#i rarely ever draw natural scenes

[dovesick]

california coastline

[jetii]

A Little Fun

Pairing: Echo x fem!Reader / Echo x Medic!Reader

Words: 16,139

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, smut, pretty much pwp let's be honest, but there is some squad family bonding/good-natured ribbing, reader is a known flirt, reader has a nickname, insecure Echo to confident Echo, return of the king (pleasure dom Echo), he talks you through it, Echo's scomp is a paid actor, brat taming?, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, vibrator play, squirting, praise kink, overstimulation, aftercare

Summary: There's something between you and Echo, but despite your best efforts, he's yet to make a move. A night out at 79s changes everything.

A/N: the most self-indulgent thing i’ve ever written. 🙈 do not perceive me

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The music is a wall of sound, a thudding rhythm so loud it's practically a physical force. There's a strobing light show that seems to be designed to make people sick to their stomachs, and the dance floor is so crowded with writhing bodies you can't tell where one person ends and another begins. You're entranced by it, drawn into the pulsing beat. It's like a heartbeat, and you swear it's calling to you, drawing you in.

It's been ages since you were out at a club like this. You never realized how much you missed it. You've spent months fighting battles on countless planets, patching up the squad after every fight, and then going back out and doing it all over again. The only thing that really makes the exhaustion worth it is the promise of something like this—the thrill of a good time, of letting loose and just enjoying yourself.

The song ends and another one takes its place. The music changes, but the crowd doesn't. Everyone on the floor keeps dancing, and you keep right on with them.

You don't know how long you're out there, but after a while you're starting to get worn down. You slip away from a pair of hands around your waist, leaving a trail of apologies in your wake, and head off the floor. There's a booth in the corner of the first floor that the squad has commandeered, a rare commodity at 79s, and you stumble towards it.

You've had enough drinks that you're pleasantly buzzed, and you've lost count of the number of people you've danced with. It's made your body feel alive and hot, the music's thudding beat thrumming through your skin. You haven't had this much fun in months, and for the first time in a long time, you feel free.

"Having fun?" Hunter calls out as you approach. He's sitting on one side of the round booth, next to Crosshair, who has an arm slung casually over the back. You left Wrecker out on the dance floor with a group of Twi'lek women who seem to find his bulk a source of fascination, and Tech is seated on Hunter's other side next to Echo, nursing a drink and watching the room with a passive gaze.

"Of course," you say with a laugh. "You're not?"

"Eh." Crosshair scoffs, not bothering to look over at you. His eyes are trained on the dancers out on the floor. "Not really."

"What about you, Tech?" you ask, leaning against the table and taking a sip of your drink.

"I find the entire affair rather fascinating," he says as he gestures vaguely at the crowd. "All the various forms of sentient expression are...interesting, to say the least."

"And what do you think of my form of expression, Tech?" you ask playfully, putting your hand over your heart and giving him a flirty smile. You take a seat at the end of the booth and lean closer.

Tech, ever immune to your antics, doesn't miss a beat.

"You appear to be expending a lot of energy on a relatively simple activity. However, the results do seem to be pleasing to you."

"What he's trying to say is, you look like you're having a good time," Echo supplies. He has his chin propped on his hand, but he's smiling at you, clearly amused. You meet his gaze and grin back.

"I am having a good time," you confirm. "How about you?"

"It's not exactly my scene," he says, and he gives a shrug. "But I can see why you'd enjoy it."

"If you change your mind and want to dance, just let me know," you tell him. "You know, since I'm already expending all this energy."

"Maybe later," he says.

His smile softens, and you're a little surprised to see it. The last few months have been hard on Echo, and you can count on one hand the number of times you've seen him smile like that. He's been working through a lot of guilt and self-loathing, and seeing him smile, even if it's small, is a nice change. It's good to see him loosening up a bit.

"I'll hold you to that," you tell him, and Echo grins and leans back.

"Are you sure you don't want to come out on the dance floor, Tech?" you ask, glancing over at him.

Tech shakes his head. "I prefer not to dance."

"What about you two? Not planning on getting out there?"

"I would sooner stick my hand in a rocket booster than step foot on that dance floor," Crosshair says without looking away from the crowd.

Hunter nods, and he gestures with his bottle. "That goes for me, too."

"Bunch of party poopers," you mutter and take a drink. "You should be ashamed of yourselves."

“There‘s no shortage of people willing to dance with you," Crosshair says, still staring at the crowd, and you can hear the teasing lilt in his voice. "No need to bother with us."

"We wouldn't want to deprive the galaxy of your...talents," Tech says.

"Very funny." You take a long drink and let the conversation drop.

"So," Hunter starts after a long silence. His eyes flicker to Echo and back to you, and he raises a brow. "How many people did you have to beat off with a stick on the dance floor?"

"Not too many," you say. "Only a few."

"Only a few, huh?" Crosshair asks. He sounds skeptical.

"Cross, don't act like you weren't counting every guy I danced with," you retort, and when he doesn't immediately respond, you grin and lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table. "See? Knew it."

"Don't flatter yourself," he says. "I was bored. Had nothing better to do."

"Yeah, yeah," you say, rolling your eyes. "Whatever you say. Don’t worry, none of them are worth mentioning."

“What about that guy who was talking to you earlier?" Echo asks, and he nods over to a spot near the bar. "I saw him buy you a drink. Didn't look like nothing."

"Who, that Mirialan?" You wave a dismissive hand. "Nah, he was cute, but not really my type.”

Echo gives a low hum of acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving yours, and you feel a strange thrill at the attention. You've always loved the way he looks at you. There's something about his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat, something warm and knowing and inviting. You’ve caught him looking at you like this plenty of times before, but tonight feels different. It feels almost daring. You sit up straighter and turn toward him.

"And what is your type?" he asks. There's an edge of seriousness to his question, and you consider him for a moment, watching him watch you.

"I like someone who can keep up with me," you say finally, and then, with a playful smile, add, "You know, someone with stamina."

Echo laughs a quiet, low chuckle, and your chest tightens. His laugh is a rare and beautiful thing, and you feel a thrill when you hear it.

"Stamina," he repeats, his voice soft and warm. There's a dazed look in his eye, and he blinks it away and meets your gaze again. “Right.”

The conversation is interrupted when Wrecker comes back to the table, panting and laughing, clearly out of breath. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his cheeks are flushed, but he looks thrilled. He drops into the booth next to you, and the motion shoves you closer to Echo. You feel his leg brush yours under the table, and the sudden touch sends a warm spark shooting up your spine.

"This is great!" he shouts over the music. "Why don't we go out more?"

"Because our lives are a shitshow," Crosshair deadpans, finally turning to look at the rest of the squad.

Wrecker lets out a hearty laugh, and reaches across the table to give Crosshair a good-natured smack on the shoulder. "Ah, don't be so gloomy!"

"I'm not being gloomy, I'm being realistic," Crosshair replies with a scowl, but he softens a bit when Wrecker pulls back and settles into the booth, his arm slung over the back behind you.

"Oh, don't listen to him," Wrecker says. He's turned towards you now, and his arm is pressing against the back of your shoulders. "We should go out more often. You're a great dancer, y'know that?"

"You're not so bad yourself,” you say with a grin. “You're pretty light on your feet for someone so big."

Wrecker lets out a loud, barking laugh, pulling his arm out from behind you to slap his knee. His laugh is infectious, and you can't help but laugh along.

"You hear that, Cross?" he says. "I'm light on my feet."

"You're a regular acrobat," Crosshair drawls, his tone flat, but the hint of a smile plays at his lips.

"See, you're in a good mood!" Wrecker says, his smile growing. He takes a long pull from his drink, and then sets the glass down on the table, turning back to you. “Let’s go back out there! You and me, we'll show these losers how it's done."

"I need a break," you say, holding up a hand to stop him. "Sorry, Wrecker. Maybe later."

"Aw, alright," he says. He's still grinning, and he claps you on the shoulder with a bit more force than necessary. Your body rocks to the side, and you let out a breathless laugh as Echo puts a steadying hand on your arm.

"Easy there," Echo warns. His fingers linger on your forearm, and you can't help the thrill that rushes through you. You meet his gaze, and the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Thanks,” you say, and offer him a small smile.

Echo doesn't say anything. He just smiles back and pulls away, lifting his drink to his lips.

The conversation moves on, but you're barely paying attention to anything other than the feeling of Echo's leg against yours, the heat of his body, the lingering feeling of his hand on your arm. The touch was casual, friendly, but there's a part of you that wants to reach out and take his hand. It's been a while since you've gone dancing, and it's been longer since you've had any kind of physical intimacy, and a small, desperate part of you wants that contact. Especially if it’s Echo.

You steal a glance at him and find him looking back at you. His gaze is focused, a bit calculating, like he's trying to puzzle you out, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheeks. You raise an eyebrow at him, and his lips curl into a small smile. The two of you share a long look, and you wonder if he's thinking the same thing as you are.

"I'm gonna head back out," Wrecker says, and the words snap you out of your trance. He's standing next to the booth now, his drink empty, his hands splayed out on the table. "You guys should come out there with me. Stitches, c’mon!”

"I told you, I need a break," you say, a teasing smile playing at your lips. "Why don't you take Hunter? He was just saying how much he wanted to dance.”

"No," Hunter says immediately, shooting you a warning look. "Absolutely not."

"Yes!" Wrecker exclaims. 

The small smirk on Crosshair’s face spreads into a full on grin as he stands from the booth, pulling a grumbling Hunter up with him. He pushes him into Wrecker’s awaiting arms, and Wrecker gives a loud cheer. “Let’s go, Sarge!”

"You're a traitor," Hunter hisses, shooting you a dirty look over his shoulder as Wrecker drags him away. You give him a cheeky little wave, and he narrows his eyes.

"Have fun!" you call after him. You can hear Hunter let out a loud groan over the sound of the music, and you laugh as the pair disappears into the crowd.

Crosshair snickers and slips back into the booth, stretching out across the seat and resting his arm across the back. "Well, this’ll be entertaining."

"He'll be fine," Tech says, taking a sip of his drink before returning to his datapad. The four of you laugh a moment, and then fall into a companionable silence.

With the other two distracted, you slide closer to Echo, letting your leg press against his. You don't know if he does it on purpose or not, but he shifts and his leg presses harder against yours, a solid weight against you.

You let your eyes wander to the dance floor, where Hunter and Wrecker are dancing amongst the crowd. Hunter seems to have loosened up a tad, and his movements are more fluid, less rigid. But when he turns to look over at you, you can see the murder in his eyes. You can't help but laugh and give him another wave.

"You're cruel," Echo says, leaning in so his voice will carry over the noise, his breath warm on your cheek.

"No, I’m a genius," you reply easily.  "And an opportunist."

You turn your head back towards him, and the two of you are close—much closer than you expected. His face is only inches from yours, and he's so close that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar on his forehead.

He's looking at you the way he did earlier, and a wave of warmth runs through your body, pooling low in your belly.

"A dangerous combination,” he says. He looks down, and his lips curl into a smile.

You laugh, and his eyes dart up to meet yours. "Is that a good thing?"

Echo pauses, considering. "I guess we'll find out."

There's a tension building between the two of you, and for a moment, neither of you speak. He's studying you with that intense, focused gaze again, and your body is thrumming. You've felt this feeling before, whenever Echo looks at you like that.

He's attractive—that was an undeniable fact. And he's funny, and smart, and caring, and he's a really, really good friend. But it's the moments like this, the times when his focus is all on you, that make you wish for something more.

You don't know what exactly that something more is, but right now, you can't help but imagine his lips pressed against yours, the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, the heat of his body pressed up against yours. It's been so long since you've had any sort of contact like that, and right now, it's all you can think about.

"So," Echo says, finally breaking the silence. His voice is a low rumble. "Stamina, huh?"

You hum, nodding. "It's a requirement."

"And what other requirements are there?"

"Depends," you say with a little shrug. You find yourself leaning in a fraction, drawn to him, and he mimics the motion. You’re not sure if he even realizes he’s doing it, but the sight of him moving towards you sends a hot pulse of anticipation through you.

"On?" he asks. There's a teasing lilt in his voice, a gentle playfulness, and you can't help but smile. His eyes drop to your mouth and then flick back up to meet yours.

"Who's asking."

You watch a range of emotions flicker across his face, and then Echo leans back, the tension in the air dissipating. He takes a sip of his drink and gives you a smile. "Good to know."

He turns back to the group, and you feel the loss of his gaze like a physical thing. The conversation shifts, and Echo starts talking to Tech, and the two of them get caught up in whatever it is they're discussing.

You can't focus on the conversation. Your eyes are fixed on Echo's face, watching him. It's like something has shifted between the two of you, and you're not entirely sure what that means. It's hard to read him sometimes—he's not exactly forthcoming with his emotions, but you had thought there was a mutual attraction, an understanding.

But then, you can be wrong about these things. it wouldn’t be the first time, and now that the moment has passed, it feels like it never even happened. You move to a sip of your own drink to try to calm your racing heart before you realize it’s empty.

"I'm gonna grab a refill," you say, sliding out of the booth and turning back toward the table. You ignore Crosshair’s smirk, and ask, "Anybody want anything?"

Crosshair and Tech both shake their heads, and Echo looks up at you and smiles.

"I'll come with," he says and slides out of the booth to follow you.

You can feel the weight of Crosshair's eyes on the back of your neck as the two of you walk off. You have a feeling that the conversation will pick back up the moment you're out of earshot, and you have a strong suspicion that you know exactly what it's going to be about.

When the two of you get to the bar, Echo flags down the bartender. The two of you place your orders and wait for the droid to prepare them, and you lean against the bar, your shoulder pressed against Echo's. He glances over at you, and you give him a smile.

"You doing okay?" you ask, tilting your head towards him.

"Yeah, why?"

"I just wanted to check in," you say. You shift a bit, leaning in closer. "We've all been under a lot of stress lately. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Echo considers your words, his brow furrowed in concentration as he looks back at you. Eventually, he seems to come to a decision, and his expression clears.

"I am," he says. "And I appreciate you checking in, but I'm fine. Really."

You nod. That's been Echo's refrain ever since he joined the Bad Batch. The squad has helped him adjust, and the new prosthetics have helped too, but you can tell it's still not easy for him. You've tried your best to support him, and the others have done the same, but there's only so much any of you can do.

"I'm glad," you say. You pause, and then, after a moment's consideration, add, "If you ever need to talk, or anything, you know where to find me."

Echo smiles and nods. “I know.”

The droid sets down your drinks, and you each grab one. For a moment, you debate whether to take them back to the table, but you can hear the sounds of shouting and laughter, and a quick glance at the crowd reveals Hunter and Wrecker stumbling back to the booth.

"Wanna stay here?" you ask, lifting your glass.

Echo looks over at the group, and then back to you. He's got that smile on his face again, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

"Sure," he says, and he hops onto one of the stools. You follow suit, sitting on the one next to him.

You sit in companionable silence for a while. You can hear the sounds of the music, of the dancers and the laughter, but the sounds seem distant, and for a moment, you and Echo are alone.

"I'm happy to see you having fun," he says, breaking the silence.

"Why's that?"

"We've been through a lot the past few months,” he answers. His voice is quiet, but the look in his eyes is steady and focused. "You deserve to have a good time."

"So do you, Echo.”

He doesn't reply, but there's a thoughtful expression on his face as he looks back out at the dance floor. His eyes are distant, and you follow his gaze with a curious tilt of your head.

"You want to get out there and dance, don't you?" you guess, a teasing grin spreading across your face.

Echo gives you a sidelong glance, and his mouth twitches in a little smile. "I told you, it's not really my scene. Not anymore, at least."

"So we'll find another way for you to have fun,” you reply as you turn on the stool to face him. You take a sip of your drink and give him a pointed look. It’s a bit forward, even for you, but the alcohol has you feeling bold, and you get the sense that Echo isn’t as put off by your flirting as he pretends to be.

The two of you lock eyes, and the moment stretches on. His eyes flit over your face, searching, and you meet his gaze, refusing to blink.

Echo rolls his eyes before ducking his head, shaking it slightly. You can see a faint blush on his cheeks, and he lets out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah, okay,” he says sarcastically, and you frown.

"You think I'm not serious?"

"No," he replies, raising his eyebrows at you. "I know you're not."

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks a mixture of amused and annoyed, but beneath that, there's something else. There's a softness to his expression, an almost pleading edge to his voice. It's a strange combination, and you're not sure how to interpret it.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because it’s you," he says, as if that explains everything.

"So?"

"So, you're..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely in your direction. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he lets out a small huff. "Look, we both know you're not really interested."

You feel a surge of annoyance. "Well, maybe I am. Why don't you give me a chance to prove it?"

Echo stares at you, his mouth set in a thin line, and for a moment, the two of you are locked in a silent stand-off. Finally, he breaks the stalemate, letting out a quiet sigh.

"What?" you ask

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "You're drunk."

"I am not," you protest. Your eyebrows furrow in indignation. "I've had three drinks, max. And they were light. I'm just feeling good."

"Okay, then," he says, a skeptical look on his face. "Maybe you're not drunk. But you're not exactly thinking straight, either."

You scoff. "Is anyone ever thinking straight in a place like this?"

"Very funny."

"I'm just saying, I'm serious," you insist. "I'm more than happy to have fun with you, if that's what you want."

Echo opens his mouth, and then shuts it, his lips pressed in a thin line. You've never seen him so unbalanced, and the sight fills you with a perverse sense of satisfaction.

"You're not thinking this through," he says. "You have no idea what you're offering."

"So explain it to me," you say. You set your drink down and slide closer to him, your knees brushing against the side of his leg. His eyes dart to the movement, and then back up to meet yours. There's a spark of heat in his gaze, and you can't help but smile.

"You're really—" He breaks off, his gaze dropping to your mouth, and his tongue darts out, swiping over his lips. His gaze lingers for a long moment, and you can feel the tension in the air thicken, like static electricity building just before a lightning strike.

"I'm really what?"

He lets out a frustrated sound. "You’re not making this easy.”

"Oh, please," you say, rolling your eyes. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be any fun."

"You're something else," he says, and there's an edge of frustration to his voice. He runs a hand over his face, and then looks back at you. “I’m not talking about this here.”

"Fine," you say, a little miffed. "Then come back to the ship with me, and we'll finish this conversation."

Echo lets out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He looks torn, and you can't quite figure out what's going on in his head.

"Echo, if you're not into it, that's fine," you tell him, your voice softer. "I'm not trying to pressure you. I just wanted you to know that I'm interested."

He nods slowly, his eyes still trained on yours. There's a wariness there, and for a moment, you’re certain he's going to reject you.

Instead, he slides off the stool and takes a step forward. You turn, your legs parting of their own accord, and he moves between them. He's so close that your knees are brushing his hips, and the contact sends a spark of anticipation through you.

"Let me make this clear," he says, leaning in, and his voice is a low, raspy whisper in your ear. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"Try me."

"You really wanna go down this road?"

"Absolutely.”

There's no hesitation. You've wanted this, wanted him, for longer than you're willing to admit, and now that it's within reach, there's no way in hell you're backing down.

Echo pulls back, but he doesn’t go far. His eyes are dark, the light gold overtaken by his pupils, and a hot wave of arousal shoots through you.

"Please," you add for good measure, the word a breathless whisper.

That seems to be the last straw. Echo lets out a heavy breath, and his hand comes up, cupping the back of your head. His fingers are digging into the strands of your hair, and you can't help but tip your head back a little, letting him feel the weight of your skull in his hand. His thumb traces a soft, slow line over the nape of your neck, and you shiver at the sensation.

"This is a bad idea," he says. His words are barely a murmur, and they send a warm thrill running through you.

"Yeah," you agree. You reach up and curl a hand around the back of his neck, stroking the sensitive skin with your thumb, and his eyes flutter closed. “Come back to the ship with me.”

“Kriff,” he mutters, his voice rough. He looks back at you, his eyes searching your face, and he lets out a frustrated huff.

Echo steps back, releasing his hold on your head, and you hold your breath as you watch him. You wait for him to leave, to walk away from you, but he just reaches for his drink and finishes it, his eyes never leaving yours. When he's done, he sets the empty glass on the counter and holds his hand out.

"Let's go."

You can't help the way your face lights up at the words. You finish the last of your drink and take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. You weave through the crowd, the two of you practically joined at the hip, his hand still grasping yours tightly.

"Do you want to let the others know we're leaving?"

"Nah," Echo says. He doesn't turn to look at you, his eyes fixed ahead as he pulls you along. "They're too busy having a good time."

"But—"

"Stitches.”

He glances over his shoulder, giving you a sharp look. The intensity in his gaze, the hunger, is enough to send a rush of heat through your body, and you swallow.

"Oh," you say, the word almost a gasp. 

Echo gives you a little smile, and his hand slips away from yours. For a moment, the loss is nearly overwhelming, and then his fingers skim over your lower back. They trace a slow line down to your hip, and his hand settles there, guiding you through the crowd. The touch is light, gentle, but it's the possessiveness of it that sends a shiver up your spine.

When the two of you step through the doors and into the night air, he lets his hand slip lower, until it's resting just above the swell of your ass. You're not sure if the motion is intentional or not, but it sets a fire alight in you, and you have to resist the urge to press back against his palm or try to coax him to move lower.

You slow down. "So, uh, are we gonna—"

"Walk and talk," Echo says, cutting you off with a gentle push forward. His voice is low, and there's an authoritative edge to it that makes your knees feel weak. "The others will notice that we're gone eventually. We don't have a lot of time."

"Okay," you say, nodding. The two of you walk quickly through the city, and you're grateful for the fresh air. It clears your head a fraction, enough that the buzz of the alcohol has started to fade, and you're left with a sharp clarity.

The silence between the two of you is tense, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels charged, full of energy, and you're keenly aware of his hand on your lower back. His fingers are splayed out, his hand spanning the width of your waist, and his thumb is tracing a slow line over the fabric of your shirt.

It's driving you crazy, and you can't help the way you arch your back, pushing into the pressure. You feel his grip tighten, and you bite your lip, fighting back a moan.

Echo lets out a small chuckle. "Someone's eager."

"I thought we’ve established that already,” you reply. You let a bit of a whine slip into your voice, and when he looks over, his eyes are wide.

"Are you always like this?" he asks.

"Like what?"

"This..." he trails off, gesturing with his scomp, and his face flushes a light pink. "Teasing."

"Only when I want someone."

Echo doesn't say anything in response. He just nods and keeps walking, but you don't miss the way his grip tightens a little, or the way he starts moving faster.

The moment the two of you are through the hatch of the Marauder, Echo slams his palm on the control panel, shutting the door behind him. The ship goes dark as you stand a few feet apart, staring at each other. 

Echo leans against the wall, settling back with a considering look on his face, and he crosses his arms. He’s lit by the light coming through the window, and the pale glow makes him look otherworldly.

"Well?" you prompt, raising an eyebrow.

