on his cock. “Oh fuck.” You choke out, eyes springing open and another incoherent cry sounding out.

There’s nothing that compares to being inside of you. Joel is as addicted to you as the assholes are to the pills he sells. He fucking loves it. The way you clench around him when he pushes deep inside of you with no hesitation. “Always take it so good.” He grunts, grabbing your hips so he can set a harsh pace. The squelch of your blood and arousal echoes in the shell of the school bus.

Your eyes roll back and you moan out his name, loving how he just shreds up into you frantically. Like he’s been waiting to fuck you again. Like he’s been waiting for you, staying celebate. You know that’s not the case. Joel fucking you is a mutual convenience but it’s one you love. “Fuck.” You whine, holding onto the seat as he rails you into the bench. 

“Always so fuckin’ tight.” He groans, certain that he’s bruising your hips but he can’t bring himself to care, too absorbed in the way you feel around his cock. This thing you got between you is purely sexual and it’s something he thinks about between runs, when he has his cock in his hand. He can feel your blood and arousal staining his pants but he doesn’t give a fuck. His clothes are ruined anyway and at least this blood won’t be from a wound inflicted on him or him on someone else. “Shitttt.” He grunts, “that feel good, sugar?” He asks, wanting to hear your voice.

“Y-y-yessssssss.” You moan out, your entire body pitching forward every time his hips slam into your ass. You love the way that he fucks you. Crave it like a rush of endorphins from those pills. Except nothing but Joel Miller would satisfy you. Your head rolls back, arching your back so your hips dip lower, making you squeal when he hits something devastating inside you.

Hearing you moan when he hits that spot makes him growl. Focusing so his cock hits that spot over and over again. He reaches out to wrap his fingers around your neck, groaning when your cunt clenched around him. “You like that, huh? You like me fuckin’ you like you’re a little whore?” He pants, getting closer to his own orgasm but he wants you to cum first.

“Fuck.” You know that Joel wouldn’t hurt you, not like he could. But the pressure of his fingers around your airway, limiting your breath is a heady rush of pleasure. “Yes.” You whine out, wanting him to tighten his grip. You lean forward into his hand and clench around him when it restricts your airway more.

“So fuckin’ desperate, ain’t ya? You wanna cum for me, darlin’? You gonna soak my cock and then I’ll fill ya up. Only fuckin’ time I can fill you up is when you’re bleedin’. So fuckin’ wet when ya bleed.” His accent always comes out thicker when he’s inside of you. Years in the Boston QZ have softened his accent, partly from him wanting to forget about his past, partly for him wanting to blend into the background. Right now though, he’s all Texas.

God, it sounds like pre-outbreak Joel would have had a breeding kink. You whine again, imagining him filling you up every time, murmuring filth in your ear. As it is, you enjoy the thicker words. The twang of Texas that you hear. He’s never told you where in Texas, but you do know that at least. “Fuck baby,” the endearment slips out as his rocks into you harshly, completely unnoticed by you but that’s perfectly fine when you can barely think because of the way he’s spearing his cock up into you. “Gonna cum.” You gasp out, feeling your body prime for it but you wanted it to last longer.

“Shit. Do it. Do it now.” Joel hisses, feeling his control slip away, especially since he doesn’t have to pull out. His hands squeeze your hips and he brings one down on your ass, smacking you hard enough to leave you aching tomorrow. “Cum.” He demands, cock already pulsing when he’s on the edge of his own orgasm.

The sharp sting of his hand pushes you over the edge. Crying out loudly, your fluttering walls lock up around him. The steady, slick slide of his cock becomes a little harder to keep at the same pace as you squeeze him tight. “Joel- fuck, JOOOOOOELLLLLL!” You squeal, the heat of your orgasm overwhelming and you collapse forward against the seat, panting as your cunt spasms.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He growls, thrusting into you like a jackhammer, unable to withhold his moans and groans while he seeks his own high in your vice of a cunt. Blood and cum coat his cock and stain his jeans but he doesn’t care, pushing as deep as he can three more times until he pushes into you, hips pressed against your ass while his cock spasms inside of you. Filling you with rope after rope of hot cum, he hisses and bends his body over yours, pressing you even further into the seat.

You moan at the feeling of his hot seed coating your walls and starting to push out of your fluttering cunt with every quick jolt of his hips as he rides out his release. It feels completely different from turning and watching him jerk his cock to spill his seed on the floor of the bus. Instead, you get to feel his hot breath pant against your neck and you hum contentedly. “Fuck that is good.” You praise, your walls squeezing him again and making him hiss as he starts to soften inside you. 

“Always so fuckin’ good.” He compliments you, “always so good.” He takes a rare moment of affection, leaning in to kiss your shoulder before he pulls out, his cock is a mess of cum and blood, but he doesn’t care, too absorbed with the way he feels.

You groan softly, hating the empty feeling you’re left with after he pulls out. Only made better by the slight ache that you still have. The slide of his cum as it threatens to drip out of you. Instead of complaining, you pull your pants back up. You wonder if he’s going to stay or try to sneak back into the QZ tonight. Sometimes he rests for a few hours but you always leave it up to him. “I have a cloth in my bag and a bottle of water to clean up.” You offer, nodding towards your pack next to your own weapon. 

Joel grunts gratefully, making his way over to your pack to grab the cloth and bottle, cleaning his cock and he wraps the cloth up carefully, “you want me to put it back?” He asks and you nod. He follows your order and comes to sit beside you on the bench while you try to catch your breath. “You gotta head back to Bill’s tonight?” He asks you gruffly, always feeling like he has to make small talk after he wrecks you.

Shaking your head, you frown slightly. “There’s a new fungal growth in the southeastern section of the city.” You tell him, wanting him to be careful if he ventures out past your normal meeting spot. “I want to make sure that I mark the way carefully so I don’t get surprised.” You roll your eyes. “Spending the night being chased in the dark by infected is not the way that I want to spend my night.” 

