#floating paper lanterns

[dfl-inc]

AI image generation

[fotos-art]

Yi Peng Lantern Festival, Chiang Mai, Thailand

© tampatra

Getty Images

As dusk falls, Chiang Mai, Thailand’s second-largest city, will be filled with light and magic for the splendid Yi Peng Festival. This deeply symbolic festival represents the act of letting go of negativity and opening up to new beginnings, and is celebrated during the full moon of the second month of the ancient Lanna calendar. It highlights the release of the “khom loi”, the iconic floating paper lanterns that, as they rise, transform the night sky into an ocean of golden lights. In addition, the streets are decked out in vibrant parades, traditional dances and exquisite festive decorations, creating a truly unique atmosphere.

[nexus-nebulae]

installed a hawk screen over the rats' forest clearing in headspace so we don't get another hawk attack 👍

[evilminji]

Been Watching Weird Fruit Explorer(?)... and I just...

W-Who let Bored Danny have BooTube?

Sorry, YOU-Tube. He has TWO Apps now. BooTube is bigger. Way more random, yet... somehow more niche? Meh. It's what happens when you get billions of billions of people who all have their own Obsessions to rant over, on a site.

Ember's channel is pretty lit, tho, ngl.

He stopped using YOU-Tube almost overnight. Too many ads, weird algorithmic pushiness. No thanks. It was too small and too "trying to take my money". You know?

Buuuuut? See.... TUCKER is the Tech guy.

Coding and that sort of stuff. HE does hands on work. You want a toaster? He can MAKE you a toaster! With LAZERS! Runs off The Goo! But a program? Eeeeeeeh? Hit it with hammer maybe? Monkey make fire? Hit with stick? Blergh.

Yeah, he can SORTA push through.

But he suuuucks.

And like... he had a headache, okay? His project had just, quiet literally, exploded in his face. So when he looked at his phone? All the apps were blobs. He clicked the one that LOOKED kinda right. Shoved his arm in his phone and brute forced a channel set up.

He figured he could ramble about Space!

It's not like he cared is anyone LISTENS or not! It's a "for him" thing, you know? Like a diary. But more... putting on a ☆~show~☆?

So he rambles from the floor of his Lair's Lab, crashs and wails in the distance, green sky occasionally visible as he lazily floats by windows. Dropping... juuuust past human knowledge understanding of Space. Talking like he's STUDYING somewhere. Referencing PAPERS no human will ever be able to find.

But a few they WILL.

Some of which, are currently? Only half written.

But then? Oh YEAH... he should eat! You know... Sam keeps bringing him fruits and veggies and stuff from her internship at that Botanical Lair. Stuff never seen before of Earth. Or hasn't been seen in centuries.

Again, like, a FEW that? Randomly? Have???

He picks up something sharply purple, bright orange insides. Crisp crunch. He makes a face. And starts to ramble about it, distracted from Space. "Weirdly mushroom-y" he notes. "Kinda bubblegum sweet? But like... CHEAP bubblegum. Like it hits you all at once and is kinda chemically. But it disappears real fast? Huh. Spicy too..."

It's the first video on the Playlist. One of hundreds. Two of the green Lanterns RECONIZE that fruit ad HIGHLY toxic to humans, can't recognize what planet they're seeing. Or how this alien teen got himself on YouTube.

He seems... unaware of how incredibly famous he's become.

But his strange techno Pharoah friend has not. HE is both perfectly aware and apparently amused. Has taken to feeding him rare and hazardous flora and fauna, to see if it tastes good.

....there have been an alarming number of plants from dead planets.

And the comments the kid makes? Alarming as hell.

Sam's just pleased everybody's getting their greens. Danny's glad him n tuck get to hang and do "try weird foods and fuck around, bro time". They've made lazers! Talked about stuff! Debated why Martian Manhunter is THE superior Justice League member.

Danny understands. Wonder Woman is a BAMF. But he's biased, Tucker. He doesn't CARE if she has a sword and flowy, impressive locks! Shape-shifting telepath! From MARS!!! *imaginary mic drop*

And Tucker? Is conquering the YouTube scene with this charming, weird, relatable young alien. Who rambles about Space, debates nerd stuff, eats weird plants and describes them, and makes sci-fi technology! Theme? WHAT THEME? Phantom is a weird channel, man. You never know what you'll find!

And no one can get rid of it.

Believe them, governments have TRIED. Censorship? Not possible. Not without removing the whole SITE.

[badlydrawnmanic]

doodled some baby ultra beasts (edit: now it’s all of them!)

info below the cut :3

baby nihilego (UB phoresis) is a pure rock type. it doesn’t have access to its adult form’s mind-altering poisons, but it will still try to sit on other creatures’ heads, possibly hoping they will transport them somewhere new as they aren’t very good at the whole “moving efficiently” thing yet, either. it’s more or less just a smaller nihilego, given how baby jellyfish are just smaller versions of their parents

baby buzzwole (UB pest) is a pure bug type. while it has wings, it isn’t very strong yet and can barely fly, though it is incredibly determined when going after prey. it’s more of an annoyance than a threat, and typically has to go after slow moving or sleeping prey to actually get a chance to bite them. it’s based off of a mosquito larvae (albeit with wings) and the red parts on its head resemble overinflated pool floaties

baby pheromosa (UB nymph) is a pure bug type. they lack adult pheromosa’s pheromones, but will follow their parent’s scent trail very closely, learning crucial behaviors through mimicry. despite adult pheromosa’s aloof appearance, they will fiercely protect their young, keeping the curious, exploratory child out of trouble. it’s mostly just a smaller pheromosa, since baby cockroaches also just look like smaller versions of their parents, but the antennae shape is supposed to resemble a bow

baby xurkitree (UB spark) is a pure electric type. they will float on the wind to disperse from their parent, plugging their tails into the ground once they find an adequate spot. they will sometimes be seen linking together, forming long, twinkling strings. they are based off of christmas lights, specifically the spare bulbs, and when they evolve, it’s like a lightbulb bursting

baby celesteela (UB sprout) is a steel/grass type. as seen in the anime, they can be found buried underground in a dormant state awaiting proper growing conditions. once unearthed, they grow at a rapid rate, evolving quickly into celesteela. i didn’t design it, but its design is based off of a bamboo shoot and a swaddled baby

baby kartana (UB cut) is a grass/steel type. while they seem small and harmless, they have a tendency to spin rapidly towards anything that catches their attention, struggling to stop and slicing into it or even getting stuck in walls and trees. sometimes adult kartana can be seen commanding small swarms of them. i struggled with this one, but they’re based off of paper fortune tellers and ninja stars

baby guzzlord (UB hangry) is a dark/dragon type. they will gladly eat anything that is presented to them, remaining jovial and endearing so long as they have something to snack on, but will throw rather destructive tantrums once they get hungry again, letting out terrible, shrieking cries. adult guzzlord often abandon their own young out of annoyance, preferring to pursue their own gluttony alone. their design is mostly just a smaller version of guzzlord, though they vaguely resemble a jack o lantern, and the patterns on their knees resemble band-aids

baby stakataka (UB component) is a pure rock type. it is less of a baby and more like a single piece of the group making up an “adult” stakataka, these pieces very rarely being seen on their own. when crossing paths, adult stakataka won’t redirect their movements, each group sort of passing through each other and swapping pieces in the process, potentially as a way to share their knowledge. researchers disagree on whether it an individual piece would be called a “stako” or a “taka”

baby blacephalon (UB pop) is a fire/ghost type. when hit with a physical attack, the balloon making up its head will expand, stronger attacks causing larger growth. when significantly stressed, it will explode into a shower of confetti meant to stun or distract its attacker, allowing the body to run away, regrowing its head shortly after. i mostly just wanted this design to look weird, but it is loosely based off of those carnival games where you hit a target and it inflates a balloon, those confetti balloons where the confetti mostly sticks to the sides, and those toys that can’t be knocked over

[thatdesigirl17]

sweater weather

bsf!mattheo riddle x fem!reader

based on the song sweater weather by the neighbourhood

warnings: language, smoking, smut, pinv, soft!mattheo

Mattheo led Y/N through the castle's corridors, ‘Matty, where are we going?’ It was way past curfew and her best friend’s persistent knocks on her dorm room disturbed her sleep. Y/N was sleepy and grumpy. ‘You’ll see, just a couple more minutes, Y/N.’, he answered as he turned around a corner. ‘I swear to Merlin Matty, just tell me already. I’m missing my sleep for this!’, she said. ‘Keep your voice down, it’s past curfew. And don’t act like you can’t lose a little sleep over me.’, he said, even his voice was smug which made Y/N roll her eyes. 

After walking out of the castle, to the Black Lake, Mattheo stopped, not letting go of her hand yet. ‘Okay we’re here.’, he said as he turned to face her. ‘What? Care to tell me why the fuck did you bring me out near the black lake in the middle of the night? While I was asleep!’, she said, looking around and not finding anything special. ‘God, you are so grumpy when you are sleepy and oblivious.’, he remarked, smirking, which further annoyed Y/N. She glared at him, tilting her head slightly. Mattheo seemed to get her message as he continued, ‘Okay, look.’ 

She turned to see where he had gestured. On the edge of the lake, a boat was sitting. ‘That’s unusual, they don’t have boats lying around the lake.’, she said, turning again to face him. ‘Come on.’, he said prompting her to follow him to the boat as he got in and then helped her in. As they sat on two separate ledges on the boat, facing each other, Y/N noticed something lying on the floor of the boat in between, ‘What’s this?’

‘Remember last week, when you made me watch that muggle animated film you loved so much?’, Mattheo asked as he set the boat afloat in the waters of the Black Lake. The water shimmering under the light of the full moon, casting a perfect glow. ‘Tangled?’, she asked, nodding. ‘Yeah, and how you’ve always loved the scene with the floating lights?’, he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘No you didn’t!’, she said excitedly, any trace of sleep vanishing from her body. Mattheo shrugged and grinned with pride. Y/N huffed in surprise and quickly took the paper lantern that was on the floor. ‘Oh my god, Matty! It’s perfect!’, she chimed, her eyes widening in excitement. He smiled looking at her reaction as they reached the middle of the lake. He helped her get the lantern ready, as he fished out his lighter from the pocket, ‘Wanna do the honours, love?’ She grinned taking the lighter from his hands and lighting the inflammable piece below the lantern to fill it up with hot air as Mattheo carefully held the rest of the lantern up. Once it was filled, they both slowly let it go. The lantern glided in the night sky, illuminating the both of them further in the warm glow. Y/N looked up, eyes focused on the lantern as it floated in the night sky, the sight enough to make her smile. Mattheo, on the other hand, looked at Y/N the warm glow making her look ethereal in his eyes. 

Y/N looked at him as she smiled and slowly sat beside him, pulling in a hug. ‘Thank you so much, Matty, you didn’t have to do that. But I’m so glad you did. This is the best moment of my life.’, she said, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘I’d do anything for you, Y/N.’, he said, his voice low, as he kissed her forehead. He let one of his arms remain wrapped around her as she leaned in, settling in his comfortable embrace, her eyes returning to the lantern afloat in the sky. 

Mattheo whipped out a joint from his pocket, placing it between his lips and lighting it. He took a drag, exhaling as the smoke surrounded them. He leant back slightly, his eyes looking up and taking in the night sky. He took another drag and passed it on to Y/N. He watched as she placed the joint in between her lips, taking a drag and then exhaling.

They smoked in comfortable silence, the drug slowly starting to take its effect. ‘Y/N?’, Mattheo called out, looking down at her. She turned to look at him, her chin resting on his shoulder. The close proximity made his eyes wander to her lips for a moment, as he continued, ‘I want to tell you something.’ ‘What is it?’, she asks, a lazy smile spreading across her face. Mattheo searches her eyes as he gathers the courage, and just as he’s about to speak, the rain starts pouring down, heavily, drowning them. Y/N squeals as they quickly take the boat back to the edge. They get out of the boat quickly and run towards the castle, holding each other's hands as they giggle. As they reach the covered space, their footsteps click, the water trickling down them. They run a hand through their hair which sticks to their forehead. 

‘Who’s there?’, a voice disturbs them, the soft glow of a wand visible around the corner as Mattheo takes Y/N’s hand and leads them behind a pillar, shielding them from the prefect making their rounds. 

Mattheo turns his head, looking at the light slowly travelling away from them as his back is pressed to the pillar. He sighs and turns his head, looking at Y/N. 

His eyes roam around her, taking in the sight in front of him. Y/N, with her wet hair, her jumper and shorts clinging to her skin and her hand still intertwined with his. His eyes flicker back to her face, the water droplets trickling down her soft skin. He holds her gaze as he takes in what her eyes are trying to say to him. She knows what he’s thinking about. His eyes flicker down to a droplet of water that flows down her lower lip, as she parts them slightly, breathing. The sight along with his high senses makes him lose all the control he has, giving him a newfound courage. In a blink’s time, his hand snakes around her waist as the goosebumps start to raise on their skins and her breath is taken away as he crashes his lips onto hers. 

Their lips move in sync, dancing to a perfect rhythm as they fit against each other perfectly. She pulls him by his neck, deepening the kiss as his other hand goes up to the base of her neck. They pull away breathing heavily, still pressed against each other. ‘My dorm.’, he whispers as she nods. He quickly turns them, his hand resting on her waist as they walk hurriedly to his dorm.

‘What about others?’, she asks as they near his dorm, referring to his dorm mates. ‘Just us, love. They’re out.’, he says as he opens the door and shuts it, locking it and pressing her to the door. He kisses her hungrily and she returns it with just as much fervour. He starts kissing down her jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the already wet skin as he trails down her neck, biting and sucking marking her. A shiver runs down her spine as he tastes her skin, the feeling similar to any addiction for the both of them. 

