Straight fiction?!? Will you undo my necklace? Go write ❤️
“Will you undo my necklace?”
Lydia watches in the mirror as Charlotte comes up behind her, observes her expression change when she lets the fabric fall and exposes the litany of scars that wind and ripple along her back.
She has never before shown anyone the remnants of those lashes. The physical wounds had healed but had become forever a part of her — just as thoroughly as the lashings of betrayal which still haunt her, despite the passing of time. The physical wounds no longer hurt but the mental ones cripple her, robbing her of empathy and compassion. They hurt the worst whenever she encounters Margaret Wells. Sometimes she gasps when Charlotte’s expression favors Margaret and she must remind herself that she is not her mother. She should trust Charlotte. She will trust Charlotte.
Charlotte’s hands lift and Lydia can see her hesitating.
“It’s alright, you may touch them,” she says and there’s something extra in her voice, almost shame, “they may be frightful to look at but they won’t catch.”
“Oh no, Lydia I didn’t mean,” she says and Lydia can feel the tension of disappointment gripping within when Charlotte steps away.
She looks down, feels her cheeks pinking and she hates Margaret Wells with white-hot rage. Hates what she did to her. Hates her most of all because she knows she deserved it. Deserved being tied to a post in the middle of the square as a crowd stood around and watched. Some dared to smile, a cull or two even leered at her exposed chest as each stroke of the whip made her cry out and gasp and pull at the restraints.
Lydia gasps aloud when she feels her silk cape being pulled further down her arms until it is gone completely, leaving her shift and her stays and stockings, tied at her thighs. She feels thoroughly exposed to Charlotte, feels suddenly like a fox caught in a trap.
She turns her head around and finds that her lips suddenly and unexpectedly meet Charlotte’s, cold against hot and she is less graceful still when she pulls back in shock.
“What are you doing?”
Charlotte’s lips are tilted in an enigmatic smile and she leans further toward her, one long dark curl caressing her décolleté.
“I know when you look at me that you see my mother,” Charlotte says, her fingers tracing the lace border of her shift, across her shoulder and down over the dips and valleys in the landscape of scars upon her back.
Lydia shivers.
“I want to change that,” Charlotte whispers and Lydia watches her face draw so near to hers that they are inches from another embrace, “I want you to see me.”
Lydia opens her mouth to speak but the words are swallowed as Charlotte captures her mouth in a kiss that burns her tongue and makes her stomach ache.
She feels their bodies turning, knows Charlotte has seated her upon the edge of her dressing table and doesn’t care that she’s overturned a bottle of Parisienne perfume in the process. The young woman towers above her when their lips fall apart, and the look of desire in Charlotte’s eyes is so authentic, so heart-wrenchingly adoring that when the girl’s fingers trace the inside of her knee, she doesn’t stop her. She doesn’t stop her either as she eventually kneels between her thighs and caresses her with her mouth.
Later when Lydia trembles from a fervid release and Charlotte sits upon the dressing stool daring to watch her with wide eyes and a tongue that travels the length of her bottom lip to finish the last of it, she knows that the Wells girl has won and she has handed her the victory. She hopes, oh how she hopes, that she can trust her with it.
Notes: I failed to make good on my promise that there'd be a battle in this chapter, but they did have sex again so I'm giving myself a free pass. I had to move the fight scenes forward to make room for the sex, and I have no regrets.
Part 6 , Part 5 , Part 4 , Part 3 , Part 2 , Part 1
“You’ll have to cut it off,” Stella said apologetically, brushing her fingers through the knot in Scully’s hair.
Scully frowned. The musky air and saltwater swims made her hair wild and tacky. One morning she’d woken with a bird’s nest tangle, and unable to brush it out, she had watched it get progressively worse. She had always enjoyed her long red curls, the intricate updos she had worn on the mainland. She supposed the life she was currently living called for a change.
“Cut it,” she muttered.
“Aye.” Stella nodded and unsheathed her dagger. It was thin and well-polished, gleaming in the moonlight. A lump rose in Scully’s throat, but she forced it down. The metal touched her sunburnt neck, and she fought back a shiver.
Stella pulled the wavy ends of her hair taut between callused fingers, and Scully heard the soft chop as she sliced them through, like the sound of an old woman snipping the end of her sewing thread. She tossed the knotted bundle of Scully’s hair into the sea.
