#prompt classification

[wtfanworkclassification]

Giro d'Italia 2025 Fanwork Classification Results!

The results are in at last- and the mods would like to thank everyone who participated in the 2025 Giro Fanworks Classification. Whether you created a fanwork, commented, betaed, or cheered everyone one it is a net positive for Cycling RPF as a whole. But we do have some winners of the classifications to congratulate.

First, the general classification and thus the maglia glitterata has been won by a substantial margin by those who chose to post anonymously this classification. While this means the jersey cannot be formally awarded to any individual in particular, it does mean that whoever wishes to post anonymously next Giro is thus helping to defend the jersey. Congratulations to however many authors were involved in this- it was an impressive GC campaign!

For the individual campaigns hoelywritingsx won the hilly (or AU) classification, legendofthefireemblem won the mountain  (or trope) classification and olympiaslover won the ITT (or challenge) classification. For the first of the gauntlets, Hyperspecific Week, the anonymous collective reigns supreme- perhaps another gauntlet will approach in the near future for people to try? Who knows! Nevertheless, congratulations to all our participants and we hope you all had a wonderful time! See you all soon for the Tour!

(admire the maglia glitterata below)

[sleepy-harper]

thinking of writing & classification aus

classification au where when a pair of cgs/flips get their own little, they have their own little "baby shower" of sorts, announcing the little into their little family,, everyone so happy and excited to see their new little edition to the little family,, gosh I'm thinking of this so bad

[systemclasificationpending]

Plurality and Telepathy

before we start this all started from a discord server @derinthescarletpescatarian server has the best and weirdest conversations we love it there (and we love @kim-poce and @moonfall-collective, also @skeletalprism and @stars-says-fuck are also wonderful) what happens when Plurality meets telepathy so many thoughts and these were our contributions:

ok cracks knuckles lets fucking GO so i really like the it depends on how deep into the mind you go thought, so if you're just going surface level thoughts aka front youll get whoever is fronting so if you check in later on and its someone else fronting it feels like a different person maybe even a slightly different mind and it could be incredibly disorienting for the telepath as well "hold up this??? is a different person??? but how???" angst potential there especially if the systems egg carton hasn't been cracked yet [meaning they dont know theyre a system], say a little deeper into a mind of a system and it starts to get noisy, overlapping voices, different volumes, different ages, different genders, its loud and overwhelming all coming from one mind you know the trope of going fully into someone's mind seeing the inner workings, like a mind palace or whatever structure they use in the setting? they see the inner world and the telepath is just shocked to see it having other people in it, full people not wisps of memories of people but people, people they've never met yet they can feel so familiar (have fronted around them before) people who wear the body's face but feel entirely foreign maybe theyre even a child version of the body and yet they have never felt this mind before yet this is the one that looks like the body (maybe doesnt front, maybe just hasnt fronted around them) and assuming theyve never heard of DID before and say are known for being good at mind shit, theyre confused, shocked have no idea how to handle this and for once theyre the ones being led around by someone else maybe they have a really well put together inner world and its the most put together mind they've seen and theyre shocked cuz "i thought you hadnt done any insert mind magic/telepathy shit here??? how can your mind be so ordered without having done any?" also id imagine it wouldnt be a "ive always had this power" but they trained to have telepathy and are still learning about the different ways minds can form and be however they dont think they are cuz well i have all this experience (in reality its maybe only a few years)

also maybe they know how to quiet their mind around telepaths who cant turn it off because well they know how annoying it is to have someone screaming in their mind and oh sorry about Tim he has a song stuck in his head we can have him go further into the innerworld so its quieter for you, they do this without help or training from the telepath, whos shocked cuz everyone needs a few tips to keep theyre secrets from them yet they can do it without any help at all, they have practice after all, hiding surprises from each other, (hiding pranks too) the first ever person to manage to surprise them with a gift, jaw dropping surprise they have no idea how the system did it but they did (just kept it locked away in the inner world, someone pointedly didnt know what it was or made themself forget presented it) they dont fear the telepath the first ever to not hold any fear of their powers not because they can hide without question (tho that does help with some things) no but BECAUSE they can hear their mind, because they can hear the other voices too the telepath can laugh at the jokes the others make that they cant quite explain to a non telepath because the joke wasnt made in words but vibes and pictures, because the telepath can understand them better because they have multiple thought types and communication is hard as fuck normally a telepath thats unsettled by the innerworld only because they know what it means they do know DID and they know how its most often formed but cant help but be impressed at the organization of the mind and feeling sick because of it all knowing they didnt put conscious work into it like non systems would have to do rapid switching is like whiplash and telepaths have no idea how the system is still standing??? but theyre still carrying on a conversation like nothing is happening (i just think this one is funny)

another into the mind: a system so excited to have their telepath friend/partner to dive into their innerworld so they can show them how everyone looks so they can see the differences proper and a system being able to still walk around and do things when the telepath dived into their mind where most would "go to sleep" and be down for the count until they re-surfaced but instead someone else just took front (we're specifically thinking of DC for this one and the Martian Manhunter mainly cuz i think there was a time they had to have him do a dive in on another hero taking them both out mid battle however that may also just be his memories and not actually canon im not bothering to fact check him rn) (unsurprisingly our in system telepaths have a lot to give on this topic) a system learning telepathy and they develop headmates that just steal the abilty and others find they just cant no matter how hard they try (Charles Xavier has submitted this and is laughing at Erik Lehnsherr so im guessing this is aimed at him) we have run out of brain cells to send more thoughts (for now)

[orchidbreezefc]

a couple taxonomemes

(original [here])

[pseuddamntired]

I think it would be fun to challenge people to write stories promoted only by categories in the aarne-thompson-uther index. With the optional additional challenge that the genre/style is NOT folk tale or fable.

Categories such as “war between birds (insects) and quadrupeds” and “which bird is father?” and “innocent slandered maiden” and “suitors at the spinning wheel” and “seemingly dead relatives” and, possibly my favorite, “cases solved in a manner worthy of Solomon”

I’m finding a lot from this table of tale types: https://libraryguides.missouri.edu/c.php?g=1083510

[unsolicited-opinions]

You probably heard about the "14,000 babies in 48 hours" thing, but the media is doing a shit job of explaining it clearly.