The fire trickles in the fireplace keeping the inside warm while the rain continues to cast down outside. They walk to the bed, kissing any part of the skin they can find. Mattheo slowly pulls back, his fingers toying with the hem of her sweater as he pulls it above her head, revealing more of her. ‘No shirt, good girl.’, he remarks, his eyes drinking the sight of her, standing bare in front of him. His hands slowly rake up her body, exploring the foreign curves, mapping them out. He feels her shudder against him. He pulls her closer, one of his hands tangling in her hair as he leans in closer. ‘You feel cold, love? Lemme help with that.’, he whispers as his thumb traces her lower lip. She parts them giving access to his thumb as she sucks on them. ‘You like the taste of that?’, he teases, a smirk gracing his lips. 

He pulls back, taking off his jumper and pulls her back in. Their skin pressed against each other, providing the warmth they both desperately searched for as their lips met again. Y/N unzips his pants and pulls them down as Mattheo gets rid of them. He lays her down on the bed, his body hovering above hers. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and pulls it down, now leaving her completely bare before him. He rests his forehead against her, his eyelashes tickling her skin, ‘Tell me you want this Y/N.’ She brings her hand, cupping his cheek, caressing it, ‘I want this, Mattheo. I want you.’ 

He captures her lips in a bruising kiss, as he slowly enters her, a moan eliciting from her lips. Her warm walls welcome his hard length, engulfing him and squeezing him. ‘Fuck, you feel so much better than imagined.’, he groans as he slowly starts moving. Y/N breathes heavily, moaning and gasping with every thrust as Mattheo splits her apart. She feels so full of him, her mind clouded by the feeling of him. She wraps her legs around his waist, heels digging into his skin, pushing him deeper in her. ‘Fuck, you’re divine.’, he moans as he picks up the pace, fucking her hard. He brought her hand up, intertwining their fingers as he pressed a kiss to the back of it. His movements drive her crazy as she shuts her eyes relishing in the pleasure. Mattheo groans at the sight, redoubling his efforts, craving to increase the noises she makes. His hand moves in between them, rubbing circles on her clit, making her clench around him and moaning even louder. ‘Mattheo, I-‘, she gasps. ‘I know baby, come for me. I’ve got you.’, he encourages her as she moans loudly cumming on him. He continues his ministrations prolonging her high and chasing his release as he buries himself inside her, moaning as he comes in her. He pulls out and lays beside her, pulling her into his embrace, and keeping her warm. ‘That was fucking incredible.’, he says kissing her forehead. ‘You’re fucking incredible.’, she breathes out, smiling up at him. He smiles back, his hand tracing soft patterns on her skin, ‘I love you, Y/N. I have for a while now.’ Her smile widens as a blush creeps up on her cheeks, ‘I love you too, Mattheo.’

[vestaignis]

Магия света фестиваля Йи Пэн.

Йи Пенг (или Йи Пенг, фестиваль фонарей в Чиангмае) - это еще один фестиваль света, отмечаемый в северной части Таиланда наряду с Лой Кратонг. Это ланна-фестиваль с самым большим праздником, проходящим в Чиангмае, древней столице бывшего королевства Ланна.

Основное событие - выпуск множества небесных фонарей, украшенных огнями, которые ‘плывут’ в небе. На самом деле, небесные фонари на тайском языке называются "ком лои", что означает "плавающие фонари". Ком лои изготавливаются из рисовой бумаги, натянутой на бамбуковую раму, к которой прикреплена свеча. Горячий воздух от свечи удерживается внутри и поднимает фонарь с земли. Однако, так как фонари могут быть опасны, на ком лои накладываются все больше и больше государственных ограничений.

На протяжении веков Йи Пэн не только символизировал конец сезона дождей и начало прохладного сезона, но и отражал принципы буддистской культуры. По традиции запуск фонарика означает избавление от тьмы и движение к свету — напоминание, что каждый из нас может начать новую главу, оставив за спиной трудности

Во время фестиваля можно увидеть различные виды фонарей: дома и храмы украшаются ком фай (бумажные фонари); ком туе - это фонари на палке; ком париват - это вращающиеся фонари, установленные в храмах.

The Magic of Lights at the Yi Peng Festival.

Yi Peng (or Yi Peng, Chiang Mai Lantern Festival) is another festival of lights celebrated in northern Thailand along with Loy Krathong. It is a Lanna festival with the largest celebration taking place in Chiang Mai, the ancient capital of the former Lanna Kingdom.

The main event is the release of many sky lanterns decorated with lights that ‘float’ in the sky. In fact, sky lanterns are called ‘kom loi’ in Thai, meaning ‘floating lanterns’. Kom loi are made from rice paper stretched over a bamboo frame with a candle attached to it. The hot air from the candle is trapped inside and lifts the lantern off the ground. However, because the lanterns can be dangerous, there are more and more government restrictions on kom loi.

For centuries, Yi Peng has not only symbolized the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the cool season, but also reflected the principles of Buddhist culture. Traditionally, releasing a lantern signifies getting rid of the darkness and moving towards the light - a reminder that each of us can start a new chapter, leaving behind difficulties

During the festival, you can see different types of lanterns: houses and temples are decorated with kom fai (paper lanterns); kom tue are lanterns on a stick; kom pariwat are rotating lanterns installed in temples.

Источник:/t.me/roundtravel, /www.tripadvisor.ru/Attraction_Review-g293917-d8820428-Reviews-Yi_Peng_and_Loy_Krathong_ Lantern _Festival-Chiang_Mai.html, /fanclubthailand.co.uk/yi-peng-lantern-festival-chiang-mai-north-thailand/, /yipenglanternfestival.in.th, //dzen.ru/a/Zy3Q9rhhnHkGJ2pn, /life-thai.com/noch-nebesny-h-fonarikov-v-chiang-mae/, //www.phuketferry.com/ru/yi-peng-lantern-festival.html.

[hrrtshape]

　　　　　marauders era: an eyewitness report

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　back to the masterlist bla bla bla, insert something clever about time being a flat circle and the questionable ethics of meddling with it.

anyway, hi, hello, welcome. i’m emma, and i shifted to 1970s hogwarts because clearly, the 21st century wasn’t serving. if you’ve ever wondered what the marauders era was actually like, beyond the fanon embellishments and the tragic foreshadowing, i’ve got you covered (hopefully?). think less epic chosen one narrative and more obscure hogwarts lore, questionable teenage decision-making, and why butterbeer is the most overrated beverage of all time. let’s get into it.

❛❛ how is it in hogwarts?

hogwarts is exactly how you'd expect it to be, except bigger. and colder. there’s always a draft coming from somewhere, and half the corridors feel like they were designed with the intention of making you late to everything. you take a wrong turn, and suddenly you’re in a wing you didn’t even know existed, where the paintings all look at you like you’ve interrupted something. if you don’t pay attention, you will go your entire time here without ever setting foot in the same hallway twice. the staircases move, but not for you. they move when they feel like it, and they don’t care about your timetable. some people have a knack for navigating them, like an internal compass adjusted to the whims of enchanted architecture. others, myself included, are at their mercy.

❛❛ what do you do with your friends on break time?

break time is a loose concept !!!!!! in theory, it’s a chance to relax between classes, but in practice, it’s chaotic. if you’re lucky, you have enough time to find a bench in the courtyard, let the sun hit your face, and pretend you’re not about to be tested on sixteen types of transfiguration theory. if you’re unlucky, break time is spent half-jogging to a classroom on the other side of the castle, trying to remember if you left your wand in your dorm or if you lent it to someone in a moment of poor judgement. the library is a common meeting point. if you don’t mind whispering your conversations and being glared at by ravenclaws who take their revision schedules personally.

❛❛ what house are you in and how is your common room?

gryffindor . . . it’s warm, loud, and always slightly chaotic. the common room smells like old wood and a perpetual fireplace that never quite burns out. there are chairs that have been claimed for generations, and if you sit in the wrong one, someone will make sure you know it. the windows overlook the grounds, and at night, if you press your forehead against the glass, you can see the lanterns floating over the lake. the dorms are small (and i scripted that to each their own), but they feel like home in the way that things do when they belong to too many people at once. trunks half-open, shoes kicked under beds, parchment crumpled in corners. it’s messy, but it’s lived in.

❛❛ what's your favourite activity to do in hogwarts?

favourite activities shift with the seasons. in autumn, it’s walking down to the black lake when the air is crisp and everything smells like leaves. in winter, it’s sneaking hot chocolate from the kitchens and drinking it by the fire while it storms outside. spring is for sitting on the lawn, watching the younger students chase enchanted paper birds. summer, or at least the first week of june before you go, is when the castle starts to feel too big, too heavy, and every gryffindor with a broom suddenly fancies themselves the next quidditch star.

but mostly, it’s the small things: late-night conversations in the common room, running through the corridors when you’re not supposed to, discovering a shortcut and pretending you invented it.

❛❛ do wizards / witches from differing houses naturally gravitate to one clothing aesthetic or the other?

there’s an unspoken aesthetic to each house. slytherins have an expensive, effortless sort of style, pressed robes, sleek hair, an air of knowing something you don’t. ravenclaws lean into the academic: ink-stained fingers, stacks of books they actually intend to read, a perpetual expression of mild distraction. hufflepuffs have an almost curated casualness, jumpers too big, scarves wrapped twice, a kind of warmth that feels deliberate. gryffindors don’t care enough to have a set aesthetic, but somehow, they all end up looking the same: slightly disheveled, like they just ran from something or are about to.

❛❛ by extention . . . are there certain houses that work good together? like is it more common for ravenclaws to date slytherins or is it super rare to see a hufflepuff date a gryffindor?

as for house compatibility, it’s not as rigid as you’d think. slytherins and ravenclaws make sense together. intellectual ambition meets calculated charm. gryffindors and hufflepuffs are a common pairing, reckless enthusiasm balanced by patient loyalty. but it’s not a rule. i’ve seen hufflepuffs date slytherins, ravenclaws fall for gryffindors, and everything in between. the houses matter until they don’t.

❛❛ is it possible to visit other houses if you are not in it (for example slytherin will go meet gryffindor in their room)?

you can visit other common rooms, but it’s not easy. the entrances are guarded, passwords, riddles, enchanted barriers that don’t take kindly to uninvited guests. slytherin’s door is hidden in the dungeons, gryffindor’s portrait won’t open for strangers without a password, ravenclaw demands an answer to a question you probably don’t know, and hufflepuff’s entrance is practically a secret.

it happens, but it’s rare. most of the time, if you want to see someone from another house, you meet somewhere neutral: the great hall, the courtyard, a tucked-away spot in the library.

❛❛ what were the students from each house like?? were there any house stereotypes that you found to be untrue and which ones did you like or dislike the most?

each house has its reputation. slytherins are meant to be cold, calculating. ravenclaws, distant and analytical. hufflepuffs, kind to a fault. gryffindors, reckless beyond reason.

but like all stereotypes, they’re half-truths at best. there are cunning hufflepuffs, quiet gryffindors, slytherins who would rather read than scheme. the most misleading stereotype is that slytherins and gryffindors are natural enemies. the truth is, they understand each other better than most. both houses value strength, loyalty, ambition. the difference is in the approach.　　

❛❛ anything about hufflepuff?

hufflepuff is the most normal house, in the best and worst way. no one's trying to prove anything, no one's particularly scheming. it's a house of competent people who do their work and don’t make a big deal about it. they move in packs, they bake things at odd hours. their common room smells like honey and old books, and the couches have been sat on so much they’ve molded into the shape of generations of students. there's always someone napping in there, always someone explaining something in a way that actually makes sense. they don’t play the game, and somehow that makes them better at it than anyone else.

❛❛ anything about slytherin?

slytherin is not what everyone thinks it is. the worst people in that house are exactly what you'd expect: conniving, cutthroat, performatively aloof, but they’re in the minority. the rest are just people who have their own plans, and if those plans happen to align with yours, great. if they don’t, good luck. the common room is dim and cold but in a comforting way, like you're standing in the shadow of something vast and ancient. there’s an unspoken rule about looking impressive at all times, even if that means sitting in an armchair pretending to read a book just for the aesthetic of it. it’s less about blood purity and more about making sure no one ever underestimates you. and they love a grudge, but they love a comeback story even more.

❛❛ anything about ravenclaw?

ravenclaws aren’t just about books and wit, they’re about obsession. they’re the ones who get stuck on an idea and won’t sleep until they’ve figured it out. they love a good mystery, even if it drives them insane. they are competitive, but mostly with themselves, and they have an encyclopedic knowledge of the most random things just because they got interested once and never let it go. their common room is airy, full of books and weird little projects no one remembers starting. they don’t just value intelligence, they value curiosity, knowing things just for the sake of knowing them, turning over every rock just to see what’s underneath.

　　　　classes .

❛❛ were classes fun or boring like here?

it depends on the class, the professor, the day, the phase of the moon. some classes feel like pulling teeth, some feel like being let in on the mechanics of the universe. the problem with magic is that once you get used to it, it stops feeling like magic and starts feeling like another subject you have to pass.

❛❛ is potions class kind of like a cooking class?

sort of. if cooking involved more opportunities to set things on fire or accidentally poison yourself. the people who are good at it tend to have either a natural instinct for how ingredients react together or an obsessive need to follow instructions perfectly. it smells intense. everyone always leaves with their robes stinking of something they can't quite place.