Scully touched the clean-cut ends of her hair, settling just above her shoulder blades. Loose and flat-bottomed and fluttering about her cheeks, a feeling she was unaccustomed to after years of complicated knots and braids tugging at her neck.
“I like it,” she said.
Stella drummed her fingers on Scully’s waist. “You haven’t seen it yet.”
“Regardless, I like it.” It was easy and amateur, off-kilter in a way that belonged beneath a sailor’s cap. Perhaps a kerchief, she mused, eyeing the dark banana tied around Stella’s forehead as if she were a bandit.
Stella’s hand loosened on Scully’s waist, slipping down to her hip. “Pirate,” she whispered, and with her back turned Scully didn’t know whether she’d meant it to be heard.
“Fuck me,” Scully muttered under her breath, meant to reach Stella’s ears.
Stella spun her quickly around so their noses bumped awkwardly, and Stella’s bloodless chest pressed against her, pushing her backward. Their boots scuffed the deck, meandering slowly toward the converging V of the bow until Scully’s back hit wood.
The pirate’s cold hands tugged teasingly at the waist of her trousers.
“Fuck me,” Scully murmured again. “Fuck me right here on deck, and I don’t care how many ghosts can hear us.”
Stella pressed their lips together, and neither the salt sticking to their skin nor the cracks in their lips worried them. Scully pressed her elbows into the wheel, her shirt slipping from her shoulder as Stella wrapped an arm between her back and the ship’s splintered wood. She deepened the kiss, pulling Stella’s cool body toward her until it didn’t matter if Stella’s hand was in the way—her spine dug into the ship.
She slid down the wall, her teeth grazing Stella’s bottom lip. Her skin was dusted in crystals of salt, the crinkles in her eyes glittering in the moonlight. Weathered and tanned in daylight, Stella was bone-white in the dark, a phantom with roving fingers and a sharp tongue.
They knotted together on splitting boards; splinters crept into Stella’s knuckles, into her knees, and lined Scully’s spine like stitches as Stella ground their bodies against each other. A sound escaped her she could neither recall nor repeat as Stella’s hand slid beneath her trousers, and she rocked to the rhythm of the Dutchman. No one could catch them here, and she didn’t bite her tongue or hold back a moan; she didn’t swallow down her encouragement as Stella fucked her against the swaying wheel. When she came, she cried out, and the ocean swallowed it for her.
* * *
They leaned against the bow as the night sky opened before them like a kraken's maw. Scully could smell the salt clinging to her skin, wrinkling her shirt and breeches. Her hat had only done so much to shade her from the sun, and she could feel her lips split at their seams like doll stitches. Her skin was tan and flaky—what was salt and what was sunlight she couldn’t discern. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, as if she’d aged years in the time she’d spent on the Flying Dutchman. If she had, it might not have surprised her. Few things could surprise her anymore.
She turned to Stella, who was swigging a bottle of rum from the cellar. She wasn’t drunk—the dead didn’t get drunk, apparently. Her blonde hair was still post-coital wild, though she’d straightened the purple bandanna tied snugly around her forehead. It enhanced her angular features, lining up her eyebrows and darkening her already stern stare. She wore nothing over her breasts, nothing over the thick, white scar that sliced between them. Her shirt was wrapped around her waist; only a hip holster crossed her chest, her pistol resting snugly inside it.
“Target practice today?” Scully asked, eyeing the pistol.
Stella cocked her head. “Perhaps. Though I won’t be surprised if we spot our destination today. I’m not sure what one more lesson will do for you; you’ve learned everything you’re prepared to do.”
“If I have to shoot a man, I will.”
Stella nodded as if she were satisfied. “It’s not just about that,” she said after a long pause. “Sometimes it’s not about who shoots first, kill or be killed. I know that when you kill a man, it’s a strike against your moral righteousness. It’s not about knowing when to strike the blow without doing wrong—you’re always doing wrong. It’s about being okay with the wrong, knowing that sometimes being the pirate is being the better man.”
Scully held her gaze. “I know.”
“You’re not going to be moral if you live through this venture. You have to square with a fucked up moral compass. When you pull that trigger, you may not be right, but sometimes being right and being just don't line up. Scully, that is the last shooting lesson I can give you, and it’s one I learned late.”
