PR's Tumblrdome
trying on a metaphor
@theartofmadeline
art blog(derogatory)
Mike Driver
blake kathryn
tannertan36
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
AnasAbdin
Andulka
ellievsbear
Janaina Medeiros
oozey mess
Kiana Khansmith
we're not kids anymore.
Game of Thrones Daily
todays bird
noise dept.
Love Begins
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from Kuwait
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Brazil
@mccnscil
dependent mumu blog for darkskiesrpg. muses under the cut. there will be triggers such as death, blood etc mentioned but will be tagged.
georgie kenner; intro, interactions, musing, fc, answers
carmen mondragon
blossom bellerose
"I am," Esther nodded. She didn't know the young man who owned the questioning voice, but she wasn't above answering a question when the answer was obvious and didn't threaten her to give away. "Their home, at least." It took effort not to roll her eyes when he mentioned not really knowing where it was, but she was doing her best to be friendly with the locals for the time being so she tried to keep the conversation going.
His observation didn't take her by surprise, but it was good confirmation of what she knew to be true if nothing else. "That's good to hear; there are more than a few I'd like to see." Esther felt her expression turn slightly guarded, but she still answered the question all the same. "Because I'd like to visit, if they'd have me."
He couldn’t help it—curiosity was a curse that had never quite left him. There was something about the woman that tugged faintly at recognition, though his mind, fractured by time and loss, struggled to pin it down. Shifting his weight in the chair, Henrik lifted his glass for a slow sip, eyes tracing every line of her face as if the answer might be hidden there.
“Their home,” he echoed softly, letting the words linger. It struck him as… interesting. Convenient, even. That she, too, would seek the same place he had avoided for so long. Perhaps walking through that door would be easier with someone else beside him. Even if she was a stranger.
“That is… curious,” he admitted after a beat. “Because I also have business with the Mikaelsons.” His voice steadied, deliberately neutral, but his fingers tightened just slightly against the glass.
A pause—calculated, careful.
“I need to see for myself if the rumors are true,” he continued, tone measured, though there was a flicker of something sharper beneath the calm. “Before I decide how to approach… the matter of reuniting them with another family member.”
The words slipped out quieter, heavier. Himself.
Darien leaned against the nearest wall like he had all the time in the world, one brow ticking up as he looked her over.
“Well, look at that. The prodigal Mondragón cousin rises from the grave… and the first thing she reaches for is peanuts.” His mouth curved into that infuriating half-smile of his. “Not fire. Not vengeance. Not even a drink. Peanuts. Bold choice.”
He let the pause hang just long enough to be smug about it before adding, “So what was it like? Eternal peace? Choir of angels? Or more of a ‘bad hotel lobby at 3 a.m.’ vibe?”
Pushing off the wall, he took a slow step closer, voice dipping into mock concern. “And you’re sure you’re you? Because, you know, around here, people come back different. Last time, one of your dragon-kin cousins came back with worse manners than me—didn’t even think that was possible. Like they have a right to be so grumpy when they've just woken from what should've been an eternal nap.”
He smirked again, tipping his head toward her peanuts. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough. So, Carmen—do I get the part where you tell me why you’re actually here, or should I just assume it’s to grace us all with your miraculous, freakish salty-snacked presence?”
Peanuts. She didn’t see the problem—why should she? They’d always been a comfort, a steady constant in a chaotic life. “I still have fire,” she said, tone dry, “but peanuts? Best choice of snack after being dead for God knows how long.” The dragon’s shoulders lifted in a loose shrug.
A grin threatened to creep across her stoic features, but she forced it back. No need to show how glad she was to be back—not when it meant dealing with her irritating cousins again.
Her fingers crushed the empty packet into a crumpled ball before tossing it aside. “As for the ‘eternal peace’ bit… think more bad roadside motel,” she said, voice dipping into something more serious. “I don’t remember much. Just… darkness. Pain. And then waking up here.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “A lot of confusion. No mint on the pillow, either.”
When he questioned if she was really her, she simply rolled her eyes and fished a fresh packet of peanuts from her pocket. Tearing it open with practiced ease, she popped a few in her mouth. “Would a fake Carmen carry more than one bag of peanuts?” Her brow lifted in mock challenge.
