#[ because this man has to have to last word ]

[parfaitblogs]

cedar ❀ s. reid x reader

in which compatible bodies does not always mean compatible minds, but spencer reid is all too kind when you're like this, so perhaps you're allowed to forget that for a night. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: fingering yay. soft dom! spencer. situationship. sooo much kissing oh my god. lowkey asshole spencer but only if you go stanislavski on reader. no foreplay and i won't hold your hand during this. lowkey brat tamer spencer… word count: 1.8k a/n: a toxic situationship with a man who only wants you for sex is good for the soul btw <33333

"even if i see you again, i will never see you again." (margaret atwood)

Your skin always tingles beneath his fingertips. His hands delicately map you out beneath him like you are a blank piece of parchment. Every single time. No matter how attentive to your every detail he is; how much of you he has committed to his unbeatable memory. He still starts all over again the second you're naked and in his bed. 

Every fucking time. 

There's a nerve on the side of your left knee that makes you shiver when he kisses it, and so he does, over and over again. Hands that slide up the backs of your legs to entwine with your own fingers. Thumbs rubbing circles onto the skin as he kisses his way up your body. 

He murmurs the sweetest things as he reaches for your underwear. As he always does. Quiet whisperings of, "You're so pretty," and, "I know, sweet girl. There's no one else. Just you." Sentences you've always wanted to hear him say to you, and he says it with so much conviction you forget he is not actually yours. With so much verity, you believe him. 

He is just so kind to you when he's sliding lacy fabric down your legs, shushing your mewls with his lips on your own, and comforting your need with fingers threaded through yours. 

"What do you want tonight?" he asks you quietly, as he asks you every week. 

You never have the courage to utter his name aloud in response. 

"Fingers," you mumble, absentmindedly, as the mentioned limbs erupt goosebumps on your thighs as he skims them up. 

He takes your lack of full attention as pleasure, and he smiles. You let him think so, because he's kissing you again, and you fear if you protest, this will all go away. Testament to your self confidence — or lack thereof — how little of him you're willing to take, because at least it is something. 

He complies with your request, fingers lifting to the apex of your thighs, slipping beneath your folds and swallowing the whine that escapes your lips at the feeling with another kiss. Or maybe the same one bleeding into the last. You're barely there you don't know anymore. 

"My beautiful girl," he mumbles, index finger circling around your clit. Teasing you until you nip his bottom lip in irritation, and his breath fanning your skin as he laughs. 

You try not to focus on him putting my at the beginning of his sentence. You basically fail.

Your face contorts when he dips a finger into you, the intrusion as strange as it is familiar, and you hear him hiss from your unconscious biting of his lip. 

"Sorry," you murmur ever so quietly, incredibly half heartedly. He knows you aren't sincere. 

"It's okay," he whispers in response, watching you as he lets his finger push in as far as you'll let him. You imagine he's committing every single twitch of your facial muscles to memory; every breath hitch when he moves his hand. 

He won't be. He'll focus on you all up until you leave, and he won't think about the way you look taking his fingers beneath him the way you think about his fingers inside of you. You'll receive a violent reminder how painful one sided attraction can get when he calls and asks when you can come over next week, and you'll tell him Friday night anyways. 

But for now, he is touching you, and he is telling you all the kind things in the world, so you will choose to ignore the pit in your stomach that's hours away from coming back. 

"Spence," you whine, breathlessly, as he pushes a second finger in, curling them. 

"Hm?" he responds to your call of his name with the most annoying smug expression, probably thinking about how easy you are to tear apart. Probably not aware of just how many ways he is. 

"Too fast."

"Ah," he pulls his fingers out, instead focussing his attention on your clit to soothe you. "Sorry. Got distracted."

"Distracted?" you question him, searching his face for the truth behind his words. 

"By you," his voice is a gentle hum as he kisses the corner of your mouth, and your heart flutters.

"I have that effect."

He laughs, head dropping to the bridge between your shoulder and neck, lips pressing a gentle kiss there. 

"You do," he agrees. "Can't get through a day without thinking about you."

Jesus, give you a gun.

"Yeah?" you opt for asking instead, hoping the one word answer will hide the screaming of your brain. 

"Mhm," he nods. You think you're successful. "How are we doing?"

"Good. Better. You can... um... continue."

He returns a finger into you, and you moan again, and he swallows it with a kiss. Again. As if choreographed, he touches you with so much knowing. Too much awareness of how your body ticks to be a man you see weekly for nothing more. 

He bruises your mouth with his fervent kisses in the way you wish he would bruise your neck. But there is that voice that screams at you to say he is not yours, no matter how many universes you beg, and so your skin will remain unmarked, and you will remain forced to settle. 

After one too many minutes of just a singular finger inside of you, your hips lift to meet his hand in a silent beg for more. 

"I know you have a mouth you can use," he tells you, and an exasperated huff leaves your lips. 

You hate him.

"Want more," you say, hands dropping down to his wrist, pads of your fingertips running along the skin in a plea of their own. 

"You want more?" he asks, gently prying your hands off of him with his free hand. "More of what, sweet girl?"

"Spencer," you grit. 

"I want to help you, I do," he coos, too many words cutting into the time you want him to spend pleasuring you, "but I can't if you don't tell me what you want."

"You're mean," you say, petulantly, hips wriggling for friction against his now completely still hand, until he has enough mind to stop you. "Please."

"I'm hearing a lot of misplaced frustration with me, and not a lot of communicating what it is you want."

You give in, annoyed. "Another finger. God."

He nips your bottom lip. "Try again."

You catch his gaze when you choose to shoot him a glare, and he is — annoyingly — all too amused with the position he's gotten you into.

You really hate him. 

"Can you please put another finger in me?"

"Yes, I can," he complies almost instantly, and you relax as he slips a second finger in again. "Thank you for communicating."

You're too focussed on the way he's working you open with his fingers to bite back, and maybe he knows that. 

His thumb reaches up to attack your clit the second you start moaning again, thus stripping you of any normal vocal ability. Your voice turns breathless and your moans become whines, and you're all too overwhelmed with how good he feels to think about being quiet. 

If your noise is a problem, he doesn't say anything. In fact, he's leaving kisses all over your skin as he pushes his fingers in and out of you even faster, as if it is not gently pulling you apart limb by limb. 

"Spencer," your voice cracks as he twists his hand, and the heel of his palm meets your clit, over and over again. "Oh."

You writhe, and this time he makes no effort to keep you still. He doesn't really need to. He has almost full autonomy over how far away from him you can get, with legs on either side of your body. You couldn't escape him even if you tried to. 

His eyebrows pinch together when you clench around his hand, and he's back to kissing you, swallowing your louder than normal moan. 

"Gonna cum," you whimper, brokenly, into his mouth. 

He responds by picking up the pace of his fingers. Again.

He stops kissing you when your hips lift off the mattress to meet his, watching as your face twists and your lips part in a soundless moan, your orgasm wracking through you and making you look so beautiful.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you even when you slump back on the mattress. Waiting for your conscious to return, and you to beg him to stop. 

Which takes longer than normal, for he is watching you roll your hips against his hand, seeking more from him. He happily complies, really, and you can distantly hear him laugh as you crack beneath him, every vein in your body pouring out onto the soft sheets. 

You run warm, and you twist, and finally jerk your body away from him, mumbling an incoherent string of, "No. Mm-mm. Spence... ah, stop it."

"One more?" he asks, but you're shaking your head and still trying to get away from him, whining. "Okay, okay. I'm stopping. Shh, it's okay."

Your eyes flutter open once it's been a few moments of regaining control of your mind, and you catch your favourite part of any of this; the way he looks at you. You are the most perfect thing in the world to him when you've just came, and it's so easy to forget how complicated this all is when he's staring at you like you are a piece of artwork. 

Once you're fully back, he gives you another kiss, and you melt once more, chasing his lips when he pulls away. 

"Spencer," you grumble, and you can hear him huff a short laugh from his bathroom he's disappeared into. 

"I'm not disappearing forever. Relax," he says, cloth between his hands. 

The bed dips beneath his weight again as he hovers back over you, the damp fabric sliding up your legs as he wipes down every surface of your skin.

Sometimes this is your least favourite part. Forced to watch him erase any proof that he ever put his hands on you; that he ever loved you. Even physically. 

And it means it's over. And once he finishes cleaning you up, you will have to put your clothes back onto your body, and walk out of his apartment like it means nothing to you the same it does for him. 

"I'll call you when I'm free next week," he says. 

"Okay," you say, quietly, biting the bullet and sitting up once he stands again. "I'll see you then, I guess."

"Get home safe. Text when you do?"

You feel ridiculous when your heart stutters in your chest. He does not care the way you want him to, and his words are always common courtesy. Never interest. 

You force a smile. "I will."

your reblogs and replies are always welcome ♡

[kanmom51]

Chapter 3 in the making

Traveling together to "film a show" was big (yes, this was to film a show, but we all know it was mainly to spend much needed time together, and if we didn't, let's be honest that we did, but if we didn't, then JK literally confirmed this for us in episode 1 of AYS). But back in 2023 when a public Jikook was a scarcity, left us with more question marks than anything else as to how this will actually be coming to fruition.

Enlisting together was HUGE. Like H U G E. Them being the only ones to do so not only within BTS but the first and only idols to do so. A choice made by the two of them. To do this together. With each other. Not with anyone else.

Are You Sure?! Do we need any words here? Like really? Because AYS was as loud as F$@&. No, seriously, idk what you want to call it, a soft launch, a smack in the noggin, whatever you do, it was quite clear to those who have eyes and a brain. With or without knowing who JM and JK are, their history, their culture. Louder to those who do know them.

Since their enlistment and even through Muse and AYS we got practically nothing from the two. Oh, we did have a couple of interesting pics from their basic training and graduation, a few pics from the unit, a shit ton of signatures, some more interesting than others (joint messages, pretty decorations...) and a few nice messages, but mostly silence from the two. This stood out even more so in comparison to the almost barrage we've been getting from NJ and Tae, both enlisted only a day before Jikook.

And then came December. With less than 6 months to go.

JK going live from his new place. Dare I say their new place? It's not like we haven't talked about this over the past 18 months. Speculating, wondering. But man (figure of speech y'all), these last couple of months, they are sure making me feel like what we saw as leaning to the delusional side or more so wishful thinking, ain't no delusion or wish, but more so a very possible reality to come.

But let's get back on track.

So, December gave us:

"We spend our free time together", "we sing together", "we sing while we shower daily together", not to mention JK's btw remark about seeking privacy away from others "to sing".

Then came JM in January with their "conversations before going bed" about "what kind of image we want to show" and "what kind of lives we will live moving forward".

And February rolls in and we think that we will be back to their silent treatment, but JK comes to us with a heartfelt message (they really feel the end and want out). But nothing prepared us for Hobi's birthday live and once again those two with their "we share a room" and "we have stories to tell, but not sure how much we actually can..." that won't scare us off, lol.

Funny how every single hysterical claim made by those who were hit so very hard by their joint enlistment has been shut down by the two of them by now!!

Anyway, do we see a pattern here? Can we call this a pattern? Is there more to come? Well, obviously there is post military service, but seeing as to how they have been in the past couple of months, I'm thinking that we will be getting more even before that.

I'm guessing that conclusion isn't a far fetched one, seeing what we got last night.

And OMG, that was another HUGE loud af Jikook statement.

Ribbon on right: "I love you 🖤"

Ribbon on left: "BTS Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook".

Yes, a statement.

I stand by that.

Because even if you don't think it's anymore than a cute thing, just another thing that Jikook do together, then you are not seeing the cultural context here.

So, several content producers/directors that were Hybe employees (directors of I am still, AYS and JM's production diary amongst others) have left the company to open their own company (Idk too much about the company they opened, but my guess is that they will continue working with Hybe as contractors rather than employees, but also allowing them to work with other companies and create their own content, including producing a new boy band). And they posted the congratulation they have received.

From Hobi.

Hoshi and Woonhoo of Seventeen.

Each sending a separate wreath.

Zico

And there are wreaths they received from more than one sender. Joint wreaths. But this was from companies (joint ceos), or business partners. Not two separate idols or people.

Now, if you don't see what's huge here, let me show you the K side of this to maybe get some perspective (although, let's be honest, you don't need to be on the K side to see this is a couple thing).

Yes, I wonder the same thing!!!

There is more.

So much more.

The K side of things is literally going mad. Good mad.

And there is a reason they are.

This is most definitley not something friends, as close as they might be, would do. Not friends, not multimillionaire friends. They most definitley can afford two wreaths. And that's one of the points here.

Once again.

This was a choice.

Not to send separate congratulative wreaths. They sure can afford to do so. Even if they aren't on vacation at the moment and are in the base. Seriously, two young men closing in on their 30s, independently financially sufficient and so much more.

Yeah, this most definitley was a statement.

And the frenzy K Jikookers are in at this very moment is well enough proof to that.

Btw, haven't been to the dark side, don't know just how crazy and rabid the cult and antiis are going, but my guess would be...

Anyways, sitting here smile plastered on my face, I'm kind of starting to think, that this is maybe, just maybe, going to become our new normal. Jikook doing couplie things, openly, proudly, unapologetically.

And if this is them even before they are discharged...

What a great time this is going to be.

[2cupids]

warnings? stripper!reader, implied black!reader but everyone’s can read, riding, semi public sex, BIG DICK NANAMI, he gets one look at reader and is lowkey infatuated w her. mdni (17+)

length. 3.5k+ ….

salaryman!nanami considers himself a fairly straight edged person.. aside from the occasional drink.

he’s a man who goes by the books, always following things to a T and seeing them all the way through.

never has he been swayed by peer pressure or to follow a crowd, he’s always been independent-minded. so when a certain coworker of his, told him he needs to find a way to unwind and suggested he go to a strip club to relieve some of his stress, he found the idea revolting.

it was no secret that his coworker, satoru gojo, indulged in many of the taboo things in life and that was far from any lifestyle nanami would ever lead. normally, he would’ve never entertained such an idea, simply pushing it out of his head and going on with his uneventful day. though for whatever reason, gojo’s words replay in his mind like a broken record as the week drags on, and once friday night arrives, nanami finds himself parked outside a strip club towards the edge of town. one hand stays gripped around the steering wheel as his mind flashes what the possible implications of him coming here might give off to the other patrons, staff, and especially the girls.

he swallows thickly, unsure why he’s putting so much thought into this. it’s not like he has to stay if he doesn’t like it, right? but there’s a little part of him that wants to venture out of his comfort zone and see what draws in so many men to watch these girls dance. plus, he withdrew a generous amount of money out of his fat checking account just incase he does have a good time. with a shaky breath, he turns the ignition off and grabs his wallet, stepping out of the car and straightening his tie.

once inside the club, he takes a seat towards the back of the joint, far from the stage in hopes that’ll help calm his racing heart. the dark atmosphere of the club is illuminated with colorful lights that shine towards the stage onto the dancers and dimmed recessed lighting that’s scattered around the building. the sleek inside is a pleasant surprise to the seedy look that the outside holds. as the waitress circulates around the club to take orders, he orders a drink and tells himself to relax. by the time the waitress comes back with his drink, he tips her and takes a sip of his whiskey and settles back into his seat. as his mind quiets down and his heart rate slows, he catches the last few seconds of the current dancer’s set before she collects her money and walks off the stage. now it’s time for the next girl to step on stage and do her thing.

you.

the first thing nanami’s eyes land on the way the neon lights hit your pretty, brown skin as you strut onto stage. the skimpy lingerie outfit consisting of a bikini top and thong, is paired with an equally matching itty bitty skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. nanami’s eyes are locked on you. he lets his gaze drift over your body briefly, but it doesn’t linger. the thought doesn’t even cross his mind of doing so, finding any ogling of the sort incredibly disrespectful.

music of your chance that you asked the dj to play, booms throughout the club as you work the pole skillfully. the way you move so elegantly, yet confident at the same time, fascinates him and it’s got him feeling like he could watch you dance forever.. literally. everytime you make eye contact with the patrons and your eyes wander towards the back of the club and meet his, his heart stutters in his chest. and maybe it’s just him, but he swears your eyes stay on him a few seconds longer than any of the other guys.

within minutes, he finds himself gravitating closer towards the stage and before he knows it, your set winding down after a four songs. he hurriedly pulls his wallet out and throws multiple ten and twenty dollar bills on stage, mentally sighing because he would like to see you again but he realizes he probably can’t. and that’s when gojo’s words pop into his head again. he could pay for a vip room.

nanami wonders if you’ll come out to the floor, so he can talk to you but as the minutes pass and you’re nowhere to be seen, nanami starts to lose hope. then he sees you walking towards the bar and he pushes his nerves aside and approaches you. “um.. excuse me, miss. do you offer vip rooms?” he asks, his voice carrying the slightest bit of hesitancy for such a usually self-assured man. it also doesn’t help that you’re even more stunning up close in person.

as you turn and face the potential customer, your expression changes into a more friendly, playful one at the idea of selling a room. “i do. how long are you interested in staying, babe?”

nanami’s heart flutters and he thinks for a moment. “oh, i guess thirty minutes sounds good.”

you hum and walk over to a table, ushering him to follow you. “thirty minutes is six hundred and champagne isn’t included in that. let me tell you everything a vip room with me includes. okay?” it would be rude to cut you off as you go over the perks of paying for a room with you, but he could really care less. the perks, the price, none of that matter to him. he just wants to see you again, just to simply be able to be in your presence is enough for him.

a bouncer leads him towards the vip rooms section and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, nearly drowning out the music in the club. he steps inside the room and takes a seat, watching you step up on the stage. the sensual music you chose starts playing and you begin doing a mix of both floor work and pole work, unlike what you were doing minutes earlier out on the main stage. being close enough to observe you for a prolonged time now, not only are you beautiful, but he notices just how much the ginger color of your hair compliments your skin and the words slip out before he realizes. “that hair color is gorgeous on you.”

a knowing look appears in your eyes and you smirk, winking at him. “thank you, i know.”

it’s so embarrassing, but the action shoots straight down to his dick and his slacks tighten a just tiny bit. the way you maintain eye contact with him all throughout the first song is like you’re purposely teasing him, and he doesn’t know if he’ll last twenty-something minutes like this.

when the next song comes on, a more sultry one, that’s the signal it's time for a lap dance to match the vibe of the song. you stand up and look down at him from the stage, that lively expression from before is back on your face. “so what’s your name, handsome?” you descend down the steps and walk over to him, flipping your hair as you lean forward, holding onto his muscular thighs as you look him straight in the eye.

