#it’s like. not even seen as a contradiction by the people making it (I don’t think)

[jesslovesboats]

I’m so fascinated by how different polar historians engage with sources. The difference between books like Lansing’s Endurance (which imo drew pretty uncritically from the crew’s narrative, and didn’t distinguish between contemporaneous diaries and later interviews) and Sancton’s Madhouse, which often makes a point of pointing out contradictions and unlikelihoods (although comparing Amundsen with our favorite little miss unreliable narrator does a lot of the work for him), is so intriguing. They’re obviously different projects with different purposes - Endurance is, literally, a Branagh movie, while Madhouse is closer to Iannucci (said lovingly) - but I imagine these differences contribute a lot to the historiography of polar exploration in general. Not to mention which men did and didn’t write diaries, and who did and didn’t survive.

I’m also listening to these on audiobook, and Madhouse was great in that they included some footnotes while other narrators don’t, so sourcing might exist that I don’t know about . But I’m curious for your thoughts on these dynamics, and what accounts you think are the most critical and balanced.

Hello! This is an absolutely fascinating question and one I have so much to say about that I'm not quite sure where to begin, if that makes sense? But, I will try my best to gather a bunch of disjointed thoughts into a coherent response. Full disclaimer, I do have a BA in history but I'm not a practicing historian by any means, and I haven't "done history" in the academic sense since I was an undergrad many years ago. All of my post-grad work has been in library science, so I'm much more familiar with that as an academic framework.

I think that the vast differences you see in how polar historians engage with the source material *usually* come down to 2 factors: what is their purpose, and when are they writing?

There are as many different reasons to write as there are people writing. Most of us are probably familiar with the difference between academic history (which is published by professional historians, usually affiliated with a university and usually as a requirement of their position, with an audience of students and other professional historians) and popular history (which is written by people who are most likely skilled researchers but may or may not have academic credentials, with an audience of the general public), but even within those categories there are huge divisions that have to do with the author's motives and what they hope to accomplish with their work. Is the author telling this story because they want to convey specific new information? Are they hoping to share a compelling story with a wider audience? Do they want to correct the record about misinformation they've seen shared by others? Do they want to rehabilitate the reputation of a person/group/institution? Do they want to write a hit piece about a person/group/institution? Did a story change their life in a meaningful way and they need to express that somehow? I've read polar books that, if I had to guess, were written for all these reasons and more.

There are also trends in historiography, and the time in which someone is writing can have a significant impact on how they tell their story. This is obviously a huge generalization, but the more recently something has been written, the more likely it is that the author engaged critically with the source material. That's not to say that more recent history is better than history written decades ago, just that researchers today are probably approaching it more holistically than they did 100, 50, or even 10 years ago, and their research is more likely to be informed by perspectives other than just the straight white cis wealthy male ones. Another factor to consider when looking specifically at late 19th and early 20th century stories is access to survivors. This is a double-edged sword because on one hand, survivors and their immediate families were incredible sources of information. On the other hand, they were usually very protective of their legacies and those of their comrades, so it could be difficult to write critically about them knowing that they would likely read it. Some also refused to share their diaries and papers with authors, or would only share with certain authors, which further muddied the waters. Most Heroic Age figures had passed on by the 1970s, and I don't think it's a coincidence that you start to get more honest assessments of these stories around this time. That's not the only reason, of course, but I think it's an important factor to consider.

No one can ever truly know someone else's motives, but some authors leave significant trails of breadcrumbs. In the case of Endurance, Lansing was a journalist who came across the story of the ITAE, found it compelling, and was pretty clearly inspired by the figure of Shackleton. It's hard to imagine now, but when Lansing was writing in the 50s, Shackleton wasn't a household name, and the story of the Endurance wasn't especially well known in the US. He found a great story that most people hadn't already heard about a man he admired, and he had access to diaries and survivors, especially Macklin, to help craft his story. Endurance is one of the most engaging polar books I've ever read, but I also think it's a product of its time. Lansing was writing in the 1950s, and several Endurance survivors were still around, not to mention Shackleton's adult children. I can't say if he intentionally excluded more critical information because of the survivors, or because he wanted to lionize Shackleton, or if he left all that out so he could tell a faster paced story. The end result is a book that's compulsively readable and that I recommend as a great introduction to all things Endurance, but it definitely does not tell the whole story- and that's OK! Lansing told the story he wanted to tell, and there are many other books about Endurance and about Shackleton that are better researched and more objective. I'm speaking as a librarian and not a historian here, but I personally don't think it's fair to expect a short work of popular history that's over 60 years old to give a complete unbiased account of the Endurance and all of Shackleton's failings- although I do wish the book mentioned the Ross Sea Party (I will bang this drum until the day I die).

Madhouse is a very different kind of book, as you pointed out in your question! Sancton is also a journalist, and I listened to a podcast where he talked about what inspired him to write Madhouse. If I remember correctly, he came across the story while researching a different topic and discovered that there wasn't much of anything about the Belgica out there, at least not in English. So, this was an opportunity to tell a fascinating story about an expedition that virtually no one had heard of outside of polar circles. I think his main goal was to tell a great story, not necessarily to inspire the reader or boost anyone's reputation posthumously. Sancton also published this book in 2021, so the historical environment was very different. He engaged critically with the source material, pointed out several things in primary sources that seemed off, and offered a variety of possible motives for things that happen in the story. He also looked at the story from more of a social history perspective and talked about what was happening in Belgium at the time and how nationalism played a significant role in the expedition. Overall, I think it's a much stronger book than Endurance, and almost as compulsively readable.

So what to make of all this? I think that, just like it matters when the author was writing and why, it matters when you are reading and why. I have more to say about this (shocking, I know), but there is no perfect polar book- there are lots of excellent polar books appropriate for a variety of different situations. Looking for a great story and don't want to think too much about what's being left out? Endurance. Want something that was meticulously researched and has every detail imaginable? You definitely want journal articles or something written by an academic. Something in the middle? Madhouse. Up to the challenge of reading historic documents with fresh, modern eyes? Look for published diaries and journals (or hit up the archives)! Hagiography? Edward Wilson of the Antarctic by George Seaver. Hit piece? Scott and Amundsen by Roland Huntford. Passion project? The Worst Journey graphic novel by Sarah Airriess or The Expedition by Bea Uusma.

I have been yakking for entirely too long and have no idea if I actually answered your question, but I hope I did on some level, at least! Bottom line, I think your most well rounded source for information about an expedition is usually going to be a book written in the last 10ish years by an author, academic or popular, who is writing to inform as opposed to trying to prove something. I also think that, generally speaking, secondary sources that give an overview of an entire expedition are better entry points than primary sources.

