#I am probably not the only one who thought of it

[studyinglogic]

SIMPLICIO: Indeed, what god could possibly forgive a duck eating a duck?

PROTAGORAS: Could be a chicken. Also you don't know if he's going to eat it. Maybe he's plotting revenge on the person who cooked it. Assuming it was a person.

ALCIPHRON: That it is a duck about to eat a duck is evident. But considering what ducks do, that's probably not the biggest concern of the gods. Assuming the gods have meticulous providence and hence pre-ordained what Moeliker saw.

SOCRATES: Here you are anachronistic, my dear Alciphron, for you have brought in Calvinist notions of a Christian God into your previously Greek notions of gods. In any case, the question is not whether a god could forgive a duck eating a duck, but whether a god would forgive us for imagining a fictional duck about to eat a non-existent duck. Are we not the guilty ones?

NIETZSCHE: You seek the flame outside yourself while simultaneously extinguishing it within. Fools and slaves of long-defunct theologians, do you not see how crooked and warped your thoughts are by this focus? If you wish to speak about morality, do so honestly and without hypocrisy, rather than pretending to the divine and assuming that you know the nature of God.

KEYNES: Did you anachronistically steal my line about economists?

NERO (with FAT TONY): Economists schmeconomists. This is the ludic fallacy times twenty. If you like watching ducks, enjoy ducks. If you like watching cartoon ducks, enjoy watching cartoon ducks.

DORFMAN and MATTELART: A ridiculous notion, and one that could only be put forward by a caricature of a caricature. It used to be that ideology was spread by education; now it's spread by cartoons. In the Donald Duck comics, "all objects arrive on parachutes, are conjured out of hats, are presented as gifts in a non-stop birthday party, and are spread out like mushrooms. Mother earth gives all: pick her fruits, and be rid of guilt. No one is getting hurt." No wonder people act like nature is inexhaustible.

TOLSTOY: I am a writer who enjoys polyphony, but let me tell you, this dialogue is a mess. No repeating characters, no chiasmus, no arc---how could this end well?

WITTGENSTEIN: End? Those are the words of a writer detached from a reality they can control. The riverbed of thought in which we carve our grooves never ends. We are caught in a language game about ducks, cartoons, and morality. The question of forgiveness presupposes rules about what requires forgiveness, and even presupposes a setting in which the concept of forgiveness makes sense. But can a duck transgress against these rules if it does not participate in the language game that created them?

LAOZI: Speaking about language games misses the point, for the duck that can be named is not the eternal duck. To put it more bluntly, to pin down a concept of a duck is to impute to it a stability that does not exist. When we cease trying to categorize the duck as eater or eaten and instead see the two as intertwined, we may glimpse the true Dao of duckness.

SANKARA: I may agree with your Way; I cannot agree with Duckness as primary, for to speak of Duckness is misconceived. The duck, the meal, and the eating are all maya, mere appearances. In ultimate reality, Brahman alone exists. The wise one sees through this illusion to the underlying unity.

ZHUANGZI: You speak of unity; I speak of change. Once I dreamed a bird became a fish which became a human who became an ambiguous poster on social media, for just as a fish spawns roe which may be birthed or eaten, these humans spawn ideas which may be neglected, or take on a life of their own, or be eaten themselves. The posts written by this human took on lives on their own. This is called the endless transformation of discourse.

[buddhistmusings]

Why do you care so much?

I've been asked this question a few times in the past year - why I spend so much time thinking, reading, and reflecting on antisemitism, especially because I am not Jewish myself. There are a few reasons, really. One of them is that I think antisemitism is a hatred that spawns other hatreds, but even if it did not, it would still be worth studying, because the fact that it is a hatred at all is enough. The fact that antisemitism impacts Jewish people is enough of a reason to oppose it.

It's also because it's important to oppose because of the way it damages the thinking habits of people who believe it. I saw somebody say, "Jew-Hate makes you dumb," once. And though I think it was probably an off the cuff statement for them, it stuck with me, and I think they're right. In my religion, we say hatred is one of the three poisons - it can seriously harm your mental well-being in a way that deepens your suffering in all aspects of life. Often, hatred can also be spread like a contagion. It's something that destroys social harmony and causes severe social dysfunction. And right now, I think antisemitism is the most contagious of hatreds - I've seen people in my life fall off the cliff, I've been able to talk some back from it, and I've seen how so many people wander towards it without any idea that that's what they're doing.

Part of the problem is that antisemites consider themselves righteous in a way I think most racists don't. Often, you'll see "I'm not racist but" I almost never see that with antisemitism. They don't add that qualifier. They just say it. Most racists I know will make a tacit acknowledgment of the racist implications of what they're about to say - antisemitic people don't. They often even engage in anti-Jewish racism while invoking anti-racism.

I don't really know any Jewish people in real life, perhaps only two. But I don't need to know them to know that hating them is wrong. I think I also have a debt of gratitude to many people in the Jewish community because of the advances in Buddhist Studies made by Jewish people, which sounds strange - but it's true that many leading voices and researchers, both in academia and within Buddhism itself happen to be Jewish. I'm not sure why this is, but it's absolutely true. The most prolific translator of Pali into English that I can think of is Jewish. The most impactful Vipassana instructor in America I can think of is Jewish. The most impactful voice in Deity Yoga, for Tibetan Buddhism, is Jewish. People who are Jewish, for some reason, contributed probably more than ex-Christian Americans or atheists combined to the proliferation of Buddhism in the United States.

Buddhists and Jewish people are known to have a close relationship. There are a lot of different reasons for this that I would suggest, but none that add up to explain the amazing contributions to Buddhism made by American Jews.

I think another reason I have for being so interested in antisemitism as a non-Jew is the kind of... political disillusionment I've been experiencing? It's been a disturbing few years, and I haven't seen many people elaborate very well on this feeling of abandonment and horror, witnessing people who you thought shared your values become hateful and deeply violent in their beliefs. The only people I've seen consistently speak about it happen to be Jewish.

I think all of this has helped contribute to a feeling of closeness to Jewish people as a group, despite that I don't really know Jewish people in my real life, and only have one or two Jewish friends online. This year has been a horror show of watching people's minds become twisted - it's so scary in a way I can't quite capture with words right now.

I also sometimes have a back and forth with myself about when and if to mention I'm not Jewish when I talk about antisemitism, because I do think it's totally necessary to explain the perspective from which I speak, but to be honest it feels kind of icky to be like "I'm not Jewish, but antisemitism is bad", because antisemitism is bad whether or not the person saying so isn't Jewish, and I think it might be a negative for people to think "not being Jewish" is something which makes it any less valuable to be against antisemitism, and talk about how against it you are. It's very real that people who talk about antisemitism are perceived to be Jewish, and obviously, it's important not to lead people into thinking you're Jewish when you're not, but adding an "I'm not Jewish" qualifier to statements about antisemitism I worry might contribute to the perception that those against antisemitism are Jewish.

Antisemitism is such an insidious ideology. And it's everywhere. I see it daily in so many different spaces. It has the largest impact on Jewish people, but it also impacts non-Jewish people at times. I distinctly remember being mocked throughout school for "looking Jewish." I think about that Greek restaurant which was attacked because they were thought to be Jewish. Or that man in the Amsterdam violence who tried to help and was then accused of being Jewish himself. It's so deluded, violent, and manages to consume people's thoughts like a parasitic worm in their brain.

Anyways, I planned for this post to be more organized. Oops.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Cold Jealousy

I am back once again with more Silco brain rot. Feeding all of you who need the content as well as myself.

Summary: Who knew jealousy was all it took for to have your first kiss with Silco?

He hates the coiling in his stomach that arises whenever you laugh at something a patron says. It sickens him, seeing you lean in so close to another man, your lips moving as you say something and then smile, causing the table to burst into laughter. He knows you're simply close friends with them, after all they are your childhood friends, people who grew up with you, so of course you'd act overly familiar with them but he can't stop his chest from tightening, his fingers twitching.

The nib of his pen pierces through the page he was writing on and he scowls angrily at the mess, trying to drown out your voice but it's intoxicating, a melody that snatches his attention away from the numbers in his notebook. Your laughter is like a drug, leaving him wanting more every time he hears it, and the thought that it's someone else eliciting it drives him insane.

"You alright there?" Vander slides him a glass of scotch, worry clear gentle grey eyes.

"I'm fine," Silco spits back, a little harsher than intended. Of course Vander would notice something was off, Vander knew him way too well. He turns back to his notebook, trying to suppress the whispers that begin to cloud his mind and stares at the numbers, willing them into his brain.

"You know they only have eyes for you right? They don't look at anyone the same way they look at you." Vander glances over at the table where you're currently playing a game of cards, and from the looks of it, losing.

"I know," Silco scowls, stabbing the page with his pen. Vander simply huffs and turns to attend to the customer who just pulled up at the counter. Silco rolls his eyes and closes the notebook, he's done for the night. There's no way he can continue concentrating when you laugh like that, when butterflies flutter in his chest and turn to stone as he remembers you're not laughing at something he said or did.

"I'm going to get some air," he grunts, slipping out the back door.

Out of habit, he makes his way to the rooftop, sitting at his usual spot and looks out at the sprawling underground city beneath. Neon lights flash from various stores like stars, illuminating figures as people walk past but the silhouettes disappear just as quickly, fading back into obscurity. It's the same pattern every night, he's memorised some of the figures already, knows the habits of certain individuals, and has noted the important ones. He spots the lady with twin brown hair buns who frequents the brothel opposite, the two enforcers who always sneak into the nearby drug store during their nightly patrol and nearly misses the sound of your footsteps.

"Hey." You take your seat next to him.

"Y/N." He barely spares you a glance before looking back at the city below. The night wind whistles through the air, sending shivers through his body and he curls up, hugging his knees to his chest. Dammit, he forgot his coat. The air here is chillier at this time of the year, being so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city's nightlife, but it brings a sense of peace that he treasures, especially when it's with you. Tonight, it just feels cold, probably from his lack of a coat, but there's a numbness he can't explain.

The clink of glass snaps him out of his thoughts and he glances up to see you produce a bottle of wine as well as two glasses.

"Sorry, I couldn't swipe a bottle of scotch so I grabbed the next best thing before anyone could catch me," you smile at him and pop the bottle open. The red liquid sloshes in the glass as you fill it up and hand it to him, "peace offering?"

He wrinkles his nose but takes the glass anyways, mumbling a thank you before letting the liquid slide down his throat. It doesn't have the same burn as scotch does, but there's still a pool of warmth that sits in his belly, although it does little to alleviate the chill he feels.

You smile and pour a glass for yourself, taking a sip, following the direction of his eyes. Silco swirls the red liquid around in his glass, biting his lip. The silence is awkward, but he won't be the first to break it, his pride won't let him. Fortunately, you shift closer to him and shrug your jacket off, wrapping it around his shoulders.

"Don't catch a cold on me."

He snorts in response, tugging your jacket tighter around himself. It smells nice, smells like you with a hint of his cigar's smoke. He can pick out the scent of wine, the smell of the soap you use to wash the jacket, the remnants of Piltover's smell from your afternoon stint and a small smile makes its way onto his face as he remembers the way you threw yourself at him, clutching a bag of freshly baked bread, laughing as you yelled at him to run for his life. The pool of warmth resting in his belly spreads to the rest of his body, sending tingles up his spine as he buries his face into the jacket's fabric. The fabric is worn but still maintains a certain level of softness, and it feels as nice as it smells.

He watches as you finish your glass and exchange it for the bottle, remembering his own unfinished glass and takes another sip. Scotch was still the best drink, a shame you didn't manage to filch a bottle of it. You down half the bottle in one go, sighing in satisfaction and gesture at his glass.

"You don't have to force yourself to finish it, you know?"

He scowls, and finishes the rest of his wine, all the while staring right at you. "As if I'll let you have any of mine."

You laugh, and he finds that your laughter sounds better when it's because of something he said than when it's because of something someone else said, besides, there's the added bonus of giddiness that fills him. He smiles, for the first time tonight and sets the glass down next to yours. The awkwardness has been broken, much to his relief and he feels as though he can breathe easier.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" You gesture towards the myriad of lights. "Piltover's lights can't compare to this."

"That's because most of their lights are the same colour," he snorts, "but yes…it is beautiful."

You beam, taking another swig from the bottle and set the bottle down, leaning back on your hands. The night breeze ruffles through your hair, playing with its strands and Silco watches as a couple of strands fall between your eyes, causing you to huff and puff at it until it falls off your face. The next gust of wind is stronger and you shiver, shifting closer to him. He shakes his head and throws the left half of your jacket over your shoulders so it covers the both of you.

"Don't you catch a cold on me either."

"Thank you for sharing my jacket." You roll your eyes, nudging his shoulder with your own. He nudges you back, the back and forth going on for a while until the jacket slips off your shoulder and he leans over to pull it back on. Electricity crackles from where his skin brushes against yours and he feels his heart leap into his throat when he looks up at you, realising how close the two of you are.

Sure, the both of you know how the other feels, knows the unspoken truth but continue to dance around each other, fearful of what acknowledging the feeling would bring, but tonight just feels right. He feels your hand intertwine with his and he leans in, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. You lean in as well and your lips meet for the first time.

The feeling is addicting, Silco quickly learns. The way your lips lock with his perfectly, the way you lean in as his fingers run through your hair, the way your free arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer, all of this makes him wish this moment will never end. Unfortunately, the both of you need to breathe and so he reluctantly parts from you, pressing his forehead against yours. It feels natural, to feel your warmth, to hold you underneath your jacket, and from the way you're looking at him with such adoration in your eyes, you feel the same way.

It doesn't need to be said, nothing needs to be said, the only thing he needs to do is close the gap once more and taste the wine on your lips, savouring the sweetness of it all. This is the one time he will admit that wine tastes good, but he still prefers scotch.

Your hand gently cups his cheek and he finds himself leaning into the touch. Your thumb runs over his skin, brushing along his cheekbone and he sighs, surrendering to your warmth. A small smile graces your lips and he can't help but smile back, although his smile is rather lazy.

"We should head back before Vander has to come and haul us away," you murmur and Silco reluctantly extracts himself from your touch.

"And before he closes the bar up so that we don't have to wash the glasses." He picks said glasses up, nudging the empty bottle towards you. "You are still going to throw the bottle away, I'm not touching that."

"Why? You were so eager to touch my saliva just moments ago," you tease, mirth decorating your features.

"I'm not about to deny you your responsibilities." He ducks out of the way as you try to shove the empty bottle into his arms, quickly making his way back into the bar before you can succeed in making your problem his. He hears your annoyed shouts behind him and laughs, sliding into the bar's counter.

Vander raises an eyebrow as Silco places the glasses in the sink and darts off, then shakes his head as you come barreling in, demanding that Silco help you as payment for the wine he drank. He grabs the both of you by your collars and drops you both at the sink. "I believe washing everything in the sink will suffice as payment for the bottle of wine."

You groan when you see the amount of empty cups in the sink and Silco laughs, turning on the water tap. At least you're trapped in this with him, the washing should go by faster.

As the both of you hunch over the sink, you give him a little nudge with your elbow. "Next time, if you're jealous, just step in. I'll leave with you, I promise."

"Jealous?" He splutters. "I wasn't jealous!"

"Sure you weren't, Mr 'angrily stabs an innocent piece of paper with his pen'. Keep trying."

He huffs, turning his attention back to the glass he's currently wiping dry. "I wasn't jealous."

"Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that. I doubt that changes facts though."

"Nobody said that was a fact."

You lightly punch him in the shoulder with your damp fist and he mock glares at you, smacking your arm with the drying cloth but can't stop the smile that's forming on his face.

"Don't ever doubt yourself," you say softly. "You mean everything to me."

And you mean everything to me too.

[hoe4hotchner]

I know you are probably so tired of this but I NEED more smoker Hotch, I do know why but the pure thought of Aaron Hotchner smoking just does something to me, I also wanted to say thank you so much for all that you do for the Aaron hotchner fan base and even the criminal minds fandom ❤️

Bad habits | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!Reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Smoking cigarettes

A/N: I'm never tired of getting requests (cause let's be honest smoker!hotch is too hot for his own good) Thank you so much for the kind words. It means a lot to hear. 💕💕💕

The first time you caught Aaron smoking, it was in his garage, out of all places. He leaned against the back wall, one foot propped up against the wall, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. The faint glow from the overhead bulb cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension etched into his features.

For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching. This was Aaron Hotchner, your steadfast, composed partner. The man who was usually all discipline, who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever letting it show. And yet, here he was, indulging in what could only be described as a private ritual.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe, breaking the silence. “I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

Aaron turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours. His expression didn’t shift much, but you could tell you’d caught him off guard. The hand holding the cigarette hovered near his side like he wasn’t sure whether to hide it or finish it.

“It’s... occasional,” he said after a pause, his voice gravelly, almost sheepish. “Stress, mostly.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping further into the garage. “Stress? Really? You expect me to believe this is a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You think I have a habit?”

“Oh, I know you do,” you shot back, your tone teasing. “You’ve clearly done this before. What, do you sneak out here after bad cases? After long nights at work?” You'd meant it as a joke, but deep down, you knew that some of it probably held truth to it.

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, the tendrils curling lazily. “Something like that.”

You moved closer, the faint scent of smoke mixed with the familiar aroma of the garage. It should’ve been off-putting, but there was something about the way the cigarette looked in his hand that made your pulse quicken.

“You know, it’s terrible for you,” you said, tilting your head as you studied him.

His lips quirked into a smile, closing his eyes for a split second, more amusement than apology. “So I’ve heard.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in silence. You couldn’t stop watching him — the way his fingers held the cigarette, the way his jaw tightened as he brought it to his lips, and the way the soft glow of the embers lit his face up with each inhale.

It shouldn’t have been attractive. But it was.

“You’re staring,” Aaron said, breaking the spell.

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Am not.”

“You are,” he replied. He held the cigarette out to you, his eyes studying your reaction. “Want to try?”

You frowned, narrowing your eyes. “Is this how you justify it? Getting me to join in so you feel less guilty?”

His smirk deepened, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of mischief in his gaze. “Maybe.”

Your lips twitched as you took the cigarette from his hand, your fingers brushing against his. The contact was brief but electric, and you had to steel yourself against the flutter it sent through your chest.

The cigarette felt foreign between your fingers, and you glanced at Aaron for guidance. He stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding.

“Breathe in slowly,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “Not too deep. It’ll burn if you’re not used to it.”

You followed his instructions, the taste sharp and smoky as it filled your lungs. It wasn’t pleasant — not really — but the way Aaron watched you, his gaze steady and just a little amused, made the moment strangely intimate.

When you exhaled, you handed the cigarette back to him, coughing slightly. “That’s disgusting.”

Aaron chuckled softly. “I didn’t say it was enjoyable.”

“Then why do it?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He took one last drag, his eyes distant for a moment before killing the cigarette in the ashtray on the table next to him. “Because sometimes,” he said, his voice quieter now, “it’s the only thing that helps.”

Your heart twisted at the admission. He didn’t have to say what it was — you knew fully well what he meant, and you admired him for taking on that burden.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand. “You know you don’t have to carry everything alone, right?”

“I know.”

And maybe he did. But as he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your temple, you made a silent vow to remind him as often as he needed.

[anna-mellgren]

I have been asked about my different experiences living in different countries a lot so I will share my thoughts here.

America: I partially grew up in the USA so I never experienced a proper culture shock in the USA because I was so young when we lived there the first time.  I just noticed the differences from Sweden instead. Americans are so friendly so any homesickness was always cushioned by that. I just accepted America for what it was but it is obviously a lot more conservative & religious than Sweden. Americans can be super friendly but sometimes that friendliness can be a little superficial… swedes are more reserved but more loyal instead when you get to know them well. Female athletics is more developed in the USA which I liked. I had a good school experience and probably had a more chill time than most people had in high school.

France: I only lived in Paris for 6 months and I mostly hung out with international students who were studying french so I am not sure I can give a super accurate opinion of france. I got to know a few french people through a friend and they were similar to swedes in a way… they are very liberal, they ride their mopeds, they like soccer, they have a healthy aversion towards religion, they are not huge fans of loud people etc. Parisians are very cosmopolitan people and I got on really well with the ones I got to know.  I know parisians have a reputation for being rude and they are rude to tourists lol but honestly, the amount of tourists in Paris is insane. Even I, as a foreigner, could get annoyed with them at times. I liked to run by the Seine river and tourists would try to stop me mid-run in order to take their pictures? Why couldn’t you find another tourist to do that for you when I am clearly running? I think the french are similar to swedes with being reserved but very kind and loyal once you get to know them. I think being reserved can sometimes come off as being rude if you don’t understand the culture.

Ireland: I think I suffered a big culture shock in Ireland. Before then I had a slightly naive/american view that european countries are more similar than they actually are? I think Ireland has to be one of the most extrovert countries in Europe while Sweden is probably the most reserved… so that is a clear cultural difference. I used to think americans could be chatty & loud but some irish people are like americans on steroids. Sweden is one of the most atheist countries while Ireland is one of the most religious countries in Europe. Sweden is probably the most liberal and Ireland is one of the most ~historically~ conservative countries in Europe. Ireland has become a lot more liberal recently but I think Sweden is farther ahead on certain things… especially when it comes to sexism & behavior between the sexes.

Ireland had a certain lad culture when I was there which was honestly a bit unhinged. I know there are bad apples in Sweden but I don’t think their bad behaviour is accepted in Sweden as it is in Ireland.  I think the lad culture at university is exacerbated by a lot of people going to catholic girls & boys schools while growing up so they don’t interact with each other as much as they do in mixed schools in sweden & the USA. It was like they didn’t know how to behave towards each other? The emotional intelligence just wasn’t there at times. The banter sometimes went too far and became bullying in my opinion. The way guys talked about girls really got on my nerves too…not about me specifically but just girls in general. I remember there was a girl in my course who slept with a guy and the stuff I saw written on social media and what was said in real life really shocked me. My one irish friend said it was just “banter” and I would say no… it was stone-cold misogyny/sexism. I would then be labeled as “someone who didn’t understand banter” but Ireland legalized divorce & decriminalized marital rape in the 1990s (which is actually insane) so to be honest I don’t think they have the upper hand when it comes to defining misogyny? Their humor is based on slagging each other off which is fine but I sometimes think people took it too far... I prefer swedish humor which is more based on self deprecation & is a bit similar to british humor.  I think I was not willing to adjust and that caused me problems but I think the school culture as a whole was more toxic compared to where I had lived before. I think I got a bit unlucky with a few people to be brutally honest and I don’t think my experience resembles Ireland as a whole but the culture was a bit harsh. I remember girls rating each other on social media with bitchy comments on their friends' pictures by writing “6/10”… people who were friends with each other? None of us look like Adriana Lima but why put each other down? Or make someone feel mediocre? Some girls were seriously vain and judgemental & I missed the strong feminist sisterhood I felt in Sweden or the sisterhood I felt in sports in America. To be clear, many irish girls were genuinely nice & perfectly fine human beings but a few definitely gave off the vibe that I belonged with my fellow foreigners in the course. Every time I kissed a guy there would be random guys taking pictures of me and post it god knows where? Guys I didn’t even know? Just to gossip or slutshame me for kissing someone? They did this to everyone, not just me.