"Come here."

His voice is quiet, and you can barely hear him over the pounding of your heart. But the tone leaves no room for argument, and you can't help but comply. You step forward, moving slowly, and Echo's eyes track your movements. 

You stop when your shoes are a few inches from his, and you tilt your head, looking up at him. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, and it's taking every ounce of self-control not to touch him.

"What do you want from me?" he asks.

"I—"

"No," he says. His hand and scomp come up, settling on your hips, and the motion pushes the two of you together. He's so close that you can feel his breath on your face, and the warmth of his body is burning through the layers of your clothing. "Don't think about it. Tell me."

Your eyes dart down to his lips, and he doesn't miss the movement. His lips quirk upward, and his thumb rubs gentle, slow circles on the fabric of your shirt.

"I want—" you break off, hesitating, and Echo gives your hip a squeeze. The pressure is light, but it's enough to get you to focus.

"I want this. I want you," you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. You take a breath and meet his eyes. "But I want you to know that I'm not just doing this because it's convenient, or because I'm bored. I'm doing this because I like you, Echo. I have for a long time."

Echo doesn't speak, and for a moment, the only sound is the gentle hum of the ship around you. His eyes search your face, as though trying to determine if you're being truthful, and you watch as the hard edge of his expression softens, replaced by something softer, something hopeful.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"Yeah," you reply. You feel a wave of relief at his words, and you can't help the grin that spreads across your face.

"How long?"

"I don't know," you answer honestly. You take a step closer, until there's no more space between the two of you. He doesn't move, but you can see the way his breath catches, and you can feel the way his hand tightens on your hip.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you weren't ready," you say. You take a deep breath, and the motion makes his eyes drop to your mouth again. "I wanted to wait until you were ready. So I just want you to know, this isn’t—I mean, it's not just a fling, or anything. I want this to mean something."

"Good," he says quietly. "Me too."

You can't help the sigh of relief that escapes your lips. "Thank fuck."

Echo's lips twitch, and he ducks his head. The tips of his ears are a bit pink, and his shoulders are shaking a little.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he says, looking back up. There's a soft smile on his face, and it makes your stomach flutter. "I just—you're really cute, you know that?"

"Am I?"

"Yeah," he replies, and his fingers start tracing patterns on your hip. The feeling is a light, tickling sensation, and you can't help the way your body shifts a bit, moving closer.

“Is that a good thing?” you ask.

"Depends," he says, and the way he parrots your words makes you laugh. He smiles and adds, "And I’m a little relieved. I don't do flings."

"Then why'd you agree to come back here with me?"

"Because I trust you," he says. "And because I want you. More than I've wanted anyone in a long time. Maybe ever."

"Yeah?"

Echo nods, his eyes never leaving yours. You're both close, and you can feel the tension building between the two of you. He's not holding back anymore, and his expression is open, his emotions plain on his face. The butterflies in your stomach kick up, fluttering wildly. Echo reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. He tucks it behind your ear, and the contact is gentle, tender. His fingers brush against the sensitive shell, and the feeling is so delicate, so soft, that it sends a shiver through you.

"Yeah."

You nod, a smile spreading across your face. "Okay, then."

"Okay."

He's smiling now too, and the sight is almost too much. You've seen him smile plenty of times before, but this one is different, and it takes your breath away. His fingers skim over the curve of your jaw, and when they reach your chin, he tilts it up, angling your face towards his. Your lips part, and you suck in a quick breath.

"So," he says, his voice quiet. His eyes drop to your mouth, and he pauses for a moment, just staring. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips, and when his gaze flicks back up to meet yours, his pupils are blown. "What do you want me to do?"

You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. You're not quite sure how to answer the question. It's a little hard to form words when his thumb is brushing over the soft, sensitive skin of your chin.

"Don't get shy on me now," Echo murmurs. "Come on, tell me."

"I want—" You break off, swallowing. Your throat feels dry, and you try again. "I want you to kiss me."

His mouth curls up into a smirk. "You can do better than that."

"Kriff, Echo, just—"

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction, and you force yourself to swallow and try again, more confidence in your voice. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to take what you want. I want you to make me feel good. Is that enough for you?"

Echo's smirk melts away, and his lips part, his breath coming out in a quick huff. His eyes are fixed on your mouth, and his pupils are dilated, his irises just a thin ring of gold around the edges.

"Fuck," he mutters, and his eyes flicker back up to meet yours. There's an intensity to his gaze that sends a shiver through you, and the feeling is only heightened when his thumb traces the edge of your bottom lip, his touch light.

"So what do you think?" you ask, unable to keep a hint of amusement from creeping into your voice.

Echo shakes his head, his brow furrowed, and you can't help the way your lips curve into a grin. His gaze darts back down to your mouth, and his own lips twitch. When he speaks, his voice is low and husky.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"That you'd be like this," he says. There's a teasing note in his voice, but the look on his face is serious, and you can't help the shiver that runs through you.

"You've been thinking about it?" you ask softly.

"Yeah, I have," he mutters, and then he's moving. He grips your waist, lifting you, his scomp arm sliding underneath your ass, and he turns, pressing you against the wall. The sudden motion and the cool metal at your back sends a rush of adrenaline through you, tearing a sound from your lips.

"I've been thinking about it too," you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist. You're clinging to him, and you can't stop the way you're moving your hips, rubbing against him.

"You have, huh?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "You have no idea."

He makes a sound, a cross between a laugh and a groan. He closes his eyes, and his head falls forward, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I've been driving myself crazy," he mutters, his voice thick with desire. "Just wondering."

"Is that why you've been staring at me?"

He huffs a quiet laugh, and he lifts his head, a rueful smile on his face. "You noticed."

"It was hard not to." You grin, leaning back a fraction, and his grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of your pants. "Especially when I was trying to catch you."

He lets out a frustrated sigh, and he presses you against the wall, his hips grinding into yours. The pressure is firm and steady, and you can't stifle the moan that slips out.

"You are cruel," he says, and there's a note of wonder in his voice.

"So are you," you shoot back, rocking your hips against him. "All that eye-fucking."

"Eye-fucking," he repeats, letting out a short laugh. "That's what you're calling it?"

"It's accurate."

He lets out another quiet chuckle, his body shaking a fraction, and the motion sends a shiver up your spine.

"I just had to figure it out," he explains. "I had to make sure."

In the dim light, it's hard to see the details of his face, but you can't miss the heat in his eyes, or the flush that colors his cheeks. You can't help the soft laugh that escapes your lips, and you reach up, letting the backs of your fingers trace over his jaw.

"I didn't mind," you say softly. "I've been watching you, too."

Echo hums, a soft, thoughtful sound, his eyes searching your face. "Watching me, huh?"

"Of course," you say. You lean forward, brushing your lips over the sensitive shell of his ear. You can feel him tense against you, and when you drag the tip of your tongue along the delicate flesh, he sucks in a sharp breath. "And I've liked what I've seen."

"Fuck," he breathes, and you can feel him shudder. "Do that again."

You oblige, pressing another kiss to his ear, and this time, you let your teeth scrape over the delicate skin. He lets out a low moan, and his hips roll forward, grinding against yours.

"Kriff, that feels good," he groans, and the sound goes straight to your core. "Keep going."

You nip at the soft skin, and when his hips roll again, you grind down, pushing back. The friction is delicious, and the motion makes him gasp, his eyes fluttering shut. Your mouth trails along his jaw, and his skin is soft under your lips. You kiss a slow path along the edge, and when you reach his chin, you nip the skin, making him jerk his hips again.

"Fuck, you're—" he breaks off with a groan, his head falling back as you trail a series of kisses down his neck.

"I'm what?" your murmur, tracing a line of kisses underneath his jaw.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he manages. His head falls forward, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy, a little desperate, and when his tongue licks into your mouth, you can't help the whimper that escapes your lips. He tastes like spice and smoke, and he's kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin.

You let go of his neck, and your hands move to his chest, tracing over the hard planes. His lips move frantically against yours, his scomp underneath your ass encouraging the motion of your hips, and his hand roams over your body everywhere he can reach. He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft flesh of your hip, running up your ribs and skimming over your stomach before drifting back down. He cups your ass, grabbing a fistful of the flesh and tugging you closer, until there's not an inch of space between the two of you.

You can't help but moan, and the sound seems to spur him on. He lets out a low groan and pulls away, leaving a trail of biting kisses along the line of your jaw, down your throat. His mouth is hot and wet against your skin, and he nips the sensitive flesh, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Echo," you gasp. "Bed, please. Now."

He nods before his mouth finds yours again. The kiss is sloppy and deep, his tongue sliding against yours, and you can't help the moan that escapes your lips as he pulls away. Echo steps back and sets you on your feet, steadying you with his scomp when your knees wobble.

"Come on," he murmurs. He takes a step forward, backing you toward the bunks, and his gaze doesn't leave yours as he navigates the small space.

His bunk is only a few steps away, and when you reach it, Echo stills. He turns you, guiding you until you're facing the bed, your back to him. You can feel the warmth of his body behind you, the press of his armor against your back.

"Take off your shirt," he says, his voice low in your ear. His scomp is a firm weight on your hip, keeping you still, and his other hand drifts over your side, ghosting over your ribs.

You reach for the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head, letting it fall to the ground. Echo deftly unhooks your bra, sliding the straps down your arms, and you toss it on top of your shirt. He presses a soft, gentle kiss to the back of your neck, and his hand slides up your waist.  You're not sure when he took the glove off his hand, but his fingers are tracing a slow, languid path, his calluses sending little tingles over your skin.

"Take off your pants," he says. The words are quiet, almost reverent, and his fingers brush over the soft swell of your breast.

You follow his command, taking off your boots and socks before you slide the pants down your legs. Your underwear is last, and the thin material is soaked through, the damp fabric clinging to the sensitive flesh.

When you turn back around, he's watching you with a look of open desire. His eyes are dark and heated, and the way they drag over your body, taking in the sight of your naked form, sends a flush spreading over your skin.

"You're overdressed," you say, and there's a teasing edge to your voice.

Echo doesn't answer, just gives you a heated look before turning his attention to his armor. He removes it piece by piece, until the only thing left is his blacks. The fabric clings to his body, outlining the hard planes of muscle and the sharp angles of his shoulders. You can't help but watch him, taking in the sight of him, and the longer you stare, the more he seems to relax.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks, his mouth quirking in a smile.

"Yes," you say honestly. "Very much."

"Good," he says, and he lifts his scomp, making a twirling motion. "Turn around."

You obey, turning back around, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him smile.

"Now bend over," he says, and the words send a bolt of heat straight to your core. "Hands on the bunk."

"Echo—"

"Trust me," he murmurs, and the words send a shiver down your spine. "It'll be worth it."

You nod, and slowly bend at the waist. You brace yourself, leaning forward and resting your weight on your forearms. The position leaves you vulnerable, and you can't help the way a hot, tingling blush creeps over your skin.

"Good," Echo murmurs. His hand slides over your hip, and he gives it a light squeeze before trailing his fingers over the curve of your ass.

"Are you—"

"Don't move," he says, and the words send a jolt of heat straight through you. He's standing so close, his body nearly pressed against yours, and the warmth of his body is seeping into you, heating your skin. "Just let me take care of you."

He steps back, and you can't help but squirm, trying to follow him. "But—"

"What did I just say?" he asks, and the tone of his voice makes your core clench.

"Echo," you whine, and your voice is a bit higher than usual. You can't help the way the heat creeps into your face, or the way your stomach flutters.

"What did I say?" he repeats. He reaches up and brushes his fingers over the curve of your ass, his touch feather-light.

"Don't move."

"Good girl," he says. You hear him drop to his knees behind you, and his hand slides over the curve of your ass. He grabs a handful of the flesh, squeezing it, and the pressure is enough to make your hips jerk.

"Stay still," he says, his voice low and firm. "You know the rules."

"Yeah," you breathe, a bit breathless. "I'll be good."

Echo doesn't say anything, but his thumb rubs a slow, soothing circle over the soft skin. His hand slips from your ass and comes up to the junction of your thighs. He traces the crease where your leg meets your ass, and his fingers brush over the sensitive skin.

"Open your legs," he murmurs, his breath hot on the skin of your inner thigh. "Wider."

You obey, widening your stance, and when you do, he lets out a low hum of approval.

"Just like that," he says. His scomp rests on your hip, steading you as his fingers dip between your thighs. They drag over the sensitive folds, spreading the slick arousal coating your core. The touch is light, teasing, and it's barely enough to satisfy the ache building inside you.

"Kriff, Echo," you groan, and your voice is a bit shaky. "Please, don't—"

"Don't what?" he asks. His hand stills, and he doesn't move, his fingers barely touching the heated flesh.

"Don't tease me," you beg, and the words come out a bit strangled.

"You like it, though," he says. He leans forward, his tongue darting out and dragging a slow, wet line up your core. The feeling makes your hips jerk, and the muscles of your abdomen clench. "Don't you?"

"Yes," you gasp, and the word comes out a bit ragged. You can feel your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for any kind of friction, and the tension is nearly unbearable.

"Then let me," he says, and his voice is a low, raspy murmur. "Let me make this good for you."

He ducks his head again, and his tongue is hot and slick as it drags through your folds, the tip just barely dipping inside your entrance. He repeats the motion, his tongue teasing the sensitive flesh, and the feeling makes your hips buck. His scomp is firm on your hip, preventing you from moving too far, and you can't quite decide if the lack of control is maddening or exhilarating.

"Echo," you whine, and the sound is a plaintive, pleading noise.

He doesn't answer. His thumb and scomp move, his thumb spreading the swollen lips of your pussy, and his scomp helps holds them apart, giving him better access. The motion leaves you exposed, the cool air of the ship caressing the heated flesh, and the feeling makes a shiver run down your spine.

"Look at you," he murmurs. He lets out a low, satisfied sound, and you can't help the way you push into his touch. "So eager."

He dips his head and his tongue slides over your core, tracing a slow, torturous line to your clit. When he reaches it, he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the throbbing bud. The feeling is almost too much, and your hips buck, trying to get away from the sensation.

"No, no, no," he says. "None of that."

His hand grips your hip, holding you still as he teases the bundle of nerves with his tongue. He traces circles around it, and when he sucks it into his mouth, the feeling makes your legs tremble.

"Oh, fuck," you moan, and your hands curl into fists, clutching at the blankets.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Feels good."

He hums, the vibration making your legs shake. "How about this?"

You suck in a breath as he presses his tongue flat against your clit, his lips wrapped around the throbbing bundle. His tongue strokes the sensitive flesh, and when he slides a finger inside you, your vision blurs.

"Oh, fuck, yes," you groan. "Yes, yes, please, just like that."

"Good," he says. His voice is a low rasp, and it makes heat pool in your belly. "You're doing so good for me."

Your walls clench around his finger, drawing him deeper, and he starts a slow, torturous pace, working his finger in and out of your dripping cunt.

"Please," you pant. "More. I need more."

"Like this?" he asks. He slides a second finger along with the first, stretching the delicate tissue. The burn is delicious, and it feels so good, the way his fingers fill you up. His mouth is hot and slick against you, and his tongue is dragging over the hard bud of your clit. His fingers thrust slowly, the motion gentle, and his scomp is holding you still, keeping you from pushing back against him. 

The way he's forcing you to stay still, to let him do as he pleases, is sending a hot, tingling flush spreading over your skin. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your breath is coming in short, shallow pants, your entire body wound tight.

"Do you like that?" Echo murmurs, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"Yes," you manage. You can feel the heat rising inside you, the tension building in your belly, and your toes are starting to curl. "So much."

"Good girl," he says, and the words send a wave of warmth rushing through you. "You're being so good for me."

"Thank you," you pant. "Feels so good."

He hums in response as his scomp leaves your hip, and you feel the cold, metal appendage drag down the curve of your ass. It slides lower, until the tip of the metal is just barely pressing against the folds of your entrance. The feeling is foreign and strange, and the sensation makes you jerk.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Y-yes," you say. The sensation is unfamiliar, and the feeling of the cool metal against your core is making your muscles twitch. "Keep going."

He slides lower through your wet folds, and the motion is slow and deliberate. It's not like his fingers or his tongue, not quite the same. It's harder, cooler, less yielding, but the contrast is delicious, and it's making your legs tremble.

"That feels..."

"Weird?" he asks, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Not bad," you manage, and the words come out a bit strangled. "Different. Good."

"You want more?"

"Yes," you groan. Your hands tighten in the blankets, and the heat is starting to creep up your spine. "Yes, please."

He doesn't reply, just slides his scomp back up through the folds again, this time a little harder. The metal is smooth, and the tip is cool against your clit. He drags it over the hard bud, and the feeling makes a jolt of electricity shoot through you.

"Echo," you gasp.

"Shh," he says. His mouth is hot against your thigh, and his lips press a wet, sucking kiss to the sensitive flesh. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

You nod, and your eyes slip shut. Your hands clench in the sheets, and the feeling of his mouth, of his fingers, of his scomp, is enough to drive all thoughts from your mind. Your head falls forward, resting against the bunk, and you can't help the soft, desperate sounds that fall from your lips.

Echo keeps up a steady rhythm, his fingers thrusting as his scomp presses patterns over the throbbing bundle of nerves. You can feel the pressure inside you growing, building, and the tension is so intense that it makes your legs shake.

"Please," you beg. "I need—"

"Shh," he soothes. "I know what you need. I'll take care of you."

You whimper, your body shaking, and the tension inside you is nearly unbearable. He keeps up a slow, steady pace, and you can feel your orgasm coiling, tightening inside you.

"I need—"

"Let go," he murmurs. He curls his fingers, pressing the tips against the bundle of nerves hidden inside you, and the feeling is enough to send you hurtling over the edge.

Your body goes rigid, your back arching, and your eyes slam shut as your orgasm crashes through you. The sensation is intense, almost painful, and the tension in your muscles is so strong that it's hard to breathe.

Echo doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. He keeps up the slow, steady pace, and it feels like hours pass before the aftershocks subside, leaving you limp and sated. Your head is spinning, and your lungs are burning as you try to catch your breath. Your release is slick and sticky on your thighs, and Echo's tongue slides over your skin, lapping it up.

"You're perfect," he murmurs. He trails a series of kisses over the swell of your ass, the tip of his nose tracing the line of your spine. "So beautiful."

Finally, Echo pulls away. He removes his fingers, and the sudden emptiness makes you gasp. You collapse forward, unable to hold yourself up any longer, and the sheets are cool and soft against your face. You're dimly aware of Echo shifting, his arm slipping under you, lifting you off the bed. He sits on the edge, holding you against him, chest to chest, and your legs fall to either side of his thighs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice a low, husky whisper.

"I think so," you mumble. Your head is still spinning, and your limbs feel heavy, a pleasant lassitude spreading through your body. "Just need a minute."

Echo doesn't answer, just nods. He reaches up, brushing your hair away from your face. His fingertips trail over the shell of your ear, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

"You were so good," he murmurs. "Such a good girl."

The praise makes a hot flush spread over your cheeks, and you turn your face, hiding it in the crook of his neck.

"Don't," you mumble, the word muffled by his blacks.

"Don't what?" he asks. There's a note of amusement in his voice, and you know without looking that he's smiling.

"Don't tease me."

"But you liked it," he says. His arm tightens around your waist, and his other hand slides into your hair, gently cradling the back of your head. "And I meant every word."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, and his hand moves, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he tilts your head up, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

The kiss is soft and sweet, a gentle brush of lips, and it's almost enough to make your heart stop. Your hands move, reaching up and fisting in his blacks, and you pull him closer. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tangy-sweet flavor a sharp contrast to the lingering sweetness of the liquor.

When you pull away, the look on his face makes your heart skip a beat.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Yeah," he says. He runs a thumb over the swell of your bottom lip, and the touch is soft, reverent. "You're beautiful."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Good to know," he says, grinning.

You smile and reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. His skin is warm and soft under your fingers, and the stubble is a rough contrast to the smoothness of his cheek.

"I could stare at you forever," he says.

"I'm sure there's something else you'd rather be doing," you say, grinning.

"Maybe," he says. His eyes flick over your face, searching. "What about you? What would you rather be doing?"

"You," you say, and his lips twitch in a smile.

"Now who's the flatterer?"

"It's not flattery," you say, and his eyes are bright, the gold flecks in them glowing in the dim lighting. "I want you, Echo. More than I've wanted anyone in a long time."

"So what are we waiting for?" he asks.

"What, you don't want me to return the favor?" you tease, running a hand over his shoulder.

"I'd love that," he says, and his voice is a low rasp, his breath hot against your skin. "But later. Right now, I just want you."

"Well," you say, trailing your hand down his chest. "I'm not stopping you."

Echo smiles and leans down, his mouth finding yours. The kiss is soft, almost tentative, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you. His lips are gentle against yours, and when his tongue traces the seam, you part for him.

The kiss deepens, and his tongue slides against yours, the slick, velvety muscle stroking yours. You can't help the soft, breathy sound that escapes your lips, and when his teeth nip at your bottom lip, your hands tighten in his blacks.

He lets out a soft grunt, his arm tightening around your waist, and he shifts, the movement rocking his hips forward. The friction makes a soft gasp escape your lips, and you can't help the way you press closer.

"Come on," you murmur, kissing a path along his jaw. You nip the skin, and his hips roll again, pushing up.

"Fuck, wait," he breathes. "Let me—"

You bite down, and his head falls back, exposing the column of his throat. You lean forward, nipping the skin, and the sound he makes is like a prayer.

"Come on," you say again, your teeth dragging over the skin.

"Kriff, wait," he groans, and his scomp is cool against the small of your back. "Just a second."

You pause, pulling away and looking at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, his breathing a bit ragged. "I just—it's been a while, okay?"

"A while?"

"Yeah," he says, and he's blushing, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "A long while."

"So?"

"So," he says. He glances down at his lap, then back at you. "It's gonna be over embarrassingly fast if you keep doing that."

"Doing what?" you ask, unable to keep the grin from spreading across your face. "This?"

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to the soft skin just below his ear, and the action makes him suck in a breath. His hand comes up, sliding into your hair, and he guides you to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, his fingers tightening. You can't help the satisfied smile that crosses your face, and when you nip the tender skin, his hips buck, grinding against you.

"Come on," you whisper. You let your tongue slide over the skin, and his hand flexes in your hair. "You don't have to worry about me."

"That's not the point," he mutters, and his hand slides from your hair to grip your hip. "I want you to have fun."

"And I am," you murmur. You drag the tip of your tongue along the line of his throat, and the motion makes him groan. "Trust me, I'm having plenty of fun."

"You're not worried about—about..."

"About what?" you ask. "About finishing early? About getting off and leaving me hanging?"

"Yeah," he admits, his voice low. "Something like that."

"Why would I be? You already made me come," you say with a smile. "That was fun, remember?"

"Yeah," he says. His scomp slides over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.