❛❛ what’s the rarest position to brew?

depends on what you mean by rare. felix felicis is obviously difficult, amortentia is infamous, but there are older, more obscure potions that no one bothers with anymore because the knowledge of how to make them has been lost or because the ingredients are impossible to get. there’s a potion that allegedly lets you see a few seconds into the future, but no one knows if that’s true because no one’s been able to make it in centuries.

❛❛ did you enjoy astronomy class?

it’s cold. you’re always tired. sometimes you look through a telescope and see something that makes you feel incredibly small. sometimes you look through a telescope and just see clouds. if you’re lucky, you get a professor who understands that making you write essays about planets you’ll never visit is less important than making you understand the vastness of what’s out there. over-romanticised.

❛❛ what do you learn in ancient runes? how is the homework? how is the class?

ancient runes is for people who like puzzles. it’s part history, part language, part divination if you squint at it the right way. the homework is exhausting because it’s not just about translating the words, it’s about understanding the context, the intention, the layers of meaning. it feels like trying to communicate with something impossibly old, something that was never meant for you but is still willing to be understood. 7/10

❛❛ there’s so many classes at hogwarts, how many do you have to take? which ones are mandatory and which ones can you choose to do?

the core classes are charms, transfiguration, potions, history of magic, defense against the dark arts, astronomy, and herbology. then you pick electives in third year, things like divination, care of magical creatures, arithmancy, ancient runes, so on. most people take two or three, but some overachievers take more. you can technically drop subjects in later years, but that depends on how much you want to make your own life easier versus how much you think you’ll need them.

❛❛ which class is your favourite?

it changes. sometimes it’s history of magic because you get to see how everything fits together and realise how much was left out of the stories you were told. sometimes it’s astronomy because standing on the tower at night makes you feel like you’re part of something infinite. sometimes it’s ancient runes because there’s something deeply satisfying about unlocking a language older than time, like you’re uncovering secrets meant only for the stubborn and the curious. also whatever coryo is in.

❛❛ besides the subjects covered in the books, are there any others?

there are obscure branches of magic that don’t fit neatly into one subject. things that get covered in passing or are only taught to the few students who actively seek them out. there are duelling lessons, semi-legal extracurricular projects involving experimental charms, whispered-about advanced alchemy classes. if you know the right people and ask the right questions, you can learn things that aren’t in any official curriculum.

　　　　the castle .

❛❛ are there study halls?

yes, and no one uses them. they exist in theory. quiet little corners with a few rows of desks and an old grandfather clock ticking ominously, probably enchanted to remind you of your own mortality. but unless you're a ravenclaw or someone hiding from a crime (which, honestly, who isn't?), you're better off staking out a spot in the library or bribing a house-elf to let you into the kitchens with your books. and then i'm gonna go ahead and contradict myself by saying that if you study, it'll probably be in the great hall when it isn't meal time.

❛❛ did you explore the castle and find secret spots? did you know it like the back of your hand already?

of course. it's practically a requirement of being a student at hogwarts: either you learn the castle or you spend seven years getting lost like a fool. there are entire passageways no one talks about, places where the floor feels strangely warm underfoot, staircases that don't appear unless you mutter something in latin. the thing about hogwarts is that it’s alive. it breathes, it shifts (ha), it decides what you get to see. sometimes you’ll find a new corridor only for it to be gone the next day.

hogwarts’ secret places. were you able to find anything never mentioned in the movies and books?

yes. so many!!! (so many in fact that i could probably make a whole post about it). a spiral staircase in the astronomy tower that leads to a locked room with nothing inside but a single candle and a chair facing the wall. a wooden trapdoor in the divination tower that drops you into a tunnel lined with old paintings, all the subjects in them fast asleep. a door in the library that only appears past midnight, opening into a room full of books that aren't written in any language known to man.

❛❛ have you ever been sent to dumbledores office? i’d love to know what’s it’s like in there. what does it smell like? does he have lots of magical objects? a phoenix? what does he even do all day?

yes, multiple times. it smells like old parchment and something vaguely sweet, like honeycomb melting over a fire. he has so many magical objects, glowing things, whirring things, things that look like they should be locked away in a department of mysteries vault. fawkes is always there, watching, judging. as for what dumbledore does all day . . . unclear. sometimes he’s deep in thought, other times he’s offering you a sherbet lemon like he's a retired grandpa with nothing better to do. i think he just enjoys the performance of it all.

❛❛ what’s your favourite part of the castle?

there's an arched window in the gryffindor tower that looks directly over the lake. in the winter, you can see the frost creeping across the glass like veins. in the spring, you can lean out of it and catch the breeze. it feels like the most still place in the whole castle.

❛❛ how many ghosts are at hogwarts? and what’s the strangest way one has died? and how old is the oldest one?

more than anyone bothers to count. the strangest death has to be this one boy from the 1400s who was trampled to death by a herd of magically enlarged rabbits, no one really talks about it because it sounds made up, but it’s true. the oldest ghost is a woman from the 11th century who only appears in mirrors.

❛❛ obscurials, do you learn about them? is there a subject where you learn about things like that because i can’t think of what class you’d learn about random wizard things? anyway how do they work and is there any currently alive?

you learn about them in charms or history of magic, but it’s not a major subject. you can find books about it in the library. but it's more of a side note, like, "oh, by the way, some children explode if you repress their magic too much, moving on." how do they work, well, suppressed magic turns in on itself, feeds on fear, manifests as uncontrollable bursts of destruction. whether there's one alive right now....who knows. but if there were, hogwarts would be the worst place for them. too much power in the air, too many people watching.

❛❛ when you look out the windows of the slytherin common room do you just see water? do you see fish swimming by or is it just pitch black like you’re in a submarine?

you see water. sometimes greenish, murky, with the occasional flicker of a giant tentacle or a school of fish darting by. at night, it gets darker, more like a deep abyss, but there's still movement. like something is always out there, watching. pretty cool.

❛❛ can you ice skate on the black lake?

yes, but it’s risky !!! the ice never fully freezes in some places, and the giant squid is not above dragging someone under just to mess with them.

❛❛ is there any part of the castle that’s not in use anymore?

so many. whole wings that have been sealed off for centuries, a bell tower that’s half collapsed, a staircase that leads to nowhere. there’s even an old hospital ward from the 1600s that still smells faintly of medicinal herbs, even though no one has set foot in it in ages.

❛❛ in the library, are the books only school books or are they normal books too?

both. there are shelves of regular books. old wizarding novels, histories, weird magical self-help guides. but the second you start reading something not related to school, madam pince will materialise out of thin air and threaten you with eternal banishment . . . it's allowed, of course, she's just judgy.

　　　　hogsmeade .

❛❛ can you go to hogsmede every weekend? or is it different weekends for different year groups? i’d think once you get to the last couple years you could just go when you want?

third years and up get designated weekends, but once you hit sixth year, no one really enforces the rules. if you have an excuse or a good enough invisibility spell, you can go whenever.

❛❛ what are the shops like in hogsmeade or whatever that street is called with the butterbeer? have you tried butterbeer?

the shops range from cosy to mildly terrifying. zonko’s is always packed, honeydukes smells like sugar and childhood, the three broomsticks is warm and bustling. butterbeer is fine. as i said somewhere, for me it's too sweet, not enough bite. but if you know the right people, you can get something stronger.

　　　　the people .

❛❛ did you get to meet dumbledore?

yes, multiple times. the man loves a dramatic entrance.

❛❛ is sirius close with regulus?

not really. they don’t hate each other, but there’s a distance. like looking at someone through a glass wall. can't say i haven't tried to get them to hang out together.

❛❛ what is regulus like in you dr? his personality, style, looks, and aesthetic.

regulus is sharp, controlled, always put together. he moves like he knows exactly how much space he takes up. he dresses impeccably, all tailored robes and expensive fabrics. his aesthetic is dark academia but real, not just a pinterest board. (@kerryshifting hi)

❛❛ is remus more fanon or canon?

depends on the day. sometimes he’s quiet, bookish, distant. other times, he’s effortlessly charming, all quick smiles and easy wit. makes me go a bit brrr when i remember the obsession i had with him in my cr.

❛❛ was lily ever friends with severus?

not in a way that matters anymore.

❛❛ just a random curiosity: does remus play on the quidditch team?

no, but he watches every match like a commentator narrating in his head.

❛❛ what’s it like when remus turns into a werewolf?

horrifying. heartbreaking. not something anyone (by that i mean the marauders and lily) jokes about.

❛❛ does alice ( neville's mom ) exist in your dr?

yes. she’s bright, kind, a little reckless. a cutie, honestly.

❛❛ do you know any parents of the people who studied with harry?

a few. some of them were in school with us, others were just names in passing.

❛❛ what's the last name of pandora ( luna's mom )?

rosier !

　　　　the social scene .

❛❛ what are the best pranks the marauders have done?

we got every single gryffindor student to sleep in a different bed for one night. no one knew where they’d wake up. it was like a hostage situation but with pillowcases. sirius and james put a massive litter box outside her office when she was in cat form. she stared at it for a long time. didn’t use it, but the psychological damage was done.

(james and sirius . . . are we surprised?) stole about 30 howlers from the owlery, opened them all at once in the great hall, and then fled. the cacophony was biblical. james charmed enchanted fireworks to spell out "evans, marry me" over the quidditch pitch during a match. lily nearly hexed him into next week.

i also really want to talk about a thing we did with nifflers.......

❛❛ juicy gossip in your marauders dr?

there was a hogwarts’ most eligible bachelor list that somehow always had regulus black at the top, despite the fact that he actively despised everyone. (except my girl @kerryshifting , hi once again). also my man was on there too....that kind of annoyed me i'm not going to lie..........

snape once got hexed so badly that his hair stayed pastel pink for a week, and no one let him live it down.

there’s a conspiracy that filch once hooked up with a ghost.

that one time slughorn got drunk at a christmas party and revealed that he knows who the next minister for magic is going to be. he wouldn't say who. coriolanus, whose dad was minister of magic, and was also a star pupil of slughorn's was on his case for the next three weeks.

❛❛ how are gossips treated? with no socials, do people just make up anything and that person will drown in shame because they can’t prove it’s fake?

you’re cooked. no socials, no receipts, no 'actually, that’s fake, here’s the screenshot,' just pure hearsay and mob mentality. you could be a virgin at breakfast and a confirmed homewrecker by lunch because someone swore they saw you leave the astronomy tower looking 'disheveled.' you can’t even deny it properly because the more you insist, the guiltier you look.

❛❛ how do rumours spread?

like fiendfyre. whisper networks are faster than any owl. slytherins weaponise it, ravenclaws track the origin like a research project, hufflepuffs might feel bad and try to correct it, but gryffindors just believe it.

❛❛ how is the animosity between girls? since hogwarts is basically a boarding school, the girls you share a dormitory with are more like a sisterhood or it’s just like a war zone?

animosity between girls is like a regency-era novel on steroids. you are eating, sleeping, breathing, and getting dressed next to these people for seven years straight. sometimes it’s sisterhood, sometimes it’s psychological warfare over a hair ribbon. a dorm feud can be quiet and insidious (stealing your favourite quill, 'borrowing' your sweater and stretching it out) or an outright battlefield (yelling in the common room, hexes thrown behind the teacher’s back). alliances are formed, betrayals are dramatic, and the worst thing someone can say is 'i think she’s just... annoying.'

❛❛ do the portraits really gossip that much?

the portraits gossip like hell. 400 years of painting-based boredom and all they do is eavesdrop. they're the medieval twitter. if you do something scandalous, hope to god that the fat lady wasn’t awake or you’ll have a reputation before breakfast.

❛❛ what couples exist there that no one talks about here, like rarepairs?

yes. flitwick and sprout had a thing. some seventh-year slytherin in 1975 had a deep and tragic enemies-to-lovers arc with a muggleborn hufflepuff no one remembers. also, why does no one talk about the fact that madam pince (the librarian) and filch might have had a little something? they were 'we eat lunch together in complete silence but understand each other’s pain.'

❛❛ are there any school events like balls or christmas parties ect?

there’s the yule ball, obviously, i need attention, but also christmas parties (professor slughorn’s are elitist as hell but the gossip is good), valentine’s day might involve an awful match-making charmed scroll, and there’s definitely a secret end-of-year party where everyone signs their name on a hidden wall before they leave forever.

❛❛ how are the parties there? which house does the best ones?

gryffindor has the most chaotic ones (unplanned, loud, might end in a duel). slytherin’s are exclusive.. ravenclaw’s parties feel like salons until someone brings out a banned potion. hufflepuff’s are secretly insane, casual 'just a gathering' but the best drinks, the best music, and the least likely to get shut down. and weed. they have weed, it's not just a joke.

❛❛ by extension . . . are you able to sneak alcohol?

absolutely. firewhiskey in a hollowed-out book. butterbeer bottles charmed to refill endlessly. one hufflepuff seventh-year is running an illegal distillery in the room of requirement.

❛❛ are there any cool clubs?

dueling club (dramatic). wizard chess club (intense). potions club (run by that one student who thinks they’re smarter than snape). there's a new secret 'muggle pop culture' club for people obsessed with star wars. art club that is run by the chillest ravenclaws, deep underground. i can definitely speak more about those <3

❛❛ where do couples go to you know......wink wink.

astronomy tower is the classic, but so obvious. the greenhouses (if you like the risk of professor sprout catching you). the room of requirement if you’re smart enough to get it to cooperate. an abandoned classroom with a locking charm. some absolute lunatics have tried the restricted section (looks around). broom closet is tried and true.

　　　　q & a .

❛❛ would having modern technology (mostly phones) work in hogwarts (if it was? in current year)?

if hogwarts was in 2024, the wards would probably block all service but students would find workarounds. enchanted tiktoks? anonymous wizard gossip accounts? absolutely.