Joel frowns, “yeah. That sounds like some bullshit I don’t wanna have to deal with either.” He crosses his arms, figuring he might as well get some rest. “You wanna get some sleep? I can take a watch.” He offers, knowing you must be tired after how hard he fucked you.

“Thanks.” You gratefully take the offer and finish redressing, settling down on the bench with your pack and send him a quick grin. “Night.” You offer, curling your body up and closing your eyes, knowing you will be safe while he’s watching for trouble.

Joel watches you curl up and go out like a light. He’s not sure what this thing is between you but he likes it. You have no expectations of him, you have no requirements other than he makes you cum. He’s happy to do that and you give him what he wants in return. It’s an easy relationship. Give and take. He grabs his gun, keeping it close as he watches you sleep, knowing you’d call him a weirdo for watching but he likes how peaceful you look. The stress of this life lifted from your features.

Sleep is hard to come by when you’re out in the open like this. The only reason you sleep for four hours is because of Joel watching out. Waking up, you shift, sitting up and watch him turn to look at you. “I- I’ll take over.” You offer, yawning and stretching with a groan. You feel better and know he needs to get some sleep too.

Joel trusts you to have his back so he grunts his appreciation and closes his eyes, resting his head against the school bus window to get some much needed shut eye. He cleaned his gun while you were asleep, thought over what he’s gonna sell the merch for, and maybe had a fantasy about you hanging out the window of the bus while he fucks you. That thought is out of the window when he falls asleep. He’s not sure how long he’s out until you are shoving on his shoulder. “What the fuck-?” He doesn’t get a chance to argue when you slap your hand over his mouth.

“Infected.” You barely breathe the word into his ear, your eyes fixed on the window outside. Watching as the group of about five stumbled around the clearing near the derelict bus. The doors are closed and locked, but you know that it wouldn’t keep out infected for long if they gathered up.

Joel exhales against your hand before he lowers it, “shit.” He hisses under his breath. How the fuck did they manage to come across this school bus? It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. He grabs his gun, carefully flicking off the safety as they groan while stumbling past the bus.

Your own weapon is in your hand, ready to use if necessary. “If-“ Your voice is barely audible. “If we need to, use the bottle of whiskey and that cloth. Make a Molotov cocktail.” You suggest, not taking your eyes off the bodies as they slowly go by.

Joel shakes his head, “let’s just relax. They should move on soon then we can get going. Better to be in here than out there and get caught off guard. Let’s just wait it out.” He suggests and leans back against the bus seat. His arm unconsciously wraps itself around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

He’s right. It’s better to be quiet and just let them pass. You slowly holster your weapon and lean back. “Too bad we don’t have anything to do.” You murmur quietly. It was too dark to try to play cards, even if you had some. You listen to him grunt and then it’s just the sounds of the infected moving outside.

Joel smirks, knowing it’s risky but this entire existence is a risk. He wants to have some fun. His hand slides down your body until he’s squeezing your breast through your worn t-shirt. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got great tits?” He asks softly, not wanting the infected to hear.

You freeze for a moment before you exhale slowly. Not expecting Joel to sound downright cheeky in a situation like this. Apparently being in a locked bus made him a little bolder than you imagined. “All the time.” You tease, loving how his hand just covers your breast and he squeezes again. “Best feature in my opinion.” You joke quietly. “Anyone can admire them.”

Joel snorts, “you got Bill and Frank eying your tits?” He jokes and squeezes one last time before sliding his hand lower until he’s cupping your cunt. “Pussy is your best feature. Fucking gorgeous. Almost as gorgeous as your face.” He admits softly, flicking the button on your jeans so he can push his hand in, uncaring of the blood and his cum as he starts to rub your clit.

Your gasp of surprise turns into a moan as your eyes flutter closed. You didn’t expect him to compliment you, it didn’t seem like Joel’s style. His lips are right against your ear as he shushes you quietly. “Can’t be too loud, honey.” He coos and you can feel the way your clit starts to throb under the pressure of his fingers. Biting your lip, you turn your head to kiss along his jaw, the first time you’ve kissed him like that. The only time you’ve actually kissed was the first time and it was harsh and needy.

Joel needs you to be quiet. He turns his head to press his lips against yours, loving how reactive you are. His tongue slides into your mouth, loving how you mewl around his tongue. His fingers rub your clit a little harder, the infected still stumbling around the bus but none of them have sensed you.

You shudder, the slide of his tongue against yours makes your cunt bottom out. Joel isn’t gentle or soft. He could be, he’s never hurt you, but there’s almost affection right here in the moment. You can feel his cock pulsing and you wonder why he is doing this instead of fucking you.

He tries to keep you as quiet as possible, fumbling to unbutton his pants with his free hand, pulling his cock out and he pumps himself while his fingers work your clit. His tongue lazily stroking yours, harsh breaths escaping his nose and he keeps his eyes shut but his ears are hyper focused on the infected outside.

“Jo-Joel.” You moan softly. “Fuck me.” You’ll beg if you have to, but the idea of him being inside you again is thrilling. Your arm twists around so you can wrap your fingers around his cock and try to pump him. The angle sucks but this is more intimate than anything you’ve done so far and you don’t want to just take from him.

He pulls his hand out of your jeans, wiping his bloodied fingers on his own without care and he bats your hand away from his cock. “Stand up.” He orders, following his own demand. You obey and he reaches out to shove your jeans down, kicking your ankle to widen your legs as much as possible. “You want the infected to see me fucking you?” He rasps in your ear, pushing you towards the glass as he pushes his cock inside of you.

