#forcibly taking over their land is not the answer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

crystalis · 2 months

Text

twitter thread by Mouin Rabbani

March 14, 2024

Who was there first? The short answer is that the question is irrelevant. Claims of ancient title (“This land is ours because we were here several thousand years ago”) have no standing or validity under international law.

For good reason, because such claims also defy elementary common sense. Neither I nor anyone reading this post can convincingly substantiate the geographical location of their direct ancestors ten or five or even two thousand years ago.

If we could, the successful completion of the exercise would confer exactly zero property, territorial, or sovereign rights.

As a thought experiment, let’s go back only a few centuries rather than multiple millennia. Do South Africa’s Afrikaners have the right to claim The Netherlands as their homeland, or even qualify for Dutch citizenship, on the basis of their lineage?

Do the descendants of African-Americans who were forcibly removed from West Africa have the right to board a flight in Atlanta, Port-au-Prince, or São Paolo and reclaim their ancestral villages from the current inhabitants, who in all probability arrived only after – perhaps long after – the previous inhabitants were abducted and sold into slavery half a world away?

Do Australians who can trace their roots to convicts who were involuntarily transported Down Under by the British government have a right to return to Britain or Ireland and repossess homes from the present inhabitants even if, with the help of court records, they can identify the exact address inhabited by their forebears? Of course not.

In sharp contrast to, for example, Native Americans or the Maori of New Zealand, none of the above can demonstrate a living connection with the lands to which they would lay claim.

To put it crudely, neither nostalgic attachment nor ancestry, in and of themselves, confer rights of any sort, particularly where such rights have not been asserted over the course of hundreds or thousands of years.

If they did, American English would be the predominant language in large parts of Europe, and Spain would once again be speaking Arabic.

Nevertheless, the claim of ancient title has been and remains central to Zionist assertions of not only Jewish rights in Palestine, but of an exclusive Jewish right to Palestine.

For the sake of argument, let’s examine it. If we put aside religious mythology, the origin of the ancient Israelites is indeed local.

In ancient times it was not unusual for those in conflict with authority or marginalized by it to take to the more secure environment of surrounding hills or mountains, conquer existing settlements or establish new ones, and in the ultimate sign of independence adopt distinct religious practices and generate their own rulers. That the Israelites originated as indigenous Canaanite tribes rather than as fully-fledged monotheistic immigrants or conquerors is more or less the scholarly consensus, buttressed by archeological and other evidence. And buttressed by the absence of evidence for the origin stories more familiar to us.

It is also the scholarly consensus that the Israelites established two kingdoms, Judah and Israel, the former landlocked and covering Jerusalem and regions to the south, the latter (also known as the Northern Kingdom or Samaria) encompassing points north, the Galilee, and parts of contemporary Jordan. Whether these entities were preceded by a United Kingdom that subsequently fractured remains the subject of fierce debate.

What is certain is that the ancient Israelites were never a significant regional power, let alone the superpower of the modern imagination.

There is a reason the great empires of the Middle East emerged in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and Anatolia – or from outside the region altogether – but never in Palestine.

It simply lacked the population and resource base for power projection. Jerusalem may be the holiest of cities on earth, but for almost the entirety of its existence, including the period in question, it existed as a village, provincial town or small city rather than metropolis.

Judah and Israel, like the neighboring Canaanite and Philistine entities during this period, were for most of their existence vassal states, their fealty and tribute fought over by rival empires – Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, etc. – rather than extracted from others.

Indeed, Israel was destroyed during the eighth century BCE by the Assyrians, who for good measured subordinated Judah to their authority, until it was in the sixth century BCE eliminated by the Babylonians, who had earlier overtaken the Assyrians in a regional power struggle.

The Babylonian Exile was not a wholesale deportation, but rather affected primarily Judah’s elites and their kin. Nor was there a collective return to the homeland when the opportunity arose several decades later after Cyrus the Great defeated Babylon and re-established a smaller Judah as a province of the Persian Achaemenid empire. Indeed, Mesopotamia would remain a key center of Jewish religion and culture for centuries afterwards.

Zionist claims of ancient title conveniently erase the reality that the ancient Israelites were hardly the only inhabitants of ancient Palestine, but rather shared it with Canaanites, Philistines, and others.

The second part of the claim, that the Jewish population was forcibly expelled by the Romans and has for 2,000 years been consumed with the desire to return, is equally problematic.

By the time the Romans conquered Jerusalem during the first century BCE, established Jewish communities were already to be found throughout the Mediterranean world and Middle East – to the extent that a number of scholars have concluded that a majority of Jews already lived in the diaspora by the time the first Roman soldier set foot in Jerusalem.

These communities held a deep attachment to Jerusalem, its Temple, and the lands recounted in the Bible. They identified as diasporic communities, and in many cases may additionally have been able to trace their origins to this or that town or village in the extinguished kingdoms of Israel and Judah. But there is no indication those born and bred in the diaspora across multiple generations considered themselves to be living in temporary exile or considered the territory of the former Israelite kingdoms rather than their lands of birth and residence their natural homeland, any more than Irish-Americans today feel they properly belong in Ireland rather than the United States.

Unlike those taken in captivity to Babylon centuries earlier, there was no impediment to their relocation to or from their ancestral lands, although economic factors appear to have played an important role in the growth of the diaspora.

By contrast, those traveling in the opposite direction appear to have done so, more often than not, for religious reasons, or to be buried in Jerusalem’s sacred soil.

Nations and nationalism did not exist 2,000 years ago.

Nor Zionist propagandists in New York, Paris, and London incessantly proclaiming that for two millennia Jews everywhere have wanted nothing more than to return their homeland, and invariably driving home rather than taking the next flight to Tel Aviv.

Nor insufferably loud Americans declaring, without a hint of irony or self-awareness, the right of the Jewish people to Palestine “because they were there first”.

Back to the Romans, about a century after their arrival a series of Jewish rebellions over the course of several decades, coupled with internecine warfare between various Jewish factions, produced devastating results.

A large proportion of the Jewish population was killed in battle, massacred, sold into slavery, or exiled. Many towns and villages were ransacked, the Temple in Jerusalem destroyed, and Jews barred from entering the city for all but one day a year.

Although a significant Jewish presence remained, primarily in the Galilee, the killings, associated deaths from disease and destitution, and expulsions during the Roman-Jewish wars exacted a calamitous toll.

With the destruction of the Temple Jerusalem became an increasingly spiritual rather than physical center of Jewish life. Jews neither formed a demographic majority in Palestine, nor were the majority of Jews to be found there.

Many of those who remained would in subsequent centuries convert to Christianity or Islam, succumb to massacres during the Crusades, or join the diaspora. On the eve of Zionist colonization locally-born Jews constituted less than five per cent of the total population.

As for the burning desire to return to Zion, there is precious little evidence to substantiate it. There is, for example, no evidence that upon their expulsion from Spain during the late fifteenth century, the Sephardic Jewish community, many of whom were given refuge by the Ottoman Empire that ruled Palestine, made concerted efforts to head for Jerusalem. Rather, most opted for Istanbul and Greece.

Similarly, during the massive migration of Jews fleeing persecution and poverty in Eastern Europe during the nineteenth century, the destinations of choice were the United States and United Kingdom.

Even after the Zionist movement began a concerted campaign to encourage Jewish emigration to Palestine, less than five per cent took up the offer. And while the British are to this day condemned for limiting Jewish immigration to Palestine during the late 1930s, the more pertinent reality is that the vast majority of those fleeing the Nazi menace once again preferred to relocate to the US and UK, but were deprived of these havens because Washington and London firmly slammed their doors shut.

Tellingly, the Jewish Agency for Israel in 2023 reported that of the world’s 15.7 million Jews, 7.2 million – less than half – reside in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories.

According to the Agency, “The Jewish population numbers refer to persons who define themselves as Jews by religion or otherwise and who do not practice another religion”.

It further notes that if instead of religion one were to apply Israel’s Law of Return, under which any individual with one or more Jewish grandparent is entitled to Israeli citizenship, only 7.2 of 25.5 million eligible individuals (28 per cent) have opted for Zion.

In other words, “Next Year in Jerusalem” was, and largely remains, an aspirational religious incantation rather than political program. For religious Jews, furthermore, it was to result from divine rather than human intervention.

For this reason, many equated Zionism with blasphemy, and until quite recently most Orthodox Jews were either non-Zionist or rejected the ideology altogether.

Returning to the irrelevant issue of ancestry, if there is one population group that can lay a viable claim of direct descent from the ancient Israelites it would be the Samaritans, who have inhabited the area around Mount Gerizim, near the West Bank city of Nablus, without interruption since ancient times.

Palestinian Jews would be next in line, although unlike the Samaritans they interacted more regularly with both other Jewish communities and their gentile neighbors.

Claims of Israelite descent made on behalf of Jewish diaspora communities are much more difficult to sustain. Conversions to and from Judaism, intermarriage with gentiles, absorption in multiple foreign societies, and related phenomena over the course of several thousand years make it a virtual certainty that the vast majority of Jews who arrived in Palestine during the late 19th and first half of the 20th century to reclaim their ancient homeland were in fact the first of their lineage to ever set foot in it.

By way of an admittedly imperfect analogy, most Levantines, Egyptians, Sudanese, and North Africans identify as Arabs, yet the percentage of those who can trace their roots to the tribes of the Arabian Peninsula that conquered their lands during the seventh and eighth centuries is at best rather small.

Ironically, a contemporary Palestinian, particularly in the West Bank and Galilee, is likely to have more Israelite ancestry than a contemporary diaspora Jew.

The Palestinians take their name from the Philistines, one of the so-called Sea Peoples who arrived on the southern coast of Canaan from the Aegean islands, probably Crete, during the late second millennium BCE.

They formed a number of city states, including Gaza, Ashdod, and Ashkelon. Like Judah and Israel they existed primarily as vassals of regional powers, and like them were eventually destroyed by more powerful states as well.

With no record of their extermination or expulsion, the Philistines are presumed to have been absorbed by the Canaanites and thereafter disappear from the historical record.

Sitting at the crossroads between Asia, Africa, and Europe, Palestine was over the centuries repeatedly conquered by empires near and far, absorbing a constant flow of human and cultural influences throughout.

Given its religious significance, pilgrims from around the globe also contributed to making the Palestinian people what they are today.

A common myth is that the Palestinian origin story dates from the Arab-Muslim conquests of the seventh century. In point of fact, the Arabs neither exterminated nor expelled the existing population, and the new rulers never formed a majority of the population.

Rather, and over the course of several centuries, the local population was gradually Arabized, and to a large extent Islamized as well.

So the question as to who was there first can be answered in several ways: “both” and “irrelevant” are equally correct.

Indisputably, the Zionist movement had no right to establish a sovereign state in Palestine on the basis of claims of ancient title, which was and remains its primary justification for doing so.

That it established an exclusivist state that not only rejected any rights for the existing Palestinian population but was from the very outset determined to displace and replace this population was and remains a historical travesty.

That it as a matter of legislation confers automatic citizenship on millions who have no existing connection with the land but denies it to those who were born there and expelled from it, solely on the basis of their identity, would appear to be the very definition of apartheid.

The above notwithstanding, and while the Zionist claim of exclusive Israeli sovereignty in Palestine remains illegitimate, there are today several million Israelis who cannot be simply wished away.

A path to co-existence will need to be found, even as the genocidal nature of the Israeli state, and increasingly of Israeli society as well, makes the endeavor increasingly complicated.

The question, thrown into sharp relief by Israel’s genocidal onslaught on the Palestinian population of the Gaza Strip, is whether co-existence with Israeli society can be achieved without first dismantling the Israeli state and its ruling institutions.

#free palestine

254 notes · View notes

opencommunion · 4 months

Note

Hello, I really don’t want to be rude or anything like that but I would love to know any more information about the Christians in Palestine, Lebanon and Syria like, is it true Gaza had family lineages dating back to Jesus Christ? Asking because Ziocucks love making it seem as if Christians don’t exist over there

omg not rude at all, actually this is my favorite thing to talk about (it was a major focus of this blog prior to Al-Aqsa Flood) it's a huge topic so I'll link a ton of resources, but to answer your main question: yes, many Palestinian Christians in Gaza and elsewhere can trace their family history with Christianity back to the 1st century. the Christian community in Gaza is said to have been founded by the apostle Philip. the first bishop of Gaza was the apostle Philemon, the recipient of a Pauline epistle. a core zionist myth is the idea that contemporary Palestinians only arrived in Palestine in the 7th century or even the 20th century (see the links for debunking). but there's plenty of documentation of continuous Christian (and Jewish) presence in Palestine before, during, and after the emergence of Islam. Palestinians (and Levantine ppl more generally, but esp Palestinians because of the totality of their colonial dispossession—stories are often literally the only heirlooms refugee families have) typically have very strong family oral histories going back many centuries, so if a Palestinian tells you their family has been Christian since the time of Christ, take their word for it. community continuity is also about more than family trees—even if someone's family came to Christianity later, they're still part of the continuous living heritage of their community. the continuity of Palestinian Christianity is also evidenced by Palestinian holy sites. because Christianity was illegal in the Roman Empire until Constantine took power, dedicated churches weren't built until the 4th century, but many of these churches were built around existing sites of covert worship—for example the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem was built around a grotto that was already venerated as the site of Jesus' birth, the Church of St. John the Baptist in 'Ayn Karim (a forcibly depopulated suburb of Jerusalem) was built over a 1st century rock-cut shrine marking the site of John the Baptist's birth, and the Church of the Multiplication in Al-Tabigha (a destroyed and forcibly depopulated village on the shore of Lake Tiberias) was built over a limestone slab believed to be the table were Jesus fed the multitude. throughout the Levant there are also many ancient shrines (maqamat) that are shared sites of prayer for both Christians and Muslims; in Palestine many of these sites have been seized by the occupation and Palestinians are prevented from visiting them.

Palestinian Christian communities who are able to travel to the villages they were expelled from in the Nakba will sometimes return there to celebrate weddings and holidays in their ancestral churches, e.g. in Iqrit and Ma'alul (x, x). of course because the occupation heavily restricts Palestinian movement this isn't possible for most refugees.

here's some resources to get you started but feel free to hmu again if you have any more specific questions! Zionism and Palestinian Christians Rafiq Khoury, "The Effects of Christian Zionism on Palestinian Christians," in Challenging Christian Zionism (2005) Mitri Raheb, I am a Palestinian Christian (1995) Mitri Raheb, Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible Through Palestinian Eyes (2014)

Christ at the Checkpoint: Theology in the Service of Justice and Peace (2012) Faith and the Intifada: Palestinian Christian Voices (1992) The Forgotten Faithful: A Window into the Life and Witness of Christians in the Holy Land (2007) Faith Under Occupation: The Plight of Indigenous Christians in the Holy Land (2012) Palestinian Christians: The Forcible Displacement and Dispossession Continues (2023) Donald E. Wagner, Dying in the Land of Promise: Palestine and Palestinian Christianity from Pentecost to 2000 (2003)—can't find it online but worth checking your library for

Pre-Zionist History James Grehan, Twilight of the Saints: Everyday Religion in Ottoman Syria and Palestine (2016) Ussama Makdisi, Artillery of Heaven: American Missionaries and the Failed Conversion of the Middle East (2008) Kenneth Cragg, The Arab Christian: A History in the Middle East (1992) Christopher MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East: Rough Tolerance (2007) John Binns, Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ: The Monasteries of Palestine 314-631 (1996) Derwas Chitty, The Desert a City: an Introduction to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism Under the Christian Empire (1966) Aziz Suryal Atiya, A History of Eastern Christianity (1968) Michael Philip Penn, When Christians First Met Muslims: A Sourcebook of the Earliest Syriac Writings on Islam (2015) Early Christian Texts The Acts of the Apostles (1st century, Palestine. yes I'm recommending the bible lol but I promise I'm not trying to evangelize, it just really paints a good picture of the birth of Christianity in Jerusalem and its early spread) The Didache (1st or 2nd century, Palestine or Syria—the earliest known catechism, outlining how Christians were supposed to live and worship) Cyril of Scythopolis, The Lives of the Monks of Palestine (6th century) Sayings of the Desert Fathers and Desert Mothers (early Christian monastics)

for more resources specific to my tradition, the Maronite Church, see this post. for other misc Syriac tidbits see my Syriac tag. this is just scratching the surface so again, if you (or anyone else who sees this post!) have more specific interests lmk and I can point you in the right direction

#palestine #history #church history #library

134 notes · View notes

mara-tevith-solo · 11 months

Text

Fate Thinks She’s Funny

Screw it, I might make this a series. Part of the One Enchanted Evening fic. Reader here has a recycled OC background I made for the MCU. Essentially came to Earth after Order 66 in the 90′s, was forcibly conscripted in the US Military and she gets tangled up in everything because of the Ancient One, the Jedi inability to not meddle, and Billy. It’s a 43k word fic that is no where near complete and probably will never be

Pairing: Adam Warlock x ex-avenger/guardian! reader

Warnings: Canon levels of violence, love at first sight, prospective death, Adam pulling his punches just for you because he hates the idea of hurting you after 0.001 seconds, reader compares him to a Rancor of all things

Words: 1.8k+

Rated: 18+ as always

It was the crashing that alerted you initially, pulling you from the half-sleep you had managed to finally fall into. You didn't even bother shutting the door to your apartment behind you as you went to investigate, Groot wrapped around something on fire shooting past without much preamble. You were fully awake before he was out of sight, already trying to calculate his trajectory to be there to stop him. You ran over walkways and tight wires, not truly looking where you were going besides making sure the way was clear, making sure that no one would get hurt from the debris. It barely occurred to you that you were only dressed in one of Stephen's old shirts and a pair of sleeping shorts, your main concern being the citizens, and then the attacker.

A mother and child huddled on main street gave you pause, the mother trying to shelter her screaming child as debris began raining down towards them. Protecting them with the Force was reactionary, no really thought put into it until they were safe and you were on the move again. You skidded to a stop on a catwalk as Kraglin's arrow smacked the man harmlessly across the cheek, making him stop angrily in his tracks "Who threw this thing at me?" He demanded sharply, looking around the rubble he'd created. No one dared to answer him, all of them hiding and fighting to remain silent despite their fear. He looked, disarmed by the fear, choosing to move on "Baby." He chided before continuing on his path.

Landing on the attacker was easy, he was strutting through main street like he owned the place, like he wasn't trying to tear it apart bit by bit. He fell to the ground under you with an annoyed yell, your claws sinking into his shoulders before you were moving off of him, twisting and throwing him over your head and down into the ground with a shout. You didn't wait for the dust to settle to grab him again, hoisting him up to his feet as he tried regaining his barrings. For a moment, one single solitary moment, your eyes met, gold giving way to his pupils as they dilated, his breath stuttering as his golden lips dropped open the barest fraction. There was something star struck in his expression, something you forced yourself to not dwell on as you let go of his tunic just long enough to Spartan Kick him further away from where he'd thrown Nebula. He didn't go far, landing on his back with a forced exhale before he was clambering up to his feet with a bewildered glare "Do that again and I'll be forced to kill you." He was warning you as he shook the dust from his person, not taking his eyes off your form.

"Pity." You huffed, calling my saber, reaching back towards your apartment.

"What's that? What is the purpose of that?" He asked, genuinely curious, tilting his head like a puppy. It genuinely caught you off guard, both the fact that he genuinely didn't know what you were doing, and the fact that he seemed so innocent in that moment. You didn't answer him, instead taking a ready stance as soon as the hilt was in your hand, the familiar hum and yellow hue a comfort. He blinked, taking in your position and your weapon before deciding that you were still intent on being a threat, powering up with a frustrated grunt and a silent snarl, his hands engulfed in blades of light. It was like dancing, fighting with him, meeting him strike for strike even though it didn't feel like his heart was fully in it. He depowered one hand enough to grab your saber hand, immobilizing it no matter how hard you struggled, making you grab his arm that was still powered up, holding it above both of your heads in a struggle of wills. "I do not want to kill you." He admitted with a grunt, trying to break the hold you had on him.

