#like he's objectively stunning from every angle

[the-wayside]

Pavel made 3 efforts to beat the babygirl allegations and then started to lean into them.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 7 - Like Water

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Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Lots more introspection

~4.3k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly nothing particularly bad happens this chapter either. Maybe we're rounding the corner on that.

John’s hand closes around yours, and he lets you draw him out into the rain.

He’s likely no stranger to getting rained on— It’s not hard to imagine him and his boys trudging through all manner of inhospitable climates, carrying heavy gear, on high alert for danger. But this is different. This is not about survival, not a mission with objectives to fulfill. It’s just the two of you.

John looks at you like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky, like you can’t possibly be real. Every time he thinks he has a handle on you, you surprise him. You surprise yourself too.

You spin across the lawn until you’re dizzy and nearly stagger over. John catches you, steadies you, smiles back when you give him an unfocused grin. “Your turn,” you suggest. It would be good for him to shed his own burdens, let himself be childish, remind him that the world doesn’t have to weigh so heavy on his shoulders.

It can all be so much lighter together, somehow.

He spins twice, water sluicing off the brim of his hat, and then wraps himself around you, hoisting you into his arms to spin again, and again. You both laugh, clinging to each other tightly, and something in your chest unlocks, lets go for the first time in days. Maybe the first time in years.

You’re not afraid of him anymore.

John spins one too many times and overbalances, the two of you tipping over onto the wet grass, John uttering a soft “Fuck!” as he folds so that you land on top of him. You look down as he looks up, both of you still laughing, water dripping down your faces, catching in his eyelashes, the hat no protection at this angle. His eyes reflect back the stormy skies, turned almost gray in the early twilight.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asks, pushing your wet hair back from your face. “I l— I like having you around.”

“I’m starting to like being around,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean down and kiss him, no more that a peck, tasting rainwater on his lips. “Lets go inside.”

It takes him a moment to register what you’ve said. The kiss, no more than the barest press of lips, has him stunned. There’s a part of you that’s stunned too, even at your own actions, even though it shouldn’t come as any surprise. You’ve known you would kiss him since the first time he kissed you, maybe since the moment that Ghost dumped you in his lap, you only thought it would take more time.

You thought everything would take more time, but John has his own gravity, a way of stretching moments into little eternities. It’s only been a few days really, but you feel like you know him. Like maybe you can trust him too.

He helps you to your feet, and you walk back to the shelter of the porch hand in hand. It feels like a new beginning for you both, something giving way between you. John has breached your once impenetrable walls, and you aren’t afraid, despite the imbalance. For all his overtures, it will be a long time before he offers himself up to you the way you must for him. John only wants to show you the best parts of his heart, but you’ll show him how to bleed, how to hold the shadows up to the light, how to hold space for all the things that make him who he is. He doesn’t have to chain up his demons like dogs out in the yard. All that hungers is starved for something denied it.

You will love all of him, or none of him. What hungers in you will settle for nothing less.

There has never been any room in your heart for settling for only parts of someone. The home you grew up in was filled with love and acceptance. Your parents loved each other, loved you unconditionally, respected each other, held space for the good and the bad, settled every argument with calm discussion. If you build a home with someone, it will be following that blueprint. If you ever do have children, you want to give them what you had.

Before you go inside, you scrub one of the towels over your head and toe off your shoes. John follows close on your heels.

“I’m going to get changed,” you say. “And then we can have tea, and talk? I think we might have some things to discuss.”

“Could run you a bath to warm up,” he offers. “Don’t want you getting sick.”

“Maybe later. Tea for now.” You move out of range before he can reach out for you, and hurry up the stairs. He wants to kiss you again— You can feel his want like the scorch of a wildfire, the heat of his eyes following you up the stairs. Only once you’ve closed the door to your room do you hear him on the stairs, his weighted footsteps just audible above the drumming of rain on the roof.

You strip off your wet clothes and stare into the closet with a grimace. You’d been wearing jeans and pullovers for the last few days, but you don’t want to pull denim on over your clammy thighs, and your only pair of sweatpants were in need of a wash even before you were taken here. Rude of the boys not to wait until after laundry day to kidnap you and upend your life. You’re not certain that wearing a cute, brightly coloured dress will be constructive, but it’s the majority of your wardrobe. The Kinsey kids had loved all your bright, swishy skirts, and it had made it easy for them to spot you when you went to pick them up from school, despite the fact that you’re so short. At least everything has a conservative hemline, coming down to mid-calf or to the ankle.

You find a blue t-shirt, a mustard coloured skirt and some tall socks that tie with a silky ribbon above the knee (and out of sight), and throw a cardigan over top of everything. It’s comfortable. You hope that John doesn’t read into it.

He steps out of his room the same time you open your door, and you meet in the narrow landing, looking at each other. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his still damp skin, his eyes warm as they travel down and back up to your face. Heat prickles over skin that was chilled just a moment ago. “You look nice,” he says. “You always do, but this is— I mean— You just look beautiful.” He rubs the back of his neck, boyish smile sheepish.

You feel like a teenager with her first crush. Without fear to hold you back, it’s so much harder to ignore the desire that burns the tips of your ears and drips like melted sugar into the pit of your stomach. “Thank you. You look, um. Fit.”

Both of you laugh, and the tensions breaks some, enough to get you both moving again. He heads back to the kitchen, reaching it just at the kettle starts to whistle. He busies himself making tea. “I’ll get started on dinner in a minute too— Figure tomorrow we can go to the shops, get your paints, get groceries. I won’t ask you to cook, but you might like different things than I usually get.” There’s an ease to his movements now, like he’s finally relaxing too. He’s been careful not to show it, but he’s been having a hard time getting used to this new reality, same as you.

When he sets the tea to the side to steep, you touch his arm gently. “Hey, John,” you say. He turns toward you, and you wrap your arms around his middle and hug him.

He curls around you instantly, pressing his face to the top of your head. “What’s this for?”

“Do I need a reason?”

His laugh reverberates through you. “S’pose not, Doll. I just want to know what I’m doin’ right so I can keep doin’ it.”

“Don’t worry so much. I know how hard you’re trying to make this easy.” You hum, breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and rainwater and John. “Well. Easier.”

“I want to keep you,” he mumbles against your hair. “Want you to want to stay.” The shiver of raw emotion surprises you. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” There’s an edge to his voice, desperation that cuts him to the bone. He’s been alone and lonely for a long time. Longer than he’s been here, certainly.

There’s slight resistance when you pull back, like he’s reluctant to let you out of his arms now that you’ve placed yourself in them, but he doesn’t hold on. You look up at him. “You don’t have to do anything, John. We’re just getting to know each other. Most people have the luxury of taking their time. We’ve kind of been thrown together, instead of, you know, going on dates like normal people.”

“Would you let me take you out? You already look so good, we could go somewhere nice.”

“What, right now? John, it’s pouring out there.”

He looked out the window, like he had forgotten the weather entirely. “It’s always raining. We don’t have to let that stop us.”

“Actually, I think we should,” you say firmly. “We can go out another night.”

His shoulders droop slightly as he pours two mugs of tea. “I know. It’s just— Today has been good. Really good. Don’t want that to stop.”

“We don’t need to go anywhere to make it a date. We can have dinner and a movie right here.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, accepting the mug of tea he offers you. “Sure. I’d like that. Let’s get started on dinner. What can I do to help?”

He doesn’t let you help much (something you’ll have to address at some point. He’s not a bad cook per-say, but you know you’re better), so you putter around and clean up your art supplies, arranging some candles on the table. You can feel his eyes on you, and when you turn he looks away, never fast enough to hide that ridiculous, hopeful smile, his blue eyes bright. Bad beginnings be damned. Maybe you can forget how it all started— It’s not like it’s his fault, is it? He didn’t ask for his former subordinates to kidnap him a companion. All he’s done is like you, and ask you to stay.

And Lola likes him. That has to count for something.

You sit next to him at dinner rather than all the way at the other end of the table. His knee rests against yours, and his eyes flicker in the candlelight as he watches you, satisfied by your nearness.

After dinner, he washes the dishes and you dry them and put them away, your arms brushing each other occasionally. It’s nice— Domestic and cozy, so easy to fall into a rhythm with him. You catch yourself daydreaming about making it work, wondering what that could look like, and his words from the first night come back to you in a rush. We’ll have to come up with a better story for our kids.

It had horrified you only a few days ago.

Now you’re not sure how you feel.

It’s so hard to keep your head on straight with this man. You almost miss the fear, it kept you smart, kept you wary, and now you’re considering throwing caution to the wind after one good day, thinking about how it might not be so bad to give him anything and everything he wants. To trust him blindly, implicitly, and hope for the best.

You pick some movie to watch, and sit on your little red couch with your legs stretched out instead of the big one where he could sit beside you. A little distance might help you clear your head some. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves closer before the movie is even halfway through, sitting on the floor next to you with his back against the couch. You shift a little closer and drape your arm over his shoulder, and try not to giggle when he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The rest of the movie become background noise. You’re aware only of every point of contact along your arm, the way he holds your palm over his heart and rubs his thumb across your knuckles, the prickle of his beard through your sweater, the way he feels warm and solid when you shift closer still.

When the movie ends, neither one of you moves, until a question slips out of your mouth. “Have you ever been married, John?”

His head tilts back to look at you. The room is dark, barely illuminated by the scroll of white letters over a dark screen. He hesitates a moment before speaking. “Yeah. Once.”

“What happened?”

John sighs, his thumb tapping now. “We met at some party in London when we were teens. I had just turned eighteen, just graduated from the academy to the regular service, and we had this spark— I was head over heels for her so quickly. Always thought you could only fall in love like that when you’re eighteen. We got married when I was twenty but I wasn’t home much, got deployed just about right away. I don’t think she took things as seriously as I did. Can’t blame her, we were young, she was still getting her degree. I just didn’t realize how much we weren’t on the same page until she got pregnant.” His mouth set in a hard line under his moustache for a moment. “She didn’t want to be a mother, had bigger ambitions for herself. So I took a bit of leave, brought her to the clinic. It was what was best, probably for both of us, but I felt like the whole world had just fallen out from under me.”

“Oh.” You weren’t exactly sure what you had expected him to say. You bring your hand up to his opposite shoulder, half of a hug.

“I couldn’t blame her. Wanted to, but she had the right. I wasn’t home enough. Wouldn’t’ve been right for me to beg her to change her mind. But that was the end. We both walked out of that clinic knowin’ it.” He tucks his chin into the crook of your elbow for a moment, breathing raggedly. It’s not until you feel the hot splash of tears on your arm that you realize that he’s crying, and trying very hard not to.

“Oh. Oh, John, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” You swing your legs down and kneel beside him, pulling him into your arms. “It’s so hard to do the right thing sometimes, isn’t it?”

John wrangles you into his lap like it’s nothing and presses his face to your shoulder, just breathing. You stroke his hair, making soothing sounds while he gets himself centred again. “Fuck. ‘M sorry, Doll. Didn’t want you to see me like this.” His arms loosen enough for you to pull away and look at him in the darkness.

“You’re not a fortress, John. You’re just a man. It’s okay to cry.”

“Haven’t seen you cry,” he says. “Even after everything. You’ve kept it all together.”

“No I haven’t. I just cry in the shower so you won’t hear me.” You pat his cheek, wiping away an errant tear with your thumb. “Didn’t want to break down in front of you, knew you’d fix me up. Wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

“Wasn’t?” he asks hopefully. “Do you trust me now?”

“We’re getting there. It takes time, John.”

He huffs, a rueful smile taking over. “I know it does. Guess I’m still impatient. Want to kiss you for bein’ so sweet, makin’ everything so much better. But I won’t rush you along.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Every minute since I met you. Haven’t I been obvious about that?”

You shake your head, laughing. “No, I mean right now. I would like to, if you’re—” You don’t get a chance to finish your sentence, because he cuts you off with a kiss, your request breaking through his restraint like water through a dam. He starts soft, cupping your face delicately, and when you kiss him back it turns languid, possessive, his tongue sliding against yours, head tipped to the side so he can get even closer.

He breaks the kiss to rearrange you in his lap so that you’re straddling his hips, legs spread wide to accommodate the size of him. Now you really wish that you’d worn jeans, just to have an extra layer of fabric separating you. This feels dangerous, like playing with fire, but you ignore the warning and let him pull you back in again, threading your fingers into his thick, soft hair.

His hands are everywhere now, sliding under your cardigan and feeling out all your softest places, the rolls above your hips, your plush thighs, gripping the curve of your ass to notch your hips closer together. He steals your breath when you let out a shuddering gasp, licking into your mouth. His want makes you dizzy— You’re not sure if anyone has kissed you like John does, like he needs you more than air. It’s frightening, but it sets a fire in your blood that could consume you in a moment if you let it. You want to burn up, let go, watch all the things that hold you back blow away like ashes on the wind.

But you’ve always been more like water.

John kisses down your throat, but he surfaces a moment later when you freeze in his arms. He sighs, thumb brushing across your jaw. “You’re not ready for this.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t be. I don’t want you to push yourself, not when it comes to this. Don’t let me get ahead of myself, Doll.”

You nod. “I’ll try.”

He kisses you again, just softly, sweetly, slowly. And then he lets you go.

John’s hand rests on your thigh as he drives down the road. The countryside that passes by is muted, brown and gold fields, farm houses, fence posts, animals, and you see it without really paying it much mind, half focused on the texture of John’s hand under your own, the rough scars on his knuckles, the dusting of hair, the way his musculature fits together, the crooked fingers that didn’t quite set right. You can feel him smiling— He hasn’t stopped since you asked if it would be alright to go to Aberdeen, to an art store you used to go to with your mum. It’s further away, a long enough drive that you felt silly for asking, but John insisted that he didn’t mind.

Maybe he means it when he says he’ll do anything to make you happy. It’s strange, and you feel like you haven’t earned that, but it’s nice too.

Part of you is still thinking about last night, about kissing him. You feel the imprints of his hands everywhere he touched you, as though branded onto your skin. There’s a tension, although you’re not certain if it’s real, or if it’s just the slight burn of shame for the way you touched yourself after, once you’d said goodnight, one hand clamped over your mouth to keep yourself silent and the other between your legs. You haven’t been to church in a long time, but it’s hard to shake Catholic guilt even now.

You press your thighs together at the memory, and very pointedly don’t look at John. It’s better if you can believe that he doesn’t notice the effect he has on you. It saves you a little embarrassment.

Although there’s really nothing to be embarrassed about, is there? He’s not very good at hiding his own attraction, if he’s even trying. You both know it’s mutual now. It is what it is.

Once you reach the outskirts of Aberdeen, you give him directions on how to get to the art story. It looks exactly the same as you remember, even though it’s been at least a decade since you’ve been there. It’s like walking into a memory, the smell of paper and paint and the slight dusty smell of a shop with slow turnover tickling your nose. If you close your eyes, you can slip back in time, to when you came here with both your parents. You hadn’t lived far off, so you walked there on nice days, and your dad would sit on the bench outside with Rob Roy, the big dog flopped over on his feet. Sometimes you’d sit with him, when your mother got talking to the woman that worked there, but you always looked at everything first, from the shelves of ink bottles that shone like precious gems, the copic markers, every colour imaginable laid out in neat rows, the tubes and bottles of paints. You loved to touch the brushes, feel the different types of bristles. Back then the softest, swishiest brushes were your favourites, but you’d grown to prefer a hard flat brush once you’d started developing your own style.

“Are you alright?” John asks, touching your shoulder, dragging you back to the present.

You must look so foolish, standing just inside the door with your eyes closed. “I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Just remembering.”

“You know, if you ever want to talk—”

“Oh, good morning. Was thinkin’ I imagined the bell.” A friendly, round-faced woman comes bustling out from between the narrow shelves. She looks at you for a long moment, running her hand through her short-cropped grey hair. “You’re Angie’s girl.”

You nod. “Um. Yes.” You hadn’t expected to be recognized.

She steps forward and hugs you tight. “Christ almighty, s’good ta see you. Back in town ta see your gran, are you?”

“Not today. I recently moved back to the area. Not in town. Out a ways. Just wanted to come out here.”

“She’s getting back into painting, but she needs some supplies,” John chimes in.

The woman— Faye, if you remember right— studies John briefly, and then looks back at you, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “Found yourself a big, handsome fellow, did you?”

“I needed one that could get things off the top shelf for me,” you joke. “He has his uses.”

Faye chuckles. “I’m sure he does. D’you just need paint, sunshine? Or brushes, supports— Your mam like gesso boards, are you the same? We still carry the brand of oil paints she liked. Know you used acrylic when you were a girl, but…”

You start talking, and John wanders off through the store, looking around at everything. Can he feel the ghosts here too? You hope that if souls do cling to the earth, that they haunt the places that they loved, and not the ones where they died. You’d hate to think of you mother trapped amongst the flux of strangers traveling through Piccadilly Circus, or your father in some London hospital. You’d rather think of them together, here, or in the little house they’d moved to in Manchester, or on some beach in Barcelona, where they met.

“You’re a lot like her, you know,” Faye says when she rings it all up, tucking everything into the box that sits on the counter between you. John’s in the middle of carrying some canvas and boards out to the truck, already tallied up.

The observation surprises you. You’ve always seen more of your father in you. “You think so?”

Faye nods, smiling warmly. “It’s the way you talk. Some of your mannerisms. Even the way you dress, all those bright, beautiful dresses. Angie’s definitely your mam, and she’d be so proud of who you’re becomin’.” She winks as John re-enters the shop. “She might not have loved your Englishman, though. Doesna seem a bad sort, but he’s still English.”

You laugh, but it’s a bit watery. John wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders while he pays, a funny smile on his face. When the two of you settle back into the truck, he watches you for a long moment as you run your fingers over the business card Faye gave you. “What?” you ask, sneaking a glance back.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You took me here.”

“No, I mean— This place means a lot to you. I’m glad you asked. It was well worth the trip to see you smile like that, talkin’ about things I don’t understand in the least.” He reaches over and squeezes your knee. “I don’t mean to pry, Doll, but what happened to your parents?”

“I don’t want to ruin the rest of the day. Let’s not talk about that right now.” You tuck the card into your pocket and buckle your seat belt. “It’s still hard to talk about.”

He nods and backs out of the tight parking lot carefully, his hand leaving your knee to brace against the back of your seat when he turns to look. “In your own time, Doll. It just clearly hurts you and I— Well, I guess I can’t help, but I can at least listen, when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, John,” you say. “We’ll get there.”

There’s a lightness in you now, like you pulled open the curtains and opened the windows in a room long left dark and closed off. It feels good to open up. It feels good to look back, for the first time in ages, like you’re returning to some vital part of yourself, an oxbow lake reconnecting to the river, sediment washing away what kept you apart.

And it’s different— You aren’t the same person you were a week ago, let alone a decade, but that’s a good thing too. You’ve been afraid to change, worried that the years would turn you into someone that your parents wouldn’t recognize.

But you carry them with you. And you aren’t afraid to change anymore.

Image Credits: Banner Dividers

[atiny-piratequeen]

Doᥴtor's Assιstᥲᥒt

Summary: The Doctor needs an extra hand perfecting a new aphrodisiac.

...Well, you wont be using your hands, but that's besides the point

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: Fem!Reader x Geb(Yunho)

𓆩⟡𓆪Genres/Aus: Against the Tide Verse (its an Au in an AU-), Non Idolverse, Smut

𓆩⟡𓆪Tws: Swearing

𓆩⟡𓆪Sws: (Everything is Safe, Sane, and Consensual), Consentacle Tentacles (Vines), Bondage, Fingering, Consensual Sexual Experimentation, Aphrodisiac Use, Fingering, Objectification

𓆩⟡𓆪Rating: Explicit/Mature (18+)

𓆩⟡𓆪WC: 800+

𓆩⟡𓆪A/n: For any of my non AtTiny who want to know who Geb is and how he’s tied to Yunho…idk maybe read a bombastic in progress work of art that explains it all cough cough.

This was a popcorn commission from the lovely @atiny-dazzlinglight that I finished a bit ago but life happened and I didn’t post it till now. Sorry for the hold up and I hope you and all my AtTiny can enjoy~

𓆩⟡𓆪AO3| Taglist Form (Please make sure your urls are updated and able to actually be tagged) | Commission Sheet𓆩⟡𓆪

𓆩⟡𓆪Network Ping- @kwritersworld| @k-vanity | @cultofdionysusnet𓆩⟡𓆪

𓆩⟡𓆪©atiny-piratequeen. do not repost, translate, or use my works𓆩⟡𓆪

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･

“F-fuck, oh my God-”

“My, that’s an interesting reaction.” 

Had it had been any other day, you might have been able to conjure up a bratty response. Instead, you look up through the tears blurring your vision, lips quivering as you angle your head up for a kiss. 

“I see the purple one has a stronger effect on you than the red one from earlier did. Poor thing, you look like you’ll melt right out of my lap if I weren’t holding onto you.” Geb mused, his vines writhing along your skin, pulling and tugging you close to his chest as he angled his head down. 

You whimper, a sliver of pink slipping past your parted lips as you lick at his own, successfully enticing him to kiss you. 

