#‘if you appreciate something tell them that! and if they hurt you tell them that too’

[bananasplit133]

I LOVE YOUR WORKS OMG

Can I ask if you can write some random headcanons for some of his variants??(like viltrumite mark, shiesty/cowboy mark, sinister mark, lensless mark, Omni mark, mohawk and full masked mark) 😔

THANK YOU, ANON.

Here's (Nicknames they'd call you + Random headcanons at the end) :D

Nicknames They’d Call You

Because each Mark has his own way of expressing (or suppressing) his feelings for you.

Alternate Invincible/Reader

ft: Viltrumite Mark, Sinister Mark, No Goggles Mark , Omnivincible, Mohawk Mark, Fully Masked Mark , Striped Mark, UNmasked Mark

----

Omnivincible - Pet, my mate, my little human

Omnivincible doesn’t see you as his equal, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t cherish you. He calls you pet with a sickening amount of affection, stroking your cheek like he’s admiring his favorite possession. When he calls you my mate, it’s always with this deep, territorial rumble, like he’s reminding himself that you belong to him. And little human? That one slips out when he’s being soft—when he’s tucking you into his side after a battle, or when he lets you trace the scars on his arms.

----

Mohawk Mark - Babe, punk, little menace

Mohawk Mark has a carefree and rebellious spirit that shines through in everything he does. He calls you babe casually, showing his affection without overthinking it. When he calls you punk, it’s a playful nickname that reflects his appreciation for your boldness and attitude. And little menace is a cheeky way of acknowledging the trouble you get into together, with a hint of admiration for your adventurous nature. He loves the energy you bring into his life, making every moment feel electrifying and full of excitement.

----

Sinister Mark - Annoyance, pest, my toy

He swears he doesn’t care about you. You’re just an annoyance, always poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. A pest who lingers in the back of his mind when he should be focusing on more important things. But when he lets his guard down? When it’s just the two of you in the dead of night, and he’s watching you with something unreadable in his eyes? That’s when he calls you my toy. His voice is low, almost dangerous, and he’s daring you to prove him wrong—to show him you mean more to him than that.

----

Target/Striped Mark - Lowlife, my dear, little thing

To Target Mark, you’re a weak little human, and he reminds you of that constantly. “Stay out of my way, lowlife,” he sneers, but there’s something almost possessive in the way he says it. When he’s in a rare good mood, he might call you my dear, drawing it out with that infuriating smirk. And when you surprise him—when you fight back, when you show him you’re not as breakable as he thought—that’s when he calls you little thing. His voice goes soft, almost fond. You’re not his equal, but you intrigue him.

----

No Goggles Mark - You, idiot, my weakness

He’s so angry at himself for caring about you. You’re an idiot for staying by his side, and he’s an idiot for letting you. When he calls you you, it’s always laced with frustration—“You. Get out of here.” But you never do. And that makes you his weakness. He won’t admit it, but the way his hands linger on you, the way his voice breaks when he thinks you’re hurt—it’s undeniable.

----

Viltrumite Mark - Beloved, my reason, treasure

Viltrumite Mark has no need for petty human emotions, or so he tells himself. But when he holds you, when he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, he calls you beloved. His reason. His treasure. He says them with quiet reverence, his forehead pressed to yours, like he’s trying to commit you to memory in case he loses you.

----

Unmasked Mark - Hope, light, angel

You’re the only thing good left in his world. Hope is what he calls you when he looks at you like he wants to believe in something again. Light is whispered under his breath when you smile at him, when you pull him back from the edge. And angel? That one’s different. That one’s said in a cracked voice, in a moment of pure vulnerability, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he says it out loud.

----

Fully Masked Mark - My love, precious, mine

He’s obsessed with you. He doesn’t just love you—he needs you. My love is murmured like a prayer, over and over again, as he pulls you closer. Precious is spoken with an almost painful tenderness, as if he’s terrified of breaking you. But mine? Mine is the one he says with raw desperation, with a steel grip around your wrist, with a look in his eyes that says he’ll never let you go.

----

RANDOM HEADCANONS

Omnivincible-

- He views you as a treasured possession, and any threat to your safety sparks his ruthless side. He'll eliminate anyone he perceives as a danger to you without hesitation.

-His affection often comes with an unsettling undertone, as he sees you as a part of his empire. He may stroke your cheek affectionately, but it’s always with an intensity that says you’re his and his alone.

- He struggles with guilt over his conquests and often tries to ease that burden by keeping you close. He wants to ensure you never feel the weight of his actions, even if it means manipulating your perceptions of the world around you

----

Mohawk Mark

-He drags you into chaotic escapades, often without a second thought. The thrill of danger exhilarates him, and he finds joy in testing boundaries—even if it leads to reckless decisions.

-He loves to tease you, calling you babe and punk with a playful smirk, but there’s an edge to his playfulness. He enjoys watching you squirm and will push your buttons just to see how far he can go.

-Beneath his carefree facade lies a cunning strategist. He revels in the chaos he creates, and while he enjoys your company, he’ll never hesitate to put his own desires first, even if it puts you at risk.

----

Sinister Mark

-He views you as a possession, often declaring you my toy in a way that sends chills down your spine. His fixation grows darker, making you both intrigued and terrified by his affection.

-He often displays affection in morbid ways, like collecting small tokens of your presence—things you’ve touched or worn. He might kiss your lips a little too hard, deliberately biting them to draw a bit of blood, relishing the taste as a reminder of his connection to you.

-He revels in the fear he instills, often letting you see the darker sides of his nature. When he whispers twisted fantasies to you, he may lean in close and trace the cut on your lip with his tongue, ensuring you know that your pain and pleasure are intricately linked in his mind.

----

Target/Striped Mark

-He revels in his superiority and constantly reminds you of your place beneath him. Calling you lowlife is a power play, a way to assert his dominance while simultaneously being drawn to you.

- In rare moments of vulnerability, he might let his guard down, but it’s often laced with condescension. When he calls you my dear, there’s a mix of arrogance and genuine fondness, a battle within himself.

- He enjoys keeping you close, but it’s always with an agenda. He’ll use you as a pawn in his plans, making it clear that your existence serves his interests above all else.

----

No Goggles Mark 

- Mark thrives on chaos and enjoys provoking reactions from you. His wild grin and giddy laughter reveal how much he relishes the destruction around him, and he finds joy in scaring you just as much as he enjoys the thrill of battle. He might playfully challenge you to hit him, genuinely excited about the pain, seeing it as a game to push your limits.

-He has a twisted sense of affection, mixing playful teasing with darker impulses. When he holds you close, it’s with an intensity that’s both possessive and thrilling. He’ll laugh off injuries, encouraging you to hit him or even react violently, finding a strange delight in the way you both navigate fear and excitement together.

-Despite his unpredictable and dangerous nature, Mark possesses an unsettling charm. He can switch from terrifying to oddly sweet in an instant, making it hard to decipher his true intentions. He might grip your shoulders tightly, leaning in close with a mischievous glint in his eye, leaving you both intrigued and unsettled by his unpredictable behavior.

---

Viltrumite Mark

- He tries to suppress his feelings for you, believing that emotions are a weakness. But beneath that facade lies a man who’s torn between duty to the empire and his desire for you.

-He views his love as a weakness, and though he tries to push you away, he often pulls you closer when it suits him. Your presence is comforting, but he sees it as a distraction from his greater goals.

- When he admits feelings for you, it’s in a way that reflects his indoctrination. He may see you as a potential ally in his conquest, complicating your relationship with his ulterior motives.

----

Unmasked Mark

- Your presence serves as a reminder of what he’s lost, and he often feels unworthy of your affection. He fights against his darker instincts, wanting to protect you but fearing he might hurt you instead.

- He admires you deeply, but his self-loathing often leads him to push you away. He’ll call you hope in moments of desperation, longing for the innocence you represent.

-While he cherishes you, he sees you as a light in his darkness—a burden he feels guilty about. He fears what he might become, yet he clings to you in hopes of redemption.

----

Fully Masked Mark

- He’s utterly obsessed with you and will go to extreme lengths to keep you by his side. His possessiveness often leads him to isolate you from others, believing he’s protecting you.

- He sees you as his salvation from the horrors of his world, and while he loves you fiercely, he often intertwines that love with his darker impulses.

-When he wraps his arms and legs around you, it’s a desperate attempt to feel whole. He often whispers sweet affirmations, but there’s a darkness lurking beneath his devotion—an ever-present fear of losing you to the world he’s created.

(this took me so long to write; im gonna explode)

[graysonfics]

the highly requested part two. part one here.

hotch knows he’s in the dog house. if it isn’t the way you proudly announce you want to share a room with prentiss, it’s definitely the way you ignore him unless it’s about the case.

he’s fucked up. the memory of you entering his office to find him still there even with the clock striking ten, paperwork strewn across the table, flashes through his mind like a nightmare. the disappointed look on your face as you stood there all pretty in the dress you chose just for him, on the anniversary of the night he made you his. now he’s not sure if you want to stay.

the case is done. it was an easy solution, one that the agents should’ve found sooner. but the bad guy is in custody, morgan’s saying something about team drinks, and you look like you want to go home and forget the past week.

“sweetheart,” hotch says lowly, away from the prying eyes of his team. “i know you’re upset and you have every right to be, but please can we talk about this?”