Here's a recap:

---

The Claim

On May 14, 2025, Tom Fletcher, United Nations Humanitarian Coordinator, claimed during an interview on BBC Radio 4 that "14,000 babies could die in the next 48 hours in Gaza" due to severe humanitarian conditions.

This is Tom Fletcher:

The figure Fletcher gave was based on a "misinterpretation" of a report from the Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (IPC).

What the IPC had actually projected was that 14,100 children aged 6 months to 5 years in Gaza were projected to suffer severe acute malnutrition over the 12-month period between April 2025 and March 2026 - not that they were all babies, nor that they would die, let alone within 48 hours.

The malnutrition claim was spurious enough, but claiming 14,000 babies would die in 48 hours was batshit insane.

HOW BATSHIT WAS IT?

Totally, blatantly batshit.

Let's do some math.

14,000 deaths in 48 hours = 291 babies per hour, or nearly 5 babies every minute, around the clock, 24 hours/day.

This level of mass death in such a short timeframe is unheard of outside of a nuclear catastrophe or an active extermination campaign...and no such event was occurring.

You'd think an expert from the UN would know the basic demographics, right?

Gaza has a population of roughly 2.3 million.

About 15% of the population is under 5 years old, or roughly 345,000 children.

Of those, the number of infants (under 12 months) is far smaller - closer to 50,000-60,000.

If 14,000 infants were to die in 48 hours, that would be over 25% of all babies in Gaza. In two days.

No known famine, epidemic, or conflict has ever produced that kind of child mortality in such a short span.

Not even historical attrocities accomplished that death rate.

Anyone with a basic understanding of child mortality statistics, humanitarian logistics, historical precedent, or basic mental math should have been immediately skeptical. The number was a red flag on its face and the claim should have prompted instant demands for sources, verification, and context.

Nobody in the Western legacy media seems to have made such demands.

Beleiving this claim required ignoring basic demographics, suspending disbelief about death rates, and trusting emotionally explosive language over factual scrutiny.

That didn't stop Tom from saying it.

That didn't stop news outlets from reporting it.

That didn't stop people from believing it.

What were the consequences?

Since no correction came from the UN for more than a week and nobody in the media thought to do their jobs and question it, this false claim lived in the world for those 8 days.

The claim was cited in the UK House of Commons during debates on Gaza and humanitarian aid. Politicians referred to the figure as fact, influencing rhetoric and public policy discussions.

The emotional weight of the claim increased pressure on Western governments to take urgent action or adopt stronger positions regarding Israel's actions in Gaza.

The figure was emotionally powerful and l inflamed already-deranged pro-Palestinian camps.

I'd argue it helped fan the flames of anti-Israel sentiment and antisemitism.

The claim circulated widely on the 20th and 21st.

Direct causation between the climate created by this misinformation and the shooting in DC on the 21st is speculative, but I'm seeing a lot of speculation on that. Here's Hen Mazzig:

Just days ago, the UN published a scandalous headline claiming that Israel would kill 14,000 babies in 48 hours. In reality, the report stated: "14,100 severe cases of malnutrition could occur over the next year among children under five, if aid doesn't reach them." See how one year becomes 48 hours? How potential illness becomes certain death? How children become babies? Which headline do you think the antisemitic shooter in Washington DC read, and remembered? Words matter. Blood libels have consequences. They led to the murder of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim.

May their memories forever be a blessing

Because the false UN claim remained uncorrected for over a week, many individuals and advocacy groups based their calls to action, posts, and even protests on a false premise - creating a widespread misunderstanding about the scale and urgency of the crisis.

Finally, today, May 22nd of 2025, more than a week later, the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) is reported to have issued a clarification, stating the claim was a misreading of the IPC data. I can't find any evidence of it, but that's what's being reported.

Tom Fletcher has not issued an apology or public retraction for his statement. It seems there will be no consequences for his incompetence.

[azulhood]

DC x DP Prompt

What if Danny's core is literally just Pluto?

He would get so pissed and offended when people talk about pluto's planet classification.

He will fight over the fact that, yes it is a planet, it has moons so that makes it a planet.

So when some guy in his class starts the 'pluto isn't a planet' argument, Danny is obviously going to going to defend his planet/core/himself.

It ends with a fist fight.

Or more accurately, it ends with three broken ribs, a black eye, and multiple fractures.

When Jazz stormed into the nurses office the first words out of his mouth probably shouldn't have been "you should see the other guy." The other guy in question being Damian Wayne.

[thebibliosphere]

Hey, fellow Patreon users, just in case you haven't been checking your emails, Patreon is now enforcing the new rule that all NSFW content creators must verify their age via some form of photo or government identification. This is to comply with Mastercard's "new" regulations concerning adult content or content that depicts nudity.

(There is a verification process available for those who do not have government IDs. Though I do not personally know what it is because I didn't have to go through it.)

The email I just got informed me that if I didn't do it soon, they would put a freeze on my earnings. I was able to complete the process in less than five minutes via my phone and by taking pictures when prompted. My verification was then approved ten minutes later.

If you are like me and were flagged as posting adult content but do not currently have any NSFW content on your page, the above link will also give you the means to have your account classification appealed.

If you are an adult content creator who is not currently flagged as such, whether you post modeling pics, art, or written word (yes, they are apparently including written smut in this, same as ko-fi and PayPal, that's why I'm flagged), it is probably in your interest to become verified so as to avoid any possible termination or loss of funds.

I know when my account first got flagged (thanks to a bunch of TERFs trying to cut off my income), my payouts were frozen for several months while Patreon investigated my content.

In the end, they unfroze my money but still left me with the Adult Content Creator flare (meaning I cannot be promoted on the main page or found through searching, apparently) because I had in the past used Patreon to post distribution links to my Flirting with Fangs edition of Hunger Pangs for patrons who had backed the book on there.