“n-nanami, miss.” he stutters, eyes glued to where your hands caress his strong thighs. he gulps as his eyes trail up the smooth skin of your arms and he succinctly eyes your tits in that silly little bikini top you’re wearing before his eyes land on your pretty face, hoping you didn’t notice.

you laugh and crack a smile, amused at his respectful tone. “miss? that’s a first. i’ve never heard anyone call me that here before.” nanami’s actually so surprised about that, but then again he remembers the culture here is indeed different.

wonderstruck is the only word to describe the way nanami feels as you dance for him. the confidence you exude pulling off such provocative moves is a turn-on he never knew he even had. your hands run along the sides of your body as you move and although he tries not to be impolite, he can’t help but let his eyes occasionally flicker over your body and linger on certain parts for longer than he’d like to admit.

it’s probably just him and his anxiousness, but he finds the silence awkward and uncomfortable despite the loud music playing. nanami clears his throat and speaks up. “may i ask your name as well?”

you take a seat on the edge of his lap and lean against him, reaching your arm back to hold his neck. “you can call me jasmine,” you whisper and somehow his body goes even more stiff underneath you. “and don’t forget you can touch me if you want, nanami.” you get up slowly from his lap, making sure to arch your back and you immediately move into the next move of shaking your ass as you’re bent over in front of him.

his eye twitches and a deep, throaty groan makes it way past his lips. fuck, why did you have to make things difficult for him?

lowering yourself to the ground, you kneel in front of him and your hands move up his thighs once again as they come in dangerously close proximity to his crotch as your fingertips graze his abdomen over his button up. with everything happening, on top of the eye contact, he could swear it’s like he’s having an out of body experience.

“what brought you here, nanami? i’m curious.” you question, a teasing undertone in your voice. “you don’t seem like the type to frequent strip clubs.”

nanami continues to sit there like a fool, simply staring at your beautiful face, trying to find the strength and willpower to form a coherent thought. he’s having so many firsts tonight and it’s overwhelming, but he can’t bring himself to leave or pull away. he won’t. “i, um.. a coworker suggested it. and i’ve been stressed from work, so i thought it might do me a little good to come here. take a load off.”

the wheels in your head start to turn and a thought suddenly comes to you as he reveals his motive. “you’ve been stressed, huh? what do ya do?”

“i work in stocks.. just making other people rich.” he sighs, a flash of emptiness crossing his eyes.

“oh really?” you stand up and throw one leg onto the couch, followed by the other one as you straddle him. you look in his eyes and wrap your arms around his neck. depending on his answer, this could be the last move for this lap dance before you move into some other routine else, or the dancing could end right here. “what would you say if i offered another way to help relieve your stress?”

nanami cocks an eyebrow, intrigued about what you could possibly be talking about. he thinks he has an faint inkling of what you could possibly be insinuating, but he doesn't want to jump to conclusions or get any wrong ideas. “what way are you talking about?”

actions speak louder than words. your hips move to grind slowly against his as you look at him without saying anything. nanami understands what you’re talking about and he responds in a low, quiet voice. “oh.”

“mhm. and that’ll add on another thirty minutes on to your time. and for this.. special service, it’ll bring the total cost to twenty five hundred dollars. what do you say?”

your thumb runs along his sharp jawline and your hand runs down his chest. he breath catches in his throat and he nods. “yeah.. yeah. i don’t care about the price, i’ll give you anything.”

you glanced at his fingers as you discussed what your vip room consists of out on the floor and you didn’t see a wedding band, and you still don’t see or feel one but it won’t hurt to ask. “you married or anything, nanami?”

“no, i’m single.” he’s still slightly dazed that he’s really going through with this.

“the ladies are missing out then,” a smirk graces your glossy lips as you move to unbuckle his pants and you take him in your hand, silently marveling at his size. “and i don't want you to get the wrong idea or anything.. i don’t do this. ever.”

he makes a small sound of acknowledgement, eyes going down to your long, acrylic nails adorning your fingers as your hand wraps around his dick, pumping him. he’s already half hard and you teasingly rub your finger across the tip, causing him to suck in a heavy breath. you’re about to ask him if he has protection when he places a hand on your back and moves to slide his wallet out of his pocket, opening it and taking out a condom.

oh yeah. he’s different just like you thought, you didn’t even need to ask him. you’re finding more reasons to like him.. platonically of course. at least for now.

you take the condom from his hand and notice the gold magnum wrapper has ‘xl’ on it and you find it amusing in a such attractive way. the condom is held in between your teeth as you keep stroking his length. your hand doesn't even fit half way around his girthy cock, he’s big. nanami sighs quietly, mumbling out a quiet curse underneath his breath.

you tear the shiny foil of the wrapper and roll the rubber down his cock, the material fitting him just like a glove. you place a hand on his shoulder and line him up with your entrance. the man’s large hands finally come up to touch you, carefully placing themselves on the sides of your hips and nanami’s deep brown eyes look up at you as his heart hammers in his chest. “jasmine,” nanami breathes deeply. “take your time, please. i– uh, i’ve been told before that it hurts..”

the concern he shows is incredibly sweet, especially for stranger and for the first time in a while, it makes you nervous, yet you don’t break character, no matter what.

you grin and give him a questionable look. “you think i can’t handle it? but thanks for the warning.” you slowly lower yourself down onto his thick penis and your eyes flutter shut, your eyebrows knitting together as you suck in a sharp breath from the stretch. nanami rubs at your hip gently, silently encouraging you and eventually you settle down into his lap after fitting all eight inches or however many inches inside you. your eyes gleam with a hint of mischievousness as you laugh, breaking the silence between the two of you, “fuck.”

nanami smiles for the first time tonight– actually for the first time in a while– his worn eyes crinkling slightly at the sides. “i know, but you’re doing great and damn.. i have to say that you feel wonderful around me.” he murmurs, his dark eyes still peering up at you as his voice drops towards the end of his statement.

you lift yourself off his cock and lower yourself back down, repeating the motion and letting your pussy get accommodated to being split open by something so big and thick. your other arm comes up to grip his shoulder and his hands tighten around your hips as you move against his lap, finding a good rhythm for yourself.

soft pants and whines slip out from your lips as you bounce in nanami’s lap, his dick fitting nice and snug between your walls with each drag of your hips. meanwhile, nanami is still stuck on how he’s got a literal goodness in his lap, riding him and making him feel good. he doesn’t feel worthy. truthfully, speaking his brain is on the verge of short circuiting right this very moment.

your movements come to a halt as you grind your clit against his pelvis and that propels his meaty length even deeper inside you and a breathy moan leaves your mouth. you whine your hips in a circle, keeping eye contact with him and nanami swears he could die peacefully at this very moment. then you resume your motions and he’s back on cloud nine.

quiet grunts and sounds of pleasure leave nanami, he’s never been a particularly loud lover. his hands roam up your curves and situate themselves on your waist, holding you tighter as he realizes he’s getting close. his head rests back against the couch as your warmth engulfs him and it gives him a mouth watering view of the point at which your bodies connect. he watches how your pussy streches to take in his girth. he believes you’re one of the most gorgeous women he’s ever laid eyes on, but the beauty of you on top him using his dick to please both of you is something else completely.

“uhhh… ‘m getting– fucking close,” the words come out strained as he grits his teeth, the feeling of you squeezing around him having an unimaginable affect on him right now. “you close, sweetheart?” he grunts, eyes flickering up to your as he notes the pleasure etched into your pretty features as your soft bottom lip is tucked between your teeth.

when he sees you shake your head, he immediately moves into action. he’s not going to finish before he helps you get there. “i hope you don’t mind me touching you.” nanami eyes your face for any signs of opposition as his hand comes in contact with your clit, but there’s none. instead, your body twitches from the very welcomed touch and your lip falls from its place between your teeth, letting a plethora of moans come spilling out.

nanami bucks his hips up to meet yours and it’s got you reeling. his cock bumps against your g-spot so deliciously as you both your hips meet each other in the middle. nanami rubs at your clit faster and you’re starting to get close, tears well up in your eyes from the feeling. “oou fuck baby! right there, don’t stop!”

your pretty sounds are like music to his ears as he watches your body tremble from pleasure above him from your orgasm. your walls flutter around him and he’s close to losing it, too. his arms wrap securely around your waist as he takes the lead, holding your tired body close against his and pressing his face into your soft boobs as he fucks you, his thrusts turn more erratic as he approaches his orgasm.

condensation forms against your tits as he heaves and pants into your chest as he gets closer. one final thrust of his hips up into you and his body stills against yours, his dick pulsating and throbbing as he cums. you can feel the hot spurts of semen line the condom and it feels so warm inside you that it almost has you salivating.

“that was amazing.. thank you.” nanami whispers, and you hum softly.

the both of you stay like that for a moment. nanami’s strong arms holding you against him with his face still buried between your tits and your face nestled against the crook of his neck. once you hear nanami’s breathing steady, you kiss the side of his throat, letting your lips ghost up his skin until you’re next to his ear. “you’ll come back and see me... won’t you, nanami?”

a shiver goes down his spine and he nods, unwrapping his arms from around your form to let you go. his dick slips out of you as you proceed to lift yourself off his lap and stand up, curiously looking at him and awaiting his answer as you stand up and fix your thong and micro skirt.

“of course i will. i..i’d like to see you more. maybe get to know you a bit if that’s alright with you.”

after finishing up the vip room with nanami and cleaning up, you leave three thousand dollars richer that night– and that’s not even including the money you made from earlier in your shift– and with a new regular who doesn’t mind spending big money on you for your time. he’ll actually turns out to be the best regulars you’ll ever have.

nanami leaves feeling much more composed and relaxed then he can remember being in ages, and no, it’s not just from the fact he got laid. he’s left with something new to preoccupy his mind other than work and his handful of hobbies, too– you. maybe he’s got his hopes up and he’s being too optimistic, but either way it’s very uncharacteristic of nanami because he can’t stop thinking about how he wouldn’t mind if something more came from this.

oh, and most importantly, he has to thank that annoying co-worker of his, gojo, for pushing him to live a little more once they get back on monday.

cleo’s note. hope y’all enjoyed one of the rare times i wrote about protected sex lol. anyways happy bhm. this is dedicated to all my fellow blk baddies. ilyyy 🫶🏾

tags <3 @cheezemanz @tojicvmslut

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

That bit where “you can’t possibly be (fill in the thing here) because you’re so smart!” thing has made me want to fist fight adults my whole life.

They usually meant it as a compliment but it always made me see red. I still see red when I hear someone say something similar about a kid now.

I’m dyslexic and was diagnosed as such in 2nd grade. I’m also convinced I’m autistic and ADHD but haven’t bothered to get a diagnosis as an adult.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TEACHERS WERE LIKE “I never would have guessed you were dyslexic!”? BITCH, YOU’VE HAD MY IEP SINCE BEFORE THE SCHOOL YEAR STARTED! DID YOU NOT READ IT?!

No. They didn’t. Not till I said something to force them to do their jobs.

The worst example was 7th grade French.

I’d been quiet about the fact that my French teacher was marking down my tests because my spelling wasn’t correct. My IEP specifically said “if it isn’t a spelling test, you can ask this kid to go back and fix it after the test, but spelling cannot count against their grade.” Anyway, I was used to it taking a few weeks before a teacher got around to reading my IEP because it was usually at the bottom of a large stack of them due to my last name being at the end of the alphabet. And one or two C’s at the beginning of the year wasn’t anything I couldn’t come back from.

Well… it never got corrected. He didn’t stop docking points for spelling.

After what I deemed was plenty of time to get his shit together, I confronted him about it.

Now, I’ll tell you, I was in an advanced French class that was designed to give gifted middle school kids a head start on their high school foreign language. We had to be recommended by name by the 5th/6th grade foreign language teacher to qualify for this class.

So I told him “you can’t lower my grade for spelling” and he said something along the lines of “that’s part of the point. It’s French.” And I was like “no, really. You can’t do this to me. I’m dyslexic.”

And guys. This grown ass man looked at a 13 year old kid and with his full chest said “I wasn’t supposed to have any of you in this class.”

Any of you.

It’s a good thing I was already mad or that would have made me cry.

I’d been othered plenty in my life up till then for being weird, clearly a baby queer, having a mom that called teachers out for not using standard English, being dyslexic, etc. This was just the first time that a teacher had been that blatant about it to my face. No attempt of being politically correct or gentle or anything. No, “I never would have guessed!” as a way to try and make it a compliment.

Just flat out “you are not supposed to be here. You are not good enough or smart enough to be here. You existing has made my life harder when you weren’t allowed to do so.”

I marched out of his class and went straight to the Special Ed teacher who’s “class” (it was really a study hall for kids who had a learning disability of some variety and needed the extra help or was at least entitled to it by the state) I had right after French. I would usually use that time to finish my homework so I wouldn’t have to do it at home. Sometimes my homework was already done so I’d help the other kids. The teacher would check in with me to make sure I didn’t need any help, but I never did.

Well, now I needed help.

She could tell I was mad because I’m not subtle and, ya know, the previous class hadn’t ended yet. She asked what was wrong and I didn’t mince words. She told me to stay put and then she marched out of the room.

I wish I’d followed her. I can only imagine the new asshole she ripped him.

Sure enough, statring the next day, every little bit of my IEP was being followed to the letter in French class. From my spelling not counting to the jerk using a microphone for my hearing and sticking me in the back of the class with the speaker instead of just turning one desk 90° and letting me sit there.

I fought for the desk instead of the microphone but he was following the IEP so I didn’t win that one. Besides, now that my needs were being met, I was getting some of the best grades in the class, and therefore belonged in the back “privileged smart kids” seats that he’d put me in.

(Yes, the man segregated his rows by your class grade. We all knew who was doing well and who wasn’t by where he sat you.)

On the bright side, I met a good friend by sitting in the back.

He wasn’t an employee at the school when I returned for 8th grade.

Anyway.

Gifted kids just get neglected because the school feels they can get away with it. They don’t react well when theres a gifted kid with an IEP and knows not to let them get away with it.

They treat those kids like shit. They tell those kids they are special and the future but also that they are a burden and shouldn’t be with the actually smart and special children.

These kids bounce back and forth between class rooms full of other neglected gifted kids and class rooms full of other neglected special needs kids. In the former they are treated like the dead weight and in the latter they are treated like the teacher’s assistant so the teacher doesn’t have to help the one kid who needs the most help in the class, because “they’ll get that kid through this group project. It’s fine.”

These children and bored to tears in one scenario and ripping their hair out from frustration in the other.

Not smart enough and too smart all at once. Out smarting the adults around you but somehow never doing well enough to get all A’s.

Constantly battling the teachers, good and bad over your needs.

Watching your friends fall through the cracks because they weren’t lucky enough to have a parent who worked in this system and taught them how to fight it. Watching some of them deem themselves stupid when they AREN’T but everything is telling them they are and they’ve stopped trying and other friends never learn the basic skills like note taking because they read in class and still get good grades.

Neither one of these friends knowing the point of school is to learn and not to pass tests because the school is telling them it’s all about grades and tests and so you watch all of your friends lack the actual knowledge they’re supposed to be gaining.

“You’re supposed to give me the multiple choice questions.” “You asked me to help you study. If you can’t answer the question without the multiple choice, you don’t know the answer.” Non of the other gifted kids at the table seeing my point and the other kids in our friend group saying “this is why I don’t bother.”

Our school system is so fucked.

That is all.

people misunderstand what ‘gifted kid’ actually means but it’s ok it’s fine it’s cool it’s good

[gyubakeries]

svt x what is 💌

stop wallowing in the past about shitty exes and wishing for that one whirlwind romance to sweep you off your feet. focus on the present. focus on what is.

follow the cupid of valentine's present to show you the beauty of living in the moment with person right in front of you. [happy endings only!! for this one at least]

check out what stories the cupid of valentine's past has to share over here <3

choi seungcheol 💌

it had all started when seungcheol offered to lift your heavy boxes and carry them all the way up to the seventh floor on moving day. “it’s no big deal,” he had smiled, but you were sure you saw him wincing in pain later that evening.

then he started inviting you over for dinner almost every night. “neighbour obligations,” he had said with a sheepish smile when you asked him about the five-course dinner he had prepared for you.

“you’re obliged to make me dinner three times a week? for six months?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

“if i was your boyfriend, i could make you dinner every day,” seungcheol replies. “forever, hopefully.”

now, three years later, when you’re struggling to carry a heavy box into your new living room, seungcheol quickly takes it away from you and carries it inside, setting it down with a loud thud.

“babe,” you protest. “one box wouldn’t have killed me.”

“i promised i’d be lifting your boxes forever, didn’t i?” he says with a cheeky grin, and you don’t think you mind spending forever with seungcheol.

yoon jeonghan 💌

“try again. it’s 君はとてもかわいいね,” jeonghan repeats. 

you’re so cute.

“okay, uh, 君はとてもかわいいね?” you repeat after him, trying your best to mimic the intonation of jeonghan’s voice. 

“much better,” jeonghan nods, shutting the kids’ japanese exercise book. “i think we can conclude our lessons here for today.”

“what does it even mean?” you ask him as he lays his head in your lap, your hand automatically coming up to play with his hair.

“it means, there’s a cockroach in your shoe,” jeonghan snickers, faking a pout when you playfully flick his forehead.

later that night, when he’s just about to fall asleep, you join him under the covers. your bodies meld together instantly, out of habit, much like the way jeonghan has perfected the way he speaks japanese over the years.

“i figured out what it really means,” you whisper, and jeonghan laughs softly.

“愛してる,” he whispers against your lips, words as soft as the kiss he leaves there.

i love you.

hong jisoo 💌

“honey, what about the red ones?” joshua’s voice sounds distorted and crackly, likely because of the bad service in the small shop he stumbled into in italy.

“shua, you already bought two fridge magnets, the wall decorations, and like a thousand keychains,” you sigh. “do we need tiny espresso cups? we don’t even like espresso.”

“but they’ll look so cute next to the miniature tuk-tuk showpiece i bought from thailand!” joshua whines. “please?”

you sigh. even shitty video calls can’t mask the pout on joshua’s face.

“at this point we’ll need an extra room just for the souvenirs you buy on tour,” you tease. “buy them, they’re cute.” 

a few weeks later, your mother says, “nice fridge magnet. where’d you get it from?”

“italy,” you reply, busy washing the dishes and putting them away.

“when did you go to italy?” your mother asks, sounding a little surprised.

“oh, i didn’t,” you smile. “joshua got it for me.”

wen junhui 💌

“meow.”

a human-sounding meow sounds from behind you, and you turn around quickly, only to see a tall figure crouched in the cramped alleyway you are crouched in as well, feeding mr. twinkles, your unofficial cat son.

“wait, jun? is that you?”

you recognize the man you’ve been going on dates with for the last two months, feeding mr. twinkles’ girlfriend cat food.

“oh! do you feed the cats here too?” junhui asks, and you shuffle to the side to reveal mr. twinkles.

“yeah! this is mr. twinkles,” you introduce the cat to junhui.

“you’ve been feeding susan’s boyfriend?” junhui’s eyes light up in recognition. “i guess even the cats want us to end up together, don’t you agree?”

you can only smile bashfully as mr. twinkles stalks over to susan to snuggle up to her. you look over to junhui, who sends you a flirtatious wink.

when junhui leads you out of the alleyway for a coffee, you can only thank the cat gods for approving of the man who has irreversibly captured your heart.

kwon soonyoung 💌

“are you tired? we can go to bed now,” soonyoung offers, and you nod. it’s the first time you’re sleeping over at his apartment since you started dating, and you can’t help but feel nervous and excited.

you follow him into his bedroom, and the sight of the bed makes you freeze in your tracks.

“where am i supposed to… sleep?”

you gesture at the soonyoung-shaped empty space on the bed surrounded by tiger plushies of all shapes and sizes, taking up the remaining space.