"Not the first time I've heard that." You growled back a little bitterly, straining against him for a moment before you saw an opening and took it. Your forehead collided with his, a resounding crack! echoing through your head and the square as he cried out in pain, stumbling blindly back in retreat. "Fucking hell." You groaned, doubling over as you pressed your freehand to your forehead, trying to sooth the ache that was still blooming there. You could feel the tale tell tickle of a small track of blood dripping down the bridge of your nose, but didn't think much of it as you focused an eye on him, watching him recollect himself with that snarl of his.

"Are you always this stubborn?!" He asked you indignantly, throwing his hands out with exasperation.

You couldn't stop your expression if you wanted to, open bewilderment taking your face by storm as you just stared at him "You're trying to kill my friends! Of course I'm 'being stubborn'!"

"I just want the squirrel." He rebutted as though it was so simple.

"You can't have our friend! He's not property!"

Before he could say another word, Drax grabbed him and began throwing him around "Pick on someone your own size!"

You wanted to just hide somewhere as you backed away from the two men, your heart pounding deafeningly in your chest as Drax threw him into the headquarters sign "Y/n!" You could hear Mantis calling desperately from the med center, tears in her voice spurring you into action, ignoring the suddenly very determined man as he lifted himself from the dirt. You had to stop, your eyes glued to the scene, as the man met Drax hit for hit, matching every bit of his strength easily. It made you want to throw up. You watched, helpless, as beams of light came from the man's hands again, Drax barely able to stop them, holding the man at bay with groans of strain. "Y/n! Help!" Mantis wailed again, but you couldn't tear your gaze away as the stranger's power began to whine audibly, getting brighter and brighter until he was blowing Drax back with it.

As soon as he straddled and began pummeling Drax you were in motion, charging without a thought of your own safety. You dove at the last possible moment, only loosing a cry when your shoulder collided with his ribs, ripping him off of Drax and into the dirt with you. Scrabbling for dominance in the dirt with him, you didn't care to use finesse, or any true skill. He'd already proven that he was ridiculously strong, that you had to fight dirty to get any advantage. You barely paid attention to the darkening of his cheeks and neck as you straddled his waist and tried to punch his lights out, your fist raining punishment into his pretty face over and over again as your other hand kept you anchored to him, fisted tightly into the collar of his tunic. He seemed more concerned with trying to fend off the blows than fight back "ENOUGH!" He roared under you, almost succeeding in turning over under you as he tried to protect himself. You didn't listen to him as you pressed him back down, driving your fist into his sternum as you continued to punch the daylights out of him. "I said," He grabbed you by the thighs, his hands engulfing them by nearly half before he was usurping your position, driving your back into the dirt, his weight pressing down between your legs "enough!" It was only at that moment that he seemed to realize the position he had put you both in, making you feel like you were on fire as he stared down at you with those wide doe eyes that just screamed innocence.

You blinked back up at him, suddenly uncomfortable with the vulnerable position, your grip on his collar almost slackening with the shock that you liked it, until Drax groaned in pain, snapping you back to reality. Your legs tightened around his lower ribs, locking at the ankles behind him as you squeezed for all you were worth, not letting up as he sucked in a panicked, ragged breath. His hands found your thighs again as he sat up, dragging you up with him as you resumed punching and he tried pushing, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh, trying to pry you off before you constricted him to death. In a split second he gave up trying to get you off of him, his hand molding around the column of your throat like it was made to be there, cutting off your own breath as he pressed you back down into the dirt with a heavy glare. You tightened your hold on his ribs defiantly as you tried to pry his hand off, snarling right back up at him as he reared his fist back to finally fight back. A glowing blade erupted from his chest, instantly taking the fight out of him as he incredulously looked from you to it "That... hurts!" He breathed as golden blood dripped from the tip of the blade and down onto your shirt, immediately standing out from the blood sweat and dirt that clung to it.

"What a pity." Nebula growled from behind him as his hand loosened around your throat, allowing you to suck in a greedy lungful of air that had never tasted so sweet. The man looked back down at you as you gulped down ragged breaths past your burning throat, a small trickle of blood dripping past his lips as he grunted in pain. You let him go as soon as the blade retreated, letting him fall to the dust beside you. You couldn't look at him, it hurt to and you couldn't figure out why, why his imminent death was going to bother you. He'd been trying to kill your friends since he'd arrived on Knowhere and yet... "Still alive down there?" Nebula's voice broke you out of your thoughts and slammed you back into the moment as the man continued to suffer quietly beside you.

She was fighting a ghost of a smile as she offered you an arm "He hits like a Rancor." Your voice was still rough as it passed your burning throat, your healing taking its sweet time as you accepted her help to climb to your feet. She just shook her head with amusement before going to Drax, leaving you there. You didn't want to, but you looked down at the man, acknowledging his gaze as he turned onto his back, his eyes begging you for help "I'm sorry, I didn't want it to end like this." The words felt right as they hit the air, your chest aching at the idea that he'd die there. You were quick to turn away from him and limp to the Med Center, your thighs shivering with every step. You didn't want to face his death, didn't want to acknowledge it and you couldn't figure out why.

#adam warlock x reader #adam warlock #adam warlock x you #gotg vol 3

255 notes · View notes

veryconnoisseurcherryblossom · 6 months

Text

Teasing Hands

Summary: Rodimus gives you a lovely handjob and you give him a lovely facial.

Pairing: Rodimus/Reader

Fandom: Transformers

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Tags: Handjob, teasing, facial, Exhibitionism

Ao3 link is here.

“S-squeeze tighter, Rod- Aaahn!” You bit your derma to try and hold back a loud moan, barely succeeding. Your fans let Rodimus know much he’s affecting you, though- they’re on max setting and loud. Your hips falter for a nanoklik before thrusting at a more frantic pace. Eventing sharply, you turn your head to look at Rodimus with hazy, flickering optics, drool leaking out from the corner of your intake.

“Fr-frag, I- Roddy-”

You barely get the words out when he smiles at you innocently, as if his servo wasn’t wrapped around your spike, as if you weren’t desperately thrusting into his servo with abandon. Your vocalizer glitches and stutters when he begins to lazily rub the very tip with his thumb, pulling a staticky whine from you.

“Mm? What’s up, sweetspark?”

His face might have been the picture of innocence, but his gorgeous bright blue eyes shows how he feels- smug and mischievous, no doubt enjoying how he’s able to get you to this point, almost begging him to let you overload.

“Pl-please- please, I-I’m so close-”

Another whine rips through your vocalizer, your head falling back as you grit your denta. Primus, you were so, so close-

“M-mah- blowjob! L-let me finish on, in your- intake, face-!”

Almost babbling into hysterics as you plead with your lover, you hear him chuckle. Another whine emerges from you when his servo leaves your spike. You could cry, you almost did- until Rodimus quickly, forcibly turned you around and knelt in front of you and quickly took your spike back into his grip. When he swiped his glossa over the weeping tip, you had to choke back a sob. When you looked down, Rodimus was all smiles, his pretty mouth just in front of your spike.

Hips thrusting once more, you bite your derma to keep yourself from making desperate, needy moans as his grip once more tightens, his glossa lapping at the head of your spike. If you look down, you could see your biolights blink rapidly, showing that you were on the cusp of an overload.

“Come on, sweetspark- I want you to cover me.”

The combination of Rodimus’ dirty talk and the ensuing image of his face covered in transfluid, your transfluid, pushed you over the edge with a cry. A thick rope of glowing pink fluid shot into his open, accepting mouth. You grab your spike and press it against his cheek, the next spurt landed just above his right optic. Smearing it across his face, you finish overloading on his left cheek with a moan.

Feeling your stabilizing servos wobble, you quickly lean against the wall to keep yourself from toppling over, your spike retreating back into your modesty panel. Rodimus smirked before he licked his lips and swallowed. The sight caused you to exvent- you loved the sight of Rodimus covered in your transfluid. Marking him as yours.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Not needing to be told twice, you raised a finger to your temple, a sign between you and Rodimus that you were doing something on your HUD. Specifically, taking a photo. Rodimus smirked as he posed for you, the transfluid slowly dripping down his face. After taking a few photos, you reach into your subspace and pull out a soft cleaning rag.

“Aw, I was hoping I’d get to show off.”

Snorting at Rodimus’ whine, you lower yourself down and begin to wipe his face gently.

“Ultra Magnus will have a saprk attack and lecture you while Megatron will sigh and look at you with disapproval.”

Thinking for a second, you continue, finishing cleaning Rodimus’ face.

“I’ll send you the pics to show Drift?”

Before Rodimus could answer, you pull him in for a kiss. You can faintly taste your transfluid on his derma and glossa as you deepen the kiss, swirling your glossa around his. You can hear his engine rev loudly.

“Gotta go, I’ll be late for my shift. See you later, captain.”

Giggling as you got up and walked away, you didn’t need to look back to know how Rodimus looked. He would be looking at you with want in his optics, biting his lip. He’d also be looking a little shocked at how casually you left him on the floor of his office. But, this was the game you both played, and you knew he would repay it ten times more later when you both retreated to his habsuit for the night.

Oh yes, you could not wait.

#rodimus/reader #rodimus x reader #rodimusxreader #valveplug #transformers fanfic #transformers valveplug fanfic #writing #fanfiction

66 notes · View notes

mostlymarvelsstuff · 2 years

Text

To Call You Mine

Chapter 1

Summary: Natasha has wanted Y/n as her Alpha for years, and Y/n has wanted Nat as her Omega for just as long. So why aren't they mated? Bruce. His jealousy and obsessiveness for Natasha lead him to forcibly claim her and force her to bear his pup, thinking Nat chose him instead Y/n backs off but never loses her love for the Russian. Natasha now fears Y/n could never want her, especially now that she's had Bruce's pup and even if she did Bruce would never let her go, so she has little hope. Frustrated by watching her best friend live with an abusive Alpha she hates instead of the Alpha she loves, Wanda will do anything to make sure Natasha gets her happy ending with Y/n, the Alpha she desires.

Authors note: this is an Omegaverse(a/b/o) fic, meaning Reader has a penis.

Warnings: domestic violence, mentions of sa.

Word count: 1735

Nat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist TCYM Masterlist

Natasha smiles as her young pup babbles as he attempts to stand on wobbly legs. He soon falls right back over, softly landing on his butt in the grass before he looks back up at his mother. From beside her, she can hear Wanda chuckle.

“He’s getting there” she says, smiling

Nat nods, “Yeah. He's pretty determined. He should be walking soon”

Suddenly a familiar scent hits her and her gaze shifts to you. She smiles, content to be in your presence and her eyes take in your form. Your muscles look a bit more defined since she’s seen you last and she finds herself longing to feel your arms wrapped around her.

“You're staring at her again” Wanda tells her, her tone teasing

A blush covers the Russians cheeks before her expression turns to one of sadness, “Stop. You know I can’t. I…I have Bruce.”

“You mean Bruce has you.” Wanda sighs, looking at her friend sadly, “We both know he isn’t the Alpha you wanted to be bonded with. We both know how he claimed you against your will and forced you to carry his pup. We both know you want her.”

A small and soft whine leaves the redhead, “But I can’t have her. She doesn’t want me. And Bruce would never allow me to leave.”

“You don’t know she doesn't want you Nat”

“I do” she replies, “No one would want an Omega who's already had another Alphas pup. Besides, If she wanted me, wouldn’t she have tried to claim me?”

“That's just not true Nat. Especially for her, Y/n would love Dimitri like her own.” she sighs, “Honey, she flirted with you all the time. I saw the way she looked at you, still, looks at you. She wanted to claim you, but then when Bruce did what he did….I think she thought you wanted that. Wanted him.”

“It doesn’t matter. He would never let me leave him.” she sighs

A silence settles over them after that, and they watch as you talk with Sharon over near the park's pond. A tightness forms in Natashas chest as she watches the other Omega put her hand on your arm as you both laugh. Suddenly though your gaze moves over to the two Omegas sitting near the oak tree and a smile spreads across your face. You excuse yourself from the blonde and make your way over to them, greeting the young pup first.

“Look at you little man!” you excitedly exclaim, getting him to smile, “You’ll be walking in no time, then you’ll really be a menace to your mom.”

Natasha smiles as you lift Dimitri up and spin him around, and for a brief moment she allows herself to pretend that you were hers, playing with the pup the two of you had. She imagines what her life would be like with you. Calm and peaceful. Filled with care, safety and love. Everything she doesn't currently have, but desperately wants. She's brought out of her thoughts when you greet her.

“Hey Natasha” you say with a smile that makes her heart yearn for you even more, “Hey Wanda.”

“Hey Y/n. How are you?” Wanda asks, knowing her best friend needs a moment to find her voice

“I’m good. Just enjoying today's nice weather.” you reply, “You guys?”

“I’m great. Vis just got a promotion so we’re confident we’re in a good spot to try for pups now.” Wanda answers with a large smile

Your smile matches hers, “Wanda, that's wonderful! What about you Nat?”

“I’m…” she trails off briefly, contemplating being completely honest with you, but decides against it. “I’m alright. Excited to see Dimitri walk soon. I’m sure it would please Bruce as well.”

Your smile fades slightly, like you don’t fully believe her, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure”

The pup in your embrace whines suddenly, extending his little hands towards his mother. You get the idea and swiftly hand him to her. She readily takes him, holding him on her lap as she hands him a small toy. She places a quick kiss to his chubby little cheek, admiring the way that a bit of your scent lingers on him.

“So you ran into Sharon hm?” Wanda asks in an attempt to both get you to stay and also see if you were looking for a mate

“Oh, yeah.” you reply, sitting down with them, “Yeah. She uh, well, she asked me to dinner.”

Natasha can feel her insides twist at this. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to be Bruces’ and bear his pup. Sharon wasn’t meant to be your Omega, she was. It’s what she's wanted since highschool. But Bruce ruined that and not only did she have to endure everything he threw at her, she now had to watch as you took another Omega as your own.

“Oh” Wanda replies, feeling the pain radiating off of her best friend, “When?”

“Next Tuesday. It was the only day the restaurant could fit us in.” you explain, but you can't help the sinking feeling in your chest. Sure Sharon was nice and beautiful, but she wasn’t the true Omega you longed for. But she was claimed, so you’d have to move on. Afterall it had been a year and a half. You can’t mope around and mourn lost love forever.

Natasha wants to cry. She wants to ask, no, to beg you not to go. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, how she wants to be yours and have a life with you. Explain how she never wanted this life with Bruce, how she would never choose an Alpha, especially an Alpha like him, over you.

Wanda watches her friend, and for a moment she thinks she may finally tell you everything. But then his voice can be heard, causing both Omegas to tense up.

“Natasha!” he yells, unnecessarily, “Tashchi syuda svoyu bespoleznuyu zadnitsu. V nastoyashcheye vremya!(Bring your worthless ass over here! Now!)”

Tears build in her eyes as her bottom lip trembles slightly, “I have to go. Thanks for spending the day with me Wans. Y/n- ”

“Omega!” he shouts again, causing her to jump slightly as she stands, “YA ne budu govorit' vam snova. Privedi syuda moyego syna seychas zhe, ili ty pozhaleyesh' ob etom.(I will not tell you again. Bring my son over here now or you will regret it!)”

“It was good to see you.” she says before making her over to where the Alpha stands by the sidewalk with his car

You hadn't missed how his tone had upset Natasha and angered Wanda. You knew a few words in Russian thanks to Yelena, but you were far from fluent. You knew Wanda was though. You knew she had understood every single word.

“What did he say?” you ask, curiosity getting the best of you

Wanda's eyes widened, she hadn’t anticipated you to ask. You never had before. But his attitude and their reactions today must have changed that. She debates with herself. Does she tell you the truth, tell you everything Bruce does to Natasha, tell you how the Omega feels about you?

“Wanda.” your voice calls her back to the situation at hand

“He called her worthless.” she answers before she can stop herself, “He said if she didn’t take Dimitri over there then now, he’d make her regret it.”

Your stomach drops and your jaw tenses, “Does he hurt her?”

Her eyes drop, focusing on the grass near her feet instead of your face. She wants to tell you that yes, he does. He yells at her, hits her, chokes her, had forcibly claimed her. But at the same time she doesn’t want to make Natasha uncomfortable by telling you such things. Yet again, you wouldn’t judge the Russian, hell you’d probably help her. Afterall she could tell how badly you wanted her best friend still and she knows Nat feels the same for you. She hopes she doesn’t regret this.

“Yes. He hurts her.”

You growl, “How long? Did it start when she claimed him, or after Dimitri was born?”

“Y/n, Natasha never claimed Bruce.”

“What are you talking about? He's her Alpha.” you retort, confusion evident on your face

She shakes her head, “He’s not. She never wanted him, but he didn’t care. He wanted her, so he…” she doesn’t finish the sentence. She just can’t bring herself to say it out loud. But you don’t need her to. You understand.

You growl again. Your stomach lurches and your heart clenches. How had you been so oblivious? Guilt naws at you for not noticing her discomfort with the Alpha, but looking back on it now you realize you had seen the subtle clues. The way she would flinch at times, how she took every opportunity to leave her house. How depressed she had been when she first found out she was with pup, how you always saw Bruce initiate any pda. How she didn’t like loud sounds, how Bruce almost always had a grip on her out in public.How you've been seeing less and less of her lately. At the time you hadn’t looked at those things as deeply as you should have because you were convinced he was the Alpha she wanted. You were convinced she was happy.

You feel even more guilt then. If you hadn't waited so long and simply offered yourself to her all those years ago then maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe she actually would have let you claim her, then she wouldn’t be suffering with an asshole for an Alpha and the two of you would be happy together as mates.

You stand abruptly, feeling like you've failed the Omega you loved. You find yourself wanting to be alone as you think of what you can do to help her, “Thank you for telling me Wanda. I’ll…I’ll figure something out. But right now I have to go.”

She watches you leave, a sadness in her as she knows the swirl of emotions she's just made you feel. It wasn’t her intention but Natasha needs out of there and away from Bruce, and you deserved to know what was going on. Still she knows it will take time for you to digest all this information. Once it settles she hopes she can convince Natasha to run to you and never look back.

Taglist: @wandaromamoff69 @mmmmokdok @nataliasknife @eonrioromanova @natashasilverfox @when-wolves-howl @wandanatvoid @naomi-m3ndez @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming @readings-stuff @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid

#natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #omega!nat #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o universe #a/b/o fanfic #a/b/o #marvel #fanfic #marvel fanfiction #omega!natasha romanoff

636 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 1 year

Text

Us and Them.

Daryl Dixon x F Reader.

Tags: Not SFW, follow up to Hierarchy of Needs, takes place from Daryl's POV. Simping o'clock. Some typical TWD horror elements. Word count: 11.5k.

It takes a great deal to crack Daryl’s focus.

The life he’s led up until this point necessitated the fact. To ensure he’d hit his mark or continue tracking the elusive fauna hiding in the thickets, he needed to block the rest of the world out and hone in on his objective. This tendency bled into the other aspects of his day-to-day existence as well. It’s made him notoriously reliable, a reality he doesn’t take pride in, for he’s just doing what he thinks anyone should do. Shaking this cornerstone of his identity is no easy task.

Unless you’re thrown into the mix, that is.

Then it’s as if every functioning brain cell he has decides to jump ship in favor of seeking you out, no matter how detrimental it may be to him. Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to mind half the time. You’re a distraction he’d hold the door open for. That being said, as much as he’d love to entertain thoughts of you 24/7, it’s an unrealistic dream. There’s work to be done and he can’t take up residence in la-la land. He’ll be forcibly evicted most of the time, should he not leave of his own volition.

His present predicament does well to remind him of this.

“You with me, Daryl?”