“i really don’t know if i have anything to say.” you sound defeated.

“i made a mistake.” he admits.

“this is more than just a mistake,” you sigh. “we had that dinner planned for months. you promised me you wouldn’t be late. i even put it in your calendar.”

“i know—“

“no, you don’t,” you interrupt, eyes flaring with hurt. “you don’t know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who’s married to their work. i love the job too, but you make no time for me outside of it.”

“that isn’t true.” he shakes his head.

“when was the last time we spent time together outside of work?” you pause and when he doesn’t answer, a humourless chuckle falls from your lips. “i see you every day, yet you feel like a stranger.”

morgan calls your name and you turn to look at him, “you guys coming?”

“you go ahead,” hotch answers for the two of you. “i owe (y/n) a dinner.”

you raise your eyebrows, “what are you doing?”

jj smiles from beside morgan, “don’t stay up too late, you two.”

the team leaves and you turn to look at hotch, “i didn’t pack anything to wear to dinner.”

“you look perfect just as you are.”

you both go to dinner. you take note on the way hotch pulls out your chair for you, orders a bottle of your favourite wine for the table, and even cracks a joke or two. you know he’s trying, but your hurt is still evident.

“this is nice,” you tell him. “and i appreciate you doing this, but it doesn’t mean i’ve forgotten about you standing me up. i sat at that table alone for over an hour.”

“i’m an idiot,” hotch replies, hand searching for yours across the table. “and i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

tears blur your vision, but you force them to stay at bay, “you really hurt me, aaron.”

“and it will never happen again. you’re the best part of my life. i’m sorry i made you feel otherwise.”

he soothingly runs his thumb over your knuckles and you find yourself nodding, allowing your heart to open that tiny bit for him.

soon, the two of you call a cab back to the hotel. the elevator ride is quiet, but the silence is comfortable and there’s a hint of tension in the air. the good kind.

hotch walks you back to the room you’re sharing with prentiss, but it’s when he gives you that handsome smile that you know you don’t want to sleep away from him tonight.

“can i come in with you?”

“you never have to ask, honey.”

your hurt eases as soon as hotch has you pressed up against the door of his room, lips searching yours as he makes up for lost time.

when you show up with a mark on your neck the next morning, the team choose to act like they don’t notice. even if their teasing smiles give them away slightly.

but then hotch grabs your hand in front of the team and loves you out loud, so it doesn’t matter. nothing matters when you have all of him.

[moonstruckme]

Hello Mae! I hope you’re having a wonderful week so far. I have never requested before but I saw your requests were open and I felt inspired! (Forgive me if I do or say something wrong!) I saw that you write for stranger things but I’ve never seen a poly!steddie before! If it inspires you, I thought a little hurt/comfort with some angst could be fun with the boys. Maybe a miscommunication between them when they’re first figuring out the dynamic and one of the boys says something hurtful to writer by accident (we know those silly boys have no brain to mouth filter). Thank you for sharing your writing and working so hard for us, you’re so appreciated and loved! ❤️❤️

Thank you angel <33

poly!steddie x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

“God, it’s worse than I thought.” Eddie rolls onto his stomach on Steve’s bed, dragging the chord of your headphones with him. “How many of these do you have on here?” 

“It’s the whole album,” you say. You’re watching your boyfriends all tangled up on top of the covers, half tempted to join them but too shy to do it. The carpeting on Steve’s bedroom floor is soft enough anyway. 

“Eugh, your poor ears!” 

“You’re such a snob.” Steve gives Eddie’s ankles a halfhearted shove where they’ve fallen over his lap, but really you know he doesn’t mind the contact. 

“No, a snob would tell her to listen to fucking strings music or something,” says Eddie. “I just have taste.” 

“What’s wrong with U2?” you ask. 

Really, you knew better than to think you’d actually get any studying done with your boyfriends. You knew it since Steve invited you over, but that didn’t stop you from going, pep in your step and textbook like a prop in your bag. You were barely ten minutes in when Eddie had plucked your headphones up from your head, taking a listen. He declared your taste in music “laughable.” 

“What’s wrong with U2?” Eddie repeats incredulously. “Baby, where do I start? I didn’t know I had a pop princess on my hands here.” 

You recognize the teasing in his tone, but the jabs at your music selection still taste sour in your mouth. “Oh, because Metallica is so underground.” 

“See, that’s part of it. At least Metallica is real rock. U2 is just—like—I don’t even know what to call them. They say they’re a rock band, but listen to this shit!” He sits up and tries to put the headphones on Steve, who wards him off with a hand. “This is not rock.” 

“You’re a total snob,” Steve repeats, laughing when Eddie only fights harder. 

“No, seriously! This isn’t rock. Plus, have you ever seen Bono perform? It’s totally overdone.” 

“I went to one of their shows,” you say. “Last summer.” 

“Fuck.” Eddie blows out a breath as he gives up on trying to get your headphones on Steve. He collapses against your boyfriend’s side, grinning. “My condolences, then.” 

“I liked it.” 

“Awe. That’s probably because you haven’t been to a real concert yet, huh? Don’t worry, gorgeous, we’ll get you to a good one eventually. Your ears will be relieved.” 

“Yeah, okay.” You roll your eyes. Neither of your boyfriends seem to have notice how you’ve gone quiet, both too absorbed in each other as Eddie lands aggressive kisses on Steve’s cheek and Steve grins and pretends not to like it. For the first time since you started dating, you feel bitterly alone. 

Part of you thinks you might be overreacting. You don’t usually care what people think of your music tastes—they don’t usually fixate on them so intensely, but you generally tend to believe that art is subjective and everyone is entitled to their own preferences. The thing is, you know music is really important to Eddie. He’s made it his life. He plays in a band; half his shirts are band tees; there’s a guitar mounted on his wall that he talks to more sweetly than either you or Steve. So if he thinks your taste in music is garbage, what does that say about what he thinks of you?

“Hey.” Steve nudges you with a foot. You’ve been looking morose without meaning to, not realizing anyone was watching. “You know he’s just kidding, right?” 

“Oh, no,” Eddie says, still grinning, “I don’t kid about concerts. We’re fucking going.” 

You start putting your textbook away. “I think I’m going to finish studying at home.” 

“No, hey,” says Steve, frowning now. “Come on.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows rise as he catches on. “Wait, are you seriously mad?” 

“I’m not mad,” you lie. “I’m just going to go listen to my awful music back at my place, where I can actually study.” 

“Please, you knew what you were getting into, babe. We were never going to study.” Eddie’s trying to joke with you again, but his tone turns serious when you stand up to leave. “Hey, hold on. I’m just messing around. Stay.” 

You turn around, unsure what to say and not really wanting to look at either of them, either. 

“I didn’t know you liked U2 that much,” he says in a softer voice.

“It’s not that I—” You sigh, crossing your arms. “I’m not, like, obsessed with them. I just don’t get why you have to rag on what I like so much.” 

“I was just playing, baby. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you cared, just—c’mere.” 

Eddie wraps a hand around your elbow, tugging you onto the bed with him and Steve. Your arms uncross by the nature of the movement. He gets you between them, kissing the side of your head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, words all mushed up. Not teasing anymore. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I did, didn’t I?” 

“No,” you say, partially because you don’t want to seem dramatic and partially because it really is difficult to blame someone who’s pressing their lips to your cheek like they plan to leech on and never let go. “Just, I at least pretend to like the things that you like.” 

“Pretend?” Eddie pulls away, looking wounded. 

“Try not to take it personally,” Steve tells you. His hand has found your neck, thumb rubbing at the tense muscles near your shoulders. “He really is a snob. He called me a philistine for listening to Tears for Fears.” 

“Well,” Eddie cuts in, “you are a philistine.” 

“But,” Steve goes on with a narrow-eyed look, “he doesn’t have to be such a dick about it.” 

“Right. Right, yeah, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Eddie devotes himself to you again, hugging his arms around your waist. “Really. I was just messing with you, I thought we were joking around. We can listen to U2 if you want. We can even—if you want us to, we can go to a concert.” 

He sounds so pained as he says it that it coaxes a small smile out of you. Steve, seeing, squeezes your shoulder encouragingly. 

“I know you had to fight a gag reflex to say that,” you tell Eddie. 

He grimaces. “I may need a vomit bag when we go. But if it’s important to you…” 

“That’s okay.” 

The sigh Eddie lets out is gargantuan. He sinks against your side. “Thank you.” He kisses underneath your jaw. It tickles, but he only latches on tighter when you try to get away. “I knew you loved me. I’ll never make fun of you again.” 

“You can still make some fun of me,” you allow. 

Steve makes a dissenting noise. “Not in an asshole way, though.” 

“No, that’s it. I’m swearing off teasing for the rest of my life. The stakes are too high.” 

“Right, sure.” Steve reaches around you to tug on one of Eddie’s curl gently. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

S.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

[johanna-517]

"Special and unique"

(CHAPTER 5)

You were sitting quietly on the small couch in your house, watching some cartoons while your mom prepared dinner.

"Mamá... ¿Por qué yo no tengo papá? " you asked, with a curious expression as you turned to look at your mother.

She stood still, a little surprised by your sudden question, but... After all, you were almost six years old, it was obvious that sooner or later you would ask yourself that question.

