#i cannot have the light i have without them

[cloudedangels]

A TEST OF CONTROL ☆ PT 3 (18+)

Part 3/? ▪︎ 5,225 words. (still not for minors! go away!)

Part 1 -> here ~ Part 2 -> here •

After three weeks of silence, Caleb shows up unannounced with stubble, longer hair, and a desperate need to know if she still wants him. What begins as tension and emotional reconnection quickly spirals into steam, sweat, and surrender. She peels the Colonel off of him piece by piece—until there’s nothing left between them but truth, skin, and a promise not to hold back this time. cw and tags: f!mc/reader, established relationship, light dom/sub dynamics, emotional smut, makeup sex sorta, orgasm delay/denial, colonel!caleb, oral sex (f receiving), shower, pretty slow burn, soft dominance, worship kink, begging, light angst, overstimulation, smut with feelings, praise kink, fingering, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, edging, piv, caleb is pent up and assertive but still soft for mc, creampie, big dick caleb >:), stupid sl*ts say anything but i love u, dirty talk, stretching

an: i cannot express how long and how much this took to write. but i love this n them so so much u have no idea. it's filthy but also very sweet and intimate. could be read w/out pts 1 + 2 but i reccomend reading them for context! they're a good bit shorter.

enjoy bb apples hope u like! :3 i'm off to finish my fluff fic now. (　＾ω＾)>>♡

She smells him before she sees him, that woody citrus cologne he wears, mixed with the smell of leather and machine oil, ozone. 

As MC enters her apartment, late from work, she’s sweaty from fighting wanderers, tired enough to almost hear her bed calling her name. She turns her key and opens the door. The scent of him hits her before anything else. Her breath stutters in her throat and she’s stopped in her tracks. She hasn’t caught the smell of him in weeks, she almost thinks she’s imagined it. She shuts the door and locks it, barely getting her hand over the dish when she notices a second set of keys inside of it. Then boots. Tall, black and untied. Then the small duffel beside them. the hat on top of the duffel. Then… him.

Caleb is sitting upright, asleep on her couch with his uniform still on. He’s leaned back, legs spread, head lolled back against the backrest. ‘His hair never gets this long’ she thinks. It’s too long to still meet protocol, tousled and slightly damp at the ends, brushing the back of his neck and the side of his face in a way she’s never seen before. He has one glove off, the left one, held in his other, still gloved, hand. The vein in his neck pulses visibly, his jaw, dusted with stubble, is tight, eyebrows knitted together. He doesn’t look peaceful in any way. Even though he’s asleep, he looks like he’s still held at attention.

She’s slow to approach him, taking off her shoes and padding over to him in her socks. She doesn’t want to wake him—this version of him is so rare that it’s something she wants to savour selfishly. She sits next to him and he doesn’t wake. The rise and fall of his chest is deceptively calm, considering the rest of him is so tightly wound. He looks like he showed up, sat down, and passed out without his own consent.

After watching him sleep, she laces her fingers into his left hand squeezing it gently. His hand twitches before it grips her back instinctively, before relaxing again.

“Caleb.” she whispers his name softly.

Nothing. She squeezes his hand tighter a couple times, trying again.

“Hey. Caleb. Wake up, it’s me.”

He jerks slightly, his eyes flashing open, wide with sudden fear, pupils shrunken. He looks around with brief terror before he recognizes her hand in his. 

“Caleb.” she practically whispers, wondering what he could have dreamt about to make him so afraid when he woke up. “It’s okay. You’re okay… You’re here with me.”

“Pipsqueak?”

He looks down at her hand but not her face yet.

“Mhmm, the one and only. You look tired.”

He exhales and steadies, his body relaxing if only a little.

“I’m sorry, pips, I didn’t mean to scare you, I don’t even know how I fell asleep… I–”

She squeezes his hand once again, a hand on his face, nudging him to face her.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t scared, just surprised,” her voice is eggshell careful as she makes eye contact with him, continuing. “Is everything okay? Why are you here?”

He breaks eye contact by looking off to the side. He looks like a puppy confessing that it did a bad thing.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, pips,” his voice is quiet, hoarse, “I needed to know if you still were m–” He shakes his head. “...if you still wanted me. I didn’t want to assume but… I couldn’t keep giving you space.”

Their eyes meet again Caleb smiling weakly, hopeful.

“I have a week-long leave. Told them it was an emergency. Flew straight here from Skyhaven after debrief. Used the key you gave me. I didn’t even sleep on the flight. Didn’t have time to change.”

She exhales. “You came straight from the fleet?”

He nods.

“That’s why you’re still dressed like a regulation nightmare.”

He huffs a short, guilty laugh. “Didn’t even change. I was scared I’d lose my nerve if I stopped moving. I guess I could've shaved. Or cut my hair.”

Silence again. Tight as a drawn string. 

Finally she asks, “Why didn’t you call?”

His hand lifts slowly, touches her cheek with the back of his glove. His right hand. The colder one. “You didn’t either.”

She closes her eyes and leans into the touch. “I thought I was too harsh last time.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was trying to be… dominant,” she says, whisper-soft. “But I didn’t want to hurt you. After… you left before I woke up.”

He flinches, as if slapped by her softness.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Scared I’d ruined it. Or looked pathetic. I just…” he looks up at her, eyes dark and full. “I wanted to serve you. I liked it. I loved it. I’ve never wanted to be good for anyone like I do for you. Making you feel like that made me feel on top of the world. More of a man than this uniform ever will.”

Her hand is still in his. He rubs a thumb along her palm and then lifts it to his lips. Kisses the center.

“You’ve still got the key to me,” he murmurs. “You say the word. Say anything. I’ll kneel or I’ll command. I’ll beg or I’ll hold you down. Strong or weak. Whatever you need. I want to be what you need.”

“…Then let me take care of you for once.”

He freezes. Blinks.

She places her hands on his chest, running them gently over the sharp lines of the jacket. The thick fabric. The polished belt. She kisses him, with hesitation first then all in. He kisses her back with both his hands on either side of her face. She pulls away, their eyes heavy, breath too.

“This thing looks stuffy.” patting his chest. 

“Yeah.”

“Can I help you take it off?”

He nods, a slow blink his only reply at first. “Yeah. Please.”

She starts with running her fingers through his hair, working out knots.  His hair is softer than she expected. Slightly damp still, disobedient waves resting over his forehead and ears. She touches his ears as she brushes the hair behind them.

“You’re not supposed to let it get this long.”

“I know.”

She swallows.

Next is the jacket. She unclasps the polished chest pin, fingers brushing along the rope chain detail that stretches from his shoulder across the lapel. The stiffness of the regulation fabric resists her at first, but she peels it back. His eyes never leave her.

“You still smell like metal, oil and the tunnels,” she whispers.

“Sorry.”

“No.” Her voice softens. “I missed it.”

She pulls the sleeves down slowly, his body shifting forward as he shrugs them off. He’s heavy from exhaustion. His white shirt underneath is wrinkled, the top button still tight at his throat. She’s gentle undoing it. Her fingers brush his skin, and she feels him inhale.

“I can do the belt,” he offers, lifting his gloved hand.

“No,” she says. “Let me.” 

She takes off his remaining glove. Then,  her fingers work through the weighty belt at his waist, undoing the metal catch, the fabric relaxing under her hands. She slides it out in one motion and sets it beside the hat. Her eyes fall to his boots.

“You want those off too?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “They hurt.”

She kneels on the floor, sliding her fingers over the laces. They’re loose, mostly untied from when he passed out, and one tug lets the first boot fall away. He doesn’t watch her. His head has tilted back again, eyes closed. Not in sleep, just in rest. Just letting her take him apart.

She works the second boot looser and gently pulls it off, setting it aside. He’s only in his undershirt and slacks now, his body caving slightly, hands resting slack beside him.

When she stands again, he reaches for her. 

Pulls her into his lap. “Thank you, pips. I don't like being the Colonel around you.” He's kissing her face, arms strong wrapped all the way around her waist. 

She feels him beneath her, his body solid, warm, grounding. Even now, wrapped in slouch and softness,  rooted and wanting, he's impossibly strong. His thighs are tense under hers, arms locked behind her back like he’s never letting go again. Their mouths part and meet in slow, drugging kisses, lips brushing, tongues barely touching.

He smells like fleet metal, ozone, and the kind of sweat that only comes from long flights and longer tension. She presses her nose into the crook of his neck, breathes deep.

“I like you like this,” she murmurs, her hand finding the back of his head, fingers threading through the longer waves. “You should keep your hair like this.”

He laughs under his breath, voice husky. “Might have to take the court martial just so you can grab it like that again.”

“You serious?” she asks, brushing it back so she can see more of his face.

“I was already close to getting written up,” he admits with a small, almost shy smirk. “Told them I had an emergency going on. Softened the blow. Swore I’d cut it before leave ended.”

“Let me guess,” she whispers against his ear, “You wanted me to see it first.”

He hums, nods faintly. “I had a lot I wanted you to see.”

Her breath catches. She always misses him, always. That fact stays quiet between them, even when it hums through her fingertips.

She’s still in her hunter pants, still in the sweat and grime of the day, but Caleb doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it winds him tighter. His hands are slow but possessive, one on her waist, the other tracing up her spine beneath her shirt. She kisses him again, lets her hips shift, unintentionally grinding against the hardness pressing up between his legs.

He groans against her mouth, forehead against hers. “Pipsqueak…”

“What?”

“You feel that?”

“Mhm,” she hums with mischief, tilting her hips again.

He grips her tighter, exhales through his teeth. “That’s your fault. You come home smelling like sweat and gunfire in those pants, put your hands on me like that… Tell me, pips, what’d you expect to happen?”

She grins into his neck. “Guess I’ll have to clean us both up.”

His voice is a low murmur. “Say the word and I’ll follow.”

“I want to shower with you,” she says. “I want to wash the Colonel off of you.”

He stares at her, like he’s about to kiss her again but wants to say something first. Then he just nods and lifts her off his lap.

They make their way to the bedroom first. She undresses him like he’s a gift she’s waited too long to open. Her fingers trail from the hem of his undershirt to the waistband of his slacks. He lets her do it all. Silent. Patient. The tent in his briefs is undeniable now, straining and obvious, but neither of them says a word about it. It’s a fact. She kisses his thigh as she lowers herself to take the briefs off of him. 

He undresses her too, with the same careful devotion. Her clothes peel off slowly, sweat sticking cotton to skin, her breath uneven. She feels shy for the first time in a long time.

Then they’re in the bathroom, bare, soft-lit, the shower starting behind glass. Steam begins to cloud the room, trailing down the mirror, wrapping them in a haze.

He reaches out and pulls her in with him, arms around her waist. They’re both warm and slick from the water almost instantly. His hair clings to his face, his chest rises and falls fast.

“I missed you so much,” he murmurs.

“I missed you more.”

He brushes her wet hair behind her ear. “Let me clean you off.”

“Not yet.” She lifts a bottle of soap, pours it into her hands, begins rubbing it into his chest. “My turn first.”

He groans quietly but allows it.

Her hands are gentle, but she doesn’t waste time. She runs her palms over the hard muscle of his chest, down his abs, watching the bubbles cling to the hair on his arms. She massages him, soapy and slow, standing close enough that her breasts slide against him with every stroke. Her fingers slip down his sides, curl around his back, working the tension out of his shoulder blades.

He’s hard and she can feel it pressing into her thigh, twitching every time she drags her hands lower. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t act.

“You’re so tense,” she whispers.

“I’m trying to behave.”

She turns him gently, hands on his waist, starting on his back. Her fingers dig into the knots of his lower back, the long slope of his spine. “Relax for me.”

“I’m trying, pips. I swear.”

She’s too nervous to look at his face, glad he's turned away from her. She focuses on the way his muscles shift beneath her hands. The wide expanse of his back, the smooth skin marred with old scars, the way water curves around his waist.

Eventually, she turns him back to face her. “You’re clean now.”

He smiles down at her, soaked and flushed. “My turn.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He turns her with careful but undeniable force, bringing her back to his chest. His arms wrap around her waist, and his lips find her shoulder. His hard cock rubs against her from behind. She whimpers a little without meaning to. 

“I missed this,” he whispers, kissing her skin between words. “Missed your body. Missed touching you.”

His hands are all over her now. Shoulders, arms, chest, hips. He spreads his hands over her breasts, brushing over them again and again with wet fingers. He’s gentle but focused, teasing and precise.

“You’re already wet,” he says, tone dark and teasing, slipping his hand lower to her belly.

“That’s because you’re touching me,” she breathes.

She trembles in his arms, hands reaching up to hold his wrists, but he doesn’t let her guide them. Not yet.

He hums low in his throat. “Mm… no, no no, I have to return the favor, pips. Gotta get you clean first.”

He kisses her neck, then her collarbone, then the back of her shoulder again. Every kiss is wetter than the last, half water, half mouth. Her legs are already shaking.

“Caleb,” she whimpers as he drags a palm slowly down her thigh, cupping her ass.

“What?”

“You’re being mean.”

He chuckles into her skin, low and warm. “I’m being thorough.”

He keeps washing her, now with soap sudsing over her. His hands are moving with slow, full strokes that slide over her belly, between her thighs, around her hips. Her nipples are stiff, her stomach tight, her thighs involuntarily parting as his touch glides across every inch of her. He doesn’t go too low, but it’s a tease now. A claim on control.

Her back arches into him when he brushes under her breast again. “You’re making me crazy…”

“I know,” he whispers, voice low and full of promise, “and I’ve only just started.”

He lifts her by the armpits and puts her under the water to rinse, stepping out to dry off.

“Hey… where are you going?” She calls after him. 

He peaks around the door of the shower. Towel around his neck another in his hands.  “Shower's done, come on. Lemme dry you off. There are more ways to help me relax. I'm not going to until I get everything I need.”