"Then why don't you let me have some more fun?" you murmur. You rock your hips forward, and the motion makes him groan. "Come on. Let me take care of you."

"Are you—"

"If I say it's fine, it's fine," you say. You press a line of kisses down his neck, pausing to nip the soft skin. "Stop worrying and just enjoy yourself."

"That's—"

"Easy for you to say," you finish, and he huffs out a breath.

"Come on," you murmur, nipping the skin. "Let go."

He doesn't say anything, just tugs your hips forward, grinding you against him. You can't help the soft gasp that slips past your lips, and the feel of him, even through the fabric, is delicious.

"Just like that," you whisper, your lips brushing over his jaw.

Echo rolls his hips again, and the friction is delicious. The pressure is almost too much, but his grip on you is tight, preventing you from pulling away. His mouth finds yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, and he licks into your mouth with a slow, wet slide. The kiss is messy and frantic, his tongue tracing the edges of your lips, the tip flicking over the roof of your mouth.

You moan at the feeling of his mouth on yours, the way he's taking what he wants, and the sound seems to spur him on. He surges forward, your back hitting the bed, and his body follows, covering yours. He braces himself, his weight on his elbows, his mouth never leaving yours. His tongue delves deeper, and the kiss is hard and messy, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

"You feel so good," he groans, his lips brushing over the soft skin. "Can I—"

"Yes," you interrupt, and he lets out a soft laugh.

"At least let me ask," he says. "It's polite."

"You’ve been very polite," you say. Your fingers trace over his ribs, and his abs clench beneath the soft touch. "But please, don't hold back anymore."

Echo pulls away, and the look on his face is enough to send a hot, tingling blush spreading over your cheeks. He's watching you with a mix of awe and desire, as his hand reaches down, fumbling with the clasp of his blacks.

"Do you need some help?" you tease, grinning.

"No," he says. His tone is firm, almost commanding, and the sound makes your stomach flip.

Echo finally manages to unclasp the garment, and his hand falls away, letting the blacks hang loose around his hips. He tugs them down, revealing the hard planes of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips, and he slides off the bed and stands, kicking them away.

When he turns back to face you, his thumb hooks into the waistband of his briefs, and his eyes meet yours.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Are you seriously asking that question?"

"Just checking," he says. He hesitates, and the expression on his face is almost shy. "I'm not... I mean, I don't look like—"

"Echo, if you don't get your ass back over here and fuck me, I'm going to scream," you say, and he snorts.

"Alright, alright," he says. He tugs the briefs down his legs, and when his cock is free, it bobs, slapping against his abdomen. You try not to stare, but the sight of him is enough to make your core clench.

Your eyes widen, and the words die on your lips.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh."

Echo steps closer, and the movement makes his cock bob again. The shaft is long and thick, the head a deep, dusky red, and the sight makes your mouth go dry. He's leaking, and when he gives himself a quick stroke, a bead of precum dribbles down the head, making the soft skin glisten.

"Fuck, you're pretty," you say, and his cheeks turn a faint shade of pink.

"You're one to talk," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over you. "I could stare at you all night."

You blush and shift, pulling your legs together. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"No," he says, his voice soft. "Just you."

Your breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

"I should, uh, get a—"

"I have an implant,” you say, and he nods, swallowing.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmur. "If you're good with it, I'm good with it."

"Yeah," he breathes, and his gaze is dark, heated. "Yeah, okay."

He hesitates for a moment before grabbing the neck of his blacks, and with a quick motion, he pulls the shirt off, dropping it onto the pile. You can't help the way your eyes roam over his body, taking in the sight of him.

His muscles are defined and well-defined, his arms and shoulders corded with lean muscle. The planes of his chest and abdomen are sharp, the lines of his muscles standing out in sharp relief under the scars that spread across his skin, and you can't stop yourself from reaching out and tracing a line over his ribs. You’re pleased to see he’s put on weight, the bones not so prominent, and there are some soft edges where there were none before.

He's beautiful, and for a moment, you're struck dumb by the sight of him. 

Echo watches you, and the longer you stare, the more his muscles twitch, his nerves clearly getting the best of him.

"Sorry, you're just—you're really hot," you say. "It's a bit intimidating."

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, and his cheeks flush.

"Yeah, right," he says. He climbs onto the bunk and crawls toward you, his eyes locked on yours. When he reaches you, he settles himself between your legs, his forearms resting on either side of your head.

"If anyone's intimidated, it's me."

"Why's that?"

"Have you seen yourself?" he murmurs. He leans down, brushing his lips against yours. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

The words make your heart stutter, and you reach up, cupping his cheek. "You're just saying that because you want to get laid."

"I'm just saying it because it's true," he says, and the words are a quiet whisper against your lips.

He dips his head, and his mouth finds yours again. You can't help the soft moan that escapes, and the sound makes Echo's hips rock against yours. His cock brushes against your thigh, a warm, velvety weight, and the feel of him sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

Echo breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. His hips move again, and this time, his cock drags against the folds of your core.

"What do you want?" he asks, his nose brushing over the swell of your cheek. "Tell me."

"You," you say, and your hands slide over his shoulders, clutching at his back. "Inside me. Now."

Echo doesn't answer, just shifts, sliding the thick head of his cock through the slick arousal coating your folds. When the tip brushes against the bundle of nerves nestled between the swollen flesh, your hips jerk, and a soft whine slips past your lips.

"Come on," you whisper, and your voice is a breathless, needy whimper. "Just—"

"Shh," he murmurs, his mouth finding yours. "I've got you."

He reaches down, gripping the base of his cock and guiding the head to your entrance. He doesn't move, doesn't thrust, just lets the tip rest there, a heavy weight against your core. The anticipation is almost too much, and you can feel the slick, heated flesh throb, clenching around nothing.

"Gods, Echo," you breathe. "Don't tease."

"You like it," he says, and his hand slides over your thigh, his fingers wrapping around your knee. He pulls it up, spreading you open, and his hips shift, his cock bumping your clit.

"Kriff, come on," you gasp, your back arching. "Don't—"

He doesn't wait for you to finish, just pushes forward. His cock is thick, the stretch almost too much, and the sudden feeling makes a soft, keening cry slip past your lips. He stills, and you can feel him trembling, the muscles in his shoulders quivering.

"Fuck, you're tight," he chokes out. "Just—hold still for a second."

You nod, and Echo lets out a shuddering breath, his head falling forward. His forehead presses against your shoulder, and his eyes slip shut. His hips twitch, and the motion makes his cock sink another inch inside you, the stretch making a soft whine slip past your lips.

"Shit," he breathes. "You're—I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," you gasp.

He nods and shifts his hips, sliding a few inches deeper. His cock is thick and heavy, and the feeling of him stretching you is almost too much. The fullness is almost painful, but there's something delicious about the burn, and you can't help the way you twitch, trying to get closer.

"Fuck," he groans, and the word comes out strangled. "How are you so kriffing tight?"

"Sorry," you gasp. "Been a while."

"You're going to kill me," he murmurs, and his hips push forward again, the movement a slow, steady slide. "Just—fuck, you feel so good."

His words make a bolt of heat shoot through you, and the tension inside you is nearly unbearable. You can't help the way a soft whimper slips past your lips, and the sound makes his hips jerk, his cock sinking deeper.

"Shh," he whispers, his breath hot against your shoulder. His hand tightens on your knee, and the motion spreads you wider, allowing him to sink deeper. "I'll take care of you."

"Come on," you plead. Your hands slide over his back, the skin damp with sweat, and you can feel the muscles tense and relax under your touch. "I can take it."

"I know you can," he says, and his scomp strokes the curve of your hip. "You're being so good for me. Taking me so well."

The praise makes a shiver run down your spine, and his hips thrust again, pushing forward until he's buried to the hilt. The feeling is intense, the stretch a delicious ache, and your legs fall to either side, spreading to accommodate him.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Good girl."

You can't help the way the words make your core clench, and the feeling makes his breath catch.

"You like that, huh?" he asks, his mouth moving against the hollow of your throat. "Being told what a good girl you are?"

"Echo," you whine.

"Yeah," he breathes. "You do."

He lifts his head and kisses you, his tongue sliding against yours. The kiss is slow, languid, and his hand is gentle as he cups your cheek. His thumb strokes over your skin, the touch almost reverent, and the sweetness is such a stark contrast to the way he's buried deep inside you that it makes your head spin.

"Fuck, Echo," you gasp, the words muffled against his lips.

"So good for me," he says. His hand leaves your face and moves to your leg, pulling your knee up and pressing it toward your chest. Your ankle rests on his shoulder, and the position allows him to push deeper, his hips grinding against yours.

The new angle makes him slide against a spot hidden deep inside you, and the sudden rush of sensation makes your toes curl.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp. "Right there."

"Here?" he murmurs. He repeats the motion, his hips rolling against yours, and the feeling is so intense that your vision blurs.

"Yeah," you manage through a choked sob.

"That's it," he soothes, and his hand strokes the side of your thigh. "You're doing so good for me."

His hand moves from your leg to the bunk, and his weight presses down on you, his body covering yours. His movements are slow and deliberate, his hips grinding against yours. Each thrust is a steady, rolling grind, and the pressure is so intense that it takes everything in you not to break apart.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and his mouth finds yours. The kiss is messy, a contrast of hard and soft, and when his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the sharp pinch is a delicious counterpoint to the sweetness.

His hand leaves the bunk and slides into your hair, fisting the soft strands and holding you still. The grip is firm, but not rough, and the sensation is strangely erotic, sending a rush of heat coursing through you.

"Harder," you gasp, and he obeys, snapping his hips forward hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs. The new pace is harder, faster, and the slap of flesh against flesh is loud in the quiet of the ship.

"Fuck," he groans. "You feel so fucking good."

You don't reply, just moan, and his hand tightens in your hair. His teeth graze the line of your jaw, and the sudden bite of pain is so sharp and delicious that it makes your vision blur.

"God, yes," you groan. "Harder."

He lets out a soft grunt and thrusts forward, the force of the movement making the bunk creak. You can't help the strangled cry that slips past your lips, and the noise seems to spur him on, his hips driving against yours with a force that has the bed shaking.

"Echo," you gasp, and the word comes out in a desperate, keening whine. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," he whispers, and his hand falls away from your hair to brace himself above you. His scomp leaves your hip and trails between your bodies, the smooth, cool metal sliding over the sensitive bud of your clit. "And I'll give it to you. You just have to trust me."

"I do," you gasp.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, and his mouth moves to your throat. His lips trail a path down the delicate skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. "You trust me?"

"Yes," you manage.

"Good," he says, his breath hot against your skin, and the tip of his scomp presses against the hard bud, circling slowly. "I'm going to make you come. Hard. And when you do, I'm going to fuck you until you're sobbing. Can you take that?"

The words send a thrill of electricity through you, and the tension inside you is so strong that it makes your legs shake.

"Can you?"

"Yes," you manage.

"Good girl," he says, and his teeth nip at the skin below your ear. His scomp moves faster, the motion a steady circle over the throbbing bundle of nerves, and you gasp when you feel it start to vibrate.

"Oh, fuck," you groan. Your back arches, pushing your breasts against his chest. "What—have you always—"

"No," he says, his voice strained. "Never used it for this. Just for you."

"That's—fuck, Echo, please," you beg. Your eyes are squeezed shut, the pleasure so intense that you can't think straight.

"You like that?" he murmurs, and the vibration gets a fraction stronger. The feeling makes a wave of heat wash over you, your muscles clenching and twitching, and your head falls back, resting on the mattress.

"Yes," you gasp.

"You're so close, aren't you?"

"Fuck, Echo," you choke out, and your nails dig into his back, scratching at the skin. He moans at the feeling, his hips driving faster, and the combination of sensations is enough to send you hurtling over the edge.

Your orgasm hits you like a bolt of lightning, and the intensity of it makes your legs spasm, the muscles twitching uncontrollably. You can't control the sounds that are coming from your mouth, desperate gasps and soft, choked sobs, and it's only the feeling of Echo's mouth on yours, kissing the noises away, that keeps you from screaming.

"Oh, fuck," he groans against your mouth. "Just like that. So good for me. Let me hear you."

The words are a whispered prayer against your lips, and the praise makes another wave of heat crash through you. Your core clenches around his cock, and the sensation is so exquisite that it makes tears sting the corners of your eyes. True to his word, he doesn't let up, and his scomp never stops, the vibrations against the sensitive nub sending sparks of electricity shooting through you.

"Please," you sob, and the words are barely audible. "Please, too much."

"One more," he pants. His breathing is ragged, and his thrusts are growing harder, his hips snapping against yours. "Give me one more. Can you do that for me?"

"I don't—I can't—"

"You can," he says. "I know you can. You're being such a good girl for me. Come on. Give me one more."

You nod, unable to speak, and Echo rewards you with a kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. His hips are moving faster, losing any pretense of control, his pelvis grinding against yours with each forward snap of his hips. His scomp circles your clit, and the feeling is so intense that your limbs go numb, a tingling sensation creeping up your spine. You can feel the pressure inside you building again, coiling, and the tension is so strong that it feels like you're going to fly apart.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, and the words are muffled against his mouth.

"Yeah," he groans. His thrusts are rough, almost desperate, and the movement rocks the bunk. "That's it. You're doing so well. I'm going to make you come all over my cock."

"Please, Echo." Your hands grip his back so hard that you're afraid you're going to leave bruises, and you can feel his muscles tense and release, shifting under the thin layer of sweat-slick skin. "Please."

"I know," he says. His voice is low, husky, and his lips brush over the shell of your ear. "Come on, sweetheart. Be a good girl and come for me."

The words are your undoing. You can't hold back any longer, and with a loud cry, you tumble over the edge, falling headfirst into the blinding, white-hot pleasure that's coursing through you.

This time, your orgasm is too much to contain, and a scream rips from your throat, the sound echoing off the walls. Your back arches, and your legs twitch, a violent tremor wracking your frame as a hot flood of liquid spills from your core. The force of your release is enough to push Echo's cock from your body, and a wet gush follows, coating his stomach and dripping down your thighs.

"Oh, fuck," Echo chokes out. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and his scomp falls away, slamming down beside your head, bracing himself. "Fuck, I'm—"

He doesn't finish the thought, just fumbles for his cock, gripping the base. It only takes a few quick strokes before he's coming, a loud groan escaping his lips. The first pulse hits your stomach, followed by a second, and a third, and the sensation makes a choked moan slip past your lips. He lets out a low groan, his hips twitching, and his cock dribbles the last few drops of his cum, painting a thick line over your skin.

Through your blurry vision, you see Echo's mouth is open, his eyes wide as he stares down at you, and the sight is so sweet, so genuine, that you can't help the breathless huff of laughter that slips past your lips.

"Kriff," he pants. His hand drops to the bunk, and he props himself up on trembling arms. The two of you stay frozen for a moment, chests heaving, your expressions a mirror of each other's shock.

"Fuck," Echo finally chokes out. "Are you okay?"

You nod, unable to form a coherent thought. You let your head fall back against the mattress, and the movement makes a drop of his cum run down your breast, dripping off the underside and falling to the sheets.

"Did I—"

"So good," you manage, and the words are a slurred mumble. He nods, swallowing, and then he turns, collapsing onto the bunk next to you. He lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and when you glance over, he has his forearm draped over his eyes, his chest still heaving.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Oh, fuck."

"What?" you ask. You try to shift, but the feeling of his cum cooling on your stomach and chest is a distracting, sticky sensation, and you're not entirely sure if your limbs are still attached.

"I, uh," he starts. Echo huffs out another small laugh as his arm falls away, and his head lolls to the side, his eyes finding yours. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. I don't even—you're—that was incredible."

"I can't feel my toes," you admit, and the confession makes him laugh.

"Yeah?"

"I'm serious," you say. "Like, are they still there? Is anything still there?"

He rolls onto his side, making a show of looking you over, and when his gaze lands on the mess covering your abdomen, he sucks in a sharp breath.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "They're still there. Everything's still there."

"You look smug," you say.

"Can't imagine why," he says, grinning. He reaches out, tracing a finger through the cooling mess on your skin, and the gentle caress makes a shiver run down your spine. "Fuck, look at you."

"Yeah?"

"You're a mess," he says, and he grins, leaning forward. He kisses you, his lips soft against yours, and when he pulls away, he looks a fraction more composed. "Let me clean you up."

Echo sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, and the movement makes his back muscles ripple, the motion a fluid, graceful flex of sinew and tendon. You can't help the way the sight makes your heart skip a beat, and you have the sudden urge to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his back, to cling to him and never let him go.

"Are you okay?" he asks, looking over his shoulder at you. "Does anything hurt?"

"No," you say, shaking your head. "Everything feels... really good."

His answering grin is more self-satisfied than you're used to seeing, and the expression is so charming that you can't stop the affectionate roll of your eyes.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," you tease.

"Hey," Echo says, getting to his feet. "I think I earned it."

"I guess so," you murmur, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

"Come here," he says, turning. He tugs you upright and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. The sudden motion makes a laugh bubble up in your throat, and he flashes you a grin, his arms tightening around you. He leans down, his mouth finding yours, and the kiss is sweet and tender, his lips moving over yours with a languid, easy affection.

"What's gotten into you?" you ask when he pulls away.

"You," he smirks, tilting his head. "Or I got into you. Something like that."

"Oh, shut up," you laugh, and you shove his shoulder. He smiles, a wide, crooked grin that makes your heart stutter.

"Come on," he says. He pulls away, grabbing your hip and turning you around, guiding you toward the fresher. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"I can do it," you protest, but his arm wraps around your waist, holding you close.

"I know.” 

He doesn't elaborate, just steers you toward the fresher. You lean your hip against the sink while he turns on the shower, and you let him tug you inside, his scomp hooking the handle and closing the door behind the two of you. The water is cool, but it's not unpleasant, and the droplets feel nice against your heated skin.

Echo washes you with a gentleness that takes your breath away, and the tenderness is so at odds with the man you thought you knew. His touch is careful, almost reverent, and there's a quiet intensity in the way he traces the lines and angles of your body with his hand and his scomp, the movements slow and deliberate. He pays special attention to the space between your thighs, the touch firm but still gentle, and the sensation makes you bite back a whimper.

"Shh," he soothes, and his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. He kisses the delicate skin, and the gesture is so sweet that it makes your chest ache.

"Why are you doing this?" you whisper.

"Because I want to," he says, and his thumb swipes over the swell of your breast. "And because you deserve it."

"Deserve it?" you ask as his mouth trails up your neck.

"Yeah," he murmurs. His hand slides up your ribs, and his fingers cup your breast, the palm covering the soft, supple flesh. It's a gentle touch, almost absentminded, and the intimacy of the gesture is so startling that it makes your breath catch.

"Why would you say that?" you whisper.

"Because it's true," he says, and his mouth slides along your jaw, the kiss tender. "Because you deserve to be taken care of. Because I like taking care of you."

"You do?"

"I do," he says, and the words are spoken against the delicate skin just below your ear. "More than anything."

"But—"

"It's okay," he murmurs. "Stop overthinking."

You swallow and nod, and his touch is gentle as he finishes washing you. When you're both clean, Echo leaves you under the water to change the sheets, and you try to ignore the fact that your limbs are a bit unsteady without him. 

The water starts to turn cold, and you quickly shut it off, squeezing some of the excess water from your hair. You step out of the shower and grab a towel, and you smile to yourself when you see your sleep clothes folded on the edge of the sink, Echo's handiwork evident in the perfect creases. You dry off quickly, and you're just pulling on your shorts when you hear the sound of the hatch opening and a pair of heavy footsteps rushing up the ramp.

“Echo!” Wrecker shouts, his voice frantic. The floor shakes slightly under your feet as he comes to a stop, and the hatch slides shut with a metallic clang.

You freeze, the fabric halfway up your thighs, and a bolt of panic shoots through you.

You can hear Echo outside of the fresher, and the rustle of fabric as he tosses the soiled linens to the side, followed by a few muttered curses.

"What?" he finally calls, his tone annoyed.

"There you are," Wrecker says.

"Where else would I be?" Echo snaps, and you can hear him tugging his blacks over his head.

"Crosshair said he lost track of you," Wrecker says, and you hear him walk across the ship. "Thought maybe you were in trouble. And we can't find Stitches. Have you seen her? She disappeared, and she's not answering her comm."

Your eyes go wide, and your stomach drops. Oh, fuck.

"Uh," Echo says, and you hear him shuffling around, the sounds a lot closer than they were before. "Yeah, she's here. She's just, um, taking a shower."

"Oh," Wrecker says. There's a long pause, and you can picture the look on his face, the puzzled frown as he tries to process the information. You can almost hear the gears turning in his brain, and you wait, holding your breath.

"We, uh, decided to head back," Echo explains after the silence has dragged on for a bit too long.

"Together," Wrecker adds. It isn't a question, but the note of suspicion is obvious, and Echo doesn't miss it.

"Yeah," Echo says, his voice strained. He clears his throat. "We were, uh, really tired. We were having a good time, but the club was really loud, and we just..."

He trails off, and you let out a quiet groan and press a hand to your face. You're tempted to leave the fresher, to make your presence known and get the conversation over with, but you can't quite bring yourself to open the door.

"Oh," Wrecker says again, and the way the word is drawn out makes you wince. You can practically hear the grin in his voice, and you know he's figured it out. "You guys had a good time, huh?"

"I mean, not like that," Echo says quickly, and you grimace.

"Uh huh.”

"We were just talking, and we decided to head back, and she was, um, she was drunk, and I was tired, and we were just gonna hang out and watch a holo or something."

"Right," Wrecker says, his tone knowing. "What holo were you gonna watch?"

"It’s uh…” Echo trails off, and a moment later, he lets out a sigh of defeat. You can’t help but laugh at that, the sound loud enough to echo off of the tile.

"Hey Stitches,” Wrecker calls out in greeting, and you roll your eyes and open the door.

"Hi Wrecker," you say, leaning against the door frame.

"Did you have a good time?" he asks with a wide grin.

"Yeah," you say, and you can't help the way your eyes flick to Echo. "We had a really good time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Echo echoes. His eyes meet yours, and the expression on his face is soft, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. You smile back, unable to keep the happiness from welling up inside you.

"Yeah," you say. You can't help the way you feel yourself blush, the heat rising in your cheeks. "It was, uh, really good."

Wrecker's grin widens, and he glances at Echo, giving him a thumbs-up. Echo blushes, his cheeks turning pink, and his shoulders lift in a small shrug.

"That's good," Wrecker says, beaming. "I'm happy for you guys."

"Thanks, Wrecker," you laugh. "Sorry for making you worry."

"It's okay." He waves a hand. "I'm glad you two had a good time. It's about time."

"Wrecker," Echo groans, and Wrecker lets out a loud guffaw.

"What? I'm not wrong." He looks between the two of you, his smile growing wider. "We've all been rooting for you two. We were starting to get a little worried, honestly. I thought I was gonna have to lock you guys in a closet or somethin'."