“You learned it when Spector escaped?”
Stella pressed her lips together. “Yes.”
“Do you regret that night?” Scully asked.
Stella sighed, twirling a strand of blonde hair on her finger and tossing it over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed; her shoulders tensed. “I regret not shooting him—I thought I was bound by the honor of a proper duel. Ten years to mull it over, and I’ve realized the woman he murdered deserved greater justice than I did honor. My name and honor are worth little but legend.”
“He ripped Padgett's knife from your neck.” The bare cord hung between Stella’s bare breasts, frayed and withered with time. It dangled ominously between she and Scully each time they had sex. It scratched Scully's face when Stella lay atop her in the captain's cabin.
“No he didn’t," admitted Stella.
“That’s what you told Burns,” Scully said wrinkling her brow.
Stella shrugged tensely. “It sounds more foreboding than what actually happened—I left it in Dani’s cabin, so that no one who saw it would know it belonged to Davy Jones. But I didn’t know Spector was already searching for it, had already seen it on Padgett himself many years ago. He stole it from the Ophelia, and Dani only realized after he’d vanished into the horizon. My only assurance was that he would never find the heart it carved.”
“Why lie?”
“Because the age-old tale of vengeance—the knife tearing from ‘round my neck, the burns of strangling cord—are truer to me than a thief nicking a dagger from an empty cabin as if he hadn’t just raped a young woman next door.”
She wondered how much of the myth of Stella Gibson was truer than her reality. How much of Davy Jones felt more real than Stella herself? She questioned aloud, “Is that why you wear the cord?”
“It reminds me of the threat Spector still poses. It reminds me that I must deal him justice, because no one else will.”
Scully remembered her father’s final words of advice before he departed on his final Navy voyage. He had passed her a lucky compass, broken some years after his death, pushed her tiny finger over the needle and pointed to the North shore.
Never check your compass on the Captain’s Dana. Always align it to the stars on your own.
Lieutenant Scully hadn’t joined the Navy because his fellows did. He had witnessed the duties no one wanted were often the most important. He swabbed sand and salt from the deck each morning and polished swords after a battle. Perhaps he was meticulous, a perfectionist who’d learned trust only his own hands. Scully only imagined him as righteous and true-hearted, witty at the most crucial of times.
She ruffled her newly-shorn hair and brushed the strands of red hair off her trousers. Would he be proud of the woman she had become? Had he been alive, would have stopped her going after Mulder? Would he have brought her aboard a Navy vessel and told horror stories of the Flying Dutchman?
Scully leaned against the ship’s twelve-spoked wheel, shifting with the creak of its aged wood. “Stella,” she started cautiously.
“Yes?” Stella sheathed her dagger.
“What did your father say when you took his place? How did he not…” she trailed off.
Stella sighed. “I didn’t give him a chance to say anything. When I arrived in London, he didn’t recognize me at first; he couldn’t reconcile the pirate with the elegant young woman he remembered. He never came to terms with the lawless aged captain—perhaps it was the piracy, or perhaps he simply never accepted my aging.
“We were too different to talk about our lives—imagine the dinner conversation between a pirate captain and Navy commander—but we did have an understanding. At any rate, when my mother told me to remove the bandanna from my head for dinner, he told me not to listen. He understood the sailor's ways, if nothing else.”
Stella laughed and shook her head. “He was a grave man, my father. He had these dark, hollow eyes like the tunnels beneath windswept saplings and skin like crumpled parchment. He always looked haunted to me, though I never saw him before his encounter with Padgett. That day, though, he seemed a skeleton; he had thinned and lengthened and when I put the chest on the table his fingers wrapped around it, long and slim as sewing needles.
“‘So the Dutchman has come for me,’ he said, and—” she chuckled humorlessly— “my poor mother fainted in her chair. He knew what it entailed; he knew the bargain he had made. He placed the chest on his nightstand and went about saying his goodbyes to friends and neighbors. All evening, folk I hadn’t seen in years dropped by the house to see him. He had sung at their grandparents’ funerals, taught them to sail, told them every story he knew from his Navy days to their adventure-hungry children, seen them born and raised and married.
“One by one they stepped over the threshold of my family home and shook my father’s hand, said hello to my mother. Then they would hurry off at the sight of me. I frightened them, with my sword and kerchief, an escaped convict and a pirate inside and out. And I wanted nothing to do with them after the distain they’d showed me as a young girl.