The slap of your hand against the windows makes both of you freeze. A moment where your breath is held as you watch the infected, wondering if they would sense you. They don’t. The sound o you hand not drawing their attention. Making you bite your lip, holding in a moan when he twitches inside you. “Move.” You beg quietly, wanting him to move again.

He obeys, watching the infected out of the window as he rocks into you, groaning your name when you clench around him, slick with blood and his last round of cum still inside of you. “You’re so fucking needy for my cock you’ll risk getting caught by those fuckers outside.” He taunts you playfully.

“Yes.” You hiss, keeping your eyes on the infected outside. “I don’t- harder Joel.” You beg him; loving his playfulness right now. Your entire body bounced, tits shaking as he rocks into you. If any of the infected were aware, they would see you getting fucked.

He fucks you harder, pushing you harder against the glass. The thrill of danger makes this even sweeter as he thrusts deep and hard, fingers grabbing at your tits as he pushes deep inside of you with every rock of his hips.

You love how frantic he seems as well, this being the first time that he’s ever fucked you twice. He normally leaves after your meet up but he had decided to stay this time. He groans in your ear quietly and his fingers pinch your nipples through your shirt and bra. Making you bite back your moan, almost making your lip bleed from how hard you are biting your lip. 

He loves how hard you’re trying to keep quiet. “Look out the window. None of them know you’re a dirty little whore. One moan and they will know. Is being loud worth getting killed? You want them to kill you for being a little slut?” He taunts you in your ear, hips grinding deep as he tries to keep the sound to a minimum.

God, you never knew Joel MIller could run his fucking mouth like this. It’s so fucking wrong but it’s also sexy. His dark rasp in your ear adds to the pleasure and you feel your entire body tensing up rapidly. Instead of biting your lip, you shove your fist into your mouth when you feel your cunt clench. Body locking up and your cry into your fist is silent as your teeth dig into your flesh like an infected eager to pass on the fungus. 

“Fuckkkk. So fucking good.” Joel hisses through his teeth. Loving how tight you grip his cock. It’s intoxicating and he fucking loves it. Almost drunk off of how you feel, he pushes deep inside of you and pulses as he cums, filling you up for the second time that night. The infected unknowingly pass by and Joel leans over to kiss the back of your neck, silently telling you how he feels.

You sigh softly and your entire body relaxes. Even more than you did the last time. “That was- shit, that was good.” You mumble. “Let’s clean up and then we can get a few more hours.” You suggest, feeling like the two of you can both sleep before you have to leave.

Joel caresses your spine and agrees, squeezing your ass playfully and he stands up straight, grabbing the rag and bottle to clean himself up before he hands it to you. “Let’s do that. Wait until these fuckers pass.” Joel grunts after he tucks himself away and sits back down on the bench.

“Do you - uh, want to lay down together?” You ask, feeling unsure of yourself and slightly foolish. This isn’t some great romance, but it would be nice to have his warmth against you, even better to have his arms around you for a little longer. “It’s- we don’t have to.”

  Joel knows this is crossing the line you drew but he wants to hold you close. He nods and shifts onto the floor of the bus, holding his hand out towards you. This will be between you. No one else will know.

You kneel down, cautiously moving into his arms. Turning towards him, you decide that if this is the one night, the one chance, you get to do this; you’re going to curl into him. Pressing your chest to his, you find your head cradles into his shoulder and you sigh softly. “Good night, Joel.” 

He doesn’t sleep. He just holds you, allowing himself this close contact before he knows he has to go back to the QZ and you go back to Bill and Frank’s. It’s a tough pill to swallow but that’s how this life is. The infected stumble past, unaware of your presence in the bus, and Joel listens to your breathing, wondering what could’ve been if you had met before all this bullshit.

You sleep better than you have in a long time, groaning softly when you wake up and not wanting to leave the warmth of his body, but you have to. Blinking at him a few times before you give a small smile and lean in to kiss the bare spot on his jaw, a patch where hair refuses to grow. The sunlight is filtering in through the dirty windows and you sigh. “We better get going.” You murmur quickly, pulling away and stumbling to your feet. “I’ve got to get back and so do you.” 

Joel grunts, reluctantly sitting up. This meeting was something that can’t happen again. Letting that emotion come through. He can’t let that weakness ruin him. He has to put the walls back up. “Yeah. I gotta get back.” The infected have passed and he grunts, standing up and he grabs your shoulders to steady you. “You good?” He asks, the rising sun hitting your features in a way to make his heart thump once in his chest.

There’s something on his face that you can’t quite pinpoint, but you nod. “I’m good.” You turn away to pick up your pack and your weapon. “I’ll have Bill play a song the next time we get anything good.” You promise him, just like you always do. “Might be another month or so.” You settle your bag on your back and turn towards him, feeling slightly off kilter but determined to shake it off.

Joel nods, knowing there’s so much unsaid between you but it’s better that way. Attachments are weakness in this new era. Pre outbreak he would’ve asked you for dinner but all he can do now is offer you and a nod while he adjusts his backpack. “Hopefully he picks a good song this time. Tell him I ain’t a fan of Leo Sayer.” He snorts, grabbing his gun.

You chuckle and nod. “Will do.” You promise, opening the door to the bus and climbing down the stairs. “Take care of yourself, Miller.” You tell him as you look around. One last look at him, you memorize the way he looks. “Be seein’ you.”

Joel steps down the stairs of the bus, offering you a nod. He doesn’t know that this is the last time he sees you before he meets Ellie. He winks at you and knows that words don’t mean shit but he says “see ya around.” With that, he stalks off through the trees, gun in hand as he heads back to the QZ, back to find Tess and get what he needs to find Tommy.

[musetheapothecary]

you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader (sfw)

The forest is sun-bleached and hazy, awash in a haze of white-gold that makes it difficult to discern the gnarled roots whose knuckles poke through the dry earth. It's hot out, but bearable—spring hot, not summer hot. It feels dusty and stiff.