You'd seen your friends with their dads, and you'd also seen how the characters in your favorite TV shows had dads too. So, eventually, curiosity arose in your little mind... Why didn't you have a dad too?

Mom never mentioned anything about Dad, you never met your father until now, you don't even know who he is, let alone the reason why your mom doesn't tell you anything about him.

"Ah... Escucha, mi adorable (y/n), tú si tienes un padre, es solo que... Él no está aquí, él vive muy, muy lejos. Y no puedes conocerlo" She explained, leaving the kitchen and walking towards you.

"De todas formas... No necesitas un padre, mi pequeña hija. Te prometo que yo te voy a cuidar y amar tanto que jamás te hará falta un padre" She murmured sweetly, hugging you.

"Tú me tienes a mi y yo te tengo a tí, eso es todo lo que importa". She finally stated, her voice as warm and soft as ever, as she placed a small kiss on your forehead.

Oh, how right your mother was when she said that... You didn't need a father. You didn't need Bruce. Because... It was obvious he didn't need you either.

After the incident on the stairs, you had to rest and stay in bed in your room for almost two whole days. And... It wasn't even difficult for you to accept having to stay locked in your room resting these days, since, after what happened... You definitely didn't even want to run into Tim, much less Stephanie or Cassandra. So it was better to stay within the safety of your own room, without any of them being able to get close.

Alfred took care of you; in fact, it's thanks to him and his diligent care that you've already recovered quite a bit. The pain in your body disappeared; only small marks remained, but nothing serious.

In times like these, you definitely appreciate that Alfred at least makes time for you. If it weren't for him, living in this mansion would be much more complicated.

He takes care of you, listens to you, makes sure you eat all three meals a day, teaches you English, explains to you about this family, and helps you in every way he can. You're truly grateful for that.

You sigh softly, really... It was so boring staying in your room all day. Luckily, you have something to help you entertain yourself a little.

You take the notebook and pencil that were next to you on the table, and you start to draw a little bit of the first thing that comes to mind.

Your grip on the pencil is soft, and you have a calm expression as you slide the pencil tip over the white sheet of paper.

You draw a house, a small but pretty house, with a garden, three windows, a big tree next to it, and a sun in the sky. Then, you take some colored crayons and start coloring.

The walls of the house are yellow, the flowers in the garden are pink, yellow, blue, orange, and red. Of course, the tree is green. And finally, you paint the sky light blue and the sun bright yellow.

You smile slightly at the result... You've drawn the house you used to live in with your mother before. Of course, a simple drawing can't fully capture your beautiful, warm home. But at least... This will help you remember what your house used to look like. Your real home.

You look to your side and suddenly remember that Toti isn't with you. You lost him when you fell down the stairs, and at the time, because you were hurt, you didn't notice and didn't pick him up. And for now, since you had to stay in your room resting, you hadn't been able to go out to look for Toti.

But... Now you feel better. Your body no longer hurts when you move or walk. So you could go out and look for Toti, but you hesitate for a moment, not sure you really want to leave the room, afraid you'd run into Tim, Cassandra, or Stephanie if you left your room.

You sigh softly, trying to calm down a little. Toti is important to you, you can't leave him alone any longer... Besides, with luck, you won't run into anyone this time.

You finally decide to get up and go outside to look for Toti. You get out of bed, walking toward the door. Before you leave the room, you notice that the little monarch butterfly you knew had returned. She flew in through the open window, approaching you and landing on your shoulder.

You laugh softly at the sight of her again... You're so happy to see your little friend again. She seems to want to go with you, so you let her tag along.

You walk calmly through the long, almost dark hallways of the mansion, trying to remember exactly where you fell and lost Toti.

After a while... You finally reach the spot. You shudder a little at the sight of the stairs and remember what had happened; what Stephanie said about you and how she pushed you at the end.

You shake your head, trying to push those memories away. Right now, the last thing you need is to remember that moment... After all, when there are painful moments, it's always better to try to forget them as if they never happened, right?

With determination, you approach the stairs, and look around carefully, searching for Toti.

You frown slightly when you can't see him; you can't find him on the stairs. So you decide to go downstairs to see if you can find him at the bottom.

Once downstairs, you tense up when you hear loud footsteps nearby. Then... You see him, you see Jason for the first time.

He... He's definitely very tall and intimidating, with a serious, tense expression. You freeze for a moment when you see him, not knowing what to do.

You remember Alfred telling you a little about him earlier, saying that Jason had a somewhat complicated and strained relationship with Bruce right now, and that was why he didn't come to the mansion regularly.

As you look at him, you notice he has a small wound on his face. He's hurt.

A feeling of concern fills your chest at the sight of him hurt, and without thinking, you try to approach him, but... He stops you, not allowing you to get any closer to him.

"What do we have here? Looks like this is the new little freak Bruce brought to the mansion... Really, he should learn not to accept just anyone here." Jason's tone was aggressive, a cruel, mocking smile on his lips as he looked at you, observing the peculiar color of your eyes.

You flinch at hearing him be so directly hostile toward you. You feel afraid of him, of how big and intimidating he seems. But, deep down... You can't help but feel annoyed by what he said, too.

"I'm no freak..." you muttered under your breath, looking away.

"Of course you are, just look at your strange eye color and you'll know. Only a freak could have eyes that hideous," he replied, completely indifferent to what his words might provoke in you.

Definitely... This is too much, you can't stand him talking about your eyes like that, he has no right.

With anger flashing in your eyes, you walk over and try to push him away in revenge for what he said about you. But... He stops you instantly, grabbing your arms in a tight, almost painful grip.

"Do you really think... that a little weirdo like you can do something to me? How ridiculous," Jason stated in a mocking tone, staring at you.

You wince slightly at Jason's grip, and try to pull away, but to no avail, as he's definitely much stronger than you.

At that moment... The little butterfly on your shoulder finally flies away, going straight for Jason's face, as if it wants to get him to let go of you.

And he succeeds for a moment, Jason is taken by surprise and lets go of you, now using his hands to try to push away the annoying butterfly that was fluttering near his face.

Jason was already angry, so having a butterfly trying to attack his face definitely pisses him off even more. Without hesitation, Jason manages to catch the butterfly in one of his hands, and then... He crushes it, closing his fist tightly until the small butterfly is completely crushed. Then, he opens his hand and lets it fall to the ground.

You felt like your heart had stopped the moment you saw it. You watched as the butterfly fell to the ground, its wings crushed and broken, not moving at all.

Instantly, your eyes filled with tears, you dropped to your knees as you stared at your little friend on the ground, completely broken.

Before you could complain further, Jason simply walks away. He turns around and walks away with cold indifference, not regretting what he's done at all.

You watch him walk away and turn his back on you, your eyes filling with tears after what he did.

"Jason... W-why?" your voice trembles slightly, looking down at the butterfly on the ground again.

You reach out with one of your trembling hands, touching the butterfly's broken wings. You try to murmur soft words, asking it to move even a little, to not leave, that I didn't leave you. But no matter how much you beg, it doesn't budge.

You carefully pick it up in your hands, making sure to pick up every little fragment of its wings as well.

You try to stop crying, you try to ignore the way your hands shake, you try to stop feeling... The pain in your chest.

You arrive at your room, close the door behind you, find a small, empty box, and put the butterfly in it.

You stand there for a moment, staring blankly at the small box on the table.

'I... I didn't do anything to him, I didn't do anything wrong to Jason, so why... Does he do this to me? Does he hate me too?' you thought, sighing softly. You were definitely no longer surprised to being hated by someone in this family.

But even if he hated you... It doesn't justify what he did. He literally shattered the little bit of hope and joy you had. Because that's what the monarch butterfly represented to you; hope and a chance at happiness. And he just... shattered it right in front of your eyes.

It's okay if he has issues with Bruce, if maybe he's upset all the time, it's okay if he doesn't like you, but... He didn't have to do this.

The unpleasantly warm tears continue to fall from your eyes, your gaze still fixed on the small box.

How should you feel? Angry, disappointed, or maybe... just sad? You don't know. All you know right now is that you've never felt that way in your life.

This is a different kind of pain, not the same longing you feel for your mother. This is much more... cruel. Being hurt without even a shred of mercy from people like them is too much.

It's incredible... As soon as you arrive, everyone seems to hate you. Every time you meet a new family member, they do something worse than the last.

And the worst part? The worst part is that you have to suffer in silence. Because you can't tell Bruce, you can't tell your own father about the way your siblings treat you. Because simply... He doesn't care about you either. And you're absolutely certain that he much prefers his other children to you.

You don't want to tell Alfred either because you're afraid of what will happen. What if he also prefers others to you? What if he leaves you behind too? You can't risk it. For now, it's best not to say anything.

❦: (I was going to post this chapter last night, but my internet was failing too much, so I better post it today. Thanks for reading, I appreciate the support, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.)

✯/Tag list: @hopingtoclearmedschool

(If anyone else wants to be added please ask in the comments :D)

[noorpersona]

Hiii!!!! I cant tell you how much I absolutely love your writings! I was wondering if you could do a part two for managerial duties for Inarizaki!! Maybe where the manager has serious bruising and the team finds out... and theyre genuinely worried! Id be cute if Atsumu would apologize too!! But you dont have to! Hehe, thank you for making my day! I appreciate your writings so much!