Caleb stands just outside the shower door, towel wrapped loose around his hips. He watches her step out, steam trailing behind her like a second skin. Her eyes find him. Naked and flushed and damp. and for a moment, she forgets how to move. He holds the towel out for her like he’s offering her something sacred.

She lets him wrap it around her shoulders, his hands slow and gentle, attentive. He doesn’t speak, just presses a kiss to her temple, then to her cheek. His lips trail downward, wet warmth brushing her collarbone.

“I need you,” he says, finally, quietly.

Her breath hitches. He’s looking at her like he did the first time she gave him an order. Like he’s ready to obey again, if she asked.

“Bedroom,” she whispers.

He lifts her without a word. She clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist, arms over his shoulders. Their mouths never part as he carries her there. The towels fall. She doesn’t remember them being dropped, just remembers the feeling of his skin against hers, the weight of his body above her as he lays her down on the bed like she’s a prayer he’s about to answer.

He kisses her again. This time deeper. Slower. There’s urgency in the tremble of his hands, but not in his mouth. His tongue is languid. Exploring. Tasting. She moans softly, curling her fingers through his still-damp hair, pulling him closer.

When she parts her legs for him, he’s already between them. Thick and hard, brushing against her folds with aching deliberation.

She gasps. Her hips jerk. “Caleb…”

He groans, low and tight, forehead pressed against hers. “You feel that?” he whispers.

“Yes…”

“You’re so wet. That all for me?”

She nods, dazed. Her voice catches when he rocks against her again, not pushing in yet, just coating himself with her slick.

“I’ve thought about this every night since I left,” he says, voice cracked and warm. “Thought about what it would feel like. Being inside you. Watching you fall apart for me.”

“Then do it,” she breathes. “I want it too.”

He groans again, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat. His hand trails down between her legs and when he touches her, they both inhale sharply. His fingers stroke her slowly, teasing her open, gathering slick.

“I’m gonna get you ready for me first,” he murmurs, sliding one finger inside. “You’re tight, pips. So fucking tight.”

She whimpers and lifts her hips to meet his hand. “Please…”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her again. Adds a second finger. Works them in slow and careful. Curling them. Finding that spot inside her that makes her hips buck.

She moans, legs falling wider open. “Caleb. Caleb… Oh my god…”

“I know, baby. I know. Gotta stretch you out.”

His fingers move in a slow, lazy rhythm. He watches her face the entire time, memorizing how her eyes roll back, how her lips part, the way she gasps when his thumb finds her clit. He fucks her with just those two fingers until her thighs are trembling. Then he pauses, pulls them out, and she whines.

“Don’t stop…”

He kisses her stomach, then lower. “Not stopping.”

She feels the press of his mouth between her legs and her whole body jerks. He groans against her, hands on her thighs, spreading her wider. He licks her slow, lazy, like he’s got all night. His tongue moves with the same rhythm his fingers did. And then those fingers return. Two, then three.

She cries out.

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing her clit before licking again. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers curve just right. His mouth never stops. Her hips twitch and her breath breaks, pleasure crackling like fire up her spine.

He doesn’t stop even when she’s shaking. She clutches at his hair, moaning his name. When she finally tries to close her legs around his head, he holds her open and pushes his fingers deeper, tongue pressing harder.

“Please… Caleb… I…”

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, his voice wet and thick. “Yes, you can. Give it to me.”

And she does.

She breaks with a cry, hips jerking under him, mouth slack and gasping. He keeps going until she’s pushing at his shoulders, too sensitive.

He rises up over her, his mouth shining, eyes glassy with hunger.

“I’m not done,” he says, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on his tongue. “I need more.”

He positions himself between her thighs, stroking himself once before pressing the head against her entrance.

Her breath catches. She feels the blunt, hot press. He’s huge. Thicker than she imagined. He pushes in just barely, and her whole body clenches.

“Oh god….”

He groans, teeth grit, pulling back. “Fuck… You’re too tight still.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“No. You won’t. I want it. I want all of you.”

He kisses her again, then moves lower, kissing her thighs, her hips. He slips a finger inside her again, then two. Works her open more. She’s soaking wet. Her walls flutter around his fingers.

“You’re getting there,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

When he slides back into position, he lines himself up again and pushes in slowly. Just the tip. She gasps.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.

“It’s not. Don’t stop.”

He goes deeper. Just an inch. Then another. Then pulls back.

She moans, arms reaching up around his shoulders, holding on tight. Her nails dig into his skin.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, holding himself back with shaking arms.

“You feel so good,” she says, voice broken. “You’re so big. I want it. I want all of you.”

He groans and sinks deeper. Halfway now. She cries out, legs tightening around his waist.

“Almost there,” he pants. “Almost… you’re taking me so good.”

He kisses her again, breathless and needy. When he finally bottoms out, they both freeze. His cock twitches inside her. She can feel every inch of him, stretching her full.

“You okay?” he whispers.

She nods, tears in her eyes from how full she feels. “Don’t move yet. I just want to feel it.”

He kisses her forehead, cheeks, lips. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And when she’s ready, she rocks her hips. Just a little. And he starts to move.

Slow. Deep. Steady.

It’s not enough. But it’s too much.

She’s panting, begging, crying. “More. Caleb. Please.”

He groans and starts to fuck her in earnest. Every thrust is deliberate, firm, but held back. He’s pacing himself. Holding on by a thread.

He pulls out when he gets too close. Lets himself cool off. Then slides back in. She whines every time he leaves her empty.

“Why do you keep stopping?”

“Because I’m not done with you yet. I want to feel you cum again.”

He rubs her clit as he thrusts, murmuring in her ear. “You’re mine. All mine. You make me lose my mind, pips.”

She grabs his face, kisses him hard, rocking against him. “Then lose it. I want to see.”

He moans into her mouth, thrusts deeper, harder.

Still, he doesn’t finish.

She can feel him leaking inside her, warm and steady, his cock twitching with need. But he holds on. Like she’s the thing anchoring him to earth. Like she’s the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

And she adores him for it.

Loves the way he worships her body with every motion. The way he waits. The way he edges himself to give her everything.

And she’s not done adoring him yet.

She clutches him tighter, voice high and broken. “Caleb, God, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he whispers, but it’s a promise he’s afraid of breaking. His arms shake. His thrusts stutter. Every time he sinks into her now, it’s with a groan like it hurts to hold back. Like he’s begging his own body to listen.

She moans louder, biting his shoulder, pulling at his hair. Her thighs twitch around him. Her hips lift greedily to meet every thrust.

“You feel too good. Too good… Shit, I can’t–” she cries, voice splintering.

His breath is ragged in her ear. “Yes you can. One more. Just one more for me.”

“I already… So much…” She tries to protest, but he’s already shifting his angle. Pulling her legs up, knees to her chest, cock so deep now it knocks the breath from her lungs.

She gasps. “Oh fuck! Caleb?”

He grits his teeth, eyes glassy. “I know, I know, it’s too much. I’m sorry, pips” He’s not sorry.

Her hands scramble for his arms, his back, anything to hold onto as he grinds deeper. His pelvis presses tight against her clit with every thrust, and it’s unbearable, blinding, exquisite.

“I can’t take it,” she sobs, voice caught in her throat, tears on her cheeks now. “You’re,  oh my God…. you’re…”

“Caleb,” she sputters his name again.

He presses his forehead to hers. His body is slick with sweat. “Yes you can. You’re so close, I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight. Fuck, I need you to cum for me again, pretty girl. Please.”

She whimpers, body arching. “It’s too much! I’m gonna… Caleb… Caleb—”

Her voice shatters like glass as her body seizes, clenching hard around him. Her second orgasm rips through her with no warning, more violent than the first. She thrashes beneath him, sobbing, nails digging into his shoulders. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out—just pure feeling. Raw, overwhelming, wet.

He moans a deep, guttural groan, as she tightens around him. “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Good girl. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t slow down.

She trembles under him, overstimulated and gasping, her thighs shaking as he keeps grinding into her, each thrust deliberate, controlled—but trembling at the edges.

Her words fall apart. “I-it’s too much… I can’t…”

He kisses her mouth, her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. “Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just let it happen.”

She shakes her head but clings to him tighter. “You’re still so hard. Fuck, Caleb, how the hell are you still—?”

His eyes flutter shut. “I don’t know. I-I can’t finish until I know you’re done. Until I know you’ve had enough of me.”

“I have,” she whispers, voice raw and cracked. “I have.”

He lets out a broken sound. His pace slows, finally, just barely—deep, dragging strokes that make her twitch and sob into his neck.

She’s sensitive everywhere. Every thrust now is fire and sugar and pleasure and too much. And still, she doesn’t want him to stop.

“Say it again,” he begs against her ear.

“What?”

“Say you’ve had enough of me.”

She whimpers. “I haven’t. I never will.”

He groans like she’s just hit him. His hips falter. His jaw clenches.

“Fuck.”

“Please,” she breathes, eyes wet, “You can cum. I want you to. Please, Caleb. Cum inside me.”

“No,” he says, voice tight and hoarse, like he’s holding himself back from the edge of a cliff. “Not yet. Not till you say you’re mine.”

She gasps, body tensing. “I’m yours. You know I’m yours. You know that.”

He kisses her fiercely, like he’s drowning in her mouth. His thrusts speed up again, but still don’t lose control. He’s teetering. On the verge.

But he’s still hers. Still in control.

Just barely.

“Say the word,” Caleb breathes, voice low and strained against her cheek. “If you want me to stop, I will. I’ll pull out right now.”

She shakes her head, breath catching in her throat. “No. Don’t. I don’t want you anywhere else.”

His hips slow, just slightly. His forehead presses to hers. “You sure?”

“I’ve been sure,” she says, voice trembling. “I’ve thought about it for three weeks. Every night. Every morning. I want it. I want you to finish inside me.”

Caleb lets out a sound that isn’t quite a groan, something rawer. Like the last bit of his restraint just cracked in the middle.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers.

“Then let go,” she replies. “Let me feel it.”

He starts moving again. Slow, deep thrusts that drag along her walls. She gasps, trembling beneath him, body overstimulated, nerves fraying. But she doesn’t stop him. She never wants to.

“I’ll take off work,” she adds, voice breaking in a breathless laugh. “Fuck it. I’ll stay in this bed all week. You’ve got seven days, Caleb. Seven days to fuck me inside out. You can’t forget.”

He swears under his breath, mouth falling open. “Jesus.”

“I mean it. It’s safe. I’m on the pill. You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

He groans, thrusting deeper, rougher now. His control is still intact, but barely. Like he’s holding it in his teeth.

“I don’t know if I can cum again,” she admits, voice small, hoarse. “I really don’t. I feel… used up. In a good way. I feel so wrecked.”

But then his cock hits that spot again, and her body betrays her. It's arching, clenching. Another orgasm building low and hot in her gut, despite everything.

He watches her crumble. “There it is,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna give me one more, aren’t you?”

She moans, high and needy, cock-drunk. “Caleb…. C-Caleb…”

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

She grabs at him, his hips, shoulders, anything she can reach. Her fingers curl tight around his waist and pull. Hard. Dragging him in deeper, faster.

“Don’t stop. I need it. Please,” she gasps, breathily. “Please, I need all of it.”

His voice is soft again, with adoration and lust, a bit raspy. “You’re perfect. You’re taking me so well. I’m close, pips. I can’t keep this up much longer.”

She doesn’t let him slow. “Good. I want it. I want it so bad.”

He thrusts harder, faster, deeper, like her words set his rhythm on fire. Sweat drips from his chest onto hers, his arms trembling on either side of her face.

“I’m not sorry,” he growls, voice shaking. “I’m not gonna apologize for this. I’ve waited too fucking long.”

She whines, begging without words now, just sounds, soft and lewd, broken and full of him.

He slams into her again, all the way to the base, and stays there a second, cock pulsing.

“You want me to cum inside you?” he asks, voice wrecked.

She nods frantically, nails dragging down his back. “Please… yes please, Caleb, I need it. I’ve never had anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

He moans, deep and shuddering. “Fuck. You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I do,” she whispers. “I feel it. Every time you move. I want you to ruin me.”

And he does.

His thrusts lose rhythm, grow erratic, brutal, beautiful. He chokes on a gasp, and then he’s slamming into her hard and fast, panting against her mouth.

“I’m gonna fill you,” he growls. “So deep you won’t remember what empty feels like.”

She cries out, pulling him deeper, wrapping her legs around him like she never wants to let him go.

“I need it. I need all of it. Please, Caleb, please. I want every drop…”

And then she cums. Again.

Impossible. Devastating.

Her whole body shatters around him, wrung out and crying, and the way she clenches, wet and trembling, breaks him open.

He groans, loud and wild, as he thrusts deep and stays there. His cock pulses, and she feels it: his cum spilling inside her in waves, hot and thick.

She moans like she’s being blessed.

He stays buried, panting against her shoulder, kissing whatever skin he can reach. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her throat.

Neither of them speak for a long time. They just breathe. Seven more days.

[glasskey]

Season 6 - Critical Mass

Fuck me. Season 6. Some loved it, most hated it. Episode 9 in particular really brought the whole house of cards down for this season, and left the writers and show runners with nothing but angry fans and a thousand questions to answer. I started making my own list sometime ago and episode 9 just tipped me over into critical mass. Because it involved the death of not one but two beloved characters, fans were let’s say, a little miffed. The choice to off Nick Blaine in particular has drawn considerable heat and there’s plenty of reasons why. Let’s take a look at some of the biggest reasons that Season 6 broke abso-fucking-loutely everything.