Her lips are cracked like the dirt beneath her worn sneakers, a red-laced relic from her middle school volleyball days. She thinks she can see green up ahead and she squints, eager for something plush beneath her blistered feet. Perhaps Iwa-chan would let them rest there for a moment. She can see the angry red blooming across Oikawa's nose and cheeks, creeping down the column of his proud throat. It looked remarkably bear without a collar wrapped around it. Seeing Oikawa out of uniform was akin to seeing a pig in the ocean—it happened, occasionally, most often in strange and foreign places, but it never quite looked natural.

By contrast, Iwaizumi looked more like himself than ever in his torn up wife-beater. It gaped around his shoulders and little holes had been moth bitten across his midriff, displaying more of his Miyagi tan than she was accustomed to seeing. She'd been trying her best not to stare at him, focusing rather on the Makki's strawberry-blond head. He'd begun to grow out his bangs, finally. He'd let Mattsun cut them off with scissors in their middle school bathroom and had kept them obnoxiously short for years since. Somewhere overhead a pair of crows has begun to circle, their cawing echoes through the seemingly empty forest.

They were off to visit a shrine, to secure the third-years their “certain victory” in the upcoming volleyball season, and they'd made the unanimous and utterly stupid decision to not take the actual (straight, clean, clear, and generously sprinkled with vending machines) path towards it, but rather to forge their own through the foliage.

Idiots. The lot of them.

(She'd kill for a Pocari Sweat.)

“How much further?”

Oikawa holds up a finger, and shuffles about the map in his other hand. “About 3 kilometres, if my readings are correct.”

She groans, stumbling over another root. She doesn't expect the hand on her upper arm, hot and calloused and wide enough to encase all of her cotton-draped limb and then some.

“Getting' tired there stripes?”

Iwa's grin is savage, wild as the knotted vines beneath their feet and sharper than the crows' claws. It suits him perfectly.

Against her will her eyes stray down to that golden skin, bared to the dappled sun.

The hand on her arm tightens, fingers twitching against her until she can feel her own pulse.

He really is beautiful.

Her face tinges red, gaze flitting back and forth between his (big, strong, perfect—ok, get it together girl) hand, and his gunshot gaze. So, it turns out spending the bulk of the summer coaching herself through the self-destruction of her crush did not, in fact, get rid of said crush.

Bummer.

He'd asked her a question, hadn't he?

Iwa's brow ticks up, his smile takes on a slightly condescending lilt, with just the right amount of fang. He doesn't bully her half as much as Oikawa, but they'd been friends since diapers so he's not shy about roughing her up a little every now and then. She refuses to admit she enjoys it.

There'd been a brief period in middle school where things had gotten…complicated. Her friends had suddenly realised she was a girl and she had suddenly realised they were icky-yucky boys, and then all of a sudden roughhousing and play wrestling and casual insults trickled to a stop.

They picked up pretty quickly after the legendary tantrum she through outside the gymnasium though, so she can't really hold it against them.

(She still can't look their middle school coach in the eye, she'd brought out the waterworks and everything back then. How humiliating.)

“Yes,” she says at last, with what she believes to be a perfectly fair amount of attitude. “And my feet hurt.”

“Poor princess,” he mocks, giving her arm one last nudge before moving back to his spot beside Oikawa.

She ignores the twisting in her gut and the phantom sensation of warm fingers against her skin. And Makki and Mattsun's obnoxious kiss-y noises.

Well, she mostly ignores it.

If she sends a sharp kick to each of their ankles, that's her business.

“What will you be wishing for, Chibi-chan?” Oikawa calls back, his attention mostly stolen by the spiderweb that seems to have glued itself to his sleeve.

“Our assured victory, obviously,” Makki answers for her, looping a sweat-slick arm around her sweat-slick neck. Both of them shudder at the feeling, but he doesn't let go.

Mattsun, clearly feeling left out, reaches over to mess up her hair.

“Actually, I was going to wish for my assured victory, you self-absorbed piece of shit.”

She attempts to shove both boys off of her, but they've shot up like weeds over the past few years and whatever diet their coach has them on is working overtime. Neither boy budges, not even an inch.

“Victory in what, I wonder, dear chibi-chan.”

Oh, she doesn't like that. She doesn't like that at all. That mean glint in his eyes is only attr

active on Iwaizumi, on Oikawa it raises her blood pressure in a whole different way.

“Assured victory in love, perhaps?” Mattsun teases, tugging once more on her hair before distancing himself.

He trips over a tree root on his way back.

Instant karma. Nice.

Iwa's looking at her. And not just a regular look. Not even one of his teasing looks. He's Looking, with a capital 'L'. She hopes the scarlet stain across her cheeks can be attributed to the weather, but if the predatory tilt of his head is anything to go by It Is Not.

“Shut up,” she says, very maturely, and stomps forward to walk at the front.

Someone whistles playfully as she passes, which doesn't help the blush.

(That is exactly what she's going to wish for, which makes it all the more embarrassing. She just needs a little courage. A little push. She promised herself she'd confess this year, but man is she terrified of what will come from it—or not come from it, as the case may be. Still, they've been dancing around each other for years and she knows there's something there. She just doesn't know if he wants it.

If he wants her.)

There's heat at her shoulder and breath on her cheek, knuckles dragging against her own where they swing at her side. “You don't need a shrine for that.”

She takes a peek at him, knocks their hands together a little harder. He laughs and slips his palm into hers. It's clammy and honestly a little gross, but in that moment it's the best thing she's ever felt.

“Promise?” She whispers, just for him.

“Promise.” Iwa squeezes her hand. Sun dapples over his forehead, and his smile is spring-soft. The tough shell around him gapes open, if only for a moment. “I'll be waiting, when you're ready.”