Echo lets out a groan and buries his face in his hand, and the sight is so comical that you snort a laugh.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," you say dryly.

"Nah, don’t apologize.” Wrecker pauses, his expression thoughtful. "Well, actually, maybe apologize to Crosshair. He's not too happy about this, since it means he lost the bet."

"The bet?"

"Oh yeah," Wrecker says. "We had a running bet on when you guys would finally hook up. Crosshair thought it would take you until at least next month, so he's pretty pissed."

"You guys were betting on us?" you ask, aghast. Echo's hand slides down his face to cover his mouth, and in his eyes is a mixture of mortification and disbelief.

"Hey, don't look at me," Wrecker says, holding his hands up in defense. "I was for you two from the start. I had last month."

"For fuck's sake," Echo mutters, and he leans against the bulkhead and stares at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Just kill me now."

"Who won?" you ask.

"Hunter," Wrecker grumbles, and he lets out a huff. "He has an unfair advantage, if you ask me."

You and Echo exchange a glance, and Echo shakes his head, looking resigned.

"Don't worry, though," Wrecker continues. "We're all glad you two are finally together."

"Yeah, well, thanks, Wrecker," Echo mutters, and Wrecker beams.

"No problem. Anyways, I’m gonna head back to the club," he says, winking. “You guys enjoy the rest of your night.”

"Sure," Echo groans, his head thumping against the bulkhead.

"Oh, we will," you say, and you shoot Echo a wicked grin. He meets your gaze, his eyes widening and his cheeks going pink before a slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"That's my girl," Wrecker crows. He grins and waves before turning on his heel and heading down the ramp. The hatch opens with a hiss, and you listen as the sound of his boots fades into the distance.

The silence is a welcome relief, and the tension seems to leave Echo's shoulders, the muscles relaxing. He takes a step toward you, his scomp reaching out to pull you close, and the motion is so sweet and natural that it makes a wave of emotion rise up inside you.

"Hey," you whisper.

"Hey."

"So," you start slowly. "That was fun."

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "If you wanted to keep it quiet, I'll talk to them."

"No, it's okay," you say, smiling. "I think it's nice."

"You do?"

"Yeah," you say. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him down for a quick kiss. "And I'm kind of proud that you're finally mine."

"Finally?" he asks, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Well, yeah," you say. You press a kiss to his throat, right above his pulse, and his chest rumbles with a contented hum. "I've been interested in you since day one."

"Really?"

"You're kind of hard to resist," you admit, and he huffs out a soft laugh.

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual."

"Well, I'm glad you're not fighting it anymore."

"Me too," he murmurs. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and he leans down and brushes his lips over yours. The kiss is tender, affectionate, and his hand trails over your lower back in a gentle caress.

You pull back, and his forehead dips to rest against yours, his breathing steady.

"Do you wanna watch that holo?" you ask, and he huffs a laugh.

“Sure.”

You grab your datapad and settle onto the bunk, and Echo curls up beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. His touch is warm and comforting, and the feeling is enough to make your chest ache.

You put on a mindless holodrama, some action flick that's probably more entertaining if you've actually seen the other movies in the series. You don't mind, though. The plot isn't that interesting, and the acting is pretty bad. What really draws your attention is the feel of Echo pressed against your side, the weight of his arm draped over your waist, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It's comfortable, and intimate, and just what you both need.

And if, during the holo, Echo's hand starts creeping up your shirt, and his mouth starts tracing the curve of your jaw, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @bruh-myguy-what @qvnthesia

@spicy-clones @kindalonleystars @cw80831 @totallyunidentified @heidnspeak

@lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @chocolatewastelandtriumph @etod @puppetscenario

@umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano

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@marchingviolist @deerspringdreams

[veronicaphoenix]

until the stars stop shining | noah sebastian

previous part to all that's left, but it can be read as a one shot.

summary: noah and his girl spend an evening by the lake | words: 1.2k | reading time: 5mins

tags & trigger warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff. noah is an illustrator, reader loves baking cookies, mentions of noah having been reader's first, and that's it—they love each other a ton.

This is for the anon that asked for something sweet and fluffy after i posted All That's Left. I hope this does it. It's not actually a standalone work, but a sort of flashback belonging to the same story where All That's Left happens. I have a full plot developed in my head, but I can't tell if I'll ever write it and post it, so here goes this little thing where you get to know a little bit more of those characters and the story.

Thank you for all your constant love and support <3

 ͢ until the stars stop shining

Noah leaned back in the Muskoka chair, one leg lazily stretched out, balancing his sketchbook on his lap. He was shirtless, only wearing his bathing suit. For over an hour, he had been sketching, savoring the tranquil solitude offered by the lake, the warm caress of the late afternoon sun, and the rustling of leaves. Early fall was the perfect time for moments like this, when nature felt intimate and unhurried. Most of the tourists had long gone, leaving behind only the soft chorus of birds and the quiet murmur of waves licking the shore.

The breeze teased the pages of his sketchbook, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine needles and the rhythmic whisper of water against the rocks. Noah’s pencil glided in slow, thoughtful strokes as he tried to capture the scene before him, but his thoughts drifted constantly to his girl.

The door to the cottage creaked open right then, and she stepped outside. She carried a wooden tray filled with oat cinnamon cookies, their powdered sugar dusting glinting in the soft afternoon light. The sweet, comforting aroma mingled with the crisp air, making Noah smile to himself even without glancing back. 

She padded softly down the dock, her bare feet almost silent against the worn wood, and placed the tray on the armrest of his chair, her fingers grazing his shoulder in a brief, affectionate touch.

“I baked something,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar warmth. Of course she had. Baking was her favorite thing to do.  “Something sweet for my favorite artist.”

Noah grinned as he finally looked at her, his eyes catching on the spot of flour smeared across her nose. She had no idea it was there, and he decided not to tell her—she looked adorable like that.

“You need to refill your energy after working so hard for hours on end,” she pointed out as she glanced at the open sketchbook on his lap. 

Instead of reaching for a cookie, Noah broke off a small piece and gently brought it to her lips. Her smile widened as she took a bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue. A moment later, he let out a soft chuckle, reaching to brush a crumb off her lip with the pad of his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer before dropping back to his half-finished sketch.

“I’m not half as good at drawing as you are at baking,” he admitted.

She tilted her head, glancing at the sketch. “This one looks pretty good to me, Noah.”

He smirked, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Wait until you see the one I did last night, after you fell asleep on the couch.”

“Why do you find it so entertaining to draw me?”

His gaze softened as he looked back at her. “Because you’re my favorite subject.”

That’s when he bopped her nose, making the flour stain disappear.

Her grin was bright and effortless as she leaned over the back of his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. She rested her chin on his shoulder, close enough to feel his warmth. “And you’re my favorite person to bake for,” she whispered.

Noah’s cheeks flushed slightly at her words, a rare blush coloring his usually composed expression. She kissed the warm skin of his left cheek, lingering for just a moment before pulling away with a satisfied smile. She wandered toward the edge of the dock, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden planks. She sat down, her legs hanging off the edge.

Noah watched her for a moment, admiring how the wind gently tousled her hair and the way the light danced off her skin. The contentment in her posture, the way her eyes reflected the colors of the setting sun—everything about this moment felt perfect.

“You ever gonna let me teach you how to swim?” Noah asked.

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze fixed on the water before she responded quietly, “I don’t know... I’m still a bit scared of it.” She dipped her feet a little deeper, letting the cool water lap around her ankles. “But... I love being here. With you.”

The memory of that first visit just the two of them was vivid in both their minds. This was Jolly’s cottage, the same place where Noah and her had meet back when she was still fourteen and he was eighteen. They had spent countless of weekends and birthdays and fourths of July in this very same place. But nothing had been as special as the weekend Noah convinced Jolly to let him stay with her, alone. It had been six years since then, and even now, the memory of taking her virginity—in Jolly’s bed—was still as clear as water.  

Noah watched as the wind played with her hair, blowing soft strands across her face. He picked up his sketchbook again, unable to resist capturing her in this moment—the peacefulness, the effortless beauty. His pencil moved in quick, steady strokes as he sketched her sitting at the edge of the dock, her feet in the water, the sun casting an orange glow over the horizon. He knew that one day, he would marry this girl. There was no question in his mind.

Once satisfied with the drawing, Noah quietly set his sketchbook aside and rose from the chair. He walked over to her with slow, deliberate steps, his heart swelling as he took in the sight of her in this perfect, secluded spot. Without warning, he bent down, pretending to lift her by the underarms as if he were about to toss her into the water.

She yelped in surprise, her heart leaping as she felt her feet lift off the dock. “Noah!” 

Before she could fully react, Noah pulled her back into his arms, turning her around to face him. She clung to him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms tightening around his neck, her pulse racing from the surprise.

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, breathless from both fear and thrill, burying her face against his neck.

Noah laughed with her, holding her close, feeling her warm breath against his skin. “I wouldn’t let you go that easily,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Still holding her, Noah carried her over to the blanket they had left spread out on the dock earlier. He gently laid her down, her body sinking into the soft fabric, and then settled beside her. 

“Don’t you ever,” she started to say, “ever, let me drown, Noah Sebastian.”

“Never ever,” he promised, showing her his pinky finger. 

She laced it with hers and finally, she let out a heavy sigh and cuddled closer to him, nuzzing her cheek against his bare shoulder. 

They lay close, facing each other, their fingers lazily tracing along each other’s arms and faces. Neither spoke for a long while. Her fingers trailed down his chest while his hand rested lightly on her hip. Above them, the stars began to appear, one by one, until the sky was a dark, glittering canvas. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the water.

“How long will you love me?” Noah asked, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

She gazed at him, eyes warm and steady. She placed the most tender of kisses on his lips.

“Until the stars stop shining.”

[sarshles-cheescake-li]

Why's Lu Guang's hair white?

It has occurred to me that a lot of people on the English side of the fandom aren't aware of the Lu Guang white hair theory.

It's a very popular theory/headcanon on the Chinese side (I'd say maybe 30% of people believe in it?) of the situation. I have no idea who in the English fandom have talked about it and who haven't, so I'll just provide what I know of it. Full disclaimer that I wasn't the first one to make this observation.

The theory is based on this scene right here, episode 12 of season 2. Here, Qiao Ling has a singular white hair after receiving Xixi’s powers (and seemingly activating them for the first time). This can be either interpreted as her spontaneously gaining a white hair, or as just an effect of the lighting.

Lu Guang has (presumably) received and activated Cheng Xiaoshi’s powers before.

Lu Guang’s hair is white.

Are you picking up what I’m putting down?

It doesn’t help that his eyebrows are a different colour. In pretty much every piece of official media, they’re a grey a bit lighter than his eyes. Except for in the phone ad for OPPO (I think that’s what that was…?) where his eyebrows are largely black, except for one shot where they’re their normal grey, so I’m fairly certain that’s just a mistake in animation. I could’ve sworn to God there was one piece of media where his eyebrows were white, but I can’t find said piece, so I guess that was a fever dream.

Quite a few people have wondered how a naturally white-haired person would have darker-coloured eyebrows. Based on that, the argument is that Lu Guang’s natural hair colour is darker, and his hair turned white later in life. Of course, from an artistic standpoint, this evidence is… hard to work with. Characters with a light hair colour paired with a light skin colour often are drawn with their eyelashes and eyebrows being a darker colour for the purpose of contrast. It’s not rare for a white-haired character with fair skin to end up with grey eyebrows, since it makes their eyebrows more easily visible while still looking lighter. The problem?

Ouyang Bubai (how does the English fandom refer to him…? Do I use pinyin for him? Jyutping? Cantonese Yale? Is his Chinese name written in simplified or traditional???) has almost the exact same hair colour as Lu Guang. His eyebrows are white.

Paint tool sai version 2 colour picker (and visual examination) tells me his eyebrows are a slightly different colour than his hair, being a bit warmer and a smidgeon darker, but the point stands. Compared to Lu Guang’s eyebrows, you can definitely tell they’re drawn differently.

Other light haired characters like the Li siblings receive the same treatment as Ouyang Bubai, having pink eyebrows. It’s just Lu Guang who has his situation.

And no, it’s not a matter of convenience. Link Click’s eyebrows are always drawn with black lineart and a solid fill, usually one matching the character’s hair colour. Lu Guang’s eyebrows match neither his eyes nor his hair, something that would theoretically make drawing him more inconvenient because now you’ve got one extra colour in the pallet.

But if the point was that Lu Guang’s hair isn’t supposed to be white, then why make his eyebrows so light? Because now, what is potentially foreshadowing looks like artistic liberty. Was it for the sake of visual cohesion? To throw theorists off? Is it something about the character design process and Inplick?

Anyway, a few possibilities emerging from this theory.

How many times has Lu Guang went back in time for Cheng Xiaoshi if all his hair is white? Or does the process speed up the more you use another person’s powers?

Does his hair turn white all at once whenever he goes back in time, or is it gradual? Like, was there ever an attempt where Cheng Xiaoshi went to bed, woke up, and went “woah Lu Guang that was one mean mental breakdown you had last night if you bleached half your hair”

Does using another person’s powers affect you negatively in other ways? Is that why Lu Guang has limited attempts – not because he’s running out of photos, but because he’s running out of time himself? And, my personal favourite:

The white hair isn’t because of power usage. It’s because of stress. Lu Guang is just a lot more stressed than Qiao Ling is.

[michaelnordeman]

Hello Michael,

I just wanted to say I’ve been reblogging so much from you and you take the most amazing photos. They’re very high definition and clear as day. You do such an amazing job!

What camera do you use? Do you ever have to edit them or are they naturally like that?

Thanks so much for all your photos, they really are astonishing :)

Hi,

Thank you so much for your kind words! It means a lot to know that the animals, birds, bugs, and plants I love so much are appreciated by people from all over.

For most of my nature photography, I use my Canon EOS 80D. I also have a Canon 6D Mark II. My go-to lenses are a 100mm macro lens and a 100-400mm zoom lens—though the zoom lens is a bit worn from years of use, it still gets the job done.

I do edit many of my photos, but never to exaggerate or "enhance" nature. My goal is always to make the image as true to the original scene as possible. I often carefully crop my photos to draw the viewer’s eye to the subject, and I may adjust shadows and contrast to bring out details. If I’ve captured a rare bird from a distance or in low light, I might work on reducing grain, but I prefer to handle all adjustments manually rather than relying on special software. I like to keep my editing process personal and hands-on.

So, that’s a bit about my process. Thanks again for your kindness and for reblogging! I hope you have a wonderful weekend!

[nicisanidiot]

Has anyone else noticed the use of shadows and light in Nimona? Cause I find it really interesting how through most of the movie Ballister is stuck in the shadows while Ambrosius is always in the light.

For example:

It also draws parallels between Gloreth and Ambrosius as Gloreths statue is always bathed in lights, due to the fact we only ever see it at night (I think) surrounded by darkness.

I think it’s also interesting that once Ballister meets Nimona the contrast between shadows and light becomes even more pronounced, with the two of them living together in a darkened lair, sneaking around at night and rarely being seen in daylight. This contrasts Ambrosius who we never see without the spotlight shining on him.

This contrast becomes clearest in the “nacho” scene, when its glaringly obvious just how different the twos views on Nimona and the Institute are.

However, the motif is subverted after this when Ballister confronts Nimona on the statue of Gloreth. For the first time in the movie since the death of the queen he is in the spotlight, pulled from the shadows into the light.

This is especially beautiful as he pulls Nimona, a character who till this point had always been in the shadows, into the light with him. (There’s probably a metaphor for mental health, transness and queer identity in there but someone else can probably put that far more eloquently than me).

From this point onwards Ballister is never framed in shadows again, but more importantly, he is only framed in natural light, often with a warm tone contrasting the previous cool toned unnatural lighting (warm tones also being used in relation to Nimona):

While I think the meaning of all this could be debated my personal favourite interpretations of it are:

- the changes in lighting represent Ballister’s feelings towards himself through the film, specifically in relation to his relationship with Ambrosius (him being in shadows more after the queens death, seeing himself as inferior to Ambrosius, being in light as he is going through the “evil lair” showing his acceptance (?) of Nimona’s “passing” and his contribution to it).

- the way he is perceived by the in film audience viewing him (more shadows when he “kills” the queen, in light when he saves Nimona).

Anyway, feel free to add anything extra or any additional observations or anything I missed

(I have dyslexia so please don’t be to hard on any mistakes I’m really trying I promise)

[akutasoda]

Hello!! Can I pls request Cyno , Tignari with a shy artist reader(gn)? The Y/n draws really well and dedicated the picture to them.(reader is very shy to show they creative pictures) (´･ω･`)

masterpieces

synopsis - your a brilliant artist and they want you to be proud and show off your pieces

includes - tighnari, cyno

warnings - gn!reader, artist reader, fluff, slight crack, wc - 697

a/n: this was absolutely adorable!

tighnari ★↷

he would call himself a rather avid sketcher. it was maily of the various plants and wildlife that were located out and around sumeru so he had his fair share in experience with sketching atleast.

but then he met you and not toput himself down, but his work absolutely paled in comparison to yours. he absolutely adored it. it didn't matter what you drew, it could be a portrait of someone, sumeru landscapes or whatever. he loved them all.

so when you two started dating it became a common occurrence for him to offer you to join for sketching. he would always subtly ask for tips to improve his own sketching.

but he knew you disliked showing your work and he never got why. even if you were just naturally shy he still didn't understand but he could somewhat relate in a slightly different way however.

and recently he had notice you had been hiding a particular piece that you always seemed to work on around him. and he knew you probably wouldn't show him unless he asked you directly so he waoted until you seemed to no longer carry it around. but you seemed different about this one.

when he asked to see it you seemed more hesitant about showing him and more embarrassed about it. eventually he convinced you to show him and he immediately recognised what it was. it was the best piece he'd ever seen and it was of him and it was done by his lover! now he may be no fontaine girl but you sure made him compare.

he couldn't be more proud of you for creating such a stunning image and immediately asked to keep it which sent you into a state of embarrassment. but now everytime you visited his residence you would see it, hanging proudly in pristine condition.

now he wasn't self centred or such but he was just so impressed by it that he simply couldn't resist displaying it and proudly telling it's origin should someone ask.

cyno ★↷

cyno wasn't quite the artist. he had tried a few times and had quite a bit of natural talent but he never really honed or practiced much. the most he would ever do so was when he was so bored that it was the only option, but that was a rare case.

so upon hearing your name in the sumeru art scene and then seeing your pieces was so impressive to him. he could see why people compared you to the quality of art that was normally produced in fontaine.

he noticed immediately that you weren't one for attention so when he first met you he didn't want to seem overbearing or practically scare you away. but he was absolutely enamoured that such an artist eventually chose to be with him.

he always took time when he returned from various deals to have a look at your newest pieces, even if they weren't finished. and while you were still shy about showing your art, you had accustomed to cyno's attention.

you wanted to try something and with cyno gobe for long periods of time, it made ot easy for him not to see it prematurely. and you thought that the puece would feel the same as all others but when cyno actually asked to see it you froze.

shyness washed over you and you came up with random reasons why he shouldn't. but eventually he would convince you that he would love it no matter what. and so you practically couldn't even look at him as he picked it up.

and you didn't look at him, face to red, and your embarrassment grew as silence filled the air but then you felt a pair of arms around you. cyno absolutely adored it, he was so flattered you chose to dedicate a piece to him. he released you and immediately started praising it.

you'd never felt so embarrassed but it was from the sheer overwhelment of compliments cyno showed you, even if a few of them included a couple of puns. and if you were okay with it, he'd love to be another inspiration for your pieces.

[silenttrxxs]

D&G - choi san - 산

Y/N was known to give an amazing show, her modelling agency had called her in to give her the best news she could have asked for. Walking for Dolce And Gabanna, it was a dream.

It was time, standing behind the scenes waiting for the celebrities and guests to arrive and take their seats. Y/N nerves were creeping in. It would have been a breeze if they hadnt have mentioned that her favourite person had been invited to attend the show. Youre wondering who this is, well its Choi San. Known for being one of the best and kindest souls to ever walk this planet, with looks that could kill a person.

The music starts, cueing the models all to get into place, last minute touchups being made and the doors swinging open. All nerves long forgotten for the time being as Y/N focused her soul into her work. It was all running smoothly until the moment she had finished, she thought to herself that she would get out of this show unscathed. Oh she thought wrong.

San was admiring the clothes, really intreguied by the pieces as everyone walked past him, but Y/N had really caught his eye. The piece that she wore was beautiful, really exentuating Y/N figure in all the right ways. But he couldnt take his eyes from Y/N face. The natural makeup highlighting key points of her face and this drawing in Sans attention not to mention the winks and little smiles that Y/N gave as she walked past, hoping not to get caught.

Everyone managed to get the show done it was time to get out there and greet people, the infamous afterparty. Y/N had changed a nice dress given to her for this event, she made sure to highlight it and showcase it off to everyone.

Taking a glass of wine from the tables lining the entrance Y/N took a sip looking around, before choking a little as her eyes land on san.

Dressed handsomely in a white suit from last years collection, he really looked something out of a royal movie. He was glancing around clearly trying to figure out if he wanted to be at the afterparty. Feeling somewhat the same and wanting to just rest herself, Y/N took a gulp of the wine and walked towards san.

"you look like you want to be here" Y/N said laughing a little.

"My names Y/N, You?" Y/N said trying to play it cool infront of him something striking a confidence she didnt know she had.

"Well hello to you too, my names san" san said laughing a little.

"Well i must say you look handsome today" Y/N remarked a slight blush creeping up her face as she locked eyes with San.

"You did amazing up there Y/N, True beauty doesnt often land infront of me like this" San said being the first to slyly grasp Y/N hand bringing it up and placing a chaste kiss to her hand.

"A princess like you should be worshipped" San said not stopping the rare flirtatiousness come out of him like a tap.

"Well arent you something huh san" Y/N said giggling and trying to turn away to hide the blush on her cheeks.

San laughed noticing the blush but not wanting to probe into Y/N and ruin this chance before he even got it.

"You wanna come back to my hotel its not far and you and me both dont exactly fit the afterparty type huh?" San said laughing as he felt his own blush creeping up his neck into his cheeks.

"Y-Yeah sure why not" Y/N agreed grabbing sans hand and following him as he lead them out of the hustle and bustle of the afterparty.

Getting back to the hotel he turnt to Y/N, any other thoughts leaving his head as he leant into Y/N slowly gaging a nod from Y/N he leant in kissing her deeply, tongues dancing together and breathes getting caught together.

San was going insane slowly, the way she felt in his grasp was something he could have dreamed about. "God youre incredible" San spoke as they pulled away only to notice that Y/N eyes were blown wide and full of a lust that was powerful, he looked into her eyes before leaning in and whispering into her ear.