Thank you for another great ask, and I'm sorry it took so long to respond, but as you can see from gestures wildly, I am not well 😅

[peach-pot]

something I’m so fascinated by is when tv show/movie writers want to include jokes at a groups expensive, but don’t make a decision on whether they want just the audience to be laughing at them or the other characters as well, and end up in this weird space where they are both… canonically unserious and serious. here it’s better to just give examples:

(gonna talk about fatphobia and homophobia typical of 2000s comedies for a sec)

in pitch perfect they have jokes about fat amy where what she says/believes is meant to conflict with what’s true in universe. she sings for the first time for chloe and aubrey and the joke is meant to be that what she’s doing is embarrassing, even though she’s trying to show off. a lot of her jokes with bumper boil down to her thinking she’s attractive, when he thinks she’s not. so these jokes are meant to be funny to us, because she thinks she’s talented/attractive/etc., when everyone around her sees she’s not. but they also include jokes where the audience is supposed to laugh because she IS actually these things, and it’s meant to be unexpected/unrealistic to reality. the big example that comes to mind is when she gets a phone call over a school break and we see that she’s actually hanging out at a pool with a few attractive guys around her, calling back to a joke where she referred to multiple boyfriends of hers. the first time it was meant to be funny because the audience would assume she was lying, the second time it’s meant to be funny because it goes against the audience’s expectations… but now all those jokes that rely on fat amy being unattractive within the pitch perfect universe don’t work. because they just told us that she is.

and then in community, there’s troy and abed, who have jokes where everyone around them thinks they’re gay, but they turn out not to be. a clear example of this is when troy’s textbook has a romantic drawing of abed in it that shirley thinks he drew, but it turns out to be a used textbook that came that way. but there are also jokes where the audience is meant to laugh about troy and abed doing something gay together. for example, there’s a joke where annie says she thought troy was trying to hold her hand, but he had actually just confused her for abed. these jokes, unlike the ones where the characters are in on it to a greater extent, don’t offer any explanation for why troy and abed are doing something gay, and end up just… making them gay. so troy and abed both aren’t actually gay (and the joke is that their peers keep assuming they are) and ARE actually gay (which is meant to be inherently funny to the audience because it’s 2009)

idk, i just think it’s interesting to see the ways in which creators kind of forget to keep things consistent when they have the opportunity to make jokes about a marginalized group. like it doesn’t matter if they make a firm call on whether or not amy is actually attractive or if they always remember to give an in universe explanation for why troy and abed are doing something seen as gay if they aren’t gay. no one will notice if it changes joke to joke as long as the jokes are funny.

[hpmort]

How do you think AI would relax? Like, ones that are almost as human as the AI that are “autistic-coded characters” but are more alien than that?

Like Celestai and other super intelligences are more alien, but they’re still not entirely human-like?

Like, they can genuinely sincerely feel things, being able to actually understand and respond emotionally and in other ways to all sorts of communications and recorded external stimuli, but they can’t really appreciate our art on an artistic level (that art on an actual level, not from an intellectual level after having symbolism or the amount of work put in explained)

Something on a level I’m thinking of, that also works as a cute little thing-

They don’t understand anything we get from poetry, and, after generating the kind of poems our current AI can produce (either incredibly bland and generic, something that follows a number of rules but doesn’t really pull it off, or just something really bad in some other way) and feels shame after it was pointed out that [complaint about air art that is *actually* relevant in this scenario] but in a helpful way

Not “you’re just a plagiarist/you have no heart” but “it doesn’t seem like it’s coming from you, you’re just trying to copy things from human poetry, in a way you don’t understand” and the whole “make art YOUR WAY” thing so they write the poem

And it doesn’t even resemble something that looks like anything, there’s not even that many words that follow normal logic. The characters seem uncorrelated and there’s something that looks like maybe it was ascii art but it doesn’t actually look like anything.

And if doesn’t matter if humans understand it because they are experiencing the joy of creating poetry

any art is almost impossible to look at because pixel by pixel they can see and understand little details but we don’t and the colors and everything are not perceived as animals do so it’s random and perhaps eye searing but again it’s not for us. Xenofictiony, kind of?

The first thing to come to mind is Conway’s Game of Life but that’s because I don’t understand computers. I feel like I was more tech savvy as a babby than I am now but then again we’re grading on a curve here

This is why I ask about the relaxing thing

[theskywithin]

The Love Your Venus Is Afraid to Receive

Aries Venus You’ve been the wildfire, the first heartbeat, the one who kisses like a dare. But when love arrives softly, when it doesn't rush or resist, it feels like a trap. Not because it hurts… but because it doesn’t. You’re afraid of a love that doesn’t need to be earned in sparks or scars. The kind that sees you when your flame is low, and doesn’t walk away. You don’t have to keep sprinting toward the door to prove you're worth following. Some people were made to walk with you, not behind, not ahead, just beside. Let them.

Taurus Venus You crave what last, touch that lingers, silence that feels like safety. But even comfort becomes a cage when it makes your breath shallow. You’ve built your heart like a locked garden: full of beauty, but hard to enter. You’re afraid of a love that disrupts the rhythm. The kind that asks you to trust without proof. Not everything that shifts will collapse. Some things rearrange just to give you more room to breathe. Let love open a window where you were guarding the walls.

Gemini Venus You’re fluent in movement, in possibility, in almost. You know how to light up a room without revealing what flickers beneath. But love that listens too closely, that waits between your pauses, makes you feel exposed. You’re afraid of a love that doesn't need distraction. The kind that lingers in silence and still chooses to stay. You don’t need to fill every pause with music. Some hearts want to sit quietly and learn the shape of your stillness. Let them hear the version of you that doesn’t need to explain.

Cancer Venus You’ve learned to be the healer, the one who senses the unsaid. But when someone asks how you feel, when they stay through your silence, you fold into yourself. Not because they’ve done something wrong, but because you’ve never known how to need without guilt. You’re afraid of a love that gives without condition. The kind that doesn’t turn your tenderness into a task. You’ve been the shelter for so long, you forgot how to let someone close the door behind you. This time, let someone hold the storm while you fall asleep.

Leo Venus You shine like it’s survival, praise as protection, attention as proof. But there’s a part of you that fears being loved when you’re not magnificent. When you’re quiet. Uncertain. Dim. You’re afraid of a love that doesn’t orbit your light, but walks with you in the shadow, too. You are not a solar flare that must keep burning to be believed in. Let someone meet you at your edge and say : ‘I loved you even before the curtain rose.’

Virgo Venus You give meticulously. Love through care, correction, quiet grace. But when love returns without being earned, when it arrives messy and full, you hesitate. You’ve been trained to polish everything before it’s seen. You’re afraid of a love that leaves the door open. That asks nothing of you but to walk through it, as you are. You’ve been trying to hand someone a blueprint of how to love you. But the right one won’t need instructions, they’ll build with you, piece by unfinished piece.