Rick’s voice is a scythe cutting through the overgrown verdure of his mind. Daryl grunts, probably agreeing to something he should’ve been paying closer attention to. It’s too late for him to play it off, he can tell by Rick’s expression alone. He’s giving that raised eyebrow, head tilted look you once theorized to be the byproduct of being a sheriff for years. Officer Friendly’s changed a lot since they first met, but that look has remained reliably consistent.

“That so? Mind telling me what I just said then?” Rick challenges.

Daryl doesn’t even bother to entertain the charade. He knows when to cut his losses. “Sorry. Wasn’t listening.”

“Mhm,” Rick nods his head in the direction Daryl’s been staring. “Let me guess. It got anything to do with our social butterfly over there?”

Daryl doesn’t know why Rick’s asking when he likely already knows the answer to the question. Indeed, Daryl’s been keeping an eye on you while Rick discussed various happenings. You were reading Frankenstein beneath a gazebo for a whopping five minutes before an interloper made himself known. One of Deanna’s sons — Daryl can barely tell them apart, they leave so little of an impression — decided to strike up a conversation with you. The complete and utter disregard for your personal time has him fuming. You’ve been so busy shadowing Deanna that you’ve barely had a moment’s respite, you deserve to read your damn book in peace.

He knows you’ve been working yourself to the bone. Alexandria is important to you, you’ve been doing everything possible to guarantee a future for your tight-knit group here. It helps that Deanna’s taken a shine to you; the opportunities this granted have been paramount. You’re slowly winning over the skeptical residents and explaining away any errant behavior from your group. Whatever tale you're spinning, he figures it must be working. He can at least walk around without being gawked at. Regardless, you confided to him that there's still much to do. Tensions are brewing faster than you can reconcile them.

“Hardly see ‘er no more,” Daryl scoffs. “Yuppies are takin’ up all her damn time.”

Rick gives a thoughtful hum. “It’s good, what she’s doing. Building up trust. Might help us if things are headed the way I think they are.”

What was no doubt intended to lift Daryl’s spirits does the opposite, plunging them down into a deeper depth. He feels he’s deceiving you somehow by not mentioning Rick and Carol’s ‘backup plan’ should the Alexandria inhabitants prove beyond help. He also knows you loathe feeling used — a vulnerable confession owing to a drink too many — and that’s what this feels like. Using the good graces you’ve painstakingly established for an ulterior motive.

Daryl keeps quiet. Fortunately, Rick is quick to catch on and changes the subject.

“You know,” he starts, looking away from you to focus on Daryl, “I’ve noticed something’s different between you two. Ever since the night of that welcoming party.”

Daryl assumes a poker face. He knew he should expect this line of questioning at some point, because things did change between you, in a way that exceeded his wildest dreams. Still, the way Rick’s sizing him up makes him feel like a teenager being greeted by your dad at the front door before your first date. He doesn’t know how to deal with this shit. The only person close to Daryl in terms of their protectiveness over you is Rick. Is this some type of test? That can’t be right; Rick’s been trying to convince him to shoot his shot with you since the prison. He probably just wants to know everything’s fine. Ever the worrier, holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“She, uh,” Daryl focuses on his scuffed boots, before finally managing to look Rick in the eye. “She knows.”

Rick’s countenance betrays his disbelief. “You told her?”

Well, it’d be more accurate to say you told him by kissing him silly and putting his many doubts to rest, but he isn’t about to go around announcing that. He’ll hold this near and dear to his heart.

“Yeah.”

“And?” Rick presses, borderline impatient for the information Daryl’s so stingy on handing over. “What’d she say?”

Daryl can’t stop his lips from quirking into a closed-mouth smile. “Feels the same.”

Unlike Daryl, Rick doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “What’d I tell you, huh? That’s— that’s great. I’m happy for you. For both of you. It’s about time you both stopped dancing around things.”

Daryl wants to grumble over Rick giving him a hard time, but he can’t bring himself to, because the man’s right. While it may not have been love back at the quarry, even then he thought you were the prettiest damn woman he’d ever had the blessing to lay eyes on. His attachment to you only grew from there. By his estimation, that’d place it somewhere around two years of having the hots for you without ever making a serious move. While he doesn’t regret the time dedicated to deepening your friendship, it would’ve saved him a lot of grief if he knew you reciprocated his affections. He’d lost track of the nights spent tossing and turning, contemplating just how out of his league you are.

“While we’re on the subject, Glenn’s got some condoms on him, should you need any.”

Daryl coughs into his hand to hide the wicked blush rising to his cheeks. “The hell, man?”

“Just sayin’,” Rick puts his hands up in defense. “It’s best to be proactive. Sometimes you look at the girl like you’re ready to pounce.”

He fights back a groan at the new ammunition Rick has to tease him with. It is good knowledge to have, though, so he makes a note of it. You had only slept together once on that fateful night roughly two weeks ago. Daryl was mistaken in thinking getting a taste of you would calm the raging flames of desire that burn him from the inside out. If anything, it’s as if they’ve been doused with gasoline. Every little thing you do nearly drives him mad with need. When you chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, bend over to grab something, or make those cute little noises when you stretch, the list goes on and on. You’re making it a damn challenge to think with his head and not his dick.

How can he not, when he’s experienced how exhilarating it is to become one with the person he loves most? The sights and sounds of that night play on a loop in his mind constantly. The teasing banter, the taste of chocolate on your lips, the mind-numbing pleasure that exceeds anything he’d felt in his life… it’s got to be a special kind of torture to know he can have that with you, if he only he could get you alone. He swears every force in the universe is working against him. You’re living in a house packed like sardines, your schedules don’t line up (he’s an early riser, you love ‘your beauty sleep’), and you’ve been busy as a bee.

In your benevolence, you’ve treated him to some fleeting kisses and hugs, which, while he treasures those more than the air in his lungs, can’t satisfy the excruciating need he has for your body. He has to stop himself from undressing you with his eyes the few times of day you’re around. You’re just so gorgeous, so exuberant, lighting up the room in the way only you can and leaving a cold emptiness inside him when you’re gone.

He used to harp on lovesick fools for gushing over their ‘other half’, but now he gets it, he truly does. Going without you for any length of time is a unique agony that twists his guts into a knot.

Glancing back over your way, his blood freezes over at the sight he’s greeted with.

The prick had the audacity to put his hand on your lower back while Daryl was preoccupied. His eye twitches and his nostrils flare, hands balling into fists by his side. Rick senses the change in demeanor and follows Daryl’s line of sight to identify the reason, instantly piecing together the problem. Right before Daryl can charge over and rip the asshole’s slimy hand off you, Rick steps in, motioning for him to slow down.

“Hey, hey, look at me—”

“He’s fuckin’ touching her,” Daryl seethes, barely able to hear anything over the sound of his heart thumping in his ears. “She’s uncomfortable, I’m gonna—”

This time, it’s Rick who interrupts him. “I get it, I really do, but we can’t afford to go makin’ a scene over something like this. [First] wouldn’t want that. You know she wouldn’t. So let’s take a moment and calm down.”

“The hell do you know ‘bout what she wants?” Daryl challenges, his voice raising enough to attract some nearby attention. He juts his shoulder out of the way when Rick tries to lay his hand on it. “We both know why you’re letting ‘er play nice.”

Rick’s eyebrows furrow, hurt at the insinuation. “Daryl…”

He turns on his heel and storms off.

Rick calls out to him a few more times, but he makes a point of ignoring him, along with the stares his outburst garnered. A quiet, reasonable voice whispers to him that he’s blowing things out of proportion. This sensible counsel is overpowered by his Dixon blood yelling otherwise. He’s always been quick to default to anger, it’s an emotion he can make the most sense of when everything’s confusing. Rage is all-consuming and familiar. It gives him an easy target to release his pent-up negative emotions.

There’s just too much for him to work through. The gnawing insecurity, that in this stable environment, you could do so much better than him and he wouldn't have the slightest clue how to stop it. He’s not a smooth talker, can’t excuse confidence in spades. Hell, he couldn’t even confess to you first, you had to come to him. Who in their right mind would want a man like that? A man like him?

His jaw feels like it could snap from how hard he’s grinding his teeth together.

When he gets back to the group’s shared residence, he slings his crossbow into place and makes for Alexandria’s gates. He’s got to get away from here before he pulls an even dumber stunt he’ll surely regret later. The lone guard stationed there looks about ready to give him a difficult time until he sees the grave expression on Daryl’s face. That’s enough for him to wordlessly grant passage to the outside world.

Daryl opts for using his knife to take out the walkers prowling past the entrance. Adrenaline pumps throughout his body as the blade breaches a skull, then another, the bodies sagging to the ground with a satisfying thump. He cleans the gore off his knife and sets out for the woods, grateful to leave the oppressive community he’ll never fully fit into behind him.

Out here, he’s in his element. Weaving in and out of paths he’s already started to memorize, hearing the coos of mourning doves and shrill chirps of cardinals. He isn’t meant to fraternize with some hoity-toity folks who still think carrying a gun around inside the walls is excessive. His previous anger simmers down into frustration with each step he takes. In his haste, he hadn’t grabbed that many arrows. He knows he shouldn’t be out here for long.

However, the alternative is just as undesirable. He’ll man up and give Rick the apology he’s owed, but there’s no doubt his stunt today hurt what you’ve been trying to build. The folks wearing their polo shirts and khakis will probably go back to staring at him like he’s some sort of bogeyman come to life. He scoffs quietly to himself at the thought, bending over to inspect some fresh-looking tracks in the dirt. A deer must’ve come through here not long ago. Snagging a catch like that would do wonders for lifting his dampened mood. It’s tangible proof that he belongs, that he isn’t some freak like his brother would have him believe.

It’s strange to care about what he’s gone his entire life ignoring. When you have a reputation like the Dixon’s did in the town he grew up in, ostracization was to be expected. He’d lost count of the times he’d have to bail Merle’s ass out of the county jail only for the process to start back up a few months down the line. They might as well have kept a parking spot with his name written on it, as often as he stopped by the place. The stares, the whispers. They followed him everywhere he went. He learned to stop caring, he didn’t really have any better alternatives.

He thinks of you — how quick you are to fit in — how wide the chasm is that separates you. It’s been a while since he’s had to grapple with these misgivings, the farm must’ve been the last time. Daryl knows it’s shameful, but he likes when he’s the one providing for you. Not so he could lord it over you, he wouldn’t dream of that. It’s more so how it justifies him being in your orbit. Solidifies his place by your side.

No one else can take it if it’s carved out in his shape.

The sun begins its lull in the sky. Shades of brilliant amber and gold trickle in through the interstices of the trees overhead, cascading like embers. Daryl mulls over what you might be doing now as he gulps down water from his canteen. Are you having dinner with Reg and Deanna? Or are you back at home, encouraging Judith to eat her veggies and trying to convince Carl there are more things to read than comics? Have you noticed his absence? Or are you too preoccupied to realize he’s gone?

His heart plummets down to his stomach.

Daryl crouches over, inspecting some flowers that have been chewed down to the stem. It’s still glistening with saliva. A deer’s doing, no doubt. This paired with the tracks he’s been following promises that he’s getting closer. Any other day, personal qualms would be the last thing on his mind when he’s about to land a deer, but you’re an apparition that won’t stop haunting him. He misses you. He sees you every day, yet it isn’t enough. He misses hearing your lame jokes that you laugh at (and he laughs at too, occasionally), the weird thoughts that occupy your pretty little head (seriously, who ponders over the origin of the phrase ‘elephant in the room’?), arguing over if Back in Black or The Dark Side of the Moon is the better album (he caught you humming Time to Judith once, trying to indoctrinate her early, no doubt).

He misses you so badly it makes him physically ache.

The crackling of foliage ahead temporarily releases him from his bitter rumination.

He fastens his crossbow into place, mindful of his every step. He makes his way through a clearing. It’s the scent he notices first, the miasma of rot. Then there’s the sound of flies buzzing and wet, vicious squelching. Ripping and tearing. Daryl knows what he’s destined to see before he even lays eyes on it. A group of voracious walkers gorge themselves upon the fallen deer, too preoccupied with devouring the viscera to notice his presence. Rigor mortis hadn’t even set in yet, he’d just barely missed his window.

It’s one of those days, he supposes.

The trek back to Alexandria is noticeably devoid of thought. He gladly welcomes the reprieve, wanting nothing more than for his head to hit the pillow so he can sleep today’s events off. Alexandria’s walls loom in front of him soon enough. He calls over to be let back in. Without delay, the gate creaks to the side, revealing the last figure he expected to be greeted with upon his return.

You.

You stand a few paces ahead, relief visible on your features when you establish eye contact. You’re wearing a yellow gingham blouse, white denim jeans, and those sneakers from what he’d consider the best day of his life. Your hair that you’ve been complaining is too long is tied up in a high ponytail, revealing that neck he longs to smother in kisses again. You’re so fucking radiant it should be illegal. Intelligent thought flies out the window, though luckily for him, you almost never run out of things to say.

“Are you alright?” Is what you decide upon, your voice sweeter than candy. He’d eat it up if he could.

He nods, his body recalling how to do basic motor functions after a sizable delay. You secure the gate behind you, muttering some gratitude to the guard Daryl scowled into submission earlier, then jog to catch up with him. He swears he could distinguish the sounds of your footsteps in his sleep. As much as he’d love to, he doesn’t look at you, choosing to fixate on the road ahead. After the events of the day, he doesn't trust himself not to pull anything stupid.

“Daryl, hello hello,” you say with a singsong lilt, “You do notice me, right? I’m not that short.”

“Tired, s’all,” he murmurs.

“Have you not been sleeping well?”

He shrugs. “Guess not.”

There’s a beat of silence. Unable to bear it, he turns toward you, immediately noting the uncharacteristic frown on your features. A deep pang resonates inside him at the sight. He knows he’s worrying you, causing extra strife you most certainly don’t deserve to deal with, but he can’t think straight. The culmination of two weeks’ worth of navigating foreign feelings he’s never experienced before is taking a toll on him. You mentioned having an ex-boyfriend to Maggie in the past — a notion he’s hardly surprised by, considering you got him of all people falling head over heels — so this must be familiar territory for you.

“When I asked if you were fine earlier, I didn’t just mean physically,” you nudge him playfully with your elbow, although your expression is serious. “Is something up?”

“Jesus, I’m fine, woman,” Daryl huffs. The tone he takes has you pursing your lips. He no longer hears your footsteps struggling to keep up, you must’ve stopped. He does too. Turning himself to face you is no easy task, yet he somehow manages. What remains of the sunset basks your features in a gentle glow. He can make out each fleck of color in your iris’, finding the distinct splash of color to be his favorite. You have every right to be annoyed with him, you should be, honestly — and still, there are no traces of irritation. That alone melts his heart.

You’re just looking at him, trying to piece together what’s brought him to this point. You never assume the worst of him, you never have. Instead, you choose to carefully comb through the information available to understand what he barely understands himself. This is one of your strengths he’s always admired.

When he once asked you why you gave others the benefit of the doubt, you compared it to his tracking process.

“There’s more going on than what’s visible at first glance, right?” You reasoned. “You have to stop, slow down. Take time to inspect things a little closer. If you don’t, you risk missing what’s truly important.”

Waves of guilt crash over him like the roaring ocean upon the shore. You’re so good — the epitome of everything worth preserving in this decaying world.

“... ‘m sorry,” Daryl swallows thickly. “Just… bad day, is all.”

Your visage softens. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He flinches. You’re far too quick to forgive.

“Nah, it ain’t. I shouldn’t take it out on ya.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” You offer, still refusing to hold Daryl’s shortcomings over his head. “I, um, actually had something I wanted to show you. It’s somewhere quiet. It’d just be us there.”

He parts his lips, ready to reinforce the fact you should be upset with him, when he sees your smile. This is the kind you’ve only ever graced him with. There’s this innate understanding in your eyes, a compassion to the curve of your lips. A look of pure love. He’s committed every facet of you he can to memory, he knows no one else is the recipient of this specific tenderness. It’s reserved solely for him.

There’s a gravitational pull around you that draws him close and refuses to let him go.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Positive.”

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates, wondering if he deserves to take it.

When he does, the way your smile grows tells him he made the right choice.

It’s him following you now. There’s a pep in your step, he can feel the excitement radiating off of you. A few Alexandrians he hasn’t bothered learning the names of yet give a wave upon spotting you, an act you gladly reciprocate. You haven’t the slightest ounce of shame about the rugged man trailing behind you. An insecure part of him that stubbornly refuses to die suggested that as you integrate into the community, you might leave him behind. Find a man that fits in here rather than sticking out like a sore thumb as he does.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The guilt returns, slithering its tendrils around his person and preparing to bite down hard. He’s been weaving falsehoods about you because of his own problems. You aren’t that type of person. He needs to get out of his own head and accept that maybe, just maybe, this’ll be his shot at happiness. The concept is so surreal that his body has been rejecting it like it were a foreign invader. He doesn’t want to fall prey to his natural tendencies anymore, he has to fight it.

He imagines it’ll be a slow and tedious process, uprooting the thorny vines he’s grown to protect himself. You’re worth the effort, reckons. You always have been.

Suburbia surrounds you on both sides. This must be another residential area of Alexandria, one that is vacant from what he can tell. You pause in front of one of the homes, nestled toward the end of the street. It’s the picture-perfect representation of the upper-middle-class ideal. A two-story high house styled like the others, with beige siding and a light gray roof. After letting him take it in for a second, you pull a set of keys from your back pocket, then grin.

“I bought us a house,” you twirl the jingling keys on your pointer finger. “My credit wasn’t the best, and we’ll probably have to do a reverse mortgage in a decade, but it’s ours.”

Daryl squints, trying to deduce how much of what you’re saying is in jest.

“I’ve been working with Deanna to get our group more settled in, since this looks permanent. We finished ironing out the details today, and, uh, yeah. We get a house all for ourselves.”

Your voice grows smaller toward the end of your sentence, almost tentative. You’re gauging him just as much as he is you.

“Ya wanna,” he takes a moment to find the right words, “Ya wanna live with me?”

You shrink into yourself. “I do. O-Only if you want to, of course! If this is weird, or, I’m uh, being too forward, then just— oof!”

You’re never given the chance to finish your sheepish ramblings, for he lifts you in the air, spinning you once then wrapping you in a tight embrace. You give him a breathless laugh and return his affection in kind. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing in the familiar scent of cocoa butter and shea. In any other circumstance, he’d shy away from such a bold display in public, but he’s too damn ecstatic to care. Let anyone who happens by watch. See for themselves that you’re his and he’d sooner keel over than let you go.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” You hum as he carefully puts you down, treating you like you were made of glass.

“Yeah,” he reassures. He huffs in amusement at the stars that are practically glittering in your eyes. “Guess that means the others’ll know ‘bout us.”

You’re quick to fall back into your usual demeanor, now that you know he wasn’t put off. “Are you embarrassed of me, Mr. Dixon?”

He rolls his eyes at your theatrics, replying lightheartedly, “Stop.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure the others already know,” you say. “Well, some of them, at least. Women have a sixth sense for these things.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I mostly plead the fifth. Rosita and Maggie keep smirking at me though. I think we developed some sort of witch coven-level bond while out on the road.”

He lets out a ‘pfft’ at the phraseology that’s so distinctly you. He’s always loved hearing you talk, he swears you could make an instruction manual on how to set up a dresser entertaining. Aside from how unfairly pretty you are, your mannerisms are what caught his eye. You have this way of creating a comfortable atmosphere. Back at the quarry, you stubbornly worked to peel back his layers, one at a time. You somehow knew what conversations to broach and which to steer clear of. Before he knew what was happening, you became his favorite person to spend time with, and he actively sought you out; ignoring Merle’s disparaging remarks along the way.

The rest is history, as they say.

You both walk up to the porch, taking in every last detail. The spacious front yard, bushes that Daryl makes a mental note to trim later, and the little stone pathway which leads up to the steps. A soft breeze passes through, encouraging the rustle of towering tree branches. The scent of daisies and honeysuckle wafts in the cool evening air and he deeply inhales nature’s aromatic perfume. You trace the porch’s white pillar with your fingertips, seemingly entranced, disbelief written over your features.