"Bedroom now, i want you naked and on all fours at the end of the bed by the time i get there" San said leaving a bite on her earlobe.

Y/N was done for the way the words left his mouth left her almost drooling, getting up quickly and moving to the bedroom stripping down to nothing and getting in position she felt helpless in the best way he had her wrapped around his finger.

"Good girl" San spoke as he walked into the room taking the belt off and tapping it in his hands.

"Do you think you deserve anything princess, i saw the way you was flirting with me, this is what you wanted from me isnt it, you knew excatly who i was from the start" San spoke a breathy laugh leaving his mouth as he cracked the belt watching the way Y/N body flinched and the wetness buliding up in between her legs clear and eviddent to san.

San couldnt hold back much longer he needed her just as bad as she needed him before he could even get a response he let his fingers trail down her folds, collecting the wetness onto his fingers and feeling the way she would clench around nothing. Begging silently for him.

"Look at you being so needy for me, just want me cock dont you doll" San said lowly before taking himself out of his clothes, lining himself up and thrusting into her harshly.

"Made for this arent you, such a cockslut... thats obvious to see" San said grabbing a handful of Y/N hair and letting out a breathy laugh. his hand gripping onto her hip with every thrust. sure to leave a bruise in its wake.

The way Y/N clenched around him with every word he said was mindblowing he didnt know if he could hold back much longer. Thrusting harder he let his head roll back as he felt the warm familar feeling collecting inside him. The noises tou made were guiding him to reach his high too. "gonna make me cum baby, gonna make you mine, no one can make you cum the way i do, youll only remember my cock now" san growled slamming into Y/N mercilessly.

San couldnt hold back anymore, he flipped Y/N over gripping onto himself and stroking himself more, "Open wide baby" San said watching the way Y/N Let her tongue hang loosely from her mouth. "F-Fuck" was all san could breathe out before releasing all ober her tongue, some of it falling and landing on her cheeks and even runnig down onto her breasts.

"Fuck youre made for me" San said before catching his breath and moving slowly, laying next to Y/N and pulling her into cuddle placing a chaste kiss to her forehead before she dosed off.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Domestic Dream part 2: Family Bonds

Bayverse!Raphael x reader

Part 1

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

Y'all really liked my Domestic Dream with Raphael, so I’ve decided to give you more of him with your family.

Warnings: None, other than sweet Raph and maybe some spelling❤️

—-----------------------------------------

As the months rolled on, Raphael found himself becoming an integral part of your family. He trained with your little brother in makeshift ninja lessons, endured your mother's attempts at cooking (some successful, some not so much), and even engaged in friendly banter with your father over the latest action movies, or whatever game they had decided to watch.

One Saturday morning, as sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the living room in a warm glow, you and Raphael found yourselves surrounded by board games and the smell of breakfast. It was a rare moment of tranquility in the busy lives you all led.

You had invited both of your parents and brother over for a family day filled with board games and movies. Though your parents weren’t together, it didn’t stop them from spending time with you and your little brother, nor did it keep them from spending time with your mutant ninja turtle boyfriend.

You found it amazing, that the one thing that had shocked your parents the most about your boyfriend, was just a minor footnote now. Raphael, a massive muscular green mutant turtle, with superhuman strength, who had studied the art ninja since he was a child? According to your parents, he was proving to become the best son in law they could dream of.

As your little brother excitedly set up a game of Monopoly, Raphael surveyed the scene with a contented smile. You were in the kitchen, cleaning the last few things from the dinner. Raphael had offered to help you, but you had given him a kiss, and told him not to worry about it.

Your mother, sipping on a cup of coffee, caught his eye and motioned for him to join her on the couch.

"You know", she began. "I never thought I'd be sharing my Saturday mornings with a mutant turtle, but I do quite enjoy it".

Raphael chuckled, "Yeah, well, life's full of surprises".

"I have to admit, though", she continued. "You bring a different energy to this place. It's not what I expected, but it's... nice."

Raphael nodded appreciatively. "Thanks. I never thought I'd find myself in a place like this. It's different, but I like it."

Just then, your father approached, a mischievous glint in his eye. He tapped Raphael on the shoulder, drawing attention to the open Carlsberg beer he held out for him. Raphael accepted it with a smile.

"So, Raphael”, your father said, taking a seat in your armchair. “Got any special plans for our daughter?"

Raphael raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Your father grinned. "Well, you know, you seem like the type who could pull off a surprise. Any grand gestures in the works?"

Raphael scratched the back of his head, a hint of a blush visible under his tough exterior when he realized what your father was talking about. "Uh, well, I'm still figuring that out".

“Well… uhm… I’ve… uh”.

Your mother nudged Raphael playfully. "Don't worry, we won't judge. It’s okay if you haven’t thought about it. But if you need advice, feel free to ask".

“Don’t worry about her”, your father laughed. “She is just impatient and wants grandchildren”.

Raphael’s face got hot. He had not thought so far, at all. Sure, he had the occasional thought of growing old with you, but he had never let his thoughts wonder that far. But then a realization fell upon Raphael. They must have talked about you and Raph, and they must have agreed. They wanted you to marry Raph and they wanted the two of you to give them grandchildren. They really trusted him with you. That touched something inside of Raph. Raphael could feel his insides warm at this thought. But he was also in slight shock. He had never thought that he could ever do that. He had never thought of having, because his nature would simply make it impossible. Nobody would want children with him… But just a few months ago he had never thought your family would like him, and see him now. Your parents were literally asking when he was going to propose to you.

As the banter continued between your parents and Raphael, your little brother announced that the Monopoly board was ready for action, just as you finished cleaning the kitchen. The game commenced, filled with laughter, friendly competition, and the occasional intervention of a stealthy ninja move from Raphael that left everyone in stitches.

As the day unfolded, it became clear that Raphael had not only won over your heart but had also forged genuine connections with each member of your family. The initial reservations had transformed into a shared understanding that family came in all shapes and sizes.

Later that evening, as you all gathered for a movie night, Raphael found himself enveloped in the warmth of your family. Snacks were passed around, ready to be eaten to the movie you were about to watch. Jokes were shared, and as it so often happened when Raphael was around your family, he felt a sense of belonging that extended beyond the sewers and the rooftops of New York. He was placed in the middle of your couch, with you to his left and your brother on his right, while your parents each had found their own arm chair.

Your little brother, exhausted from the day's adventures, leaned against Raphael on the couch, who instinctively put an arm around him. "You know, Raph," he mumbled sleepily, without moving his eyes from the television. "You're like the big brother I never knew I wanted".

Raphael, touched by the sentiment, ruffled his hair. "Yeah, well, you're not so bad yourself, squirt."

As the credits rolled on the movie, your little brother, nestled comfortably against Raphael, looked up and said, "I'm glad you're part of our family, Raph."

Raphael smiled, a rare genuine smile that reflected the depth of the bonds formed. "Yeah, kid, me too."

Your mother, watching the interaction, couldn't help but smile. She caught your eye and gave you a knowing look. You, who hadn’t heard the conversation Raph had had with your parents, looked at your boyfriend in slight confusion. But Raphael on the other hand knew exactly what your mother was smiling for.

And in that moment, as the stars emerged in the night sky outside of your apartment, it was clear that Raphael had not only found acceptance but had become an essential part of a family that, against all odds, had embraced him with open hearts.

And in that moment, surrounded by the people who had once been strangers but were now family, Raphael realized that love and acceptance could be found in the most unexpected places. And maybe he should allow himself to dream of a normal life with you.

[amongemeraldclouds]

The Slytherin Boys as Bridgerton Brothers

Ft. Theodore Nott, Mattheo Riddle, and Lorenzo Berkshire. Some also features x f!Reader as their equivalent partner.

© amongemeraldclouds I do not consent to having my work shared or reproduced elsewhere. Please do not claim as your own, tumblr is the only place I publish my written work.

✿ Masterlist | 808 words | Based on the Netflix show

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author is pleased to present the dashing, young Slytherins as their Bridgerton counterpart should they ever grace the ton with their presence.

Theodore Nott as Anthony Bridgerton

𝄞 Theodore Nott as Anthony Bridgerton would be a walking contradiction, oscillating between his responsibilities as a viscount who had to grow up too soon and a rake who refuses to grow up.

𝄞 While attending school at Oxford, he never had to worry about grades as he’s naturally intelligent and can ace his classes with little effort. He’s also generally interested in learning so he never has to force himself to study.

𝄞 This allows him more time to goof off with his classmates so they would go on countless adventures and get into all sorts of trouble. Nothing that would stick of course, given their high status in society and the privilege that comes with it. 

𝄞 Given the early loss of his father, he becomes the viscount at a young age and assumes responsibility for their people and his family. It feeds into his serious and introverted side and he initially has strong opinions on Daphne’s suitors, thinking he knows what’s best for her.

𝄞 When he challenged Simon to duel, part of it would be to defend Daphne’s honor, but another part would be his subconscious tendency towards self-destruction.

𝄞 Secretly, he envies and resents his siblings for not having to bear the responsibilities he had to. Still, he cares for them and always tries his best.

𝄞 He prefers having sex with only one partner, but if he doesn’t have one, he will frequent brothels to get his urges satisfied. He never hesitates to do what he needs to do, both in business and his personal life.

𝄞 When he finally opens himself up to marriage, he initially has a strategic plan, refusing to be swept away by whimsical notions of love. All it ever brought was pain, no thank you.

𝄞 And then he met you. The woman he lost a horse race to, the woman who could best him at pall-mall and is not afraid to get her hands dirty, literally. The woman who could carry herself in a hunt. His match.

𝄞 He rarely fell in love, if at all. But when he fell, he fell utterly and hopelessly in love.

𝄞 In his words, “I have never met anyone like you. It is maddening. How much you consume my very being.” He was never one for moderation.

Mattheo Riddle as Benedict Bridgerton

₊✧ As an aspiring artist, Mattheo Riddle enjoys drawing and often has charcoal or ink stains on his hands, just like Benedict Bridgerton.

₊✧ He likes smoking in general and usually bonds with his sister, Eloise, through their regular smoking sessions on the swing. They confide their dreams and fears with each other.

₊✧ He is closest to Anthony, who often seeks his support as the second son.

₊✧ Once he dives into the art scene away from the prestige of the ton, behind doors closed and with curtains drawn, he is pleasantly surprised to discover the sensual side to these parties.

₊✧ He regularly attends these parties for sketching, booze, and orgies - everything his creative heart could desire.

₊✧ He is genuinely passionate about his art and hopes to get into art school of his own accord.

₊✧ He will not hesitate to turn to substances when he needs to relax, even if it means over consuming Colin’s calming tea to soothe his anxiety of getting into art school.

₊✧ He got so wasted that he found himself screaming in exultation from the windows of their quiet countryside home when he was accepted into art school. 

Lorenzo Berkshire as Colin Bridgerton

❥ Much like Colin Bridgerton, Lorenzo Berkshire is also a free spirit who enjoys traveling and sharing stories of his adventures.

❥ Life of the party, he loves joking around with others.

❥ He is loyal to and protective of his family, always ready to support his siblings, especially his older brothers when needed.

❥ However, when he sets his sights on a goal, he is headstrong and not afraid to pursue things on his own. Whether it’s courting Marina or making investments in an attempt to find his purpose.

❥ Given his penchant to see the good in others, he can sometimes come off as naive but is open to learning from his failures.

❥ He remains a romantic idealist, but often has his head in the clouds that he overlooks your affections and only sees you as a loyal friend.

❥ Everything changes when he gets closer with you and your confidence grows the more autonomy you have with choosing your own gowns, for example. He starts to consider you less like a friend and more romantically.

❥ He better get his hands and knees ready for all the groveling he will go through to win your affections after he denied and rejected you for so long.

✿ Masterlist <- read more

Author’s note:

✿ Wrote this while eagerly awaiting Bridgerton season 3. ✿ I will go absolutely feral when Benedict’s season arrives. That man is already so gorgeous, how are they going to give him a glow up? Losing my mind 🥵

[kitasgloves]

Hostage

tracklist

— ♬ "It's not like me to be so mean, you're all I wanted. Just let me hold you like a hostage"

— ♬ Edgar Allan Poe x Reader, SFW, gender-neutral reader, brief depictions of stalking, obsessive behavior, and kidnapping, Poe having separation issues, 3.5k words, no beta

— ♬ NOTE: I DO NOT CONDONE NOR ROMANTISIZE WHAT IS DEPICTED IN THIS STORY. EVERYTHING IS A WORK OF FICTION. READER'S DESCRETION IS ADVISED.

Solitude is most favored among those who linger in their thoughts for hours. Stillness and silence are required to think and call forth one's imagination. However, prolonged solitude can affect one's spirit. Being isolated from society for too long can wear an individual down. Humans were created to mingle and tangle with others; it's their nature. No matter how long one can be content in solitude, the soul will always long for another.

Edgar Allan Poe longed to find someone who shared his preferences. His being ached for the relatability of another human. Growing up, Poe was accustomed to loneliness, which in turn, made him draw near to it. With his dark reveries of mysteries and murder, he figured that it would be a challenge to encounter someone with similar tastes. Poe spent the majority of his childhood writing stories of horror, he was undeniably attracted to the morbidity of the human mind.

Poe considered himself a passionate and emotional man. Though sometimes his writings can paint him as heartless, he reassures that he is not without a heart. When Poe felt, he felt deeply. In love, anger, or terror, he felt them all in an intensity that was unusual to others. Along the way, he managed to find companions he could express his interests and talent for writing. He felt his spirit satisfied with simple human interactions, but he couldn't help but feel like something was missing. His soul yearned for more than companionship.

Admittedly, romance wasn't Poe's forté. After all, how can romance mix with horror? It didn't make sense to him. Poe wasn't familiar with the methods of wooing someone nor the experiences of new romance. His heart will be yet to be stolen. However, he has read plenty of books circulating around romance to familiarize himself and paint a faint idea of what love is. Pride and Prejudice, A Room with a View, and the timeless Romeo and Juliet filled Poe's imagination with the different faces of love. Love grants hope, joy, and even sorrow. It was difficult to describe the definite meaning of love when he hadn't even experienced it yet.

For a long while, Poe was captivated by romantic novels until he got so pathetically hopeless that he returned back to writing his usual mysteries. He did make attempts at romantic writing through poems, but it was hard to write about romance when you don't have a lover as your inspiration. Sometimes, he will sit by his windowsill during downpours pondering if he will ever experience romance or will be forever achingly long for it.

As though heeding his wordless wishes, Poe has encountered you. It was around Spring when the flowers bloomed, and the sun smiled down upon them when he had met you. Poe, in a rare occurrence, decided to go do his writing outside of his stuffy room. He settled on a bench at the nearest park and began scribbling a draft in his notebook. 

"Hello, would you mind if I sit beside you?"

When Poe looked up and met your eyes, he was speechless. A rare beauty graced him at this time of Spring. Your eyes bore the brightest colors as the sun caressed your skin. You held a book securely against your chest, and it was a novel that he held close to his heart. Poe blinked and gulped as he searched for the words to reply. However, he only ends up nodding his head instead.

You smiled and politely sat on the bench beside him, a respectable space was held in between you that made Poe wish he dared to remove. He turns back to his paper and finds himself out of focus, he has completely lost his train of thought for the next scene of his story. He sits there dumbfounded and unable to stop giving you lingering glances. You sat quietly reading your book with your legs crossed. Your features were filled with content as you delicately turned the page. Poe was transfixed by you.

Suddenly, you turned to your side to find him staring. Poe silently gasps as he reverts his eyes away and back to his notebook, pretending that he wasn't hypnotized by your aura earlier. You held back a smile as you observed the sheepish man. The brown curly hair that mostly covered his eyes, his layered clothing that didn't fit in with the season, and his elegant handwriting on his notebook caught your interest. Poe sweats as he thanks God, he didn't decide to bring his pet raccoon, Karl, with him for he knew he would only pester him to make a move.

"Are you a writer?"

You asked and pointed at his notebook. Poe stutters as he scrambles to find a proper response.

"I—I suppose so, but I'm not an established author...yet"

"Really? Oh, I like literature! What kind of genre are you writing?"

"Oh, just short stories and poems"

"About what? If you don't mind me asking"

"Ju—Just mysteries, murder, and horror..."

Poe found himself too afraid to look up as he covered his writing with the sleeve of his coat. He figured you wouldn't be interested but you've surprised him by inching closer. Your eyes beamed at him with fascination.

"That's so cool! Would you mind if I read a sample of your work?"

The writer panics as he flips through his notebook for the most impressive work he has written. Poe felt pressured as he wanted to amaze you with his talent. You found him flipping back and forth on his notebook, mumbling and deciding what to show you. The sight looks somehow adorable. Finally, Poe shyly hands you his thick notebook filled with his most precious and unpublished works. On the page, you notice his beautiful cursive writing of a poem entitled 'Nevermore'.

Poe was growing nervous with each passing second as your eyes read the poem silently. He thinks he's mistaken when he sees your eyes widen for a moment with astonishment. He kept tugging on the sleeves of his coat as he waited impatiently for your reaction. Eventually, you looked up to him with genuine amazement.

"This...this is beautiful"

"I—um...th—thank you, I haven't showed anybody that poem yet"

"Oh, what an honor! Your writing is very unique"

You complimented him with a smile. Poe's face felt unusually hot as he tore his eyes away in sheer bashfulness. You handed his notebook back and he felt a foreign spark course through him the moment your fingers touched his. He had never met someone before who immediately took an interest in his writing, most of the people he knew barely paid attention to his works or simply made fun of them. Poe is suddenly encouraged to know you.

"... Do you write too?"

"Oh no, I could never. I'm more of a reader"

You admitted with a flustered smile. Poe can feel the corners of his lips curling up as he slowly inches closer to you.

"My name is Poe, Edgar Allan Poe, by the way"

"Nice to meet you, Poe. I'm [Surname] [Name]"

When you held out your hand for him to shake, Poe instantly reached out for your hand and melted by the warmth of your palm even if it was merely a quick second. Ever since that Spring Day, Poe felt himself falling for you. He would begin meeting with you frequently at the park by the same bench. He spent the remainder of Spring getting to know you. Both you and Poe shared your favorite books. You would tell him exciting stories about your childhood, and he would dedicate romantic poems to you. He was beyond ecstatic now that he had the inspiration to write love poems. By the end of Spring, Poe has gifted you a bouquet of red roses and professed his love for you.

The beginning of Summer was promising. Poe has invited you over to his home and introduced you to his lovely raccoon Karl whom you spoiled endlessly. The blooming romance between you and the writer was prevalent through expensive dates. Poe has learned how to effectively shower you with gifts and affection, and you all returned them with your love-filled offerings. Poe continued to dedicate poems to you. By the end of Summer, Poe and you became lovers.

The opening of Autumn was exciting, it was Poe's favorite season because of the weather and Halloween festivities. The writer was thrilled to spend the rest of Fall with you either reading ghost stories or cuddling during the chilling weather. Poe was eager as he made precise plans. You occupied each waking hour of his mind.

Lately, you have been busy with personal affairs and Poe had to cope with being alone while you were unable to be there to shower him with your affection. He tried writing more poems about you or working on his new mystery novel, but he seemed distracted. He made attempts to find a new hobby, but it was futile. He felt restless when you weren't by his side.

A week has passed, and the writer grew anxious. You were spending less and less time with him and he got worried that his first romance would end tragically. Poe tried to do countermeasures to ensure your relationship with him wouldn't end. He would keep a cautious eye on you, making sure you went home safe and that you didn't have any nightmares when you slept. When the morning arrived, he would sneak out of your room without your knowledge. Poe followed you to your workplace to admire you and he avoided staying for too long to avoid gaining suspicion. You went to different places frequently and it was tiresome to follow you around that he eventually gave up.

When Poe felt desperate, he would send Karl to follow you instead. Fall was halfway over, and Poe was growing worried that you were slowly falling out of love with him. His heart couldn't bear the idea of experiencing the heartache he read about in novels. Albeit you would visit him sometimes and did your duty as a lover, Poe didn't feel reassured. He tried to calm himself by reading or listening to music, but the discomfort only grew worse.

Poe wants to be alone, alone with you does that make sense? He wants to steal your soul and hide you in his treasure chest. He doesn't know what to do, to do with your kiss on his neck. He doesn't know what feels true. But this feels right so stay a sec. Yeah, you feel right so stay a sec. And let him crawl inside your veins. He'll build a wall, give you a ball and chain. It's not like him to be so mean, you're all he wanted. Just let him hold you like a hostage.

Autumn was approaching its end with the beginning of the Halloween festivities. You were noticing weird changes in your boyfriend. Poe seemed antsy lately. He's been aggressively writing in his notebook and grumbling curses that Karl was too afraid to approach him. His appearance has been unkept whenever you visit him, including his place, there is scattered paper everywhere and you're left to question his mental stability. You try to make up for lost time with him but he's beginning to push you away that it was uncharacteristic. Poe was behaving unlike himself and it intrigued you.

You were aware that Halloween was Poe's favorite so made cute plans to watch a new horror movie or cuddle with a mystery book as a date. You felt bad for not being consistent with communication with him. When you approached him with your plans for Halloween, he seemed dismissive or angry that it annoyed you. However, you tried to calm your nerves to avoid saying what you might regret later.

"Look, if you don't want to do any of that, I'm open to do whatever you want, Ed"

Poe looks up from his desk, his eyes seem like he is glaring at you through his bangs and it makes you momentarily shudder. He sets his pen down and shuts his notebook. He stands up from his seat and walks over to you. His tall stature almost swallows you as he leans down to meet you in the eye.

"How about we go to that Halloween party your friend was throwing this weekend"

Your eyes went wide as you raised a brow at your boyfriend. Poe's white button-up was wrinkled with a few buttons undone, exposing his pale collarbone. His hair was all over the place, and it seemed like he was lacking sleep.

"But you hate parties!"

"I do, unless I'm with you"

For a moment, Poe's usual sweet demeanor returns on his features as he gently reaches for your hand and kisses it. You melted. Poe sighs as he corners you on his desk he leans down you kisses you. The kiss felt...odd. It was passionate but it's fueled with frustration. His hands start to roam your body as he plunges his tongue into your mouth with no warning. You moan in surprise as he French kissed you. He pulls away to trail kisses from your jaw down to your neck. Breathlessly, you shoved him away. Shocked and disturbed by his unusual actions.

Poe doesn't say a word while he stares at you before he turns away and leaves you alone. You stood there catching your breath and trying to comprehend what the hell was going on with your boyfriend. Karl crawls out from under the couch to rub himself against your leg. Your face relaxed as you picked up the raccoon.

"What's going on with him?"

Karl answers you with a timid squeak. The raccoon stared at you as if he was warning you of impending doom, but you shook your head and laughed it off. You carried Karl in your arms as you searched the kitchen for a snack.