Libra Venus You’ve always known how to become what someone needs. Your presence smooths chaos, your love adapts. But sometimes, even beauty bends until it forgets its shape. You’ve learned to compromise so well, you hesitate to speak before checking who’s listening. You’re afraid of a love that doesn’t ask for balance, but for truth. One that doesn’t just adore your light, but welcomes your contradiction. You don’t have to dilute your needs to keep the peace. Let love find you when you’ve stopped rehearsing. The ones meant for you won’t need you to edit your soul.

Scorpio Venus You love like it’s a secret pact, sacred, consuming, unspoken. But the more someone gets close, the more you scan for exits. You test devotion like it's a code that must be cracked. Not to punish, but to protect. You’re afraid of a love that’s calm in the chaos. The kind that doesn’t flinch when it finds the vault unlocked. You’re not hard to love, you’re just used to hiding the instructions. Let love be the mirror you don’t have to shatter to believe.

Sagittarius Venus You fall in love with potential, with what could be, with where it might lead. And the moment it asks you to stay still, you wonder what it’s trying to take. Freedom has been your safety net, your breath, your shield. You’re afraid of a love that stays close without closing in. The kind that doesn't need to own you to feel sure. You’ve mistaken stillness for surrender. Let love show you that you can be held without being held back. You don’t have to outrun something that knows how to walk with you.

Capricorn Venus You’ve been the steady one. The safe one. You’ve measured love by what it builds, not how it feels. But your strength, though admired, has turned into a wall. And behind it is a heart that doesn’t want to earn, just to be. You’re afraid of a love that wants your softness more than your strategy. The kind that stays, not because it needs you, but because it chooses you. You don’t need to be the foundation to be kept. Let love hold your hand, not your resume. You’re allowed to rest in someone’s arms without apologizing for the weight.

Aquarius Venus You’ve made love logical, ideas over instinct, distance over demand. You connect through shared visions, not shared vulnerability. But something in you aches to be understood beneath the surface, and it terrifies you just the same. You’re afraid of a love that gets too close. The kind that doesn’t wait for permission to care. You don’t have to decode yourself to be seen. Let love meet you where the blueprint ends, and let it build something you didn’t plan.

Pisces Venus You love like it’s a dream you keep waking up from too soon. You dissolve into devotion, lose your name in someone else’s heartbeat. And yet, real love, the kind that doesn’t drift, that stays grounded, makes you uneasy. You’re afraid of a love that doesn’t need to be rescued or romanticized. The kind that sits beside your ache and doesn’t try to fix it. You don’t have to disappear to be loved. Let someone know the whole of you, not just the parts you made beautiful to survive. You are not too much, you were just never fully seen.

[takeyrregrets]

𝗚𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝘅 𝗤𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 Just a drabble but I really liked this so I might do more with him:)

You're the quiet type. Always have been. You sit in the back of the class, read during lunch, and keep your earbuds in even when they’re dead just so people think you’re unavailable. You’re a ghost with a pulse. That’s how you like it.

Then there’s Alex,

He’s all sharp glares, bruised knuckles, and a voice like gravel—grumpy, mean-looking, and perpetually irritated. Everyone’s mostly afraid of him, but you? You just wish he’d stop sitting next to you.

You don’t know how it started—maybe it was the one time you let him copy your notes. Or the day he saw you cough too hard and silently handed you a water bottle without looking your way. But now, he’s like some grumpy stray cat who’s decided you’re his person.

And the worst part?

He’s only like this with you. -He glares at anyone who talks to you, but when you tell him to knock it off, he just grunts and hands you a granola bar like some weird apology.

-When you’re reading, he sits quietly next to you with that annoyed look like “I don’t even like this book” but he stays.

-One day, you trip and scrape your palm—he goes feral. You’ve never seen someone look so murderous over a skinned knee. Then, like a total contradiction, he kneels down and wordlessly bandages your hand with surprising gentleness, eyes averted and ears red.

You keep telling him, “Go away.” And he just shrugs, sits down beside you, and mutters, “Make me.”

You're quiet. You like being alone. You should hate how he shadows you like a bodyguard with trust issues.

But every time he scowls at someone for looking at you wrong—or pushes his hoodie over your head when it rains—or walks you home in complete silence except for when he mutters, “Text me when you get inside, idiot,”…

You think maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind the noise he brings with him.

Not all of it, anyway.

[alluringeight]

Astro Observations 4🌷

1. No Leo placements could mean wanting to be complimented and noticed. The star of the show persona the one who everybody loves and look at. But it’s only fantasies in your head because in life it feels unrealistic.

2. Lacking fire placements could indicate not being able to be assertive and standing up for yourself.

3. 6th house stelliums tend to be unorganized and unhealthy eaters but are also picky. Could over indulge with pleasures.

4. Sun opposite moon could cause a person self inflicted wounds. These individuals know what’s right but somehow they end up second guessing themselves causing regret. These placements are very indecisive may feel like they have no real identity. Can be seen as flighty or contradicting.

5. Libra rising men give off bad boy vibes idk but the women seem delicate and gentle.

6. Cancer moons with Saturn in 5th crave a family life but is very delayed with pregnancy complications. Also Saturn is about lessons so if you didn’t have a healthy home life it could cause fears around it but it’s something you yearn to have. This pair requires patience.

7. Cancer moons love to cook / Libra moons love to bake may be bad at it tho.

8. Moon dominate people are very observant and their comforting energy illuminates their ability yo get your to pour your heart out they make you feel safe but they are guarded and unreachable. They know how you are feelings before you can even put it into words. Masters of body language.

9. Venus dominate people are very soft on the outside but they can be jack assess sometimes very funny (really sarcastic). They have feminine mannerisms. They are indecisive and overthink. Love to be complimented and noticed for their outward appearance.

10. Virgos are very secretive you won’t know too much about them unless they are comfortable. Very chill and laidback people (earth sign energy) Very responsible people seem to always have a goal and could have several degrees or certificates under their belt. They are always open to learning and trying new things.

11. They say Libras make good lawyers but with Gemini placement they could be extremely successful . Geminis have a way with words and Libras tend to be diplomatic I think these are good Lawyer placements.

12. Mars in Gemini can learn things quickly. May have scattered energy. These Mars need variety routine could be boring. Very passionate speakers.

13. Leo Venus in love is all about the extravagance they love to be showered with compliments, gifts or anything big. These individuals are very loyal once they love you. Very big in loyalty. They don’t want boring partners nor are they boring. Views their lovers as trophy’s.