“More.” You beg as large hands find their home on your waist, caressing and mapping out every curve, tracing every stretch mark, all while stunning ice-colored eyes remain fixed on your face. 

“I wonder what would happen if we mixed them. The warmth of the Flame Lily mixing with the stimulant enhancement in the Clivia-”He went off mumbling under his breath, humming as he wrapped his arms around you, idly rubbing your clit in circles as he talked himself through formulas for more nectar combinations. 

He was off in his own world, truly and completely, and it made goosebumps rise on your skin to both be doted on, and spoiled, but also to feel like you were just another object in the room as the good doctor‘s fingers pinched and rolled your clit idly. 

“Please-”

“Mm, maybe if I increase the dose by a few grams, it’ll last a bit longer, I don’t like how easily the other dose wore off.” He mused, resting his chin on your shoulder. You squirm, clenching on nothing, legs twitching in his vines. He didn’t say a word to you, muttering in English and another language you didn’t understand, sorting through his thoughts. 

You open your mouth to whine again, but a gasp of surprise tumbles through instead. His hand had worked its way lower as he distracted himself-and apparently you-with his mutters. Warm, slightly calloused fingers curl over your thigh, massaging for a moment, before working between your lower lips. 

You jolt the moment he touches you. It seemed the purple concoction he’d given you minutes ago had left you much more sensitive than you’d expected. 

The vines twitch and contrast around you, tightening and keeping your legs spread as those long fingers push into you, and you’re flustered by the way his attention snapped into focus at the whorish moan the action drew from your lips. 

“O h~ It seems like I found the perfect mix, did I?” He purred, kissing up the base of your neck and smiling as he worked those fingers in and out of you, scissoring them apart as you arch your back. 

You’re almost embarrassed at how wet you are, arching your back and gasping pathetically as he curled his fingers up. 

“My, this is wonderful news. I believe I’ve found the perfect balance for this.” His voice rumbles through your head, and it's now that you realize his fingers were coated in the aphrodisiac he’d been muttering out. You shakily glance down, cheeks flushed as the pretty liquid falls to the floor at his feet as you remain held up by the vines, joining droplets of your essence onto the floor. 

Your eyes flutter as you clench around his fingers. Goosebumps rise on your skin as he alternated between thrusting his fingers in with deep, near methodical motions, curling and searching for that delightful spot, and quick, off-beat thrusts. 

“Geb~ G-geb fuck, yes yes yes nn-” its now you realize you’re drooling, your arms being pulled behind your back by his vines as a slow, deceptively calm smile stretched across his face. 

“You can make a mess. We’re only just getting started.” He promised, kissing you and pushing more of the sweet-tasting nectar onto your tongue through it. You feel your body jerk and tighten, kissing him sloppily as you make a mess of his fingers, hand, and the floor. 

His eyes slowly drift down to the puddle that’s left behind before he ran his hand over the top of your head, kissing the tears that had fallen from the corner of your eye away. 

“Are you still alright, my love?” He rumbled, his gentle voice bouncing around in your head. You nod, body buzzing in delight as you look at him, whining in offense when he pulled those long fingers out of you. 

“No-”

“-ah ah.” He quiets you, holding your gaze as he ran his tongue over the mixture of nectar and cum on his fingers. 

“Like I said. We’re only j u s t getting started. Catch your breath. I still have many more to try with you.”

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[skellymom]

"Vagabonds" Chapter 24 & 25

"SEPARATION" & "THE NIGHTMARE"

Ongoing fanfic Hunter x Reader/Fem Reader/OC

Hunter meets a smuggler Nomaadi Star Woman with a powerful force sensitive teen who changes the trajectory of CF-99's lives...as they ALL try to escape from The Empire together.

To read Chapter 23 - "RETREAT"

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/763930279133970432/vagabonds-chapter-23?source=share

Word Count: 3.9K (Sorry so long. Wasn't sure WHERE to end this chapter, so I posted TWO CHAPTERS! I am hoping to wrap this series up by the end of this year!!!)

Background: What plans do The Empire have with LOVE? We meet several more NEW supporting characters. And Hunter has a helluva nightmare!

For anyone new to this series: "LOVE" is the nonbinary/genderfluid neurodivergent/nonverbal Force sensitive kid of the main OC of this series named Mad. Mad is an older single mother, close to almost 50 years of age (not many older female protaganists in stories, so I decided to make one.)

Warning: SW Canon violence, some blood, swearing, angst.

(Credit: Cool dividers by @4ngelic-Wh1spers, @plum98 @strangergraphics-archive Pinterest: Bad l3atch, f/StarWarsJediSurvivor)

He stunned the little shit, but REALLY wanted to kill her outright.  He HATED this dog with every fiber of his being. 

CX swore as he carefully pulled off his ruined faceplate.  Blood poured from the toothmarks and sharp edges of the destroyed plastoid.  Then dropped it to the floor. 

An animal of that size SHOULD’NT be able to bite through his armor.  And she SOMEHOW managed to hide or cloak herself within the confines of his ship easily.  Her mastery of stealth, ferocity of attack, along with her bite strength might be beneficial to breed into a new class of working dogs for the Empire.  Dr Hemlock might be pleased to have such a specimen to experiment with. 

And, if the doctor didn’t feel the need to use her, he could destroy her himself. 

CX applied pressure to the facial wounds with his bacta bandaged left hand that had been mauled.  He hailed his contact with his still intact right hand. 

Governor Tarkin’s likeness popped up on holocomm. 

“Did you capture the Force sensitive?” Tarkin sniffed. 

“Yes.  Aboard my ship and restrained successfully.  We are enroute.”  

“Good.  With this asset our timetable for PROJECT STARDUST is AHEAD of schedule.” Tarkin seemed pleased.  “We will expect your arrival within one standard rotation.” 

The Governer's image immediately disappeared. 

CX would contact Dr Hemlock about the dog later.   

LOVE awoke both hands tethered together and a collar around their neck.  They cautiously glanced up where they lay on the floor. 

Tiggy lay prone and unconscious nearby.  One of her back legs dangled at an odd angle.  Clearly, she was injured.  LOVE reached out to her with the Force. 

Nothing. 

LOVE was unable to feel...anything.  They couldn’t levitate, either.  And, unable to Force Manipulate physical objects. 

The fisticuffs binding their hands, looked different from anything LOVE had seen before.   

The CX Trooper in the pilot’s seat faced away from love, busily dabbing bacta on his facial wounds. 

“You can TRY.  The restraints were specifically designed for a Force Sensitive such as yourself.” 

He didn’t glance up from his wound care. 

LOVE reached out again. 

NOTHING.  No Force powers at all. 

However, LOVE could still physically move their body. 

CX swung around in his chair.  He raised his left hand and motioned to his face. 

“Your...pet is responsible for this!” 

LOVE’s eyes widened with the realization Tiggy was the culprit...smiling deviously at the Trooper. 

He snarled back at LOVE and swung his chair back around to face the pilot’s console. 

“You think this is a JOKE?  If you resist in ANY way or refuse to do what I say, I will shoot your pet dead and blow her body out the airlock.” 

He calmly fitted a new glove carefully over his bandaged hand. 

LOVE laid their head down on the metal floor and whimpered pathetically. 

It was quite the vision: Taavi’s Bar’ge Fix ‘N Go was an immense, rough looking, refurbished old barge freighter, including a multitude of modifications lit with neon.  Blocking out the stars as it slowly sailed past.  According to Sil, it served as a docking station, mechanical repair, hotel, cafeteria, bar... 

...and an illegal and VERY secretive “treat and street it” clinic. 

Uncle Taavi always came up with several streams of income.  His major one being a repair service for ships, droids, devices, and prosthetics.  He also rescued feral Tooka cats, spayed, neutered, providing them medical treatment and care.  

Taavi NEVER stopped fixing things.  Fixing things was HIS LIFE. 

The Marauder was able to pull the still barely operational Beldame from the hyperspace lane, then detach from its top.  Echo and Wrecker piloted the Havoc Marauder while Hunter and Sil slowly followed behind piloting the Dread Beldame.  Tech and Omega sat with Mad on the ‘Dame making sure she stayed medically stable.  Omega also kept her eyes glued on Hunter.  He INSISTED on helping pilot the Beldame...knife STILL buried in his thigh.  She twirled her fingers in Mad’s long mohawk tail with one hand and held Mad’s hand with the other. 

Omega ALSO worried about LOVE and Tiggy while listening to Mad’s ragged breaths. 

Mad didn’t know LOVE and Tig wasn’t with them.  She anticipated the fear and heartbreak a mother would experience when she found out... 

Tech did his best to TRY and distract her by infodumping...to no avail. 

With help of the Bar’ge ‘N Go’s tractor beam, it pulled in the hulking mass of the Dread Beldame into the landing bay of the barge.  The Batch marveled at the repair bay.  Taavi seemed to have EVERYTHING to fix ANY kind of ship, arranged neatly and cleanly.  True the equipment was much older but well-made and maintained expertly.  Odd looking, refurbished droids zoomed and whizzed back and forth inside it’s mechanical bay. 

After both ships landed.  Their respective crews emerged...to greet the man who owned this establishment: Mad’s Uncle Taavi. 

He was as tall as Echo with shaggy black hair, dark skinned, his face heavily tattooed with symbols and designs.  His eyes, pitch-black silver speckled irises, indicative of the OLD Nomaadi.  A subset of their people older than time...before the Long Purge of their numbers....and one of the reasons the Nomaadi were referred to as “The Star People.”  His patchworked but well-fitting clothing indicative of a Nomaadi with deep family ties...the pieces of snipped fabric from family and friends sewn as embellishment on his clothing.  A tapestry of memories and strength of family ties to accompany him on his Long Road: The Journey of Life.  Heavy and well-worn work boots completed the outfit. 

A small statured...child?  Walked next to Taavi with the confidence of an adult.  Her unmelanted hair braided into many long, tiny braids that trailed past her shoulders.  Her eyes: Either blue or ultraviolet, depending on the light.  Blue veins occasionally showing through her pale albino skin.   

Finally, a standard Astromech adorned in rose gold detailing, a yellow light on her dome.  She was a spiffy droid to behold.  Of course...she knew it...  Behind the astromech followed several tiny droids, and two Tooka kittens chasing after them. 

Taavi stopped.  His eyes wide in surprise. 

“Sil?  As I breathe the stale recirculated shitty air of this ship...never thought I’d see ya AGAIN!!!” 

He grabbed Sil up and hugged the teen.  Sil hugged Taavi back. 

When Taavi let go, he wiped a tear from his eye.  

Sil leaned out, grabbing Thoomie and pulling her into the hug as well.  She embraced Sil.  

Then Taavi caught sight of Mad being carried in Hunter’s arms.  She was covered in dirt and crusted blood from multiple wounds.  Her breathing loud, harsh, and labored.  She was barely conscious. 

“Ohhh FORCE NOOO!  We gotta get her into the bacta tank!  COME WITH ME!!!”  Taavi didn’t ask for introductions.  He ushered them through the ship and into a secret wing that contained a large medical lab. 

Taavi motioned to Hunter “Put ‘er in there.  We’ll clean her in that tub first, then put ‘er in the tank.” 

Hunter carefully placed Mad into the stainless steel tub.  Then stood over her and stared silently.  He seemed mentally far away... 

“Uncle...” Thoomie tapped Taavi on the arm.  “I think he’s in a state of shock.” 

Taavi did a double take at Hunter, pointing “Son...ya got a knife stickin’ out of ya there...” 

Hunter calmly glanced down at the knife and back at Taavi “Yes...” 

“Thoo, take...whatshisname...” Taavi nodded to Hunter. 

“Hunter” Hunter answered. 

“Hunter and that smart lookin’ fella...” Taavi nodded at Tech. 

“I’m Tech.” Tech added smugly. 

“With Tech and that droid guy” Taavi referred to Echo. 

Echo didn’t answer, just shook his head grimacing. 

Tech answered for Echo “Uh, that is Echo.” 

“Sure.” Taavi waved them on. “Have ‘em help you prep Hunter for surgery.  Can’t be walkin’ around MY ship with a knife stickin’ outta ya like nothin’s happenin.” Taavi shook his head.  “Mad sure can pick ‘em...” 

“Come with me” Thoomie took Hunter’s hand and led him, Tech, and Echo away. 

“Sil, stay with me.  You can catch me up while we work on your Auntie.” Then Taavi addressed Wrecker.   “Eh, big guy...Help me clean up Mad so we can plop ‘er in that bacta tank.” 

“Uh...ok.” Wrecker seemed confused about what was happening. 

Taavi recognized Wrecker’s confusion.  “You wanna get free care, ya gotta pitch in and help.  Droids will finish after we start, ok?  Besides, Mad will pitch a fit if we let them droids touch her.” 

Wrecker hesitated.   

Sil nodded to him and patted his back.  “You got this Wrecker.  Uncle Taavi will walk ya through it.” 

Wrecker nodded and did as he was told. 

CHAPTER 25 - "THE NIGHTMARE"

Thoomie handed Echo a surgical gown and bag for Hunter’s clothes.  She then handed a tub of Bacta wipes to Tech.  She instructed Hunter to sit down. 

She pulled a syringe out of a drawer, then a drug bottle from a wall unit, and began drawing up a dose.  Thoomie approached Hunter. 

Echo and Tech glanced alarmingly at each other.  Tech stepped in her way “Is it standard protocol on this ship to have CHILDREN give injectable medication?” 

Thoomie laughed.  “Forgot you’re new here.  I’m NOT a child.” 

Echo and Tech glanced at each other again...now in confusion. 

“I have a rare genetic disorder that inhibits my normal growth and development.  Will FOREVER look like a preteen or teenager...for the rest of my life.” 

Both clones stared at Thoomie stunned. 

“You’re defective???” Tech blurted out. 

Thoomie winced “Er...you COULD say that.  I prefer the term different...or unique.  PLEASE step aside and let me treat your batchmates' pain.  His condition is worsening, and I need to remove that knife as soon as possible.” 

Tech stepped back. 

“How did you know we’re clones?” Echo asked as Thoomie swabbed Hunter’s arm with a bacta wipe and injected into his vein.  Hunter winced slightly and came out of his glazed state to attempt to rub the area.  Thoomie handed him a square of sterile gauze and gently placed his hand over the area like a parent would a child.  Hunter kept quiet and held pressure on the injection site. 

“The timbre of your voices.  Subtle similarities in your facial features.  Other...tells in your mannerisms.  Hard to explain.”  She tossed the syringe in a sharp's container. 

“What would you require of us to assist you in helping Hunter.” Tech spoke up. 

“I’ll let you both undress him completely, throw the clothes in the bag, then wipe him down all over.  Don’t worry about his hair.  Put the gown on with the opening in the front.  Please drape several FRESH bacta wipe over his private parts for cleanliness and discretion.  Knock on the partition when you’re done.  I can then prep him for surgical removal of that vibroknife.”   

Then she handed a pair of medical scissors to Tech.  “Imagine you will need these to get his blacks off without further injury.  We have extra clothing on board if this is his only pair of pants.  Please be quick.  Thank you.”  She promptly left the room. 

Tech pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose “The Nomaadi NEVER cease to amaze me.” 

Echo put his hand on Hunter’s shoulder to get his attention.  He could tell the pain meds were starting to to work.  “Let’s get you ready, ok?” 

Hunter nodded sleepily...as he closed his eyes...drifting into the dark... 

They had come for him and his brothers AGAIN. 

Hunter wedged himself under the small gap beneath his lower bunk, pressing his back against the wall of their barracks.  He managed to pull Crosshair halfway under.  Only little Hunter and his skinny younger brother could manage to fit. 

Crosshairs fear was palpable as he scrambled to squeeze in with Hunter.  Tech rigged the mechanics of their bunk room door so it could only open from the INSIDE.  He hid behind the already large Wrecker who stood tall and RAGEFULLY angry, fists clenched and ready for a good fight. 

They were ONLY children. 

The Kaminoan’s and their clinical assistants routinely carried out medical experiments on them.  They rebelled against the pain, shame, and inappropriately probing hands that explored their bodies. 

This was NOT the first time the Bad Batchers had resisted. 

The Kamino medical staff learned the hard way several times to bar access to ANY sharp objects or ANYTHING at all that could be used as a weapon.  This left the Batchers room barren of any toys or enrichment.  Only to be let out for training and mess hall meals.  When it was found the defective clones had smuggled in an occasional training weapon or a table utensil from the mess hall, they were routinely patted down, scanned, and accompanied by the staff themselves. 

As the Batchers anger and resentment peaked, along with their accelerated growth, strength, and strategy, fully trained teenage Reg clones were called in to perform this duty. 

Some of these Regs sustained severe injuries, thus creating MORE resentment already present among the “Defective” Clones and the Regs.  This rivalry came to a head when Hunter’s nose was broken during a particularly violent scuffle and Tech was knocked unconscious, almost compromising his advanced mental capacity.  Wrecker and Crosshair’s retaliation was immediate and SEVERE.  One of the Regs barely survived HIS injuries. 

From that time on the Kaminoan’s ONLY sent in the most hardened adult clone troopers in armor to retrieve them.  Lama Su considered “discontinuing” their squad due to the inconvenience.  But Nala Se convinced him this sharpened their skills and made them more “elite.” 

Clearly, the child Batchers were no match for these new adversaries. 

Wrecker didn’t give a damn.  As the door was finally breached and the clone troopers spilled in he rushed them.  His screams of rage sounded familiar to Hunter... 

...like an angry dog. 

Tech begged for leniency as he was dragged away, promising to be compliant from now on... 

Hunter held tight to Crosshair... 

...who was yanked from his grasp and pulled out from under the bunk. 

Hunter attempted to call out to his brother but could make NO sound. 

“OW!  LITTLE FUCKER BIT ME!!!” As Crosshair was dropped face down on the hard white glossy floor.  Blood splattered across the polished tiles from Cross’ split lip. 

Crosshair pulled his face from the floor, yelling Hunter’s name... 

...it wasn't Crosshair’s face, but Jebith Freed. 

A green armored CX trooper grabbed the boy’s leg, dragging him away while he trailed bloody purple rose petals in his wake...SCREAMING Hunter’s name over and over...as the bunk room melted into an alien forest... 

Lightning struck the ground.  Torrential rain fell in thick sheets. 

Hunter, terrified watched from under his bunk as the ground gave way swallowing both the boy and trooper up. 

The wall behind Hunter groaned, buckled...muddy water spilled through cracks.  He attempted to scrabble away, but the remaining wall of the bunk room collapsed around him.  A wave of muddy water and debris enveloped Hunter.... 

...dragging him down into the darkness... 

Hunter awoke with a START. 

"You’re safe, Hunter.  I’m here.” Omega’s voice. 

Her face came into view. 

He felt fuzzy around the edges of his consciousness.  Hunter had gotten enough injuries in the past to recognize recovery from sedated anesthesia.   

“You’re not on Kamino anymore.  We’re on a Nomaadi sanctuary barge.” 

Omega held Hunter’s hand tightly as the realization set in.   

“How...did you know?”  

“I remember EVERYTHING you ALL went through on Kamino.”  Omega’s voice trembled “Until Shaak Ti found out and intervened...instead of the Reg troopers, they began sending ME to help gain your trust.”  Her face conveyed deep sadness.  “When you all finally complied, I was not allowed around your squad...again.” 

“How come I don’t remember?” Hunter rubbed his forehead. 

“It was traumatic.  You shut it out.  The memories are still in there...they come out in your dreams.” 

“...nightmare...definitely NOT a dream.”  Hunter swallowed.  He was overcome with emotion from the effects of the anesthesia.  His eyes welled up. 

“SO glad to have you ‘Mega.  I LOVE YOU.”  He choked.  Hunter felt this MANY times but never vocalized it. 

Omega threw herself onto Hunter, hugging his neck tightly.  “I LOVE YOU TOO HUNTER!  I was so scared of losing you!!!” 

“Take the whole galaxy to hold me back from you, ‘Mega.  Sorry I had to leave you on this mission...” He hitched as he inhaled.  A tear ran down his cheek. And Hunter squeezed his eyes shut tightly.  “If I hadn’t left you behind this time, probably never see you again...” 

He opened his eyes to see Wrecker and Echo approaching his bedside.  He could see the relief in their eyes. 

But Hunter’s post anesthetic daze wasn’t done... 

“I failed...” He mumbled to them.  “Lost LOVE, and somehow Tiggy...Jebith...this kid on that planet we ran into...” 

“Hunter...” Echo squeezed Hunters shoulder reassuringly.  “You couldn’t...” 

“NO...should have had you and Wrecker along with us...” 

Wrecker looked concerned over his brother’s uncharacteristically strong emotional outburst. 

“It was HORRIBLE!  Like losing Caleb Dume all over again!!!” Hunter worked himself up.  “I FAILED CROSSHAIR TOO!  HE WAS RIGHT...I’M NOT FIT TO LEAD...”  More tears.  “...NOT FIT TO BE A BROTHER...OR A FATHER...” 

“Now, now” Echo patted Hunter’s shoulder.  His normally gruff voice softer.  “That’s SOME kind of anesthesia he comin’ out of!” 