Anyway. Don't be like me and almost lose your next month's income because you almost didn't check your email. That would be bad.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 252

“Sir, we’ve… There’s been an encounter with a Reaper class entity.” 

There were several classifications for ecto-entities. Several ways the Ghost Investigation Ward classified each. Several common ones that they could easily destroy, easily study. Others however… others were dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. 

There’d only been two other Reaper-class entities confirmed before- both contained but barely. RP-1, a large knight-like entity seemingly made from shadows, and RP-2, a child-like creature that could near perfectly mimic a human. 

And now, there was a third. A third entity that could- and judging from the reports coming in had- killed. Had done so several times even. Which meant it needed to be contained yesterday. 

“Send out the teams- I want this thing in Site X Now!” 

[wtfanworkclassification]

Giro d'Italia 2025 Fanwork Classification Masterpost

The Grand Tour Fanwork Classification is back, with its first event of the summer- the Giro! Participants will once again compete for a variety of category classifications, attempt to win the debut maglia glitterata (who doesn't want a png of a pink glitter jersey?), or compete in our first ever gauntlet- Hyperspecfic Week! Whether you're here to compete or simply complete a stage or two, enjoy yourselves and have fun!

Rules: As always, tumblr submissions will be counted only within the timeframe of when the collection itself is open. We have also put in place a Code of Conduct- please read over it to know the behaviour expected of participants towards others!

Timeline: Collection opens: 7th May 00:00 UTC Collection closes: 3rd June 11:59 UTC Classification winners announced: 10th June (roughly)

(useful links and legend below the break)

Useful Links: Ao3 Collection Countdown to when the collection closes Explanation post for the challenges FAQs

[unpretty]

I had a class on taxonomy in uni, and we spent a month looking at taxonomies and classifications around us to try and see all the ways in which they were fundamentally flawed — kink taxonomy would have been SUCH a fantastic topic for the paper I had to write on it.

However I don’t think I could have looked my beautiful butch information design teacher in the eye and told her “yeah I’m looking for femdom and orgasm denial except not with the humiliation part. Yes I do want to put dicks in cages but they should like that. Also sounding but I’ll hurl if anyone is wearing gloves”

unfortunately i must say that sounds like a writing prompt

[dearhnymn]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.

© dearhnymn does not consent to their work being copied, translated, altered, or used by ai in any way possible.

The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.

He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.

You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”

　“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”

　“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.

　“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.

With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.

George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”

You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”

　“No.”

　“George.”

He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”

Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.

　“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.

　“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.

He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”

You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”

　“You’re insufferable.”

　“And correct.”

The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.

Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.

Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.

His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.

His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”

And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.

The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.

You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.

　“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.

A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.

You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.

　“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.

He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”

You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”

George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”

　'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.

　“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.

　“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”

He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

　“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

　“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”

You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”

He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”

You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”

　“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”

Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.

　“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”

You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”

George blinked. “Touché.”

You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.

Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.

You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.

　“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”

He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”

　“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”

George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.

Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”

You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”

　“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.

You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.

For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.

Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.

Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

　“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”

　“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.

　“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.

Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.

　“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.

　“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”

George didn’t argue.

You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.

Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.

　“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.

　“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”

　“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.

　“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.

　“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”

You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.

He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.

There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.

　“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”

You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.

　“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.

You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”

The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

　“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”

George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.

　“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.

He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.

　“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.

There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.

At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.

Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.

George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.

Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.

The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.

Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.

Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.

George.

At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.

Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.

Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.

Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.

“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.

“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.

George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”

Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”

“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”

George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.

Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”

“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.

Neither of you said anything about it.

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed to support your favorite authors! let me know when if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️��taglist: @eeechooo

[henwilsonweek]

Rules & FAQ

Rules

The works have to feature Hen Wilson from 9-1-1 prominently; this is her week, after all a. Works that contain Hen Wilson bashing specifically will not be reblogged or allowed on the AO3 collection

Don't be rude. If you don't like someone's work, back away, say nothing at all, and maybe click on something else you might enjoy more

Tag your works properly (ratings, warnings, etc.)

Mention the day and prompt on your post when sharing your work

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FAQ

What kind of works are accepted?

Anything! Gifs, fanfiction, fanart, videos, moodboards — everything is allowed as long as it's 1) Hen-centric; 2) doesn't bash Hen's character; 3) wasn't created through the use of AI

When should the works be posted?

Hen Wilson Week 2025 will run from the 10th to the 16th of February, with different prompts for each day (to be posted soon). Ideally, you'd post on the day of the prompt you're creating for, but I'm aware real life sometimes gets in the way (this post, for example, was supposed to be done two weeks ago; oops). I'll accept late works up to a month after Hen Week is over; just make sure to write what prompt you're creating for + the day it was due when you share it for classification purposes

Is there a minimum length required for this event?

Not at all! No minimum or maximum required!

Will there be an AO3 collection?

Yes, absolutely. You can find it here. It will open on the 8th or 9th of February so you can start drafting on AO3 then if needed.

Do I have to post on AO3 or add my works to the AO3 collection?

Not at all! Not if you don't want to. That's entirely up to you. That being said, here on Tumblr, we will only be able to reblog works shared on Tumblr that have @ us or that have tagged their posts with #HenWilsonWeek2025

Will the collection ever be closed or marked unrevealed/private?

The collection will close a month after Hen Week 2025 is over, but the works will not be unrevealed/private; the works will remain visible for anyone to access

Can I combine a prompt for this with a different event (911 Bingo, BTHB, etc.)?

As long as the other event allows it, and your work meets their requirements too, then of course!

If you have any other questions, feel free to message us/send an ask!

[devilevlls]

⋆｡‧°ʚ Masterlist ɞ°‧｡⋆

Reblogs are appreciated. Comments are appreciated. Suggestions are appreciated. Classifications:

💔 - for angst 💓 - for fluff 💋 - for suggestive 🔥 - for smut (explicit content) Length indicators: 📗 - for short (1 to 400 words) 📘 - for medium (401 to 800 words) 📙 - for medium-long (801 to 1300 words) 📕 - for long (1301 or +)

ㅤㅤRandom thoughts - Short posts about my thoughts.

