#to the foolish adolescence of foolish people

[poeticsandaliens]

My brain KNOWS it has a thesis to finish and still it decides the most pressing task is to write my favorite side characters smoking a candy bar in Wyoming in the eighties.

[writella]

Reckless Romantics

Synopsis: Can be read as a stand alone or part two to getting ready for me; a return to innocent, inexperienced!reader and her relationship with Rick Grimes; two weeks after their first time together there has been some distance, but now Rick wants to make up for how hasty he was when he touched her last.

Details: Rick Grimes x fem!reader, smut: oral (f receiving) and teaching reader how to give a handjob, unspecified (of age) age gap, sweetness + kissing + a little mutual pining maybe, probably cliche, and leaning more into Rick as the dutiful leader and gentle lover (I feel this is just as in character as dom!Rick). Reader is a music lover— any kind of music you like— but she also likes a specific band only because I watched a documentary about them at the theater in July so it made its way into the story. Slightly proofread— will be corrected more later. wc: 5-7k (I lost track after finishing it on tumblr).

A/N: I wrote this message before I returned for the summer, but I still want you to read it: Been spending time outside this summer, trying to reach some goals— time got away from me. I don’t think I’ll ever stop saying I miss you, but please know it’s always true.

— with love from writella, my beautiful reader. ♡

Rick Grimes was not a man to give in to temptation.

My mercy prevails over my wrath, he’d say— his secret keepsake phrase. The one he whispers to himself in moments of hardship; the one he uses when he needs to make decisions only a leader would. Rick was a man of discipline; honor. He never boasted about how seriously he took these qualities, but when others did— admired, applauded, stuck by him for it— it would be a lie to say that he didn’t take note and use their pride to keep him going. This is how he knows he is strong-willed, why he wouldn’t fall for foolish, forbidden things. He was better than that. The safety and prosperity he brought to Alexandria proved it, reaffirmed it.

So why couldn’t someone remind him of that two weeks ago before he touched you?

As for you, you believed yourself to be a girl who wouldn’t fall so easily for the first man who showed you any kind of affection.

From an adolescence of peers who never seemed to take notice of you to one filled with walkers and adults who were either dead or seldom your age, you learned how hard love, let alone any connection, is to come by. It has made you quite the perpetual daydreamer because of it. One with a heart and mind filled with fantasy worlds, creating what you lacked externally. It often made you see yourself as much younger than you were despite all you’ve been through. No regular person your age in the old world has probably escaped as many deaths and wannabe cowboy dictators as you have. Still, they probably knew what it was like to have a high school romance, or at least go to the movies with friends, and have graduated from well, anything. You were simply born too late and shoved into this new world too early to experience even half of it.

This upbringing has brought you up to believe yourself precocious, although— maybe you were already too old for that word now. No, you were, so maybe– sensible, realistic despite the overactive imagination; you could decipher between right and wrong, real versus fake. This is why, for as long as you could, you did not entertain any thoughts of Rick Grimes.

Other people would though, women mostly. But you did have your suspicions of others who thought the same— they just weren't as shameless. Those who were, could be found during lunch breaks from work on house porches; or laughing and whispering at community gatherings and at the back of town hall meetings. Basically any time or place they could turn into a gossip session, which was often. And it didn’t always have to do with Rick. It could be about any one of the men in town; or retelling funny moments to their friends or complaining about their co-workers. But anything of true, great interest always had to do with the community leaders. You wish you could say you were the exception to this interest, but hypocritically, you loved a good inside scoop, and luckily for you, you had a trustworthy way about you. Almost everyone who spoke to you or allowed you to sit with them and their friends for meals agreed: you were a intent, quiet listener making you the best kind of person to say things to without judgment; and people assumed you as shy, yet you loved to laugh which was great for boosting egos. They often treated you as a little sister in that way, as if the pleasure was all yours to get to hear their ramblings because they were either older or perceived themselves to be more sociable and experienced than you. You tried not to care too much about what they took you for. It was nice to feel trusted, even if people could be a little too mean or weird for your liking because no matter who it was, they made you feel as if you were watching television, and you missed television. They told you things from period mishaps– (it’s the apocalypse, there are a lot of free bleeding queens okay)— to which people in their workstations annoyed them most with very detailed explanations as to why and, of course, rumors or general talk about the leaders: who they thought each of them has slept with, if there seemed to be any fighting between them and what side they were taking, and obviously, anything that had to do with one of the guys. Some were downright obvious that one or the other was their type, while others might try to be more sly about it, always bringing whichever man it was up more than the others. But unless they were diehard Daryl girls, wanted to dominate Glenn, or had some military man, hot priest, or doctor kink for Abraham, Gabriel, or Siddiq, most of them apparently felt that Rick was the love of their lives. He was like a local celebrity. A band’s frontman.

“So, what about you?” One of your scavenging partners asked on the ride home. “Which one do you like?”

“They’re all attractive guys,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “But I don’t really think about them like that.” You feel a flush coming on. Crushes, or anything romantic, is a part of your internal world, not something you discuss aloud.

“Come on,” she prods. “You never join in. You just laugh at us for being delusional.”

“Whose us?” Rosita asks, her voice sharp, humorous, and not without judgment. “I don’t talk about that shit.” But secretly, she loved the drama as much as you and would have many questions for you later tonight about why you have yet to tell her of the town obsession of treating her friends like the cast of a reality show.

“I don’t laugh at you! I like it when you guys talk about that stuff.”

“But what I’m saying is that I didn’t let you ride shotgun this time so you can hold out again,” the girl jokes half-heartedly.

“What do you mean this time? I get to ride shotgun because I’m the one with the CDs.”

And it’s true, the only thing that cancelled out the silence of drive in moments where conversation ceased was your Oasis album playing in the background. Learning about the band was your new obsession. Much like listening to the crazy imaginations of the girls in town, you found the Gallagher brother rivalry riveting even if you only knew pieces of the story from the music, scraps of magazine articles, and by asking whoever in town happened to be a teen in the 90s. Thankfully you had hit the jackpot today though. One of the houses you visited was once occupied by a dad and daughter with an insane music collection in the living room and a smaller, more curated one in the girl’s room. After gathering what new music you wanted to try from downstairs, you also found some old issues of QuizFest in the girl’s room, filled with activities that were themed with shows you remember from when you were a kid, but the most important discovery— the find of all finds— was one of those Ultimate Guide, Complete Life Story magazines of none other than the band Oasis.

You would now probably know all of the drama between the brothers to tell a coherent story about the band’s history to anyone who wanted an escape from walker related events and farming talk. When you weren’t listening, that’s what people would come to you for: to borrow music, get recommendations, or to tell them a story. In all, you were getting the reputation of being the town’s music historian, meaning you usually used your knowledge to avoid talking about yourself. And it mostly worked.

Except for now.

“Well, if I had to guess,” the girl persists despite your silence, “I think it would be Rick.”

“What?” Noticing the incredulity in your tone, you calm your voice. Shrugging you say, “Why Rick? Everyone likes him.”

Rosita sends a look your way. It’s innocent enough, probably just showing that she is still listening on as she drives but you were refusing to look at anyone now to know for sure.

“Exactly,” the girl says. “He’s a classic knight in shining armor type. I feel like he’d talk you through it, which I think would be good for— someone like you.”

Your face is on fire, you can’t even speak properly. “I- first of all, what do you know about my experience?” you ask, the incredulous tone returning. But all you get as an answer is knowing snorts and chortles from the two women. Ouch. Nonetheless, you continue, “Second, you think shooting a guy in the head in front of his wife and the whole town is chivalrous?”

Oh—

That makes car goes quiet.

You know you made a mistake.

You didn’t mean it as crassly as you said it, and you did feel bad for saying it knowing that the situation was more difficult than you summed it up to be, but you didn’t apologize. All this talk about crushes and especially Rick made you embarrassed. It’s not that you didn't see what others saw anyway. Of course you noticed how nice Rick’s curls are, how he doesn’t have to use any product for them to look as they do; or those blue eyes and how when you get closer, they become that much more stark and crisp; or how good he was at talking to people, convincing them of things or simply just reassuring them as a friend; and that southern drawl that still sometimes catches you by surprise by sounding so pronounced at the end of certain words, making his voice that much more intoxicating. Of course you saw the appeal, but that didn’t mean you had a crush on him.

Right?

Maybe it doesn’t matter. You just felt you knew better. He was like a president. You know of them, and you believe in them, but you don’t get close to them. And it didn’t matter that he told Carl to personally deliver you a stereo he and Daryl found while out once. How he remembered how you liked music. How he told Carl to tell you this one was probably better than the old one you had, that it was louder. You only showed him your old stereo that once when he was helping you move. He was just a perceptive guy with a good memory. All leaders are like that.

Right?

Anyway, let’s get back to your crass… joke.

“Hilarious.” Rosita says and you hear the low contempt in her voice at your insensitivity.

“That was ages ago though,” the girl chimes in, saving you just a little, “and he did it to help her. He didn’t care about the mess he made. He save her. I’d say that’s pretty romantic.”

“Let’s not call that romantic,” Rosita scoffs, and despite the slight frustration, there was a quiet sadness in her voice at the memory. “That wasn’t love.”

“That was reckless, not romantic.” You agree. Partly because you truly do, but also in attempt to win back favor from your friend. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

But after that day, it was all you could think about.

The idea of a knight; a romantic; someone that would do anything for you, ruin his reputation for you; find gifts from the outside that he’d send is son to give to you. Maybe you did find it charming, idyllic.

These thoughts soared in your mind so much so that on one night when thinking about boys from books or your favorite artists wasn't enough during moments under your sheets when your back arched and your fingers trailed up your thighs, your mind switched from people you would never meet to him, to Rick. Your eyes scrunched tighter, and you tried to shake it away, telling yourself it was just the women in town and the talk in the car getting to you. But then you thought about how rich and hot pink his lips looked on a bright sun-burning day and how it would feel like flames firing inside of you if he kissed you with them.

Ideas like these went on for nearly a year now. You even started questioned if maybe you had always liked him, maybe you were always just like the other girls even though tried to not be. You had thought it made you respectful, realistic; after all, how could Rick be the love of your life if he was everyone’s? Wonderings like this became even worse and more confusing when Rosita had asked if you’d like to move in with her. Becoming closer with her meant being around the leaders more often, which meant coincidental encounters and conversations with Rick as well. Quickly, he wasn’t just that president or celebrity anymore who talked to you sometimes and got you that stereo that once. He was becoming a peer— at least in some ways. One who was curious about your interests as much as your opinions. But it’s not exactly like you were in the in-crowd now as some people assumed. You didn’t get to go to leader meetings, and as much as you knew Rosita must have been telling you more than others know, she couldn’t have been telling you everything. But you did see him more than other people now, when he and the leaders came over to the house or when Rosita was invited over to theirs and she’s tell you to come too. And now, with these thoughts spiraling, you can’t help but to look back at the at the times where Rick approached you, gave you all his attention no matter how small it was and asked you about what you were listening to or reading that week, letting you ramble. He was an older guy, yes, but he cared, he actually listened, and he didn’t make you feel like the childish little sister others do.

Sadly, you did become the fawn like you had told yourself you wouldn’t be. But you couldn’t stop picturing him when you closed your eyes, and in fact, it was nice to imagine someone to fall asleep with, to wake up to. It was just going be your secret. Part of your fantasy world. But then— it all caught up to you.

Through the sliver of the open door he saw you, fingers between folds, goading yourself on as you chanted his name in whispers.

And to your surprise, he encouraged it. No, he did so much more than that— he helped you, made you come; gave you your first orgasm and made you his like no one has before.

You loved it. You gave into it. Even if it was just one secret moment. It made you give into the idea that this would continue but of course, it didn’t. He hasn’t spoken to you in almost three weeks until—

“Woah-” you gasp, almost crashing into just the person as you exit your room.

“Sorry,” you both say in unison, holding onto each other's forearms before quickly letting go. Your arms cross over into your chest before dropping as you enter your room again, clearing the hallway, and his hands go behind his back. He’s still as unsteady as you are, his mouth is slightly open, thinking of what to say.

“Hi,” you whisper tentatively.

“Good morning,” he politely replies. His eyes now smile slightly as he nods to you. You don’t miss how the light emanating from your bright room makes them shine. And he doesn’t miss how the light shining behind your figure makes you, in your white cotton sundress, look like an absolute angel.

“Good morning,” you repeat, giggling slightly, not knowing what else to say.

“Good morning,” he says again, lost and as giddy as you are.

“Oh wait— is the leader’s meeting here today?” Rick starts to nod and answers yes as you continue to speak, “I totally forgot! I’m sorry. I know I should be gone by now.”

He shakes his head, “It’s fine. I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Here? Was someone in the one downstairs?”

“Just wanted to be away from everyone when they came. Daryl and I came early so we started talking and I just- we didn’t see eye to eye on something. I needed a minute.”

You nod. That seems to be your signature when to talk to him. You hated it honestly. Often over-analyzing your words, worrying you’ll sound immature or stutter in front of him. “I'm sorry,” you tell him sympathetically. For a moment there is only silence which makes you worry he will go away, so without thinking, you ask: “I know you’re busy but, if you need a moment, maybe you would like to come in here instead?”

Rick freezes but then, inevitably agrees. As he enters, you close the door and quickly go to shut off the low playing stereo and rehang some of the dresses on your chair in the closet— you had been getting ready for the day. Rick goes to sit on the chair after you empty it but you stop him. You sit on the vertical side of your bed and guesture Rick to sit in the spot next to you, closer to the headboard. You wanted to sit next to him.

Rick doesn’t question this, maybe he wanted to be as close to you as you had, so as he sits, your thighs touch. You try not to move too much at the first contact. Still, the heat that starts to burn inside you makes you realize how much you’ve craved this. Can two weeks feel like a lifetime? It’s like you haven’t felt him in ages.

“What were you playing today?” He asks and you realize you eyes went straight to the area where yours and Rick’s legs touched. You know he noticed but still you try to answer normally.

“Selena. Rosita loves her. It’s one of her most famous songs: Amor Prohibido.”

He nods. “I probably wouldn’t understand a bit of it,” he laughs.

He would probably remember the singer from the news if you gave more context but you don’t. There is a silence that follows until you ask, “So,” starting slowly, “what’s wrong? Is Daryl aright?”

He doesn’t answer. His mouth is open as if he’s deciding what to say, but nothing comes out, so you continue, “You know, nothing is ever right in the world when Rick and Daryl fight. It makes me sad.”

The joke makes those lines at the sides of his eyes appear— a quiet laugh. “Well you know I’d never want to make you sad. Especially not you.” You two exchange a light smile while that heat rises fast to your heart. “We’ll be fine,” he finally says, but then he goes quiet again. Rick seems unsure if he wants to continue. He even looks at the door, wonders if the others have shown up yet, but— he knows he doesn’t want to leave. And even more, he knows he shouldn’t after ignoring you like some teenage boy. He decides to tell you what’s happening: “Daryl wants us to bring new people in. You know how he’s always going out there. But I think it’s way too soon.”

You hum agreeingly, but at the same time, you understand Daryl. “I think he just likes to give people what he never used to have,” you suggest.

“I know,” he nods a bit annoyedly; “and that’s a nice way to put it, but you know him, when he has his mind set on somethin’ he can be so damn stubborn. It’s frustrating. He won’t compromise or listen to anything.”

Endearingly, you try to withhold a laugh, your lisp pursing. Not only because when he says anything, it actually sounds like anythang, but because Rick sounds like he’s describing himself and he doesn’t even realize it.

“And,” he adds, pausing for a moment before he continues, scratching his beard. It looks as if maybe he shouldn’t tell you what he’s about to. His head hangs low to say: This is not information for everyone to know, okay? But the last time he went out there with Glenn, the reason Glenn’s arm is in a sling right now, is because they met a group, tried to bring them back and before they could make it even close to home, the group fought ‘em, tried to steal what they scavenged, and almost kill Glenn.”

You widen your eyes at the statement. You actually already knew this from Rosita, but that will stay between you two. All you feel is humbled that he felt he share it with you, despite it being a dark thing. It was a close call. Rick was right for being very cautious right now. “Wow,” is all you can get in before he speaks again.

“Imagine if we lost him. Fought this war with his wife and unborn baby at the time for nothing? So he couldn’t even meet him?” Rick shakes his head, and you notice his foot tapping lightly, making his knee bounce. This had happened a month ago now but it was obviously affecting him. “It was reckless and I told him that. That right now we need to be focusing on what’s inside these walls. People have only just started getting back to being comfortable now; to feeling like this is a home.”

Your eyes remain wide, “We did so much rebuilding you.”

“We did complete rebuilding.” He corrects, though not rudely. Shaking his head, he goes back to talking about Daryl: “I think I made it seem like what happened to Glenn was his fault. So not only were we arguing but I must’ve hurt him,” Rick realizes, “and now he definitely won’t be back today— maybe not even until next week.”

A silence hangs in the air after this; it seems he finished. Now, you know you should speak, but as the silence continues, you grow more unsure of what to say. Issues like these are things you’ve never dealt with. You didn’t want to say something stereotypical.

“I’m sorry I’m putting all this on you.”

“No, no,” you quickly console, trying to think. “Um, well,” you say, starting unsteadily, “this is probably going to sound stupid and not helpful. I don’t even remember the exact context or what was truly said so it might not make any sense either but, do you remember when I had my Oasis obsession? Earlier this year?”

“I do,” he laughs, turning his head over to your music table. His eyes scan any of the visible album titles to see if he can find it, but the print on most of them are too small. He turns back to you as you continue:

“This is going to sound a little far off but I think you and Daryl are like Liam and Noel.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Didn’t those two hate each other?”

“I mean, yes— but it’s much more complicated than that to me— but no, I don’t mean in that way. It just that there is this quote Noel says that I don’t remember exactly, but I really liked: he said that even though he wrote the music and Liam did the singing that Liam meant the words just as much as Noel did because they’re brothers and he wrote them. I thought that was beautiful, but…” you trail off.

He stays silent, trying to give you space to find your words but you feel like you’ve gone too far. It’s all pretty convoluted and not a true comparison to what’s going on that you’re even confusing yourself a little. “I think what I mean is that even though they have their different roles, they still feel very similar things and believe in the same purpose. I think that’s like you and Daryl. You two are so similar yet so different. But there’s still a binding force that always brings the two of you together. So, like I’m sure you already know and I didn’t even need to tell you, but you two will be okay. You two have different ways of doing things, but the music or the life you’re trying to create in Alexandria still has the same meaning to the both of you.” You laugh small and breathily as you end. “That probably didn’t make sense.”