“And for the record,” she added, smirking now, “I’m here to grace you with my presence—and the best-tasting nuts around.” She tossed another peanut into her mouth, chewing slowly. “Why? Did you miss me? Should I grab you a tissue… maybe something soft to cry into?”
The last thing she remembered was being killed by her own first born daughter. A girl entirely too clever for her own good, although that shouldn't have surprised her - Freya was, after all, a Mikaelson whether she'd been raised by Dahlia or not. And it was that upbringing that had created the darkness her own mother had been able to see whilst her brother had remained blissfully ignorant.
But none of that seemed particularly relevant when she woke in Lafayette Cemetery, the bodies of dead crows encircling her feet. Her body felt unfamiliar, but not nearly so unfamiliar as the bisected New Orleans that awaited her.
She had no plan - not yet. First, she needed to know and understand what had become of their home. What had become of their family. And the rest - well, the rest would come in time. Rousseau's, at least, was a familiar destination, and Esther sat at the bar with a drink in hand for a while before looking to the bartender. "Would you know, by any chance, where I might find the Mikaelson compound?" She knew where it was, of course, but it was less obvious than simply asking whether they'd seen Klaus or the others around town.
@darkskiesrpgstarters
Henrik’s hands rested lightly on the edge of the bar, fingers brushing against the worn wood almost unconsciously. He studied her for a long moment before speaking, voice low but steady, careful not to give too much away.
“You’re looking for the Mikaelsons,” he said, not as a question. His eyes flicked toward the shadows of the room, then back to her. There was something oddly familiar about her, though Henrik couldn’t put his finger on it.
“I… don’t know exactly where it is.” It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He had heard rumors from passersby about the Mikaelson family. He had hoped, secretly, to find the courage to knock on their door and walk in—but after all these years, he was still unprepared to step back into their lives, after all the searching he had done.
“I mean… there are plenty of Mikaelsons around, from what I’ve heard.” He took a careful sip of his beer. That much wasn’t a lie either. After all, he was one of them. His gaze flicked back to her, measuring, wary. “Can I ask… why you’re trying to find their house?” Curiosity, yes—but a guarded one. The last time he’d been too curious, it had nearly cost him his life.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the narrow streets, painting warm streaks across the worn cobblestones. Zehra sat on a weathered bench tucked between a quiet café and a row of small, shuttered shops, her coffee cup warming her hands more than the sun ever could.
She let her gaze drift lazily over the passing pedestrians, half-listening to the murmur of distant conversations, the occasional clatter of a bicycle chain, the soft scuff of shoes against stone. The city felt alive, chaotic in a way she didn’t always understand—but here, on this small bench, she could watch it all without being swept up.
Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, mind wandering to the cases waiting for her back at the office, the unshakable sense that the world was tipping further into madness every day. And yet… there was something grounding about this small pocket of quiet, this pause in the storm.
She tilted her head, almost as if expecting someone to appear out of the bustle. “Not every day you get to just… sit,” she muttered to herself, voice low, half amusement, half exasperation. @darkskiesrpgstarters
@daggeraxston
She needed to get out of the office before she screamed. Sure, she loved her job, but there was only so much evidence and casework a person could stare at before it started to consume them. Zehra refused to become that kind of workaholic.
Settling outside a local coffee shop, freshly made cup in hand, she took a slow sip, savoring the rich flavor. Just when she thought the world couldn’t get any more chaotic, more unhinged, it did. Dead people—actually dead—were walking the earth. It made little sense, and as a banshee, she wasn’t even sure she was supposed to understand it.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice she’d been staring at someone until she realized it. “Sorry,” she called, quick and polite, forcing a small smile.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ❤︎ ― aliyah st.johns / open starter / @darkskiesrpgstarters
aliyah adjusted the strap of her tank top, breath steady as she faced off with the padded dummy. the echo of fists hitting mats filled the room—but her focus was razor-thin.
"keep your guard up, babes" she reminded the girl beside her, voice clipped but calm. news of the murders hadn’t left her mind since morning. but here, in the self-defense class she taught twice a week, she could at least do something about it. help prepare those that can't defend themselves in the ways she could.
“you don’t wait for them to strike first,” aliyah said, landing a sharp hit to the dummy’s side. “you finish it before it starts.” her eyes flicked toward the door, jaw tight. “especially now.”
