#Excavation Practices

[shreetmtbars]

Excavation is a fundamental step in construction, laying the groundwork for a stable and secure structure. This blog delves into the importance of excavation, the techniques involved, and its impact on overall construction quality. Learn how proper excavation practices ensure the longevity and safety of buildings. Visit ShreeTMT to explore more about the role of excavation in construction.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

1,300-Year-Old Blue-Eyed Mummy Discovered in Peru

Archaeologists excavating the ancient Huaca Pucllana site in Lima, Peru, have unearthed a 1,300-year-old female mummy with striking blue 'eyes' embedded in a funerary mask.

The mask is considered the most remarkable find within the pyramid and was discovered beside the remains of two adults and a child — possibly sacrificial offerings for the burial of a high-status individual.

The woman, believed to be of aristocratic origin, was found seated on her knees and surrounded by ceramic vessels and baskets adorned with intricate textiles.

Experts suggest the discovery could offer new insights into the burial traditions and societal practices of the Wari culture, an ancient civilization that predated the Inca Empire.

[rubythecrimsonwriter]

As someone who has lived in the south where the water trough is anywhere from mildly annoying to actively terrifying, who has lived on a fairly decently sized island where it is indeed absolutely terrifying to be cut off from the mainland suddenly with little to no help from the government for an extended period of time--

After No Man's Land and all the issues that arose then, I'd like to propose the new way of interring their dead would be mausoleums. Possibly especially with Gotham canonically existing on a system of caves. An island made of caves on the East Coast that gets battered by hurricanes almost every year is just asking to get sunk a la Atlantis but its fucking Gotham and i think the Gothamites would raise it from the sea floor again out of sheer spite.

But with mausoleums you:

Dont have your son crawling six feet through packed dirt after inexplicably coming back to life

Dont have long buried coffins and corpses getting flooded/shaken/otherwise disturbed and shunted into the water system/streets/underground reservoirs (or Lazarus Pits, since there's one of those down there too, as if Gotham didn't have enough things wrong with it)

Continues the Gotham aesthetic

Have more places for various characters to have a private mental breakdown in

Have more places for various characters to find ominous warnings etched or graffiti'd on the walls

Have more places for things much older than the mausoleums have been En Vogue™ for to inexplicably appear and send shivers down the spine

The Gothamites are very firm about not really being part of the US. The US kind of looks at the South like we're really fucking strange, and the South looks at New Orleans like they've taken the South and concentrated it, carbonated it, and shook it really hard.

I want the same vibes for Gotham. This is their home. They are weird and stubborn to a fault and everything is on fire and the government is corrupt and the people aren't always good but nobody else understands. No one else ever could. Who else has seen the lights for rescue appear on the horizon only to see the light of death on the waters, ensuring no help would ever come? They are resourceful and violent and resentful but the gods won't help you if you cross one of their own.

[allthathistory]

British team from the University of Manchester has unearthed new sections of Imet, a 2,300-year-old city in Egypt’s Nile Delta. Radar scans revealed tower houses, grain stores, and a temple to Wadjet, alongside artifacts like a Horus stela and a bronze sistrum. Dating to 400–350 BCE, these finds highlight Imet’s role as a key urban and religious center during Egypt’s Late Period. The discoveries offer a glimpse into daily life and spiritual practices in the ancient Nile Delta

[itallbecameablr]

I think y'all are both right, but in different situations.

Or maybe just different points in time, depending on bad things get.

If we're talking historians 200 years from now, or just history teachers in the classroom, then I expect that <i>some</i> part of Homestuck will still be around.

Not all of it, but depending on how exactly it's archived on the internet and how the technology of tomorrow interfaces with the technology of today, then at the very least a good portion of the still images could be dug up.

That does mean that a lot of it will still be lost at some point, the gifs and music, a growing number of corrupted and unrecoverable pages...

But let's say something catastrophic happens and forces the human race to basically start over, or for some other sapient race to evolve.

Not "America Remembered", but "America Rediscovered".

At best it would be like the discovery and excavation of Ancient Rome. With enough time and neglect, even the tallest towers fall and get covered by the sands of time.

Someday our only identity will be what we've managed to leave behind.

Anything that's solely electronic will be the first to go. Servers require upkeep. So do the buildings they're kept in.

But I looked it up and Homestuck has been printed out before, and no doubt will be at least a few more times before totally leaving the public consciousness.

Apparently some types of paper will theoretically last for a few centuries.

That's probably pretty expensive paper, not something a normal comic would be printed on. But it might be something one or possibly more wealthy and eccentric fans would have their favorite comic reprinted on for that exact reason.

But again we're talking thousands of years, so even those copies would have likely mostly rotted away.

Unfortunately unless someone has etched several copies of Homestuck in granite, and maybe even then, it will eventually be fully lost.

Well... Almost everything will be if left alone too long.

It's kind of interesting to think about what we'll leave behind when there's no one left to tend to it.

I'm not totally sure how historians will explain that America ruined its own economy for no good reason by electing the "let me ruin the economy" man

I hope to live long enough to find out.

[trendynewsnow]

Excavation Reveals Ancient Christian Burial Practices in Egypt's Desert Church

Unveiling the Secrets of an Ancient Christian Church in Egypt More than a decade ago, a team of archaeologists embarked on the excavation of one of the oldest known Christian churches, nestled in the heart of a harsh Egyptian desert. This undertaking, which has faced numerous setbacks due to war, political turmoil, and the COVID-19 pandemic, has provided a fascinating glimpse into the burial…

[blueiscoool]

Ancient Roman Horse Cemetery Discovered in Germany

An ancient Roman cemetery uncovered in southern Germany has revealed more than 100 horse skeletons, shedding new light on the role of animals in ancient military life, and one burial is drawing particular attention.

Archaeologists began excavating a site in Stuttgart in the summer of 2024 ahead of a planned construction project. Stuttgart, located in southwestern Germany, is about 400 miles southwest of Berlin.

Based on earlier finds in the area, including scattered horse bones, experts expected to uncover remnants of a Roman cavalry presence. What they discovered went far beyond expectations.

The State Office for Monument Preservation at the Baden-Württemberg Regional Council announced on April 16 that a vast Roman graveyard had been unearthed.

Dating back around 1,800 years, the cemetery contained over 100 horse skeletons, making it one of the largest known Roman military horse burial sites in the region.

Graveyard linked to a Roman cavalry unit

Archaeologists believe the horses belonged to a Roman cavalry unit stationed in the area during the second century A.D.

Historical records suggest the unit had about 500 riders, which would have required a herd of at least 700 horses to support daily operations, travel, and military campaigns.

Most of the horses appeared to have died from natural causes, injury, or illness. There were no signs of a mass death event, such as battle or disease, said Sarah Roth, the site’s lead archaeologist. The burials were generally simple, with no special markings or artifacts.

One burial reflects a personal connection

A single horse was found buried with two ceramic jugs and an oil lamp placed near its leg – items commonly associated with human graves in Roman culture.

Roth said the burial appeared to mimic that of a person and pointed to a strong emotional bond between the animal and its owner. “Even after around 1800 years, the mourning over the death of this one animal is still evident,” she explained in the statement.

The human skeleton raises social questions

The team also uncovered a lone human skeleton at the edge of the site. Officials believe the individual may have been an outsider, excluded from formal Roman burial grounds.

The contrast between the simple human grave and the symbolically rich horse burial has raised new questions about the social values of the time.

Further research planned as site closes

Although excavations at the site are now complete, researchers believe the cemetery may be larger than currently documented.

Further analysis of the remains is underway to better understand the Roman military’s dependence on horses and the cultural practices surrounding their care and burial.

By Nisha Zahid.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Elongated Skulls

In 1928, a Peruvian archaeologist made a remarkable discovery on the south coast of Peru, in the Paracas Desert Peninsula.

The excavation unearthed a number of elongated skulls, which quickly captured the attention of researchers and sparked debates about their origins and significance.

These skulls, unlike typical human skulls, had been intentionally altered, leading to theories about ancient cultural practices in the region.

The elongated shape of the skulls was the result of a practice known as cranial deformation, which was common among certain ancient cultures.

In the case of the Paracas people, it is believed that they used tight head bindings during infancy to shape the skulls, a process that was likely done for reasons related to status, ritual, or aesthetics.

The discovery raised questions about the social and cultural norms of the Paracas civilization, which thrived in the region long before the Inca Empire.

The Paracas skulls continue to be a subject of fascination and study.

While cranial deformation is now understood as a cultural practice, some still speculate about the origins and significance of these elongated skulls, fueling a sense of mystery about the ancient peoples who once lived on the Paracas Desert Peninsula.

The discovery in 1928 remains an intriguing glimpse into the complex and unique traditions of ancient Peru.

[rhaenyratargcryen]

you're my shotgun lover and i want it all | tyler owens (twisters)

masterlist ❈

summary: Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells. author's note: i...wrote this...in one.......single......afternoon. my fingers hurt anyway he's so hot i have had a crush on glen powell since 2018 (set it up supremacy) but this movie reawakened something in me. i should probably watch top gun now

pairing: tyler owens x f!reader word count: 9,123 (...oopsie) warnings/tags: pWp (with, y'all!), alternate universe: canon divergence, friends to lovers, friends with benefits

also cross-posted to ao3 okay love you bye xoxo your comments and reblogs are appreciated but not required i will love you all the same i hope u like !!!! <3

all characters are 18+ these are 18+ activities minors pls do not interact my eye is twitching as i write this 

It has been one hell of a week.

The tornadic activity has been off the charts – more storms built up under ideal conditions for weather hell-bent on destruction in a multiple-day stretch than you can remember ever tracking before. Your team had obviously been up for the chase, but now that the storms have passed, and the sun shines on the cleanup efforts, you can’t help but wish you’d chosen a different life path. You love what you do, but God, were you tired. Blisters have formed on the palms of your hands despite the gloves you’d donned. You could practically feel the knots forming in your neck. You shovel one more load of leaf litter before heaving the blade into the ground and leaning against it. Across from you, a backhoe is demolishing and excavating the remains of a house.

You close your eyes and try to just let the sun warm your face, thinking about how fast it can all just be gone. Mother Nature’s a beautiful force, but she can be cruel.

“Hey, don’t be slowin’ down on me,” Tyler jokes, clapping a hand between your shoulder blades. You hadn’t heard him approach, and his voice has startled you, pulling you from your thoughts. “We’re ‘bout halfway done with our part, I think.”

“No,” you reply, swiping the back of your arm across your forehead, trying in vain to clear your bangs from your eyes, but they won’t budge. Tyler reaches up and, almost as if he isn’t even thinking about it, takes the unruly pieces of hair between his thumb and forefinger and tucks it behind your ear, underneath the temple of your sunglasses, to make sure it stays this time. The action is so intimate it sends a flush crawling up your neck. You chance a look around to make sure no one else has seen. “Not slowin’ down, I promise. Just thinking about how lucky we are to be alive. How sad it is that all these people just lost everything.”