Rick smiles to himself. “I didn’t get that first bit, with the quote, but no… that made a lot of sense to me.” He nods toward you and you return his smile. “You’re so bright. You know that? Not everyone knows how to stitch things together like that the way you do.”

This makes you feel good. Rick thought you were smart. You know you should say thank you, but instead, something else comes out: “May I, may I kiss you?”

“Yes,” he answers, almost stuttering it out, a hint of hesitation before he did, but he nods so kindly, so reassuringly as he tells you again: “yes.”

Your fingers touch his lower cheeks lightly, feeling the bristles of his beard. You’re slow, and careful, and scared. Your fingers linger on his jaw for a moment until they completely caress his right cheek and then you move in, swiftly— worried you’ll lose your confidence, worried he’ll change his mind. You catch his lower lip and seal the kiss. Your lips are locked for a few seconds until you retreat. It was nice, and exciting, but short. You knew you could have put your tongue in his mouth. You believe he would have let you because you remember when he did it last time, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself by doing it wrong and once again reminding him how much you don’t know. But you’re sure giving him a grade school kiss like this one was enough of a reminder.

Your eyes roll down, chin low. Your cheeks are on fire and your hands do not know where to go so you start fiddling with the hem of your dress and then you laugh. You were trying to be courageous this time, and you were, but you also weren’t.

Rick grabs your left hand, holding it at the end of your thigh, “I liked that,” he says softly.

“You did?” You ask as softly as he, eyes meeting his.

A short, airy snicker comes out, “Mhm,” he hums, giving you a closed-mouth smile. He found you simply adorable.

“Can I… try it again?”

Rick pulls on your forearm, attempting to bring you closer to him. “Yeah,” he nods, voice gentle. “Do you want me to help?”

You nod before you speak, happily accepting, “Yes.”

He puts your hands on his shoulders. One of his grabs onto your waist and the other holds you lightly under your chin, adjusting your head to meet his lips. The first kiss he places holds just for a couple of moments as the one you gave him did, gentle but packed with longing. The next two are slow, pretty pecks that already have you melting at his touch, lips agape waiting for the next one. The fourth is the one where he brings his tongue into your mouth, carefully bringing it in quarter by quarter. He tastes the top of your mouth and tongue and you feel him as he slowly starts to explore how far you may like to go, but truly you become stagnant other than your hands that press into his shoulder. Luckily, Rick either doesn’t notice your hesitation or is already silently helping you as he takes the lead, pulling you closer by the hips and slipping his tongue in and out of your mouth to kiss you more. It makes you smile— the excitement of your first make-out session. You giggle, and then it makes him smile too and your teeth slightly bump into each other. Accidently you nip his lip because of it, making you pull back.

Your fingers hover over your lips as you impart a quiet apology but Rick just shakes his head giving you another quick kiss instead. He starts to move back on your bed, back pressed again the headboard and he tells you quietly, “Come here.”

You get up and sit higher up on the bed as well, calves folded under your thighs. He takes one of your legs and starts to put it over his as he asks, “Is this okay?”

You nod, vigor growing as you do it now, thrilled to sit on his lap. Your dress bunches around your hips and the tops of your thighs. You move closer to press your chest into his and you kiss him first again, another small one but with intent as you look at him afterward, feeling the scratch of his beard on your fingertips as you smile at him, in awe that this is happening.

“You want to try this time?”

“Uh,” he means you put your tongue in his mouth this time, but you’re afraid to do it wrong but you know you want to say yes so you do, “Yes, okay.”

So he brings you in again and you kiss him. He mouth opens a little and you try to bring your tongue in slightly but you teeth clash. “Sorry,” and quickly he responds that it’s okay and rubs your cheek, telling you to just open your mouth a little wider, no teeth, let your tongue go on top of his.

You try it. Your tongues meet again, licking each other tips before you slowing press in more, your chest touching his as you try to close the gap.

Rick starts slowly rocking your hips against his and he takes control of the kiss again. It helps you not think, you like it. And you like the feeling of that incoming tight bulge starting to form under his jeans, but then you let go. “Wait,” you say, “I like this.” You pause for a moment, confusing him more as to why you stopped. “But… there is something I wanted to ask you.”

“Okay,” his hand stay fixed on your hips and waist, rubbing soothily, “What it is?”

Another pause. “I feel nervous,” you whisper.

“You have no reason to be, sweetheart. You can ask me anything.”

You laugh, smiling as you look off to the side. Anythang.

He smiles too, although unknowingly to what you found funny. His head tilts as he tries to find your gaze and turn it towards him again.

“Well, the last time we were together here you taught me how to do something. You taught me how to pleasure myself better so,” you stutter, “I want to pleasure you. If that’s okay. And I was wondering if you’d teach me how- to touch you here.” You remove yourself from straddling him and point in the direction of his cock.

Instantly he feels a stir of his already hardening dick.

This is not how he expected things to go this time. Or truly, he didn’t expect any of this at all, but when you asked to kiss him he decided he would be gentle, more giving. It felt like you wanted him to take again, the exact thing he was trying not to do. “I feel like I took advantage of you last time.”

“Rick…” you shake your head. “I’m the one who didn’t close the door all the way. You asked if it was okay and then you asked if you could go faster. I said yes to everything…” You start to worry— is he second guessing everything now?—“I feel maybe we remember this differently.” You bow your head again now. Feeling ashamed, wondering if he did.

Rick places one hand on your knee to comfort you although he still says, “It’s just that I’ve never done something like this before.” His thumb sways on your skin. “I just don’t want you to end up feeling like you’re wasting your time. Your first times.”

You’re surprised, “It’s so funny how you can be so self-assured in front of a crowd and now you don’t think you’re good enough.” You take his hand and press it towards your chest. Your heart was racing. “I like you. So much.” You swallow as he says your name softly, realizing how fast your heart was going. “No one in town is truly ever mean to me or anything, and Rosita has been so kind with letting me move in with her and we talk and its nice but, you know— she has her flings and her friendships that are separate from mine and everyone just always seems like they have their person and I just don’t. I don’t have my person, or any person.” You remove your hands from your chest but Rick still holds onto it, squeezing your hand as you start speaking again. “You’re kind, Rick, and you make me excited, and you remember things about me… “ If your face could get any hotter, it does, “And, well, you’re very handsome. If you could teach me again, I would like that.”

God… Rick was trying to be a romantic yet you were so adamant on getting him off. He laughed inwardly, shaking his head, deciding that the best way to handle this situation— and make up for some of his guilt as he was trying to— would be to give you the thing you say you want and not what he thinks you want. Suppose that’s one for widower’s wisdom.

Decidedly, Rick gets up from the bed, giving you a once over, still admiring how adorable, and how sexy, you look to him with your feet under your lap, hands on your knees as you look up at him from the bed and your white dress. He starts undoing his shirt buttons. “Remember when I did this the first time?”

A smirk came on, there’s the Rick you remember. Blue eyes intense, and voice getting cocky as he gets ready to give you what you need, what he knows you only want from him.

“Yes,” you say quiet yet with budding excitement. You start going for the hem of your dress, “Should I start taking this off too?”

“Mm, stay like that.” He’s taking off his belt. “Thought you looked beautiful in it right when I saw you.”

Your thighs squeeze together slightly. Rick Grimes was undressing before you, for you, and calling you smart and beautiful all the while.

As Rick lowers his boxers, his cock springs up. He returns to his spot on the bed, back leaning against the headboard. All of a sudden he seems to truly recognize that he is the only one exposed. He would tell you what to do, guide you, but in a small way, in a way you probably didn’t realize, you were in control. It seems that each time this happens— although it’s only been twice— and each time he talks to you— which has been plenty— you steal a little more of Rick’s heart and he just can’t stop it.

“So,” he clears his throat, your eager eyes on his cock making him twitch, “you usually just wrap your hand around, start from the base and keep pumping up.” He shakes his head, “there’s not too much too it but it’s best to keep your hand light at the start, you—”

You nod quickly, “May I?”

As he nods back you, “Yes.” And as he says it you’re already licking your hand.

“Is it okay if I spit? That helps right? Or is that nasty to you?”

He’s caught off guard, “No, no, that helps.”

So you do and you place your hand lightly at the base as he said and you start to pump. Instantly, he lets out a gasp, and the next noises that follow are repressed grunts and groans. You want to ask him to stop doing that but you’re a little scared to speak up that way just yet and you’re too engrossed in how you can see the light veins of green and blue on him and how he’s so red at the tip. It was honestly exciting. Just this, touching him with your hand, staring at his member and watching him twitch as his mouth opens to pant lightly. It still felt unreal but you liked it and you were happy to learn. You start to pump him more towards the top, placing your thumb on his slit- pressing in. His abs clench at that. You push in a little harder and you squeeze your fist around him a little— testing it out to see what happens—and he groans, unadulterated this time, “oh, fuck.”

The heel of your foot that’s under your lap pushes into your center at that.

You start pumping faster. “Am I doing good, Rick?”

Hearing your voice sets him off, “Fuck, sweetheart. Yes.” He’s honestly choking out each of his words, he didn’t expect to get so turned on by all of this. He realizes the last time he had sex was with you that first time, and before that… he can’t even remember. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

As you pump, you start to slow down, only doing it shallowly towards his base. You’re feeling confident and you kiss the side of him, licking a fat stripe up to the top and then you pump him fully again.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he breathes out. He wants to tell you to slow down but it comes out of nowhere, he stutters before he can even speak. An unintelligible groan mixed with a moan comes out abrupt and louder than he intends and white spurts of liquid come out.

You go faster for a few moments, then start to slow down, a little unsure of what is best to do, but you notice when you start squeezing him a little more as you continue to pump up and more whiteness fall out from inside of him.

“Did I, make you come?”

“Yeah,” he says, huffing.

“I did?” your cheekbones rise as you ask with awe— it was another first for the books.

Rick’s tries to let his embarrassment fade, he can tell you were just excited about it, but still, he looks down and to the side, avoiding direct eye contact— almost like you typically would. You peer at him, almost nervously because of it. Rick is usually the confident one. “Doesn’t always happen that fast,” he explains.

“Well before a month ago I didn’t know how to make myself come so I wouldn’t know,” you say with self-deprecating assurance. You had heard from the girls in town that it was easier to make men orgasm. You already had it in your head as something not to judge. You wonder how hard he must have been restraining himself the first time he placed himself inside you, or if it just happened to be easier for him that time around. “I didn’t expect I could do it or anything really. I thought it was…” you smile while giggling, “interesting.”

“A good interesting I hope.”

“Very,” you assure. “I liked it.” You kiss his cheek as you take some wipes that are by your night stand and you start cleaning him up. He doesn’t tell you that you don’t have to; he helps along with you.

“You sure you’ve never done any of this before?”

You shake your head. “I just read fiction books.”

He smiles to himself, a quiet snort of laughter leaving his nose. You always surprise him.

When you two are done cleaning, he puts his boxers back on. Quickly, he is on the bed again and starts to kissing you. Rick holds your shoulder and pushes you down. Finally, it’s time for his redemption, he feels. It was your turn to be pleasured. Just like he wanted to do from the beginning.

Rick kisses down your neck to your collarbone, and the parts of your exposed chest and he pushes your dress up past your hips. His lips move back up to yours, kissing you more before saying, “I really wanna show you something sweetheart.” He presses his thumb into your clit over your underwear. “Can I kiss you down there? Have you ever had that before?”

You shake your head slowly, eyes wide. “I-” you start nodding your head, “-I would really like that.” And in such a small voice you add, “Please.”

Rick kisses your cheek. Deep and softly he breathlessly tells you, “I would love to.”

Rick moves his head lower and gives you slow kisses over your underwear from your mound to the end of your lips. He starts to drag your panties over your legs and once they’re gone he kisses up your thighs. Then his nose rubs and sways ever so lightly on your lips. He breathes in and it makes you shutter. Your heart is going crazy again. Finally, he licks upward. One long and languid stripe ending with a kiss to your clit and then he truly begins.

Tongues are wet and sticky and everything you ever dreamed of. Your eyes roll back instantly from that first lick and kiss. You remember a time when you started touching yourself that you used to never think of receiving oral. You thought it was scary, nasty, that you wouldn’t like it until the moment you thought about it as a million kisses on your most sensitive lips, or someone liking you so much that they’d get drenched by your wetness just to touch you, to taste you. After that, you thought about it all the time and now it was finally happening– someone needing you so much they just had to know what you taste like. Here he was: kissing, licking, sucking, not caring about how he looks but only how you feel— you now knew what it was like to be desired.

Rick presses his tongue flat on your clit, rubbing deep circles. His eyes are open, looking up at how your mouth opens wider and wider. You let out little whimpers, enamored by his tongue, still deciding if you like the scratch of his beard, but your eyes stay glued to the ceiling, scared to look at the scene below.

He gives you kitten licks in between speaking, “Look down. Don’t miss your first time.”

Your eyes go down slowly, watching as he gives open mouth kisses to your clit and right lip, tilting his head. He stays there for a moment, hearing your short and breathy pants, kissing and licking your clit and lower lips like they were the ones above your chin. His eye contact sends bursts of sticky wet fluid down your hole and you release a whimpered moan, they’re always sp short and soft and high pitched. He can tell you like it but he can also see you’re nervous. You don’t trust yourself, you know it, and he’s starting to realize it too. You’re scared of completely letting go.

He peppers kisses to your clit before moving upward, his tongue rolling and mouth kissing from your lower stomach to your breasts till his face reaches yours again. “No one’s here,” he tells you. He then kisses your lips allowing you to taste yourself for the first time. “Relax,” he whispers, rolling out each syllable. He holds your chin with one hand while he inserts a finger into your hole with the other, his pointer is instantly drenched and you shudder at the feeling. His single calloused finger reminds you of the time he was last inside you. He pumps slowly, looking into your eyes as he speaks, “Don’t think about who could come downstairs.”

“What if Rosita or Daryl come back?”

“What if?” He says it so simply as if he’s ready for everyone to know. Truly, that would be an issue, but right now it was not about him and it was completely about you; he wanted to give. It was short-sighted, reckless, yes, but… you were just so pretty, so bright, so insightful, and he felt like he needed to make up for all the taking he did last time, of your first time. Rosita had went to run after Daryl, hopefully no one was here anyway. But again, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. “Lay back,” he gently commands, “forget what I said before- close your eyes. Just give in to it. Like I’m the only one who's here.”

Rick licks zig zag stripes down your slit and then he decides to insert his tongue in your hole. He goes as deep as his tongue allows, collecting your wetness and trying to swallow it in moments when he turns back to kissing. He his nose is brushing and rubbing up against your clit as he sucks wetness from down below and you start letting out stringy moans you can’t control. Soft, pretty, and continuous, “uh, ah, uh, uh” that turn into “sorry, I’m sorry.” You’re still self-conscious about your own noises. This was still only the second time you’ve heard the sounds you make when someone else is fucking you.

But Rick shushes you. Giving small kisses to your clit as he looks up at you, seeing your scrunched eyes and open mouth. “I like knowing you like it, pretty girl. I like all those pretty sounds you’re making.”

Your pussy tightens around nothing at that phrase.

“Keep going. You don’t have to be shy.” He grabs your chin and you look down at him. His beard is wet. “We’ve already made a mess anyway.”

He starts kissing your labias, licking up wetness when you decide to ask, nervously, “Can you make sounds too?”

Instantly, Rick goes again to kiss your clit, humming into it as he sucks. Breathing against you he says, “Want me to tell you I like it, sweetheart?” His tongue slides down again, tongue reaching into your hole and he moans into your pussy.

Your back arches and you mewl, you could almost scream.

That’s it, he thinks. Rick keeps humming and groaning into you now. His voice is so seductive. “I love tasting your pussy, baby.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Rick starts rubbing your clit with his thumb and going fast with his tongue in your hole “My bright, pretty girl gonna come for me? Hm?”

“Oh, Rick, I want to. Please, Rick.”

Rick starts to go faster and your brain turns to mush. Only noises coming out and when he stops his tongue movements to say something more you push his head down. “Sorry,” you say. You’ve never been forceful before but he says nothing, just continues going down on you and taking his free hand to place it over his, gesturing that he wants your hands in his hair. You tug on his curls and he grunts into you. You start chanting his name and then he switches to placing his lips on your clit and putting two fingers in your pussy. It reminded you of the first time but instead of your three fingers they were two of his and it felt so much better than you ever knew before, better than you could ever do it yourself. It sets you off. Your eyes shut tighter if they could. “Rick! Oh my god,” you moan and then again and again and then you come.

Rick laps at your cunt, vigorously trying to wipe you clean. He makes it look like it will be the last and only time. It makes you worry but at the same time he looks so sexy like that; needy for you even after you finished.

He takes your wipes and cleans his lips before cleaning you up as you did for him. He kisses you thighs and your lips and your cheeks as he continues. “You did such a good job,” he says. “You always do.”

You’re filled with pride at that. “Thank you.” Then worry sets in. You realize how public you’ve made everything. “Did I just ruin your life?”

He laughs while caressing your thigh. That anxious expression of yours that he just got rid of returns after all the work he did.

“I’m gonna check downstairs. Okay? If they’re there, they’re there.” You nod. We already made a mess anyway, you remember him saying. “They might want to start the meeting when I go down so, whatever happens, happens alright? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your eyes are still nervous, but it’s all too late anyway. “Okay,” you respond.

“Okay,” he says back, kissing you once more. As he dresses himself again, he tells you, “I promise I won’t wait two weeks to see you again.”

“I’d like that.”

“Me too,” he says as a send off and goes into the bathroom to clean his face.

When he reaches the living room, there is no one. Rick is thankful but confused.

As he nears the coffee table there is a sheet of yellow lined legal pad with a talkie next to it.

Call when you’re done, it reads.

“Rosita?” He questions into the device. Who else could it have been, right?

He can almost hear the grin on her face. “They should start calling you Reckless Rick for all the agony you put these Alexandria girls through.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “There’s just something about that stupid hair cowboy accent, I guess.”

Before he can respond, telling her that it’s absurd to think of him as a playboy, that he was far from it, she continues:

“So, fucking my roommate? You’re glad Glenn and Maggie called everyone over to theirs instead. Hershel took his first steps while you were teaching someone else how to take theirs.”

She unpressed the button to suppress her laughter. “Just get over here,” she concludes, putting down the walkie and going back to meet the rest of the group with a perfect poker face. She tells everyone Rick will be here shortly.