She's young, she's in love, and everything is perfect.

(If you ignore the influx of kissy noises from behind them, and Oikawa's shrill whines.)

[mysticstronomy]

METHUSELAH STAR IS THE OLDEST STAR IN OUR UNIVERSE??"

Blog#357

Wednesday, December 13th, 2023

Welcome back,

The vast majority of astronomers accept the Big Bang — the theory that the Universe began about 13.8 billion years ago in a fiery cataclysm. However, this idea is not accepted by everyone. Some Big Bang skeptics claim that the Universe is about 6,000 years old, while others claim that the Universe is eternal. Despite their disagreement with each other, they both agree that the theory of the Big Bang is wrong, and one observation they point to is the existence of stars with an estimated age that is older than the Universe itself. If such a star existed, indeed, it would be a death knell for the Big Bang.

HD 140283, more colorfully called the “Methuselah Star,” is most certainly old and is generally accepted to be one of the oldest known stars. A paper published in 2013 estimated its age to be 14.45 billion years old, with an uncertainty of ±0.8 billion years. This is older than the most precise estimate that we have for the age of the Universe, 13.797 ± 0.023 billion years.

While the Methuselah Star is not unique (meaning that there are other stars that are similarly old), it is the oldest star for which the quoted uncertainty is relatively low, and thus it is considered by those individuals who disbelieve the Big Bang as supplying the strongest case against the theory.

Astronomers believe that HD 140283 is old because the star has a very low “metallicity.” Metallicity, for astronomers, is a measure of the percentage of the chemical makeup of a star consisting of elements other than hydrogen and helium.

When the cosmos began, the Universe consisted nearly entirely of hydrogen (75%) and helium (25%), with a tiny trace of heavier elements (~0.01%). (Those percentages reflect the mass content; when simply counting atoms, hydrogen was 92% and helium 8%.) This also was the elemental composition of the earliest stars, which formed perhaps as early as 100 million years after the Big Bang. These stars, which astronomers call Population III stars, were much heavier and brighter than the Sun, and in their hearts, stellar fusion cooked the first types of heavier elements.

Population III stars lived only a few million years before exploding in supernovae, which blasted their heavier elements across the cosmos.

The heavy elements mixed with hydrogen and helium gas, forming Population II stars, and the process repeated itself again, with these later supernovae adding even heavier elements to the cosmos. The result was Population I stars, which have a relatively high composition of heavier elements. Our Sun is a Population I star.

However, the Methuselah Star is a Population II star: a cosmic relic from the very birth of the Universe. It has far less oxygen and iron than, for example, our Sun. Astronomers use a combination of a measurement of the brightness of the star, the observed percentages of non-hydrogen and non-helium elements, and sophisticated models of stellar evolution to determine the star’s age. And, as mentioned previously, in 2013, astronomers estimated an age older than the Universe. So, is this a real problem? Is HD 140283 a death knell for the Big Bang?

Originally published on https://bigthink.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, December 16th, 2023)

"WHAT'S A DARK STAR??"

[palfriendpatine66]

Making of Monday - Nursing home au edition

Posting what was the first scene of my big bang fic, Say Anything, after I made the call to edit it out. I feel this scene is mostly background info that I had to get set in my mind before I could jump into the story, but we don’t necessarily need while reading. I have a hard time bidding goodbye to these kinds of details, but I think it will be a stronger opening for it.

Cw: aging angst

Heavy. 

Impossibly heavy.

Slowly rising from the murky waters of a medicated sleep, Obi-Wan isn’t quite able to break through the surface and into the clear air of consciousness. His eyelids twitch but remain closed, his body weighted down and dragging him back under. Just as he decides not to fight it, to surrender and spend the day adrift in the peace of the liminal space in which he finds himself floating, it lets up. 

The first rays of light are blinding, too intense, and he squeezes his eyes shut and furrows his brow against the unwelcome intrusion. He reaches full consciousness and becomes aware of his body just in time to wish he hadn’t. He feels terrible, more than the average my bones feel every day of my age sort of terrible that he's come to expect. At some point the body just decides it has had enough, and he’d crossed that point years before. 

“Nuh-uh: I saw that,” a familiar voice teases from somewhere nearby. “You won’t be fooling anyone today. After we change your bandage you can eat in the dining room just like everyone else.” 

Obi-Wan finally makes some progress in his fight against the cursed brightness. The room comes into focus once his hand instinctively feels along a bedside table until his fingers wrap around a pair of thick rimmed glasses and slides them into place. 

“Perhaps I’ll starve to death," he suggests dryly. "Save you the trouble.”

The nurse by his side is one of his favorites, Ahsoka, and this fact alone considerably improves his outlook for the day. He had recognized her voice but seeing her kind eyes, and the not altogether surprising addition of nearly fluorescent streaks of blue in the hair that frames her easy smile, is a welcome comfort. 

Young and determined, Ahsoka is still filled with the desire to make a difference. Not yet burnt out by years of burdens that come with the job or else the bitterness of being bound by uncaring constraints of budgets and bureaucracy, she is a breath of fresh air in what can be, at times, a stale atmosphere. Fierce and kindhearted and terribly clever, she reminds Obi-Wan of the daughter he had once imagined he might have. It had been a daydream fated to remain just that, but he thinks she would have turned out a lot like Nurse Tano, attitude and all. 

"Don’t go getting any ideas; do you have any idea how much paperwork that would leave me with?” She arches an eyebrow as she bustles about, preparing her supplies. “Besides, it was just a slip and fall; you didn’t even break a hip. There’s life in you yet, old man.” 

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan can’t help but scoff at her irreverence. “Just look at me. Practically a spring chicken.” 