“That night I wanted nothing more than to sleep in my rocking ship, free of the men and women who knew my name before it had ‘Captain’ in front. I could hear my father toss miserably in his sleep. I made up my mind then, and took the chest from his bedside table and left a note— our debts are paid . If he was awake, he didn’t look at me.”
Scully sat with her legs curled to her chest, against the wheel. She marveled at Stella’s matter-of-fact tone.
“What made up your mind, if you don’t mind my asking?” She still hesitated to pose such personal questions, despite their pledge of honesty, and despite knowing Stella in what she considered the most personal fashion. Stella kept her emotions far more private than her body. Scully was quite the opposite, excepting the small treasure of secrets she would hardly breathe to herself.
“The sea was my home, but my father… he always said his voyages were no more than interludes. He loved his neighbors, the moors, and his quiet cottage on a hill. He loved his wife and children, and every stranger he met in the streets on warm, clear nights.”
She paused, looking over the Dutchman’s rail to a full moon trembling on the ocean surface. “My father loved everyone he met,” she said, “and I loved my father.”
Scully reached for the sharp edge of Stella’s cheek, then thought better of it. “Is he still alive?”
Stella shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I never saw him again.”
Perhaps that was Stella—a grand figure vanishing on the horizon, never to be seen again. Scully crossed her arms and shivered in the night breeze. The waves trembled weakly like a puddle on the street, starlit and welcoming. Not at all the roaring storm they had tempted when they danced to the organ of Davy Jones.
“Look at that horizon,” Stella murmured, resting her elbows on the ship’s rail. She cocked her head, meeting Scully’s eyes matter-of-factly.
“It’s easy to love the horizon,” said Scully. “You know it’ll never leave you.”
“Ah,” said Stella with a crooked half-smile, “but neither will you catch it.”
Scully wrapped her hand around Stella’s shirt-wrapped waist. “That’s what makes it easy. You don’t have to live with the hope of catching up to it. Because once you’ve got the sunset in your hands, dim and warm and copper-red, you have to open your fingers before it burns you and hope it doesn’t disappear forever. You have to be afraid.”
Stella’s blue eyes were foggy in the dark as she took Scully’s hand and raised it to her lips. “Good night.”
* * *
Scully woke to the slosh of uneven waves and the high-pitched scream of gulls overhead. It took her a moment—head cocked, eyes bleary with sleep and confusion, before she remembered what birds sounded like.
Tortuga, she sounded the word on her lips. The land of scavengers, men and shorebirds alike. Land —that was the word she was looking for. In an instant, she shook herself awake.
“Shore on starboard!” Stella shouted from the quarterdeck, muffled through the ceiling. “Raise a full canvas until I can see the Claudius with my naked eye.”
The ship creaked and swayed beneath her, and when she tried to stand her knees wobbled dangerously. She picked her scabbard off the floor and belted it around the waist. She tied a grey scarf round her neck to keep the sun off and fetched her hat from the foot of the bed, just as Stella’s boots clumped roughly down the stairs. Stella burst into the captain’s cabin, her sword flashing in a stray sunbeam.
“We made it,” said Stella, and Scully couldn’t help but notice the tremor in her voice.
“Any sign of the Claudius?”
Stella shook her head. “The islands have only just come into view.”
“How will they know which island?” At first Scully had pictured Stella’s heart buried on a barren strip of sand surrounded by a grove of dying palms. Then, she had imagined a lush paradise, fed by a river and a cliff of glittering waterfalls. She had conjured yet unknown species of flora and fauna, fish the color of fresh fruit and whistling birds on every branch. What she truly expected of the eternal resting place of Stella’s beating heart, Scully could not say. But if there were several islands, could Stella even remember herself which she had set foot on?
“Simple,” Stella answered as Scully followed her on deck. “Davy Jones buries her heart in the Hall of the Moerae, just as Padgett buried it there before. The trees grow from rivers of sand and spring-water, and their roots spin together like cages of thread. No ship can navigate the maze; the island must be navigated on foot, and it is a barren landscape with little but cacti, dry grasses and white rock. There is nowhere for a thief to hide.”
“So your heart guards itself?”