People in my course made facebook groups and wrote mean things about people who were not in the groups… just things like that. I came from a super laid-back enviornment with very opened-minded people so I had a hard time adjusting to this harsher, sometimes hostile, environment. I don’t think I was a specific target but I didn’t feel comfortable there. One day I was walking down the street and a passing car threw eggs at me?  I have pretty good eyesight so I saw the ex-girlfriend of a guy I knew in the car…I think I got hit because I had kissed him a few months before. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen in Sweden. I lived in a smaller city and maybe I would've been happier in a more cosmopolitan place like Dublin. I think there are many great people in Ireland but I found the university culture to be very gossipy, mean, judgemental & cliquey. They all thought it was normal but it rubbed me the wrong way. Looking back I think some people were just immature and have probably changed a lot. To be fair, I never gave it a real shot because I was unhappy and struggling with autoimmune issues. Not all people were like this but when you find yourself in a place where you don’t know anyone and a few people treat you in a very bad way then it can have a big impact. I think people matured with the years and chilled out a bit to be fair but I never experienced it because I left. I have met many great irish people so in a way I just think I was unlucky and perhaps would’ve had a different experience if I stuck it out. Not all people were bad in my course either, the majority were perfectly fine people but I think initially the people who had lived in this city their entire life were unbothered with making friends or being friendly. I think they branched out later on. I think I had lived in a bubble before then and I had just never experienced anyone mean before? Which is probably a bit bizarre too, to be honest. My school experience before then was people being either nice to me or neutral… like I was just another human on planet earth.  In my honest opinion, I think some irish people are like Conor Mcgregor and truly embrace lad culture but there are also plenty of irish people who are salt of the earth and have the same aura as Cillian Murphy. From day one I never understood how anyone could fancy a huge twat like Conor Mcregor when there are men like Cillian Murphy, Francesco Totti & Henrik Lundqvist roaming the earth.... people need to get more cultured. I feel quite bad for the irish people who were embarrassed by Conor waiving the irish flag around the globe. I would even say the majority of irish people are like Cillian Murphy. I think Ireland has a unique culture, people are generally friendly despite my experience & the nature is beautiful. My mental health suffered that year and I moved home which was definitely the right decision for me. I should’ve been more social but I didn’t have the mental or physical strength with my anemia. I knew a norwegian girl in ireland who seemed to love everything about it and I always compared myself to her. I felt like a bit of a failure for feeling like I did until I met a danish girl who had a far worse experience than me in Ireland and it was a bit comforting to know I was not alone in how I felt. I think experiences are subjective & overall I learned a lot. I don’t dislike Ireland or irish people at all, to the contrary actually… I just didn’t have a great experience. In a way, I think moving home to Sweden was a long-time coming. I have irish family these days and will probably visit Ireland from time to time for the rest of my life & generally I do think it is a nice country. No place is perfect.

Argentina: I think south americans in general are very welcoming and warm people. However- Argentina, like many other South American countries, have problems with corruption & crime etc but people are very loving. You will hopefully be fine if you just take some extra precautions but I think you have to be very mindful as a woman and be careful. Don’t get into taxis alone. Watch your drink on nights out. Don’t drink too much and always be in full control. Never leave a friend behind. Just stuff like that. I came to Argentina with limited spanish & lived with an argentine host family. All of my argentine classmates spoke terrible english which was great for me because I was forced to learn spanish. I was put in a class and the girls in this class took me in as one of their own. They brought me everywhere and I was their swedish mascot who just tagged along everywhere lol. I was treated really well and still keep in touch with them today. They said I was less shy after 5 months but it was not until then that I could understand what they were saying lol. Argentine families sometimes have limited means but they truly taught me the value of making the most of what you are given and making the best of what you have. I volunteered with handicapped children during my time there and these kids would correct my spanish non-stop which was great. My Argentine friends were too lazy to correct my grammar lol. I went running with a blind 14-year-old boy who had developed an eye disease just years earlier and I think this volunteer work really put life in perspective for me. Overall I had a great time in Argentina and I hit the jackpot because I spent my exchange year in patagonia. I had the classic experience of falling in love, traveling, going to school & just being fully immersed in argentine culture. My entire high school class came to wave me goodbye at the airport when I flew back to the USA <3 I will always look back at that year as one of the best years of my life. I think being an exchange student in high school is very different compared to being an exchange student at university. You’re still so young when you’re in high school and people are not as independent yet. You really get to experience family life, school life & the youth culture when you go as an exchange student in high school. I later lived in Buenos Aires for 6 months and studied at university during my gap year after living in Paris. I had a great time in Buenos Aires but I think my high school experience was more unique. I loved Buenos Aires though & the girls in my course would invite me to BBQs etc and I had a great time.

These are my experiences of my adventures living abroad. I would urge everyone to travel because nothing makes you appreciate home quite like living abroad. Or perhaps you will find a new home if the home you grew up in made you unhappy.

one thing about me……..i am hyperaware of the Vibes

[pedropascallme]

Set My Mind Free

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: “'Just wanted to…' You rolled your eyes, trying to explain yourself, 'After our conversation last week—you and me—I thought it was only fair. I mean, he waited by me, right? So what kind of Sergeant would I be if I didn’t look out for him? Just repaying his...kindness.'”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) oral (f receiving), p in v sex, intercrural sex, dirty talk, praise, very mild degradation, canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of wounds, allusions to PTSD, reader experiences a very detailed panic attack, discussion of panic attacks/anxiety, discussion of drug use and addiction (not reader), implied age gap (ages not mentioned), enemies to frenemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, I know little to nothing about how the military works, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: Part 1 here!!

By 4:00 AM, you’d stopped crying and told yourself that you would go to sleep.

But by 5:00 AM you were still awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the faint rhythm of your heart.

There was nothing you could do.

There was one thing you could do—but it required a sense of decency, and a level of respect that you worried wouldn’t translate properly from your brain to your mouth.

You didn’t know what you would say, if there was anything to say at all, and yet you still felt the urge to find Simon.

But he was probably asleep, just like everybody else on base, and likely in no mood to see you if he was up.

And you were worried how you’d act, seeing him at his lowest.

After several minutes of going back and forth between your limited options, you slipped out of bed, donning a sweatshirt and making sure you remembered shoes this time around. You grabbed the shirt—maybe he’d take it back now that he knew what it was like.

You puttered inside your room for a moment longer, hesitating, before you found the nerve to open your door and walk down the hall to the infirmary.

It was dark out, but the floods outside forced streaks of light into the barracks. You could hear nothing but your own footsteps, and the fact that nobody else was awake to see you like this; hair stuck to your temples from the tears you’d shed, carrying a blood-soaked shirt to a man who probably didn’t want to see anybody—least of all you—was reassuring.

You braced yourself for the grating sound of the infirmary doors against the floor, pushing them open slowly to keep the unnecessary racket at bay.

He was asleep in the same cot you had been in, and he managed to make it look even more cramped than it had felt when you’d been in it: lying on his back, he’d propped his head up with the single pillow he’d been offered, clearly trying to keep his feet from dangling off the end of the mattress.

It didn’t work, and he still had to bend at the knee to fit in the cot properly.

He’d been stripped from the waist up, and the left side of his abdomen was covered in gauze and bandages that likely concealed stitches over an ugly wound. But he still looked beautiful, and you kicked yourself for even daring to allow the thought to run through your head.

He still had his mask on. Of course he did.

You situated yourself in the same seat Gaz had been sitting in when you’d woken up, setting the shirt to the side and just looking at him.

That’s all you could do. Look.

You wouldn’t wake him up. You had nothing to say. And even if you did wake him, it was unlikely he’d be able to say anything of substance with all the morphine they probably had him on

So you sat quietly, staring at him; his mask, his bandages. Your wounds were in the same place, which meant nothing, but it still filled you with a profound sense of awe, a subtle yanking in your abdomen.

“Figured you’d come by.” Ghost’s voice broke through the silence of the infirmary, and you flinched.

“Fucking—Christ, Simon,” you sighed, gripping your thighs as you collected yourself, “How long have you been awake?”

He stared up at you, ignoring your question. “Pick a new name yet?” When you looked at him quizzically, he elaborated, “Not Berserker anymore?”

“Oh—no,” you had forgotten about wanting to change your callsign—too many things had been plaguing your mind, pushing your concern about a name to the back. “Still Berserker. For now.”

The conversation fizzled out, but you didn’t want it to end. You blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“I never thanked you.”

“For?” He seemed oddly relaxed for a man who’d just been shot.

“For?” You mocked him, almost playfully; what else would you possibly have to thank him for? “Saving me from, y’know…bleeding out.”

“My job.” Simon shifted, trying to stretch in the tight confines of the cot.

“No, but…it isn’t, is it?” You found yourself questioning his words aloud, “Your job is…lead, call the shots…”

There may have been nuances in his title that made it his responsibility to show compassion, but there was definitely nothing that said he had to kneel beside you while you bled; use his clothing in place of a bandage; care for you after you had done something so stupid and avoidable.

You bit your tongue, remembering how you’d screamed at him so intensely about how he didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the job description.

“Whatever, I’m…” you sighed, furrowing your brows and giving yourself another moment to back out of saying the next words. “I’m glad it’s you I call Lieutenant. Anybody else probably would’ve seen me as a lost cause—back there, and in…in a lot of the situations we end up in.” You couldn’t stop yourself from praising him, not after the events of the night and your self-reflection. “You’re a good Lieutenant.”

He didn’t respond. You were too uncomfortable to deal with any more silence, so you continued.

“You’re a good person, Simon.”

“Why me?” You’d hardly finished saying his name when he bombarded you with the question.

“What?” You didn’t understand what he was asking.

“Gaz is your mate, yeah?” In the low light of the room, you could see his eyes scanning your face, “‘Nd Soap. Both of 'em would’a helped.” He tilted his head back, and you realized what he was talking about.

You tried to push down the way your heart screamed for him.

“I trust you.” You answered with your brain instead.

“You trust them.” It was amazing to you that a man in his condition still had the energy to argue about such superfluous things.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “But it’s…different. I think.” You didn’t care to explain.

Slowly, he nodded, as if trying to deconstruct the meaning of your words.

“And, you know…” You finally found your confidence, “Figured if I was gonna die, I could at least find out what it was like to have your hands on me first.”

You didn’t know why that was the direction you went in, taking a lighthearted approach and praying that it would come off as a joke.

“Could’a jus’ asked,” Simon sighed, and to your relief, he sounded amused. “Always wanted you to give me the go 'head.”

You felt your heart stutter, but you rationalized that all the drugs he was on were probably making him loopy.

“Would’a been nicer wi'out all the blood—better story for the grandkids.” He closed his eyes.

You just hummed, smiling. He must have been drugged to the nines.

He went silent again, and you stayed seated beside him, listening to the way his breathing leveled out as he drifted off to sleep.

If what Gaz said was true, and if Simon really had kept vigil over you while you were out cold, then it was the least you could do now for him. It was funny, in a melodramatic sort of way, thinking about how the two of you had switched places.

When you were certain he was asleep, you dropped your voice to a whisper.

“I brought you your shirt back,” you picked it up from the spot you’d left it when you had first come in, crumpled on the chair next to you. “I know you don’t want it…but…I don’t think I do, either.” You smiled, adding, “Maybe a clean one.”

You paused, half expecting him to respond. When he didn’t, sound asleep, you continued.

“I’ve seen all the shirts you own. Not a lot on rotation.”

You stewed in your thoughts, realizing that having him trapped as an unconscious audience gave you the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth—at least to a degree.

“I just don’t want to have this reminder of my own fuck up. And of what you had to do to…”

To keep me from dying, you didn’t say—couldn’t say, despite the fact that he wouldn’t hear you.

“But if I give it to you now, as a—if we treat it like a gag, like it’s something funnier than it is…” You pulled at the fabric, “At least…let me care, Simon. Even if it’s just this once. Pretend you’re ok with being cared for.”

Let me show you how deeply I care.

You folded the shirt in your lap, putting it on the small table next to the bed and rising from your seat.

You let your gaze rake over him, once again taking note of how oversized he was in the cot. In a way, though, as he lay, contorted and bandaged, he looked so, so small. Like a child that couldn’t bear to separate from their first bed; desperate for comfort that he couldn’t find and wouldn’t admit to craving.

How the mighty fall.

But he’d be out of here in a day. He wouldn’t let himself waste away in the infirmary—he wouldn’t be like you.

You couldn’t help the way you reached out to graze your fingers over the hem of his balaclava. For how often you grumbled about wanting to tear it off his face, you had no intention of doing so now.

You knew better. You just wanted to feel that part of him.

It was soft. You smiled.

Of course it was.

You brushed your thumb over the fabric that covered his cheek, smiling softly. Maybe the emotions you’d experienced over the course of the night were still running high, but you felt like you might tear up.

And you felt like maybe you’d be ok showing him this kind of affection even if he was awake.

You did your best to remain unwavering in the face of yearning.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, LT,” you pulled your hand back from his face, “Won’t do it again.” 

~~~

The sun was coming up when you left the infirmary, and the hall glowed with an eerie pre-dawn atmosphere that comforted you in the strangest of ways.

You had time; he would see another sunrise.

You found yourself knocking on Gaz’s door, eager to apologize for snapping at him hours prior during your rampage.

He opened the door, already dressed, and the smile on his face helped you remember that no matter what you did, he understood.

Kyle always understood.

“Up early.” He noted, taking in your disheveled appearance.

“So are you,” you pointed out, and he smirked. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?” He swung the door open wider, walking back into his room and silently beckoning you inside.

“Screaming at you last night—this morning,” you kind of laughed, feeling awkward for the storm of feelings you’d lashed him with. “I don’t want you to…I’m not mad at you. Or anything. And I don’t want you to be mad at me. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

You walked into his room, closing the door behind you, and he laughed.

“I’m not mad,” he sat at his desk, “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I cursed you out after you saw our Lieutenant get bodied,” you sighed, trying to make the situation seem lighter with your phrasing. “Shitty of me to do.”

“You were upset.” Gaz looked at you in a way that made you feel more at ease; he could see through you, but you didn’t really mind it right now.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I was.”

“You still upset?”

“N—no…” You measured your feelings; you still felt a strange buzzing throughout your body, but you chalked it up to lack of sleep and the rush of adrenaline you'd been dealt. “I’m alright.”

You hesitated, looking around Gaz’s room to avoid having to meet his eyes.

“I went to see him.”

“Uh-huh.” Gaz raised an eyebrow at you.

“Just wanted to…” You rolled your eyes, trying to explain yourself, “After our conversation last week—you and me—I thought it was only fair. I mean, he waited by me, right? So what kind of Sergeant would I be if I didn’t look out for him? Just repaying his...kindness.”

Gaz didn’t say anything, but his lips morphed into a poorly concealed smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “Just happy to see you two getting along.”

“Yeah, well—now that we’ve both been brought back from the brink in the span of less than a month, it’s a little easier to empathize with him.”

“Is'at it?” Gaz looked up at you knowingly, and you rolled your eyes again.

“It is.” You lied.

“Right,” he nodded, trying not to come off too pleased. “Good.”

“I’m happy that you’re not mad.” You muttered.

“And I’m happy that you’re feeling better,” he replied, voice tender. “You sleep at all?”

You shrugged, shaking your head.

“Try.” Was all he said.

“I know,” you nodded, heaving a sigh, “I will.”

He stood, patting you on the back and leading you out of his room.

“I’m serious, by the way,” he shook your shoulder playfully, “Happy that you and him have found common ground.”

“Yeah,” you smiled softly, turning to face him when you’d stepped over the threshold, “Me too.”

~~~

A full day had passed before there was a knock on your door. When you opened it, you weren’t as surprised as you thought you’d be to see Ghost standing opposite you.

“You’re up.” You stated, rather dumbly. He looked as though he had never been in the infirmary at all, clad in all black, gloves and balaclava on.

“Nothin' to do in ‘ere.” He grumbled, and you smiled.

“I think that’s the point, Simon.”

His eyes darted to the side before his gaze settled back on you, as if he was making only a halfhearted attempt at rolling them.

“Thought I told you to keep this.” Ghost held his hand out, and you recognized the shirt.

You sighed. “I kinda just figured—I dunno. Thought it would be…funny? You were so drugged up. You looked…” You tried to think of an excuse, coming up dry. You shrugged, “Thought you might finally want it back.”

“Wasn’t drugged.” His eyes narrowed a tad, having ignored everything you said to him after you mentioned him being drugged.

“What?” You furrowed your brow.

“Wasn’t drugged,” he huffed, “Don’t like 'at shit.”

“It’s morphine.” You smiled, amused by his discontent at the notion of taking painkillers.

Your delight at his distrust of anesthetics almost drowned out the loud thought at the front of your mind as you remembered the words he said to you as he lay in the medical cot.

Always wanted you to give me the go ahead.

You shook it off; you had been joking, and he had been joking back.

“They don’t give it to me. Don’t let ‘em.” His voice became a bit smaller, and you tried to reason with him.

“But it makes you feel better—great, even.” You offered an amused sigh, tilting your head.

“Brother was a druggy.” He stared daggers at you, and you were taken aback.

“Oh—I—”

“Don’t,” he shook his head before you could come up with an appropriate response. “'Eard it all before. Dead, either way.”

You nodded, resigned. Your gaze fell to the floor.

You knew a lot about Simon, but there were certain things he kept closer to his chest. He dropped lore at random moments—usually in an effort to shut people down, but this felt sincere. Vulnerable, even.

“Do you wanna come in?”

You could see his brow furrow, the familiar crease between his eyes appearing.

“Into your room?” He looked at you curiously before just barely nodding, “Sure.”

You stepped to the side, raising an arm to invite him in.

He walked slowly, taking in the look of the space; it was plain, barely decorated—like most of the rooms on base—but there were still pieces of you that lingered.

A blue hairbrush on your nightstand, pens with gnawed-on caps scattered about, half-finished reports on your desk.

He pulled the chair from your desk and sat. You couldn’t tear your eyes from him, as hard as you tried.

He was clearly still uncomfortable, tilting slightly to one side, but you couldn’t help but feel as though he looked right in your room.

You settled on the edge of your bed, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You doin’ a'right?” He cleared his throat, worried that he’d made the situation uncomfortable by mentioning his brother.

“Yeah,” you nodded, looking back up at him. “Better.”

“Look, uh…tired.” He was slow to say it.

“Thanks, Simon,” you laughed sardonically, but tried to show him you were only kidding. “Always know what to say.”

“Meant—'ave you not been sleeping?” He tried to save face.

“Not well.” You chewed the inside of your cheek.

He nodded, eyes flickering over your form before trailing back to your face.

“Something keepin' you up?”

“Wish it was that simple,” you swallowed, tightening your grip around your legs where they pressed against your chest. “I’m, um…the thought of sleeping is pretty…daunting? Lately.”

“You scared?”

“Putting it lightly.”

There was a long pause, during which he seemed to study you. You didn’t squirm under his gaze like you normally would—something about this was more comfortable.

“'Ad a panic attack my first night in the barracks.” Simon spoke suddenly, but maintained a casual tone.

“What?”

He nodded, rolling his shoulders back slightly.

“Thought I’d made a mistake. Thought I’d…” And here it was, more bits of his lore—but again being shared in a manner that made you feel like it was more than just Ghost offering insight into his brutality.

This was Simon offering insight into his ability to feel.

“Early two-thousands, lots of, uh…propaganda, 'at I fell for, y’know, jus’ like everybody else,” he spread his legs, resting his elbows on his thighs as he recounted his experience.

You searched his eyes, though he didn't bother to look at you. He'd been a soldier for nearly as long as you’d been alive; you wondered what it was like.

“Didn’t know if I’d see the next morning. Didn’t know if I’d made the wrong choice, or what.” He took a deep breath.

For a moment, even in the mask and in his brooding, you saw Simon clearer than ever, without so much as a hint of Ghost.

“It was like 'at for a long time.”

“I’m no rookie, Lieutenant,” you scoffed, but it lacked any real bite. “I know how it is.”

He looked at you, almost pleadingly, for a moment, before his gaze settled.

“Point is…” he hesitated, “Don’t know if I 'ave a point, really.” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling before meeting your gaze once more. “Thought I was…valiant for pushin’ it down.” He looked at you pointedly, “I wasn’t.”

You nodded solemnly. He was right.

He wasn’t telling you directly that he thought you were burning yourself out; that he noticed you struggling; that he saw the way you were trying to ignore the mental toll, but he was right. And you both knew it.

“Sure you’ve 'eard it before from people you’d…” he shook his head, his sentence trailing off before he finished the thought. “But, if you need anything…”

“Yeah,” you swallowed, suddenly wishing you could reach out and pull him closer; allow yourself the comfort of falling into him and finding safety curled against his form. But you didn’t act on the urge, responding instead with a curt nod and a weak smile. “Thanks.”

He nodded, eyes still focused on your face. He shifted in the seat he’d taken, standing up slowly—too slowly.

“Take an Advil, Simon.” You tried not to make your voice sound too pleading.

He waved you off. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he turned to look down at you. “I know.”

“Won’t kill you.”

“Don’t push it.”

You remained on your bed, hugging your knees to your chest, as he walked himself out of your room.

He paused, hand hovering over the knob.

“I like your callsign,” he finally opened the door, throwing his final words back at you as an afterthought, “Glad you 'aven't changed it. Suits you.”