It had been a slip and fall that had brought him into assisted living to begin with, and continues to serve as an unwanted reminder that he is the frail remainder of the man he used to be, his adventurous spirit now a relic of a bygone age. He doesn’t need to push a motorcycle to its limit or free climb towering cliffs when he craves a taste of danger to get the adrenaline pumping these days; hazards like slick surfaces and uneven flooring are as plentiful as they are potentially fatal.   

The beginning of the end had arrived while exiting an otherwise unremarkable shower that wouldn’t have stood out from any of the rest he’d taken over the course of his life had he not lost his balance and fallen. When he had eventually come to, awkwardly splayed across the cold tile, he’d been unable to move beyond the effort it took to reach the corner of his towel with his outstretched fingertips and drape it over himself to preserve the one lingering shred of dignity he had left. 

There was no telling how long he would have stayed there if fate hadn’t been on his side - in the form of a leaky sink, which never did get fixed. The plumber had arrived as scheduled first thing the next morning to find his client laid out on the bathroom floor, weak and clearly in a great deal of pain. He didn’t quite get to the job he’d been hired for. Obi-Wan called out, “would you be a good chap and call me an ambulance? The phone is in the kitchen, thank you,” as if the plumber hadn’t already pulled out his iPhone and dialed 911. 

After a surgery to repair the hip that hadn’t managed to heal quite right and broken ribs that had slowly and painfully stitched themselves together, an ornery Obi-Wan had turned even more oppositional when he’d been visited by the hospital social workers. With shrugs that said this is for the best they’d insisted he was unable to return home without someone there to look after him. He’d angrily defended his right to live alone and do whatever the damn hell he pleased with his days, even if that included an amount of whisky that was slowly pickling his liver (not that he added that particular detail or any other that might provide further fuel to their arguments). But eventually he’d changed his tune when he was told - threatened, really, if you asked him - that if he refused his case would be brought to the courts and a judge would determine whether his aging mind was fit to make his own decisions at all. 

He had known he was backed into a corner and had reluctantly raised a white flag of surrender. He’d been convinced it would be better for him to go willingly, to permanently move into an assisted living facility after the short period required to rehab his hip, and maintain his autonomy to make other decisions for himself. 

His house remained as it was, leaky sink and all, a monument paying homage to his past life. His in name but not in practice, it was a problem to be dealt with by someone else at another time. 

When he’d recovered enough strength to walk with a cane he’d returned one last time to collect his effects. His home was filled with artwork and trinkets and more books than most would read in a lifetime; all the things he had gathered throughout the years that, taken together, told the story of his life. But he couldn’t take it all with him and when he considered what he needed the answer wasn’t much. The necessities all fit into one suitcase but once he’d thought on it he’d filled a second with what might be nice to have as well. 

Those things and the memories they carried were what made his bland apartment, a level one-bedroom with things like handrails and non-slip mats and emergency pull cords, bearable. But having an echo of himself and the life he’d lived along its neutral walls didn’t automatically make the place to live a home. He’d begrudgingly seen the wisdom of the move shortly after his first heart attack, and made more of an effort to lay down some roots, to connect with the other residents and staff. It still wasn’t what he would have chosen for himself, but it helped. 

“Oh, don’t put yourself down," Ahsoka chides as she effeciently tends to whatever injuries lay beneath his bandages — Obi-Wan can't see and decides he doesn't feel the need to exert the effort to look. "I’ve seen the way the knitting circle all giggle like school girls when you enter a room.” 

“Yes, well, slim pickings and all that,” he rolls his eyes and decides he must be pulling through. Surely sarcasm will be one of the first faculties to go? “It’s hard not to outshine the meager competition.” 

“Yeah, you still have your hair,” Ahsoka nods in agreement as she gently unwinds the bandages holding him back together after his nearly fatal run in with his dangerous arch nemesis: the shower. 

“And teeth.” 

They both laugh at that, although there isn’t all that much humor in the simple fact that vegetables served in the dining room are frequently steamed to the point of liquidation. Some might call Obi-Wan vain, and maybe he is, but it’s a point of pride that after having lost so many things over the course of his life that his smile isn’t one of them. 

“What if I told you I have insider intel? Would corn on the cob be enough for you to show your face in the dining room and let everyone see for themselves you made it? Come on,” she needles, leaning into his side, sensing victory, “dispelling the death rumors, sinking your teeth into a fresh, firm vegetable, and getting ahead of the oncoming shame induced solitude? This sounds like a win/win/win to me.”

And to think he’d been inwardly praising her. Ahsoka’s bedside banter is probably, according to both nursing school textbooks and official policies, terribly unprofessional. And yet, seeing as how she’s one of the few who makes him feel like an autonomous adult rather than an errant toddler, in Obi-Wan’s opinion, it’s the very best.

[tfp-enthusiast]

Tiny!Transformers Ratchet

[Saw this a few months ago some where, i sadly don't know where anymore, and the idea came back to me so i decided to make this.]

[I will make other bots too and if you want some scenarios etc.]

It started of as an normal sunday, you and the other kids had a sleepover at the base, in disguise of a sleepover at your place so their parents wouldn't be suspicious about it, and where still a little tired.

Raf just got up and was just reading something while eating breakfast and Jack was still sleeping.

Bulkhead and Arcee where on a mission to possibly find a new relic and Miko was allowed to go with them.

You where just vibing in the medbay and slowly waking up but you still wanted to help Ratchet.

It only got a little more hectic when Miko was back and started to be loud, nothing new about that tbh.

"Hey Ratchet! Look what we found in some old mine! It looks like a music box!"

You could hear Ratchet sigh out of frustration at Miko's nonstop talking but he didn't say anything yet.

Arcee gave Ratchet the relic and to be honest if you didn't know better you too would think that it was a speaker that they used on festival's and concerts.

You heard Jack groan, Miko probably woke him up, and Arcee chuckle before walking towards him and having a small chat.