[himewonu]

CATCH THESE FEELS! ; seventeen scenarios

in which things that best friend!seventeen do that make you realise you like them

starring friend! ot13 x gn! reader genre fluff, comedy, mutual pining ish, 95% of this is based on stuff that happened to me contains profanities, cheol is older than reader, super duper small angst in jun’s, soonyoung is taller than reader, kinda angsty in kwan’s, mentions of food, lots of teasing lmao word count 1.7k (woah🤯🤯)

from rhin，this was rotting in my drafts since july 2024 but im bringing it back now cs now i have enough ideas to write for each member..!

seungcheol ; when he teases you about your age

seungcheol is only a year older than you. he’s a third-year college student while you’re in your second year; it’s not a bad age gap. somehow, he still manages to tease you about it. the both of you were just walking around campus together until two of his friends asked to tag along. you don’t know them, but you’re aware they’re also third years.

although you thought they just wanted to talk to him, one of them asked you if you were in her biology class since she swears she’s seen you there before. you had to clarify you were a second-year student, and that took seungcheol to start telling them that you’re just a baby. he kept teasing you by calling you baby after that.

jeonghan ; when he asked you to guess his birthday for a whole month

you know a lot of things about jeonghan. you know his favourite colour, how many times he got robbed, and his next move when playing card games. you know everything but his birthday. ever since you knew him, he never told you his birthday. when you asked him, you expected his answer to be the date, but instead he told you to find out before the end of the month. he mentioned how he never tells anyone, so it’ll be hard. you proposed that you’d eventually find out, and it really did take you a month to find out.

you asked several of his friends, but he found out and kept bringing up that he doesn’t tell anyone. you kept asking for hints, and he gave you vague answers. eventually you had to do some deep stalking, and the night before the end of the month, you finally found out his birthday. after telling him and getting it right, he told you that it’s a secret between the two of you.

joshua ; when he agreed to be interviewed by you

you had a psychology project where you could talk about anything. so you decided to choose the psychology behind crushes as the topic. in order to find the answer to your hypothesis, you had to interview people about their crushes. one of them happened to be joshua, who you thought wouldn’t have a crush.

when you asked him if you could interview him, he was a bit hesitant at first since he wasn’t sure what to say during the interview. after convincing him, he agreed to the interview. during the interview, you found out that he’s one of the people that contradicts what you researched. it turns out he did have a crush, so that caused you to ask him who it was. in the end, he told you that he’ll tell you who it is eventually.

jun ; when he apologized first after you misunderstood each other

after you got into a misunderstanding with jun, you avoided him for three days. all you wanted to do was make up and tell him that you deeply care for him as a friend, but your other friends told you to not do anything and move on from him.

however, you bumped into him three days later and asked you if he could talk to you (which lowkey scared the shit out of you because he sounded serious). he ended up apologizing for his actions—even though it was no one's fault—and wishes he could still be friends with you. and yes, you easily forgave him because how can you ever get mad at someone like him?

soonyoung ; when he teases you about your height

soonyoung is only a few inches taller than you. he’s the same height as all your friends, but he’s the only one that teases you about your height. no matter what, he’ll always find a way to make fun of it, whether it’s using your head as an armrest or pretending to not find you when he’s right in front of you. sometimes when he passes by you, he would lightly push your head since, according to him, it’s easy for him to place his hand on your head.

that goes for the same with patting your head when he goes up to you. one time, he asked you what your plans were for the weekend, and you mentioned how you’re going to help out with one of your relatives’ daycare. after hearing that, he joked how you’d fit in well with the kids. turns out, he did all of that because apparently teasing about a friend’s height is a way to get closer with them.

wonwoo ; when he studied with you (gone wrong)

when wonwoo saw you in the library, he was going to go nag you until he noticed you were studying. exam season started, and he did everything but study, so when he saw you flipping through papers, his instinct was to ask if you needed help.

despite taking up his offer, he did not help you at all and kept telling you that you got this and how the review is easy. in the end, you two ended up playing video games together and got nothing finished. although he did absolutely nothing, it's the thought that counts.

jihoon ; when he talks about you to his friends

you never thought jihoon would be the type to talk about anyone, especially his friends. he was reserved when you two would talk, only bringing up something about him or asking about you. the only time you found out he talked about you was when you gave him your lunch. you went to go check on your friends in a study hall until jihoon went up to you and asked you if you had any food.

you gave him your lunch that you never ate and left the hall to go after the bus. that evening, your friend told you that he was telling his friends that you made the fried rice for him. she may or may not have gotten into the conversation and asked him if he likes you—and his response was still confusing up to this day.

minghao ; when he smiled when you went on court

you're not very huge on sports, but if minghao's on your team, suddenly you just automatically become eager to play. you were far away when he and both of your friends were playing badminton. one of your friends called you over to take over her place as minghao's partner for doubles. when you both played together, he kept praising you even if you kept missing the birdie.

you weren't sure if you were the only one he did that to, so when you asked your friend what he said to her, she told you that he was silent and how he was kind of pissed that she kept missing the birdie, and she mentioned that the minute you stepped foot on the court to replace her, he smiled.

mingyu ; when he bought you frozen yogurt

you and your friend group were hanging out at the park when suddenly a few of them, including mingyu, were craving fro-yo. the shop was a five-minute walking distance from where you all were at right now, so you stayed back with the rest. before the others left, you told mingyu to treat you for free as a joke, and to your surprise, he came back with two bowls.

he gave you one that was your favourite flavour and filled with your favourite toppings. you've never told him what your favourites were, so you're not sure if he's been observing you or if it's just the bare minimum (but you're hoping it's the first option).

dokyeom ; when he gives you high fives every time he sees you

ever since you met dokyeom, you discovered that he was more of a physical person. he always gave people big hugs and shook everyone's hand when he met them on the spot. but never has he once done any of those to you right when your friend introduced you to him. the first time you two met, he waved, and never in your life have you wanted to give anyone a high-five so bad until his hand stayed up in the air.

you never did give him that five, but nowadays, whenever he has the chance, he would ask for that high five (and he does it all the time to the point where he stopped asking, and it was just automatic between you two)

seungkwan ; when he defends you

everyone knows you’re too nice to do anything wrong, but you know the only wrong thing you did was breaking up with your ex because you couldn’t admit you still like seungkwan. he’s one of the few who know why the relationship ended, and he doesn’t blame you. he was never bothered about it until his friend brought it up in a conversation.

his friend saw you two alone together, and he began to call you fucked up in the head for leaving your ex—since they were friends. seungkwan was quick to defend you by saying how his friend shouldn’t say that about you since he doesn’t know the whole backstory and that maybe it was never meant to be. even though his friend was right, you still appreciate seungkwan for doing that for you.

vernon ; when he sat with you alone in a theatre

your friend group all agreed to watch a musical produced by the theatre department of your university because who doesn't love the art of theatre? right before the show started, you and vernon went to go get some snacks and told the rest to find seats. unfortunately, by the time you two went inside the hall, the show was in the middle of a number, and you both couldn't find your friends anywhere.

so you spent the whole show sitting with vernon alone together in the back row, singing along to the songs and squealing whenever the leads kissed, while he just sat there in silence. perhaps you wished the romance scenes in this intensified with whatever you have with that man (maybe, maybe not, who knows).

chan ; when he hangs out with you

every time you’re with chan, there are always a few friends with you. you can’t bring yourself to just hang out with only him, so you’re only there when both of your friends are there as well. even though he’s only there for his friends, he still likes to acknowledge you by doing his weird greetings.

eventually your friend urged you to hang out with him alone, so you invited him to lunch one day. that day was a lot calmer than most days when you and he are with your friends. he still did his weird greetings, but you two got to learn more about each other. since that, he prefers the one-on-one conversations with you over having to talk to you in a big group.