❛❛ does hogwarts have school fights? if so how are they?? are they fun to watch?

oh, 100%. duels in the courtyards, fistfights in the common rooms. the slytherins fight with words, the gryffindors with fists, the hufflepuffs will beat you up and then apologise, and the ravenclaws keep hexes in their back pocket just in case. there were a few highlights that i'll never forget.

❛❛ how are the robes? were they super hot in the summer or are they charmed?

charmed to be temperature-regulating, still insufferable in mid-may.

❛❛ how were the uniforms like at hogwarts? how long were the skirts?

skirts were knee-length but girls (ahem) hiked them up in the bathrooms or just hexed them. mid-thigh at shortest. any shorter and mcgonagall gives you thee look. boys loosened their ties as an act of rebellion.

❛❛ how strict was the dress code, could you wear jewellery and accessories?

technically strict, but if you’re subtle you can get away with jewellery and accessories.

❛❛ is makeup allowed?

yes.

[pandapetals]

Ain't No Grave

Chapter Seven: Nothin' Sweeter | previous chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, trauma, PTSD, pain, guilt, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, joel pov for a second, established relationship, jackson setting, ellie being supportive, teasing, banter, some fluff

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics.

You padded into the kitchen early the next morning, the cold of the floorboards biting at your bare feet. The house was still, the kind of quiet that made you both uneasy and grateful.

On the counter sat a worn mug, steam curling faintly from it, and a folded scrap of paper with your name scrawled in Joel’s rough, unmistakable handwriting:

Patrol. Back soon. Get rest.

A small, crooked smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You picked up the note, your thumb brushing over the words like you could feel him in the paper. Despite everything — the distance you’d put between you, the anger, the nights you couldn’t meet his eyes — he still left you coffee. Still left you a note.

He still cared.

You folded the note carefully, like it might tear if you weren’t gentle with it, and set it aside. The warmth of the mug in your hand made your fingers ache, but you lifted it anyway. The first sip burned your throat in a way you welcomed.

It made you want to try. Not for him, not to prove something, but because you were tired of being this ghost of yourself.

You leaned back against the counter, the morning light cutting pale stripes across the floor, and let the past few months unspool in your mind.

This grief was different.

When you lost your family — the life you’d built before the outbreak — it was like the world itself had vanished overnight. Gone without warning, stolen, leaving you hollow, angry, and alone.

But this… losing your hand and who you thought you were was quieter. It wasn’t the world ending. It was you ending, piece by piece.

Maybe healing wasn’t about clawing your way back to who you used to be. It was about learning how to carry what was left.

You took another sip of the bitter coffee, letting the heat settle in your chest. Old memories drifted through your mind, and somewhere in the calm, an idea stirred.

A flicker of a memory — soft, dim, but still intact.

You were a kid. Eight, maybe nine. It was summer, the air thick and heavy with the scent of cut grass. Your grandmother had died that week, and your mother had gathered you and your cousins in the backyard. She’d lit paper lanterns that floated up into the night like tiny suns, carrying prayers and goodbyes.

It had been your first taste of grief. The first time you understood what it meant to lose someone and still have to wake up the next morning.

You couldn’t light lanterns anymore, not in this world, but you could do something else.

A small spark of purpose cut through the heaviness, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you set the mug down and made your way upstairs. The steps creaked beneath your feet, the familiar old sounds of the house comforting you.

This time, you felt it in your bones. Not desperation, but something steadier. A need to mark the loss. Not of your hand or usefulness, but of the version of you who thought she had to be whole to be loved.

You weren’t sure what form it would take yet. Maybe a note, a carving in the old oak behind the house, a piece of ribbon tied to a fencepost, but for the first time in months, you wanted to honor her.

The old you and say goodbye the right way.

Two hours later, you stepped off the porch and onto the leaf-covered street, the cool air sharp against your skin. The town was filled with the faint sound of wind rattling dry leaves down the road. You crossed the street toward the cemetery, the earth resting in quiet, uneven rows, old names fading from headstones weathered by years of loss. It seemed the only fitting place to bury the version of yourself you couldn’t carry anymore.

You clutched a small canvas tote in your hand, its weight heavier than it should’ve been. Inside were little things — pieces of a life you weren’t sure how to grieve until now.

A folded letter you’d written an hour ago in a rush, words jagged and uneven, addressed not to a person but to the part of you you’d left behind the night you were bitten.

A smooth, palm-sized charm Joel had carved from wood months ago. You remembered how he’d passed it to you without a word after a bad day, the grain of it worn soft from your fingers fidgeting with it in the dark.

A tattered photograph of your family, huddled together on a porch long since rotted and gone. You, smiling like you hadn’t yet learned the shape of grief.

You knelt by the crooked fence at the edge of the graveyard, the cool, damp dirt seeping through your jeans as you dug your hand into the hardened earth. You placed the pieces inside one by one—the letter, the carving, the photo—symbols of a girl who thought she had to be untouched by loss to be whole.

As you pressed the soil back, your throat tightened, dirt catching beneath your nails.

When it was done, you sat back on your heels, the wind tugging loose strands of hair around your face. 

“Goodbye,” you whispered, the word catching rough in your throat. A tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your chilled skin, leaving a faint, stinging trail as it fell.

The grief didn’t leave. The anger didn’t vanish. It still clung to the edges of your ribs, settled heavy in the corners of your mind, but something in your chest loosened, like a too-tight knot finally giving, if only a little. It would never be gone. 

But you could breathe again.

Instead of locking yourself away in the house like you had so many times before, you wandered into the square of Jackson. The afternoon sun cut through the lingering chill in the air, and you let it touch your skin for the first time in what felt like ages.

You closed your eyes and felt it settle into your bones.

The fountain splashing gently against worn stone filled the quiet space, and you sat there a while, listening, watching people move through town—hauling supplies, calling to one another—life happening around you.

A voice called out a minute later.

“There’s my favorite person,” Ellie grinned as she dropped down onto the bench beside you with a teasing nudge of her shoulder against yours.

You smirked, a small, real one. “Thought that was Tommy.”

Ellie snorted. “Tommy’s a close second, but you don’t talk about old-man back pain every ten minutes, so you win.”

A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop, and it felt good.

The two of you sat in easy silence for a beat, the sun's warmth cutting through the tension that had lived under your skin for months.

Ellie rocked back on her heels, glancing sidelong at you. “You, uh… wanna help me out at the greenhouse? They got me movin’ seedlings or some shit. Could probably use a hand.”

Her words weren’t pity. And maybe an hour ago, they would’ve made your stomach drop, sent you spiraling into that same dark place you’d lived in for months.

But now… as you glanced down at the sleeve pinned neatly against your side, where your hand used to be, you didn’t feel fragile.

Not broken. Just… here.

You nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”

Ellie’s grin split wider, bright and mischievous, as she sprang up from the bench. “Cool. Race you there.”

“Hey,” you muttered, standing to follow, arching a brow at her. “Pretty sure it’s against town rules to pick on the disabled.”

Ellie snorted, already backing away toward the path. “Pretty sure it’s against town rules to be this slow.”

You shook your head, a real laugh breaking free, and started after her. 

You won the race, not by much, but enough to have Ellie doubling over dramatically, hands on her knees, pretending to catch her breath.

“Bullshit,” she panted, grinning. “You cheated somehow.”

“Uh-huh,” you smirked, wiping the sweat from your brow. “Guess it’s embarrassing to get smoked by the one-handed wonder.”

Ellie barked a laugh and flipped you off, then jerked her chin toward the greenhouse. “C’mon, slowpoke. They’ve got actual work for us.”

Inside, the air was thick and warm, rich with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Sunlight filtered down through the old, foggy panes of glass overhead, catching on dust motes and making the whole place feel soft, otherworldly.

You knelt beside a row of planters, the dirt cool and grainy beneath your fingers as Ellie handed you a tray of tiny, fragile seedlings.

And it was simple, really—clearing space in the soil, tucking roots beneath the earth, pressing the dirt down gently but firmly. The repetitive motion and the smell of damp soil on your skin made you feel at ease.

Ellie knelt beside you, softly whistling some old, off-key tune to herself as she worked the soil. The faint rustle of leaves and the warm hum of sunlight filtering through the greenhouse glass filled the air.

“Show-off,” she teased, nudging your elbow after you neatly tucked another seedling into place.

“Natural talent,” you shot back with a crooked grin.

She huffed a laugh but cleared her throat, sounding awkward in the quiet.

You glanced over at her, catching the shift in her expression — hesitant, like she was walking a line she wasn’t sure she should cross.

“What?” you asked, the concern slipping into your voice before you could help it.

Ellie shifted on her knees, tugging at a leaf as if it needed inspecting. “I’m not one to… you know, butt in,” she muttered, then blew out a breath. “But Tommy told me about you and Joel. The fight.”

She glanced sideways at you, her eyes catching yours, searching in that sharp, unflinching way Ellie always did.

Your chest tightened, the memory still raw, edges frayed and uneven. You exhaled, fingers trailing absently through the cool dirt before you, watching the grains sift between your knuckles.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice low. “We… kinda got in an argument.”

Ellie didn’t say anything; she just kept her gaze on you. The soft rustle of leaves was the only sound between you for a long moment.

“I just…” You swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter in your throat. “I wanted to prove I could still be useful. Still be me. So I lied to him. Snuck out on patrol even though I knew I wasn’t ready.”

You sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on your ribs.

“I scared the shit outta him,” you admitted, voice rough. “And I think… more than anything, I scared myself.”

“You don’t gotta prove nothin’ to him,” she said quietly, plucking a leaf off a nearby stem and flicking it into the dirt. “Or to me. Or to anyone.”

“I realize that now. Thanks, kiddo,” you managed, bumping your shoulder against hers. 

“Anytime,” she murmured, flicking another leaf into the dirt.

You let the silence stretch between you. She’d told you those words before, thrown them out like careless lifelines when you were drowning and too stubborn to grab hold.

But now… now you let them land. Let them settle deep, seeping into your bones like sunlight through the old glass roof. You allowed yourself to believe them, if only for right now.

Ellie grinned, that crooked, lopsided one of hers that had pulled you back from the edge more times than she probably realized.

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, staining the horizon in soft streaks of gold and ash. You kept planting until the last seedlings were tucked into the earth, your fingers dirt-smudged and aching in a way that felt good, not to quiet the dark thoughts, but because you wanted to.

It felt like something.

Maria passed by not long after, calling out that they could use an extra hand at the stables, and without overthinking it, you offered. It wasn’t an obligation, or a distraction — just something you felt steady enough to do.

The scent of hay and leather hit you as you stepped inside, the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional snort breaking the quiet. You moved through the space like you used to, muscle memory guiding you, grabbing reins, brushing manes, tightening straps. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours again.

Maria came up beside you as you worked a knot loose from one of the horse’s manes. She held a brush in her hand, staring at the stall floor like it suddenly needed studying.

“I never did—” she started, voice lower than usual, words rough around the edges. “Apologize.”

You glanced over, brow lifting. “For what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Maria took a long breath and pushed a hand through her hair, her gaze still fixed on the floor.

“For never coming to check on you,” she said quietly. “Tommy did. But me…” she trailed off, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t ‘cause of you. And it wasn’t ‘cause I thought you were dangerous.”

You stayed quiet, letting her finish.

She swallowed hard, then finally met your gaze. “It was ‘cause I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to look you in the eye without thinking about Sarah. Without thinking about what Joel would’ve done if he lost you, too.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. Your throat tightened, and you looked back at the horse, running the brush down its neck.

You nodded, forcing yourself to stay composed, to keep your hand steady as you brushed down the horse’s flank. The words sat heavy between you and Maria, and something in your chest cracked open in the quiet that followed.

You’d known this had shaken Joel. Of course, you had. You’d seen it in how his hands shook and his voice frayed at the edges when he told you he couldn’t lose you. Twice now.

But you’d never let yourself follow that thread to where it led.

To Sarah.

The realization settled in slowly and sharply, like a blade twisting between your ribs. You felt your heart sink, a cold ache blooming in your chest as the memories of that day came rushing back. The sound of his voice breaking when he found you, the terror in his eyes, raw and unguarded in a way Joel rarely let show.

And you really understood what it had cost him to carry that fear again.

Your throat tightened, tears stinging your eyes before you could stop them. You blinked hard, willing them back, but it was too late. One slipped loose, trailing down your cheek.

You wiped it away with the back of your hand, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t get it,” you murmured, more to yourself than Maria. “Not ‘til now.”

Maria nodded, her gaze dropping to the stall floor, the brush in her hand stilled against the horse’s coat. “It’s not my place,” she said quietly, her voice rough around the edges. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything. It’s not like I understand, or… was there. But Tommy was.”

She let out a soft breath, shaking her head, as if she was still second-guessing even bringing it up.

“He… told me. A little,” she added, eyes flicking toward you for a moment before she looked away again. “What Joel went through. What it did to him.”

You didn’t say anything. Just let the words settle deep in your chest.

Maria swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the brush. “Besides,” she murmured after a long beat, “you were grieving too.”

The words were simple, but they cracked something open in you. The quiet acknowledgment you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

You nodded as you swallowed down a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I was.” 

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness to admit it.

Grief.

It was a strange, unwieldy thing. You’d known how to grieve people. You’d done it before — clung to old photographs, half-faded memories, the objects they left behind that still smelled like them. You could hold onto those things. Talk to them in the dark. Build little rituals to make the ache manageable.

But no one teaches you how to grieve yourself.

There were no old sweaters to fold away. No favorite songs to avoid. No clean, linear path for mourning a version of you that no longer existed.