“Perfectly normal range of surgical recovery behavior” The old Med Droid, who had been washing Hunter’s muddy hair prior to him awakening, handed a tissue to Hunter. “Deeply held thoughts and feelings do tend to surface when the patient awakens.  Wipe your eyes, friend.  We must get some sustenance into you soon.  It will help you heal” 

“Thank you, Rusty” Omega took the tissue from the droid and dabbed at Hunter’s face.  “PLEASE don’t cry Hunter.  You did what you could.” 

Hunter sniffed and steadied his breathing. 

Wrecker leaned over and carefully hugged Hunter, then kissed him on the temple.  “Hey...let the Droid finish ‘yer hair.” 

“Yeah, you look like a wet mess.” Echo joked. 

Hunter took the tissue from Omega and blew his nose. “Yeah...a total mess...”  He started to come out of the anesthesia a bit more.  “Apologies” 

“None needed.” Echo smiled. 

Omega held Hunters hand, patting it. 

Rusty conditioned and rinsed his hair again, then dried it fully.  Hunter reached up to run his fingers through his hair.  SO SOFT!   

He mildly panicked at the absence of his bandana. 

“No worries, friend.  All of your clothing has been taken to the laundry.  We will return it to you soon, clean and pressed!” 

The droid wizzed around to Hunter’s bedside.  “Don’t YOU look HANDSOME!  Now your family will take you to see your lady.” 

Hunter attempted to pull back the blankets and get off the hover stretcher.   

“NO Hunter!” Echo pushed Hunter back down on the stretcher.  “Gotta lie still, or you’ll pull out your sutures.” 

Wrecker chuckled “And you’re only wearing that blanket.  Nothin’ else.” 

“Oh!” Hunter blushed and chuckled, now in better spirits but still feeling the effects of the drugs. 

“Relax and your family will take care of the rest.” Rusty waved goodbye as Echo wheeled Hunter down the corridor.  Omega and Wrecker waved back following behind. 

They wheeled Hunter into an adjacent room containing several bacta tanks.  Sil leaned against the tank, waiting for Mad to awaken.  Omega ran to him, and they embraced each other.  Tech infodumped animatedly with a 2-1B med droid named “Bucket.”  But paused when he spotted Hunter. 

“You appear to be recovering quite well.” He smiled brightly.  “I am extremely pleased, Hunter.” 

“That’s...SO affectionate of you, Tech.” Hunter chuckled, then turned to Taavi and Thoomie. “How is Mad?  Are the babies...” 

Thoomie answered “She’s just recovering from anesthesia.  The babies are EXTREMELY healthy...and STILL growing!  Never seen anything like it!!!  I am concerned about Mad, though.  She’s been through A LOT physically.” 

“She’ll REQUIRE quite a lot of rest and nutrition.  The accelerated growth could take a negative toll on her health as the multiple fetuses she is carrying will literally leach the nutrients from her body.”  Tech added. 

“Eh, sounds like she’s got parasites.” Wrecker shivered. 

“Technically...unborn babies ARE commensal parasites” Tech adjusted his goggles. 

Echo grimaced “Pregnancy sounds...creepy...compared to clone Growth Jars.” 

“It’s beautiful.” Hunter mused, staring at the bacta tank Mad was currently floating in.  “Imagine giving up your body for another life.  Not just during pregnancy but devoting all your energy to raising that delicate being once it’s born, grows, becomes its own person.  Loving that little life so much it almost hurts...willing to sacrifice or even die for it...heck...some people do it for others who can’t experience that themselves...”  Hunter smiled and tears welled up in his eyes. 

Thoomie was impressed “That’s...pretty deep.” 

“Yep.  That’s Hunter.” Echo grinned.  “Usually, it’s all in his head.  We’re lucky to hear it out loud right now because of the surgery drugs.” 

“He does wax poetically when inebriated as well” Tech added “When sober Hunter tends to hold a HUGE amount of emotional weight in.” 

“That’s Tech’s way of sayin’ Hunters a BIG softie.” Wrecker whispered to Taavi. 

Taavi chuckled.  “Good thing to be.  The galaxy needs more empathy, no?” 

“My apologies for the interruption” Bucket interjected “Our patient is waking up.  Vitals are within normal ranges currently.” 

“Whoa, there!”  Uncle Taavi tapped the bacta tank to get Mad’s attention. 

Mad stirred and slowly started to realize where she was.  Inside of the bacta tank she was hooked up to an IV line, a feeding tube, respirator, bacta nebulizer, and endotracheal vacuum.  The lines swayed around her as she bobbed in the bacta solution.  Mad was only clad in a medical chest binder and med panties which helped secure the lines that carried her urination and defecation waste away.  The rest of her exposed body covered in a multitude of small lacerations from the shrapnel Uncle Taavi had surgically removed. 

He could see her anxiety ramping up. 

“She gonna RIP them out.  Bet ya.”  Taavi remarked to Thoomie and Tech. 

“While I understand your concerns restraints seemed too severe an option.” Tech remarked. 

Thoomie nodded “I agree with Tech.” 

“Ah, you never seen Mad lose her SHIT!  She’s got a phobia about all of this” Taavi motioned to the whole tank, then addressed the B1.  “Sorry Bucket, best to leave outta here for now 'fore she notices you.  Or gonna be hell to pay!” 

The B1 turned to Thoomie.  She nodded “It would be best for the patient.  You can return when she is sleeping.” 

Hunter commiserated “My apologies, Bucket.”.  

The droid silently turned to leave. 

Mad eyed the med droid suspiciously, then flashed an obscene hand gesture as it left the room. 

Hunter giggled. 

Mad attempted to laugh too but erupted into a violent coughing fit. 

She choked and gagged SOMETHING up.  One of the tubes attached to her life support face mask suctioned it out of her trachea. 

Her breathing sounded slightly better and less raspy. 

Hunter put his hand up to the glass, pressing his palm flat against it.   

Mad did the same on the interior of the tank.  Eventually, she glanced further out in the room, shocked to recognize Uncle Taavi and Thoomie.  She waved excitedly to them...and scanned the room again... 

Someone was missing...Mad signed in Basic with her other hand... 

LOVE?  Tiggy... 

Hunter TRIED his very best to keep a neutral face through his post-surgical haze.  He was at a loss for words.  

Mad glanced up at the faces of all the Batchers, Sil, Taavi, Thoomie... 

Varying expressions of sadness and guilt is all she saw.  Nobody spoke. 

She hitched and cried out loudly, then choked and gagged violently again.  In her grief, she reached for the tubes attached to her in what looked like an attempt to pull them out. 

Thoomie immediately punched the sedative button on her IV line. 

Mad went still within the tank, floating quietly while the endotracheal vacuum cleared her lungs. 

“Hate to say it...I told ya so...” Taavi whispered sadly. 

Hunter covered his face with both hands and quietly sobbed. 

To read Chapter 26 - "LOVE AND HOPE"

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/765645976136564736/vagabonds-chapter-26?source=share

Please let me know if you wanted to be added to my taglist or removed! Thanks so much for your support!!!

[kuebandungs]

Duty After School Imagine : 01

☆ Jo Jangsoo x Reader ☆

a/n: this is my first time writing a fanfic in English language, so let me know if there's anything wrong in my sentence or else. and, hope you all like it <3

"Take it, it's your share."

Someone's voice manages to make you turn your head. It's Jangsoo.

He handed you a canned food.

You stare at the canned food without interest, then turn your gaze back up. Staring up at the clear night sky, decorated with stars and also some purple balls that if observed is actually so beautiful.

"I'm not hungry," you reply.

Jangsoo seems to understand your attitude, so he chooses to sit next to you in front of the building where you're resting with all of your friends. Or as the Class President calls it 'home'.

"If things were different, I would have taken a picture of the current sky with my phone." These word just flowed from your lips.

Jangsoo smiled, relieved that you had started the conversation. This man had been worried about you being quiet and expressionless since the Lieutenant Lee incident.

"I like it."

Jangsoo's reply makes you look back at him. Your eyes blink a few times as you realize that Jangsoo is looking at you with a faint smile.

"Every photo you takes was always nice and beautiful."

Jangsoo wasn't lying. Since 11th grade, you and him have been in the same class. So every time you upload your pictures on social media, it always manages to make Jangsoo smile. Apart from taking the right angle of photos, he also always imagines your face when taking pictures. Jangsoo feels stunned by your expression every time you see the sky view. You're so beautiful.

"Thank you."

After that, there was only the sound of the breeze, as you and Jangsoo were busy looking at the night sky with your own thoughts.

"Let's go back inside. You should rest," Jangsoo said, breaking the silence.

"I'm not sleepy yet, Jangsoo. If you want to go in first, that's fine."

Jangsoo sighed softly, "If you feel cold, come in immediately," he said which you nodded.

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

"Alright, now that we've got our assignments, let's go."

As soon as they heard the class president's words, the students of class 12-2 immediately went to the destination according to their respective teams.

Jangsoo who was standing next to you then invited you to walk directly with the others towards the prison.

"Are you okay?" he asked when he turned around and found your face looking a bit pale.

You looked at him with a little doubt. "I just feel— it's okay. Don't mind me," you say, unable to express your feeling.

"No need to worry, we'll all be fine while we're together," Jangsoo replies, trying to calm you down.

And it works, because now you feel a little less worried. You nodded slowly, making Jangsoo smile slightly.

After a while, all of you finally arrived at the prison that Taeman had seen yesterday while cleaning the purple balls.

"Look for a circuit board-shaped device for the protophone. If you find it, give it to me or Soyoon," said Youngshin, immediately nodded by the others.

"Let's split up from here," he continued.

Jangsoo looks at you and invites you to follow him towards the building on the left side. With a wary look and weapons ready in each hand, Jangsoo and you begin to walk into the deserted building.

"This is my first time in here," Taeman says quietly in a horrified tone.

You turn around and found that Taeman dan Soyoon are behind you.

"You think it's my second time?" replies Soyoon in a lazy tone, but she still keeps a vigilant eyes on her surroundings.

After wandering around and confirming that this place was safe from orbs, they quickly searched for tools to repair the protophone as well as any objects they could utilize.

Until suddenly, there was a strange sound that was quite loud. It makes you and the others pause and look at each other confused.

"Let's go back to the first place." Jangsoo said.

After that, you and your friend left the building and gathered with the others.

"Did you guys hear it too?" Soyoon asked.

"What's that sound?"

"Is it a ball?" You asked.

"Wait, listen carefully," Heerak said.

"It's like an SOS code. Listen again," he continued.

"That's right! Is looks like someone else is here. Let's go find them!"

Then they walked in the direction the sounds came from, until they reached the basement.

You, who had been in front of Jangsoo, immediately moved closer to him.

"Is this a dungeon?" You ask quietly.

"I think so," Jangsoo replies.

You feel scared because the atmosphere in this room is kind of quiet and creepy.

"Hey! Help us!"

The shouts makes you and your friends gasp in shock. It turns out that inside there are several detention rooms filled with prisoners.

"Weren't the prisoners released this time?" You ask.

"I heard that only prisoners with minor crimes were released. In that case... those here are prisoners who have committed major mistakes, possibly receiving life imprisonment or death," says Taeman.

"Then let's just go! Don't deal with them or we'll get hurt," said Bora.

"But, it would be a shame to leave them here." Aeseol said hesitantly.

Prang!!

"Hey, damn it! Hurry up and open it! Do you have the heart to let us rot to death here?!" shouted one of the prisoners.

"Then you're just as bad as us! Sh*t!"

"Hey, shut the f*ck up! You're scaring them!"

The shouts from the prisoners scared you and the others, but you didn't show it openly, because that would make you even more threatened.

"Let's go, we can't deal with them," Jangsoo says to the others.

Staying here too long could put all of you in danger. Therefore, Jangsoo must darw to make a decision.

"Damn it!"

"Hey, let's us go!"

The shouts of disapproval from the prisoners could be heard clearly as Jangsoo, you, and your friends walked out of the room.

Once outside, you stop and look at each other. On the one hand, you feel that you can't release the prisoners, but on the other hand, you feel guilty for leaving them there to starve to death.

You deliberate, discussing with each other to get rid of the ambiguity in your feelings. Finally, you and others decide to go back inside and give the prisoners the food and drinks you bought with you all.

After that, with shouts and curses from the prisoners you come back out. All of you have decided to give your provisions, not to free the prisoners. Of course, this makes the prisoners who were initially happy because you and others came back in, now cursing because they will not be released.

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

DUTY AFTER SCHOOL IMAGINE

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

"Oh, you guys are back?"

Hana, who was guarding the basecamp, greeted the search teams with an inexplicable expression.

You walked languidly to the sofa in the room, then flopped down on the sofa. A long sigh escapes your lips.

It had been a very long day. You and your fellow search team members almost lost their lives dealing with the criminals. Suddenly you realize that there is something more terrifying than purple balls: human.

Seeing Jangsoo approaching, you change your position to sit down. He sits next to you, and you lean on his shoulder.

"I'm glad we're okay," you said.

"Yeah. How about you? Are you feeling better?" He asks, making you raise your head to look at Jangsoo's face.

"Not as scared as I was," you said softly.

"Hey, what about the protophone? You guys found it, right?" asks Joonhee.

"Damn! I forgot!" Heerak hissed.

"Huh? How come you didn't get it!" exclaimed Hana.

"Shut up! You don't know, we almost lost our lives there!" retorted Soyoon.

Hearing the commotion of Heerak, Hana, and Soyoon makes you sigh in frustration. Too dizzy with the events of earlier, you didn't realize that the man you were now leaning on was secretly harboring guilt.

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

"So, you've been manipulating the vote all this time?"

"Why are you hiding this from us!"

"I can't trust anyone anymore."

The noise caused by your friends' protests is ignored. The only thing you were paying attention to right now was the tall man who had always protected you looking down guilty in front of you.

Jangsoo, Yoojung, Ilha, and even the now-deceased Soocheol had been lying to you and your friends. They had manipulated the vote to 'survive' and 'carried out cleanup operations' until you radio/protophone were working again.

Every time they held a vote, the 'defense' succeed. But it wasn't a collective decision, it was manipulated by your four friends.

Of course, you felt very disappointed in them, especially Jangsoo. He didn't tell you about it. Obviously it makes you feel that he doesn't trust you.

Finally your friends leave, leaving Jangsoo, Yoojung, and Ilha that still looking down guilty. With slow steps, you approach Jangsoo.

"Can I talk to you?" You asked.

The three look up and stare at you. But you're only focused on Jangsoo. Without waiting for Jangsoo's reply, you immediately took his hand and led him to the front of the building.

"Explain." You stare at him with mixed feelings.

Jangsoo who had been lowering his head, is now looking right into your eyes. There is a feeling of disappointment and anger that Jangsoo can see.

"I'm sorry, I did this to protect you and the others."

You remain silent, waiting him to continue.

"We don't know if it's safe in Seoul, so we decided to keep us all here for the time being."

However, that answer did not satisfy you.

"Don't you trust me?" you ask with a sad smile.

Jangsoo rounded his eyes in surprise. Of course he trusted you, but why would you say something like that.

"Of course I trust you," he said firmly.

"But you didn't tell me anything that important."

Your defenses are broken. The tears you've been trying to hold back finally fall. Jangsoo immediately pulled you into his warm embrace.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want you to get involved and end up disappointing others like me. I'm sorry, I just wanted to protect you," Jangsoo said.

"You're really bad, Jangsoo."

You hug him back tightly while shedding your tears. You're disappointed, but you're also touched because of him.

[ ✓ ]

02. Soocheol >

DUTY AFTER SCHOOL IMAGINE Masterlist

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Semper Eadem (iv, ao3)

Chapter four: In the aftermath of the jousting match, Elizabeth and her court go hunting, where Cassian has conspired to get Nesta alone.

(chapter one // chapter two // chapter three)

Nesta wasn’t thinking of the joust. 

As the morning after dawned bright and clear, full of promise and expectation, she swore to God and all the old saints above that her mind would not stray to yesterday. She willed resolution in her chest, begged for strength, and as the sky lightened beyond the lead-paned windows of the Queen’s chamber, she focused instead on dressing her mistress. She refused to remember the tiltyard beyond those stone walls— kept her thoughts far from that bastard-born son of a nobleman who had so decidedly won command of her heart, like it were just another treasure he had plundered. 

Obstinate, she clenched her jaw.

No.

By almighty God, she was not thinking about it.

Around her, the ladies of the royal household tittered and laughed, the soft sounds of shifting fabric filling the chamber as Nesta tied the ribbons on the Queen’s kirtle. A steady thrum of excitement hung heavy in the air, so thick it was palpable, and beyond the glass, not a single cloud marred the blue of the August sky.

There was to be a hunt, today.

A column of bright golden sunlight blazed through the chamber as the Queen angled a small Venetian mirror, its gilded frame heavy in one lithe hand as she tilted the glass to better glimpse her reflection. Her Tudor-red hair was afire in the morning light, her painted skin as pale as chalk, and glimmering she stood in the centre of her rooms, bedecked in so much wealth it was nigh on incalculable. Assessing, the sovereign let out a single contented hum.

What she saw pleased her.

And Nesta did not disagree— the dress alone could rival the work of the great Italian masters. 

The fabric was light in colour, a pale cream with embroidered roses and vines picked out in such detail it was almost enough to stun. A threaded thistle sat above the Queen’s ribs, and on her left sleeve a large needlework snake was coiled, studded with pearls and gems, and from its mouth dangled a small ruby charm— heart shaped, and surrounded by golden thread, silver cloth, and shining, opalescent pearls. 

The snake was Nesta’s favourite part of this particular dress. 

An emerald no bigger than a fingernail served as the serpent’s eye, and its tongue was rendered in a line of golden thread darting from between embroidered silver teeth to hold that small ruby heart. A symbol of wisdom and cunning, the snake was everything that Elizabeth represented, everything she valued, and the message wasn’t lost on Nesta as she circled the Queen and brushed a hand over the jewels that made up the serpent’s curled and curving tail.

Her sovereign was as slippery and as dangerous as an adder, one that had used the sharp edges of her diamonds to carve a space of her own in a world shaped for the pleasures of men. 

And that ought to have been distraction enough, but no matter how many times Nesta hauled herself back to the present…

Her dastardly eyes wandered to the window, and despite the promises she’d made to the Lord above, she damned her soul when she caught sight of the tiltyard beyond the glass, where a privateer had competed for her honourand— 

“Are you looking forward to the hunt, your majesty?”

Nesta tried to not startle as Blanche, the Keeper of Her Majesty’s Jewels, stepped forward and voiced her question, bearing in her hands an oak jewellery box with the lid lifted open. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a staggering number of pearls and jewels and gems, shining in every colour.

Elizabeth was silent a moment, handing off her mirror to another of her ladies as her fingers trailed idle over the priceless objects before her, hovering above diamonds and sapphires and emeralds and rubies. Before she answered, she plucked up a ring set with a large ruby and extended it out, holding it towards Nesta in one smooth movement.

“Ah,” she said breezily, waving her hand, and as the sunlight refracted off the myriad jewels scattered across the fabric of her dress, shards of red and silver light danced across the floorboards, “you know that I do so love to hunt.”

The Queen extended a hand as she spoke, and Nesta slid the ring the sovereign had chosen onto her waiting finger. Another of her ladies draped a necklace of pearls around her neck, and if for one brief moment they reminded Nesta of the pearl that hung customarily from Cassian’s ear… 

She forced the thought away, and focused on straightening the Queen’s sleeve, her eyes returning to the snake.

But it’s spine was a line of more pearls— to symbolise wealth and purity, virginity, and it shouldn’t have reminded her of Cassian, of the one set in gold that shone amidst his dark curls. After all, Cassian could lay claim to neither wealth nor virginity, and yet the one he wore was a symbol nonetheless. Nesta brushed her hand over the Queen’s sleeve, and thought that perhaps his pearl was instead a symbol of something precious, something rare. Something plucked from the ocean and brought home to treasure.

Oh, the joust had softened her.

That was for certain.

Her conviction had already been wavering when she’d read Cassian’s letters, and seeing him race down the tiltyard yesterday had all but secured his forgiveness. The flames of her anger had burned away to nothing, and now when she thought of him—

She heard his laugh, saw his rakish smile, and felt her heart beat a little faster inside her chest. Like she were a witless maiden, borne of nothing but dreams and naïveté; like she hadn’t spent years at the royal court, growing as used to politicking as she was breathing. Cassian had made her yearn for real romance again, the way she had once as a girl, when her father had told her of Arthur and Guinevere, of Tristan and Isolde, and all those famous tales that made her heart swell.  Oh, after years of ruthless pragmatism and the endless facade of courtly love, she thought her desire for the real thing had been stifled, strangled, but it had resurfaced now, more fervent than ever before. And when he’d bowed before her in the tiltyard, his helm cast aside and his face aglow with triumph… 

Her hand fell away from the serpent on the Queen’s arm.

God— she needed to focus.

She pulled her awareness back in time to hear Blanche ask of Elizabeth,

“Will the Earl of Leicester be your hunting partner?”

Nesta paused.