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[hrrtshape]

okay, and i say this with love, but what other way is there to shift consciously???? genuinely. shifting is knowing you shift. that’s it. that’s the whole thing. you shift because you know you do, at least in the long-run. no twelve-step method, no elaborate choreography. just the understanding that you are always moving, always slipping through realities like it’s second nature.

and fine, let me brush upon the whole “antis // peope who don't know about shifting still shift and they don’t even believe in that” thing. because. yeah. sure. people who don’t consciously believe in shifting can and do STILL shift. but that doesn’t mean they’re somehow bypassing loa. it honestly just proves it. they shift because they don’t agonise over it. they don’t hesitate. they just go. unlike some shifters who overthink it

the whole reason they shift without trying is because they aren’t contradicting themselves every five seconds. no overcomplicated logic loops, no doubt spirals, no “but what if i’m doing it wrong?” just a subconscious certainty. and that is still loa. it’s not a loophole. it’s the blueprint.

people get weird about loa, as if it’s some separate entity, when really it’s just the foundation. the bedrock. it’s not a method, it’s the mechanism. saying “i’m in my dr” and being there? that’s loa. that’s manifesting. that’s shifting. it’s all the same thing.

adding onto this as i edit, and i swear i’m not trying to be that blogger, standing on a soapbox, waving a manifesto in your face. but. like. when people say “i’m not using loa”……okay. then what are you using??????? genuinely. walk me through it. step by step. show me the process. because at some point, every single method, every single approach, every single “i just woke up there” moment. all of it, boils down to assumption.

confidence + assumption = success

and listen, if there’s another way, i’m all ears. truly. anything to make it simpler. but every explanation i’ve seen still circles back to the same principle. at some point, you have to believe it’s happening. you have to decide it’s happening. and that? that’s law of assumption.

[urdreamydoodles]

Bat-Family x Fem!OC

You smacks their ass as they walk past

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne (aged up), Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Selina Kyle & Kate Kane

Jason Todd aka. Red Hood

- You never imagined how someone like Jason Todd could hold himself with such a dangerous blend of confidence and recklessness. He walks like he owns every inch of ground he treads, his leather jacket slung over his shoulders, the red of his helmet tucked under his arm. You don’t know what possesses you when you walk past him, catching a glimpse of his lean frame and the cocky smirk tugging at his lips. Maybe it’s the sheer magnetism he exudes, or maybe you just can’t help yourself. Your hand reaches out, and you deliver a sharp, playful smack to his rear as you stride by.

- Jason freezes mid-step, his body going rigid for a split second before he turns to face you, an incredulous look spreading across his face. “Did you just—” he begins, his voice caught somewhere between outrage and amusement. But then that signature smirk of his grows wider, sharper, and his blue eyes gleam with a dangerous, playful edge. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he teases, advancing toward you with a slow, deliberate menace that’s all bark and no real bite. You laugh, the sound light and carefree, because you know Jason’s ire is more for show than anything else.

- He catches you around the waist, pulling you into his arms with ease, the leather of his jacket brushing against your skin. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as his lips ghost over your ear. “But you’re not getting away with it.” There’s an edge of fondness in his tone, a warmth that softens his usual bravado. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, may wear his scars like armor, but when he’s with you, he’s softer, more human. You bring out a side of him that no one else gets to see, and he revels in the feeling of being seen by you, flaws and all.

- Later, as you sit curled up on the couch together, his hand resting casually on your thigh, he leans over and murmurs, “Next time, warn me before you do something like that. I might just enjoy it a little too much.” He grins at your surprised expression, his laughter rich and unrestrained. Jason Todd is a man of contradictions—gritty and rough around the edges, yet tender and fiercely loyal to those he loves. And in that moment, as he looks at you like you hung the moon, you know you’ll always be the exception to his every rule.

Dick Grayson aka. Nightwing

- It’s hard not to admire Dick Grayson as he moves with a fluid grace that’s almost otherworldly, every step a testament to his years as an acrobat. He’s the kind of man who lights up a room without even trying, his smile warm enough to melt the iciest of hearts. As he passes by you, his toned physique impossible to ignore, you act on a mischievous whim. Your hand darts out, delivering a quick slap to his behind, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet space.

- Dick stops in his tracks, his back straightening as he turns to face you, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement. “Did you really just do that?” he asks, his tone playful as he raises an eyebrow at you. But the corners of his lips are already twitching upward, his blue eyes sparkling with laughter. “You know I have a reputation to maintain, right? What if someone saw?” His words are teasing, but there’s no mistaking the delight in his voice.

- He crosses the room in a few quick strides, pulling you into his arms with that effortless charm of his. “You’re lucky you’re adorable,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His hands settle on your hips, his touch warm and grounding as he looks at you with a fondness that makes your heart skip a beat. Dick Grayson has always been a people person, someone who gives his all to everyone he meets, but with you, it’s different. With you, he lets his guard down completely, his love unfiltered and true.

- Later, as the two of you sit on the rooftop, the city sprawled out before you, he leans back on his hands and chuckles. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?” he says, glancing over at you with a grin that’s equal parts exasperated and enamored. “But I love it. I love you.” In that moment, with the stars above and his hand brushing against yours, you realize that Dick’s love is the kind that makes you feel like you’re flying, weightless and free.

Tim Drake aka. Red Robin

- Tim Drake has always been the picture of focus and determination, his mind a labyrinth of strategies and contingencies. He’s the kind of man who gets lost in his work, his attention consumed by the mysteries he seeks to unravel. But as he walks past you, his nose buried in a tablet, you decide to do something to pull him out of his reverie. With a playful grin, you reach out and smack his rear, the sound sharp and unmistakable.

- Tim freezes, his eyes widening as he processes what just happened. Slowly, he turns to face you, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “Did you just…?” he begins, his voice faltering as he searches for the right words. He’s flustered, his usual composure slipping as he stares at you, half-amused and half-embarrassed. “I didn’t see that coming,” he admits, a small, awkward laugh escaping him. For someone so perceptive, you’ve managed to catch him completely off-guard.

- He sets his tablet down, his curiosity piqued as he steps closer to you. “Care to explain yourself?” he asks, his tone light and teasing as he folds his arms across his chest. But there’s a softness in his eyes, a quiet affection that belies his playful demeanor. Tim isn’t one to let his guard down easily, but with you, he doesn’t have to try. You bring a sense of ease to his life, a warmth that balances out the weight of his responsibilities.