Stella sighed. “One could say that. If only Spector didn’t have the damned knife and a prisoner who knows too many old wives’ tales.”
Hesitantly, Scully touched the pirate’s weathered cheek, but her hand drifted downward, past the distinct bullet hole on her collarbone, to the pale scar on her chest. “I’ll go ashore.”
Stella narrowed her eyes. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“Mulder’s the only person alive who can lead him to the island. He’s a scholar; he has dedicated his life to studying the legends that inhabit these waters. He’ll be needed on shore if Spector ever wants to find your heart.”
“Fair enough.” Stella nodded thoughtfully and lifted her spyglass to her eye. “We’re approaching the largest island. The main inlet leads to the Hall of the Moerae.”
Scully took the spyglass and peered into it. The shore was a thin strip of black sand; behind it volcanic rock and a veritable wall of undergrowth. She searched the glass until she spotted Stella’s channel: the mouth of a river, choked with towering trees, roots that stretched like spider legs over the water. She shifted the spyglass further. Waves crashed against spires of rock; the water roiled and burst against itself.
“If he touches Mulder,” she growled, “or if he dares to touch your heart, we will be his worst fucking nightmare.”
Stella arched an eyebrow. “It’s not about my heart, Miss Scully.”
“What do you mean?” Scully lowered the spyglass, fixing Stella with a skeptical stare.
“I’ve been searching for Spector ever since he escaped the Ophelia ten years ago, but I would be hunting him even if he’d never touched that dagger. It’s about the ship he defiled and the crimes he committed against a young woman aboard. I was Captain of the Ophelia, and it is my duty to avenge the young woman raped and murdered on that ship. Now, I am Captain of the Flying Dutchman, and it is my duty to send Paul Spector to Davy Jones’ Locker.”
It was the first time Scully had heard such venom in her voice. It was cold and dry; it haunted like a blustering wind against through cracked rock. “Would you still chase him, if not for the Dutchman?” She knows the answer, but she does not trust her understanding of Stella Gibson.
“It is my duty as a captain, a pirate, and a woman. Pirates are lawless because the laws have failed us. Make no mistake—a pirate’s life is not the moral high ground. We pillage, raid, duel, plunder unattainable treasures and bring upon ourselves terrible curses. But there is a catch to our lawlessness, written in the Pirate’s Code—the lawless must seek justice for each other.”
Scully thought of Mulder, rotting in the Claudius’s dungeon—or worse, marching hand-cuffed beneath the blazing sun with a pistol pressed to his neck. as he searched for Davy Jones’ heart to save his own life. The only people who know how to find pirates are better pirates, Skinner had told her. She hoped that when she boarded the Claudius she would be a better pirate than Spector.
In the noonday light, the archipelago seemed to move toward them, splitting the waves it rode. In actuality the Dutchman drifted closer to its beating heart, thumping reliably to a breezy ocean. Scully had grown accustomed to its unique rock, and she was not looking forward to boarding another ship. Her father had always told her no two ships were alike, and she couldn’t imagine losing her sea legs now.
“The Claudius is likely anchored behind those cliffs.” Stella pointed to an inlet hidden behind jagged cliff bands and talons of rock that jutted upwards from the sea.
“Can we take her by surprise?”
“The Dutchman cannot sink in such shallow waters, and regardless, you can’t sail with your head beneath the waves.”
Scully huffed, screwing her eyes shut. “My sense of self-preservation wants to blow Spector out of the water, but what if Mulder is aboard? How do we know whether Spector has taken him ashore?”
Stella raised the spyglass once more. “We don’t.”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence.” Scully rolled her eyes. She was distinctly aware of her nervous ticks—swiping her tongue over her already dry lips, a foot tapping the deck, arms crossed tightly over her chest—all of which intensified as they approached the islands. Her fingers drifted to the hilt of her pistol, nestled in a hip holster. Could she trust herself to take the shot? Could she trust herself not to?
They skirted the pale cliff-bands, and Scully had to crane her neck to see the top. A horde of sea-birds circled overhead, emerging from the higher crevices. Waves crashed and gurgled at the base of the rock, leaving a blue-green tint in its furrows and cracks. The rock face looked like cold butter, as if she could squeeze it and leave an indent for centuries to come.