YES I LOVE THAT IDEA! And you've made my day with your kind words <33 thank you so much for reading!! Here we go :D --

You had expected some bruising.

What you hadn't expected was for your forearms to turn into a full-blown patchwork of dark purple and deep red, an angry mess of tender skin that ached every time you so much as brushed against something. It had started subtly enough—just a faint soreness the day after the bet. But by the time midweek rolled around, it was impossible to ignore. Even writing with a pen sent sharp pangs up your arms, and carrying the team’s water bottles felt like lifting bricks.

Which is why, in a moment of sheer desperation, you’d dug through your old volleyball gear and fished out your compression sleeves. They weren’t a fix, but they helped stabilize your arms and dull the constant ache, allowing you to function without wincing every time you existed. The compression kept the swelling down, made the bruises feel less noticeable, and at least provided a thin barrier between your damaged skin and the outside world.

You hadn’t really thought much of them beyond that.

Until you pulled off your jacket in the middle of practice and heard the gym fall silent.

The first thing you noticed was that every single pair of eyes had locked onto your arms. It took you a second to realize why—black compression sleeves, pulled taut over your forearms, standing out starkly against your skin.

"Uh…" you started, blinking as the weight of their attention settled on you.

"What’s with the sleeves?" Aran asked first, brows furrowed. "Didn’t know you wore those."

Your brain short-circuited. "Oh. Um. They’re just… comfortable."

"Comfortable?" Osamu repeated skeptically. "Since when do ya need sleeves to be comfortable?"

Suna, who had been lazily leaning against the wall, suddenly pushed off from his spot and started toward you. "They look kinda tight." Without hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over the fabric. "Lemme see."

Atsumu, who had been drinking from his water bottle, glanced over and smirked. "Damn, manager, if ya wanted to show off yer arms, ya could’ve just—"

Before he could finish, Osamu smacked the back of his head hard enough to make him stumble. "Read the damn room, ‘Tsumu."

"Ow! What the hell?!" Atsumu grumbled, rubbing the spot Osamu had hit.

The moment Suna applied even the slightest pressure, a sharp, searing pain shot through your arm, and you yelped, whipping your hand to your chest as if you’d been burned. "Shit!" you hissed through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut as the sting radiated up your arm.

The reaction was instant.

"What the hell was that?" Osamu frowned, his teasing dropping immediately.

"What’s goin’ on?" Ginjima asked, concern lacing his voice.

Atsumu, still rubbing his head, now had his attention completely on you. "What'd you scream like that for?"

"I-It’s nothing," you stammered, holding your arm protectively. "Just—Suna caught me off guard."

"Bullshit," Suna drawled, eyes narrowing. "Take ‘em off."

"No! I mean, really, it’s not a big deal—"

"Take. Them. Off." Kita’s voice cut through the chatter, calm but final.

You hesitated. His gaze didn’t waver. And you knew, knew, there was no getting out of this. With a resigned sigh, you slowly rolled down the sleeve, flinching slightly as the pressure eased off your skin.

A collective gasp rippled through the team.

"Dude…" Osamu muttered, voice even quieter than usual.

Even Suna, usually unfazed by everything, looked taken aback. "Holy shit."

Ginjima let out a low whistle. "That’s gotta hurt."

The bruises looked worse under the gym lights, the deep purples and reds blending into a mess of tender skin, mottled and swollen in some places. It was bad. You could feel how bad it looked, just from their expressions alone.

Atsumu visibly paled. "That…" He swallowed thickly. "That’s from me?"

Kita exhaled slowly, his posture rigid. "You should have said something earlier."

"It’s fine," you tried. "I asked for it. I knew what I was doing."

"That’s not the point," he said, voice eerily even. "You let it get this bad and didn’t bother telling anyone? How exactly is that taking care of yourself?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because, honestly? He had a point.

"Go home," he ordered, folding his arms. "You’re done for the day. And don’t come back until that heals up."

"What? No, I’m fine—"

"No, you’re not." Aran frowned. "That looks painful as hell."

"I can still help—"

Kita said your name like a father would, the tone alone made it clear there would be no arguing. "Go. Home."

You huffed, crossing your arms—then immediately regretted it when pain flared up again. Scowling, you turned on your heel, grabbing your things and storming toward the clubroom.

The moment you stepped inside and shut the door, you let out a long breath, flopping against the lockers. Your arms throbbed. Maybe they were right. Maybe you should take it easy.

You had just started gathering your things when the door cracked open.

"Oi."

You turned, only to find Atsumu standing awkwardly in the doorway, eyes flickering between you and the floor. He looked… unsettled. Which, for him, was weird.

"Uh. Hey?"

His mouth opened, then closed. He shifted his weight. Fidgeted.

You squinted. "Are you… okay?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I—uh. Shit. Look, I didn’t—ya know—mean to…" He gestured vaguely at your arms, as if that explained everything. "I wasn’t tryna actually hurt ya."

You blinked. "Atsumu. I asked for this."

"Yeah, but—" He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Ya look like ya got run over."

You let out a short laugh. "Well, your serves do feel like getting hit by a truck."

Atsumu winced. "Shit."

For a moment, he was quiet. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he muttered, "I’m sorry."

It was quiet. Stiff. A little clumsy.

But genuine.

You raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Never thought I’d hear you apologize."

He scowled. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, shaking your head. "It’s fine. Really. I’ll be okay."

Atsumu eyed you, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah. Just… don’t be dumb about it next time."

Then, after a brief pause, he exhaled sharply. "You know you could've just told me you played."

You snorted. "Yeah, right. Where’s the fun in that?"

Atsumu groaned. "Yer impossible."

You grinned. "And yet, you all keep me around."

With an exasperated sigh, he turned on his heel, muttering something about stubborn idiots as he left.

You exhaled, shaking your head fondly.

They were all idiots. Loud, nosy, exasperating idiots. But maybe, just maybe, they were your idiots. --

The next morning, you woke up feeling slightly better, though the soreness in your arms still lingered like a dull throb. The bruises were darkening, but at least the swelling had gone down. You figured that maybe—maybe—you could get away with showing up at morning practice. If you just sat on the sidelines, surely Kita wouldn’t make a big deal out of it… right?

You stretched, rolling your shoulders, before heading to the door to grab your shoes. But the moment you opened it, you froze.

Sitting right outside was a neatly arranged little basket. Ice packs, your favorite snacks, a tube of aloe vera gel—and a folded note resting on top.

Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, already knowing exactly who it was from. Unfolding the paper, your eyes skimmed over Kita’s neat handwriting.

Rest. I meant it.

Take care of yourself first. We’ll be fine until you’re back.

P.S. Don’t make me come over there.

You sighed, rubbing a hand down your face before looking back down at the basket. It was thoughtful. It was so Kita. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head before stepping back inside and closing the door behind you.

Guess morning practice would have to wait.

[finniestoncrane]

HI FINNIE! 💚💗

I saw your post about feeling some type of way and honestly? Me too.

Could I request a soft/fluffy prompt with Gotham Riddler x Reader?

With 💣 from your Myriad of Kisses prompt list please!I I love how you write Riddler’s so I want you to have artistic freedom<3

Thank you💕

Gotham!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 650 💣 - a passionate, but angry, makeout session i would absolutely give him a big rotten smooch that had the power to break his beautiful little snoot if i was given the chance, perfect prompt for him!! 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: lil bit of angst, angry smooches that turn to fluff!!

Edward clenched his fists nervously, tightening the grip on his thumb in his palm until he felt it tingle, then loosening up, then repeating. He had to focus on something, anything, except for the look on your face.

If he had known that telling you the truth would have been quite this awkward he would have perhaps given it a bit more thought. He'd planned and prepared, but there was no telling how you were going to receive the news that he'd given you, even for someone as clever as he was.

How do you confess to someone that you're a murderer? And how do you then admit that it's because you're concealing a whole other side of your true self from them?

Not easily. And not with any measure of pleasant acceptance, at least not at first. That was painfully obvious to Edward, as he watched you, his words sinking in, settling, hitting you. Your mind, your body even, going through the motions as you processed his unwarranted confession.

He hoped you would say something, anything. But when you did, it only made him worry further.

"You... Y-You... You, you, you... You..."

It was all you could get out, so instead of stuttering like a mindless fool any longer, you pressed your lips against his and opted to put them to use in a far better manner.

The force with which you kissed him knocked him back a little, but luckily, you were clinging to his shirt, white knuckle grip so tight as you tried to refrain from using your fists to pummel him instead. Edward had winced as your nose hit his, but he was quick to shut himself up, reminding himself to be thankful that a forceful kiss was seemingly the punishment for his admission and not something far more painful.

Even without the physical pain, there was a twang of emotional difficulty, upsetting confusion in his chest as he wrestled with the concept of not quite understanding why you had reacted this way.

Between the kisses, when you stopped to let him catch his breath or let his glasses de-fog, you could get out a few words, little jabs that let him know how hurt you were, despite the fact that you were clutching his shirt and kissing him with a passion he'd never really known.

"I can't believe you would keep that a secret!"

"Don't I deserve to know who you really are?"

"Can't I be trusted with your truths?"

"Why would you think you had to lie to me?"