You’ve known Tyler since the two of you were in college together, fast friends who’d stuck together through a lot that could've put a strain on any other relationship, although you hadn’t studied meteorology – you’d been in school to be a librarian. 

One night, he’d asked you to stay up and help him with a lab he’d missed for one of his classes, and he loves to say he knew it then – that you were hooked – but you were too far along in your degree to do anything about it now. Switching from an arts degree to one in STEM? You’d have had to start over from scratch. 

Tyler had formed his team while you were in grad school and he was working as a cowboy for the rodeo back home, and you’d dropped out without a second thought when he asked you to be a founding member, to travel the country with him every tornado season. Said he wouldn’t – couldn’t – think about doing it without you. You’ve been riding with him ever since.

The two of you share everything, always have, and sometimes you wonder if it might be too much for the professional relationship you’re supposed to have.

“That’s what we’re here for,” Tyler grins, the hand still glued to your back rubbing gently, sending goosebumps across your skin under your shirt. “To help ‘em feel like their luck is turnin’.”

Always the optimist, Tyler Owens. He clears his throat, the hand on your back pulling away, and steps slightly closer to you.

“One of the folks over there gave these to me,” he says, gesturing to a group of people gathering in front of a house that looks like something had tried to suck it into the ground from dead center. “I saved their cat from their screened-in porch, poor thing had been yowling all night apparently. Know these’re your favorite, so, here you go. I think you earned it.”

You take the tin from him and open it, your mouth instantly watering at the sight of the small, round butter cookies inside. “God,” you groan, picking one up and taking a bite, savoring it over your tongue. You can feel Tyler watching you carefully. “Thank you. You get me.”

“Do we get cookies, Tyler?”

Lily’s voice sounds from your left, and you glance over at her. The shit-eating look on her face tells you she did see Tyler fix your hair for you. Your stomach somersaults.

“If you’re good,” Tyler says, smirking, “after the sun sets, we can head back to the motel, find some shitty bar, and drinks’ll be on me, okay? How’s that sound?”

Lily whoops, turning to Dani, who’d since appeared beside her, and the two snicker and fist bump. 

“You need any help over here?”

You look back at Tyler, cupping one hand above your eyes to shield them from the sunlight. Despite your glasses, it shines bright from directly behind him, and you can hardly stand to look at him. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” you murmur in reply, bending down to toss some siding that had been blown off one of the houses on this street into the wheelbarrow you’ve been using. “You should go see what Boone’s up to – I don’t think anyone has seen him in a minute.”

No doubt Boone was hiding somewhere with one of the breakfast burritos Lily and Dani have been rolling since early that morning, seeing how long he can get away with not doing his part. He’s a good guy, but the manual labor side of the job isn’t really his thing.

“Eh, he’s better off wherever he is,” Tyler laughs, and a small smile takes over your face, too. “Hey, you sure you’re okay? You don’t need a break? You can take a minute to yourself, no one’ll judge. I know how this can all get to you a little more than it gets to everyone else.”

You know him well enough to know he’s not calling you weak-stomached, that he’s genuinely concerned for how you feel, but he’s right. It does all get to you. Settling in to help survivors of these natural disasters is just something that comes with the chasing – there isn’t one without the other for you and the rest of the crew. You nod, glancing back up at him. 

“I’m okay, Tyler. Go off and be the face of the operation – you don’t have to worry about me.”

Tyler’s eyes narrow, his gaze shifting between your eyes, trying to find evidence you’re withholding the truth from him, but he seems to find nothing. With a minute tip of his head, he turns to resume working through a long-term plan for rebuilding the town with the mayor and some other members of the local government. 

This is something else you know he loves to do – shmooze with higher-ups, show off his people skills. Not only are they higher-ups, they’re small-town folk. His kind of people. He knows how to get through to them, how to get them to trust him. You love that about Tyler. He’s never condescending – he always has a genuine desire to help. He’s been through this hundreds of times, and these people may only have been through it this one time. You look around at them, at the people of all ages picking up the pieces that remain of their community, then cross your fingers and send a thought out to anyone listening:

Please let it be the only time.

After a few more hours of genuinely back-breaking work, you hear Tyler’s sharp whistle and know it’s time, meandering over to his truck where it’s been parked for almost eighteen hours. Using your teeth, you pull your gloves from your hands and hiss. They’ve been rubbed raw, the skin blistering where each finger meets the palm. You try to ignore the throbbing sensation, leaning against the passenger side door and closing your eyes. The rest of the crew sidle up to you, taking long drags from water bottles and cigarettes and trying to make peace with how you’re leaving this place tonight.

“Does anyone else want to break off to shower first?”

It seems Dani’s the only one, and they shrug, putting their hand out, palm up, to Dexter, who hands them the keys to the RV.

“Meet y’all there,” they say, stifling a yawn, and you know it’ll be a bit before you see them. The rest of you will have to pile into Tyler’s truck, and before you can object, the other three crawl into the back seat and leave you on the front bench with Tyler. You let yourself in and close the door behind you, buckling and watching as Tyler shakes someone’s hand and hustles to meet the rest of you. His Texans cap hits the bench before he does, between the two of you, and he turns his keys in the ignition, buckling his own seatbelt.

“Where we headin’?”

“There’s a place with a mechanical bull nearby. I vote there.”

“How nearby is ‘nearby,’ Boone?”

“Uh,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, does a quick Google to double-check. “Forty-five minutes?”

Dexter leans over and grips Boone’s phone, reading the screen. “In the opposite direction of the motel, Boone.”

Everyone groans, objecting, and you press your hand against your temple to alleviate the pressure there. The noise, God, the noise.

“Could we go somewhere closer to the motel, maybe?”

“It’s got a mechanical bull,” Boone stresses, and everyone rolls their eyes.

“Boone, you know damn well we’re not making it back to the motel if we go that far away.”

He groans, and you pull your own phone out, checking Maps to see what’s around the motel.

“This one’s three minutes from where we’re stayin’,” you say, showing Tyler your screen, and he nods, shifting into reverse, backing out, and starting down the one lane of the street that’s been cleared of debris. 

“Hey Boone,” you toss over your shoulder as Tyler shifts into second gear. “By the way. Long time no see.”

Lily snorts, smacking you on the shoulder to let you know she thought that was a good one. Boone shakes his head. 

“Hey, just because you didn’t see me all day doesn’t mean I wasn’t out there, too. How do I know you were workin���, weren’t sitting on your ass in the shade somewhere, hm?”

You hold your raw, red palms out for him to inspect and that shuts Boone up quick. Tyler whistles as he gets an eyeful of your skin.

“God damn, girl,” Lily murmurs. “That looks like it hurts. I think I might have Aquaphor in my bag back at the motel if you want some.”

“I’ll be alright,” you reply, knocking your elbow against her knee behind you in thanks. “Appreciate you.”

The rest of the drive is taken mostly in silence, everyone in the backseat trying to rest their eyes, but you stay up, your eyes on the road, so Tyler isn’t the only one making the thirty-ish minute drive back to where you’re staying, where you checked in only after it’d been decided which towns had been hit the worst, so you could reach all of them easily by truck.

“What’s goin’ on in your head? Hm?”

You turn to look at Tyler and he glances at you from out of the corner of his eye, then at your lap, at the fingernails you’ve picked down to the quick. “Real quiet over there.”

“Nothing,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t let Boone get to you,” Tyler says, tapping his right fist on your thigh once, twice, then letting it rest there. You brush your knuckles against his and he opens the fist immediately, taking your hand in his but not squeezing, careful not to put pressure on the blisters on your palms.

“It’s not that,” you start, then realize your mistake, your admission. “I really – I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”

You’re acutely aware of your hand in Tyler’s. It’s not like you’ve ever been shy around him – your cheeks flush at the thought – but this is…different. Sweet. More.

“Yeah, that it has,” he sighs, adjusting his left hand on the steering wheel so he can drive a little more comfortably, but his right hand stays in yours. 

You settle back into silence, Tyler seemingly having dropped the subject, and your eyes return to the road, but you feel him looking over at you, checking on you, every once in a while. You try your hardest not to meet his gaze. 

Soon enough, Tyler is putting the truck in park, then shutting the thing off. The noise – or lack thereof, you guess – wakes Dexter in the back, then Lily, who snorts when she sees your hand in Tyler’s. You pull away and unbuckle your seatbelt, watching as Tyler, with a hurt look on his face, wipes his hand on his jeans and swings himself down and out of the truck.

“C’mon, Boone,” he shouts, slapping a hand on the door that Boone has his head resting against, and the man sits up straight, wiping sleep from his eyes. “The sun hasn’t even gone down yet. Drinks on me, pal!”

The motel really is that close to the bar, so you all decide you’ll leave the truck parked there and walk home at the end of the night. The unspoken verdict is that you will all be getting shitfaced tonight.

The lingering smell of cigarettes in the air seems to rejuvenate everyone and Lily pumps a fist when she spots the old-fashioned jukebox across the room, then claps a hand over her mouth when she realizes there’s a TouchTunes sitting right next to it.

“Oh, I am so forcing you fuckers to listen to Chappell Roan all night,” she says gleefully, and you laugh along with her, looping your arm in hers and letting her pull you across the room while the boys settle in at the bar.

“So what was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” You play dumb, shrugging when Lily gives you a hard look and unhooks her arm from yours.

“Girl, seriously,” Lily scoffs, bumping your hip with hers and slipping a twenty dollar bill into the TouchTunes. Evidently she wasn’t joking when she meant you’d be listening to Chappell Roan all night. “I saw that thing earlier, the hair thing, don’t think I didn’t. And y’all holding hands in the truck. What’s going on there?”

You shake your head but she grabs your wrist. “I’m serious, Lil. Nothing’s going on. We’re friends – good friends. He noticed I was having a hard time today, and wanted to make sure I was alright. That’s all.”

You can tell she doesn’t fully believe you, and when she opens her mouth to object, you cut her off.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom, okay?”

Lily watches you, trying to read the small line between your eyebrows, but eventually she nods and lets go of you, letting you turn away from her. You push through the door to the women’s restroom, your nose wrinkling at the smell, but you ignore it. Standing in front of the sink, you watch yourself, hands shaking. This isn’t you. You’re better than this at shoving these feelings for Tyler down, way down – or, rather, you had been, up until this week broke you, apparently. Turning the knob for the cold water to the left, you let it run over your sore hands, hissing at the feeling. Carefully, you cup your palms and watch them fill, then splash the water onto your face, soothing the flush. There. That should help.

There’s a cold bottle of Coors in front of the seat next to Dexter when you arrive back to the group, “Red Wine Supernova” playing from the speakers. You almost snort at all the old men – regulars, no doubt – groaning out their distaste for whoever chose the music all across the room.

“Thanks,” you toss over your shoulder at Tyler, sitting on the other side of Dexter and Boone. He nods and nurses his own. You frown and settle onto the stool, leaning an elbow on the bartop so you can turn and face your friends. The cold beer against the palms of your hands feels so nice.