Zehra’s arms were crossed, one eyebrow quirking as she watched the demonstration. “Straight to the point, huh?” she said, voice calm but carrying a weight that made the words land harder than any punch. “I like it. Anticipate, act, don’t hesitate. Waiting to be hit is a luxury most don’t get.”
She stepped a little closer to the mat, gaze scanning the dummy, then Aliyah. “But finishing it before it starts… that takes more than skill. It takes instinct. And knowing when to strike without letting the fear decide for you.”
Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters Location: An overgrown cemetery on the outskirts of Mystic Falls, vines curling over broken gravestones Time: July 5th, just after sunset
The chapel was quiet tonight. Too quiet for a world that had just been warned.
Lyric moved through the graveyard like a memory—silent, slow, wrapped in a cloak the color of rusted leaves. Her sword hung at her back, but her hands were empty, brushing over the petals of a wild dahlia blooming where no one had planted it.
She stopped before a crumbled headstone, fingers tracing the name too faded to read.
“They made their statement,” she said, voice barely louder than the breeze. “No suspects. No leads. Just fear, and the expectation that fear will be enough.”
A pause. Her gaze lifted toward the chapel where offerings had begun to appear again—salt circles, pressed flowers, wax seals marked with trembling sigils. Someone remembered.
“I was not made for this world,” she murmured, “but I’ve bled in worse.”
She crouched down, plucked the dahlia, and tucked it behind her ear. A small, useless gesture. But the dead deserved some beauty.
Then, louder this time—clearer: “If you're waiting for a hero, you’ll be disappointed. But if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t run? I’m here. Blade’s sharp. Doors are open.”
She rose and turned toward the chapel, her silhouette vanishing into the candle-lit ruin, leaving only the wind to carry her words.
Zehra stepped lightly among the twisted gravestones, the hem of her coat brushing against the overgrown grass. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, caught the silhouette disappearing toward the chapel.
“You talk a big game for someone who’s alone in a graveyard,” she called out, her voice steady, carrying just enough curiosity to cut through the night air. “Blade’s sharp, doors are open… but are you looking for an ally—or just testing if anyone dares follow?”
She paused, tilting her head, dark hair catching the moonlight. “Because some of us don’t run either. Some of us… we don’t even blink.”
“I’ll become your worst nightmare.” Somehow Caroline had found herself at the bar and all she wanted to do was be alone but it seemed strangers had other ideas. "Seriously, take a hint." She added, shooing the guy away, showing a tiny hint of her fangs to get him to leave. "Doesn't anyone know how to respect boundaries these days?" She asked, rolling her eyes. Not noticing someone now sitting next to her. @darkskiesrpgstarters
Zehra shifted slightly in the barstool beside her, her dark eyes scanning Caroline with a mixture of curiosity and mild amusement. “Boundaries, huh?” she murmured, her tone low but not unkind. “Some people seem to think rules exist only for others.”
Her gaze flicked to the stranger Caroline had been shooing, then back to her. “You don’t seem like the type to suffer fools lightly. I like that.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, just enough to show she was interested in conversation—but only if Caroline allowed it, before she took a sip of her rose wine.
The city smelled wrong. Not the air itself, but the weight of it—the history layered over the streets, the ghosts pressing close even in daylight. Henrik’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, knuckles pale, as he moved through the shadows, careful, deliberate. He didn’t know what he expected to find, only that he needed answers. Names, faces, pieces of a past that had been ripped from him before he could hold them. Each step carried years of longing, survival, and quiet fear—fear that the family he’d been searching for might not even remember him. And then there was the hope. That maybe, just maybe, they would. He paused at the edge of the street, eyes scanning every figure, every flicker of movement, searching for a spark of recognition. Every familiar echo in a voice or glance made his chest tighten, his pulse quicken. “Somewhere,” he whispered to himself, “someone has to remember me.” @darkskiesrpgstarters
@mircges
The forest was alive with sound—leaves rustling, distant birdcalls, the faint hum of something ancient beneath the soil. Henrik moved carefully between the trees, fingers brushing over moss-covered bark, eyes scanning the undergrowth for the herbs he needed.