It lingered in mirrors you avoided, in sleeves that hung too loosely. In the things you used to do without thinking, now stumbling through like a stranger in your own skin.

You sat on the couch, a book balanced open in your lap, trying to focus on the tight lines of print. The words blurred together, your eyes skimming over the same paragraph without taking in a single sentence.

Your mind kept drifting, circling back to what Maria had said. To Joel’s face that night, the raw terror in his eyes when he’d found you lying in the snow with the clicker on you.

You flexed your hand, fingertips brushing over the edge of the page, grounding yourself in the texture of the paper. But it didn’t stop the heaviness from settling in your chest like it always did.

You weren’t grieving a hand. You were grieving her, the girl who ran headfirst into danger without second-guessing—the one who could still look at herself without feeling like something was missing. 

You sighed and closed the book, the soft thud of it in your lap louder in the stillness of the room than it should’ve been. The words on the pages hadn’t meant much anyway—just a distraction you couldn’t quite hold onto.

Burying those items earlier had helped in some small, unsteady way. It hadn’t erased the grief but loosened something in your chest, like a too-tight knot finally giving a little slack.

The problem was, you didn’t know what came next.

When you lost your grandmother, it felt like the world itself paused for a second. One long, aching moment where everything was quiet, heavy, and wrong. Then life had started up again. People moved on. And eventually… so did you.

But when the outbreak happened, it wasn’t like that.

The world didn’t just pause. It shattered.

You lost your brother that first night. Gone in a breath, in a scream you barely remembered. One minute he was there, and the next… you didn’t even have time to bury him.

Didn’t have time to mourn, to feel. There was only blood, fire, and the sickening sound of the world tearing itself apart.

You’d carried that with you, too. The grief you never gave yourself permission to hold. It had settled deep, buried in the marrow of your bones, in the corners of your heart, and you stopped visiting years ago.

Sometimes, you woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, chest tight, air thick and sour in your lungs. No dreams you could remember. No memory to chase. Just a weight pressing down on your ribs like something had followed you out of sleep.

Maybe this was why.

When the world went quiet, there was no one else to fight, no disaster demanding your hands, breath, and will to keep moving. That’s when it surfaced. That grief you shoved down so far you thought you’d outrun it.

You leaned back against the couch, the book forgotten in your lap, pages fanned open like it had surrendered, too. The room was still, the only sound the faint crackle of the fireplace and the occasional wind rattling against the windowpanes.

It was strange, you thought, how a room could be so quiet and your mind so loud. A thousand tangled thoughts clawing at each other, memories bleeding together until you couldn’t tell what belonged to yesterday and what you’d carried for years.

Faces you missed—words you never said. Versions of yourself you’d buried.

The stillness pressed in, thick and heavy. But for the first time… you didn’t get up. Didn’t chase it away. You let it sit with you.

Joel had been somewhere else the entire patrol, and Tommy, to his credit, let it slide. He didn’t press. Just gave Joel a knowing look now and then, nudging Whiskey’s reins to keep pace while Joel’s gaze drifted toward the horizon.

Jackson was a speck in the distance, rooftops catching the last light as the sun sank low. But Joel’s eyes kept finding it, like he could see straight through the treeline to the house, to you.

The cold bit at his fingers, but he barely noticed.

His thoughts kept circling back to the way you looked that morning. Not broken exactly, but tired in a way he knew too well. That kind of bone-deep exhaustion you didn’t shake off with sleep.

He hated it. Hated how you carried it quiet, like you were doing him a favor by pretending it didn’t weigh a hundred goddamn pounds.

Joel wasn’t good with words. Never had been, but he could feel it in his chest, sharp and relentless — that ache to do something. To take it from you, piece by piece, if he could.

This wasn’t like patching a fence, clearing a trail, or putting down a clicker. You couldn’t shoot grief. Couldn’t swing a hatchet at the things clawing at your mind.

And it ate at him.

He adjusted his grip on the reins, jaw tight, the leather biting into his palm.

“Almost there,” Tommy called ahead, breaking the quiet. 

Joel nodded, gaze locked on the distant glow of home, his pulse settling into a steady, aching beat.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he saw you. Hell, what was there to say? Words didn’t fix this. Never had, and Joel wasn’t the kind of man who knew how to make ‘em count when it mattered.

But that didn’t stop the weight of it from pressing down on him with every mile closer to Jackson.

He’d been there. Waiting. Day after goddamn day, while you drifted farther away, locking yourself behind looks and silence and polite lies about being fine. And Joel let you.

Because what else was he supposed to do? Push you harder? Force it? He wasn’t built for delicate things. He was built to keep people alive. And you were still breathing. That counted for something, didn’t it?

It gnawed at him. Last night was the first time you’d let him hold you in months. The first time, you didn’t pull away when he reached for you. The thing that gutted him most was how relieved it made him feel. Like some selfish bastard who was grateful you hadn’t left him behind, too.

Joel’s jaw worked, teeth clenching tight as Jackson came into view, the warm lights in the windows flickering against the dusk.

Joel saw how Tommy kept glancing at him as they rode back through Jackson's gates. That look. He wore the same one when they were kids, after their old man had a bad day, or when Joel came home bruised up from a fight he shouldn’t’ve picked.

It was that same mix of worry, and I ain’t gonna say it, but you need to hear it.

Joel grunted, pretending to check the saddle straps as they reached the stables, but Tommy wasn’t buying it.

“You know,” Tommy started, swinging down from his horse and giving Joel a sidelong glance, “I’ve known you a long time, brother. I can see when you’re walkin’ around with your guts all twisted up.”

Joel scowled, dismounting, busying his hands with the reins. “Ain’t nothin’ twisted up.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy snorted, leaning against the fence post, his voice low enough to keep it private. “I ain’t tryin’ to get in the middle of your business. Just… don’t let your stubbornness make it worse.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He stared out past the stables, the faint glow of the house windows visible in the distance. His chest ached in that deep, bone-heavy way he hated.

“I already fucked it up plenty,” he muttered.

Tommy sighed, his expression softening. “You didn’t, Joel. She’s still here, ain’t she? Means there’s somethin’ left to fix.”

Joel didn’t lift his head, but the words landed anyway. Settled somewhere under his ribs.

“Go home,” Tommy added, pushing off the fence after a beat. “You ain’t gotta fix it all tonight. Just be there. That’s what matters.”

And with that, Tommy clapped him on the shoulder once and headed inside.

Joel stood there for a long moment, the leather reins clenched tight in his hands, then finally turned toward the house, where the windows were still lit, and where you were waiting.

He’d been there. Every day. Quiet, sure. Maybe hovering more than you liked, but he hadn’t left. Not when you shut him out, not when you snapped at him, not when you pretended you didn’t need him.

Still, he kept wondering if it had been enough.

The words you’d thrown at him last night stuck like splinters under his skin, how you saw yourself now — broken, fragile, a burden. It made something sharp and ugly twist in his chest just remembering it.

Because you weren’t any of that. Not to him.

You were strong. Stubborn as hell. Fierce when you needed to be, soft when you let yourself. And to Joel, you were the best damn thing to happen to him since Sarah or Ellie.

That truth scared him more than he’d ever admit.

He missed your laugh. The easy way it used to slip out when he grumbled about your constant teasing. Missed the look you’d give him across the table when you were about to say something smart that you knew would get a rise outta him.

He missed the way you filled a room without trying.

And the thought that you didn’t see any of that anymore — that you thought less of yourself, like you weren’t worth stayin’ for — broke somethin’ in him. Quietly. Slowly. The way old grief did.

Joel exhaled through his nose, jaw tight as he descended the path toward the house. The sun sank low, painting orange and faded purple streaks along the horizon. People passed him on their way to dinner or home, nodding as they went, but Joel barely registered them.

He didn’t know what the hell he was gonna say when he saw you. He never did.

Every time he tried, the words jammed up in his throat, clumsy and too big to be useful. But last night… last night you hadn’t needed words. You hadn’t asked for some grand fix. Just comfort. Just someone to stay.

He rubbed a hand over his face as he pushed open the door, dropping his backpack to the floor with a soft thud and toeing off his boots. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that immediately made his stomach tighten.

Maybe you weren’t here?

He moved through the entryway, slow and careful, as if he might disturb whatever peace the place held. The evening light poured in through the curtains, casting long, soft shadows over the floor.

And there you were.

Curled up on the couch, the last glow of sunset touching your face. A book lay open in your lap, forgotten, your hand resting across your stomach, your face slack in sleep—not haunted, not restless. Peaceful.

The sight of you knocked the air clean out of him.

It shouldn’t have. He’d seen you a thousand times. Laughing. Fighting, bloodied, or stubborn. But this quiet, unguarded version of you — it undid something in him.

Joel let out a long, steady breath, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since he’d left that morning. He crossed the room quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness that had settled around you.

He reached for the book resting open across your stomach, closing it gently, his fingers brushing the worn pages. He set it aside on the table, then crouched down, studying your face in the fading light—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brow, even in sleep.

“Stubborn thing,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Joel slid his arms beneath you — one under your knees, the other around your back — and lifted you against his chest. You stirred, a slight sound leaving your lips, but didn’t wake. Your head tucked instinctively against his shoulder, and that simple, trusting weight unraveled something deep in his chest.

The house was hushed as he carried you upstairs, floorboards groaning under his steps. He carefully laid you down in the bedroom, pulling the covers around you and tucking them beneath your chin.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, rough fingers brushing gently through your hair. His calloused thumb skimmed your cheek, and the warmth of your skin always comforted him.

He watched you briefly before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispered, even though you couldn’t hear it. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Then, with a sigh, he stood and padded into the bathroom, the quiet click of the door closing behind him.

Joel showered and dressed quickly, the warm water doing little to wash away the knot of worry sitting heavy in his chest. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the house was quiet, the kind of hush that felt thick with things unsaid.

He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. An old, familiar war waged in his chest. This was your shared bed, your home, but after the way things had been, after how carefully you’d kept your distance these past months, he wasn’t sure if you’d want him that close.

He started to move toward the chair by the window instead, but then you stirred.

Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, tugging him back. “Nightmare?” you murmured, your eyes half-lidded as you shifted beneath the blankets, seeking him out.

Joel exhaled, the tension easing just enough to lean back onto the mattress. “No,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges, his eyes steady on yours in the soft wash of lamplight.

“You carried me to bed?” you whispered, the barest trace of a smile pulling at your lips, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to you.

“Couldn’t leave you down there like that,” Joel said, quieter this time. He reached out, his hand warm as his fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “Couldn’t stay away from you neither,” he added, the words gruff but filled with tenderness.

“I never meant to push you away,” you said. “I just… didn’t know how else to be.”

Joel didn’t rush to answer. His thumb traced a slow line along your temple, his gaze holding yours like he could shoulder the weight of it for you.

“I know,” he said softly, no judgment in it—just quiet understanding, heavy with everything he hadn’t said. His hand cupped the side of your face. “I’m right here, darlin’. Always.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at your lips as you shifted closer, the blankets rustling softly between you. The ache in your chest eased a little.

“C’mere,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep, your hand reaching out, fingers brushing his wrist.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He leaned in slowly, one hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb sweeping gently along your cheek. His touch was warm and steady, with a quiet promise in how it lingered.

His lips brushed yours — soft, unhurried, like he wasn’t chasing anything, just… there, pressing his grief and love and guilt into the space of that kiss without saying a word.

You sighed into the kiss, your hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you could fold yourself into him and leave the rest of the world outside the room.

Joel hesitated briefly before pulling back just enough to slip under the covers beside you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and the warmth of him chased off the chill in the air.

He tugged the blanket higher, cocooning you both in the hush of the room, then pulled you into his chest. His arm came around your waist, firm and sure, the other hand cradling the back of your head, his rough thumb tracing soft, absent-minded circles against your hairline.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he said, the words low and rough, barely more than a breath against your temple.

You closed your eyes, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt again. The ache inside you was still there — sharp around the edges, familiar — but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now.

You tilted your head, brushing soft, slow kisses across his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Little unspoken promises. A thousand thank-yous you didn’t have the words for.

Joel’s breath caught, his hand tightening at your back for just a beat before his lips found your forehead, pressing a kiss there.

You felt safe. 

It felt like home.

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[starsinthesky5]

What’re our favs joe and songbird up to during Memorial Day weekend?

a/n: this is longer than intended LMAO

wc: 4k

warnings: SMUT, mdni, fluff, lots of down-badness

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

it’s late afternoon and the sun’s still strong, glinting off the water as they laze around in the backyard of a friend’s lake house—the kind of place tucked away in the trees, all bright umbrellas and glass pitchers of pomegranate margs on teakwood tables, music floating low from a speaker tucked in the corner. the scent of grilled burgers and sunscreen hangs in the air. red, white, and blue towels drape across every chair, paper lanterns dangle overhead, and someone’s dog keeps shaking water onto whoever’s closest.

the group’s sprawled across every surface, a mix of couples, teammates, and old friends, laughing over card games, tossing a frisbee barefoot across the lawn, or passing beers down the line. there’s a girl braiding hair on the dock, one of joe’s buddies setting up a cornhole tournament like it’s the olympics, and another trying to climb onto a unicorn float too small for him while everyone cheers him on.

joe’s at the edge of the pool, legs in the water, cartier glasses low on his nose. he’s got a drink in one hand and a lazy smile tugging at his lips, eyes locked on her as she floats by on an inflatable lounger—orange bikini-clad and glowing, skin kissed gold from the sun and glittering with droplets. she’s wearing one of his old LSU caps backward to keep the sun out of her eyes, the same one she stole weeks ago and refuses to give back—and he swears nothing has ever looked sexier. not the bikini, not the way her legs dangle off the float, not even the smirk she gives him when she catches him staring. just the hat. his girl, in his hat.

someone lobs a beach ball across the pool, and it bounces off her float with a soft thump, making her laugh as she bats it away toward one of the guys, trevor, probably, who nearly topples off his own float trying to catch it. she glides over to joe and splashes him with a lazy kick, laughing when he groans and flops a hand dramatically over his face.