Oh, Alexandria’s leader and her new little best friend who has been hearing the townswomen’s fantasies of him for years: Reckless Rick and his reckless romantic girl.

Rosita would give you so much shit for this when she gets home.

[o0sleepingdead0o]

Ambassador Danny AU

Just a silly thing knocking around in my brain.

Batman halted in the door of the conference room, taking in the sight of a strange being lounging imperiously in his chair. His white hair seemed to defy gravity ever so gently and his green, glowing eyes—Jason’s eyes—stared back with none of the regard or fear so many people showed towards Batman. His tanned face was speckled with tiny stars that Batman had to actively resist becoming memorized by. The boy’s choice of covering was sheening armour that refracted the light through his chest-plate of black ice. The white sleet that sharpened his knuckles seemed perfectly capable of movement despite it encasing his hands in similar fashion to the chest-plate; glassy in it’s brutal edges and as hard as the sheets that form over the coldest of lakes. 

The watchtower had been invaded. Batman had questioned why the place was so cold when he’d arrived. Now he knew.

The only thing that kept Batman from immediately reacting might have—very much—had to do with how young he looked. A boy in the second half of his teens.

And the fact that several other Justice League members were at Batman’s back as he strolled further into the room, watching the boy warily.

The boy’s eyes were unconcerned as he watched the Justice League file in. Worryingly so. Who was he that he would be so unfazed, how powerful? Or was it faith he wouldn’t be harmed, taking advantage of the Justice League’s strong morals?

The teen had commandeered the chair with all the authority of a king and the confidence of one assured of their own position. He sprawled across it. The chairs were all identical of practical, unassuming make, but this boy made it look like his throne as he leaned heavily on one side and stretched one leg way on the other. A hand was extended to dangle off one chair-arm and he had a knee braced up, showing an armoured shin protecting his black, sturdy, cargo-like pants and iced boots that jagged treacherously upwards.

The boy smirked. “Took you long enough. I was getting bored.”

Batman resisted the urge to clamp his hands over his already protected ears from the unearthly static and screeching glaciers that came from the boy’s mouth. He noticed Superman flinch and his face grimace.

“Who are you?” Batman growled. This boy was obviously inhuman. He was also an unknown. Batman would be foolish to underestimate someone who had somehow infiltrated the watchtower without being seen or setting off any alerts. Who exuded too much confidence, as if the entire world was at his fingertips.

Attacking took the back-burner in favour of garnering information in such a concerning situation.

“You may address me as. . .” He contemplated a bit too much for Batman to believe whatever he would give them would be his true name. “Danny.”

“. . .Danny.” 

The name was so. . .normal.

“How did you get here?” Wonder Woman asked with hints of warning and aggression.

The boy smiled. He had fangs. Too many sharp teeth. He didn’t answer and was revelling in their ignorance.

“What are you doing here?” Superman asked. It said something about Danny’s energy that even superman was being cautious about approaching.

“Waiting for you.” He smirked.

“Why?” Batman pushed as much threat and intimidation into his stance and words as he could. He usually didn’t have to think about it. “What do you want?”

Danny chuckled and a shiver ran up Batman’s spine. Goosebumps formed even through the protective layers that shielded him from the cold.

“Why don’t you sit?” The words should have been innocent. They felt like a trap. “You’ve gathered for a meeting, haven’t you?” 

The league members didn’t move. Danny sighed.

“Fine, fine, fine.” He rolled his eyes and Batman was eerily reminded of how much the adolescent exasperation reminded him of his own children. Danny leaned off the chair arm to lean an elbow on the table instead, propping his chin up. He was all teeth. “The Infinite Realms wishes for peace. I’ve come to investigate the possibility of a treaty on behalf of the High King.”

<><><><>

“THERE’S A DENIZEN OF THE INFINITE REALMS IN THE WATCHTOWER??!!!”

Batman held the phone away from his face at Constantine’s uncharacteristic display of panic. It did not bode well and it settled uncomfortably in his bones.

He grunted in affirmation.

Constantine swore up and down enough to fill Alfred’s swear jar ten times over. “What do they want?! What did you say to them!? Ohhhh, bloody ****! You’ve already antagonized them haven’t you?!”

“No.” Batman ground out.

Constantine was quiet. Several seconds ticked by.

“. . .WELL?!”

“He claims the High King wants to negotiate for peace.”

There was silence on the other end. Batman usually preferred it when Constantine was quiet, but this was thick and seemed to claw out of the phone to infect the watchtower. It muffled the noises and beeps and drowned out the presence of the other league members who had stepped out of the conference room with him.

Then there was a great, controlled release of wavery air. When Constantine spoke, it was more serious than Batman ever remembered hearing him.

“Okay, okay.” Constantine mumbled to himself. “Listen closely, Bats, and repeat everything, and I mean everything, to your circus clowns.”

Superman cleared his throat. “We’re here.”

“YOU LEFT THE AMBASSADOR ALONE?!”

“Of course not! Wonder Woman and Martian Manhunter are monitoring him.” Batman said. 

Constantine grumble-sighed. “Good.” He mumbled. “Two of the competent ones. I don’t trust Bats not to **** this up and get us all killed.”

“What now?” Flash said.

Batman was a little offended. “Constan—“

“NO!” He yelled vehemently. He sounded a little manic. “Batsy, you have the emotional intelligence of a wet paper bag, a sad, trampled, wet paper bag with so many holes that it can’t even be considered a bag anymore, you have the emotional intelligence of wet, paper scraps and the diplomacy of a feral hyena! Unless he addresses you first, Do. Not. Initiate! Do not open your mouth! I have no faith in you whatsoever!”

“I will n—“ Batman tried to growl again, but Constantine cut him off. Again!

“No!” Constantine reiterated oh, so eloquently. “Look.” He sighed. “Getting news of the newest High King since he defeated the last one has been near impossible. All Deadman will tell me is that he’s better than the last guy and we are incredibly lucky our entire dimension wasn’t wiped out after that stunt the American government pulled with the Anti-ecto Acts.”

Batman saw some of the leaguers pale. He suddenly wasn’t feeling the best either.

“Anti-Ecto Acts?”

“Laws declaring their species non-sentient and illegal, I dealt with it, thing is, this is an extremely delicate situation.” He stressed. “We don’t know what kind of ruler he is, what little thing might set him off, and we cannot afford to set the High King off! Capiche?! It’s a good sign that he’s willing to negotiate peace, but he could change his mind. Some ghosts are very temperamental.”

“Ghosts.” Several of the leaguers repeated. Constantine let out an incredibly exasperated sound.

“Do you idiots know nothing?! Yes, ghosts! The Infinite Realms is the dimension between dimensions, the land of the dead and the never-born! They are incredibly powerful entities and many of them could level our planet easily! Whatever you do, DO NOT ask how they’ve died! It is highly taboo and you’ll get yourselves killed!” Constantine let out a stressed groan.

“I would come back and deal with this myself, but I am. . .occupied at the moment. Don’t try to negotiate without me! You lot will muck everything up! And seriously, DO NOT ASK HOW THEY’VE DIED! Keep the Ambassador happy until I can get there, convince him to stay! We might not have another chance like this, don’t annoy them, do not ignore them, and, just in general, don’t give the ambassador any reason to deliver anything negative to King Phantom and have him erase us all, got it?”

The Justice League exchanged several, stunned looks.

“Got it?”

Batman grunted.

“Good. And Bats.” Constantine added lowly. “If this fails, I am blaming you for the end of the world.”

Constantine ended the call and the phone beeped before drowning everyone in silence. The leaguers shared more looks.

“Now what?” Hal said.

[eccentricallygothic]

|| Triumph Of The Beast ||

Description: Captain Syverson learnt that the only way to have her was to ask her hand in marriage. So he did just that. And she was all his now, both to hold and to possess.

Pairing: Soft-Dark!Captain Syverson | Sheikha!Reader.

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own Captain Syverson. This is a mature story with dark undertones so kindly browse at your own discretion. Please note that this piece is only a work of fiction that in no way aims to reinforce or propose any stereotypes to any ethnicity or race. Minors do not interact. 

Warning(s): Soft-Dark!Syverson, he is lowkey messed up, smut with plot (I am sorry), possessive behavior, his obsession with her chastity, naive!reader, size kink, biting (it's Henry and his canines ffs), boob play, manhandling, power imbalance, arranged marriage, fingering, handjob, dirty talk, m!dom, f!sub, he's a man, misogyny, age gap (reader is 20's, Sy is early 40's fight me), he's lowkey intimidating, slight spanking, allusion to bondage, manipulation, slow burn-ish, maybe more dialogue than necessary, p-in-v penetration, corruption kink, no use of 'Y/n'. 

Note: Her father is not the mean Sheikh from the movie lmfao. Reader doesn't even have to be Iraqi, just Eastern that you can TOTALLY imagine yourself as because it's a frickin' story for God's sake! Ps, This blocked me so hard mid-write I nearly abandoned it lmfao, I need a break! 

.

Captain Syverson had always thought the notion of the first touch buzz to be foolish. To quote him in his own words, the electric touch that people claimed their beloved aroused within them was nothing more than a steaming pile of horseshit. 

Until now. 

As his thick and coarse battle hardened hands cupped the side of the tender face of his dear wife, the Captain's thumb darted out to quickly glide across the perfect arch of her cheekbone before it moved down to the bow of her lips, his body combusting into a thousand flames of raw desire. 

Her skin was so tender he feared it may come off if he pressed on it too hard. The structure of her body that adorned her traditional wedding attire seemed so fragile in this moment next to him and in his big old bed that the thought of ever manhandling a thing as delicate as her terrified him. The contrast of her usually confident and intelligent countenance was striking in quality to the humility with which she now offered her submission to him. 

His suspicions against his body and strength increased by the passing minute; he felt petrified to even breathe too easily near her. The fear that it may damage her in some way haunted him and filled his lungs with dread. It was not that she was the most petite thing that he had ever seen or she held resemblance to an adolescent in terms of size or any of that weird shit, no. 

It was instead the way in which her head bowed in just the perfect way so it indicated respect and submission; not so high that it would seem that she was trying to deny him his station but not so low that it became off-putting. It was an acknowledgement to his power in their dynamic; an agreement of a lifetime. 

The man could swear he was going crazy. 

There was simply no way he was going to make it through the night with his sanity intact. 

It was just the effect she had on him. 

If there was anyone to blame it was her. 

Because even though he wanted to hide this girl so safely in his arms for the rest of his days that not even a harsh breeze would be allowed to touch her, the erratic way in which his boiling blood sizzled its way through his veins, The Captain wanted nothing more than to just turn her around, press her breathtaking face into the mattress and take her over and over until she was swell with his litter. 

Or press his bigger body against hers and take her deep and raw until her mind gave up on consciousness  

Perhaps place her between his own legs and feel her mouth around him until his seed spilled from her nose. 

Maybe make her mount him and slap her ass that he just knew would be perfect over and over to keep her going even when she didn't want to. 

The possibilities were endless from where Syverson was standing. 

And he was determined to try his hand at all of them, and more. 

His eyebrows furrowed just a little when she awkwardly pecked his lips for the fifth time in a straight row and refused to give him more, cringing away when he attempted to deepen the kiss. The girl that giggled and covered her mouth on which her red lipstick had already smudged was a dead leaf echo of the confident and liberal sheikha -prized daughter of the sheikh supreme- that critically watched the foreign Captain everytime he was around with her bright and vigilant brown eyes so full of scrutiny that it made him, a grown man, blush. It wasn't his fault, really. Her eyes had the most attractive gleam of intelligence to them and the black khol that lined them only accentuated their beauty more. 

She had always been so elegant Syverson knew he was a goner the first time his eyes had been granted the pleasure of looking at her. Sat aside her father basking in her confidence, silk scarf draped around her head and body in the most perfect way, a form he could only describe as agreeable always clad in decent clothes, fingers adorning rings with colorful stones and modesty dripping off of every single mannerism of hers. 

How could a man not look twice?

And then not consider looking away utterly blasphemous on account of being unappreciative of such godly beauty?

"I- I do not know how to…" Her accent turned his gears just right. "K- Kiss, Captain" oh. 

Of course. 

Blood rushed to his cock that hadn't throbbed like this in a long time. That was, if it ever had. 

And then his sweet, chaste wife just had to call him Captain.

Fuck. 

He was going to tear her apart. 

And she had no idea.

The obedient daughter, who was never afraid to voice her thoughts and outsmart every man who dared stand against her with inadequate knowledge of the debate at hand, had happily bowed down to her father's wish that she marry the charming and noble Captain -to them a warrior who was not afraid to fight for his country; a man truly admirable- after said Captain had asked for her hand in marriage when he had realized that that was the only way to have her. 

Mind, body, soul… heart. 

Sure, it had taken Syverson and his rather daft attempts at impressing her some quick-witted answers and astute responses by a rather critical her to realize it.

But she was his bride now.

And that was all that mattered. 

"Well, ain't that just dandy?" Syverson realizes just how heavy his breathing really is when his words come out gravelly and almost forced. She is unable to hold his eyes for very long so she stares at his chest instead, a most remarkable coy smile across her lips. The fact that she looks every other man with a taught unaffected sternness but has blushed everytime their eyes have met after the wedding just drives him all the more insane. 

Her dark eyebrows furrow as she lightly tilts her head to the side. He has noticed that she has some trouble understanding his dialect. So he caresses her cheek again, this time in a reassuring manner;

"I know you'll figure it out soon. You're a clever lil' thing, ain'tcha?" She looks up just long enough to nod with a meeting of their eyes. 

"Yes, Captain" god, even her way of speaking has softened.

The knowledge that he was the only man in this whole wide world whom she treated like this made him want to worship her with his love and devotion in every way possible. 

Because The Captain was naturally a very possessive man who did not appreciate ran through goods.  

"Alright now, just trust your husband and sit back like a good lil' bride, alright?" It was taking him all of his focus to not just push her back and have his depraved ways with her all night long.

"Y- Yes, Captain." 

"Atta girl," before he leaned back in and brushed his lips against hers just long enough to whisper, "now hush and don'tcha try to keep them pretty lips shut on me" he felt her going breathless against him when his mouth fit against the slot of her parted one perfectly; as though it had been created just for him. 

She did her best to keep up with as much obedience as her modesty would allow her to muster but the sensation of his mouth against hers, the scratch of his coarse beard across her delicate skin, the wetness of his tongue that took its time swiping against her bottom lip and the way that he didn't have to break the kiss to know that she had extended her had in his direction to take a hold of him to deal with the intensity of it all, the sheer desperation with which he reached out his fingers and clutched hers in an affectionate way that also had a territorial tinge to it was all too much for her to handle.

An unfamiliar thrill that she had been a stranger to until this moment began to patter through her bloodstream. Her heart pounded, her sweat glands soaked, her face burnt and her stomach fluttered. 

"Captain" was all she was allowed to whisper in the two second interval the man allowed them to recover their breathing. 

"Well, I'll be damned, darlin'" Syverson husked through rushed kisses as he hurriedly helped her lay down with her attire still intact, both too desperate to strip her and wanting to take her as she was, for tonight she looked the most stunning he had ever seen her. "You're so dang pretty I can't even fathom stayin' off ya now that you're mine" a hush of cold breath rushed past her flush lips as her thick eyebrows drooped upwards in reaction to him dipping his face in the curve of her neck.

"I am all yours to do with whatever you please, my C- Captain" her soft hands flew to grab at his shirt as the foreign sensation of a man's body against her skin sent an electric bolt down her spine. 

His body was heavy above hers as he groaned at her response and grinded his bulge against her covered sex, peppering kisses all over her skin. "God damn, baby. Your mama sure raised you up right, didn't she?" A loud squeak resonated in the air when the new husband simply could not hold back his passion anymore and bit down on the inviting flesh of her shoulder, letting out a stomach churning moan at her taste and squeezing her sides as the smell of her fragrance oils hit his nose. 

"Fuck, baby" it took him all of his willpower and the promise that he could go back for more only easier to part from her. "I can't–" sitting up to kneel over her, Syverson pulled his shirt over his head before tossing it somewhere in the room. "I can't hold back no more" as he leaned back down and placed one hand beside her head to keep himself from suffocating her, the way she looked up at him with wonder, timidity, need, sent a pang of pain to his cock. "Talk to me, darlin'" he gathered her wrists in one hand before placing them above her head, now reaching for the clothed bump on her chest. "You feelin' anything?" A soundless breath left her and she shuddered in such a way that her boobs trembled feverishly. 

"S- Strange… a- and… oh my God!" She had to shut her eyes and turn her head to the side when he suddenly manhandled one of her breasts out of the deep neckline of her wedding night dress. Her hands rushed to cover her chest by instinct but her husband's authoritative swat was much quicker and stronger. 

Syverson chuckled at the defensive gasp she let out, a crazed darkness floating in his eyes as he pinnned her feverish hands out of his way, coarse palm now feeling up her other breast that was freed as he spoke. "Ain't no God 'round these parts tonight, baby. Just me…" His lips enveloped hers in a right and hungry kiss. "'N you" the way she nervously gulped when he pulled back to stare into her eyes only added to the fire in his body. "Say, baby" he trailed gentle kisses down her chin, along her throat and then down to the fluffy cushions of soft flesh dotted with flush, erect nipples in the middle. A surprised cry jutted out of her mouth and her fingernails tried to claw at his hand that confined them above her when he pressed one wet kiss on each nub. "Ain't this just somethin' else?" 

The girl had no idea what possessed her to say what she did, but her hips moved faster than her brain could catch on and her lips worked before reticence could hinder her communication. "I- It is, Captain. T- Thank you" of course she had felt arousal before. Of course she had been wet before. Some of those times she had a certain handsome American Captain to thank for, not that she would ever willingly admit it. But she had never known how to relieve herself of it other than a cold shower. 

Her mother had warned her that not every feeling that transpires in one in times of idleness should be chased and she had listened.

But this was not solitary boredom, this was not a devilish lure, her mother wasn't here and it was her wedding night with a man she was slowly becoming sure she would be able to call her dear husband one day. 

If her husband was kind enough to be considerate about what made her feel what she could only identify as exciting, she deemed it a stupidity to refuse the treatment. 

"Aw, baby" Syverson's hands only part from her breasts so his mouth can greedily latch onto them, his bearded lips pressing all over them before his hand nearly snatches her skirts out of his way since the layers seem to be never ending. "To think that I ain't even begun with ya and you're already thankin' me like a sweet little lady" now his mouth traveled to her stomach and the only word he had for its appearance was perfect. A shudder set in her shoulders when his beard scratched her navel before his teeth softly nibbled away on her skin. 