What’s wrong with him? He won’t make eye contact with you, and you notice his jaw clicking as he grits his teeth. What’s got his panties in a twist?

As the night unfolds, you find yourself laughing more and more, loosening up, letting the stress of the last week fade into memory. Someone has produced a deck of cards from God knows where and Dani – who did join the group eventually – is showing off card tricks you didn’t even know they knew. You feel a warmth spreading through your body, and you can’t stop thinking about how much you love all of these people. Your friends. Your family. Empty bottles are swiftly replaced with full, cold ones without notice, and everyone is languid, relaxed, unburdened by the work that you’re all doing.

You take a pull from your drink, using the cover of the bottle to risk a glance to Tyler three seats down from you to find that he’s already watching you, and the look in his eye tells you exactly what he’s thinking. That somersault-y feeling is lower than your stomach now. You’re only three beers deep, but the air in your head reminds you that you’ve barely eaten all day, so you’re a little more affected by the alcohol than you’d usually be. Impolitely, you reach across Dexter next to you to grab a handful of peanuts from the basket to his left.

Glancing back up at Tyler, you meet his heady gaze again, and he smirks around the lip of the bottle against his mouth. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you. You swallow nervously around another sip of beer.

Every once in a while, the two of you will get a little too drunk, stay until last call, sneak back to your motel room, and fuck. Nobody knows – at least you don’t think they do – and you never talk about it when you’re sober. Tyler will generally stay until you fall asleep, but he’s always gone when you get up the next day. Only once has he woken up in bed with you the next morning, and you’ve never made that mistake again. There isn’t a name for what you feel for him, you don’t think, and you can’t tell what he thinks of the arrangement. Clearly he likes it, or he wouldn’t be making eyes at you from across three people’s laps as you pull these peanuts from their shells.

“Alright, y’all,” Lily says, slapping a hand on the bar, startling you out of your thoughts. You watch her, popping a nut into your mouth. “Think I’m gonna head out. I suggest you all do, too, fuckers, it’s late.”

Everyone starts to protest, but one glance at the clock tells you you’ve all stayed much longer than you thought – it’s a quarter past midnight, and you’ve got to be up with the daylight. You balk, but if you want to talk to Tyler tonight, you know you’ve got to shoulder your exhaustion and stick it out a little longer.

“I think I might stay for a bit,” you murmur, watching everyone stand and gather their things. You glance over at Tyler, who you can see clearly now that everyone’s out of their seats, and he’s watching you, too. The look on his face reads plain, now – he wants you.

“I’ll stay with her,” he says, eyes on yours. The green in them has disappeared almost completely, you notice, his pupils blown wide. “Walk her back. Y’all head back if you want.”

“I might stay, too –” Boone’s voice cuts off, coughing as Lily elbows him in the stomach, maybe a little too hard. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re going to bed, too, Boone,” Dani interrupts, a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the door. They poke him once when he starts to protest. “C’mon, now.”

Everyone shuffles out the front, Dexter calling good night, and all of the sudden, it’s just you and Tyler. You don’t know why, but your palms begin to sweat at the thought of being alone with him again. He stands, palming his drink, and slides onto the seat next to you, his body angled towards yours.

He’s never made you nervous like this. You don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you.

“So,” Tyler starts, grinning at you. “You come here often?”

You snort, emboldened by the booze, and he chuckles in response. “Idiot.”

“God, but I do love making you laugh.”

You blush under his scrutinous gaze, and take a quick swig of the dregs of your drink, unsure what to say to that. He mirrors you, taking a sip of his own while his eyes bore into yours. Accusatory.

“You don’t do it much anymore, you know that?”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

You press your fingertips to your mouth and Tyler’s eyes follow your hand. “I guess I just haven’t had much to laugh about lately,” you start, sighing deeply. “Tornado season’s been hard this year, and you know how much that – it gets to me. As much as I love what we do. You know. Remember that family a couple weeks back whose daughter was stuck under her bunk bed when it pressed on her too long, lost her leg below the knee? That got to me, Tyler. It did.”

“It gets to me, too,” he murmurs, knocking his knee against yours. “I guess I’m just better at hiding how bad it affects me. You can talk to me about it, though. You can talk to any of us.”

“I know I can,” you breathe, trying to keep your hands from shaking. “I know. Sometimes I don’t know what to say, though, you know, what is there to say? It’s not fair to complain about how sad it makes me to watch these people lose everything.”

“You’re allowed to feel sad. And to feel frustrated. It’s not fair, you’re right, but we’re doing good work, yeah? Fighting the good fight. Figuring out what makes these things tick, how to warn people when they’re in the path, get them outta the way and safe. Maybe they lose their house, their car, but they won’t lose themselves, or each other. That’s what matters most. Just remember that.”

You look up at him, set your elbow on the bartop, and prop your chin on your open palm. Your hands don’t hurt so bad anymore, you notice. “Thanks, Tyler.”

“Anytime,” he smiles, but you shake your head. 

“Seriously. You always know what to say.”

A look crosses his face then, too quick for you to read, and he sets his drink down, flagging the bartender over to close out the team’s tab. You frown, wondering if you’d, ironically, said the wrong thing.

“What’s up?”

Tyler looks back to you, and this time, the look in his eyes is unmistakable. It burns. “Taking you home, sweetheart.”

The walk back to your motel is done in silence. Tyler’s hand swings next to yours, and you feel it searching for yours more than once, but you don’t take it. You climb the stairs together, slowly, and he walks you to your door. His room is one more floor up.

You can tell he thinks you won’t invite him in, that you’ve changed your mind – or maybe that you never made it up. He hadn’t, after all, told you plainly that that was why he’d stayed with you at the bar. You unlock the room with your key card and step inside, opening the door only far enough for you to fit through it. You turn back to look at him, his face awash in the street lights shining into the hallway. You flip the lightswitch on next to you, illuminating the room behind you, too.

“Well,” he murmurs, making to head back down the stairs. “Good night.”

“Tyler?”

His head turns back to look at you, watching as you hold out one hand and he takes it, letting you pull him closer to you. You press yourself into him, push your whole face against his chest, your hip keeping the door from closing on the two of you. You inhale deeply, the smell of him overtaking your senses. His cologne, yes, but underneath that, the smell of dirt, earth. Home.

You feel his arms wrap around your back and you turn your head to the side, press your ear to his heartbeat. Your hands come up to scratch down his back and you feel it when he shudders.

“Stay?”

You hear his breath hitch in his chest, then the deep rumble of his voice as he says, “Alright, baby.”

With a short inhale, your eyes flutter, nearly closing at the term of endearment. You step back, pulling him with you, and as you close the door behind you, he pushes one hand up into your hair and pulls your head toward his.

“I, uh,” you whisper against his lips when they get close enough to yours, “I think I might shower first, if that’s okay with you?”

“Alright,” he murmurs, unlacing his hand from the strands of your hair before toeing his boots off and carefully setting them under the chair next to the front door. “You want company?”

You swallow. You’ve never done anything like that before. It’s always been quick. When you do this with him, you hardly ever have time for a chat before he’s got your shirt over your head and his mouth on your skin.

“Sure,” you reply. You feel him watch as you turn around and pull your shirt off, reaching back to unclasp your bra. The modesty feels redundant, but you can’t help it.

“Not gettin’ shy on me now, are you? S’not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he chuckles, and you throw a look at him over your shoulder just as he’s pulling his own shirt over his head. He left his hat at the bar, you think. You’ll have to go back in for it when you pick up the truck.

“Tyler,” you scold, and he laughs at you, steps across the room to wrap an arm around your torso and press a kiss to where your neck meets your shoulder. The place he knows makes you melt. You sigh and push back against him, the feeling of his hard chest against your bare back a welcome one. This feels more like what you know, what you’re used to.

“Shower,” you remind him, and he nods, his forehead pressed into that spot now, and he pushes his fingers underneath the waistband of your jeans, running them along the bit of skin there around to the front, where the fabric splits at the button. He pops it undone, then uses his thumb and forefinger to grip the zipper and slowly – so slowly – pulls that down. He can’t help himself, you know that, and so you hold your breath and wait for him to push his hand into your panties. Ever a predictable man, he does just that, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm hand against you.

“Are you sure?” Tyler’s breath against your neck makes you shiver, and you press your ear to the side of his chin. He runs his fingers along the seam of you, finding first your clit, your legs twitching at the sudden rush of pleasure when he brushes his hand against it, then pushing down to find you wet and wanting. You cry out softly. “You don’t sound sure. You don’t feel sure.”

You hum, your neck stretching back until your head is pressed to his chest, and he pulls his hand back up to start working small circles on your clit, your wetness on his fingers allowing for smooth movement, with just enough friction to have you panting for more. 

“Sounds more to me like you kinda want me to fuck you with my fingers.”

“Tyler,” you whimper, telling him with just his name that you are getting close. He smiles against the side of your neck, pulling his hand away and shoving your jeans and underwear down just enough that his hand has room to smack your clit lightly. You squeal, right leg kicking out at the feeling, and he continues moving his hand in circles to soothe the hurt.

Your breath is coming out of you in short huffs, and before you can come, Tyler takes his hand off of you and wraps it around your stomach to join the other. You pant and whine, rubbing your thighs together to chase the feeling he’d had you practically pressed up against, now ebbing with the loss of his fingers.

“You said you wanted to shower,” he whispers in your ear, pulling your panties back up, and you scowl, pushing away from him. He laughs and holds his hands up in defense as you pick your t-shirt up off your bed and crack it at him like a whip. “Let’s shower, baby.”

“I might kick you out right now, Owens,” you snark, but the small smile on your face gives you away, and Tyler unbuttons his own jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor at the end of the bed. Your jeans join his, and you’re both left in your underwear.

“You wouldn’t,” he replies, pulling his briefs off slowly, biting his bottom lip as you watch him. “You like this cock too much.”

You can’t help laughing at him, but the sight of him bare in front of you does have you biting your lip. You step forward to cup his growing length in your hand. Before you can move it, Tyler puts a hand on your wrist.

“How’s your hand?” He makes to pull it away, presumably to turn it over and appraise your blisters, but you shake your head.

“S’fine,” you whisper, tightening your grip. You tug once, twice, and press a kiss to his bare chest, then tip your head back to search out his lips. He leans down to oblige you, his lips parting against your mouth as you twist your fist. You love these moments you share with him, when you’re both bare, physically, emotionally, away from the real world, and you can pretend this is an everyday thing. When you’re not trying to tell yourself you feel nothing for him. Like this is just how it is between you.

Tyler groans when you pull your hand away from him and you click your tongue, press that same hand against his bicep.

“Doesn’t feel so good, now does it?”

Before you even know what’s happening, Tyler is picking you up, one arm underneath your back and the other around the backs of your knees. You look up at his face and laugh. “Put me down, Owens!”

He grins and carries you the few paces into the bathroom, placing you on your feet in front of the tub. Tyler leans down and pushes his thumbs underneath the waistband of your panties, waiting for you to put your hands on his shoulders and step out of them.