“you’re a menace,” he says, but his smile’s soft and lovesick.

they snack on watermelon and pineapple chunks between dips in the water. she tries to feed him a piece of mango and misses, getting sticky juice on his chest, which turns into her licking it off with a sly grin. he nearly falls off the lounger trying to drag her into the pool after that, all laughter and gasping and legs wrapped around his waist as they sink under, surfacing with matching smiles and breathless little kisses.

there’s a moment later when they’re wading waist-deep, arms around each other, and quinn swims by and says, “jesus christ, get a room,” to which she just flips him off without even looking. joe grins against her temple. “we do plan to,” he thinks.

he can’t keep his hands off her. his fingers trace slow, delicate patterns along the curve of her ribs, palms settling possessively on her hips, the heat of his touch grounding her every time she tries to swim away, pulling her back with gentle but insistent tugs. she finds herself constantly reaching for his curls—slick, damp, and tangled from the pool—twisting the strands between her fingers like a secret comfort, flicking droplets of water at him whenever he pouts in mock offense, making him grin wide and teasing her right back.

the day stretches out before them in honeyed slowness, each moment melting into the next, endless, warm, and perfect. the sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting golden light that shimmers on the water’s surface, while the air is thick with laughter and the faint scent of sunscreen and summer blooms. when the sun dips lower and the light softens to a peachy glow, they finally break from the pool. she wraps herself in a soft, oversized towel, the fabric still warm from the sun, and settles with her legs draped across his lap as they sink into a cushioned chair near the water’s edge. joe nurses a cold high noon, the ice clinking softly in the glass, his sunglasses sliding back onto his nose as he relaxes into the moment. she’s tucked comfortably under his arm, a bowl of frozen grapes resting in her lap—sweet, cold bites melting on her tongue.

someone brings out a speaker, and summery pop hits start spilling through the yard, the upbeat melodies mixing with the hum of conversation. she hums softly along, head resting on joe’s shoulder, feeling the slow, lazy rhythm of his fingers tracing random, soothing shapes into her thigh—circles, lines, little hearts—each stroke a gentle reminder of his presence and his care.

across the yard, max and his girlfriend are fumbling with sparklers, their excited chatter punctuated by groans when they nearly set the bag on fire with their premature attempts. someone starts clapping, a slow grin spreading through the group as the evening stretches on, warm and full of quiet joy.

she leans in slowly, lips barely grazing his, a teasing brush that sends a shiver straight down joe’s spine. the warmth of her breath mingles with the humid air as her teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging it gently, claiming it like she owns it, and in that moment, he thinks maybe she does. maybe she always has. his breath hitches, chest tightening with need as she deepens the kiss, tongue slipping inside to dance with his, swirling, teasing, demanding. the world shrinks until all he can feel is her; soft, wet, insistent, urgent.

his hand slides down her side, fingers spreading wide on the warm curve of her hip, pulling her impossibly closer, the heat of their bodies crashing like a wildfire no one can stop. the slick stickiness of sunscreen mixed with pool water makes every touch electric, skin sliding deliciously against skin. “if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” joe’s voice drops lowly, ragged with want, “i’m not gonna last till sunset,”.

her eyes flash with a wicked glint, that familiar teasing spark that always gets him undone. “then why don’t we just forget the sunset?”,

their bodies press tighter, the tension coiling in his chest, the ache between his legs growing unbearable. “come inside with me,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips grazing her ear. it’s not an order—it’s a promise, a need, a plea.

inside the lake house, the shift is immediate and electric. the bright, golden sunlight spilling through the windows softens into a gentle, muted glow as dusk begins to settle outside. the cozy scent of cedar wood mingles with the smoky remnants of grilled food, wrapping around them like a warm, familiar blanket. faint laughter floats in from the porch, slow and carefree, but inside the bathroom, everything tightens, the air thickens with something darker, more urgent, raw and alive between them.

the bathroom door clicks shut behind them, a small but decisive sound that seals off the outside world. her towel slips off her shoulders like water, sliding down her body and pooling silently at her feet, revealing smooth, glistening skin catching the soft overhead light. joe’s swim trunks follow next, falling free as his body presses close, sun-kissed and flushed, every muscle defined and gleaming. his chest, sticky with the sweet remnants of mango juice and the sharp tang of pool water, rises and falls with slow, steady breaths, heat radiating off him.

the shower roars to life, warm water cascading down in thick, hot sheets that turn their skin into slick, shining silk. she steps fully under the spray, water streaming over her like liquid fire, and joe’s hands find her back, pressing her firm against the cool tile. the sharp contrast between the heated water and the cold surface beneath her sends jolts through her body, heightening every nerve. his palms flatten over her breasts, thumbs circling and brushing the tight, swollen nipples that peak beneath the water’s touch. his fingers trail down the sides of her ribs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin, before slipping lower to grip the curve of her hips with possessive, demanding strength, anchoring her to him as if daring her to try and pull away.

his mouth follows the path his hands have traced with a deliberate, reverent hunger. first, soft, feather-light kisses trail from the curve of her neck down to the hollow just above her collarbone, each touch slow and worshipful. the skin there is warm and delicate, flushed from the sun and the heat of the shower. his lips part slightly as his tongue flicks out to tease, wet and slick, tracing tiny, tantalizing circles that send unpredictable shivers rippling through her body. then, his teeth nip—gentle but firm—at the tender skin just beneath her jaw, a sweet sting that makes her breath hitch and pulse quicken.

“you smell like sunscreen,” he murmurs against her skin, voice low and thick with need, “pool water…and me.” the words are a promise, rough and intimate, as if claiming her scent is as much his as hers.

she laughs—a breathy, shaky sound full of raw desire—as her fingers snake into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. her touch is possessive, pulling him closer until the heat of his body presses against hers. under her palm, she feels the rapid thud of his heartbeat, a fierce rhythm matching the heat pooling between them. “i want you, joe,” she whispers, voice soft but trembling with urgency, “right here. right now,”.

his fingers slide lower, slick with her wetness and the shower water, moving with slow, calculated precision. they explore her folds, tracing the swollen, sensitive skin with expert care, mapping out every curve and crease as if memorizing her. his thumb circles her clit lightly at first, teasing the delicate bundle until she gasps, arching into his touch. the wet slickness between them deepens, and his touch grows bolder, pressing and swirling just right to unravel her control.

she parts her legs a fraction more, inviting him deeper, breath catching in her throat as his thumb finds that sweet, aching spot beneath her folds. the sensation sends warmth flooding through her, a delicious fire spreading low in her belly. “look at you,” joe’s voice drops to a rough growl, heavy with lust and reverence, “so fucking wet. dripping just for me,”.

“yes,” she pants, words ragged, voice thick with want and surrender, “please don’t stop. don’t ever stop,”.

his fingers slip inside her, slow and teasing at first, curling and pressing just so against her walls, coaxing soft, desperate moans from her parted lips. each movement is careful but insistent, driving her higher. his thumb never falters, rubbing slow, languid circles over her clit, stoking a fire that burns hotter with every stroke. she trembles beneath his touch, hips rocking on their own, seeking more, needing more. “you gonna come for me, baby?” joe’s voice is rough, soaked with lust and promise, each word a spark igniting the air between them.

her body tightens involuntarily, legs shaking as waves of pleasure build with crushing force. “joe…i’m gonna—,”.

her hands clutch at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle as a shudder rips through her. she gasps his name—raw, breathless—voice breaking into desperate, pleading sobs, the heat and release overwhelming her senses. joe cradles her firmly, steadying her with his strength as his lips trail a scorching path from her neck to her jawline, whispering filthy promises that make her skin burn and pulse with need.

with a low groan, he lifts her thigh high, fingers digging into her soft skin as he presses his hard, slick cock against her glistening folds. the friction is electric, sending delicious shocks through her body that make her gasp. then, slow and agonizingly intended, he slides deep inside her, filling her completely with every inch, stretching her in the most exquisite way. the fullness steals her breath, making her head fall back against the cold tile.

their bodies move together in a wild, desperate rhythm—raw and primal, perfectly matched. joe’s hands hold her tight, one wrapped possessively around her raised thigh, the other braced against the slippery tile wall as he thrusts with steady, urgent power. the slick slap of skin against wet tile echoes all around them, a hypnotic, frantic soundtrack to their lovemaking. the hot water sprays over them, mixing with their uneven breaths and wet, needy moans, washing away the world until only the two of them remain.

“fucking amazing, baby,” joe growls, voice thick with possessive hunger as he thrusts deeper, harder, each movement claiming her more fiercely. “this pussy’s fucking perfect. made for me,”.

she gasps, tightening around him instinctively, breath coming in wild, jagged gasps. “all for you. always yours, joey,”.

joe groans, lifting her even higher, pounding harder with every stroke. the pressure builds, driving her closer and closer to the edge until she’s crying out his name, thighs trembling and nails raking down his back, voice breaking into desperate, beautiful sobs of release.

and then joe follows, body shuddering violently as he spills deep inside her, every muscle clenching as he holds her close. his breath is heavy and ragged, chest rising and falling against hers as he carries her through the aftershocks. their skin glistens, slick with water and sweat, the heat of the shower wrapping around them like a cocoon.

they collapse together, tangled and trembling, hearts pounding in perfect sync, every nerve raw and alive. the moment stretches on, messy, breathless, achingly beautiful, and they stay there, wrapped in each other, lost in the warmth of the afterglow.

—

later that night, the house hums with a warm, lazy buzz. the lingering scent of cold beer and charred burgers still hanging thick in the air, mingling with the faint trace of citronella candles flickering softly on the porch outside. the night wraps around the lake like a velvet cloak, broken only by the distant crackle of fireworks. bursts of pink and silver flare across the sky, casting a shifting glow that dances on the water’s surface, painting everything in fleeting color.

the party’s winding down; friends are scattered like sleepy shadows between porch swings swaying gently in the warm breeze and the dock where the water laps quietly below. some of the girls are curled in hoodies and blankets, their laughter low and breathy, drifting through the night like a lullaby. someone passes around sparklers, the tiny flames sputtering and glowing bright. ryland waves his sparkler with exaggerated care, drawing hearts and squiggles in the air, while trevor films it all on his phone, narrating like some late-night documentary filmmaker.

from across the kitchen, where people are rifling through the fridge for leftover snacks, she catches joe’s eye. he lifts one eyebrow just the slightest bit, that familiar mischievous glint sparking in his gaze. she answers with a grin—a slow, confident smile that says more than words ever could. barely a nod, barely a glance, but it’s all he needs.

their hands find each other in the quiet chaos, fingers intertwining with a light, electric touch. they slip away together, sneaking down the hall like kids trying not to get caught, giggles muffled behind cupped hands, hearts racing with that delicious thrill of stolen moments. the guest bedroom door clicks shut softly behind them, the window cracked open just enough to invite in the cool summer air.

he pins her gently beneath him on the cool guest bed, lit only by moonlight and the wild flashes of fireworks through the window. the sheets rustle beneath them—crisp and cool, scented faintly with cedar and fresh detergent—grounding them in this private, perfect moment. her skin is still dewy from the shower, glowing with a soft, warm sheen, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. he presses his mouth to hers again, slower now, dragging his lips over hers like he’s savoring every second, every taste, every breath.

“god,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice low and thick, heavy with need. one hand slides down her thigh, fingers hooking around it to pull her closer, deeper against him. “can’t get enough of you. never could,”.

she shivers at the sound of his voice, the warmth of his palm trailing along the inside of her leg, fingers teasing the slick heat waiting just for him. “joey,” she breathes, voice soft and trembling, hips arching up greedily, desperate to feel him again. “need you to fuck me. again,”.

he groans deep in his chest, forehead dropping to rest against hers, breath hot and ragged. “i got you,” he promises, voice thick and reverent. “this time i’m gonna take my time. just for you,”.

and he does.

slow, steady strokes that make her body arch and stretch beneath him, arms tightening around his neck, nails dragging faint red trails down his broad back. he holds her like she’s fragile, like she’s the most precious thing in the world. his hands wander everywhere, stroking up the soft ribs, tracing the line of her jaw, brushing damp hair back from her forehead, thumbs pressing softly into the dimples at her hips as he sinks deeper and deeper into her, again and again.

his hand then rests low on her belly, warm and wide, splayed across the soft curve just below her navel. it lingers there, his thumb stroking gently over the skin already kissed pink from his touch and the sun from earlier. her breath stutters when he presses down just slightly—not hard, just enough to make her feel the way he fills her, deep and heavy and so achingly present.

“you..you feel that?” he whispers, voice slipping, like he’s barely holding it together. it’s not cocky—it’s heated. in awe. “feel how deep you let me in?”.

she nods, lips parting around a soundless gasp. his other arm curls beneath her back, holding her close while his hips rock slow and deep, letting her feel every inch, every unspoken word he can’t say with anything but his body. the imprint of him presses against her belly from the inside, and he watches with a kind of obsession as his hand flattens against the spot, in love with the way her body stretches around him, takes him so well, like she was made to.