You and Poe barely said a word but agreed to get dressed for the Halloween Party. You two silently decided to have matching costumes. The journey to the party was awkward since you two barely exchanged a word. The party was lively as drinks and people were flooding all over the place. Your friend goes to briefly greet you and your boyfriend. You ended up not enjoying the party because of how things were tense between you and Poe, he hardly glanced at you, and it gave the impression that he was upset.

Karl jumped off Poe's shoulder as he went to scurry god knows where. You took in a large breath and touched the writer's arm. He turns to you with a blank expression.

"Can we talk?"

You and Poe ended up leaving the party. Both of you were outside surrounded by the cold autumn air. You try to inquire about Poe's mood and the reason for his avoidance. Poe gazes at you as if stuck in a trance, he realizes how upset he has made you and it makes him look down embarrassingly at his shoes.

"... I'm sorry, [Name]"

The apology sounded timid but sincere and you can't help but sigh and walk over to your boyfriend. You give him a warm embrace that he returns gratefully. You smile up at him.

"Let's go home and watch a movie, yeah?"

A smile finally graces Poe's lips as he takes your hand before walking back to his place. You two didn't remove your costumes as you entered the door. You're convinced that all is well now that your boyfriend is smiling at you.

Poe couldn't describe the ecstatic feeling rising in him. You appeared so eager to be alone with him that it merely drove him delirious. He felt like he was going mad with fever after experiencing days without you. He spent his time scheming ways to make you stay with him for good to prevent tragedy. Taking you with him back to his home alone was the first step.

Gold on your fingertips, fingertips across his cheek. Gold leaf across your lips, kiss him until he can't speak. Gold chain beneath your shirt, the shirt that you let him wear at home. Gold's fake and real love hurts. And nothing hurts when he's alone. When you're with him and you're both alone.

You were settled comfortably on the couch ready to watch the movie when Poe entered with a book in his hand. This arouses your curiosity as he goes to sit beside you. There was an excited grin on his lips as he offered you the book.

"I just finished my latest mystery novel, would you like to be the first to read, my dear?"

The writer watches your eyes sparkle with delight with a gasp as you excitedly take the book from his hand. You admired the fancy and intricate design of the hardbound book before turning to your boyfriend.

"Oh my god, I would love to! Thank you, baby"

Poe observes you as you softly opened the book, prepared to read the first lines of his novel, but you were engulfed with a bright light that blinded you. A startled gasp leaves your lips as your body disintegrated into particles before entering the light emitting from the book. There was silence as the book shuts abruptly, completely trapping you inside of it.

When you fluttered your eyes open, you found yourself in a windowless and doorless room. When you rose from the floor and tried to walk, you discovered that one of your ankles was chained. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized you were chained to a heavy metal ball. You frantically looked around and tried to find something that would help you break free. However, the room was empty, and it heavily resembled a prison cell. Your lip begins to wobble as panic strikes your heart.

What just happened? From what you recall, you were sitting in the living room when Poe handed you the book for his new mystery novel. You furrowed your eyebrows in thought. You huddled against the wall and tried to keep yourself from crying. All of a sudden, a figure spawns in front of you. Relief floods your heart when you realize that it is your boyfriend.

"Ed!"

You rushed to him but were stopped by the ball and chain, you hissed in pain. Poe hid his hands behind his back as he stood and looked at you calmly. You were convinced that he was going to save you from this weird prison until a twisted smile rose on his lips.

"You look more beautiful than what I have initially imagined"

Poe said. Puzzled, you tilted your head at him. He walks closer and kneels down to your crouched figure. The dark look on his face sent a dreadful shudder down your spine. Your lip starts to wobble.

"Wh—What the happening?"

He chuckles and goes to pet your hair, but you flinched away. Poe hides the pinch in his chest with a smirk.

"I can finally have you all to myself"

"...What? Ed, what the fuck did you just do?"

A menacing laugh erupts from Poe's chest as you gaze at him with pure horror.

"I have successfully trapped you in my mystery novel"

"What?! No, you're kidding. Please, tell me you're joking..."

"Oh no, you will be forever stuck in this novel unless you solve the mystery..."

Poe leans down and gives you a condensing smile that made your blood run hot.

"...That I highly doubt because this mystery is impossible to solve, and you are by no means a talented detective"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

You feel hot tears well up in your eyes as you glared up at him. His smile dissolves as he stares at you eerily and you quiver back against the wall. Poe wants you to let him crawl inside your veins. He has already built you a wall and given you a ball and chain.

"It's not like me to be so mean, you're all I wanted. Just let me hold you like a hostage"

Poe stares at you breathlessly. You couldn't believe what you just heard. You prayed that this was only a sick joke or a nightmare that you were waking up you're going to wake up from. But every second you waited, your unfortunate fate became clear to you. Poe leans forward to embrace you, he can feel you shaking in his arms as he hears the silent sobs breaking out of your lips. Nonetheless, he buries his face against your neck. 

You'll never leave him, as long as you're trapped inside of his book, his romance with you will never end. Poe has lost sleep creating the most complicated mystery novel his twisted mind can create; he knows you can never be free because the mystery is impossible to solve. This truly felt a happy ending for Poe's life, there are no tragedies or heartbreak. For he will eternally hold you in his arms, and as his hostage.

©kitasgloves (do not steal or copy)

[littlegaybean1]

Ok ok ok...

It's been almost 18 years since it aired, but who cares I'm talking about it anyway.

I've seen a lot of people hating on Cyberwoman. And yeah, I understand why. That costume choice was, er, quite something. But it's still my favourite episode and yk why? The build up. The plotline. And most of all the acting. Oh my god the acting. My favourite scene has got to be the tourist office, because oh my days have you seen the way Gareth David Lloyd plays Ianto? It gives me chills. After watching it, I rewatched Everything Changes and Ghost Machine because I never actually noticed Ianto in them, unless he's speaking. The only time you ever see him is when he intentionally draws attention to himself, which he rarely does. I watched them again, specifically focusing on Ianto. He's barely in them. He's one of the main 5 characters, but in the first three episodes he has one of the most minor roles. Like, you see him let Gwen into the Hub, delete the stuff she typed to make herself remember and see him introduced. That's it for episode one. And yes, everyone has a minor role in that, but you never actually see him as part of the team. He works alone, always.

Episode three really highlights that for me. He appears every so often with a funny comment. He has less screen time than Rhys. If it wasn't for the fact that I was actively thinking about him, I would have completely forgotten that he was there. One of his rare appearances really got to me - the ending. Jack gives him the ghost machine to put in the secure archives. That's normal, the archives are his area.

Except Jack doesn't even look at him. He just holds it out, like Ianto is a servant, not someone with years of experience dealing with aliens. Ianto worked at Torchwood One. He was the most qualified of anyone on that team when each of them joined. Owen was medically trained, but no experience with aliens. Tosh was a genius, but she had only experienced aliens through wrong blueprints of their technology, plus a charge of treason. Gwen had police training, nothing more. She got a job by being stubborn, and in the right place at the right time. Jack was reckless, dangerous, and did not want to join Torchwood. He only did it because he needed to do something in the 100+ years that he would be waiting for the Doctor.

Ianto had everything taken from him all at once, and nobody bothered to check on him. He looked fine, so they didn't give it any more thought. They of all people should know that that's not how it works. Ianto was repressing his grief, exhausting himself with the amount he worked both at his job and caring for Lisa. He never had any desire to cause anyone any harm. He was blinded by overwhelming grief. When humans experience loss, the automatic reaction is to cling to what you have. For most people, that means reaching out to friends and family, creating a support system. Ianto lost all his friends, all at once. We don't hear about his family until S3 (goddamn S3), but it's implied that they aren't close. I haven't listened to any of the audios, so if there's more to it than that then I don't know it.

Ianto had nothing, except an echo pretending to be Lisa. He did the most natural thing in the world, clung to what he had. Or at least, what he thought he had. Don't blame Ianto for the events of Cyberwoman. His actions correlate with normal reactions to grief. Yes, his actions were extreme. But so was his grief.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Can you please give an explainer on the friendship between Robespierre and Desmoulins and what their dynamic together was like? I know they were at school together as kids but were they really as close as movies usually portray them as? Was Robespierre better friends with Saint-Just?

Bonus: What's the story behind Desmoulins using Roussaeau against Robespierre?

Merci!

That’s an interesting question considering how often their relationship, as you say, has gotten dramatized.

The good days of the relationship

Both Robespierre and Desmoulins started attending the boarding school of Louis-le-Grand at the age of eleven, the former in 1769, the latter in 1771. We don’t know when exactly they first ran into and/or got to know each other, nor exactly just how close or not they actually grew to be while at college. To me, the following two statements do however suggest that their relationship back then was at least better than ”mere acquaintances”:

Oh, my dear Robespierre! It is not long since we were sighing together over our country’s servitude, since, drawing from the same sources the sacred love of liberty and equality, amid so many professors whose lessons only taught us to detest our land, we were complaining there was no professor of cabals who would teach us to free it, when we were regretting the tribune of Rome and Athens, how far was I from thinking that the day of a constitution a thousand times more beautiful was so close to shining on us, and that you, in the tribune of the French people, would be one of the firmest ramparts of the nascent freedom! Desmoulins in number 15 of Révolutions de France et de Brabant (March 8 1790)

I knew Camille in college, he was my study companion, he was then a talented young man without mature judgement. Since then Camille has developed the most ardent love of the Republic;... one must not look only at one point in his moral life, one must take the whole of it; one must examine him as a whole. Robespierre defends Camille at the Jacobins December 14 1793 (only time he ever admitted to a college friendship with anyone at all)

Liévin-Bonaventure Proyart, who worked at the college up until 1778, would give the following description of the relationship Desmoulins and Robespierre had back then in his La vie et les crimes de Robespierre: surnommé le Tyran… (1795):

In his lower classes, and however young he had been, [Robespierre] was very rarely seen sharing the amusements and games which most please childhood. His cold and misanthropic heart never knew those outpourings of lively and frank joy, natural signs of candor and ingenuity. Of all the noisy and endlessly varied amusements which make the public recreation of a college such an animated scene, none pleased him, and he preferred dark reveries and solitary walks. If someone, at these moments, approached him, he received him with a cold gravity; and answered him at first only in monofyllables. If he took it upon himself to praise his style and his scholastic productions, Robespierre did him the favor of striking up a conversation with him. But, however little one ventured to thwart him, one instantly became the object of some harsh and virulent trait. Camille Desmoulins, who lived at the same college, and whose impetuous and untidy character did not adapt well to the philosophical arrogance of Robespierre, had from time to time grapples with him, but from then on as since, the champions did not fight on equal terms. Always more reflective than the opponent who provoked him, and more master of his moves, Robespierre, watching the moment, pounced on him with all the advantage that cold prudence has over temerity.

Fellow students Beffroy de Reigny and Stanislas Fréron would in the latter half of the 1790’s similarly make the contradiction of stating both that the young Robespierre didn’t have any friends at school and that he and Desmoulins had been college comrades (Beffroy writing that Robespierre was ”his (Desmoulins’) comrade and mine” and Fréron that Desmoulins was Robespierre’s ”childhood comrade”). Though given the time these texts were written, I think this might should be read more as these Robespierre-dislikers wanting to have the cake and eat it too (ergo they both want Robespierre to have killed his childhood friend and to have been so repulsive he had no friends at all) than as full blown evidence Camille was Robespierre’s ”only friend” at school as the latter puts it in La Terreur et la Vertu.

Finally, Marcellin Matton, when writing a short biography over Camille in 1834, stated the following regarding his college days:

It was [at Louis-le Grand] that Camille got to know Maximilien Robespierre. They differed in character, but both had this passion which always distinguishes men of genius — love for liberty and for independence. The fully republican education one gave to young people born to live under a monarchy contributed a lot to their character. Without stop and in all forms, one presented them with history of Gracchus, Brutus, Cato. Camille was always together with Robespierre and their conversation most often revolved around the constitution of the Roman Republic.

While this certainly sounds like it could just be romantizing, we do know Matton was friends with Camille’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and it it’s therefore possible it’s them (who in their turn would have gotten it from Camille) who have given him this account of a close college relationship.

It’s sometimes argued that Robespierre and Desmoulins can’t have been friends while at school since they were never in the same grade, and it therefore would have been really hard for them to socialize. And indeed, when looking over the school regulations that were in motion during their time there, that does indeed come off as quite a hard thing to do — students were to stick to their ”quarter” both in dormitories, during classes, study hall, on Sunday outings, and at table (at first I thought maybe these ”quarters” weren’t neccessarily made up of students who all came from the same grade, but this other piece seems to rule out that possibility). This leaves the thirty-minute recesses as the only places where students from different quarters would have gotten a chance to interact with one another (bc they all seemed to have recess at the same time according to the schedule…). I do however think Robespierre and Desmoulins’ own testimonies weigh heavier than this. Desmoulins would also go on to admit college friendships with other students we know for a fact can never have been in the same grade as him.

In 1774 and 1775, both Robespierre and Desmoulins’ names featured on the list of students that had been awarded annual prizes for their hard labors, which means that they, according to the regulations, got presented before the bureau of administration by the principal ”to there receive praise and rewards due to their work and the success of their studies” together.

After graduating (Robespierre in 1781, Desmoulins in 1785) the two seemingly lost sight of one another, at least we don’t have any evidence they corresponded or in other ways kept up contact. Two pieces do however show us they did not forget about each other entirely. The first is a letter dated spring 1786 Camille adressed to the aforementioned Beffroy de Reigny, who in January the same year had openly thanked his ”former study comrade Robespiere [sic]” for sending him two of his works as a gift.

It was noticed lately, as a misfortune attached to the house where we were brought up together, that none of those who had distinguished themselves there fulfilled in the world the hopes that he had first given, that you alone seem happier right now, and we rejoice in your many subscribers. Although the subscribers are your dear and beloved cousins, we can clearly see that you have not forgotten the rest of the family, nor lost sight of the mountain where we were the first to applaud you. The advantageous manner in which you have spoken of M. Robespiere [sic] has charmed us all; up to now, M. Jéhanne has missed only one opportunity to provide you with the occasion of doing him justice as well. The joy with which you gave well deserved praise to a comrade reproached me for my conduct towards you, and obliges me to retract. 

In 1793, Robespierre did in his turn admit to before the revolution have read a poem (that according to Camille had been written in 1787), and felt proud once he realized who the author was:

Remember that at a time when the monarchy was best established on its foundations, Camille, a simple individual, without support, without advocate or patron, a lawyer without a cause on the fourth floor, dared to put into verse the proudest principles of the most determined Republican. Then, in the depths of my province, I learned with secret pleasure that the author was one of my college comrades.

Interestingly, Robespierre’s younger brother Augustin started studying law at Louis-le-Grand in 1784, one year before Camille graduated from said program, although neither would claim to have known the other while at college.

On May 8 1789, Desmoulins authored a letter to his father, telling him about the opening of the Estates General at Versailles three days earlier. Lamenting the fact he himself didn’t get elected for it, he writes: ”one of my comrades has been more fortunate than I, it’s de Robespierre, deputy from Arras. He has been wise enough to plead in his own province.” The fact Camille was able to recognize Robespierre eight years after their separation (and care about it enough to write it down), could be read as yet another sign their college relationship had at least mattered somewhat, especially since this letter is from before Robespierre had made any kind of name for himself politically. How exactly Camille found out Robespierre had been elected (did he recognize his face in a crowd, accidentally run into him or just see it written down somewhere?) is however unknown.

After the ceremony, Camille did however head back to Paris, while Robespierre would remain at Versailles up until October 1789. On July 23 1789, the latter writes to his friend Antoine Buissart that he has been shown the stormed Bastille after the king and the National Assembly’s brief visit to Paris following July 14, but there’s no evidence he saw Desmoulins during it, or even that he knew he had been the one inciting the storming at this point.

In the beginning of September, Camille released Discours de la Lanterne aux Parisiens, the first of his works which he mentioned Robespierre in:

I would at least congratulate M. de Robespierre for opposing with all his strength the release of the Duke of Vauguyon. M. Glaizen opposed it in an even more eloquent manner. Member of the criminal committee, he resigned immediately. This speaks of conviction. Honor to MM. Glaizen and Robespierre!

Later the same month, Camille went back to Versaille after having been invited by Mirabeau, and the day after his arrival (September 20 1789) he could write to tell his father: ”If you hear bad things said about me, console yourself with the memory of the testimony that MM. de Mirabeau, Target, M. de Robespierre, Gleizal and more than two hundred deputies gave me.” Camille stayed with Mirabeau for two weeks before returning to Paris, but there’s no proof he saw Robespierre any more times during his stay.

When Robespierre too went to Paris soon thereafter, he settled in an apartment on Rue de Saintonge, today a 45 minute walk away from Camille’s erstwhile home on Rue de Tournon 19. Despite finally living in the same city again, it’s not until March 6 1790 I’ve discovered something more concreate tying the two together. It’s a note from Desmoulins to Robespierre, found listed in Mémoires de l’Académie des sciences, agriculture, commerce, belles-lettres et arts du département de la Somme (1907) as one of many Desmoulins related text published in Journal de Vervins during the summer of 1884. Unfortunately, I can’t find this journal online anywhere, so I don’t know what the note was about.

In November 1789, Camille founded his very first journal — Révolutions de France et de Brabant — that would run until the fall of 1791. Searching for the term ”Robespierre” in the seven digitalized volumes of the journal, I find Camille talking about him around 85 times. The first time is in number 4 (released December 19 1789), where he makes sure to underline the fact that he and Robespierre had been ”college comrades”:

…If my dear college comrade, Robespierre, had said the same thing to the viscount, he wouldn’t have been able to respond like Saint Peter.

This was the first in a long series of homages Desmoulins’ journal would pay Robespierre. Throughout the years, he called him among other things ”The last of Romans and my hero” (number 41, September 6 1790), ”So pure, so inflexible, the peak of patriotism” (number 46, October 11 1790), ”the living commentary on the Declaration of Rights” (number 65, February 21 1791) and ”immutable” (number 76, May 9 1791). Desmoulins was also second in giving Robespierre the famous nickname ”the Incorruptible.” Not even Robespierre’s erstwhile boyfriend brother in arms Pétion, where Camille still admitted it was impossible to speak of one without thinking about the other (number 55, December 13 1790) got the same almost saintlike treatment. While Robespierre got praised by several journals positive to the revolution, I don’t think it would be that unfair to say Desmoulins was his cheerleader number one during at least its first few years. Several times, Robespierre also sent Camille speeches and letters of his which the latter willfully inserted into his journal (1, 2, 3).

I’ve found only one time Révolutions de France et de Brabant had something negative to say about Robespierre, and it is in number 27, released on May 31 1790, and conviently enough, the next piece of information regarding Desmoulins and Robespierre’s relationship that I know of:

I wasted my time preaching the republic. The republic and democracy are now down, and it is unfortunate for an author to shout in the desert and to write pages as worthless, as little listened to, as the motions of J. F. Maury. Since I despair of overcoming insurmountable currents, tied for six months to the bench of rowers, perhaps I would do well to regain the shore, and throw away a useless oar. I should leave Garnery, continue writing Révolutions de France et de Brabant at a discount, without attempting with my librarian, the unequal struggle of Tournon with Prudhomme. But I hear Robespierre call my discouragement corruption, and exclaim that I am sold like the others to the King's wife and to the ministerial party. I must undeceive my dear Robespierre, I must give new proofs of my incorruptibility every week, show that I am as proud a republican as he is, and that when the number of patriots, which is diminishing prodigiously every day, would be reduced to one or two citizens, it is I who would like to remain the last of the Jacobins. […] How is it that I was accused of being a sold-out journalist, and that I saw Robespierre and L... among my slanderers, when it is so difficult to find proofs of corruption against me? […] So I could not have my neck wrapped in a handkerchief and complain of esquinancia without being reproached for argyrancia as well. Ungrateful Robespierre!

A week later, June 7 1790, Robespierre authors the following letter to Desmoulins, in response to something the latter has written about him in the number of his journal released right after the one quoted above:

Monsieur, I read the following passage regarding the decree from May 22 on the right of war and peace in your (votre) latest number of Révolutions de France et de Brabant: On Saturday, May 22, the little dauphin applauded a decree Mirabeau had put forward with a good sense way beyond his young years. The people applauded too. It led back in triumph Barnave, Péthion [sic], Lameth, d'Aiguillon, Duport, and all the illustrious Jacobins; imagiening itself having just won a great victory, and these deputies had the weakness to maintain it in an error which they enjoyed. Robespierre was more frank, he said to the multitude which surrounded him and stunned them with his beating statement: ”Well! gentlemen, what are you congratulating yourself on? the decree is detestable, detestable to the last bit; let's let the brat clap his hands at his window, he knows better than us what he's doing.” I must, monsieur, point out the error in which you have been led on the fact which concerns me in this passage. I told the National Assembly my opinion on the principles and consequences of the decree which regulates the exercise of the right of peace and war; but there I stopped. I did not make the statement you cite in the Tuileries garden; I didn’t even speak to the crowd of citizens who gathered in my path as I crossed it. I believe I must disavow this fact: 1, because it is not true; 2, because, however disposed I am to always display in the National Assembly the character of frankness which should distinguish the representatives of the nation, I am not unaware that elsewhere there is a certain reserve which suits them. I hope, monsieur, that you will be good enough to make my statement public through your newspaper, especially since your magnanimous zeal for the cause of liberty will make it a law for you not to leave bad citizens the slightest of pretext to calumniate the energy of the defenders of the people. De Robespierre.

There’s certainly not much in this letter implying Robespierre is friends with Desmoulins, or even knows him as anything more than a journalist… All readers’ letters published within Révolutions de France et de Brabant up to this point have however used vouvoiement and been about as formal, so it’s possible Robespierre (who, according to his conserved correspondence, doesn’t use a particulary warm tone with anyone around this period save his arragois friend Antoine Buissart) is trying to mimick them. It’s also not impossible his tone had something to do with what Desmoulins had written about him a week earlier. Desmoulins did however not let himself become influenced by it when publishing and responding to the letter in the the next number (June 14 1790) of his journal. He even chose to adress Robespierre in tutoiment, even though Robespierre addressed him with vouvoiement, and despite having adressed every other correspondent to the journal with vouvoiement up until this point.

If I insure this errata, my dear Robespierre, it is only to show your (ton) signature to my fellow journalists, and teach them not to cripple a name that patriotism has illustrated. There is in your letter a dignity, a seanatorial gravity which wounds college friendship. You’re rightly proud of the laticlave of deputy to the National Assembly. This noble pride pleases me, and what annoys me even more is that not everyone feels their dignity as you do? But you should at least greet a former comrade with a slight nod. I love you none the less, because you are faithful to principles, even if you are not so faithful to friendship. However, why demand this retraction from me? When I would have slightly altered the truth in the anecdote I told, since this fact is honorable for you, since I doubtless said what you thought, if not your expressed words, instead of disavowing the journalists so curtly, you had to content yourself with saying like the cousin, in the charming comedy of the supposed dead man: ”Ah! Monsieur, vous brodez!” You are not one of those weak men of whom J.J Rousseau speaks, who do not want anyone to be able to repeat what they think, and who only speak the truth in their negligee or in their dressing gown, and not in the National Assembly or in the Tuileries.