Each plant he gathered was a small victory, a reminder that even in this strange timeline, he could survive. The sunlight filtering through the canopy caught on his hair, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply breathe, to feel the pulse of the world around him.
A snap of a twig in the distance made him freeze, heart hitching. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, weighing the ingredients inside, and muttered under his breath, “Almost enough… just a little more.”
Even here, among the quiet of the trees, the past and the shadows of his family lingered at the edges of his mind, whispering that nothing—no matter how peaceful—lasted forever.
@strawberryxmagic
Henrik’s hands moved with quiet precision, arranging jars of herbs and tinctures along the worn wooden counter. The shop smelled of earth and spice, a comforting mix that almost made him forget how out of place he felt in this timeline. Almost.
His eyes flicked to the door every few seconds, scanning the street outside without really looking—an old habit from a life that had taught him to always watch, always anticipate.
“Can I help you find something?” he asked, voice polite but cautious, glancing up as a customer approached. His fingers traced the edge of a small bottle, grounding himself in the simple task.
Henrik was used to survival, not small talk—but here, among the shelves of dried roots and mysterious powders, he found a strange sort of calm. For now, it was enough.
@hybridnik
Henrik stepped into the room, every nerve taut, senses screaming that he was walking into a storm he could not outrun. Even before he saw him, he felt the presence—the air shifted, heavy with danger and command.
And then he did see him.
Klaus Mikaelson.
Older than memory, yet somehow the same. The fire in his eyes, the sharpness that had terrified—and enthralled—Henrik as a boy. His chest tightened; years of longing and unanswered questions pressed against him like a tide he could barely hold back.
He stopped just short of the circle of light where Klaus stood, letting his gaze linger. Reverence, yes—but also fear, respect, and a deep, aching need to be seen.
“Hello.” The word sounded fragile, a boy’s voice wrapped in a man’s body. But it carried all the weight of years spent searching, surviving, hoping… waiting.
Henrik made his way to the counter, eyes never leaving his brother’s. Fingers traced the outline of an herb bottle. “I can help you with something if you tell me what you want,” he offered carefully, the casual tone belying the storm beneath.
“Although I probably wouldn’t buy from here if you’re after anything real witchy,” he added, a small, self-deprecating shrug.
He didn’t step closer—not yet. Not until Klaus spoke. Not until Henrik knew if the Mikaelson in front of him would see him—or dismiss him as a ghost from a life long past.
Elijah turned at the sound of the voice—slow, deliberate. Not out of caution, but because something in the tone cut through the quiet with a weight that demanded his full attention. There was familiarity in it. Not recognition, exactly, but a strange echo—like a name half-remembered in a dream.
His eyes settled on the young man at the bar.
He was older than memory, but there was something there. In the eyes. In the way he spoke Elijah’s name like it carried both reverence and grief.
Elijah’s brow furrowed, subtle but unmistakable.
“We’ve met… before?”
He took a step closer, slow and measured, studying the stranger with the eyes of a man who’d buried too many ghosts to mistake them easily.
“I don’t recall your face,” he said softly, though there was no accusation in it—only curiosity threaded with something deeper. Unease. Longing, maybe. “But your voice carries familiarity I cannot place.”
The young man looked as though he’d been waiting years to be seen. And something about that settled wrong in Elijah’s chest.
He tilted his head, expression narrowing with careful thought.
“You speak of chapters… lives…” His gaze sharpened. “You know who I am. Yet you speak as if I should know you. As if once, long ago… I did.”
The silence stretched.
And then, softer—barely more than breath:
“…Who are you to me?”
Henrik’s hands clenched around the rim of his glass until his knuckles whitened, though his eyes stayed locked on Elijah. The calm mask he had tried to wear all these years threatened to crack. Emotions—he needed to control them, for his own safety.
“Yes. We met before.”
The words slipped out in a whisper, fragile and wary. Of course Elijah wouldn’t know him; he had been a boy when Henrik met his tragic end. His lips pressed to the rim of the glass before downing the whisky. The fiery burn scorched the back of his throat, a small wince betraying the momentary shock.