⭑Lucifer thirst 📗💋 ⭑Cherishing Lucifer 📗💓 ⭑MC being jealous of Lucifer with Solomon 📗 ⭑Taking revenge on Belphie 📗 💔 ⭑Resting with Lucifer 📗💓

ㅤㅤDrabbles - Short pieces of stories

Diavolo ⋆.˚

⭑Secret garden 📘💓 ⭑Wanna watch the stars with me? 📘💓

Barbatos ⋆.˚ ⭑Over-Dramatic 📘💓 ⭑Please tell me, this is not why you woke me up 📘💓 ⭑This could either save us or ruin everything 📘💔

Lucifer ⋆.˚

⭑Why won't you let me help you? 📙💓 ⭑Jealousy 📗💓

Mammon ⋆.˚ ⭑ Under the sheets 📘💋 ⭑ Why is there glitter everywhere? 📗💓

Leviathan ⋆.˚ ⭑ Why are you wearing my skirt? 📘💓

Beelzebub ⋆.˚ ⭑ How long were you standing there? 📗💓

Satan ⋆.˚

⭑ Don’t touch that, it’s supposed to be cursed 📘💓 ⭑ Well, this was awkward 📘💋 Solomon ⋆.˚ ⭑ Magic tricks on the pool table 📘💋

ㅤㅤSpecial scenarios - my general writings

⭑Let's skip class - Mammon - 📙💋 ⭑Friends with benefits - Leviathan - 📙🔥 ⭑Lucifer's day off - Lucifer 📘💓

ㅤㅤHeadcanons

⭑P*gging - Belphegor - 📗🔥 ⭑MC who has the appetite like Big Mom - Beelzebub 📗 ⭑ Lucifer's lewd habits - Lucifer 📘🔥 ⭑ Diavolo's lewd habits - Diavolo 📗🔥

⭑ Being silly with the brothers: Nibbling on Lucifer 📗💓 Nibbling on Asmodeus 📗💓 MC who bumps their forehead against them 📗💓 Mammon with an MC who collects plushies! 📗💓 MC who likes to play with their hair!📗💓

Check my Creepy AU masterlist for more content! Drabble prompts - you can use in your requests! WIP list - where you can see which works are in progress.

[snitchcrimsonwrites]

Drawn Together-Chapter 12

Pairing: Tech x Jedi!Reader

Tech is concerned about a few security risks he's assessed after Bracca, and Hunter decided to send you both on a supply run...alone. What could happen while you've got tasks to complete?

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

The Marauder drifted silently through hyperspace. Most of the squad was asleep, exhausted from the skirmish on Bracca and their intense days of recovering Omega. Tech, however, had tasks he needed to complete, so he remained focused on the central console, surrounded by numerous holoscreens and data projections. You enter the cockpit silently, your gaze quickly settling on the myriad of translucent data streaming before him: fragments of Imperial code, biometric maps, and surveillance feeds. Lines of code rush by his goggles as he works, his body tense with concentration.

“Are you still working?” you inquire, hoping he would have eventually relaxed for the evening. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What has you so locked in?”

Tech didn’t look up. “Yes. Several high-priority security concerns emerged after our encounter with Crosshair. I’m addressing one of them now.”

You moved closer, captivated by the flow of information on the screen. You recognized some of it: Imperial data classifications and probe scan results. Your breath caught as you saw your younger self, dressed in Jedi robes.

Your voice dropped an octave. “That’s my old Jedi record.”

“Correct.” Tech tapped a key. The image sharpened, pulling up status information underneath the photo. First Name, Last Name – KIA. Order 66.

He continued. “This file is still active within the Empire’s deep archive. Marked as deceased, but your biometric and genetic data remain. The system could generate a match if flagged by a facial recognition sweep or an active probe.”

Finally, he glanced at you over his shoulder. “On Bracca, Crosshair saw you. While he didn’t appear to make any connection, exposure increases risk. I prefer not to gamble with statistical probabilities where your safety is concerned.”

You leaned over, studying the data scrolling beside your archived image. “So what are you doing?”

“Creating a replacement identity,” he said plainly. “A complete record. New birth data, civilian classification, altered biometrics. Once uploaded, it will overwrite your existing registry entries and prevent standard cross-referencing. Essentially, you will no longer exist as Y/N, Jedi of the Republic.”

You folded your arms, the weight of them settling on your chest. “That sounds... difficult to pull off.”

Tech gave a slight shrug. “Moderately. The encryption layers in the Imperial mainframe are extensive, but not infallible. I’ve already accessed the appropriate clearance chain through a backdoor in a now-defunct Separatist node. It’s just a matter of aligning the metadata.”

You continue to watch him work before asking, “Why go to all this trouble?”

Tech paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Because you’ve been compromised. If Crosshair alerts the Empire about your presence or, worse, your abilities, they’ll launch an investigation. That will prompt questions. Which will lead to records. Which will lead back to you. Which puts us all at risk.” He gestured toward the display without shifting his gaze. “I estimate that the likelihood of long-term survival with your current identity has decreased by twenty-eight percent due to recent events. Therefore, I’m taking steps to correct that.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You could’ve just said you were worried about me.”

Tech blinked behind his goggles, caught off guard. Then, as if concluding there was nothing to correct, he returned to his work. “I thought I did.”

Your gaze lingered on the holo screen, where the archival image of your younger self stared out in frozen monochrome. Her Jedi robes were crisp, and the lightsaber was clearly visible at her belt. A trace of pride was faintly apparent in the stiff line of her posture.

“I look… young,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “That was taken just after I passed my trials." You paused. “That was more than a decade ago.”

Tech adjusted something on his screen. “Your appearance hasn’t changed significantly.”

You glanced over, unsure. “Was that a compliment?”

He blinked, considering. “Merely an observation based on biometric comparison.” Then a brief hesitation. “Though yes, personally, I find your current appearance quite favorable.”