Firstly, I don’t think that it’s an exaggeration to say that at times season 6 just felt surreal and not in a good way. Previous seasons had set up the rules and guidelines for this world and season 6 simply didn’t care about any of them. For instance; how were people just waltzing in and out of Gilead now? That place used to be fucking locked down. Spot lights, dogs, guard towers, drones, Eyes….anyone remember how Emily had to swim over that freezing river with Holly to get to freedom and it was scary AF? Baby Holly nearly drowned. Now June Osborne, Gilead public enemy number one is just jumping in the car to go shuttle Lawrence across the border to a completely abandoned aircraft hangar. But season 6 didn’t stop there, it also didn’t respect the laws of gravity when it dangled Osborne from a crane 30 feet in the air and then hurled her to the ground without a scratch. In addition to disregarding the very laws of physics, Season 6 also gave characters amnesia on multiple occasions, cited off screen occurrences as lore as some sort of “fail safe”, sought to rewrite characters very natures, violated original texts, assumed knowledge, disregarded plot holes and selectively altered the basic moral compass by which characters would be judged. In fact, there really isn’t much that season 6 didn’t do in terms of just breaking all the guidelines that keep a world intact. I can only hope that it will be used as an example of what NOT to do by future writers, because quite honestly the disbelief and anger by audiences has been visceral, and personally I’ve never wanted to smash my television more.

This season was meant to be about people showing their true faces and I am STUNNED that somewhere, somehow these writers have justified that a woman who participated in multiple rapes, stole a baby, and had her hand in the conception of Gilead, has a benevolent “true face”. On Serena’s wedding night she was astonished to learn that her new husband, King of all the High Commanders was a die hard loyalist who liked to keep a handmaid on staff. She had a bit of a whimper but next morning she was ready to kiss and make up, and then her new hubby left for a morning appointment to execute her bestie. Despite this, Serena the baby snatching rapist, was afforded a redemption arc. I was and am, horrified.

Show runners have seen fit to state that Serena and June were actually the love story all along and I cannot tell you how much it disgusts me to hear that they would actually think that a victim / abuser relationship should ever be described as such. I am deeply disturbed that the creators of this show believe it is appropriate to describe the relationship between a kidnapper, rapist, physical and psychological abuser and their victim, as a love story. To say that June is able to forgive her abuser is one thing, to say that she loves her is quite another. If Serena had been a man, a father, she would have pushed her aboard that doomed plane. As it was she was a mother and therefore untouchable so she ultimately walked away virtually unscathed. So the writers message was we could be forgiven anything, even the vilest acts against our own gender, as long as we reproduced. If they intended me to feel all supported and warm and fuzzy as a woman, they well and truly missed the mark. Women like Serena Joy are fucking traitors, because they know full well what it’s like to be a woman, to fight for every single tiny square inch of freedom, and yet they seek to seize power by crushing their fellow women beneath their heel in order to get it.

Next in line is Aunt Lydia, who sanctioned and carried out torture, rape and murder. She arranged for Janine’s eye to be ripped out and farmed women into slavery. Suddenly she was pleading ignorance over what actually happens to the handmaids in their retirement? Are you fucking kidding me? This woman was so far up Gilead’s arse there was literally nothing that demon didn’t know about what was happening to those Handmaids. Atwood’s text reveals the aunts kept secret detailed files on all of them, and having Aunt Lydia now whining about her “poor girls” after tasing them for 5 seasons is laughable. She’d chained a pregnant handmaid in the basement and informed June she’d be shot after giving birth, so all of her sudden crocodile tears about the ex handmaids being sent to Jezebels was the weakest bunch of bullshit I’d ever seen for her entire character arc. But she’s needed for The Testaments, so she had a benevolent face slapped on her at the last moment and was given a redemption arc of sorts as well. Writers also failed to explain how Aunt Lydia was going to be embedded back into Gilead society now that she’s blown her cover.

Next victim is Lawrence. Last season Lawrence shot down the rescue planes for Hannah and told Blaine that it was a free for all to use June Osborne as target practice. He’s responsible for inventing a world of slavery and death, and he kept his wife imprisoned for years, but Lawrence has a strong papa bear vibe with some punchy one liners, so he gets a redemption arc and a heroes death. It’s worth mentioning that Joseph was actually the one responsible for dragging Serena back to Gilead and NOT Blaine as the Show runners would have you believe. Blaine actually spoke up for her, asking if “it was really necessary to drag her back into this”, however this was painted as Blaine’s decision to bring Serena back…��despite the fact it was Lawrence who suggested it…..and physically went and got her…..and virtually strong armed her into the car. It’s also worth noting that Lawrence was all aboard the Gilead train, chowing down on that delicious power as a newly appointed High commander, until he learned that all the other commanders (except Blaine) were gunning for him. So it’s really not like he gave a shit about Mayday out of some sense of righteous justice, he just thought it might save his own neck. The martyr’s death / self sacrificial death are the highest value character deaths and quite frankly I’m not sure he deserved that quality of death but he’s cuddly and Whitford didn’t want him to die a villain, so there you go.

Finally we come to Nick Blaine. Out of the Gilead four this season, he was definitely the one most deserving of a redemption arc, but you know clever plot twist, scapegoat required….and guess who gets fucked after 5 seasons. Nick Blaine had spent 5 seasons risking his life on almost a bi seasonal basis for the protagonist, was deeply in love with her and had connections in Mayday. But in season 6 the writers decided to transform him into nothing but a greedy, power hungry, little fascist over the course of 3 episodes, and then unceremoniously had the protagonist kill him off as some sort of true measure of her strength. The writers not only made him the villain and had him killed, but gave him a death befitting a coward. I’m not sure who thought it would be a good idea to serve up this pile of revenge to a fan favourite who’d been a benevolent companion to the protagonist for the last 5 seasons….but it hideously back fired. I foresaw this when I viewed the original trailers and I prayed that they hadn’t been so stupid as to destroy both a character and a couple that over 80% of the audience were deeply invested in with a spin off waiting in the wings….unfortunately they were and the backlash has been brutal. It was around the time that they decided to bring it all home, that I couldn’t help but notice that out of all of the Gilead four, they’d actually taken the lowest socioeconomic character and seen fit to make him the sole villain and then grind him into a fine powder. It was one thing in season 1 when they illustrated how the poor and uneducated masses could be easily targeted and recruited, it was quite another to make the statement that because he came from “nothing” he was more likely to turn to villainy. Reality is, the well spring of most of the worlds evil fuckery lies deep in the hearts of those born to wealth and power. They’re used to it, they don’t like to share it, they’re terrified of losing it and they’ll do anything to get more of it. My nomination for most likely villain out of the Gilead Four was actually Serena. She's used to wealth and power and desperate to send her little spawn of Satan to a decent private school.

Meanwhile in Mayday central the folks there could do no wrong; Tuello fed civilians into the meat grinder that was Gilead’s highly trained military against Blaine’s advice, and yet remained untouched by any moral judgement from the writers. While everyone cheered as Tuello strode purposefully into the room to find Serena breathless at the sight of her little thirst trap, I ground my teeth and felt my fingernails digging into my palms. I just couldn’t help but wonder why on earth would Tuello trust Lawrence after that little incident with Hannah last season either. He’d just been burnt by Nick and his first response is to go pal up with the Architect of Gilead himself? I also didn’t understand why Tuello was skulking around in No Man’s Land in the first place. All the other diplomats were welcome in New Bethlehem, so why wasn’t he running recon or checking in with why Blaine suddenly wasn’t answering his calls? Why not set up a diplomatic embassy in New Bethlehem? Perhaps because IT WOULD HAVE MADE SENSE. This season saw Blaine give up Mayday’s plan. He’d chosen his side apparently and it wasn’t Osborne….after 5 seasons of choosing Osborne (sigh). So I couldn’t help but wonder why this hideous traitor didn’t just tell the other commanders where Mayday central was? He knew approximately where it was and yet there they were all hopping on a plane to DC to work out some intricate plan to curb the rebel operations. I mean the guy could virtually draw a map with a sign that says “bomb here” pointing to the Mayday camp and yet…..Urgh.

The character transformations have gone from zero to a hundred with nothing in between this season. Luke went from wanting to join Mayday, to planting bombs, to running around screaming with a machine gun and hand grenades. Rita went from not wanting to get involved with Mayday, to poisoning the cake with sedatives, to running screaming down the street shooting wildly. Serena got engaged and married in like a week and went from “I didn’t really think about what happened to the handmaids”, to teary eyed demanding to know the “real name” of her new one. Nick proclaimed his undying love for June, 10 seconds later they had a brutal break up, next episode he virtually skipped down the aisle with his wife singing about his new baby and renouncing the parentage of Holly, then he completely ignored the fact that the love of his life was about to be hung (can we just pause and consider how absolutely unbelievable THAT is please), said some BIZARRE shit about commanders being the winners and promptly exploded. Fuuuuuuuck. I mean it would have been hilariously ridiculous if it wasn’t just so fucking tragic to watch all that potential come to such a pointless end. Like so many things this season, this plot line doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean how were these commanders the “winners”? The rebels had just bombed their city and killed most of them, they were practically an endangered species. Somehow the audience was convinced into believing that if the Boston commanders ever made it to DC, Gilead would win and rule over the earth forever and ever. I guess that must have been where they had been keeping their secret special map room and chanting circle. I mean where is the plot? Is the plot in the room with us now? The trajectory on Blaine’s character arc comparative to other seasons, felt like the pilot had suddenly decided to fly the plane into the mountain (excuse the pun). He’d been building to something huge and both of Atwood’s texts indicated that Mayday was in his future, however it was at this point that the writers took incredible licence and deviated from the source material completely. It seemed a huge violation that Blaine’s character was altered from the version in both texts and while all the other characters were carefully manoeuvred into place, he was killed off. Granted Miller and co. had, had the freedom to fill in the blanks between season 2 - 6, various elements of the texts still acted as a guide for these characters natures, journeys and ultimate destinations and there was just no way around the fact that they’d chosen to completely ignore it. Insultingly I was asked to ignore Blaine’s death on the basis that he “had it coming”. Not only was that NOT an answer as to why such liberties were taken with the source material about his nature, depicted allegiances, and you know the fact that he was fucking ALIVE in the book, but that reasoning was also completely riddled with holes.

Throughout the seasons Blaine had been firmly established as an ally to the protagonist via a multitude of mechanisms which were now being blatantly discounted. For example; ALL of the acts of violence that the audience had been shown that were directly and voluntarily committed by Blaine were all performed AGAINST a member of Gilead to either protect the protagonist, at her request or as a form of righteous justice for her cause. Now I was being told that off screen he’d been sneaking around the protagonists back committing horrendous acts on behalf of Gilead….but we just hadn’t seen it….and didn’t know about it…..and SOMEHOW the writers couldn’t understand how that would be confusing..…or even believable. Urgh. The more I looked, the more holes appeared and the more it all just reeked of rewriting history for the sake of a plot twist and a quickly constructed political narrative. For whatever reason it was done, it was sloppy and completely contradictory to the characters original nature, both on screen and in the texts. Even if I did give these writers the benefit of the doubt and BELIEVED their spiel about this character, I’m not sure it worked in their favour to be constantly pointing out that they had neglected to fill in the audience properly on vital character elements during previous seasons.

For some reason the writers and show runners were now under the illusion that their audience had not actually been paying attention while watching the previous 5 seasons, that they had developed some sort of selective amnesia. They also deemed to give the protagonist amnesia, thus making her seem unempathetic, heartless and deeply unlikeable. Blaine had turned up for her countless times and yet was given no quarter. She had simply developed amnesia about what it was like to try and survive in Gilead after a brief stay in Canada. The writers may have intended to make her look strong and assertive, but her failure to extend any measure of compassion or even seek to dig further, made it seem as though the entire relationship had been transactional. It was as if now that Blaine had ceased to serve a purpose, he was being abandoned. This effectively destroyed any integrity to their former bond, it simply made him look like a liar and her an opportunist. I became a bit suspicious that it was not entirely unintentional that these creators were now seeking to change the very nature of this relationship in retrospect, when June attributed Serena responsibility for their relationship in the first place. It sought to completely discount the fact that these two had been circling one another prior to Serena's interference, or even that they continued their relationship despite her objections and efforts to seperate them later.

It was simply more evidence of an almost desperate attempt by the writers to erase this loving connection and replace it with something convenient and superficial. They’d forgotten that Nick and June’s love was actually an act of rebellion, forbidden, a place where both Blaine and Osborne sought freedom and autonomy. Had they remembered this, they might have understood that for a true depiction of a successful rebellion, Nick Blaine should have joined the underground and the two lovers destinies remained intimately intertwined. His true character narrative was as an Eye with connections to Mayday. June / Offred was unsure if she could trust him, but he remained a source of hope, love and quiet rebellion within Gilead. The Handmaids Tale afterword revealed that he’d risked his life to help June escape and gone on to join the resistance. Gilead had tried and failed to kill him at least once and he was later reunited with June and his daughter. The successful depiction of a rebellion that used their relationship as the intended metaphor, was one that had Blaine subvert Gilead as an Eye turned agent for Mayday. Instead his death indicated the success of Gilead to eradicate collective rebellion….by somehow encouraging rebel forces to self sabotage. It simply made no sense, particularly given the rebellions success in the area where Blaine had been stationed. It was like someone had either failed to understand the metaphor completely OR had simply been so desperate to destroy the character and the relationship, that they didn’t care if it meant tearing apart a central theme. Which was absolutely fucking insane.

Fans had followed the writers cues and had understood the underlying message of rebellion in their bond. They’d waited years for the rebellion to succeed and the symbolic narrative to reach it’s natural conclusion, by having Blaine cross the border to join June and Mayday. So when instead the writers chose to start labelling Blaine as a loyalist and gut this relationship, slaughtering this manifestation of collective rebellion, the audience was understandably angry and confused. His role as an embedded Mayday agent in The Testaments stand as evidence that this was precisely who Blaine was and not some dubious fascist all along. Atwood consulted during season 2, but it was only during season 3 that show runners decided to whack a commander suit on Blaine and start using him for statements about patriarchal power that had nothing to do with his original character construct. He was never a commander, not in The Handmaid’s Tale and not in The Testaments either…..but these writers thought they knew better than the author, so here we are. I think about the potential for this story line had it been completed correctly and I could just weep. I could write a book on why the destruction of this character and relationship was one of the dumbest fucking things I’ve ever seen a writer do to their own creation, and how this is one of the biggest violations of an authors symbolic narrative I’ve ever witnessed, but honestly I’ve got a lot to get through today.