“And… I’m glad my voice carries familiarity.” Perhaps that would be enough for him—to accept the truth, to understand who Henrik had become in the time he’d been resurrected.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod at Elijah’s words. Of course he knew him, long ago. Elijah hadn’t truly aged, not really—but his eyes told of centuries of pain, of suffering, of tangled family ties.
“I am…” The words hovered, threatening to spill in a torrent. Should he scream it from the rooftops? I am Henrik, your little brother all grown, the brother who burned his coven to find you, the boy who’s still here inside this grown man’s body… He shook his head. He couldn’t say it—not yet.
“I am a friend. Not a foe. A shadow of Niklaus for a time… a boy too curious about the world… someone who looked up to all of you Mikaelsons.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the raw ache down. Emotions made you weak.
“To you, I am just a little boy… probably still that little boy you knew.”
Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters
The world smelled different.
Not just the air—though even that was foreign, thick with scents he couldn’t quite place. It was time itself. The subtle shift in its rhythm, the way the streets hummed with lives that didn’t belong to his century. Elijah Mikaelson had always been a man of control, of deliberate movement. But standing on the cracked pavement just beyond the French Quarter, there was a flicker of something in his chest he couldn’t entirely name.
Resurrection had not been gentle.
One moment, he’d been swallowed by nothing—silence, darkness, the finality of an ending he’d made peace with. The next, he was gasping for air in a city that looked familiar and wrong all at once. His name was whispered in the streets like a ghost story. Some welcomed him with reverence. Others with fear. And a few with pity.
The pity was the most insulting.
He adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket—a small comfort in an unrecognizable reality—before stepping into the dim glow of a nearby bar. He hadn’t been inside long enough to be offered a drink when the door opened behind him. Footsteps. A shift in the air.
Without turning, Elijah spoke in that low, steady voice that could calm a storm or end a life.
“It appears the universe has conspired to return me to unfinished business,” he said, letting the words linger. A pause, then— “Tell me—are you part of that business… or merely another curiosity in this strange, new chapter?”
Henrik’s fingers brushed the rim of his glass, deliberately slow, as if the motion could steady the storm inside him. He didn’t turn—didn’t need to. He already knew the voice, knew the weight it carried, the way it could bend the room without raising a hand.
A flicker of fear passed through him—first time seeing his elder brother in years. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his courage. Should he speak? Would he be rejected? Twelve years spent searching for his family, a year in this strange new timeline coming to terms with being their brother… and now he wondered if he would bottle it all up, letting the moment slip away.
“I… I suppose I am more of a curiosity in this new chapter, Elijah,” he said finally, the name foreign and strange on his tongue, heavy with a weight he hadn’t felt since childhood. “Though we’ve met before… in another life, perhaps. I was… younger then. A shadow, most likely, in memories that have long moved on without me.”
He let the words hang, bitter and soft all at once. The Mikaelsons had lived for centuries; he had not. Now older, shaped by time and absence, he felt like a ghost—a ghost who had returned, hoping to find a place among those who might not remember him at all.
Liz glanced sideways, that tired sort of amusement flickering at the edges of her mouth as Georgie spoke. There was something familiar in the sarcasm, the bite softened by affection. Maybe it was the bloodline. Or maybe Mystic Falls just had a type.
“I’ve seen her,” Liz said after a moment, voice even. “About six hours ago chewing out one of my rookies for misfiling a Triad alert. Scowl was firmly in place. So were the bags under her eyes.”
She didn’t sound judgmental—just observant, maybe a little protective.
“She works too hard. Tries to carry the whole town on her back like it'll crumble without her. I keep reminding her she’s not the only sheriff anymore, but…” Liz offered a shrug. “Your mom’s not great at sharing the weight.”
Her gaze cut to Georgie now, more direct. There was no sharpness, just a steadiness that came from experience and a few too many nights like this one.
“You checking on her? Or just trying to track her down before she passes out face-first into paperwork again?”
A beat.
“Either way,” she added, patting the step beside her, “you’re welcome to sit. It’s not exactly warm, but the company’s decent and the silence doesn’t bite.”
She offered a half-smile. “And if she taught you anything about survival, I’m guessing you know to never trust a donut past midnight.”
Georgie huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Yeah… that sounds like her. Scowl, caffeine in hand, saving the town one strongly worded glare at a time.”