He lets you pull away from him to turn the hot water on, adjusting the cold side until the temperature is perfect, before pulling you against his chest once again. This time, you can feel his hard cock pressed against your backside, and you hum appraisingly. You reach behind you to fist him again, but he shakes his head – you feel his chin brush against the top of your head – and he groans out, “Mm-mm.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna shower, baby, c’mon.”

You glance back towards him and watch as he flicks the overhead light on. “So we don’t slip and die,” he says, and you laugh, pushing the shower curtain to the side. Holding Tyler’s hand, you step over the lip of the tub and under the steady stream of warm water, inhaling deeply when it hits the sore muscles in your shoulders and back. Tyler groans at the feeling, too, when he steps in behind you.

“Here, switch with me,” he murmurs, guiding you by your waist until you’re the one underneath the water. You let it fall onto the top of your head, over your face and down the back of your hair, for a moment, eyes closed, relishing the feeling. Tyler reaches both hands up and brushes the water out of your eyes, runs his hand over the top of your head. 

“Shampoo?”

You open one eye, the other shut against the water, and nod. You gaze up at him, heart squeezing at the way he’s watching you. His smile widens and he takes the tiny bottle in his hand – it looks even more comically small now – and dumps the product into his other palm, setting the bottle down onto the edge of the tub and rubbing his hands together.

“Turn around.”

You do as he asks, inhaling sharply through your nose when you feel his hands run through the hair at the crown of your head. Your stomach aches with longing as you register how unnaturally intimate this is. His fingers feel so good against your scalp, which is slightly sunburnt, you’re now realizing. He massages the shampoo further into your hair, running his fingers down the back of your neck and across the tops of your shoulders. When he’s satisfied with his shampoo job, he steers you by your arms to face him again, then carefully helps you tilt your head back and rinses it all from your hair.

You watch him pick up the other small bottle from the shelf, warm water still running down the back of your head. 

“I’ll do my conditioner,” you murmur, taking the bottle gently from his hands. “It’s a – it’s a science.”

“I am very good at science, if you can recall.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s something I’ve gotten perfectly right. It’ll take just a sec.”

So you work the conditioner through the ends of your hair, avoiding his gaze as he watches your hands first coat your hair in the product, then rinse it out. He reaches forward to run his own fingers across it, as gently as he can.

“Hm,” he makes the noise in the back of his throat, pulling his hand away. “Soft.”

You can hardly look at him, the twisting feeling in your stomach shifting to something warmer, something further from apprehension, something that feels a lot like want. “You?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’m good. Here,” he says, rubbing his hands across the plane of your upper back. “You’re tense. You worked hard today. Let me help.”

You weren’t going to protest, but before you can, Tyler guides you forward and out of the direct spray of the shower, then presses his thumbs into your muscle. You groan, your head falling forward onto his chest at the feeling, and he chuckles at you, continuing with his hands. “Feel good?”

“So good,” you whimper, and you feel his cock twitch against your stomach.

“You fucking dog,” you joke, and Tyler laughs against you, pushing your hair off the back of your neck and pressing his thumbs in there, too.

“Hey, what can I say? I like making my girl feel good.”

You freeze. His girl? His girl. He hasn’t noticed your reaction, and he keeps pressing his fingers into your sore muscles, pulling one hand away briefly to push the showerhead down and away from the two of you. You glance up, already missing its warmth, but you find that the steam rising around you is doing a good enough job at that.

“Here, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead and guiding you to press your hands against the tiled wall to your left, running his hands down your back.

“What are you –”

Before you can finish the thought, you feel Tyler’s fingers parting the seam of your cunt from – from behind, and you groan at the feeling of his middle finger slipping inside of you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans, his knees hitting the floor behind you. You toss a glance at him over your shoulder and your own knees nearly buckle at the way he’s looking up at you – with hunger, and with reverence, and with something else entirely unrecognizable. He looks wild. He looks in love.

One of Tyler’s hands clamps down around your hips and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh as his finger starts to shift in and out of you. You shiver and push your face into the cool tile, groaning softly when he finds that rough bit of flesh inside of you, the one that makes you come undone if he works it long enough.

“Yeah?” Tyler sounds fucked out already, his voice breathy against your skin, and you can picture the look on his face, the concentrated expression he gets when he’s trying to make you come. You try to focus on the feeling of the shower’s spray where it hits the edge of your foot rather than how good his finger feels inside you because if you think too closely about how good it feels, you’ll get lightheaded. And nobody wants that.

“Yeah,” you reply weakly, and for a few minutes it’s just like that, the only sound in the bathroom the shower, your panting moans, and the noise your pussy makes as he pulls his finger in and out.

“Sound so good for me, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh again, and you whine, trying to protest when he slips his finger from you. He laughs deep in his chest and lightly smacks the swell of your ass.

“Don’t complain when I’m doin’ somethin’ nice for you,” he jok, and you can feel then that he’s shifting himself around. You want to look over your shoulder, want to see for yourself what he’s doing, but freeze when you feel his palms cupping your ass, his nose pressing against the inside of your thighs.

Your mouth forms the word oh, but no sound comes out until you feel his mouth press against your cunt, tongue pushing inside of you, and then you cry out, chest heaving, when he presses a sloppy, wet kiss to your clit. You pull your face from where it’s still resting against the tile and look down at Tyler to find he’s already looking right up at you. His grip on your ass tightens when you make eye contact with him, and he spreads you open wider for him, eyes narrowing as his tongue flicks again, and again, and again.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he moans against you, the vibrations causing your legs to twitch. You already thought you were going to burst, the steam from the shower, the way he’d washed your hair, the fact that he was in your room at all – it all made you feel slightly insane. To add insult to injury, he’s just pushed two fingers inside of you and immediately found the spot that takes you out, and you start to shake a little.

“Tyler,” you whine, pushing one hand down to grip his hair. He groans when you tighten your hold on it, fucking into you a little faster. “Tyler, fuck, gonna come.”

“So come, baby,” comes his reply, and you do, you come so hard that the toes on your right foot curl until you’re on tiptoe and Tyler has to reach up and grip your waist to steady you. You feel it crest, and peak, then subside, but he keeps working you through it, his mouth moving against you still, and a second, smaller – though still good – orgasm wracks your body right after the first.

You breathe through it, push your foot down so you’re standing flat on the surface of the tub again, and wait for Tyler to pull his fingers out of you. 

“Baby,” Tyler groans, squeezing your hips, his fingernails biting slightly into your skin. “You gotta let go’a me, if you want me to get up.”

His voice, fuck, his voice, you think, releasing your grip on his hair and turning to watch him rise from his knees, the tile cold against your back. You surge forward to kiss him square on the mouth and he catches you, smiles against you when you part your lips to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Was that good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, pressing one, two, three more quick kisses to his mouth, before he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “So fucking good.”

Neither of you bother with a towel, instead opting to stumble toward the queen bed in the middle of the room and climb right underneath the covers.

“Hi,” you whisper when you’re settled in, the duvet pulled up under your chin. Your eyes rove over his face, then glance over to the alarm clock behind him. 1:56 in the morning. “You still wanna fuck?”

Tyler snorts, reaching over to poke you in the side, gripping the skin there until you start to laugh. “You still wanna fuck?”

“Yeah,” you reply, grinning, when you catch your breath. “Wanna?”

He’s quiet for a second, watching the duvet rise and fall with each breath you take, before he peels it off of you, using his elbow to push himself up until he’s leaning over you. There’s a rosy flush on your chest, your breasts heaving and it’s all he can do not to lean down and take one of your nipples in his mouth, the one closest to him. Instead, he runs the back of his other hand across your chest, catching against the hard peak, and watches your breath stick to the inside of your throat. You feel yourself subconsciously leaning toward him as his face comes toward you. You want him to kiss you, but instead, he angles his mouth to kiss the skin below your chin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your neck, pressing his open mouth to you there, and you gasp at the feeling – of his mouth against you, and of his praise. It all feels so nice. He just made you come in the shower, and now he’s going to make you come in this bed, hopefully more than once. 

You wrap your hands around his back and pull him toward you, watch as he settles in between your thighs. You can feel his thick cock, heavy, insistent, where it presses against you, and you want to take him into your hands, but he has other plans. 

With one hand pressed into the pillow on either side of your head, Tyler uses his knees to knock your legs out further, sitting back against his heels when he’s satisfied. He wraps his big hands around your thighs and pulls you closer, smiling down at you. “You’re so beautiful.”

You blush when he repeats himself, suddenly feeling very bare. He’s just as naked as you are, but you can’t help but feel like he’s seen your whole hand, meanwhile you hardly have any idea what cards he might hold. In the dim light from the lamp beside your head, you notice that you can see the green of his irises again. It seems like the shower sobered the two of you up very quickly.

His gaze locked on yours, Tyler takes himself into his hand, groaning at the pressure of his grip after neglecting his own want for so long, but he suddenly curses, pausing just as he’s about to press inside of you.

“What?”

“I don’t have a condom,” he breathes, sitting back again. He runs one hand through his hair, visibly weighing the options.

“It’s okay, Tyler,” you murmur, leaning up onto your elbows. “It’s okay. I have an IUD, and I got screened after the last time I was with someone. I’m good. I’m good if you’re good.”

Tyler heaves a heavy sigh, running his hands up your thighs. “You’re sure? I’m clean, too, cross my heart. But only if you’re sure.”

You nod. “My head is clear. I think I shook off my drunk an orgasm or two ago.”

A grin crosses his face, and you roll your eyes at him before he even opens his mouth. Two? he mouths, then whistles lowly. You smack his stomach, and he grabs your wrist in his hand, lightning quick, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there. Your jaw falls slack, and you go all soft and pliant, letting him pin your hands above your head. His body comes down over yours, and his mouth presses to your cheek, then your forehead, and when your eyes flutter shut, the ghost of a kiss crosses them, too.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, and normally if a man were to say that to you, you would immediately regret letting him into your bed. But for some reason, when Tyler says it, it sends that familiar warmth spiraling down into your gut. You know he means it.

Slowly – too slowly – he guides himself back to your entrance, shifting his hips so they’re resting comfortably against yours, and he presses himself inside of you. You hiss; the girth of him, although a welcome stretch, is also a bit of an uncomfortable one. He leans down to kiss you, working you through it with a thumb pressing circles into your clit, sliding himself in bit by bit until he’s fully seated. 

A groan pushes out of him when you clench around him, testing the waters.

“Careful,” he murmurs, easing his hips back. “I’d like it if this lasted longer than ten seconds, please.”

You laugh against the side of his head, pull your hands down from where he’d left them above you and wrap yourself around his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Tyler grips your thighs and starts to work himself in and out of you, carefully, gently, but you squeeze his waist with your knees. Encouraging him. Asking him to pick it up. You can handle it.

His hips start to pull back and snap against yours quicker and quicker, Tyler panting in your ear, lifting up onto his palms and pushing himself off of you. He sits up onto his knees and tilts your hips up for a different angle, one that sets sparks dancing in front of your eyes. You groan, head tossed back, and dig your nails into his thighs as his pace picks up.