According to Brissot, the incident did however end up making both college comrades rather piqued against one another. In his memoirs (1793), he wrote the following about it:

I reread this letter to Camille, which chance put before my eyes at this moment, and of which Robespierre himself had brought me a copy to print so that it would have more publicity. It is dated June 8 [sic] 1790 […] Doesn't everything in this letter, on which I can't help but dwell yet, bear the character of a vague uneasiness, of a singular timidity? I remember on this occasion Robespierre with his fears and his scruples which he could not dissimulate. Desmoulins' thoughtlessness alarmed him; he didn't know what to think of it. Was this young man paid to write such follies, and thus compromise the friends of reason and liberty? The deputy's response to the journalist was dignified, proud; it was indeed the style of a patriot. Royalism? what clumsiness! […] Before inserting this complaint in my diary, I warned Camille, whose susceptibility I knew. His answer was made, he left it to me; but I thought I was agreeable to him by publishing neither this answer nor the complaint of which it was the object. He seemed to me strongly piqued against Robespierre. Was it in this tone that a college friend had written to him? What had this rose-watered Brutus to blame, and what power was he so afraid of displeasing? However, Cassius did not want to anger Brutus. Desmoulins always sought to stick to celebrities, to Danton as to Mirabeau, to Linguet as to Robespierre; he would have sought out Marat, had that wolf been able to live with someone in society. Moreover, Robespierre's letter, like his signature, struck his mind, and his answer smelt a bit of taunting.

If the relationship got damaged, it was however not enough to stop Robespierre from saving Camille after an arrest warrant had been issued against him during the session of the National Assembly held on August 2 1790:

M. Malouet: …Is Camille Desmoulins innovative? He will justify himself. Is he guilty? I will be the accuser of him and of all those who take up his defense. Let him justify himself, if he dares. (A voice rises from the stands: ”Yes, I dare.” A part of the surprised assembly rises; the rumor spreads in the assembly that it is M. Camille Desmoulins who has spoken; the president gives the order to arrest the individual who uttered these words). N…: I ask that we deliberate beforehand on this arrest. M. Robespierre: I believe that the provisional order given by the President was indispensable; but must you confuse imprudence and inconsideration with crime? He heard himself accused of a crime against the Nation, it is difficult for a sensitive man to remain silent. It cannot be supposed that he intended to disrespect the Legislative Body. Humanity agrees with justice, pleads in its favour. I ask for his release, and that we move on to the agenda. The president annonces that M. Camille Desmoulins has escaped and can’t be arrested. The Assembly pass onto the order of the day.

Desmoulins was grateful Robespierre had stepped in, and in number 38 (August 16 1790) of his journal, he described the incident in the following way:

My dear Robespierre did not abandon me at this moment. By condemning me at first he conciliated all minds, and then brought them back with great art by developing this motion: if it is someone other than M. Desmoulins who raised his voice, this breach of assembly wheat must be punished; if it is him; it is difficult for an accused who does not feel guilty not to accept the challenge of his accuser. I ask for his release. Robespierre was applauded.

When Fréron (who we know was on friendly terms with at least Camille) described the very same incident in his journal l’Orateur du Peuple, he did refer to Robespierre as ”[Camille’s] friend” so perhaps their relationship had indeed gotten better since Robespierre’s impersonal letter…

Three numbers later (September 6 1790) Desmoulins writes about having given Robespierre a book written by abbot Jean-Joseph Rive:

O most learned and most patriotic of abbots! I read your letters, in which you always start out angry with me, and in which you end up smothering me with patriotic semens, and I gave your dear Robespierre your 700 pages in-80. But when do expect us to find the time to read your little novel?

Pierre Villiers, who in his Souvenirs d’un déporté (1802) claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary April-November 1790, wrote that the latter during this period ”thought the highest (il a fait le plus grand cas) of Camille Desmoulins. He's going too fast, Robespierre said to me, he'll break his neck; Paris wasn't made in a day, it takes more than a day to undo.”

On December 11 1790, Camille was given permission to marry Lucile Duplessis. Two weeks later, December 27, Robespierre, alongside Pétion, Brissot, Mercier, Sillery, Danton, Duport du Tertre, Barnave, Viefville des Essarts, Charles Lameth, Alexandre Lameth, Mirabeau, Andrieu and Deviefville, signed the couple’s wedding contract (1, 2). Two days after that, the wedding ceremony was held in Église Saint-Sulpice. Writing to his father about it, Camille could report that the witnesses this time had been ”Péthion [sic] and Robespierre, the elite of the National Assembly, M. de Sillery, who wanted to be there, and my two collegues Brissot de Warville and Mercier, the elite among the journalists.” The priest presiding over the ceremony was Denis Bérardier, who from 1778 to 1787 had been Camille and Robespierre’s college principal, after which he had been elected to represent the clergy at the Estates general. In the previously cited letter to his father, Camille writes that Bérardier during the ceremony held a speech that moved both him, Lucile and all of the witnesses to tears. An anonymous anecdote from 1792 similarily claims Camille began to cry out of joy during the ceremony, only this time Robespierre, instead of crying along with him, responded: ”don’t cry, you hypocrite!” It was however dismissed as apocryphal by Desmoulins’ latest biographer. After the ceremony, Camille reports that groom, bride, the witnesses and Bérardier all went over to his place to have dinner together with Lucile’s parents and sister. 

A little more than a month after the wedding, Robespierre, impatient to see a speech of his printed in Révolutions de France et de Brabant, sent the following letter to Camille. This is the first time in his conserved correspondence where he doesn’t use vouvoiement, and it won’t be until February 1793 that he does so again (though I don’t have any appreciation on whether adressing someone in third-person is less formal or not):

Paris, February 14 1791 I point out to Monsieur Camille Demoulins [sic] that neither the beautiful eyes nor the fine qualities of the charming Lucile are reasons for not announcing my work on the national guard which has been given to him and of which I send him a copy if necessary. At this moment there is no object more pressing or more important than the organization of the National Guards. At least that is what the citizens of Marseilles think, of whom I am here attaching a decree relating to my speech. I beg Camille not to mislead himself and to try to also send me back the letters from Avignon and the replies which I gave him. Robespierre

Camille obliged, printing the speech a week later in number 65 (February 21 1791) of his journal. It happened to be Discours sur l’organisation des gardes nationales, in which Robespierre becomes the first person ever to use the three words ”liberté, égalité, fraternité” as a slogan. But it was Camille who in July 1790 had been the first to bring the three words together as a formula. Robespierre and Desmoulins can therefore be said to hold the shared responsibility for the invention of what today is France’s national motto.

Five days after Camille had published Robespierre’s speech, February 26, Madame Chalabre wrote to the latter that ”The patriot Camille, in his last speech, paints with a charming naturalness, a truly original precision, the character of your talents. One would think that the genius of the good and unfortunate Jean-Jacques inspired him; it is of such a delicate touch; he shed so many tears reading this passage! Good Camille, you deserve the happiness which I hope you will enjoy with your lovely companion.” A week later, March 3, Sillery writes to Camille that ”Madame de Sillery is coming to dine at my house with Pétion and Robespierre, I dare to ask your lovable and beautiful wife to too do me this honor. […] Come, my dear Camille, if you have ever found yourself in a pure and exact democracy, it will be eight o’clock on Sunday when I hope to embrace you.”

In number 79 (June 4 1791) of his journal, Camille praises the ”simplicity” of Robespierre ”going by foot from his home on rue Saintonge to the National Assembly and dining for 30 sols,” implying they are on good enough terms for him to know those details about him. A few weeks later, June 21, Paris woke up to the discovery that the royal family had disappeared from the capital during the night. In number 82 (June 27 1791) of his journal, Camille would describe in detail what he had been up to during this day:

I left [Lafayette] hoping that maybe the immense career that the King's flight had opened to his ambition had brought him back to the popular party, and arrived at the Jacobins, striving to believe in his demonstrations of friendship and patriotism, and to fill myself with this persuasion, which, despite my efforts, flowed from my mind through a thousand memories, as through a thousand outlets. The only man who has my full confidence, Robespierre, had the floor. See here a speech full of truths of which I haven’t lost a single one, and tremble: [he then transcribes a speech Robespierre holds on the flight of the royal family] How shall I express this abandon, this accent of patriotism and indignation with which he pronounced it! He was listened to with that religious attention from which we collect the last words of the dying. It was, in fact, like his testament that he came to deposit in the archives of the club. I did not hear this speech with as much composure as I report at this moment, where the arrest of the former King has changed the face of affairs. I was moved to tears in more than one place, and when this excellent citizen, in the middle of his speech, spoke of the certainty of paying with his head for the truths he had just pronounced, I cried out: we will all die before you!

Apparently no one ever taught Camille to be careful with what you wish for.

In the same number, Desmoulins also describes how, the next day, he and several others brought a woman who had information to give on the escape attempt to the Jacobin club, in the hopes that her testimony would get Robespierre to denounce Lafayette and Bailly. Once arrived, they talk to him and Buzot, who both quickly become convinced of the high credibility of the witness, but are taken aback by the measures proposed to be taken. ”We will be,” they said, ”pushed back from the tribune, referred to the research committee, and our accusation will be entered in this mortuary register of denunciations.” After a while Pétion shows up and definitely discourages Robespierre, who, according to Camille, ”at first was quite disposed to take away the reputation of Bailly and La Fayette via assault.”

The escape attempt resulted in the demonstration and shootings on Champ de Mars on July 17 1791. On the evening of the same day as these events, we find Desmoulins and Robespierre at the Jacobin Club, both speaking of what had just happened. Shortly thereafter Camille went incognito for a while, hiding out at Lucile’s parents’ country house at Bourg-la-Reine until finally resurfacing in Paris again in early September. In the meantime, Robespierre had changed address and gone to live with the Duplay family on Rue Saint-Honoré 398, today a 35 minute walk from Rue du Théâtre 1 (today Rue de l’Odeon 28) where Camille and Lucile had moved shortly after their wedding. In her old days, Élisabeth Duplay authored a list over the people who most commonly would frequent her family’s house during the revolution.

The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.

However, judging by an anecdote told by the same Élisabeth, Desmoulins’ visits went from being frequent to rare after a certain incident (that I would guess happened in 1793 considering Élisabeth still places his overall visits under the ”often” section):

One day Camille familiarly enters the Duplay house; Robespierre was absent. He starts a conversation with the youngest of the carpenter's daughters; as he retires, Camille hands her a book he had under his arm. ”Elizabeth,” he said to her, ”do me the service of holding onto this work; I will come back for it.” No sooner had Desmoulins left than the young girl curiously half-opened the book entrusted to her custody: what was her confusion, seeing paintings of revolting obscenity pass under her fingers. She blushes: the book falls. All the rest of the day Elizabeth was silent and troubled; Maximilian noticed it; drawing her aside. "What's the matter with you," he asked her, "you look so worried to me?" The young girl lowered her head, and as an answer went to fetch the book with the odious engravings which had offended her sight. Maximilien opened the volume and turned pale. "Who gave you this?" he asked in a voice shaking with anger. The girl frankly told him what had happened. "It’s fine," Robespierre went on, "don't talk about what you've just told me to anyone: I'll make it my business. Don't be sad anymore. I'll let Camille know. It is not what enters involuntarily through the eyes that defiles chastity: it is the evil thoughts that one has in the heart.” He admonished his friend severely, and from that day on, visits from Camille Desmoulins became very rare.

In a diary entry entry from June 1792, Lucile seemingly confirms the connection she and her husband had with Robespierre’s host family when she writes ”I went with C(amille) and little Duplay (most likely Élisabeth’s little brother Jacques-Maurice) to an old madwoman’s.”

On September 30 1791, the National Assembly was shut down and Robespierre left Paris for Arras, where he arrived on October 14. He was back in the capital again on November 28. A little more than two weeks later, December 16, Brissot, held his first speech in favor of going to war. As known, Robespierre opposed this, holding his first speech against the idea just two days later. Desmoulins quickly joined his side, holding a similar speech on December 25. When Robespierre held his third big speech on the subject, on January 11, Desmoulins, who listened to the reading, was enthusiastic and the next day he wrote the following letter to the ”patriots of Millau” (cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un Rêve de République):

At the moment I am still enthusiastic. This speech will be reread in all sections, in all clubs and in all patriots' houses; everywhere one will admire and especially love the author, but what would have happened had you heard him speak yourself! Those who were his college comrades, and even those who last year were his colleagues in the National Assembly, have not recognized Robespierre for some time. From a man of spirit, he became eliquent, and now he is sublime at intervals. It seems that he grows by one foot every month, as it is true that the home of talent is the heart. When, two years ago, I presented him, in my journal, as a Cato, I was far from foreseeing that he would never rise to the height of the talent of Demosthenes.

A month later, Desmoulins also aimed a blow against Brissot with the release of the pampleth Jean Pierre Brissot démasqué. While said pampleth definitely outlined who Camille considered his enemies, it also made clear who were his champions, with Robespierre, who’s name got mentioned nine times throughout, taking up the forefront:

This true patriot (Rœderer) has not forgiven me, him and his cabal, for loving Robespierre, my college friend, venerable, great in my eyes, although it has been said that there was no great man for his valet-de-chambre, nor for his college friend and the witness of his youth.

In a letter written shortly thereafter to François Suleau, another one of their former college comrades, Desmoulins claimed that ”[Robespierre] sees me as invulnurable after the proof of incorruptibility that I produced in my latest writing to Brissot.” Apropos of Desmoulins still seeing Suleau, a firm royalist, he added: ”I cannot blame my friend Robespierre when he tells me that he would run away from my house on seeing a notable from Coblentz (Suleau) enter.” 

War was nevertheless declared on April 20 1792. The very same day, Camille and Fréron, who had both had to quit their journals in the aftermath of the massacre on Champ de Mars, signed a contract for creating a new one — La Tribune des Patriotes. The first number was meant to be released on May 7, but the following day, their publisher Charles Frobert Patris told Camille he had refused to print it, on the charge of it being ”a libel.” Camille reported this to the Jacobin club the very same day, and the following session Patris came forward to explain himself. Things did however not go the way he’d planned, and in a pampleth released shortly afterwards, Patris wrote the following regarding the session:

How come you (Robespierre) tolerated that the vile informer (Camille), to whom I was answering, seeing the club cover with long applause the hard truths that I was beginning to tell him, left his place to go sit down behind you, pulled you by the tailcoat and spoke to you in a low voice and with an air of intelligence! Didn't you have to feel that such intimacy would favor him, and turn to my prejudice?

Soon thereafter, La Tribune des Patriotes could finally be released. This work too was in part meant to protect and advocate for Robespierre, starting already in the first number:

O my dear Robespierre, I gave you this name (the Incorruptible) three years ago! Let people re-read my writings: at the time of my highest admiration for the Mirabeaus, the Lafayettes, the Lameths, and so many others, I always set you apart, I always placed your probity, character and soul above all; and I have seen that the public, while learning from my writings, has hitherto confirmed my judgments, six months or a year after I had made them. Since degenerate friends of truth come to the aid of the impotence of our means to defray the cost of this journal, Fréron and I will not abandon you in the breach, in the midst of a cloud of enemies. The efforts of all these false patriots relentless today - against you alone, we will divide them, by drawing on us their hatred, and by fighting at your side, not for a man, not for you, but for the cause of the people, the equality of the constitution, which has been attacked in you.

Desmoulins and Fréron had originally planned to have the journal run for at least a year, however, it failed to catch an audience and was put down already after four numbers. Robespierre’s name did however still get mentioned a total of 40 times throughout the journal, always in a positive light.

On July 6 1792, Lucile gave birth to a son who received the name Horace. The idea that Robespierre was his godfather would appear to be nothing but a myth seeing as the baptism record doesn’t mention any godparents but only two witnesses — neither of which is Robespierre but instead Laurent Lecointre and Merlin de Thionville. After the good days of the relationship were over, both Lucile and her mother would however contemplate over Robespierre having held Horace in his arms on multiple occasions, the former writing: ”You (Robespierre) who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have carassed so many times…” and the latter asking if he still remembered ”the caresses you lavished on little Horace, how you delighted to hold him upon your knee.”

Three days after his birth, Horace was sent off to a wetnurse, while Lucile soon thereafter went to her parents’ country house to rest up. Camille remained in Paris working on a speech that he delivered on July 24. A few days before it he reported to Lucile that ”I dined at Robespierre’s today and talked ever so much about Rouleau (nickname for Lucile), Rouleau, my poor Rouleau.” Lucile returned from the countryside on August 8. Four days later, after the Insurrection of August 10, Camille was made secretary by the new Minister of Justice Danton. After a week, the three went to live at Hôtel de Bourvallais, just a six minute walking distance away from the Duplay house, and where, in Lucile’s own words, ”we spent three months quite cheerfully.”

The trial of the king started around the same time Camille and Lucile returned to their original apartment. Robespierre and Camille once again fought side by side for the same goals — this time for death and against an appeal to the people. In number 2 of his journal La Defenseur de la Constitution, Robespierre inserted a speech Camille had made on the latter of these two questions.

On March 26 1793, Desmoulins and Robespierre were both elected for the so called Commission of Public Safety, alongside 23 others. The commission, consisting of both fervent montagnards and girondins, was however off to a rocky start, and already on April 6 it was put to death and replaced by the Committee of Public Safety, which neither Desmoulins nor Robespierre was on.

On May 17 1793, Desmoulins announced the release of his new pampleth l’Histoire des Brissotins to the Jacobins. We know that Robespierre had had a hand in the creation of this pampleth through a note inserted in Camille’s Lettre de Camille Desmoulins au général Dillon released a few months later:

The true origin of the rigor of the Committee towards you, would it be in a very long note, which was printed following l’Histoire des Brissotins, which Robespierre made me cut out?

The Jacobins published l’Histoire des Brissotins on May 19, and a week later, Robespierre, who for a long time had refused to do so, openly called for an insurrection against ”the corrupt deputies” of the National Convention at the Jacobins, a wish he then repeated three days later. Two days after that, the Insurrection of May 31 took place, and on June 2 the Convention voted for the arrest of 29 Girondins. I think it could be argued it was Desmoulins and Robespierre who together had delivered the principal deathblow to this ”faction.”

Nine days after the murder of Marat, July 22 1793, the Jacobin Club tasked Desmoulins, Robespierre, Lepeletier and Dufourny with writing an adress to the French people regarding it. Said adress was printed and read aloud at the club four days later, obviously deploring of the event and praising the murdered. Just one day after that, July 27, Robespierre was elected as member of the Committee of Public Safety. Camille on the other hand remained restless, and on November 1, he wrote to ”his old friend” to ask to be sent on a mission to Aisne.

I point out to our dear Robespierre that there is no impediment by law to me going to my department. Choudieu and Ricord, who are in theirs, Barras, and so many others, prove that the decree of which Billaud-Varennes spoke yesterday either does not exist or is not being executed. So I always recommend to him, as Lejeune's assistant, the historian Lucceius, reminding him of the custom of the senate of Rome, which never failed, when one of its members wanted to spend a week in Greece or Sicily, to see his father, to deliver to him, honoris curá, letters of credence, and the title of commissioner, or of legatus, which did not prevent him, on the way, from deserving well of the republic, and from gaining the vasarium. His old friend, Camille Desmoulins. To citizen Robespierre, member of the Committee of Public Safety.

As can be seen, Desmoulins adresses Robespierre in third person here, just like Robespierre had done to him two years earlier. These letters are the only examples of these two using third person that I’m aware of, almost making you suspect it was a conscious choice they made of adressing the other like that. Desmoulins did however not obtain any mission, but remained in Paris, as did Robespierre.

On December 5 1793 was released the first number of Desmoulins’ new journal Le Vieux Cordelier. According to what he wrote in said number, it was after having heard Robespierre and Danton speak at the Jacobins on December 3 that he decided to pick up his pen again — ”I leave my office and my armchair, where I had all the leisure to follow, in detail, this new system of our enemies, of which Robespierre only presented the outline, his occupations at the Committee of Public Safety not allowing him to embrace it in its entirety like me.”

 Like with l’Histoire des Brissotins, Camille had let Robespierre proofread and give his approval of the number before it got sent to the publisher. He did the same thing again for the second number, released on December 9, that concerned itself with the topic of dechristianization, denouncing Anacharsis Cloots and Anaxagoras Chaumette for their role in it. These thoughts were shared by Robespierre, who had spoken for liberty of cults on both November 21 and 28 and December 5 and December 6, and would go on to get Cloots expelled from the Jacobins when the latter passed through its scrutiny test on December 12. Two days later, the turn had come to Camille to go through the very same examination. He was at first questioned on his friendship with the general Arthur Dillon and for having stated that the Girondins ”died as republicans” the day they were condemned. After Desmoulins had justified himself, stating among other things that ”a well marked fatality willed that, among the sixty [sic] people who signed my wedding contract, I only have two friends left — Danton and Robespierre. All the others have emigrated or been guillotined,” Robespierre took to the floor and, after reproaching Camille for having been on friendly terms with Mirabeau, Dillon, Lamarlière and the Lameth brothers, made sure his friend passed the test. To ensure it, he first recited from heart a long poem Camille had written in 1787, the verses of which ”struck me so hard back then, that they have been ingraved in my memory,” and then said the following:

The manner in which Camille expressed himself at a time when some great patriots of today trembled, perhaps even cringed, before the tyrant; these are character traits that must be taken into account when judging a man. It is true that no one better than he justifies the proverb of the peoples living on the banks of the Guadalquivir and the Tagus: so and so was brave on such a day. Camille, stricken with thoughts of death, constantly sees the guillotine before his eyes; he imagines that because several of his friends have perished by the last torture, the same fate awaits him. Here is the character of Desmoulins: easy to let himself be warned, he quickly believes in the signs of patriotism that he perceives; but is he undeceived? His love for public affairs makes him tear the veil; he drags in the mud the cheats he had placed under the canopy; it is thus that he treated Mirabeau, the Lameths, and the Brissotins in recent times. The Girondin faction wanted to attract Camille to their party; Sillery was charged with this role. The famous Pamela appeared before Desmoulins, accompanied with an enchanting voice the sounds of a melodious lute; Camille, insensitive to the sting, faithful to his wife, faithful to republican principles, disdained the attractions of this new Circe, of this second Herodiade. Desmoulins, the first of all, mounted at the Palais Royal on the unsteady boards of a tottering table, preached patriotism, pistol in hand; he rendered great services to the Revolution. His energetic and easy pen can still serve it usefully, but it is necessary that, more circumspect in the choice of his friends, he must break any pact with impiety, that is to say, with the aristocracy; on these conditions, I request the admission of Camille Desmoulins.