“From a prison cell to this,” you shake your head. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Nah. You ain’t.”

You point at the closed garage. “You can park your bike there, turn it into a workshop or something.”

Next, the empty garden.

“And— and we can plant carrots, peas, zucchini… maybe find a blueberry bush. Flowers too. Oh, I love hydrangeas, they can be tricky though. We should also plant a fruit tree. What about apple? Yeah, let’s do that. The kids’ll love it. Apple pie, apple cider… did you know Carl’s never had apple cider? How is that even possible?”

There’s a glossy tint to your eyes as you ramble on, so taken by the idea of a future that you don’t know what to do with yourself. He has to fight against a lump threatening to form in his throat. Daryl hugs you from behind, holding you against him as if you’d disappear like sand through his fingers should he let go. You feel so good in his arms. So right.

“We have to make this work, Daryl,” your voice is tight. “We have to. No matter what.”

This serious declaration takes him back weeks prior, to the day your fates became permanently intertwined. You’ve been pushing yourself to fulfill what you said then and now. He’s sure you’d much rather spend time with your group, your family, but you’ve been building the groundwork for a future. The very same groundwork he’s been undermining by plotting outside the walls with Rick and Carol, well-intentioned as it may be.

“I gotta tell ya something,” he murmurs, placing a chaste kiss atop your head. Your hair smells heavenly. “Has to do with earlier.”

After feeling you nod, he continues, albeit hesitantly.

“Me, Rick n’ Carol have been talking. ‘Bout Alexandria. What we should do here. They’re thinkin’ we might hafta take over, if worse comes to worst. These people… they’re weak. Don’t know a damn thing ‘bout what’s happenin’ outside them walls.”

He loosens his grip as you twist around to face him. Once again, he braces himself for heavy rebuke; a confirmation that you’ll be as upset as he imagined upon learning about this. You place both your hands on the railing behind you while looking up, your head tilting to the side.

“I already knew about that.”

Daryl knits his eyebrows together, incredulous. “You— what?”

“Not the specifics, maybe, but I got the gist of things,” you confirm. This further reinforces his belief that you’re perceptive to a freaky degree. “I mean… I get where you guys are coming from. What we’ve been through… what we’ve seen… God… I never let myself think about it for long. I can’t. I push that shit down as deep as it’ll go. Lock it up and throw away the key.”

You sigh and give him a weary smile that tugs on his heartstrings. “I’m not going to say that you’re in the wrong, because honestly, I haven’t the faintest clue. I wish I did, but I don’t. All I know is that it doesn’t hurt to try. What’s that adage Rick is so fond of…? Ah, yes, let’s ‘see what we see’. If you do, and still think they’re a lost cause, then… I’ll trust your judgment. I always have. Always will, too. There’s no one I trust more in this world than you, Daryl. Not even myself.”

You’ve stolen the air from his lungs and words from his mouth, it’s like he’s been sucker-punched. He tries and fails to string together a coherent sentence. It shouldn’t be too difficult, the assembly of vowels and consonants, yet every word in the English language slips his mind. He’s long since held the belief that you’re an angel incarnate — you might as well be, given your beauty — but thinking that way is ultimately doing you a disservice.

You’re scared, you’re confused, you’re human. Blood pumps through your heart, not ichor.

Daryl takes your pretty face into his hands, wishing he could smooth away the lines of worry. “I’ll try. Promise.”

You kiss his inner palm. “That’s all I could ask for.”

“What you said… ‘bout not trustin’ yourself…” he trails off, almost wincing at hearing the words spoken aloud again, “You should. Trust yourself, I mean. You're smart. Crafty. Made some damn good calls I never woulda thought to.”

“Are you buttering me up, Daryl?” You teasingly suggest. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”

He grunts. There you go with your tendency to keep things light-hearted when they get uncomfortably personal again.

“... Really, though, thank you,” the inflection of your voice reverts back to sincere in record time. You almost give him whiplash with the ease in which you shift moods. “We probably should’ve had this talk sooner, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout that. I wanted… wanted to surprise you, and I got so swept up in that, I missed what’s really important.”

Daryl feels his lips twitching into a smile at your subconscious elision — Carol once pointed out that you sometimes talk like him, and vice versa. She said you guys hang out together so often, it’s to be expected. He’s picked up your favorite idioms and rubbed off his tendency to curse on you, even if you don’t do it anywhere near as often as him. To think that two years ago, his preppy princess went from having the cleanest mouth around to dropping expletives without batting an eyelash.

“‘S fine. Still don’t think ya did anything wrong.”

“You’re a bit biased, don’t you think?”

“Mm. Maybe.”

You laugh at his candidness. “It just occurred to me that all our best conversations happen on porches. Is that why you lived out on the porch for our first few days here?”

“Nah. Had to keep ya safe,” Daryl runs the pad of his thumb over your cheekbones. “Can’t let anything happen to ya, butterfly.”

You preen at the personal touch to your infamous nickname, evidently liking it as much as he does. “I told you, I’m more of a caterpillar for the time being.”

He snorts. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Hm… a cocoon, then? Agree to disagree?”

“Ain’t calling ya a fuckin’ cocoon, woman.”

“Oh, but if it’s your voice saying it, I’ll get all hot and bothered,” you lean forward, pressing the swell of your chest against his. He swears he can feel his blood rushing south. “You could make anything sound good. Even… hm… let me think… the word foible.”

Daryl scrunches up his nose. “The hell? That’s a word?”

“Sure is. It might be the only one that hasn’t found its way into Eugene’s impressive lexicon yet.”

“You couldn’t pay me ‘nough to say that.”

“It’s a good thing the economy is in shambles then,” you wink. Then you stifle a laugh with your hand. “Huh. I really need to get better at flirting. I’m rusty… way out of practice. Mind helping me out with that, Dixon? If not, Maggie’s gonna get stuck dealing with the brunt of it.”

The look he gives has you showing your palms in surrender. “I told you! It’s witch coven level stuff between us now. I’m waiting with bated breath for someone to suggest a blood oath.”

“Don’t need no practice, all ya do is flirt with me, damn vixen.”

He pinches your cheek, content to see how they’ve filled back out after two weeks of eating regularly.

“Took you long enough to notice.”

You guide his hands to your hips and he’s more than happy to place them there. Next, you secure your arms around his neck, then start swaying side to side. Everything about you is so magnetic. God, that expression is nearly lethal. You’re gazing up at him through lidded eyes, worrying your lower lip beneath your teeth. He feels his cock twitching to life. You barely need to do a damn thing and he’s ready to fall to the ground and worship you.

Daryl has to fight off a debauched noise as you stand on your tiptoes, your tongue poking out to coat your lips in an enticing sheen. He feels your hot breath fan against his face and tightens his grip on you to keep himself steady. You pause, content to stay where you are, so close to where he wants you yet cruelly far away. You breathe in one another’s air for a few, agonizing seconds, your noses touching. Then you’re moving again. Right when he thinks he’s going to be treated to your taste, frustration boils within when you kiss the corner of his mouth instead. He could take whatever he wants from you — his immense strength speaks to that — yet there’s something so undeniably charming about letting you think you’re in control.

He figures he can play along a while longer.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart,” you whisper, the huskiness of your voice causing goosebumps to erupt all over his skin, “Grab what’s in my back left pocket.”

Curious, he does just that. His fingers come into contact with a plastic serrated edge. He knows what it is before he even pulls it out.

“This time, I can’t say I didn’t plan things in advance,” you take pride in admitting.

He frowns. “Just have these on you?”

Despite knowing it’s entirely unreasonable, he can’t suppress a sting of jealousy. He silently hopes you haven’t been carrying these things around for long. Not if you wanted to use them with someone else.

“Mhm. I had some at the farm, then the prison,” if you notice how his expression darkens, you don’t mention it. “There’s this guy who caught my eye, you see, a very handsome one. I’ve wanted him to have his way with me for ages. Couldn’t work up the courage to admit that for the life of me, though. Until very recently.”

He mentally sighs at the reassurance no one’s gotten to touch you while he was stuck silently yearning from afar. There were a few panic-inducing moments that drove him crazier than he’d ever admit, due largely in part to your friendly personality. You’re touchy-feely with those you care about. While he reaped the benefits of this, it’s a double-edged sword. You hug your friends, fall asleep on their shoulder, and dote over them at every chance. He once mistakenly snapped one of his arrows in half when he saw you run and jump to embrace Rick.

Daryl knew it was wrong to feel possessive over a grown woman who he wasn’t in a romantic relationship with, yet his heart refused to listen to his brain. People were drawn in by your wit and charm, there wasn’t much to do about it. It wasn’t like he could station himself by your side every waking hour to scare off any asshole who thought they had a shot at you.

… He has considered the idea, though.

“That right?” He asks, maintaining eye contact while his hands go to give your ass a squeeze. He’s never felt the most confident when it came to flirting, yet you make him feel wanted, like you’re into him as much as he’s into you.

“Right as rain,” you give him those doe eyes that make him weak in the knees. “It made me have to settle for the next best thing.”

Daryl’s entirely under your spell and he wouldn’t want it any other way. “What’d that be, princess?”

He bites back a knowing smirk at the way you shiver, your eyes glazing over with lust. Learning your little thing for hearing him call you princess was a piece of knowledge he fully intended on making good use of.

“My hands,” you murmur. He knew what you were implying, but hearing you say it out loud almost makes him lose his fucking mind. “I’d think about how strong he was, how good he’d make me feel. I was always scheming, y’know. Wearing short shorts, low cut shirts. Think it may have caught his attention?”

Oh, so that’s how it was, huh? He’d always get caught between feeling grateful for seeing so much of you and possessive when he realized everyone else got the same privilege. A few men and women back at the prison let their eyes linger far longer than he would’ve preferred. He’d spend balmy nights tucked away on his lonesome, wrestling his belt and pants down so he could relieve himself to the thought of you. Guilt would rear its head when he saw you the next day, running over to excitedly greet him, oblivious to how he objectified you in his mind hours prior.

It comes as a mild relief to know that was what you intended.

“Don’t needta think. Know for a fact it did.”

You pout, upping his urge to kiss you by a hundred percent. “Are you sure? He hasn’t tried to touch me lately. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

“Hard to touch a woman who ain’t there,” Daryl huffs, indignant.

“Well, I’m here now,” you reassure. “Maybe you should make the best of it, hm?”

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He snatches the keys and wastes no time unlocking the front door, motioning for you to go in first. He enters immediately after. The lock is redone in anticipation of what’ll come next, you’ll both be needing your privacy. Daryl loves your little group, would die for them in a heartbeat, but he’s been waiting what feels like eons to get you alone again. He’s surprised with the amount of self-control he’s exercising, the urge to rip your clothes off and take you against the closest available surface is overwhelming. You bring out this animalistic side to him he never knew existed.

You start making your way upstairs after leaving your shoes by the door. From this angle, he’s treated to a lovely angle of your hips and shapely ass. His nerves are set aflame by the mere thought of seeing you bare again. He damn near sprints to catch up with you, not caring to hide his desperation in the slightest. He scoops you up bridal style along the way — he really might have a thing for manhandling you, although he’s never rough — the ease in which he can maneuver your body just feels right. Satisfies what little ego he has when it comes to romantic endeavors.

“I never have to use my legs when you’re around,” you giggle.

“That’s the goal.”

In more ways than one, he hopes.

Daryl brings you into the first bedroom he sees. You’re gently laid down atop the plush comforter, while he gets to work ridding himself of his clothes. The condom from earlier is placed on the bed’s edge. He pulls his angel wing vest over his head, kicks off his boots, then his jeans. The weight of your gaze on him is tangible, you look at him as if he were a piece of art. He’s unsure if he should feel embarrassed or prideful by your unabashed staring. A blush dusts his cheeks when he catches you rubbing your thighs together, causing him to lean toward the former.

He freezes when he gets to his black button-up shirt. The last time you were intimate, it was dark enough that he didn’t feel entirely exposed. As much as he loves seeing you painted in warm hues of orange and red, that means he’ll be fully visible too. Every inch of his body and its testament to a life of hardships. You’d seen the scars on his back when tending to his injuries back on the farm, yet you didn’t dare to make a comment. The way he flinched and shrunk away told you everything you needed to know.

Sensing his hesitation, you stand to your feet and approach him. Your fingers settle on the top button, though you make no movement past that. He can practically hear the cogs turning in your head.

“If you don’t want—”

“I do,” he cuts you off, knowing what you intend to say. “I trust ya. Just…”

“Just…?”

He shrugs, the tips of his ears burning. “Want ya to like what ya see.”

“Oh, darling,” you croon, the unexpected pet name makes his blush infinitely stronger, “Maggie used to call me out for drooling over you when you wore those sleeveless shirts. Made me wish I had a pair of opera glasses. You’re handsome. Unbelievably so.”

He doesn’t know what to say, caught in a swirl of embarrassment and delight over the praise you wholeheartedly offer.

You undo the first button, then stop, looking up to check with him again. When he nods, you keep going, revealing the skin that closely hugs his defined muscles. You don’t recoil in disgust or give him pity-filled glances when spotting his scars, instead, you look mesmerized. He can hear your breathing pick up and see the way your pupils dilate.

Daryl thought he was too old to get butterflies in his stomach, but there’s nothing you’re better at than revealing parts of himself he didn’t know existed.

You smooth your palms over his pecs. “I really am going to start drooling.”

He huffs and shrugs off his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. “Lay your ass back down, girl.”

You give a dorky double thumbs up and do just that.

He joins you not long after, both his arms caging you against the bed.

Daryl nods toward your still-clothed body and quirks his head to the side.

“What? You don’t wanna be the one to undress me? I’m sure you’ve thought about it.” You provoke. His hands almost start trembling from the sheer excitement the prospect stirs up in him. You’re such a coquettish little thing, playing dirty whenever you’re presented with the choice. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it, though. You know how to rile him up.

“Once or twice,” he replies, nimble fingers finding the hem of your shirt and lifting. You raise an eyebrow, challenging his purposefully low estimation. He gives a throaty chuckle, soothing your ire by kissing you on the forehead. “A day.”

You look pleased with the revelation. “There. Much better.”

He greedily takes in every inch of skin that’s revealed to him as he lifts your shirt. Heaven itself couldn’t compare to the beauty that is your body, he almost forgets how to breathe when he sees the start of your chest. His heartbeat rises in a crescendo as he slowly pulls the fabric upward. Finally, he gets an unobstructed view of your tits, wrapped up nice and pretty in a black bra. He wets his lips and bites back a groan. His large, calloused hands immediately set to work on kneading the supple flesh. There’s nothing he loves the feel of more.

“Ya really did plan this,” Daryl has to stop himself from rutting against the bed like an animal, the desperation you instill in him is unreal. “Wanted to drive me fuckin’ crazy, huh?”

“Maybe a little.”

He pinches your nipples then, earning a gasp so lovely from you that a guttural growl leaves his throat. He’s just as obsessed with your voice as you are with his. There’s a sweetness to it that tickles his ears just right. Whether you’re laughing, moaning, or simply saying his name in that way only you can, there’s this lilt that has him hooked. Nicotine be damned, you’re an addiction that surpasses all else.

His fingers make their way to your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. “A little, hm?”

You nod after a moment’s hesitation.

“Ya never were a good liar,” Daryl muses. He’s always found this positively adorable about you. Once he taught you the rules of poker and you joined in on some game nights, it became clear that wasn’t your area of expertise. You’d squirm in your seat, glare or beam at your cards, your intentions practically announced for the whole world by your transparent body language. He’d lost count of the number of times he had to bite back a smile when watching you.

He wraps his mouth around your nipple, alternating between suckling and licking it with his tongue. If given the chance, he’d sit here and do this for ages.

“Is that— mm— a bad thing?”

He pulls back from his important task long enough to reply, “Nah. Love that ‘bout ya.”

While he contents himself by playing with your tits, you grow adorably impatient, wriggling in an attempt to get some friction where you want it most. He grabs your hips and holds you still to stop your indulgence, eliciting an irritated huff from you. He hadn’t anticipated this brattier side of you, but there’s something about it that gets him going. Electricity crackles between you, filling the atmosphere with thick tension.

“There somethin’ you want, girl?” He teases, attention flittering between the coat of his saliva on your chest and the depraved curve of your countenance. He can feel precum leaking from his tip when you try to grind on him again, your frustration fucking delicious.

Your eyes widen when he pulls away, much to his amusement. “Asked ya a question, butterfly. You best be answerin’ it.”

“What do you think I want, Daryl?” The little whine you accentuate your words with works wonders on him.

He shrugs, playing ignorant. “Dunno. A nap, maybe. Ya act all pissy if ya don’t get your eight hours.”

“I told you, my beauty sleep is important,” you huff, directing a halfhearted glare his way. He exhales sharply, betraying his bemusement. You’re about as intimidating as a bunny rabbit to him. “Admittedly, while the prospect of a nap is tempting, I’d rather you fuck me until my brain is scrambled.”

This vulgar side of you is a damn treat he’ll never tire of devouring.

“That so, princess?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Take them pants off then.”

You oblige without protest. You hook your thumb on the waistband, maintaining smoldering eye contact as you drag it down oh so slowly. He palms at his hardened length while you put on your little show, the throb of his cock close to constant. His eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets when he spots your panties. They’re the same shade of black as your bra, the fabric next to scant, hugging your curves tightly. He can see the outline of your folds against it, your wetness seeping through. His tongue slips out to moisten his lips when he remembers how amazing you tasted. He’s brought back to the blissful experience, the softness of your thighs around his face, how you wriggled and squirmed so delightfully for him…

“My eyes are up here, Mister,” you hum. Normally, he’d have a clever remark ready to match you, but he’s completely at a loss. You’ve rendered him speechless.

You were wearing this all day, just for his viewing pleasure?

Maybe there is a God after all — some higher power has got to be smiling down on him. You could make a zealot out of the most impious man.

By the time he manages to break from his reverie, your pants have been tossed aside. It’s you who approaches first, crawling over to where he sits still as a statue, looking up at him through your eyelashes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, completely and utterly smitten by you. Your breath hitches in your throat when you notice the prominent outline of his cock against his boxers. If that visceral reaction does something for his ego, he’ll never admit it.

You settle onto his lap like it’s where you belong most — he’d argue until he was blue that it is — both of you releasing a content noise at finally having contact where you want it most. Your lips are on his in a feverish kiss. His hands start at the dimples on your back, then move down, cupping your ass and encouraging you to grind against him. You use his shoulders as leverage to better control your movements. He groans when your fingernails dig into his flesh, and you take the opportunity to sneak your tongue into his mouth, getting drunk on the taste of one another. Today, you taste like lemonade. The tart flavor is best when sampled from you.

His mouth smothers your whimpers and soft moans of his name. When you pull back, he’s initially disappointed, until he realizes this grants him the perfect view of each twist of your face. You appear hazy with pleasure, your bare chest heaving and glossy lips parted. There’s a telltale tensing in your thighs that catches him off guard.

“You gettin’ off on this?” Daryl asks, his voice heady with lust. “Grindin’ on me, making all them sweet lil noises?”

“Yes,” you whimper, your shame long forgotten. Not that you ever have much when it comes to him.

This is better than anything he’d concocted in his wildest fantasies. You wanting him as much as he wants you, chasing after your high without reservation. He faithfully does his part to help you along. He follows the rhythm you set, his eyes never leaving your face, deriving unmatched satisfaction from knowing he’s the reason you’re like this. It’s him who knows how to fire you up and cool you down, him who you’re humping against like depravity is your natural element.

You’re gripping him tighter, nails digging deep. He savors the slight ache, intending to wear your marks like a badge of honor.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice raspy. “C’mon. Show me how good ya feel. Wanna see it.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, once in a blue moon.