That drew a surprise from you. “Oh? What parts, exactly?”

He didn’t look up as he replied, busy realigning the registry overlay with the replacement profile. “Your eyes, for one. They are notably expressive. And the contour of your jaw. It has a certain symmetry I find pleasing.”

You shook your head, attempting to conceal the blush that crept onto your cheeks. “Of course you do.”

He keyed in a final sequence, fingers pausing just above the console. “I’ll need to scan your current biodata now.”

You nodded, stepping in as he activated the portable scanner. A faint blue light washed across your face, neck, and hands as he captured the necessary readings. The device beeped softly in confirmation.

“Scan complete. The new profile is nearly ready to go live,” Tech said, already merging the data into the fabricated records. “All that remains is to overwrite the original file from the archive.” He hovered over the final command, waiting. But you didn’t say anything. He glanced up from the screen.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” you said finally. “I mean…It’s just a file. Data. A few lines in a system.” You exhaled slowly. “But seeing it overwritten like that…I don’t know, it feels like I’m disappearing.”

Tech was initially silent. "It isn’t gone,” he finally said. “It’s just not traceable by hostile systems anymore." You smiled faintly, appreciating the intent, even if the comfort didn’t quite land. “Maybe. But it still feels like erasing a part of who I was.”

He hesitated, then reached over, deactivating the display. The holo of your younger self blinked out, leaving only you and Tech’s reflections in the cockpit screens.

“This doesn’t alter anything; you’re still the same person," Tech murmured, moving closer to you.

“Thank you, Tech,” you said, softly kissing his temple to wish him a goodnight.

—---------------------

The Batch was scattered around the hold; after the chaos of Bracca and Omega’s recovery, things settled for now. Wrecker was transporting equipment to the corner storage unit, whistling out of tune. Echo sat nearby, checking a parts manifest against the records. Tech was in the middle of diagnosing the ship’s navigation relays.

You stood by the navigation console, holding your small datapad, attempting to decipher Hunter’s jotted inventory list, partially legible, yet mostly a confusing array of shorthand and gear codes that only he seemed to grasp. “We’re low on supplies,” he said, scanning the list over your shoulder. “Rations, thermal tape, compression seals…” He glanced at Tech, then at you. “The marketplace just beyond the outpost should have everything we need.”

You nodded, tapping the datapad. “No problem, I should be able to handle it.”

“You’re not going alone.” Hunter’s tone made it clear this wasn’t up for debate. He turned, gaze shifting toward Tech. “Tech, go with her.”

Tech knelt beside a diagnostic console, glancing up, determined to finish this task. “I can complete the system analysis first. There’s no immediate urgency to—

“You can finish them when you get back.” A pause settled like static in the air. Tech’s hand lingered over the exposed panel. His eyes darted to you and then back to Hunter. “…Understood.”

Hunter firmly clasped Tech’s shoulder to make a point. “Take your time. Make sure you get everything we need.”

You caught the subtext instantly, arms folded with easy suspicion.“You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

Hunter only shrugged, his mouth lifting in the faintest of smirks. “I’m not trying to be.” His gaze softened a bit. “You’ve both been on edge since Bracca. A bit of fresh air won’t hurt you.” With that, he turned away, calling out to Echo about the backup comm relay as his footsteps faded toward the ship's interior.

You and Tech descended the ramp together, leaving the Marauder behind. The streets of Ord Mantell City unfolded before you as you walked side by side past rows of stalls.

At one booth, Tech took a moment to inspect a bin of compression seals, carefully assessing each one for integrity. You stood next to him, arms casually crossed again, while your eyes roamed around the open square.

“You really don’t mind?” you asked after a moment. “Hunter shoving us into... whatever this is?”

Tech examined the seal closely before placing it in the satchel at his hip. Only after did he look at you, composed and measured.

“No. I don’t. I find it...” Tech hesitated, “...beneficial to spend time with you.”

“That’s practically romantic coming from you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I wasn’t attempting to be romantic.”

“Sure,” you replied, lips curving despite yourself.

“But I acknowledge the implication.”

A quiet settled between you again, not awkward, but the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. You adjusted your position to observe a group of travelers walking by while Tech remained at the stall. You watched them absently before turning your attention back to Tech. He was watching you too, but this time not with amusement or even calculation, but with curiosity.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said. “Your abilities. On Bracca... that wasn’t standard technique.”

You blinked. “No. It wasn’t.” At this point, you shouldn’t be surprised by his knack for recognizing those subtleties, but you still were.

“Was it something you developed yourself?” he asked. “It did not resemble typical manipulation; the form and energy signature were unique. Less linear, more ambient, and elementally reactive.”

You paused, careful with your words in this open space, then nodded slowly. “I’ve always been capable of it, even when I was young. But I didn’t grasp it for a long time. The masters didn’t either. They discouraged me from pursuing it… considered it a distraction. Too unpredictable. Too ancient.”

Tech focused intently on connecting these words to the disjointed texts he had aided you in translating. “You’ve been researching this,” he said slowly, “your abilities. Trying to learn more?”

“Yes,” you said, quietly but firmly. “Lately, I’ve been thinking I’ve ignored this part of myself for too long.”

Tech’s demeanor changed as he nodded briefly, readjusting his satchel. “I would like to continue being of assistance if you’d allow,” he said. After a brief pause, Tech added, “May I make an additional observation?”

You turned your head slightly, indicating you were listening without fully facing him. “You usually do.”

"Despite being discouraged from building personal connections, you appear to have managed these dynamics quite well, especially regarding me... and the others."

You paused, briefly looking down at the fractured stone below you, then raised your gaze to meet his.

“That’s... been another change,” you said, your voice quieter and more introspective. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not that we lacked attachments,” you continued. “We simply... didn’t discuss them. Not in the way that truly mattered. I had my squad; they were close and loyal. Friends I would have died for. I almost did, more than once.” For a moment, your voice faltered. “Those connections were always present. We weren’t emotionless. We just learned to distance ourselves from what we couldn’t afford to lose.”