“oh,” soonyoung mumbles. he’s quick to push all the plushies off the bed, but he keeps a particularly large one at the foot of the bed.

later, when you’re wrapped up in soonyoung’s arms, he speaks in a soft voice, his earnest eyes sparkling. “i’ve never removed all my tigers from my bed for anyone else.”

“oh, you can put them back if-”

“it means that i think you’re the one,” he cuts you off. “do you think you could feel the same way?”

you giggle at his question, because you know that you already do.

jeon wonwoo 💌

a tap on your shoulder distracts you from the notes you had just started taking down. you turn to the side to see your classmate-slash-campus crush, jeon wonwoo, looking at you apologetically.

“i’m so sorry, but, can i borrow a pen from you?” he whispers.

had anyone else asked you that question, you would’ve felt annoyed. your pens were precious and pricey, and you didn’t like parting with them too often.

for wonwoo, however…

“sure!” you agree, hoping you didn’t come across as too eager. you take a pen from your pouch and hold it out for wonwoo.

the second reason for your easy compliance is this—the feeling of wonwoo’s fingers brushing against yours as he takes the pen.

the fluttering in your heart lasts till the end of the lecture, when wonwoo holds the pen close to the end facing you, just as keen to feel a brush of your skin against his.

“wonwoo,” you say that day, trying your best not to laugh. “if you want to hold my hand that bad, just ask me.”

in a few minutes, you walk out of the lecture hall with wonwoo, along with matching smiles and intertwined hands.

lee jihoon 💌

“here’s the edited version,” jihoon says, dropping a folder on your table. “let me know if you need me to look over anything else.” that’s all he says before he’s walking away, hands stuffed in his pockets.

you don’t notice the red tingeing the tips of his ears.

“oof, jihoon is tough with his edits, all the best,” soonyoung winces, and you frown.

“but he’s always so nice in my edits?” you say, and soonyoung gasps.

“he’s becoming a softie,” soonyoung shakes his head. “absolutely down bad for you.”

the next time jihoon is returning an edited draft of your new short novel, you excitedly flip to the last page.

saturday. my house. story-outlining for new plot. you and me? - from, your writer :) 

and in jihoon’s neat handwriting, that matches the hearts he’s been leaving in your drafts for all these months, there’s a reply.

i’ll be there at 7. buy me some diet coke. i’ll bring you coffee - from, your editor <3

lee seokmin 💌

“this next song is perhaps love, by eric nam and cheeze,” seokmin announces to the cafe. “i’m dedicating this to the person who i might be falling in love with. perhaps.”

the audience laughs, and seokmin lets his eyes focus on your busy figure, serving the patrons with a smile, before he takes a deep breath and starts singing.

the lyrics of the song seokmin is singing latches onto your brain, and you try not to read too much into his kind eyes and bright smile, but you can’t help the way your heart beats rapidly around him.

“hey,” seokmin says from behind you, and you turn to face him with a smile, hoping that your blushing didn’t look obvious.

“hey! you sounded really great tonight,” you compliment him sincerely. “do you want your usual ord-”

“did you listen to the last song?” seokmin cuts you off, suddenly sounding nervous.

you nod, unable to form words.

“it was for you,” he blurts out. “every song has been for you, and it’s okay if you don’t feel-”

you cut him off this time, with a kiss. the twinkle in his eyes tells you that he knows.

kim mingyu 💌

“what’ll you be having today?” mingyu asks, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“surprise me,” you smirk, and the man instantly turns away to concoct a new drink for you.

while you wait at your table, you shamelessly ogle at the way mingyu’s biceps are bulging against the blue polo he has to wear as uniform as he shakes up your surprise drink. and you can tell he likes the attention, judging from the way he’s looking right back at you with a flirtatious grin.

you’re a little disappointed that someone else brings your drink to the table, but when you read the text scrawled onto the paper cup, you quickly find out why.

it’s been three months of staring. let me take you out? - mingyu 

the brush of your hands against his is just as sweet as the drink he made you as you slide the empty paper cup, adorned with some more text, over to mingyu before you head out of the cafe.

xxx-xxx-xxx. let me know when you’re free for a date. i’ll surprise you this time ;)

the text comes in within fifteen minutes, and you smile to yourself on the way back home.

xu minghao 💌

“any personal recommendations?” you ask the cute cashier, minghao, as you check your books out, hoping to strike up some conversation with him.

“uh, i don’t really read,” minghao replies with a shy smile. 

maybe it was the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, or maybe he’s just down bad for you, but by the time you’re walking into the bookstore again—two thursdays later, like clockwork—minghao has read both the books you bought from your last visit.

he lurks around the bookshelf you’re currently examining, and attempts to lean against it in a cool way. clearing his throat to grab your attention, he says, “so, what are your thoughts on the weird pigeon?”

“i thought you said you didn’t read?” you smile, amused at the reference, and minghao scratches his nape.

“ever since you started coming in, i’ve been wanting to talk book to you, so…” minghao trails off awkwardly.

you laugh at his choice of words, but then say, “if you really want to delve into the book, maybe we could get a coffee sometime soon?”

“my shift is over soon,” minghao says. “it’s a date, then?”

hopefully, the kiss on his cheek is enough of an answer.

boo seungkwan 💌

“i’m out of tea,” you bring up one day, when seungkwan is over at your house to help you assemble the new bookcase you ordered from ikea.

“buy some,” he replies in that no-nonsense tone of his, and you groan and roll your eyes for dramatic effect. he looks over at you, his gaze softening. “have you been having trouble sleeping again?”

you nod, and seungkwan curses himself for not noticing your pale skin or tired eyes earlier.

two days later, you’re greeted with the smell of fresh tangerine tea when you enter your house.

“boo? you didn’t have to make me more,” you sigh, seeing your best friend in the kitchen, brewing his special ‘sleeping potion’ for you.

“baby,” he calls out in his soft voice. “of course i had to. someone’s gotta take care of you.”

that night when he sleeps over at your place, holding you close to his chest, it goes unquestioned. just like the non-platonic nicknames, or the jars of tangerine tea in your fridge.

whether he’s just a best friend, or something more, your sleepless nights are much calmer with seungkwan by your side.

vernon chwe 💌

you’re panting when you bust into the shop, having had run all the way from your apartment to the vinyl store when hansol had sent you the text.

“where is it?”

hansol laughs as he takes in your wheezing figure. “i told you i put it aside for you, you didn’t have to run all the way here,” he shakes his head, ducking under the counter to retrieve the vinyl you’ve only wanted for the last six years.

“she’s real,” you gape at paramore’s ain’t it fun ‘half’ vinyl in awe, taking it from hansol for a closer look.

“this one’s on the house,” he says, and your head snaps up.

“no way, your boss will fire you,” you shake your head. “i can pay for it.”

“but i don’t want you to,” hansol refuses. “there’s a reason i haven’t let you pay full price for any of the vinyls you’ve bought. you’ve got to know by now.”

you do know. you’ve never missed the longing glances from hansol, not when you’ve been looking at him that way too.

“how about a kiss in exchange for it then?” you ask, leaning over the counter to get closer to the man standing behind it.

“just one?” hansol grins. “you’ve got a lot of vinyls to make up for, y’know?”

lee chan 💌

lately, you’ve been visiting the pool more often just to get a glimpse of lee chan, the cute lifeguard. you know it’s borderline-illegal of you to be taking pictures of him, but you can’t help that the sun hits his broad shoulders, perfect hair, and bright smile just the right way.

but you knew you were bound to get caught some day.

“hey,” you look up to see chan standing in front of you. for a moment, you think you’ve been caught, but then he smiles and asks, “can i borrow your phone to ring mine? i can’t find it.”

“s-sure!” you nod eagerly, handing your phone over. only when chan is already scrolling through your phone, you realize that your secret pictures are out for him to see.

you look at chan, who grins at you knowingly, and you blush violently. “look, if you saw the- uh, pictures, i’m so sorry. i’ll delete them right away-”

“i don’t mind a pretty girl taking pictures of me,” chan cuts your rambling off. and then, his phone starts ringing in his pocket.

“oops!” he giggles. “guess my phone was here all along. you don’t mind that i put my number in yours anyway, right?”

before you can respond, he’s winking and returning to his station, smiling at the text, containing the promise of a date, you’ve already sent him.

vote for your favorite what is and the cupid of valentine's present will give you a little sneak peek into their past or future together!

major thanks to kae, a, ally, and serena for your contributions! i wouldn't have been motivated to finish if it wasn't for you guys hehe <3

kae and serena, thanks for enabling every silly little idea that crops up! you guys are the real ones fr 🤞🤞

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head to the masterlist for more!

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@of-swords-and-words @gyuhao365 @flickhurstyles @bibblemiluvr @valvoria

@moonyxhcbi @brownbunnyb @chanranghaeys

[jincapableoflove]

The One That Got Away (Almost) | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: ex bf! jungkook, ex gf! reader, exes to lovers, second chances, wedding setting, mutual pining, angst, fluff.

Summary: You weren’t supposed to see him again. Not after everything. But when your mutual friends invite you to their wedding, you’re forced to face Jungkook—the boy who once had your heart, the man you never quite got over.

Word count: 3k+

Warnings:  tension-filled reunion, emotional vulnerability, painful reminiscing, longing stares, unresolved feelings, mutual pining, a near kiss, ambiguous ending (or is it?), fluff and angst intertwined.

MOODBOARD

A/N: something i whipped up in less than an hour lmaooo idk what this i was studying for my finals and then suddenly got inspired. not edited/proofread

The moment you step inside, a wave of warmth and laughter crashes against you, loud enough to drown out the doubts still clawing at your mind.

You shouldn’t have come. You knew that the second you reached the grand entrance, standing outside for far too long, debating whether to turn around and disappear before anyone noticed you. But now, it’s too late. You’re here—surrounded by the golden glow of chandeliers, the delicate scent of fresh flowers, and the low hum of a string quartet playing in the background.

Guests in elegant attire drift past you, their smiles easy, their conversations effortless. You, on the other hand, feel out of place. Like a misplaced puzzle piece in a picture you no longer belong to. Your fingers tighten around the small purse in your hands, grounding yourself, trying to suppress the voice in your head that keeps whispering this was a mistake.

And then—your eyes lift, almost instinctively, drawn to a presence you don’t even realize you’re searching for.

There he is.

Jeon Jungkook.

Standing across the room, looking just as devastating as the last time you saw him. Maybe even more. His dark hair is neatly styled, but there’s still a hint of unruliness to it, like he ran his fingers through it moments ago. The sharp lines of his tuxedo fit him perfectly, tailored to a body you remember far too well. But it’s his face that steals your breath—because it’s different now.

A small silver pierces through his eyebrow, catching the warm light as he turns his head slightly. Your stomach tightens at the sight of it. Then your gaze drops, lower, to his mouth—oh. There’s a ring on his lower lip nowtoo, resting at the corner like it belongs there, like it’s always been there.

But it hasn’t.

He didn’t have them before. Not when you knew him.

And yet, standing there,with his piercing gaze locked onto yours, it’s impossible to imagine him any other way. Like this is who he was always meant to be. Like the boy you knew is long gone, replaced by someone sharper, someone who looks like he’s seen more, lived more.

Jungkook doesn’t look away.

And neither do you.

Because the moment your gaze collides with his, time folds in on itself, pulling you back to places you swore you’d never return to. Memories flicker at the edges of your mind, ones you spent too long trying to bury. Ones that still have the power to unravel you if you’re not careful.

But as he lifts his glass to his lips—piercing catching against the rim, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—you realize something else.

You’re not careful. You've never been careful.

Not when it comes to him.

The air between you tightens, crackling with a tension you don’t know how to name. For a second, neither of you move. Neither of you speak.

Then—he takes a breath, tilting his head slightly. His lip ring glints under the warm lights, the movement drawing your attention, and suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything about him. The sharp cut of his jaw, his muscular frame, the way time has altered him in small, striking ways—yet, somehow, he’s still unmistakably Jungkook.

You force yourself to approach. You can’t just stand here, frozen, when he’s already watching you with that unreadable expression.

"Jungkook," you say, your voice carefully even.

"Y/N." His lips curve, just slightly, but there’s something guarded in his tone. Something that wasn’t always there.

The polite exchange feels strange—stiff and unfamiliar, like wearing a shirt that no longer fits right. There’s an awkwardness to it, a hesitance. You’ve spoken to him a thousand times before, but not like this. Not with this much distance wedged between you.

Before either of you can find the right words, a voice cuts through the thick silence.

"Oh my God, you two!"

You barely have time to process before Hana, your best friend, who is glowing and radiant in her wedding dress, steps between you, beaming. "I can’t believe this reunion is happening at my wedding," she gushes, clasping her hands together.

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, while you muster up a smile, though your fingers tighten around your clutch.

"You were inseparable back then," Hana sighs dreamily, glancing between you. "I honestly thought you’d still be together."

Your smile falters.

Jungkook chuckles, low and soft, but there’s something strained in the sound—something only noticeable if you know what to listen for. And you do.

Before you can respond, another voice joins the conversation.

"Yeah, you two were a team."

You turn just as Namjoon walks up, hands in his pockets, a knowing glint in his eyes. He nods toward you both. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you both planned to avoid each other tonight."

Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly.

Because he’s right.

You weren’t supposed to see Jungkook. You weren’t supposed to be standing here, side by side, being dissected by old friends who still remember you as a pair.

It’s too much. The past presses in too tightly, threatening to unravel the fragile walls you’ve built around it.

You clear your throat, shifting on your feet. "I should—um, I need to go check on something."

The excuse is weak, but no one stops you.

Jungkook doesn’t stop you.

You turn on your heel, slipping into the crowd, the weight of his gaze lingering long after you walk away.

The memory creeps in before you can stop it. It always does when it comes to him.

Maybe it’s the way his voice sounded just now—lower, more restrained, like he was holding something back. Maybe it’s the way his lips curved into that half-smile, the same one you used to know, except now there’s something different about it. Something heavier.

Or maybe it’s just this place—this moment—forcing you to remember.

The beginning of the end wasn’t loud. There was no big fight, no shattered glasses or slammed doors. It was quiet. Subtle. The kind of unraveling that happens so slowly you don’t notice until it’s too late.

It started with the missed calls. You’d stare at your phone, watching the screen go dark after ringing out, telling yourself he’d call back. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he was busy. That you were busy. That things would go back to normal soon.

But they didn’t.

Then came the growing distance—conversations that used to last for hours dwindled to minutes. The effortless ease between you started to fade, replaced by careful words and spaces that never used to exist. You still reached for each other, still tried to hold on, but it wasn’t the same. It was like grasping at something that had already begun slipping through your fingers.

And then, one day, you realized—neither of you was fighting for it anymore.

Maybe that was the worst part.

Not the silence. Not the aching loneliness that settled between you even when you were in the same room. Not even the final moment when you walked away, knowing it was over.

No, the worst part was knowing that, in the end, you had both stopped choosing each other.

You wonder if Jungkook ever regretted it.

If he ever picked up his phone and almost called you. If he ever looked at old photos, reread old messages, and felt the same pang in his chest that you do now.

But as you steal a glance at him across the room—his piercing catching the light, his expression unreadable—you realize you don’t have an answer. Maybe you never will.

The soft hum of a love song drifts through the air, weaving its way through the golden-lit ballroom. You recognize it instantly—one of those songs that used to play in the background of late-night drives and whispered conversations, back when everything between you and Jungkook was easy. When love felt effortless.

You should walk away.

But before you can, Hana’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

She appears beside you, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, come on," she teases, giving your arm a gentle push. "It’s just one dance."

You blink. "Hana—"

"Y/N."

His voice comes from behind you, deep and low, sending a shiver down your spine. When you turn, Jungkook is already standing there, hand outstretched, waiting.

The sight of him like this—watching you with quiet intent, his fingers inches from yours—it makes something in your chest tighten. His eyebrow piercing glints under the chandelier light, and for a second, you wonder how much has really changed between you.

You hesitate.

You should say no.

But you don’t.

Instead, you exhale a quiet breath and place your hand in his.

The warmth of his palm against yours is startling, a reminder of how well you once fit together. His grip is firm but careful as he leads you to the dance floor, and when his other hand finds the small of your back, you feel the air shift—like the past and present have begun to blur.

You move together, slow and measured, like muscle memory kicking in. The tension that once hung between you begins to soften, melting into something quieter, something almost tender.

But beneath it, the pain lingers.

It lingers in the way Jungkook’s fingers tighten slightly around yours. In the way his eyes search yours, like he’s trying to remember something he lost. Or maybe something he let go of too soon.

And then, softly—so softly you almost miss it—he speaks.

"Do you ever think about it?"

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening.

There’s no need to ask what it is. You know.

Your fingers curl slightly against his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be honest.

"All the time," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook swallows. And when he looks at you, it’s not just him looking at you. It’s the boy you used to love. The boy who once knew you better than anyone else. The boy who, despite everything, still holds a piece of you.

He looks at you like he’s seeing a version of the past—one he still wishes was real.

The night air is crisp against your skin as you step onto the terrace, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The muffled hum of music and laughter fades behind you, leaving only the quiet rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city. You press your hands against the cool railing, tilting your head back to stare at the sky.

You needed this. A moment to breathe. To gather the thoughts that have been unraveling since the moment you locked eyes with Jungkook tonight.

But you’re not alone for long.

Footsteps echo softly against the stone floor, and then—

"Running away again?"

The voice is unmistakable.

You don’t turn around, but your lips twitch. "Maybe."

Jungkook exhales a quiet chuckle, stepping beside you. His shoulder is close enough to feel, radiating warmth, but he doesn’t touch you. He just leans against the railing, mirroring your stance, gazing out at the horizon.

For a while, neither of you speak. It’s not the same suffocating silence that had filled the space between you before—it’s something different. Something hesitant, fragile.

And then, finally—

"I should have fought harder." His voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it. "For us."

You swallow, fingers tightening against the railing. "We both should have."

Jungkook turns his head, watching you carefully. His eyebrow piercing catches the faint glow of the terrace lights, but it’s his eyes that hold you captive—deep, searching, carrying years’ worth of unspoken words.

"I never stopped wondering about you," he confesses. "Where you were. If you were happy. If you ever…" He trails off, shaking his head slightly, as if the words are too much.

Your chest aches.

Because you know exactly how he feels.

Your breath trembles as you force yourself to meet his gaze. "I never stopped missing you."

Something shifts in his expression—something raw and unguarded, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud. His fingers flex against the railing, and for a split second, you think he might reach for you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you stand there, under the vast stretch of stars, caught in the space between what was and what could have been.

The world narrows to this moment.

The distant laughter and music from the wedding fade into nothing. The cool night air, the stars overhead, the lingering scent of roses from the terrace garden—none of it matters. Not when Jungkook is standing this close. Not when his eyes are locked onto yours like he’s searching for something he lost.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there, just looking at each other. But it feels like forever. And yet, not nearly long enough.

Then, so softly you almost think you imagined it, his fingers brush against yours.

It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but it’s enough. Enough to make your breath hitch, to send a shiver through your skin, to remind you how it used to feel when touching him wasn’t a question, just instinct.

His hand lingers, and your fingers twitch, tempted to curl around his.

Jungkook shifts closer.