The writers and staff scrambled to provide clarity about who Nick Blaine was all along, but what they failed to understand was that it was utterly irrelevant. If they had to tell audiences after the fact who their character actually was and what their true motivations were, then they’d failed their mission. Writers cited story elements that supposedly occurred off screen, as lore when they either should have been clearer from the beginning or just followed the established on screen character arc through without trying to get clever. Now for clarity I believe the rot started in season 5 but only truly set in in season 6.

Come season 6 Minghella would be lucky to get a few minutes of screen time in 6 episodes, and in that time they had to convince the audience that he’d been a totally different person than the one they’d been shown all along. Consider the characters nature, established relationship with the protagonist and everyone around him….over 5 seasons….now with ALL of that think about how impossible it actually is to flip that character in the space of approximately 10-15 minutes, and how insane you’d have to be to green light that shit. And yet SOMEHOW it was my fault for not believing them. Probably because I’d read the books.

Writers asked audiences to reassess characters 4 episodes from the end of a final season. That’s neither realistic or wise and they shouldn’t be surprised if people feel like they’ve been duped and cheated. The fact is that they told audiences that a character had a particular motivation for the last 5 seasons, etched it into to him like it was the very essence of his being, and suddenly they wanted audiences to believe that he was forsaking it in the last moment. That he would simply give it up at the first sign of adversity. That he’d be just kosher with not only giving it up but destroying the object of his obsession within 2 brief episodes. It’s utterly ridiculous, I don’t believe any of it and these writers shouldn’t be surprised by that. You can’t tell me that someone is deep and sensitive in one breath and then tell me they’re angling for an upper management position in a society that enslaves the vulnerable in the next….particularly if the bottom of barrel is exactly where they come from. It makes no fucking sense.

Because of his core nature as a sensitive, loving and loyal individual, the ONLY parts of Nick Blaine’s character that actually EVER made any sense were the ones attached to Mayday, those that loved June, that “would do anything for me and for Nicole”, that were trapped and tricked into signing onto Gilead, anything else just seemed in direct conflict with his personality overall. Blaine cried over a dead handmaid and refused to call June by her slave name, he had contacts in Mayday that he referred to as “friendlies”. What made the writers think I would believe an individual this sensitive and obviously invested in rebel operations, would seek a higher position in this society for ANY other reason than to subvert it? Ambitious greedy ghouls do not smuggle out letters of imprisoned handmaids and they don’t baulk over sleeping with their child brides. They just don’t give a fuck.

Right now show runners are working overtime to create a narrative in which they write off Nicks damning choices in episode 6 as the result of both full autonomy AND coercive control. If he acted with full autonomy, Blaine was a monster who knew what he was doing, sought power and subscribed to Gilead’s rhetoric of slavery. If he was acting as a result of coercive control he was frightened, abused and controlled with little to no recourse. The reason that the writers couldn’t decide which one it was, was because they wanted it to be the first, but they knew full well it was the second. Season 1 and 2 had already shown that Blaine was indeed stripped of his autonomy and yet in 5 10 Tuello claimed that he could have run away with her while he lived at the Waterfords. They were trying to alter the narrative around how much power he had possessed, but it was too late, we’d already seen the dogs, the drones, the spotlights, the checkpoints and all those guardians. We’d already seen all that old school Gilead terror and we weren’t about to forget it.

Show runners claimed that Blaine had full autonomy on the basis that he had many chances to defect, but again there was plenty of evidence to discredit this theory. In season 2 when Blaine took Osborne to the Boston Globe he said "I'm risking my life to save you", indicating he was monitored, restricted and had just about as much autonomy as she did. Had Blaine exercised full autonomy, there was no question he would have been captured and executed. When June boarded the plane to leave, a driver also attempted to sneak on board. He was hauled off the plane and shot by Gilead guards, this heavily implied that Blaine would have died if he’d tried to accompany her. In season 3 Eleanor told June that Lawrence could never leave because he’d be imprisoned for life. In season 4 Fred was arrested at the border and jailed, when he tried to negotiate immunity he was traded back to Gilead and ended up dead. In season 5 Blaine WAS offered a deal from Tuello which he took, but it did require that he remain in Gilead indefinitely. Throughout season 6 the presence of Wharton was inserted specifically to create an environment of coercive control that restricted and monitored his movements. So no I don’t believe he had full autonomy. It also seems incredibly odd for the writers to say that Blaine has full autonomy and THEN have Serena tell June “If he ever thought he had a choice, he would have chosen you”. I mean in what alternative dimension should an audience NOT be confused by this constant mixed messaging?

I was informed through various forms of PR, that the second Blaine knew his relationship was over with Osborne he’d simply sought to lose himself in power, but this was utterly ridiculous. Blaine had been confronted with the reality of losing her many times before and he still hadn’t stuck his face in a bucket of Kool Aid. The idea that Blaine had failed to show up and do anything about June being executed because he considered their relationship over, was laughable. In season 4 he’d strong armed Lawrence into keeping her alive even though he knew she “was never coming back to him”. In season 5 he dashed across the border and signed a contract with Tuello just to ensure her safety even though “she already has people who care for her, I’m nothing”. It didn’t wash. NONE of it washed. Now I MIGHT have been able to swallow that he’d taken solace in Gilead after his relationship with Osborne completely dissolved but there was no period of mourning for the loss of a deep abiding love he’d carried with him for 5 and half seasons. No tears, no despair, nothing….Instead Blaine immediately started rambling on about Gilead like it was Sale of the fucking Century and he couldn’t get enough of those Nazi war spoils. It was utterly baffling. Mid season we all travelled deep into the Twilight Zone when Blaine made some sort of schizophrenic switch from prioritising June to an unquenchable thirst for power. It was impossible to reconcile with his previous manifestation, but somehow this all remained my fault for failing to grasp it, rather than the writers for either not communicating it in earlier seasons or an ill advised quick change.

We were also told that Blaine was a villain because of his role in the original attacks and that well, because you had to be a bad guy to be promoted to a commander. Firstly; scenes of Blaine actually participating in the original attacks were cut and are now being cited as part of the character history, and I’m not sure that works in their favour, as the original ones show him being sick and stunned at the violence anyway. It read more like someone who’d been roped into something that had quickly turned nightmarish and of which he now couldn’t escape. In season 3 Blaine said about the government “they don’t give a shit about us” and “once you get in bed with the government, it’s not so easy to get out”, not REALLY the words of an enamoured loyalist. Secondly; Blaine was promoted from a Eye to a Commander as a form of punishment from Fred for his insubordination, to have him sent to the front to die. These two singular moments should have been definitively painted to follow the writers intention from the beginning, but they weren’t and as a result his characters role in Gilead's conception and growth remained hazy at best. Again, not the audiences fault, the writers. Creators can't keep claiming they had an active loyalist on their hands all along when everything they ever showed their audience said otherwise. They can't keep claiming it in the face of the source material which completely contradicts them.

It’s pretty telling that audiences aren’t so much sad as angry about it. Writers are doubling down because well, they don’t have much choice. What’s done is done and they’re never going to take any of it back or admit any shortcomings. They’re never going to admit they sidelined and significantly altered a character from the source material. They’re never going to admit they out right IGNORED their audience and then proudly claimed to be listening to them. After analysing all of the diatribe and reasoning that the cast, writers and show runners have put forth I’ve come to a few simple conclusions about why Blaine was killed off. Firstly: Certain individuals could not tolerate the idea of a woman leaving her husband for another man, I believe this stems from a deep seated theological indoctrination that is ingrained into American society and consequently into ALL of their writing. It’s most evident in their attitudes to sex and love and these moralistic shackles severely restrict all of their plot and character development. My advice, go and learn from some of our British friends, they know how to write and their final seasons don’t look like a dogs breakfast. Secondly: He was used as a scapegoat for the rest of the Gilead four. Put simply, they had to have at least one bad guy. They needed Aunt Lydia for The Testaments, Serena was a mommy and Whitford baggsied "Not It" apparently. The death of Fred in season 4 created the lack of a necessary antagonist for the protagonist, and these writers simply couldn't use Serena, Lydia or Lawrence. One was a mommy, one was performing a redemption arc and the other was too cuddly. Nick, as the "other man" made the perfect candidate, he was mysterious, inconvenient and could be twisted into a loyalist with some sneaky back tracking. Unfortunately the source material and previous seasons said otherwise, ultimately they should have gone with Lawrence or even Serena as the fall out has been horrendous. Thirdly: they wanted to make a political statement about young males being recruited into neo fascism in America today. They were not concerned about breaking with literary integrity, character construct or even narrative symbolism in order to achieve it. As someone who has taught analysis of media and literature, I can honestly say, they should have been concerned, because it definitely looks fucking broken and it will cost these creators.

I’m still reeling from the fact that so many gossamer threads in this vast story line which could have been pulled together beautifully, were instead clumsily tangled or just abandoned. Replaced instead with plot lines delivered with a clumsy ignorance of how the audience would actually feel. Which sick fuck thought that plane trip into the abyss should be the Casablanca ending they were referring to all along? I’d prefer to leave The Handmaid’s Tale behind me at the end of season 4. Even though some of the constructs of Blaine’s character were already incorrectly portrayed by this point, it was during season 5 that show runners decided to truly begin Blaine's slide from ambiguous ally to Gilead loyalist. One of the biggest appeals of Nick Blaine was his mystery but it seems that during these last 2 seasons show creators were intent on stripping him of it and reducing him to nothing but a 2 dimensional family man who just turned to water at the mere sight of a strong father figure.

Miller’s Wilderness was possibly one of the most amazing television season finales I’ve ever seen, and it just never got any better than that. It set the story line up beautifully to lead into The Testaments, and he could have simply walked straight into his spin off with a few cameos to smoothen the transition. I don’t know why those writers were so afraid of the character dynamic between Nick and June, it was extraordinary and we’ll be lucky to see one like it ever again. From the beginning there was something about these two that the audience emotionally engaged with and if the writers had been smarter they would have truly acknowledged and embraced it. Instead their relationships sudden end, and the death of Nick Blaine, will become the one thing that follows this series around, and sticks in the craw of many viewers for years to come.

[peachiejeongin]

when another guy calls | ot8

synopsis: stray kids when another guy calls you during sex pairing: ot8!skz x reader (separately) genre: smut warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ recommended), mentions of sex, answering the phone during sex notice: hello, my loves! i am in a smut writing mood, if you cannot tell. please take a look at the inspiration fiction i have linked below (diorcities is so talented so give them some interaction!), and without further ado, enjoy the fiction :)

inspiration: diorcities (fiction is linked! reading it before mine is highly encouraged!) smut under the cut!

✮⋆˙bang chan — "who the fuck is it?" bang chan is normally a sweet, nurturing partner during intimate moments; however, your phone had been buzzing all. night. long. every time he had found himself getting a rhythm, making both himself and you feel on cloud 9, your ringtone would knock him off pace, leaving him feeling frustrated. he snatches your phone off of the bedside table with one hand, still using the other to prop himself up. as he looks at the caller id, a harsh chuckle escapes his lips. "him again? seriously?" without hesitation, he answers the phone, a possessive jealousy coursing through his veins as he puts the call on speaker. he sets the phone on the pillow, right beside your face, before thrusting into you, hard, deep, and quick. loud, desperate moans spill from you, despite your pitiful attempts to keep them muffled. after a few minutes, chan picks your phone back up, only to realize the guy in question had hung up the call. "i think he got the message, baby girl."

✮⋆˙lee know

— "well, would you look who it is," minho quirks an annoyed eyebrow at your phone before his gaze turns to you. an attempted night of lovemaking after lee know had returned home from tour was nothing short of thwarted after an ex-partner of yours had been desperately trying to reconnect. "looks like he really wants your attention, angel," minho says before holding out your phone for you to take. "why don't you give it to him?" you slow your movements on top of minho, ready to answer the call and tell your ex off; however, lee know grabs hold of your hips harshly before you do so, bouncing you up and down his length himself. "i didn't say to stop moving, baby." your heart is pounding in your chest as you resume your movements on your own, answering the phone call as you do so. minho cannot help but giggle as you attempt to stifle your moans and whines as you tell your ex off, muttering a "f-fuck you!" before hanging up the call. you throw your phone down somewhere on the bed before speeding up your pace, drowing out the prior events in pleasure and making minho lose his mind. "someone got a little excited, didn't they?"

✮⋆˙changbin

— "hello?" your body tenses as changbin answers your cell phone; the constant buzzing and ringing while he was trying to worship you had driven him to his limits. now, he figured he would take care of the problem himself, still lightly thrusting in and out of you as he held a conversation with the guy who had ruined his plans. "sorry, buddy. she can't talk right now. she's a bit...preoccupied with me." you feel yourself clench tightly around changbin, causing him to let out a quiet swear. "sure, i'll let her know. take care now." changbin hangs up the phone before immediately blocking the phone number and turning his focus back onto you, railing into you like a man who has been touch starved for centuries. when you questioned what the guy wanted you to know, changbin just smirked, placing a hand at the base of your neck as he held intense eye contact with you. "don't you worry about that, baby. you're mine, not his."

✮⋆˙hyunjin

— "darling, i'm getting tired of this," hyunjin whispers against your core, adorned by a light groan. you were exhausted by it, too. ever since hyunjin had returned home, you could not get a moment of peace for the night without this guy—an old tinder hookup from before you had even met hyunjin—trying to hit you up; you had tried everything, even putting your phone on do not disturb, to which the guy bypassed it every single time. you let out a hearty sigh, both from the asshole's abhorrent actions and the loss of pleasure for the nth time that night. hyunjin noticed your frustration immediately and held out his hand. "hand me your phone, pretty," hyunjin commanded. you did so, but right as you did, your phone had stopped ringing; however, hyunjin had another solution. he scrolled to your camera app, positioning your phone to where the lens could capture the perfect angle of him eating you out. he began recording before delving back into your pussy, not stopping until he had made you cum—albeit, the thrill of being recorded added to your heightened pleasure made it easy for you to finish. at the end of the video, hyunjin cheekily licked his lips before speaking to the guy directly. "don't contact my girlfriend again, you hear me?"