Tech studied you. “And now?”

You inhaled deeply and calmly. “Now I realize that the distance might have cost us more than we anticipated."

Tech nodded thoughtfully, absorbing your words with the same deliberate precision he used for every system he examined. “For what it’s worth, you appear to have melded into our group dynamic with minimal disruption.”

You smirked faintly. “That’s your way of saying I fit in.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And that your presence boosts morale, cohesion, and operational success. Including mine.”

“You know,” you remarked nonchalantly, “you’ve managed to navigate all of this quite well too.”

Tech glanced up, a hint of surprise showing on his face. “Have I?”

You shrugged slightly, grabbing a ration pack from a nearby rack and feigning an inspection. “Not every guy customizes a datapad with language processors. Or adjusts a replacement weapon to fit my precise fighting style.”

“It was logical,” he said. “Your original ‘sidearm’ was no longer reliable. It was the most sensible course of action.”

You gave him a look. “Tech.” He paused. “Yes?”

“It was incredibly thoughtful.”

Tech’s gaze lingered on you longer this time, something unreadable flickering behind the lens of his goggles. He didn’t immediately refute you. Didn’t try to mask it in technical terms.

“I admit I do care,” he admitted at last, and the straightforwardness of his confession carried much more significance than any elaborate display could. “About your well-being. Your presence. Your… potential ongoing presence in my life.”

Your smirk returned, warmer now. “See? That was romantic.”

“I still wasn’t attempting it to be.”

“I know,” you said, nudging him gently with your shoulder. “That’s what makes it kind of perfect.”

Tech looked down for a moment, as though calculating a response, but instead just adjusted the strap of the satchel again. “You’ve made these... personal variables less complicated than I expected.”

—-----------------------

The last of the ration packs went into the satchel with a soft thunk, and Tech conducted a quick inventory check, nodding to himself in satisfaction. “That concludes the primary supply list.”

You tossed your smaller bag over your shoulder and leaned in a bit toward him. “You know, Hunter mentioned that we should take our time.”

Tech looked over, raising an eyebrow. “He did. Which I interpreted to mean thoroughness.”

You grinned. “See, I interpreted it as permission.”

That earned you a mild look of caution. “Permission for what, exactly?”

You started walking again, slower this time, weaving through a thinner part of the market crowd, “A potential detour.”

Tech fell into step beside you without hesitation, but he tilted his head in that precise, curious way of his. “What kind of detour?”

You glanced at him with a slight smile playing on your lips. “I was thinking… I could buy you a drink.”

He blinked once, then twice. "...A drink?”

“Yeah,” you said. “You know. People go out, get drinks, talk, maybe sit somewhere without servo parts or exploding ion engines.”

“I understand the social ritual,” he responded. Tech halted in his tracks, evidently considering factors he hadn’t thought of before. “Would this be… a date?”

You tilted your head. “Would you mind if it were?"

He was quiet for a beat. Then, “No. I’m not opposed.”

Your grin widened. “Good.”

Tech resumed walking, but his pace was slightly slower now, more deliberate. “Is there a particular location you had in mind for this… drink?”

"There’s a cantina just past the main square. It’s quiet and has a decent view of the skyports. It’s not Cid’s."

“That is an acceptable ratio,” he said without missing a beat.

You laughed quietly to yourself. “Great. Then it’s settled.”

As you and Tech exited the main market and headed toward the cantina-lined square's edge, the chatter of vendors receded. Tech shot you another look, his voice slightly softer now. “You know… I don’t typically deviate from mission parameters.”

“I know,” you said. “But this is kind of the point. Letting yourself want something… even if it’s small.”

Tech nodded, deep in thought. "And what you want, at this moment… is a drink. With me.”

You gave a quiet smile. “Every much so.”

He remained silent initially, yet his hand grazed yours once more. This time with intention. He did not grasp it. Merely a touch. A subtle affirmation. “I find,” he said finally, “that I want that too.”

The cantina was tucked along the city's edge, modest compared to the rowdier establishments closer to the city's center. Upon entering, Tech instinctively scanned the room, as he always did—mapping exits, evaluating threat levels, and cataloging details. But when he looked back at you, he relaxed slightly; no threats were present.

You approached the bar, with Tech standing next to you, visibly out of place but at ease. The bartender came over, asking, “What’ll it be?” Without hesitation, you replied, tapping the bar. “I’ll have a J’nari fizz and a smoked ardees. Warm, no ice.”

Tech blinked, slowly turning his head toward you.

It was clear he was taken aback. “You always hesitate when Wrecker orders it with ice,” you remarked, a grin barely contained on your face. “And you asked the bartender at Cid’s if they had the smoked variant. Twice.”

“I was checking for consistency,” he replied reflexively, though a slight flush rose to his ears. “Not showing preference.”

“Mmhmm.”

The drinks were set before you moments later, yours bubbling lightly, his swirling with faint red-gold vapor. He picked up the glass, studied it briefly, then looked at you.

“You pay attention,” he said quietly.

You lifted your glass with a smirk. “Of course I do.” He hesitated for a moment, then raised his own and gently clinked it against yours.

You both sipped, and he nodded in approval. “It’s… optimal.”

“Told you.”

You found a quiet booth near the back, half-shaded with a skyline view. You slid into the seat beside him, resting your arms on the table. Tech set his drink down with careful precision. “You surprise me,” he said. “Often.”

“I hope it’s not something you mind,” you replied, chin resting on your hand.

He studied you again, eyes moving over your face, “It’s not discomforting.” You smiled, softer now, settling in next to him. “I’m glad.”

The walk back was slower than it needed to be.

As night fell, the streets became quieter, and the city’s street lamps illuminated one by one, creating amber-lit patches along the path back to the Marauder. You and Tech walked side by side, bags slung over your shoulders. As you walked, you lightly bumped him with your shoulder. “You sure you’re not secretly a social creature? You’ve handled this whole ‘date’ thing suspiciously well.”

"I do not believe one outing makes me socially inclined,” Tech responded, his hands clasped behind his back in his typical thoughtful manner. "However, I must admit, the circumstances were... favorable.”