"W- Would you like me to get up and t- take my clothes off, dear?" God damn.

He really had hit the fucking jackpot. 

"Hold on now, darlin'" he husked as his fingers caressed her nubs, his hot mouth littering its kisses over her skin further down south. "I wanna take you like this first" the readied rise in the middle of her shoulder blades smoothed out and she settled back into the mattress again wordlessly. "Well now, are you gonna be good and keep them arms up high like a good lil' thing or am I gonna have to tie 'em up?" A drawn out moan sounded from deep within her throat when his chin deliberately brushed against her clothed sex, coarse fingers twirling her nipple between them.

Syverson felt an unconscious clench in the muscles of her thighs upon his words finally registering in her clouded mind. "N- No, I- I'll be good, husband. I promise." 

"Atta girl" he praised in a satisfied tone before letting go of her wrists. 

It was after that that his hands roamed free and wild all over her form. The Captain kissed, sucked, nibbled, pinched, groped, licked and bit all to his desire, the growing moans of his bride only encouraging him further. 

"God damn, if these ain't the sweetest damn legs I've ever seen" Syverson licked away the thread of spit that previously connected his mouth to her now bruised hiphone that he had successfully marked as his territory. The fact that no man had ever seen them and the plan that he made to never let anyone do so either was making his ears hot. His sides were becoming sore with need like he was the virgin. 

"And this– fuck, c'mere" he couldn't hold it back anymore. The Captain had always been an ass man and the fact that he was yet to see his wife's backside was making him mad now. Her yelp morphed into a confused giggle when he bundled her ankles in one of his rough hands, having already rid her of her panties, and easily raised both her legs up until her lower half dangling by his hold on her. "Hmmm, I just knew you had a perfect lil' rump stashed in there" his free hand felt her soft cheeks up before he traced his index finger down her crack, cursing at the way they clenched in defense. Then his depravity got the best of him and he wound his hand back and gave a handful of strong blows to her poor behind that started blushing in an instant. 

"Oh– ouch!" Her next nervous giggle made him raise an eyebrow as he divided an ankle between each hand and parted her legs to look down at her. 

"Think this is funny, do you?" The girl quickly stopped herself nervously. "You know who that's for?" He didn't even mind the giggles, if anything they were rather endearing to him. But the timidity in her eyes was way too sweet for him to pass up. She shook her head no. "Bad little girls who make fun of their fellas, that's who." It was the cock hardening way in which her bottom lip wobbled sensitively that dried his throat. 

A young woman once so strong, all commanding and authorative now exposed in such a submissive manner and completely at his mercy. 

"S- Sorry, dear" he hummed, reaching for the mound between her legs to roughly feel her pussy up in blunt gropes. 

"You can consider those as payback for all them times you thought you could get slick with me in front of my boys just 'cause you were the Sheikh's daughter" her eyes widened and she blushed harder than before. 

"I- I–"

"Yes, you" though Syverson's words were crisp, his kiss on her nether lips was tender and perhaps that was the sole reason why she didn't tear up from being reprimanded when she was so vulnerable and hypersensitive like this. "Thought I'd just forget all that brattin' of yours?" 

She had to hurriedly sit up for that one and reach for his hands affectionately. "Oh, no" the pure care in her eyes made his melting heart feel as though it had risen into the sky. "It was only that you were not my husband back then, dear," she tried to make him understand, aware that there were cultural differences that needed overcoming, "mother said good girls owe it to their husbands to treat every other man with a serious attitude and indifference!" 

She was breaking his fucking heart. 

It was officially official. 

Abel Ford Syverson was in love. 

Soul crushing, earth shattering, sky tearing love. 

With a woman who was not only intelligent and gorgeous way past his league but one that respected herself with an unwavering devotion towards her spouse. 

"Well, I'll be damned!" He exclaimed with faux surprise that she did not catch up on, much to his expectation. "So that's what it was all about?" Of course he knew. 

He just liked her to say it.

It boosted his depraved ego just right. 

She apologetically nodded with sincerity. "I swear, my heart." The translation of the endearment caused for his blood to pump through his ears only harder. 

Syverson gave her a small smile before sighing a little. "Well, you see, darlin', it did still hurt my feelings a tad" her eyebrows furrowed in regret so he added just to rub it in that much more; "got me a bit of pride to keep up, y'know?" 

Now she pouted. "I am sorry, love…" Before a bulb went off in her head and she jumped a little to express her excitement, the action causing her naked boobs to jiggle. "Is there a way I can make it up to you?" There. 

"Why, of course!" Fuck, he sounded more eager than a middle schooler. "You gonna have to show that you can make a good little wife" her cheeks flushed as she bit her bottom lip in embarrassment. He continued, aware she was as clueless as a virgin.

Because she was one. 

Syverson loved the thought.

He wished there was a way to preserve it -her- all as it was.  

"Anything you want, my dear" she replied sincerely as she earnestly pressed his hand that she held to her chest. 

The man swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat as his eyes flickered down to where their fingers were intertwined; the valley of her perfect breasts. 

"Good girl" his voice came out much deeper than usual. "Go on 'n' take it out, then" the bride's eyebrows raised to express her confusion as she tilted her head to the side. 

His dick whimpered and spilled a thick drop.

"U- Um…"

Syverson was getting impatient. "That means my pants, darlin'." He chuckled to lighten the effect of the edge that his tone had held. "I mean, can't exactly make love to ya with 'em on, now can I?" Something pulled taught in her chest and she went to avoid his eyes out of embarrassment. 

"Oh… yes" she was breathless as she reached for his fly, face angled downwards. 

"Yeah…?" He drew it out on purpose teasingly, dipping his own head earthwards to try and meet her gaze cockily. "Yeah, yeah?" The man kept going unrelentlessly until she had no choice but to respond. 

"Y- Yes…" Her nervous fingers slipped over the button of his pants many times but she managed to free him at last. 

"Go on ahead now, sugar" he coaxed sweetly, tone in stark contrast to his intentions. "Take it out and let them pretty lil' hands get a feel" her legs instinctively tried to close due to the shame she felt but her husband's huge body hindered her attempt to somehow cover herself. "Well?"

Her eyes darted up to him from where her fingers gingerly rested against the waistband of his boxers and Syverson suspected that she was about to decline because of the way her mouth moved to let out some phantom words. But when he raised a questioning eyebrow in response, she seemed as though it had reminded her of her place against him and she quickly dipped her digits inside the undergarment to reach for his thumping cock. 

The first feel of her fingertips connecting with his hard skin was… indescribable. It was as though time ceased, stilling everything else with it and he was enveloped into a cocoon of pure sensation. She was everywhere and inside. Her heat filled him to the brim. Each brush of her delicate skin against his rougher one felt like the stroke of the flesh of an outworldly nymph. Shivers of ecstacy cascaded down his lower back and he was floating already. 

The girl nearly jumped out of her skin at the unfamiliar feeling, the moan that he let out along a whispered praise pulling her back in the moment and away from her recoil. The bride's mind reminded her of her duty to her husband and she used her other hand to hold his clothes away so she could uncover his impaler. 

"Just like that, darlin'. Just like that" one of his hands went to tangle in her hair. "Go on and rub it for me, baby. You're doin' real good" his free hand reached for her own sex that had secreted its natural moisture in reaction to the sensations she was being subjected to. He groaned at the feeling of her warm pussy and squished his finger through her plump nether lips. "Tell me what you see" her own body was getting feverish by the second, hips and cunt trying to shrink in on themselves due to how violating his sense tingling touch was.

"I- It's…" She raked her mind for an appropriate answer. But it was all too much for her to handle; the pressure to impress her new husband, touching him the way he wanted properly, obeying him, submitting to his handling and then dealing with his intense gaze. "V- Very pretty, husband. Thank you" so she played it the safest she knew. 

And the girl could swear she felt him twitch in her palm at that, a pang of pain rising in her wrist as she awkwardly pumped him in a vertical manner. 

"Pretty, huh?" A cunning grin spread across his handsome features as he slipped one finger deep within her folds and being the retired playboy that he was, the Captain easily found her pure entrance. "'N' what about the size?" He could not help but moan at the feeling of her balmy walls clinging to his finger. "Ever seen anythin' like it?" Her thighs quivered as his thumb glided over her folds. 

"N- No, husband" she answered timidly, afraid to bruise his pride with an inappropriate or unsatisfactory answer that may pose a threat to her chasteness.

"That's right" now he began to speed up his intrusion of her insides. "'Cause you're all mine, ain'tcha?"  She quickly nodded, letting out a whine as her eyebrows furrowed at the ache his twisting of one of her nipples caused. "Now tell me," he leaned forward to reach for one of her nubs with his teeth, "did ya ever think you'd land yourself a fella with a cock this big?" He spoke through a mouthful before sinking down on her tender boobs, the tips of his sharp canines digging into the soft cushions of her flesh. 

"N- No…" The girl was gasping as she struggled to keep up with his leaking and twitching cock. "T- Thank you, dear!" She added for good measure despite how overwhelmed she was becoming. 

"Tell me, baby" the man loved how his naive wife's features scrunched in discomfort but she still sped up her fist that was wrapped around his cock because he prompted her to, hoisting himself further up next to capture her lips against his. "Do you think yourself lucky that you get to have this here cock all to yourself for the rest of your days?" He could not help but fuck into her hand at the sight of the spit string dangling by a corner of her bottom lip as it connected to the wad of spit that she had just released on his cock after being ordered to do so. He felt her cringe at the feeling of her fingers touching her own saliva as she spread it over his cock. But her resolve to obey him did not falter even once regardless of how shy or uneasy she felt.

And that was how Syverson knew he had found himself his perfect little homemaker.

"I- I do, husband" her voice nearly broke. "Thank you so much" the fact that all of this was visibly strange and even uncomfortable to her because she was not familiar with any of this… 

The Captain could swear that alone was enough to finish him off.

She was his sacred lamb; a temple undefiled. 

Nobody's leftovers; whole in every sense for the beast to take. 

What could he say? Colonel Syverson's prized son always won, no matter what. 

There was a brighter way of looking at his promiscuous dating history that was in stark contrast to his wife's nonexistent one; it could easily be considered as his physical sacrifice in order to realize and reach his full potential as a man for his future lady's well being as well as pleasure. 

A lady that he had found at last. 

"Say it" his command was heavy and the rough skin of his finger was like gravel against the buttery tissue of her slick walls. "Say that you're the luckiest lil' bride for landin' yourself the best damn dick you could have ever hoped for" she began to subconsciously move her thumb out of sync with the rest of her digits to swipe it over his tip each time her hand rose to his apex and he couldn't believe just how close he was already. 

The Captain was usually a man of stamina and endurance.

But then again it was impossible for the beast to resist his tempting lamb for very long, wasn't it?

"I- I am the luckiest…" She licked her parched lips needily. "L- Little bride for l- landing myself the best d- dick…" Embarrassment burnt her cheeks but pleasing him was more important a priority to her. "T- That I could've ever hoped for…"

He deeply moaned in satisfaction. "My good girl" a quick peck was given to the tip of her nose. "Now tell me, baby. How ya feelin'?" As if on cue, she clenched around his finger with a moan.  

Fuck, Syverson had never really preferred a clueless woman until now.

He could literally demand whatever he wanted from her and she would believe him out of her naivety. 

His perfect pretzel Princess that he could twist into whatever shape that he pleased. 

Or make her do as he desired, for that matter. 

With no one, not even his wife herself, to question him or his ways.

He loved the thought. 

"... S- Strange… P- Pain… but– hnnn!" Her back arched as she suddenly writhed, nearly going white at the feeling of getting her special spot getting tickled for the first time. It was an ability her husband took a lot of pride in; the  renown that he had held in college for being able to find gspots with his fingers alone. 

"Feels real good too, don't it?" The Captain snickered heavily as he began to rock his hips into her hand, feeling himself nearing the brink. 

"Mmh!" She did her best to respond despite the sensory overload, groaning softly when he forces her band of muscles to expand further by adding another finger to her pussy and repeatedly jabbing her sensitive nerves with their blunt tips, the sound of his skin fucking in and out of her liquids getting louder by the minute. "W- Weird… but…" A drop of sweat trickled down the side of her face as she gasped, eyes widening when her spine jolted at a particular wave of pleasure. "M- More, please." 

In the blink of an eye, Syverson had pushed her on her back before crawling up her body like a predator. Before her body could process his fingers leaving her into an orgasm denial, his eager cock was pushing into her. The pained moan that escaped her as her body twisted under his was muffled by his mouth clamping over hers. The Captain grunted as his cock struggled to push its way inside her virgin entrance despite the preparation that he had done. The girl's bottom lip pulled away from the rest of her mouth due to the way he bit down on it to withstand the overwhelming pleasure that sparked everywhere within him.  

"Your wish is my command, my darlin' sheikha." 

Syverson found himself praying for the first time to any god, deity or entity that may be listening; to freeze time right here in this very moment and never set it free again.

For he could stay like this for eternities and beyond; buried inside his dear wife and protectively enveloped in her loving arms that had never held another like she did him and never would whilst she moaned below him in a pained ecstasy, clenching and nearly knocking out as she experienced her first ever orgasm.

.

Reblogs and feedback are much appreciated <3

[dinarosie]

Beyond the Fan Theories: Insights from J.K. Rowling’s

I see bizarre fan theories and headcanons about Severus Snape every day that never happened in the books. The problem is, these headcanons are repeated so often that some Harry Potter fans believe them and forget that they are just fan fiction and not the truth. Therefore, I am sharing this old interview with Rowling to remind of some facts.

1. Like many insecure, vulnerable people (such as Wormtail),Snape craved membership in something big and powerful, something impressive: It’s interesting that 17 years have passed since Rowling's response, yet many people still believe Snape joined the Death Eaters because he was a sadistic, racist, antisocial person who wanted to harm people and use dark magic to destroy Muggles and Muggle-borns.!!! However, the writer believes Snape's goal was not to kill and torture Muggle-borns, nor was it racism. He was a poor, insecure, and damaged youth who had never known security or peace in his life. His childhood was a nightmare, and his adolescence was filled with humiliation and bullying. He was seeking acceptance and thought that becoming a Death Eater would give him power, attractiveness, and a family that he never had. However, it is clear that these factors led him to make a big mistake.

2. He never really understood Lily's aversion: Severus Snape didn’t want to harm or retaliate against her. He was simply blinded and misled, so foolish and ignorant that he didn’t realize how deep and serious Lily’s hatred for dark magic and the Death Eaters was. He believed that becoming a Death Eater would make him so powerful and captivating that Lily would be influenced and change her beliefs, convinced that dark magic was extremely attractive, potent, and intriguing.

3. Given his time over again, he would not have become a Death Eater: This sentence shows that he has truly changed. Rowling claims that if Snape had a second chance, he would never join the Death Eaters again. Snape's genuine regret is that, starting at the age of 20, he attempted to make amends for his past actions until the time of his death. He refused to make the same mistake again, unlike Wormtail, who eagerly returned to serve Voldemort when given the opportunity.

4. Like Snape, Harry is flawed and mortal: Do those who see Snape as the story's villain and an unforgivable character understand that, in the author's opinion, Harry is also like Snape? Do they understand that Harry can be flawed and potentially harm others? Harry is never described as a saint. He tortures someone and uses unforgivable curses; he can be arrogant and aggressive while remaining brave and heroic. Snape is flawed and mortal, just like Harry. He makes many mistakes, but in the end, he remains brave and self-sacrificing, and, like Harry, he saves many people's lives.

5. James always suspected Snape harbored deeper feelings for Lily, which was a factor in James' behavior toward Snape: Listen, this is one of the reasons James Potter had for bullying Severus Snape for seven years. Please refrain from saying things like, “Snape was bullied because he joined the Death Eaters” or “because he was interested in dark magic,” as none of these reasons are canonical. These reasons belong to James Potter’s fans, not James Potter himself. The author of the book has clearly explained James Potter’s motives. James Potter just had two reasons for bullying a person for many years:

_He existed (in a way that was ugly and poor). _He was close friends with Lily Evans.

6. It was Voldemort's attempted murder of Kreacher that really turned him: Isn't a change to save a living being's life familiar? I don't understand why Snape's change for Lily's salvation is seen as demonic motivation, whereas Regulus's change for Kreacher is considered epic. Recently, in fan fiction, Regulus has become the little knight of the Black family, whose parents tortured him so much that he is forced to join the Death Eaters and then rebel against Voldemort's ideology to eradicate racism in the wizarding world. But Snape's efforts, sacrifices, loyalty, and spying over the course of 19 years are reduced to being a loser obsessed with a dead woman!!! Such double standards are embarrassing.

I'm curious: If Regulus Black were not Sirius Black's brother and not from a pureblood family, and Voldemort had killed Kreacher while Regulus survived and fought Voldemort, how would fans react to Regulus? How ridiculous would it be to say, "Oh, Regulus Black? He is simply a deviant who was obsessed with his dead elf"?

"Please do not change the characters based on personal preferences and instead see them as written. The writer uses Lily's and Kreacher's salvation as symbols of redemption to demonstrate the characters' growth and maturation. If the concept of love, loyalty, and friendship has changed over time among new generations, this is not the fault of Severus Snape."

[getaandlucius]

A brief taste of honey (Geta love story)

Summary: Lucius has to go to war, Geta waits for him. Lots of angst and fluff and smut.

Previous parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, Part 4, Part 5, part 6, part 7

"You have been distracted, Lucius."

It was early morning, and they were on their way to Aequilum to witness the remnants of devastation left by the Phytians, who had since moved north. Lucius and Marcus rode at the back of the column, while general Mantius led the army ahead.

Lucius frowned. "What do you mean?"

Marcus was silent for a long moment before speaking again. "Listen. You are like family to me, and because of that, I will be honest with you—you're making dangerous choices." He slowed his horse. Lucius raised an eyebrow. Marcus had not spoken to him in such a manner ever and it took him by surprise.

"You know exactly what I’m talking about. I saw what happened back there." Marcus added.

"I’m not following, sir."

"Infatuation, Lucius."

"Are you referring to me and Geta?"

"I am."

Lucius shook his head in confusion. "I did what we agreed was best—keep him alive and present him as an olive branch to the empire."

"Precisely. But that’s not what you’re doing now, is it?"