✮⋆˙han

— "this guy can't take a hint, can he?" han shook his head, rolling his eyes as he glanced at the caller id on your phone. an old situationship had been dialing your number for the past, no kidding, thirty minutes. it had started as text messages, asking you to hookup, unaware of your relationship with jisung; however, when you did not respond, it turned to calls. annoying. constant. calls. you were lost in pleasure, too worried about catching your own high to care; han, on the other hand, was irritated that some guy, who with him, you would cross the street to avoid, thought he was entitled enough to interrupt a private moment between him and his lover. thus, jisung quickly grabbed your phone answering the call and, in his mischievous manner, setting it to a facetime call. he flipped the camera on to you, showing the guy just how fucked out you looked beneath him. "smile, baby. you're being recorded," han told you with a laugh before the guy, looking absolutely mortified, hung up the call. you both began to giggle at what had just happened, with han diving down to place a light-hearted, yet passionate kiss to your lips. "he's just jealous i make you feel better than he ever could."

✮⋆˙felix

— "answer the phone, sweetheart," felix dared you, whispering the command in your ear like a sacred mantra. "it's him again, i know it is." felix held out your phone in his hands for you to take, but you violently shook your head, the thought of being heard while being intimate with your boyfriend, more so the thought of struggling to keep the latter fact hidden, too embarrassing to entice. felix tilted his head curiously. "no? hm, guess i'll have to relay the message myself then." without giving you a chance to protest, felix answered the call. right as he muttered 'hello,' he thrusted into you deeply, holding himself there for a few seconds—just long enough to elicit a hearty whine from you. he pulled the phone away from his ear, a finger teasingly over his lips. "don't want him to hear you moaning like a little slut, now do you?" he whispered, pulling out of you before slamming back in, gaining the same reaction. "mm, sorry mate, she's kinda busy right now." felix looked back at you, smirking. "yeah, she's busy then, too. in fact, she's tied up pretty much every day this week. plans with a boyfriend can really get in the way of a social life, y'know?" you could not help but chuckle—weakly but genuinely—at felix's sly revelation of your relationship. "no worries, mate. take care now." as he hung up the phone, he tossed it somewhere within the room and buried himself deeper than ever into your heat. "so loud while i'm on the phone, angel. must've liked me telling him off, yeah?"

✮⋆˙seungmin

— "you have got to be kidding me," seungmin groaned as he heard the familiar buzz. he was buried deep inside of your throat, your lips taking every inch of his length beautifully; yet it was hard to find pleasure in the action when a guy cannot stop blowing up his girlfriend's phone. he grabs your phone off of your charger, answering the call, and handing the phone to you. "go on, love. get rid of him," he commanded slyly, knowing full well you could not talk to him, at least not coherently. you were purely terrified, only being able to mumble out low "mhms" and "mmms", all of which sent vibrations jolting through seungmin's body and caused him to, essentially, fuck your throat as you attempted to hold a conversation with the guy. when seungmin's thighs began to tremble and his mouth opened in a slight 'o' shape, your anxiety spiked, certain he was going to let out a loud, guttural moan as he came; however, as his climax hit, all he could do was laugh coldly, both at your fearful expression and your pitiful attempts at talking to the guy. when he came down from his high, you released him with a wet 'pop!' which you were almost positive was audible, before muttering something about how you had to go and hanging up the phone. seungmin then grabbed your phone and deleted his contact. "no more of him. understand?"

✮⋆˙jeongin

— "what does this guy even want?" jeongin angrily asked, snatching your phone. he read over the text messages the guy had sent you, scoffing as he sat your phone back down. "pathetic," he mumbled, diverting his attention back to your neck, assaulting it lovingly with hickeys, light bite marks, and rough, open-mouthed kisses. you let out a string of soft whimpers as your hips softly grinded against jeongin, his hands guiding your movements in place. just as his hands found their way to the hem of your shirt, preparing to take it off, your phone buzzed once more, causing him to sigh out of frustration and pull away from your neck. only the buzzing continued, making jeongin's tongue prod at his cheek out of annoyance. "are you fucking kidding me? he's calling this time?" jeongin wasted no time in answering the phone, letting out a rough sigh before talking. "hey, man. i don't know if you've noticed or not, but she's not really interested in talking to you, so could you kindly fuck off so i can fuck my girlfriend in peace?" your eyes widened, your mouth went agape, and a few giggles escaped your lips; jeongin paused for a brief minute, rolling his eyes undoubtedly to the guy's response. "wonderful. goodbye." with that, jeongin sat your phone down, his fingers re-finding your shirt hem as he began to gently lift it off. "now, where were we?"

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀs ʙʏ: @strangergraphics-archive & @aquazero

🏷️~ @amararosesblog @velvetmoonlght (DM/Inbox to be added!)

[ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ? ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴀ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ, ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ!]

[serensama]

Thursday Bangers: Dr, Who?

My many thanks to the amazing @woundedsoul12 who runs this fabulous game - it's too much fun to miss out on every week darling, thank you! Special shoutout to @davrinsleftpectoral who is just the cutest and @kabsey for being such a little cheerleader, much love lovelies <3

This one got super away from me and sits at around 3.6k so ... yeah. That's a thing now. My dumbass does not know what a blurb is TT__TT;

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

This week's Banger just really jumped out and spoke to me so I hope it does the same for you. I am getting suggestions for weekly bangers and I love that and am adding them to the request line.

No matter what happens, he cannot come between us again I know we're better than friends- Million Dollar Baby by Tommy Richman

--- She had to ask herself again if she was heading down a self-sabotaging spiral. She had spent an embarrassing amount of time getting herself ready and choosing between which little black dress didn’t scream out ‘desperate’ but also didn’t say ‘prude’- and settled for the fitted mid-length, off the shoulder satin number, with a noticeable slit on the front of her thigh. Enough to tell people she was happy for them to look, but she wasn't going to provide the whole show without a little bit of effort from them. 

Lilya almost changed her mind three times on her way there, but she knew if she didn’t actively do something about her needs, she’d be compelled to do something stupid. She was a proponent of the phrase ‘physician, heal thyself,' and she wanted to believe that by tackling the problem head-on, it would finally get her back on track and leave the past behind her. She could call this foray into questionable decisions a part of her self-care regime, that finding someone willing to indulge her in a night of frivolity and hedonism, with no questions asked and no strings attached, would be a cure-all to her unending fantasies about a certain Casanova. 

The Diamond was infinitely busier than the last time she came with Teia. Bodies were pressed up against each other as the crowd tried to move to and from the dance floor and the bar; the bass of the song thumping so hard that she almost mistook it for her own heartbeat.

Lilya surveyed the club and managed to make out the familiar silhouette of her best friend at the corner of the bar, the bright lights that illuminated the benchtops, accentuating her sharp jaw and highlighting the white of her shirt. She giggled when she noticed she had also worn a fabulous (but ridiculous) fascinator to the club. Bless her.  Neve, astute as always, turned just in time to see her across the room and raised her eyebrows in a subtle greeting. Lilya moved through the people and suddenly remembered why she had stopped going to places like this in her 30s. It was because she detested large groups of people. Add copious amounts of alcohol, lust and drugs, and they were a horde of mindless beasts looking for another creature to rut upon. She paused when she realised that was also precisely what she had intended to do that night. Minus the excessive drugs and alcohol. Was that any better? Is being a carnally charged animal better when one wasn’t wasted? In her professional opinion?... Oh screw her professional opinion. She wasn’t out as Dr de Riva. She was just Lilya there. After one more ‘excuse me!’, she was able to find herself next to Neve, who quickly passed a shot glass that she downed without hesitation, causing her friend’s mouth to quirk into a sly smirk. “I could have slipped something in that, you know.” “As if you’d need it to get me into bed.” “Touché.” 

“So, who were you meant to be meeting?” “Already met him. He’s an informant of mine; he said he’d only meet here as he had some business to attend to, and I had to work around his schedule. Criminals these days, no bloody manners.” Lilya stole the bottle of liquor Neve held and poured herself another shot, nursing the liquid in small sips. “And you thought dragging your poor defenceless civilian friend along was a great idea?” Neve smirked, toying with her cigarette holder between her fingers, Lilya knowing her friend was probably itching for a smoke as she always did whenever she drank. “You? Defenceless? Miss ‘My brother is probably having me tailed’?” Lilya groaned. Her stepbrother was the paranoid type, and ever since he took over the family business, he had become even more wary of the people she associated with. Telling her at every chance to be more cautious, to stop being so trusting, and to make sure to take tester kits wherever she went, to ensure the water they served wasn't poisoned. 

“He stopped doing that years ago.” “He did?” “Mhmm. I made one of his little spies cry and sent him back home with his tail between his legs. I told him I would do that to each and every person he sent.”  “Fantastic. I’ll drink to that!” “You’d drink to me just blinking.” “And it wouldn’t even be the first time I did,” the detective smirked and raised her glass to her, rolling it along her cheek with the palm of her hand before deftly pouring the alcohol into her mouth. Neve tapped on the bar and pointed to both the ladies’ and smokers’ rooms, only waiting a moment for Lilya to shake her head before effortlessly disappearing into the crowd. She poured herself the last of the Gran Patròn and smiled to herself. Neve was not one to normally spend so frivolously; even on a detective’s salary, she fed most of her money back into her community. This bottle alone would have cost her at least $700, and she had known this woman since university; that $700 was better served in Dock Town, not in the bottom of a toilet bowl after a night of binge drinking. Whoever her informant was, they were generous with both their intel and their money. 

Lilya turned around and leant against the bar, resorting to what she did whenever she was alone in public. She people-watched. She smiled at the group of young women out celebrating a bachelorette party. A lovely thing in the middle was dressed in white, wearing a plastic bejewelled tiara on her head and a satin sash across her body, with “bride to be” written in bright pink lettering. There was a large group of finance bros or lawyer types, all suited up and congratulating themselves on the deals they had closed, vying to be the most lavish amongst each other to prove something about the size of their bank accounts. Then she happened to look across to where some of the semi-private booths were, and there was a man watching her intently, his shot glass halfway to his mouth. He smirked at her and raised his arm in a toast, and she joined him, about to drink, when he motioned for her to stop abruptly. She laughed and waited as the mysterious man had asked, doing her best to look quizzically at him, silently asking for permission to drink. He shook his head and wiggled the index finger of his free hand to her, Lilya almost hearing him tut at her. 

He stood up, to the disappointed cries of the party around him, and he waved them off, shouting back what she could only assume were obscenities for his friends to shut up. He made his way to her, with all the confidence and swagger of someone she knew she would be attracted to… then as he drew closer to her, his features became clearer under the brighter lights. 

He could have passed as another bloody Dellamorte. Same high cheekbones, a strong nose, and thick, dark, lustrous hair. He was bloody gorgeous. The sharp ring of their glasses snapped her out of her daze, to find him thoroughly enjoying having her undivided attention. 

“Sorry, it seemed a shame to miss an opportunity to share a toast with a beautiful woman,” he said, clinking his glass against hers once more. Lilya sat up straighter, trying to think if she should entertain the wicked idea forming in her head. If she could not be with Illario Dellamorte, perhaps she could scratch the itch with someone who kinda - kinda really - looked like him and simulate some sort of closure that way. Was it healthy? Was it something she would recommend to one of her patients? Of course bloody not. But she was not her patient, and she was still human and fallible. There was nothing unethical about her sleeping with someone who looked like her former-patient’s cousin… if there was, god damn it, the ethics committees these days needed to get laid too. 

“Oh, you wanted a beautiful woman? You just missed her; she just went to the bathroom. But she’ll be back soon if you want to wait. Until then, you’re welcome to put up with the likes of me,” she smiled, gesturing to the empty seat next to her. The stranger chuckled and shook his head, pointing at her cheekily. “Ah, you caught onto my game, I am so ashamed. I guess I should do the honourable thing and talk to you and get to know you, maybe even buy you a drink or two to make up for my terrible behaviour… Miss-?” Lilya took a second to think about what she was about to do, weighing up the pros and cons of following through with her hormone-fuelled plan. “Lilya,” she replied, her smile growing as his widened at learning her name. “And yes, a drink, or two, would be the very least you could do after humiliating me like that, Mister?” “Another bottle of what she’s having,” he said offside to the bartender, who merely nodded dutifully. “And it’s Elek, pleasure to meet you, Lilya. Whatever you have in mind for me to undertake as an act of contrition, I would be more than happy to do,” he answered with such a honeyed tone she was already tempted to lick the side of his mouth to see if he tasted as sweet. “Buy you dinner? Achieve world peace? Cure cancer? Worship at your feet until you saw fit to let me stand again.” He poured her a glass. “Name it.” He was probably a long-lost cousin of theirs. Their flirtier, wisecracking long-lost cousin. 

“And if I choose to never let you up from the floor? What then?” she asked teasingly, letting her eyes run up and down his body provocatively, leaving no room for interpretation of what she meant. 

It was his turn to pause as a light dusting of pink spread through his cheeks, which she knew had nothing to do with the amount of liquor he had imbibed that evening. “Well then,” he began, tipping his glass back faster than he should have to savour the taste of the sipping tequila. “I would hope that you would have mercy on me… and at least give me a pillow for my knees. I may look young, but these joints just aren’t what they used to be. I would hate for you to be distracted by the sound of them cracking. I’d have to start my apology all over again.” 

Lilya burst out laughing and took a sip from her glass. 

“Alright Elek, you have my attention. Tell me about yourself,” she smiled. 