“Might’ve been the company.”

“Might’ve been the drink,” he countered, deadpan.

You scoffed. “One ardees and you’re bold now?”

“You’re implying I wasn’t before?”

You blinked, pretending to mull that over. “I mean, in some sense of the word. But I’d lean into meticulous, maybe. Efficient. Occasionally impossible.”

“Impossible,” he repeated, as if testing the word.

You looked over and smiled. “In a peculiarly charming way.”

That earned you a lopsided grin from him. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping in front of him momentarily as you walked backward, your jacket fluttering slightly behind you. “You’ve got that whole understated ‘genius with mysterious depths’ thing going on. It's very effective.”

Tech blinked. “Effective… how?”

You tilted your head, smile sharpening. “You know how.”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his goggles, even though they didn’t need adjusting. “Ah. Understood.”

You fell into step next to him again, intertwining your arm with his and resting it there. He let you. “I like you like this,” you said after a beat. “A little less filtered.”

“Are you suggesting I lower my internal regulation more often?”

“Not too much,” you said. “I like that you think before you speak. But it’s nice when you let something slip. Even if it’s just how much you actually like smoked ardees.”

There was a pause. Then: “I also enjoyed the conversation, for the record. Not merely the beverage.”

“Oh stars,” you groaned dramatically, “now he’s sweet-talking me.”

“I’m being honest,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Which I believe is encouraged in these situations.”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the quiet street. “You really are dangerous when you loosen up.”

“Noted,” he replied, though his tone carried a playful note. A tease.

You reached the port hangar where the Marauder was docked. The hangar was quiet, with only the hum of distant city noise drifting through. You stopped walking for a moment, turning to face him again.

“I’m glad you came with me,” you said quietly.

“I’m glad Hunter prompted me to,” Tech replied, equally quiet.

You observed him for a moment longer, a feeling tugging at your chest. "Will there be a next time?” you asked, moving closer.

“As long as it includes you,” he murmured, “I consider it a favorable arrangement.”

And that did it. You leaned up, just slightly, enough to press a brief kiss to his cheek. As you withdrew, Tech remained motionless, deep in thought. Suddenly, he took a step closer. His hand, gentle and barely there, glided along your jaw. Before you could inquire about his intentions, he leaned in and replaced your kiss with a tender one of his own.

When he pulled back, his face was still close to yours. “I prefer precision,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “If that wasn’t clear.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but now smiling. “Yeah,” you breathed. “That was... very clear.”

He adjusted his goggles, a faint upward curve gracing his mouth. “Noted.”

You turned toward the ramp, your heart racing as you tried to regain your breath and composure. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

“I’ll remind you as frequently as necessary,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

[theglamorousferal]

Persephone's Binding Part 11

Hardcover/Anger Management ship Sacrificial Bride au

AO3 Prompt Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

"This coat should fit you, and there should be a pair of boots in the second cubby from the floor on the right in the next closet." Jazz's voice was muffled by the coats in the closet, only her arm from the elbow down was visible with a coat hanging from her hand. Jason took the coat and made his way to the next closet, he grabbed the boots then shuffled back to the passenger's seat to sit and put them on. The boots were thickly lined with fur and up to his knees with metallic soles that had buttons on the sides and each end.

"We shouldn't be spending too much time outside, just going between the Speeder and buildings, but it truly is an arctic kingdom." Jason snapped his head up hearing her clearly now and stopped. Jazz had put on a long coat in bright teal fur, lined with black and white mottled fur. Her long hair was pulled into a braid and sat over her shoulder and out of the hood. The crown-helm seemed to have morphed to be more of a circlet to sit properly within the hood. Her sword sat at her hip, and he could see her armor peeking from beneath the coat. Her hands looked to be coated in burnished silver and she held out a pair of similar gloves for him.

He slowly rose from the chair, taking the gloves gently and purposefully brushing his fingers with hers. "Thank you." He said while looking up into her eyes. She seemed to pause here and he held eye contact until she blushed down her neck, blinked, and turned away towards the door.

"Let's head out to figure out more information so we can try and get you home!" She said quickly before opening the side door hatch. Instantly the temperature dropped to what he remembered from the Alps. "Hey Frostbite!"

Jason chuckled to himself, pulled the gloves on, and noticed they felt like cold silk. He stepped outside and instantly fell into waist-deep snow. Danny flew over and pulled him up so he has above the snow again. "Hit the buttons on the front inner parts of the shoes." He said and once Jason did, glowing green snowshoes appeared attached to the boots.

"Oh I gotta get myself a pair of these, what do the other buttons do?" Jason asked as he was set down on the snow, now stable.

"Skis, ice skates, ice cleats, I think that's it?" Danny asked.

"Don't forget the ice climbing cleats."

"Right, those too"

Jason shook his head at the banter between the to siblings. Glad to know even though they're royalty, they're still family. They followed Frostbite to one of the larger ice structures, and once inside he was able to shuck the heavy coat.

"So we're here for a basic check-over or are we doing a full exam?" Frostbite asked Jason, leading them into an exam room. He gestured for Jason to sit on the exam table and he did.

"I'm not sure what either of those things would cover, but I guess we're here to get my 'classification'? That's what these two have called it at least." Jason looked over at the two siblings, Jazz in a chair and Danny floating in a sitting position. "I guess if it's possible to look at my soul, maybe it would shed some light on the ritual that was used?"

Frostbite nodded. "So we'll do a basic check then." He moved to a computer console next to the table and began the boring process of getting his basic information down before he seemed to hesitate at the next question. "These next few questions can be triggering, not just on a psychological level, but on a spiritual and physical level as well. Unfortunately I still need to go through them. What can you tell me about your death?"