Your pulse thrums as his gaze flickers down—to your lips, then back to your eyes. You can feel the heat radiating from him, see the slight hesitation in the way he exhales, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady himself.

Then, he leans in.

Just a little. Just enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your lips, warm and intoxicating.

Your heart pounds.

And for one fleeting, reckless second, you think—Maybe this time.

But then—

"Jungkook!"

The name cuts through the night like a blade, shattering the fragile moment between you.

You both freeze.

His shoulders tense, his lips part like he wants to say something—but the spell is broken.

Reality crashes down.

The night is ending. You can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the distant sound of laughter echoing from the reception hall, in the quiet, unspoken weight pressing between you and Jungkook.

He stands before you, hands buried in his pockets, eyes flickering with something unreadable. For a moment, he just looks at you—like he’s memorizing your face, like he’s trying to hold onto something before it slips away.

Like he wants to say something.

But then, instead of words, he exhales softly and smiles.

It’s small. Sad. Fleeting. The kind of smile that carries years of unsaid apologies, of missed chances, of everything that could have been but never was.

And just like that, you know.

This is goodbye.

Behind him, Namjoon watches the exchange, arms crossed, shaking his head with the kind of knowing that makes your chest ache. “Some things never change,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is just another chapter of the same old story—one where you watch Jungkook walk away, and he lets you.

Maybe this is how it’s always meant to end.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You should let him go.

But—

"Jungkook."

His name barely makes it past your lips, but it’s enough. Enough to stop him in his tracks, enough to make his shoulders tense before he slowly turns back to face you. His expression is guarded, hesitant—like he doesn’t want to hope but can’t help it anyway.

Your pulse pounds, hands trembling at your sides. You don’t have the perfect words, no grand speech or well-rehearsed confession. But maybe you don’t need one. Maybe all that matters is this.

"Would you stay if I asked you to?"

The night air hangs heavy between you, thick with anticipation. For a heartbeat, you think he won’t answer—that maybe you’re too late.

But then—

His lips part on a quiet, shaky exhale. And when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I would."

Your breath catches.

Jungkook takes a step closer, then another, closing the space between you. His gaze flickers over your face—searching, waiting, making sure this is real. That you won’t take it back.

And you don’t.

For the first time in years, you choose him.

A slow, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his lips, chasing away the sadness that had been lingering there all night. His fingers brush against yours—warm, familiar, grounding.

This time, you don’t pull away.

This time, neither of you let go.

Maybe he was almost the one that got away.

Almost.

taglist: @dreamersparacosm @taekritimin123 @claireshelby @toosweetforyall @iamstilljk @jjkluver7 @travelgurrl @baechugff @whoa-jo @junniesoleilkth @kxthx-b @smoljimjim @jk97bam @dna-black-and-blue @sanarin @rebwwca @belleilichil

lmk if u liked it <3 (if this gets a good response i may or may not write a part 2/drabble for this couple)

[aqueerkettleofish]

How to Reboot the X-Men (and Magneto) in the Modern Era

Holy shit, I think I've figured it out.

The question is, and has been for about a decade, how can you do the X-Men in a modern setting?

The problem, of course, is that the relationship between Magneto and Professor X is integral to the concept. And Magneto, as a character, is anchored in time. He is a holocaust survivor-- if you try to make him born anytime after the 1930's, you're effectively making another character and calling him Magneto.

The McKellan movies dealt with this by making him an old man. The Fassbender ones were set in the past. But it's.... just too late now. WWII ended eighty years ago. Magneto would be at least fifteen years older than that, and the problem gets worse every year.

The comics, of course, have dealt with this by having Xavier in a body cloned by the Shi'ar, and Magneto got de-aged at one point. But adapting the story into a modern medium, you can't just start with your characters getting de-aged. (Captain America came with the concept built in, conveniently ignoring that his original icenap was only like 20 years.)

So here's my solution to the "How do you deal with Magneto being That Goddamn Old?"

You make him older.

He wasn't an adolescent during the Holocaust. Mid-twenties at least, maybe even mid-thirties. An educated, peaceful man, living in obscurity. Maybe even a rabbi. (I'm not going to elaborate here, because, honestly, I'm a goyim and this is backstory that needs to be filled in by a Jew, someone with a better knowledge of pre-Holocaust Jewish culture, or preferably both.)

But then Shit Happens, and he can no longer be a peaceful man. It doesn't help that, of course, in a universe with mutants, Hitler goes after them as well. Erik Lehnsherr goes from obscurity into legend. He fights. And he speaks. And he writes.

Towards the end of the war, he pulls some Big Hero Shit with the aid of other mutants, the resistance, and maybe even Captain America, and he saves hundreds of lives, but his position is utterly destroyed.

And our modern, younger, Charles Xavier-- who is now about the age Erik was when he was killed-- idolizes him. He's studied every word the man wrote, has films of his speeches. The X-Men are trained as much by Magneto as they are Xavier.

And you leave it like that. For a season of the series, or the first movie. Maybe even tease the fans with an imposter.

And then... dun dun dun.... time travel fuckery.

Those "other mutants" at Magneto's last stand? Were the modern X-Men. They got shunted back in time, and because every one of them know the history, they realize that the only reason all those lives were saved is because they were there to help. The event that obliterates the location? Is actually caused by the time-jump back to the future, and they bring Erik along. No damage to the timeline; no body was ever found. ("Just this once, everybody lives!")

And once he reaches the future and sees how mutants are still being treated? He's furious. And now we've got the proper Xavier/Magneto dynamic fully cemented, except now all of the X-Men are conflicted. You can even have the dramatic split where some of the X-Men go "fuck it, he's right."

[frostfire425]

Image Descriptions...

The first image is a screen capture of tags that read, “#its the removal of identity and rejection of their place in the world btw #american men are groomed (yes im using that word on purpose) to believe that it is ther Duty and their Right to have a nuclear famiky #and to not achieve The American Nuclear Family is to not be a man. it is to be only a career man at best and fag at worst #and once they achieve that goal they aren't taught and dont realize that they actually have to try to keep that shit #they think theyve Achieved The Goal. why would they have to maintain that? the box has been checked #so they dont parent and they neglect their wife and they cheat and they dont care bc they didnt particularly care about the family anyway #but divorce is the removal of their identity and stakes and pride in being The American Family Patriarch #suddenly the box they took for granted has been unchecked #and they no longer know who they are anymore or what their purpose is or how to proceed. bc the american dream doesnt have room for them”. The tag “#so they dont parent and they neglect their wife and they cheat and they dont care because they didnt particularly care about the family anyway” has been highlighted in blue.

The second image continues with the rest of the tags, “#and thats why this mostly happens with men who havent really reckoned with the fact that the american dream doesnt actually have room #for anyone at all #so they get radicalized by groups who know that they are going through an identity death and they take advantage of the patriotism they have #and become even worse people. bc the bad people are telling them that they dont have to reckon with or process the emotions of the divorce #they tell them theyre justified in their anger and that they ARE still the American Family Patriarch. they ARE still everything they thought #they just have to beat those (insert group here) in order to get everything back. and these men fall for it bc bigotry is easier than #having to build their own identity from scratch bc the last one was borrowed from their father and refined by shame #esp since these men were never taught any kind of emotional intelligence or how to handle complex emotions and never cared to learn #anyway”.

Divorce seems to radicalize american men in a way that needs to be studied

[mashtatosworld]

heiress of my heart

summary: G-Dad and Diva have a shopping addiction...

The day usually starts with the little diva waking up the whole house.

Not crying - no, she was far too dramatic and refined for that. Instead, she simply calls out for her Appa, repeatedly, until he has no choice but to wake up and get her from the crib.

"Appa." A pause. "Appa." Another pause. "APPA."

Jiyong groans beside you, his face buried in the pillow. Zoa sat loafed on his back. "Five more minutes," he mumbles.

"APPA."

You sigh, sitting up in bed and carefully plucking the grey cat off his back, pulling her into your arms. She settled immediately, always ready for a cuddle. "She’s not stopping until you go get her."

“I hurt, jagi," Jiyong peeks at you through messy hair, pouting. "Why aren't you hungover?"

You had shared a bottle of wine last night after putting Diva to bed.

"Because I'm not an old man," you smirk teasingly.

Defeated, he rolls out of bed, shuffling down the hall in his plush Chanel robe and slippers - because even half-asleep, Kwon Jiyong is still Jiyong. The father of your diva.

He returns moments later with said baby in his arms, her small hands clinging onto his pyjama shirt as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.

"She said she only wants Eomma now," he complains, dropping onto the bed with his mini-me. "I was just the transport."

Diva crawls towards you and snuggles into your side, gently petting the sleeping cat with one finger, just like you'd taught her. You smile at her lovingly.

Jiyong sighs dramatically. “I give this child everything...”

But he doesn’t mean it - because ten minutes later, after some morning milk and cartoons, your diva is climbing all over him, stealing his hat, and demanding attention.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Jiyong insists on dressing Diva every morning.

"She has to be cool, jagi. She’s my daughter.”

Today, he’s in front of her wardrobe, holding up two outfits.

"This one?" He shows her a tiny blue Burberry sweater and cargo pants.

"Or this one?" A Chanel dress with tiny matching shoes.

Diva stares at him blankly. Then she points at her pajamas.

“No.” Jiyong is scandalised. “We don’t wear pyjamas all day in this house.”

You sip your coffee, sitting beside Diva on the floor, thoroughly amused. “You do."

“I'm an old man, remember?” he defends, using your own words against you, before turning back to your daughter.

Diva yawns and crawls into your lap. She’s over it.

Jiyong sighs, heading back into her wardrobe for more inspiration.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Jiyong doesn’t go anywhere without Diva by his side. Whether it’s a quick errand, a café trip, or a studio visit - she’s his little shadow.

Today, he takes her out shopping since you wanted to work on writing some new songs and it was nearly impossible with the pair of them around.

If Diva wasn't clinging to your legs, it was Jiyong.

But only an hour after they left, you receive a Facetime call on your phone. It’s Jiyong and Diva, inside a store. He’s pointing his camera at a Chanel bag on display.

"Should we get this for Eomma?"

Diva stands beside it, holding a smaller, identical one, nodding her head.

Jiyong flips the camera to his face, and chuckles. "She has Eomma’s taste."

You roll your eyes, "Ji, I don't need another one."

"Yah, yah bad connection in here- gotta go, we love you!"

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Hours later, they stop for snacks at a quiet café.

Diva sips from a Chanel-branded baby cup. Yet another purchase he'd have to disguise from you. But to Jiyong, it was an investment. Your next babies would get to use it too.

Jiyong, feeling sentimental, strokes her tiny hand.

“You know, Princess, someday, you might have a little brother or sister.”

Diva freezes.

She slowly lowers her cup.

Jiyong waits.

She stares at him for a long moment.

Then -

She throws her cup onto the floor.

Jiyong jumps. “What - ”

Diva glares. “No.”

He blinks. “No?”

She crosses her arms. “No.”

“Baby, you’d be the best big sister!”

Diva shakes her head violently.

Jiyong looks around, panicked. “Okay, okay, let’s not - ”

But Diva is already kicking her legs, huffing, and looking seconds away from a meltdown.

Jiyong FaceTimes you immediately.

As soon as you pick up, you hear Diva wailing in the background.

Jiyong looks stressed. “Jagi, we have a crisis.”

You blink, putting your pen down with a sigh. “What did you do?”

“I said she might get a sibling, and now she’s - ” he turns the camera.

Diva is full-on sulking, arms folded, cheeks puffed, absolute betrayal on her face.

You laugh. “She’s one and a half. She’ll change her mind.”

Jiyong looks horrified. “But what if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

He turns back to Diva. “Baby, don’t you want someone to play with?”

Diva pouts.

"Princess?"

She turns her head away dramatically.

Jiyong deflates. “She’s ignoring me.”

You laugh harder. “You’re scared of her.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are.”

He never tells her off. In all fairness, he never really had to. They were two peas in a pod.

Jiyong sighs. “I might be.”

And then - he hangs up.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Jiyong carries Diva inside, arms full of shopping bags.

You stare. “Jiyong - ”

He cuts you off. “Before you say anything, we've had a stressful day.”

You fold your arms. His idea of retail therapy was excessive.

He sets Diva down, and she immediately runs off calling for the cats, her tiny shoes tapping against the floor. He shifts under your scrutiny, finally admitting, "I had to buy my way back into her heart, okay?"

You blink, glancing at the sheer number of bags he’s just abandoned in the entryway. “Ji, I’m sure a juice box would have cut it.”

He drops onto the chair opposite you, rubbing his face. “You weren’t there. She looked at me like I’d betrayed her. My own daughter.”

You laugh. “I did warn you. She needs friends other than us.”

He groans. “Jagi, what are we gonna do?” His voice is almost distant, like he’s lost in some great, existential crisis.

You laugh, closing your notebook. “Not let our lives be ruled by a toddler?”

He gives you a look. “What do you mean?”

Diva’s voice rings from the other room. “Appa, juice!”

Jiyong is already on his feet. “Coming, my Princess!”

You watch him go, shaking your head. A wave of love washed over you so you opened your notebook again, finally feeling the words pour out of you.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i wrote this for another fic i'll be posting soon! featuring the adventures of g-dad, eomma and diva ofc

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

A Taste of Honey

Pairing: Rick Hatchett x AgeGap!Reader

Summary: At first, Rick Hatchet was just another rich man willing to pay for your company. It wasn’t personal—it was a business arrangement that bought you designer bags, first-class flights, and a seat at the most exclusive tables. He didn’t expect more from you, and you certainly didn’t expect more from him. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Rick Hatchet has everything. So why does he seem so lost? And why do you suddenly care enough to try to fix him?

You were never ashamed of what you were.

If rich men wanted to throw their money at you, you let them. And Rick Hatchet? He was no different.

The first time you met, it was at an intimate rooftop dinner in Manhattan, hosted by one of his business partners. You’d been brought along by a mutual acquaintance—just one of many beautiful women meant to fill the empty seats and flatter the egos of men too powerful for their own good.

Rick noticed you immediately. Not in the leering, indulgent way most men did, but with a curious, measured gaze—like he was trying to figure out if you were worth his time.

You didn’t expect him to pursue you. Not really.

But the next day, a black Amex card arrived at your apartment with a note written in smooth, deliberate handwriting:

"I’d like to keep you around. Indulge yourself. - Rick"

And that was how it began.

The White Lotus resort in Thailand was just another perk of being with Rick. You were here because he wanted you here—because he liked having something beautiful at his side, something effortless to parade in front of his business partners.

But the longer you were around him, the more you started noticing things you shouldn’t.

The way he stared at his untouched drink for minutes at a time, as if trying to remember why he even ordered it.

The way he let conversations pass over him, nodding at the right moments but never really engaging.

The way he disappeared for hours at a time, only to return looking ten years older than when he left.

Rick Hatchet was tired. Not just physically, but deep in his bones, in a way that made you ache for him.

You weren’t supposed to care. That wasn’t part of the deal.

And yet, one night, after a long dinner filled with empty smiles and meaningless small talk, you found yourself saying, “You’re miserable here, aren’t you?”

He blinked at you, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t actually like any of these people.” You tilted your head, studying him the way he had once studied you. “You’re just playing along because you don’t know how to stop.”

Something flickered in his gaze—just for a second. But then he chuckled, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I pay you to look pretty, not to analyze me.”

You didn’t smile. “You pay me to be here. Doesn’t mean I don’t see things.”

For the first time in your arrangement, he didn’t have a quick response.

The next morning, you found him by the edge of the resort’s infinity pool, staring out at the horizon.

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” you murmured, sitting beside him.

He let out a low breath, rubbing his temple. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

A beat of silence. Then, for reasons you couldn’t explain, you reached for his wrist, fingers brushing over his pulse. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He turned to you, amusement flickering in his tired eyes. “Do what?”

“Pretend.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “That you’re fine. That you actually enjoy all this.”

Rick exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “And what would you have me do instead?”

“I don’t know.” You squeezed his wrist gently. “Something real. Something that doesn’t feel like running in circles.”

Rick was silent for a long time. Then, in a voice so soft it almost didn’t sound like him, he admitted:

“I don’t remember the last time anything felt real.”

From that moment on, things changed.

Rick still spoiled you—he didn’t know how to show affection any other way—but the way he looked at you was different. Less detached. Less like you were just another ornament in his collection.

You started catching glimpses of the real him in small, unexpected moments:

When you made him laugh—a real, unfiltered laugh, not the practiced one he used in public.

When he reached for your hand absentmindedly, like he just wanted to feel something warm.

When he watched you sleep, something wistful in his gaze, as if wondering how you could rest so easily while he never could.

And somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing him as just a paycheck.

He was still complicated. Still guarded. Still drowning in whatever demons he refused to talk about.

But you couldn’t ignore the fact that you wanted to save him.

One night, after a dinner that was somehow less suffocating than usual, he pulled you onto the balcony of your suite, away from the noise.

"You know," he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek, "this wasn’t supposed to happen."

You tilted your head. "What wasn’t?"

"This." His fingers trailed down to your chin, tilting your face up toward his. "Me caring about you."

Your breath hitched.

"Do you?" you asked softly.

Rick exhaled, resting his forehead against yours.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I do."

And for the first time in a long time, it felt real.

[anjelicawrites]

Scrapes at the borders of your life

“The giraffe has its heart far away from its thoughts. It has fallen in love yesterday and doesn’t know it yet.”

― Stefano Benni, Ballate

Paring: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x trauma surgeon!reader

Synopsis: Simon has fallen for the trauma surgeon attached to the 141 and believes he has no chances with them, resigning himself in the role of friend and guarding devil, until the truth comes out.

Warnings: angst, stalking (Simon doesn't mean to), medical talk, surgery talk, reference to depression meds, reference to weapons, reference to Simon’s abuse as a child, reference to violence, talk of scars, insecurity, someone gets slapped (reader but not from Simon), someone gets headbutted (not reader, not Simon), Johnny tries to be a wingman, Simon simps a lot, Simon’s fear of not managing a full intercourse, Simon's hit and miss libido, premature ejaculation, kissing, oral (f receiving), fail sex, good sex, P in V sex (protected and unprotected), fingering, overstimulation, cuddling.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed. They're referred as "ma'am" a couple of times.

Word count: 10.293

You check your phone, you’re not late but you need to be out of the locker room in ten minutes, if you want to arrive on time for your date, the one you don’t really want to go to.

You’re still rummaging through your bag as you exit the lockers, when you hear Soap’s Scottish accent and Ghost’s quiet hum of answer: those two are like black and white, yet are joined at the hip like twins.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

The locker room of the male military personnel has recently been moved next to the one used by the civilians working on base, something that most of the men had made crude jokes about; thankfully the task force you’re attached to, the 141, abstained from any remarks. You didn’t know that Simon had rained his irritation on the men who had the gall to repeat the jokes to his face, in the form of exhausting training and fatigue duties, during the next few days, it was something he kept for himself, the same way he did all his thoughts about you.

“So, Johnny, what do you think?

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, doc! Aren’t they not, Lt.?”

The behemoth of a man glances at you, without saying a word.

“If the guy doesn’t beg for a second date, he’s an idiot, doc!”