“Fuck, yeah, that it, baby? I can feel you – fuck, feel you squeezin’ me.”

You hardly have a voice with the rate he’s slipping in and out of you, barely enough to squeak out, “Fuck,” before your cunt has him in a vice grip, working through another orgasm.

“Ohhh, that’s it, huh, that’s it.” His mouth is going a mile a minute, neither of you really paying much attention to anything he’s actually saying. You’re both focused on his own mounting orgasm – you don’t feel like your body is capable of much more than that – and you weakly clamp down around him once more. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips stutter, and he grits out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck,” before he slots against you and you feel him filling you. You run a hand down his back, soothing him as he comes, biting your lip at the feeling, foreign but enjoyable.

Tyler groans and glances down to where his cock is softening inside of you. He eases his hips back, cupping your face and pressing a kiss to your forehead as he does. “Shit, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

You nod meagerly, pressing the back of your hand against your warm cheek. He watches you and, assured that you’re not going to pass out on him or anything, stands and hobbles into the bathroom. The sink turns on out of sight, and you close your eyes, listening to the water run. Tyler returns with a warm, wet towel and wipes the inside of your thighs, swiping gently across your cunt, before folding the towel and letting it fall to the floor at your bedside.

You feel loose, calm. Safe. You hardly notice him turn the light off, but you do feel the bed dip beside you as he rejoins you under the covers and pulls you into his arms. You melt against his sturdy chest, his heartbeat under your face a comfort, the rhythmic tick tick tick of it lulling you to sleep. But there’s still one thing you have to know before you can relax completely.

His breathing has started to even out, but he hasn’t snored yet, so you know he’ll still hear you when you ask, “Are you gonna leave?”

He grunts an acknowledgement of your question, nuzzling down into the top of your head.

“Do you want me to stay?”

You know your answer, but you still bite your lip, considering the question. You hadn’t thought before that maybe he left after every night you spent together because he thought you didn’t want to wake up with him. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then I’ll stay.”

If he’s at all worried about what will happen when you wake up tomorrow, he doesn’t show it, but anxiety courses through you at the thought of anyone finding out. Does he want the others to know? Because that’s what it feels like.

“Stop thinking about it,” he whispers, like he can hear your thoughts racing. “It’ll be fine. Just go to sleep.”

Easy for him to say. He’s out like a light. And you’re left alone with your thoughts until you fall into fitful, dissatisfying sleep sometime around when the world outside starts to turn blue.

A pounding on your door wakes you from deep sleep – the deepest you’d gotten all night, at least – and you try to sit up but find there’s a heavy weight on your chest blocking you. You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing down at the sleeping body next to you. It takes a second for it to register: Tyler’s here. 

Tyler’s here. Sidled up against you, arm thrown over your stomach like this is where he belongs. He didn’t leave. He stayed, like he said he would. His face looks so peaceful – so beautiful – you almost hate to wake him.

“Come on, sleepyhead! Time to get a move on!”

Almost. You scramble to push Tyler off of you, ignoring his noises of protest, jumping out from under the covers and grabbing various articles of clothing off the floor to pull over your naked form. You plop back down on the bed, this time on his side, right next to where he’s starting to wake.

“Dude, get up, they’re gonna know you’re not in your room. They’re gonna know you’re in here.”

“So what,” he grumbles, rolling over as you push him and settling deeper into the bed. “Let ‘em.”

You sit up straight, one hand on his arm. “You mean that?”

He hums and turns his neck to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course I do. You’re my girl.”

Your face flushes a deep pink and Tyler grins, reaching over to wrap an arm around you and drag you back down into the bed, pinning you under him and peppering an assault of open-mouthed kisses all over your face. You grin, thinking that you could get used to this – just not right now.

“Seriously, Tyler,” you laugh, pushing a hand against the side of his face. He squeezes your hip. “We have to get up. We gotta get back out there.”

Tyler sighs, loosening his grip on your body and kneeling over you. “Yeah, you’re right. Alright, alright.”

He stands and takes the top sheet with him, wrapped around his waist, and heads to the bathroom. To brush his teeth, you hope. God.

“You know,” he says, head popping back out into the room, mouth full of toothpaste. “Yesterday. I wanted them to see us holding hands.”

You watch as he smiles at you and disappears back into the bathroom, then fall back onto the bed, hands pressed over your eyes. 

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are dressed, teeth brushed, hair taken care of, day packs slung over your shoulder, and you’re pulling the door closed behind you when you hear a whistle that pulls your attention to the parking lot.

“Damn, Owens!”

The voice makes you jump, and you groan. You thought you were going to get away with the sneaking around, but the rest of your team is watching from next to the RV as the two of you descend the stairs together.

Lily and Dani turn to Boone with smug looks on both their faces, and he rolls his eyes and pulls his wallet from his back pocket. They hold their hands out for him to slap two twenty dollar bills down into.

“What’s that?” You ask when you get close enough to them.

“We had a bet that you and Owens would come out of that room together. Well, that one or his. Didn’t matter which.”

“A bet I just lost,” Boone groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I thought for sure…”

The rest of the crew snickers, including Tyler, who won’t look at you. You poke a finger into his chest.

“Did you know about this?”

“No, I swear,” he says, hands up, and you don’t know why, but you believe him. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t drunkenly confess to Lily weeks ago that sometimes we, you know…”

You scoff, almost mad, but then Boone shouts and the scoff turns into a snicker because, hey, you love him, but you can’t help but relish in his defeat.

“So they knew?! That’s cheating!”

He storms off while the rest of you laugh, Dani clutching their side and following him around the side of the building to try to make amends, trailing off, “If it makes you feel any better…”

Lily looks over at you, then at Tyler, a grin swallowing her face. “So, are you guys, like, together now? Or something?”

You look up at Tyler, who’s smiling softly at you, clearly deferring to you to answer that question. You feel a surge of affection for him swell in your chest. Clearing your throat, you turn to Lily.

“Or something.”

[russellmoreton]

Reverberations from excavated land #5 by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: The Poetics of Space. Gaston Bachelard. The classic look at how we experience intimate places. The Eroded Steps. Giuseppe Penone. Dean Clough Contour Lines. Land Drawings, Installations, Excavations. Kate Whiteford. Remote Sensing. Colin Renfrew. russellmoreton.tumblr.com/archive

[jadeseadragon]

@baytal.fann

"Did you know that the art of stained glass originated in the Muslim world?

In the eighth century, skilled glassmakers in Egypt made a groundbreaking discovery—the technique of painting glass with metallic stain. This innovation led to the creation of transparent stains, colored with copper (producing red or brown) and silver (resulting in yellow), which became distinctive features of early Islamic glassware in Egypt and the Near East.

Fast forward to the 13th century, when decorators in the Syrian region achieved a significant milestone by applying enamels on glass on a large scale. Over the following two centuries, Syrian and Egyptian craftsmen crafted a diverse array of glass objects in various shapes and sizes, adorned with brilliant polychrome ornamentation. These items served practical purposes such as hanging lamps for illuminating mosque interiors, as well as functional vessels and other useful items, along with awe-inspiring display pieces.

In the later Middle Ages, European admiration for Islamic luxury glasses soared due to their exotic aesthetics and advanced technical craftsmanship. Some even believed these objects to be relics from the Holy Land. Fragments of Islamic glass, often adorned with gilding and enameling, have been discovered in archaeological excavations across Europe, while intact pieces grace cathedral treasuries. Notably, excavations have unveiled evidence of the exportation of Islamic glass vessels to China, highlighting the widespread influence and global trade connections of this innovative art form."

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

Can’t do it yourself?

Ellie Williams x Reader

Warnings: Sex with strap!! 😲

Summary: Ellie making you fuck yourself :)

A/N: Randomly thought of this while walking to school?!

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

There was no way to get out of this mess. No way.

“Ellie— fuck, please!” You pled like your life depended on it. Mind dazed and clouded with pleasure, barely able to comprehend a thought, you give out and rest your head back against the pillows. Your arms were tied behind you, and there was no way in hell you would actually survive.

Why were you so damn fucked? because you were getting fucked. By who?— Ellie Williams. Your god-damn girlfriend.

Well, not at the moment.

“I wanna see you move..” She rasped out, a tinge of excitement in her voice as she stared down at you. The tip of her strap had made it’s way into your entrance, stopping there and teasing your cunt. Ellie was fucking crazy for this, having you on your back, legs spread, and making you to fuck yourself.

“I can’t, you know that!” You huffed out, tilting your head to get a better look at the way she barely had her cock in you. It was placed perfectly for your hips to squirm around and feel something, though it was far from being properly taken care of. Fingering was one thing, but having her pound in you was another. Everytime she drove into you you swore you could go stupid. Go entirely crazy at how good she was at rolling her strap into you.

Just thinking about it made your pussy wet. So, with a whine, you slid down to push more of her into you.

Then again, Ellie wasn’t one to like being ignored. Right when you could feel her going deeper, Ellie’s slender fingers gripped your hips and thrusted one hard pound and then pulled out to where she was before. Back to teasing you. There was no way in hell your girlfriend would allow you to go against her, have it your way. For, she was the one dominating you, nothing more nothing less. And, undoubtedly, feeling your insides squeezed against her strap, you gasp out with satisfaction. You hoped she’d keep going, but you were quickly disappointed with the fact that she really would make you do it yourself. It was cruel and twisted.

“Whoa, not so fast..” Ellie whispered, a playful smile on her face, “Who said you’re getting it deep?..” You practically groan at her insistence. You needed to have her ruin your walls, fuck you like there was no tomorrow. Possibly even loosen you out with those hips of hers. Your lidded eyes met her green ones and you were sure she was enjoying this, torturing you. “Ellie, please..” Her name rolled off your tongue as a whine and it sure made her cheeks red; you could tell she was trying to be a good top for you.

“I said move.” Pussy throbbing for friction, you let slip a soft.. noise at her demanding tone. You’d rarely hear it but, damn, you loved it too much. You move your hips at, both, your and her liking. Circular motion on the tip of her cock. It made your body shudder with need. Occasionally, you’d move up and down to rub her against your clit, and, my-my, did it make you moan.

Ellie loved watching you grew desperate, even more than before, staring at your face and your hips. Her own cunt was throbbing, even wet from being aroused. The sight of you was one she’d worship, and it was getting harder to keep teasing you. Keep herself from giving you the release you seemed to, clearly, need.

So, she didnt. With a grip on your thighs, she hooked your legs around her neck before pushing deep into you. Ellie knew exactly how to fuck your tight pussy. Before you could react, she dug into you like some excavator. Drilling deep into your walls and hitting ever spot that made you stupid. Completely and utterly stupid. Moans and pants filled the room as she steadied her pace, fast and hard pounding until she knew for sure you were finished.