— 

Illario winced when a dull pain radiated through his cheek, the bruise slowly starting to darken from the pink it was earlier that day. If it were up to him, he’d be at home icing up his damn injury but once his grandmother had told him she had taken the liberty of rescheduling the meeting he had been in charge of - he wanted to scream. He stupidly thought for a second that she had done it out of concern for his well-being, wanting her grandson to get thoroughly checked out and ensure he was fine. But no, she wanted to be certain that he couldn’t potentially ruin the merger because he wasn’t of sound mind due to his injury and/or incompetence. Old witch probably assumed that he was going to go insane over seeing Zara again. He was half tempted to tell her to do it herself or wrangle his cousin to do it instead - but he bit his tongue. As they all did when it came to Caterina. 

“If you are so eager, go see Teia yourself. She told me in passing that she will be at The Diamond sometime tonight.” 

The last thing he wanted to do was go to the same damn club he met Lilya in, not when she was literally in his hands just 12 hours earlier. It would be like an exercise of torture, and as masochistic as he could get, even he wanted no part of it, given his current foul mood.

Illario moved easily past security and was instantly assaulted by the smell of harsh colognes and too-sweet perfumes, the din of too many people talking at once, and the pulsing lights threatening to trigger a migraine when combined with his smarting cheek. He didn’t even know if Teia was there yet; he was just forced to go and wait until she appeared. Thankfully, his EA had the presence of mind to call ahead and secure a private room for him to wait in and to be advised when she would arrive. He was about to be led through the club when he picked up a familiar laugh, cutting through the brief moment of silence between tracks being played, and after only hearing it that day, he could have placed it anywhere. 

He turned his head to the sound and craned his neck, dodging around the people walking between them.  She was there. Laughing. 

With another man. 

She leaned in a little too closely, her right arm upon the bar to support her, the man’s arm slung low around her waist. He watched as the cocky little shit pulled her closer and whispered something in her ear which made her laugh even harder, the psychiatrist almost falling backward. Thankfully, the idiot at least had decent reflexes and caught her, taking full advantage of the situation to press her against him. Illario could feel his stomach turn, his teeth clenching at the sight. He didn’t want to see this. Didn’t want to see her from the sidelines as some other guy was lucky enough to hold her and steal a kiss from her lips, when he knew it should have been him in his place. Illario keenly observed the couple in their not-so-private moment, fighting against himself as to whether he wanted to retch at them deepening their kiss or if he wanted to go over and smash the man’s head into the bar… and then retch on him for good measure. From his vantage point, he could see her pull back, her lips slightly swollen and her cheeks flushed with colour. Lilya said something to her companion, and he nodded, taking her hand and guiding her onto the dance floor. His feet followed them without realising, the surprised voice of the club manager fading off into obscurity as he walked away from her, to see where that man had taken his favourite physician. 

The man had chosen a free space in the middle of the floor, surrounded by so many others moving to the rhythm. He lifted her hand and encouraged her to spin, circling his arms around her to stop her, both laughing heartily. With a move so smooth even Illario had to give him props, he spun her again so her back rested against his chest, the two just swaying to the music. Illario could feel himself sneer as the man trailed his nose down the line of her neck, and he could see her enjoying it; Illario could almost hear her breathy sighs in his ears. He fumed at the hands that weren’t his, exploring the curve of Lilya’s hips and thighs as he continued to whisper things to her she obviously approved of. Illario felt himself mirror her actions, biting his lip whenever she bit hers. 

He was screaming at himself for just gawking at them, even at his lowest, he would never stoop to being voyeuristic without the other person’s knowledge – yes, he was kinky, but he wasn’t a creep - when another woman came and tapped the man on the shoulder. She was as gorgeous as she was furious; even from where he stood, he could feel the ire emitting from her. Lilya’s dance partner said his quick goodbyes and obediently followed the woman off into a dark corner, where she had taken the man by the collar and was tearing into him quite obviously. He didn’t have to hear the conversation to know the woman was warning the man never to stray close to Lilya-or perhaps any other woman-again.  The cheating bastard should have known better. 

Lilya chuckled to herself and looked around, embarrassed, her expression unsure if she should stay dancing by herself or head back to the bar. Illario watched her enraptured as her thoughts crossed over her face for him to see, her bright eyes closing as she allowed herself to get back into the beat of the song, uncaring that she no longer had a partner to join her, just happy to dance on her own until someone else stepped in. Her hips rocked from side to side as her arms went up above her head as she bounced to the music, happily carving out her own little niche on the floor until her pretty eyes opened and landed directly on him. 

---

Lilya paused, frozen to the spot as the realisation of who she was looking at dawned on her. That was not Elek. Nor was it another man who merely resembled the one who had plagued her thoughts for the last three months. It was actually him. Somehow, he had known exactly where to find her, and he was looking at her as if she were his prey. She did not move as he stalked his way over to her, all fluid lines and smooth motions like the perfect predator. 

“You look like you’re about to leap on me, Mr Dellamorte. I don’t see any errant exes lurking here in the shadows you need saving from,” she teased when he was within earshot. “Have you managed to turn into some sort of animal in our hours apart? Have you come here on the prowl as the big bad wolf?” 

Maker, she was never going to drink again. She was a bloody menace to society. 

“Well, I’m certainly not your grandmother,” he said, with the same glint in his eye that fascinated her the first time they met. 

“I’d hope not. Otherwise, I’d have to ask how you managed to get your eyesight back, Abuelita- and that might make it weird,” Lilya smiled, her hand rubbing at his chest.  Illario could not help but break into a grin when she did not pull away from him. “All the better to see you from across the room, my dear.”  

Feeling emboldened, he closed the distance between them so they almost touched and allowed his fingers to skim up her arms, unable to conceal his delight at the way she swallowed instinctively, goosebumps rising along the path he’d travelled. He could tell she was having another internal struggle, being so close to him, torn between what she should do and what she wanted to do. His hands somehow found themselves around her waist, thumbs lightly kneading into her, her eyes darkening as they focused on his mouth. 

“What… what large hands you have.” 

“All the better to feel more of you with… My dear,” Illario played along, chuckling amusedly. He could feel her relax in his hold, and he pressed his forehead to hers, relishing the physical closeness he seemed to share so easily with her - a force of chemistry or connection he had never felt with anyone. Lilya pulled back to scan over his features, her hands ghosting over his face, fingers tracing the shape of his lips until they pulled back into a wolfish grin. 

She licked her lips. So did he. Illario could feel her breathing pick up, shallow and fast. 

“My, my,” she whispered, her mouth slyly evading his whenever he tried to kiss her again, giggling softly as he growled with every missed attempt. “What big teeth you have.” 

Illario laughed so loudly that some of the other revellers turned around at the sound. His hands shifted to cradle her face, and he pressed a kiss to her hairline, tipping his mouth toward the shell of her ear to ensure his lips feathered against the delicate skin there. “Now, now, darling Lilya. You must remember just how well I can eat you… And if you don’t… I look forward to the chance to remind you.” 

Her eyebrows softly curved upward with want, a gasp falling from her lips as her desire took over her, and he waited. They were barely a whisper apart, and if she allowed it, he would be able to kiss her without any other pretence than simply wanting to. 

She nodded. 

Illario could feel her warm breath on him, eager to taste her lips again- 

“Honestly, Lilya. I leave you alone for ten minutes, and you manage to entangle yourself with not one, but two strange men? I don’t know if I should be worried, envious or proud?” 

Lilya was released from her wayward longing the moment she heard the other woman's voice and quickly stepped away from Illario; the club was still stifling, but the air around them had turned sharp, almost glacial by contrast. She muttered her apologies and used words like ‘inappropriate’, ‘inebriated’, ‘foolish’ and 'never again' before tottering away and linking arms with her friend, the latter giving him a long but entertained look as she led them out. 

Illario shoved his fists deeply into his pockets, unsure if he’d hit someone with how wound up he felt. He counted to ten and breathed, and then did it again before letting his hands fall to his sides and walking out of the club. He couldn’t sit there and mull over what had just happened; he’d drive himself insane. Lilya’s little retreat only poured fuel on the fire already raging inside him. Whatever it was they shared, it wasn’t one-sided. It wasn’t imagined. She wanted him just as much; he felt it in every look and every breath between them. His need for her grew into something fiercer, even more consuming. He had just been chasing her before. Now, she would feel what it meant to be truly hunted by him.

Softly tagging: @jenn2d2 @rookamell @gingervitus @hedwigoprah @trash-nerd @cocoboots @thedissonantverses @ofcrowsanddragons @apothe-cary @serstolas @selennes @brennacedria @basedonconjecture @mythals-whore @seaglassmelody @hightowerqueen @skullypettibone @feaches @the-sparrohawk @nimblefox66 @introvertedfangrl and anyone else who wants to play!

[pathofcomets]

the red sun is losing its light

He lets you go. That’s what Sylus does.

He watches over you, he allows you to lean on him, he helps you, he doesn’t contradict you and protects you when undoubtedly you fail, he teases you and reads your needs before you feel them yourself, and then when it’s all done, he lets you go.

Go back to your tidy, pretty life. Go back to the world where you can pretend he doesn’t exist. 

Go be the person you learnt to be without him. 

He doesn’t hold it over you, the fact that you didn’t remember him. He doesn’t want you to look that sad again, as you did when all of it came rushing back. It’s been so long for him, the pain has dulled, just you at the forefront of his thoughts. 

You don’t have that buffer. So even as you wake up exhausted, days after the fact, he cannot stop you from going. He cannot open his mouth to claim you, to explain exactly what it means, to have your souls tied so. To fill up the gaps in memory, reach out to you and know himself wanted. 

So he lets you go.

In the aftermath of your actions, there’s enough work to do in N109 Zone, and he allows himself to sink into that with a ferocity that scares everyone. People bleed, streets and walls painted red, matched across his knuckles. Empires crash, as he gurges on more and more and more - and yet never enough, because nothing is quite as close as having you to make him full. He throws things across room after room, throughout multiple locations, to keep his hands busy from trying to reach out to you. He won’t be just a different leash, he won’t lay a claim on you beyond what’s been given to him lifetimes ago, he won’t beg anymore.

He lets you go, because in the deep recess of his heart, he hopes you’ll be back. He lets you go, even though in the deep recess of his heart, he has no idea how he will ever be enough.

Days and nights pass. He’s growing scared.

Days and nights pass. He’s growing sloppy.

The featherlight touch at his temple catches him unaware, having fallen asleep in the chair of his armory. He never sleeps, not like this, but he’s been the type of tired that only days of rest or a hug can fix.

You’re kind, tender, gaze softening as he blinks, bringing himself to awareness, enough to turn his head and catch your hand in his. Then, just as gently as you’ve been treating him, he places a kiss against your palm, lips lingering to your fingertips, one by one, before allowing your hand to fall between your bodies, resting against his heart.

It beats, always, in the same rhythm as your heart. Faulty at times, but yours nonetheless.

You’ve killed people for him with the same hand you’re using to caress him. He doesn’t think he can adore you any more than in this moment, returned to him, and he’d give away all he has for this moment to be stopped in time.

“What are you doing, Sylus?” you say, softly, but your voice is firm, chiding even and he sighs, because that means someone told on him, and if it is his own worried twins or someone on your side, he doesn’t have it in him to care.

“Playing dominoes.”

“With people’s lives?”

“Started long ago, Little Bomb.”

And your eyes go softer, your hold against his shirt growing tighter. Because you know exactly how long ago, a revenge over a decade in the making, Sylus a most careful planner. Genius, really. 

“Didn’t we agree you’re part of my ending?”

A conversation not from that long ago, but still back when goals were satisfied and memories hidden. He isn’t sure you still want him now, but why would you be here otherwise? To break him, blame him? 

He cannot answer, instead just staring at you, hanging on your every word, too jaded to hope; he doesn’t rely on something as fickle as that. 

“So where do I fall, Sylus? In your game?” you continue, and you shift, just enough to go straddling his body.

Sylus swallows the knot in his throat, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, looking up at you to notice the way your gaze drops to his mouth for just a brief second, trying to steel himself. And when you at last meet his eyes, he answers.

“You’re the only real thing,” and he grabs your other hand, does the same path of kisses in reverse, stopping with his lips against the thin skin at your wrist, where he can feel and taste every flutter of your heart. “And you belong wherever you want to be.”

Your breath hitches when you can feel his tongue against your now heated skin.

“Here, then,” you say, and Sylus grins.

[rocksibblingsau]

Doing some "spring cleaning" in my notes app rn so I decided to finally re-send my old Incorrect Branch AU quotes that got lost in the depths of your askbox (or got got by Tumblr, but same difference really) so it can finally stop collecting digital dust in my phone lmao, rip to the old one I guess ✊😔 rest in piss old friend rest in piss something something in the arms of an angel something something

Anyhow, enjoy!

Country Branch: Dandelions symbolize everythin' I want to be in life

Holly Darling: Fluffy and dead with a gust of wind?

Country Branch:: Unapologetic. Hard to kill. Feral, filled with sunlight, bright, beautiful in a way that the conventional and controlling hate but cannot ever fully destroy. Stubborn. Happy. Bastardous. Friends with bees. Highly disapproving of lawns. Full of wishes that will be carried far after I die.

Clampers: Edible!

Val, holding a python: Guys I impulsively bought a snake, what do I name him

Rock Branch: You did WHAT–

Demo: William Snakepeare!

Synth: Dubstep, ur like an angel without wings <3

Bergen Branch: So, like a person...

Veneer, tearing up: Must be hard not being able to laugh

Rageons Branch: I do have a sense of humor, you know?

Velvet: We’ve never heard you laugh before

Rageons Branch, shrugging: I’ve never heard you say anything funny

Prince D: What’s the straightest thing you’ve ever done?

Funk Branch: *Sighs*

Funk Branch: I killed a man.

Hickory: Bruder, why are you on ze floor?

Yodeler Branch: I am depressed.

Yodeler Branch: Also I was stabbed, can you get Dickory, bitte?