“That’s not what I need to happen.” You pout. “Mother is hellbent in finding me a partner, I have told her this is the last time I’m going out with someone. I need this date to go bad, so she will stop pestering me when I tell her that I’d rather die alone with forty cats, than with someone I’m not truly interested in.”

“Do you have everything with you?”

You stare at Simon’s masked face, his brown eyes unreadable.

“Simon, really…”

“Do you have it?”

He’s not standing in front of you, blocking your path, but he’s trying to pin you with his stare.

“You’re insufferable!” You rummage in your bag. “See? Pepper spray, teaser and the knife!”

“That’s enough stuff to make any bloke run for his life.” Soap says, eyeing the array of weapons.

“I hope so! This chap is the son of someone mum knows. I have to make sure he runs for the hills the next time he hears my name!”

You walk towards the door, blind to Soap’s grinning, and to the way Simon’s hands have curled into fists.

“See you next week, boys!”

“What?”

You turn around and look at the Scot.

“I’m on annual leave. Try not to go save the word when I am not here to patch you four up, OK?”

The door closes behind you, cutting Soap’s laughter.

“What do you say, Lt.?” He asks, showing him the pictures of what appears to be a Tuscan villa. “You, the doc, and a spring wedding?”

“Fuck you, Johnny.”

Simon keeps telling himself he isn’t truly stalking you. He doesn’t have a tracking device installed in your car, or your phone, because that would be creepy, but he’s well aware of the statistics, how high the numbers are for assaults or, worse, rape and murder, or how those figures sky rocket when it comes to dating.

Simon knows you’re bright, brighter than most, but that doesn’t protect you if one asshole decides he doesn’t like your smart mouth, and bleeding Nora you have opinions and you’re not afraid to voice them! He still remembers the first time he’s met you.

You had emerged from the OR after a five hours long emergency surgery on Gaz. You were still wearing your scrubs and one of the colorful caps you use when you’re operating (it was the pink one with the dogs, Simon would gift you one with skulls and bones after the first routine checkup you did on him).

None of them had ever seen you, you had started at the base while the 141 was deployed; when the pararescue had entrusted Gaz to Dr. Rutherford, you were just one of the medics running to the OR, you were but a scrub, a body among many others, listening to the quick handover and shouting orders as the gurney was speeding down the pale green walls of the military hospital.

“What?”

You had looked at the three of them with weary eyes and furrowed brows, surprised that the soldiers had encircled you and were staring expectantly.

The man you’ll learn to know as Captain Price had asked you about Gaz’s prognosis, the other men crowding around you.

“Hasn’t Dr. Rutherford talked to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

He had sounded tired, he looked like he had been through hell and back. Those three men hadn’t probably hit the showers yet, too worried for their friend.

“Oh bleeding hell!” You had burst out, the peak of adrenaline that had carried you through out the surgery having abated, leaving you sluggish. “OK, gather around children, mother goose is gonna tell you everything.”

You had marched to the closest row of chairs and climbed on top of one: those men were so tall and buff you felt like you couldn’t breathe, nor be heard with them standing around you.

“We’re positive he’s going to be fine.” You had smiled at the collective sigh of relief. “He’s in the recovery room, the nurses there are checking on his vitals, before he gets transferred to the ICU. He’s going to be intubated and sedated for a couple of days, to help his body deal with the pain. His wounds were pretty gnarly, and his appendix was ready to burst. Did he tell any of you if he felt abdominal pain, or nauseous?”

There was a collective shake of heads and surprised stares, even the eyes of the one with the skull mask had widened.

“All things considered, it would have been worse if the appendix had actually burst while you were out. That would have been another bag of cats to handle.”

You had elected not to say anything about the way the small organ had almost exploded as soon as you had gently poked it, or that the sergeant would have had high risks of dying of peritonitis out in the field.

“I’ll tell the nurses to give you all a shout when the sergeant is transferred. You can sit with him outside his room, if you want.”

You had expected them to visit their friend, not to find them sitting on the uncomfortably plastic chairs, still wearing their whole gear, when you had popped by the ICU.

“Doc?”

It was the one you’ll learn to know as Soap that had stared at you, one eye swollen and in dire need of ice: another battle for another day, you had mused.

“I’m not in the habit of abandoning my patients after surgery.”

You had marched to the two chairs right in front of the window into Gaz’s room, and kicked Ghost’s foot out of the way, he was manspreading so much he was occupying two seats (honest to God! Why men need to always do that?). At the time you weren’t aware of his reputation, and even if you were, you wouldn’t have cared, too tired and angry.

“You junk wouldn’t scare death away, soldier.” You had sat next to him. “And we’re not going to open another cycle on my watch tonight.”

You had pulled out your headphones and started blasting music to keep yourself awake, ignoring the surprised stares of the men.

Next to you Ghost was staring at you, wondering if you had a death wish, or if you believed that looking at the little numbers on Gaz’s monitor, as if they owed you money, was the right way to fight death. You were listening to your music with a volume so high he could hear it himself: pop songs from the early 2000s: would that be enough to scare death away, he had wondered.

None of you knew how much time had passed, the minutes bleeding into hours, weariness setting in your bones, the music not helping fight the siren’s song of sleep: you were so tired, the azure number of Gaz’s oxygen saturation, and the constant curves on the monitor were truly hypnotizing you, your eyes were growing heavy and unfocused.

You head had snapped to the right side as soon as you had seen Dr. Rutherford walking down the corridor.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

You had popped your pink headphones on the uncomfortable chair, the men around you not clocking on the clacking sound of plastic on plastic, but the angry way you were marching towards your colleague, your hands closed in twin fists.

The conversation was carried out in hushed tones, Dr. Rutherford was standing still, his mouth a thin, white line of anger, and you were constantly in his space, a snarl on your face as you growled your words at him.

It was well known that Dr. Rutherford wasn’t liked and that he had the reputation of someone who would pull his rank to cover up his bullying, and his mistakes. He was feared, having managed to ruin other physicians’ careers over the years.

In retrospect Simon had realized this was the moment when he had started to notice you: when he was wondering about your lack of self preservation. To tell the truth, it was what you did seconds after that stole his heart, unbeknownst to him, when Dr. Rutherford had slapped you in the face.

Time could have stopped, for all you knew. You couldn’t hear the surprised shouts of the nurses, nor the scuffing of the men’s boots hitting the ground, only the roar of blood in your ears and the knot of rage exploding in your belly. Seconds, only seconds had passed when your body had decided to act on its own, your forehead crashing on the older man’s nose, Captain John Price’s burly body between yours and Rutherford’s a moment too late.

“Oh crap! I think I have broken my nose. Oh shit!”

You were too busy tenderly touching your face to mind the chaos around you.

“I’ll have you in front of the court martial!” Rutherford had screamed at you.

“I’m a civilian, you buffoon! Your loser grades mean nothing to me!”

Through the pain you had felt a bulky arm curl around your middle to stop you from attacking the other surgeon.

“That’s enough, doc.” The low thunder of Ghost’s voice had rumbled against your back. “Stand down.”

Your vision was blurry, the soldiers tasked with security were tackling Dr. Rutherford, with the help of Soap: the older man was still trying to get to you, he was hurling insults, his voice booming in the crowded corridor.

“I’m not done with you! Did you hear me well? You’ll be fired! You’ll never work in this country ever again!”

“The one who’s never going to work in this country for the rest of his life is you, Rutherford.”

Amidst the chaos, Price was calm, furious but calm, his voice was cutting through Rutherford’s threats and the security men’s shouts.

“I am a major, captain! I can have you transferred in an hour!”

“You can try, major. Hitting a civilian, in front of witnesses?”

“Leaving the OR mid surgery to do God knows what, since I had to talk to these gentlemen about their friend.” You had snarled, the arm around your middle had tensed again. “You manage to fire me? I’ll go back working with Doctors without Borders, but I’ll make sure you’ll lose your license, Rutherford.”

When Ghost’s arm had released you, you had let yourself slide against the wall, after Rutherford had been carried away, your legs having finally given up supporting you. You had needed a minute before letting the nurses do a check up.

“Are you OK over there, doc?”

It had been Soap asking.

“I have been through worse. Jesus Christ what way to present myself!” The men had looked at you puzzled. “I’m the new trauma surgeon attached to the 141. Hi! Usually I am not this violent, or chaotic, I’m sorry you had to see all of that.”

You didn’t fault the men for not knowing: they had been out in the field for months, your predecessor had decided to step down after some serious family issues right after they have left base.

“You should all go home, I’m on call, I’m going to stay with the sergeant. And I’m going to see one lieutenant Riley on Monday? For the routine check up?”

The man with the over the top mask had sighed: lieutenant Riley found!

“If anything comes up, I will contact you all, it’s a promise.”

Simon hates when he has to tail you so close to the city center, there are too many people around and his baklava would stir up too much curiosity, the surgical mask on his face, his baseball cap under the black hood of his hoodie don’t offer enough cover for his face, he feels exposed, even though he’s hiding in the shadows of an alley where he can keep an eye on you.

Your date has picked a table at the window; Simon hates that the prick thinks he can put you on display like that. If he were a different man, he’d bring you to somewhere cozier, smaller, and he wouldn’t show you around like a prize he’s won.

He knows you’re hating every minute you have to spend with the anonymous man who’s boring you with whatever topic he’s prattling about, Simon sees it in the way you are looking outside, or in how many times you grab your phone; from this distance he can’t see your eyes, yet he knows they hold that distant look he’s seen too many times when you have to deal with paperwork. He wonders how long before one of your friends will call you to save you from this dreadful date, or if you’ll suffer through it to make your mother happy; if his circumstances had been different, he wouldn’t bore you to death, you wouldn’t have to use help to finish this date earlier. But Simon knows you’re way out of his league, too much of everything he has never had the chance to be, to ever hope to be. He can only be your patient and, something akin to a friend.

He had knocked at the door of your office on the dot, hating that he had to go through this bullshit check up, but preferring to be done with it as fast as possible.

He had expected the usual flurry of nurses coming and going, making the experience ten times more unpleasant; you were alone, instead. Your cheek was still swollen from the slap and you were sporting a bump on your forehead, right where you had headbutted that prick Rutherford; he half expected you to wear a colorful T-shirt, like the one you wore after Gaz’s surgery: obnoxious pink, the Barbie inspired font composing the phrase ‘Bitch, please’, which should have told him already everything he needed to know about you.

He was almost disappointed by the white button down shirt and black trousers.

He knew he was trying to distract himself from the knot of anxiety churning his stomach: how he hated to be here!

“Lieutenant.” You had looked up at him with the more open expression you could muster. “I will need you to remove your baklava. I have to examine your face.”

“Negative, ma’am.”

He couldn’t let you look at himself and, based on his records, you understood why.

You had tried to transmit him calmness by relaxing your body as much as possible: face open to his scrutiny and slightly pulled to the side to show your neck, your hands palms up.

“Lieutenant. I know this is unpleasant and that I am a stranger to you, but I can’t sign off the paperwork, if you don’t allow me to do my job. I can’t let you out in the field.”

You knew he was observing you, those brown eyes scanning you like he would an enemy, and you let him, you were in no hurry and this man deserved to make up his mind.

The way you had addressed him, the respect you had shown him, had convinced him to unmask himself: you weren’t doing this with ill intent, the matter of fact way you had used, as if you were telling him a known fact ‘Water is wet’, ‘ The sky is blue’, ‘If I can’t do my job, you wouldn’t be able to do yours’ had convinced him: you were one of the few people who weren’t curious about his face. He has encountered too many people who wouldn’t take a no for an answer, who didn’t care about why he wished the mask was his face, instead of seeing his father’s face staring back at him in every mirror, they just wanted to solve the mystery. You were doing your job, with all the sharps edges that it entailed, just like he did his, and that was something he had to respect.

You had been as fast and clinical as possible, the scars didn’t horrify you; based on his paperwork, you could list off all of his injuries as you saw them on his face and, later, his body. What you couldn’t find in his file, it had been easy to infer based on all the x-rays and MRIs, some old injuries impossible for a child to have without some external causes.

“You can put your baklava back on, lieutenant.”

Simon would never be able to put into words how grateful he was that you had kept your examination of his naked face as fast as possible, and that you didn’t force him through the hell that was small talk for the whole ordeal. If you had noticed the way he was staring at you, you didn’t say a single thing, something he was also grateful for, it had helped him bearing with the whole process, than anything else ever did.

On Friday a small packet and a steaming mug of tea were waiting for you on your desk. Carefully folded in the bright paper, an OR cap, black with neon skulls and bones design. On a whim you had told the nurse working with you to hold the fort for a minute, you had forgotten you had to run a little errand.

Said errand was standing in the field, covered in head to toe in black, busy overseeing what you believed was some sort of drill with the younger recruits.

“Thank you for the cap, you didn’t have to, lieutenant.” You couldn’t hide the smile in your voice, you didn’t want to. “How did you manage to discover how I love to take my tea?”

Simon was standing next to you, massive arms crossed on his solid chest, his face slightly turned towards you.

“If I were to tell you, doc, then I would have to kill you.”

Someone else would have been petrified by his words and the deadpan expression in his eyes, you had simply chuckled and had taken a sip from the mug, your personal mug, the one you had brought to use in the kitchen for the medical staff.

“We can’t have that, can we? Now I have to discover how you prefer your tea.”

“Do you like challenges, doc?”

He had turned to look at you and you had fancied you could see amusement in the rich brown of his eyes.

“I live for those, lieutenant.” You had taken a couple of steps towards the medical buildings. “Have a nice day!”

You were already halfway through, when Soap had approached Simon.

“Spring wedding, Lt.?”

“I need a sparring partner, and you just volunteered.”

You were always catching his attention without doing so. You were always at the corner of his eyes, busy working, or chatting with the civilian personnel at the base. He’d be running drills with the new recruits and he’d know you were walking somewhere nearby, he’d be at the canteen and you’d be either leaving the premises, or entering them. You’d pop by the military rec room because “You boys get the better tasting tea!” and he’d be snickering to himself in the shadows.

Unconsciously, he had started using the route passing by your office, to go to his (that he had to enter the medical building and then exiting it was something he actively didn’t want to think about), his eyes taking quick peaks at you through the window, whenever you kept the blinds open; you’d be slaving by your desk, elbow deep in paperwork, brows furrowed in concentration, or typing away at your PC. He’s seen you, during night shift, either working or reading with your legs propped up the desk, munching on something sweet, trying to keep yourself awake, or asleep on your couch, curled under a thick blanket; he had felt something warm unfurl in his chest, you looked so small and defenseless he felt the strange urge to stop and keep guarding your door until you’d wake up.

It had been you who had watched over him after a gnarly injury. He had woken up in a hospital bed, oxygen mask on his face, drips in his arm and too many surgical drains poking him. He was still high on the anesthetic and pain killers, his eyes barely focusing on your face that he had thought he was hallucinating you.

“How are you feeling, lieutenant?”

He had needed a moment to speak, his mouth felt like cement.

“Thirsty.” He had managed to say, ashamed that you were seeing him so weak.

“We’re giving you fluids but you’re not clear for food or water, yet. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

Your small fingers had wounded around his coarse palm, their dainty touch had grounded him: you were real.

“I managed to remove the bullets from your gut. You have a lovely spleen and gall-bladder.”

Even high as a kite, in that precise moment, Simon’s brain had catch up with his heart and had realized he was in love with you, irrevocably, and that he had zero chances with you.

It wasn’t because you were a genius and he was an idiot, Simon knew well that he had the brains to match his ruthlessness, the issue laid in the fact that you two had less to nothing in common. He had seen you read thick tomes he has never heard of and talk with Gaz about movies he didn’t know ever existed; when he had checked any of the titles out he had realized how wildly your tastes forked: what he liked, you would hate, what you loved, made him fall asleep in ten minutes, like that subtitled movie he had tried to watch during leave, he had conked out five minutes in, and awoke when the end credits were rolling.

In his head he could see how a movie date would end up: he asleep and you wondering why he had asked you to come with him to the movie theater. What did he have to say to you that would interest you in his ugly mug? He was a highly trained killer whose hands were dripping blood, he came with a baggage that would put you in danger, what good could he add to your life? Yet, he was attracted to you like a moth to a flame. Even if he wanted, he wouldn’t be able to stop looking for you at the base, or shadow you when you went home.

It wasn’t a matter of stalking you, Simon fully knew where he stood, and that the only thing he could do for you, was keeping you safe; he would hide in the shadows and follow you home, leaving only when he had seen you safe in the quiet of your apartment. He had gifted you weapons, his heart beating a tad too fast when you didn’t run for the hills when he had given you the knife for your birthday, then the pepper spray and then the teaser. He had scared away a persistent date, a guy who simply didn’t want to understand that you weren’t interested: being your guardian devil was all he could offer you.

Soap didn’t help. He kept trying to push him towards you, trying to make sure his lieutenant was alone with you. One night shift he had gone as far as buying takeout, gave it to Simon when you were passing by with a cheeky “You must be famished doc!” and left Simon standing like a log with too many bags in his hands (he was going to use Johnny for target practice, if he ever survived this ordeal). You had stared at him with a smile, so lovely on your face, that he had wanted to bolt, food and all: you scared him in a way no promise of violence ever could. “You shouldn’t have, Simon!” and he had found himself sitting awkwardly on the too small couch in your office, all the plastic dishes neatly organized on the short table in front of him; you had removed your shoes and were sitting on the armrest, a container and a fork in your hand. Of course you were wearing ridiculous eraser yellow socks with tiny bunnies sketched on the cotton.

“Are you hungry, Simon?”

The way you pronounced his name! The way your voice modulated each and every syllable sent a shiver down his spine.

“Yes.” He had lied, his stomach was a knot.

He had been through hell, he knew you could tell by the scars littering his body. He has had too many close brushes with death than what he cared to count, yet he was petrified by your vicinity, by the fact that he had never been ‘Ghost’ to you, you had progressed from ‘Lieutenant’ to ‘Simon’ effortlessly, that you seemed to be able to read him in ways no one ever could. Were you be able to tell that the silence clothing you two was too deafening to him, the man who was the Reaper for his enemies?

What was he supposed to talk about with you? Why couldn’t he find some inane topic that would make you smile? Even the youngest recruit would be able to simply chat with you, why couldn’t he?

“What’s a cycle?” He had blurted out

“What?” You had started at him, quizzically, mouth around a forkful of food.

Yes, his mind provided, way to pass off as an idiot. He couldn’t possible stay silent, he had to press on even though he could only taste bile, not the food he was trying to chew.

“With Gaz. You said you didn’t want to open another cycle.”

“Oh, that!” You had put the fork in the empty container and stared at him. “It’s one of our superstitions.”

You had gently put the container on the table and grabbed your Coke.

“We actually have many, us who work in hospital, that is. It’s all nonsensical, no actual basis but the mind’s strife to put order in the chaos of life.” You had giggled, staring at him. “Don’t make that face!”

Simon was positive he wasn’t making any face whatsoever, it was well known he was a stone and what could you see? He had lifted his mask over his nose to eat, you couldn’t observe a single thing!

“You have very expressive eyes. And I’m going to tell you, after the shift is over, I’m as superstitious as they come!”

You did tell him, when the sun was grazing the horizon and he was having a smoke, dreading that he had to go home, if his sparse apartment could have been called that.