You didn't ask him to explain, didn’t have the energy to call after him. You were too focused on the fact that he'd left the shirt on your desk; once again leaving you with a piece of him that you didn't know how to handle.

~~~

You didn’t want to check the time, fully aware that it was an early hour nobody else would be awake to see.

Your heart was beating too fast, and it traveled to your ears to create an obnoxious, suspenseful thump.

Were you dying? Or did it just feel like you were?

You could feel the sweat on your body, dampening your sheets; making them cling to you in unruly patterns that would surely press into your skin, leaving faint lines to show for your lack of sleep. But even soaked in your own sweat, cold to the touch, you felt like you were burning—like you had been stuck to some kind of pyre and set alight.

You were back in that hazy state. Underwater and out of control.

Every time you slept, you would dream; every dream you had became a nightmare.

In every nightmare, you were back on the ground.

Your breathing had been labored when you woke up, and though you were still panting, the nausea that had lurched within you now subsided into an inconsistent waver that occasionally rolled over your stomach.

You sat up, shoving your head between your knees and counting your breaths.

Five in; hold for five; eight out; hold for two.

Your legs were shaking, and your skin was numb, but you could still feel the press of your knees to your temples as you sat there, counting.

And then as soon as it had begun, it was over.

Maybe not over entirely, but you’d overcome the peak and were now on a steady decline.

You felt tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and it made you feel weak; a special ops soldier who panicked and cried could hardly be called a soldier at all.

The conversation you’d had with Simon came back to you, remembering his random divulgence of the fear he’d faced when he first joined the military. But you weren’t a rookie, you weren’t new to this—the only part you were unfamiliar with was the genuine fear.

He’d said that trying to get over it on one’s own wasn’t the heroic option he’d thought it was.

And he’d implied that he’d be happy to help.

On shaky legs, feeling practically boneless, you walked to his room, tiptoeing as you tried to keep yourself small.

It wasn’t hard—you already felt meek, crushed by your nerves.

You lifted a hand to his door hesitantly, unsure if he’d even be awake; unsure of what exactly you wanted from him.

But you did knock, and he opened the door, looking at you expectantly.

You swallowed. “Can I come in?”

He didn’t say anything, moving to the side and gesturing vaguely into his room. You hurried in, and Simon closed the door, walking forward to stand in front of you as you puttered around his room.

“What—” He began, but you cut him off.

“I have been pushing it down.”

“Mm?” You saw his eyes contort in confusion.

“The other day. You said you thought you had been valiant to push it down—said I could come to you if I needed anything.” Your words were rushed, and maybe louder than they should’ve been.

“Said ‘if you need anything,’ and then—"

“Simon.”

He held up a hand in concession.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, and it isn’t working. I’m—” You felt a sudden onset of emotion, voice breaking. You tried to swallow the lump that formed in your throat to no avail. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” He asked, and his voice came out low, quiet—almost as if he was attempting to sound softer.

“I don’t know.” You admitted.

He nodded, still standing at a distance. His eyes stayed trained on your face.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t—I feel like, I dunno, maybe it’s just because of how…unexpected…it was. But lying out there, on the fucking ground, on the dirt, bleeding, I felt peace, LT,” you had given up on holding back the tears, and they flowed freely down your cheeks. “I could accept what was coming. And now I’m back, I’m here, I’m alive, and I—I’m sore. Like, in my—in my soul, I’m sore, and I’m so, so fucking tired.” You took a shuddered breath. “And I’m scared.”

Ghost was quiet, but he finally moved, situating himself on the edge of his bed and motioning for you to join him.

“Sit.”

You obliged, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you sat next to him.

He sighed, staring at the wall. “Not something you jus' move on from.”

“But I want to get better.” You argued, swallowing another sob.

“Y’will. In time.”

“When?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Need to know basis?” You rolled your eyes, still sour about being left out of the last mission.

“Yeah,” he turned his head to look at you, and for the first time, you recognized the exhaustion in his eyes. “But you’re the one who’ll know." He moved to rest his hand on your knee. "S'not an answer anybody else can give you.”

Ghost didn't do physical affection the way Soap and Gaz did, and a gesture as forward as placing a hand on your leg felt deeply intimate coming from him.

You liked it. Partnered with his words, the weight of his touch made you feel better.

“Some help you are…” You smiled softly, glancing at him in your peripheral as you sniffled.

“Talkin’ about it, aren’t you?” You could see the movement of his brow as he raised it beneath the balaclava.

You sighed, nodding an affirmative.

“Talked to Gaz about it?”

“No…not—not like this,” you turned to face him.

His hand slipped off your leg in a manner that seemed almost reluctant. Immediately, you missed the warmth of his palm.

When he looked down at you in his trademarked silence, you continued.

“I trust you.”

You thought his eyes might’ve creased, giving away a smile under the balaclava, but you didn’t dwell on it.

“Can I ask you something?” The question popped into your head, and you figured now was as good a time as any.

“Wha’s’at?” He shifted on the bed, giving himself more space to look at you without having to crane his neck.

“You weren’t drugged the other day.”

“S'not a question,” he pointed out. “No. I wasn't. Told you ‘at.”

“So, you were just…joking? When you made the, uh…that remark about…grandkids.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, "About me giving you the go ahead?"

This time, you were certain he was smiling.

“D’you think I was joking?”

“I—maybe…” You chewed the inside of your cheek.

He shrugged, leaning back on his hands.

“You’re tired, Simon.” Unable to get a straight answer from him, you changed the subject.

“Projecting a bit?” He straightened back up, folding his arms, and you frowned at him.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Rarely do.”

“Are you scared?”

“Not th’first time I’ve been shot at, love.” He was deflecting.

“Are you still hurting?”

He hesitated. With a huff, he answered.

“…I guess. Li'l bit, yeah.”

“Can I please just give you something for it?” You weren’t trying to beg, but it certainly came off as if you were, "Just some Advil?"

His gaze shifted around the room, and then back to you.

“Will it make y’feel better?” He tilted his head at you.

“It’ll make you feel better.” You countered.

He heaved a sigh, and you saw his shoulders sag a bit in defeat.

“A'right,” he nodded, “Yeah. Fine.”

You grinned at him through the tears that had dried on your face, rising from his bed and speeding down the hall to your own room. You grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen on your nightstand, then moved just as quickly back to his room.

“Take two.” You fished the pills from the bottle when you situated yourself on the bed again, holding them out to him.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Half of one.”

“Jesus Christ. Simon—”

“Fuckin' with you.” He took the pills from your hand.

You watched a bit too keenly when he pulled the balaclava up over his jaw to place the pills on his tongue. You could see the tip of the scar that brushed over his top lip.

He swallowed the pills dry, tugging his mask back down.

“Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You smiled, and it was genuine.

“Y’smiling at me, sweetheart,” he sighed, “Gone mental from exhaustion?”

“Maybe,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “Maybe I’m just…”

He stared at you, waiting for you to finish your thought.

“I’m glad you’re alive…” You sighed, staring at his chest rather than his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” He echoed your words, a bit more decisively.

You could tell he meant it.

There was a silence in the room, one that allowed the tension to really resonate. But it wasn’t uncomfortable—if anything, maybe it was necessary.

“Think you’d rather stay ‘ere tonight?”

“Here?” Your brows furrowed, unsure if you’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Could both benefit from some company.” He added, “Up to you.”

You absorbed the question, nodding slowly.

“Yeah. That would…that’d be nice.”

"Go on." He shifted on the mattress, motioning to the head of the bed.

Simon watched you maneuver yourself up the bed, kicking your legs under the covers and pulling them up to your chin. When you'd settled, he worked his way to a more comfortable spot. He lay next to you above the blankets; mask on, arms folded over his chest.

It wasn’t the way you’d imagined getting into bed with him—and you often felt ashamed for thinking about getting into bed with him at all—but it was comforting all the same.

“Let me ask you something.” He looked over at you when you’d made yourself comfortable.

“Okay.”

“You serious? ‘Bout wantin’ t’feel my hands on you?” His voice was low but carried a playful tone, as if he were baiting you into a confession.

“What?” You laughed.

“In the infirmary, ‘fore I said that stuff about givin’ me—”

“Simon?”

“Mm?”

“Do you think I was serious?”

You rolled over onto your side, pleased with yourself. If he wouldn’t give you a straight answer, you wouldn’t give him one, either.

~~~

Simon was still in the same position he’d gone to sleep in when you woke up; lying on his back with his mask on, arms folded over his chest.

You had managed to position yourself against him, face pushed into his bicep. You found yourself wishing he had moved; tried to get closer to you, given some indication that he had noticed your shift and embraced it.

But no matter.

You snuck out of Ghost’s room as the sun came up, eager to avoid any prying eyes—if only to save yourself from the embarrassment of having to explain that nothing had actually happened at all.

But it had been a sounder sleep than you’d anticipated; he was warm, solid next to you, and that alone made you feel more at ease than you had in a while.

You found yourself in front of his door for a second night in a row.

“You a'right?” He opened the door on your second knock.

“I—yeah…” you answered, “It’s…I don’t…”

“Don’t want to be alone?” He finished the sentence for you, and you nodded.

He stepped aside, wordlessly, giving you space to walk through the door.

You had been truthful—you didn’t want to be alone. You couldn’t handle the idea of being trapped with your thoughts again in the dark of your room when you knew what was looming just behind your eyelids.

But the whole truth was that you wanted to be with him.

He tugged haphazardly at the blankets in an attempt to make the bed more appealing. Not that he really had to; you were tired, and it didn’t matter whether the bed you crawled into was made or not, as long as he was in it with you.

When he’d made the bed to his liking, you undid his hard work in a split second as you got comfortable under the covers.

You looked up at him. He stood by the edge of the bed, looking back at you.

“Left without sayin' anything this morning.”

“You were asleep,” you pointed out. “Why? Were you gonna make me breakfast?”

“Not with ‘at attitude.” He scoffed, and you laughed quietly.

He situated himself next to you, once again lying above the covers.

“I won’t make this a habit,” you muttered, “I promise.”

“S’a’right,” he shook his head, “Not really a problem, far as I see it.”

“Oh?”

“You ‘eard me.” He tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

He seemed so much more at ease in his own space, which begged the question:

“How come you wear the mask to sleep?” You couldn’t help yourself. “I mean—it’s your room, Simon. Nobody’s gonna see you.”

“You might.” His eyes reopened, and he tilted his head to the side to look at you.

“But I know what you look like,” you smirked, “I know who you are. And you’re not Ghost.”

“S’not true.” He mumbled.

“It is,” you doubled down, “Outside of this room, sure, but in here—in bed, at the very least—you’re all Simon.”

He was quiet for a minute.

“So ‘ow come you don’t wanna be Berserker?”

“Told you—just doesn’t feel like me.”

“But I’m still Ghost.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m also…not.”

You hesitated. “Well, when you make it sound so…complicated…”

“I like your callsign.”

“Why?” You were genuinely curious to know what he thought.

“Thought I said,” he sighed, “Suits you.”

“You never said why.” You pressed him for more.

“You flip on a dime,” he explained with a sigh, “Go into this, uh, wild state. Pretty thing, goin’ completely berserk on the field—always liked it.” He exhaled a quiet, one-breath laugh, “And you’re damn near impossible to kill.”

You digested his words, but only one point stuck with you, and it made your heart flutter.

“You think I’m pretty?” You spoke coyly, covering your excitement with a playful tone.

He tensed his shoulders before letting them drop with a sigh of faux exasperation.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I think you’re pretty.”

You smiled, staring up at him from your spot on the bed—his bed.

“‘Nd you think I am, too—beggin’ me to take my mask off.” There was a smirk in his voice.

“Simon,” you rolled your eyes, turning away from him, “You ruined it.”

~~~

After spending several nights in Simon’s bed, you’d become used to the process of falling asleep to banter that bordered flirtation; of sleeping soundly and without distress; of waking up earlier than you’d like to, and creeping out of his room.

On the morning of the fourth day, you had woken up with his arm draped over your side, his hand pressed lightly against your stomach. He had positioned himself so that his arm perched over your hips rather than your waist to avoid brushing the scar that lingered even after your stitches had dissolved.

Maybe it had been an accident, just a subconscious pull to the heat of your body as you lay next to him, but it felt too precise to be coincidental—and that made you feel a sort of smug adoration.

You had stayed a little longer that morning.

You weren’t keeping it a secret, per se, but it felt wrong to put this newfound arrangement on display. Even if it was only something between coworkers—friends?—that benefitted your sleep schedule and made you feel less jumpy, you didn’t like the notion that people in the barracks would suspect it was something more.

Maybe you didn’t care about what other people thought.

Maybe it was more about what Simon thought; what his intentions were; whether or not you’d be overstepping by making it known that you’d been sleeping—and only sleeping—with him.

You strolled into the mess hall feeling well rested and hungry. Your appetite had finally returned, and you were happy to sate it.

“You look better,” Gaz addressed you from across the table, “Sleeping?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Been managing to go the whole night.”

“Good,” he sipped his coffee through a smile, “That’s good.”

You hadn’t told him it was because you’d been finding comfort in the Lieutenant’s bed.

Ghost and Soap approached the table, taking their respective seats.

Soap threw his tray down next to Gaz, grumbling as he sat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gaz nudged Johnny with his shoulder.

“Slept nae a fuckin’ wink last night.” Soap mumbled into his coffee.

“Why?” You questioned.

Soap sighed, shrugging in defeat.

“Bet you could get something from the infirmary,” you suggested, “Something to knock you on your ass. If you keep getting no sleep, I mean.”

“That what you’ve been doing?” Gaz asked you, and your mind went blank.

“Hoping it doesn’t come t’that.” Johnny inadvertently saved you from having to answer Gaz’s question by responding to your initial prompt.

“Tried countin’ sheep, Johnny?” Simon finally piped up from his seat next to you.

“Bile yer heid,” Soap shot a deadpan look at him.

“English.” Ghost huffed.

“Fuck yerself—y’keep it up, I’ll crawl into bed with you, LT.” Soap turned to look at you, smiling as he quirked a brow “If there’s any room.”

“What?” You tried not to let the sudden wave of panic show on your face.

There’s no way he could know.

Was there?

“What?” Johnny laughed, brow furrowed, “Look’t ‘im—be a shock if he alone could fit into one o’the beds.”

You faked a quick laugh, looking over at Simon, who hadn’t reacted at all to Soap’s taunt. He remained completely unfazed, watching his coffee steam; seemingly unaware of your knee-jerk response.

It was like he had not a care in the world.

Suddenly, your appetite was gone.

“I have reports to finish.”

“Still?” Gaz looked at you incredulously.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Been putting them off too long.”

Picking up your tray, you wandered out of the mess hall and towards your room.

~~~

You forced yourself to stay in your own bed that night, and the night after that.

And it felt torturous, and not because of the nightmares or the creeping sense of dread—though that certainly didn’t help your quest to find independence. This discomfort was more about your lack of understanding.

You didn’t know why you were so concerned about other people on the base seeing you with him—nervous at the notion of your own friends knowing about this arrangement.

You didn’t understand why Ghost had become so attuned to your needs or what he meant by not seeing you in his bed as a problem.

He thought you were pretty. At least you knew that much.

Not that it did anything to help quell your doubts.

You had started sleeping in the same shirt that had caused you so much grief; after doing your best to lift the stains, you’d managed to make it seem like the shirt hadn’t been through hell and back.

Now if only you could make yourself feel the same.

You weren’t avoiding Simon on purpose—that’s what you told yourself, anyway. You just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that maybe he was being kind out of pity; that he saw how miserable and tired you were, and was simply relenting.

You didn’t want to get your hopes up, get riled up over the nothing that was sharing a bed with him.

Johnny’s offhand remark had, for some reason, made you feel odd. It was the way you’d reacted that made you feel bad, though, and Simon’s lack of reaction that made you feel worse.

His lack of an outward response made you upset. It dredged up the resentment you’d projected onto him. His clear obsession with appearing so stoic and uncaring in front of everybody made you feel unwanted; the fact that he could never, ever, seem to give you a reaction, no matter what you did, made you feel pitiful.

Meanwhile, your immediate panic at the thought of Soap knowing what was going on made you feel pathetic, and served to put into perspective just how deep your feelings actually ran.

The juxtaposition in reactions from yourself and him made you feel dirty.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to find solace in your bed after a day of forcing yourself to finish reports. You hadn’t been lying when you’d walked out of breakfast the other day—they had been piling up, and you had really needed to get them sorted.

You were tired. It wasn’t your best work, but at least they were finally done.

Someone knocked on your door.

“What?” You called out, prepared to hear Gaz on the other side.

“Open the door, sweetheart.”

Simon.

You opened your door a crack, just to peek at him, before finding the courage to open it completely.

“A'right?” He didn’t seem to notice your hesitation—that, or he was just ignoring it.

He was so good at ignoring things.

“Yes.” You lied, immediately turning bitter towards him.

“'Aven’t been comin' to see me.” He wasn’t asking, just stating the obvious, and it made you even more upset.

“Two nights,” you turned your back on him, walking further into your room. “Three tonight.”

You hadn’t really meant your movement as an invitation for him to come in, but Simon took it as one anyway. He followed you inside, shutting the door behind himself.

“D’you want to—”

“Do I want to sleep in your room?” Your words came out snippy as you cut him off, and indignation dripped from your voice.

He stayed quiet for a moment.

“Do you?”

“Did you tell Soap?” You began interrogating him.

“Mm?”

“Did you,” you took a step closer to him, “Tell Soap? About—about this? About…whatever this is. Me sleeping in your bed.”

“No,” Simon tilted his head to the side, “Did y’want me to?”

“Did I—what? What, so you can make a show of how you finally got me to behave for you?” You snapped, “Make sure everybody knows how easy it was to soften me up and get me where you want me?”

His eyes went wide for a moment before he collected himself with a huff.

“What?”

“I said what I said. Is this about you getting a little power trip?”

You felt lightheaded. You’d spent so long building walls around yourself to avoid your want for him, and he’d managed to tear them down in a matter of weeks. And he didn’t even care; he was seemingly ignorant to all of your emotional turmoil, to all the what ifs, and the sinking feeling you always carried of never being good enough for him.

“Making sure everybody knows that you’ve gotten another thing that you deserve?” You continued, irate.

He stared at you, resigned to your verbal onslaught.

“You don’t care what they think.” He spoke as if it was only just dawning on him.

“But I care what you think!” You broke, slumping over yourself slightly. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry, finding a happy medium in giggling so hysterically that your eyes began to water. “I care way too much about what you think, Simon! And I have no idea what you’re thinking, ever! You wanna know why I’ve been so fucking—I don’t know, upset? With you? For god knows how long? Why I'm so confused by this random fucking attentiveness?”

You stormed over to your desk, hastily grabbing the reports and walking back over to Simon to slam them against his chest.

“Be fucking certain they’re in order this time, sweetheart!” You mocked his accent, angry enough that you considered mimicry fair game.

He let the papers drop to the ground by his feet.

“You went from so easy to so, so difficult in the span of twenty-four hours, and I have never for the life of me been able to figure out what set you off!” You wondered if he even remembered the series of events you were talking about, if it stuck out to him the way it did to you. “You’re so complicated! You’re so fucking—and now you’re mad that I’m not running off to bed with you? So—so that you can keep me safe from myself and prove to me that you’re some fucking superhero? Wanna be my personal savior? Make me eat my words about your arrogance?” You scoffed, “Jesus fuck, Simon!”

You swallowed every emotion besides ire. Still, you felt a pang of remorse when you remembered what you’d said to him as he lay sleeping in the infirmary.

Sorry I yelled at you; it won’t happen again.

Now you were making a liar out of yourself, and it wasn’t even his fault—this was you still trying to push it all down, even after everything. The fear of rejection tried to overpower your desire for help from him; comfort from him.

The terseness of your words hung between the two of you, and you remained frozen in place, standing across from him, panting.

“Wasn’t mad.” You could hear the irritation in his voice, finally getting a reaction.

“What?” You huffed.

“I wasn’t mad. Never been mad at you.”

“Then what—”

“You needed a push.”

“And that’s how you thought to do it?”

“'Ow else would I have done it?” He sounded like he did on missions, blunt and loud, and the severity of his tone made you flinch.

“Any other way! You—you refuse to acknowledge the work I put into all of this! Then, now, you’ve always acted like I’m not good enough to be here!”

“I push you because I respect you,” he was practically yelling now as he matched your urgency, raising a hand to point at you for emphasis. “You respond better to assertiveness. You thrive on clarity, always 'ave. Thought I was fuckin' ‘elpin' you.” With narrowed eyes, he searched your face. "And maybe I was rough on you, but ‘ow the fuck was I s'posed to react—you think I knew what to do? When you were showing me such bloody—this gentle fuckin' devotion since day one?"

You thought you'd like getting him to snap, but you didn't. You could feel your cheeks heating up, sinuses stinging slightly as your body readied tears.

You felt stupid, the situation lamentable. It had always been a misunderstanding; a lapse in communication between two people who understood each other but refused to relate. Someone who wanted to adore, and someone who had no idea how to be adored.

He had always been attuned to your needs. He was just godawful at showing it.

You shrunk into yourself a bit, biting your lip to keep the tears at bay. You avoided his gaze as you chose your words.

“Are you proud of me?”

“What?” He looked down at you in disbelief.

You doubled down, trying to keep your voice even, “Are you proud of me, Simon?”

He took a long breath, debating his next move, before tugging his mask over his jaw.

In one swift motion, he pulled you into him, not bothering to weave his arms under your own and instead wrapping himself around you with your arms still slack at your sides.

“Fuck are you talking about?” He growled, one hand coming up to cup your face.

And then he was kissing you, passionately, but in an oddly chaste manner.

You gasped, shocked by how forward the action was and by how much you responded to it. You wiggled your arms out of his grasp, one hand finding purchase on his chest while the other flew to the nape of his neck.

He pulled away from you, and you found yourself chasing the slow movement of his lips against yours, already missing the vague taste of him you’d gotten from the gentle kiss.

“You’re fuckin' stubborn,” Simon spoke just above a whisper, deep voice ragged as he caught his breath, “You’re one of the most competent people I’ve ever worked with. You call me on shit people three ranks above you wouldn’t, and you’re right. You stepped on a landmine, and you lived.” His thumb brushed over your cheek as his hand kept up the responsibility of holding your face up, ensuring that your eyes met his. “Who cares ‘f I’m proud of you.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, but you answered anyway.

“I do.” You breathed, and you finally felt as though the whole truth had been told.

“Well, I…” He swallowed, “I am.” There was a pause as he collected his thoughts, staring at you with a tender look of hesitation. “I am. And ’m sorry.”

“For what?” You wanted to hear it.

“Everything,” he seemed assured, “Not being—not being the right kind of support, not being clear about…”

When he trailed off, you wanted to push him forward into his feelings; make him say it, clarify how he hadn’t been clear about his true intentions or the nature of his emotions; make him put into perspective what Gaz had been trying to tell you in your room as you smoked through your skepticism.

But that would just make you feel cruel, and if he wasn’t ready to share that sort of vulnerability with you, then so be it.

Instead, you began a new line of questioning.

“Why’d you make that crack about us having grandkids?” You leaned against his palm where it rested on your face.

“Felt right. In th’moment,” he sighed, “Thought it was funny.”

“You were serious.”

“‘F you think I—”

“You were.” You delivered your claim with certainty.

He smiled, and you were thrilled to be able to see the rare presentation on his partially unmasked face.

“I was.”

“I’m not a problem.” You tried not to get distracted by how pretty his lips looked, curled so obviously at the edges.

“Not the way I see it.” He answered in a manner so typically Ghost, but it still served to prove your point.

“And you think I’m pretty.”

You watched his smile turn into something more akin to a smirk.

“'At's right. I do.”

“Gaz said…said you stayed with me. In the infirmary.”

“I did.”

“How come?” You wanted more extensive answers, unsatisfied by his brief responses.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Simon countered your question with another.

“You were pissed that I woke up when you weren’t there.” You continued to run through the series of events that had irritated you so greatly.

“Can y’blame me?”

“Yeah.”

He closed his eyes for a moment upon hearing your reply, perhaps recognizing his own shortcomings in how he was dealing with this conversation; or recognizing that he had, in fact, been in the wrong to get so aggressive while you were still healing up.

He didn’t say anything, so you took it upon yourself to continue, trying to prompt him.

“You were mad.”

“I was upset.” He clarified with a hiss, not out of spite but frustration at his inability to express himself.

“Why?” You urged him on.

“Because—” He heaved a sigh, “Wanted you to know I...cared. Wanted it t’be something 'at registered…”

He was clearly struggling to describe his thought process, and you couldn’t blame him—he was a complicated man in every sense of the word, and you could only imagine what it was like inside his head.

But he was trying.

“'En you woke up while I was gone, 'nd I felt stupid, so I just…took it out on you, and everybody else,” he breathed, “And I shouldn’t ‘ave. And I’m sorry.”

You wondered if you were the first person to ever hear the words I’m sorry come out of his mouth, and you tried not to relish in the notion.

You tugged subconsciously at his shirt collar, and realizing that you both still hand your hands wound around one another made you blush.

“Why did you listen to me?”

“When?” He furrowed his brow enough that you could see his eyes crease.

“You let me lead—you treated me when I asked you to.” You explained.

“Think I’d jus’ let you bleed out?” His lips curled into a subtle smile again.

“Answer the question.” You tugged a bit more harshly on his shirt.

“I respect you,” he muttered, “You’re a good soldier.”

“That doesn’t answer my—”

“It does.” He cut you off, eyes boring holes into your own as if in an effort to telepathically send you the meaning of his words.

And you understood.

“So why did you use your shirt?” You swallowed, smiling softly.

“Y'ask a lot of fuckin’ questions, know 'at?” He huffed playfully.

“Yeah,” you shot back, not bending to his teasing, “Why’d you use your shirt.”

“No bandages.”

“So your first instinct was to just—strip down, middle of a warzone, wrap me up?”

“I need you,” he paused then, perhaps intentionally, as he tightened his grip around your waist, hauling you even closer against him, “Safe.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you parted your lips, but no words came out.

“I need you alive. And I’m glad I did it,” he was trying not to mumble, unsure of how his words would be received despite how you were clinging to him like some sort of life preserver. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, touched by his sincerity and wanting to grip his face, pull him down into another kiss that you could deepen even further.

“Could’ve used a sock…” You opted instead to poke fun at him, hoping it might lighten the mood and ease the tension. You didn’t want to run the risk of kissing him with tears trailing down your face.

“Fuck off.” He chuckled, and you felt instantly soothed.

Simon tilted his face down ever so slightly, eyes leaving your face to take in the way his shirt framed your body.

“Looks good on you.” He seemed pleased.

“Cleaned the blood.”

“I noticed.” He nodded, eyes still scanning the fabric that adorned you. “Suits you.”

“You keep saying that, and I don’t know what you mean.” You tilted your head at him, your bodies close enough that you could hear his heartbeat syncing with yours.

You belonged here.

“'Ow much clearer could I be, sweetheart?” He scoffed in jest.

“Simon.”

“Mm?” He looked back at you.

“Shut up,” you shook your head, amused, “I’m giving you the go ahead.”

You pulled him down by the nape of his neck where your hand still sat, reconnecting your lips to his.

This time, it was different—his movements were hungry, and there was little time wasted as he worked to deepen the kiss. You parted your lips, beckoning him in and whimpering softly when he began to lick into you. The room was silent with the exception of the soft sound of his mouth exploring yours and the quiet hiss of breath.

He finally moved his arm, wrapping it properly around your waist, and you could feel his fingers pressing against your skin as if in an attempt to map you out, to bruise you with his fingerprints and mark you as identifiably his own. His other palm rested heavy on your cheek, sliding back to allow his fingers to brush through your hair leisurely.

Your own hands had also begun to wander, stroking up his chest and his back, grabbing at his shoulders and his arms in a desperate attempt to feel the warmth of him seep into your palm anywhere you could get it through his shirt. You felt delirious with want—every emotion besides lust fizzled out, and you were left with the knowledge that this was all you’d ever really wanted.

And now that you had it, you couldn’t get enough.

You tugged on his shirt. He took the hint, allowing you to walk with him in an awkward dance of intwined limbs until the back of your knees hit the bed.

You finally separated, though he kept his hands on your sides. You stared up at him as you caught your breath.

“Take it off.” Your words came out whined.

“Take what off?” He heaved a breath.