“Ugh!— Ellie— Ellie, oh my.. fuck!” There you were, unable to speak without putting effort into it. Your body recoiled with the force Ellie had, causing your tities to fly up and down. And, of course, your girlfriend liked the sight. So much so that she had to feel it.

Gripping your breasts, she fastened her pace, though it was hard to imagine going faster than she already was. Lewd praises left Ellie’s lips, “You like that?” She’d whisper out, smiling as if she’d never seen you like this. “Yeah, you definitely like this, Baby..” You did like— love it.

Praise was what made you cum, what made you all flustered. And your girlfriend knew the exact words that could get you going, get you cumming faster. It got your mind all hazy, leaving you to beg for mercy.

Your walls closing, you couldn’t get enough of the sweet, delicious, thrusting your girlfriend had provided for you. It was like you could die here, all dazed and happy. The squelching noise from your cunt was making you, both, embarrassed and surprised, you hadn’t realised just how soaked you were. At least your girlfriend knew. She’d have one hell of a meal afer this.

With one final thrust, she stopped deep in you. Her cock filling you up like you’d needed it to. The shock came, and you felt yourself loosing control over your body. Shuddering and writhing like a fuckin’ bitch— you were Ellie’s bitch. So you didn’t mind.

And, anyways, your girlfriend was enjoying the view. Admiring the way you looked. Disheveled by the overwhelming pleasure that had taken over your body and had left you feeling amazing. Then again, Ellie never missed. The way her hips rolled to thrust into you, it was so damn attractive that you could cum to it alone.

“Great job, Baby.. you’re so.. gorgeous.” Ellie murmured, keeping inside you while leaning down to kiss your forehead. Both of you were gasping for air, it was all worth it. “Mind owing your girl a favour?”

Sixty-nine it was.

[theskywithin]

Profection Years: The Year Your Soul Turns the Page ( all houses )

Every birthday, your chart shifts without announcement. Like a chapter turning behind your back. You wake up the next morning and something feels different, not louder, not clearer, just undeniable. A new lesson, humming beneath the skin. A new part of you asking to be heard. This is the language of profection years. Twelve-year cycles. One house activated each year. One ruling planet holding the light. Not as fate, but as focus. A lens you start to see your whole life through, whether you mean to or not.

1st House Profection Year

This is the year you become the ground you stand on. Everything begins at the body. Not your image, not your reputation, your pulse. Your breath. The primal instinct underneath the performance. This year, the mask slips. The old names don't fit. You’re not becoming someone new, you’re being emptied of who you were never meant to be. This is the year you remember that identity is not a fixed state but a skin that sheds itself as you grow. You’re rebuilding your reflection from the inside out. The soul reclaims the steering wheel. It’s raw. It’s personal. It’s you before the world asked you to be anything else.

2nd House Profection Year

This is the year you learn what can’t be stolen. Your sense of worth gets stripped to the roots. Not in punishment, in purification. The external scaffolding you’ve leaned on, money, possessions, praise, begins to wobble, not because you're losing, but because your soul is asking: what remains when the performance ends? This year teaches you how to hold value the way the Earth holds water: quietly, unshakably, beneath the surface. You become your own source. You learn to eat from your own garden. To own what no one can take. Not status. Not salary. But presence. Breath. Trust. This is the year you stop renting your worth from the world.

3rd House Profection Year

This is the year your mind becomes a labyrinth and a lantern. You start hearing yourself differently. Not just what you say, but what you repeat. The questions that loop. The beliefs that follow you like shadows. This year doesn’t just sharpen your thoughts, it exposes the architecture of your perception. The stories you've inherited. The phrases you use to keep things safe. You may pick up a pen, speak something out loud, or realize your voice is not what you thought it was. This isn’t the year to silence yourself. It’s the year to trace every thought back to its origin and rewrite the script. Let your language become your liberation.

4th House Profection Year

This is the year your bones begin to speak. You are returning to the memory underneath everything. The quiet ache you’ve carried without knowing. This year opens a door inside your bloodline. A hallway of dreams and ghosts, inherited fears and forgotten promises. It is not always visible. This is underground work. The soul is excavating. You may feel the need to nest, to disappear, to go soft and silent. Trust it. Your roots are being rewritten. You are learning how to be your own home, not in theory, but in texture. In silence. In surrender. In the stories you’re finally willing to unlearn.

5th House Profection Year

This is the year your joy stops asking for permission. There’s a kind of freedom that can only be accessed through the body, through laughter, through mess, through art that makes no sense and needs no explanation. This is the year you stop explaining. The year your soul kicks the door down and demands to feel. Not to perform pleasure, but to practice it. To remember what desire feels like without shame hanging from its neck. Creation becomes instinct. Romance becomes ritual. The world wants to see you bloom and you finally let it, without trimming the petals. This is the year you take up space just because it feels good.

6th House Profection Year

This is the year your healing becomes a rhythm, not a rescue. Forget transcendence. This is the year you meet your healing on the ground. In the dishes. In the breath before you say yes. In how you talk to yourself when no one’s around to listen. This isn’t glamorous. It’s intimate. You begin to notice how much you’ve abandoned your own body in the name of being "productive." You start to listen. To tend. To show up for yourself not as a performance, but as a promise. Every act of care becomes a rebellion. Every pause, a prayer. You’re not being fixed, you’re being fortified. This is devotion, not duty. This is the rebuild.

7th House Profection Year

This is the year you meet yourself in the eyes of another and flinch. Relationships stop being theory. They become threshold. The mirror gets too clear to avoid. Suddenly, the way you give, the way you vanish, the way you perform being “easy to love”, it all surfaces. You may fall for someone. You may fall out of a version of yourself. But either way, you see. This isn’t just about connection, it’s about reflection. You’re meeting parts of you you left behind in other people’s hands. This year asks: Can you be held without disappearing inside it? This is the reckoning. And the repair.

8th House Profection Year

This is the year you lose what you thought you needed, and find what you were born to carry. There is no easy way to write this year. Only truth. Something ends. Something breaks. Something is stripped from your grip not because you did something wrong, but because you’re not supposed to carry it anymore. This is the year of thresholds. Of intimacy so deep it undoes you. Of power reclaimed from the ruins of performance. You learn to trust again, not blindly, but fully. You may grieve. You may tremble. You may finally understand what surrender actually means. This is the year the soul gets honest. And the body learns how to survive without the armor.

9th House Profection Year

This is the year your soul packs a bag and leaves before you understand why. Restlessness isn’t a problem, it’s a message. Something in you wants out. Out of the story, out of the pattern, out of the room where you’ve been pretending to believe what no longer fits. This is a year of search. A year of seeking the language for what you’ve felt your whole life but couldn’t name. You may leave the country. Or just your comfort zone. But you go. Not to escape, but to expand. The soul wants the sky now, not for distance, but for perspective. You don’t need to be right. You just need to be open. And brave enough to follow the ache.

10th House Profection Year

This is the year you rise and decide what it’s for. Visibility comes. But so does the weight. The pressure. The temptation to let the world define your success. But this isn’t about applause. It’s about alignment. You are being asked to claim your voice in public. To live your purpose out loud. Not just in theory, but in action. What you build now will echo. This is legacy energy. It doesn’t have to be big. But it does have to be real. Let your ambition come from your integrity. Let your impact be rooted in truth. You’re not here to perform success. You’re here to redefine it.

11th House Profection Year

This is the year you remember: you’re allowed to be seen and still belong. The crowd becomes the mirror. This year, community comes into focus, not just for connection, but for reckoning. You begin to see where you’ve outgrown the rooms that once felt like home. You also start to imagine futures bigger than yourself. Dreams too heavy to carry alone. This is the year your vision expands. The year your people shift. The year you realize your soul doesn’t want to climb the mountai, it wants to build the village. What you imagine now can take root in the world. You’re not alone. You never were. Now you get to believe it.

12th House Profection Year

This is the year of disappearing to find what’s been buried beneath your name. Let it come undone. Let the noise go silent. This is not a year of rising, it’s a year of dissolving. You are being pulled inward now, not in weakness, but in necessity. You cannot carry this next chapter with your old patterns intact. This is the cocoon. The unraveling. The slow, sacred death before the new self takes form. You may need to retreat. To sleep. To cry for no reason. Let yourself. The soul is doing work the mind cannot name. Trust the quiet. Let the world forget you for a moment. So you can remember who you were before all the performance began.

Want to get to know your birth chart in a real, human way? My book unpacks it step by step, no fluff, just truth. Available here, and all digital platforms!!

[mudpuddle-fr]

All current issues in Sornieth (as far as I can get from the encyclopedia, and in no particular order)

The Shade is free and active (as of Epilogue: Flight Rising, reinforced in several other stories)

Infighting among the Oculus of the Eleven - inter-flight distrust is seemingly quite high (as of BotE: Ten Eyes)

Large strike/rebellion in the Ashfall Waste (as of BotE: Temper, Temper)

Portal connection between Tangled Wood and Sunbeam Ruins (as of BotE: Kindred Crossing, reinforced in Unveiled)

Suspicious disappearances in Earth Flight excavations (as of BotE: Ancient Fascinations) (I did not have the chance to participate in Dustcarve Dig, but from what I've been able to read on the site itself, these disappearances, while part of the setup, were never resolved)

(Intentional) destruction of the Stormcatch Sanctum (as of BotE: Workplace Hazards)

High tension between the Nature and Plague Flights, due to the breaking of the Armistice by use of The First Seed. Plague ambassador has still not been found, and has taken The Final Infection with her. Implied to be part of a larger conspiracy. (as of BotE: The Seed and The Sickness)

Tidelord is missing, and no divination magic can currently be practiced. (as of BotE: Hear Today, Gone Tomorrow, reinforced in Mixed Elements, Echoes of the Deep, and Unfathomable Oddyssey)

There is a three-headed Emperor (Luminax) in the Sunbeam Ruins. (as of BotE: Raising A Family)

Major change in the energies of Auraboan nests due to the events of The Seed and The Sickness, allowing younger Auraboas to experience linear time, and causing a worrying partial disconnect from the Loop. (as of Ancient Arboriculture Observations and the Auraboa breed article)

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Soot Sprite - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.87k

series masterlist | main masterlist

“You didn’t tell me this was a walk-walk.”

Peeta’s voice is light, teasing, but he’s already trailing half a step behind you on the cracked road leading out of the Victor’s Village, long legs catching up as you dodge a patch of grass curling up through the pavement.

You glance back at him. “What did you think it was gonna be? A tour bus?”

“I was picturing a nice sit in the sunshine. Maybe some strawberries. Not emotional excavation.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile too. “You’re the one who said, and I quote, ‘of course I’ll come, just tell me when.’”

He groans dramatically. “Past Peeta is a menace.”

“Past Peeta is the reason you’re wearing those shoes,” you say, nodding toward the very white, very not built-for-dusty-ruins sneakers on his feet.

“They’re comfortable!” he protests. “Besides, I’m here for moral support, not practical.”

You snort but don’t answer. The road ahead curves gently toward the remains of the town. The trees thin. The sky widens. Your chest tightens, but your feet don’t stop.