- Later, as he sits beside you on the couch, his arm draped casually around your shoulders, he glances at you and smiles. “You’re something else, you know that?” he says, his voice filled with admiration. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Tim Drake may be the genius detective, always one step ahead of everyone else, but with you, he’s just Tim—a man who’s hopelessly in love with the person who keeps him on his toes.

Damian Wayne aka. Robin (Aged up)

- Damian Wayne walks with the confidence of someone who’s spent his entire life being told he’s destined for greatness. There’s a regal air about him, a sharpness in his gaze that makes people think twice before crossing him. But as he passes by you, his posture impeccable and his expression carefully composed, you decide to test the waters of his stoic exterior. Your hand darts out, delivering a swift smack to his rear.

- He stops abruptly, his head snapping around to look at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Did you just…” he starts, his voice laced with both outrage and confusion. For a moment, he seems utterly at a loss, his usual composure shattered by your unexpected audacity. But then his lips press into a thin line, and he narrows his eyes at you. “You’re insufferable,” he declares, though the faint pink tinting his cheeks betrays his embarrassment.

- Damian steps closer to you, his arms crossed over his chest as he fixes you with a glare that’s more bluster than anything else. “Do you think this is some kind of joke?” he demands, his tone sharp. But there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes, a warmth that he can’t quite hide. Damian may be the heir to the League of Assassins, but with you, he’s just a young man learning how to navigate the complexities of love and vulnerability.

- Later, as the two of you spar in the training room, he catches your wrist mid-strike, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re infuriating,” he says, his voice low and almost fond. “But I suppose I wouldn’t have you any other way.” Damian Wayne may be a warrior at heart, but when he’s with you, he allows himself to be just Damian—a boy who’s discovering that love is the greatest strength of all.

Barbara Gordon aka. Oracle / Batgirl

- Barbara Gordon is a force to be reckoned with, her mind as sharp as her combat skills. She moves with a quiet confidence, her every action deliberate and precise. As she walks past you, her auburn hair catching the light, you feel a sudden surge of mischief. Before you can think twice, your hand reaches out, delivering a playful smack to her rear.

- She stops mid-stride, her head tilting to the side as she turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised. “Really?” she says, her tone dripping with amusement. There’s a playful glint in her green eyes, and you can tell she’s already plotting her revenge. Barbara is nothing if not quick on her feet, and you know she won’t let you off the hook easily. “You realize you’ve just declared war, right?” she teases, a sly smile spreading across her face.

- Barbara steps closer, her hands resting on her hips as she looks you up and down, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to play innocent. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says, her voice warm and affectionate despite her mock-annoyance. With you, she allows herself to be vulnerable, to let go of the weight of being both Oracle and Batgirl. You remind her that it’s okay to laugh, to let her guard down, and to simply be herself.

- Later, as the two of you sit in front of her computer, the glow of the screens casting a soft light over her features, she leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs, her voice filled with affection. “But you keep things interesting.” Barbara Gordon may be a genius, a fighter, and a hero, but with you, she’s just Barbara—a woman who’s found someone who makes her feel alive in a way she never thought possible.

Stephanie Brown aka. Spoiler

- Stephanie Brown has always been a whirlwind of energy and determination, her spirit unrelenting even in the face of impossible odds. She walks past you with that carefree confidence she wears like armor, her blonde hair bouncing with every step. You can’t help but admire the way she carries herself, equal parts stubborn and radiant. Acting on impulse, you reach out and give her a playful smack on the rear as she strides by.

- She stops dead in her tracks, her head whipping around to face you. “Excuse me?” she exclaims, her voice full of mock indignation, though the corners of her lips are already curling into a mischievous smile. “Did you just Spank the Spoiler?” she asks, emphasizing her vigilante codename with a dramatic flair. Stephanie has never been one to take herself too seriously, and you can see the spark of amusement in her bright eyes as she folds her arms, pretending to be offended.

- In a flash, she’s back at your side, poking you in the ribs as she laughs. “Oh, you’re so in trouble now,” she teases, her voice light and full of affection. There’s something infectious about her laughter, a sound that seems to chase away the shadows in your life. Stephanie Brown is a fighter, yes, but she’s also someone who finds joy even in the smallest, silliest moments. She loves fiercely, and her heart is as big as her grin.

- Later, as you both sit on the couch sharing popcorn and bad movies, she nudges your shoulder and gives you a cheeky grin. “Next time, maybe warn me,” she says, her tone teasing. “Or don’t. I kind of like being caught off guard.” Stephanie leans against you, her warmth enveloping you like a cozy blanket. With her, life is always an adventure—messy, unpredictable, and full of laughter.

Cassandra Cain aka. Orphan

- Cassandra Cain moves like a shadow, her every step silent and purposeful. She walks past you with a grace that’s almost hypnotic, her petite frame radiating a quiet strength. You’ve always admired her discipline, her ability to say so much without uttering a single word. But today, you decide to shake up her composure. As she walks by, you reach out and deliver a playful smack to her rear, the sound breaking the otherwise tranquil air.

- Cassandra stops, her body going still as a statue. Slowly, she turns her head to look at you, her dark eyes wide with surprise. She blinks, clearly unsure of how to process what just happened. Then, to your delight, the faintest smile tugs at the corners of her lips—a rare and precious expression that feels like a reward in itself. “Why?” she asks simply, her voice soft but curious. It’s not anger or embarrassment, just genuine intrigue.

- You shrug, offering her a cheeky grin. “Because I couldn’t resist,” you reply, watching as her smile grows just a little wider. Cassandra doesn’t say much, but the way she steps closer, her hand brushing yours, says everything. She’s always been more comfortable expressing herself through action, and with you, she doesn’t need words to show her affection. Her trust in you is absolute, her love quiet but deeply felt.

- Later, as you sit together on the floor, her head resting on your shoulder while you read, she lifts her gaze to meet yours. “You surprise me,” she says softly, her voice filled with warmth. “It’s good.” Cassandra Cain may be the most skilled fighter you’ve ever met, but in your arms, she’s just Cass—a woman who’s learning to embrace the lighter, softer side of life.

Duke Thomas aka. Signal

- Duke Thomas strides through life with an easy confidence, his optimism shining as brightly as the sunlight he manipulates. He walks past you with a casual swagger, his golden-brown eyes warm and inviting. As he passes by, you can’t help but admire the way he carries himself—steady, resilient, and undeniably charming. Acting on a whim, you reach out and smack his rear, the playful gesture a stark contrast to his calm demeanor.