Jason's breath hitched and he closed his eyes, both his hands forming fists. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I was an idiot kid. I wanted so desperately for a parent who would love me unconditionally that I went to find a woman who did not care that I existed. I thought she was taken as hostage by Joker and went to save her. Instead, she was working with him, and she lit up a cigarette and stood near the door while my father's greatest enemy laughed while he beat me with a crowbar." He swallowed, his mouth dry. "Then he tied her up with me, and left us both there to die because he had rigged the building to explode. I kept begging for my dad to get there, to save me, but he never did. The last thing I remember is watching the numbers tick down on that clock." Tears fell from his face into his lap. He frustratedly wiped them away and looked up. "Next question doc."

"Hmm," Frostbite noted the information in the computer, "What do you remember about your resurrection?"

"Less. A lot less. I wasn't fully aware for the first year and a half or so after I came back. I remember mud, and blood, and a bright light. Then the next thing I remember is coming out of a Lazarus Pit to my dad's ex telling me I was unavenged and sending me on a training trip." Frostbite's fingers pause when he says he was unavenged.

"Do you remain unavenged?" He asked.

"Yes." Jason left it at that. Not wanting to bring up more traumas than necessary. He did miss Jazz sharpening her gaze at that though.

"Okay, what do you know of the time you were dead?"

"I don't remember any of it, but according to my family, I was dead for about six months before I crawled outta my own grave. Then another year and a half for coherent thought and speech."

"Interesting, we'll have to see what we can find then." Frostbite pulls out a screen to hold in front of Jason's chest. A blurred form appeared in the center of Jason's chest on the screen. Frostbite moved some dials and the screen sharpened into focus. What appeared on the screen looked like if there were a large splinter in a stress ball that looked like a lava lamp. Except if the wooden stake was a clear shard of something and the goo was constantly moving inside the stress ball. "Oh my. We will need to see if we can manifest your core outside of your body to determine what is going on. To do that, we'll have to give you a special brew we have here and then you need to imagine manifesting your soul in front of you." He left for a moment to gather the brew.

Jason blew his bangs out of his face and turned to the siblings. "Sorry if all that was a bit much. You don't have to stay here while we go over things if it's making you uncomfortable."

Danny scoffed and Jazz tapped her fingers on the arms of the chair she was in. "Trust me, that's not the most shocking thing we've heard. We literally rule over the land of the dead, we've heard and will hear worse."

"Not that your trauma is invalid at all. You are entirely justified to any feelings you have regarding events that have happened to you. We're not trying to minimize it, just that we've heard all sorts of trauma from just about every time period."

Jason smiled as he folded his hands in front of him. "Thanks"

"Don't mention it." Danny said. "But do I need to steal someone's bones?" Jazz smacked Danny's arm and he cackled.

Frostbite returned, special brew in hand, and had Jason drink the whole thing before attempting to meditate and 'imagine his soul outside of his body'. It took a few minutes, but eventually a bright green shape began to manifest about a foot and a half from the center of Jason's chest. Swirling in the orb that floated there was a slightly clear green liquid that seemed to be leaking out of the crack where the clear shard penetrated. A thicker liquid, brighter than the other liquid and almost alive danced about in the core.

"Let's see if we can get a makeup of these different components shall we?" Frostbite pulled out a hand-scanner that looked like a price gun and held it up to the core. A read-out printed next to him and he pulled a tiny pair of glasses from a pouch at his side to read it out. "Looks like the liquids are ectoplasm and a mixture of Dionesium, about fifty-six other trace elements and water. Odd, because Dionesium is supposed to only be found in the Realms, and rarely mixes with other materials. It appears as though it is separating and fusing with the ectoplasm in the core. We can get you on a regimen to clear out those trace elements and purify your core, because right now it's a bit infected. Now the shard is a bit more complicated." He pointed to the shard without touching it. "This seems to be a shard of reality itself. As such, it can only be removed by an Ancient, who has control over aspects. You do not count yet Great One, you will some day, but not for many centuries yet." He said with a smile towards Danny.

"So what does all of this mean as far as a classification goes?" Jason asked, getting them back on track.

"Right, yes, I was getting to that." He went back to typing. "So I thought at first you were a revenant, a creature brought back from the dead to enact revenge, but seeing as you are able to focus on other things, I'm going to say that is not the case. You are highly liminal, I dare say nearly as much as our Queen Regent was before she took the crown. You have a unique proto-core that will likely bond and absorb the Dionesium present. This will cause some side-effects. There's the standard heightened strength, speed and senses that come with high levels of liminality, but the Dionesium will have other effects. You will age slower, you will heal from near-mortal wounds, you will live longer than a standard human." Jason sat there for a moment, thanking about his family, his friends. There were a few who were immortal, like Diana, that he would still have, but to know for sure that if he survived all that life has to throw at him that he'll for sure out-live his entire family? To stay young while they all aged.

Jason looked at his hands, tracing the scars with his eyes. I guess I already knew I came back different, I just didn't realize how different. He cleared his throat and looked back at the doctor.

"We were gonna check if there was anything we could find about the ritual right? what about that?" he asked.

"Right, If I could have you stand over here on this pad, there's gonna be an arm that will swing around you, you just need to stand still for a few seconds." Jason stood in the center of the pad on the floor and waited as he was scanned. "Interesting, Queen Regent, if you could step inside as well, I'd like to check something?" Jazz stepped inside next to Jason and they were both scanned this time. "Very interesting." Jason and Jazz both came around to look at the screen. On it were two blobs roughly in the outlines of the two of them, however Jazz's blob was yellow and Jason's was red, and the two seemed to be blending in the space between them.

"What're we lookin' at here?" Jason asked.

"Well Lord Jason, it appears as though your souls are intrinsically connected. Whatever ritual that was used was a powerful one to have connected your very souls so closely in such a short span of time." He turned to the two of them. "Even if we are able to break the bond, you will likely stay close or somewhat drawn together." They both blushed and looked everywhere but each other. Danny gagged from the other side of the room. "That concludes the examinations, I can look over everything closer and bring you further information at a later date, but I believe we are all good for today." Frostbite handed Jason a lollipop and gestured for the door.

Danny was flying backwards talking to Jazz and Jason as a large snowball hit the back of his head, sending his tumbling through the air.

"Hey butt-muncher, how've you been?"