It was a bold question— so bold that if anybody but the most favoured of her ladies had asked it, the Queen might have found reason to divorce a head from some shoulders. After all, they had all of them heard the rumours. Leicester and the Queen had been close friends since childhood— and there were whispers that perhaps it was once more than friendship, and might someday be something more again, if Leicester got his way. He had organised this entire pageant in the Queen’s honour, a gesture far grander than any he could reasonably have been expected to lay at his Queen’s feet. But as Nesta looked up, half expecting to find fury in the lines of the Queen’s face, instead she found her monarch’s mouth pulling into a coy smile, one that said Elizabeth would allow the question. 

“I think perhaps he shall,” she answered.

Nesta remained silent, only rounded the Queen to stand before her. She assessed the dress, the jewels, straightening the pearl necklace that twice circled her throat before hanging down to her navel. Elizabeth merely tilted her head in the wake of Nesta’s ministrations, causing the lace of her ruff to tremble. 

“And what of you, Mistress Archeron?” she asked. “Who shall be your partner?”

Nesta did not blink, did not pause, did not hesitate.

“Who should you like it to be, your majesty?” she asked, tilting her head in an echo of the monarch’s stance. Approval glimmered in Elizabeth’s eyes, a rare jewel of its own.

“Northumberland, perhaps?” the Queen ventured. “Master Vanserra seemed most determined to compete for your honour yesterday.”

Nesta’s mind flicked back once more to the joust - her soul be damned - and to the way Cassian had almost killed Eris in the tiltyard. As if the Queen could read her mind, Elizabeth snorted and said, smoothly,

“Or Master Cassian?” She tapped Nesta on the wrist with one long, thin finger. “My handsome Bat seems to have an eye on you, dove.”

Nesta forced herself to shrug. 

“Perhaps he does, majesty.”

She fought a smile, and Elizabeth hummed. Mirth danced at the corners of her lips, and even though she didn’t approve of her ladies marrying, something about the joust yesterday had humoured her. Perhaps it was the way Cassian had bowed to his Queen, or the way he had cast off his helm and looked up to the stands in such a perfect display of chivalry that Nesta half thought he might have plucked it from the pages of some Arthurian romance. Either way, something had snared the Queen’s attention, but Nesta was not fool enough to say anything more. She merely took a single step back and bowed her head as the Queen smoothed a hand down her skirts one final time.

“Well,” she said, her tone one of musing. “Perhaps we shall see.” 

A moment later the Queen clapped her hands, the sound sharp and cutting in the silence of her chambers. As the rest of her ladies waited for instruction, Elizabeth looked the window and allowed another serpentine smile to grace her lips. Her eyes were lit with purpose as she lifted her chin and said, with all the authority and determination only a monarch could muster,

“Let us hunt.”

***

It seemed, Nesta thought from atop her horse a half hour later, that all of England had descended upon Warwickshire to bask in the majesty of the Queen.

Riding two or three abreast in a great train behind Elizabeth, the hunting party stretched across the grounds all the way back towards the castle— all noblemen and horses, ladies and squires and hunting dogs. Trumpeters and drummers followed too, and a host of staff from the kitchens carried the baskets containing the food they would lay out at noon for dinner. Sheaths of arrows were slung across backs, crossbows stowed in saddlebags, and the drumming mirrored the footfalls of the horses as beyond the castle walls, Kenilworth’s expansive lawns began to slope before eventually giving way to lush woodland.

Grand— it was all so immeasurably grand.

Ahead, the Queen’s standard fluttered in the breeze, held aloft by a standard bearer, the embroidered lion shining golden beneath the morning sun. All the trappings of royalty gleamed— the richness of the Queen’s dress, the pearls that had been threaded through her hair; a glimmering vanguard as the trees of the forest grew closer. And at Elizabeth’s right, just as Blanche had suspected, rode the earl of Leicester. 

As casually and as easily as if it were the only place in the world that suited him, Robert Dudley filled the space at the sovereign’s side, and their heads were inclined towards one another as they spoke, their horses so close their flanks almost touched. The breeze carried behind them the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter, and as Leicester glanced sideways at his Queen, Nesta saw a flash of teeth, a wide smile beneath the brim of his hat, and she knew with unerring certainty that the earl was in love— so desperately and madly in love that it warranted all of this display, all of this pageantry. 

And the reminder that all of this grandeur was on the behalf of a man simply trying to turn a woman’s head… 

Well, it was foolish perhaps, and more than a touch sentimental, but… charming, too. 

And after all, hadn’t Cassian done something similar yesterday— something just as foolish? When he’d all but declared war on Eris, one of the richest dukes in England, because he had dared to ask her for her favour?

She shook her head, pushed the thought away, and kept her gaze straight ahead.

On the Queen’s left was Rhysand, riding silent and all but ignored. His heavy chain of office was draped over his shoulders, and the gold was bright against the deep black of his doublet. He wore a cap with a raven feather at the top too, and though from her position behind him she could not see his face, she could see his hands gripping the reins of his horse— could see, too, his velvet gloves, and the three rings he wore atop his gloves on each hand. His shoulders were stiff, and Nesta smirked.

If there was one thing Lord Rhysand did not appreciate, it was being overlooked, and with Leicester by her side, the Queen had no attention to spare for her dark-haired councillor. 

The sight should not have made Nesta as smug as it did.

On Nesta’s own left rode Madge, another of the Queen’s ladies. At their backs was the Duke of Northumberland and one of his many brothers, and Nesta did not think it a coincidence that he had managed to secure such a spot in the procession trailing behind the Queen. Indeed, as she had stood in the courtyard and mounted her horse, Eris had offered her his hand, and though Nesta had not accepted his assistance, he had bowed his head anyway, before taking her own hand and placing a fleeting kiss to the back of her fingers. 

She had never been so thankful to have been wearing riding gloves.

Beside her Madge was silent, as if she could tell that her riding partner was entirely preoccupied with her own thoughts. A frown almost creased Nesta’s brow, and she almost considered striking up conversation, but then her eyes fell to her gloved hands tight on her reins, and all she could think was—

I hope Cassian did not bear witness to that ridiculous kiss.

It was a thought as ridiculous in itself as the kiss Eris that had dropped on her hand, but one that persisted nonetheless. So consumed was she by it that the world and all its noise seemed to fade away, until—

“Mistress Radcliffe,” a smooth and all too familiar voice said easily from the empty space at Nesta’s right. Her heart kicked in answer as Madge turned her head, eyebrows rising as she beheld who addressed her. “My lord Azriel asks for you. He wishes to give you news of your brother in Ireland before the hunt begins.”

Cassian did not let his eyes stray to Nesta as he bowed his head; a vision of courtesy.

Madge smiled wide. It was no secret that she missed her brother, sent over to Ireland on the Queen’s orders. A lady from the north, she missed her family greatly, and it was no surprise to Nesta when she nodded her head and gave her thanks before turning around and leading her horse back along the procession that trailed them, to the space about four riders back, where the Queen’s spy had been riding beside the privateer and now sat alone.

Nesta looked behind as Cassian’s horse fell into step behind her. Quietly, she thought she heard Northumberland curse.

“Lady Nesta,” Cassian said in greeting, his voice light and airy as if this were the most ordinary of meetings.

But— merciful God, have pity on her soul.

Would she ever tire of the way her name sounded on his lips? Or the way he imbued it with something that felt like intimacy somehow? Lady Nesta, not Mistress Archeron. She thought back to his letters, how he’d penned her name with such an elaborate flourish. Even on a rocking ship, when ink and time were short for him, he’d written her name like it meant something. She glanced sidelong at him, trying to focus on the rhythm of the horse beneath her, the gentle trot of the hooves. But one look and she was at sea all over again, her sentimentality like a storm that threatened to send her under.

His doublet was the deep red of Burgundian wine, shot through with silver buttons in the centre of his broad chest, and for one foolish and ill-advised moment Nesta let her eyes wander, following that path of silver to where his doublet met his breeches.

God have pity, indeed.

Seated atop his horse, the privateer beside her cleared his throat and Nesta hauled her gaze back up— to a level far more befitting a lady of the Queen’s household. She took in, instead, the slashed sleeves of his doublet that split to reveal a crisp white shirt sitting beneath, and the dark cloak draped effortlessly over his shoulders. A delicate ruff rose from his collar and just barely grazed the edge of his jaw, and oh, lord— this man was beautiful. A velvet bonnet was balanced at a damn near rakish angle atop his curls, and as he brought his stallion into a trot beside her, the feather adorning it shivered in the breeze.

Beneath his unflinching gaze, and despite the heat, Nesta felt herself shiver too.

“Feeling cold, my lady?”

Damn him.

She cleared her throat, and refused to take note of the way several of those curls escaped his bonnet and lay tangled above his ruff, right against the bare skin of his neck.

“Master Cassian,” she said mildly, looking decidedly straight ahead to where the Queen and Leicester still spoke together in low murmurs. “Can I help you?”

He grinned. “Back to Master, are we?”

“Would you have me call you something else?”

“Oh sweetheart,” he said, dropping his voice so low it was almost sinful, “I’d have you call me several things.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and tried to force down the blood that rose to her cheeks.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Indeed,” he said brightly, tipping his head back and inhaling deeply, drawing the summer air deep into his lungs. He tightened his grip on the reins, his gloved hands pulling as the riders ahead of them began to slow— as the line of trees at the forest edge grew nearer still.

And Nesta thought she must have lost her mind, because when she looked at those gloves, for a moment she found herself mourning the fact that she could not see the bare skin of his hands as his fist tightened.

“Tell me— did my lord Azriel really wish to speak with Madge?”

Sidelong, Cassian smirked. 

“In truth, no,” he said with an easy shrug. “But it is no lie that he received reports from Ireland this morning. It is entirely possible there was something about Mistress Radcliffe’s brother in there.” He shot her a grin, before adding brightly, “I merely thought to join your hunting party, if you’ll have me.”

“I fear I am not much of a hunter,” Nesta answered with a shrug of her own, a slow lift of one shoulder. “My sister was always far better at it than I.”

He shot her a dazzling smile, one edged with mischief. “And yet I am certain we can find some creature for you to bring down.” He glanced behind him, to Eris and his brother. “A fox, perhaps.”

“Perhaps the fox was brought low enough already after yesterday’s joust.”

“The fox remains presumptuous,” Cassian shrugged. His gaze dropped, eyes turning flat as they alighted briefly on her hand, and Nesta’s heart sank a little as she realised that yes, Cassian had indeed witnessed that ridiculous little kiss. “He still thinks to take what is mine.”

“Yours?” Nesta asked incredulously, glancing once over her shoulder, ensuring Eris was still too lost in his own conversation to overhear. Looking ahead, she saw with thanks that the Queen was still too preoccupied to take note, too. “After such a long time away?”

Cassian lifted one hand from the reins and waved it. Like Rhysand, he too had rings decorating his fingers above the velvet, and they gleamed now, the gold bright.

“I thought we’d been over this, sweetheart?”

She blinked, imperious. “You’ve been over this, sir. As far as I recall, I said little on the matter.”

He snorted. “You said much,” he countered simply. “You’ve had me grovelling for days.”

“Grovelling?” she raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t mask the smile that began to spread across her face. “I haven’t seen you on your knees once.”

His eyes darkened. “And is that what it will take, my lady?” He tilted his head, the pearl in his ear brushing the lace of the ruff that peeked from the neck of his doublet. “For my forgiveness, you would have me on my knees?”

She was silent for a moment, and a wicked smirk curved his lips.

“Trust me, love, I am more than willing.”

Her breath caught, her blood raced. His meaning was obvious, and with the way that smirk turned almost devilish, she knew that the blush that rose to her cheeks had amused him— pleased him. Her treacherous heart beat a little faster - a lot faster - and she was about to reproach him for daring to speak so boldly in the presence of a lady of the royal household, but—

The horns sounded, and the dogs began to bark, and the party at last reached the tree line. With a wave of the Queen’s hand, lifted into the air, every one of them fell silent. 

Cassian pressed a gloved finger to his lips and winked, and Nesta was so momentarily undone by the gesture that she almost set her horse into a straight gallop. She pulled hard on the reins, knuckles straining above the leather, and when she turned, she saw laughter dancing in those damned eyes. 

She tore her gaze away, focusing forwards— on Rhysand and the Queen and Leicester. 

Slowly they made their way beneath the cover of the trees, delving farther and father into the woodland. The sound grew muffled, the heavy canopy above cloaking the rest of the world from view, and all around them was birdsong and the snap of breaking branches as the great trail of courtiers and servants began to split into smaller groups.

It would have been impossible for the entire party to have remained unnoticed by their quarry, and so— in groups no larger than a dozen, the entire court slipped away, and as Nesta looked over her shoulder when the initial flurry of activity died down, she found nobody behind them now, only the greenery of the forest and the birds in the trees above.

The Queen’s personal hunting party had narrowed, leaving only Elizabeth and Leicester, flanked by Rhysand and two more ladies-in-waiting. Madge and Azriel had joined them too, along with one more member of the Queen’s council. Nesta and Cassian brought the total to ten. 

Leicester retrieved a crossbow from his saddlebag, and handed it across the distance to his Queen. Elizabeth grinned.

A hush had fallen, and ahead Rhysand looked over his shoulder and scanned the members of the small group. Catching Cassian’s eye, he seemed to give an exasperated sigh before rolling his eyes and giving the privateer one brief, sharp, nod. Nesta did not much understand the silent and secret language Cassian seemed to share with his brother in arms, but it did not take a master codebreaker to decipher that particular message.

Alright, that nod seemed to say. I’ll do as you ask.

In answer, Cassian grinned.

And as Azriel manoeuvred his horse around them, leaving Nesta and Cassian at the back of the assembly, Rhysand pointed between the dense copse of trees ahead, where the light above was dim and the forest pressed in on all sides. 

“There!” he said loudly, his voice startling the birds nesting in the nearest tree. “Over there, your majesty!”

Elizabeth whipped her head to the side, sharp eyes assessing the direction Rhysand’s finger still pointed. Before Nesta could blink, the Queen’s smile had widened, the hunt upon her, and she kicked in her heels and sent her horse barrelling through the trees— at a speed so reckless her other councillor cursed soundly before setting his horse to follow.

Rhysand’s black stallion charged ahead, but before Nesta could urge her own mare forwards, another hand gripped her reins.

Cassian held tight, and as the rest of the hunting party darted quickly between the trees, Cassian inclined his head to the side, nodding in the other direction. His smile grew as the sound of the racing horses faded, and when he let go of the reins at last, he did not retract his hand. Instead, he extended it further, turned his palm to the sky. A silent offer, unspoken question. 

Come with me, that hand said.

And Nesta knew it was a bad idea to follow him through the wood.

Knew it was reckless, to go off with him alone.

Her reputation could end up in tatters. She could lose her position in the Queen’s household. 

And yet…

His smile was somehow sweet and devilish at the same time, simultaneously the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and the harbinger of her own ruin. 

She should have said no.

But God save her…

She didn’t. 

Instead, she placed her hand in his, feeling her heart kick as his fingers folded over her own. He drew her closer, until he could lift her hand to his mouth, and without looking away, he kissed the glove above her knuckles. She fought a shiver, and though earlier when Eris had kissed her hand she had thanked the Lord for riding gloves, now she cursed them— abhorred them. 

She felt the warmth of his hand sinking through her gloves, and oh, she only wished she could feel his touch against her bare skin, feel the smoothness of his kiss as the trees hid them from view.

At last he blinked, breaking his gaze and flicking his eyes down to the fingers he still had pressed against his lips.

A moment, an age, or a heartbeat later, he let her hand drop. And before Nesta had time to collect herself, Cassian dug in his heels and sent his horse through the trees, looking back over his shoulder, as if unwilling to draw his eyes away.

And when they were alone, with only the two of them riding almost silently, slowly, through the density of the trees, she dared to look at him again as he adjusted the crossbow that now sat across his lap, though neither of them seemed really intent on hunting anything at all. 

For a long time, there was silence— as if they were both of them afraid of being overheard. The air between them shifted, growing softer, as if the quiet gave rise to vulnerability. Suddenly, there were a thousand things Nesta wanted to say, a thousand words drifting to her lips, but in truth, she had no real idea of where or how to begin. Instead she watched the forest ahead of her, studied the way the leaves above swallowed the light, and let the silence stretch. And stretch, and stretch, and stretch, until—

At last, the privateer broke it. 

“You said you wanted me on my knees,” he began softly. “But what else do I need do to prove myself to you?”

He looked at her imploringly, the rogue cast aside, and Nesta’s heart suddenly began to strain, each beat laboured. Nothing— she knew she ought to tell him nothing, because no matter how much she wanted it, how much desire she carried, how could this ever end well between them?

Cassian studied her face.

“Do I need to sail to a distant land and claim it in your honour? Name a settlement after you? Bring you back a ream of treasure?”

She was silent, and his eyes were lined with a wealth of desperation that gave the lie to his bravado.

“Or shall I cast off my cloak before you and lay it over puddles, so your silk slippers may never touch the ground? Or—“

Nesta shook her head, and when she opened her mouth, his voice died to make way for hers. But her words grew tangled in her throat, and she hesitated— even though she never hesitated. She closed her mouth and sighed once more, and atop his horse Cassian smiled a little sadly, with so much longing her own heart ached, and when she looked at him…

Oh, he was the road her heart begged her to travel, even though it was one she knew in all good sense she wouldn’t be able to see through to its end. What was the point in letting herself fall, only to be hurt again when he left? Or when her father succeeded in tying her to some wealthy duke— if not Northumberland, then some other who came along? What was the point in any of it?

Love, a small and starving part of her whispered. The love the poets write about, the kind the troubadours sing about. The kind that makes you feel the way you do now, ready to cast off the world and find home in the arms of this one man.

As if he could see her battling with herself, Cassian drew his horse closer to hers— so close she could almost feel his warmth.

“You should know,” he said quietly, and whether the whisper in his voice was because of the need to stay hidden or the vulnerability of his words, she wasn’t sure, “that your letters were a greater treasure to me than anything I could take or steal from any ship on the high seas. Greater to me than any ransom any king could demand.”

A heartbeat passed, one where her heart seemed to thud so loudly in her chest that she feared the flock of deer they were pretending to hunt might hear it and flee.

Charming— did he always have to be so damned charming?

And God— would it be so bad, to tell him that he already had her forgiveness? Would it be so terrible, to tell him that despite it all she was his, if not in body but in mind and soul at least?

She was speechless for a moment, and he managed a weak sort of grin at her evident surprise.

And then—

The trees thinned, and a clearing lay spread before them, golden sunlight pooling in the centre like a small slice of Arcadia. Cassian sniffed a little, like the long grass and the wildflowers had irritated his nose, but still— there was beauty in that clearing, unspoiled and harmonious. 

And— a doe.

A doe stood frozen in the middle, her ears pinned back as she caught sight of the approaching horses. The sunlight dappled across her white-spotted back, and as she slowly lifted one slim leg, ready to bolt, Nesta’s eyes drifted to the crossbow in Cassian’s lap. 

She prayed he wouldn’t shoot.

But Cassian’s hand didn’t so much as twitch towards the weapon, as if he couldn’t find it in himself to hunt the creature either.

Yet on the other side of the clearing— there was the flash of auburn, the glint of an arrow.

Nesta’s heart lurched, and whether by design or divine intervention, beneath the hooves of Cassian’s horse a branch cleaved with a crack.

Readily, the deer bolted.

A curse sounded from the trees, where only a moment ago an arrow had been knocked and drawn, ready to be loosed. 

“Privateer.” A snarling voice drifted from the tree line, sharp and cutting, and Nesta recognised it immediately— saw the auburn hair like burnished bronze as Eris came into view. “You just cost me my prize.”

The duke pointed to where the deer had escaped between the trees, and though the rest of his companions remained in the shadow of the forest, she thought she could make out a handful of their faces, two of them bearing that same auburn hair. His brothers. Eris’ sneer grew wider, more vicious, and as he turned his head to fix Nesta with a stare across the distance, she wondered if his prize hadn’t only been the doe, but her, too. 

He brought his horse forwards into the clearing, further into the light, giving her an unrivalled view of the shining bruise that marred his temple. 

He hadn’t taken his loss at the joust yesterday well, it seemed, and though he cast his eyes over Nesta once more, it was to Cassian that he returned his gaze, letting out a single, dissatisfied huff. The bruise stretched up to his hairline, a livid purple stark against his pale skin, and in everything else but that, he appeared every inch the nobleman. A ring sat on every finger, and his doublet was unbroken black. Like Rhysand, he too wore a livery collar draped across his chest and shoulders, but where the Queen’s councillor had a Tudor rose dangling from his chain of office, Eris had instead the badge of a dog, its head back, lifted as if howling at the sky. 

He had a dagger out, too, presumably for slaying the deer, but the glint of the blade in the sunlight still promised bloodshed, and the way his hand flexed around the hilt said that it didn’t matter the doe had fled.

That dagger was to taste blood today, one way or another. 

“Piss off, Northumberland,” Cassian said easily— but his own hand had strayed from his bow to the sword hanging at his hip, his wrist resting purposefully on the pommel. 