Synth: Dubs, whaddya call a fish with no eye?

Classical Branch, not looking up: Myxine Circifrons

Synth:

Synth: A fsh

Chaz: People tell me I have a unique way of lighting up a room.

Smooth Jazz Branch: It’s called arson and those people are called witnesses.

Trollex: *yo, text me when ur home safe*

Techno Branch: *im home dangerously*

Trollex: *dude, stop it*

Techno Branch: *im home lethally*

Kpop Branch: The Yodeler Brothers, my old arch enemies.

Tresillo: ...I thought I was your arch enemy?

Kpop Branch: I have a life outside of you, Tracy.

Val: I want to kiss you

Rock Branch, not paying attention: What?

Val: I said if you die, I wont miss you!

Tresillo: ¡¿POR QUÉ?! Why did you give Ramon a KNIFE?!

Marimba: Perdón! He said he felt unsafe!

Tresillo: Now I feel unsafe!

Tambora: Lo sentimos mucho.

Marimba: ... Would you like a knife?

Techno Branch: Yo, who thinks I can fit 15 marshmallows in my mouth???

Country Branch, sighing: Ya are a hazard to society.

Rock Branch: And a fucking coward! DO TWENTY!!

Canon Branch: I think we're missing something.

Funk Branch: Teamwork?

Classical Branch: Cohesion?

Rock Branch: A general sense of what we’re doing?

I love these, I'm mad that tumblr ate them the first time.

[exhaled-spirals]

« I shall call my friends, then, all those influences which warm me and start running again all my currents of thought and imagination. The persons, causes, and books that unlock the prison of my intellectual torpor, I can justly call my friends, for I find that I feel toward them all the same eager joy and inexhaustible rush of welcome.

. . .The difference between them lies in their response to me. My personal friends react upon me; the lecturers and books and music and pictures do not. These are not influenced by my feelings or by what I do. . . The excitement of friendship does not lie with them.

. . .One of the curious superstitions of friendship is that we somehow choose our friends. To the connoisseur in friendship no idea could be more amazing and incredible. Our friends are chosen for us by some hidden law of sympathy, and not by our conscious wills. All we know is that in our reactions to people we are attracted to some and are indifferent to others. And the ground of this mutual interest seems based on no discoverable principles of similarity of temperament or character.

. . .our friends! They are no types, but each a unique, exhaustless personality, with his own absorbing little cosmos of interests round him. And those interests are real and vital, and in some way interwoven with one’s own cosmos.

. . .To those of us, then, who have not been tempted by success, or who have been so fortunate as to escape it, friendship is a life-long adventure. We do not integrate ourselves, and we have as many sides to our character as we have friends to show them to. . . . Each friend calls out some particular trait in us, and it requires the whole chorus fitly to teach us what we are. This is the imperative need of friendship. A man with few friends is only half-developed; there are whole sides of his nature which are locked up and have never been expressed. He cannot unlock them himself, he cannot even discover them; friends alone can stimulate him and open them.. .

Foolish people like to test the bonds of their friendships, pulling upon them to see how much strain they will stand. When they snap, it is as if friendship itself had been proved unworthy. But the truth is that, good friendships are fragile things and require as much care in handling as any other fragile and precious things. . .

[W]e feel that we could go on exhaustless forever, without a pang of ennui. And this inexhaustibility of talk is the truest evidence of good friendship. . .

If we are their friends, we are stimulating them as they are stimulating us. They will find that they talk with unusual brilliancy when they are with us. And we may find that we have, perhaps, merely listened to them. Yet through that curious bond of sympathy which has made us friends, we have done as much for them as if we had exerted ourselves in the most, active way. The only duty of friendship is that we and our friends should live at our highest and best when together. Having achieved that, we have fulfilled the law.

. . . For the secret of friendship is a mutual admiration, and it is the realization or suspicion that that admiration is lessening on one side or the other that swiftly breaks the charm. Now this admiration must have in it no taint of adulation, which will wreck a friendship as soon as suspicion will.

But it must consist of the conviction, subtly expressed in every tone of the voice, that each has found in the other friend a rare spirit, compounded of light and intelligence and charm. And there must be no open expression of this feeling, but only the silent flattery, soft, and almost imperceptible.

And in the best of friendships this feeling is equal on both sides. Too great a superiority in our friend disturbs the balance, and casts a sort of artificial light on the talk and intercourse. We want to believe that we are fairly equal to our friends in power and capacity, and that if they excel us in one trait, we have some counterbalancing quality in another direction. . . It is these aspects of friendship, which cannot be sneered away by the reproach of jealousy, that make friendship a precarious and adventurous thing. But it is precious in proportion to its precariousness, and its littlenesses are but the symptoms of how much friends care, and how sensitive they are to all the secret bonds and influences that unite them.

Those persons and things, then, that inspire us to do our best, that make us live at our best, when we are in their presence, that call forth from us our latent and unsuspected personality, that nourish and support that personality, — those are our friends. The reflection of their glow makes bright the darker and quieter hours when they are not with us. They are a true part of our widest self; we should hardly have a self without them. »

— Randolph S. Bourne, The Excitement of Friendship (1912)

[werezmastarbucks]

3. pomegranates

flowers over boys masterlist

in which you make friends

word count: 2977

the guards frown so that the drops of sweat do not get into their eyes. autumn is very hot this year, trees go a little dry outside the palace, where there's nobody to water them all the time.

inside the palace territory, of course, the greenery is lush, alive, bustling with color, fountains singing its uninvasive, ringing song. one member of the garden crew is missing at work, and your absence is clear. you have made an impression already: maids look around their shoulders to take a look at the lazy, grumbling foreigner humming silly melodies, only to find you are not there, haven't been for the last two days. they shrug and move on, and Jiyoung is worried about you. whatever you may feel in that solitary cage, alone, on the stone floor, with no company? in fact, she is worried enough to send her brother, a meat vender from the market, to see you and bring you some fruit to keep up your spirits.

the spirits do not need to be kept. at least, not yours.

as he approaches the dungeon, keeping under the shade of the slanted roofs, he can already hear that you are alive and well, save for the slightly coarse voice. this is the only stone building in the vicinity, everything else belonging to the king is made of wood, and dungeons are usually quiet places. prisoners normally scream for the first day, then their spirits break down, and they eventually fall deathly quiet, eyes upturned to the narrow windows letting in little light.

here, the guards are wincing, staring in front of them, and he wonders why they need to stay near the royal prisons at all.

"visiting", he says, showing one of them the basket with fruit. but the guards don't seem to be particularly suspicious. tired, maybe.

"singing, huh?" he grins.

"singing", one of them echoes, "sometimes in Korean, sometimes in other, rough-sounding language. we cannot decipher any words".

"perhaps curses".

"hey, you know this one?" you scream from behind the door. you have woken up, rejuvenated by the long, uninterrupted sleep. you have no idea how long you've been out, but when you fell asleep, the sun was up, the rays falling through the narrow bar-like window angularly. and now it's the same. so, at least 24 hours. the stomach is empty, rotten taste in your mouth, but your body is so grateful for not having to bow for twelve hours straight. even on the shit quality mattress, it's probably been the best sleep you've had in a long time.

it's funny that it only occurred to you now, because the song goes really well with being incarcerated:

"i got a good time, yeah, time to get mine", you walk around the small compartment, stone floor under your feet, swinging your arms. it's an exercise just like singing. helps with the morning stiffness and insanity.

"i wandered into a maze, hennessy at night, i never stop, i never stop, again, repe-e-eat", you sing, knowing that the guards hear you. you hope you entertain them just a little.

"i never stop, fuck all your opps, finally free-e-e".

you can see someone blocking out the sun, peeping into your window.

"this song is called 'set me free'", you clarify, stepping to the window. without the sun, there's no way to tell who is looking inside your prison.

"how much longer here? i am running out of the discography".

the voice responding to you tingles with bubbly fun.

"i don't know. i just brough fruit".

you jump up, trying to see.

"Jinnie?!"

he hesitates.

"uh, ah, Jiyoung told you about me?"

"Jiyoung?"

"i am confused", he complains, then steps away from the window, and you can see a part of his face, lit by the sun, as he looks at the guards. well, yes, this is Seokjin, his big round eyes immediately demanding and strict. you press your face against the slit to see him better. there's a flare of capriciousness in his demeanor, all the while he is dressed like the people at the market. there's a blue dress, stained with dark-red spots; probably from blood. he is nothing but a simple vendor, you guess. Jiyoung's husband or relative? they do have similar eyes, and you couldn't get your mind around why you liked her so much. now it makes more sense.

"open the door", he says in the tone of voice that suits more for a member or royal family.

"she is there for three more days", the voice replies.

"i brought fruit".

"give it to us".

he swings the basket, lifting his chin.

"watch your hands! i'll smack you so hard you will forget your own name!"

you smirk. you're not the only one talking back to the arrogant part of the court. someone puffs, exhausted, powerless.

"at least give us the tangerines".

"y/n, do you want the tangerines?" he asks, peeking again.

"no, they can keep them. do you have any substantial food though?" you ask, your hand on your belly. hunger grumbles in your stomach.

"peaches are pretty nutritious, don't worry", he winks.

as the door to the dungeon opens, you squint in the sun. it's too bright; you haven't seen it in a while and now the world is vivid again. you rub your face. you've had a good sleep for god knows how many days; - couldn't be more than three or four, honestly, because you aren't starving and not feeling like you've been there forever. just enough for your body to completely rest after a week's work and even grow a little tired of little movement. what the illustrious king Min didn't anticipate, probably, was that you'd take it as a small holiday.

you stretch, straighten your back, your face wincing with the right light. you smell like three days without a bath, and the first thing you want to do is not walk, but RUN to the bath chambers and scrub yourself clean. would be amazing to simply take a high pressure shower, of course. would be amazing to use the passion fruit vegan body scrub on yourself and shave your legs, and then do the face care routine, brush your teeth with your electric toothbrush, of course. but, you remind yourself, you're a time traveller that doesn't complain. staring at the unaffected guards and the sweat smears on the bases of their necks, from the day, you grit your teeth. it's the nineteenth century. no electric toothbrushes. no vegan body lotions. no hair dryers.

the plus side is that somewhere in the Royal quarters back at the red palace, Little Meow Meow is measuring his throne room with big strides, probably swaying his pearl-white horsetail from side to side. excitement of life returns to you a little. free, you tread back to the maids quarters which have become your home for now. no dying, no dying for now. you haven't collected all of the boys yet, far from it.

soaking in the bath, as Jiyoung's hands massage your head, you make a spreadsheet in your mind and recite it out loud:

"So, Seokjin is your older brother, the butcher".

"yes", Jiyoung responds unassumingly, doesn't add anything. she is shy about her friendly gesture, probably not sure you would accept it they way she wants you to. even a week in, the maids are still wary of the foreigner who seems to have a knack for creating problems, and strange vocabulary.

"Yoongi is the king..."

Jiyoung gasps.

"y/n we do not utter his name", she hisses, splashing a little water onto your face. you drop the pumice stone you've been scrubbing your feet with, in the tub.

"the name of the Emp-, the king is sacred. only his own family can say it out loud".

you puff, as if feeling that you should have paid more attention to the inner sides of the cage you've been kept in. you will probably see those walls again.

"i mean... no, i can't. seriously? name so sacred that peasants and commoners cannot even utter it?"

she frowns, gritting her teeth, like your defiance actually pains her. time travelling surprisingly taught you very little about adapting. you simply don't.

"Yoongi. Yoongi. Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi-Yoongi-Yoongi", you spout, looking her straight in the face. the last day in the dungeon made you cranky. you have no patience for their high-brow hierarchical way of living today. Jiyoung looks scared at first, then angry. she drops your hair and gets up, offended, like you have cursed her mother personally. you will never understand the worship of an individual, no matter who. her eyes turn into slits as she sighs like she is deeply disappointed, but you fall silent, no desire to explain yourself.

"you can finish on your own, i think".

"i need to ask..."

"no", she hammers and leaves, sliding the door closed behind her.

you soak deeper into the tub with a sigh. you've been released in the evening so no work for today. tomorrow, of course, everything will be the same. Min-ssi oma will wake you up with a stick and send to a bow-down under the royal balcony at the sunrise. General Hoseok and his bitchy attitude will be on the king's right, staring the staff down like he does every morning. Taehyung will be yawning in the corridors, guarding the inner quarters.

where are the other boys?

you clean yourself until the water gets cold, and finally the day is over, even though it hasn't started. it's hard to fall asleep now; maybe the morning won't be as merciful as the night.

your arms tremble under the weight of the basket. wet hanboks of ten maids in your arms, the load incredibly heavy. you know they are punishing you. you know they will keep punishing you, by giving you the tasks that they don't want to do themselves, because they have learnt about the tear of disobedience in you, and are afraid, and will try to break you down so that you do not bring troubles into the maid quarters.

there must be someone more free-thinking around this place, you hope, huffing, but before you can finish your thought, your arms cramp, and the basket collapses onto the ground.

"oh fuck", you curse out loud, falling on your knees, trying to prevent the dresses from touching the grass. five seconds rule. do Joseon people know about the tardigrades? you're ready to bet they don't. but your arms hurt so much: it's about a five minute walk from the river to the quarters, and it turns into a good twenty when you have something you can't carry.

you sit yourself on the ground for a minute, rubbing your shoulders to stop them from cramping. a muscle is positively sprained in the weaker left arm. you raise your head, and the luck you're having is astonishing but, also, understandable?

"Taehyung! Taehyungie!" you wave your better hand to him.

Taehyung, the version of him, looks like he regrets being visible just about now. he keeps winning with this long hair tied away on top of his head; he is wearing the day dress, as you learnt: the guards of the inner rooms wear black, the guards of the doors of the palace wear celebratory red, and the casual guardians who move around the territory wear light blue. the light blue of his armour suits the color of his tanned face. Taehyung gives it a second, then reluctantly walks over to you up the slope of the hill. the palace stands beautiful, picturesque just before you. the huge door of the stables he just left is still open.

he keeps a distance before you, his eyes darting to the basket on the ground.