He knew what you were talking about, but he prompted you all the same in an effort to encourage you to take what you wanted.

You reached up hesitantly. With one one hand, you cupped his jaw, while your other hand gripped the fabric that he’d tugged over his mouth, peeling it off of him until his face was fully exposed.

It had only been a month or two since you’d seen his face unobstructed, but he was prettier than you remembered, if that was possible.

The scars that crisscrossed over his left cheek were a flushed pink, rosy against his pale skin; his eyes seemed sharper, keener as you analyzed his features.

His hair had grown longer on top, despite the fact that he had clearly maintained the close cropping on the sides.

Seeing him like this always made him seem human, and the circumstances in which you were seeing him now made it innately more intimate.

You kept your hand on his face, absentmindedly trailing your thumb down his cheek as you considered what you could say in this moment.

“Hair’s not regulation…” You mumbled, swallowing.

“Gonna tell on me?” When he spoke, the faint stubble that dotted his jawline scraped gently against your palm.

“No…” You couldn’t think of anything witty to say, “I like it like this.”

He didn’t respond, but his eyes grew softer as he stared down at you. His hands, still on your waist, dipped beneath your shirt and the feeling of his calloused palms running so gently up your bare skin made you suck in a breath.

“Simon…” You suddenly felt that you couldn’t make eye contact with him, lest you embarrass yourself by begging him to fuck you where you stood.

He looked at you expectantly for a moment before his gaze flicked down to where his hands stroked up your body.

“I want—” You tried to find the words that would make you sound the least pathetic, but realized that you didn’t really care as you settled on your phrasing. “Fuck me.”

“Yeah?” His voice gave away his eagerness.

“Please.” You added.

That was all it took to get him to grab you by the hips and tug you into him, turning the both of you around so that he could sit on the bed. You scrambled to straddle his lap.

He snaked his hands back under your shirt—his shirt—helping you out of it with one hand while the other traced patterns down your spine. When you tossed it to the side, you gazed at him expectantly, searching his face for a reaction.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you got one quickly. “Wanna…”

He never finished his sentence, and you didn’t have time to prompt him; his hands traveled up to your shoulder blades, face dipping down to bury himself in the cavern between your breasts and trail open mouthed kisses over your skin.

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from your lips, a response to the action itself and the way he felt against you; hot, wet tongue smoothing over the spots his stubble scratched at.

When he moved to take one of your nipples between his lips, you rolled your hips, arching your back. The action earned you a growl from him, and the small vibrations from his mouth made goosebumps erupt over your skin.

“Christ, don’t—” He grunted against the supple flesh of your breast, clearly struggling to hold back from reciprocating your movements as he bucked his hips gently up into you. “Fuck, c’mere.”

He grabbed your thighs before he stood, flipping you onto your back. Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed, and he knelt between your thighs.

“Should we take these off?” His fingers just barely dipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you whined.

“Yes—yeah,” you raised your hips from the bed, “Go for it.”

Simon smirked, tugging your shorts down your legs and leaving you completely exposed to him. He trailed kisses up the inside of your leg, sucking hard on the skin of your thigh as he inched closer to your core.

“Knew you’d be a tease.” You huffed a laugh when he reached the top of your thigh only to move back and trail kisses up your other leg.

“Thought about it a lot?” He smiled against your skin, “Night’s young, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, but gasped softly when he reached the top of your thigh again and slowly began to leave kisses over your pubic mound, taking his time, dipping lower until he reached your clit.

You let out a shaky breath. How long had it been since someone touched you like this; since you’d exposed yourself to a hand that wasn’t yours, a mouth that knew how to put in the effort?

How long had you been aching to feel Simon this way?

Your hand flew to his head, fully appreciating the way his hair had grown out to offer you the proper length to pull on.

Simon moaned softly, pressing chaste kisses to your clit, but when you tugged harder, desperate for more, he let out a quiet growl and stared up at you as he finally pressed his tongue to your folds.

You knew he had good aim—snipers tended to—but the way he so expertly circled his tongue over your entrance, pressing into you and lapping up your slick made your back arch. You raised your legs to rest them over his shoulders, aching for him.

You could feel his breath coming out in warm huffs against your slick. He ate you like a man starved, and you bucked your hips into his face when he licked a broad stripe over your slit that culminated in him teasing your clit with the tip of the muscle.

“Greedy thing,” he teased, nipping at your inner thigh, “Taste even better 'an I thought.”

“Thought—thought about it a lot?” You threw his words back at him with a shaky voice, nearing the edge, and he laughed.

“All the time,” he wrapped his arms around your legs, forcing you to still as he pressed another kiss to your dripping cunt. “Hand wrapped 'round my cock, thinking 'bout buryin' my face in you,” he teased your clit, licking another stripe over you before continuing his rambling. “How fuckin' pretty you’d look, starin’ down at me.”

His words made you feel feral, and the knowledge that he had touched himself to thoughts of you, just as you had to thoughts of him, forced a whimper from your throat. You looked down at him with parted lips and lust blown eyes.

“Yeah, ’at’s it,” he nodded, staring back at you from between your thighs, face coated in your slick, “Jus' like 'at, sweetheart. Watch me.”

He dropped his face again, hands moving up your legs to grip the flesh of your ass and pull you firm against him as he sucked on your clit mercilessly.

You found yourself writhing beneath his ministrations, pulling his hair harder as you reached the precipice. You didn’t know if you wanted him to stop, to go easier on you; or if you wanted him to stay there, lapping at your cunt and overwhelming your senses forever.

Your thighs squeezed around his head, trembling, as your muscles tensed. Your vision went blurry from the pleasure.

“Cum.” He said it like it was an order, licking into you before quickly returning his attention to your clit, sucking down hard around the bud.

What was likely meant to be a scream came out a choked cry as you came, gasping his name and trying to curl into yourself as the stimulation became all too much for you to handle.

With a final kiss to your cunt, Simon removed his mouth from you, stroking his thumb over your hip and watching you shake.

“Good?” He whispered into your thigh, planting soft kisses over your skin as you whimpered through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Yeah—fuck, Simon, yeah. Good,” you panted, “Better than good...Christ.”

He hummed, satisfied by your answer.

You stayed sprawled out with him between your legs for a while longer, appreciating the soft touches of the man who projected such a harsh persona; reminding yourself how to breathe properly.

"Come." You stretched your arms out, staring at him as you encouraged him to crawl into bed with you.

He obliged, standing, and you bit your tongue to keep from taunting him about how easy it was now to get him to follow orders. He pulled you into him, and you pressed your hands to his chest, nuzzling beneath his chin.

“You gonna keep all your clothes on?” You mumbled, teasing.

Simon sat up, supporting himself on his elbow. He tilted his head down as he brought a hand to your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Ask me again.”

“Simon—”

“Nah, c’mon,” he practically cooed, voice saccharine as he teased you. “Say it, sweetheart.”

“You want me to beg for you?” You matched his tone.

“Bet you’d be good at it.” He quirked a brow, smirking.

You sighed, fully willing to give him what he wanted even if it was in jest. Grabbing his collar and pulling him down so that your nose brushed his, you spoke in a whisper.

“Will you please fuck me, Simon?”

He smiled, but the glint in his eyes read almost predatory.

“Good girl.”

He sat up, pulling off his shirt and exposing his chest to you. It wasn’t anything new; you'd seen him in states of undress like this, but when his lips were still wet with your cum, it felt different in the most magnificent of ways.

You watched him stand, sitting up to get a better view; his stitches had already dissolved, but a scar still marred his left side, joining the dozens of other marks he'd collected during his time in combat.

With a smirk, he looked down at you and unzipped his fly, bending down to take his pants off, and you laughed at the showmanship he displayed.

Cocky motherfucker.

But you rubbed your thighs together when he took off his boxers, all the previous teasing production value gone as he straightened up and kicked them to the side with a huff.

You’d long wondered—rather immaturely—whether his size and stature translated to all of him. You felt your cheeks flush when you saw that you had been correct in suspecting that his cock lived up to the rest of him; thick and long, it tilted slightly to the right, and one solid vein trailed up the underside. His tip was pink and leaking, already smeared with precum, and when you realized that it was likely because he had found pleasure in going down on you, you swallowed a moan.

He rolled his shoulders back, and you thought you might be drooling.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looming over you as he always did, but now with a level of hesitation. He bent down to brush his lips against yours, and you eagerly accepted the kiss.

“Tell me what you want.” His breath was hot against your mouth.

“Told you…” You whispered, bringing a hand up to trace the tattoos on his arm.

He shook his head. “Tell me how you want it.”

You were thrown off guard by his prompting; you had been excited to let him do whatever it was he wanted.

And so that’s what you voiced.

“Any…however,” you swallowed, “Just want it to be you.”

His eyes softened for a moment, but you couldn’t admire him for long as he quickly embraced you in another kiss, pushing you onto your back again and moving clumsily to kneel on the bed beside you.

Simon’s hands ran down the length of your body, thumbs hooking between your thighs to admire the soaking mess at your core. He situated himself between your legs, encouraging you to hook your knees over his hips.

You couldn’t help but stare up at him in awe, the once callous Lieutenant who you swallowed your feelings for, now touching you with such care and admiration—and he looked good doing it.

He moved one hand from your hip to your face, cupping your cheek and staring down at you. The iciness in his eyes was back, but it was in a sense of concern rather than ire.

“You tell me if it 'urts.” He traced your cheekbone with his thumb.

“Knew you could be arrogant, but Jesus, Simon,” you barked a laugh, “That’s just—”

“Meant your ribs, love,” he smirked down at you, and you grinned back at him. “But I 'preciate the vote o'confidence.”

“Freudian slip…” You mumbled, not even embarrassed at your mistake, finding the humor in it and relishing that he, too, was comfortable enough to laugh about it with you.

“Right.” He nodded, smug. He maneuvered himself so that his cock could rest against your stomach.

You tilted your head, looking down to admire the image. He was justified in his pride, despite the way he came off so pompous; seeing his cock against you like this made your breath hitch, the comparison it drew to your size versus his was unavoidable and absolutely delicious.

“You gonna fuck me, or just show off?” You wiggled your hips.

“Nice to know you’re still mouthy even on your back.” Simon huffed, amused, as he pulled back to line himself up with you.

When he notched his tip to your entrance, you bucked your hips gently, unable to conceal your excitement. He pressed a hand to your stomach.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he grunted, “Patient.”

You whined, frustrated and needy, but you didn’t have to put up too much of a fuss before he sunk into you. He watched intently as your cunt swallowed him inch by inch, lowering himself to hover over you on his forearms, pressing his hips to yours.

You squeaked a moan, filled to the brim, and grazed your nails down his back, feeling the occasional indentation of a scar beneath your fingers. Simon pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed and breath coming out broken.

It was the most unshielded you had ever seen him, and you felt a sense of pride in the fact that it was you who had caused such a response.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he groaned, pulling his hips back an inch only to thrust shallowly back into you. You whimpered at the feeling, the way he had your walls stretched so taut around him. “Oh, fu—ckin’ hell…”

“Fuck me,” you whined, grabbing him by the shoulder blades. You pressed sloppy kisses to his mouth and chin, “Fuck me, fuck me—” It was a chant, a desperate repetition of your needs.

Maybe he captured you in another kiss to shut you up, but you didn’t mind. When his tongue parted your lips just as he began to rock forward, you nearly bit down on it, letting out a broken cry that he swallowed happily.

“Don’t want everybody 'earin’ you.” He shushed you, smirking into the kiss.

“Don’t—don’t care,” and you didn’t; if this was how everybody in the barracks discovered your situation with Ghost, you’d be proud. “Feels—you’re so deep.”

“I know,” he was typically smug, but you could tell he was enjoying himself just as much as you were. “Lift your hips, sweetheart.”  

You did as he said, lifting your hips enough so that he had room to reach beneath your body and grope your ass, tugging you into every stroke.

“Yeah, ‘at’s it—fuckin’ take it,” the pace of his thrusts increased. With his hands beneath your body, he straightened up, allowing himself to fuck into you deeper, rougher. “Fuckin’—fuck, take it, take it, sweetheart.” His head fell back as he moved, and you felt hypnotized by the way his chest heaved.

“Jesus fucking—Simon, please—” You bit your lip, really and truly attempting to keep the volume of your cries for him down, but he wasn’t making it easy. “So good—feel so good, please, just like that.”

His jaw was clenched but his lips were parted, and he looked over you with an intense focus, training himself to identify every little bodily response from you, and every little thing he could do to earn those reactions.

“Christ, look't you, love—” His lips curled into a fucked-out smirk, “Droolin’ jus' like your cunt.”

Dazed, you watched as he brought his hand down to your face, swiping the drool you hadn’t even realized you’d produced from the side of your mouth with his thumb. He pressed the digit against your lips, and you opened, eagerly sucking his thumb while he continued his bruising pace.

He watched on as you moaned around him, filling you at both ends.

His words spilled out of him, the vulgar vice grip your cunt had on his cock working him to peak vulnerability.

“You know ‘ow long I wanted this?” He bent down, slowing his pace to offer long, deep strokes that were just as overwhelming as the previous, faster pace. “‘Ow long I wanted t’see you droolin’ f'my cock? Would’a fucked you every night you slept with me—f’you said that’s what you wanted, would’a fucked you with ‘at bullet in my ribs.”

You could feel his cock punching against your cervix, the sharp, brief pain in your abdomen immediately fading to make room for the pleasure. And even so, with him encroaching on you like this, forcing you to take him as deep as you physically could, you still wanted more.

You moaned, irrepressibly needy as your hands wandered over his body above you.

Straightening up again, Simon pulled his thumb from your mouth. He took it between his own lips, tasting your spit and saturating the digit further before lowering it to your clit and rubbing circles over you.

“So fuckin’ stubborn—you’re a brat, ‘nd even when you make me pull my fuckin’ 'air out, I’d still let you do anythin' you want,” he couldn’t stop talking, and you were fine with it. His rambling on about his desire for you, paired with the motion of his hips, had you hurtling towards your second high. “Fuck, you feel good—fuck.”  

You thought maybe when he tilted his head down, eyes closing as he dropped his chin to his chest, that he was done talking. For a moment, it seemed that way, his attention refocusing completely on your body, as he collected himself and moved lower to hover over you again; nipping at the skin of your chest and licking stripes over your tits, moving his hand from your clit and kneading the pillowy flesh of your breasts.

But he moved to look down at you directly, nose brushing your own, and there was a flash of something in his eyes—soft and completely exposed.

“I love you.” He said it like a secret, the quietest cadence you’d ever heard him take on.

For a moment you thought maybe you were dreaming again—the nightmares morphing into something more akin to psychological warfare that you would wake up from and miss as if it were a nostalgic memory.

But then he said your name.

“I—fuck—I love you.” His breath hitched, and he was clearly attempting to distract himself from your silence by burying his cock into you deeper.

It made you moan wantonly—both his actions and his words hitting you somewhere deep, and you let out a gasp, reaching up to cup his cheek and letting your thumb trace one of the longer scars.

“I love you.” You echoed, meaning it more sincerely than anything you’d ever said to him, and though his brow furrowed slightly, he smiled.

“Again,” he panted above you, “Shit, say it again.”

“I love you,” you repeated, hand trailing behind his head and fingers combing through his hair, “I love you, Simon. I love you.” It was the second time in the span of a few hours that you’d found yourself chanting for him, and you were quite pleased.

“Fuckin’—” he sped up again, thrusting into you enough that the bedframe knocked against the wall. You almost felt sorry for whichever poor soul bunked next door. “’At’s it, sweetheart, let me ’ear you.”

He was delirious with lust, overwhelmed by his affection for you. And while it wasn’t something he was used to in any respect, he was certainly enjoying it.

“You fuckin’ tell me—you cum on my cock and you fuckin’ tell me ‘ow much you love it.”

He brought his hand back down to your clit, and your back arched off the mattress when he pressed down onto the bud, massaging over it in time with his thrusts.

“Let me see my pretty girl cum again.” He cooed over you.

His phrasing made you moan. His pretty girl; it rattled around in your brain and you let out a breathy sigh of approval.

“Your pretty girl…”

“’At’s what I said, sweetheart,” he nodded, and he would've been smiling if his focus wasn't entirely taken up on warding off his high. “One more, love. C’mon and gimme what I want.” He growled his words, briefly removing his fingers from your clit to pull your ankles over his shoulders so that he could wrap an arm around your thighs and hold you against him. “Fu—uck, tight little cunt…”

He kissed your ankle, replacing his fingers on your clit once more and watching your face contort in pleasure.

“Simon, fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop,” you stuttered through your whimpers, feeling the familiar heat build in your abdomen, “I’m gonna cum—please—like that, I’m gonna cum.”

He groaned, applying more pressure to your clit as he massaged it to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Go on, sweetheart, gimme another one. Be a good girl, let me see your pretty face while you cum on my cock.”

You let yourself go completely.

“I—I love you,” you mustered the strength to follow his previous orders as the tug that built somewhere in your stomach finally culminated in a pleasant heat coating your skin. Your muscles tensed, your eyes rolling back enough that you could see colors distantly behind your eyelids.

“Yeah, yeah you fuckin’ do. You fuckin’ love it. You love me, sweetheart.” Simon groaned, “’Ere you go—squeeze me tight like ‘at,” his hips stuttered as he fucked you through your high. “Fuckin’ soak me. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh, trying to stave off his climax, if only for a moment longer, so that he could continue to enjoy the warm squeeze of your cunt.

When your moans became weaker, battling exhaustion to prolong the delicious overstimulation he offered you, Simon slid out of you with a grunt. He kept your legs up, keeping your thighs pressed together so that he could slip his cock between them and chase his own release.

“Fuck—” you yelped when the underside of his cock swiped over your clit, craning your neck to watch him fuck himself with your thighs.

You could see his abs tighten, desperate moans falling from his lips, and he looked so utterly beautiful as he struggled to control himself against the pleasure.

“Gonna fuckin’ stain you with my cum,” he heaved, rocking against you fervently, “Wanna smell it on you. Mark you up nice, let everybody know who you belong to—show ‘em 'ow good you are to your Lieutenant.”

“Please,” you mumbled your plea, pressing your palm to the back of his hand where it rested on your thigh, “Please…”

With his mouth agape, Simon’s brow furrowed, pushing his hips flush against the back of your thighs; he came with a low groan, bucking against you as he painted your stomach with his spend.

He panted, closing his mouth to swallow and staring down at you in a haze. He tilted his head back, heaving a satisfied sigh, before finding the motivation to move from the bed.

You felt a tug of melancholy, a sudden discomfort in being parted from him, but you watched on as he found what he was looking for and returned to your side.

He wiped you clean with the same goddamn shirt that, as far as you were concerned, started all this.

You fell into a fit of laughter, the adrenaline morphing from physical pleasure to pure amusement.

Simon stared at you like you had two heads.

“After everything that poor fucking shirt has been through, you’re gonna use it as a cum rag?” You tried to explain, and you watched his lips curl into a smile.

“Better a cum towel ‘an a tourniquet.” He quipped, quirking a brow at you.

“Just got the blood out…” You grumbled playfully, and he tossed the shirt off to the side somewhere.

“You’ll live.” He sighed, pressing his palm into your now clean, if not a bit sticky, stomach and appreciating your warmth.

After he had taken a moment to admire you where you lay on your back, he stood, walking around the bed to situate himself next to you. When he’d made himself comfortable, he wrapped an arm around your hips, pushing you onto your right side before tugging you into him.

“Never thought I’d be spooning with Simon Riley.” You sighed, placing your hand over his where it rested on your stomach.

“Consider y’self lucky.” He chuckled.

You fell into a peaceful lull, wrapped up in each other and silent.

“You love me.” You weren’t asking, more so reassuring yourself with a quick statement to ensure that what he’d said in the heat of the moment was true.

“I do,” he nosed your neck, kissing you softly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You whispered it, bringing his hand up from your stomach to kiss his knuckles.

He hummed quietly, and you continued to plant soft kisses over his hand until you were satisfied.

“You still mad at me?” He questioned, and you laughed.

“You really have to ask?”

“Good to be certain.” He sighed, and you shook your head, grinning.

“I don’t want to sleep in your room tonight.” You muttered.

“Don’t ‘ave to,” he responded in a similarly soft tone, “Won’t make you. Say the word, I’ll leave. You can get some sleep.”

“No,” you smiled at his lack of awareness, “Don’t want to sleep in your room—want you to sleep here.”

He was quiet for a moment. You looked over your shoulder, uncertain, and he was already looking back at you with a smug grin.

“’At’s what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. S’what I want, too.”

You rolled your eyes, pressing your back to his chest.

“Gonna sleep without your mask on?” You teased, eyeing the balaclava where it lay on the floor amongst the rest of your discarded clothes.

“Might as well,” he huffed a laugh, “Cock’s out—nobody’ll notice my face if they come in.”

“I will.”

“I want you to.” He sighed, pressing himself against you so that your head rested beneath his chin.

“Good,” you yawned, “That’s what I want, too.”

Simon chuckled softly, leaning back to reach for the lamp on the nightstand and clicking it off. There was another stretch of comfortable silence, and you felt the soft edges of sleep begin to take hold.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” Simon whispered into the darkness of your room.

“I know,” you were just awake enough to respond, “I love you, too, Simon.”

You fell asleep with his arm draped over you, perched over your hips rather than your waist, his hand pressed lightly against your stomach. But this time, you were both under the covers.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[shadyr4m]

REWATCHING SEASON 2 EPISODE 7 OF ARCANE

+ some of my highlights and notable moments that I enjoyed bc people can’t understand media anymore

This is mostly an infodump of stuff I can fit into a twitter thread/didn't rly want to make into a thread. I'm not great at words so I apologize in advance, I am sure there are many people much better at analysis than I.

I want to start off by saying I am heavily invested in timebomb so this is very much going to be a ship analysis. If you're looking for someone unbiased i am very much not the person for that 😭

FIRST OFF:

The disc on the music box is adorable!!! It features au Powder (who I am going to refer to as just Powder for the duration of my analysis) and au Ekko

Compared to the normal Disc

This is very obviously because it takes place in a different universe, one without Vi or "Jinx".

The first scene starts off with AU Ekko writing in his notebook. (Cute mention is Powder's doodle in his notebook!!) Then we see flashes of the wild rune. This is when AU Ekko switches to canon Ekko.

Also one of my favorite silly images from this episode is this one.. Powder is being so adorable and Ekko is just scared out of his MIND. it's so silly.

In the Last drop, Powder asks Ekko. "What is up with you? You've been out of it all day?". One thing I noticed in my rewatch is that i think Powder is aware this Ekko isn't HER Ekko. This is just one instance of many that makes me think this.

This hideout seems so much more vibrant and loved, similar to Jinx's hideout after Isha. It's colorful. There are guard rails that I like to think was pushed by Vander. We can see Ekko's art scattered around. It just shows how much more support and family Powder has compared to Jinx, which i mention a lot.

Id also like to note Ekko being shocked au him went to powder for help. In his mind at this time he believes Jinx to be all that is left, no more Powder. Through out the episode we see that change.

Notice how Powder gets upset at Ekko in this scene. However, she doesn't react explosively like Jinx would've. She handled it in a way that shows she had support. She told him to leave instead. Again, the main difference between Powder and Jinx isn't only Vi but also the existence of multiple support systems that Jinx simply didn't have.

THIS FLASHBACK! Oh my god this flashback. The fact it happened after he upset Powder? I think it shows just how much he truly cares about Jinx/Powder. He remembers VIVIDLY the day that he thought he killed her. Jinx was his childhood best friend, and I don't think that kind of feeling ever truly goes away. He doesn't want to hurt any version of her, not even the alternate universe her. We see that showcased more later on. Also, random probably insane note. He is interrupted by small children playing, having fun. This isn't a coincidence, it shows he does miss the moments from when they were kids.

While talking with Heimerdinger, we see Ekko look at Powder multiple times. Watching her laugh and be expressive, he smiles. When she doesn't return it we see him get upset. Once more this brings me to my point that he doesn't want to hurt her. Considering he hasn't known this Powder very long you can see where I gather my point that he doesn't want to hurt her in GENERAL. Any version of her.

THIS SCENE!! He is such a bad liar it's adorable. This brings me to my earlier point, Powder knows what's up!! She suspects something 100%. He is talking about this dream her like it was real.