You were standing next to him, your own cigarette between your fingers, a colorful T-shirt half hidden under your hoodie and leather jacket. He had come to realize you only wore your more professional clothes during the day; when you had to work nights, you preferred more casual stuff, that made you look younger than your years. He hated that he could notice that, and that this information made his black heart swell a little.

“There are a handful of superstitions any hospital worker will tell you are true. The first one, the golden rule, is that you never say that a shift is quiet, not while you’re working, or literal hell will break loose. Second one is the cycle: death comes in clusters of three in a ward. It makes no sense and it’s truly pareidolia at its best, but it’s true: ask anyone working at the hospital on base and they’ll tell you that three people will die in a row, perhaps in a span of a few days, but it will happen, all in the same ward.”

You had puffed a cloud of smoke, staring at the sky.

“The others?” He had heard himself ask.

“Oh, the new moon.” You had smiled at him. “Pregnant people tend to give birth more during that time span. It’s utter and complete crap, on a scientific level, but it’s all true. Also, when you’re walking a deserted ward at night and you hear your name being called? No you don’t. You keep walking and ignore the ghosts.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It is, but we believe in it religiously or the most of us do.”

You two had finished your cigarettes in silence, then you had bid him a good day of sleep; he had wondered if he should follow you home just to see you in your apartment, drinking your tea before trying to get some shut eye.

He had done this countless times, after particularly grueling missions, after you had gave all of them a clean bill of health, scolded Gaz (“Fallen off a chopper again? Is this the Darwin Awards sergeant?”) and Soap (“I swear to God MacTavish, you have fun at getting hit in the head!”) for their bumps and scrapes and asked him if he was sure he didn’t need anything to help him sleep.

He was well aware you had clearance to read his medical files, the list of prescriptions he was under, even the stuff the psychiatrist on base had given him to help him navigate his life; he didn’t want any of that, he only needed to see you safe home, to find the strength to go back to his own, so barren compared to yours.

He hadn’t gone to his hole immediately. He had followed you and hid to watch you brew your morning tea and eat a couple of biscuits. The sky had become overcast, yet to him you were still bathed in sunlight, your cozy apartment filled him with a longing he wasn’t capable to bear: would you let him sleep on your small couch? He wouldn’t do anything else but curl there under one of your quaint blankets (he had a preference for the crochet one, but he would have taken anything, really, a rescued dog would accept any scrap of love it was given), lulled to sleep by your presence.

What a loser, right?

It’s raining by the time your date ends.

Simon can’t hear what the douchebag is telling you, but he can’t help the satisfied smile on his face when he sees the guy leave with his tail between his legs: whatever that is, it didn’t work with you and never will.

He tails you from afar, your obnoxious umbrella dotted with pink hearts is the beacon that helps him spot you amidst all the people running from the rain; he doesn’t care that he’s drenched, he’s been through worse.

He stops and ducks in the alleyway he uses to keep an eye on your apartment, waiting for the right moment to hop on to the small balcony where all your plants live.

He doesn’t usually lets himself get so close to you, tonight he can’t help himself: he’s going to listen to you get ready for bed and then go, he’s become hungrier and hungrier for your presence, looking from afar it’s not cutting it anymore. And he’s not going to see you for a whole week, he needs in his bones to absorb whatever little scrapes of your life he possibly can, until you’re back to the base.

He listens as you walk around the apartment barefoot, your clothes hitting the bathroom floor, the whisper of the clothes you wear at home, when you unfold it from its place on the dresser (once he had almost ogled you when you were changing clothes; he had managed to turn around before he could have seen more than he should have, yet the image of your bare back had hunted him for days), some inane documentary on the telly keeping you company as you remove your makeup. It’s all so familiar, so homely, a routine he knows by heart and that is never going to be his, and that relaxes him: if he were yours he would brush his teeth side by side with you, maybe poke at you with his elbow just to make you laugh, he’d carry you to bed bridal style and keep watch until you fall asleep all curled up in his arms. If he were yours, but he’s never going to belong to you.

“Simon?” Your voice comes from the French doors.

His training doesn’t make him jump in surprise, on the inside his heart is hammering like crazy against his ribs.

He stands still, he doesn’t move a single muscle as he hears you exit the warmth of your apartment to join him where the storm is raging.

You stand next to where he is, the two of you sheltered by the worse of the water by the balcony over yours. With the corner of your eyes you see how drenched he is and you have to fight the instinct to scold him from courting pneumonia.

“I have to admit it has taken me a little to notice what you were doing. I thought I was going mad but then I stumbled upon that guy who didn’t understand I wasn’t interested in him: he was petrified and had begged me not to tell ‘my big friend with the skull mask’ that I had met him by chance while queuing at Costa.”

You stare at his hood, still stubbornly covering his face.

You don’t try to uncover his head, you understand that he needs his space and this silence, broken by the rumbling of a thunder.

You’re not mad at him, puzzled yes, but not angry.

“Is it always going to be like this, Simon? You hiding where the borders of my life begin? What if I meet the right person, what then?”

Your words break the spell that keeps him rooted where he is, he scoffs and turns his head to stare at you; you see something dangle from his face, one of the straps of the surgical mask has broken and now he’s naked in front of you, the darkness of the night his only cover.

You’re so close to him he can make out the soft angles of your face, the warm light in your eyes: you should be screaming at him, call the cops on him, yet you’re staring not precisely at the mangled thing he calls his face. He’s the one who has been hiding in the shadows, yet you’re still giving him his space.

“Would you keep on doing this?” You ask.

You’re so close, closer than he’s ever let most of the people be, so close that he can smell your perfume and your face cream.

“What would you do if I told you to stop?”

“I would.”

Those words cut him like knives: it would kill him to stop hunting for the scraps you had, unintentionally, given him, but he would, for your happiness.

“What if I tell you to come inside?”

“You can’t ask me that.”

His voice trembles and he’s a child again, defenseless in the snares of his father.

“Why?”

You’re fully in his space now, you can feel his warmth and he yours. The cotton of your tracksuit drenched with the raindrops falling from his leather jacket.

“Answer me, Simon.”

Your eyes are still avoiding his face, you’re still granting him this sliver of respect when you shouldn’t.

“Talk to me Simon, please.”

You’re on your tip toes now and he can smell the mint of your toothpaste.

He can’t speak, he can’t breathe.

His hands shoot out to grab your arms, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s almost a bite.

When your taste hits him, it’s like a floodgate is being ripped open by the violence of a flood.

Under his your lips part and your tongue seeks his, snuffing out his groans of pleasure, your arms escape his hold and grab his hair under his drenched hood and cap, your body pulls him forward, guiding him inside the sanctuary of your home.

You almost fall and his hands grab your hips to steady you, his tongue shyly plays with yours, as if he’s still insecure of what you’d do, he submits to you when you pull at his hair so that you have free access to his lax mouth: cigarettes and tea, that’s what you taste, his moans rumble against your chest, until you let go, desperate for air.

The darkness of your apartment is broken by the small light by the sofa, not bright enough to show you completely his face.

“Look at me.”

His gravelly voice makes you shiver, yet your eyes stubbornly land somewhere on his chest.

“Look at me.” He repeats, your name like a prayer on his lips.

You lift your gaze and he moves the two of you where you can see him: all of his scars barren to you, his eyes blazing with his own need.

You can feel his hands tremble on your arms, his teeth chatter and it’s not the cold from his drenched clothes.

“We don’t have to do anything, Simon, you know that.”

And by God you’re not lying. You’d be happy to lay on the couch and talk for the rest of the night, you don’t want him to give you something if he’s not ready.

One of his gloved hands finds your soft cheek and cups your face, his expression has softened, he’s so unguarded and scared now.

“I know.”

He’s not sure his body is up for the task, not with the medication he needs to take daily killing his libido most of the times, but that doesn’t really matter in his book, he doesn’t care if he can’t take pleasure from you, as long as he’s making you feel good.

He feels something warm in his guts stirring awake, but he’s not sure he’s going to manage to go on with it fully. Would you hate him for that?

“Simon?”

Your hand is so soft against the scarred skin of his cheek; he knows you use loads of hand cream to fight against the normal dryness that comes with having surgical gloves on every day, the soft scent hits his nostrils and his desire becomes more solid, it slithers from his belly to his cock, stirring it alive.

“Let me take care of you.”

He’ll live his life for you simply following those words: he’d shelter you from any storm, he’d kill for you, if only you asked. He’d go to hell for you, if that meant that you’d be safe and sound.

You see something shift in his eyes; there’s still insecurity there, but it’s fighting against another emotion, desire maybe?

Under another circumstances you’d tell him that you want to look after him as well, that this thing isn’t only about you, but you think that he needs this, to show you his devotion, if you hope to give him a safe space. Despite the blood on his hands, this man is a nurturer, who doesn’t know how to express himself.

“Yes.”

You’re not surprised that he knows the layout of your apartment, that he doesn’t need to turn on the lights to guide you where your bed is.

You kiss him again when you feel his fingers tremble as they hook the hem of your hoodie to lift it up your body, you murmur soft praises as he divests you and you’re standing naked in front of him.

“May I take your clothes off?”

You wouldn’t mind being the only one naked here, if that helped him feel safer; you two can discuss and explore his hard limits later, now you need to tread carefully.

“Keep the lights off?”

“Anything you need, Simon.”

Outside the storm rages, inside you keep asking him if he’s all right as you slowly peel his clothes off, until he’s barren his scarred body to your touch.

You know how he looks on the inside, what those scars left behind under layers of muscle and bones, you can probably recite all of his wounds alphabetically as you kiss them; he’s so beautiful to you, hard planes of muscles you want to caress and explore, dirty blond hairs on his chest you hope you’ll rub your face against, that thick happy trail guiding your eyes to his half hard cock; you want to caress all of him, make him feel good.

He stops you before you can follow the newest scar on his pectoral with the tip of your finger: you have stitched this one close, managed to pull together the mangled sides of the wound nicely.

“Go lay on the bed.” He tells you, his voice more secure.

He helps you with the ridiculous amount of pillows scattered on the bedding. Lovingly he chooses the ones he thinks will be the best to lift your hips up and to rest your head: he wants you comfortable, and happy with the way he’s treating you.

His eyes drink your lax body open for him. There’s a little light coming from the sky outside, enough for him to make out the soft curves of your body and the patch of hairs at your center. He likes a good bush, when he was younger and his libido not so skewed, he would get it going just because his partner wasn’t completely barren and now he feels his cock stir a little more.

“Like what you see?” You ask, arching your back to entice him.

“Yes.” His head goes up and down dumbly.

“Kiss me?”

He lays on you, his body solid on yours, his weight stealing your breath from you, his rough skin heaven against yours.

You let him take control of the kiss, his tongue less shy as it plays with yours, his moans fuller against your mouth: you have no idea how much he loves your taste.

He maps your body with his lips, in his head he takes notice of the way you keen and arch when he nibbles on your throat or sucks on your nipples. His tongue follows the fat drops of perspiration on your skin, his mouth leaves bruising kisses on your tummy when your hands wind up in his hair to push him to go faster: he’s going to savor you, commit you to his memory.

“Simon please!” You beg, but he’s not deterred. “Need… ah!”

He nibbles your trembling tights, his stubble will leave a rushes on the soft skin and a twisted part of him is proud that you will carry his mark around. His hips kick when your nails scratch his nape: please, yes, brand him as yours, even if you don’t want to keep him, leave the proof of you needing him, even if it is for one time.

You’re already wet when his fingers open your lower lips to his eyes, you’re not drenched yet and he hopes his ministration will get you there so that he can drown in your scent.

The first kiss on your clit is fleeting, shy almost, your body responds by kicking your hips up, needy for more contact and he can’t believe this is happening: he must be dead and landed in heaven, somehow.

“Need you, Simon.” You whimper under his scrutiny.

“I’m here, love.”

His voice is lower, gruff against your folds and you keen, the vibrations torture against your nerves.

Reverent he hoists your legs up his shoulders to open you up properly, his big hands splay on your tummy, your fingers finding his to anchor yourself.

He’s shy at first, exploring your folds with his tongue, playing with your clit slowly, mapping out your response and thank God he’s holding you down because you hips kick up immediately, as soon as his lips wound around your nub to suck softly, your legs clamping around his head and if he’s not dead he wishes you’d snap his neck while he’s eating you out: there’s no better death in his book.

You’re trashing under him, your body arching, feet trying to find purchase on the slick skin of his back, to move away, to gain advantage, you don’t know, your brain is fried, your body a knot of overstimulated nerves, and it’s not because you haven’t had sex in so long. It’s Simon’s mouth on your cunt, it’s his tongue playing with you until you come all over his face, again. It’s his moans of pleasure when your honey hits his taste buds, his wicked fingers exploring your depths, bullying that hidden part of yourself that makes you see stars. It’s his hushed words of praise, his grunts when his cock slaps against his belly with every instinctual kick of his hips against nothing.

You’ve lost your words a couple of orgasms ago, your lungs are too busy trying to pull air in and out to be of any use, your eyes can barely focus on his, dark with hunger, when he looks at you from between your legs.

He needs you ready, wet and loose for him, if his body can keep it up for him to have a full intercourse with you and, if he can’t, he wants you satisfied with what he can give you.

He groans against you when your fingers manage to find purchase on his short hair. He lets you pull his body up to yours, until he’s laying fully on you, your lips seeking his in a hungry kiss that has you keen when you taste yourself on him.

You hiccup his name, cunt rubbing against his erection hastily when his engorged tip slides against your clit.

“Wait!” He chokes out, lifting himself from your body.

Even full of endorphins are you are, alarm bells start ringing in your head at the preoccupation in his tone: did you do something wrong?

In his head Simon is trying to list off the entire armory back at the base, desperate to reel his orgasm in: it has been too bloody long and he feels like he’s sixteen again, popping his cherry with the cashier girl at the news stand at the end of his street.

He’s not sure his body can manage a second round, he doesn’t want to lose this one opportunity to sink inside of you.

“Simon?”

You try to keep the agitation from your voice. If, for whatever reason, he needs to stop, you need to make sure he’s not feeling like he’s leaving you unsatisfied.

Over you, Simon fists the sheets and closes his eyes, head bent so that you can’t see his labored expression. He bullies himself into breathing slowly and steadily, focusing his attention of what his senses tell him: the soft cotton of your bed sheets, your rugged breathing and the sounds of the city spilling in your shared sanctuary.

He needs to control the reactions of his body, center himself on every muscle, every nerve, the same way he does when he’s ready to snipe out an enemy.

“Love.” He groans.

“Do you need to stop?”

His head snaps up, the concern and the affection he sees on your face break him: he shouldn’t make you feel so anxious for him.

“No.” He groans, his body still trying to fight his iron will.

“Simon.” You touch his cheek. “I’m happy if you’re OK, you know that, right?”

Oh Christ he’s going to come untouched if you keep being so gentle with him: he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve you!

“Tell me you have condoms.”

His need for you is a knot of pain sitting in his lower belly, his body is reluctantly following his orders, but his cock aches for you, every breathe he takes is a stab in his gut.

“The lower drawer.”

He stops you from moving. Gritting his teeth he reaches for the knob of the bedside table and fishes in the odds and ends, a light of hope burning wild when he touches the plastic wrapper and grabs it hastily.

He gently moves your hands away when you try to help him roll the condom on his aching erection: he will come if you touch him.

You help him maneuver your legs around his hips, your hamstrings protesting at the angle he has to position you, your cunt flutters when he, slowly, rubs himself against your wetness: he’s prepared you well to take him, you’re drenching him, the wet sounds like music.

He blacks out as soon as he bottoms out, when your cunt clenches around him, stealing his pleasure from him.

The cold wakes you up. Outside the storm is still raging and the bedside lamp is out of commission, it forces you to feel around until you find Simon’s T-shirt, still discarded where you have thrown it. On trembling legs you stand up and wear it, before you paddle to the living room; you’re pleasantly sore, the kind of sweet pain you cherish because it means you’ve been loved well.

“Simon?”

The sound of a glass being deposited on the table makes you turn towards the kitchen: he’s there, his massive form blacker than the night itself.

“You’re out of power.” He rumbles.

He’s dressed back in his jeans and hoodie, the hood back up over his head.

“It’s the power grid of the entire block. Weather like this plunges us back to the Middle Ages.” You try to defuse the tension in the air with your lame joke. “Come back to bed? It’s awfully cold without you.”

You stand in front of him, his body ramrod straight in front of yours.

“You want me there?”

You hate his tone, so clipped and collected. He breaks your heart.

“Why wouldn’t I want you there?”

The way his head turns makes sure you can’t look at his expression, and you can’t have that.

The anxious way he had stared at you after his peak had made all your alarm bells ring in your head. You had hugged him, making sure his face was hidden in the curve of your neck, you had caressed his tensed back until he had relaxed in your embrace, your voice warm with praise for the way he had made you come, repeatedly, on his face.

“I didn’t…” You don’t make him finish.

Boldly you enter his space again, one hand sneaking under his hoodie to find his warm skin; you need to risk it all, if you want to keep whatever link you have with him.

“You didn’t hear me complain, let me finish. You have no idea how hot it was to see you lose control like that, for little old me. You managed what no partner hell! Even my own vibrator ever could, Simon. I lost count of how many times you made me come for you, my maximum is two times in a row, and I needed a moment in between those. It’s not what happened with you.”

His hand snatches yours in a lax hold, you know full well he could break all your bones if only he wanted.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You don’t let the low growl deter you. Slowly, you move your trapped hand, and his, up to your face; you know he’s letting you maneuver him, man his size you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. You’re not sure how much he can see, yet you telegraph your movements anyway, your teeth biting the tip of his gloved middle finger to pull the garment away: if he wants, he can stop you any time.

You let it fall on the floor and guide his scarred hand between your legs.

“Can you feel how wet I still am for you, Simon?” He hiccups on a breathe. “Answer me.”

You can feel his full body shudder at your command, and God isn’t it the hottest thing ever?

“I do.”

His fingers start to explore your folds and you have to steel yourself or you’ll lose your thread.

“Am I lying to you? Is my cunt lying to you?”

“No.”

He’s breathless and, if you’d feel for his heart, you’d hear it thumping wildly against his chest. He needs to remove his fingers from the warm cradle of your cunt, yet his brain is stubbornly refusing to send the information to his hand.

“I don’t care whether or not you rearrange my guts with your cock, Simon. Sex is great, orgasms are amazing, but all of it pales compared to all the time we spent together just talking. Tell me you understand.”

His fingers clench inside of you and you moan.

“I understand.”

“Then, explain to me like I’m stupid, why I wouldn’t want to wake up wrapped around you. Why I wouldn’t want to explore every inch of your skin until you’re too out of it to even beg. You make me come on your cock? That’s a plus. You make me laugh and chat with me during night shift? You, somehow, know how I drink my tea? That’s what I value. You make sure I am home safe? That’s the kind of dedication I have never found in anybody else.”

His free hand grabs your hip to steady you, his fingers, still deep inside of you, haven’t stopped moving, plunging into you inch by inch.

“I wouldn’t mind sitting on your face until you tap out, but I’d be as happy to lay on the sofa and watch this awful storm for the rest of the night.”