Eris’ eyes flashed, quietly furious as his lip curled. “I will not stand to be insulted by one of such low standing.”

Cassian barked a laugh, but it was low and rough and dangerous. “You won’t stand for anything, sir, if I knock you from your horse as easily as I did yesterday.” He paused, and then added, “Shall I give you another bruise to decorate the other side of that pretty face?”

The duke sneered, but before he could let loose the insults that Nesta could see were rising to his tongue, there was a cacophony in the distance, and a hundred horns suddenly flaring loud enough to be heard all the way back at the castle. 

It was a summoning— a call to arms, to usher Elizabeth’s court back to her as the sun reached its highest point in the sky and dinner was served in the great tents at the edge of the forest. 

For the moment, at least, the hunt was at an end.

Eris twisted his head, looking behind him to the direction the horns had sounded. His brothers did not wait for him to make up his mind before they disappeared, following the call for food that was, apparently, of far greater worth to them than any loyalty they had for their brother. 

Cassian bowed mockingly in the saddle, but his hand did not stray from easy reach of his blade, and when Eris turned back to them, his lips were a thin line.

“These woods are treacherous,” he said flatly. “It commands great skill as a rider to avoid the pitfalls that litter these grounds. You might have won the match yesterday, sir,” - the duke’s lips pulled back over his teeth - “but how about another match? Here and now?”

Nesta watched as Cassian grinned, almost feral.

“First to the Queen wins,” he said as he moved his horse forwards, drawing level with Eris’.

The duke’s face darkened, and the nod he gave was sharp before flicking his eyes to Nesta once more. As if this were another attempt at winning her, at securing her favour for a second time. Cassian’s smile fell away, leaving behind the same murderous expression that had fuelled him at the joust yesterday.

“For the lady’s honour, then,” Eris declared, every word imbued with venom.

And when Cassian nodded, looking behind him over his shoulder to give Nesta one final wink, Eris clenched his jaw before slamming his heels into his horse’s flank, sending the beast galloping through the trees.

Cassian swore, a curse so filthy she was sure he could only have picked it up at sea, and surged forwards, letting the forest swallow him. 

But as Nesta followed, dipping beneath the cover of the trees, she saw that only the thinnest shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy of leaves above, leaving the forest floor just as treacherous as Eris had described. The ground was slick with mud, and even though the August heat ought to have dried it out, the summer sun had never made it to the ground here. Petrichor was thick in the air, and the long limbs of the trees snatched at the skirts of Nesta’s dress as she rode by them, wild and overgrown. Treacherous— this part of the forest was most definitely treacherous.

Indeed, Cassian could not ride as fast as he had yesterday, and neither could Eris, and it allowed Nesta to keep both the duke and the privateer in her sights as she followed behind, watching them weave through the trees in search of stable ground. 

As her horse almost stumbled over the gnarled roots of a tree half concealed by fallen leaves, she wondered if stable ground even existed this far into the woodland, and as the wind brushed against her cheeks and another branch snagged on her cloak, she almost called out to stop the madness that had Cassian spurring his horse onwards, regardless of the danger.

The ground began to slope— sharp and steep, and it was madness, utter madness to continue— 

Eris noted the slope, and Nesta watched as the duke swiftly studied the way the ground all but dropped away to reveal a small dell below, home to wide a stream that ran slow and idle through the undergrowth. Its banks were coated with mud, turning it slick and dangerous. 

Wisely, he veered to the side, directing his horse around— to where the ground sloped more evenly. A longer path, but a safer one, and he looked back only once before disappearing into the trees, avoiding danger altogether. 

But Cassian—

Irreverent, he glanced once over his shoulder. Manic, he grinned as he barrelled ahead, shooting Nesta a wink as he urged his horse faster still in Eris’ absence. The creature’s hooves slid in the mud, and Nesta called out his name, but Cassian had turned his face away, and if he heard her, he gave no indication.

Idiot.

She had no choice but to follow, and when he reached the banks of the stream, he did not stop. Instead he pressed in his heels, riding even faster, compelling the stallion to jump— 

And Nesta watched as the horse made the jump, but its hooves slipped on the bank on the other side, its landing far from smooth.

And just as Eris had been thrown from his horse yesterday, now Cassian was thrown from his— but it was a fall that was far more treacherous, far more dangerous, and Nesta swore her heart stopped dead as she watched him land roughly, heard the muffled groan as the ground came up to meet him. Forgetting all notions of her own safety, she urged her horse faster, willing it to cross the stream his stallion had just jumped. 

“You fool,” she hissed, feeling her horse whicker beneath her as she pushed the mare onwards. Cassian was lying on his back, a hand cast over his ribs as he looked up at the sky. “You could have broken your damned neck.”

Cassian twisted his head to look up at her as she pulled her horse to a halt.

“Got your attention though,” he muttered. “So I’d say it was worth it.”

“This was a bid for my attention?” Nesta echoed, dismounting roughly as he continued to lie there in the earth churned by his horse’s hooves. The mud was seeping through his breeches already, and the white sleeves of his fine cambric shirt were, she feared, irreparably stained. 

“Well,” Cassian said lightly, as though he hadn’t just been thrown from a stallion. “You started it, sweetheart.”

“Started what?”

He looked up at her again, turning his head in the dirt. “You gave Eris your favour.”

Nesta blinked. “You had your horse make a jump like that, risking your own bloody neck, because I gave the duke of Northumberland my ribbon? Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” he countered evenly. “My heart, perhaps. But my mind is still wonderfully intact.”

“Up,” Nesta said sharply. “Let me look at you.”

He grinned, as though vindicated, but as he made to raise himself, he hissed sharply, sucking in a breath as he pressed a hand to his ribs. His brow furrowed with pain, eyes darkening, and Nesta sighed heavily as she pulled off her gloves, held out her hand, and helped him to his feet.

“Take off your doublet,” she said flatly, looking at the expanse of muddied velvet. 

Cassian’s brow quirked. “Well, that’s not how I imagined you asking me to undress but—“

“How else can I check to see if you’ve shattered your ribcage?” she interrupted, but Cassian only grinned again and began loosening his ties. Soon enough his doublet was parted entirely, and as he slipped it from his shoulders, he winced. He let it fall to the floor, and Nesta was about to chide him for dirtying it so, but then she caught sight of his sculpted chest showing through the thin fabric of his cambric shirt. She swallowed, letting her gaze wander across his collarbone, at the tanned skin there that had been masked by his doublet’s high neck.

“And this?” Cassian said lowly, nodding to his undershirt. “Does this need to go too?”

“I… suppose it does,” Nesta said with a sniff, trying to affect nonchalance when all she could focus on was the curve of his shoulder, the muscles lining every inch of him. “How else can I check that no ribs are broken?”

“How else indeed,” Cassian hummed, and wasted no time in pulling the shirt over his head.

And good Lord have mercy, Nesta knew that Cassian was sculpted like Italian marble but nothing could have prepared her for the bare skin of his chest, hardened with muscle. Those months on a ship definitely suited him, and as she looked, she forced herself to focus on his ribs, on the task at hand. 

Innocent, she thought as she tentatively traced a finger across his ribcage, where a thin scar marred his skin. It’s all entirely proper, completely innocent. Just a lady checking a friend for injury.

He was warm beneath her, so warm, his skin softer than it had any right to be. He’d spent eight months in the sun and salt air, and he’d come back looking finer than ever. Hers— this man could be hers, and as her fingers splayed across his chest, Cassian reached up with one hand and caged her touch right above his heart. 

She felt it beat— sure and steadfast. 

“Will I live?” he asked softly. “Or am I doomed?”

Nesta swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his hazel ones, boring down into her with an intensity that had her feeling slightly stunned. Her lips parted, she tried to speak, but all she could feel was his heart beating beneath her fingers, his smooth skin and the warm heat of him that had her feeling breathless. 

“You’ll live,” she said at last.

He nodded, his hair falling idly over his forehead. In the sunlight, the pearl that dangled from his ear winked, the gold setting glimmering. 

Nesta blinked, and somehow found the strength to drag her eyes away, dropping her gaze to the floor. Where his shirt lay in a crumpled pile next to his doublet, there was a hint of pale-blue, a small flash of colour against the white. She frowned, tilting her head, unable to understand even as she knew what it was, what it must be.

“Is that— my ribbon?”

Cassian pulled back, a somewhat sheepish smile on his face as he cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“Perhaps.”

“How did you even get it?” she asked, bending to retrieve it from the pile of his clothes. 

He shrugged. “I wasn’t about to let Eris have it.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the noise of the forest and the sounds of the horns, distant. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he asked quietly. “About the betrothal.”

Nesta shrugged. “Because I’m trying to get out of it,” she said easily. “It was foolish of you to think I’d still be here, unwed, when you got back. You know my father—“

“Fuck your father,” he muttered. And then he softened, his eyes turning wide with something akin to pleading. “I’m here now, sweetheart. And I’m not going away again.”

“But you will,” she countered, turning her face away. He always would— he could not be tied to the court as she was, had too restless a spirit to spend his life idling away on an estate somewhere. “And I’ll be left behind, waiting for you, again.”

“You could come with me,” he offered instead, even though the both of them knew it was madness.

Elain had moved to Spain with Lucien— but that was because his place was in the Spanish court, somewhere settled. It was bad luck to have a woman aboard a ship, everyone knew that. No, Cassian could not take her with him, but she adored him a little for even offering in the first place.

“Or you could promise not to stay away so long,” she said instead, her voice quiet. “Come home, Cassian, as often as you are able. Don’t sail so far away from me.”

“Never again,” he said, holding a hand over his heart. “How could I ever stray so far, when I love you too much to stand the distance?”

Her breath caught.

I love you.

Oh, the words were said so often at court. She’d had countless dukes and earls call her their dearest love during dances and revels, and she couldn’t even begin to fathom how many had written her poems or bowed deep and told her she held their hearts in her hands. It was part of the game they played at Elizabeth’s court— part of the realpolitik that made up their world. 

But it was different when he said it.

So different Nesta might have sworn the earth beneath her shifted, that standing beneath that canopy of trees, all the riches in the world lost their value.

She blinked, and he waited— waited for her to say something, to acknowledge his declaration.

And in the end, Nesta found the strength to dip her head, to smile a little demurely before stepping forward and pressing the softest, the chastest, of kisses to his cheek. Then, she turned back to her horse and mounted, leaving him standing there, looking up at her, one hand pressed to the cheek she had just kissed.

“I suppose, then,” she said, “that you can be forgiven for ignoring my letters.”

And as she began to ride off into the forest, she looked back once— and waited for him to follow.

Taglist: @c-e-d-dreamer @andrigyn @beansidhebumbling @burningsnowleopard @asnowfern @xstarlightsupremex

[galadrieljones]

i read your theories. And i believe it but there is a feeling inside me and telling me that beth will never comeback. i don’t know.

I would be lying if I didn't say that every day, I deal with a similar nagging voice in my head: If she doesn't come back, is this all for nothing? I do truly believe that lately, there has been too many strange developments to be pure coincidence. But, at the same time, I have skepticism deep in my roots. It's simply in my nature to interrogate, which is how I got here in the first place, so I feel you.

I came into the Bethyl fandom about 6 years late. I saw "Coda," during my first TWD marathon during covid in 2020, and I had been accidentally spoiled a long time back. I knew Beth was going to get shot and that she was going to die, so while I was really upset about it, I knew it was going to happen. BUT. I didn't think it would be that...weird?? I just thought a rogue bullet would tag her during a shoot-out, and she'd die in Daryl's arms. But it didn't happen like that at all. It was just so WEIRD! It was so unlike any of the other deaths. And it just didn't sit right. The way Dawn was trying to convince Beth to stay, to do something that she said would be "the most important thing she'll ever do in her life??" Rick's repetition of the "Can't go back, Bob," line? The weird POV and high angle shots during the exchange? The bizarre audio and closed captions that don't match what we hear and/or see? The canted shots, which I remembered from a film class I took in college were meant to communicate messages of disorientation and even psychosis. I thought, is something wrong with Rick? Is he misremembering what happened? I was also stunned by the coda with Morgan, because it was just so...oblique? Like what were all those weird, random bits of inventory? The magazine, the little things he leaves at the altar, and how he seems to be laughing at some cosmic truth we can't see or understand. I thought, I have to be missing something!

Then I watched WHAWGO, and I knew something was like really off. I knew that the writers were playing some sort of game. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but like, I just figured they would address it later. I figured that whatever was being hidden, it would soon surface. But it never did. Around the time I was watching season 8, so maybe a month or two later, I found Team Delusional on tumblr, and I realized that my instincts were, if not definitively correct, than at least being shared by tons of other fans. It was amazing to me that, six years later, I could be asking the same exact questions, completely unprompted, that they were asking at the time the episode aired. How could that be a coincidence?

In any case, skepticism still finds me from time to time, mainly, I assume, as a form of self-preservation. I mostly cope with my creeping, inevitable skepticism by just...continuing to badger the evidence. Anytime I simply feel like being reminded of why I care so much about this, I go back and revisit "Slabtown" and "Coda." For me, the most convincing evidence is actually the Christ imagery. Why plant a bunch of Christ imagery if you weren't planning a resurrection? It really doesn't make sense. And it's really not that unusual for the GA of a show like this to just miss the signs. Because while "the signs are all there," if you don't know how to read them, you might just think you're looking at confusing writing choices and/or you might just tell yourself, "Meh, well, it's just a TV show. It's not that serious." And, of course, it's not. It IS just a TV show, but I have met lots of people who, because of TD, at the very least, have gone back and admitted that, um, yeah. "Coda" IS kind of weird. Like, what is it with that? And the angle of the gun actually DOESN'T make sense, and yeah, why DIDN'T we see Beth's funeral? Isn't a whole big deal made in "Alone" about Beth and how important she thinks it is to give dead people funerals? These are all objectively valid questions! They don't take "true believer" or "conspiracy theory" ideologies to entertain. They just take one single second look at the evidence and an open mind. Team Delusional really isn't delusional at all. We're simply very inquisitive, detail oriented people who really love Beth and Daryl.

All of that said, I definitely understand where your skepticism is coming from, and it's been such a long time. The best way I've found to deal with it, other than continuing to interrogate the show, is to just sort of let go of control and enjoy the moment as a hobby and/or a passion. For me, this kind of research and analysis is definitely a passion. But also, to (badly) quote @twdmusicboxmystery, "Until the powers that be come right out and say, 'Beth is dead and she is never coming back,' I'll be here." I do really think she's alive! And at the very least, I believe they'll create closure for Daryl, in some way that has to involve Beth.

Keep believing!! But don't let it cause you pain or anxiety. It has to be fun. Whatever will be will be, and if you're not enjoying it, it's okay to take breaks or to just take a firm "wait and see" approach. You can always change your mind and dive back in when you feel up to it again ❤️💕💫

[nonsenseafterdark]

Day Five: Bloody Nose

Characters: Gary "Roach" Sanderson, John Price, John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count: 935

Warnings: Descriptions of injury, lots of blood

Notes: This is also posted on AO3, and here's my list of prompts.

All Roach had to do was regroup with the rest of his team, and it was an objective he was so fixed on that he was focused on nothing else around him. He had outrun the spray of bullets firing in his direction, the debris blowing off buildings from an RPG, figuring that he’d worry about firing back at the people by the time he caught up with everyone else. Though maybe he should’ve stopped to fire every once in a while because it didn’t occur to him that there would be enemies running right alongside him—Not until he slowed down to turn a corner, only to immediately be met with the butt of a rifle straight to his face. 

The moments between when he was struck and landed on the ground were blurry, quite literally as his eyes burned with tears and his nose throbbed as hard as his pounding heartbeat, a faint ringing in his ear. By the time his vision cleared up just enough, he had noticed his hand was reaching up to touch his nose, barely covering it long enough as it felt like fire was shooting up his face the moment he touched it. There was already a decent amount of blood covering his hand and dripping onto the concrete beneath him. The source of it all pointed to his nostrils, which dripped crimson like a broken faucet. Roach was slow to register everything around him, so he was more than startled as he saw his weapon being kicked away, and before he could reach for it, he was immediately kicked in the stomach, knocking the air out of him completely. 

He made an attempt to crawl away in the other direction until he saw another pair of legs blocking off his escape. Once more, he would be kicked in the ribs before a few pairs of hands forced him up against the wall. Roach gasped painfully, tasting blood on his tongue, but he didn’t know if it was coming from his nose or the back of his throat. He was too stunned to listen to the words being exchanged, but he guessed that they were probably debating what to do with him now. During this exchange, Roach made an unsuccessful attempt to break free from their grip, only to immediately be met with a punch straight to his gut. If it weren’t for the men barely holding him up, he would’ve curled over back onto the ground by now. 

But before any crucial decisions were made, the men around him were immediately gunned down, and with no one holding him up, Roach did ultimately slide back to hunching over painfully, his entire head pounding as if a bell was tolling violently against his skull. Though he did have enough energy to look up to see who his savior was as Captain Price came sprinting over, crouching down in front of him.

“You broken, Sergeant?” Price asked, holding his face and angling it up a bit.

“Just my nose, sir…” Roach answered nasally. Price took his hand away, holding it open for the sergeant to grab onto before he was pulled back up to his feet. He grunted in pain, taking a moment to lean against the wall, “And maybe my ribs too…”

“What do I always tell you muppets…?” Price asked, rhetorically and almost frustratingly, “Always check your corners.”

“I know…” Roach nodded shamefully, “I’m sorry, Cap…”

Price looked as if he was going to scold Roach some more until the chatter over the radio caught his attention, listening in briefly before picking up his gun off the ground and thrusting it into Roach’s hands. 

“We need to move,” He grunted out, leading the way down the alleyway with Roach jogging in close behind. He moved slower than before, head pounding from pain with every step he took. But it wasn’t long until he regrouped with the rest of the team, Soap being the first to notice Roach’s injury.

“Steaming hell, Roach,” He cursed, “Is all that blood coming from your nose?”

“Sure is, Soap,” Roach replied, feeling lightheaded, the other sergeant supporting him before he could fall over. 

“Get yourself to a medic,” Price told Roach before turning to face Soap, “You make sure he gets to them. The rest of you on me. There’s more of them coming in from the east, but make sure to check your corners. They could be anywhere…”

Everyone affirmed Price’s orders before following him back to the gunfight, Roach sighing as a mix of blood dried on his face and continued to pour from his nose.

“How the hell did you bash your face in, bug?” Soap asked, supporting Roach as they walked towards the medical tent. 

“It’s more ‘who’ bashed my face in…” Roach laughed briefly before exclaiming softly in pain, lightly touching his head, “I was just… focused on making sure I was getting back here that I didn’t see them coming.”

“We should check for a concussion. But you’ll probably be out of commission for a bit, mate.”

“Out of the fight, maybe… But Price’ll put me to work making sure the bathrooms are clean for you guys…”

That earned a laugh out of Soap, “We’ve all been there, bug. You at least got a better story to go with your bloody nose.”

“And what’s your story, Soap?”

“Football… Got kicked straight in the face with the ball, and ruined my favorite jersey.”

“That’s it?”

“It happened when I was six. Just a childhood scar like everyone else.”

“Not nearly as bad as forgetting to ‘check your corners’...”

[chasingbluebirds]

Fracturing

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Character(s): Vil Schoenheit Word count: 638 AO3 Version Written for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial theme, "Fracturing Forms"!

Vil flicked his thumb down along his Magicam profile, glossed lips pursing thinner and thinner as he scrolled. Attention on his posts was dropping, however gradually, and Mira was reporting fewer comments than ever on his photos lately.

He'd known, of course, the risk he was taking by rejecting so many roles. Celebrities lived and died by their presence in the public eye. His agent was good - better than good, in fact, she was far and away the best he'd ever had. But even she couldn't keep him relevant forever on only high-heeled photoshoots and perfume ads. His stunning movie roles were what had earned him his fame, and here he was, refusing one audition after another.

It wasn't really a matter of his schoolwork, though it did make for a convenient excuse to the media. Between his talent and his work ethic, truthfully, Vil was more than capable of managing acting work alongside his other responsibilities. Besides, the teachers were well familiar with his work, and they would have undoubtedly accommodated any demands of his career as needed. And the magic mirror guaranteed that even the most remote filming location could be just a simple commute back and forth to the academy.

What he couldn't stand, however, was the crushing idea of another nine months of filming opposite everyone's beloved Neige LeBlanche.

As his eyes scanned post after post of the past few months, he could feel his jaw clenching with frustration. But no, he couldn't afford the wrinkle lines from making such unpleasant faces. No matter his feelings on the matter, he would never be the most beautiful if he ruined his own looks with his displeasure.

He closed his eyes, reminding himself to breathe deeply and relax his muscles again. He needed to be able to look at himself calmly and objectively. He had always put in the work, and if that wasn't enough, then he'd just have to figure out what piece was missing. He'd make himself enough.