"You aren't the kind of person who helps other people with their projects. Your ideas change the world. I can't shake the feeling that that's who you're supposed to be."

Are you LISTENING TO THIS? He is obviously talking about Jinx. You can tell this by the first sentence because obviously Powder IS that kind of person. He's starting to see that Jinx is just a part of Powder, one that is unavoidable and that he unknowingly appreciates in a sense. Like two sides of one coin he can't see Powder without Jinx and that is good. I think it is here he realizes truly just how much he cares about Jinx.

This whole montage is beautiful but I want to zero in on two things. Powder's reaction to the notebook and how she looks at Ekko after. NOW THIS. This is the nail in the coffin for her. She knows that this is not her Ekko. She has fully gathered that he isn't from this universe.

Also heimerdinger totally knows how Ekko feels you cannot tell me otherwise. Pushing him to go to the party? yeah he knows what you are.

THIS WHOLE SCENE. I AM NOT ANALYZING THE WHOLE THING HERE BUT IT IS GORGEOUS. I saw someone talking about how it was animated on 4's to signify the way Ekko can only go back 4 seconds and I honestly shed a tear. THE SONG TOO? I encourage everyone to look at the lyrics because they're beautiful.

Okay now for my favorite part of this episode so much to dissect and i'm totally going to mansplain but yk..

"I used to dream the undercity could be like this" — That sets the tone for the whole conversation and just what world he is talking about. The canon one.

"But somewhere, I got consumed by all the ways it wasn't. I gave up on it. Gave up on YOU." — Heavy emphasis on this line. Once more he is talking about Jinx. He is talking about how he got so consumed by the way that Jinx wasn't good, and he gave up on her. Believed she was irredeemable. Powder showed him that Jinx is capable of love and happiness, it's just under that tough protective shell. The undercity in the metaphor is Jinx, from my interpretation.

"I promise i'll never forget this." — Now time for my insanity. He doesn't forget this. That's why he saves Jinx from ending her life in the first place. He remembers Powder and knows that with the right support Jinx doesn't have to be the way she is. It's not that she "needs to be fixed" she just needs to be LOVED, like Powder. He sees that now. He sees how in the au the love that everyone shares for one another shaped the undercity beautifully, and made everyone in it much healthier mentally despite going through hardships. That is beautiful. People with mental illness are not unlovable they just need more support, it can't be cured, or fixed just healed. Mental illness is always there it is how you DEAL with it that matters.

Nothing too major to talk about with the kiss. It's sweet I love it, but nothing too notable for me to say about it.

Finally, Ekko leaves the au. I have seen people say that this is a sacrifice, he could've had everything he wanted and he gave it up to save the people at home. But i take insanity to another level. I see this as him appreciating his home. He knows he can never truly love this Powder because she isn't the version he fell in love with. He learned to appreciate Jinx even through her flaws, and that while this world has everything he could want and more he can have that home too.

I am experiencing HEAVY timebomb brainrot if you can’t already tell. I was tired of people taking things in the complete wrong way with this episode, if anyone has different views pls tell me I love hearing how other people took certain scenes. there are a few scenes I love but I would’ve made this post way too long..

[judysxnd]

If you're taking requests for Lando, and are comfortable writing angst. I'm in one of those moods where I need gut-wrenching neglected girlfriend being called clingy and then him grovelling for forgiveness. You don't have to write it, I just really have been in an angsty mood.

Sparkle anon

As usual I don't like what I did, but I have been starting this like a thousand times and never finished it and this time I did. So I'll go with the flow. I hope you'll like it !

I took so much time to write this that your mood probably changed like a thousand times 😭 I'm sorry 😔

———————————————————————

These past few days have been hard for you. Lando has been away for the past three weeks because it was a triple header and you couldn't come with him because of work. You always thought that being famous too would help you have clear weekends to come to the races, but apparently not. You had ads to film, shoots for magazines to do, interviews to prepare and do too, and it was getting overwhelming.

And Lando being in a different time zone definitely didn't help. You barely could texts, or one would respond hours later, the phone calls only last a few minutes (when you can actually call each other) and it wasn't enough for you these days. Your anxiety was getting the best of you, resulting in a few panic attacks daily.

Usually Lando helps a lot, but he had enough stuff on his plate too. He was in a tough battle with Max for the championship, and from what you've seen and what he had told you a bit, he was struggling with the car this week-end. You tried to make it work as much as you could. But you just couldn't do it anymore. You were back at Monaco after working hard until Saturday afternoon, actually coming home at Lando's place around 9pm, crying yourself to sleep, not even eating.

You knew Lando would be back for a few days from Vegas for a couple of days before flying to Qatar. But you definitely didn't expect to wake up at almost 5pm the next day by noises in the kitchen. First of all, how did you sleep that much? You were tired but damn, that's like 18hours of sleep ! And second of all, who was in the kitchen?

You slowly walked, carefully listening to the noises. After leaning a bit, you saw Lando searching the fridge for something to eat.

"Oh my god" you said relieved it was him. "you scared me so much!" you said walking to him, hugging him from behind.

"I scared you- in my own place?"

"yeah as you were in a different country" you leaned onto the counter next to him. "how did it go?" you asked about the race. Yes you didn't watch it as you slept half a day. You were going to watch it as you woke up, before Lando gets back, but well, you definitely didn't have time for that apparently.

"not good" Lando said barely looking at you

"oh" he walked out of the kitchen "but where did you finish?"

"You didn't watch the race?" he asked, going to the living room to eat at the table

"Well, I wanted to, but as you can see I.. overslept" he stared at you, as he was judging you "and you came back before I could watch it, so might as well tell me directly" you sat in front of him

"Well I lost the championship and finished P6, behind Max at the race. Happy?"

"Why are you so mad at me? It's not my fault, I'm just trying to know what happened to support you"

"support me? You weren't even there for that"

"ugh, excuse me? Sorry for having a career of my own, which I might give up with everything happening at the same time"

"like you can't take at least one day to come watch the race"

"that's the only thing you got from what I just said?" you stood up "what the hell Lando? What happened for you to treat me like that? I've been working my ass off, trying to contain my panic attacks all alone because you also have a career and can't be by my side 24/7, you barely even answer my text, you don't call me, you don't even ask me how I am doing!" He just stared at you, not saying anything. "you know what? I think I was better alone" you said, leaving the room, heading to his bedroom to gather your stuff.

"Wait- where are you going?" he said following you, like he suddenly cared.

"I'm going to my parents for a while. I haven't seen them in 2 months between my work and the races. And you're leaving like in two days anyway so, might as well try to have a good time with people that actually care about me" And before he could say anything, you were out of his sight, driving to the nearest airport to fly to your parents (trying to avoid to cry and have many panic attacks on your way).

You knew Lando wouldn't fly to you for the next two weeks with the races getting all of his time. But he did harass you with texts, tried to call you, which you ignored. He also sent you flowers, many flowers, gifts with little cards, apologising and asking for you to answer his texts and calls. You did feel guilty, even if you made it clear that he neglected you, you felt bad for keeping it to yourself that long and just lashing onto him like that.

You watched the last two races of the year, a knot in your stomach. You felt like you made it worse by acting like that and ignoring him. Hell he could have an accident and not make it back and that would be the last thing you said to him? That is a very bad scenario but still. And at the same time, your pride was telling you to keep ignoring him, that you were right and that he was the one to come back to you (which he was actually trying to do).

Until the next Monday after the last race, when you heard a knock to your bedroom. Innocently thinking it was your mom, you told "her" to come in, only to be faced by Lando holding flowers in his hand. You were laying in bed, in your pyjamas at 3pm, scrolling on your phone.

"Lando? What are you doing here?" You said, sitting up.

"You didn't give me other choices" you nodded, admitting that it was true. "I'm sorry for being a bad boyfriend" he said, taking a step closer to you

"keep going" you said, crossing your arms

"I shouldn't have neglected you like that even if I get too busy at work. I know you always take time for me even though you're working too and I should do the same thing" he sat down at the edge of your bed

"hm hm" you nodded

"I know you didn't read my texts nor listened to my voice messages or voicemails, but I've been apologising for a thousand times and, I've been begging you not to breakup with me" you couldn't help but laugh

"I've listened to them" you admitted

"w-were they good?" you tilted your head "you know I'm not good for that type of stuff"

"You're getting there"

"So what are you saying? Are we good?" you leaned a bit closer to him

"No we're not good Lando. It's not a bunch of texts, calls and gifts that are going to make me forget what happened. Hell I told you I wanted to abandon my entire career and you didn't even react" he was about to say something but you cut him off "and I know it's been very tough for you too for the races, that's why I gave you the benefit of doubt when you were away, but- you were sitting in front of me Lando-"

"I know, I know" he sat right in front of you, holding your hands "we've been dating for a year and- honestly I don't know what happened. When I came back from São Paulo you were there for me, and thank god you were, but I think it's just, it went to my head and I was under so much pressure" you wanted to cut him off but he didn't let you "and I'm not making up excuses for what I did. I just don't want to lose you. I'm so sorry, I'll do anything for you not to leave me, just please, don't go. It won't happen again, I promise" you sighed

"I wasn't going to leave you Lando" you had a little smile. You could see it in his eyes. He was scared he really messed up to the point you were actually going to leave him for good. Maybe stepping away for a few weeks made him think, like for you.

"Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised

"Yes, but I needed some time, like you did too"

"yes. I'm so sorry. I love you so much. I won't do it again"

"You better not" you both laughed a little. "I love you too"

"Not as much as I do" and he immediately leaned in to kiss you. "Now I need to give those flowers to your mother because she helped me to get to talk to you" you gasped as he stood up

"of course she did" you laughed "and to think those flowers were for me? I'm offended" you joked

"Didn't you get enough with everything I sent you?" you tilted your head "too soon?" you both laughed

"yeah, too soon" he left the room. You got up and followed him down the stairs.

[vrystalius]

hi! Ive been reading ur fics for a while and i love them sm and hope ur enjoying ur break!

I was wondering if u could write about giyuu apologizing after an arguement?

once again i absolutely love ur fics lol 💗

Apologies

Giyuu apologising after an argument— how does he do it?

Pairing: married!Giyuu x gn!married!reader

“Why can’t you just talk to me? I feel like I’m the only one trying here!”

You immediately regretted those words the second they left your mouth. Washing out your mouth with soap won’t wash that expression of your husband from your face, him staring at you in both disbelief and deep guilt. Giyuu knows that he can come off as cold or even uncaring, even to you. It’s never intentional but rather a terrible habit he seemingly can’t get rid off and it keeps forcing him to push people away from him. That’s why it may seem he doesn’t try hard enough to express his thoughts, his feelings.

Despite knowing that you will be understanding and listen to his worries, hold him while you kiss his face until he finally smiles again, all those fears and thoughts that dwell on horrific events he experiences on a daily gone in mere seconds.

So, who should apologise first? Giyuu, or you?

Since your husband left your house after the argument, probably wanting to take a walk or get some fresh air, you had time to think about what to do to apologise to him. Directly talking to him might scare him off and result into him being too intimidated to answer or scurry off to hide somewhere else to avoid you altogether. A letter could work, right?

Composing and thinking about every word, every sentence helped you sort your thoughts out and properly speak about the argument from your perspective while also staying respectful to his own view of the issues. You just hoped that your crow was awake to deliver a letter to your husband. If not, you’ll leave it in your bedroom for your husband to find and read quietly while you waited on him somewhere else.

But before you could prepare a method for Giyuu receiving your letter, Kanzaburo, your husband’s elderly crow, weakly called out to you and ruffled his feathers while resting on your windowsill. A letter was secured around his neck. Gently, you took the bird and put it to rest on your lap, giving him well-deserved scratches while gently unravelling the letter from his neck. It was written by Giyuu, obviously, but before you could read, the door to the room opened and your husband stood in the doorframe, staring down at you in surprise. He eyed you, then the letter in your hands.

“Have you.. read it?”

“No, Kanzaburo just delivered it.”

“Ah.”

You could see the gears shifting inside his mind. He probably overestimated the senior crow and thought the letter would be delivered faster. You scratched the crows head and glanced back to the paper in your hand.

“Should I read it? Or do you want to say everything you wrote down to me personally?”

Giyuu silently averted his eyes, his shoulders sagging and a small frown spreading on his face. He was avoiding to look into your eyes.

“No. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

You watched your husband slowly close the door, leaving you alone with his elder companion. While the crow was contently preparing to nap on your lap, you opened the letter.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

My dearest,

I am sorry. I know I’ve caused arguments again and again because of my silence and my behaviour over all. You feel like you’re the only one trying in this relationship and I’m sorry for that. I thought that if I stayed silent it would be easier for the both of us but that is clearly not the case. I should’ve realised much sooner, but instead I am only doing it now.

I am just too scared to scare you off with my problems and issues since you have your own, just like everyone else does. You are important to me so you always are my priority. My thoughts and feelings can wait, so I stay quiet.

You deserve better than the way I am treating you, you deserve so, so much better. You’ve been patient with me, you stayed with me for so long, through good and bad times. I don’t deserve your love.

I want to do better and I will. Please have a little more patience with me. Please.

I love you, I am sorry that I haven’t said it enough times. I am sorry if you don’t believe me.

Yours forever,

Tomioka Giyuu.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

💠

Thank you so much for requesting!! I’ve been seeing you interact with my posts pretty often so thank you for all your love and support <33 I’ll happily write more requests for you in the future if you liked this one!

Also, I haven’t forgot about Kyojuro’s thighs request :,) I started writing it and it’s halfway finished— my NSFW meter just ran out and I started writing this instead XD

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves, physically and mentally <3

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

I have thoughts on the relationship of Acacius and Lucilla. 

I have thoughts on the relationship of Acacius and Lucilla. 

!!Spoiler Warning!!

If you haven't seen the movie yet, maybe swerve this one until you have.

I am in no way a writer, and this is essentially just a word jumble that fell out of my brain. Please be gentle with me.  

Massive thanks to @schnarfer and @jessthebaker for listening to me yell and sharing your thoughts with me. Your insights were invaluable.    We see Acacius and Lucilla deeply in love in the movie. But I think they came to this over time.     

In the flashback scene of Lucilla taking Lucius from the arena after Maximus and Commodus have died, it appears to be Acacius who is helping him onto the horse. So from this we can infer that the pair have known each other for a long time, and that Acacius is loyal to Lucilla, just as he was loyal to Maximus. It makes me wonder if Maximus had maybe sent word to him to protect Lucilla and Lucius. A role that Acacius take seriously and sees through to the end. 

  Lucilla is held in high regard by the Roman people and even called Queen, and that gives her power, but it also makes her dangerous to the incumbent Emperor/s, and keeps her in constant personal danger.    Acacius was trained by Maximus. He clearly remains loyal to him even after his death. The Emperor after Commodus would no doubt have been suspicious of him and anyone who had served closely with Maximus. If one General could defeat an Emperor, then why not another?     I see the Emperor initially using Acacius as Lucilla's jailer. "Keep her in line or we will know you are not loyal" sort of thing. While also making sure that Lucilla knew that she was being watched. Not even safe to confide in her maids.    There will no doubt have been a bit of resentment there, especially from Lucilla, who doesn't know what lengths Acacius is going to, to keep them both alive and as free as possible.    Acacius falls in love with Lucilla before she falls in love with him. He may have known about Lucilla and Maxmus's relationship. And it is easy to see why he would have been attracted to her. The Emperor/s probably would have noticed a change in how he is with her, how he looked at her and so the manipulation would have changed. "Do what we say or we will send your wife to you on the battlefield, wouldn't it be terrible if something happened to her on the journey to you?" 

During time away from war, Acacius and Lucilla may have found their relationship to be strained in the beginning. He will have been so much lower in rank that her, the only thing they would have really have had in common at the start would have been their love of Maximus. Over time cordiality will have grown between them, deepening to a mutual respect.    Acacius comes home from battle grievously wounded, and that is when Lucilla realises that she loves him. The Emperor/s send nurses to care for him, and she sends them all away and tends him herself, pouring all of her newly discovered love into healing him, calling on her childhood nurse who is skilled in the arts of wise women. And during this time they get to truly know each other and their passionate love grows in earnest.    

I also feel as though Lucilla will not have wanted more children. She will not have wanted to hand the Emperor/s more leverage over her, nor have wanted to see her children chewed up and spit out by what Rome becomes. So Acacius respects her choice and encourages her to get whatever contraceptive remedies are most effective from her nurse, so that he can be her husband in every way. 

  They clearly have no secrets, he knew that Maximus was Lucius's father. He did not hesitate to try to free Lucius at Lucilla's request. This, to me, makes his sacrifice in the arena more heartbreaking. He is trying to protect his beloved wife from losing her son again, and upholding his loyalty to the man who trained him.  

If you made it all the way to the end, thank you for bearing with the rantings and ramblings of a madwoman.

Tagging because you asked so sweetly: @ghotifishreads @jennaispunk @missredherring

@noisynightmarepoetry @schnarfer @jessthebaker

[luciferanalyzestar]

Live reaction to Mastermind, ughhhhh.

Spoilers of course.

Gross.

I like this design; she's cute. Shout out to the character designers.

Satan's design is like whatever. Those imp-like horns on the top of his head looks silly. Just more fucking red on top of red. Loveart23's Satan design for her re imagined is peaked.

This shit is fucking gross, please STOP!

This design is bad too and Ozzie's outfit is hideous.

Bee's outfit here is 100% better than her main one.

See Mammon, no one wants you because you are fat and that's gross!!!! >:(((((

Notice that Mammon is the only sin that is overweight and the only one confirmed to be on the asexual spectrum. Levi's design is horrible. Those colors do not go together.

This line would be amazing if Loona wasn't a whole ass adult. This is so melodramatic I am giggling. "I love you guys." Yeah, you threaten to sexual assault them both to Mooxie and stalked them back in season 1. These characters are not "found family". This is the quality of this show now, just ass.

I skipped the song; I'm not listening to that shit. I'm tired of hearing Stolas singing about Blitz, This is a small smile on my face, you know why just look like my username.

YES SATAN!! This shit got me laughing, why he is crying over Stolass?? Fuck him, he is a fetishizer.

This is the FIRST time Stella and Via have interacted....we are at the end of season two. Look guy, she's being EVIL!!!!! and doesn't care about her daughter at all. *eye roll*

What does Stolas even do?? We never seen him do his royal duties, just fucking around with IMP or he is in his mansion.

You want to fuck your sister.

GET IT!! HE EATS A LOT!!!! MAMMON IS FAT!!!!! ISN'T THAT GROSSS!!!!!???????

I WANT TO PUNCH A HOLE IN MY WALL. Viv will never beat the fatphobia allegations. Let fat character exists without doing shit like this.

I notice that all or most of rail thin characters are rarely seen eating food but Mammon and Adam who are fat eat food on the regular.

I'm sending the fandom there too. My new favorite minor character! Thank you, janitor imp. You're a real one for this.

She better not assault Blitz every again.

Why is Blitz bathing him??? This is giving me bad vibes like why????

DROWN!!! Please do us a favor and DROWN!!!

Rating: 2/10

I don't care about Blitz, Stolas, and their relationship. It is boring and bland like dry moldy toast. It being the main "appeal" to Helluva is an awful choice, no one can tell me otherwise. This is why the views have been dropping since the released of Full Moon. The shippers are this show's life support and if they ever become unhappy, this show is tank.

This episode barely kept my attention unlike the previous one. I even paused it to eat some Hawaiian Rolls, and I had more fun eating bread than watching this episode.

The only thing that kept me interested was the small mentions of Lucifer. If did not have a hyper fixation on him, I would probably not finish the episode.

The crew hyping up Vassago by putting him in that pride parade print and other merch is funny because he does nothing. He has no personality out of being Spanish. If something is hyped by Viv or anyone else, it's going to be lame.

We know season three will have more focus on Ars Goetia so he will probably be Stolas' future Latin lover or even worse, a love triangle between him, Stolas, and Blitz. Vassago and Stolas should get together, they both have "ass" in their names.

Viv said this episode is one of her favorites and is self-indulgent. Self-indulgent where??? This is just your standard season two epsiode of Helluva. I thought it was going to be more of a musical episode.

Anyway, this episode is bad in my opinion.

[ohbueckers]

HEART OF A WOMAN. … and she gives me all her trust and i’m abusing it right now.

06, CHAPTER SIX. SOMEBODY ELSE’S GIRL (MINE FIRST).

ju speaks. happy late thanksgiving if you celebrate! this is the quickest i’ve ever finished a chapter and i think it’s because i switched between their views, so it’s also a little long. but let me know your thoughts cauuuuse… it’s all mess from here. pairing. wnba!paige bueckers x reader. warnings. sexual innuendos, sappy paige.

present day, june 2025.

practice had just ended, a longer one than usual might i add. most of the team had trickled out, grabbed their stuff and hit the showers. i lingered near the bench with maya, who had allegedly been here under some important circumstance, but i just think she wanted to see me. we haven’t hung out much recently.

she’d been talking my ear off about the game tomorrow, but i wasn’t fully listening. my focus? split—like always. out of the corner of my eye, nai walked in, hair tied back, a stack of papers in her hand. she didn’t look over here, probably didn’t even realize i was in the gym. what was she here for?

maya nudged me, temporarily snapping me out of it. “you hear me?” she asked, tilting her head.

“uh, yeah,” i lied, blinking as i turned back to her. “somethin’ about their zone defense, right?”

maya rolled her eyes. “you’re hopeless,” she said, but she was laughing.

i chuckled too, stroking a hand over my chin. my eyes drifted back to nai. she’d settled near the scorer’s table, flipping through the papers like whatever she was working on was life or death. she’s more locked in for the game than i am.

“yo, nai!” i called, my voice echoing through the quiet of the empty gym.

she glanced up, startled, her brows furrowing slightly before she turned her attention toward me. “what?” she asked. her tone was neutral, but not exactly inviting.

“come here for a sec,” i said, leaning back against the bench, spreading my legs out, my arms draped over the sides like i wasn’t hanging on her reaction. maya’s eyes followed over to me, her smirk growing, but she didn’t say a word.

nai hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she exhaled sharply, setting the papers down on the table. she walked over, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the court. she wasn’t in any rush, but the way her eyes stayed locked on me, i knew she was curious.

“what do you need, bueckers?” she asked, stopping just far enough to keep some space between us. her arms crossed over her chest, and i couldn’t help but notice the way her forearms flexed slightly with the movement.

“relax, i ain’t gonna bite,” i teased, tilting my head with a grin. “wanted to ask if you saw the film on the liberty’s screens. got it on my phone—figured you might have some notes since, you know, you’re always prepared.”

her eyes narrowed, but she’s definitely amused, biting back a smile. “you’re only asking me because you didn’t do your homework, huh?”

i shrugged, unbothered. “maybe.”

maya laughed beside me, chiming in, “at least she’s honest.”

nai rolled her eyes but stepped closer, her gaze flicking between me and maya. she held her hand out. “fine. show me the video.”

“thought you’d never ask,” i said, pulling out my phone. my thumb hovered over the screen as i unlocked it, my stomach flipping briefly as the lock screen flashed. thankfully, i’d changed it from the polaroids this morning, though the thought of it, thought of her, still made my chest tighten. in a good way.

i tapped the screen, pulling up the clip, and held it out to her. “here,” i said. “maya and i were just talking about it.” it’s a breakdown of their off-ball movement—mostly betnijah and sabrina setting those high screens.

nai leaned in slightly, her shoulder brushing mine as she took the phone. i parted my lips, forcing my focus onto the video.

“you weren’t talking about this,” she murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she glanced at maya.

maya snickered, leaning forward to watch over nai’s shoulder. “caught us. but it’s relevant.”

i watched them both for a second, my eyes settling over nai longer than i should’ve let it. she was so close, close enough that her shampoo—something clean and floral—filled my nose.

her fingers tapped the screen as she rewound the clip. “see this?” she said, pointing to a sequence where sabrina set a screen to free betnijah for a backdoor cut. “they do this every time the ball swings weak-side. if you’re late, it’s an automatic bucket.”

“makes sense,” maya murmured, nodding along.

the video played on, but it was just noise to me. nai shifted again, and my eyes dropped to the curve of her jaw, the faint flush on her cheeks that was always there, down to the sliver of skin her button-up gave me a show of when she crouched down, her hips—

“paige,” nai said suddenly, snapping me out of my daze. God, i’ve been having a lot of those. it was a stern say of my name, and i blinked, realizing i hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

“huh?” i asked.

she sighed, handing the phone back. “i said, they’re predictable, but you have to be locked in. no gambling—you’ll get caught overplaying on those screens.”