There’s another storm wrecking war inside of him, two sides pulling him in two different directions: one that’s screaming that he needs to leave, now, before he embarrasses himself even further, the other is fueling liquid fire in his guts, all his blood tumbling, again, to his cock.

“I don’t need to tap out, I can bench press your weight.”

You don’t have the time to whine at the loss of his fingers, not when he hauls you up and against the nearest wall, knocking your breath out of your lungs.

Simon is fueled by desperation, one hand under your arse to keep you where you should be, the other fishing for his zipper, knuckles knocking against yours in your dual haste: he hasn’t felt like this in ages and, this time, he’s actually in control of his own desire.

“Please!” You beg. “Now Simon!”

“Need to make sure…”

You snap your teeth near his ear, you don’t care if you’re ready or not, the drag of his cock against your folds is driving you mad.

“I swear to God if you don’t put it in immediately I will murder you in your sleep!”

He moans when he breaches you again. Despite his need, he pushes slowly in and out, helping your body accept his intrusion, his mouth overs yours, drinking your shaky breaths.

A juicy curse slips his lips once he’s bottomed out, your cunt trapping him in your depths, warm and silky around his cock.

Your forehead knocks against his, your breaths coming out in harsh puffs as you try to relax your quivering muscles around him and God you wish you could see his face.

“So… warm, ah!” He moans.

You call his name, drunk on the feeling of fullness, of being owned, on his hands grappling the cotton of the T shirt to reach your skin, shredding it to taste you on his tongue again. He’s burning up, he feels too hot and your trembling hands on the hem of his hoodie are a blessing, trying to free him, his scarred torso now crashing against yours, his lips locking with yours as he moves, desperate in and out of you, groaning when you sheath him again in your warmth.

“I can’t! I can’t!” You scream when his rough fingers find your clit again.

He needs you to come all around him the same way he needs air, he’s teetering his own end, those warm flames licking at the edge of his consciousness but he doesn’t want to be selfish, to use you again for his own pleasure.

“Need you.” He keens, broken when the high pitched scream of his name becomes a long wail and your body tries to squirm away from his hold, his fingers grabbing your hip so tightly he knows he’s going to leave bruises on the soft skin.

“Simon! Simon!”

You push with the heels of your feet against his tailbone, desperate to evade his hold, your brutalized clit firing and firing, the pleasure burning through you, his body pulling you closer, his cock pistoning wildly in your warmth, the squelching of your shared pleasure spurring him on, your nails scratching his skin careening him into his own pleasure.

You come, your cunt wounding so tightly around him that he spills with a shout that you don’t hear: you’ve already blacked out.

It’s Wednesday and you haven’t left your apartment. You’ve barely made out of bed to try and sort out the mess the storm has left on the balcony, on Monday, when he had left only to come back with a duffel filled with black, identical clothes (you’ve lost this bet with the nurses at the hospital, indeed he owns the same outfit, go figure!).

He had taken a long look at you, marched to where you were trying to save one of the potted plants smashed on the floor, had manhandled you inside your bedroom (and you were giggling the whole time like a teenager), removed your home clothes looking at them as if they personally offended him and bullied you into one of his black T shirts; only then he had looked at you and growled “That’s better”. And now you’re laying on the bed, cuddled with your head on his shoulder, while you’re browsing on your phone, in the hope to find an online store that isn’t Amazon, to find some surgical masks with sturdier straps than the one he’s currently using.

He’s black mass on the colorful bedding, dressed head to toe in his black clothes, skull baklava to protect his face. Only his hands are free of his gloves and he makes you feel like a Victorian gentleman staring at a naked ankle, your eyes wandering from your phone to his long fingers curled around an e-book reader.

It’s domestic, and all you ever wanted from life, despite being so different from what anyone you know would deem normal.

You two have talked about his whole demeanor of the past years, he’s worshiped your body until you had to beg him to stop, that it was too much; in the dark you have made good on your promise to map out his skin until he was choking on his on breathe, too far gone to even moan.

He hasn’t let you see his body during night time and that’s OK, you don’t expect him to overcome years of life in the span of a couple of days; the fact that he’s lounging with you, that he’s accepting the amount of physical contact that comes with you hugging him and using him as your personal body pillow, it’s a miracle to you. Last night, when you were trying to watch a movie, he had let you follow the paths of his sleeve tattoo, ending up falling asleep, his big body lax in your hold.

“We should go on a date.” You say, turning your head to look at his masked face.

“We have been on dates.”

“Eating take out food Soap has bullied you into buying is not a date.”

You can see his lips break out in a smile under the baklava.

“How is he still alive?”

“He’s a fast bastard.”

“You should thank him.”

“His head would grow ten times the size, you wouldn’t like that, love.”

“We should still go.”

There’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is happening, that you haven’t cussed him out in the rain, that you want to be seen around next to him, skull mask and all. That you’re so accepting of his hit and miss libido: he’s made up in Heaven, somehow, this can’t be his life.

Using your own distraction against you, he rolls you under his body: you look so right wearing his T-shirt and nothing else, it’s a travesty to dress you up in something that doesn’t smell like him.

“And where would you bring me?”

You beam up to him, your hands caressing his sides slowly over the material of his hoodie.

“Wherever you’d like.”

Even if it’s eating out on the balcony, you’d be happy, as long as he’s living his life with you, not hunting for scraps: you want to give him all.

[edmundtheartist]

Connor reminds me more of Paul Serene from Quantum Break, both capable of being genuine but corrupt with self pride and obsession with success. They both have the role playable antagonist and as the player you decide how sympathetic you want your antagonist to be, but Paul is a sadder case because he used to be an endearing friend to Jack Joyce (the main character) but after an accident with his time machine he returned a lot older than he was not long before and he became a husk of what he once was, lost hope for the world and became blinded by pride, in the end he is killed by Jack giving him a tragic ending that Jack hoped to avoid, and that game is more linear in comparison but it has four major choices which three of them can determine the fates of four different characters, the final choice determining who survives while the other dies, but through those choices you can decide how sympathetic you want Paul to be and even make choices that help his corporation stay afloat and make Jack's journey more difficult, but with him you understand why he became like this. As for Connor it is similar as he too is very corrupt and prideful, but he can show signs of being compassionate such as when he defends Carlos' Android from Gavin and Chris despite it being a risky move and possibly expressing sorrow that the deviant is scheduled for transfer which is the first time that Connor can show consideration for others besides himself, and there is an unused choice in "The Nest" where originally there was context behind the case establishing that he killed a man that worked at a pet shop in self defense including a scene where the two went there and discovered the victim's address concluding the deviant likely went to the man's apartment thus deciding to look for him there, and during this period it was possible to catch up with Rupert BEFORE Hank depending on routes and QTE's during the chase (kind of similar to Until Dawn) and if he did then instead of Hank falling, Connor would confront Rupert who would explain his circumstances and plead with Connor not to turn him in, fearing he'll die, Connor then have a choice to arrest him or let him go, if he chose the former it would have him expose Rupert and deem him defective, Hank would catch up and congratulate Connor for his impressive work and calmly order Rupert to cooperate, the deviant would scold Connor and warn him that he's being manipulated by CyberLife (and presumably knowing who Connor is) with his last words being "We'll meet at Jericho" before killing himself much to Hank's horror, and if Connor chose the former he would tell him to get away and could ask him about ra9 to which he would explain is a god figure before leaving, Hank would rejoin Connor and wonder what happened, Connor would explain that he escaped to which Hank would be slightly disappointed about, Connor would explain that he let him go and claim that he was wrong about Rupert and that he just stole some seeds, Hank would politely warn Connor that it's still illegal for androids to pose as humans before suggesting heading back to the office to request an arrest warrant should they ever encounter him again. There is his decision with Traci in whether or not he kills her and her girlfriend. And also his decision find Simon or unmask the broadcast android where you if you encounter Simon, then Connor can show fear of death (though not traumatized like the flowchart says) or if you encounter the broadcast android then Connor can reluctantly but immediately kill him to save everyone else, wishing he could have left him alive but knowing it had to be done. Or deciding whether he will give into temptation to kill Chloe in exchange for information or decide not to shoot and give up an opportunity for himself. And at Jericho you can decide whether or not Connor redeems himself and joins Markus.

Before you read: This post has been edited. Please keep in mind that this was not meant to be a serious meta and therefore did not have the most thorough research put into it . Many of my friends have rebloged this post with very interesting commentary, and I expand on my points in a better way in further reblogs. Please check those out before you interact, because I feel this post alone does not fully represent how I feel about the matter. Every interpretation of Connor is valid, and this post was not meant to belittle anybody for feeling differently than I.

Most of whats below is as it was originally posted, aside from a few reworded statements <3

I find it incredibly ironic that a majority of the fan base looked at Connor and labeled him soft, innocent, pure, and harmless, when the whole point of his character is that that's what Cyberlife designed him to be. He even says it to Hank in The Nest.

"Cyberlife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans. Both my appearance, and voice, were specifically designed to facilitate my integration."

The whole point of his story is to show that he is not a pure and good person. Us, as the player, should know better than anyone that Connor is not harmless or soft. Connor is constantly putting up a facade because that's what Cyberlife needs from him. He is designed to integrate with humans - and Hank - to achieve the best results in the investigation.

A fan favorite moment is during Waiting for Hank when you get to snoop around Hank's belongings and ask him invasive questions in order to gain information about him for more amicable relations. It is not Connor taking a genuine interest in Hank.

Then there's The Nest, where Connor once again tries to bond with Hank. He tries to forge a relationship because it is what Amanda wants, and what Cyberlife needs for maximum efficiency in Connor's hunt.

There's also the moment Connor can snoop around Hank's home to find out incredibly person and intimate details about his past. Also considered a fan favorite moment.

These moments:

Are not real. They are not Connor being a pure cinnamon role. It is Connor putting on an act to get the best results. It's a concept introduced in the very first chapter of the game. Connor does not care about Daniel. He barely blinks at his death. But the whole negotiation, it is Connor's goal to pretend he gives a shit. Connor does this with every single victim.

This is not Connor feeling genuine empathy for these people:

It is him finding the best way to accomplish his mission without scaring off a potential suspect or witness

So many moments the fandom sites as Connor being a Good Boi TM is just him acting. The same act that he puts on to convince his victims and allies alike that he is a Good Boi. But he's not.

This:

Is Connor. At least at the beginning. He is cold. He is ruthless. He simply does not care. The only moment of genuine joy he shows pre deviancy is when he is praised by Amanda for his efficiency in capturing a subject.

And that's the point. He starts off the game a terrible person who does not care for the lives of those around him because he's been taught that they dont matter. He only learns to become a good person through growing genuinely empathetic towards the people he is killing. That's why The Bridge is so important.

Connor spends so long asking questions. Asking Hank personal questions so he can adapt better to his personality. Connor asking questions so he can piece together the puzzle of deviancy. At the bridge, Hank finally stops Connor in his tracks and asks him the questions. Makes him stop and think about something besides his investigation for once. Why didn't you shoot, Connor?

It's after The Bridge that Connor finally starts to analyze himself and his actions too.

So, no. Connor is not a pure cinnamon role. He's a manipulative murderer who can only redeem himself by not pretending to be innocent anymore. For Connor to really become a good person, he has to go against everything that makes him a "cinnamon role" because that facade was made by Cyberlife.

[charlidos]

The Fellowship tattoo

Here's another famed story from the set of The Lord of the Rings: the one about how the mythical Fellowship loved each other so dearly they all got a tattoo. And like with all LotR lore, they can't quite agree how it actually happened. Whose idea was it, really?

Elijah Wood:

That was an idea that we had early on, but a few of the fellowship members were reluctant to do it at first because they felt like, “What if this isn’t a good thing? We don’t know enough about how the production’s gonna go now to determine whether getting a tattoo is a great decision.” So we took a wait-and-see attitude. During the last month of filming, we brought the idea up again and everyone chimed and said, “This is something that we need to do.” We actually had one of the guys from Weta design various scripts in elvish. He gave us pages and pages of ways to write the number ‘9.’ We finally decided on one. And then we all went to this one guy in Wellington, kind of an older guy, who has this parlor. He opened on a Sunday for us. And the fellowship entered and we stood by each other as we all got branded. I have mine just below the waist. We were all holding each other's hands, it hurt so much.

Orlando Bloom:

I think it was my idea, i dont know [laughs]. I already had a tattoo on my belly. I thought of the tattoo to celebrate our friendship, the time we spent together in New Zealand. Viggo called a tattoo parlour and asked if it was possible to do nine tattoos at the same time, on a Sunday. The man refused. The next day, Viggo went to the tattoo parlour wearing Aragorn's clothes, with his sword in one hand. So, he explained that we were making the movie Lord of the Rings. The man opened his tattoo parlour just for us. All the nine got the tattoo done, a nine in elvish. Even Sir Ian McKellen got one… We don't want to show it if we don't have to, we rather like to keep it amongst the nine of us in a way, it's our own personal thing. It was designed by Alan Lee.

Viggo Mortensen:

We all got the same one - the word "nine" in Elvish - because that's what we are, nine. I visited the tattooist a couple times, showed him the drawing and stuff. I didn't say anything about Ian McKellen or whoever may be coming in. He just did it. We did all meet one morning and it was an interesting event, and I enjoyed it. Half a day. Actually everyone showed up. I suppose we didn't need to add another scar to commemorate the real scars we already had. But it was a way of saying thank you to each other, I suppose, and reaffirming the bond that we had developed, and probably always will have to one degree or another, as actors who played these roles.

Dominic Monaghan:

It was a guy called Roger at Roger's Tattoo Parlor in Wellington. He didn't open on Sunday, but we only had a day off on a Sunday. After we all came together and committed to this idea, I think Viggo rang him. He told him, "We know you don't open on a Sunday, we'll make it worth your while." We all turned up there, I think at 11:00, and it was a real party atmosphere. We were all taking photos and writing in diaries. It was one of my favorite days in New Zealand, I think. We first talked about getting rings but then we decided to get tattoos - all together. Then we had a party and took pictures of each other.

Billy Boyd:

It was Dom's idea, but once we got to the tattoo parlor, there was a lot of "Where are we going to have it? Of course, we got the tattoos about a week before we finished shooting, and I wasn't really thinking ahead...so we still had a week to spend with these prosthetic feet! And I had the tattoo and so did Sean. They had to glue the feet on - quite painful.

Sean Astin:

To this day, Elijah insists it was his idea. Given half a chance, though, Orlando will also take credit (or responsibility, or blame). And while Viggo has never sought any recognition for his role in the episode, I'm pretty sure he was a major player. Regardless of it's origin, I do know that the seed was planted shortly after we arrived in New Zealand, and took root in the months that followed. Every so often, someone (usually Elijah) would bring it up, and someone else would second the notion. Then we'd all forget about it. In the final week of principal photography, however, as it finally began to dawn on us that the adventure was really going to come to an end and we'd all be going home, the discussion began anew - this time with an almost religious fervour.

Brett Beattie:

I remember Elijah Wood actually approached me first and invited me. And to tell you the truth, my biggest concern at the time was John Rhys-Davies. I knew that this wasn’t supposed to be for me to be asked to get this tattoo. So I said I had to think about it. But Beattie relented when Viggo Mortensen and Orlando Bloom asked him again the following day. So, on a Sunday afternoon, Beattie, Mortensen, Bloom, Wood, Astin, Ian McKellen, Billy Boyd, and Dominic Monaghan headed to a tattoo parlor in Wellington to get elvish numerals engraved on their bodies. It was an honor for Beattie.

John Rhys-Davies: 

Those drunken little hobbits. ... The little bastards got drunk and came to me and said, "We're all going to have a tattoo of the Elvish word for nine. Nine in the Fellowship, and we're all going to have this tattoo." So I did what any self-respecting actor would do when faced with a stunt that might very well imperil his life. I sent my stunt double to have it. Seems fair to me, doesn't it? I'm not going to be tattooed by some drunken Maori. ... Not me. I'm a coward.

Orlando:

I took Sean Bean down to a tattoo parlor in New York about a month and a half ago, because he was not in New Zealand when we got ours. So we got his done downtown. There were nine of us, nine tattoos.

Sean Bean:

We all got together one night near the end of the shoot. We'd had a few drinks and decided we needed to get something to celebrate this, something so that the experience would live for ever in our memories. I was the last to get it. [Orlando Bloom] dragged me to get it done in New York recently. I think everyone thought I'd chicken out but I've completed the circle now. I'd never have got another one if it hadn't been for a really special reason like this. And let's face it, it's not often you make a film and want to go and get a tattoo to remember it by.

Bonus (from Harry Knowles):

When I saw the design, I will not break the trust and reveal what it is… but folks… After I saw it, I went to an area and just teared up. That is how much these folks believe in what they have done. When I asked if Sean was going to get his, Viggo and Orlando shared a look… a smile…. And yes.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XV - Beneventum

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 45k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: look who it is! hiii! sorry this chapter is a tad late, im afraid the rise of f*cism in my country and my current ear infection are to blame. oh, if i only had a strong roman general with big big forearms to save me … ♡

centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XV - Beneventum

You don’t plan to do it. You really don’t.

But when you have dressed and adjusted your veil in front of the small mirror that sits in the corner of the room and step down into the atrium, Acacius is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a servant greets you at the bottom of the stairs. “My lady Vestal, I have prepared a light meal for you if you would like some food?”

“Is there drink too?” You enquire gently and at the woman's nod, you follow her back to the dining room you remember from last night. “Has the General already taken his food?”

She generously pours you a cup of what looks like some kind of juice and shakes her head, smiling like the mere idea is a silly one to entertain. “Oh no, the General was up before dawn and rode off to see his soldiers. He should be down by the fields. Would you like me to have a message sent to him? It is not very far.”

“No,” you respond a bit too quickly. You hope to cover the slight blush that creeps onto your cheeks with your cup by bringing it to your mouth and drinking. The juice tastes of oranges along with other fruits and you nod in approval, giving the woman a faint smile before continuing. “I know the General is a very busy man. I was merely wondering whether or not to save him any of this.”

The woman seems to swallow the ruse because she laughs at that, once again shaking her head. “Oh no, my dear, this is all for you. But I promise you, when he returns, I will offer him the same and more. Neither of you shall go hungry in our house.”

“You are very kind.” You smile. Your appetite and your mood have exponentially increased at the unexpected news of Acacius’s absence. You busy yourself with your food, tasting a bit of everything that is offered up in front of you. But your mind is already out the front door. Because you really didn't plan to do it. But if Acacius is providing you with a perfect opportunity to slip through the bars of your cage, you will not be so stupid as to ask for his permission.

Stomach filled with bread and drink, you rush back upstairs to gather your coins and a coat. The sun makes the weather seem slightly less bleak, but the cold is still all around you and you aren’t sure how long you will be. You make it out of the villa and through the gardens without an issue. It is only when you reach the entrance gate that separates the grounds from the town that you run into a problem. A problem in the form of two guards that turn toward you as you step outside, their eyes flying over your form.

“My lady, may we help you?” The one to your right asks politely and you do your best to not let your anxiety show, even as your heart begins to beat faster and you absent-mindedly smooth down invisible wrinkles in your stola.

“I wish to head into town,” you say as if it is the most normal request in the world and step forward just to have the man on the left do the same, putting himself right into your path. But you can see the insecurity in his step, the wish to perform well in front of such high guests. And no one wishes to upset a priestess.