The fractured forms of dozens of pictures of himself gazed back at him, each cleanly composed with perfection. In one, he showed off a gleaming golden watch on a dark violet suit, his expression focused distantly on some point just out of frame, surrounded by sleek, modern skyscrapers in a glittering city. In another, his carefully refined smile showed off the apple-bright shade of his red lipstick. From yet another, he glowered arrogantly in the background of a movie poster, mouth curled in an elegant sneer towards Neige, who smiled sweetly at the camera, oblivious to his fictional nemesis's disdain.

Sweet. It was a type of role he'd never gotten to play. He wanted to, desperately. He could do wonderfully at it, if someone would just give him the damn chance to. But why would they, when they could always get the adorable, endearing Neige LeBlanche for it instead?

Clicking on his rival's tag on the movie poster, he was taken to a new flood of images, all cohesively linked by the same earnest, friendly smile on the younger boy's face. It was an effortless-looking, natural sort of prettiness, bright like a spot of sunshine reaching through the clouds. It was the sort of beauty that people wanted to trust implicitly, and so they did.

It was also the complete opposite of that glamorous, blinding brilliance of Vil's, which shone more like the bulbs on his vanity, highlighting perfection from every angle but too bright to stare at directly.

He had spent his entire life refining himself into the perfect picture of beauty. He had worked towards it for as long as he could remember. But how could he possibly compete with that natural, lovable charm?

The bitter aftertaste of dandelion greens lingered on his tongue as he took another sip of his beauty drink.

[blood-orange-juice]

Pushing my "Childe is inspired by Uther Doul" agenda.

I wrote about how everything that he does contains a contradiction and we discussed with Cricket how Canotila's quest implies that the Abyss might not be just a place with monsters and dead forgotten gods, but rather a place where things randomly flicker in and out of existence or change to random other things.

And a huge part of my fascination with Childe is how three years after the start of the story I still can't figure him out. Human psyche doesn't bend at this angles, his combination of traits is not supposed to exist in one person (nor it can be imitated).

Yet, somehow it doesn't feel like ooc or bad writing, I have a very clear sense of what would be childelike and unchildelike, it just doesn't feel like anything that can exist inside a human brain, unless I resort to a very weird theory.

*

The theory.

China Mieville's "The Scar" has a concept called "possibility mining", certain places and certain magic/technology being able to conjure all the possible versions of a person or an object at once. It can be navigated to some extent.

There's a character called Uther Doul, a warrior-scholar, the pirate city rulers' bodyguard and overall a charming fellow. He's consistently described as someone changing the direction of his actions too quickly and unpredictably or having traits that shouldn't coexist in one person.

(he also wears grey, is proficient in most kinds of weapons and is generally polite and soft spoken. do you see my vision?)

First meeting:

  “Surrender,” he said quietly to the man before him, who looked up in terror and sobbed, fumbled idiotically for his knife.    The grey-clad man spun instantly in the air, his arms and legs bent. He twirled as if he were dancing and stamped out quickly, the bottom of his foot slamming into the fallen man’s face and smashing him back. The sailor sprawled, bleeding, unconscious or dead. As the man in grey landed he was instantly still. It was as if he had not moved.

A fight at a city arena (mostly quoting this for the reaction of other people to him):

It was only when the frenzy spread to her own boat that she realized it was a word. “Doul.” It came from all around her. “Doul, Doul, Doul.” A name. “What are they saying?” she hissed to Silas. “They’re calling for someone,” he said, his eyes scanning the surrounds. “They want a display. They’re demanding a fight from Uther Doul.” He gave her a quick, cold smile. “You’ll recognize him,” he said. “You’ll know him when you see him.” [...] Uther Doul did not seem to live in the same time as anyone else. He seemed like some visitor to a world much more gross and sluggish than his own. Despite the bulk of his body, he moved with such speed that even gravity seemed to operate more quickly for him.

The heroine contemplating after (I don't think need to comment):

They left and walked the winding nightlit pathways of Thee-And-Thine toward Shaddler, and Garwater and the Chromolith. Neither spoke. At the end of Doul’s fight, Bellis had seen something that had brought her up short and made her afraid. As he had turned, his hands clawed, his chest taut and heaving, she had seen his face. It was stretched tight, every muscle straining, into a glare of feral savagery unlike anything she had ever seen on a human being. Then a second later, with his bout won, he had turned to acknowledge the crowd and had looked once more like a contemplative priest. Bellis could imagine some fatuous warrior code, some mysticism that abstracted the violence of combat and allowed one to fight like a holy man. And equally she could imagine tapping into savagery, letting atavistic viciousness take over in a berserker fugue. But Doul’s combination stunned her. She thought of it later, as she lay in her bed, listening to light rain. He had readied and recovered himself like a monk, fought like a machine, and seemed to feel it like a predatory beast. That tension frightened her, much more than the combat skills he had shown. Those could be learned.

Uther explaining lore:

   Uther quoted something like a singer. “ ‘We have scarred this mild world with prospects, wounded it massively, broken it, made our mark on its most remote land and stretching for thousands of leagues across its sea. And what we break we may reshape, and that which fails might still succeed. We have found rich deposits of chance, and we will dig them out.’    “They meant all that literally,” he said. “It wasn’t an abstract crow of triumph. They had scarred, they had broken the world. And, in doing so, they set free forces that they were able to tap. Forces that allowed them to reshape things, to fail and succeed simultaneously-because they mined for possibilities. A cataclysm like that, shattering a world, the rupture left behind: it opens up a rich seam of potentialities.    “And they knew how to pick at the might-have-beens and pull out the best of them, use them to shape the world. For every action, there’s an infinity of outcomes. Countless trillions are possible, many milliards are likely, millions might be considered probable, several occur as possibilities to us as observers-and one comes true.    “But the Ghosthead knew how to tap some of those that might have been. To give them a kind of life. To use them, to push them into the reality that in its very existence denied theirs, which is defined by what happened and by the denial of what did not. Tapped by possibility machines, outcomes that didn’t quite make it to actuality were boosted, and made real.

Fun detail: he also wields what's called a "possible sword", it takes the shape currently preferred by the owner.

If I recall that correctly, it's never actually stated explicitly or explained why does Uther have such a weird combination of traits and fans argue a lot about which side was real.

I think all of them were. He just switched constantly between all the different versions of himself. And I think so does Childe. Not just in "he compartmentalizes" way (although that probably too) but in reality-shifting way.

I also think that's the real reason why Childe wasn't in Sumeru. His thought process itself is probably a massive spoiler. Also Nahida would have probably speedrun a corruption arc with a pace inconceivable both to King Deshret and Rukkhadevata if she tried to peek into his head.

*

It gets weirder and even more fun when you see the drops from the 4.2 boss, but I'll wait for the patch to drop to draw parallels. For now I'll just say that it involves a whale and a music instrument.

[coruscqte]

a brief late night drabble about xiayu / stelle swapping places in their respective timelines — and some reflection

@lesbianbootheng

-

“I wasn’t raised as a Vidyadhara,” Difficult to explain, in that sense, the question already forming in Dan Heng’s eyes. Xiayu smiles a little, watching the stars twinkle in that artificial sky, “I was raised by short-lifers.”

“Short lifers?” Dan Heng echoes her words, following a few steps behind with March as they walk through the Divination Commission, “A new Vidyadhara, the first in centuries, and they allowed you to be raised by short-lifers?”

She hums, thinking of the best way to explain it to him. It’s difficult, how best to obey Fu Xuan and not reveal the future, lest it affect their past, “I was a special case. A Vidyadhara mated with a short lifer unknowingly, and in, you know, six months, I appeared.”

“I guess it was unusual, but I’ve never felt like a full Vidyadhara. Guess I never really wanted to be one, anyway.”

The video flickers to life when Stelle ghosts her finger over the projector. A small screen, as big as the few photos that sit on the edge of the high elder’s desk. It’s clearly a child in the video, his daughter, if she had to guess by the fluffy dark hair and aquamarine horns.

She sits, in front of three objects. A baseball. A charm, jade by the color, and a camera on the floor. There’s also what she thinks is a pen and a book included on the floor, as well as an Express ticket completing the semi circle.

“Guess it never really mattered. I didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything by not being raised by a pearlkeeper.”

The camera’s angle shifts, stabilizes again. Dan Heng appears in frame, a little closer to how Stelle remembers him in her timeline. He sits behind the objects, a tired but soft smile on his expression. She’s hit with a pang of longing, missing her partner after the last few days’ events, and watches as he attempts to get the toddler’s attention from where she’s turned to grin at the camera, “Xiayu, little star, look here.”

His voice is so kind, sweet when she finally looks to him. A father. So different from the cold man that’d greeted her earlier today. Suddenly she feels exposed, feeling as if she’s trespassing into the office. Perhaps she is. But her curiosity wins out, and she settles gingerly into the chair behind the desk.

March catches up to her, swinging her arms along her sides, “They must’ve really loved you then, to take on that kind of responsibility. The first of your kind in so long … isn’t that kind of scary?”

What is there even to say to that? Xiayu’s heart catches in her throat. March being here still stuns her in such a terrible way, that makes it harder to breathe. So bright, excited, happy — alive. It’s near foreign to have her so close.

“I don’t think they ever thought it was.”

“What’s this for again?” It’s March’s voice that echoes in the office. Not a surprise, that means that the three of them remained friends into this future of their’s. That was nice to know, “Seems like a lot of options for one baby.”

“It is an old tradition on the Xianzhou. A choosing ceremony, where on their first birthday, a child is given many options to give a little … insight, into their future,” Dan Heng responds, “What she grabs is what she may do in the future.”

March hums audibly, and the camera shifts again, “I guess that could be interesting. Why’s the jade in the middle though and not the camera? This isn’t a fair set up, Dan Heng.”

The man shakes his head lightly. His expression swings towards smug, “Do you not think she can choose for herself? Should she like the jade piece, she has a future with the Xianzhou.”

“And if she likes the camera, then she’s definitely going to love seeing the universe, right?”

“If that’s the meaning you assign it.”

The silence is deafening. They keep walking until they reach the starskiff port, waiting on the next one to arrive, “Besides. I enjoyed what time I had with them, they loved me. I loved them. Every second spent with them meant everything to me.”

Xiayu smiles again, though it’s strained when she faces March. She swallows thickly, “The Vidyadhara think in centuries. I think in years. I think it makes me more … down to earth.”

The other woman nods, “You really know how to live in the moment then, huh?”

So many photos snapped over those fifty years. A beautiful camera, preserved on her night stand. She hadn’t used it since its owner had passed, and yet, the same camera hangs off her belt. Carefree. Smudged and scratched in the same way.

“You could say that.”

The child giggles in response, babbling near nonsense. March seems to respond in kind, “You think your dad is being biased too, huh?”

A louder giggle from the baby. Agreement, in March’s opinion, “I know! Totally unfair to your mummy.”

“Don’t give her any extra ideas, March.” Dan Heng says, looking for Xiayu’s attention again. Once he has it, he beckons her forward, speaking to her directly again in that kind tone, “Which is it that you like more, my child?”

It takes her a moment, maybe more to process as the video crackles. Stelle finds herself invested, almost excited to see what the child chooses. A beat, two, three, four. Then, she crawls forward. Looks at the items as she swings her head back and forth, sticking one of her small hands in her mouth.

“Your parents must be gone by now,” Dan Heng says, from where he stands to her left. It isn’t rude, rather more matter of fact. He sounds almost apologetic, “With how old you are, I am sorry for your loss.”

Loss. It seems like all she does these days is lose. But what can really be done about it? Time keeps marching on and forward. As much as she wishes she could freeze frame twenty years ago, relive it again and again outside her dreams, she can’t. While the man before her has barely aged, the woman to her side has. Multiple times over until she was laid to rest finally. Allowed to sleep as long as she liked without being disturbed on a weekend.

She wills back tears.

The baby crawls forward again. March follows with the camera as Dan Heng scoots back to allow her space. Away from the pen and navigational device, even away from the book. An interesting selection. Every person the video seems to hold their breath, as not to influence her as she sits finally before the first three objects.

Its unceremonious, or perhaps ceremonious, when the baby grabs at the baseball with a slightly underdeveloped grip. But that’s decisive enough for someone to cheer rather loudly from just behind the camera as the baby laughs, turning to look at whoever it was.

“They are. Or, my mother is. She’s been dead a long time now.” So long, its felt like. What is she to say to that? To do about it? To be here now, knowing by some cruel twist of fate that she can be here with her mum but not her mom is killing her on the inside. Xiayu shrugs at Dan Heng, watching the starskiffs go by, “But … thanks for that.”

The camera swings over in a mess of gold and white when someone picks up the baby and spins around with them, “That’s my girl!”

“You don’t have to gloat about it, you know!” March whines, playful while the camera focuses in on the presumed birthday girl, “It’s just a prediction anyway.”

“But it’s a good one!” She realizes, there in that office, that it’s her voice on the audio. That it’s her in the video, her hair cropped short around the ears while she dances with Xiayu in her arms, “My daughter’s going to be the next galactic baseballer, nothing you can do about it, darling.”

Her … daughter?

She had a daughter. With Dan Heng. With March, if Xiayu’s appearance was anything to go by. It … stuns her, while the video loops around.

“A preview,” Dan Heng again, when March turns the camera around. He quirks an eyebrow, “Of the next at least twenty years. Are we truly surprised of our child choosing their mother?”

“No … I guess not.” They share a laugh, before the video cuts.

“I am sure she’s watching you now,” Dan Heng offers her as they climb into the starskiff, March rattling off their destination. Was Stelle still watching her? What would she think, of all of this? Her troubles with her lineage, with her father, with everything? She’d know what to do, “A comfort. Perhaps.”

Xiayu smiles, chuckling a little as she rubs the corner of her eyes, “Yeah. She would be. Think she’s always looking out for me.”

Stelle places her hand closer to the projection, hand almost eclipsing the machine as if to reach out to the baby on it. Her baby. Her daughter. Technically.

What … happened here, she wonders, while she glances around the office.

What happened to her?

[beautifulpersonpeach]

BPP!! How many people raised their objections at boba hair Jimin?! I wonder what’s happening to their words now that the Vogue covers have dropped 🤭 Ah Jimin-ah. Why do you do this to us every single time?!

Oh mon Dieu.

Now if he can just give us back tattoos some of us can retire in peace.

***

Hi Anon,

You sent me this ask several days ago and now more stunning Jimin footage has dropped:

(Not a soul alive who is doing it like him)

*

I kinda don’t want him to reveal his back tattoos… for reasons. But it’s likely he does in FACE promotions or MVs. We’ll see.

And for the Anon who was very impressed by the website designed like a new make-up line from Jimin that’s getting a lot of attention for his new album, a website that BTSChartData (BCD) and a Namjoon-biased ARMY made to promote Jimin’s FACE; for that Anon, welcome to seeing the care and thought ARMYs put into the tannies’ work during comeback.

You’re right that people are usually more able to look at something favourably if they already like the subject. And you’re also right that’s why the same group of people complaining that BTS’s promotional videos and material is sterile, basic, vapid, etc, are somehow able to put on their thinking caps to analyze and recognize the subliminal messaging present in Jimin’s material for FACE. One could say it’s only coincidence they happen to actually like Jimin rather than the group as a whole or the other members who have released music so far. But it also begs the question when a similar approach was used for the design and content of the promotional material for Namjoon’s album (indigo denim with sunlight and shadow patterns and angles); for Hoseok’s album (with specific colour motifs of green and red/pink); and before that, BTS’s Proof album. I mean, it’s the same team working on all the projects (with the exception of Hobi’s where the chief designer role was absent) and there’s a marked difference in BTS’s promotional material as a whole compared to what you’d see for many other k-pop groups in the last few years I.e. BTS’s media presentation is nearly all subliminal and often minimalistic as opposed to dramatic and sensational as is typical for k-pop promotional imagery. As I said in my On The Street review, BTS’s approach to media messaging is one where nothing is spoon-fed to the viewer, and instead there’s the expectation to do your own homework, intimately know the artist, and apply that knowledge of the artist towards their videos and media material. We saw it with BTS’s previous concept/video material, and most recently with On The Street and now Set Me Free Pt 2.

I suggest you not let it bug you Anon. The willingness to interpret material for Jimin’s work is less about hypocrisy and more about the very natural human sentiment of bias. If you’re already biased towards something, you’re more willing to make the effort of approaching that art favourably. It also helps that just as with all the previous members so far, Jimin’s concept is legitimately beautiful and thought-provoking.

I’ve said before I’m not really one to analyze concept photos, posters, music videos and such. The music is primarily what I’m here for though sometimes an understanding of the associated media can amplify the effect. For many people analyzing the content is all part of the fun, and frankly the work Jimin has put into his album necessitates it.

Make sure you’re staying in shape and hydrated for his pre-release on March 17th.

[shadowypandaballoon]

1. Extreme wide shot

- the context of an extreme wide shot may indicate that the characters are present in the scene. As establishing shots, extreme wide shots are frequently used.

• I find that sunsets are peaceful. A beautiful sunset can make me feel calmer, remove irritability, and serve as a gentle reminder that I am only a small component of a much larger whole. The things that upset me are typically not worth worrying about because life is so much more than my grumbling and negative attitude.They offer magnificent landscape. These hues are quite bright. They create incredible works of natural art. Your mood may be affected by them.

•IMG_20230326_182012.jpg

• March 26, 2023

•Barangay Sinalhan ibaba purok 3Sta.Rosa, Laguna.

2. Long shot/wide shot

- Close shots focus on the specifics of the topic and emphasize a character's emotions, long shots, also known as wide shots, show the subject from a distance, emphasizing place and location.

• I took this picture as a best shot because sunset's are proof that endings can often be beautiful too.

• IMG_20230325_364188.jpg

• March 25, 2023

• 6:20 pm

• Brgy Sinalhan, Santa Rosa Laguna

3. Full shot

-The context of an full shot is to capture one or more character or subjects from top to bottom to focus on the character or place appearance.This is what I chose to take because I can see the beauty of nature in this place it has a clean environment and beautiful scenery.

•Echo park, in a peaceful place. It is one of the places where tourists come because of its clean and beautiful environment, it is known for being abundant in water resources and flowering plants, you can see beautiful scenery, we are lucky because there are majestic sights that we can be proud of.

• IMG_20230219_114313.jpg

• March 24, 2023

• 11:43 am

• Echo Park Cavinti Laguna

4. Meduim long shot

-Between a medium shot and a full shot, a medium long shot shows the subject from the knees up. also known as a 3/4 shot.

•In the sunny day i took this picture because trees and clouds are a stunning combination of beauty. Trees provide a majestic backdrop of strong, tall trunks and lush leafy branches, while clouds fill the sky with billowing shapes of white, grey and blue. Together, they create a stunningly tranquil atmosphere that can be admired for hours.

• IMG_20230326_093939.jpg

• March 26,2023

• 9:39 am

• Sinalhan Sta.Rosa,Laguna

5. Cowboy shot

- A cowboy shot includes the subject's face down to their mid-thigh. This shot size was widely used in Western films like Clint Eastwood's A Fistful of Dollars based on the frequency of showdowns in these flicks. The cowboy shot is now used widely in films of many other genres.

• Kite always flies against the wind, not with the wind. In life too, if we are just going with flow or driven by the circumstance or situation, we will not be able to rise. It's true when things are against us or situations are more demanding we give up.

• IMG_20230326_175719_509.jpg

• March 26, 2023

• 5:57 pm

• Brgy Sinalhan Baywalk, Santa Rosa Laguna

6. Meduim shot

-A medium shot is one in which the subject is shown from roughly knee level by the camera. Since they make it simpler to tell where the scene is taking place, medium shots are frequently employed for establishing shots.

• When im walking at the night i see this latern and i took it as a best shot because it symbolizes the victory of light over darkness as well as hope and goodwill.

• IMG_20230325_130554.jpg

• March 25, 2023

• 9:45 am

• Brgy Sinalhan, Santa Rosa Laguna

7. Meduim close up

-An object is captured from about two feet away in a medium close-up view, a style of camera angle employed in both film and photography. This kind of shot can be utilized to highlight details or foster a sense of closeness between the spectator and the subject being viewed

•In the sunny days i took this shot because I loved seeing my adorable dog walking, playing, happy and free.Dogs are very special and adorable, In every morning he wakes me up and we both go for a morning walk.to keep him happy and healthy.

• IMG_20230323_354627.jpeg

• March 23, 2023

• 7:37 am

• Sinalhan, Santa Rosa Laguna

8. Close up shot

-A shot taken of a person or object at a close range, in order to capture the minute details of the subject.

•I took this as a best because the church is God's instrument for expressing his compassion and concern for the world. Everyone has different beliefs, and what you want to believe is your own choice.

• IMG_20230324_212007.jpg

• March 24, 2023

• 9:20 pm

• Brgy Sinalhan , Santa Rosa Laguna

9. Extreme Close up shot

-Shot is a sharper variation of a close-up shot that occasionally just reveals the subject's eyes. The subject is tightly framed in close-up views, which fill the entire frame with a specific detail.

•Where the sun disappears out of sight from the sky. Standing on the window to welcome the sunset were hitting the eyes that fighting the urge to see the beautiful sky - like how her tongue could never express but her eyes talk a great deal.