“oh. yeah, for sure,” i replied quickly, slipping my phone back into my pocket. “locked in. got it.” my hands found the hem of my shorts, fidgeting with the fabric just to do something.

maya raised a brow, glancing between us. “you good, paige?”

“always,” i replied, shooting her a grin as i scrunched my face up, like the question was absurd. i caught the knowing (or the i think i know) look she shot nai. i’m terrible at not being obvious.

nai shook her head, muttering something under her breath before heading back to the scorer’s table.

i need to talk to maya.

game day was different. they always started early for me, the arena was quieter than i liked, but now the whole team was here. sneakers squeaked against the polished court, basketballs bounced rhythmically, and the team’s warmup playlist blasted from the speakers. but me? i was posted up at the scorer’s table, laptop open and notes scattered around me, running through every last detail of game day operations.

or trying to, anyway. a slightly sweaty paige in her jersey just a few feet away from me was a very distracting sight.

next to me, maya leaned back in her chair, legs crossed over each other like she didn’t have a care in the world. she’d been going back and forth between scrolling on her phone and making snarky comments about my “game face,” which, according to her, was “way too intense for someone who isn’t even playing.”

“you know it’s not that serious, right?” she teased, snapping me out of my focus as she nudged my half-empty in-n-out cup closer to me.

“it is that serious,” i muttered, grabbing the cup without thinking and taking a sip. the straw gurgled, and i frowned, realizing there was barely a drop of my chocolate milkshake left.

maya grinned. “right. because if the scoreboard malfunctions, the world’s ending.”

i rolled my eyes, setting the cup down and returning to my notes. “not all of us can just show up to work and look pretty, maya.”

“first of all, i do a lot more than look pretty,” she shot back, feigning offense. “i contribute to team morale.”

i snorted, finally glancing her way. “uh-huh. is that what we’re calling it now?”

she kept her smile, leaning back in her chair. “yup. and speaking of morale… i gotta ask you something.”

i paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. maya’s tone had shifted—just slightly—but enough to make me wonder. “what’s up?”

she hesitated for half a second, which was already suspicious. maya didn’t do hesitation. “it’s about paige.”

my throat went dry, and i reached for the cup again, even though i knew it was empty. i needed something to do, anything to buy myself a second to think.

“what about her?”

“i’m just saying,” she starts, sitting up straight now. “you two are tight, right?” she asked, her head tilting as she studied me. “she talks to you a lot.”

tight? not exactly the word i’d use, but i nodded anyway. “yeah, i guess.”

maya leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “she’s just… hard to read sometimes, you know? one minute, she’s all chill, the next, she’s pulling away. i can’t tell if she’s playing hard to get or if she’s just like that.”

shit. of course maya was asking about paige. of course she’d come to me, thinking i had some kind of insight. of course maya was trying to lock her down. she was older, probably didn’t have time for whatever game paige was throwing. she wanted a relationship. i’m sure if she knew what paige and i’s relationship was like, she’d call us childish. i wouldn’t disagree.

i swallowed, nodding slowly as if i was carefully considering her words, but my brain was going a mile a minute. why’s she pulling away from you? probably because she was tangled up in my sheets just last night. i’m pretty sure a good number of her workout clothes are on my floor. the towel she’s been using the past couple of days hanging up in my bathroom. i forced the thought away, along with the guilt that came with it.

“i mean, yeah, she talks to me, but…” my voice trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence without giving myself away. “i think she��s just busy with the season,” i redirect.

maya raised an eyebrow, more to herself. “it seems like she’s got time for everyone else. it’s me she’s dodging.”

everyone else. me? what lies has paige been feeding her?

my stomach churned. i hated this. i hated that she was asking me these questions, hated that i didn’t have an honest answer for her. most of all, i hated that i could feel her suspicion growing with every passing second.

i forced a tight smile, my fingers idly fidgeting with the straw in my cup. “paige isn’t really the relationship type,” i said, hoping that would satisfy her.

maya laughed dryly, shaking her head. “yeah, i’m starting to figure that out. but damn, i like her, nai. she’s just—” she paused, letting out a small sigh. fuck. “she’s different.”

i couldn’t help it—the words slipped out before i could stop them. i wanted to know too. know if she makes her feel the same way. “different how?”

her eyes softened as she smiled a little. i knew she was looking at paige. i follow her eye line, and there she is. stretching while she bites back a laugh at her own joke. “i don’t know. she’s got that… thing. she’s fun, she’s confident, she makes you feel like you’re the only one she’s paying attention to when you’re with her.”

yeah, and that’s exactly the problem, i thought bitterly. because wasn’t just paying attention to maya. she wasn’t just fun and confident with maya.

i nodded again, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything else. “i get it.” and i did. i got it more than she knew.

“do you, though?” maya asked, her tone skeptical as she studied me again. “you’re not acting like someone who gets it.”

i forced a laugh. “i’m just tired,” i lied, standing up and grabbing my laptop. “long morning.”

maya just watched me for a moment, then nodded, leaning back in her chair again. “alright, well, if you hear anything…” she let the sentence hang in the air, her meaning clear.

i just gave her a noncommittal shrug, pretending to focus on packing up my stuff.

paige needs to talk to maya.

it’s our second game against the liberty. the team’s been stressed about it all morning, but i can’t say i feel the same. muffled voices and footsteps echoed in the locker room, but i couldn’t focus on any of it. not the game plan, not the liberty, not even fucking maya for christ’s sake.

the only thing i could focus on was nai, pinned against the row of lockers, her lips pressed feverishly against mine like the game had already started and she was playing to win. my jersey stuck to my skin, damp from warmups, but i didn’t care. my arms flexed as i braced them on either side of her, caging her in, every breath i took mingling with hers in the secluded space near the showers. nobody should be coming back here, catching us. it’s why i chose it.

“you,” i murmured against her lips, one hand sliding down to her hip and gripping it like it was my lifeline. my other hand wrapped gently around her neck, pulling her closer. “you’re drivin’ me crazy, nai. you know that?”

her laugh was breathless, her hands trailing up under the jersey she’d untucked, nails scraping against my stomach and making me shudder. “you started it,” she whispered, her lips brushing over mine, teasing me.

i didn’t answer, couldn’t. i just leaned in and kissed her again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding in her mouth in a way that made me forget we were just minutes away from tip-off. she tasted like the cherry lip balm she always wore, and it was doing something to me, making my heart race faster than the pregame drills ever could.

she pulled back slightly, her breath hot against my cheek. “paige,” she murmured, a warning tone in her voice like we should stop. but her hands stayed right where they were, gripping the waistband of my shorts like she couldn’t let go.

“what?” i asked, furrowing my brows. my lips trailed down her jaw, then lower, brushing against the curve of her neck. “say it.”

“we shouldn’t—” she started, but i cut her off with another kiss, silencing whatever logic she was about to throw my way.

“don’t care,” i said, pulling back just enough to look at her. my thumb brushed against her cheek, over the faint blush forming from the warmth of the room. “i don’t care, nai. you gotta know that by now.”

her eyes searched mine, and for a second, i thought she was about to tell me to stop. but then her lips crashed into mine again, and i grinned cockily.

i couldn’t stop. i didn’t want to. she had this pull on me, always had, and every time we found our way back to each other like this, it only made it harder to let go.

i didn’t want to let go anymore.

i was thinking straight now—for the first time in a minute, actually thinking. she drove me crazy in every way possible, just like i’d said, but it wasn’t just that. it wasn’t just the way she kissed me or the way she looked at me like she’d love me like this in every lifetime. it was her, all of her. the fire, the attitude, the way she cared so much about the smallest things. the way she called me out when i was slacking but never let me fall too far. she wasn’t perfect, but damn, she was perfect for me.

i’d tried moving on, tried ignoring it, tried putting someone else in her place a million times before, but nothing worked. nobody was her. nobody ever could be.

and maybe that made me selfish. maybe it wasn’t fair to her, not when i kept coming back like this, asking for pieces of her without offering anything steady in return. but for once, i didn’t want to pretend.

her breath hitched as i kissed her deeper, tilting my head into it, and i felt my chest tighten. this wasn’t just hooking up. it wasn’t just history or habit or whatever excuse i used to tell myself. “i love you,” i breathed against her lips, my hand tightening around her hip. “i’m serious, nai. i love you. i don’t wanna keep sneakin’ around like this. i wanna be with you—for real.”

her eyes widened. she looked like she might push me away, laugh it off, tell me i was lying. but she didn’t. she just stared at me, her lips parted, her breath shaky.

“paige…” she started, her voice soft, uncertain as she brought her hands up to my shoulders.

i leaned my forehead against hers, my hands moving to cup her face. “nah, don’t ‘paige’ me,” i said, licking my lips, trying to find the right words. “you gotta let me say this. i want you, baby. only you. i’ll figure it out—i’ll make it work. just… let me.”

silence. her hands stayed on me, fingers brushing against the collar of my jersey. i looked into her eyes, and i knew i was laid bare. no bravado, no jokes, no quick quips to deflect. just me, standing there, begging without words. let me. please let me.

the sound of a buzzer echoed through the hallway, signaling it was time to hit the court. i didn’t move, didn’t pull away. not until she gave me an answer. not until i knew.

“you don’t get to do this now.”

“why not?”

“because it’s game day,” she countered, sternly mothering me in the way i loved, and the flash of vulnerability in her eyes nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. she was quiet for a moment too long, like she was wrestling with herself, with me, with us.

finally, she exhaled, her hands smoothing down my sides. “go win it, p. we’ll… talk later.”

the words were a promise and a deflection all at once, and we both knew it. my chest ached, but i nodded, biting back the urge to push for more, to beg for her to meet me where i was.

i stood there for a moment longer, just watching her, memorizing the way she looked at me—like she was caught somewhere between wanting me and pushing me away for the last time.

the sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the moment, and i sighed, dragging a hand over my face. leaning down, i pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling the faint scent of her hair like it was enough to carry me through the next two hours.

“later,” i echoed, and i left the locker room without another word.

halftime ends, and the buzzer sounds, pulling me and everyone else back into the game. i’ve been occupied—timing, logistics, making sure everything’s in place for the team. it’s hectic, and i’ve barely had time to focus on the game itself. i catch paige, bouncing on the balls of her feet, all amped up as she waits to get checked in. i stretch my legs out on the bench, trying to shake off the restlessness that’s been following me around all day.

just get through the game. you can think about what this means after.

my thoughts are interrupted when i see maya making her way back from the tunnel. she strolls across the court, looking like she’s had a moment to herself, like she hasn’t been gone for the entire fifteen minutes of halftime. i barely even notice her approach until she’s right next to me, her posture a little different, almost like she’s holding something back.

i look up from my clipboard, following her as she sits down next to me. “hey, how was your half?” i ask.

“good. just needed a minute.”

she’s not making eye contact, and her voice carries this weird undertone, like she’s working through something in her head. i furrow my eyebrows, chuckling. “that’s weirdly ominous.”

she bites her lip. “sorry. i just wanted to apologize for being weird earlier.”

i glance at her, trying to gauge where her head’s at. “uh… it’s cool. you were just concerned.” the way she phrased it—the way she’s acting…

there’s a moment of silence before she speaks. “i just… i thought something was going on with you and paige.” she pauses, looking me dead in the eyes. she’s smiling a bit. “but she assured me there was nothing going on. said she wants to move forward with me.”

i blink, glancing at the court. i can’t look her in the eye. i’m back to busying myself with my clipboard. “she said that?” my voice feels flat, distant, like i’m hearing it through a fog.

this had to have been just now, right? my mind whirls for a second. she told maya that she wants to move forward with her? but then why did she tell me—me—in the locker room that she loved me? was maya just blowing her words out of proportion?

maya fidgets slightly, her fingers tapping against her leg as she looks away, grinning like this is some kind of revelation she’s been waiting for. “yeah,” she replies, eyes flickering back to my occupied ones. “i’m sorry for misreading it. all i needed to do was ask her!”

and then she laughs. she fucking laughs.

i chew on that for a moment. the sound of it feels like a slap to the face. it’s not a real laugh, not one that feels genuine or free. it’s almost… rehearsed, like she’s trying to convince herself—or me—that everything’s fine, that there’s nothing more to this. that paige just straightened it all out.

the frustration bubbles up inside me, but i keep it contained, gripping the edge of my clipboard like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality. i don’t know what to say to that, or if i even can say anything. all i can think about is what happened in the locker room, how paige looked at me, how she said the words that felt like they meant everything but might have meant nothing at all.

she said she loved me. it was the first time i’d heard it from her in awhile where it felt like she actually meant it. and now maya’s telling me that paige is just moving forward with her? that she’s already decided?

suddenly the loudness of the gym is tuned out, and i can’t focus on anything. i start to open my mouth to excuse myself, but something catches my eye. my gaze trails down, taking in the rest of her appearance—her shirt a little wrinkled, her hair not quite as perfectly styled as usual. it hits me all at once, like a punch to the gut.

i force myself to look back at her face, trying to keep my expression steady. “maya,” i say slowly, voice quiet, “your jeans… are unzipped.”

she freezes, her eyes wide for a split second before she quickly pulls at the zipper, trying to cover it up. but the damage is done.

it was easier to deny before. easier if i hadn’t caught that small detail—the one she didn’t think i’d see.

“i’m gonna head out.”

[aquamarixx]

breaking the internet

chapter four a whirlwind of chaos and laughter turns into something much more when Miss Journalist and Hiori Yo can't ignore the spark between them any longer. blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains slow slow slow burn, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader angst, fluff, slightly suggestive (if you squint) masterlist

"And action!"

The marketing manager’s voice slices through the steady crackle of sizzling chicken nuggets.

You’re back in Bastard Munchen’s pristine kitchen. Instead of lounging by the marble island sharing a plate of pot stickers with the players, you’re seated across from Hiori Yo—your favorite football player turned late-night gaming buddy.

For someone who admitted to staying up late last night (because he had to try that newly released game he’s been raving on about), he looks annoyingly refreshed. 

And, frankly, annoyingly fine.

A small round table separates the two of you, modestly set for a casual meal for two, like something out of a cozy café. The kitchen hasn’t changed much for this setup, save for the table serving as an odd centerpiece amidst its sleek, curated kitchen backdrop. The savory aroma of frying chicken nuggets fills the air, mingling with a faint whiff of rain you’re convinced is coming from Hiori.

Your "date" shifts in his seat, snapping you out of your thoughts. He flashes you an easy smile—the kind that promises everything’s going to be just fine. Behind him, the camera crew hovers, accompanied by the marketing manager.

“Hi,” Hiori says softly, his voice charming you like a spell, as if this really is some kind of meet-cute.

“Hello,” you reply, stifling a laugh. But your lips betray you, curling into a smile you can’t quite suppress.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The silence melts into shared giggles—like kids conspiring over a secret.

And maybe, in a way, you are.

“Ya look great today,” Hiori says, his gaze unwavering. He doesn’t give your outfit a once-over; instead, his eyes stay locked on your face, as though that’s all he needs to confirm your beauty.

“Thanks,” you reply, looking at your outfit consciously. “It’s nice to see you in normal clothes for once.”

Your confidence feels natural today, and you prop your head in one hand, soaking in the sight of him.

“Hmm... Ya make it sound like I wear a costume every time we meet,” he chuckles, tugging at the sleeve of his navy bomber jacket. His eyes flick away for a moment, and you catch the faintest hint of red at the tips of his ears.

Instead of his usual training jersey or the black-and-gold Bastard München kit, Hiori wears a simple black shirt beneath the jacket. It’s a casual choice that shifts his entire aura. You’ve seen him countless times, on and off the field, but almost always in his professional gear.

In your eyes, Hiori Yo has always been the football superstar—someone you interact with because of work, someone you talk to more than most because of work. Someone who probably sees you as just another face in the sea of media professionals.

But today feels different. This little illusion—the cozy setup, the way he leans into the role of your "date"—lets you live out a fantasy. For a moment, it feels like it could be real under different circumstances.

“And you,” you tease, leaning in slightly, “it’s nice to see how you’d dress for a date.”

“I am on a date.” His brows furrow slightly. “We’re on a date.” His voice is calm, his words spoken like an unshakable truth.

For a fleeting moment, he’s not a football superstar, not leagues out of your reach.

He’s just a guy across the table, someone you can picture sharing lazy Saturday afternoons with. Someone you could almost believe is sitting here because of you—and only you.

Before you can reply, Gagamaru steps in with impeccable timing. He sets down a plate of crispy chicken nuggets and furikake fries between you. The golden nuggets glisten under the kitchen lights as he places a bottle of ketchup and two cans of soda on the table.

Right. The shoot.

Just last week, Bastard München’s marketing manager emailed you about joining a new off-season content project. With the players finally on their mid-season break, the team plans a video series to spotlight individual players—to test their broader appeal to fans and potential sponsors.

Their words, not yours.

And the concept of the video you’re being invited for? A one-on-one interview styled like a date, featuring none other than their genius midfielder, Hiori Yo.

Apparently, your last collaboration—the behind-the-scenes “day in the life” video courtesy of JFA—had sparked unexpected chemistry.

It caught fans' attention, stirring days of chatter about you, Hiori, and Bastard München. It isn’t “worldwide trending,” but the buzz is undeniable. The fans just can’t get enough of the surprising, romcom-like moments between you and Hiori.

A lucky journalist interacting with one of the most elusive players of his generation. Shared moments as if it's straight out of a movie.

The dream for every fangirl.

This shoot was an experiment to explore Hiori’s broader appeal, pairing his quiet, understated charm with your relatable, approachable vibe. It’s also an opportunity to spotlight one of their more introverted players, someone who avoids the public eye as much as he can.

Your editor doesn’t hesitate to green-light the project. She’s all-in, shuffling your deadlines and clearing your schedule to make it happen. And her enthusiasm doesn’t even stop there. She nudged you more than once to “just go for it” with the charming midfielder. 

Because, as she so eloquently puts it, “What’s there to lose?”.

And now here you are, playing your part.

Your version of casual date attire: an oversized light-blue button-down (coincidentally matching Hiori’s eyes) left open over a white square-neck cami. It’s nothing flashy, just enough to look the part of someone on a date with someone they like.

“Hmmm, since this is a date, I guess I should start with some date questions,” you say, pursing your lips in mock contemplation. You pull out a small stack of cards the marketing manager handed you earlier and place them neatly beside the plate of food, within reach of both of you.

According to her, the cards are a mix of fun tweets and generic icebreakers designed to spark lighthearted conversation.

Across the table, Hiori munches on furikake fries, watching you with a small smile. His gaze catches yours mid-bite, and you feel a faint flush rise to your cheeks.

Clearing your throat, you decide to jump right into the questions, catching him just as he pops another fry into his mouth.

“Who’s your favorite player?” you ask.

“Easy—Mesut Özil,” he answers without a second’s hesitation.

“Favorite food?”

“Salt-grilled Pacific saury. I even like the bitter parts.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Ready Player One.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really? I didn’t peg you for the geek type.”

Hiori grins, a little sheepish. “Well... I am. Watchin’ it got my otaku heart racin’.”

He leans back, the humor in his tone shifting to something softer. “Shouldn’t ya know that already? I talked yer ear off about Warhammer last time we played together.” He scratches the back of his neck, glancing away as though embarrassed by the admission.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “I didn’t realize it was at that level. I just thought, ‘Oh, Hiori's talking about his interests, that’s cool.’ I didn’t even know what Warhammer was until you brought it up.” You tighten your lips into a sheepish grin, waving your hands in exaggerated defense.

Hiori chuckles, shaking his head.

The moment is interrupted by a sharp cough off-screen. Both of you whip your heads toward the sound, eyes landing on someone in the crew.

“You guys play games together off hours?” someone asks, voice edged with curiosity.

“Yes?” you and Hiori answer simultaneously, far too quickly. Your voices carry the same nervous uncertainty, the shared “yes” echoing awkwardly between you and Hiori.

A beat of silence stretches, and you can feel the marketing manager’s eyes darting between the two of you, brimming with a curiosity you’re sure they won’t voice—at least not now.

As the buzz of the set picks up again, Hiori leans closer, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Guess we’re both not so good at keepin’ secrets, huh?”

You clear your throat and push forward with the next question.

“What’s your strength?”

“As a person or as a player?”

You pause briefly. “Both, if you can.”

He leans back, thoughtful. “I guess… my ability to see things from a broader perspective.”

“And your weakness?”

“Playin’ too much.” He shrugs lightly. “Sometimes I get so caught up in it, I lose motivation for other stuff.”

You’re about to fire off another question when he raises a hand, laughing. “Whoa, slow down! This’s startin’ to feel like a job interview.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “Oh, sorry! Force of habit—y’know, journalist mode.” You laugh nervously, taking a sip of your soda to cover your embarrassment.

Hiori gives you a honest to goodness smile, as if amused. “So, this’s ya gettin’ to know me, huh?”

You set the cards down with a huff, deciding to switch gears. Inhaling deeply, you exhale a dramatic sigh. “Soooo… what’s your type?”

“Type of what?” he asks teasingly, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Type of person, romantic partner, obviously.”

He tilts his head, giving the question some thought. “Someone who’s independent. I need space to do my own thing, especially when I’m gamin’. Ya know that already.” His gaze softens as it meets yours.

“But they should be there when it counts. Life as an athlete’s hectic—ya’ve seen how it is.”

You nod, pretending to jot down a mental note. “So… low-maintenance. Got it.”

Hiori chuckles, shaking his head. “Not low-maintenance—just someone who understands balance. And maybe someone who doesn’t mind long Monster Hunter sessions.” He smirks knowingly, and for a fleeting moment, the unspoken connection between you lingers in the air, understanding the inside joke.

Your bite your lips, trying not to smile too wide. “Well, that’s… oddly specific.”

Two months of Monster Hunter nights flash in your mind. Ever since Hiori casually suggested playing together, your evenings had been filled with wyvern hunts and co-op quests. He has an uncanny knack for strategy—always two steps ahead, always saving you when things got dicey.

And then there was that time he convinced you to try Nier: Automata. You’d never forget him backseating with a mixture of exasperation and amusement as you struggled to fend off machines as the stunning android 2B.

“No, no, dodge now! Okay, wait—parry—no, don’t roll off the edge!” His laughter still echoes in your mind.

Your expression softens as the memories linger, but you quickly rein yourself back into the present.

“Yer turn,” Hiori prompts, raising an eyebrow as if daring you. “What’s yer type?”

“Oh, uh…” You fidget with the hem of your sleeve, thinking. “I guess... someone kind, who can make me laugh. And…” You hesitate before adding, “Someone who respects my space and time, especially since I’m kind of a workaholic.”

Then, with a pointed glance, you add, “And someone who doesn’t put me on the spot during interviews.”

Hiori bursts out laughing, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Noted. I’ll behave.”

Before you can relax and skim through some of the cards, Hiori throws you a curveball. “What keeps ya goin’ when stuff gets rough?”

You blink, momentarily stunned by the weight of the question. His eyes lock on yours, searching. For a moment, you feel yourself slipping into those deep blue pools.

“Me? Oh, um…” You shift in your seat, unsure how to articulate your thoughts.

“I think it’s knowing I can tell stories that matter—stories that connect people.” You glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s kind of a cliché, I know—”

“It's not,” Hiori interjects, his voice soft but firm. His hand brushes yours briefly on the table, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your fingertips. The sincerity in his gaze holds you in place.

“It shows ya care about what ya do. And that’s what counts, right?”

The warmth in his voice and the light touch of his fingers send heat creeping up your neck. You let the sensation linger for a beat before pulling your hand back, pretending to tuck a nonexistent stray hair behind your ear. The gesture does little to calm your racing thoughts.

Hiori continues, his expression contemplative. “I remember readin’ yer article.”

“Yeah?” You’re genuinely surprised he's bringing it up.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice softening. “The team was in a bad place back then. Greisner wasn’t even talkin' to anyone.” He chuckles awkwardly, and you catch a muffled, annoyed Oi! from somewhere in the background.

“We were playin’ like crap. Everyone could see it—fans, other teams… even us. Felt like it was us against the world.” His gaze flickers to the side, as if embarrassed by his own admission.