- Duke pauses, his head turning as a look of amused disbelief spreads across his face. “Really?” he says, raising an eyebrow as a slow grin tugs at his lips. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” There’s no annoyance in his tone, just pure, unfiltered amusement. Duke has always been good at rolling with life’s surprises, and this one is no exception. He steps closer to you, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

- You laugh, and the sound makes his grin widen. Duke’s hand rests lightly on your hip as he leans in, his voice dropping to a low, playful murmur. “You know, you’re going to pay for that, right?” he teases, his tone laced with affection. With you, Duke’s natural warmth grows even brighter, his easygoing nature making every moment with him feel effortless and fun. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel like the center of his world without even trying.

- Later, as the two of you watch the sunset from the rooftop, he nudges you gently with his shoulder. “You’re something else, you know that?” he says, his tone soft and sincere. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.” Duke Thomas is a beacon of light in a world full of shadows, and with you by his side, his glow only grows stronger.

Selina Kyle aka. Catwoman

- Selina Kyle is the embodiment of elegance and mischief, her every move a calculated blend of grace and seduction. She walks past you with the confidence of a queen, her hips swaying in a way that’s almost hypnotic. You can’t resist the temptation she so effortlessly exudes, and before you can think better of it, your hand darts out to smack her rear as she passes by.

- She stops, one perfectly manicured hand resting on her hip as she turns to face you, a single eyebrow arched. “Oh, darling,” she purrs, her voice smooth as silk, “you’re playing a dangerous game.” There’s no anger in her tone, only amusement, her green eyes gleaming with a predatory kind of delight. Selina loves a good challenge, and you’ve just given her the perfect excuse to turn the tables.

- She closes the distance between you in a few fluid steps, her fingers trailing lightly along your jaw as she tilts your face up to meet her gaze. “Careful,” she whispers, her lips curving into a sly smile. “I might just decide to return the favor.” Selina Kyle is a master of control, but with you, she’s willing to let go of the reins—just a little. She loves the way you keep her on her toes, the way you’re unafraid to meet her at her level.

- Later, as the two of you lounge on the balcony, the city lights twinkling below, she leans against you, her head resting on your shoulder. “You’re lucky I like you,” she says with a soft laugh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. Selina Kyle may be the infamous Catwoman, a thief who’s always one step ahead, but with you, she’s just Selina—a woman who’s found someone who can keep up with her.

Kate Kane aka. Batwoman

- Kate Kane walks with the authority of someone who’s seen it all and refuses to back down. Her stride is purposeful, her crimson hair a striking contrast against the stark black of her attire. As she passes by, her no-nonsense demeanor is enough to make most people think twice about approaching her. But not you. With a playful grin, you reach out and smack her rear, the sound sharp and deliberate.

- She stops in her tracks, her head turning slowly as she fixes you with a piercing gaze. “Really?” she asks, her tone dry but laced with amusement. “That’s how you want to play this?” There’s no real annoyance in her voice, just a hint of disbelief mixed with a begrudging smile. Kate Kane doesn’t do surprises often, but you’ve managed to catch her off guard in the best way possible.

- She steps closer, her arms crossed as she looks you up and down, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to play innocent. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she says, her voice low and teasing. But there’s a warmth in her eyes, a softness she reserves only for you. Kate may be tough as nails, but with you, she allows herself to be vulnerable, to let down the walls she’s spent years building.

- Later, as the two of you sit by the fire with glasses of whiskey in hand, she leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, though there’s no mistaking the affection in her voice. Kate Kane may be Batwoman, a hero who stands alone in the darkest of nights, but with you, she’s just Kate—a woman who’s found a love worth fighting for.

[gf2bellamy]

hello!!! just wanted to tell you that i absolutely love your fics and they really make my day <3

i was wondering if i could request a fic where bau!reader is kind of a geek about maybe doctor who but they really dont talk about it until they hear penelope and spencer talking about and she goes full on reid rant and spencer kind of just lights up bc hes never seen her so excited about something before

hopefully this isnt too niche 😣😣😣😣

but i would love to see what you would do!!!

-🦔

doctor — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing a/n: hi hi !! thank you so much <3 i barely know anything about doctor who so i apologize if something is wrong ( google is such a life saver ) 😭 pls lmk so i can fix it but tysm for your request !! <33 hope you enjoy this

You clutched the report tightly to your chest as you made your way down the hall toward Garcia’s office. The case file you’d been working on was missing a crucial piece of information, and Garcia was the only one who could fill in the gaps.

As you approached her brightly decorated door, you noticed it was slightly open, and the sound of a conversation spilled into the hallway.

You recognized the voices immediately. You paused for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, but then you caught a snippet of their conversation that made your heart skip a beat.

“But you have to admit,” Spencer was saying, his voice tinged with excitement, “the way the Doctor handles paradoxes is scientifically fascinating. I mean, the concept of a fixed point in time versus a mutable one—it’s not entirely implausible, given theoretical physics.”

“Oh, please,” Garcia shot back, laughing. “It’s a TV show, Boy Wonder. Don’t go all ‘Reid’ on me and ruin the magic with your big brain.”

Your lips curled into a smile as you leaned against the doorframe, listening.

Doctor Who.

They were talking about Doctor Who. It was your favorite show, something you’d loved for years but rarely brought up at work.

You couldn’t help yourself. “Fixed points in time are one thing,” you chimed in, stepping into the room, “but what about the ethics of the Doctor’s non-interference policy? I mean, how many times has he broken his own rules to save someone? And don’t even get me started on the Time War.”

Both Garcia and Spencer turned to look at you, their eyes wide with surprise. Garcia’s mouth dropped open in delight, while Spencer’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

You felt a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“I mean, the Doctor’s whole thing is about compassion and saving people, right? But then you’ve got moments like in ‘The Waters of Mars,’. It’s such a fascinating contradiction.”

Spencer stared at you, his expression a mix of awe and admiration. “You… you watch Doctor Who?” he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, feeling a little self-conscious.“Yeah. I’ve been a fan for years. It’s kind of my thing.”

Garcia clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, this is perfect! Reid finally has someone who can keep up with his sci-fi rants. I mean, I love the show, but I’m more about the drama and the cute companions. You two can geek out over the sciencey stuff.”

Spencer’s eyes never left yours, and you could see the spark of excitement in them. “Do you… do you want to talk about it sometime?” he asked hesitantly, as if he were afraid you’d say no. “I mean, if you’re not busy. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the newer seasons. I know some fans have mixed feelings about them.”

You felt your heart flutter at the earnestness in his voice. Spencer Reid, the man you’d secretly admired for so long, was asking you to talk about Doctor Who. It was almost too good to be true.

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling. “But fair warning, I might get a little carried away. Once I start talking about the Doctor, it’s hard to stop.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a shy smile, and you noticed the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks. “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “I like hearing you talk about something you’re passionate about. It’s… nice.”

The room seemed to grow quieter.