You come undone, throwing your head back, your eyes squeezed shut as you savor your release. He fixates upon the muscles of your neck, on display like a canvas ready to receive his designs. His lips hover over your racing pulse, the stubble of his beard against your skin prompting a fit of giggles. He mouths at your skin, humming low in appreciation at the saltiness coating it. You sure do get yourself all worked up over him. Knowing that does things for him, stokes the flames of an already raging fire.

“God, I’m obsessed with you, Daryl Dixon,” you confess, moving your head aside so he can have better access to your neck. “You’re all I think about. We’re just— we were made for one another, weren’t we? You’re my best friend, my — I don’t know — does boyfriend sound kinda silly at this point, or is it just me?”

Love blooms in his chest, temporarily overpowering his lust. Or perhaps the two are mixing to form an entirely new color. “I’ll be whatever ya like, so long as I get to see that again.”

“Even my…?” You cut yourself off, and he pulls back, finding himself unable to read your countenance. That’s an exceedingly rare occurrence.

“Your…?” He prompts, the both of you whispering like you’re exchanging precious secrets.

“No, it’s—” you suck in a deep breath and shake your head. “Ahem. Too soon for that.”

You try to distract him by pawing at his waistband. It is a clever move on your part, but he musters up the willpower to stop thinking with his dick for a few seconds.

“Nah. Ya ain’t doin’ that. Finish the damn sentence, woman.”

This is a rabbit hole he wants to explore. His intuition offers a suggestion that’d fill in the blank, yet he shrugs it off, scoffing internally. There’s no way you possibly meant that, his brain just isn’t working properly. No, a pretty thing like you couldn’t possibly want to marry an asshole redneck like him—

“Marriage is off the table until we at least go on one date. Your treat. I’m ordering appetizers and a dessert, too.”

Only you would essentially propose to him while throwing in a joke for good measure. Yeah, that’s the love of his life alright. A hot mess. Heavy emphasis on hot. Somewhat lighter emphasis on mess.

“... Orgasm felt that good, huh?”

You swat at his chest. “Shut up, I’m sleep deprived and not thinking clearly.”

Daryl notices that you’re looking everywhere but at his face, embarrassment prominent. He props himself up some so that you’re able to pull his boxers off, his dick springing out of its restraints. There are about a million things he wants to say to you, some teasing, some entirely genuine, but when you wrap your soft hands around the base of his cock, he blanks. He pants your name as you start pumping him. Pearls of cum are quick to coat his length, making the process even easier for you.

You bend forward, your tongue licking up everything that oozes from his flushed tip. Then your mouth starts taking him in. The warm wetness feels divine and he keens. The noise surprises you both, encouraging you to keep going. You hollow out your cheeks, then start sucking, all the while jerking off what isn’t in your mouth yet. Caving into instinct, his hands fly to either side of your head. He helps ease you up and down his length.

Daryl wonders if he’s dreaming — he doesn’t want to pinch himself to find out, just in case that’d wake him up.

The fact a girl as stunning as you is sucking his dick with unbridled enthusiasm simply doesn’t compute. His peak is growing more and more imminent. The tightness of your mouth, how you’re moaning against him like you’re the one being pleasured; it’s too much in the best of ways. He was already worked up to a frenzy after witnessing you come from grinding on him.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of what it’d be like if he released his load in your mouth. He’d make sure you swallowed every last drop. Knowing you, however, you’d probably do so without his prompting, swallowing while looking him straight in the eye. You know what you do to him. That you have him wrapped around your pretty little finger. You know it and love it, maybe almost as much as he does.

Daryl utilizes every last ounce of self-control in his body and pulls you off his weeping cock.

A trail of saliva connects your lips to his tip, a sight he intends to burn into his memory forever.

“Hey, I was enjoying myself,” you complain with an exaggerated sigh.

“Me too.”

He reaches over to grab the condom from earlier. Ripping into it with his teeth, he rolls the plastic over his sensitive cock. Once it’s on, his hands go to your shoulder, gently pushing so that you’ll lay down for him. You pique his interest by shaking your head. You must have plans of your own, for you reclaim your spot on his lap. He’s plenty content to accommodate this apparent desire of yours and leans back.

You line him up with one hand and tenderly cup his cheek with the other.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, lulling your head back while you do so. He helps hold your hips in place so you can adjust to him at your pace. Instinct begs him to rut up into your accommodating warmth, but he values your comfort more than his own carnality. Your eyelashes flutter shut whereas he keeps himself trained on you. When you’re halfway down, he kisses your inner wrist, grateful for the pulse beneath your skin.

“You’re takin’ me in well,” he praises. If there were ever a man capable of penning hymns dedicated to you, it’d be him. “Just like that. Nice n’ easy.”

A high-pitched whine leaves your lips when he’s fully inside you.

“That’s it, good girl.”

You reopen your eyes, granting him the sight of what’s become his favorite color ever since he met you.

“You’re spoiling me with all these compliments.”

Your hands run over his jaw, then the tensing tendons of his neck, finally settling on his sun-kissed shoulders.

“Ya deserve it,” Daryl murmurs. “Beautiful woman.”

Dizzying pleasure thrums throughout him when your walls clench, his words hitting your sweet spot. Sweat coats both your bodies in a light sheen. You rotate your hips, allowing him to stretch you out, the slight friction far from enough yet tantalizing nonetheless. Finally, after what feels like an excruciating wait, you lift yourself off him and come back down. The decadent pleasure builds and builds with each repeat of the motion. He’s close, painfully so, but letting you take what you want from him is given top priority. The sinful sounds pouring from your lips with increasing urgency hint that you might not last long either.

Calloused fingers work to rub messy circles against your clit. This added layer of stimulation has you moaning incoherently near his ear, half-legible sentiments tumbling out.

“Feels so good,” you whimper, almost delirious. “I wanna be yours. Please.”

You’re growing increasingly erratic as your second high looms on the horizon. The telltale tensing of your muscles has him picking up momentum. One hand guides you up and down his cock, the other pleasuring you where you need it most. Your declaration envelops him, making him feel impossibly warmer. How you vacillate between uttering the naughtiest and sweetest things is a mystery to him he won’t bother solving. All he knows is that his adoration for you won’t ever stop growing, no; this is where a new chapter of it begins.

“You are. Always ‘ave been.”

Daryl knew it couldn’t have just been his imagination, the once-in-a-lifetime connection that formed soon after your paths crossed. It strung you both together. Whenever one wandered too far from the other, the rope would go taut, forcing you to stumble back where you belonged.

Your walls tighten around him and you snap, back arching, pressing those perfect tits against his chest.

He grunts at the sensation of you coming on his cock, thrusting upward to meet your stuttering hips. He loses himself in the aroma of sex and you. You go partially limp when you’ve come down from your high, which allows him to maneuver your body with greater ease. The release he denied himself minutes prior threatens to consume him once again. How could it not, when he got to witness your blissed-out face, hear the sounds of your gratification?

Daryl’s hands latch into the soft flesh of your waist hard. He slams into you a few more times, the sound of skin slapping skin reverberating throughout the room. His cum spurts out into the condom’s plastic confines, filling you with his warmth. He faintly registers that you’re lavishing his neck in sloppy kisses as he basks in his high.

Both your chests heave as you pant, greedily taking in the air you willingly deprived yourselves of during the act.

Your shaky fingers comb through the mess that is his bangs. Daryl lets you do as you please, too busy admiring every inch of your face to care about anything else. You press a chaste kiss against his forehead, then his nose, and finally, his awaiting lips. He chases after yours when you pull away, an action that makes you laugh. He huffs at the return of your brattiness. When he sees how wide you’re smiling, however, it becomes difficult for him to maintain his disgruntled facade. Your joy is contagious.

“Plannin’ on stayin’ there all night?” He nods at the junction where your bodies remain connected. His cock has gone soft and you’ve made no sign of getting off him yet, not that he’s complaining. He knows you’re real fussy about cleanliness (a concept that eludes his understanding, since it’s the damn apocalypse), so he’s pleasantly surprised you haven’t run off to wipe yourself down.

“Would you be opposed if I said yes?”

“‘Course not.”

However much you’d both love to live in this little slice of reality, you know it isn’t meant to last. People will come looking if you’re both gone too long. He sighs when you climb off him, already missing the feeling of being inside you. You both get to work on making yourselves presentable, you more so than him. You smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes and fight with your hair while he perches himself on the side of the bed, lost in thought.

“Did ya mean it?” Daryl breaks the silence.

“Hm?” You glance over your shoulder, blinking rapidly. “Mean what?”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes at you for acting innocent; you’re too smart to not know what he’s talking about.

Although, when he struggles to get the two-syllable word out himself, he can sympathize with your efforts.

“... Marriage,” he drawls, heat flooding across his face. He feels better when he sees you’re similarly embarrassed. You pad quietly against the hardwood floor (he’s always marveled over how silent your footsteps are, perfect for joining him on hunts), and sit beside him. Your arms come to wrap around his bicep. Taking a deep breath, you rest your head on his shoulder, as you’ve done multiple times prior. On the road especially.

He pulls you in closer and lays his head against yours.

“It kinda feels like we already are,” you admit. He can hear the fond smile in your voice. “You’re my home. The person I depend on most, someone I can’t do without.”

Your grip on him tightens. “However much life ahead of me I have… I want to spend it with you. If that’s alright.”

Daryl feels so light he thinks he might be floating.

There’s an underlying melancholy — the uncertainty which comes as a consequence to the world you now inhabit — yet you never let that stay the focus. You always find ways to plant seeds of tentative hope in what appears to be corrupt soil. Maybe it’s for the reason you said earlier, that you can’t let yourself dwell on the bad in fear of what it’d reduce you to, but he can’t bring himself to mind should that be the case.

What matters is that you shine bright to illuminate him when he thinks darkness is all he’ll ever know.

“‘If that’s alright’?” He repeats, incredulous. “I ain’t ever lettin’ ya go, butterfly.”

You relax, knowing Daryl’s nothing if not a man of his word.

“You’d really wanna be my husband?”

He looks at you like you have three heads. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ why the hell you wanna be my wife?”

“Because I have good taste. Also, I’m secretly aiming for your assets. We’re not getting a prenup just for that reason alone.”

Daryl snorts and shakes his head. Assets, this woman says. As if he had any in this world or the last.

“Fine by me,” he kisses your temple. “You know I’d give ya anything ya asked for.”

“... Even your crossbow?”

“Last I recall, ya could only hold it for ‘bout ten minutes ‘fore complainin’ your ‘muscles were shriveling up.’”

“You make it look so easy!” You complain, lightly hitting him on the chest. He smirks at the roundabout compliment. Your fingers linger, splaying out and making their way over to where his heart steadily beats. “Hm… can I have this, then?”

“Already do.”

He’s certain you’re well aware of the fact. After all, you are his freakishly perceptive woman.

Regardless, no matter how many times you may ask, he’ll gladly remind you, each and every time.

Ah, the things you do for the ones you love.

“We should probably head back to HQ before Rick sends a search party out for us, huh?”

Daryl’s muscles go taut at the mention of Rick. You wriggle free from beneath his arm so you can examine his face, inquisitive as ever.

“Didn’t part on the best terms with ‘im,” Daryl reveals. He takes another moment to collect his thoughts. “Kinda what started this whole thing today. Saw that Monroe kid touchin’ ya, it got me all riled up. Was aboutta make a scene til Rick stepped in. He said… said ya wouldn’t ‘ave wanted that. Thought ‘bout how he was letting ya cozy up to the folks ‘ere, knowin’ full well he planned on usin’ it to his advantage. I dunno. Made me see red.”

Your eyes hold an indescribable softness for him. “Thank you.”

“For what? Makin’ an ass of myself?” He scoffs.

“Always having my best interest in mind,” your way of wording things always sounds better. “It’s okay, though. Like I said earlier, I get why Rick’s doing what he’s doing, even if I don’t fully agree. Ultimately, we’re all on the same team.”

Daryl shakes his head. “... You’re too forgivin’, butterfly.”

You shrug. “Hafta be with family. Holding onto things never does any good in the long run. Which is why I’m sure it’ll be fine, once you talk with him.”

He doubts he’ll have a lengthy heart-to-heart like whatever you’re envisioning, but he keeps the thought to himself.

“Let’s get going, okay?” You stand and start pulling on his hands. He gets up with some reluctance, not entirely willing to leave this little world where just you and him exist. “Carol made this delicious lemonade, it’s to die for. Metaphorically.”

He gives a crooked grin. “Yeah, I know.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

Daryl tugs you back to him in a mess of surprised exclamations and tumbling limbs. He secures you on his lap, fully intending to savor you a little while longer. It doesn’t take you long to relax. Not when he’s the one touching you.

“Ya already gave me a taste.”

#i'm totally normal about him i swear #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #reader insert #not sfw #my stuff

238 notes · View notes

clove-pinks · 24 days

Note

Is there anything about your new location (the terrain, the local culture, the physical sites, etc) that has given you a new perspective on regional events of the War of 1812?

This a wonderful ask, thank you! I have been mulling over how to answer it all day! This ended up getting so long I put it behind a cut (I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT THIS).

The Maumee River, as seen from Fort Meigs Historic Site.

One thing new in my life is a heightened awareness of important rivers facilitating the movement of trade, supplies, and settlement. Particularly in the Old Northwest/current Midwest of the USA: regions that I grew up perceiving as a land-locked "flyover country."

Like, to give one example, I had a vague idea that there was a city called Fort Wayne, Indiana, but I thought it was just in the middle of a cornfield for no reason(?). But actually it's at the confluence of the St. Joseph, St. Marys, and Maumee Rivers, leading to the Great Lakes! The strategically important location is why General Anthony Wayne—that guy again—built the original fortification in 1794. I am downriver of all of this, connected to many inland waterways.

I also have a keen sense of living in the Great Black Swamp, despite how dramatically the land has been transformed by deforestation and drainage. There are the terrifying drainage ditches everywhere (the locals seem less perturbed by them), and many other signs of the natural state of the terrain—the swamp is just barely at bay. My coworkers have said "Black Swamp" unprompted in our conversations; I've seen it mentioned in local Facebook groups talking about the need for back-up sump pumps. The idea that people of northwest Ohio have no sense of history and are unaware of the Great Black Swamp isn't true at all.

I look at the pools of water that form in every hollow and think of the words of Alfred Lorrain, marching to Fort Meigs:

We had frequently to pass through what was called, in the provincialism of the frontiers, "swales"—standing ponds—through which the troops and packhorses which had preceded us had made a trail of shattered ice. Those swales were often a quarter of a mile long. They were, moreover, very unequal in their soundings. In common they were not more than half-leg deep; but sometimes, at a moment when we were not expecting it, we suddenly sank down to our cartridge-boxes.

Swale is a new word in my vocabulary, and now I see them everywhere!

Culturally, I think there is a great appreciation of history here: a very positive difference from the Chicagoland area. Even if the average local is probably not deeply into it, they have a consciousness of major historical events that have shaped their region and take pride in it. It's a lot more like New England that way.

Because of my focus on the War of 1812, I notice the absence of Indigenous people and voices—absent from historical accounts and from the demographics of Perrysburg and its environs today. I can't single out Ohio as being a uniquely violent settler-colonial state when this is ALL of the United States; but it hits different when I have this much greater familiarity with who was forcibly removed from this land, and how. The same US military leaders who fought in the War of 1812 were behind the (very much related) campaign for the removal of Native Americans from newly acquired territories, including the infamous Trail of Tears.

Once again, it's probably hypocritical for me to notice this so much, when I literally grew up on Wampanoag land where King Philip's War was fought, but here I am. Suddenly aware of General Wayne's name on everything, etc.

General Wayne's spurs in the Fort Meigs Museum. Not pictured: the can of Maumee Bay Brewing Co. Fallen Timbers Ale that I am currently drinking.

I haven't had the chance to explore physical sites with historical significance beyond Fort Meigs and Fallen Timbers. I know I will get to the ruins of Fort Miamis soon, and I really want to explore a lot of wetlands in local parks and nature preserves (that will double as birdwatching excursions). I am always thinking about what this place looked like 200 years ago, and what I can see today that might still look familiar to a person from that time.

I had a great trip to the National Museum of the Great Lakes today, which is closer than I thought! Local maritime museums are also on my agenda, even if they're not specifically War of 1812-related.

#asks #shaun talks #ohio posting #i could add three or four more paragraphs to any given paragraph here #you activated my trap card

22 notes · View notes

thatsgoodsquishy0 · 6 months

Text

Pairing: F!Reader x Ranger!Sam Coe Rating: M+ Bio: Set during Sam’s younger years working as a Freestar Ranger alongside his wife, Lillian Hart. Whether circumstance, or impossible luck, you're given a second chance at life, ultimately growing close to The Coes. You take a shine to Cora, but the family dynamic is something else entirely, albeit a little overwhelming, as you realize the toll Lillian's absence has taken on the family, but more specifically, her husband. Sam Coe is witty, charming, and ambitious; a man who knows what he wants and stops at nothing to reach his goals, but when his wife seems to prioritize her career over her family, it's hard not to notice the strain growing inside him. Your friendship may be just the support Sam needs, even if the temptations for something more linger, and when your past threatens your future, where will your morals lie? Will you end up back where you started? Chemistry is a cruel mistress

cross-posted to AO3 credit to @seracoe for the lovely Ranger Sam pic & @cafekitsune for the divider & @fangbangerghoul and @bearlytolerant for their unwavering support and feedback. thank you so much!! <3

i. BOUND

Your wrists were bound behind your back. Scratchy twine rubbed against your skin as you wiggled your hands. Alarms blared overhead. Your head rolled as your vision bobbed. Your knees were sore. You remembered the cruelty of your captor’s instructions to never sit or lay down; you could only kneel. Through the slits of your eyes you barely registered the urgency amongst the crew as they bounced around the cockpit, like bugs inside a terrarium.

“Fuck! Fuck! They’re headed towards —- !” a bloodied scream, cracks of gunfire, liquid gurgles over the intercom.

“They just wasted Fredericks!”

“How the fuck did they find us?!”

The rope chaffed against your wrists; a sick reminder that escape was futile.

You looked to your left. Your eyes shot wide and a deep, guttural scream left your throat as you met the endless stare of a dead woman. In refuge, you looked to your right. Another dead one greeted you just as forcibly. You flinched, averted your eyes, but in the darkness behind your eyelids the horror remained; splashes of red staining her hair, the ghostly whites of her eyes, mouth frozen in a permanent scream, the ugly circle in the middle of her forehead.

The kidnapper’s rampant states evolved to a frenzy as they darted their desperation towards you, like a missile locking onto a target. Shots continued past your range of sight, but you heard them; muffled and close.

One of the kidnapper's charged towards you, gun in hand.

Your mind in fragments, you tried your best to stand before they could reach you, but the kneeling rendering your knees useless. You fell forward, sharp pains stabbing your kneecaps as you fumbled up again. A woman delivered a shift kick to your stomach. You groaned and toppled back, your trapped wrists splashing against the puddle of wet blood.

“You did this, didn’t you?! ” the woman bellowed. “Who’d you send for?! Huh?!” She grabbed a fistful of your hair, locking her venomous glare against your quivering lips as you chased an answer on your tongue.

She yanked harder. “Answer me, you fucking rat!”

You opened your mouth and willed yourself to speak, but the words abandoned you. Tears pooled in your eyes.

Fed up with your sloppiness, the woman growled and released her grip. You stumbled back, falling on your side as you caught yourself from landing on your wrists, hair dipping into the red liquid. She cocked her gun. You squeezed your eyes shut. Sweat beaded atop your forehead, its saltiness mixing with the metallic stench of your hair as the tarnished concoction trickled down your face like runny hair dye. You felt the bloodied strands of hair gently brushed aside, making way for the cold barrel as it pushed into your forehead. You thought you heard the trigger click in anticipation. Your heartbeat convulsed inside your chest.

Then — a hatch opened. Two gun blasts. Bam! Bam!

The gun clattered against the floor, followed by a thud!