Peeta must notice the shift in your silence, because he quiets too.

You take a breath.

In.

Out.

The rhythm helps. Just like it always has.

You hadn’t meant to come back here. Not really. Not yet. But something had changed in you after that morning with Haymitch—after the toast and the teasing and the stillness that felt like a promise. The ache in your chest hadn’t disappeared, but it had moved. And now… now it felt like maybe you could carry it with you instead of being crushed under it.

You glance over at Peeta, who’s walking beside you now with a gentler expression.

“Thanks for coming,” you say quietly.

He bumps your arm with his. “Always.”

After walking a little while in silence, you cross into the town square.

Everything is exactly the same.

Not the way it used to be—just the way it was when you came back the first time. Months ago. Burned out. Empty. Stuck.

You stop walking.

Peeta slows beside you, his arm brushing yours.

Nothing moves. The air feels heavier here, still thick with memory. You don’t need to look around. You already know what’s there, what isn’t. It’s all carved into your brain like a map that won’t fade.

Your throat tightens.

Peeta doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You take a slow breath, feeling it settle into your ribs.

In.

Out.

“I thought it would be harder,” you murmur, voice barely above the breeze.

He turns toward you slightly. “Is it?”

You nod. “But not in the way I thought.”

He’s quiet again. Just present.

You shift your weight, hands at your sides, eyes still fixed somewhere you’re not ready to name.

“It used to feel like this weight,” you say. “Every second. I thought coming back here would break me open.”

“And now?”

You let your gaze drift over the stillness.

“It still hurts,” you admit. “But it doesn’t feel like it owns me anymore.”

There’s a pause, then Peeta says softly, “I’m proud of you.”

Your breath stutters, half a laugh, half a warning. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry.”

“I’m still proud of you,” he says. “Even if you cry.”

You swallow, blinking fast. Your fingers twitch at your side, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for his hand.

He takes it without hesitation.

You squeeze once. He squeezes back.

And you just stand there together in the center of what hasn’t changed, knowing you have.

The quiet lingers for a while.

Long enough for your pulse to slow. Long enough for the weight in your chest to feel less like a burden and more like proof—you survived this place. You’re still here.

You’re mid-exhale when Peeta suddenly tugs your hand and yanks you a step to the left.

“Wait.”

You blink. “What?”

“Look,” he says, crouching so fast he almost eats it. “Look, look, look.”

You follow his gaze down and—

“Oh my god.”

He’s holding up a half-melted ceramic mug with the words #1 Mayor barely legible on the side.

“No,” you say.

“Yes,” he whispers, reverent. “The ghost of Mayor Undersee demands justice.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and cover your mouth. “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Right?” he says, grinning. “I’m keeping it.”

“You’re not keeping it.”

“I’m emotionally attached now,” he says, already cradling it like a rescued bird. “You can’t separate us.”

“You found it in the dirt.”

“It found me,” he corrects. “Don’t be jealous.”

You wipe a tear from your eye, still laughing. “We’re literally standing in the ruins of our dead town.”

“And I’m choosing to heal,” he says, dead serious. “Through sarcasm. And souvenir theft.”

You shake your head, heart still pounding from the mix of grief and joy and Peeta being Peeta.

“I hate you,” you say, still laughing.

“No, you don’t.”

You glance at him—smeared with dust, cradling a hideous mug, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard.

You sigh. “Unfortunately, no.”

He grins and tucks the mug into his satchel like it’s priceless.

And just like that, the air shifts again. Not heavy. Not gone. Just lighter.

Like maybe grief doesn’t have to be quiet all the time.

You keep walking.

The path toward the Seam is cracked and faded, but it’s still there—like it refused to disappear even when everything else burned. Weeds push through in places, sprouting from ash and gravel. The sun is higher now, heat settling into your skin, and Peeta’s back to rambling about how he’s going to clean the mayor mug and repurpose it as a sugar bowl.

You’re smiling, shoulders loose again, when you glance to the side and realize he’s gone quiet.

Your steps slow.

He’s a few feet behind you now, completely still.

Looking at what used to be the bakery.

What’s left of it, anyway. Which is… nothing. Same as it was months ago. But you watch the way his shoulders tense—how his jaw locks the way it always does when he’s holding something in too tightly.

You don’t say his name. Just take a slow step back toward him.

His eyes are fixed on the space where the door used to be. The stone frame is still scorched, half-swallowed by vines. There’s nothing left to see, but you know he does. Every shelf. Every counter. The warmth of the ovens.

He exhales through his nose, quiet but sharp, like he’s trying to breathe it all out.

You speak gently. “You okay?”

He nods once, too fast. “Yeah.”

You don’t believe him.

Still, you don’t press.

Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers against his.

He doesn’t look at you, but his pinky hooks around yours.

“I used to wake up every morning before dawn,” he says, voice soft, distant. “Knew the smell by heart. The heat. It’s like… part of me still thinks it’s there.”

You nod, throat tight. “I know what you mean.”

He squeezes your hand, still not looking at you. “It doesn’t own me either. Not anymore.”

You stay beside him a moment longer. Not moving. Not fixing it. Just being.

And when he finally takes a step forward, you follow.

Toward the Seam. Toward the memory of something harder. Toward whatever’s next.

You’re only a few steps from the edge of what used to be Fiza’s house when it happens.

Something explodes out of the brush with a sharp rustle and barrels toward your foot.

You shout—actually shout—and leap back, nearly knocking into Peeta.

“What the hell—”

It’s a kitten.

Tiny. All wiry legs and frantic meowing, its fur black as soot and sticking up in strange angles like it just lost a fight with the wind. It stumbles as it runs, catches itself, and then practically launches into your ankle like you were the destination all along.

Peeta freezes. “Is that thing feral?”

The kitten meows again, louder this time, and starts climbing up your leg.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, bending down fast to scoop it up. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

It keeps purring. Or vibrating. Or both.

You stare at it.

It’s skin and bones. A little too small, even for a kitten. Runt-sized. Its ears are too big for its head, and its tail flicks like it has opinions already. But its eyes—

You go still.

Gray.

Soft, cloudy-gray eyes in a too-skinny face.

Your breath catches.

Peeta tilts his head. “Hey. What’s—”

“She looks like Fiza,” you say, quiet.

He falls silent.

You look down at the kitten curled into your chest now, still purring like it’s got something to prove. The black fur, the wide gray eyes, the way her ribs shift under your palm when she breathes.

“She was tiny,” you murmur. “Shorter than me, even. Always got teased for it. Wore boots two sizes too big and told everyone it was ‘so she could outrun the Capitol faster.’”

Peeta smiles softly but doesn’t speak.

The kitten kneads her paws into your shirt, one claw catching slightly on the fabric.

You exhale shakily, a laugh breaking through the weight in your chest. “She would’ve named this one something awful. Like Coal Dust or War Cry.”

“I vote you honor her legacy,” Peeta says. “Go with something unhinged.”

You blink back heat from your eyes, pressing your nose against the kitten’s fur.

“She found me,” you whisper.

“Looks like she’s keeping you.”

The kitten refuses to be put down for more than five seconds at a time.

You try once, gently, just to adjust your shirt—and she screeches and immediately attempts to scale your body again like a jagged, purring spider. Peeta’s already made three jokes about how you’ve been chosen.

You’re not even mad about it.

You shift her into the crook of one arm as you and Peeta head back toward the Victor’s Village, the ruins of the Seam behind you now, a scratchy warmth in your chest replacing the ache.

“I’m naming her Soot Sprite,” you say, like it’s already been decided.

Peeta blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Soot Sprite,” you repeat. “In honor of Fiza. Because she would’ve picked something horrible and cursed, and I can’t disappoint her in the afterlife.”

Peeta processes that. Nods solemnly. “So what I’m hearing is, you’re raising a goblin.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s covered in dirt and definitely has worms.”

You ignore him. “We’ll have to call someone—get dewormer with the next supply drop. Maybe flea treatment too, just in case.”

Peeta stops walking. “You already have a to-do list?”

“She’s mine, Peeta.”

The kitten lets out a dramatic squeak like she’s backing you up.

He stares at you, then at the kitten, then back at you. “Haymitch is going to hate this.”

You keep walking. “Haymitch will get over it.”

“You’re gonna bring that little gremlin into his house.”

“She’s part of the family.”

Peeta makes a strangled sound behind you. “You’re both gonna die.”

You don’t respond—mostly because the kitten starts trying to climb your shoulder again, claws poking through your shirt, and you’re too busy keeping her from launching herself into the fabric.

Peeta groans as he jogs to catch up. “I’m not helping when he yells. Just so we’re clear.”

“He won’t yell.”

“He’s absolutely going to yell.”

You look at the kitten.

She yawns with her whole body, then bites your sleeve.

You grin.

“He’ll love her,” you lie.

You just walk into Haymitch’s house like you’re not smuggling a chaotic soot-colored creature into his life forever.

Peeta’s right behind you, his face already cracking, trying so hard not to laugh that he looks like he might explode. The kitten—Soot Sprite—is squirming behind your back, tucked in your arms and not at all thrilled about being contained.

“Just… be cool,” you hiss under your breath.

Peeta snorts. “I’m so excited.”

Haymitch is on the couch when you enter. Legs stretched out, one arm slung along the backrest, a book open in his lap and a half-finished drink on the table beside him.

He doesn’t look up yet. “You’re late.”

“We weren’t supposed to be here at a specific time.”

“Exactly,” he mutters. “And you still managed to be late.”

You take a slow step forward, keeping the kitten mostly still behind your back.

“Okay,” you start, voice bright and innocent in the way that definitely means something’s wrong. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

Haymitch finally looks up.

His eyes narrow.

Peeta immediately chokes on his own breath and turns away like he’s inspecting the wall.

“Why,” Haymitch says slowly, “do I feel like that sentence is about to ruin my entire day?”

You smile too wide. “It’s not a bad surprise.”

He sets the book down carefully. “I swear to god, if you—”

You pull the kitten from behind your back and hold her up like you’re presenting royalty.

Haymitch blinks.

The kitten meows.

Audibly.

Once.

Then again, louder.

Peeta wheezes behind you.

There’s a silence so sharp you swear you can hear the creak of the wood floor.

You clear your throat. “Her name is Soot Sprite.”

The kitten starts purring like a chainsaw.

Haymitch doesn’t move.

You shift your weight. “She found me. She imprinted. Like a duckling.”

Peeta makes a strangled snort and bolts into the kitchen, cackling.

Haymitch stares at the tiny thing now climbing up your sleeve with murder in her heart.

Finally, he says, “Why is it making that sound.”

“She’s happy,” you say, beaming.

“She sounds like a dying engine.”

“She’s sensitive.”

He stares at the kitten. Then at you. Then leans back into the couch like he’s accepted his fate. “This is revenge for every time I’ve fallen asleep on your porch, isn’t it?”

You sit beside him with Soot Sprite still vibrating in your arms.

“She’s just staying for a while.”

“She’s not leaving,” he says flatly.