There were so many questions, and he didn't quite have an answer for all of them, not a suitable one anyway, so he chose to tell the truth again.

"I was scared."

Pulling back from the kiss, you took a moment to look into his eyes, your gaze softening as you realised how pitiful he looked, how terrified he must have really been. Afraid of upsetting you, of scaring you, of losing you. It was hard to stay mad at him, as his big, wet eyes, magnified by his glasses, looked deep into yours for your comfort and forgiveness.

"Hm... It's hard to be mad at you, Ed. I appreciate you telling me, even if you're a bit late in doing so... And, if I'm being completely honest..."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, slender neck convulsing with nerves as he waited for you to break his heart, despite the kiss.

"... It's nice to know there's a dangerous side to you... It's kind of hot, actually."

"Really?"

His smile spread ridiculously wide, cheeks pushing his glasses upwards as he grinned towards you.

"Mhm... so you say... you choked one of them? Care to show me how?"

His lips parted in surprise, chest rising quickly and falling sharply as his heartbeat rose, a tingle in his fingertips, his nervous system, and a deeper stirring as he watched the way your eyelids closed softly and your body moved in to his own.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Revisiting this idea because I need to round it out. This intro text is orange so you already know it's J Price focused

John doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth and questions it. Instead, he looks at the angel in his and his boys' home and goes, "How can we keep her because the boys like her?".

He doesn't like her presence, but he likes that his boys seem calm and interested in her.

She has been a fixture in his home for two weeks, going on three now. He takes notice of how Simon follows her about like a specter. Always watching her and asking questions about people that have died, wanting to know if his own seat is reserved in hell. He notices how Johnny goes out of his way to ask questions about God, and each time, she squints her eyes at him. She isn't confused about the questions, but she is beholden to some rule about not speaking God's name or saying what they look like. Johnny normally shrugs and then starts asking questions that really stem from Catholic guilt, John has heard him ask once, "That time locked in the church confessional, am I going to hell for not telling Father Morris that I did kiss the boy on my football team?"

She had laughed at him and only pressed a kiss to his forehead, saying something about "You didn't commit a sin."

He is not sure what Kyle gets out of their angelic guest. Most of the time, he pulls her close to him and spends hours just holding her. Kyle is the one who most often enjoys her quiet company, and if he happens to sniffle and cry? Well, she makes no comment on it.

The vulnerability that he sees in his men scares him. It's why he doesn't go too near her. Her patience and sweetness seem to be easily corruptible. He would ruin her, sink his teeth into her body, and taste her. He is almost certain that angels help fight demons, and he knows he filled with them, and he doesn't ever really want to confront them. He's been in the military since he was 16. He's seen things, and he's done things, all terrible in nature. He's had to play God himself and decide if a civilian was worth more than his men who had people to go home to. He is not proud of hurting innocent people for the sake of taking down more egregious monsters that took advantage of innocent people.

He's got issues with how his mind is muddy with what's right and wrong. He still doesn't believe in a higher power. He never will after the life he's lived. He does believe in peace, though, a quiet life for him and his team. But back to the higher power thing, he can't believe in God even if proof is sitting in the living room being fascinated by the Angel Hierarchy Deep Dive that Soap put on to see if any of it is true.

John sits down in his recliner, lighting a cigar. He's halfway paying attention to the show. "Soap, why are you showing her this?"

Johnny grins at him, "Just wanna see how close we are! Not all of the books say the same thing."

The angel laughs, and it's music to John's ears, and he looks at her. Her wings are kept tucked close to her body, and the injured one is healing up nicely. His eyes trail down her body, and he knows it's wrong, but he isn't a blind man. He can appreciate her shapely legs, smooth skin, and her plump lips with the almost exaggerated cupids bow. He doesn't think it's all that bad, really. He's not the only one struggling with a soft body in the house.

(He's caught Simon hugging her close, his face pressed into her neck. Kyle, when he thinks nobody is paying attention, enjoys resting his head against her breast. Johnny really needs a muzzle because he kisses her all over her face, always just shy of placing one on her lips.)

"You'll die that way." Her soft voice cuts through the drawl of the telly. She is staring at him. "I know that is bad for humans."

Johnny laughs, "Aye, scolding tha man won't work, lassie." He nudges her with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"It still isn't good." She keeps her eyes on John, and he feels like she is staring right into his soul. "Why do that when you could just face your issues?"

To say he's shocked is an understatement. The ash from his cigar lands on his lap as he tries to figure out what to say. He doesn't smoke and drink from any issues. He happens to like it.

"Don't lie and say you like it. You humans do everything to feel numb except heal." She shakes her head.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine?" John finally bites out, "And if I do it to feel numb, it's not your problem or concern." His eye twitches a bit in irritation.

"You smoke the same brand your father smoked and drink the same whiskey he drank... He didn't make it to Heaven if-"

"Enough." John growls out. He hasn't had to think of that particular demon in years. Not since the man shot himself and left his mother destitute and with four kids to look after. He's a strong believer that he wouldn't have run off to the service if his old man just got his shit together.

Johnny is quietly stuck on the outside of the confrontation. "Bonnie Birdie." He whispers, "Let's not talk about that." He tries to get her attention back on the video. "What type of angel are you?"

She only smiles and shakes her head, "I am a being that does what they are told."

John only huffs and looks back at the telly.

It's a few hours later, when John finds himself in his office. He's going over work and papers that need to be turned into Kate. He wants his mind to leave the sad image of him finding his father slumped in the basement. The splatter of blood and brain matter, the limpness and somehow stiffness of the body. His poor mother could not even have an open casket or see her husband. John had made sure of it as the eldest and now man of the family. He had an undying need to protect his mother from the man even in death.

"Let me look at you, John." His mother said he had been avoiding her most of the week of the funeral. "You have his eyes, and I just want to see his eyes again."

Those words are forever engraved in his psyche. He left for the service nit even two weeks later and only sent home money to keep his family going. The office door opens, and it is Her. She stands there quietly with a tilt of her head.

"I didn't mean to upset you." She said quietly. She doesn’t avert her gaze and stares into his soul again.

"It's fine." He gruffs out.

She approaches him and makes herself at home by perching herself on his desk. Her nimble little fingers brush through her feathers as she grooms herself. "No it's not...you are still hurting."

He doesn't say anything and doesn't plan to.

"You are afraid of admitting your first ever transgression is you running away from your mother." It's said as a fact and not as a question.

His eyes snap up, and he's staring at her, all six of her eyes, and a few on her wings are open. It is a hellish vision but also gorgeous in a way. There are so many warm colors, and it feels like he's falling and floating, and he hates it. It's a struggle, but he does look away from her and breathes deeply.

"Your mother, she would love to see you or even hear from you." She says, and when John looks back at her, the extra eyes are gone. She leans towards him, and he feels frozen as her fingers brush through his hair. It's a familiar and greatly missed comfort that he hasn't had in a long time. The proximity between them both makes the heat in his body rise. Without thinking, he pulls her into his lap and holds on to her.

He won't take her advice today, but maybe some other time.

This got long and I got carried away. I'll do Kyle next! Also I added that video because it was the video that inspired this blog post

Sigh 😕 (changes font to bonnie Johnny blue)

Here's a thought. Fallen angel reader.

Johnny was surprised when he found her. He was taking out the trash, rolling the bins to the curb when he heard the sniffling. It was strange, how the security system didn't pick up on any movement. That was neither here nor there.

What was important was that it was freezing cold and there was a naked woman on the side of his house. She had wings on her back and one of them was bent at an odd angle, the scent of blood in the air. Those wings, he thought, were beautiful. They matched her skin tone, brown, and dispersed in them were a multitude of pretty colored feathers. Little trinkets and small gold chains hung from her ears.

"Hey- wot ye doin' behind me and mah mates' house ma'am?" Johnny is trying to look anywhere but at her heaving breast that shakes with her hysterical crying. He opts to stare at her eyes, and it's like looking into the universe. There's so much fire and color, but he's thrown off by the number of eyes. She's got all six of them trained on him. He startles, and she seems to realize it, and four of them close and disappear.

She hiccups and sniffles and cowers away from him. Her nose scrunches up, and she looks like she is thinking. Johnny looks her over again, and certain alarm bells ring in his head. He knows he needs to go inside and get the others, but he does not want to leave her so soon without taking her inside. Every time he inches closer, her body shivers and curls into herself.

"Donnae be afraid lassie." He whispers quietly, "I jus wanna help."

That seems to make her perk up, and she stares at him, wide and teary-eyed, her sniffles calming down. "Be not afraid?" Her voice is soft, "yeah, be not afraid." A bit of life comes back into her.

Johnny holds out his hand for her, and she takes it. A shiver slithers up his spine, it doesnt feel bad, but he does feel the change in the air. "Let's get ye inside lassie."

More ideas from my mind I guess as I flip through my wips and write. It would be the Catholic that finds the fallen angel. Like this would eat ngl. Like them trying to nurse an angel back to health and unfortunately that makes them face their inner demons.

[stellarsturniolos]

━━ ⟢ ‘disconnected’ ╰ M.S.

pairing: crush!matt and dandelion!reader 「 au introduction 」 

content warning: angst, crying, arguing, unrequited love ( for now ) !