You popped open your eyes. The woman’s lifeless body lie face down beside your shoes, her brown rats nest a bloodied mess as crimson fluids leaked from her head across the floor. Your breathing blew out in bursts, in and out. Violent gulps of air choked your throat and stung your chest as you struggled frantically to break free from the restraints while hastily hauling yourself to a corner. Your stomach churned as you worked your wrists, the grip seeming to shrink tighter, down to the bone with every pull. The alarm sang like a sick cheer for your escape as you thrashed your wrists against the floor, screaming, wailing, fighting for absolution.

You curled into a fetal position, the pain from the kick resigning in your stomach as you felt your will crumble into hopelessness, like the last survivor on a sinking ship.

There was no direction for your gaze as you shut your eyes.

“Hey – hey -- stay with me now.”

Beneath your trembling, that anxious voice reached you, as if it were coaxing you along a bridge across treacherous waters.

Your mouth fell open, bottom lip shaking as any formation of a sentence betrayed you. You mustered a weak gasp as a man approached. His face was rugged, but determined as he peered down upon you, upon your sanguine soaked forehead. He sported a cowboy hat that seemed to provide a shadow against his face. His brows were thick and furrowed together as his hands attempted to reach the sides of your face. You suspended your gaze and tucked your body away from the room. Away from him.

“Ain’t gonna hurtcha!” he remarked, his voice silent amid the screaming buzzer. “Just wanna make sure y’ain’t bleedin’ a ton!”

Your throat was drier than a vase of forgotten flowers; tongue just as tied as the wrists behind your back — a spot the man captured quickly as he assessed your predicament. You heard the flick of a pocketknife and quickly looked up. A woman stepped into the room. She lowered her gun, but kept her finger above the trigger. A golden glint on her chest caught your eye. Your stomach dropped. Police?

Suddenly, you feared for your life again.

“Sam, don’t untie her just yet! We have no idea which side she’s on!”

“Pretty clear to me which side!”

“It could be a trap!” The woman stepped closer, her gaze fidgeting around the room as they hollered against the ringing. “This could be their ploy!”

“She’s banged up pretty bad, Lillian, and she can’t use her hands. Clearly, she couldn’t grab a weapon even if she tried!”

“I just don’t know about this, Sam!”

“You took a chance on a reckless kid once, and despite how you found him, things turned out pretty damn fine!”

The woman located the gun closest to you and immediately kicked it across the room. The man continued to hold his unsheathed pocket knife. The blade gave a serrated smile.

“Just trust me, alright?!”

She took a sharp breath, a sigh, then removed her finger from the trigger as she lowered the gun all the way. “Alright! Fine! We’ll take her back with us, get her all patched up, then ask her some questions! See what she knows!”

“Yes ma’am!” You caught a glimpse of a tiny smile swathed in success as the man leaned across your body and began to cut into the twine. Your hands trembled.

“Hold still!” he yelled, sawing through the restraints.

Your heart raced. What if the blade sliced through your skin by accident? You remained completely still, patient, until finally, the ropes snapped off.

You instinctively rubbed the twisted indentations embedded in your skin. Despite your hands being freed, you still couldn’t bring yourself to move, or speak. You gazed at your savior, the knife still in his grasp. He considered you with a tilt of his head, his eyes straight-lined with patience as he retracted the knife and slid it back into his pocket. The woman doubled-down on her stance, waiting for your next move. You exhaled, quick and shaky. The man offered his hand, but you didn’t take it, then he slowly crouched beside you, and urged you to stand up, his voice barely comprehensible over the squawking alarm.

You lifted yourself up, unintentionally pressing your hands into the blood of the dead. You withdrew your palms and swung your head around. Splatters of brain matter splashed against the wall and space-viewed windows. Your legs rocked from under you. Vehemently, your head shook in disbelief. You covered your hand atop your mouth and blinked away tears. Before you could look any further out of sheer morbidity, a pair of hands firmly gripped your shoulders and pulled your sight away. The man’s brows etched with concern. His stare linked to yours.

“Don’t look.”

In utter shock, both words swam through your eardrums in smooth, purposeful strokes. and you obeyed, keeping your eyes on him. Your muscles were weak, but appreciative, as you tried again to stand up. The man threw your arm carefully around his shoulder and the woman followed, a grunt passing from her lips as you adjusted to their rescue.

“Don’t make me regret this, okay?” She muttered close to your ear as you exited the cockpit hatch.

Blood rushed from the crown of your head down to the tips of your toes. Each blare of the alarm mimicked the pounding in your head, like thousands of birds squawking as they pecked your ears raw.

You whined as you passed under one of the sirens.

The man yelled something, but his voice remained unintelligible, however, you thought maybe he was reassuring you. You lifted your head and peered to your right – the woman focused forward, aware of the next steps as you moved further down the ship. The man adjusted his hold on you, and you caught the faintest scent of cologne mixed with salt and blood. The pounding in your head grew louder, angrier, as they pulled you past their victims. The air smelt of tarnished pennies. The soles of your shoes dragged along the floor through puddles of red, leaving a evidence of a retreat behind as you exited the ship and entered another one.

You were ushered through a series of rooms, each one more scientific than the last, until your body was gently laid onto a cot. Exhaustion consumed you. You battled with your brain to keep your eyelids open as they slowly began to close; not for the sake of sleep, but for asylum against the ringing in your ears. You curled into a ball — the dead woman from the ship accompanying the darkness that began to swallow you.

“Get her a trauma pack.”

“Sam, we only got one left. Once we get to The Rock, Doc will look her over just fine.”

“Then, I’ll buy another one. Lillian, don’t fight me on this.”

There was a long pause, followed by the decrescendo of footsteps, then you heard the faint sound of an object being placed beside you. After a few minutes you heard voices, but the words were too distant to hear or understand, however the tones were defiant, combative. One of them raised their voice, but you couldn’t tell who. Then, they stopped.

Finally, as your body lulled against the rolling ship through space, your heartbeat steadied. Boots softly thudded into your room as you lay on your side, your face against the cool of the ship’s wall.

“I, um – I don’t know if you can hear me, but there's medicine next to ya, if you need it. I’ll be out on the nav-floor if you need anythin’.” He cleared his throat. “Alright then.”

You were grateful, even if tonight stole the words right out of your blood soaked mouth, you saved. Saved from death, from a fate worse than death, from something you’d never experience again, because you had an idea how you ended up here in the place.

Despite this, you tapped the inner recesses of your mind searching for something, anything, hinting whether or not this was a stroke of luck or if someone knew you would be on the spaceship and called for help.

Was this all part of Anton’s plan?

A sudden warmth encompassed you. You set those worries aside and reached your hands forward feeling a softness draped over you. The fabric blanketed your body as you allowed yourself this moment of vulnerability. Anton didn’t exist right now.

You’d use the trauma pack later. You were in need of a shower, too. You scrunched your face, the blossoms of your cheeks popping as you listened to the sickening way the dried blood cracked. Shudders flowed through your warming body. You pushed your appearance aside, craving the nurturing arms of slumber; at least for a little while.

You pulled the blanket closer until it covered the tip of your chin. You licked the dryness off your lips, careful not to lick off any blood that had slid its way down. You parted them, releasing a low breath, a safe breath, as the blanket melted into your body.

You weren’t sure if the man was still there, or if your voice would even reach him, but you knew the second those words left your parched throat, you’d never forget this day, or this man’s unabridged kindness.

In the dark of the spaceship, as the hum of the grave drive soothed your weary muscles and the pillow held your blood soaked head, you sleepily whispered, “Thank you.”

#I hope you enjoy it if you take a gander <3 #i'm having a lot of fun with this with this fic #starfield fanfiction #can you believe this started out as a silly little au #coemancer #sam coe x reader #reader x sam Coe

41 notes · View notes

cock-holliday · 6 months

Note

Hi Mr cock sir, I am wondering what you think would be a reasonable solution to the I/P conflict?

Obviously the genocide must end, Gaza must have full access to all goods and services, Israeli military occupation has to stop, Palestinians must have full rights to land ownership/employment/movement/education/etc, and Palestinians need full proportionate representation & participation in whatever state governs them.

But like….how do you think that could reasonably be organized? The Israeli government and military should stand judgement for war crimes, but also i think the internet leftist takes of “lol every Israeli should just die/relocate somewhere else” are not only stupid but kind of disturbing.

While there are several proposed models, most suggestions include three fundamental principles:

1. The decolonised and de-racialised state will no longer be defined as exclusively Israeli/Jewish, and will also not come to be defined as exclusively Palestinian.

2. The new state will grant equal citizenship to all the inhabitants of the land regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, or religion.

3. All Palestinian refugees will have the right to return to their homeland as full citizens.

This is the only scenario that can prevent Israel from achieving its dream of establishing a single apartheid state in historic Palestine and allow all inhabitants of these lands to live their lives freely, peacefully, and with dignity.

——

There is always the fear that releasing the stranglehold on your subjugated people will result in them being as savage back to you as you were to them—or worse.

That does not mean that it is not the answer. Many Israelis even agree with this proposal. Shitty leftists looking for an excuse to be shitty would do it without this discussion and should be combatted. Any attempts to dehumanize and to shift the gears of oppression onto the oppressor should be fought against.

This principle, essentially:

Decolonization is a struggle connecting many many fights, not just in Israel. The US should also fight for decolonization. As should Canada, Australia—hell, across Europe. The global south is still struggling to break free of colonial empires, and the peoples who remain in the global north that survived extinction are still fighting this same fight.

There is a reason Ireland is so vocal in support of Palestinian liberation—they are fighting for liberation too! If you support Land Back in the US, there is no reason to not support Palestinian sovereignty.

The French have been turning out in the streets for Palestine, many of them fresh from a battle with cops over the murder of a child that is the result of France’s continued colonization of Africa.

The question of displacement is difficult, no doubt Israelis will get displaced on some level, and it would come down to a localized effort to figure out where to draw the line. There are plenty of Israelis who were born under occupation and have lived in their same house always and relatively avoided conflict.

Just as frequently, settlers participated in the hands-on action of stealing property. Aided by the IOF, settlers would forcibly remove or kill the homeowners and squat in these homes to claim them. Would settlers who stood to benefit tremendously also flee the country to avoid facing any backlash or relinquishing of privileges? Absolutely. I fully expect decolonization would result in enough migration ranging from reluctant to effective expulsion.

The reality is that decolonization would not be the beginning of expulsion or displacement. 42% of Palestinians who still remain have been displaced since Oct 7th. There have been countless displacements since the Nakba. I do not think the question is no displacement or displacement, but rather relentless displacement vs trying to limit displacement while allowing Palestinians to return.

In the immediate aftermath of the brutal American Civil War, white people were not purged from the South. However, plantation owners sure did lose their houses, an entire industry collapsed, and many people were ‘displaced.’ The question remains, when you build a mansion on the bones of the people you killed, is it ‘fair’ for you to stay there?

The fear that all Israelis will be displaced to make room for Palestinians also makes the assumption that all Israelis are against Palestine and want Palestinian subjugation. That Israelis haven’t fought against the IDF, that all Jewish Israelis side with the government, that no anarchist or leftist or liberationist Israelis exist, and that Israeli means “Jewish.” Palestinians do not want to purge Israelis—actual decolonization should not and would not be an excuse for mass displacement.

The other issue is that Israel wants Palestinian destruction (and so does the US) and will not and has not responded well to liberation efforts—in short, decolonization is not possible without violent struggle. But to not resist is to die from Israeli brutality anyway. Resistence is not the beginning of the violence, but perhaps also an end to a lot of it.

I do not think any solution will result in rainbows and peace on earth. One solution is the difficult, grim, and violent struggle for freedom and decolonization, the other is annihilation of Palestinians. But like with all struggles for freedom, another world is possible and the fight for liberation is always worth it.

So I support decolonization.

#ask #anon ask #long post #decolonize palestine

50 notes · View notes

lesbeet · 6 months

Note

i have a question about the list about zionism and antisemitism, the one that's dont "tell Jewish Israelis to "go back where they came from". i understand that there are jewish settlers that will have difficulty moving somewhere else, but doesn't this still perpetuate that colonizers have more of a right to the land than the people who they killed to take it? like the assumption is if we don't tell colonizers they should leave, then they have can stay and continue to occupy the land and resources that were stolen from palestinians

i feel like a palestinian person (or someone else who has been victim to colonization) can answer this better than i can, but i personally have never seen actual palestinians calling for all jewish israelis to remove themselves from the land completely. i don't think the only options are "jewish israelis stay and continue to oppress palestine" or "all jewish israelis vanish from the land without a trace" and imo suggesting so only perpetuates the idea that all palestinians/muslims hate all israelis/jews and have no interest or willingness to cohabitate in a scenario where all people are treated as equals (i'm not the person to ask regarding HOW to make this happen tho)

also like......i know this isn't the problem or responsibility of palestinians who lost their land to colonizers, but where should the jewish israelis go "back to"? setting aside the argument of jewish indigeneity altogether, as that post mentioned, many jews who initially relocated to israel (like post-shoah, not present-day) did so because they were being persecuted in the countries they were coming from. many of those countries are still not particularly safe for jews, and would DEFINITELY not become so in the event of a mass migration. i feel like you're picturing a country full of european and american olim who made aliyah in the last several decades bc of israeli propaganda/intentional annexing of land, but that's not the majority by any means.

again, that's not to say "oh well, they're already there so it would be pretty shitty to make em leave, palestine will just have to deal" but like. it's not realistic and it's also not what anyone is asking for. palestinians just want equal rights and to have stewardship over their ancestral homeland. and yknow, not to be physically and emotionally and socially eviscerated for the crime of existing in a politically frought (and politically advantageous) region. probably some reparations, and rightfully so. nobody is going to forcibly expel the israelis - if anything, some will leave on their own bc they're too racist to give up their privilege and continue to live there as equals, and the rest will be people living in a multiethnic, multifaith country

#my edible kicked in as i wrote this and i had a shit day so i apologize if this doesn't make sense #answered #anonymous #like even with a 2-state solution israel would be a multiethnic country bc israelis are not all white

23 notes · View notes

mixelation · 1 year

Text

do y'all wanna read some plasticity crack

spoilers kinda maybe

this takes place in the far-flung future after ~events~ land tori in konoha, the exact details of which might get changed around. but she keeps dropping icha icha references while looking pointedly at kakashi for a reaction

xxx

“Maa, you could crash with me,” Kakashi offered. He brushed his toes against Tori’s ankle in one long, purposeful motion.

Tori blinked at him, doing her best dumb-cow-eyes routine.

“What, like on your couch?” Naruto asked loudly.

“Something like that,” Kakashi agreed, not looking away from Tori.

“Rei-san, I highly doubt Kakashi-sensei has a very good couch--” Naruto started, but Tori ignored him.

Kakashi was giving her eyes. Kakashi was hitting on her. Holy shit. What the fuck.

“I wouldn’t mind… surveying… the couch,” Tori finally said, working extra hard to keep her voice even and unaffected.

“It’s decided then,” Kakashi said, then wrapped an arm around her waist and flash stepped them away from the ramen stand.

“...Aah,” Tori said as a sort of belated reaction when Kakashi put her down. She thought a regular civilian woman probably wouldn’t like being grabbed by a ninja and forcibly moved to a secondary location.

“Sorry about that,” Kakashi said. “I wanted to be sure Naruto got your bill.”

Kakashi had also, very conspicuously, left his student to pay Kakashi’s bill as well. Tori didn’t comment on this. When she just sort of stared at Kakashi instead of making a real response, he cleared his throat.

“Anyway. I thought maybe you’d like…” He cleared his throat again. “I have some Icha Icha fanzines, so if you wanted to look…”

“You’re nervous,” Tori observed, letting herself crack a grin. She wanted to point and tease and be mean about it, but she had to stay in character. “That’s adorable.”

Kakashi made a pained noise in the back of his throat.

“I would like to see your porn collection very much,” Tori said helpfully. Kakashi made the noise again but led her towards his apartment complex.

Kakashi lived in a completely normal apartment building, with open-air hallways between units, and he brought her up to the third floor. Somewhere around the second floor, it finally fully Tori that she was maybe being invited over for something a little bit sexier than reading fanzines and flirting.

The thought made her miss a step, and Kakashi grabbed her arm to steady her

“You okay?” he asked.

I’m fucking NOT, Tori thought even as she nodded and smiled. Kakashi was inviting her over sex. Kakashi wanted to fuck her.

Did she want to fuck him…?

Maybe. Tori didn’t usually have much interest in men, but Kakashi was nice and funny and she did like him… Plus, the fan part of her had a lot of questions about Kakashi’s sex life she could easily get answered this way.

Also, if Obito found out, he would probably lose his goddamn mind.

Yeah, I should definitely do it, Tori decided, following Kakashi into his apartment. For science.

Kakashi’s apartment was, given what Tori knew of him, bizarrely normal. It was an open plan, with the kitchen separated from the living area by an island. One corner of the room had a little dining table and several large book shelves. It was clean and neat if not a little lacking in decorations, and the couch did look comfortable enough to sleep on.

You know. If Tori ended up sleeping there. Which she might not.

“Do you drink?” Kakashi asked. “I think I have sake somewhere…”

Tori stood awkwardly in Kakashi’s kitchen while he rifled through cabinets. They were less bare than Tori might have predicted, and Kakashi eventually produced a bottle of plum sake.

“I think this is the type you’re supposed to drink cold,” he said, frowning at the label.

Tori ended up seated on the couch with a beer from the fridge while the sake chilled. It was not a very good beer. Kakashi apologized lamely with something about keeping it for friends with no taste.

Which friend? Tori wondered. Gai? Genma? Were Kakashi and Genma actually friends, or was that fanon?

Tori wanted to quiz Kakashi on this, but it seemed unwise to blatantly interrogate the badass jounin. Instead, she settled for watching him pull books and zines off his shelves.

((I think if this scene sticks around i'll tone down him blatantly hitting on her LMAO. more like him genuinely being like DO YOU WANT TO SEE MY COLLECTION and tori belatedly being like: ......am i being hit on?))

#i wrote this a while ago fdjfldjs #fic: plasticity #my writing

98 notes · View notes

acourtofthought · 8 months

Text

"Those affected by trauma can sometimes appear to make strange or adverse decisions."

"Trauma impacts all parts of a person’s life. It influences their emotions, their brain, and, unsurprisingly, their decisions. Those struggling with conditions such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or complex PTSD (C-PTSD) often find their decision-making alters after experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event. This is because people make decisions based on emotion rather than logic."

"Those who experience trauma can have trouble regulating emotions, such as anger, sadness, anxiety, and shame.[2] This is known as emotional dysregulation. Emotional dysregulation affects how people dealing with trauma make decisions. For example, some individuals can struggle with feeling too much or feeling numb."

"This dysregulation stems from the changes that trauma creates in the brain. Here, the amygdala, which is the part of the brain responsible for sending warning alerts to our body, sends us a message whenever it feels like we may be in danger. However, for those living with trauma, the amygdala can’t recognise the difference between a past threat and a current threat.[3] If a person is triggered, the amygdala responds as if experiencing the actual traumatic event for the first time."

"Unfortunately, this has a significant impact on decision-making. Upon experiencing a trigger, an individual may make unwise decisions to escape the situation. These can include some of the following responses:"

Fight – Struggling or lashing out to escape a scenario which they perceive as dangerous.

Flight – Running or hiding to get away from a situation.

Flop – Doing what you are told without protest to get through a problem.

Fawn – Attempting to please someone who is harming you.

Freeze – Being unable to move or do anything.

The "Elain's choice" argument is tired at this point.

The "Elain owes Lucien an answer" argument is tired at this point.

Is stabbing a man for the first time to save your sister from death a valid reason to experience PTSD?

Is witnessing your father's murder a valid reason for one to experience trauma?

Is being turned into a brand new species after you were forcibly held down and thrown into a Cauldron though you kicked and screamed and fought and cried the entire time a valid reason to experience trauma? Where the transition itself can also be difficult?

Elain doesn't know who she is right now or what she wants. She is still finding her footing after repeated traumatic situations.