“There is not much to see in this town. I am sure Sir Orbilius would prefer to have you stay within the grounds.” He must be able to see that you are not in agreement because he adds; “A walk around the gardens this time of the day is quite beautiful.”

You stay quiet for a few moments, pondering your options. It will surely be a few hours until Acacius returns, possibly even nightfall. If you manage to be back by then, you doubt the soldiers would find it worthy to report of you ever leaving. Your eyes fly past the man in front of you, onto the streets behind him and the roofs further down the hill. And suddenly, an idea strikes you.

“I am sure the gardens are lovely. However, they will not serve for my duty. It is the Temple I aspire to visit.” You nod gracefully, gesturing toward the tallest of the buildings behind the soldier. He sends the other man a quick glance, swallowing nervously.

“Maybe you should wait for the General to return then, I am certain he would appreciate…”

You don’t even let him finish his attempt at keeping you inside the cage, your voice soft as satin as you step forward. “I can tell you are a loyal soldier. I thank you for keeping the people of Beneventum and the Roman lands safe. But you should learn to trust in the gods as I do.”

It is something no Roman citizen could argue with. And indeed, you can watch as the man sheds his resistance like a coat that has gotten too heavy and steps to the side, bowing his head as he lets you pass. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me my foolishness.”

You finally pass the gate but you don't respond to his request. Because it has just occured to you that you are exactly like Acacius, exactly like the man you are trying so hard to despise. That you are using your precious gods the way he did when he asked for your company for this trip.

You’re more than content to quickly put distance between yourself and the villa, like its mere presence makes you foul. A golden cage with lavish food to eat and gardens to roam and nothing, not a single truth around. It is the one lesson you have understood early in your life through your position in the Empire. A cage, no matter how comfortable and no matter how large, is still not freedom. No matter how good an imitation it is of the very thing it forbids.

For a few moments, you consider actually stopping by the temple and allowing yourself a moment of calm. You could say a few prayers, some of them the same ones you whisper to Vesta every night, of forgiveness and obedience and admitting your shortcomings in the recent months. But the sun is still out and with every step further into the heart of Beneventum, you feel lighter. Men, women and children fill the streets, running their errands or heading from one place to another, vendors push their carts and loudly praising their fresh ingredients to whoever will listen. There is no guard with you, neither Acacius nor any other man, despite being so far from Rome. And despite a sliver of fear that remains at that thought, you realize it feels good.

And then you suddenly hear them. Hooves that click on the stone pavement in a rhythm so strict it can only mean one thing: Soldiers.

You rush to the side, scrambling to hide behind one of the wooden carts loaden with vegetables and fruits, pretending to inspect some apples in detail. Through the red and green stacks, you watch anxiously as several soldiers ride past and you let out a small breath of relief when you can't spot Acacius among them. However, you do recognize one of the centurions that usually rides next to the General and you involuntarily hold your breath, wondering whether or not you should head back before any of them can report of your absence.

“Oh, yes, yes, we just had these delivered yesterday, still as fresh as they are in the fall–” The vendor behind whose cart you’re currently hiding has turned toward you and is animatedly gesturing toward the apples you are standing in front of. When he comes face to face with you, you can see the same reaction that Lady Orbilius had at your arrival. “Oh my, it is you! They spoke of a Vestal coming to our town but I did not believe it–” He stares at you for a few moments, like you are some precious piece of gold behind glass, made purely to be admired. Then, before you can think of a proper response, he reaches for a slightly worn bag and picks several of the fruits to place inside, paying extra attention to the apples. “Here, take this for your travels, please.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder to check whether or not the soldiers are still there but they are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, you shake off the brief faint you felt. “Let me give you some gold at the very least.”

The man insists that the food is a present time and time again until you decide that it is a lost cause to keep arguing and after once again expressing your gratitude, you move on, secretly wondering if you may be able to slip a golden coin or two into his cart on your way back.

A group of children giggle as they follow you down the busy street, occasionally hiding behind tables or columns when you turn around. It warms your heart to see them playing out in the open, not hidden away in expensive villas or worse–send to work on the fields when their small bodies will barely allow them to carry a bag of flour.

Both the temple and the soldiers are forgotten when you reach the line of shops you passed in your carriage the day before; one display more beautiful than the other.

After days of staring out at a grey landscape, at trees with no leaves and fields with nothing to bloom on them, seeing fabrics in all colors you could imagine, some impossibly mixed, feels like spring has come early. You let your hands run over the linen and peek into several of the small stores, occasionally stopping to chat with the owners or folks who notice your veil and ask for a moment of your time. Some pose questions about the gods, others ask for your blessing or prayer, one man even falls to his knees and begins to weep.

You’ve never considered how distance would make people perceive you so differently, how to them you and your veil belong to a world they usually just hear about, to Rome with all its imposing temples and politics and the colosseum.

You find your way to a corner shop that carries beautifully woven scarves and jewelry of all kinds, a slight mist hanging in the air that reminds you of the smell of stone pines in the summer. The way the clothes are arranged feels a bit like Aquila’s shop back home and you feel a sense of comfort settling over you at the thought that some things are the same, no matter where in the Empire you are.

A woman, no older than thirty, beckons you inside, treading lightly beside you as you let your eyes wander over the displays. “These are beautiful,” you hum quietly when your eyes land on a set of earrings and a matching bracelet, both made from a light gold with green stones worked into them.

“You have a good eye,” the woman compliments, reaching for the gold bracelet and holding it up to the light for you. Her gaze briefly passes over your veil and a genuine smile decorates her face. “Though I am sure these stones are nothing compared to the kind you can buy in Rome.”

“No,” you mutter. “These are more beautiful than those in Rome. They’re …” You struggle to find the right word. “More natural. The fine lines in this one– I have not seen anything like this before. Like it was brought straight from the mines.”

A small laugh escapes the woman and she nods again. “I told you you have a good eye. These were made by the blacksmith in town. He purchases stones and metals from the merchants when they pass through town and creates fine jewelry for us to sell. Nowhere else would he have so many options.” A small glint sneaks into her eyes. “Many high ranking men pass through Beneventum and stay for a night or two. It is usually about a week before their return to Rome that they remember they need to bring their wives something.”

“So the men's forgetfulness keeps you in business?” You ask with a small laughter and she sends you a clandestine look.

“That and their bad conscience.” It doesn’t seem like a big deal to her, an off-hand mention of the fact that many of the noble and proper men find no fault in keeping more than one lover, especially during long and straining journeys. You nod distantly, your eyes fixing on the green stones as you silently wonder if Acacius does the same. You’ve been retiring early and despite your tents usually being erected near each other, it would not have been impossible for the General to have a woman or two enter his tent for … evening entertainment.

Clearly, that is what he hoped to get from you too. And you gave yourself so willingly, actually believing that he could be interested in anything beyond your forbidden body. The thought makes your stomach feel funny.

“My lady?” The woman asks, her laughter having died away, the smile now replaced with a frown. “Are you not feeling well?”

***

“General?”

Acacius lets out a small groan at the voice of another soldier entering the tent, letting his head hang down in defeat. He is towering above the table, both arms leaning onto the wooden surface that is almost entirely covered in maps and lists. He arrived to meet with his centurions at the break of dawn, secretly hoping to put an early end to their planning and head back up to the villa before sunset. But of course, things are more complicated than they would need to be. Caracalla and Geta have sent orders after him, some that clash with his initial ones and he could just barely contain his annoyance at the Emperor's non-existent decision-making.

“What now?” He groans quietly, closing his eyes for a short moment, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods are listening to just let his day end so he can go back to you, maybe even have another walk in the garden. He felt you tremble below his touch last night, saw the way the fabric hugged your curves and he already knows that the only thing he regrets more than starting this whole thing with you is ending it. He just wants–

“Forgive the disturbance, my General but Sir Orbilius wishes to send word. The Vestal has gone.”

His eyes shoot open and in one quick motion, he has straightened himself and turned toward the soldier who looks slightly alarmed at the sudden movement. “What?” He demands, his voice rough and full of impatience.

“The- The Vestal–” The young man chokes out and before he can repeat himself in full, Acacius has shoved himself past him and out of the entrance of the tent. He knows that he is being unprofessional, that while your safety has priority for the Roman Empire, he needs to appear calm and collected, the same way he always does.

But he can’t. Visions flash in front of his eyes. You could have been taken. He checked the perimeter every night when you were sleeping in the tents. Why the hell did he not think to check that of the house as well?

“The temple–” The young soldier is panting when he reaches Acacius swinging himself onto his horse.

“What? What temple?” He inquires, settling into the saddle as several of his Centurions do the same around him.

“The soldiers at the gates, they said she talked about visiting the temple,” he yaps out. The sentence is barely finished when Acacius spurs his white stallion on, the horse immediately falling into a gallop, rushing past soldiers that raise their heads and their gazes that follow him with growing confusion.

“I will check the town,” he calls over his shoulder, the other men riding behind him. “You close down the main roads in and out of the city. I want no one to pass through the gates while we are looking for her.” His men shout back in agreement and begin to split up, though none of them are quite as rushed as Acacius himself. He almost runs over some of the people passing through the main street, including an older man pushing his half-empty cart of fruits. Acacius doesnt even register the curses send his way, all his senses instead trained to spot even just a hint of you. Every moment, he half expects you to emerge from the crowd or to meet your eyes down one of the streets that lead off the main road, to see you struggling against men or monsters or both.

“Gods–” He whispers, half cursing them out for allowing this and half begging them to bring you back safe. His heart is racing when he jumps off his horse in front of the temple, not caring in the slightest that he is creating a scene. He pushes the large front doors open, stepping inside and letting his eyes fly through the room. Those who were praying a moment ago have turned around at the noises of his arrival and the crowd outside and he briefly passes every face with his eyes. You have to be here. You have to.

But you’re not. Which can only mean that something has happened. That you either never left the villa willingly or that something went wrong after you did, that someone has been biding their time and just waiting to strike at the right moment. A you presented them with a glorious opportunity.

He turns on his heel, marching through the crowd, his face hard like stone. Trying not to betray the way he feels inside.

The shops. You spoke of the shops last night. He is not going to stop looking for you until he has either found you well and alive or– he forces himself not to entertain the alternative. So he may as well start in the center of town.

His senses are still dialled up to eleven, ignoring the whispers and stares that he is attracting by marching through the middle of the street, his gaze passing through each of the storefronts. When he passes one that is decorated with colorful scarves and fabrics, he pauses. Voices drift to him from inside and through the entryway of the house he can spot what he has been looking for.

“Are you out of your mind?!” He half-yells as he storms into the small shop, the woman who was next to you a moment ago immediately stumbling back, her eyes widening at the sight of the General.

He watches your gaze change too and he can’t decide what upsets him more. The look on your face before you see him, so casual and nonchalant like you are just on a comfortable trip without a care in the world– or the one after you see him. Your eyebrows immediately knitting together, your lower lip pushed out ever so slightly in a way that makes it look like you want to cry.

“I was just…” You start but he shakes his head and to his own surprise, the noise he lets out almost sounds like a growl.

“We are going back.” He orders, not sparing the other woman one glance, his eyes only fixed on you. Like you’ll disappear the second he blinks. “Now,” Acacius adds impatiently and you nod obediently, handing back whatever you’d been holding and stepping over to him. His hand hovers above your waist for a few moments and he wants to grab you, wants to wrap himself so tightly around you that you’ll have no choice but to stay with him. But he has to remind himself that you are still in public. And despite the obvious anger at your choices, he cannot be seen touching a Vestal like that.

***

It feels like he has a grip on you without needing his hands. Acacius’s mere presence radiates the anger you see reflected in his face, his breathing heavy and his eyes dark.

You know you messed up. You half expect him to call for a carriage, to place you inside and send you straight back to Rome. That you’ve finally pushed him far enough for him to push back. You almost wish he would.

But he doesn’t. He steers both of you up the hill, ignoring the looks of the townsfolk and soldiers alike. He gives a nod to the guards at the gate when you pass them and you keep your head down, like you are a prisoner being led past a jury that has already settled on a verdict.

“Your guard will stay with you at all times,” Acacius mutters as you tread up the path to the villa. “No more sneaking off or going out– Nothing.” He leads you all the way upstairs to your room, holding the door open for you and– to your surprise– following you inside. You hear the wooden door close behind him and step toward the small window, waiting for him to speak.

He still sounds like he’s out of breath and you can hear him shift on his feet. “Do you even realize what kind of danger you put yourself in?”

The sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it and you shake your head, turning to face him. He’s all squared shoulders and crossed arms, his teeth grinding in anger. At least you believe it to be anger.

You have a list of things that you could argue with; that it was daylight, that Beneventum is a safe town, that you didn’t venture down any dark allies, that you were careful. But you already know they will do nothing to lessen Acacius’s upset. “Just let me be.”

Somehow, that also seems to be the wrong thing to say because he scoffs in disbelief, stepping closer to you, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you know what people would do to you? To a Vestal they have all to themselves, that has no defense with her?”

“Oh, let’s see–” You start, raising a brow as you too step closer, bringing you into reach of each other. “What would they do?” Your eyes fixate his. You’re certain you’ll see anger flash red in them in a moment. “That’s right, they would touch me, is that it? Not like you ever would, right?”

The anger never comes. Instead, Acacius’s eyelids flutter and he steps back, his entire body deflating like he’s been struck.

You immediately want to take it back. But you’re tired and frustrated and he is just so, so impossible and you don’t understand him.

“Get some sleep. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning,” Acacius chokes out, his eyes not meeting yours. Then, he turns and rushes out of the room.

You spend the rest of the evening wondering if you merely imagined the slight tremble in his hands.

notes: okay okay i know a lot of fighting but hear me out … things are happening. acacius realizing how easily he is terrified by dulcissima being in (supposed) trouble is not just really fun to write but also something that may be an important realization for him. just saying. see you very soon ♡

[seadeepspaceontheside]

In this role reversal AU, Vander is the one who became a crime lord because he felt like the Enforcers took too much by killing Fel and the destruction on the bridge but instead of rushing at Silco he tuns at the enforcers. Silco knowing they lost, begged Vander to stop because they were going to get themselves killed. Vander is too big to be held back so Silco out of a panic uses the knife on him but accidentally cut his eye. -

Vander in his rage, believes that Silco was the mole who told everything to the Piltovers and says that everything that everyone said about Silco was true and he should have never trusted him. Like in the OG timeline tries to kill him, Vander in his rage and grief believing he did starts a crime ring with taking in the kids.

Silco does run the bar but people believe for a long while that is a traitor of Zaun. (but Sevika and later Powder has been saying slowly spreading the word thats not what happened) Vi and Powder eventually switch sides due to Vander in this AU doesn't really control his temper and losing his cool because even though Vander is a powerhouse he's not thinking in the long term.

With this in mind, Vander does more shake downs of Silco and man handles his business, saying how he should just join him and to make up for his eye. Silco knows that its a losing battle to Vander due to being like half his size and not having the numbers…be he doesn't back down and it just riles Vander more to the point of just kidnapping him and abusing him (like in the nsfw)

Partly Vander does this to see Silco (bitterly still in love with him) but as well Silco lets this happen to him because he feels its his fault on how Vander has become. Eventually Sevika tells the truth to Vander about how it was Huck(OR SOME OTHER PERSON LOL BECAUSE IT CAN'T ALWAYS BE HUCK RIGHT?) that was the mole and it breaks him

Barging in the last drop, Vander does while he does his same routine knowing this in mind now, wishing Silco would stop him this time - But Silco doesn't and Vander stops and begs why doesn't Silco put up with it all, why Silco let him do this him, why didn't he say anything for so long

Silco just asks, "Would you have believed me?" And this time Vander breaks Silco by saying he would have even believed that lie because he has been so willing to forgive him all these years. they repair their relationship from there because I think in every AU they end up together (except the OG unfortunately)

Zaundad week - Role Reversal, Smoke and Burns on the nsfw!

[ragnarockz]

Ok but what happens when Rio asks to learn more about Nicky to feel closer to the both of them? How does our favorite detective react?

🥺

Agnes is super defensive over him and her memories of him; the little amount of time they had together

They're sitting at the kitchen table, their coffees gone cold between them as Vidal tries to break through the crack that is Nicky

Agnes does the whole 'if I can be jovial about this it'll hurt less' approach and that all lasts for about a sentence or two before her face darkens and she's sucked back into that excruciating long day at the hospital

"He got very, very sick, Vidal...it all happened so fast..."

Agnes slumps in her chair and holds her forehead, elbow to the table as if still trying to figure out how to save her son

Vidal can only sit there and embrace Agnes' pain

Her own thoughts rush in, thoughts of how she' heard whispering since coming to Westview of how Agnes' son died. How she mistreated him. How she was too young and how it was because she was a runaway with no family and no job and access to drugs. How it was because she didn't have a good man in her life. It makes Vidal want to vomit

She never tells Agnes this; she's pretty sure she's heard all these rumors herself. How many times did she lay awake at night and maybe even start to believe them? How many times did she tack them on to the ever growing list of faults?

"Did you do this all alone, Baby?"

"No, I had Alice with me."

And that crack suddenly starts to get chipped away and Vidal and breathe a little easier as Agnes starts to let her in

"You and Alice...you must have been close? Trusted each other a whole lot."

"Yeah, we were...I did. We...she took me under her wing after I left my mothers and she took care of me while I took care of Nicky."

"And you two?"

"What about us, Vidal? That's ancient history..."

"I'm not jealous! I just want...to know you. I want to know you from then. What got you to here?"

And Agnes has to stop and think because can she tell Vidal? Does she want to tell her? What difference does it make now since neither Alice nor Nicky are in her life anymore

"I was just a baby myself trying to navigate motherhood and my sexuality...I felt alone, alienated, and then Alice just... accepted me."

"You two..."

"Five years. Until...Nicky died and she went away to school, and I stayed in Eastview."

"That's a long time to be with someone at that age..."

And Agnes bites the inside of her cheek, tears pricking the corner of her eyes. Her hands are shaking, leg bouncing under the table. She can't look at Vidal, not yet

"...I had a ring picked out; kept it in my pocket for months...waiting for the right time..."

And the silence expands throughout the house. A different time and place; Agnes feels like she's suffocating

"You...never went after her?"

And Vidal's words suck Agnes back to the present, their eyes finally meeting

"I couldn't. Didn't feel right. She had so much going for her...I didn't want to tie her down to me."

And it's Vidal's turn to choke back her tears because at the end of it, that is all just so Agnes it's painful. The fear of having someone stay; asking them to stay. The fear of shared sorrow over joy. The fear of being seen. Te veo

"You should reach back out to her...I see the cards from her you bring in and hide...she still cares."

"It's pity."

"It's love, Agnes. Please. She still cares about you; she still considers you her friend."

Agnes stares down Vidal, studying the calm expression on her face. She blows out a deep exhale

"I wouldn't know where to start...does she want me back in her life like that? Does she care? Does she just send me cards because she feels just as guilty as I still do?"

Vidal bites her lip then, digging into her pocket before she takes out her own business card with a number scribbled in pen on the back of it

Agnes reaches forward timidly as if the paper is going to burst into flames; a secret she's is not allowed to know