You grin. “No. She’s not.”

Soot Sprite sneezes once and then promptly falls asleep curled up in the crook of your elbow.

Haymitch watches this happen, defeated.

Peeta pops his head back in from the kitchen. “So when’s the wedding? Do I call her my sister now?”

Haymitch throws a pillow directly at his face.

Peeta insists on helping when you get up to give Soot Sprite a bath.

“Because I’m great with animals,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves with the reckless confidence of someone who has clearly never bathed a cat.

You’re standing in Haymitch’s kitchen, sleeves pushed up, the kitten perched like a gargoyle on the edge of the sink. She’s crusted with dirt and… something. You don’t ask questions. You just know she’s about to become so clean and so pissed about it.

Haymitch doesn’t even come in the room.

You think he might’ve fled on instinct.

“All right, Soot Sprite,” Peeta says, eyeing her like a soldier before battle. “This can go one of two ways.”

She growls.

“You’re gonna make this so dramatic,” you sigh.

You test the water—lukewarm, gentle—and pick up the dish soap, because it’s the only thing on hand and at this point, she’s probably more soot than fur.

Peeta starts humming a funeral march.

You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m absolutely helping. I’m contributing morale.”

You scoop a little water into your hands, testing it against her fur.

And then it happens.

She locks eyes with you like you’ve betrayed her soul—and lets out a screech so ungodly you actually flinch.

“Oh my god,” Peeta gasps, backing up. “Did she summon something?”

“She’s fine,” you mutter, gently pressing her into the basin with both hands as she flails like a possessed raccoon.

Water splashes everywhere. You’re soaked. Peeta’s got suds on his cheek. The floor is a crime scene.

“This is what I get for trying to help something small,” you groan. “This is cosmic punishment.”

Peeta’s dying in the corner. “Do you want me to—”

“No. Your morale is enough.”

Eventually, after much screeching, flopping, and one near-death leap, Soot Sprite goes still. Just… still. Her head slumps forward, her tiny body dripping with suds, tail twitching once in utter betrayal.

“Oh no,” Peeta whispers. “She’s accepted death.”

You rinse her as gently as possible, biting back laughter.

“Maybe she’s just accepted me,” you say, and she opens one gray eye like she heard you.

You wrap her in a dish towel like a burrito, and she lets out a pitiful mewl, then flops completely against your chest.

“You did great,” Peeta says, wiping his face with the sleeve he rolled up forty minutes ago. “I’ll light a candle for her at dawn.”

“You’re never allowed to help again.”

“I was invaluable.”

You glance toward the living room. “Think Haymitch is still alive?”

“I think he’s pretending he died so he doesn’t have to deal with us.”

You gently rock the kitten in your arms. She’s still glaring. Still soaked. But purring again.

You whisper, “She’s never going to forgive me.”

Peeta grins. “You’re her mom now. She already did.”

Soot Sprite, now mostly dry and still swaddled in the dish towel, stares back from the middle of the counter. She looks smug. Sinister, even. Like she knows you’re arguing about her.

Peeta groans. “This is how horror movies start.”

“She’s cute,” you remind him.

“She’s glaring at me.”

“She’s hungry.”

“She can’t eat that.”

Peeta says it while already backing away from the cutting board like it’s possessed.

“She has to eat something,” you argue, holding up the suspiciously grayish slab of raw chicken you found in Haymitch’s icebox. “And unless you want to go knock on his nonexistent neighbor’s door for cat food that also doesn’t exist, this is what we’ve got.”

“She’s like… six ounces.”

“She’s an apex predator.”

You drop the chicken into a shallow dish and set it on the counter in front of her.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

She lunges forward like she’s been starved for years, teeth flashing, paws gripping the edge of the bowl with wild intensity. You actually flinch at the snarling sound she makes.

“Oh my god,” Peeta breathes. “She’s possessed.”

“She’s enthusiastic.”

“She’s eating like she’s on a timer.”

You lean over slightly to watch. “I didn’t even cut it up…”

“She doesn’t need it cut up,” Peeta hisses. “She’s turning it into pulp.”

You both go quiet.

The only sound in the room is the kitten making unholy noises as she annihilates raw chicken like it owes her money.

“She’s gonna throw up,” you whisper.

“She’s gonna kill us in our sleep,” Peeta says.

Soot Sprite growls low in her throat, not even looking up.

You both take an automatic step back.

“She’s definitely Fiza reincarnated,” you murmur.

Peeta nods. “I believe it.”

You cross your arms and watch in weird, horrified awe.

“…Should we get her more?” you ask.

Peeta looks offended. “I’m not losing fingers so she can have seconds.”

It’s quiet now.

Suspiciously quiet.

Soot Sprite is passed out on the kitchen table like a tiny, bloated gremlin. Belly round, paws twitching in her sleep, a smear of something unidentifiable on her chin. Her tail flicks once like she’s dreaming about murder.

You and Peeta are sitting at the table, trying to look casual. Innocent. Normal.

You are none of those things.

The dish that once held raw chicken is now empty. The cutting board has been wiped but not well. The counter smells vaguely like regret and a very specific brand of chaos.

“I feel like we witnessed a crime,” you whisper.

“I feel like we committed one,” Peeta replies.

You’re about to argue when the floorboards creak.

You both freeze.

Haymitch walks in.

He’s wearing the expression of a man who expected disaster and is still somehow disappointed to find it.

He takes one look at the counter.

Stops.

Looks at you.

Then Peeta.

Then at Soot Sprite, belly-up, absolutely unrepentant.

“…What,” he says slowly, “happened in here?”

“She ate,” you say too quickly.

Peeta adds, “Vigorously.”

Haymitch blinks. “Why is there a scratch on the cutting board?”

“She’s passionate,” you say.

“She’s feral,” Haymitch mutters.

He walks over to the kitten, who doesn’t even stir. He nudges her gently with one finger. She makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a snore.

“She gonna die?”

“She’s just full,” you say brightly.

Peeta grins. “We fed her raw chicken.”

Haymitch turns toward him so slowly it might be a threat.

You both smile like that’ll help.

He stares. Then closes his eyes. “This is why I drink.”

You shrug. “She’s happy.”

He looks down at the tiny monster curled up on his kitchen table, then back at you.

“She better love me,” he mutters.

“She will,” you say, scooping her back into your arms. “She’s family now.”

Haymitch sighs. Deep. Resigned.

Then—quietly—he reaches out and scratches the kitten behind one ear.

She purrs in her sleep.

He mutters, “Great. You brought home a demon.”

You smile into her fur.

“She’s ours.”

The house is finally quiet again.

Peeta left half an hour ago, still cackling to himself as he walked out the door. “Tell Soot Sprite I love her,” he’d called, and Haymitch had replied with, “I’m not saying anything nice to a gremlin that bites my fingers.”

Now it’s just the two of you—and the kitten.

Soot Sprite is curled into a tight little loaf right in Haymitch’s lap, her tiny face tucked against his thigh. She’s purring. Loudly. Steadily. Like she’s doing it just to spite him.

Haymitch looks miserable.

“She’s drooling,” he mutters, staring down at her like she’s personally offended him.

“She’s happy,” you say, curled into his side, legs tucked beneath you and head on his shoulder.

“She’s a hazard.”

“She likes you.”

“She’s using me for body heat.”

You lift your head just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You could move her.”

He looks down.

She purrs louder.

“…I could,” he says, clearly lying.

You hide your smile and settle in closer, letting your cheek rest against his chest.

Outside, the wind has gone soft. The air hums with the low, summer quiet that only happens at the very end of the day. Inside, it’s warm and dim, and every sound feels like it belongs.

“I think she’s claiming you as her father,” you say quietly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

He shifts slightly to look down at you, one hand resting on your knee, his thumb drawing slow, absent shapes against your skin. “You bring home a goblin and now she’s our daughter?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You grin. “You love me.”

He doesn’t argue.

Soot Sprite sighs and stretches one tiny paw across his stomach, fully claiming him.

You laugh, soft and sleepy.

He leans his head back against the couch with a sigh. “This is my life now, huh?”

You look at him. At the man who used to think he didn’t deserve a future. Who’s now got a kitten in his lap and you curled into his side and a heartbeat that doesn’t panic every time someone stays.

You nod. “Yeah. It is.”

He doesn’t say anything back. But after a moment, his arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you even closer.

The kitten purrs.

And Haymitch doesn’t move her.

Next Part

[blueiscoool]

4,000-Year-Old Tomb of Egyptian Royal Physician Found in Saqqara

Teti Neb Fu, a high-ranking physician during Pharaoh Pepi II's reign, held titles like Chief Dentist, Priest of Serket, and Director of Medicinal Plants.

In the southern region of the Saqqara archaeological site, a joint French-Swiss archaeological team made an important discovery uncovering the mastaba tomb of the royal physician Teti Neb Fu from the Old Kingdom, according to a statement by the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities.

This tomb, unearthed in the southern region of the archaeological site of Saqqara, known to contain the tombs of high-ranking officials from the Egyptian Old Kingdom, shows that medicine and magic were once equally revered, and expertise in both earned a long-dead physician to the pharaohs a place of honor among the ancient world’s most esteemed.

Dating back over 4,000 years to the reign of King Pepi II, this important find features exquisite carvings and vibrant artwork, including a painted false door and elaborate scenes depicting funeral offerings.

The sarcophagus found inside the tomb was also inscribed with the name of its occupant and his titles, according to the post. Because of the burial location in Saqqara, researchers knew he was important, but Teti Neb Fu’s official titles named him as the chief palace physician.

Teti Neb Fu, who held prestigious titles such as Chief Palace Physician, Chief Dentist, and Director of Medicinal Plants, also had a unique role as a “Magician” of the Goddess Serket, specializing in the treatment of venomous bites.

Additionally, he was known as the “Great Physician of Teeth” and “Director of Medicinal Plants”, suggesting that he led research and practical applications in the fields of dentistry and the use of therapeutic herbs.

Even though it had been looted in the past, the mastaba still has many of its ornamental features. The director of the archaeological mission, Dr. Philippe Collombert, said the walls are decorated with remarkable reliefs and inscriptions, including a complex frieze that displays the owner’s name and titles.

Among the most remarkable elements is the red-painted ceiling, which is intended to resemble granite blocks, a material commonly found in imposing buildings. The titles and name of the doctor are also written in the middle of the ceiling. An additional noteworthy discovery within the mastaba is a stone sarcophagus, which has hieroglyphic decorations inside that offer more information about Teti Neb Fu and his accomplishments.

Mohamed Ismail Khaled, secretary-general of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, emphasized the importance of this discovery, stating that the texts and drawings on the tomb’s walls unveil new insights into the daily life of the Old Kingdom.

This discovery strengthens Saqqara’s position as one of Egypt’s most important historical sites and contributes to its rich archaeological legacy.

Excavations in this area of Saqarra began in 2022, to unearth the graves of state employees for King Pepi who are buried near him and his wives, officials said.

By Oguz Buyukyildirim.