Thinking she's healed and happy because she's got gardening and baking and "friends" she met because she was pretty much forced into living in the NC and had no other choice but to make the best of her situation out of what was available to her doesn't mean she is in fact healed and happy.

Claiming Az is her choice is ignoring that Elain should probably not be involved with anyone right at this moment because she still has not opened up to ANYONE about how she feels after stabbing someone, the death of her father, living in the fae lands as a new species.

And acting like Elain should make a decision one way or another regarding a life long bond is also belittling her trauma.

I love Lucien but his mate should not be deciding if she wants to break their bond or explore their bond until she's in the right mental space to do so, otherwise any decision will not be made for the right reasons.

Again, I love Lucien but he's a 300+ year old fae who's had centuries to deal with his major losses (and he's still not completely over them). He can deal with his human recently turned fae 24 year old mate taking time to figure herself out, make a few mistakes along the way, then finding her footing based off what she wants and not only what is available to her through her sister. A few years is a blink in a fae lifespan and he still needs to figure out his own life before worrying about romance.

I'm sure they'll eventually figure themselves out and come together when the time is right but it clearly hasn't been the time so far.

Just because Elain is quiet in her trauma doesn't mean expectations should be placed on her, "She's not hiding in a corner so she should be ashamed of herself for not dealing with her bond!" or assuming she's healed enough to be making smart decisions "She's obviously happy because she's out and about so it's proof she wants Az for the right reasons!" 🤦🤦🤦

No SJM heroine starts off her book in a good place making all the right decisions (Feyre almost married Tamlin though she was having reservations about the wedding and Nesta was hooking up with random fae after spending her nights drinking and gambling).

No SJM heroine starts off her book worrying about what's best for a guy rather than needing to deal with her own issues (did Feyre give a shit about what Rhys wanted at the start of ACOMAF? Did Nesta care about Cassian's needs at the start of SF? )

Why would Elain be any different? Why is anyone faulting her for taking the exact path her sisters did?

#pro elain archeron #anti e/riel #pro elucien

30 notes · View notes

simpingforcreamsoda · 1 year

Text

Why Breath of the Wild cannot happen on every timeline

Alright, look. We all know the question, and the answer that we got.

“On which timeline in Zelda does BOTW happen?”

The answer? “All of them/It doesn’t matter.”

yes, it does matter.

At the end of Wind Waker, taking place in the submerged Hyrule, Zelda and the Hero of Winds go to fight Ganondorf, but accidentally assemble the triforce. Ganondorf is very happy about this, and goes to use it, but the King of Hyrule reaches it first, making a wish.

He wants to wipe the slate clean.

With that, the barrier protecting hyrule breaks. Water floods down to wash the sacred land away. Ganondorf is defeated, and Link and Zelda manage to escape, but the King remains as his kingdom is destroyed forever. From this point, Wind Waker’s Link and Zelda guide the people of the Great Sea to a new kingdom, in new lands. Ganondorf never returns. Why? Because Wind Waker does the impossible: it breaks the cycle.

We all know how it goes. Demise, at the start in Skyward Sword, longed to rule Hyrule with the Triforce. When he lost, he cast an eternal curse that is reincarnation would keep returning, forever. but by washing away Hyrule forever, completely erasing the kingdom and its history, the curse is forcibly ended. There is no hyrule for ganon to come back to. Its done. Its over.

If Breath of the Wild can happen in this timeline, something is deeply wrong. Breath of the Wild takes place in Hyrule, one where the perpetual return of Ganon has become so commonplace that they expect it every hundred years or so. In BOTW, the cycle doesn’t just exist, it DOMINATES. It dictates the very law of the land. It is perhaps the largest victim to Demise’s curse that we have ever seen.

Wind Waker’s world cannot house such a story. Doing so would completely erase and undermine the actions of The Hero of Winds, and the entire themes of Wind Waker, Phantom Hourglass, and Spirit Tracks. This is a world that has broken free from its chains, and I wouldn’t dare suggest that we put them back on for the sake of an easy answer.

#breath of the wild #wind waker #phantom hourglass #spirit tracks #zelda lore #the legend of zelda

119 notes · View notes

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year

Text

Begged & Borrowed Time (xii, ao3)

(Chapter twelve: In vino veritas.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

He had kissed her.

Kissed her and held her and kissed her, and with every beat of his wings, every brush of the wind against his side, he remembered that kiss and missed her, too. As Cassian landed roughly on the House of Wind balcony, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left some vital part of himself behind, that something was absent. Like he’d not arrived home at all— like he’d been severed from home, forcibly parted and set adrift the moment he’d crossed the wall.

That feeling of wrongness beneath the wall - that absence of power; the muted, dulled senses - suddenly felt like nothing compared to this, to the void that echoed and howled inside his chest. Cassian straightened on the balcony, taking one last look at the city spread beneath. As the sun set over the mountains cradling Velaris, he looked up. Looked up and wished that he were gazing at a different, distant, sky. Wished that his hands still circled her waist, his wings still shielded her from the wind. As though it had been his purpose all along, all this time— to be with her, to be near her.

Sharply, he shook his head, stopping the thought before it could really form, before it could flourish.

Too much— it was too much, skirting far too close to an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted, a truth he wasn’t certain he could bear. His chest tugged, pulled south, as though his body were revolting, rebelling against the distance, against the lack of her, but Cassian forced it down, pushed it away. Too much. It was too much, and he didn’t want to think about what it meant, that insistent, desperate pulling behind his ribs. He only wanted to savour the memory of her kiss, to revel in it, and as he stretched his wings, crossing the threshold into the House, Cassian let himself be carried away, let himself be lost in it.

Gods, she would be the death of him.

The way her lips had been soft and smooth beneath his own, her fingers skating over his chest, brushing his neck… The way the curve of her jaw had fitted so perfectly in the palm of his hand, as though she had been made for him, and he for her…

A small, secret smile pulled at his lips. Tomorrow— tomorrow he’d go to Windhaven. Find Emerie, pick up another book. Pick up several. He was training Feyre in the morning but afterwards… Afterwards he’d leave for Illyria, and if Emerie was reluctant to let him borrow a second book without getting the first back, then he’d get down on his knees and beg if he had to—

A hiss in the gathering darkness, a sharp rasp that cut through the silence of the sitting room attached to the balcony. Cassian had almost reached the door that would lead him to the hall and the stairs and his bedroom beyond when the muttered curse sounded, and—

“What the fuck is that?”

Halting, Cassian turned his head. Found his High Lord waiting, half concealed by shadows and darkness. Cassian hadn’t even noticed. Had been so caught up in Nesta and that kiss that he hadn’t so much as glanced around the room as he stepped inside. The sunset and the fading light created pockets of shadow, corners where only murky twilight remained, and it was in one of those that Rhys sat, one ankle crossed over his knee. The little light that remained slanted away from his chair, as though retreating, fleeing, before the Lord of Night and as Rhys sniffed the air, nostrils flaring…

Cassian wondered if he should be retreating, too. Judging by the frown on Rhys’ face, the displeased twist of his lips as he realised just whose scent clung to him like a second skin… Fleeing might have been a good idea, for any other Night Court citizen.

Yet Cassian had known his brother for too long, seen too much, to fear one of Rhys’ tempers. He didn’t answer the question, only tilted his head and remained silent as, slowly, Rhys rose from his seat. Dressed in black, he melted with the shadows, only the brightness of his eyes catching the faint light, reflecting it. Cassian noted the expensive cut of his velvet blazer, the fine material of his shirt. Illyrian tattoos curled, peeked over the edge of that shirt, just a hint of ink at his collarbone, and Cassian tilted his head again, slanted it in the other direction. He wasn’t dressed for a fight and yet… Rhys blinked, his lips pressed together in a thin, definitively pissed line.

“You said you had a meeting with Devlon today.”

Cassian shrugged. “I did.”

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his leathers, his fingers still chilled from the flight home. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He had had a meeting with Devlon set for today— he’d just failed to tell Rhys he’d cancelled it. Cancelled it in order to visit Nesta, to bring her one of Emerie’s books, to kiss her beneath a mortal sky, to feel her warm beneath his fingers. Her name clanged through his head like the ringing of a bell, and he felt that pulling in his chest again, a tug that seemed to have counted every mile that stretched between them, scorned each one, making them burn behind his ribs—

“And yet,” Rhys continued sharply, the dangerous lilt to his voice tearing Cassian away from that burn, from any thought of the land beneath the wall, from the woman it housed and the promise it harboured. “You haven’t stepped foot in Illyria today. You lied to me, and then you come home… smelling like that.”

A blink, a lingering moment of crushing silence, and then Cassian shrugged again. “Like what?” he asked far, far too innocently.

Nesta— he smelled like Nesta.

It was something he was all too aware of, having caught the scent of her on his leathers, on his skin, whenever the wind had blown a certain way on his flight home. It had made him almost breathless with desire - something that was altogether rather reckless when he was thousands of feet in the air, and yet the scent of her on his skin, and by extension, the thought of his on hers… It was like nectar, dizzying and sweet and downright intoxicating. And though it had made bitterness settle heavy in his stomach when he thought of her going to bed tonight, sleeping beside another man, the knowledge that it was Cassian’s scent that clung to her… That it was his that danced and merged with her own, twining and twisting until there was hardly any telling them apart…

It was unparalleled.

Rhys’ eyes narrowed, a look of warning flaring in violet eyes as Cassian remained silent. Stubbornly, resolutely silent, keeping the memory of Nesta’s touch entirely to himself— as though it were precious, something to be guarded. Rhys huffed, folding velvet-clad arms firmly over his chest. In a voice edged with command, the kind he expected Cassian to bow to, to bend beneath, he asked:

“Why do you smell like Feyre’s sister, Cass.”

Feyre’s sister— As though Nesta were not a person of her own, with her own name. Cassian felt irritation whispering at his edges, slinking through him as Rhys remained standing there, expectant. He remembered the taste of Nesta’s lips, the curve of her waist in his palm, the feel of her fingers tangling in his hair, and suddenly, five centuries of loyalty gave way to intransigence, to indignation.

Mother knew, he loved his brother but— was he wrong to kiss Nesta, just because she was Feyre’s sister? Would Rhys forbid him from seeing her, from touching her, just because of the wall between them? And what roles did they play now, standing across from one another— two beloved brothers, or merely a High Lord and his subject? With a snort, Cassian gave Rhys a withering look, lacing his words so heavily with sarcasm he was amazed he could speak them at all.

“Well I have seen Feyre’s sisters today, Rhys. Or are you forgetting, in your old age, that I was there as courier for your letters?”

“Don’t be a smart arse,” Rhys answered flatly, keeping his arms folded over his chest and giving Cassian a look that took him back to days in Windhaven, centuries ago, when they would sooner kick one another’s heads in than exchange a single civil word. Oh, how far— how far they had come since. Cassian almost laughed, almost ruffled Rhys’ hair and dragged him into a training ring but— not the time.

Now was not the time.

In the moment that followed, Rhys studied his brother, nostrils flaring once more as he took in Nesta’s scent— the scent that was far too strong to have come from a brief meeting alone, from a quick exchange of letters. Rhys’ gaze flicked to Cassian’s neck, where Nesta had wound her arms, where her fingers had searched, and after a stony, harsh silence, Rhys let out a string of curses.

“What the fuck are you thinking, Cass?”

His voice was incredulous, outrage flickering in his eyes as a muscle jumped in his jaw. Dropping his head, he uncrossed his arms to massage his temples with his thumb and forefinger, as though he had suddenly developed a vicious, ferocious, headache. When he glanced up, meeting his brother’s hazel eyes, he let out a sigh of frustration.

“She’s human. Have you lost your mind?!”

Cassian bristled, and didn’t bother to point out that Feyre had been human too, just a handful of months ago, and look at how far Rhys had been willing to go for her. He’d almost died under the mountain for Feyre, made that ridiculous bargain to find a way to keep her close after the curse was broken, and yet he asked if Cassian was the one who’d lost his mind?

“She’s not just human either,” Rhys continued, exasperation pulling at his words, turning them into a low, hurried, hiss. “She’s married. Even if she wasn’t mortal, she could still never be yours—”

“And Feyre?” Cassian interjected hotly, indignation turning incandescent, turning molten as he watched Rhys’ scowl turn into a snarl. “Is she still engaged to Tamlin? Or was that called off when you took her away?”

“Careful,” Rhys warned, that midnight voice more coldly furious than Cassian had heard it in centuries, as deep and as black as a sky entirely without stars. “That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Like fuck it isn’t,” Cassian snorted.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Rhys challenged. “She’s going to run away, leave the husband she married for love and choose you instead? Or is this just some quick fling, some fleeting fuck—”

Cassian snarled, felt his lips pull back over his teeth as the sound turned feral, cutting Rhys off before he could finish. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t trust himself to do more than glower. He wouldn’t share her secret, that she’d never loved Tomas at all. Wouldn’t so much as breathe a word, and yet… the words he needed escaped him, slipped through his fingers. How could he explain, how could he tell Rhys that… oh, she was so much more than a fleeting fuck. So, so much more.

A moment— a beat, one in which the both of them realised that perhaps, somehow, they had gone too far. Pushed one another too much, too hard, in the way that only brothers could. Shaking his head, Rhys let out a heavy breath as, at last, he unclenched his jaw, let a little bit of the fury go.

“You’re supposed to be my general, Cass. My master strategist.” Another shake of the head as Rhys looked warily up at his brother. “This is the stupidest thing you’ve done for a long time.”

Like waves pulling away from shore, Cassian felt the anger recede. He shook his head too, breathed a laugh as though agreeing, fingers carding through his wind-tangled hair. It was stupid— stupid how much he wanted to kiss her, how much he longed for her when they were apart. Stupid— because she riled him, and irritated him, and got under his skin and yet…

And yet.

He sighed, his hand dropping from his hair. Some kind of regret flickered in his gut as he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have brought Feyre into it, if mentioning her had been a step too far. The use of her name had incited Rhys as much as the absence of Nesta’s had incited Cassian, and dimly Cassian saw similarity there, saw a parallel. He was certain Feyre was Rhys’ mate and yet—

No.

He pulled away, stopped himself before his mind could wander down that road, for the second time since he’d landed. He could still feel her lips on his, still feel her skin beneath his hands. He could still picture her smile as she pressed Emerie’s book to her chest, as though it were the most precious thing he could have given her, the most beautiful gift. It was branded in his mind, that smile— that curve of her lips, that glint in storm-grey eyes touched with blue. And Rhys was right— she was mortal, and she was married, but Cassian didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to care. He wanted her, needed her, and it didn’t matter if it would be for a day, a week, a year. He’d take anything, would crawl over hot coals and broken glass if it earned him even a second spent at her side.

He gave Rhys a withering, sardonic kind of smile. A shrug, as if to say yes, you’re right, it is stupid— but it is what it is.

The tension leeched away, all of the anger bled dry, and in the doorway, suddenly blue siphons gleamed. Shadows skittered and Azriel, leaning against the doorframe, cleared his throat.

“So, is this going to come to blows or are we going out?”

Cassian felt his brow furrow, felt confusion flitter across his face. Rhys rolled his eyes, the light returning the violet as he took a step back. Straightening his velvet sleeves, the High Lord glanced first at Azriel, shrugged, and then turned back to Cassian, some kind of silent apology lingering in the air, one that didn’t really need to be voiced. Cassian glanced at them both in turn. His brothers— forged not by blood but by something much stronger, much more solid.

“What did you think I was here for?” Rhys asked dryly, one eyebrow arching as he took in Cassian’s frown. “Mor has Feyre for a girls night, whatever that entails, and Amren’s still locked up with the Book of Breathings. I had thought the three of us could go out, like we used to.” He gave Cassian a pointed look, one loaded with accusation and disapproval. “So I went to Windhaven to get you and winnow you home. Imagine my surprise when Devlon said you hadn’t been there at all today.”

Cassian brushed him off, waved his hand as though the matter of lying to one’s High Lord was only a minor indiscretion, and not something any other lord might well have strung him up for.

“So we’re having a boys night are we?” he snorted, flicking his gaze to Azriel in the doorway, shadows clinging to him like a fine mist. He wasn’t wearing his habitual leathers, but a fine black shirt beneath a black leather jacket. Only the siphons at his hands were out tonight, and as Cassian studied his brother, Azriel shrugged.

“Unless you’d rather kick ten tons of shit out of one another.”

It was Rhys’ turn to snort, as though that might be a good idea after all. Cassian fixed him with a grin, slightly wicked and more than a little feral, as if to say— I’d win and you know it, but if you want to try and land a punch… go ahead.

Az muttered something under his breath - along the lines of what happened to ‘no brawling inside the House’, since Rhys’ mother had banned all fighting inside the walls centuries ago - but a smirk pulled at those stoic lips, one of reluctant bemusement. Suddenly, Cassian didn’t think a night out with his brothers was a bad idea at all. After all, he had kissed Nesta today. Nothing could ruin that.

He clapped Rhys on the shoulder, watching as Rhys’s eyes grew wary, guarded, as he caught the scent of Nesta once again.

“I’ll go get changed then,” he said with a shrug. “And then you can both buy me a drink.”

***

He had kissed Nesta today. Nothing could ruin that.

Nothing could change it, nothing could take it away, nothing could—

“You know he means well,” Azriel said diplomatically, breaking through the mantra Cassian had been repeating solidly for the past ten minutes. He pushed a fourth - or was it a fifth? - glass of whiskey along the bar, and Cassian caught it in his fingers, wrapping his hand around the glass as he flicked his gaze to Rhys. Leaning casually against the bar, the High Lord was holding court only a handful of feet away, surrounded by fae both higher and lesser, all fawning and flirting and simpering, and yes, of course, he meant well, but…

Why? Rhys had asked earlier, before the drinks had started to blur into one. Why Nesta? Feyre will kill you if she finds out— and then kill me too, for good measure. Pick someone else to warm your bed and save us both the trouble.

Cassian had snorted. Shrugged. Taken the first sip of his first drink and felt the burn in his throat, igniting in his chest as he considered Rhys’ question. Why Nesta?

She’s all I think about, he’d said baldly, something about the dim light and the loud music enough to bring forth honesty, earnest and heartfelt, and with it, Rhys’ brow had furrowed. Something like sorrow, like sympathy, had flashed in his eyes as Cassian noted the exact moment that Rhys realised Nesta was more to Cassian than a quick fling. His lips had parted, a soft oh slipping between them as creases formed in the corner of his eyes. He had let out a heavy breath, as if he knew well enough what Cassian felt— knew well enough what it was to long for an Archeron committed to another, wearing another man’s ring on her finger.

And as Azriel had ordered a second and third round of drinks, Rhys had hissed against the burn of the liquor and, apparently, concocted a plan. Some hare-brained, misguided - and yet despite it all still well-meaning - scheme to find Cassian that someone else to warm his bed. Fuelled almost entirely by whiskey and good intentions, Rhys had begun redirecting some of his own potential suitors, sending them to Cassian instead. A wingman in every sense of the word, it seemed— albeit one that Cassian hadn’t asked for.

At least one of us should have a good time tonight, Rhys had muttered in Cassian’s mind as the first fae had approached him, a coy smile on her lips. Cassian had merely rolled his eyes and sent her away with little more than a courteous hello, a brief goodbye.

And why can’t that be Az?he had asked flatly, taking another sip of his whiskey, draining the glass. Rhys had only leaned more bodily against the bar and shrugged, lifting his own glass to his lips.

Az is the only one of us not pining for someone he can’t have. Cassian raised an eyebrow, thinking rather pointedly of the way Azriel had looked at Mor for centuries, and Rhys shook his head. Alright, he corrected. Az is the only one of us not pining for an Archeron he can’t have. He has more sense than either of us.

Cassian blinked, wanting to question it, to ask— was Nesta really someone he couldn’t have? When she had kissed him back, let him hold her? When she had bared her soul, told him things even her sisters didn’t know? Rhys still thought Nesta had married Tomas for love but even so… did that ring on her finger really mean she was lost to him?