Lucius grew increasingly frustrated. "I did what I had to do to keep him alive!"

"Yes! Keep him alive, not fall in love with him!" Marcus raised his voice, causing the soldiers ahead to glance back. He immediately lowered it. "Not only have you made yourself an easy target, but now you’ve ensured they have two."

"What are you talking about?" Lucius ordered his horse to a halt. "And who is 'they'?"

"Don’t play ignorant with me." Marcus ground out, his tone sharp. "Look at how they treated your mother and Acasius, how they exploited their bond, knowing how they felt about each other. In the end, both were killed."

Lucius was taken aback by the coldness in Marcus's words, who was clearly not done with whatever he had on his heart.

"Affection is a liability. You simply cannot afford it."

Lucius didn’t know what to say. Pretending he didn’t care for Geta seemed foolish now. Everyone had seen them together. He knew Marcus was right—he had always known, deep down. But he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He had started to care for Geta to a point where there was no turning back.

"And don’t forget," Marcus added, "you yourself mentioned the power vacuum we’re facing now that the twins are off the throne. You’ve read the reports—at least some of them."

The distance between them and the column of soldiers was growing rapidly now they were both standing still. Marcus’s face grew harder, the lines between his brows deepening. "There are rumors of a growing group of supporters from Caracalla and Geta’s realm, people unhappy with the choices you’ve been making. You need to take this seriously, Lucius. You must."

To Lucius, the past weeks had been consumed by preparations for the battle against the Phytians, securing the trade routes—and, admittedly, worrying about Geta. Any additional threat had seemed distant, insignificant. The reports that mentioned such threats appeared to be little more than rebellious murmurs.

Now, Lucius feared Marcus might be right. His concern for Geta had clouded his judgment, causing him to overlook a growing danger.

"In politics, especially in your position, there is no place for adolescent infatuations." Marcus concluded.

Lucius opened his mouth to defend himself, feeling like a child being scolded by his father. But Marcus raised a hand to silence him. "I know you’re not solely to blame. I should have intervened much sooner."

Lucius swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. "Who’s leading this group of the opposition?" He asked, feeling like he should already know the answer.

"We don’t know yet. Most likely someone from the previous Senate," Marcus said. "There doesn’t seem to be a clear motive, which makes it difficult to assess the threat."

Lucius nodded, deep in thought now. "When we return, I’ll ensure a thorough investigation is conducted."

Marcus didn’t respond, clearly still unconvinced. They rode in silence for the rest of the morning. Then Marcus spoke again.

"I have one last question."

Lucius looked up, pulled from his thoughts. "Yes?"

"You must promise to be honest with me."

Lucius nodded.

"To what extent do you trust Geta? How much do you share with him?"

Lucius paused. Physically and emotionally, he was starting to trust Geta with his life. Politically, however, he kept his distance. Perhaps it was the delicate nature of their positions and the way they obtained them, or his doubts about Geta’s political judgment.

"He can be trusted. But I don’t share political matters with him."

"And he doesn’t mind?"

"No."

That was a lie. Geta did mind—especially the lack of freedom in his current position. He hated being treated like a puppet.

"Don’t you think it’s a bit naive to assume that he does not care much, considering he was an emperor of Rome less than half a year ago?"

Lucius sighed, not liking the condescending tone of his advisor. "He does mind. But it’s not what you think. He cares more about his autonomy than power."

Marcus gave him a long, searching look, clearly unconvinced. Lucius, growing frustrated and tired, asked, "Can we drop this for now and focus on the battle ahead?"

Marcus gave a curt nod. "Alright."

They camped that night in Silvanus, a small town nestled beside a dense forest. Soldiers and townsfolk mingled, sharing stories of Phytian raids and the hardships they had endured.

Lucius’s mind remained distracted.

Over the next three weeks, Lucius and Mantius led their troops through a grueling series of campaigns, steadily driving the Phytian forces out of the region. Marcus stayed behind most of the time but joined the strategic meetings every night, helping plan their next moves.

At night, Lucius often lay awake, thinking about Marcus's words—and about home. He missed the comfort of his bed, the luxury of good food, but mostly, he missed Geta’s scent and wakeful pressence. He thought about the softness of Geta’s lips, using those thoughts to smooth away the horrors of battle he’d witnessed that day.

The victories came at a cost—supply lines were stretched thin, and the soldiers endured harsh conditions and relentless skirmishes. But Roman discipline and strategy ultimately prevailed. The Phytians were decisively defeated, their forces scattered. The trade routes were secured, though the cost of victory weighed heavily on the army. It was time to return home and rest.

----

When Lucius finally returned and entered the main hall he noted delighted Geta looked much better. His cheeks were rosy, his skin regained a healthy glow, and the gauntness had almost entirely vanished. He wore a spring-green tunic that dipped low, revealing the top of his midriff still wrapped in white cloth. His movements were more agile now, fluid—closer to the grace he once possessed.

As soon as he saw Lucius, he immediately dropped his breakfast and rushed to him, flinging his arms around his neck.

He pressed his lips to Lucius’s cheek, then dropped his face against his shoulder. "I missed you," he murmured into the fabric.

"I missed you too." Lucius replied, lips against his hair. He was aware of the people around them, not having forgotten the words of Marcus at the start of their journey. Any displays of affection should be limited from now on.

After a long moment he broke the embrace and held Geta by his shoulders.

"You look good," Lucius said, then grinned. "But you definitely need a haircut."

Geta grinned back. "I know." Then his expression faltered as he stared at the bruise on Lucius’s forehead, mostly hidden by his hair.

"You’re hurt," Geta said, concern evident in his voice.

Lucius reached up and gently touched the bruise. "It’s nothing."

Geta pushed his curls back to get a better look at it and shook his head. Then his eyes scanned the entirety of Lucius's body. "And the rest? All intact?"

Lucius smiled. "No broken bones, just some scratches and bruises."

Geta narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced. Lucius couldn’t help but laugh. He wasn’t used to seeing Geta fret over him. Lucius's absence must have weighed heavily on his mind.

"I’ll see Ravi now. Join me before dinner for the preparations?" Lucius asked.

Geta nodded. "I had some new outfits made for the both of us."

"Made friends with the seamstress, I see?" Lucius said, though not surprised. Geta had always had a knack for surrounding himself with beauty.

"Of course. It’s the most valuable of friendships to make at court." Geta replied, smoothing a hand over the lush fabric of his gown.

After being stitched up by Ravi and cleaned in the bathhouse, Lucius made his way to his private quarters.

Geta was standing in front of the bed, a few gowns spread out on the linen. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and when he turned around, Lucius’s gaze immediately fixed on the scars. They were dark pink but didn’t look bad at all.

Lucius approached him. "They’re healing well," he said.

Geta nodded. "Pius says it’s quite remarkable how well my body is responding so far."

The words melted Lucius’s simmering worry, and he felt instantly lighter. "I’m glad to hear it," he said softly and reached out to trace the skin around the scars with his thumb. Geta’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Lucius’s eyes drifted to the gowns displayed on the bed. "So, do tell me, what did you have in mind for tonight?"

Geta pointed. "Gold and white embroidery on ocean blue. It’ll match your eyes."

"And you?"

"The same."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. Geta looked up at him. "It will match with you. That’s enough."

Lucius knew this was the moment to protest, to suggest something practical and unremarkable. But when he looked into Geta’s eyes, the warmth pouring out, he could only nod. He licked his bottom lip. "It’s beautiful."

When they were both dressed—with the help of two servants—Geta sat down on the bed.

"Come here," he said.

Lucius frowned and slowly walked over to the bed.

"Come lie here, lay your head in my lap," Geta ordered gently.

Lucius removed his sandals and climbed onto the bed, then lowered his head onto Geta’s thighs. He sighed deeply. Suddenly, he felt impossibly tired. The ride home had been long, and the emotional weight of the past month—the battles, the mind-games, the stress—came crashing down, pulling him into the bed. He closed his eyes.

Geta’s fingers skimmed over his features, almost as if mapping them. He brushed the pad of his index finger lightly over the bridge of Lucius’s nose, then under his closed eyes, skimming his eyelashes. Finally, he reached Lucius’s mouth. Geta dragged his finger over the seam of his lips, which parted slightly on their own.

"Open wider," Geta demanded.

Lucius briefly complied, allowing Geta’s ring finger to slip inside, making contact with the wetness of his tongue.

Heat pooled in his stomach, but Lucius gently shook his head, his eyes fluttering open. "Not now," he said, his voice thick with desire. "We’re already late."

Geta frowned, clearly disappointed, but he nodded. "Okay, let’s go."

----

The celebrations were lavish, a reflection of the victory that had secured the region. The hall was a blend of gold and rich jewel tones, with candlelight flickering across the marble floors.

The food was plentiful, a feast of roasted meats, fresh fruits, honeyed cakes, and wine that flowed freely from golden goblets. Laughter and conversation filled the air as the nobles and soldiers mingled, exchanging stories and toasts.

Lucius and Geta, both wearing their matching gold and blue garments, stood out amongst the crowd. Geta’s gaze never strayed far from Lucius, his movements synchronized with his every step. It was as if they were tethered together, a quiet understanding passing between them.

"Let’s go outside," Lucius whispered when he noticed the sun beginning to set.

Geta looked up at him, searching his eyes. Lucius kept his gaze on the crowd.

"Wait five minutes, then meet me in the garden by the sculptures," Lucius said.

Geta nodded quickly.

Lucius made his way through the people, politely declining invitations to converse. He exited the hall and entered the garden, the cool June air tinged with the scent of cypress and myrtle. He breathed in deeply as he made his way toward the statues of Venus and Diana, where the last light of the day cast everything in soft hues of honey, yellow, and gold.

It didn’t take long for Geta to appear, slightly out of breath. Though his health was improving, he still wasn’t fully recovered. When he reached Lucius, Lucius immediately took his arm and pulled him into his embrace. He groaned softly, the sensation of having him close feeling more right than anything - anything. His hand slid from Geta’s back up into his hair, pulling his head back to expose the column of his throat. Geta’s eyes closed.

Lucius leaned in, his tongue following a path from his collarbone all the way up to Geta’s jaw, making him moan softly. Geta’s body turned heavier in his arms, weight dropping backward, and Lucius held him tighter. He found Geta’s open mouth and kissed him deeply, exploring with his tongue, swallowing his gasp. Geta pulled back, not to breathe, but to flick Lucius's upper lip with his tongue before sinking his teeth into Lucius’s lower lip. Lucius groaned, letting him continue, his hands slipping under Geta’s fabric, tracing his spine up to his shoulder blades. He arched into him, wanting him closer, skin to skin, the desire nearly overwhelming.

Just as Lucius was about to drop to his knees, voices from behind the cypresses broke his focus.

He straightened instinctively, pulling Geta against his chest, and stepped behind the statues into the dense greenery. They waited there, the air thick with the sound of their breaths. Geta’s heart pounded against Lucius’s chest, his cheek pressed into Lucius’s.

When the voices grew quieter, Lucius loosened his grip and looked at Geta, whose cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and hazy. He licked his lips.

"Let’s go inside before anyone notices we’re gone," Lucius said with a sigh.

---

Lucius let Geta enter the room first while he lingered in the halls, avoiding suspicion. But when he joined the crowd and walked over to their table, Geta was nowhere to be found. Lucius scanned the room, then decided it best to sit down. Minutes passed, then half an hour, but Geta didn’t show up.

Lucius grew concerned. He got up and checked the other tables before moving toward the halls on the east wing. But Geta was not there either.

As the party-goers began to leave, Lucius couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Ravi hadn’t seen him. Neither had Pius. Even Marcus didn’t know where he had gone.

"Just get some sleep, Lucius," Pius reassured him. "He’ll undoubtedly turn up in the morning."

But Lucius couldn’t sleep. He wandered back to the garden, unable to understand where Geta could have gone in the few minutes between their departure and his return to the room. The garden was dark and empty.

Frustrated, Lucius went to his private chambers and sat on the bed, going over every possible explanation in his mind. He sank into his pillows, exhaustion creeping over him, unaware that Geta was tiptoeing in moments later, careful not to wake him.

Please let me know what you think and if you have any requests! Love to hear your voices. <3

Next part: part 9

Taglist: @potato1d-blog1, @joan2914

[randomshyperson]

What They Will Say About Us - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: A love from the past returns, and Wanda gets a second chance to make it right. But some decisions are easier in their concepts than in reality.

Warnings: milf!Wanda angst hours, implied internalized homophobia, hidden making out, attempts to Judaism references, and mentions of past relationships. | Words: 1.727k

A/N-> I blame the movie Disobedience and the song of the title name (by FINNEAS) for this one.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

--//--

It was such a risky idea, honestly.

Wanda had no reason to be in the Synagogue this afternoon, other than her personal motivations of course, which came down to an old friend in town. 

The black sheep returns, she heard, from a good dozen people. It made her stomach turn. Wanda wishes she could have summoned the same courage as you, years before, and left everything behind. Fought her own father like you did and had the minimum of happiness like she imagines you found in New York.

Or at least, Wanda likes to believe so. When she thinks of your adolescents, stolen moments here and there, and how you left without hesitation, she must believe that what was out there was better. It made you happier, at least.

The Synagogue was crowded and it was too risky to look around that much. Wanda felt watched from all sides - whether it was Pietro and Crystal, or Erik and Natalya, she had the impression that all eyes were on her. As if everyone knew how much she wanted to stare at you.

Your presence there was noticed very easily and commented on by everyone. The choice of black clothes, the outrageous jeans for the traditional community, every strand of rebelliously messy hair. 

Everyone looked at you as if you were a crime against everything the faith stood for, but Wanda looked at you as if you were a masterpiece.

The small sarcastic smile as you mumbled Hebrew as you entered, the almost non-existent nod before ignoring your sister's simple request to take the seat next to her and avoid any commotion, your determined steps to the small group standing around having a conversation.

Every inch diminished between you two made Wanda's heart skip a beat.

"Shalom Adonai." You greeted, interrupting whatever conversation was going on between Wanda's family. She tried to disguise how much she was begging for your attention, but you caught every stolen glance, the smile at the corner of her lips getting harder to hide and bringing a warmth underneath her own dress. 

You were embraced by Natalya, tenderly, around the neck. She had always liked you, Wanda remembered. 

"Shalom Adonai, Y/N. It's so good to see you home, child." Said the woman so warmly that you almost felt bad for the lack of manners you were about to present.

"Yes, yes, it is good to be back. Would you guys mind if I talked to Wanda for a second?"

She knew she was blushing, and that it only made her father's disgusted expression worse. But something about the punk-rock attitude made them assume that you might cause a scene if you were denied, and Erik just nodded in agreement. 

You offered Wanda a smile, invading her personal space only to go around her, grabbing her hand in the process. 

She followed you through the halls to an empty room, as she would have followed you to New York if you repeated the invitation.

"Why are you being so shy and quiet?” Your question came on the way, hand in hand with her, when you turned your head for a moment. A tease followed before Wanda could answer. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

She chuckled through her nose, indignant at something so absurd. She had been happy to the point of barely sleeping properly for the past few days since the news that you were in town reached her house, and she longed for a visit that never happened. It was foolish to think that you would come to their parent's home, not when you were revisiting family after so long. But at least in the Synagogue, Wanda found you. Or the other way around.

You stopped walking in a dimly lit room, at the exit of a staircase that no one would pass after the meeting had begun. It was a cramped space that the younger ones used to hide from chores, that you, Wanda, and Pietro had used many times as teenagers.

You challenged her then. You loosened her hand to rummage in your pockets and took out a lighter and a different cigarette, wrapped in silk. It was only to elicit a reaction from the woman in front of you, who widened her eyes as if you were the devil itself and grabbed your hands.

"You can't-"

"I'm just messing with you, Princess." You retorted with an easy smile, shoving the items back into your pocket, and to the end of the other's sanity, your hands moved to hers again before Wanda could pull away completely. "You haven't changed a bit."

Her shaky breath tickled your cheek. 

"You did." She murmurs affectedly, looking at everything but your face, and mostly at your hands together. Your fingers playing with hers. "You cut your hair, and your clothes...it suits you."

You hum distractedly, Wanda has no idea it's because of her perfume. So many years, and she messes with you the same way. Licking your lips, you try to bring clarity to your own thoughts.

"I heard you were getting married." You state then, and Wanda has to look at you, frowning.

"What? How-? I-I-"

You chuckle, taking in every trace of the face you missed so much. "Your mother invited me to the engagement feast." You explain casually. "I dismissed an event, so imagine my surprise when I heard you dumped the guy's ass..."

Wanda bit back a smile, she shouldn't laugh at this. At the shame she had put her family through; the most rebellious act of her entire life, dismissing a rich, Jewish, and proper fiancé. Chosen by god and her parents.

"Sorry for the inconvenience in your schedule." She returns, teasing, her eyes sparkling the way they only get around you.

You smile, interlacing your fingers together and bringing an immediate wave of nervousness to the woman in front of you. The gentle tug lessened the distance.

"I just got through packing up and ran over here." You murmur then, a very sincere and vulnerable look in your eyes suddenly.

Wanda swallows dryly, her heart hammering. "Oh, really?"

Your smile didn't falter, but your eyes did. "Do you remember... what I told you when I left?"

Wanda could hear her heart in her ears. She nodded, and you moved her hands to your waist. She gasped, overwhelmed with the longing for you, with the love she had kept for so many years. Her burning face was hidden in your collarbone, and you chuckled, equally affected, you slipped your arms around her to reassure her.

"I said I'd come back at any second if there was a risk of losing you to anyone, Wands." You whispered against her, even as she confirmed that she remembered. "And here I am. I hope not too late."

She shook her head frantically, drawing another laugh. You were tormenting her after all, how audacious. Wanda grimaced, and brushed her lips against your neck first, enjoying the flinch, before sinking her teeth in your skin.

You whimpered, low against her ear. Wanda licked the bite and sucked until she had a mark and you were soft against her, melting.

"Wanda." You called out, and she pulled away in the same second, only to firm her mouth on yours. 

It was exactly as she remembered it, but even better. You tasted like peppermint candy and coffee, and it was too delicious for Wanda not to squeeze your sides and push you against the wall. 

Your tongue slid into hers until her head spun and her knees buckled. The sermon began downstairs, and the music drowned out any gasping sounds that escaped her lips.

Wanda took advantage of it.

You were out of breath when you let go, and your hair seemed wilder than before. Your hands were dangerously beneath her blouse, gripping her waist directly by the skin. The strong squeeze would be enough to mark, and Wanda would have to be careful about changing clothes at home.