You hold your breath, sensing there’s more he wants to say.

“But then someone sent me yer article,” he continues. “At first, I thought, ‘Great, another roast piece.’ But it wasn’t. Ya didn’t tear us apart. Ya saw something in me—”

“In us,” he corrects himself, covering it with a cough.

“It reminded us someone out there was in our corner. That meant somethin’.”

The weight of his words leaves you momentarily speechless. Your hands fly to your mouth as if to contain your shock. “Wow, I had no idea... I’m just... glad I could help in some way.”

“Ya did. More than ya could possibly imagine,” he says simply, his tone carrying a quiet gratitude. “That article reminded us—even when things feel impossible, there’s always a way forward. Whether it’s in football or anything else, progress happens if ya keep trying. Little by little.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours again.

“Ya told that story.”

Your chest tightens at the honesty in his words. You nod slowly, letting them sink in. “That’s... really... I, uh... That's means a lot, Hiori.”

He shrugs lightly, a small smile playing on his lips as if to downplay the moment. “It’s just how I try to see things.”

A playful glint returns to his eyes as he adds, “Plus, without it, I guess we wouldn’t be here. On this date. Together.”

His sincerity catches you off guard, leaving a warmth blooming in your chest.

Being a journalist has always felt like existing in a strange limbo.

You’re a faceless name, sending your thoughts out into a void, never quite knowing if your words resonate with anyone—or if they even make a difference. It was that wishful thinking, that quiet hope of connection, that drove you to pursue this career despite the doubts you faced years ago.

Hearing Hiori’s words now, realizing that your article didn’t just touch lives but changed them—his team’s and his—fills you with a sense of pride and fulfillment that you rarely allow yourself to feel. It might seem small to others, but to you, it’s everything.

Your gaze drifts to him, gratitude softening your features. His earlier touch still lingers on your fingertips, a faint reminder of the unspoken connection building between you.

I wonder if this is what it feels like... to be in the right place at the right time. To have something just... click.

You clear your throat, shaking the cards in your hand. Loosening up by rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms, a big smile betrays your nonchalance over what you’ve heard.

“Okay, moving on! These are fan questions—filtered and curated, of course.”

Hiori raises an eyebrow. “Curated, huh?”

You shuffle the cards with a sheepish grin and glance at the first one. Without thinking, you read it aloud:

“Hiori, your hands look really nice. Are they soft like how they look in camera?”

Hiori chuckles, holding up his hands as if presenting evidence. “Guess I gotta ask ya.”

“Wha—?!” Your jaw drops. “Me?”

He leans forward, his grin widening. “Ya’ve shaken hands with me before, haventcha? So, what’s the verdict? Are they soft?”

You laugh nervously, feeling your face heat up. “I—I am not answering that!”

“C’mon, just settle it.” Hiori laughs, holding his hands out toward you.

Hesitant but unable to resist, you gingerly take his left hand and give it a light squeeze. Your fingers trace his palm as you try to compose your thoughts.

“They’re… huh… I’m surprised. They look soft, but they’re a little rough. Probably because of football, but—”

You stop mid-sentence as Hiori’s playful smile grows wider. Realizing he’s enjoying hearing your thoughts, you let out a dramatic sigh and turn toward the camera.

“They’re soft,” you say flatly, rolling your eyes for effect.

You quickly pick up the next card, only to have your eyes widen in shock. A nervous laugh escapes you as you read it silently, trying to decide whether to skip it.

“Oh, wow. This one’s… bold,” you mutter, clearing your throat.

Finally, you muster the courage to read it out loud: “Bet Hiori is a dom.”

Your voice drops to a whisper by the end, and you dart a glance at Hiori. His expression is a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Do I… do we really have to answer this?” you ask, waving the card toward the marketing manager watching from the sidelines.

Hiori chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “Ya already said it out loud. Too late to back out now.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I regret everything.”

Leaning closer, his voice drops to a playful murmur. “Whatcha think?”

Your head snaps up, and you feel your cheeks go impossibly hotter. “I—I am not answering that!” you stammer defensively.

Hiori leans back, feigning innocence, though his grin betrays him. “Suspicious. Very suspicious.”

Despite your flustered state, you blurt out, “Okay, fine! I guess you are a dom. An ultra sadist.” You pause for a second, biting your lip, wondering if you’ve said too much.

Did I really just say that out loud?

You can feel the heat rush to your face, but there's no going back now.

Hiori, caught mid-sip of his soda, chokes in surprise, coughing violently as he grabs for a tissue. You burst into laughter, hurriedly handing him more while apologizing between giggles.

“Sorry! Isagi told me to say it!” You point accusingly off-camera.

Hiori turns to see Isagi standing next to the monitor, a whiteboard in hand with Hiori = Ultra Sadist scrawled across it in big, bold letters. Behind him, Kurona, Raichi, and Igarashi are doubled over in laughter. Isagi gives an awkward thumbs-up, his boyish grin only making Hiori groan.

“M'going to have a long talk with him later,” he mutters under his breath, earning another round of laughter from you.

Eager to change the subject, you grab the next card, a smile lingering as you read aloud. “Ohh... This one’s fun... ‘Hiori Yo could read the phonebook to me, and I’d still swoon.’”

Tilting your head thoughtfully, you glance at him. “Now I kind of want to test that. Can you actually make a phonebook sound swoon-worthy?”

Hiori pauses in thought and sets his drink aside. His voice dips into a smooth, velvety tone as he says, “Tourist Information Center: 03-3201-3331. For general tourism inquiries, open from 9 AM to 5 PM.”

A small Oooooh escapes your lips. “That was way too good. Are you sure this isn’t your secret side hustle?” .

He chuckles, gaze soft but playful. “Think I should start a hotline? Late-night calls... reading lists... ASMR…” He pauses, his eyes flicking toward you with a teasing glint. “Or maybe something... more exclusive?”

The insinuation isn’t lost on you, and you chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, hoping the blush isn’t obvious.

“Maybe,” he replies casually in a singsong manner, his smile lingering as he props his face on his hands looking at you.

You take another bite of a chicken nugget, clearing your throat before reading the next card. “Can Hiori teach me football like he taught Y/N? Asking for a friend.”

Raising an eyebrow, you shoot him a playful grin. “Looks like you’re in high demand, Coach Hiori.”

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, he grins. “M'flattered, but I might already have a favorite student.”

Caught off guard, you blink. “Wait, me?”

His smirk widens as he nods. “Who else?”

You feel heat rise to your face but brush it off quickly. Flipping to the next card, you snort as you read aloud, “Hiori Yo x Miss Journalist content is my new religion. Bless Bastard München’s marketing team.”

You groan dramatically. “Bless them? I think they’re trying to embarrass me!”

Hiori only shrugs, “Or maybe they’re just helping us make memories.”

You shoot him a mock glare. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Of course I am,”

Letting out a small laugh, you glance at the next card. “Okay, here’s another one. Do you guys realize how much chemistry you have?”

Hiori’s lips curl into a faint smile as he looks at you. “Chemistry, huh? Whatcha think?”

Flustered, you glance away, focusing on the cards as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “That’s not for me to say! I’m just reading the questions.”

“But yer the expert, aintcha?” Hiori leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone. “Observing players, analyzing dynamics…”

You hesitate, heart fluttering at his unexpected intensity.

For a moment, you can’t help but notice how earnest he looks behind his boyish smile. His eyes are warm, his posture leaning in slightly as though waiting for your answer—and it makes the air between you feel charged.

“Well,” you say carefully, your voice quieter now, “I do think we have chemistry. I mean, we wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t vibe, right?”

Grinning, you pick up the last nugget and offer it to him. His gaze follows your hand closely, and as he leans forward to take a bite, you forget just how tall he is and how he's able to reach you immediately,

The proximity catches you off guard, and his lips brush against your fingertips lightly. The brief contact sends a shiver through you, a subtle spark that lingers long after.

His smile widens, an innocent taunt in his expression, but there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath his teasing eyes.

For a moment, everything else fades into background.

Who knew he had such game?

But you don’t falter. Without breaking eye contact, you pop the rest into your mouth, making an exaggerated show of it. His eyes widen slightly, but that satisfied grin never leaves his face, his gaze still lingering on you as if the playful moment hadn’t quite ended.

“Y’know,” he says, settling back. “I almost didn’t do this. Not really a fan of the camera.”

“What made you reconsider?” you ask curiously, your tone light but intrigued.

“It’s work. I might get fired if I don’t do this occasionally, I guess,” he laughs, scratching the back of his neck, clearly searching for a better excuse.

A loud snort from the sidelines catches your attention.

“That's bullshit! Hiori immediately said yes when they told him it’s a date with you!” Isagi’s voice cuts through the room, and he doubles over in laughter, clutching his stomach.

Behind him, Kurona and Raichi join in, while Ness and Kiyora peek from the hallway, clearly eavesdropping.

Hiori groans, muttering something about refusing to pass to Isagi in the next game unless he begs for forgiveness.

You smile, shaking your head at the chaos. 

A tap on your shoulder brings you back to the task at hand. The cameraman hands over a few more cards. With a glance at the marketing manager, who gestures for you to continue, you smile and read the next one aloud.

“I will riot if Hiori and Y/N don’t end up together. The ship has sailed whether they like it or not!”

You glance at Hiori with a mischievous smile. The urge to take your teasing to the next level is strong. You wanted to see how far this charade can go. Even if it's just for your own satisfaction.

“Wow, people are so invested. I feel responsible. How do we make sure this ship doesn’t sink?”

Hiori leans forward, his expression mock-serious, lips curling into a teasing smile. “Well, for starters, I think communication is key. Every ship needs a good captain and crew who trust each other.”

He pauses for effect, looking at you pointedly. “Think ya can handle being co-captain?”

Feigning deep thought, you tap your chin. “Hmm, I don’t know. Co-captains have to work really closely together, and I’m not sure if you’re up to my standards.”

A playful gasp escapes him. “Not up to yer standards? I’ll have ya know I’m an excellent team player. Just ask Isagi.”

You both turn to Isagi, who’s still recovering from his earlier fit of laughter. He straightens up, grinning. “Oh, absolutely. Hiori’s great—when he’s not plotting how to leave me stranded on the field.”

“Not helping, Isagi,” Hiori mutters, though his smile doesn’t falter.

The playful tension draws a chorus of cheers and mock whistles from the team. Isagi cups his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Let’s gooo, ship of the year!”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile spreading across your face as you glance at Hiori. “Looks like the crew is on board.”

Hiori chuckles, leaning back with a satisfied grin that hints at something deeper. “Then it’s settled. This ship is unsinkable.”

“You’re not allowed to say that!” you exclaim, laughing. “That’s a total jinx!”

The room fills with laughter again, the easy energy between the two of you now impossible to miss. The air feels lighter, but there’s an undeniable current that flows between you, unspoken but clearly present.

With every word, every glance, it feels like you’re navigating uncharted waters together—one small step closer to the edge, yet never quite willing to jump in.

“Miss Journalist, we’ve been friends for a while now, right?” Hiori's eyes narrowing with a suspicious gleam. He’s planning something.

“Yes?” you answer, bracing yourself for whatever comes next.

He leans forward, the innocent yet sly smile never leaving his face. “So, you don’t mind me asking—who’s your favorite player on Bastard Munchen?”

You roll your eyes but keep your playful tone, already ready to play along. “That’s a tough one, but I guess... I’d have to say... Gagamaru?”

“Really? Gagamaru?” Hiori laughs, a teasing edge to his voice. “No offense, Gagamaru.”

You shrug with a mischievous grin, trying to keep up the act. 

“That’s not what other people are telling me, though.” Hiori’s eyes twinkle with something unreadable as he pulls out his phone and swipes through it, then shows you the Winstagram picture of you wearing his jersey. 

Oh, dear lord.

You groan inwardly, but there’s no escaping it now. 

“Fine! You’re... up there,” you admit, laughing but feeling the blush creeping in. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, you continue, “But I’m sure the other guys won’t be too happy to hear that.”

Hiori’s grin widens, clearly enjoying himself. “S'okay. Just wanted to make sure.”

Before you can say anything more, Isagi shuffles over with a mischievous grin and hands Hiori a card. Hiori glances at it, his brow raising slightly before that sly smile stretches across his face. 

Holding it up, he reads aloud. “Okay, last card! Due to popular demand, we dare Hiori to ask the journalist out on camera.”

Your jaw practically hits the floor. “Popular demand? Who’s making these demands?”

Hiori doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans towards you, a playful smile on his lips, his gaze locked on you. “Should I?”

You try to laugh it off, waving your hands in mock protest. “You don’t have to entertain everything they write, you know!”

But his gaze never falters. In fact, it softens, turning a little more serious, as if he’s letting a moment of sincerity break through the playful tension. “Yeah, but... what if I want to?”

Your heart skips a beat. “W-wait,” you stammer, feeling your composure slip. “Are you serious?”

Hiori tries to close the distance a bit further, the air between you both growing warmer. “Dinner. Just us. No cameras. Whatcha think?”

You blink, entirely thrown off course, and quickly turn to the crew, desperately waving the cards in mock surrender. “C-can we cut this part out? Please?”

From off-screen, the marketing manager’s voice rings out in amusement. “Nope! This is gold—we’re keeping it.”

Groaning, you bury your face in your hands, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief filling you. “Why am I even here?” you mutter, half-laughing, half-horrified.

As the crew starts to wrap up, you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The shoot has been a whirlwind of chaos and laughter—nothing like you expected. But in the midst of all the teasing and jokes, there have been moments.

Small, fleeting moments where the façade of “content shoot” cracks just enough to reveal something real. Something that makes your heart race.

And it scares you. Because as much as you’ve enjoyed... whatever this is, there’s that nagging thought at the back of your mind. This wasn’t part of the plan.

It wasn’t supposed to feel so... real.

For Hiori, it’s equally disarming. At first, this shoot was just another day on the job. But now, as he watches you—how you smile when you try to deflect a question, the way you talk about your work with such genuine passion, how you handle the “shipping” comments with a perfect blend of humor and grace—it hits him.

He’s drawn to you.

It’s not just the playful banter or the way you make him laugh. It’s the way you see things differently, the way you carry yourself with this unexpected blend of wit and intelligence, and how you’re not fazed by the chaos around you.

When you laugh, it’s not forced; it’s real. When you talk about your work, it’s not some canned response. It’s something you actually care about. He’s seen people like you before, but not like this. Not in a way that makes him feel this... interested.

There’s something about the way you navigate the awkward moments, how you’re not afraid to call him out or laugh at his expense, that makes him want to know more. It’s as if, for the first time in a long time, someone has seen beyond his persona—beyond Hiori Yo the athlete—and into the person he is.

And he likes what he sees.

As you gather your things, Hiori stands, his movements unhurried but deliberate, as if the moment has only just begun. The air between you both feels different now—lighter, yet somehow more significant.

For the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s in control, but also... a little unsure. And that feeling, surprisingly, excites him.

“So,” he says, his voice casual but his gaze never wavering from yours, “about that dinner...”

You look up at him, still flustered, but a faint smile creeping onto your lips. You try to deflect, make it sound casual. “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”

But his eyes are different now—softer, more sincere. “Not a chance.”

And in that moment, you see it. You see the shift in him, in the way he looks at you now—not as another journalist, but as someone he genuinely wants to know beyond the surface.

For a second, you can’t find the words. All you can do is laugh softly, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips as you shake your head.

He’s not asking because of a dare or because of a camera. It’s something real, something unspoken but undeniable. And for the first time today, you let yourself stop overthinking. You let yourself just feel the moment.

“Sure, why not?”

Maybe, just maybe, letting your guard down isn’t such a terrible idea after all.

amari's notes: i was kicking, giggling and smiling alone like crazy writing this! I really think these two have a great balance—neither too shy nor too teasing, just kind of testing the waters and seeing where things go. I’m here for it! If you’re up for it, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[zaine-m]

I like to think that Jayce and Viktor get a happy ending in the other universe too

Jayce feels awful that hextech took a life. Especially seeing powder (who is around the same age he was when him and his mom were saved by hextech) holding her dead sister's body

He says similar things as in the start of the trial but now fully meaning them and never mentions trying to create magic

Vander comes to Jayce's trial and stands up for him, saying he's just a stupid kid with a dream to help people who didn't know what he was doing

"Vi's with her mom now, let Jayce go home to his"

He does still sneak into his lab to attempt suicide but this time Viktor's "am I interrupting?" doesn't do anything, Jayce just turns back around and jumped, not being able to handle the guilt of accidentally taking a life while also realizing his life's work only caused harm

He survives the attempt and wakes up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down with his mother crying next to him

Viktor comes in a bit later while his mom is out making some food for him

His tone is completely too cold for the situation. Jayce is in complete despair and Viktor refuses to match the mood

He says most of the same stuff about how hextech can change people's lives but Jayce responds "yeah, well so far all it's done is a take the life of an innocent child"

"ehh, she was from the undercity. I grew up there, many children did not live to see adulthood"

"How does that make anything better?"

"Because this has the potential to change that. One explosion? There are toxic fumes and polluted waters slowly killing hundreds of children each year"

"Even if I wanted to I'm banned from the academy and ..." *waves at legs*

"pshh, you think trenchers are supposed to be at the academy and everything I did in my life I did while being disabled"

"Listen, I can't help you"

Viktor leaves Jayce's bracelet by his bed and heads towards the door. Jayce takes one look at it and throw it across the room in anger. "you probably shouldn't throw that", "GET OUT!"

A while later Vander comes to invite Jayce to Vi's memorial at the last drop

Jayce feels so guilty when he first comes into the last drop, everyone is staring at him

He sees Ekko, the kind little kid who had sold him such reasonably prices wares just days before his experiments accidentally killed his friend

Powder just starting going at him when she first sees him, her weak child-who-has-never-punched-before fists do very little damage especially because she's going so fast she doesn't fully pull her hands back

Jayce just lets her at it, crying and apologizing between the blows

Vander comes to pull Powder off of him, "it wasn't his fault, he didn't know how dangerous the materials were" she just looks back and screams at him before going back to her bedroom

Vander takes Jayce on a walk through the undercity to talk,

"Everyone in there knew what I did?"

"huh, no?"

"they were looking at me like I was a monster"

"yeah, that's cause you're dressed like a piltie"

"ohh, ha... I'm so sorry about what happened to Vi"

"It's a shame, but she's with her parents now"

*Jayce looks down, only feeling worse finding out the girl he killed was an orphan*

"You want to know how her parents died?" *they arrive at the bridge* "I thought I could help the undercity, create a better world by fighting for sovereignty. I led us across this bridge and lost so many people in the process, the undercity is still recovering"

"I'm so sorry"

"I was like you, I was young and ambitious and I wanted to help people. But you know what I learned. You don't need to make giant leaps to help the people around you"

On the way back Vander points out all the ways he's helped different people in the undercity, helping them make a business plan, caring for their kids when they were sick, helping them find a community at the last drop

He also points out all the things that could be helped like roofs with holes in them and cliffs that should have railings

"You don't need hextech to help the world, Jayce"

Jayce spends his time between his family's forge doing hammer work and around the undercity working as a handyman, building what he can to help people

Eventually he tracks down Viktor, hoping to find ways to make a more systemic change for things like the dirty water and polluted air

Viktor works on studies surveying the living conditions of those in the undercity and seeing what affects it has on expected lifespan and the likelihood of developing different diseases to present to the council

That along with the more pro-Zaun push that's been happening since Vi's death he gets quite a bit of work done

While he's doing this Jayce does what he can to start implementing changes by making water filters and distributing masks to those in the slump levels

After a few years Jayce petitions to be let back into the academy to help Viktor with his work on a formal level and with outstanding testimonials from many people in the undercity he's let back in

When their work making the undercity safer is done they move onto studying how to treat the various illnesses people in the undercity have suffered from living there

first starting with Viktor's various physical health issues and finding that a lot of his issues come from it never being studied how to use mobility aids and how improper use can put a strain on other parts of your body so he switched to a forearm crutch to help his back

I'm gonna say in this universe Viktor just has severe asthma which they're able to find medicines to treat so he still has issues breathing in a lot of the undercity, he just wears a mask most of the time and keeps his medication with him

Viktor and Jayce end up dating but it happens to slowly that it's hard to realize, they just spend all their time together working on their research and then they get an apartment together because they were both looking for roommates

Jayce stopped looking for people to date after the accident because he was going through a big life change and never got back in the game and Viktor always rejected anyone, saying he was too busy with his studies

Jayce is just physically affectionate in a way where hugging Viktor a lot turns into Viktor sitting on his lap whenever his leg is sore turns into Jayce playing with Viktor's hair when he's bored turns into them cuddling on the couch turns into them cuddling in bed turns into kisses on the forehead when one of them is sick turns into kisses when they're not sick

They're at the last drop one day and Viktor gets up off Jayce's lap to use with washroom and Vander asks Jayce, "so you think you'll propose soon" Jayce almost spits out his food, "what, what do you mean?"

"I mean you've been dating for like what 5 years now. You gotta pop the question sooner or later"

"umm... yeah" wait fuck are we dating, have we been dating for 5 years, what

In bed that night: "Viktor, I... I think I might like you... like romantically. I guess I never thought about it but I was talking to Vander and... and you've been the most important person in my life for the past like 6 years"

"Jayce, I thought we were dating? How are you only realizing this now"

"ohh"

"I called you my partner"

"I thought you meant like research partner"

"we kissed a lot"

"I thought those were like just for comfort... between friends"

*Viktor kisses him passionately but not the most passionately they've kissed before*

"Does that seem like it would be between friends?"

"heh, now that you mention it I guess not"

[arabellasleopardcoat]

First of all... Yes!!! YES!!! I love the twins and got my wish!!! And I also got smut??? I love you, we should totally make out!!!

Now, to be serious. I want to quote so many things back at you, but vomiting your fic back wouldn't be fair. First of all, can we talk about this?

Your mouth goes dry and your father wipes the tears that fall from your eyes. He your name softly. Your sad face looks the exact same it did when his wife died. My baby is having a baby. He frowns and pulls away.

When I want to hate Otto, you come up with this. He is so conflicted, I hate it!! He should not be allowed to be soft, and conflicted, and complex, how am I supposed to hate him?

She is pregnant! I continue to hope for her survival. I worry so much about her dying like Aemma (Who died here, which was so unfair. What will happen to poor Alicent? How will our girl react?)

Daemon jealous of Gwayne!!! Omg, I love it. He is so toxic, wants to be all there is in her life, the only one she depends on. So so toxic but I eat it up. I wonder how will he react to the baby, considering her condition. Will he enjoy the news because she bears his mark? Or will he get angry? (Worried, but he is useless at feelings so it will probably look angry)

"I wanted you to tend to me" I AM SCREAMING.

And when she told him he was alway leaving? It felt so so good to my brain, something rattled in there and I thought about Daemon being haunted by Rhaenyra at Harrenhall, you know, when she tells him something like "you are always coming and going, aren't you?"

I loved it. The dialogue here was the best thing I have read in a while. Cannot wait to read more!!!

Tormented Spirit | 7

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (cunnilingus, piv, choking, degradation, slight sadism), DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: again the high valyrian is internet translated so lol. please consider leaving comments/reblogs because they really help me with the fic. might make another poll for next chapter stay tuned. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat

Taking you to the hidden stream was simultaneously the best and worst decision Erryk's ever made in his life. The look of you was holy. His intense focus on your form was to ensure your safety, but, by the gods, it felt sinful to behold your dark hair and light fabric ebbing in the water.

He had hoped a swim would lift your spirits, just as flower picking did, but he did not know it would draw such a tempest out of you. It was as though you were reborn. You plunged into the water and shed all your inhibitions. Your voice became brighter, as did your eyes. You were flooded with more than a dozen memories of you and your twin swimming in the river near your home in Oldtown, and you recounted all of them so excitedly to Erryk.

"Oh!' you exclaim, flipping in the water to get to your feet. You point to something behind your ward, making him turn around. In that split second, you hold in your laughter and grab something from the mossy rocks. Innocently, you say, "that reminds me of something."

Erryk turns back to you, brows knit in confusion. When you you make your way towards him, he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze. The shift you were swimming in was stuck flush on your body, leaving little to his imagination. He was glad to have the foresight to bring you a change of clothes and a towel, and, my, was the pattern on the said towel so very interesting.