• IMG_20230326_171359.jpg

• March 26, 2023

• 5:13 pm

• Brgy Sinalhan, Santa Rosa Laguna

[st4rbwrry]

home. sasuke uchiha.

warnings .ᐟ . . . fem!reader, shinobi!sasuke, titty play, sucking, biting, hair pulling, finger sucking, bathtub sex, kinda vanilla, reader sends sasuke nudes, black coded.

mocha’s note .ᐟ . . . he’s stuck in my brain rn. enjoy. :)

tease. seeing that sultry picture you sent to him earlier in the day, while on an important mission might he add, nearly choking as he jumped through bushes in the air has him off the wall. he heard the notification throughout all the heavy gusts of wind and leaves blowing, noticing he received a few images from you, his adorable wife . . . not so adorable as of lately. since he’s been gone so long, he’s barely had time to be with you. feeling bad whenever he had to leave you when duty called, hating that he was such an important character to the hidden leaf village.

when he does make time for you, you’re insatiably horny. and he couldn’t blame you, because he’s the same. not one for words, so when he walks into your home he’s quick to grope you up and pull you close, mashing his lips with yours and shoving you up or down some sort of object; the couch, the wall, a table, the floor. you’re on his mind all day long, all he can think about. it’s worse for you considering you’re worried for just his safety more than anything, dread filling your chest whenever he had to depart for a few days, sometimes months depending on the situation. scared he wouldn’t come back as sasuke uchiha; the last uchiha, your husband.

then there’s just those days where you’re outrageously horny, missing his touch whenever you think of little things, or flashbacks hit, or hinata and ino have girl talks with you about their sex lives. it’s frustrating when those needs cannot be tended to when the urge hits. since you knew he’d be home in two days, you figured you give him something to look forward to. let him know how much you’ve missed him. wearing only a white crop top, nipples taut against the fabric, and a skimpy pink butterfly thong. you perched yourself onto the bathroom sink, curly hair in pigtails touching your waist as you angle your phone to take a few photos for your beloved.

missing you. xoxo.

you send them with a mischievous grin, knowing it’ll stun him. as much as sasuke hated to admit, he was shy. especially when it came to you. you were always the bold one in the relationship, coming this far now because you made the first move. he hides it a lot, but he’s surely a hopeless romantic. so fond of you he blushes red as a tomato at anything you do. when he saw you naked for the first time and you asked him how you looked, he couldn’t stop stuttering. he’s really cute.

he’s glad he was alone meaning he didn’t have to warn anyone about his rapid disappearance, making his way back to the village and entering his home without so much as a knock to warn you. his pupils are dilated with lust, searching every corner of the home for you like a madman. he finds you upstairs, hears you humming a tune. he’s like a shadow when he appears, equipment off and tall body emerging into the bathroom where you sees you running a bubble bath and arranging hair products.

“baby,” his voice is deep which makes your skin crawl, yelping and jumping around with a brush in your hand for a weapon. when you see it’s your husband, you’re more confused than excited. wondering what the hell he was doing home so early. though your chest did burst with happiness all things aside.

“sasuke!” you screech, dropping the tool and hopping in his arms, sasuke staring at your reflection in the mirror, still wearing what you were in those photos. “you’re home!”

“i’m home,” he says, blunt as ever. you level back on your feet after rising on your tiptoes to embrace him, that precious smile of yours making him caress the side of your face endearingly. “still on my mission, as you know. but i wasn’t going to continue with a hard-on.”

you blow a cherry innocently. “sorry.”

“you’re not,” you squeak as he backs you up towards the tub, bending down to stop the water before it overflowed. “let me see what i rushed here for. i don’t have all day.”

this part of him is your favorite, his dominate side. the way he flips like a switch when he’s horny is scary sometimes. but you lived for the thrill. you were more than happy to have him here now, your face hot from the pheromones he exudes, like a drug almost. his dark hair hides most of his face, tall above you and lips pressed into a firm line. that’s your man for sure.

you grab the ends of your shirt and lift it over your head to reveal your braless chest. sasuke felt like a predator watching you strip, feeling his mouth water with your every movement. once you were bare, he helped you into the bathtub, moaning soothingly from the warmth of it.

"come in, don’t act shy,” you giggle, sitting on your knees as you waited for him to get inside.

sasuke began undressing, shrugging his ninja attire and tossing the clothing to the ground. your eyes ran along his chest and down to his v-line. you lean over the tub, smirking at the bulge in his briefs, sasuke closing his eyes, almost moaning when you lightly kissed his happy trail while giving him a daunting stare. hooking your finger on the soft fabric and tugging it down only enough for one side to drop and reveal the thin growth of pubic hair.

biting your lip, you eyed him as he climbed into the tub after fully naked, your hands resting on the bottom of the tub as you crawl to him, sasuke eyeing you speculatively before your lips pressed against his chest, a moan vibrating in your throat as you darted your tongue out to lick his skin, kisses light as feathers, trailing your way up to his neck before straddling his waist. sasuke is breathless as you turn his head to gain access to the side of his neck, nipping at the flesh as he groaned and wrapped his broad arms around your backside, bubbles sticking to your bodies, languidly bringing your chest close to his own.

"let me fuck you, baby," he pleaded, your chest tightening as you pulled your face up to stare down at him. "let me, please."

you swallow a ball in your throat, his voice soft as you nod your head to permit him. you were ready, been ready for him to do anything he wanted, just something. your head was fuzzy, sasuke pressing his palm against the middle of your back to make it arch, breasts swell, and nipples taut in his face as your head knocked back in pleasure, his tongue running over your flesh. setting his sweet lips on you, he gazes over your body, humming to himself, staring in amazement at how magnificent your body was. he missed you so much.

"you are so beautiful." he murmured, and you respond with a whimper, merely watching as sasuke left a trail of wet kisses up your body. his hand came behind your neck to pull your head up, the other groping your breasts, having pretty chocolate areolas and pierced buds. kissing down your valley, he latched his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking delicately, letting go as he watched it pop back to your chest with a jiggle.

he pursed his lips, blinking at you, your chest heaving rapidly as you gulped, body shaking, legs beginning to quiver. he could tell how desperate you were to have him. the feeling was mutual. fucking your mouth with his tongue, his thumb quickly rubs your pulsating clit under the water, moaning in your mouth as you kissed him back, lips unstoppable. waves of pleasure flow through your body, your hips moving to grind above his cock, soft whines of frustration turning sasuke on more than it should have.

"sasuke, please." you pulled at his hair harder, sasuke groaning. "i need you."

you didn't mean to sound overly needy, but you couldn't help it as your warm eyes brimmed with tears, sasuke bringing his head up as your free hand gripped his bicep, apprehensive of your crying but he had a hint on why you were. emotions washing over you from the time you’ve spent apart. you needed him to take the pain away. he witnessed you sniffle, pushing him back so he could gently collide with the edge of the tub and lifting yourself as your wet hands reached to take hold of his cock before shakily pressing his tip against your hole and pushing yourself down. a disgruntled sigh comes from sasuke as he drops his mouth the same time you do, deliciously wet around him. muscles clenching.

"shit baby, sit on me." he wheezed, needing himself completely inside you.

you obliged to his command with a shudder, eyes gawping at him with desire, puffy lips in the form of an oval, and chest vehement as you sat down on him entirely. crying at how painfully good he felt. sasuke used his hands to grip your curvy hips, long fingers sprawled before he pulls you back up, the head of his cock scorching and kissing your hole before delicately slamming you back down, the water around you splashing. he pushed himself deep into your tight heat making you squeal and claw at his back in shock. sasuke biting his lower lip and groaning quietly. your body jolted upwards when he pulled out slowly and thrusts back in, screaming and smashing your lips to his for a rushed kiss, ghosting your lips over the each other’s, pausing when your lips barely touched and breathing one another’s air. fire pooled low in both of your abdomens as their vision fades to black while you rock your hips.

both your movements were slow and shallow, making love and showing just how much you both missed being apart, drowning in each other's pleasure. one of his veiny hands reached around you to press onto your back again, bucking his hips up as your body jolts, having enough of the going slow shit and fucking you faster. your skin slapped against his thighs as he grunted and listened to you whine, cursing under his breath at how good you felt around him. eventually, his motion sped up, sasuke moaning with his eyes rolling to the back of his skull as he gripped your flesh harder, greedily rutting his cock up into you, the sound of skin interacting bouncing off the walls.

"you feel so good," you gasped, his pace increasing by the second. "so, so good, baby."

"i know, baby. move with me." he told you, lifting you so you could hold yourself up with your hands on the edge of the bathtub. your head hung low as you moved as told, sasuke thrusting while you dipped your ass down, moaning his name in bliss. a shaky moan came from you once he wrapped your wavy pigtails around his fists and yanks it back, wanting to regain memory of the marks imprinted on your skin by his teeth, tongue, and lips.

"i'm gonna cum." you announced weakly.

sasuke didn't question how fast your orgasm approached you, only gritting his teeth and hissing before pulling your face straight to his and leaving his lips there, slicking his tongue in your mouth and letting it glide across erotically. biting your bottom lip, tugging on it, and releasing as he slowed his hips. growling.

heart thrashing against his chest, he sighed out of his nose, leaning back on the cold metal of the tub and drops a hand to your ass while the other squeezed the flesh of your tits in his rough palm. you situate yourself on him and race to your orgasm, eyelids shut as she placed a hand on his chest. humming sweetly before parting her lips to take his thumb in her mouth, sasuke watching, mesmerized by your thick lips wrapping around him and sucking on his thumb, rocking on his cock.

"there you go, baby, let it go," sasuke whispers quietly, voice raspy enough for you to hear.

when your orgasm approached, you cried out in alarm, grabbing his free hand and holding it for support. squeezing his hand tighter as it ripped through you like lightning. breath ragged as your walls clenched around him. you shouted out into thin air, clutching the nape of his neck and riding out your shockwave.

"mm, that’s my girl.” after letting you come down from your high, sasuke locked a hand around your hot neck, fondling with your ass, pussy still clenching around him. "can you take more? can you take my cock?"

you swallow, throat dry, the intensity in his pupils, voice tempting with euphoria causing the blood in your vessels to boil with ravenousness. "yes, i can take you."

"fuck,” he hissed again, too addicted to the way you felt around him. "you're gonna make me cum, baby."

"cum for me, sasuke."

"mm,” he grins at his name being breathlessly whimpered from your exquisite mouth. he only needed a few more pumps before he could come undone, laying his back on the tub once again and keeping your ass in his widespread hands, fucking you slow and deep. your hands clutch onto his shoulders as you mewl, feeling that spark in his lower abdomen.

you lost your breath, foreheads touching. sasuke’s eyes were droopy and as for yours, completely closed. your mouth parted as you whimpered his name, your knees aching from straddling him for too long, digging your nails into his skin.

"tell me how much you like it." he licked his bottom lip quickly.

"so much," you nod, opening your eyes to stare in his, loving how dazed he looked. "fuck—so much, baby."

"yeah? you wanna make me cum?" the gripping on your ass became harder, his cock pushing deeper within you if that was possible. he’s practically kissing your cervix.

"fuck yes," you nod vigorously. "i do."

he moaned, eyes fixating on his dick moving in and out of you, bubbles dissolving but still making your skin appear angelic. you balance yourself on him by placing your hands on his hard chest, hair moving wildly around your face.

"bounce faster." he rasped, listening to your noises melt sweetly as you fucked him as obliged. sasuke felt his orgasm near, hand almost slapping your cheek as he aggressively cupped the sides of your face. you steady your hips, feeling your stomach coil again knowing your were going to cum again. all of this could’ve never been done alone. this is exactly why you needed him.

"i love you, baby,” he whispered.

"hmm?" you ask hazily, voice strained. words weren’t registering with you right now.

"i. love. you,” sasuke repeats slowly for you to comprehend, wanting your reply immediately before he came. the high of it all driving you over the edge, sighing in pleasure as he ran his tongue under your chin. "miss you, baby. love you so much.”

now you knew what he was saying, and it made you smile tiredly, nodding your head, feeling like it tossed around for hours. "i love you, miss you too.”

gasping with a shuddery whine, you came hard around him, clenching and tugging on him, driving him wild. it satisfied sasuke, dragging out a throaty groan and releasing deep inside, the ball in his throat evident as he threw his head back in ecstasy. you hungrily gave him open-mouthed kisses to ease him, your head laying on his heaving chest, wincing as you raised your body to release him from inside, weakly falling and wrapping your arms around his stomach. he let go of the tub and let his arms fall beside him, taking a moment to calm himself down. he stared at you and saw your eyes were still closed, wetting his lips and grabbing your chin, your lashes disconnecting as they fluttered open to seek his attention.

"you okay?"

you hum with a goofy smile. “more than okay.”

© 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.

[foreverrogers]

muse

"You have a shrine to me in your closet?"

"I wouldn't really call it a..." You trail off as you walk towards him, cross your arms and tilt your head at the expanse of pictures tacked to the door. "I guess it could be a little... creepy."

Pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

Summary: peter has no idea how you keep showing up every week with the best pictures of spider-man he's ever seen.

Warnings: SMUT!!!! 18+!!!!!! enemies to lovers, unprotected sex, language, snark

Words: 5.2k

A/N: soooo this was originally going to be for an anon who requested a rivals fic but I got like a thousand words in and realised it was not even remotely going in the direction of the request soooo if you're that anon: sorry! your rivals fic will come to form one day! anyway i'm kinda obsessed with this fic, hope you enjoy!!!!!

request something! masterlist

You're there like clockwork. Always before him, always taking up the lone seat outside Mr Jameson's office, always utterly, infuriatingly beautiful.

You're sitting there, so effortlessly exude this ineffable confidence, legs crossed as you filter through the shots you've printed for the week.

Peter's never seen anything as smug as the smile you give him when you notice him approaching. "Parker."

"Y/n." His tone is equally as flat, doesn't let his eyes linger before he's turning to lean against Jameson's door frame.

"D'you have fun with your little polaroid this week?"

Peter rolls his eyes, shakes his head with a scoff as he slips off his backpack and starts to dig around for his own photos, chooses not to offer any other response.

He hears your small exhale, the huff you give at being ignored, the tap of your nails against the glossy paper. "Only a week left. Still holding out hope you're gonna win?"

"It's not a competition," He says, a little too quick, holds a little too much bite, and it makes you grin when he looks back at you, triumphant in your ability to provoke him.

"Don't fool yourself, Parker," You start, let your grin fall, raise your eyebrows and feign as much seriousness as possible. "This is absolutely a competition. And I'm eating you alive."

Peter opens his mouth, snide comment on the tip of his tongue, and is promptly interrupted by the door of Mr Jameson's office swinging open.

"Miss Y/l/n! Can't wait to see what you've brought me."

Peter watches you stand to attention, present that perfect plastic smile with your hands behind your back. It's the same one he's seen every day since you were freshmen, is almost impressed by how realistic you've made it look over the years.

Mr Jameson turns his attention to Peter now, lets his smile melt back into his typical expression of general dismay. "And Parker. You're here too."

Jameson turns, his usual signal for you to come in, and you shoot Peter one last smug look before following into the office.

The routine is the usual from there; you take your respective seats in front of his desk, you perched at the very edge of your chair, and start to lay out your selection of photographs.

Peter never knows how you do it.

It should be objectively impossible. He's Spider-Man for God's sake. He poses for his own pictures, sets up his own angles, and yet every Friday at 4pm, like clockwork, you show up with the best photos of Spider-Man he's ever seen.

He's never once caught you taking them, either, which only makes the surge in his veins burn hotter every time he sees them.

"Beautiful work, Miss y/l/n. Stunning."

Jameson's leaning forward now, raking his fingers just above each of your pictures, looking for the smallest of details to differentiate them, rank them, make them worthy of being published.

He turns, gives the same treatment to Peter's pictures.

He leans back in his chair then, crosses his arms, taps a quick beat with one finger as he studies the images from a different angle, mulls over his options.

"Right. We'll print this one, this one, this one, and..." He slides three of your pictures towards him immediately, tilts his head with a hum and circles both exhibits again. His finger lands firmly on one of Peter's. "This one."

"Thank you, Mr Jameson." You say it in unison, a product of the Summer's worth of habit, look at each other out of the corner of your eye quickly before moving to collect your remaining pictures.

Jameson is still studying the shots he's chosen when you both stand, already a few steps towards the door. "Both of you, before you go," He starts, stops you in your tracks. He tilts his head again, weighs up the question. "You're young, with the times, you don't this whole front page public enemy Spider-Man situation is getting a little... tiring, do you?"

"I think it could-"

"Not at all," You interrupt, speak as though you had never heard Peter start in the first place. "Even if it's not necessarily what we believe it's still what sells, what the people want. Some people think he's a hero but everybody knows he's a mystery, and people can't help being afraid of what they don't know."

Peter moves to speak, tries to get in the smallest inkling of defence, is cut off by Jameson yet again. "But you don't hold the mystery against him, you're not afraid of him?"

You smile then, just faintly, and Peter thinks it might be the most genuine one he's ever seen from you. "I find him exhilarating."

-----

So what if Peter can't stop thinking about you.

It doesn't mean anything. It's the way you think about that one thing that's ruined your day, that interaction you replay over and over imagining how you would redo it, haunting you, never letting you rest. It's the way you think about an enemy, a nemesis, a rival, a person whose very idea makes you seethe.

It's all of that, the stuff that he's used to, that he's prepared for—except this time the particular part he can't get out of his head is you calling him exhilarating, that look on your face like you could talk about him for hours, that you just exist in the world with complex thoughts and feelings about him, without knowing it was him.

And so Peter resigns himself to it, your constant presence in the back of his mind. It's so constant that this week, this last week, he vows to finally catch you in the act.

It's late and it's dark and it has not been Spider-Man's night.

Peter stumbles into an alley, just around the corner from where he's left a group of not very nice guys webbed to a brick wall for the police to find, and has to lift up the bottom of his mask to spit out the sharp taste of blood in his mouth.

And then he hears it. The faint whirl of a shutter being adjusted, the quiet click from only a little far off.

He pulls his mask back down harshly, whips towards the direction of the sound and only just catches your retreating figure moving swiftly down the road across from him.

He's quick to scale the building behind him, careful not to lose you as you turn the corner, finds the best spot where he can swing down and catch up to you.

The smack of a web attaching to the building above you makes you freeze before you ever see him.

And then he's there, standing just a couple feet away with his arms held up in resignation, and you think you might stop breathing.

"Now, that can't 've been the most flattering picture."

He's never seen you like this, shock in your eyes, mouth open trying to shape words you can't quite reach, and Peter would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. "I don't know what you're-"

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" He asks, faux confusion in his voice. He takes a step closer, hands on his hips, watches you press your camera bag behind your back. "So you're not the one who's been selling all those front-page pictures of me to the Bugle? I gotta say, my PR guy hates you."

You breathe a laugh, still sourced in the shock etched across your features, eyebrows furrowing lightly together. He watches you swallow then, straighten your posture and tilt up your chin, sees that composed facade he's used to slipping over your face in real-time. You clench your jaw, fist tight against the strap of your camera bag. "Sorry... I guess."

"Thank you, you know I really appreciate that. But I can't lie, either way, you do know how to take a great photo."

Something lights up your eyes when you hear him say it, breaks through that facade again, and he would almost call it giddiness if he didn't know you better. You can't help the softening of your expression, the small smile you give. "You think they're good?"

"Are you kidding? You've got a real good eye for catching a guy in full-body spandex swinging across the city."

And- Well. This had been intended to be a less complimentary confrontation, but there's something about the way you're looking at him, the earnestness in your eye, that pulls it out of him without much thought.

"I would love to see the ones that didn't make the cut some time."

"Oh, well I only live a couple blocks ov..." You're still loosely pointing in the direction of your apartment, trail off mid-sentence like you hadn't really thought the offer through before it was slipping out of your mouth. But you've started now, and half inviting Spider-Man to your apartment wasn't really something you could take back. "Over. If you wanted to see."

He's a little too eager to accept. And he's also a little too eager to offer to swing you the rest of the way home.

"I- I couldn't, really."

"Oh, c'mon, we'll be there in 30 seconds. You spent all that time taking pictures of me and you never wondered what it was like?"

And, sure. It's partially because it'll be faster than making you walk the rest of the way, but it's mostly because he's quickly come to enjoy this power he has over you, his ability to make you this flustered with just a simple suggestion.

"What d'ya say?"

The part he hadn't quite thought through was you agreeing, of having to approach you and wrap your arms around his neck and slip his arm steadily around your waist, a touch so different to the deliberate knocking of shoulders in hallways he's used to.

He also hadn't expected you to enjoy it so much, only takes you a yelp and a few moments of tension before you're laughing into the swift air.

"You have a shrine to me in your closet?"

You're across the room, slotting your camera into its rightful place under your bed, hadn't realised you had left your closet open before leaving that night. In your defence, having Spider-Man in your room wasn't exactly part of the plan.

"I wouldn't really call it a..." You trail off as you walk towards him, cross your arms and tilt your head at the expanse of pictures tacked to the door. "I guess it could be a little... creepy."