"What do you think is this Ratch'?

"I'm not sure yet, Y/n, but i will try to find it out by getting a look inside"

You examined it from where you sat, a hammock that was way to big for you that was hangig between the monitors, and the more you looked at it the more it looked like some sort of gun out of your eyes.

It was relatively blocky but it had some sort of trigger and there where also many buttons on the seemingly back.

Both you and Ratchet flinched when you heard Miko's guitar sounds trough the base.

The relic fell down because Ratchet's arm moved a little to fast and it landed with a loud bang on the floor.

Ratchet was about to say something, chances are high he was about to scold Miko, but the relic suddenly made a whirring sound and the room was filled with a white flash for a minute or so.

When you could see again you couldn't see Ratchet, you looked around but still saw the others.

You jumped down onto where the relic stood a few moments ago and looked down to see the relic with a few cracks and some sparks coming out of it.

You also saw something on the floor, you quickly got down but it seems like Bulkhead and Miko where faster than you.

"Ratchet got shrunk down! Awww you look kind of cute like that-"

"Miko don't you dare think about it!"

When you where on the floor you saw it clearly: Ratchet, a very grumpy Ratchet, he couldn't be taller than 40 inches.

Miko was about to pick him up but you could stop her from doing so by stepping in front of her.

She let out an audible groan and pouted at you for ruining her fun.

While you where busy protecting Ratchet from a touchy Miko where Optimus and Bumblebee back from a scouting mission.

"What happened here?"

"We don't know to be honest.."

Bulkhead got Miko to sit on his shoulder after some time, which both you and Ratchet where thankful for, and you helped Ratchet onto the small human area so Optimus could see him and talk with him.

"What are we gonna do now?"

"I am not sure, we will try to repair the relic and turn Ratchet back to his original size but we don't know what to do until then."

"It was already hard to not step on you kids but Ratchet now? It seems impossible.."

There was a short moment of silence before Optimus had an idea.

"Could anyone of you four help us with Ratchet? Your size would make it a lot easier."

You looked at each other and there was a moment of awkward silence before Jack spoke.

"I'm not so sure how i could explain that to my mom Optimus.. I mean i would love to help but i don't think i can."

"I'm afraid that i can't too. Tomorrow is a holiday and my family is having a small trip, i can't really bring him there."

You could see Miko grin and it seems like Ratchet saw it too because you saw a worried look in his eye.

You didn't have anything to do tomorrow, your parents would only be there in the morning, go to work and back in the late afternoon to go to sleep.

"I could. I have nothing to do tomorrow and my parents wouldn't even be at home to see Ratchet."

"I have nothing to do tomorrow too! We could both watch over him, my host parents wouldn't even question why he is there."

You believed that, Miko told you sometimes about her home here and in Japan, and from what you heard she did you could understand why her host parents where a little scared of her, you would be too.

"I take Y/n's offer."

It was clear that he would choose you, you where his charge and you where sure he was horrified of going with Miko, and you had a feeling that Miko knew it too.

That didn't stop her from pouting but she begrudgingly accepted it.

You stayed for a hour or so before all had to go home, you didn't have to considering it wasn't even 3 pm and your parents wouldn't be home in a few hours but you decided that it would help everyone on the base if Ratchet was away for a short time.

He probably doesn't even know it but he was pressuring everyone around him about turning him back.

You got driven back by Optimus because there was no one else that could.

"Thanks for the drive Optimus. Just text me or call me when you repaired the relic."

"Of course, i wish you a good night Y/n and i promise you Ratchet, we will find a way to turn you back."

"I sure hope so, goodbye Optimus."

You had to take an elevator to your apartment, because you wouldn't be walking into the 21th floor with him in your backpack.

You opened the backpack once you where inside the elevator to look if he was okay, thankfully no one took the elevator that moment, and he just looked around confused.

"Is this your 'home'?"

You had to laugh at his comment but soon you stopped when you reached your floor.

"No, that's my home, over there."

You gave Ratchet a small tour of your home, it wasn't big or luxurious but it was enough for you.

The only room you didn't show him was your parents bedroom, obviously, and your room because you where a little embarrassed about showing it to him.

You where in the kitchen while Ratchet was looking at your living room, the kitchen has an open wall that lead into the living room, and you made yourself a sandwich and took some juice out of the fridge.

"Y/n what room is that? I don't recall that you told me what room that is."

"Oh? That's my room, nothing wild."

"I would like to see it."

It would have happened sooner or later, you just nodded and told him that when you finished eating you will go to your room.

You looked at the clock really quick to see that it was almost 5 pm now, your parents would be home soon.

You stoop up and Ratchet followed suit, it seems like he was really curious about your room.

"Here it is, don't expect too much please."

You let Ratchet in your room and closed it behind him so that if your parents come home they wouldn't see him.

Ratchet went straight for your TV that was on the opposite of your bed while you just took the remote and sat down on your bed.

"What is this?"

Ratchet held a CD in his hand from your favorite game.

"Just a game of mine, do you want to play it?"

Ratchet shook his head and you just shrugged before putting on a random movie to watch with him.

You patted the space beside you so he would sit down next to you.

Ratchet just let out an 'annoyed' sigh and sat down next to you.

By the end of the movie you where barely awake and Ratchet told you to just lay down so you won't fall over and hurt yourself.

So you did, but in your groggy state you didn't seem to think and hugged Ratchet from behind and went under the covers.

He just grumbled while the next movie came on and decided that you won't even remember it and that it is actually comfortable like this.

You did remember and when you where alone you would sometimes tease him about being the perfect teddy bear.

The next day you got an text from Optimus that the relic is repaired and that he will be waiting for you in the next parking lot.

You where kinda say about it but you knew that the base would sink into chaos without the medic.