"Run away with me." You gasped suddenly, and Wanda stopped breathing. 

She had a flashback, so many years before, where you were much younger and much more insecure, and she was terrified. And you asked the same question and began to cry as Wanda shook her head in the negative. 

"Detka..." She started uncertainly, not with the same fears as years ago, but with the same cowardice. 

You had changed more than she had, and your eyes were as firm as your tone.

"I have an apartment and a job." You reasoned, your hands releasing her waist to hold her face. "All the stability and security I couldn't give you at 17, I have it now. I got it all so I could be with you, princess. Run away with me, Wanda. Please."

Her eyes burned. "My family would hate me." And you knew it was true, yet you still loved Wanda the same way you did when you were seventeen.

"I would be your family." You assure her, caressing her cheeks tenderly. "And we...we could make a family of our own, too."

Wanda sobbed softly, returning to her original position, her face hidden in your collarbone. You almost began to cry too, but you busied yourself with holding her, smoothing her hair until you had her definitive answer.

"It's a beautiful dream, detka." She whispers against your skin, her arms tightening around you. "The best one there is."

You kissed the top of her head. "Let me make it come true, Wands."

She sobs, and the music there and low ends. Wanda needs to stop crying before someone comes to check, so she does so quickly, wiping away the tears and almost hiding them from you. 

"Reality would tear us apart." She declares, but you deny it with a nod, offering her a sad smile before moving closer to kiss her forehead. Wanda almost tugs you away, but like years ago, she flinches.

You sigh and face her in the eyes. "I wish you would dare to love me as I love you, Wanda."

Her gaze begs for sympathy, but you can't give it to her now. You turn your back on her and leave her alone on the staircase, and it's as if Wanda can hear the memories echoing in that space.

Maybe one day, she will find the courage to follow you.

[librarycards]

The term “social transition” has a non-trans history in the psychology of adolescence. In the 1980s, it was an operative metaphor for describing adolescence through the American trope of a rocky period of self-making, what one psychologist in 1978 termed “the difficulty of adolescence as a transitional period.” The primary “transition” that concerned psychologists at the time was school, where social shifts in friend groups and hierarchies from middle school to high school affected a young person’s self-esteem and mental integrity, resulting either in positive self-actualization or, if the social transition went poorly, “problem behavior.”³

The term “social transition” was only later adopted by psychologists and psychiatrists looking to powerfully expand their jurisdiction over trans youth to include entirely non-medical practices that often spur parents to reject or harm their kids: wearing a dress, cutting or growing out hair, wearing a binder or a bra, wearing makeup, or adopting a new name and pronouns. Making those banal but concrete practices of changing gender into psychiatric events was intended to convince anxious and angry parents that they shouldn’t put down their children. By the same token, tying practices of clothing and self-description to healthy development overinflated them with a pathological degree of significance, upping the ante and creating a lucrative target, both for parents of trans youth who wanted to stop their children from transitioning and, now, politicians.

I don’t mean to imply that psychiatry directly caused HB 2885, just that it clearly holds one part of the blame for inventing the root vulnerability that Gragg has taken advantage of in Missouri. If anything, the attachment of sex offender felonies to a teacher complimenting a teenager’s haircut exposes, once and for all, how fraudulent the medicalization of transition has been all along. Gragg can claim the right of the state to control children’s dress and speech (masquerading as the rights of parents) through teachers and counselors, in part, because psychiatry and medicine first claimed the right to regulate trans youth’s practices of transition.

Still, the causal events that led to HB 2885 run far deeper than the shallow history of “social transition” as an especially foolish psychiatric fiction. Here lies the far bigger problem raised by this bill. Not only will psychiatrists prove to be the least effective political allies of trans youth in Missouri, but contemporary queer and transgender culture’s elevation of the private right to dress as the sine qua non of politics is also quite useless as a political strategy.

Part of what I gather stuns in bills like HB 2885 is their audacity. The law would target the most conservative, least politically subversive of all transgender practices: individual style, identification, and language-use. In the case of minors, “social transition” is also a cheap compromise offered to young people who are refused blockers and hormones by disapproving parents and doctors, but that compromise is offered in a broader queer and transgender culture that has elevated self-identification through style as the ultimate arbiter of being transgender, making it much harder to advocate for a genuine right to transition for anyone, teenager or adult.

[...]

Students have very limited First Amendment rights on school campuses, meaning that they cannot present themselves as private individuals enjoying the right to dress as they please.⁷Their self-expression is governed from the outset by a competing set of custodians, from parents to schoolteachers, to psychiatrists and doctors, to the Missouri House of Representatives. Trans youth’s interests are therefore materially extraneous to the mainline of contemporary queer and transgender culture, whose architects were wealthy, college-educated adults whose prior enjoyment of full-citizenship was the very reason they demanded only the affirmation of a right to dress.

I suspect that part of the genuine shock of bills like HB 2885 is that most people reasoned that LGBT liberalism’s elevation of the private individual over all other political concerns would inoculate dress and language from state interference. It evidently has not. What perhaps has been misunderstood, then, is how the state exercises power. The law cannot prohibit being transgender, for there is no such state of being. The state has no need to target people’s interior selves, either, for the law can seize people where it always has, in concrete social practices that it simply declares are the undesirable traits of transgender people—namely, practices of transition.

Jules Gill-Peterson, The Unimportance of Wearing Clothes. [emphasis added]

[pavitrsgf]

“Say you’ll stay, never be severed”

➤ pairing: pavitr prabhakar x reader

➤ warnings: fem reader sorry ;(, my grammar isn’t the greatest + not proofread lol, no use of y/n. there are some marathi words also translations may not be right: bhau is like bro, shonu means like pure gold/god gift, mūrkha means foolish/stupid, sakhya means companion

➤ synopsis: word vomit about a fluff friends2lovers w pavitr, he also tells you about being spiderman

➤ w.c: 3,159

Your page filled with meaningless doodles as the teacher droned on in front of you, your mind not entirely focused on the present. Seated beside you was your best friend since before you could even remember, Pavitr Prabhakar.

You’d known him for so long, you don’t think you remember a single memory where he wasn’t with you. Whether it be him physically there or his voice, he’s there. Like when your first (serious) heartbreak happened during your pre-adolescence time, you had called him over immediately and he was there to comfort you. He had dropped everything to help you, his soft whispers in your ear that you “deserved better than him”, calling him many colourful words in a (successful) attempt to make you laugh. Your reminiscing session comes to a short end as you hear Pavitr’s bored tapping on the desk, his eyes nothing short of unamused as the teacher says words that go through one ear and out the other.

His tapping creates a nice rhythm that soon becomes a little too repetitive to you, so your solution is to grab and hold his hand gently to stop it. His hand feels warm against yours, his palm slightly rough from working hard. You play with his hand, moving it around, preferring to observe him than listen to whatever your teacher says. Your fingers travel along his hand, tracing his knuckles and playing around with them, comparing hands and accidentally cracking a few of his knuckles by your roughness. His giggles when you do make you smile, he tries to keep it down, but the smile is evident on his face as he copies down notes. He looks unbothered, but comfortable with your presence.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, he was trying so, so hard to not confess to you right then and there.

Pavitr was naturally perceptive, he was very good at reading people and observed them easily. Yet, he couldn’t tell if you liked him. Sometimes, you would do all these things that couples do like sitting on his lap, intertwining your hand with his, walking so close that your shoulders brush his with each step, laughing so hard at an unfunny joke he made, making him believe that he might have a chance, but then you would switch up and call him something like “bhau” that makes him backtrack in all his theories that you may like him back. He prided himself on knowing you well, of being observant yet he couldn’t figure out your feelings for him. Either way, he felt flustered when you would initiate physical affection, like now. As he finished his notes with one free hand, he looked over to your figure that was focused entirely on his hand. It felt oddly intimate, considering the mundaneness of the action.

You looked so endearing, a few strands of hair fell forward into your eyes, he loved merely watching you and seeing your beauty. Your eyes that held your emotions, the bridge of your nose that he wanted to trace over and over—

His thoughts are disrupted as a bell signals the end of the day and your eyes snap forward as you realize how long you had zoned out, just holding his hand. You and Pavitr speed up to collect your belongings and get out of class as fast as possible.

As you walk out together, Pavitr’s mind isn’t truly with you. His thoughts focus solely on how close you are, your shoulders touch and your hands are tightly linked together. A small smile on his face as he accepts every small affection you give towards him and his memory fades to the first time he realized how in love with you he was.

It was winter, you and him bundled up in heavy and weighted blankets on his bed as you watched silly movies and laughed at them. You were focused on laughing at the bad CGI and unrealistic physics, smiling with teeth and making sure Pavitr was looking.

His arm was behind your neck, serving as a small pillow for you and your warmth radiated to him. It was as if winter didn’t exist and he let himself be lost in you. Your nose scrunches up at the inaccuracy in the movie as you remark something else that the director probably exaggerated, explaining how it wouldn’t work out in real life. He looks at your lips as they move and realize how much he just wants to kiss them.

“—so stupid. Like, how hard is it to search something up?” You exclaim, your hands moving as you talk. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and he thinks about how much he loves every part of you. Every single nook and cranny of yours, he wants to explore. He wants to know what you’re thinking right now as you’ve gone silent while still glaring at the screen in front of you. He wants to spend every second of his future by your side. He then realizes, that’s how he has felt his whole life. He’s wanted to be yours, to be the one to hold your heart and keep it safe, he wanted you to be his. Protect you and love you, that’s all he’s wanted to do since he had the ability to comprehend emotions. He has a dazed, but fading smile as he thinks of possible consequences for his feelings while you continue watching.

Your voice brings him back to reality and you’re alarmingly close to parting ways as your house is in view and he panics, he always seems to have a hard time separating from you. Though, it’s inevitable and he knows it.

“Bye, Pav.” Your voice sounds soft and your hands linger as if you don’t want to leave either and for a second, he lets himself believe you like him back. For merely a second.

He smiles back, and reluctantly begins to say his farewells when you continue speaking, “Do you wanna come in?” you have a hopeful smile and eyes filled with happiness and how could he ever refuse you?

You two walk by the kitchen, up your stairs and into your bedroom. You hadn’t actually planned on doing anything with Pavitr when you invited him in so you started on some of your homework, knowing you’d be content just knowing he was around you.

He gets comfortable on your bed beside you, scrolling on his phone instead as he usually preferred to finish his homework during class.

A few hours pass and you’d changed from doing homework to braiding your best friend’s hair as you two watch some indie film to pass the time together. Your hands repeat the motion of putting part over another, it’s almost therapeutic for the both of you.

Pavitr always loved when you braided or played with his hair, it was always calming to him and he was so, so close to sleep when his spidey senses went off, alerting him there was a threat in Mumbattan.

He tensed up, coming up with a quick lie to tell you, eventually ending up with, “Sorry, shonu, Maya Auntie needs me,” he holds up his phone and pretends to be shocked at the non-existent message.

You’re disappointed, you wanted to spend more time with him, but you know you can’t spend every second with him. “Tell her I said hi,” you smile and he smiles back, grabbing his things quickly before rushing down the stairs and to his house to get his suit.

Pavitr is positively panicking. After he had gone to his house, after he had left you, that villain wanna-be decided to try and defeat Spiderman instead of just focusing on his rather unsuccessful robbing. The random villain had terrible coordination, but forceful hits. He wasn’t winning by any means, no one could beat Spiderman, but Pavitr would probably gain a few nasty scratches and bruises from the fight. His webs shooting out and trying to capture him while also evading more swings at him.

As he stepped on the edge of a roof, the part he stood on had cracked and for a split-second, his spidey senses went off, but he couldn’t turn around in time and had gotten pushed into the wall, scratches littered across his body.

Feeling fed up with how much the fight had dragged on, he quickly captured the villain and once he knew the police were there and would take care of anything, he tried to swing back home. Unfortunately, his torso and arms then prevented him from doing so and he let out a small curse as he knew he was too far from his house to try walking there, every part of him hurt. His luscious hair was slightly dishevelled and heavily matted with blood and debris scattered everywhere. He looked around in the cold night, looking for somewhere he could rest for the night. His eyes moved around before catching sight of your house, he figured it wouldn’t be too weird going into your bedroom as Spiderman. He failed to remember how weird it would be to have a vigilante show up at your house, injured. Also that he hadn’t told you he was Spiderman yet.

You were laying in bed, ears filled with the quiet sound of your music in your room. A slight expression of despair was painted on your face, you’d texted Pavitr earlier in the day. He hadn’t responded and was leaving you on delivered for a few hours, leading you to think the worst. Your overthinking may have taken control, anything logical or reasonable was thrown out the window.

Speaking of which, a singular knock sounded at it. Your face twisted in confusion, who would knock at this time of night?

You checked your phone for any message indicating someone you might know was at your window and slowly creeped towards it. As you didn’t find any messages from your friends, you became suspicious until you looked at who was outside.

Spiderman. Spiderman was outside your goddamn bedroom window.

It took you a moment to process it was him, a million questions running through your brain like why was he there, what does he want from you, before you realized that it’d probably be a little rude to be leaving him in the cold, alone. You hastily unlocked the window and moved out the way to help him in.

As he clumsily climbed into your window, he looked around. Pavitr always loved being in your room, anything relating to you he enjoyed, really. He then remembered, in this moment, he wasn’t Pavitr to you. He was Spiderman. He looked at you awkwardly, trying to figure out what your shocked expression meant as well as what to say to justify being in your bedroom.

You stared right back at him, eyes wide and lips parted slightly in surprised. You didn’t know what to say, so you observed him instead which is when you saw the state of his hair, messy and blood tangled within. You had also noticed the rips in his torso and the dried blood and debris around it.

You and him spoke at the same time, “So,”

“I’m-” He was about to apologize, it felt rude not to do so.

You smiled awkwardly and were about to let him continue, since you know, he’s spiderman, but he insisted you go first. He seemed very respectful. “Do you, uh,” You started speaking, trying to figure out how to articulate the thoughts in your foggy brain. “Need help cleaning up?” you suggested.

Spiderman immediately began shaking his head, he already felt bad for imposing like this, he couldn’t ask for more of your kindness. He smiled and responded, “No thank you, sakhya,” You raise your brow at that, “it’ll heal in the morning.” He wasn’t wrong, but wasn’t entirely right. It’d probably heal, just not very well without proper care, but he supposed it wouldn’t be too bad.

You were stubborn, though. You couldn’t just let Spiderman bleed without doing anything, so you just shook your head and told him so, “I can’t let you just bleed and get an infection or whatever. That’s mūrkha,” He started to protest and you shushed him, immediately telling him to sit on your bed as you went to your bathroom to get some medical supplies.

Pavitr sat on the very edge of the bed. Although he’d been in your bed countless of times, in more comfortable situations, he felt weird about doing that as Spiderman. He again looked at your room like he’d never been in it before, looking at the photos of you and him strung up everywhere. Your room was decorated with the idea to make your personality shine though, he knew that was true especially because of that one deep talk on that random autumn night. He thought it was nice.

Soon, you came back with probably more medical care than he needed. Still, it never hurt to be overprepared with this kind of thing. You didn’t know where to start, his injuries seemed overwhelming and every single one seemed worse than the other.

You decided on doing the ones on his torso first, his mask was slightly ripped and although you wanted to badly fix the injuries on his face, fix his hair, he probably kept his identity a secret for a reason.

He leaned back as you started gently dabbing some vaseline on his torso, he flinched at the feeling. You felt oddly close to him in the moment, feeling familiar with him as if you had known him for years, though you’d never had an interaction with him before this. Merely watching news on him, admiring him.

You put some more ointment and then gauze on the more serious injuries, wrapping around his waist tightly which caused him to wince and you to whisper a small sorry, before you continued with helping him clean up. You grabbed some bandaids, seeing some small scratches on his arm and put some ointment on before sticking a bandaid on top. Gently patting it just to make sure it stayed, the real reason was you just wanted an excuse to touch him, it felt nice for an odd, unknown reason.

Once you were sure he had no other injuries on his body, you needed to treat the ones on his face. You were apprehensive, but spoke anyways, “Can you take off your mask?” At his bewildered expression, at least you think he’s shocked considering his eyes seemed to widen, you explain, “I need to treat your wounds,”

At that, Pavitr panics. He hates lying to you, but he isn’t sure he can reveal his identity to you. He thinks of ways to excuse it, but he knows you’re stubborn more than anything. Everything seems to slow down in the moment, time feels like it stops and it feels like an impossible ten years as he reaches up and takes his time pulling off his mask. He prepares himself for the words you might spew at him, would you still see him the same? Doubts overshadow the logical and reasonable part of his brain that tells him that you probably wouldn’t hate him for eternity.

When his mask is fully off, you take a moment to look at him. You cannot comprehend the sight infront of you.

Pavitr Prabhakar is Spiderman.

Your best friend is Spiderman, the masked vigilante that roams around your city. Pavitr, the guy you’d known since you could remember, the one you call when you need comfort, is Spiderman. There are so many things going through your brain, like remembering that one time Pavitr showed up to school with a bad bruise on his face, coincidentally the morning after Spiderman had gotten hit in the same spot with a pole, realizing that the reason he would abruptly leave when you two were hanging out were because a villain was on the loose. You cannot believe you knew Spiderman all along.

He stares at your expression, unable to really make something of it. He knows you’re shocked, but are you mad? Are you disappointed in him? Do you hate him? He suddenly feels the need to apologize for everything wrong he’s ever done.

Your mouth opens and closes, trying to figure out what to say to something like this. You still love him of course, but you feel so scared that the guy you’re in love with has life threatening fights nearly everyday, risking so much for Mumbattan. Your breath seems to disappear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He says your special nickname he made for you when you were younger and innocent children. He jumbles words, seemingly saying whatever comes to mind and his mouth won’t work as fast as his brain. He seems close to tears as he continues rambling, “—please, don’t leave me, I’ll—” he gets interrupted by you,

“Woah, what? Is that what you really thought would happen?” You feel a little hurt by that, even though you know subconsciously he was probably just so very scared of losing you, you’d never think of him like that. There was nothing that could make you leave him.

He starts fidgeting, “Well..” he trails off. He hopes you know he didn’t mean harm, he just wasn’t sure. Being Spiderman was complicated.