Peter can't help but smile. "No, no, it's-"

"I just keep the ones that aren't sensational enough for the Bugle, you know... Or the ones they don't deserve." There's something in your voice that he can't quite place, like a quiet admiration, encroaches on dangerous territory.

You're still looking at the pictures, and all he can do is watch you for a second, still can't put aside his surprise by the way you're talking to him, the way you would never be caught dead talking to Peter.

"Sorry," You start, look at him out of the corner of your eye, frown as you flinch a little. "I have a habit of interrupting people when I'm nervous."

"Oh, no, it's..." Peter falters, had not expected tonight to be the night he learns there's a real person behind the aloof exterior he's grown accustomed to. He leaves the sentence long enough that you have to look at him again, raise your eyebrows as you wait for him to keep going. "You don't have to be nervous."

You laugh a little at that, look down at you feet for a second before glancing back up at him. "Can you blame me? Even if you weren't a masked stranger standing in my bedroom, the guy I work for hasn't exactly been using my pictures to say the nicest things about you?"

"And do you believe it? The stuff the Bugle writes about me?"

"No! No way, I-" You've fully turned towards him now, arms still crossed, eyes wide with defence. "I think you're a hero, not an enemy or a vigilante or whatever they call you in headlines. It's nothing personal, it's just- it's-"

"It's what sell," Peter finishes, repeats your words from only a few days ago. "I get it."

He watches you bite the inside of your lip, reads the flustered nervousness on your face as you glance back at the pictures.

There's another beat of silence. "You really think I'm a hero?"

You smile then, really smile, that same smile you had had in Jameson's office. "Of course."

You're watching him now, like you can somehow see through the mask, like you're looking right into him, and all of a sudden there's a heavy pang of guilt washing over him, incapacitating him, makes it impossible for him to speak. He really hadn't expected it to go like this, to have you next to him calling him a hero and have the words tug at something deep in his chest.

He doesn't turn away, just looks at you, is silent for so long it makes you narrow your eyes at him. "Hey, Spidey, are you-"

"I think I have to tell you something." He blurts it out, like a plug bursting at the pressure, knows he can't take it back from there.

Your eyebrows knit even closer together. "What do you- Oh, you really don't have to-"

But it's too late, because with as little time to hesitate as possible Peter's grasping the top of his mask and tugging it off, rips off the bandaid in one fell swoop.

Now it's his turn to watch you, watch as the realisation dawns on you, makes your face fall and your features go slack, mouth hanging agape.

He holds out his arms in defence. "Look, I know-"

"What the fuck?" You start, and he sees the split second the emotion on your face changes, turns from shock straight into anger. "What the fuck?"

You start to walk back slowly, stumble a little when the back of your knees hit your bedframe.

"Y/n, listen, I know this is-" He tries to walk towards you, is only interrupted by a decorative pillow hitting him square in the face.

"What the fuck?!" And this time you're yelling, makes Peter flinch, watches as your face changes yet again, circles right back around to shock before your sitting at the foot of your bed, face in your hands. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy-"

"Seriously, Y/n, I-"

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Parker?!" You exclaim, make Peter sigh at the interruption, knows he deserves it nonetheless. You're looking at him now, gesturing wildly. "You're just- You just let me say all of that like a fucking idiot and- God, I knew those pictures were too set up to be-"

"Y/n," He says, firm enough that it stops you, finds the only position available is one kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees. He knows whatever he says won't even start to be enough, and so he just looks at you for a long moment, eyes finally able to look into eyes, lets the pressure of his touch steady you.

It works, somehow, makes your heavy breathing slow down just a little. "You really shouldn't have let me tell you- God." Something in your expression softens, makes way for you to scruch up your face in embarrassment, head back in your hands.

"Hey," He whispers, moves one hand up to your wrist, urges your own away from your face. "Does knowing it's me really change anything you said?"

You frown when you look at him, eyebrows still pinched together, can't ignore the way that this close, touching the way you've never touched each other before, his eyes flit down to your lips for a millisecond. You sigh, shake your head. "No."

But it has changed something, charged the moment with something inexplicable, the balance of your dynamic suddenly toppled. Still, it makes him smile a little, just the slightest quirk of his lips, is enough to lighten the moment and make you return the same gesture. "Good."

More silence, hesitation in the faint twitch of his hand, keeps looking you straight in the eye, and then he's slipping his hand around the side of your neck, fingers grazing over your cheek so slowly, painfully slow, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

You're just as surprised as he is when you don't, lean into it instead, find your mouth already open when he kisses you.

There's no reluctance to it, no resistance even though there should be, both of you almost too accepting of the movement of your mouth against the others.

It doesn't take much more of this, of the heaviness and the fervour of the kiss, for you to hook two fingers into the neckline of his suit and tug him towards you. "Come up here, Jesus."

He lets you pull him up, move him so he's climbing onto the bed beside you.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

You smile against him, wrap your arms around his neck to hold him closer. "I thought you hated me."

"I hated how perfect you are, how beautiful you are, how smug you are about being better than me."

The admittance does something to you, telltale in the way you gasp into his mouth and dig your nails lightly into his shoulder, only exacerbated by the way his covered hands slide underneath your shirt, find the soft skin waiting.

Peter's the one smiling now, dips his face into the curve of your neck, tries to find the spot that'll make you gasp again. "Does that turn you on? Hearing me tell you you're better than me? Is that what you wanna hear?"

Your next breath is shaky when you release it, hitches at the feeling of him sucking harshly at a patch of skin right above your collarbone. "Maybe a little."

You feel his lips curve against your skin, breath hot, don't resist the urge to tangle your fingers through his already messy hair and pull him into another kiss.

His arms snake around your waist when you get on your knees, start to shuffle your way up to the pillows until you can position him against the headboard.

You pull away, entirely intending to climb into his lap, and find yourself caught by the sight of him.

"Stop right there. Don't move a muscle."

Peter freezes instinctively, suddenly realises just how heavily his heart is pounding when he feels your hand against his chest steadying him.

You move away from him, still on your knees, and he watches as you reach under your bed, camera in hand when you return. That sly smile he's grown familiar with comes back when you look at him. "Can I?"

"I don't..." He trails off, looks down and half-gestures at his suit.

"Hey," You start, tone stern but teasing, leaning forward suddenly to grasp his chin in your hand. "What did I say about moving?"

Oh.

So maybe there was something about the taut tension to your relationship that did something to him, the confident, commandeering, biting attitude you aired, something he had missed in your conversation with Spider-Man. So maybe the way you've got him so firmly in your grasp right now stirs him a little, makes him strain against the tight spandex of his pants.

You urge him back into his original position, find the way the street light filtering through the window catches his features just right, the shadow against the emblem of his suit.

You're so close his only thought is kissing you again, his mind blank of anything else, which is why when you ask for the second time all he can do is nod. You smile at him, release his chin. "Thank you."

You sit back against your heels, slowly bring the camera up to your face.

There's a long moment of silence, Peter watching as you adjust your position ever so slightly, a fraction of an inch at a time. The silence is so long that the first shutter makes him jump a little, earns a smile from underneath the camera.

Another click, and this time you're shifting slowly to the side, taking him in at every angle possible.

When you're all the way in front of him he forgets he's not supposed to be moving, turns his head to look towards you, too overcome with the urge to watch you in action.

"Parker."

"Sorry," He smiles, and he hears the quick click of the camera as soon as he does. You lean forward then, move once again to take his chin in your hand, but this time when your skin meets his, faces so close together, all you can do is look at his lips.

He notices, follows your gaze as you rake over his features, eyes finally his meeting again.

You're not sure who leans in first, but you think you might meet each other in the middle.

It's different this time, heavier, mouths moving against mouths so eagerly, so desperately, pour years of frustration into this one thing neither of you thought could ever happen.

It's not a difficult shift into his lap, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you closer, and you're so dizzy from it all that when you move to slip your arms around his neck you forget you're still holding your camera.

You gasp when you feel the weight of it disappear from your hand, jerk away to watch it fall to its inevitable fate, shattered against your floor.

Except when you look down your camera is precariously balanced in Peter's hand, fully intact, still a foot off the ground.

You look at him, breath still heavy from the kiss and the minorly avoided destruction of your lifeblood, and Peter looks just as surprised as you do.

You give a shocked laugh, move your hands up to frame his face. "You didn't let it fall."

There's confusion in the pinch of his eyebrows. "Why would I?"

"The- The Bugle, and the internship and the-"

He can see the racing behind your eyes, decides the only way to cut you off is to kiss you. He shakes his head. "I would never do that to you."

You smile when he has to lean to the side a little, settles the camera gently onto the ground, and when he's back you're impatiently tugging at the top of his suit. "How the Hell do you get this thing off?"

You laugh against each other, and Peter leaves you with one last eager kiss before he's moving to pull off the top of his suit.

You can't help the grin that spreads across your face as you watch him struggle out of it, have to bring your fingers up to hide it.

He's breathing extra hard when he finally manages to fling it into the corner, shakes his head when he notices your reaction, amusement in his eyes. He leans in, tilts his head up at you when you pull away last second. "I thought we were past you laughing at me."

It only makes your grin wider, biting your lip to try to subdue it. You're shaking your head now, too, leaning down to brush your nose against his. "Never."

It's all forgotten soon enough, because the feeling of his hands on you, unfettered by his suit and slipping and groping and exploring makes your brain go foggy.

You do your fair share of exploring, too, roam the planes of hard muscle along his front. It's evidence, more than anything, of this utterly antagonising boy you've known for years holding the same strength and power as a superhero. It's tangible evidence in your hands, right here under you, flexing and melting under your touch, and the idea that tonight you get to have him all to yourself is dizzying.

Peter's tugging at your own shirt now, helps you pull it away in a blink, and as soon as his hand finds the small of your back he's shifting you onto the bed.

You welcome the change, the way he slots himself between your thighs, presses against that place you need him the most, where you can already feel yourself soaking through your underwear.

His mouth moves back down your neck, quickly finds the places your most sensitive, has you arching against him and fisting your hand through his hair. "Fuck, want you so bad."

And he's smiling again, can't hide his smirk even as he's kissing down your sternum, looks up at you from between your breasts. "Never thought I would hear those words coming out of your mouth."

"Yeah, well, looks like tonight is full of me stroking your ego, so-"

"God, do you have any idea how mouthy you are?" He's back to meet you now, face hovering just a breath above yours, has this annoyed look in his narrowed eyes, a stark contrast to the movement of his hand sliding down to unbutton your jeans.

You try to give him that smug smile again, find yourself betrayed by the way you gasp when his hand slips into your pants, against your clothed core, barely touching. "Wanna do something about it?"

You press your hips against his hand, try to chase that friction so close to your reach.

The attempt only makes him pull away, would make you whine if not for him leaning back on his knees to tug down your jeans, hooks your panties along with them.

And then his mouth is back on yours, impossibly hungrier, molten honey on your tongue. "God, you're so fucking beautiful."

You don't challenge it, the sudden shift away from the biting back and forth that's somehow slipped into this most intimate possible moment, gladly accept the praise, especially when it comes in the form of two fingers pressing inside you.

A sharp inhale, swallowed by his mouth against yours, the curl of his fingers chasing that response from your body. "Fuck, Pete."

"'S that feel good? 'S that what you wanted?"

"Want you inside me," You mumble, voice already breathy and needy. Your nails graze the nape of his neck, the sensation sending a sharp shiver down his spine, and you take the opportunity to slide your own hand down his body, brush against the growing bulge in his pants.

There's a softness when he looks at you, despite the way his mouth is hanging open and he's pressing into your touch and he's still knuckle deep inside you. "You sure?"

"Yeah," You breathe, nod your head, try to match his expression but can't help the way you squirm at the work of his fingers.

It's softer when he kisses you next, somehow makes everything infinitely more intimate, lets you pretend like your situation was even remotely normal for a fleeting moment.

You sigh when he slips his fingers away, makes you clench at the loss of contact, readjusting yourself under him as he busies himself with peeling off the bottoms of his suit.

"Do you have any-"

"Pill," You say quickly, press closer, find the right position with your arm around his neck, nails sinking into his shoulder in anticipation. "Doesn't matter. Just want you."

This is definitely something he could get used to, he thinks, the neediness in your voice, hearing and seeing and feeling what he can do to you so intoxicatingly different after being brushed aside for so long.

You're still lucid enough that you notice, can read the power you give him in his eyes, can't help but smile even as he's moving to hook one of your legs around his waist. "This really is good for your ego, huh?"

Peter grins, presses it into the next kiss as he takes himself in his hand, lines himself up with you. "You have no idea."

He takes his time filling you up, glides into you so agonizingly slowly it makes you both gasp into open mouths. You revel in the stretch of him, the heavy ache that settles in the pit of your stomach, and when he's finally hilt deep he has to drop his head to your neck.

"Need to you to move for me, Pete. Feels so good, so-"

You're cut off by the slow drag of his hips, breath hitching, lose to ability to make sound come out of your mouth at the feel of him slowly pulling away and sinking back into you.

It hits him just as hard, draws this strangled groan from the back of his throat that he presses right against your ear, picks up the pace ever so slightly when he feels the hand in his hair give a steady tug.

"Holy fuck."

His grip is harsh at your thigh, anchors him, keeps him from losing it right then and there as his movements get even faster, chases those gasping moans that slip from your lips.

It doesn't take long for him to find the rhythm you need from him, the one that has you moaning his name into the staticky air between you, makes you impossibly tighter every time you clench around him.

And then his mouth is back on yours, sloppy and hot and open, kisses you like he needs it to breath, pours everything he has into you.

The look on your face when he pulls away is enough to make his hips stutter, those blown eyes and the faint pinch of your eyebrows and the gape of your mouth, slips his hand between your bodies just so he can see the expression deepen with the first brush of your clit.

"Pete-"

"God, you have no idea how perfect you are," He mumbles, quickens the circling of his fingers and watches as you throw your head back against the pillow, the arch of your back pressing bare chests together.

"Fuck, just like that," You breathe, voice strained, squirm and buck your hips against the movement of his hand, trying desperately to meet his thrusts and find that delicious edge. You have to force yourself to look at him, think you must look as far gone as he does. "Gonna make me cum, baby. Feels so fuckin' good."

He thinks it might be you calling him baby that does it to him more than anything, pet names falling through the cracks of what not so long ago was nothing but the spitting of last names, impersonal, disdainful. It's a shift that goes straight to his cock, movements sloppier, sharper, faster as he tries to get you there first, meets your mouth again harshly. "C'mon, sweetheart."

"So close, Pete. So, so— ohfuck."

The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, like a tsunami, pulls you under and holds you there until your legs are shaking and your ears are ringing and you can feel Peter be sucked in right down with you.

It's the mingling of heavy breath, the meeting of heaving chests and the hot pulse of you wrapped around him. It's the feeling of Peter collapsed against you, the tightness of your arms as you hold him there, the knowledge of a dynamic broken, and something brand new blooming there.

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[angellknives]

Love and Plundering

@ash-and-starlight created a STUNNING set of artwork of a pirate AU, which inspired me to write this little tidbit:

“I’m the world's best reconnoiter,” Sokka boasts.

Two hours later, he’s ensnared by the enemy.

To be fair, it’s deceivingly small. There’s not a flag in sight, only a dingy bit of fabric, scorched to tatters, that flaps from the mast. The crew is a scattered lineup of grubby men, like no soldier Sokka has ever seen. They lack the faceless, haunting masks, and the heavy armour. Instead, they look like they’ve all had a horrible mix up.

“Um,” Sokka says.

A man with severe sideburns and a permanent scowl looks down at him.

Sokka opens his mouth right as a bulky door flies open, revealing the stomping mass of a fuming teenager, his short, choppy hair bouncing with the force of his furious steps. He has a scar so prominent it’s the only thing Sokka can focus on as he marches over.

“Water Tribe,” he snaps, appearing ridiculously short next to the other man, “what’s your business?”

“What’s your business, Fire Nation?” Sokka retorts, wiggling in his shackles. They’re biting into his skin, but no one gathered around the deck looks friendly enough to oblige a request to have them loosened.

“We’re not affiliated with the Fire Nation,” he snaps.

His ears appear to be vaguely steaming.

“Wow,” Sokka says, “I forgot that earthbenders can firebend. Any other tricks up your sleeve? Airbending? Can you make monkeys talk?”

“NO,” the boy yells.

Behind him, a short, fat man floats over, angling a benign smile right at Sokka.

“Nephew, perhaps it would be more prudent to simply tell our lovely guest-“

“He is not a guest, he’s a prisoner!”

“I object to that,” Sokka butts in, and gets a swift glare from the boy.

“You can’t object to anything, peasant!”

Sokka opens his mouth, furious, but the old man gets there first.

“Would you like some tea?”

The boy rounds on him, golden eyes flashing.

“Uncle!”

“You’ve figured me out,” Sokka says dryly, “my special trick is drinking beverages with no hands.”

Surprisingly, the old man erupts into obnoxious guffaws.

He wipes an invisible tear from the corner of one eye, and places a hand on his seething nephew's shoulder.

“Zuko, I don’t think this boy is a threat-“

“Hey!”

“-and it may be in your best interests to release him.”

They descend into a one-sided argument that the old man simply stands and takes.

Sokka, immediately bored, casts an eye around the rest of the ship. Scruffy clothes, a mixture of browns and reds, even greens, that do little to compliment the irritable features that paint almost every crew member. Some are chewing on hardtack, thoughtfully watching the boy’s explosive tantrum, as if it’s an everyday occurance too common to accord any real attention to.

The realisation hits him belatedly.

“You guys are pirates!” Sokka blurts out, and the ship sinks into a sudden, cold silence.

Zuko twists on his rugged boots, and leans forward, bringing with him the smell of smoke and dirt. Up close, the scar is ridges of burnt skin, mottled beyond recognition.

“Yes,” Zuko says, his voice a raspy snarl, “so, do you have anything of value to offer, or should we throw you overboard?”

Sokka gulps.

He thinks vaguely of the fake gemstone he’d bought from a market vendor because of its sparkling prettiness, and nods very fast.

The ship is small, mangled and damaged. They’re eating hardtack, which his father once told him is prone to getting infested with weevils.

“Yep. I think it’ll, uh, really help your… situation.”

Zuko glares at him.

After a second, he nods to the man, possibly his second, and points a demanding finger towards the door he first appeared from.

“Take him to my quarters.”

~~~

There’s a girl in Zuko’s quarters.

She’s lounging on a mattress on the floor, throwing a knife that glints under the low light of the lanterns. When he’s pushed inside, she looks over immediately, and still catches the blade by its hilt.

Sokka turns around, because he'd rather be up on deck with the angriest boy in the world, than with an irate looking knife girl.

He’s shoved back again, and the door slams in his face.

“Is Zuko keeping pets now?” she asks boredly, when Sokka awkwardly spins to face her again. A regal looking hand pulls a much smaller knife from the depths of her robes. It slides between long fingers with delicate ease.

“I’m not a pet,” Sokka grumbles.

Momo is the pet, and they didn’t need anymore flying, food-stealing lemurs.

“Good, because he already has one, and it’s a pain in my ass.”

“What, a parrot?” Sokka snorts.

She sits up, and tosses her hair behind one shoulder, revealing an equally angry looking-

Sokka squints at it.

“Is that a lizard?”

It looks like a lizard. Red scales, beady little eyes that observe him hungrily, and a tail that flicks forward to curl around the girl's neck. On its back, two strange little nubs protrude like tree stumps.

“Something like that,” she says boredly.

Sokka inches quietly away from it.

“I’m Mai, and this is Druk.”

Druk watches his every movement from the curtain of black hair, pausing only to accept gentle strokes from one of Mai’s fingers. After a second, it’s scales fluff, and it purrs, a rough, grating sound similar to nails dragging on metal.

“Tui and La,” Sokka flinches, “Zuko and Druk sound perfect for each other.”

The corner of Mai’s mouth twinges, barely.

She stands abruptly, and stalks over to him.

“Turn around,” Mai instructs, apathetically.

“Um,” Sokka says, eyeing the glint of her blade nervously, “why?”

She sighs.

“Because I’m going to remove your bindings.”

“Why?”

Mai grabs his shoulder, and twists him around.

“Because I think it will annoy Zuko.”

“Oh,” Sokka says, relaxing marginally, “do you do that often?”

“It’s entertaining. He’s a crank.”

Sokka decides it was in his own best interest to keep his mouth shut, and not tell her that she also seems like a bit of a crank.

“There,” Mai says, after a second of fiddling.

The relief on his joints is immediate, and he stretches out his shoulders, relishing the loud crack that follows.

“Ugh, that’s better,” he mutters.

“Good,” Mai says, and plucks Druk from her neck.

She drops him on his head with one hand, and swings the door open with the other.

“Stay here and look after Druk. I need to talk to Zuko.”

The door shuts after her with a resounding bang.

Druk’s claws twist painfully into his scalp, like little thorns from a rose bush. A second of coaxing does nothing to move him, so Sokka, irritable and impatient, grabs the lizard by the tail and lifts.

They end up eye to eye, gazing at each other warily.

“Great,” Sokka sighs, “any chance you know the way off this thing? Or the closest landmass?”

Druk hunkers down onto his haunches, and burps out a spark of flame.