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, rocking on her heels. “I was checking on her. Kinda. Or maybe just… making sure she remembers to actually go home once in a while. She’ll tell you she’s fine, but we both know she’ll work herself into the ground if someone doesn’t drag her out.”
Georgie took the offered seat, lowering herself onto the step with a little shrug. “Besides, it’s easier to find her than it is to text her. She reads those like… once a week. If she feels like it.”
A faint grin tugged at her lips as she glanced at Liz. “And yeah, I learned early—never trust a donut past midnight. Or a coffee from the station pot if it’s been sitting longer than an hour. That’s survival 101.” a brief pause for a moment. "but, i never listen to mom about the doughnut thing. pretty sure it's a myth so i wouldn't eat sugar before bed."
She leaned back, exhaling slowly, her tone softening just a fraction. “Guess I’m just making sure she doesn’t forget there’s more to life than paperwork and keeping the peace. Not that she’d admit she needs the reminder. she likes to think she has to be a superhero 24/7.”
River blinked once, slow—like he was giving her the benefit of the doubt, just long enough for her to walk it back.
She didn’t.
His jaw ticked.
“Oh,” he muttered, dragging the word out with a dry, unimpressed edge, “you’re one of those.”
He took a lazy step forward, not closing the distance so much as making a point of how unconcerned he was by her bark. His gaze dragged over her—sharp, calculating, and not nearly as amused as it had been a moment ago.
“See, I thought maybe you were lost. Or drunk. Or some kinda dramatic insomniac with a death wish,” he said, voice dipped in that low, dangerous calm that always came right before a storm. “But no—you’re just a Kenner.”
The way he said it wasn’t cruel. It was worse.
It was factual.
He gestured vaguely to the woods behind her with the toothpick. “That forest back there? We bury trespassers in it. Real deep. Real quiet. Not because we’re territorial assholes—but because most people don’t have the spine to ask first.”
He tilted his head, tone dipping into a near-mocking drawl. “But you? You walk in here flashing your last name like it’s a hall pass, toss around your uncles like they’re boogeymen, and then—then—you try to call me a little boy?”
Now he was smiling. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“You got nerve, I’ll give you that.”
Another step forward. Still not threatening, but that weight in the air? That was a warning.
“You don’t scare me, Kenner,” he said simply. “You’re loud, you’re clever, and I’m sure someone out there finds that charming. But this?” He gestured between them. “This isn’t a schoolyard. You throw that kind of attitude around the wrong wolf out here, and they won’t care who your family is.”
A pause.
“I’m giving you a pass because you’re young, and because you're the Chief's kid which means I can't do anything because Marcus happens to have a past with Charlotte. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”
He leaned back, the smirk returning—but this time it was cold.
“Now. You wanna keep pushing, or you wanna try that again without the performance?”
Georgie’s brows arched, unimpressed, like he’d just recited some campfire story she’d heard a dozen times before.
“Wow,” she drawled, shifting her weight lazily against the tree. “Do you practice that whole ‘big bad wolf’ speech in the mirror, or does it just come naturally? Because it’s very… rehearsed.”
Her gaze dragged over him, slow and unapologetic, before snapping back to meet his. “And for the record, I wasn’t name-dropping to get into the cool kids club. I mentioned my family because they tend to take an interest when strange men start making shallow-grave threats in the middle of the woods.”
A smirk ghosted across her lips before she let out a theatrical yawn, stretching her arms like she had all the time in the world. “But hey—graveyards, dead bodies? You’re speaking my language. That’s foreplay where I’m from. You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
Her arms folded again, this time tighter, her posture equal parts challenge and boredom. “And as for the little boy comment?” She gave him a long, deliberate once-over. “If the shoe fits, lace it up tight. I’ve met pups with less need to puff their chest.”
For the briefest moment, her tone dipped into something quieter, colder. “You’re right about one thing, though—this isn’t a schoolyard.” Her head tilted, eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the words. “Which means you don’t get to talk to me like I’m prey… unless you’re stupid enough to think you’re the only predator here.”
She pushed off the tree, taking a single step closer—just enough to mirror his earlier move, her smirk curling like a dare. “So, big bad wolf, you gonna keep circling like we’re in some low-budget western… or are you finally gonna tell me why you’re really so pressed that I’m here?”