♡ how dandelion!reader realized she was in love with her best friend.

A/N: reblogs and likes are appreciated! i do NOT give consent for my work to be copied or uploaded to any other platform. thank you.

you have always been enraptured by matthew sturniolo.

you've known him and his family since you, matt and his triplet brothers were infants.

you can't even remember the first time you met matt because you were so young. but you really believe that his soul must've grasped onto yours and decided to never let you go.

from that very first day, the two of you were attached at the hip. for twenty years. for two entire decades.

where one of you went, the other always followed. you went to the same babysitters, the same schools, and always joined the same clubs and after school activities.

if one of you caught a cold, the other would play nurse until the sickness hit them and then you'd stay snuggled up in bed together until you both felt better.

you didn't even realize that you'd fallen in love with matt until you started to lose him.

you'd gotten so used to him being with you all the time. he was always right by your side through every heartbreak, every injury, every bad grade, every fight with your parents, every pms, every meltdown.

he was just always there. without fail. no matter what.

until suddenly ... he wasn't.

it was a random saturday. the third weekend in a row that you'd made plans with matt, only for him to cancel on you last minute. over text.

and that's when you found out.

you opened instagram to do your early morning mindless scrolling, and the first picture you saw was one of matt with the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen.

she was the exact opposite of you. she was tan, not pale. she wore makeup and a sundress that clung to her slender frame, not jeans and an oversized hoodie that was used to hide your body.

the caption read.. "my pretty girlfriend 🤍” — you felt your heart sink.

you felt hurt, of course, because matt had a girlfriend that he never told you about. you had to find out from fucking instagram as if you're just an outsider in his life, and not his closest friend.

but you also felt something akin to jealousy. your stomach twisted, you felt nauseated and completely bewildered.

you had so many questions. where did he meet this girl? why didn't he tell you about her? was she the reason he kept cancelling all of your plans?

you locked yourself in your room. you felt too queasy to eat, too anxious to hang out with your family because you knew they'd ask questions. they probably saw his post too.

you watched as the sun sank down until it fully disappeared and the darkness spread across the night sky, and that's when your phone rang.

matt's ringtone.

you hesitated before answering. "hello?"

"hey.." hearing his voice made your heart clench. "do you have a second to talk?"

you paused. you wanted to say no, that you were too busy or just hang up on him altogether. but you didn't. "... sure."

"okay. okay, good." you heard him take a deep breath. "look, i just.. i want to say i'm sorry for bailing on you. again. especially because i know how excited you were to go to the drive-in and —,"

you cut him off, getting fired up quickly. "it's fine, matt. i've gotten used to being let down by you."

"that's not fair." he said somberly. "i understand that you're upset that i cancelled on you again, but i don't have to spend every second with you. i can't, not anymore."

you felt taken aback. he'd never talked to you like that before. "why not? because of your girlfriend?" you snapped back.

you could hear him grumbling under his breath. "yes, because of her. she's my priority right now, okay? our relationship is new and i'm not gonna do anything to fuck it up."

"i'm not asking you to." you said as frustrated tears pricked at your eyes. "but you're acting like i don't matter to you at all. you're treating me like we haven't been best friends for the last twenty years."

he scoffed. "you're being a little overdramatic, don't you think? you'll always matter to me, but right now, i have to focus on my relationship with my girl." he huffed. "we're adults now. we can't spend every second together like we did when we were kids. we're not always gonna be that close."

'we're not always gonna be that close' — those words hurt you more than anything.

"so.. that's it, then?" you reply in a monotone voice. "we've been best friends for twenty years, matt, and it took you all of one minute to toss me aside. for a girl you just met."

"you're being dramatic again." he groaned. "i'm not fucking tossing you aside, i'm just —,"

"stop. i don't wanna hear it." you said as a tear slid down your cheek. "i hope you're happy."

you hung up on him and tossed your phone aside, ignoring it as it rang and rang and rang. matt's ringtone every time.

for the first time in your life, you felt disconnected from matt — like your souls were drifting apart and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIX - Dulce

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: 57k+ 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, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hi! this one took a little longer but i've been so swamped with my other work that i didn't get to uploading until now. as always, comments and support are greatly appreciated ♡

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

Chapter XIX - Dulce

Acacius’s cubiculum is off to the other side of the landing above the atrium and you let him take the lead, allowing the gentle pull of his hand to drag you behind him. You have half a mind to cast a glance around the quiet space, checking whether or not your sudden rush has any witnesses. But you seem to be alone.

“Here,” he hums as he lets go of your hand and stops in front of the door, pushing it open to reveal a bedroom not unlike yours. The curtains that frame the windows have the same color, the same airiness to them that seems to carry throughout the whole villa. The walls that may have once been white are more of a comfortable creamy color now, several alcoves decorating them. They’re not too big, raised a few feet off the floor and barely big enough to fit a small statue. But the largest of them, the one beside the bed, is decorated with a mosaic.

A woman facing away from her viewer, her garments floating around her while she holds a fresh bundle of flowers in one arm, the other outstretched to touch those that still rise from the ground, maybe not quite tall enough for picking. Her form is such a stark contrast against the deep green and blue tiles that are all around her, filling the rest of the alcove from top to bottom, that it makes you pause for a moment, stepping closer to the piece of art as Acacius locks the door behind you.

“She is beautiful,” you hum softly, catching his attention. You listen to his footsteps coming up behind you and then his hands settle on your waist once more and he hums in agreement, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“She reminds me of you.”

“Why?” You ask bluntly. For the woman does not wear a veil or carry a flame. “You cannot even see her face.”

“I do not need to.” Acacius explains simply. “I know beauty and brains when they find my presence. Even if they are turned away. Even if they are veiled.”

“Acacius–” You start but he tuts softly, shaking his head.

“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”

“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?

“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my … true intentions lie. Where they have been.”

You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.

The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.

But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.

The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.

“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.

“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”

“Yes. I saw you return with him.”

It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after you’ve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.

“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”

“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.

“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little … strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.

“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”

“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.

“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”

You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is … a lot, even for you.

“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.

“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.

“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”

You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”

His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”

“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”

You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.

Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.

“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.

“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.

Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”

“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.

“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”

You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”

Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”

“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”

“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.

“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”

He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.

“Is there anything else, my General?”

He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”

You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”

Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”

His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”

The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”

A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.

“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.

“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”

“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”

You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”

Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”

[fitpacs]

,

[what-even-is-thiss]

The reason people don’t want to work is that it’s just normal for them to be in bad work environments.

My issue with working at Walmart wasn’t the work itself I was doing. It was the circumstances around it. The concrete floor, lack of places to sit, having to put up with asshole customers, not getting time off for injuries, and bad pay.

If I had been given shock pads to stand on or a few chairs to rest on sometimes, if they paid me a livable amount of money and I was allowed to yell back at asshole customers, if they had given me any amount of training, I would happily work part time folding clothes all day and telling people where the swimsuit section is.

I’m a creative type. I’m a writer. I’m pretty smart, even. But if I could make a living folding shirts and listening to podcasts in one ear and helping people find the scented candles for 30 hours a week? I would. Leaves some mental space free for me to brainstorm. Lets me catch up on my reading with audiobooks.

But instead I was treated so badly by upper management and customers that I’m like legitimately a little frightened whenever I step into a Walmart now. And I only worked there for three months a few years ago.

I’m a good lower level worker. When I’m treated well. I like finishing tasks. I like being helpful. I like having some time to talk to coworkers and some time alone with my thoughts. I’m a frickin team player. And that’s how I was at my first job. I was treated well by my supervisor. I was trained. They were patient with me. I was so good at being low on the totem pole at that job because I was valued and felt like I was being listened to. I was able to sit still when there was nothing left to do which made it feel less bad when we were on a time crunch. I didn’t mind working hard at that job because it was fun even though I was doing all the low level stuff that the supervisors didn’t want do.

But at Walmart I was like that for all of two days. Then I figured out that nobody appreciated my work and if I worked in my normal people pleasing manner I’d kill myself because their standards were high and the rewards for meeting them were low.

So I slowed down. I started avoiding customers. I started taking a lot longer to get to my breaks and to come back from them. I became worse at my job because no matter how good I was at it there would be no reward, no appreciation, and I’d just be pushed further beyond my limits.

My only level of happiness from that job came from the people who were working with me. The old ladies and my department manager who made sure I wasn’t overextending myself. The one other young man working in the clothing department who always got sent with me to unload the heavy stuff and commiserated with me about the shoulder injuries, the hurting feet we were too young to have.

But none of that was enough to make me stay. We were constantly understaffed. I was constantly abused by customers and not able to do a thing about it. I was not paid much at all. So as soon as I had enough saved up for what I was trying to do and my last semester of college was about to start I handed in my two weeks.

I would have found a way to stay if I liked that job. If I liked that job I would’ve pushed myself to my mental limits to finish college and keep that job at the same time. Heck that job could’ve been a rest from college. A place to get away from it. But I hate that job so I got out as soon as I could.