Maybe he should have asked.

Maybe he should have told Rhys, then and there, that he didn’t want someone else in his bed— but he didn’t, and then Rhys was whispering, shrugging and drinking and saying, Maybe you just need to get her out of your system.

But even when the alcohol had started to cloud his thoughts, Cassian had recognised it for what it was. Rhys was trying to help— there was no other for him, no way of getting Feyre out of his system. There could be a line of men and women both queuing for a spot in Rhys’ bed and it would change nothing. The heart in his chest would still belong entirely to the Cursebreaker, even if she didn’t know it yet. And Rhys, in all of his misguided wisdom, thought that it might be different for Cassian. That another’s kiss might make him forget her, because Nesta was mortal and after all, she wasn’t his mate, not like Feyre was Rhys’—

Cassian drained that fourth - perhaps fifth - glass of whiskey, letting it slam back onto the surface of the bar.

His vision was starting to blur, to swim, and Azriel was by his side, eyes alight and shadows moving slowly as their master, too, succumbed to the weight of the drink. Cassian hissed sharply as the whiskey went down, scorching a path to his stomach, and Azriel laughed, muttered about him not being able to handle his drink. Cassian swore, nudged him with a shoulder, feeling his wings knock him slightly off balance as his head carried on spinning.

And then Rhys cleared his throat, shot him a grin from where he stood, surrounded by his subjects. A pretty blonde, a high fae almost as tall as Rhys, was suddenly at Cassian’s arm, her blue eyes wide and sparkling, reflecting the lights behind the bar. Cassian only shook his head, turned away, and found Azriel waiting, presenting him with another glass of amber liquid, three fingers of blessed oblivion.

And with the thought of Nesta - as potent, as sweet as the richest wine - wrapping his thoughts in a thick, dense fog, Cassian lifted his glass and drank again.

***

Blurred— the world was blurred at the edges.

All melding and merging, smiles and voices and laughter coalescing into one, loud music and dim lights and sharp whiskey, cool and biting on his tongue as his blood seemed to grow sluggish in his veins, as his tongue grew leaden in his mouth and time seemed to slow— to speed up.

Another drink was in his hand, and in a breath it had been drained even though he didn’t remember lifting it to his lips, and the hour kept growing later and later even though Cassian could have sworn time had halted entirely. The music grew louder, more raucous, and the faelights overhead flickered, glimmered and changed colour and—

He blinked.

Gods, he hadn’t had this much to drink in years. He blinked again, tried to find some semblance of stability as he gripped the edge of the bar, a laugh caught in his throat as he tried to remember how many glasses he’d drained. Lost— they were all lost to him.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it only made it worse, only made him dizzy. He was about to smile, to laugh, to ask Az if he remembered the first time they were this drunk— the first time they came to Velaris together, all three of them. Their first night in a bar like this— all freedom and excess and debauchery, a night that ended with them making their way, stumbling, to the House of Wind only to find themselves too drunk to fly to the top. They had been little more than boys— eighteen years old and convinced that the world lay at their feet.

He opened his mouth, found the words he wanted through the din of his whiskey-addled mind and nudged Az in the shoulder, and then— They faded, evaporated on his tongue.

He saw her.

Beneath the coloured lights, beside Rhys, her head turned to the side… He saw her.

Not her, not really, but for a moment, a heartbeat, as the lights turned from pink to blue… Cassian looked across the bar and saw… Nesta. A result of hours of desperate longing, of calling to mind the feel of her in his hands as he sank deeper and deeper into his cups. A hallucination borne of that single kiss, that brief moment where he’d held her in his arms. As though he had conjured her, as though his liquor-soaked heart had made a wish the gods had deigned to answer, and there— she was there, her back turned, her face hidden from him. And then the lights flashed again, and she transformed into someone else, a stranger. Someone with Nesta’s height, the same slender frame, hair pinned up and braided in a way that was so Nesta Cassian’s heart started to keen… but a stranger nonetheless.

He blinked again, blinked hard, trying to straighten the world out - was he the one swaying, or was it the room itself? - and when he looked again, he found Rhys whispering in the Nesta-who-wasn’t-Nesta’s ear, a glint in violet eyes. Seconds passed, or minutes, or hours - he wasn’t sure because he wasn’t certain time was playing by the rules anymore - and then Rhys was finished, and the stranger was stepping forwards, breaking away from the courtiers Rhys had amassed and walking towards the little corner of the bar Cassian and Az had commandeered. Her lips were stained pink from wine, but curved with a flirtatious little smile and gods, Cassian wished she were someone else.

Wished he’d been right— wished his drunken eyes hadn’t fooled him, that he’d found Nesta in a Night Court bar. Suddenly his mirth evaporated, replaced by a voracious kind of longing, one that devoured him whole.

It was cruel, the way his heart pounded in his chest. The way it seemed to echo with her name— Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

And the stranger’s lips moved as she stood before him, speaking words he couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite comprehend. So close— she was so close that he could smell her perfume, delicate and sweet, and oh, he was dizzy, and yearning now, wanting for so much more than the whisper of a kiss he’d been granted before.

And oh, how it easy it would have been to pretend.

To pretend that she was here, in his arms the way she had been before, the way she should have been all along. The woman before him placed a hand on his chest, palm flat above his heart - did she know? Could she feel it? How every beat of his heart beneath her fingers seemed to scream, to protest? - as she lifted onto her tiptoes, her voice muffled by the music as she whispered in his ear: we can go outside. Her fingers brushed his neck— following the path Nesta’s fingers had forged, and if only he could pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend…

He could take her hand and lead her outside, to the alleyway around the back. It would be quick and desperate, a release he could chase, capture, and then leave without a second glance, never to see this stranger again. He could fuck her in the darkness and pretend she was someone else, pretend the lips at his ear were different, the hands on his chest were different, the heart behind her ribs more fragile, more mortal.

But— wrong, all of it was wrong. His every nerve rioted, bucked as as he looked down and found eyes the green of a summer field looking back at him, when all he really wanted were the ones that looked like a breaking storm, the ones that narrowed and glared and sparked. The stranger tilted her head, and he realised that her braids were the wrong shade of golden brown— had only looked right when the lights were a certain colour, and he couldn’t—

He couldn’t pretend.

Not anymore.

The pulling in his chest turned violent, and before his mind could catch up, he was moving, stepping away as her fingers slipped from his chest. Breathe, he needed to breathe but gods his head was pounding already and the air came roughly into his lungs as he tried to force it down his throat and there wasn’t enough air. Not enough, not enough, not enough—

Stumbling, he made for the door, for the outside, and as the night air embraced him, cold against his cheeks, he felt something… snap.

Felt it rebound and recoil in his chest, behind his ribs where he ached the most, a crack that had him gasping, reaching, scrambling. Her name echoed, louder than anything, thrumming in his blood as though it were a part of him, a piece he’d long been missing and only now had found, had recovered— Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

Nesta.

He thought of her behind that stable, that smile on her face, so beautiful beneath the pale sun. He stumbled forwards, reached the railings that overlooked the river. He clung to them, fingers tight as he watched the Sidra rushing beneath, black as ink beneath the night sky. His breathing was heavy, laboured, and the air was blissfully cold against his throat, almost sobering as that crack cleaved his chest in two— sundered it, broke it apart… and remade it.

And— there. Glittering in the darkness, like the stars above, the truth at last.

“She’s my mate,” he whispered to the river, one hand tight around the iron railing, the other fisting over his heart as he felt it swell and break and shatter and heal all at once.

She’s my mate— and she was mortal, and married, and mine— mine. It was a lock sliding into place, sliding home, and it made sense now, so much sense, why it felt like his world had only just begun to turn— why it seemed that he’d only just started living, the moment he’d met her. He thought back to the days he’d spent in the cold, in Windhaven, living in a tent he’d somehow patched together, with nothing to his name except the clothes on his back— he’d looked up at the sky, at the cold and distant stars, and longed for a home. And now, Nesta was his home. He realised that now, standing by the river, tasting the salt on the air carried over from the sea. She was everything he had been waiting for - everything - and his heart skipped in his chest, his breath catching as he gripped that railing tighter, fighting for purchase as he grew tangled, knotted, in all the emotions that had begun warring in his chest.

Ecstasy ran rampant through him, but… Sorrow dragged it down. Weighted it, made it heavy.

Too heavy to carry, too heavy to bear, and this was why he hadn’t let himself consider it, hadn’t let himself ask why Nesta had suddenly become his centre. Because—

Because Nesta was mortal.

And Nesta would die.

And Cassian would be left to linger on, broken and shattered, until the long years of his own life were spent. Nausea clawed its way up his throat, unease making his heartbeat stutter, and as he looked down at the river, at the current that led out to sea, he let out a gasp of agony, of desperation. She was his mate, and she was married, and mortal, and the wall lay between them, and even though part of him wanted to throw his head back and laugh, be lost to the joy and the elation of it…

Part of him grieved, too.

Part of him mourned.

Behind him, steps sounded— boots on stone. Footfalls as unsteady as his own, as weighed down by whiskey. When Cassian turned, he found wings and blue siphons, velvet and violet eyes.

“Cass,” Az began, his eyes widened with liquor even though his tone was even, his shadows skirting and dancing over Cassian’s fingers, as if checking for injury. Azriel frowned, running a hand over his hair as the winter breeze sent strands of it falling over his forehead. His wings shivered in the cold, but his shadows were darting back now, up his arms, lingering at his shoulder, at his ear—

“She’s my mate,” Cassian said again, the words hoarse and raw, the truth of it making his bones ache.

Rhys glanced, startled, at the bar they’d just left, little more than a brick building and a flashing faelight sign. “What? The girl—”

“No,” Cassian interrupted sharply, waving a hand. “Nesta.”

Azriel only glanced at Rhys with raised brows as if to say, really? You hadn’t figured it out? and Cassian wanted to ask how Az had known— how he had figured it out, when even Cassian hadn’t fully believed it before now, only suspected it. The shadows, he mused, watching as the beasts crawled over Azriel’s wrists. It must have been the shadows—

“Fuck, Cass,” Rhys said, interrupting before Cassian could gather the words to ask. He stepped forward, bracing a hand on Cassian’s shoulder as he swayed a little. “You’re sure?”

In his eyes, the stars were shadowed, veiled. Cassian nodded, his hand absently rising to his chest, pressing against where it throbbed and burned and pulled and ached, and Rhys’ eyes were suddenly lined with sorrow, with despair.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said, his voice low, little more than a midnight brush against Cassian’s senses. A voice that was dark and cavernous, a chasm forged by similar grief, similar anguish. After all, hadn’t he watched his mate walk down the aisle, ready to marry another? Hadn’t he watched her die?

Too much— too much, too soon. Cassian couldn’t hold it all at once, not with his mind so undone by drink. He shook his head, letting the brisk wind from the coast clear it, and forced a smile onto his lips, smiling in the hopes that it would stave off the agony.

“What,” he asked lightly, “For trying to set me up with almost every eligible woman in Velaris tonight?”

“Yeah,” Rhys whispered, blinking slowly— from the drink or from the shock, Cassian wasn’t sure. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have…” He shook his head, trailed off. The words hung between them unvoiced, unspoken. “I wouldn’t have sent them your way if I’d known what Nesta was— if I’d known that it wasn’t just some… brief infatuation. Some—”

“Fleeting fuck?” Cassian interrupted, tilting his head as he parroted Rhys’ earlier words. He let out a sardonic laugh, one that was ironic and bitter and darkly amused. “You called my mate a quick fling.”

Rhys practically flinched. His lip twisted in a brief grimace, one that made his eyes twitch, and then he was letting out a long breath, one that clouded in the air between them. He offered Cassian an apologetic smile and said, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Azriel stepped forward, leaning on the railing too, resting his forearms against the metal. The blue of his siphons glimmered, reflected in the water below, and when the shadowsinger turned his gaze on his brother, Cassian suddenly felt… tired. Tired and aching for home.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, a question that was tentative. Searching and slow.

“I don’t know,” Cassian admitted, dropping his head, closing his eyes.

In the silence, Rhys rested on the railing too, casting a sideways glance at both of his brothers.

“Feyre said Nesta married for love,” he began carefully. More silence— echoing silence, that even the noise of the city couldn’t penetrate. Cassian didn’t speak, barely even dared breathe, and yet Rhys wasn’t done— wasn’t finished.

“I know what it is,” he breathed. “To watch your mate be married to another.”

It was the first Rhys had ever spoken of it, the first time he had acknowledged the truth of what they had all come to suspect. And yet…

“No,” Cassian countered, his voice dropping to a new depth, one buried beneath layers and layers of emotions too complex for him to understand under the weight of so much whiskey, too tangled for him to see clearly. “You don’t. Feyre never went through with it.”

Rhys shook his head, and looked down at his velvet sleeves, as if searching for some lint to pluck.

“Nevertheless.” A pause. One that stretched and grew loaded, heavy and unwieldy. “You have to be prepared for her to not want the bond at all, Cass. You might have to let her go, and seeing as she’s human anyway… It might be for the best.”

A snarl— a growl in his throat. Cassian twisted his head to the side, fixing his brother with an incredulous stare. Rhys held his hands up in surrender. Dimly, Cassian realised that Rhys was only trying to help, only trying to save him the heartbreak, and after all… Rhys still thought Nesta loved Tomas. Believed her marriage was one of happiness, not despair. Cassian thought about correcting him, telling him that Nesta had lied for Feyre’s benefit, for Elain’s… but he thought of her in that sitting room, when he had delivered the second letter. When agony had contorted her face as she poked him in the chest with her finger.

You think my sister has a right to my secrets?

It quieted his mind, stilled his breath, stayed his hand, and after a long, drawn out moment… Cassian shook his head, let it go.

And then Azriel was pulling away from the railing with a sigh, shadows unlinking themselves, unwinding themselves from where they’d wreathed the iron. He squeezed Cassian’s shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, of comfort, and said, “I think we should call it a night.”

With a laconic huff, Cassian nodded. Felt Rhys do the same by his side.

He uncurled his fingers from the railing, feeling them cold and stuff, and stepped back, blinking as he adjusted his shoulders, growing used to the new weight in his chest, the new warmth that had taken root. Stretching his wings, he forced himself to take first one steady step forward, then another.

And just like that - one step, one foot, one moment at a time - Cassian let his bothers take him home.

***

With the sun overhead and hardly more than three hours of sleep behind him, Cassian’s hand darted out, fists curled, muscles taut, tight. He welcomed the impact against his knuckles, sharp and fleeting and biting, a burn cutting through the cotton he’d wrapped around his hand.

Again—

And again—

He barrelled his fists into the training dummy, the block of wood wrapped with wool and leather. He snarled, feeling the pain in his knuckles echo the pain in his head. A hangover from hell— Cassian had woken that morning with his throat feeling like sandpaper, his head pounding as the dawn light splintered his vision, sent spikes of pain resounding between his ears. He might have lain in bed and let sleep swallow him, but there was too much for him to work through, too many emotions he had to figure out, and, being a warrior at heart, he’d found his solace in the training ring. Found it in the burning of his muscles, even as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

“You know, we don’t have to train today,” a voice said lightly from the doorway, carried over to him on a gentle breeze.

Fuck.

Feyre— Right. He’d agreed to train her today, at ten. Was it that time already? Cassian glanced at the sky, almost flinching as the brightness of the sun made that well of pain behind his eyes deepen. He straightened his spine, his breath heaving and his lungs gasping, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“No,” he said, stretching his neck, his shoulders, his wings. “I said we’ll train, so we train.”

But Feyre only bit her lip, and though she walked forwards, she hesitated at the edge of the ring. Hovered, light on her feet, as if readying to leave. “Cassian, you look…”

He raised a brow.

“…Like you need a break.”

A break. The suggestion alone was laughable. War was coming and his mate was a mortal living beneath the wall. He barked a laugh, sharp and bitter, as he pulled back the hair that had escaped his bun. Roughly, he pulled loose the strap of leather that kept the rest of the bun together, letting it fall down before shoving all of it up and off of his neck, tying it tighter this time.

“Was it that bad?” she asked softly. “Yesterday, when you saw my sisters. Was it that bad?”

Cassian couldn’t answer, only snarled and started wrapping his hand with more cotton— and wrapping that tighter too, until he felt it pinch.

“Leave it alone, Feyre.”

“Nesta is—”

“I said leave it alone.”

Oh, the gods were laughing at him. Fucking howling from their celestial perches, no doubt. He grimaced, clenched his fists so tight his skin strained against the cotton wrappings. He was tired and grumpy and hungover and his mate was a mortal living beneath the wall. He wanted to rage— at the sky, at the Cauldron, at the Mother, at every single inch that made up that yawning gap, that agonising distance between he and her. She was his mate, his mate, his mate—

And mortal, and married, and he’d lost her to a man who didn’t even fucking value her— lost her before he’d ever even met her.

The bond wasn’t a fucking blessing, Cassian seethed as his closed fist made searing contact with the dummy once more— not a blessing, but some kind of damnation, a curse of its own—

Unbidden, he thought of her smile.

That secret smile she gave him, the way she held Emerie’s book. He thought of the way her eyes sparked when she called him a pigeon, a bat, a brute. His heart cracked, hurt. He thought of the ring on her finger, the ring that bound her, unhappily, to another.

Feyre watched warily, saying nothing as she did exactly as he said. Arms up, fingers curled, thumb untucked. Hitting a dummy of her own as he nodded grimly, and carried on, teaching her to punch until the bitterness of it all had dulled. Taught her how to block, how to avoid a hit to the face. Taught her to see an attack coming, to recognise that split second before an opponent made a move— taught her everything he could in the hour he had her for.

He was breathing hard by the time they finished, every muscle in his body protesting.

“Some hangover, then?” Feyre asked dryly, watching as Cassian drank half a pitcher of water in one go. He wiped his mouth with his hand and breathed hard, glowering as he lowered his glass.

“You have no idea,” he muttered darkly. Feyre only barked a laugh, and unwrapped the cotton from her own hands. She stepped forwards, and for half a moment looked like she was going to say more, going to ask if he was alright, and then—

Rhys was there, at the other end of the rooftop training ground, his jaw tight and his eyes dark. Feyre stepped forwards instantly, as if pulled towards him by some invisible force, and Rhys’ eyes found her, focused on her. For a moment, Cassian looked away. Turned his face towards the shadows, because it hurt.

Rhys would have Feyre for centuries.

Cassian only had decades.

A shuddering breath racked his chest and then… He thought again of her smile, of her kiss. Suddenly, he felt a lightness creeping in, like a shaft of sunlight piercing through the darkness. He’d never really been one for self-pity, yet he’d spent every moment since the bond had snapped wallowing in premature grief.

He blamed the whiskey.

And at last, Cassian looked to his brother, walking towards them across the House roof. He remembered the feel of Nesta’s hands, the sound of her mortal heart beating in time with his own. There was no room for bitterness, no time for anger over the hand he had been dealt.

Even if he only had decades… So be it.

He’d take it.

He felt the bond warm in his chest, like vines that had grown around his heart, like ivy. And it was… beautiful. Not a curse at all, not damnation. It was his soul and hers, finding one another against all odds, defiant.

Feyre’s brow furrowed as Rhys reached them at last, and Cassian noted the tightness in Rhys’ shoulders, the guarded look in his eyes only a moment after Feyre did. At first, he thought it was a hangover as vicious as his own - perhaps some lingering sympathy over the revelation that was the mating bond Cassian shared with Nesta. But as Rhys stood before them, his lips pressed together, Cassian realised it was more than that. Something much, much more than that.

“What is it?” Feyre asked, the hand at her side twitching, as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch Rhys and make sure he was alright. She curled it into a fist, stilling it, and Rhys’ gaze flicked to it briefly - so briefly - before rising again, looking at the both of them with an intensity that made trepidation flicker in Cassian’s blood.

“The queens,” Rhys answered grimly. “They’ve sent word. They’re coming the day after tomorrow.”

Tagging: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

69 notes · View notes