As the Dutchman rounded a corner and floated into the big island's Eastern bay, Scully spied another ship anchored near the river mouth. Its blood red sails were tied up, and its flag lowered. It was a stout ship, thick and short and less than streamlined. Its boards were mismatched, replaced at different times as if to patch up the holes made by cannons. A well-armed ship, its port flank had two rows of eight cannons.
Scully pursed her lips. “Is that the Claudius?”
“It is.” Stella lowered her spyglass. “The crew does not seem to be aboard.”
“What about a prisoner?” Scully demanded, reaching for the spyglass.
Stella snorted. “If I could see through the walls of the brig, I would tell you.”
Scully finally wrestled the spyglass from Stella’s fingers and raised it to her eye. “I don’t see any rowboats.” Squinting, she turned to the shoreline. “Those, however, look very much like rowboats.”
“Where are they?”
“Lined up next to the inlet.”
“Hall of the Moerae,” Stella murmured grimly. “They will force their way through the swamp.” Her voice hardened again. “Look for a moving figure.”
Scully scanned the shoreline; she focused for a few seconds on the inlet—its waters looked a frightening deep green, and its entrance was obscured by a tangle of roots that seemed to ward off trsspassers. She looked to the tree line on either side of the estuary—thick, white-trunked palms with bundles of coconuts so big she could spot them from where she stood. A flash of movement crossed her vision, and she froze. Several figures marched along the tree line, clumped in groups of two and three. While their faces were a blur, and their clothing nondescript, she could only just make out a man at the back, who plodded and stumbled forward as if dragged.
As if he were wearing handcuffs, Scully realized, and the blood drained from her cheeks. “I see them!” she shouted, and Stella winced beside her, cupping her ear. “Beside the river. I see Mulder.”
It was the first glimpse she’d had of Mulder—hopefully the man was Mulder—in months. She had a hard time counting the weeks since she had left Port Washington, and every day she woke wondering if the man she’d left her life to rescue was even alive. She stiffened momentarily, remembering that she would have to go ashore. Recently every horizon, every gunshot, every encounter with a kraken or a schmoozing privateer, had been hers and Stella’s to face. As soon as she set foot on dry land, the battles became hers alone. If she was captured, Stella could do nothing while her feet touched the shore. If she died, Stella would never know.
“We’re close enough to row in. Are you ready?” Stella placed a chilly hand on her shoulder, but her voice had a far-away ring. She felt a gentle shake.
“Yes?” She put down the scope and met Stella’s eyes.
“Are you prepared to go to shore?”
Scully felt her pistol; she hefted it in her hand to be sure it was full before tucking it away. She touched her sword in its scabbard and jostled the buckle of her belt and holster to reassure herself it was secure. “Yes.”
Stella furrowed her brow. Scully pushed back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and nodded decisively. Stella let her go.
“Ready a rowboat!” Stella marched down the staircase onto the main deck as the canvas flew off a rowboat and landed in a heap at her feet. The boat flipped over and dropped into the water. A knotted rope tossed itself over the rail behind it. “Raise the sails, drop anchor as soon as possible. I don’t want to be too close to the Claudius.”
Scully’s boots clicked as she followed Stella down the stairs. She sat on the railing, clinging to the offered rope, and swung her legs over. As she lowered her weight onto the rope, she threw a final glance over her shoulder. Above her, a soft, winged silhouette perched on the mast, that Scully realized was the owl she had met in Los Barriles. It had been scarce recently, but now it sat motionless next to the Jolly Rodger, solemnly watching its captain. Stella leaned against the mast, her eyes narrowed at some speck on the horizon. Her purple kerchief and sun-bleached hair fluttered in the breeze. It had
“Thank you,” Scully said.
Slowly, Stella turned her head. “All the best to you, Miss Scully. If everything goes to Hell, I’ll blow Spector’s ship to smithereens.”
Scully smiled. She let go of the rope and dropped into the rowboat with a clunk. The bucket scooped a pale full of water. Creaking in their grips, the oars pulled her forward. The Dutchman shrank; where one moment Stella stood with her back to the land, the next she disappeared, as if she’d never been more than a ghost to begin with.
SO pleased to present this Summer themed collab between Devotion and ShojoNoAjStudio.This came out splendidly and Devotion has reached 900Subs xx -----------...
Our End of summer Mep :”D and Collab with SAS. So happy with This <3