You smile a bittersweet smile at him, still sort of sad he would think of something like that, “We've been by each other's sides for years, you really think I'm gonna leave now?” You remind him of all the weak moments in his life, in yours and remembers that you’re there in all of them. Comforting him and him comforting you. You gently cradle his face and he feels so warm and you make him feel so safe that he can’t help it when he says,

“I love you,” He doesn’t realize what he said until he sees your expression, he thinks for that slight second that he just made it weird again, that you really won’t let this one slide, until he feels your soft lips against his. A soft kiss and he feels nice. It feels like you’re taking care of him and he relaxes in your touch.

When you pull away, he chases your lips and you giggle. You press your foreheads together and whisper, like you’re sharing a secret, like it’s only you and him in the world right now, “I love you too,” and he plays with your hair as he leans in for another kiss and another.

The kisses shared between you two are full of gentleness and giggles, you go to touch his hair and you then remember the reason he even came to you in the first place.

“Go clean up, your hair is a mess and I still need to fix your wounds.” He chuckles and does what you say. For the first time since he became Spiderman, he feels so relaxed.

[themagicbrew]

Everyone meet Cameo the Defect!

(minor warning! gross alien drawing in the bio) (also super sorry about like- any shitty grammar or spelling mistakes. I'm very sleep deprived)

Chosen Name: Cameo ('Deadname' Defect)

Age: Uknown

Gender: Male

sexuality: Homosexual

Current occupation: Founder of the hidden city, Head of "the council", inventor, (formerly) kraang rebel

personality summary: Cameo is an eccentric but self-centred kraang. What he lacks in raw strength, he makes up for in sheer intelligence. He has the most innovative but dangerous mind amongst all the kraang. He is known to be highly manipulative, often nudging others in the wrong direction- for his own selfish gain. He's petty, vain, cruel, the list could go on.

Pre-rebellion

The kraang reproduce through various methods, making them a highly invasive species once fully settled onto a planet. The Biomass that often clings to and terraforms its surrounding environment- is capable of forming "egg sacks", if given the right conditions.

This is a common form of asexual reproduction (aside from thee brood mother) that the kraang practice.

When a baby krang bursts from its sack- the newborn's flesh remains tender & pale, before eventually shifting (x).

However, when Cameo emerged, his flesh- never matured, even as he grew.

During a kraang's "rookie stage" (their races equivalent to adolescence years) They will experience many physical & behavioural changes, but one specific change the kraang look out for, is their "mutations".

the "mutations" are essentially a kraang's special abilities.

to shifting parts of their anatomy or creating a biomass- these abilities are a signal towards higher ranking kraang that their young is ready for more intensive training. if a rookie shows no signs of mutating, they will be killed off.

Cameo was lucky to avoid this brutal fate despite his defects.

Even back then, he was beyond intelligent and took an interest in forging weaponry. Somehow, this talent of his- saved him from certain death. Yet it didn't save him from the kraangs cruelty. The risk of death still loomed over him.

Throughout his entire life, Cameo would be abused- even after proving that he was useful, he would still be subjected to an onslaught of neverending abuse.

His method of survival was manipulation. If Cameo couldn't fight his way out of a situation like most kraang did, then Cameo would 'talk' his way out of it.

needless to say, Cameo grew to hate his fellow kraang. he had no sense of comradery and wouldn't hesitate to backstab them. There was only one person he could look out for.... himself.

Cameo is genuinely confident in his skills. no amount of abuse could ever change the defects mind- he was the best.

Portals, technodromes, Battle mechs, weaponry, etc

his inventions- his work- would be used in conquest. Cameo had been playing a major part in the empire for centuries. However, the kraang were foolish and could not see it- to them, Cameo was just a disposable defect first and an amazing inventor second.

Utrom's betrayal/rebellion

Cameo knew Utrom back in his rookie days. He was cruel and callous but had a strong sense of comradery, just like any other kraang he knew. Utrom however, was his main tormentor during his early days.

so Cameo was genuinely surprised to hear word of his betrayal. The defect never thought Utrom had it in him. Treachery was something unheard of within their empire.

In Typical Cameo fashion, he saw Utrom's betrayal as a window of opportunity. Thus, aided the traitor with his rebellion (coming in with an agenda of his own)

Cameo is the true creator of the Key.

He had 'helped' The mystic warriors & Utrom conjure up the plan if they were to lose the battle- however little did they know, Cameo had plans on using the Key regardless of the outcome. Cameo always had a knack for pulling strings... planting idea's into people's heads..

Cameo KNEW that the battle would be one-sided, even with his aid. He designed the key in a very special way that would allow the defect to mull over his options, preparing himself for nearly any outcome.

He hated the kraang but he knew- more than any other being in the galaxy, how they think and how they function. he knew that when the key was unleashed, that the sealed kraang would tear each other apart- desperate to snuff out any other rebels sealed alongside them.

What Cameo didn't consider, were the few remaining rebels lucky enough to avoid getting sealed away. Utrom- being one of them. (much to Cameo's disdain)

This didn't deter him. He knew how to roll with the punches. To cameo, it was simply the start of a new chapter.

post rebellion

Cameo adjusted to life on earth easier than any other kraang rebel. Humans were far easier to manipulate. He had power over them and it felt great.

He took pleasure in sparking discourse amongst them, even causing full-on wars. All he had to do- was to give them a simple nudge. perhaps gifting them kraang armour, or something "mystical", whatever it may be but something was missing

The Kraang rebels had indirectly affected Earth in many ways- some more drastic than others. Cameo would spend his time studying these changes. Sometimes intentionally playing a part in it. The planet itself already had strange properties- but when exposed to empyrean- only seemed to amplify the planet's properties.

now "empyrean", is the essences of kraang. their tech and bodies have empyrean within it. It is what they used to terraform planets to their liking.

If a creature is exposed to pure empyrean the results are unpredictable. This was how the Yokai emerged. To Cameo- the yokai were guideless creatures with no sense of direction, hiding away in fear of people. what He saw, was an opportunity.

Cameo offered the yokai a safe haven, A place hidden from humanity where they can 'truly' express themselves as long they stuck to his rules. for the next couple of centuries, he'd retain control over the yokai- creating a false identity called "the council of heads", allowing the people of the hidden city to live a lie.

present day

Cameo had been around for centuries and had met plenty of yokai like Baron. they were always a means to an end, a minor misstep along the way but for a brief moment, Cameo underestimated his opponent- eventually leading to the mass mutant that plagued NYC.

what he didn't suspect, were the turtles. ever since those ragtag teenagers accidentally unleashed Baron's Oozesquitoes to NYC, Cameo had been watching them from the shadows. He studied them and their ties to Baron, finding their misadventures quite amusing.

Along the way, He eventually hired Hugin & Munin due to their previous ties to Baron (also because he couldn't resist how pathetic they were). Now- Cameo debates on making his move. if the turtles can handle a kraang invasion, who knows what else they could handle. The defect is excited to find out.

Triva

Current voice claim is Jacob Tobia (their role as Double trouble)

Cameo's defects affect him in many ways. Back in the empire, he would wear special gear to protect himself both in and out of his mech suit but nowadays?? he has a special skincare routine to keep himself protected

Cameo still continues to make Kraang weaponry. it's his way of passing the time and relaxing. He prefers doing it when cloaked however since thumbs can come in handy

He dotes on Hugin and Munin, spoiling them like two purse dogs- in return, the Duo follow his very command.

Cameo and Big Mama are good friends :) sometimes he'll call himself 'Lil' Papa' as an inside joke. they both openly joke/talk about backstabbing each other and wouldn't hold it against them if they did. Their friendship is unique to say the least

Baron does not know that Cameo is "the council of heads" nor does the general public know. Think of it as the Wizard of Oz situation.

He is also the inventor of cloaking brooches but- many yokai have taken it and improved upon his invention across the centuries.

While Cameo prefers to cloak, he isn't ashamed of his true form- and will even uncloak post-Rottmnt-movie. He is often mistaken for a yokai rather than a kraang.

[galexibrain]

We don't forget so easily

"Old man. I need to know something."

"What?"

"Given that I slaughtered all those Namekians years ago, how do you feel about me?"

"... You speak of the attack on Elder Tsuno, right? We do not forget these things so easily."

"So you hold a grudge then?"

"Grudges and hatred can only bring about further conflict. The Namekian people are not so foolish as to indulge in such things."

"I see."

(Dragon Ball Super, chapter 47 "Stolen Dragon Balls", Moro Saga)

~ Several months later ~

"What did you call me here for, Dende?"

"I have a message from New Namek for you. Grand Elder Moori has asked me to deliver it."

Vegeta frowns. From the old man? "What's he saying?"

When he speaks with his eyes closed, he sounds less like the adolescent he still is and more like the old Namekian, as if he's actually channelling the other's voice telepathically.

"We will not forget this easily either."

He opens his eyes again, and now his voice is back to normal. "He says you will know what this means."

Vegeta listens and, as the words sink in, meeting with memories both months and over a decade old, he closes his eyes to try and make sense of what he feels.

He nods and turns away to the edge of the Sanctuary, ready to depart again. He has no further business here.

Before he flies off, he turns back one more time. "Tell him ... neither will I." Moori will know.

"Vegeta!" Dende calls when he's already about to lift off. "I ... I've forgiven you. And thank you for helping my people."

He freezes for a second, but this time he doesn't turn back again, departing in a flash of ki and shooting down and away from the Sanctuary, as fast as he can.

[starryknight-dragonarts]

I was thinking more about the potential future of Kaida and Morgan with Children. Kaida would have her genetic clone daughter Kyden but I imagine they certainly wouldn't stop there and would still also want to adopt as well; Kaida was an Orphan once herself and doesn't want any kids to feel unwanted so they would end up having a very big family! I figured since Kaida has her Salandit daughter, why not make the rest of them Eeveelutions like Morgan and each of them get a name after a Trickster god or hero from different cultures.

This is Coyote named after the trickster spirit of Native American Myths and Folklore. I specifically based the design of her outfit off of the Aztec version: Huēhuehcoyōtl, the Aztec god of the arts, lord of music, ceremonial dance, storytelling, guide of adulthood and adolescence, and deception. I really like Aztec culture.

The Coyote character in various Native american myths is not all that different from Wile E. Coyote from the Looney Tunes. He is a comical trickster who is sometimes a hero, sometimes a wiseman with creative divine power, and sometimes a total fool who gets duped and suffers some karmic punishment. The Coyote character is found all across the North American Continent and in different tribes as a sort of common archetypal character so there are lots of different stories about them. One I remember was a story that explained the changes of seasons form the pacific northwest region. A council of animals got together to decide how the temperature should be. The Lizards and Snakes wanted it to be Hot all the time, the Bears wanted it to be Cold all the time. Coyote who wasn't invited jumped into the argument to say "HEY IDIOTS! What if you split the year between being Hot and Cold!" Which they agreed was a good idea, but they all hated that it came from Coyote.

Coyote is a trouble and mischief maker, she likes to mess with people playing the fool but she thinks outside of the box, she is creative, fun loving and takes pride in her brilliance, though thinking she knows better also actually makes her foolish sometimes.

[golvio]

Possibly controversial opinion here, but I don't think you can properly stan Pearl if you completely villainize Rose. You can't just totally write off the foundational relationship of Pearl's life (for better or worse) as Pearl not knowing what's good for her due to a total lack of self-respect.

Not to mention said relationship was just as foundational to Rose's life, as the first "real," serious, grown-up, autonomous relationship she'd ever been in as "herself." Yes, she did totally beef said relationship in numerous self-sabotaging ways, but that, too, is part of being in a grown-up relationship, even if Rose was not psychologically equipped to handle the damage her decisions could cause in a grown-up way.

Like...there was a reason why it was Rose, of all people, that Pearl fell in love with. But there was also a reason why it was Pearl, out of all the Pearls in the universe, even her first crush and lost love, that Rose decided to upend her whole life to be with. Rose was foolish and selfish and she genuinely loved Pearl, even if she ultimately made very adolescent mistakes in handling that love, as inexperienced and traumatized teenagers still learning how to function in the adult world sometimes do in their first serious romantic relationships, particularly when embroiled in a bloody revolution or rejecting their hereditary title.

[chameleonspell]

HTDC commentary - 3: breathe

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 3: breathe

In this bit, I get explicit about some of the stuff implied by Ire's behaviour, last chapter. Which I have mixed feelings about now, because it reads very blunt and tell-not-show and whatever, but... oh, well. At other times I'm maybe not obvious enough with character's internal processes, and the reader should at least understand the terms Ire uses for his own issues. This is all stuff Ire is self-aware about and he's currently reflecting on it, so fine, let's set out Iriel's psychological stall.

only distantly registering the wet ground soaking through his pants.

Wait, no, let's talk about his pants, because alexgaretti dragged me about this later, and I deserve it - why did I convert everything else about the narration into my native British English spellings, but then keep saying "pants" instead of "trousers"? I DON'T KNOW, OKAY, IT JUST FELT WRONG. Pants are how leg-things are labelled in the Morrowind game! Common pants, extravagant pants, it's all pants! People wear pants, that's just how it is. I felt weird enough spelling "bonemould" with a U, leave me alone.

Imprisonment, he knew, was part of it. Of course it had affected him, he had been foolish to expect otherwise. Ridiculous to think he could simply pick up his life where he had left off.

There are obvious reasons why Bethesda games never do anything further with their habitual gambit of starting your character as a prisoner - the player should get to decide who their character is, and how they react! The game isn't going to force you to consider that a character who has been in jail for any length of time (especially delicate, cruelly-framed prisoner characters) may have been wildly traumatised by this experience, and may have difficulty adjusting to being suddenly given their freedom.

Fanfic is the trauma-processing place, though, so naturally we all love having carte blanche to let our characters be really messed up by it.

He offended someone by staring at them? Why? How many seconds were you allowed to look at someone? Wait, not looking at them could be rude too? How could anyone figure out this stuff? If they couldn’t even explain to him how to do it right, why tell him he was doing it wrong?

This chapter is where people started asking me if Iriel has autism. Which I still don't have a concrete answer for! Partly because I'm not sure a fictional character benefits from that kind of word-of-god authorial specificity, when you could just let readers decide, and relate to him however they want to. But also because if Ire's autistic, then probably I'm autistic, and it's not like I'm against the concept, but I really don't know! When I was writing HTDC, I labelled a lot of my behaviours as social anxiety, because they primarily manifested when I was under stress. It blew my mind slightly when someone said to me, "what if it's just that being under stress removes your ability to mask?". I'm still thinking about that one, to be honest, but I'll spare you my non-conclusions, here.

Then he hit adolescence, and it turned out that everything prior had just been the warm-up act for being a queer teenager completely unequipped to conceal this fact from his incomprehending parents and conservative town.

While I'm still vaguely irritated by this chapter, at least we didn't get all this backstory as actual written chapters, right? Gotta start in media res. Gotta skip to the bits that matter for this story. 

Also, we don't need to have the boring argument about whether it's more radical/regressive to write fantasy queer utopias, or to recreate systems of oppression in fantasy worlds, right? Of course people can do either, do both, do whatever suits their purpose and is interesting.

I've read some amazing fic* set in Summerset, where homosexuality was an accepted and valued part of society. That approach is totally valid! It just didn't fit what I wanted to do, here, so my headcanons are different.

Based on what I'd inferred about Altmer values (I don't know ESO, don't talk to me about ESO), homophobia as a default in that society does seem very plausible to me. Summerset is a culture where bloodlines (and so heterosexual procreative pairings) are obsessively cultivated. Your blood is who you are, it’s fixed and unalterable, and if you’re acting (or fucking) against the overall societal interest, there must be something wrong with you and your blood.

According to a first-era emissary to the Altmer isles: "Breeding outside the pure line is a terrible, unthinkable crime, and taken as prima facia evidence of the tainted blood of the individual in question- if they were, they wouldn't have the impulse to do it. Exile to the mainland is regarded as equivalent to a death sentence, since there is no purpose in living outside their ideal society."

Now, we have to take this with a heavy pinch of salt. He goes on to write: "They have no real names of their own, only combinations of numbers that, when spoken aloud, sound to human ears as such. They feel no real tenderness for one another and have no concept of compassion." So, as with any TES text: biased source. But I think it's reasonable to assume that the Altmer do care a lot about purity of bloodlines, since this theme reoccurs elsewhere.

* Exhibit A: In Pedo Impedimenta, which is hands-down the best Summerset fic around, and in terms of wildly imaginative headcanons, one of the best TES fics, full stop. It's... a lot. It's unfinished, but you should read it anyway.

He had a plan: the Crystal Tower. Get there, he told himself, and everything will be all right. And then he did… and it wasn’t.

The fic I linked above, In Pedo Impedimenta, is set in the 4th era, and has a scene in which an Imperial tries to make a politely regretful remark about the tragic destruction of the Crystal Tower during the Oblivion Crisis. He is blindsided by how even the slightest mention sucks the air out of the room, sending half the Altmer into tearful, traumatised paroxysms of shock, while others barely restrain themselves from murdering him. The level of social faux pas is off the charts, basically. Altmer grief for the Tower is fathomless, because the Crystal Tower represented the Altmer people, was their heart, soul, ancestral memory, you name it. A symbol of Altmeri perfection.

Iriel revered the Tower from childhood, grew up struggling to prove himself worthy. Getting accepted there was a validation of his entire being, evidence that whatever anyone else thought, he was capable of touching, representing and embodying that perfection. Getting expelled, therefore, was equally personal.

Intellectually, Iriel knows there were petty, down-to-earth reasons for his expulsion, but that sort of symbolism is hard to shake.

Speaking of symbolism, according to ESO, the Crystal Tower looks like this. Yes, I know. I hate it, I had not seen this when I wrote about it, and I honestly refuse to accept it. I wanted it to be a symbol of Iriel's pure desire for knowledge and intellectual advancement, but SOME PEOPLE want to make everything he does into a sex joke. I hate it, and I don't care that it's got a nice safe flared base.

Invisibility potions require diamonds - too expensive to make a habit of. Ire began to practice invisibility cantrips obsessively. [...] Gradually, he discovered that more subtle and specialised effects were possible with illusion, allowing him to adjust his “dosage” according to the situation.

Illusion magic! Already, it's being framed as a sort of drug, with dosages and expensive dependency. Iriel makes this framing himself, and later mutters sarcastically about his addictive personality. But what is he trying to medicate away? Short answer: himself. Physically or mentally can vary. I told people from the start: the title of the fic was never metaphorical.

Depending on the alchemical properties of the bog, corpses could either remain perfectly preserved indefinitely, or decompose to skeletons in mere hours. He suspected that he was not the former.