“look at you,” he breathes, his forehead resting against hers. “you’re perfect like this. i’m so deep, baby—right here,” he murmurs, pressing just a little more firmly over that faint bulge. “i can feel myself inside you,”.

she whimpers at the pressure, overwhelmed by how full she is, how tender he’s being even as her whole body tightens around him. he kisses her then—slow, messy, tasting of worship and want—like he’s trying to memorize how it feels to be this deep, this close, this completely inside her heart.

her breath catches, a sharp gasp escaping as she nods, fingers digging into his arms, holding on tight. he grinds in deeper, rocking the bed gently against the wall with each slow, powerful thrust. outside, fireworks continue to pop and boom like heartbeats in the distance, their rhythm syncing perfectly with his motion. the shifting bursts of light paint his golden skin, sweat sparkling at his temples, eyelashes fluttering as he watches her with pure, worshipful devotion.

“so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, voice rough, catching as he picks up the pace just a notch. “this pussy’s mine, yeah?”.

“yours,” she pants, breathless, “just yours,”. his hand slips lower, sliding between them to press fingers gently to her swollen clit, circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. she clenches around him, moaning softly into his neck, and he pulls her tighter against his chest, whispering filthy praise right into her ear.

“you take me so good, baby,” he groans, “so tight around me. fuck, you’re perfect. never gonna get over how good you make me feel,”.

she spirals fast, heat and pleasure crashing through her, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, soft and desperate. he never breaks eye contact, never stops murmuring how good she is, how much he loves her, how wrecked she makes him feel. “cum for me, sweetheart,” he begs, hips stuttering as she tightens around him once more. “let me feel it,”.

she shatters beneath him, a trembling cry, clutching him close, thighs trembling as the waves of pleasure roll through her in unstoppable tides. he keeps moving, slower now, tender, coaxing her through it until he follows, guttural groan tearing from deep in his chest as he spills inside her, hips pressed hard, body shaking with the force of release.

they collapse together, his weight warm and steady draped over her, their chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. the soft murmur of the lake and distant noises wrap around them like a gentle lullaby, the world outside fading into a hushed glow. the warmth of his body pressed against hers feels like an anchor, grounding her in the moment, making everything else slip away. before words can find their way, his lips brush hers again—slow, tender, grateful—each kiss carrying the weight of everything they feel but can’t say, exhaustion and devotion folding into one another.

“you okay?” he murmurs softly, pulling back just enough to search her eyes with his own—vulnerable, sincere. she smiles, sleepy and content, arms tightening around him as if to hold onto the moment forever. “perfect. you?”.

his grin is boyish, soft, the kind that makes her heart ache with how much he belongs to her. “i’m in heaven, sweetheart,”.

they lie tangled there for a while, the heat of their skin mingling, fingers tracing lazy patterns along shoulders and arms, small touches full of quiet love. his hand slips under her hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, brushing gently over her scalp as she lets out a soft sigh. she presses closer, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her ear—a steady rhythm that makes her feel safe, loved.

“you’re still warm,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“only because you are,” he replies, voice raspy from his post-orgasmic state, but still tender for her. his thumb brushes over her cheek, careful and slow, memorizing the soft curve of her jaw. “i want to hold onto you like this forever, baby,”.

her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “you’re such a cheeseball,” she teases, her fingers poking lightly at his ribs. he laughs, the sound rumbling against her chest, and she presses a kiss there, right over his heart. “only for you, i swear,”.

the fireworks continue their distant celebration, soft bursts of pink and gold painting the sky in slow, rhythmic waves. they lie side by side, the night air cool against their skin, the faint scent of summer lingering like a memory. the flickering light spills through the cracked window, casting dancing shadows that play across their bodies—highlighting the curve of his jaw, the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft rise and fall of their chests as they breathe in sync.

she wiggles her fingers teasingly against his chest, light and playful, tracing lazy patterns over his skin. her voice breaks the comfortable silence, quiet but full of mischief. “so…you think anyone heard us?”.

he shrugs casually, but there’s a sly curl to his lips that tells her he’s already enjoying this. leaning down, he presses a sluggish, tender kiss to her temple, the warmth of his lips sending a soft shiver down her spine. “let ‘em,” he says softly, “honestly, you sounded way too good to be quiet. everyone knows you have the voice of an angel…guess that applies to the bedroom, too,”.

she snorts, flicking a finger to poke him sharply in the ribs. he squints, mock offended, twisting away just enough to make her laugh. “you’re the worst,” she says with a grin, eyes sparkling with affection.

he grins back, all warmth and love wrapped in that mischievous expression. “and you’re mine. all mine,:.

her fingers keep drifting, tracing slow, idle circles on his chest—fingertips soft and searching like she’s soaking in every inch of him. her voice drops into a husky whisper, thick with teasing and something more tender. “so, what now, mr. heaven? gonna cuddle me until i fall asleep?”.

“only if you promise to keep stealing my hoodies and stealing my heart,”.

she smiles, eyes fluttering closed as she leans into him, but not before she steals one last kiss—lazy, soft, the kind that lingers just long enough to make her breath hitch. “you’re impossible,” she murmurs against his lips.

he chuckles quietly, tightening his arms around her as if he could never get enough. “and you’re worth every second of it,”.

outside, the night stretches on, fireworks blooming like wildflowers across the expansive sky. but inside this quiet room, beneath the gentle glow of moonlight and the lingering warmth of their bodies, the world feels still, perfect. wrapped up in each other, they drift slowly into dreams, hearts full and souls intertwined, safe in the quiet, tender afterglow of their love.

[dfl-inc]

AI image generation

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hi can I please a platonic dream bbq ena x reader from the human world but when they wake up in that strange digital world they find themselves in a different body. Perhaps they are now a wyvern hybrid somehow, like their head and torso are the same but everything else was changed. Anyway they somehow end up working with ena to help take down the boss and she tries to help them adjust to their new life. Thanks!

One moment, things seemed perfectly normal for you. It was just another mundane afternoon.

And the next...you passed out and woke up somewhere completely foreign. Nowhere near your home, workplace, or anywhere familiar.

It seems you were on some island, with unusual structures, a patterned ceramic floor, and mysterious arches in front of blue entities. And tiny people in paper lanterns strung over your head.

Even the sky looked most unnerving as you flinched at the sight of a massive hazelnut brown eye peering down upon you, like it was some god.

When you tried getting up, you're quick to realize that your arms aren't exactly, well, arms anymore.

Instead they've somehow become dragon wings. They were made of cloth, as though cut from a flag of Wessex, but the claws on them were made of the hardest stone.

Yet as you flapped them, they generated an unusually strong gust of wind that not only propelled you upright, but made you hover at least three feet in the air.

You were startled as you dropped back down to the ground, discovering your legs were also dragonlike, too. They appeared as though they came fresh out of a 3-D printer, but the claws on your feet were also made of stone.

How strange...

And of course, you had a barbed tail that was disconnected from the rest of your body, but it floated behind you. It was covered in scales, resembling that one dragon from that one fantasy video game you recently played with the highest graphic settings applied.

Or....was it the dragon from that one dark fantasy movie you saw in 4K?

You couldn't remember.

The only normal parts about your body were the head and torso, and you still retained the same articles of clothing as before.

Despite all of this, you're not as freaked out as you definitely should have been.

You distinctly remember having arms and legs, but your head was still fuzzy and you couldn't quite make sense of where you were or how you even got here-

"My, my...what big claws you have! Tell me, newcomer, what's your profession? Do your wings help you climb the ladder and attain a well-deserved promotion?"

You see somebody approach you. She definitely wasn't human, but looked humanoid enough to be a familiar sight. Her body was split down the middle, her smile trapped to the red side.

"Um...actually I am-"

"STOP RIGHT THERE!!! I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GONNA SAY!!!" Suddenly her jagged paler side dominates the conversation, frowning deeply. "You're not the Boss!! So let's cut the crap!!"

"Boss? What?" You frown. "I was gonna say I'm not....erm...from around here..."

".....oh--well isn't this a treat? You've arrived from somewhere beyond our business scope! I smell great potential!" Her red half returns to lighten the mood, clasping her mitten hand against her geometric one. "Ena's the name. What do I owe the pleasure?"

"I don't...think you could help me. But I'm not from this world. Like at all." You try to explain. "I was somebody else one moment, and the next I woke up here as this...weird, wyvern thing."

She's quiet, taking in all this information, before she chuckles. "Ah. Wyvern! Such a charming name! I concur that your visage may intimidate future clients, but worry not! I can teach you excellent strategies for coping with the ups and downs and works of the trade!! Of course, though, I don't offer my services for free." Her smile falls flat for a moment, her triangular eyes piercing through you. "...you have to agree to the following terms and conditions...."

There's a long pause, and you realize she's waiting for your response.

Even though you had a feeling your name wasn't "Wyvern", you couldn't exactly tell Ena that now---as she's 101% convinced that's your name and wouldn't accept anything else.

"Okay, so what do you need from me? Money?"

"Oh nononononono! No, no, no!! I am not one of those sleazy contractors who entangle poor souls in sign-up fees and cancellation fees!" She huffs, almost sounding insulted. "YOU, my dear draconic associate, are gonna help me find the Boss. You see, he's our next target, and I just know you can put those claws and teeth to work!! So let's shake on it."

Extending her clawed hand, she waits in anticipation, but you were rightfully hesitant.

"That's a kind offer, but...why help me? We just met not even-"

"So what?" Her meaner side grunts, fingers twitching with impatience. "My job sucks, so I might as well have someone else to share in my misery. Besides, I'm the best you got. So what's it gonna be??"

"Yes. Yes..I'll go with you." Sighing, you awkwardly stretch your wing out, your stone claw coming to rest in her palm, and that seemed to suffice for a handshake, as the salesperson half of her smiled. Just a little softer.

"Bless you for your business, Wyvern. I promise you won't regret this. Now let's review the job description."

[azrielstherapist]

No One Like You [Ch. 1]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

You, an apothecary in Velaris, isn’t interested in saving anyone—least of all him. You have your own secrets and scars to carry. When your paths cross, something shifts. Something neither of you is ready for.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize—whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: I was listening to this song and I was inspired, so why not. I still don't understand how Tumblr works, so work in progress I guess. This is a draft of the first chapter, Rhysand is introduced in the second chapter, if you guys like it. I'll publish it! Dividers by @aquazero

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

The wind that rolled down from the Sidra had a bite to it that morning. Not cruel, not winter’s wrath, but sharp enough to slip beneath cloaks and find skin. The kind of wind that reminded you the world moved on, with or without you. The kind that asked whether you’d move with it.

I walked with my hood up and my hands tucked into the sleeves of my coat, eyes on the slick stones of the narrow alleyways that cradled my little shop like a secret. People passed me by with baskets of bread and paper-wrapped flowers. Some nodded, most didn’t. That suited me just fine.

The apothecary sat where it always had, halfway between the river and the square, tucked into a weathered stone building that leaned like it was tired. A faded wooden sign above the door read “The Apothecary”, how original, but most people just called it the shop with the blue door.

I liked it that way.

The bell above the door gave a single, soft chime when I pushed it open. That sound was mine, I’d chosen it, tuned it, hung it with trembling fingers years ago. Not just to hear when someone entered. But to remind me that this space was real. That I existed, here.

Inside, the warmth was waiting. Not from a fire, I hadn’t lit one yet, but from the walls themselves, from the worn wood shelves and their neat rows of amber bottles, herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, soft powders and dried petals in glass. The scent of bergamot, ash bark, and clove curled in the air like memory.

My fingers moved automatically, unlocking the storeroom, checking the fresh jars from the night before, brushing dust from the counter. It was still early. Velaris hadn’t woken fully yet. That was the way I preferred it: the hush before sound, the stillness before demands.

The city was beautiful, a dream for poets, all marble and starlight, but I had no interest in its art galleries or its floating lanterns, not anymore at least. Beauty like that had always seemed a little cruel to me. Too fragile. Too easy to break.

I liked the ugly things. Bitter roots. Cracked vials. The stubborn fight of plants that grow in poor soil.

By the second hour, the shop was humming in the soft way it always did. The bell rang, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was Aeluin.

He came every week, a retired cloth-dyer who still carried the scent of ink and wool on his hands.

“Morning, girl,” he said, with a nod and a wheeze. “Same as usual.”

“You sleeping?” I asked, already reaching for the tin with the lavender blend I made just for him. “Or just pretending you are?”

Aeluin gave a dry laugh. “If I was sleeping proper, I wouldn’t be here beggin’ for leaves.”

“You’re not begging. You’re paying,” I said, and wrapped the tin with a strip of linen. “This time, don’t steep it more than five minutes. You overbrew it again, it won’t knock out a field mouse.”

He left a few coppers on the counter, more than I charged, and didn’t wait for change. He never did.

“You should come by the square,” he said before the door closed behind him. “They’ve set up a market for the solstice. Music, food, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t do crowds.”

He gave me a look. Not pity, not judgment. Just… recognition. Then he nodded once and left.

Alone again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The second bell of the morning came with the scent of wet stone and steel. An Illyrian, tall, broad-shouldered, wings tucked neatly beneath his cloak. Draxen, I remembered. We’d only spoken a few times before.

"You’re up early," he said, pulling his hood back and ruffling damp hair.

I gave a small nod, already reaching for the tincture I guessed he’d come for, something for sore muscles or a bruised rib. "Trouble flying?"

"Trouble sparring," he replied with a grin, eyeing the shelf like he was looking for something else entirely. “Your stuff works better than whatever my partner stashes in his desk.”

“You’re still using it wrong.”

Draxen gave a mock-wounded look. “Can’t I just appreciate your brewing skills without the lecture?”

I let the faintest smile curl the corner of my mouth. “That would be new.”