I want to work. I want enough money to live sort of comfortably. I want to have some tasks to do to give my creativity a rest. I want to be a part of something. But the way that modern corporate run work environments are set up does not give me any of the things I actually want out of a job. And I think that’s the same for millions of people right now. A lot of people would happily spend their lives as a waitress or an Uber driver or a warehouse worker or a farmhand or any other “low skill” job you can possibly think of. But with the way the world works right now those jobs are absolutely miserable. It doesn’t have to be that way. I know because I’ve had a fulfilling part time minimum wage job that I looked forward to going to every week. A job where I was listened to and allowed to sit when I needed to. I miss that job. Especially now since I’ve realized that’s not the standard. It should be. People should look forward to going to work or at the very least not get mild ptsd whenever they set foot into a Walmart.

[nexus-nebulae]

im so determined to not replace things until i absolutely have to and my poor headphones are hanging on by a thread at this point. but they still work!

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

You always try so hard to hide when something's bothering you. You're so careful not to let your phone unlocked and out in the open, you try not to let your eyes unfocus as you think about whatever's bothering you; you work so hard to keep being productive despite your sorrows.

But they know you better than yourself, doll.

They see how your shoulders tense up whenever you leave Price's office and how you're always so wary of your surroundings, looking this and that way, waiting behind walls to avoid certain people. You can't hide your fears from them. Not from them. Not from the ones who were placed in this godforsaken world to protect you no matter what.

Figuring things out is easy. There's a reason they're a special task force. Swooping your phone from you is as easy as stealing candy from a little kid, and so is unlocking your phone (you need to be more careful about your passwords, love. Really? Your childhood's dog birthday? That's like basic information for them).

And when you come back to the room, flustered, fretting over your phone, it's there: on Price's desk, as if it was untouched. They hide the anger caused by their discoveries behind clenched jaws and hardened eyes and wait until you leave to begin discussing their plan of action (it's cute how you still look at each one of them to make sure they didn't see a thing).

Love, why didn't you tell them? Why did they have to search through your messages to find the reason behind your sadness? Don't you trust them? They're your guard dogs, doll, why don't you just order them to maul and gnaw and rip to shreds whenever you need?

It took them breaking into your phone to find out about the Sergeant who's been messaging you. They could read the suspicion behind your words as you accused him of pranking you after he asked you out.

Pranking you? Pranking?

They read the following messages, where he admitted to his lies – it was a bet, he said. Some friends had bet a good amount of money that he wouldn't be courageous enough to ask you out and then stand you up. He then had the gall to thank you for believing his words and going to the date. For dressing up "weirdly" and being delusional enough to think someone like him would be interested in you.

"just an advice: putting lipstick on a pig doesn't work lmao thanks for guaranteeing me the money tho" he had said.

Seeing red wasn't enough to describe how they felt.

Soap could barely stay still. He leaned his weight on one foot and then the other, itching to run as fast as he could until he found the bastards that dared to insult his bonnie. He needed to feel their bones giving out as he punched them into a bloody pulp. He needed to scream, to let you know that you were too good for all of those scumbags, that he and his mates were the only ones who could appreciate you, touch you with the reverence and devotion that you deserved.

Gaz felt like he failed you. The sourness of his anger mingled with the bitterness of his sorrow. He swore he could taste his emotions on his tongue. He always makes sure to tell how beautiful he thinks you are, how lovely your uniqueness is to him – his little porcelain doll he wished he could place on a shelf. To think some random man managed to hurt you and disrespect you under his watch... it was unbelievable. He would spend a lifetime spoiling you until you forgot about it. After he sunk his teeth into those men throats and ripped them apart, of course.

Ghost was the other side of Soap's coin. But while the Scotsman wanted to seek and destroy as quickly as they do in action, Ghost wanted cruelty. He wanted to take it slow, deliberate. One fingernail for every tear they made you shed. One bone snapped in half for every second you suffered due to their disrespect. If it depended on him, they would only live up until the clouds that covered your sun cleared up. There would be no surrendering, no mercy. You deserve thorough revenge, lovie. And only the muzzle that Price puts on his rabid snout can hold Ghost back.

Price wondered why you didn't tell them about this... incident. Why? Are you trying to defend those poor excuses for men despite how terribly they disrespected you? No, that can't be it. You're their angel, but he knows you aren't some punching bag. Are you afraid they'd agree with those bastards? At that, Price has to laugh. You're so smart, love, but so so blind. You still can't see how they could sell their soul to you, if you became a devil. You still can't see how they'd kneel down on nails and pray to you if you became a saint. After Price pulls a few strings and manages to get that scum dishonorably discharged, he and his muppets would have to work really hard on making sure you know you're the only thing that matters.

[classyrbf]

YOU'RE PREGNANT! — JJK MEN

SYNOPSIS...how the jjk men(toji, gojo, geto, nanami, choso) act when you’re 9 months pregnant and ready to pop

INFO...jjk men x fem!reader, fluff, comfort, reader is pregnant (obvi), mention of mood swings, cravings, emotional reader, jjk men being great dads

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

TOJI

toji has already dealt with this kind of thing before when it came to megumi, but it’s been so long that he’s almost forgotten what it was like. You’re waddling around the house, a stank look on your face as you stare at him. “Yes?” He questions, eyebrows raised. “I want food,” you simply answer. “Okay, what do you want?” He asks. And when you tell him you’re not sure, he lets out a long sigh because he knows this is gonna end in you getting emotional. You’ll complain your back hurts, your feet hurt, and then you’ll end up cursing him out for putting a baby in you. So all he does is walks over to you, and hugs you because he’d rather do that than get into a stupid argument about food. “Toji!” You cry into his arms. “I’m just so hungry and I don’t know what to eat!” You sniffle. To help with your problem, he starts listing off every fast food restaurant and food he could think of in hopes you’d find one appealing enough. “Chinese food?” He shrugs. You gasp with excitement. “Ugh, yes! Me and the baby could go for some orange chicken!” You smile. Toji just chuckles, “making the call right now, sweetheart.” He watches as you waddle over to the couch, smiling like a kid in a candy store.

GOJO

ever since he found out you were pregnant, he was at the stores buying whatever supplies he saw, doesn’t matter if you needed it or not. And till this day, when you’re about a few weeks from popping, he’s still buying the baby things. “What do you think of this, eh?” He smirks, holding up a onesie that says “my dad is the best”. “You’re gonna spoil her rotten, is what I think,” you groan as you reach into the bag to see what else he bought for your daughter. “More toys?” You hold up a fake set of plastic keys. Gojo snatched them from you. “I’ll have you know that she will be learning life skills at a very young age, thank you very much,” he scoffed. All you did was laugh, shaking your head at him in disbelief. Your daughter’s room was filled to the brim with clothes, toys, blankets, you were starting to wonder if you had any more room. “I can already tell she’s going to be a daddy’s girl,” you said with a sigh, rubbing your belly. “Yes she is,” Gojo leaned in towards your very plump belly, “isn’t that right?” He placed a kiss on your stomach.

NANAMI

nanami is the type that doesn’t let you do a damn thing by yourself. You’re reach for something to high on the shelf, he’s sprinting towards you, ready to be at your service. “Be careful,” he says, rubbing your back. “Kento, I got it,” you chuckle. His eyes are always on you, watching your every move. Especially when you’re in public, he hates when people get too close to you. He knows others don’t watch their surroundings and could easily bump into you. “Ken!” You shout from the bedroom. “Yes?” He peeks his head around the corner. “Can you help me get my shoes on, I can’t even reach,” you pout. Within seconds he’s on his knees, slipping on your sandals, and tying them around your ankle. He will even go as far as to paint your toes if you forgot because he knows how much you hate not having them done. Like I said, he won’t let you do a thing by yourself. “Thank you, Ken,” you kiss his lips.

GETO

geto literally pampers you. I’m not saying he acts like nanami, but I’m saying that he makes your pregnancy as comfortable as possible. “Sugu, baby, can you rub my feet? They’re swollen.” You frown. “Of course.” He grabs the lotion and casually massages your feet while you’re both watching a movie, and literally over the course of your pregnancy he’s become the best masseuse ever. He’ll also randomly creep up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist before lifting your belly, feeling the weight off of your back. “Feel better, mama?” He kisses your cheek. “So much better.” You nod, closing your eyes as you embrace the moment. You’ve even found it hard to shower while being pregnant and geto takes it upon himself to help you, albeit jumping in the shower with you or sitting on the edge of the tub while you’re in the bath. “Is the water too hot?” He rubs the soapy water over your shoulders. “It’s perfect.”

CHOSO

I’m sorry but choso is clueless. Not in a bad way, but in like a panicky way. You’re an emotional wreck through your pregnancy, moods swings like crazy. “Can you just get out please?!” You’re annoyed with him, bothered about the littlest thing ever and then in the next two minutes you’re walking out the room just crying and apologizing to him, kissing his cheek. He has no idea what the hell is going on, and you’d think he’d learn after nine months, but no. All he can is just sit there and comfort you. “It’s fine,” he assures. He gets your favorite food that you’ve been craving for the past two weeks, eating it non stop and then within a split second you’re gagging, pushing the food away. “Oh my gosh, Choso! Please throw it away, it tastes so bad.” You gag again. “But…I…you were just eating this yesterday…?” He’s says, confused before throwing the bowl of food in the garbage. Quite literally doesn’t understand anything, just confused to all hell, but he’s trying his best.