The next part in the reblog.

[lifenconcepts]

AN ABSOLUTE TON OF BARNACLES HEADCANONS !!!

Some more barnacles headcanons (I scraped the absolute hell out of my brain scraps to figure out some new ones tbh) HOPE YOU ENJOY !! @idiedtwicebitch

His shoes have special gripping features at the bottom so he can walk or even run on ice without worrying about falling (also doesn’t slip if he’s out with his bare paws out cuz his claws and fur help keep a steady grip).

Has broken a vase before and became incredibly guilty afterwards and so tends to be very careful around fragile objects, in his mind, he’s like a bull in a china shop.

Probably wears his boots to sleep as it brings him comfort and allows him to be up in the blink of an eye should a sudden alert sound.

Is quite a light sleeper and can be awoken by simply being in the same room as him.

Whenever he must make notes on some mission, he tends to mindlessly doodle his crew in the margins. Sometimes sketches the creatures he saw too.

Probably sees his bed as a sacred spot and doesn’t allow others to go on it but if someone like Peso come over in a worried state he lets them sit on his bed.

Is great at comforting others from nightmares or night terrors (as he has experience) and gives the best cuddles and advice for whoever wants to entrust him with such a vulnerable topic.

As a kid used to chew on graphite. It seems funny and like something he miiight do.

Is very intolerant to sour things and often makes a scene if his food or drink have even the tiniest amount of lemon or lime.

Is alright with spices but likely doesn’t really enjoy them.

Hides matches from Kwazii, just in case.

Sometimes likes to go up to trees after a mission/if free and just scratch his back against them, having been caught in the act a few times xD.

Can juggle and sometimes juggles rocks just to make sure he doesn’t forget the talent.

Taught the vegimals how to make paper from scratch and sometimes supplies the crew’s stash for drawing/crafts purposes.

Knows quick math but uses the grid method for any number equations over 1000.

His fur can get matted quite easily and so he spends time out of each day to carefully brush it out, avoiding any naturally occurring sticky substances such as tree sap or honey.

Keeps some medical supplies in a cookie tin under his bed so if he ever gets seriously hurt he can deal with his injuries himself. Doesn’t like to ask others for help or bother our already stressed Peso.

When he can’t sleep he sometimes looks out the window at the nocturnal sea creatures or at rare occasions goes out for a quick swim.

Likes the sound his claws make when scratching glass but doesn’t get the opportunity to do it all that much. Does always volunteer to dispose of unneeded glass for Tweak so he can have a little fun before it gets recycled.

Bianca gave him a rubber duck when he was a child and he doesn’t have the heart to throw it away or put somewhere to rot so he sometimes just takes a bath with a rubber ducky (I have no idea if they have a bathroom in their octohome but oh well. New head cannon: they have a bathroom with a toilet, bathtub, shower, sink, and a bunch of shelves for everyone’s stuff. Kwazii just has a 4 in 1 soap bottle, Dashi has a ton of different brands and variety of products, Tweak just has their personal shampoo and body wash, Shellington is insistent on having conditioner to keep his fur nice and soft, Peso just preens but at times uses just water to freshen up, and Barnacles tends to forget to restock his soap and shampoo so he tends to just borrow other people’s stuff secretly - but does make sure to always keep their preferred brands and items in fu stock.)

Has a magnifying glass he sometimes uses when on a solo mission, being inspired by a few of his favourite movie heros.

Forgets they have a fridge and often needs the vegimals to remind him to eat, yet as he’s in charge of most the supplies going in and out of the octopod, he keeps a list of everything they need and does a monthly check up to make sure everyone has their preferred meals and snacks- often forgetting his own favourites.

Has an irrational’ fear of long cables and nets after getting tangled in them when he was a young cub/on one of his solo adventures.

Has a small pocket on his jacket which he keeps a little notebook with a pen in at all times.

Sometimes insists others wear gloves when handling things but himself struggles to put them on for his paws are incredibly furry, and he refuses to cut the fur because he believes he looks more approachable and kind with big mittens for hands rather than others seeing his exposed claws and individual ‘fingers’.

Has a few signs he sometimes puts on his door to announce to others passing by if he wishes to not be disturbed or if he’s fine with being bothered.

Has a steady hand and despite being a bit uncomfortable, he isn’t afraid of needles and has had a few moments where he had to use one on himself to give himself some medication before.

He tends to squint from habit as when he was a cub the snow often reflected a lot of light and so to avoid going blind had to close his eyes almost completely.

Really enjoys the Antarctic nights which last for months.

After eating he always sneaks himself a few toothpicks to keep his teeth nice and clean.

Is probably one of the only ones who know how to use the octopod’s washing machine apart from tweak and inkling.

Doesn’t believe in much superstitions but loves to find good omens (same as Shellington (also head canon))

Makes himself a flowery perfume and wears it on inactive days so if he spends a lot of time in close proximity with the crew they won’t get scared from him, or atleast be comforted by the scent.

If/when he draws himself, he usually adds very cute and sweet eyes to his face and draws a heart or star around his head.

Is surprisingly good at making soup and has practice with cooking it for all the others, but usually lets the vegimals do most of it (when a day has been busy he sometimes finds himself wanting to make some food for others and even as the vegimals insist he should rest he sometimes makes personal meals for each of his crew friends).

Keeps fake flowers in his room so it feels like there’s some life and as he forgets to water real ones usually.

Is very serious when it comes to the almost monthly check on any medical machinery in the octopod and insists on changing anything out a few weeks before their expiration date.

Keeps a few jars of jam hidden away in his room that he and Biance make almost every year, as it helps them bond and is a tradition they had since they are little cubs. His favourite jam is probably blackcurrant, with cherry and raspberry being tied in second place.

Occasionally watches recordings of the crew on the monitor in his room, especially after a nightmare or if he’s feeling a bit down.

Had a bracelet from practically every single one of the crew and despite rarely wearing them (to not damage them) he holds them dear to him and keeps them on his bedside table. Dashi made him one out of string, Peso and Kwasii made him one out of beads, Shellington’s is from shells, and tweak gave him a rusty bolt from their first octopod. He loves each of their gifts.

Is quite sensitive to insults and often carries the weight of them long after they’ve passed.

At times helps Peso preen his feathers.

Carries around a hand fan almost everywhere he goes in case his head or paws get too warm.

His belt has an option of straightening into a stiff material and acts as a sword, part of the underside also sharpened just in case he needs to use it.

Can’t help himself around big red buttons (but who can? XD)

Offers a cup of tea or hot cocoa to anyone in his presence for longer than 2 minutes.

Has a safety pin on his jacket (iykyk)

Has a dream catcher above his bed.

Keeps a picture of each of the Octonauts in his bedside table.

worries about squishing others whenever he hugs them

Has a small statue of a white dove in his room.

Has made a plushie of himself with some of his fur inside it for Peso to help comfort him from any nightmares he may experience.

[eepyuii]

frostbite — pt. 3

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; mentions of blood, wounds, passing out from exhaustion and anxiety attacks (sort of)

note ; FUCK you mobile tumblr posting format, i HATE you >:[ also backstory chapter oOooOo…

previous | next | masterlist

sometimes the memory of his disappearance flashes into your mind like the sunlight that creeps into the window at early dawn. blindingly.

on the rare afternoons that you weren’t with ajax, either at his house or outside playing, you were home with your mother. more often than not baking.

the warmth of the fireplace in the living room had already latched itself onto the other parts of the house, you’d have to thank your father for lighting it this morning before he left for work. speaking of your father, the very apple cake you were currently baking with your mother was his own request. almost instinctively peeling the apple skins, she blabbered on about how many baking recipes you’d need to know by heart if you were to ever even be a functioning adult, much less the safe and cozy housewife she hoped for.

you say blabbered because you truly were not paying any attention, much preferring to draw figures on the sheet of leftover flour that gracefully covered the surface of your countertop. that same flour coated your arms up to the shoulders- yet absurdly, your little hand-sown apron was left spotless.

though, that wasn’t nearly as absurd as the sight outside your window.

treading the snowy ground of the forest surrounding your house, just outside of it even, was ajax. he carried a small sack over his shoulder and his treasured wooden sword with him. he paid no mind to the fact that he was just walking past his best friend’s house, no- instead he looked straight ahead with a fire in his eyes you’d never seen before.

where on teyvat could he be going?

“hm? oh, look honey, isn’t that ajax right outside? were you two planning on playing together today?” your mother commented half-mindedly.

“not really, no…”

“then where on teyvat could he be going on his own?” ironic.

you couldn’t bring yourself to answer her at the time, too absorbed in the gnawing feeling in your gut that, other than the obvious strange scene before you, something wasn’t right. you needed to go after him. the speed in which you put on your boots and heavy jacket is almost inhuman and you didn’t even realize you were already out the door the next second until you received a full-front slap of cold air to your warm cheeks. by the time you were sprinting through the forest following ajax’s trail, he’s but a tiny spec of orange hair and red scarf in the distance. the stinging air of snezhnaya winter still fought against you, stabbing your skin and bringing tears to your eyes. or maybe you were just crying out of panic.

why would he be going so far deep into the forest? both of you had already gone past the outskirts that you were already familiar with. even at the age of fourteen, neither ajax nor you really ever dared to go out of morepesok without the presence of another family member.

and why was ajax carrying a sack and a sword? was he trying to hunt on his own? you doubt he would be that stupid, that wooden sword of his was merely a toy given to him by his father and was as dull as could be. and even worse- ajax, being non-confrontational by nature, barely knew how to use it.

and just why did he have that look in his face? like he had debts to settle, lands to conquer, beasts to fell. you’d been together just yesterday and he seemed fine, seemed happy.

what if… ajax was lying?

what if he was unsatisfied with what he had in morepesok- his parents, his siblings, you? what if he was leaving so determinedly because he yearned for more? and if so, why didn’t he at the very least tell you?

in the midst of you drowning in your worries, ajax’s silhouette of orange and red seemed to only get farther and farther.

“ajax! ajax- hah… wait for me! ajax!” you called out breathlessly.

and as if this entire situation couldn’t get any worse, the growls of what seemed like at the very least three wolves rang out from nearby. you froze for a moment, holding your breath when said wolves stalked ahead of you, towards ajax’s direction. apparently, he had also noticed the wolves and paused in his tracks, as there was no sound in the forest to be heard other than the pack’s footsteps in the snow.

the stream of hot tears on your cheeks grew in flow and your heart pumped in your chest so violently it nearly shook the rest of your body. eyes frantically scanned the area for anything you could do, anything you could use- until they landed on a fallen tree branch, sturdier and sharper than the other measly twigs that populated the ground. you almost latched onto it without thinking and tiptoed forward, to where you’d last spotted the wolves. the beasts, thankfully, seemed unaware of your presence, much more focused on the fresh lump of meat you called your best friend in front of them.

they approached him with slow, calculated steps and hungry snarls upon their faces while you painstakingly crossed the distance, murder rampant in your eyes. you raised a shaky arm, holding the branch and readying to launch as if it was hunting spear.

then suddenly, rustling is heard and the wolves are sprinting away with cowardly whines from where ajax, their lunch, presumably was.

but there was no ajax to be found.

the world felt like it stopped and started spinning even faster all at once. the adrenaline rush from the chase and the intense emotions you’d been feeling keeps you numb to the sight before you, or the lack thereof. where your best friend had been standing and shivering in fear of the wolves that were approaching him- was nothing.

the branch thudded on the ground, long forgotten, as you ran to where you’d last seen him. if it weren’t for the rustled snow, it would’ve looked like nothing happened, because both the trail of footprints and the mess ajax had made while freezing before the wolves ended abruptly, right then and there. despite the fact, you still looked around every inch of your surroundings, even the goddamn treetops, for just the smallest indication that he ran away safely.

next up, look through the snow- maybe he fell into a deeper settlement of snow and hid there until the wolves left. you dug and dug and dug, your arms quickly becoming frigid and your fingertips had lost feeling, yet you kept digging. nothing.

it’s like the earth had given way and swallowed him whole.

“AJAX! PLEASE!”

as a last resort, you yelled his name at the very top of your lungs, over and over and over, uncaring to the possibility of the pack or an even worse predator hearing you. your throat grew scratchy but you kept calling out to him until your vision started to grow woozy. the high tension, the exhaustion and the cold altogether became too much for your body to handle- causing you to promptly pass out right there in the middle of the forest.

you’d have to be eternally grateful to the tsaritsa for sending your father back from work just in time to look for you.

—

you would’ve said that was the worst day of your life- but then the next three came along.

ajax’s family scoured nearly every inch of the forests surrounding morepesok and for two days, no avail. you, unfortunately, were bedridden for the entirety of their search- partially to recover from your ministrations, that even ended up causing you first-degree frostbite at the fingertips, and partially because your parents firmly grounded you to the house for endangering yourself like that. throughout the hours of laying in bed and rewarming your hands, you remained numb- emotionless.

the shock from it still plagued your senses and the reports that he still hadn’t been found you received from your parents at the end of the day only fed the raving beast that was your hopelessness. your mother tried her darndest to cheer you up how she could- baking your favorite sweets, reading you your favorite books, ungrounding your old favorite toys. nothing worked.

until the afternoon of the third day.

your fingers had recovered amazingly, yet the rest of your limbs still felt too heavy to get out of bed. the lines of the book you were reading had started blending together, eyes growing tired and sleep creeping up on your body. as you were setting the book aside and snuggling yourself up to the heavy blankets covering you, ready to let the weariness overtake you, your door bursts open.

“he’s back! wake up, dear, they’ve found ajax!” your mother exclaimed, heaving as if she’d ran across the coast to give you the news.

any fatigue that contaminated your entire body evaporated in a second and you were jumping out of bed like a second wind had hit you. you felt like you were back where you were two days ago, running out the door like your life depended on it. you saw the people of the village flocking towards the town center as if magnetized by the commotion. there, the crowd was circling around something- whispers, exclamations of relief, expresses of thanks to the tsaritsa were about. you followed suit with the townspeople’s movement and wrestled your way to the epicenter of the crowd.

you couldn’t believe your eyes.

there stood your goddammned best friend, his back facing you- like it once had before he disappeared. his silhouette had burned itself into your retinas at that point. but his abrupt return wasn’t the only unbelievable thing about what was before you. behind ajax, from your perspective, was his family, facing him with terrified looks on their faces- like he’d grown a second head. their expressions soon received reasoning when you looked at ajax’s feet.

laid unconscious, was another boy from the village. you’d recognized him instantly, a year or so older than you and ajax and was famously known as morepesok’s roughhouser- consistently picking on ajax for his wimpiness throughout the years. not only older but he was objectively one of the stronger kids of the village, hence the bewilderment of seeing him toppled at the younger boy’s feet.

you at least recall the sight being strange overall, because at the time you couldn’t care less- your best friend was back. to you it seemed like the unconscious boy and the townspeople carrying him away from the scene weren’t there at all.

“ajax…” you started off, voice weak and shaky as fat tears gathered up in your eyes. despite the quietness, he still heard your call, finally turning to face you instead. you were already running to him as he did, tackling him into the most bone-crushing hug you could muster with your current strength. “y-you’re back!”

he doesn’t return the hug.

instead, you felt something sharp poke your throat harshly and pulled away with a hiss- giving way for ajax to fully point his wooden sword straight at you. confused, you first looked to the sword, the very same his father gave him and the very same he left with- except it was somehow razor sharp now instead of the dull, worn wood you were familiar with. it was so sharp, in fact, that even the slightest contact it made with the skin of your neck already left a paper thin cut that bled immediately.

gently pressing a finger to the cut, you gazed down to see concerningly big droplets of blood transferred to your digits. when you raised your head towards ajax again, look of utter confusion and betrayal painted onto your face, you were met with the most bone chilling, lifeless hard stare you’d ever seen come from him. he looked at you as if you were less than a dismissible lump that needed to get out of his way- he looked like he felt nothing, regretted nothing.

his cerulean eyes were stone cold dead.

everyone and their mother who were watching seemed to gasp all at once, moving in to separate the both of you, though your parents were faster. ajax’s father, who’d arrived just in time to see his son hurt you, harshly pulled the boy his arm, scolding him, while yours pulled you into their arms to check your wound. you could only keep your eyes straight ahead to where ajax was while he didn’t even try look back.

—

that was the last time you spoke to ajax.

well, speak is a strong word for the brick wall that was his reaction to your tears of relief and tackling hug. though you’d like to say it was because his father sent him away for fatui military training and not because he seemingly didn’t care for you even a smidgen. just like before he even returned, you turned to spend your days away in your room, head buried in books.

you can’t recall when those books stopped fairytales and became human biology encyclopedias. eventually, those encyclopedias turned into medical textbooks- a birthday gift from your father while he was on a trip to the big city. and eventually, those textbooks turned into shining grades and an entry to the most prestigious medical school in snezhnaya, fatui owned obviously. you would’ve been fine with just stopping there, finishing your degree and going back to morepesok to stay with your parents and maybe, just maybe, get a job as a fisherman- unfortunately, the tsaritsa had other plans for you.

not literally, of course, you’d be considered divinely fortunate if her grace were to ever even note your existence amongst the rest of her citizens. instead, it was one of her own little rotten soldiers and the bane of your existence, the doctor, who for some reason took interest in your capabilities over the others in your class. he demanded you be put through fatui training to be both an on-field and off-field medic just to end up working directly under his wing.

a part of you would forever resent him for this.

you never wanted to even come close to having any relation to the fatui, at first it was purely out of disdain for their ordeals but after ajax was also hand-plucked away by a harbinger, you would’ve rather plunge your chances of having a medical career than having to work with him in the organization you liked the least.

oh! and how could you forget…

the crowning jewel of your dissatisfaction, the literal jewel that was unwillingly set into your hands by the gods themselves.

the day you received your title of sergeant, a small, gelid object materialized into your palms. intricately sculpted steel molded over a round, glowing blue gem- cryo symbol shining inside the gem. you denied and denied and denied, unable to accept or even comprehend as to why someone like you would receive a vision from the reigning element of your own tsaritsa. any attempt to get rid of the damned thing proved futile, it seemed as if it were magnetized to your very being, and you entirely gave up in fighting it at some point. it certainly didn’t help how your possession of a vision, a cryo one at that, only seemed to make the higher ranks of the fatui want to entangle you into their web even more. you still managed to protest it by refusing to use its ice powers under any circumstances.

and now you were here. reminiscing over the misery of your lifetime instead of looking over the paperwork the northland bank had provided you. and the next part of childe’s plan was only days away from getting into motion.

a hollow feeling invades your stomach as you remember the plan ajax had explained to you yesterday.

you needed to gather your thoughts.

taglist ; @kentply @osaemu

[cloverskentwells]

ficlet: inspired by this scene from the show never have i ever

when the rule change is announced, shortly after the hunt for katniss draws a dead end and the two cannons in quick succession of each other combined with the fact that marvel never met up with them announce the very probable fact that he's dead, cato and clove are left facing one another, shocked into stillness by the news. their weapons lie discarded at their sides, gathering dirt and whatever else is lying under the arena's soil to add little dark specks among the blood. the resounding silence echoes around them in a stark contrast from claudius templesmith's booming voice that had swept the arena just seconds before.

clove recovers first - out of the two of them, she'd always considered herself the faster one - and shrinks back into a persona she's comfortable with, her default shell of biting sarcasm and scathing sharp wit wrapping around her comfortably like a blanket to a newborn. "so it looks like we're the only two left," she mutters slowly, more to herself than for cato's benefit. "and we're in the finals, apparently." cato grunts in confirmation.

"it's awesome that you made it this far," he says slowly, and she can visibly see him regaining his wits in real time, the transformation obvious in the unsubtle changes of his facial expressions - unlike her, he had no practice in carefully controlling and mastering what he allowed his face to reveal. clove observes his recovery and takes note of his surprise, which is followed by slow acceptance, and then followed by the dawning of a reality she'd accepted several seconds before him.

naturally, his irritating habit of finding every opportunity to provoke her returns with his recovered senses. it doesn't take long for him to become his typically insufferable self. gathering his weapons and approaching her with the cocky smirk she'd come to associate him with, cato continues his jab. "we'll see how it goes, clover." his large hand settles companionably on her shoulder in a friendly gesture clove decides not to punish. she also doesn't bother to protest at the term of endearment - better cato, anyways, who says it with some modicum of grudging respect and admiration, then marvel (an ally she did not at all "dearly miss") who liked to relentlessly tease her and imply that there was something going on between her and her district partner that existed under the surface of their mutual antagonism and vicious barbed-wire threats.

clove watches him walk away, probably back towards their campsite (because of course he just assumes she'll blindly follow along like he's still the leader of a pack that's mostly dead - or close to it, in peeta's case), incredulously. "what the fuck do you mean by - cato, i'm telling you 'how it'll go' right now!" in a rare moment of weakness that she isn't proud of, she hastily stumbles after him so they can walk side by side as she gets the last word. normally, clove prides herself in not putting that much effort to win a verbal battle against someone, always ready with a cutting remark, but this time he's gotten the better of her.

cato's amused chuckles only agitate her further. "it'll go bad for you! and good for me! because i'm the better tribute and we both know it, you blonde oaf!"

he comes to a stop beside her to laugh, almost hysterically. and clove can't blame him, she can only blame herself for her lame attempt to sass him.

but because she was never one for self awareness, she blames everything but her own behavior. so many factors were responsible. the stupid rule change that meant they were inextricably tied to one another, cato for making it difficult for her to contemplate a reality without his hubris and deep chuckles and strength complementing her own as they fought side by side. cato for being her only tie to home and weakening her so badly she'd begun to consider him a friend. a friend, of all things, when he was supposed to be just some competitive asshole with an ego she could easily check with a well aimed blade at a lethal area.

because he felt the need to worsen her current feeling of indignity, cato smiles down at her - fondly, with crinkling and affectionate eyes as if he has grown to enjoy her presence. like an insane person. "fine, but we can go home together now, you know."

"stop that. we're still enemies. it doesnt change anything, and you know it." she feels the need to regain distance, and fast. hide whatever is the reason for this weird sense of gratitude that claudius templesmith's announcement had drawn out of clove.

"yeah, no shit, i can't stand you," he agrees, although clove doubts his sincerity based on the impish smile he's not working too hard to cover. cato watches her glaring back at him with his arms crossed in an obvious attempt to flex, leaning casually against a tree like he's some unreasonably handsome capitol model endorsing a weird makeup product, as always too confident and assured in his sense of righteousness.

it's a fight she has no chance of winning. with a huff, clove opts to ignore him, resuming the trek to their campsite and keeping him at her back where she doesn't have to deal with visual evidence of his presence.

he laughs lightly behind her, obviously amused by her failure to one-up him. her lips twitch upwards responsively in an exasperated smile that she forcibly suppresses.