He leaned against the counter, casual, like someone who didn’t quite know what to do with stillness. “You always this cheery in the morning?”

“You always this nosy for no reason?”

He barked a laugh, genuinely amused. I handed him the small dark-glass bottle, carefully labeled.

"Thanks," he said, slipping it into his jacket. But instead of leaving, he looked around, really looked. At the half-lit corners, the shelves, the care in every label and placement. His gaze was warm, but sharp. The kind that sees more than it should. “You ever think of moving closer to the city center? You’d have more customers.”

I arched a brow. “You want more people to know where I live?”

“Fair enough,” he said, that smirk of his deepening with approval. “Still. You’ve got a talent.”

“I’ve got quiet. That’s enough.”

He lingered, like he wanted to say more, but finally just gave a nod and turned toward the door. The bell jingled behind him, the wind tugging at his cloak as he vanished into the street.

The shop was quite again.

I leaned against the counter and listened to the silence. Not empty, not lonely. Just quiet. And in that quiet, I breathed.

This was my space. My rhythm. My peace.

So when the bell chimed again, softer this time, like a fingertip on glass, I knew before I turned that something was different.

She stepped inside, cloak damp at the edges, the color of the deepest red, a shade that would’ve blended into shadows if not for the sheen of rain on the velvet. Her hair, golden and impossibly bright, fell in a braid over one shoulder, and her expression was open in that diplomatic sort of way, welcoming, unreadable, disarming.

She seems like someone used to being watched.

Not in a vain way, not the kind that demanded attention, but the way people moved when they were accustomed to it. Like she was always bracing for something. Praise or attack, I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t need more than a second to place her. I saw her in the city, everyone knows her.

The Morrigan.

A member of the Night Court.

he High Lord’s third in command.

She didn’t introduce herself, but I didn’t expect her to. Instead, she stepped forward and said, “I was passing by,” voice warm but measured, “and your shop looked… inviting.”

My hands didn’t still over the bundles I was sorting. “It’s open.”

Her eyes moved over the room with genuine interest, not feigned for politeness. “What do you prepare here? Herbs? Brews? Tinctures?”

“All of the above,” I said. “Oils, powders, teas. Salves. Tonics for the body. Others for the mind.”

She nodded, stepping closer, not into my space, but toward a low shelf lined with small dark vials, all unlabeled.

“You work alone?”

I gave her a look. She didn’t press.

After a quiet moment, she turned back to me. “Do you make truth serums?”

The question was clear, but her tone was carefully neutral, too practiced to be idle curiosity. She didn’t say who they wanted the truth from, or why.

“Yes.”

“Subtle ones?”

“Yes.”

Something flickered behind her gaze. Not surprise, but something adjacent. Approval, maybe.

“I need one that doesn’t taste like anything,” she said. “One that doesn’t slow the tongue or dull the mind. One that won’t be noticed until it’s too late.”

I tied off the sprig of dried anise root I was wrapping and finally met her eyes. “How long do you want it to last?”

“A few minutes. Long enough for answers.”

I nodded once, then turned to the back shelves without another word. I didn’t ask who it was for. I didn’t ask why. She didn’t offer.

And that, oddly, felt like an understanding.

I took down two jars, one filled with crushed veritas blossoms, another with pale green thistle seeds. From a third tin, I pulled a small folded parchment containing a fine white powder that shimmered faintly in the light.

I began measuring in silence.

Behind me, the woman wandered, careful not to touch anything. Her gaze moved to the bone charm hanging above the archway, one of the old ones. A ward against liars. She didn’t comment on it.

When I turned back, she was already watching me.

“This won’t compel truth,” I said. “It’ll only lower the resistance to speaking it. The mind will want to keep secrets, but the tongue won’t quite cooperate.”

“That’s all we need.”

I folded the blend into a black wax paper and tied it with string. No label. No instructions. If she needed this, she’d know how to use it.

“Four silvers,” I said.

She paid in silence. Then, without reaching for the bundle yet, she studied me a moment longer. Not rudely. Not with suspicion. Just with… interest.

“Most apothecaries wouldn’t hand this over without a dozen questions.”

“Then most apothecaries waste breath.”

That made her smile, small, almost private.

“I’m Morrigan,” she offered then, with a slight bow of her head.

“I know.”

She paused, not offended, just curious. “And you are?”

“Y/N”

A flicker of recognition, maybe in the name. Maybe not. But she said nothing else. Just tucked the packet into her cloak, nodded once, and turned for the door.

“It suits you.”, then she vanished.

I didn’t answer.

The bell chimed as she left, and the silence folded around me again, but not quite the same silence as before.

Something had shifted.

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

[odddaze]

Happy New Year! Based on the paper lanterns I always see floating among the fireworks~ Those has always been my favorite~

[mickandmusings]

anticipation

pairing: indiana jones x f!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: indy and y/n, history professors and close friends, are sent out on the hunt for an ancient gold amulet somewhere near cairo. hitting a stroke of luck, they find all the clues leading to the prize inside a cave, making indy's usual grumpy demeanor turn soft. however, as night falls on the desert, the pair find themselves taking shelter from a sandstorm in the cave, where they realize that the real prize was never any artifact.

warnings: fluffy, slight age gap (idk I imagined the reader to be at least like five or six years younger than Indy??) indy's typically gruff attitude (and gooey middle), clumsy reader, author loves history but isn't as well versed in ancient history so bear with inaccuracy

-

"Sweetheart, what the hell're you doing?" Indy's voice resounded through the empty cave both he and Y/N were walking in. Well, were walking in, til his partner stopped and dropped to the floor, her lantern close to the wall.

"Indy, come look, there's markings," Y/N's reply was smart, though she stumbled on a loose rock as she crouched down, nearly toppling over, but gained her balance and smiled at Indy. "I didn't fall that time!"

Indiana huffed out a small chuckle as he walked over to look at her discovery. After the past few years of bringing Y/N along, he'd grown used to her clumsy nature, spending most of his time helping her off of sandy ground or helping her limp along on a twisted ankle from a particularly nasty fall. If it were anyone else, Indy would grumble and leave them behind, but Y/N was the exception to nearly every one of Indiana's rules.

"Smart girl," Indy's voice echoed as his hands lightly brushed against the wall. Y/N felt her face fill with a red blush at Indy's compliment, even if he didn't mean it the way she wanted him to. Y/N's growing crush on her older coworker had started the moment she'd moved into the classroom across the hall from him. She had been intimidated at first, being the only female professor in the history hall. She had expected Dr. Jones to be just as avoidant of her as the others, but he had been the opposite. He had been dapper in his neat suit and bowtie, his studious glasses making him appear approachable. He had smiled and introduced himself, and the rest had been history-literally. The two would wave at each other down the hallway, swap conversation between classes and at lunch, and share books back and forth. Their at-work talks led to Indy inviting her to dinner (as friends, of course) and both of them grading papers in Indy's living room. After a year or so working side by side, Indy quickly realized that Y/N had an appetite for adventure, just like him. He'd invited her on a small dig that summer, and she'd been his right-hand ever since. Their easy friendship had quickly become the talk of the college, by teachers and students alike. Rumors floated through the air, talks of affairs and secret relationships, but none of them were true. Indy and Y/N were nothing more than friends and coworkers, as much as both parties wished they were more.

"Are those the ones you were looking for? The ones from the book?" Y/N's voice cut through Indiana's focus. Indiana's hazel eyes looked into hers, his heart skipping a beat. Her optimistic face warmed his heart. Despite all of the hell the girl had gone through on adventures with him, she still got excited when he brought her along on another.

"Yeah, yeah they are." Indy pulled the aged paper from his pocket, unfolded it and held it against the wall-the two were a perfect match. "We're in the right place, doll, just gotta find that damn amulet."

For the rest of daylight, Y/N and Indy move quickly through the dark cave, most times in tight quarters with one another. Indy is secretly in agony: every brush of her hand against his own, or his front pressed against her back in particularly small spaces sets his skin ablaze, and when her eyes light up at her findings or a narrow escape? Indy all but pulls her in for a heated kiss. The duo makes great time finding the amulet and pulling themselves back out, all limbs intact with minimal cuts and bruises, and Indy is grinning as the jewel shines in Y/N's hand. His shirt is ripped and there's a cut that needs cleaning across his neck, but his demeanor is spirited. He slings an arm around Y/N, making her heart skip a beat.

"Can't believe we made it out of that one, huh, sweetheart?" His voice is laced with a laugh, his other hand holding out the lantern that lights their way out. It's drawing towards sundown, and Indy and Y/N are quickly making their way towards the mouth of the cave they've been in for a number of hours.

"I wouldn't have made it out if it weren't for you, Jones. When I fell through that last trap door, I thought I was done." Y/N sighs when she catches a glimpse of the opening of the cave, ready to curl back into the bed she shared with Indy at Sallah's. Her muscles were aching, and she longed for a shower and a good night's sleep before their journey back home tomorrow. As they got closer to the front of the cave, Y/N's good mood deflated. She peered out the opening from a few feet distance.

"Indy, there's no way we're getting out of here. That sandstorm could take down a building, we won't last ten minutes."

Indiana stands behind her, peering over her head to look out the opening. He, too, sighed and let out a deep exhale, his hazel eyes darting across at the scene.

"Yeah, you're right. We'll have to anchor here 'til it passes."

Y/N sighs, dropping onto the cave floor and plopping against the wall. Indy watches her movements-he could tell she was tired, her body aching.

"You alright, Y/N/N?"

Y/N cuts her eyes up to Indy's, sympathy pooling in his irises.

"M'fine, just tired. Dreaming of a shower and our bed back at Sallah's if I'm honest."

Indy plops down next to her, planting their lantern on the ground in front of them.

"God, me too, sweetheart. Starting to think I'm getting too old for all of this."

Y/N rolls her eyes and lets out a chuckle as she leans her head on Indy's shoulder, feeling much more comfortable with Indiana's protection over her. Silence fell amongst the pair, and Y/N felt her eyes droop. She quickly popped them back open, knowing that she probably shouldn't be sleeping in a cave such as this one. Indy catches her tired actions and pulls her into his arms, making a blush appear on Y/N's face. She looks up at him with a face of slight confusion.

"Sleep, I'll keep watch."

Any other time, Y/N would have protested, arguing that she shouldn't let her guard down, that danger could still lurk in every corner. Today, however, she was too tired to even form a rebuttal, and let her eyes close as Indy's warmth lulled her to sleep. Indy sat leisurely, looking out the mouth of the cave, hoping that the sand storm would quickly dissipate, but his longing was in vain, it only seemed to rage. He, too, found himself dozing off, his mind only comprehending the sound of Y/N's deep breaths. He lifted the hat from his head onto the top of his face to block the light from their lantern, and fell fast asleep.

Neither of the pair woke for several hours, even when the sandstorm had passed, which worried Sallah. He worried his dear friends were stuck in a cave somewhere, or had been captured by their enemies. When he finally stumbled through the opening of the dark cave and saw the sleeping figures of Indy and Y/N, he let out a boisterous laugh that echoed off the walls. It startled both halves of the couple, Y/N jumping in Indy's arms as Indy's arms covered her protectively. Even as the couple registered their friend's presence, Indy's arms never let go of Y/N. He helped her stand and got them both out of the cave, following Sallah back home.

Back at Sallah's, Indy lets Y/N have the first go of the shower, leading to light teasing from Sallah and his wife. Both of them were aware of Indiana's feelings toward his fellow professor, and often poked fun at him because of it. When Y/N returned from her shower to their shared bedroom, hair still wet and dressed in one of Indiana's oversized button-downs, Indiana felt his heart stop. There was no way he could lie leisurely next to her without his feelings rising to the surface. She tossed her towel into a nearby basket, digging through her duffel bag for her hairbrush. As she moved across the room, she could feel Indiana's eyes on her, causing her face to bloom in a deep blush.

"I can feel you watching me, Indy. Is something wrong?"

Indiana shook his head, ditching his dingy hat onto a nearby table as he ran a hand through his hair. His throat felt dry, and Indiana became unnaturally nervous.

"Uh, no, just-shirt looks good on you."

Y/N blushes further, the brush in her hair stopping momentarily. She looks up at Indy, his hazel eyes warm, a small, albeit nervous, smile flashing across his face.

"Thanks. For the compliment, and letting me borrow it," she smiles, glancing over at him again. Her eyes catch the line of red under his chin and she remembers the deep cut he'd sustained. "That cut, on your neck, did you patch it? It's deep, Indy."

"Oh, no, kind of forgot about it."

Y/N shakes her head, grabbing the few first aid items she'd brought along from her bag. She motioned for Indy to sit on the chair in the corner of the room as she came close, looking into his eyes as she began to clean his cut. Indy's hands came to rest on her waist, an action that had Y/N's mind blanking, her hands still as she simply stared down at him. Neither of them said a word, but Indiana stood from his seat, his hands resting on either side of her face. The two hovered in one another's space, Y/N waiting in anticipation.

"Are you gonna kiss me or not, Jones?" Y/N whispered with a sly grin. Indy shook his head and finally connected their lips, melting into a heated kiss. Her hands came to his hair, pulling him closer, as his hands fell dangerously low on her back. Indy pulls away, looking at Y/N with a knowing look. His nose brushes against hers, his lips almost grazing her skin as he speaks.

"Did you offer to patch me up so you could seduce me, Y/N/N?"

Y/N chuckles, chastely kissing his lips.

"Hm, maybe," she smiles a wide smile up at Indy, who lets out a breathy chuckle of his own, pulling her closer by her hips. He places another smothering kiss on her lips, followed by a sly smirk as he speaks.

"Smart girl."

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