"how was the dungeon?" he asks, instead of scolding.

you dismiss him with a wave of the hand.

"just slept all through it. kind of a non-punishment after Jiyoung and Min-ssi made me bend over backwards for seven days straight without a day off or coffee breaks. you catch my drift?"

Taehyung's lips twitch painfully. it brings you immense pleasure and puts you in a better mood.

"i barely understand what you say. your words are so..." he begins, pensively.

"advanced?"

"barbaric. just like the place you came from, probably, so i can't really blame your simplistic habits".

you flare your nostrils, then decide to let it slide. his calm, gentle voice is like the wind above the water.

"right. i forget that in this century you Koreans believe yourselves to be the last haven of the Confucian ideals, or whatever".

his eyebrows crawl up.

"Joseon is the last pure place in the world, the rest of it is plagued by barbarism and uncleanness".

his dark eyes slow down on your upper body like he thinks you are dirty right at the moment, which isn't true. since you're out of the dungeon, you smell just like the rest of the maids: citrus, green tea and morning freshness.

"whatever you say, pretty. help me with the basket", you ask. Taehyung is irritated, he licks his lower lip quickly, then looks behind his shoulder.

"you know we can't be seen together", his voice is hesitant.

"i know, i don't want to get you in trouble, but my shoulders gave in".

he sighs, then pulls on his belt and bows down to get the basket. it doesn't strain him at all.

you walk close to each other down the slope, the river running along, going away, away.

"could use the electric dryer here, of course", you muse, realizing you will have to hang all the hanboks in the garden.

that makes him sniff through the nose.

"electricity only comes from above. how do you want to dry the clothes on a lightning?"

you smirk.

"i just hope in the future people will invent a... machine that will dry wet clothes immediately, you know?"

suddenly, Taehyung is interested.

"you like inventions?"

it comes out more enthusiastic than he planned, probably. you look at him curiously, his birth moles on the face cute, nose crunched towards the sun.

"dunno, you?"

"i have a..." he looks at you with doubt and hope, as if evaluating you as a crime partner. "i like making things in my spare time".

another dozen of steps and he gives up as you start walking by the stables.

"do you want to see?"

a sly, happy smile disfigures your face.

"of course".

you both take a sharp turn towards the stables, like criminals. you, Taehyung and the basket in his arms. it's so heavy you were barely able to lift it, but now it looks like it doesn't take any strength out of him to lift it onto his shoulder as he lets you inside first.

he puts the basket on a bench propped against the wall. the smell of hay and horses will surely soak into the wet hanboks of the maids, and you take perverse pleasure out of it. yours is not there: it's clean, you're wearing it. the smile crooks a corner of your mouth as you watch nimble Taehyungie walk in between calm stallions nodding half-asleep.

"it's a simple... music... uh..."

he is shy all of a sudden. there's a rough, oval box in his hands, with the semblance of the carving on the sides of it, but the real treasure is hiding inside.

as he opens it, a needle is pulled up and starts scrapping against a tiny bar that he is pushing with his finger. it's a very simplistic but working music box. medieval style, really, but it has its elegance.

"you made it yourself?" you gape, craning your neck to see better. Taehyung nods.

"i like music. the palace boxes are much better, they were made by the finest Chinese craftsmen, but..."

"but yours is the best", you whisper, listening to the tiny, croaking dingle coming out of the box. the most amusing thing is that you recognize the melody. some couple of hundred years later, this melody will acquire a name and will be performed by him.

"Singularity", you whisper, mesmerized. you want to touch his lean, white hand, but don't, your eyes fixated on the little music box. a miracle, in your opinion. simple, beautiful, personal thing. also. continuity? design? destiny?

"what is that?"

you look up at him.

"a point in space where everything strives for infinity".

he looks like he could understand it if you told him everything. everything about the first plane, and how a microphone works, and how to turn his dark hair bright-green, and why people need to strive for the cosmos instead of staying on this tiny stone planet. his eyes bore into yours for a moment, and then he blinks.

did you just

fluster the bear?

you chuckle.

"your device is amazing. i like the melody, V".

"hmm?"

"Tae. you have anything else?"

he looks happier.

"i will show you a little later".

he picks up the basket again with a smile. your eyes are still resting on the music box on the bench, clicking its simple melody to the horses.

so, how exactly is this dimension built? you think, as you return to the maids quarters together. they are - relatively - them. boys, that is. not that you know them too well for now. and they go in loops committing things they were supposed to commit. like writing the songs you know and ruling the country. what's remarkable is that they look - exactly - like themselves. you keep thinking about Yoongi and his cat-like, adorable snarl in the corner of the mouth.

Taehyung places the basket on the ground under the pomegranate tree where you point.

"oh", he says, slapping himself on the head.

"i almost completely forgot, actually, y/n".

you raise your eyes to him, roll up your sleeves and start hanging the hanboks on the lines in between the strong, thick tree branches. Taehyung nods at the clothes:

"drop them. king wants to see you".

taglist: @cerulean1riz , @kiki-zb , @mar-lo-pap

[madaboutmunson]

A Pearl's Thread

Fic for @stmonstercalendar #StrangerThingsMermayBingo2025

Using Prompts: Fashion/clothing, High Fantasy AU, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Pearls Hurt/comfort, Happy Ending Guarantee W/C = 27.7K Summary:

Two friends coming of age navigate their respective worlds as traditions, loyalties, and hidden truths begin to surface. Guided by the expectations of others, courage and the pull of something more, they must find a way to rediscover what was lost. A tale of magic, longing, and choices that change everything.

TW: Blood (minor), Body Injury (graze), Mention of loss of parent

Ao3 Link

Chapter 1: This Wall Between Us

In a coastal kingdom, far, far away, two friends were enjoying a simple summer.

“What could you possibly be doing that’s better than a celebration?” Steve asked, dropping into the lush summer grass with a sigh. His belt pouch and small knife thudded dully beneath him, louder than the soft thump of his slender frame against the folded green tunic that lay on the ground. The day's heat allowed him to be comfortable in only a shirt, tights, and those long, curled shoes his mysterious friend always found amusing.

Eddie, barefoot as ever, lounged against the hillside twirling a wildflower between his fingers, the same ones they'd been weaving into crowns all afternoon.

“I told you,” Eddie murmured, laying the flower gently between them. “I’ve responsibilities.”

Steve scoffed softly, nudging a clump of clover with his shoe’s curled toe.

“Could you not ask to stay just a bit longer? My parents care not so long as I don’t return with bruises or stories I oughtn’t be telling.” He grinned. “Well…stories they find out about, anyway.”

Eddie smiled, though it was more regret than amusement. “I can’t, Steve. I’ve things to protect.”

“Protect what?” Steve huffed, flopping backwards into the grass with a frustrated groan. “You always say that, but you never say anything. You talk in such riddles!”

Eddie tilted his head toward him, the breeze catching in his tunic.

Steve rolled onto his side, grass tangled in his hair, burrs stuck to his tights from their last expedition.

“You said you had an idea for a great sea monster to add to our map,” he prompted, hopeful.

“We don’t have time today,” Eddie replied gently. “Our map has to be perfect for any future adventurers to follow. We should not want to rush it.”

Steve sat up sharply, brushing the burrs from his tights with more force than needed. He looked at Eddie like the words didn’t make any sense. Like they were written in some other language.

“So stay. Let us take our time,” he said, not quite whining, but close. He knew it was moot against something long decided, a sad part of their routine.

He picked up a nearby twig and snapped it in half, his fingers restless.

“You know I’d never tell,” Steve muttered, quieter now. “You know that.”

“If I told you,” Eddie said gently, “and someone came after you for it… or you whispered it in a fever, or let it slip without meaning to…it would all be in danger. I could not bear that.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Steve’s voice cracked a little, not from anger, but because it hurt. “You say you protect them. I’d protect you. I would. Swear it on every star in the sky and-”

Eddie’s sigh interrupted him, and they both knew his answer could not be changed.

Steve propped himself on his elbows, his jaw tight, holding back the rest of what he wanted to say.

He leaned over hand to his heart, “I’d never do that to you. Truly. I’d sooner bite off my own tongue than see you hurt. You are my greatest, truest friend.”

“I know,” Eddie said softly. And he did. That was what made it all so cursedly hard. “And you, mine. If I were to tell anyone, it would be you. But I cannot tell a soul.”

They sat quietly for a while. Steve twisted a blade of grass between his fingers, chewing his cheek. Dragonflies flitted around, drifting through the golden light of the setting sun, their wings casting large web-like shadows across the hillside. The quiet between them hung like spun silk.

“I just don’t like it,” he muttered. “This wall between us.”

Eddie looked down at the dirt between his bare feet. That was what made Steve different. Special. There was very little he cared for more than Eddie… and that was new. To be the centre of someone’s care.

Steve caught the hint of a smile on Eddie’s face and mirrored it without thinking. His friend wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known. Gentle and careful, always seeing the good and wonder in small things. And more than anything, he cared . About whether Steve was cold. Or hungry. Or happy. He cared in a way no one else ever had.

“So… shall we meet again tomorrow?” Eddie asked, feigning lightness, though they both knew the answer, because Steve was dependable like that.

As sure as the tide would go in and out. As sure as the sun rose and set. Dependability wasn’t new to Eddie at all, but he didn't expect it from someone like his springtime friend. Not a boy who had taught him to climb trees, to run through fields until their lungs gave out, exploring with things called maps to find false treasure, playing knights and monsters, basic reading and writing, and tracking animals. 

His heart was as wild as it was sure.

Steve gave him a look that said, ‘Of course,’ but still answered aloud, like it was a truth that needed speaking.

“Aye. Always.”

They were quiet for a beat, watching how the light stretched long and low across the hills. It was time.

Steve stood first, brushing grass from his tunic, only to find dirt stains across the front. His eyes went wide.

“Oh no! Look at this! My father will have a fit.”

Eddie laughed gently, leaning over to inspect it.

“Nothing a little water won’t mend. Besides, it’s green. You’re lucky. Grass won’t shame it too much.”

He gestured to his own tunic, streaked and smudged with days’ worth of dirt and dust.

Steve chuckled, then, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around Eddie. It was the kind of hug neither of them had known before meeting one another, warm and sure.

Steve sighed, “Until tomorrow, Eddie.”

“Until tomorrow, Steve,” Eddie replied, and they parted ways. 

The crowns they’d made lay forgotten, twirling in the wind, as the hillside whispered their parting.

Read more on Ao3

[beemintty]

my best friend doesn’t want to talk to me,

and our friendship is falling apart,

because i am in love with a girl.

whether it be that i am in love with a girl,

or that i am in love with a girl,

it doesn’t matter.

whether it be the girl or the love,

it doesn’t matter.

because my best friend won’t speak to me.

[lorillee]

im really normal about them <- lie

[arty-cakes]

the king had forsaken everything he ever did and fled into his dreams leaving only his dead selfdom and unheard repentance, littering the land in the forms of statues and black eggs and failed tramways and dead children. his corpse somewhere at the end of the world where you can follow his spine to the top and then back, his dreams locked so tightly behind his shame you have to shatter numerous other stories around you just to gain access to his, an act parallel to his reign and his life. you have to fight and you have to demand to get to the pinnacle of what he was so ashamed of and it was love, it stained the sacrifices everyone made in his name, once done with resolution and trust now in vain. the king had a clear beginning, peak, and ending whether in dream or death it wont matter because now he's gone, and the world moved on without him and despite him.

the queen is still there. she imprisoned herself and had a limited view of what was happening on the outside but she knew enough to tell that the plan she played such a big part in has failed. yet somehow, within minutes of meeting you after so long down in her paralyzed kingdom she asks you to do it all over again. the fate of her kingdom is up to you and she makes that clear. she reminisces the past and she does not acknowledge its death. the king's story had an ending, you could argue that he gave it to himself. the queen's is in limbo, she absolutely gave it to herself. you could not change her mind and neither could flowers. and you could not make her face what she has done.

you leave her there.

[tchaikovskym]

I cannot listen to the magnus archives as a normal person I have to read the wiki pages of episodes I already listened to and make notes and try to guess the entities and what they do and make a file out of it

[weregonnabecoolbeans]

I watched Ani BEFORE I was a star wars fan and loved it because I love starkid

Now that star wars has consumed my brain I’m scared for what this musical will do to me the next time I watch it

[llumimoon]

(me sitting here seething) ITS FINE its fine ITS FINE . I'LL GET MY LICENSE SOON ITS FINE

[jlf23tumble]

Hi Jen, I'm the books-fanfic anon. Thank you for responding. I am not too fussed about genre although I do lean more towards fiction.

I would love to hear your recommendations. Appreciate your time, have a wonderful day!!

Hello! I think fiction's fine, a great place to start, and I'll give you things that are bite-sized so that you can build up your muscle--most of this is cribbed from a list I gave someone who just wanted a reading list based on this blog's "vibes," so I'm sure you could easily add to it. My recommendation is to start off with short stories and/or essays, so from that list, I'd go with these easy ones:

Short story collections by Agatha Christie (some of my faves are The Labors of Hercules, The Harlequin Tea Set, Parker Pyne Investigates, and The Golden Ball)

The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, by Taylor Jenkins Reid (each chapter is about a husband, so technically, a set--a stretch, mayhaps!)

...nonfiction but fun:

The White Album AND Slouching Towards Bethlehem, by Joan Didion (I can't decide!)

The Fran Lebowitz Reader, by Fran Lebowitz

Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris (so many of his, tbh)

The I Hate to Cook Book, by Peg Bracken (I know, but it's a fun read!)

How to Talk Dirty and Influence People, by Lenny Bruce (it's been a while, tbh, so read the rest first lol)

....I'll stop there, those are "vibes only" options, but there are literally so many things, even more modern ones, that'll charge you up (more in tags, too)!