It was still one of the best day's in your life and for Ratchet it was a good way to make him relax a day.

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

what would happen if Ashley ended up in gotham, DC universe ?

You. You are my favorite person of the day.

Honestly, DC is so big and extensive, that I'm going to limit this to Gotham for the sake of my mental sanity. Unlike Tim Drake, I do have a caffeine limit that no number of red strings and corkboards can alter.

Just for fun, Ashlyn won't know anything beyond a casual viewer. No OP knowledge here.

How she's here is anyone's guess, some dimensional mishmashary thinning the lines between universes, some ancient relic that a villain didn't quite know what it was for before they used it, or maybe Constantine finally pushed the line too far. Maybe it was a combination of all the above.

Either way, Ashlyn's here now :)

It's quite the discombobulating experience, stumbling out of a snow-capped forest only to find yourself in the middle of a city that looks like the child of Chicago and New York going through a goth phase.

Eventually, she finds herself at a storefront. The window display has attracted a small crowd of people, as she can just make out the tell-tale glow of digital lights peaking out between silhouettes. Slipping through, Ashlyn weaves her way to the front and is met by a display of several TVs hidden behind bulletproof glass.

GOTHAM CITY NEWS! Seven heads were recently dropped off at the Gotham City Police Department. Who is this killer and what will their theme be? Breaking News: The Joker is at large, still no leads on how he escaped Arkham Asylum again. Please report suspicious clown activity, and keep gas masks on your person at all times. Join us later at 5 for-

Ashlyn bangs her head on the bullet-proof glass for a minute. A few people walk by a tiny bit faster, but for the most part, Gothamites continue on with their days.

It's the cold that gets her moving, no sense in freezing to death.

Honestly, Ashlyn fits into Gotham pretty well. Sketchy people are rather common, so her lacking any proper ID is overlooked and getting some fakes is stupidly easy. Her nonchalance towards the violence and slight PTSD over weirdly specific situations isn't uncommon either. Ashlyn gets mistaken as a Gotham native regularly, and quiet a few people are shocked when her accent doesn't match what her behavior presents.

Of course, the blending in doesn't last for long.

It starts with her neighbor. He's disturbingly quiet. Which would be fine if his apartment did stink of blood and guns and the walls weren't thin enough that she could hear every scream in the odd hours of the morning.

Ashlyn never sees him, not particularly surprising given the type of people this derelict building attracts. She's not judging, she's here too, but it just wouldn't be surprising if the pookie-bear next door is a snitch on the run. Or a serial killer.

She starts leaving cookies outside the door after the really loud days. It's a neighborly thing to do. She's not soft.

The world feels a little brighter when some bread is left outside hers.

... Dang it. She's going soft.

Que this weird shuffling of baked goods that gradually graduate to small meals being left out. It's the battle of returning the Tupperware and neither is going to return it empty.

Oddly enough, she doesn't see her neighbor's face during these exchanges. No, that update comes when she's reading out on her crummy balcony (it's late, the power has been cut again, so it's just her, a ratty book, and a circle of candles) and she looks up to see some dork pulling themselves up to her neighbor's side.

A book projectile later, a quick convo to straighten out the details, and a returned (blessedly indented) book later, all is well and silent. They are never going to mention this event again... other than giving the side eye and sometimes crawling over to help with medical emergencies she doesn't mention it. At all.

Ashlyn Moore can keep a secret. That's what initially flags Jason Todd's attention.

Of course, the entire Batfam gets pulled in after videos of the same woman surface. Ashlyn is gaining a viral reputation, smack-talking the Joker and pointing out that his goons were patsies in his bank heist, asking Poison Ivy for tips for her herb garden, joining Harley in psychoanalyzing commentary on a hostage situation, and always being weirdly calm yet feral civilian witness.

As a fun "training" attempt, bets are placed on who this strange, Gotham but not Gotham person is. By the end of it, Drake does have a red string board and it's covered in drawn-out question marks. Nightwings gets heart palpitations every time he rescues this girl and she is like "Eh, not my first zombie attack, he's less than a story tall the wimp," or "Hurt? Yeah I'm pretty sure I've got compression fractures on ribs 7 through 9. Maybe a sprained wrist... oh and a laceration on my calf, but I can hobble run so I'm fine!" or "that's a very sad clown, I've seen a spider with a scarier smile. It glowed. Literally glowed from all that acid."

The situation is not improved when Constantine shows up panicking because some dimensional entity is here but hasn't done anything, so when it does something it's not going to be good.

It gets even worse when she accidentally calls Red Hood "Jason."

[tarisilmarwen]

Are you still doing the Kick in the Pants Game?

If so, I'd love to ask for/hear more about "Relics" or "Kindred Lights".

I've been itching to get back to my strengths (whump and hurt/comfort) so I opened up the "Relics" doc and immediately wrote the scene where Ezra gets hurt. Go figure.

"A pity," Thrawn mused. "I had hoped, in the spirit of mutual curiosity and our shared appreciation for art, that you might be more cooperative, Lieutenent Wren." There was something vaguely unsettling in his bearing as he spoke, and Sabine felt a twinge of nervous anxiety as the man casually slid his sidearm from his hip holster. He studied the blaster in his hands a moment, gaze impassive. "But now I see that you require some… additional incentive," he said, ominously. He half-turned, leveling his arm perfectly straight and firing a shot. BANG! To her left, Ezra stiffened and gave a jerking shudder as the bolt tore through his stomach. He made a hitched little sound of shock and pain, eyes wide. "No!" Sabine shrieked in horror and outrage, surging forward. The troopers held her back, armored arms tight around hers as she scrabbled and scratched and kicked, trying to get to him. Ezra staggered, curling in towards his middle, where Sabine could now see a spot of red growing. "Bastard!" she screamed at Thrawn.

😈

Kick in the pants ask game