"What is a frogs favorite game?" you ask so suddenly.

Erryk turns to you, brows furrowing, "pardon?"

"Tell me the frogs' favorite game, ser," you repeat as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Frogs favored game?" he repeats slowly, realizing now that your expression was mockingly innocent. He hums, "I cannot say I-"

"HOPSCOTCH!"

A frog comes leaping into Erryk's face, nearly causing him to topple as he dodges it. He's so flabbergasted by the turn of events, he calls out your name in offence. He is doubly offended by your laughter. His eyes go wide as you hunch forward, leaning on your knees.

"Villain," your ward mutters, scoffing far too many times.

You can barely catch your breath. You fan your face, "frog-ive me."

Erryk's face only contorts further.

"I could not-" you gasp for air, "could not help it."

In truth, if it was any other who did such a childish thing, he'd have shoved them in the water. Alas, you appeared only more beauteous as you made him a fool.

"Forgive me," you repeat in more serious manner, "Gwayne used to scare me this way often. I wished only to know how it felt, and now..." you giggle, "I can't say I blame my brother for constantly pulling tricks on me."

He huffs and shakes his head, "well. I'm glad to have pleased you, my ever-so-kind princess."

You offer him a guilty smile, "apologies."

Erryk shakes his head, "no. Truly. I am glad to see you in such a state."

You fidget with your fingers as a shiver runs down your spine.

He is quick to unravel your towel. He places it on your shoulders, "perhaps we should go back. The sunset is nigh."

You nod, taking your change of clothes from him next.

He turns around offering you your privacy. It takes a while, but you manage to dress yourself. Once you had your shoes on, you dry your hair with your towel and take his arm, "would you please lace up my dress?"

He nods, avoiding your gaze as he feels his face burn. He quickly laces you up then you return to the Keep.

You both had been laughing, up until you made it past the castle gates, promptly being silenced by the loud shout, "PRINCESS!"

Arryk runs over, charging for his brother. Their steel plates collide as Arryk yanks his twin, "where in gods name did you take her?"

Erryk furrows his brows, "we visited a stream-"

"The Keep is in disarray!" Arryk grits his teeth, hissing under his breath, "everyone's looking for her. Everyone."

You watch the twins huddle close and bicker. As it escalates, you try try to come between them, "Arryk. I was the one who asked him to take me outside the keep."

Arryk does not hear you at first, dead set on arguing with his twin. When you repeat your words the second time however, he turns to you, face softening a fraction. He knits his brows turning back to this brother, whispering something that makes Erryk turn to you with wide eyes, "fuck."

"Why?" you look at them in concern, "what it is?"

Arryk opens his mouth, but Erryk grabs his arm and says, "wait."

"There's no other way to say it," Arryk snaps, ripping his arm out his grip.

"Say what?" you knit your brows.

Arryk turns back to you, then lowers his gaze, "the queen... the queen has passed."

Your jaw drops. Your eyes widen. Your hand immediately covers your mouth. The three of you do not speak for a prolonged moment.

You feel your stomach roll, "w-what happened?"

"She could not deliver the babe herself. The maesters... had to intervene."

Intervene? You could not possibly understand what that could mean, and you find that you do not want to. You shake your head, "and her babe? Is- is her babe well at least?"

Arryk clenches his jaw, "she sired a prince named Baelon... he apparently grows weaker by the hour."

You feel bile rise up your throat.

"Your father and your siblings have been looking for you since news broke."

You shake your head, and gather your skirts.

"As has the prince."

Your face twitches at the thought. You do not delay and make your way inside the Keep.

As you tread the halls, you think about what the queen told you just mere hours ago. There is a sharp twinge in your belly as simultaneously remember how Aemma told you to go cheer for Daemon at the tourney and realize you will never hear a word from her ever again. The thought washes over you like water on the beach, sobering but thankfully not overwhelming.

You hadn't realized you had your head bowed until you hear your name called. You still as you look up, the twins halt behind you.

Otto marches over, brows and jaw tight as ever, "where in gods name have you been?"

You straighten your back as he stops before you, "I-"

"Your wards are double," he turns to the kingsguards, "and doubly useless, it seems."

"Father," you step into his line of sight, "do relieve your rage on them."

Your father turns back to you, expression softening a fraction at your referral. You had not called him father since your argument in the maester's office. He looks at you— takes a good look at you and your sad eyes, your knit brows, your frowning lips. Your hair was darker than it was normally, and as he reaches out for it, he found it was, in fact, damp, "where have you been?"

"I..." you gulp and take a deep breath, "went swimming."

He releases your hair, tilting his head, "with whom? Gwayne has gone."

You pull your head back, "G-Gwayne's gone?"

"The tourney is over. The road is long. He has no reason to stay," Otto says.

Your brows tighten as you shake your head, "he... he didn't... wait for me?"

Otto watches your lips quiver. He watches your nose twitch. When your chest begins to visibly rise and fall, he shakes his head, "what did I tell you?"

You stare blankly at him.

He takes your hands, "what is it I always tell you?"

You clench your jaw and huff through your nostrils, "do not waste your tears on things you cannot change."

Otto rubs your knuckles as he shakes his head again. He gives the Cargyll brothers a look before walking off with you. They make sure to keep their distance before following after.

You turn to your father as he links your arm into his. You are certain, with how he cannot look at you, that he means to tell you something grave. You look front and mimic his demeanor— distant, cold. You are his daughter, face and temperance.

"You enjoyed your swim at least?" he starts, "you are calm?"

You gulp, mentally preparing yourself for what will surely come next. Your voice still falters though, "ye-s."

Otto nods, still not turning to you, "many has occurred since your marriage to Daemon. You admitted you did not consummate your marriage on your wedding night and I was deeply concerned you would fail your duties in producing heirs, especially if your husband was not interested in you."

Your jaw clenches.

"But with the apparent... change of heart your husband has shown, you should know I've had the maesters closely monitor your state."

You knit your brows at that, "you mean my affliction?"

He speaks your name slowly before continuing, "as of yesterday, they have confirmed to me that you are with child."

You whip your head to him and pull away.

Otto does not look at you with the same sense of urgency.

"W-what?"

He sees the fear on your features. He offers a solemn expression and takes your cheeks when your eyes water, "this is good. You should delight, not tremble."

You try to speak but nothing coherent comes out.

"The Queen is dead. Go to your husband and comfort him with this news."

Your mouth goes dry and your father wipes the tears that fall from your eyes. He your name softly. Your sad face looks the exact same it did when his wife died. My baby is having a baby. He frowns and pulls away.

You try to take his hand, but he slips away.

"See her off," the Hand instructs your wards.

Erryk is quick to go to your side, whereas Arryk stares at the back of Otto's head, his lips curling as he did.

"Princess," Erryk says, cautiously reaching your arm.

You turn to him with wide eyes before scratching your tears away, "I-"

"Perhaps you should sit down first."

You pull away from him before he can touch you. The action makes Erryk pull back, an unsavory sensation spreading in his mouth and belly.

"I want to- I—" you take a breath, "I need to find-" you shake your head and begin speeding down the hall.

You were nearly about to break into a sprint, and your wards had to jog up to your side to keep up with you. You don't really know where you're going, but you're getting there, fast.

"Princess, please, slow down," one says.

You can feel your breath and your pulse in your ears.

"Princess."

You find yourself in the halls near one of the gate of the keep. The only reason why you stop is because you hear the voice of your twin. Your breath catches as you lurch towards the window. Gwayne was laughing with one of the guards, already on his horse. Your brows furrow, he couldn't possibly be well enough to be riding on horseback.

You realize quickly this is your last opportunity to go be with your brother, to pull him into an embrace, to worry on him, to tell him your worries, to kiss him goodbye. You know you have to act now and swiftly, but you cannot seem to move.

Your mind is heavy as you think about how your brother is set to leave regardless of your desire to keep close; he said it himself, his place can never be at your side. Though he is the only person who've ever relied on, you know now— you rub your belly, that can no longer be the case. There is only one person you can rely on now... yourself.

It is painful to pull away from the window, but you do, clenching your hands into fists before walking away.

You don't really walk away however, because then, you're frozen in place at the sight of your husband standing a few paces away from you, "Daemon."

He stares at you wordlessly.

You walk towards him, careful as you drag your feet.

He tilts his head and clenches his jaw, "he's leaving any moment now."

You nod, "I know."

"Go to him," he says softly.

"I-"

"Go to him!" he snaps.

You stiffen at his expression. You were adept with anger but he did not look angry. You stop in your tracks, trying to make sense of his restless figure.

Daemon watches you fidget with your fingers.

"If it is your command, I shall obey."

He chuckles dryly, pacing around his spot. He wipes his mouth then charges over, stopping just in front of you. He scoffs when you do not flinch, in disbelief of your constitution. His nostrils flare, "you know my feelings towards your twin."

You slowly shrug, "then you'll be glad to know I came looking for you."

Daemon does not move.

"You know how I feel about my brother..." you mutter, "but..." you lower your gaze, "I'm coming to terms with the fact I can no longer rely on him... it will be better this way."

It takes a moment, but Daemon chuckles. When you look up and his smirk fades. Your beady eyes make it hard to find satisfaction. "So, you will not go to him?" he asks.

You stare.

"You do not want to go to him?"

Your lips part.

He raises his brows.

"I... I do."

Anger rises up his belly, but as if on cue, the sound of horses and carriages moving is heard. You clench your jaw and lower you gaze to prevent yourself from looking back at the window. The prince cannot seem to win, for he should be pleased you did not see your brother off, and yet your sadness leaves sour jealousy in his mouth— he was your husband.

The Cargyll twins look upon you both, appalled by the cruelty of the prince to keep you here as Gwayne leaves for good. Erryk in particular feels restless, unable to stop shifting and fidgeting with his scabbard.

"Shall... shall we go?" you mutter, slowly looking up.

Daemon watches you place a hand on his bicep. He responds only by following you after giving your wards a dismissive look.

The brothers turn to each other, each as unwilling as the other to leave you, but they do anyway.

Daemon is acutely aware of the warmth of your cheek against his arm as you tread down the halls. When, you arrive at your marriage chambers, Daemon opens the door and you notice the bandage wrapped around his hand. He struggles because of this. Once you're inside, you take his arm, eyes trained on his injury, "what happened to your hand?"

Daemon's eyes are fixed on the line between your brows.

"Did you break it?" you turn to him with furrowed eyes.

He pulls away slowly. He wants to know what you'd do next.

"Did you wrap it yourself? It's badly done."

He faintly snorts, "it's on my right hand."

"I'll do it for you," you say, walking towards the vanity.

Daemon follows, watching you procure scissors and vials and other things. You turn to him, motioning to the chair. He sits down, gaze fixed upon you as you take his arm again.

Your eyes are focused on undoing his wrap, "tell me if it hurts,"

His are fixed on your focused expression, "you should sit down."

"I'm fine."

"I want you to sit down," he uses his other hand to grab your wrist.

You stop and turn to him. You turn to the chair across the room but Daemon prevents you from doing so and simply spreads legs, pulling you between his thighs. Quickly, you are sat on his lap and tense look at him. He offers you his injured hand again as his other goes around you, clinging to your hip. He pulls you in, leaning his head against yours to say, "it's a cut, by the way."

You furrow your brows at his admission. You allow yourself a moment to relax before continuing your task. You find it is, in fact, a cut, deep and ugly, "did your lance splinter very badly?"

"No."

You furrow your brows deeper as you turn to him,

"This is glass."

"Glass?" you brow raise, "how did you hurt your hand with glass?"

Daemon licks his lips as he looks at yours. He shrugs, "I broke a bottle."

You pull your head back, "on accident?"

"On purpose," he tilts his head.

You huff and start cleaning his wound, "was the violence in the tourney insufficient?"

He chuckles through his nostrils, "I did not fucking win."

You smear balm on his wound. You do not reply.

It makes him clench his jaw, "and you..."

"..."

"You were not there."

You do not tear your gaze from his injury.

He grumbles, "did you even hear me?"

You lift your gaze then raise brow at him, "you did not want me there. Do you not recall how you cursed at me?"

Your gall makes anger rise up his throat.

You continue wrapping up his hand.

"Well, you were being a bitch," he snaps.

"Why?"

His brows furrow.

"Why was I being a bitch?"

"..."

You spare him a quick glace.

He pulls his head back, "... what?"

"Did I not do my duty?" you turn to him, face blank, "I followed you, congratulated you, inquired of your injuries. I submitted to your desires. Where did I err?" You ask in earnest, "what do you want from me?"

His face contorts. Now that he was faced with such an opportunity, he finds himself unable to speak. What did he want from you?

You wait for him to reply. You prepare yourself for preposterous requirements but you are met only his silence. In that moment, you remember he was just a man. Many a man enjoyed making women suffer. You gulp, thinking about your father.

Perhaps your father was lying. Perhaps he wants you to believe you are with child to get even. After all, Daemon never... finished in you. How then could you be with child?

You secure the binding on his hand, "it is finished."

Daemon does not bother looking at his hand.

"How do you feel?"

He feels a strong urge to shake you... to pull you close.

"My deepest sympathies for the death of your cousin."

He freezes. Right. The queen was dead. He lowers his gaze.

You frown and reach for his cheek. You second guess however and bring your palm to his shoulder instead, "I am here for you, my prince."

His eyes meet yours.

"I am here to care and comfort you."

He leans back, taken by the thought.

You drink in his demeanor, the softness in his eyes, the tension that falls of his shoulders. You release a breath, "if that is what you desire, speak plainly, and do not repel me. Do not ask me to leave if, in fact, you want me to stay."

His throat tightens. He feels like he is ensnared in a bear trap. He rips at his collar, "I... I have other injuries." He pushes you off and paces around as he undoes his top. It is a struggle for him, but he cannot stop or stay still, "cuts and bruises."

You watch as he fidgets and slowly walk over.

"I don't-"

"Daemon."

He stills.

You come in front of him and undo his top yourself. You drop it mindlessly, and once he is bare, he feels conscious under your scrutiny for some reason. You brush your fingers on his ribs, making goosebumps form on his skin. He can't say that that has ever happened to him before. You notice and rub his arms, eyes locked on his torso.

He feels himself getting hard.

"Did you tend to these yourself as well?" you brush over a cut on his hip.

Oh. You were still examining him. He only hums in response.

You frown, "did no maester come to your tent?"

"I..." he starts.

You circle around him, inspecting for other injuries.

"...wanted you to come to my tent."

You come to his side. He finds the frown on your face. You take a moment before saying, "you tended to your wounds well at least."

"I want you."

You nod, "I will tend to you—"

Daemon takes your nape, lowering his head to kiss your lips. It takes a moment for you to relax, and his belly burns at the sound you make when you do. Your hands come to his sides and your nails graze faintly into his flesh.

He pushes you back until your laid on the bed beneath him. His kisses trail down your skin as he works to get you naked. He kisses your shoulder, then your sternum. He makes sure to lick your breast and leave a mark on your rib before peppering kisses down your belly.

Your breath grows heavy when he lingers by your womb, sucking kisses on your skin. Your throat tightens think of your father's words again. It makes you tense, and Daemon feels it. Of course, he doesn't know about your conversation with Otto, and thinks your tension comes from your self-consciousness.

You lift your head, pulling a pillow beneath it, and look down at your husband. You reach for him, tangling your fingers in his silver hair, "Daemon."

He hums, nipping your flesh in response.

You try to sit up, "D-Daemon, I-"

He shushes you, pushing down on your hip bone. He looks up at you, muttering something in High Valyrian.

"Please, Daemon, wait-"

"Be still," he says, violet eyes hooded, "do I not take care of you?"

Your breath hitches as he sinks down.

"Do you not enjoy my mouth?"

"I- that's not-"

"Do you or do you not?"

"I... I do—"

You are not able to speak after he buries his face between your thighs. You are reduced to breathy cries and a twisting spine. Daemon, though he continues to hold you down, relishes every second of it and feasts more ardently. He sighs, securing your thighs on his shoulders, nudging his face deeper into you, his nose brushing against your pearl.

He relishes how quickly your wetness builds, and soon, he feels your arousal dribbling down his chin. He moans, nails biting crescent moons into your skin. Your belly rises and falls in sync with the crescendo of your mewls. At this point, both your hands are tangled into his hair, and your pulling and scratching only further inspires his tongue.

You call out his name, screwing your eyes shut as you throw your head back and arch your body. Quickly, your belly tightens and you sequentially dig your heels into his shoulder blades. He squeezes your thighs enough to make them bruise, and yet the pain is what pushes you into orgasm, garnering a lewd and loud sound from your mouth.

Daemon hums, lifting his face just enough to see yours as he brings you to peak. He moans at your expression, grinding his hips into the cushion, desperate for friction.

Your body trembles, unable to settle as his burning mouth persists on your molten mound. You begin to squeak and he catches the moment you open your eyes to look at him all teary. It drives him mad. With a deep inhale, he pulls away, wiping his chin before he undoes his breeches.

You relax and catch your breath, hands dropping to your sides.

Daemon watches you, your trembling legs glistening with the pleasure he's drawn out. He can feel himself throbbing in his pants. You watch as he hastily frees himself. Though your head was hazy and your body was tried, your belly burned at sight of the sticky liquid dripping down your husband's neck.

"Fuck, Daemon," you reach for his belly. You trace his defined muscles with your finger tips. He snatches your hands when he finally pushes his pants down.

You squeak when he pushes you to your side, one hand on your shoulder, another hiking your leg up by the knee. You whine as he folds you into the sheets just before sliding his hardened cock in your wet cunt.

He hisses, leaning down to your neck. His words are hot against your skin, but you understand nothing.

Whatever tenderness he had before was gone, now he was just fucking you like a rabid animal. Daemon could not help himself, he loved how supple and pliable you were, and twists you into a form that keeps you prone. When the bed begins to creak because of his thrusts, he holds you down where your neck and collarbone meet. He puts enough pressure to restrict your breathing, but not enough to choke out your pretty noises.

At some point, he decides your leg is getting in the way and pushes you flat on your chest. He then gathers you by the hip, hiking you up enough to fuck you nicely from behind.

His thrusts are more intense now. You scream into the cushion as you find your elbows. Before you can prop yourself up though, he's pinning you down by the shoulder, saying something in High Valyrian again.

"D-Daemon," you whine, left cheek smushed against your pillow. You could feel your next climax building quickly.

He responds by rubbing your clit, drawing tears and another scream out of you because of your sensitivity.

You feel yourself helplessly clenching and unclenching around him, absolutely boneless under his vigorous intrusion. You could feel your knees slipping but Daemon's grip on you would not see you move from your position. Your toes curl. Saliva drips out your open mouth.

"Māzigon va, riña," he snorts, "sepār mirrī angotan tolī." Come on, girl. Just a little bit more."

You do not understand, so you only whine out, "Daemon."

Daemon growls and rubs one side of your ass, "you're doing so good for me."

He spanks you, but that's not what makes your eyes open.

"Milk my cock with your tight cunny, come slut."

You begin to grit your teeth.

"I want to see my seed dripping down your thighs," he groans, mind unable to focus on anything but the hot, wet slapping of your skin.

It's unsurprising that you come first, as Daemon always assures you do to underscore his control and dominance over you. He yelps out a sharp fuck, nearly coming in your cunt because of how your body seizes up around him. Your orgasm overwhelming, yet your eyes water for more than this reason. His words make you aware your husband sees you nothing more as a vessel for pleasure, and your pleasure is regretfully cut short because of how sharply he pulls out, his load spraying on your already dripping labia and pubic hair.

He strokes himself a few times, feeling his cock twitch in his hand as he watches your mixed come trickle down your legs. He sighs, "fuck," then scoops the cream in two fingers, plunging it in and out your still spasming cunt.

You squeal when he finger fucks you, body unable to remain upright. You are grateful he loses interest rather quickly and crumble into the bed as he stands.

You watch him walk over to the drawer, where he then pours himself some wine. You gulp, remembering your dream from last night. It sobers you out your high. You clench your jaw and roll over to clean yourself up. You head to your vanity and wipe yourself down, grabbing your robe was you do.

Daemon, whose thirst was now quenched, turns back to you with a towel. He is confused to see you standing. He watches you flip your hair behind you, pulling it out of your robe, which you then secure around yourself. He knits his brows as he walks over, "what are you doing?"

You turn to him, sitting on the vanity chair, "getting ready for bed."

Daemon stares, and you take his prolonged silence as an indication to proceed with your nightly routine.

The prince squeezes the damp towel in his hand as he watches you brush your hair. You catch his stillness from the mirror and turn back to him, "oh."

You drop your brush and take the towel from him, "I'll help you clean up."

Normally, he enjoyed this, but right now, he can't. He is offended when you begin to pick up his clothes, so much that he scoffs, "the fuck are you doing?"

You halt midway picking up his trousers. You stand and turn to the closet, "ah. Did you want new clothes?"

He pulls his head back, no longer offended, but hurt, "you want me to leave?"

You are caught off guard by his question. You stare at him for a moment, unsure if he was serious. You could not identify his expression, so you did not know if you tell him the truth. You would not survive being berated after confessing you wanted to sleep with him. You dodge the answer altogether, "weren't you leaving anyway?"

Daemon's cheeks tense. He huffs, stepping forward, yanking his clothes out of your hands, "no."

You are bewildered by his actions, for to you, his actions are sudden. You are petrified in fear, which is why you instinctively begin to apologize, "f-forgive me, I-I-"

His nostrils flare and his jaw sets.

"I-" you motion with a hand, "- you always leave."

His clenches his jaw, "do you want me to leave?"

"I—" your throat tightens and soon you can no longer look at him. You want to beg him to stay, but you recall how you did that with your father, and your mother, and your brother— begging does not make people stay. You whisper, "I... I'm terrified."

When you lift your gaze, Daemon shirks and decided to dress. He gulps as he pulls his trousers up, turning back to you. He clenches his fist before reaching out for you.

Your heart races as he takes your hand.

"You've served me well. If you are terrified... I'll leave you."

You whimper when he pulls away, holding him tighter than he did before your hands part. Your lips quiver. He knits his brows. You shake your head, "I- I... I do not want you to go."

He is taken off guard by how you suddenly embrace him.

"Please," you beg, though you knew it would not serve you well, "stay."

He turned to stone. He cannot seem to move at all but your arms are determined to stay around him. You begin to weep against his skin and he can feel your breath grow ragged. Only then does he manage to return your affection.

He brushes your dark hair away from your face and cradles you against him.

"Daemon."

He leans into you, enough to be able to brush his cheek against yours, "kesan umbagon." I will stay.

You sniffle then sigh. After a while, you ask, "what does that mean?"

"I will stay."

You sigh again, pulling away to look at him. You offer him a sad smile, "thank you."

He frowns, wiping your tears.

When you go back to bed, you offer him space in case you've made him uncomfortable. He stares at you, awaiting your embrace. You are mere inches apart but it feels like yards and yards.

"Good night, husband," you say before turning over.

He chuckles dryly, staring at your dark hair. He turns to the ceiling, "good night."

[suchawrathfullamb]

controversial but I actually am always right so whatever but I kind of...think the whole "you only did that because I rejected you" scene is super duper misinterpreted heehee sorry but I am god so I'm right. no but seriously, it's because I don't think Will, who constantly showed just how he couldn't accept that Hannibal could love or have this type of feeling, specially towards him, could've predicted that Hannibal fucking Lecter would've surrendered to the fbi.

I think when he says that to Hannibal, in prison, he just meant "stop trying to get me to take you back, I know you only surrendered because I rejected you, you fucking flight risk, you won't let me have you unless I keep rejecting you and chasing", he literally says "I knew you would keep running if I kept chasing", but I don't think he meant oh yeah I totally counted on you FUCKING GIVING UP YOUR WHOLE LIFE TO PROBABLY GET THE DEATH SENTENCE like no guys hold up there is zero evidence for that in fact there's opposite evidence, being that Will just kept turning a blind eye to Hannibal's "better nature" as he said in his dream, "I wasn't aware you had one". Maybe he thought Hannibal would've settled somewhere but fucking surrender his whole LIFE? no and I think that fucking face Will makes and then just walks away is a fed up face like UGH WHY YOU FUCKING WHORE I MEANT FOR YOU TO SURRENDER TO MEEEE NOT THEM UGH FUCK YOU BYE

anyway this is my opinion law the absolute truth