[honey-tongued-devil]

↞[arcane preference] founding out you were injured in crossfire↠

Since I've created a Bluesky profile and wrote my thesis on Arcane, I'll be posting both old and new drawings there as soon as the time comes. I'm taking advantage of this little space to promote my other social account. honey-tongued.bsky.social Also, I've received both comments and requests, but Tumblr decided I couldn’t post for a week (my internet connection is terrible). I want to let you know that I appreciate them, and I'll get to everything as soon as I can. So, feel free to leave comments, feedback, or requests!

Jayce: 

- This is the worst news he could receive: he's a scholar, he has no idea how to handle these situations, and, most of all, he's forced to confront his pride.  

- Not only was he unable to protect you now, but what if it happens again? Even if he's there, he wouldn't know what to do.  

- What if there's a next time? What if it doesn't turn out as well next time?  

- His self-sabotage leads him to distance himself from you for a few days, not because he doesn't want to be near you while you're hurting, but because he's ashamed of not being able to protect the person he loves.  

- On the bright side, for even just a second, he remembers the original purpose of his research: making the city safe, helping people.  

- But on the negative side, with no one to blame, more than ever, the people of Zaun appear to him as beasts, second-class humans who can't be redeemed in any way.  

- When he finally gathers the courage to see you again, he tries to make amends for everything: for not protecting you, for not being able to, for allowing someone to hurt you, and for not being there during your recovery.  

- He'll literally do anything to be forgiven: every morning you'll find breakfast in bed, if it's cold at night he'll prepare a warmer for your feet, and despite his squeamishness, he'll personally tend to your wounds, even if it makes him feel queasy.

Viktor:

- He tries to help you in every way possible, even ignoring his own pain.  

- He feels sadness, regrets that you went out alone and ended up in such a situation. He can't help but imagine the fear you must have felt, the confusion, and the loneliness when the guards intervened, and you woke up alone in the hospital.  

- He may be a scholar, but first and foremost he's a man with a moral code, and secondly, he's from Zaun: if he has any work, appointments, or lectures, he'll skip them all, maybe muttering a few insults in his thick accent at the most insistent people, and make up for it at night.  

- Plans, ideas, codes, anything – but he won't leave you alone unless you ask him to.  

- He takes care of you meticulously, respecting schedules, bringing you meals in bed, changing your bandages until your skin heals, and you're able to stand on your own again.  

- He doesn't mind helping you – as a chronically ill person who refuses others' help, he's learned to do everything on his own, and he's almost happy that his skills can be useful to someone else.

Ekko:

- Is it something totally normal in the lanes? Yes.  

- Does this stop Ekko from panicking? No.  

- He's the one who finds you and brings you to the others, but he doesn't want, nor can he afford, to be seen panicking. So, he swallows his despair and tries to act as normal as possible while ten other people rush to help you.  

- His face remains expressionless as the most skilled remove debris, clean the wound, stitch your torn flesh, and bandage you, but his foot keeps tapping the floor with force and speed, revealing his anxiety.  

- When the others insist that it's best you stay in the makeshift infirmary, he tries not to protest, but suddenly every moment of the day becomes an excuse to pass by: to bring you stolen sweets from Piltover, to tell you about some expedition, maybe even steal a kiss or fall asleep leaning against your mattress.  

- It's an overwhelming fear, but the fear of losing you makes him unable to think rationally, and all he feels is how much he misses you, even while you're right there with him.

Vander:

- A crossfire from the other side of the river was already a big enough provocation to alert him and prepare to defend the city or, if absolutely necessary, to strike back.  

- But you, as an accidental victim, are a huge problem.  

- He doesn’t have the heart to pull away from you, and when he does, he can’t help but feel frustrated, angry at himself, knowing he hasn’t been able to keep his city under control like he promised—to you, to Piltover, to everyone.  

- He’ll ask for your forgiveness by kissing the scarred skin every day, even if you insist it’s not his fault, and if you remember even one of the faces, he’ll go and handle the problem.  

- Not with violence, unless necessary, but it’s not about personal justice; rather, it’s about protecting the other citizens of the alleys too.  

- Even after you’ve healed, he’ll insist it’s absolutely necessary to carry you everywhere you need to go, claiming a very good doctor told him so.  

- And the memory of the scar will be tiny compared to all the marks Vander has left on you.  

Silco:

- Private justice is absolutely the first option, even though you were an accidental victim.  

- He’ll call all his goons and associates for a meeting while you’re still bedridden, to see if they’ve heard, seen, or been involved in any armed conflict, and if he doesn’t get a face or a name from them, he’ll turn to the brothel, the house of all information,  

- Until he finds who hurt you and makes sure they can’t do it again.  

- Silco isn’t fazed by blood or open wounds, but despite having enough experience to handle it himself, at least on the first day, he’ll take you to Singed to make sure you’re in the best condition.  

- In the following days, he’ll take care of you himself, but he has pride, a façade, and little emotional communication skills, so he won’t openly show how worried he is, relying entirely on the fact that you don’t know about the murder of your assailant and remember nothing of the visit to Singed.  

- But the only reason you heal so well and so quickly is that, even if he doesn’t know how to express it, all the love he feels is poured into the care he gives you.  

Jinx:

- Flashbacks. So many. Too many.  

- At some point, she’ll even convince herself that she’s the one who shot you, leading to a complete breakdown.  

- She punches her head, scratches herself without realizing it, her nose bleeds, and her eyes are bloodshot.  

- It takes her a while to convince herself that she wasn’t the one who shot you, even though the hallucinations overlap images of you with memories of her armed, creating waking nightmares that feel increasingly real.  

- As much as she’d like to ask her father for help, even just to give you a cleaner room, she feels responsible and is too scared that if she stays away from you, you’ll forget her. That’s why she sets up a little space for you and takes care of you herself, though not always painlessly.  

- She’s pulled bullets out of her own body more times than not after missions; what might seem like dangerous, delicate work to someone else is almost routine for her by now.  

- Once she has a suspicion of who might have done it, she’ll make sure they learn their lesson. 

 

Vi:

- Anger.  

- Why were you out alone? Why didn’t you leave as soon as you saw the crowd getting too big? Why were you in that area?  

- But her anger is just panic pouring out like a flood, the fear of not being able to protect the one she loves twists her stomach, making her feel like she might throw up, like she’s dying inside.  

- None of those questions mean she blames you, but she doesn’t know how to feel, what to think, or even what to do.  

- She’ll do everything to help you—bandaging you, cleaning your wounds, staying silent and giving her full attention to make up for not being there when you needed her, even though that’s not true.  

- And when the scar forms, she’ll kiss it every single day, every single night, like a little ritual between the two of you.  

Caitlyn:

- Safety first.  

- She’ll be the one to assess how bad the injury is, and if there are any foreign objects in your body, there’s a good chance she’ll try to handle it herself, even though at first it might seem a bit barbaric.  

- She’ll give you the guest room and call the family doctor to make sure you’re okay, that you don’t need anything else, and she’ll take care of what’s necessary, even teasing you a bit to hide her worry.  

- "A bullet in the leg from being caught in crossfire? Very vintage, I must say."  

- What you won’t know is that she’ll quietly increase security, not in an oppressive way, but just enough to make both you and the other citizens feel safer.  

- Her family won’t get involved directly, but they won’t stop her either. Sometimes Cassandra herself will make sure her daughter finds the tray to bring up to you, though she’ll never be too open about it.  

- The perfect rehabilitation? Long walks in the villa’s garden, so you can stop for some cookies or tea when you get tired.  

Mel:

- Flashbacks, but less personal than Jinx’s.  

- Her mother would call her weak if she knew how it kills her to see someone barely scratched by crossfire, and that realization soon turns into frustration, which then becomes anger.  

- She tries to stay calm, but her voice sounds like she’s scolding you, and then like she’s scolding the servants, or anyone else who crosses her path.  

- Two hours of lecture if you’re lucky—why you shouldn’t go out without a guard, why you shouldn’t put yourself in dangerous situations, why the enforcers are utterly useless and can’t find anyone responsible, even though the fight was so intense.  

- She’ll focus entirely on the bureaucratic side because little Mel was never taught how to deal with strong emotions, and she’s definitely feeling them now but can’t afford that vulnerability, even though she knows you’re safe.  

- She won’t take care of you herself, but she’ll always stay in the room. Not because she doesn’t want to, to be clear, but because she wants you to have the best care possible and prefers to leave it to a top professional rather than her inexperienced hands.  

- In return, she’ll triple the amount of affection and caresses—more to calm herself than you, but you won’t be the one to complain.  

Sevika:

- She needs a moment.  

- She knows she has to report to Silco that there was a firefight, that someone is threatening the people, but part of her just wants to grab those responsible and crush their heads with her bare hands, doing both you and her boss a favor. Yet, another part of her doesn’t want to leave you alone or take you with her.  

- She knows how to handle these things; she’s lost an arm, and Silco’s goons often come back in worse shape, which is why she’ll take care of you herself, in complete silence.  

- She’ll wait until you’re asleep to place a water bottle, a glass, some painkillers, and some bread on the nightstand next to your bed. And when she’s sure you’re fully asleep, she’ll leave a soft kiss on your forehead before putting on her cloak and heading out to the Last Drop.  

- There, she’ll release her anger in a brawl or two, talk to her boss, and search for the reason why she feels so awful at the bottom of her third glass of whiskey.