Iriel has a terrible phobia of skeletons and bones, though I don't think I knew that yet, when I wrote this line. But this is the crux of it: bones are what's left, when everything else has been taken away, all the soft, pretty, fleshy nonsense that buffers our inmost selves from the outside world. Bones have nowhere to hide. And, to Iriel at least, they are fucking horrid.

But Iriel, we could say, what's the alternative? That corpses don't decompose? That dead people stay the same forever, and never really leave? Isn't that differently horrid? I got really obsessed with this theme, later, something Morrowind's burial customs makes easy.

Sinilakki drew Iriel being all translucent in the swamp.

Perhaps I shouldn't have said Iriel had a psychological stall. Stalls don't move, and the entire point of a character-driven narrative is to move a character, right? How are we moving them? On rails, like a train? Self-driven, or carried passenger? That has to change, too, right?

Around half-way through writing HTDC, I made a notes document, trying to clarify to myself what kind of story I was trying to tell. I did it by defining the sort of story I wasn't trying to tell, and I'm just gonna copy-paste it all here, stream-of-consciousness non-capitalisation and all:

not a coming of age story

ire knows who he is (that's kinda the problem), he's an adult now, whatever the fuck that means.

it's about what happens next, how he can fit this adult self of his into the world (can he? does he want to? what kind of world? there are many.) what does it mean to be normal, does he want that? why/why not?

if he fits in, what will that cost him? if he walks away from everything, what will that cost him? what does he value most? could he still change? should he? what would that cost? are these cost estimates of his accurate?? how is even mental accounting???

how mutable is his identity, his self-image, the image he projects? which one is real, are any of them real? is he a trick of the light, reflecting false images with nothing behind it at all? smoke and mirrors.

not a coming out story

ire's out to his family (he's never had much choice about it) and he's past all that terrified self-realisation, first love/lust bit, past the initial horror of it. the worst already happened, in terms of his family and his old life, it's dead and gone, and he survived. and he's bored now. bored and bitter. because it ought to get easier, and it doesn't. "it gets better" got him through his teens. but he's still waiting, and nothing fucking changes, or rather, it got worse. where is his community? is that a thing? and while plenty of this is beyond his control, part of it is internal. Ire maintains, on a logical, rational, principled level, that there's nothing wrong with his sexuality, and that what happened wasn't his fault, that he was badly treated, that he deserves the same right to love and be happy as anyone. HOWEVER. it's not as simple as that. he's been deeply psychologically damaged by homophobia, it has claws in his self esteem that he can't seem to shift. he worries he can't maintain a healthy relationship because of it. worries he can't have a healthy relationship with himself.

not a romance

it's not about iriel falling in love with someone truly, madly, deeply, permanently happy ever after. it's certainly not about a relationship fixing his problems, if anything it gives him more.

it is about relationships, in particular his changing relationship with julan, and the ways it makes him examine himself and how he interacts, and what he wants from another person. What he did wrong in the past, and what he needs to stop blaming himself for. And what his partners need from him, and how he can learn to meet those needs, should he choose to do so. about that negotiation. about failing at it, about screwing things up really badly, on both sides, and where that ends up. about trying to fix things. about what you can/should forgive, what you can't, and what forgiveness means. about recognising when to hold on to someone and when to let go.

what is preventing iriel from building healthy relationships? from feeling, expressing and receiving love? how does this change? what kinds of relationships/people are good for him?

not a tragedy

ire's been through enough shit, and doesn't really believe happiness is likely. this is not about proving him right. it's not about giving him a happy ending on a plate either, his is not a journey of one step, and this story is limited in scope. but it's about managing loss & moving forward.

ok so what is it?

it is about survival and growth. how ire is paralysed by his trauma, and resists change, and the ways he struggles to get past this. to take control of himself & be more than a product of his past & his conditions. to make choices, not be swept along/reacting. to find ways of being in the world and engaging with it.

its about ire's coping mechanisms. what they are, why he has them, how they help him, how some of them damage or restrict him. whether he needs them, or can replace them, reconfigure them, drop them entirely. the things you do to survive are not the things you do to get free. how can ire move from survival to getting free?

it's about surviving, and then about surviving/outgrowing the person you had to become in order to survive.

All aboard, guarfuckers! We've got 197 miles of bad road!

next: 4: falling previous: 2: labels

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Fireleaf Bonus Chapter (Eris and Linden Smut)

Hi! How’re we all doing after that final chapter? A little bit emotional? SAME. Thank you, again, for all the wonderful support you’ve given @greeneyedivy and I throughout writing this. It has been such a pleasure to share it will you all.

And we hope you enjoy this bonus chapter just as much 😏

Warnings: Smut, of course! Filth!

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“Would you like me to show you, lordling?”

Eris’s mouth was dry. His mind dizzy and quiet. Like…like it had been emptied of his brain and filled with nothing but cotton wool.

He stared at Linden, waiting for the punchline, or the catch, or…something. Some indication that the glorious male was just teasing him.

Linden looked completely serious.

Eris swallowed. And his tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth as he breathed, “I think I may die if you don’t.”

That was all it took for Linden’s full lips to kick into a sensuous smirk. And then he was leaning closer, his scent overpowering Eris in the most potent, breathtaking way. The redhead wasn’t sure he was breathing.

He didn’t know how to do this — how to be with a male. He didn’t know where to start, what to say, where he should put his hands. Inexperienced and foolish, a voice barked inside his mind. Linden must think him such a fool. 

But it was Linden who planted his hands on either side of Eris’s body. Linden who asked, the words like heated honey, “can I kiss you?”

Eris swallowed again. And on an exhaled breath, he answered. “Please.”

He watched every flicker of movement. As Linden’s intense, dark eyes scanned his face. As the male rose one hand and slowly, gently, brushed his fingers along the precise line of Eris’s jaw, before his palm settled at his cheek. 

Eris’s heart was beating at a gallop as Linden leaned in. His eyes fluttered shut just before their lips met. 

It took mere seconds — seconds — for his earlier internal assumption to be confirmed. That Linden was, indeed, a damn good kisser. That his full, soft lips knew exactly what they were doing as they slanted over his.

And Eris may never have been with a male, but he was no stranger to kissing. He’d kissed more females than he could possibly expect his brain to remember; had done so in such an intoxicating manner that it had had some coming straight back for more. Eris knew how to use his lips, his tongue. Knew where and when to apply pressure. Knew what most people looked for in the release of a kiss.

He felt like an inexperienced adolescent against Linden and his dance of heated brushes and touches.

Still, Eris forced himself to remember who the fuck he was. He was Eris Vanserra, for Cauldron’s sake. He had a good couple of centuries on Linden. Had been kissing long before Linden’s existence was a mere, passing thought.

He leaned further into the kiss, reaching up to slide his fingers in between Linden’s swaying braids. And a little tug received the desired reaction — Linden opened his mouth on a hungry growl, and Eris’s tongue swept in.

Their mingling tastes were like a divine clashing of seasons. If Eris was cool, crisp autumn, then Linden was the sun and sea and sand of Montesere; was sun-warmed pavements and cold lemonade in the overpowering heat. They were opposites, sitting at very different ends of the spectrum.

And both males knew, in an instant, that the taste and the feeling that they, together, generated — it could be addictive.

It was only as they eventually pulled away to breathe in air that the stillness of the forest fell over them. Like the wildlife had turned away from the intimacy burning beside the fire. No eyes peered at them curiously, no ears primed to listen to their breathless panting as they stared at each other.

And Eris almost thanked the Mother for that as his cock very blatantly, very frustratingly, pushed through his breeches.

Linden swallowed, his gaze sweeping over Eris once more. He seemed…surprised, somehow. Like he’d half-expected to feel as though he was kissing an inanimate object — when in reality, Eris was very animated, indeed.

It may have filled him with a sliver of pride. He couldn’t imagine Linden was taken by surprise all that often.

“Eris Vanserra,” the male spoke, his hand still hovering at Eris’s face. Slowly, his thumb swept down, brushing over Eris’s now-swollen lips. “You do surprise me.”

Eris’s eyes dipped to the movement. “...Oh?”

“Perhaps I didn’t give you enough credit.” Such a deep, sinful voice Linden had. “Your lips — they’re like the Monteserean sunset. One of the very few things I miss about my native land.”

Eris swallowed. “You can taste them again, if you like.”

And it was pure, dark heat that sparked in Linden’s eyes. “I would. I’d like to taste much, much more than that.”

As though the inference wasn’t already clear, his gaze fell down to the hardened bulge pushing through Eris’s breeches. The obvious evidence of his arousal.

And when Linden licked his lips—

“So taste me.” Eris damn near hissed. He needed to get his breeches off, to free his aching cock—

Linden seemed to share the same thought.

His hand dropped from Eris’s face. Fell to his chest, where he slowly, slowly began to drag it downwards. His hand felt scorching through Eris’s white shirt, and the redhead gasped at the mere touch, watching as that hand travelled towards the buttons on his breeches.

Eris lifted his hips in encouragement, and a satisfied smirk pulled at Linden’s lips as his hand, callused and scarred from years and years of hard work, of weapons, began to pop those buttons open, one-by-one.

One.

By one.

By one.

Until the front flap on the breeches was falling open.

Until the cool night air was brushing over Eris’s cock like a wind-whispered breath.

It was almost painful, how hard he was. And when those deft fingers slid into the fabric, finally freeing him from the torturous confines…Eris thought he might fall off the log on which he’d perched.

His cock stood to attention, already leaking at the head. Linden’s eyes flicked up to his—

And then he wrapped his hand around him. Brushed a thumb over that moisture at the tip.

“Shit—” Eris gasped, hips lifting slightly. Linden’s free hand pushed them back down, holding him still.

“Relax, Eris.” The male chuckled deeply. “Just let yourself enjoy it.”

Oh, Eris was going to do just that. He was sure he was trembling, his eyes not once leaving the sight of his cock in Linden’s hand, as the male swirled that little bit of leaked moisture around the sensitive head. And then he was fully wrapping his palm and fingers around the shaft. And pumping.

Slowly, at first.

So slow, Eris didn’t know whether he loved it or hated it. He hissed between his teeth, watching the languid ministrations, the way Linden stroked and explored his length. It was all he could do to keep still and enjoy the pleasure that was already licking at him like flames. 

“Remember what I said,” Linden hummed, dipping his head slightly. His face was inches from Eris’s cock; so, so close. “About blowing on a male’s cock?”

Eris gritted his teeth, a moan escaping him as Linden swept his thumb down the rigid length of him. “Yes.”

“See for yourself.”

Linden’s head was bowing closer, a hair’s-breadth away—

And when he released a breath…when he blew the tickling air directly onto Eris’s cock…Eris thought he may just combust. His hips jerked again, trying to generate some sort of movement, to get Linden to touch him harder, faster, to wrap those delicious lips around him—

“Tell me what you want, Eris.” Linden hummed; close enough that Eris felt the vibration. “Tell me what you want, and you can have it.”

“I want — fuck,” he panted, gritting his teeth, “I want your mouth on me.”

Linden was more than happy to oblige.

He pumped Eris slowly as he closed that gap between his face and Eris’s cock. And then he was poking his tongue out.

The first swipe of his tongue across the head could have done Eris in completely. A small, strained whimper sounded in his throat that he tried to swallow down. He didn’t look away — not once — as Linden licked him again.

And then fastened his lips around him.

Eris could not help the deep, gruff groan that was dragged from his chest. His head fell back, his trembling hand coming round to rest on the back of Linden’s head. And Linden only took more of him into his mouth.

More.

“Gods.” Eris breathed, and Linden hummed in response, sending a delicious vibration coursing through his cock. Eris was sure he was going to burst out of his skin, to scatter into a thousand pieces and blow away on a breeze—

It was sinful. Utterly sinful, how remarkably Linden used his mouth. Indeed, his earlier words hadn’t been for show, a mere taunting — he knew what he was doing, and if Eris could spend the rest of his existence with Linden’s mouth around him…he’d be a very, very happy male.

He watched, his stomach tightening as Linden slowly moved up again, dragging his lips in a wonderfully torturous manner. And when he was at the head, his tongue making wet, hot strokes, Eris knew there was no chance — no fucking chance — he was lasting much longer.

And Linden seemed to know it, too. The male’s dark eyes flicked up to Eris’s amber ones, and he smirked. “Tell me how you want this to go, Lordling.”

How could Eris possibly answer, when he wanted so many things at once? He wanted Linden licking and sucking and stroking, pushing him to that edge, pushing and pushing until he spilled down his throat—

But his chest heaved as other thoughts pelted him. Ones he’d only ever dared to think of in the dead of night, when it was just him with his hand around his cock. Thoughts of stripping a male bare and putting his mouth on them. Of getting them primed and ready, and sliding in, in—

As though Linden had read his mind, he chuckled. “Let’s not run before we can walk, now.” He pumped him a few times, smiling at the gasp it elicited. “Would you like to fuck my face, Lordling?”

Like was not a strong enough word. Eris needed to fuck his face. He jerked his hips forward with a whine—

“Uh-uh.” Linden angled himself out of reach. “I need your words, Vanserra.”

“Fuck—I need to—“

“Need to what?”

“To fuck you—your face.”

Linden’s answering smile was smug. The swaggering, arrogant facade brilliantly hid the way Eris’s words sent a shiver down his spine. It was a gargantuan effort to ignore his own arousal.

But he pulled a leather tie from around his wrist, throwing his braids into a knot atop of his head, out of the way. And then he leant down, his tongue a mere brush against the head of Eris’s cock. A brush that could end both of them.

“Fuck away.” Linden commanded. Eris snapped.

He forgot all about who and what he was. What he was supposed to one day be. Forgot all about the fact that he’d never been with a male, and just moments ago, he’d been unsure of himself. He pulled on every dark, shadowed fantasy he’d dared to have over centuries of wondering, of longing, and as his fingers threaded through that knot of braids, nothing had ever felt so right.

Linden took it all.

He didn’t falter once as Eris thrust his hips and guided his head in perfect, rhythmic movements. And Eris was giving over to every sound that broke from him, possessing no control of the moans and curses and whines and panting. 

And Linden, too, moaned. In enjoyment, encouragement. He savoured the feeling of Eris’s cock in his mouth. The taste of him beginning to come undone.

“Fuck—I’m gonna—” Eris’s head fell back, a loud, drawn-out groan ripping from him. “Oh, holy gods.”

Linden hummed. Coaxed him. Cupped his balls and embraced the press of the head against the back of his throat. He’d mastered this over years, was a damn expert at this point—

And Eris could only thank the Mother for it as white light seemed to burst in his vision, and he exploded. 

He groaned and sighed and swore and panted as he came, every drop of him filling Linden’s mouth and sliding down his throat. And Linden swallowed, lapped up every last drop, embraced it and savoured it. 

Eris had never come so hard. Had never felt like he’d been rocked to his very core, and like the world had shifted from his joining with another person. He trembled, his groans quietening into softer moans and whines, his hips still rolling. 

And when Linden slowly dragged his mouth off of his cock — giving one last white-hot bolt of pleasure down his length — he met Eris’s gaze head on.

And wiped his mouth with his brilliant, deft fingers.

Eris watched the movement as he tried to catch his breath. Became aware of an urge to suck those fingers into his mouth. But before he could move, Linden was tucking him back into his breeches. 

And leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Hopefully,” Linden murmured deeply, pulling away, “we’ll both sleep well tonight.”

But as they bedded down, bundling under blankets and falling into silence with the forest…

Sleep was the furthest thing from Eris’s mind.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ lucien tag list: @brekkershadowsinger @sillycrownlady @ruler-of-hades @lectoradefics @lucyysthings @littlemoonash @janzquu @carmelalikestoread @cathyac @tasha2627 @elkessecretplace @inkyvelvet @acourtofthought @zazite95 @antisocialcookie16 @sehalpha25 @fuckthatfeeling @adamgetawaydriver @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @lostpirateinwonderland @scrunklybunny @owllover123 @vangoghsbaby @goodbyemilkyway @babyimagangsta2 @cynicalpotato95 @draguta @pee-stachio @rem-ie @mateobneun-rattattui

[f1rewalk3r]

hello. i have begun writing again

you can sub to my substack or just look at the posts here since im gonna mirror them. https://firewalker9.substack.com?utm_source=navbar&utm_medium=web

An Introduction

It is the eve of February 2025, and my year is about to start. That’s not to say I haven’t done anything in January- rather, it has been one of the busiest months of my life- No, it is the start of my year because it is the same time last year that I began to kill my old life.

 I feel no shame in saying there is a fogginess to my memory beyond my own deliberate occlusion of these events. Nevertheless, it remains prudent for me to try and process these things by writing about them- just not right now. No, instead I wish to work to outline the context for this piece and others, past and future.

Hello. I am Rejoyce, formerly Jocelyn. Most of the time, at least, I think. I have been stricken by writer’s block for almost 9 months. It seems only fitting, 3.5 years into my 5 year attempt at a 4 year creative writing degree, that after everything- from the failed graduate survey courses to the vaguely biblical poetry readings to the short stories to the half dozen barely started novel attempts- I have returned to the very subject that gave me writers block, but also that in which I first started writing in all those years ago: non-fiction.

There is, of course, another element, that being the ever-present sword of Damocles hanging over the head of the 2020s transsexual: the current political climate. It would be foolish for me to look around at our current world and say anything other than, “What would Hunter S. Thompson do?” The answer being, of course, a lot of drugs. But he would also write. And thus.

The point of this exercise, (that is, not only to write, but to allow others to read it, especially while it is still in adolescence, still metastasizing), is to further myself in the growth of a new life. “Write more,” is a goal that fits neatly with the rest of my goals for 2025, which I can list as the following:

Finally confront the dark version of myself inside the mirror

Escape the time loop

Discover a cryptid

Let the wound in my heart bleed freely

Develop an extra lobe in my brain

Escape the time loop

Conduct expedition #5 into the House

Make out with as many people as possible (save scandalous fag sex for select few)

Escape the time loop

Get kinkier

These goals seem far more achievable to me then the insurmountable tasks set by the deranged homunculi that live among us like “Eat healthier” and “Go to the gym.” I am above fooling myself with such delusion.

There comes a time when it no longer serves the individual to hide themselves from the world- I believe that time is now. This is true not just of my writing, but of all transsexual art of the 2020s. In the face of the uncaring leviathan, what more can one do then simply say, “I am here. I existed. This is who I was, this is what I thought,” in the hopes that, someday, in a kinder world, they may be remembered.