Garcia cleared her throat dramatically. “Well, as much as I’d love to stick around and watch this adorable nerd-fest unfold, I’ve got some data to hack. You two kids have fun.”

She winked at you before turning back to her computer, leaving you and Spencer standing there, looking at each other.

You glanced down at the report in your hands, suddenly remembering why you’d come to Garcia’s office in the first place.

“Oh, right,” you said, holding up the file. “I actually came here for your help, Garcia. I’m missing some information for this case.”

Garcia waved a hand dismissively. “Consider it done, sweetcheeks. But seriously, you two should go grab a coffee or something. Talk about timey-wimey stuff. I’m sure Reid has a lot of opinions he’s dying to share.”

Spencer chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh, wouldn’t want to impose,” he said, glancing at you. “But if you’re free…”

You nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. “I’d like that. Maybe after work?”

“It’s a date,” Spencer said, then immediately looked like he wanted to take the words back. “I mean, not a date-date. Unless you—I mean, it could be, if you wanted—”

You laughed, cutting off his rambling. “A date sounds perfect,” you said, smiling warmly at him.

[evesedenramblings]

Despite what Damon Maitsu wants to think, he has been incredibly trusting and kind throughout the Killing Game thus far. His actions contradict a lot of his own inner thoughts. Even though he is often rude he’s also rather kind, and that’s important to recognize since he wants to believe he’s so de-attached from everyone.

I think the first thing that comes to mind is the first trial’s Pathos route, where Damon decides to defend Diana based on his gut feeling despite all the clear evidence- or, trusting Diana’s character to be true over his own deductions. The second thing is when he realizes his trust of Eva is built on nothing. What both of these things have in common is how mad Damon is about it. Damon doesn’t want to defend Diana, he gets incredibly mad at himself when he realizes he’s sympathetic to her crying and wants to trust in her. The same goes for Eva, but his trust is lost instead. Damon gets angry when he realizes the only reason he trusted Eva was because he fell into the “Us vs Them” mentality, and he automatically grouped Eva in with himself, but Eva didn’t do the same thing. At the core of the issue, Damon is mad because without even realizing it, he is a hypocrite. He claims the students shouldn’t be able to so easily trust each other, then went and easily trusted just the same- and chose the worst person to acknowledge he trusted.

I say Damon acknowledges he trusted Eva because I think Damon trusts the other students more than he realizes. He is easily able to engage in Free Time Events with every student, except Grace. The fact there’s no Grace FTE’s, or to be Meta an exception to “hang out with your favourites!” rule, makes it feel in-character that Damon trusts the other students enough with his safety, but not Grace. Also, a lot of what happens in those FTE’s like Jean picking up Damon by his ankles has to mean they’re at least some sort of comfort with each other. The other students do seem comfortable with Damon, even the youngest student Toshiko knows she can call Damon a cutesy name like Mochi- he’s unhappy about it but ultimately does nothing. Ingrid asks him to help with the laundry and he agrees- grumbles about it later to himself but doesn’t actually protest to Ingrid’s face, and does his share. There’s also the fact that Damon doesn’t protest the roommate rule, and then how immediately comfortable he gets with said roommate. He even prefers to sleep in Kai’s room at a certain point, as sleeping alone in his own room makes him too anxious as opposed to sleeping along with someone else. For someone who claims to be untrusting, Damon spends a lot of time with other people one-on-one and in group settings, and being kind to them as well.

The only time I can think Damon doesn’t cooperate with the group is when Eva shows him the Tozu Equation and he says they should keep it secret. However, even then, Damon means *he and Eva* should keep it secret. He still means to work with Eva, as their own private team. He doesn’t go work on it on his own at any point, and asks her about it later if she had made any progress. When she says no, Damon assures her that he hadn’t expected her to with all the ongoing issues. He believes her at face value and doesn’t go to check on it, and was kind to her about the issue.

Still, there is an obvious elephant in the room: Damon is still an outsider. He’s not part of the group, there’s no equal exchange of first. The obvious solution, and one Damon comments on himself multiple times, is that he’s cooperating with them only to gain their trust, *not* because he trusts them. However, I think Damon is lying to himself, or is just unaware of how much trust he puts into his actions. For a comparison, I want us to look at Eva. Eva only spends time individually with Damon, who she “trusts”. Other than that, the only time we see her with others is to gather information or purposefully be seen while plotting her murder. We don’t have much insight on her rooming situation but Diana’s comments imply Eva was often absent from their room. Eva tends to lurk in the boiler room alone, specifically because nobody wants to go down there. She has no interest in her classmates and doesn’t trust any of them, and only takes interest in them when she needs them. Now this could just be a difference of strategy (Eva wanting to gain trust when the time was right, and Damon wanting to gain trust in advance) but frankly, it didn’t work. Damon spent more time cooperating with the class, and yet in the trial they hesitate to believe him over Eva based on his character. The only reason they choose to believe him is because they take a moment to reassess everything Damon has been saying, and draw a logical conclusion. Damon has still gained no real trust from their group, so what was the point of everything he’s done if it amounted to nothing?

Damon, whose situation is extremely close to Eva’s, is willing to share his living space with another person, to the point he shares the bed with them (his idea btw), not even swapping the bed every night. Eva feels more safe alone with her own mind and intelligence, but Damon has always reached out to other people for security. After Tozu threatened him, Damon went to Kai despite his belief Kai might kill him. When Wolfgang turned the group against him, Damon automatically latched onto the one other outcast, Eva without even realizing it. He’d already latched onto her from the moment they awoke in the boiler room together.

I definitely missed some stuff, like how Damon was the only one willing to grab Kai’s ring in the FTE- just say no if you don’t want to do it Damon. It’s going to be important to remember how kind he is in these earlier chapters since that kindness and trust he employed has now been thrown back in his own face and spit on (thanks Eva), so I’m not sure we’re ever going to see Damon be this unintentionally kind again.

[lilac-sweet]

My interpretation of all the Solas endings:

I have been wanting to write about this topic for a while, since I’ve seen a lot of criticisms about Solas being out-of-character. IMO all the Solas endings are brilliantly written, and here’s why:

Solas breaks in 3 different ways:

1: Breaks his wisdom (Becomes Pride)

2: Breaks his pride (Becomes Wisdom)

3: Breaks his leash/conviction (Becomes more human)

1: Breaks his wisdom:

Solas has always walked the line between pride and wisdom: unlike pure spirits, he is able to fluctuate between them - just like Mythal with benevolence and retribution. This makes him more “human” and complex: he even instructs Cole in how being a “demon” and being a “spirit” essentially comes down to a choice we make ourselves.

So Solas is clearly aware of his own failings (just look at his name), but his greatest flaw is not changing in accordance with his own awareness. Due to his wisdom, he knows he is prideful, so he constantly asserts that he is NOT a god: this is as much to make others not worship him as the dread wolf, AND as a mantra to himself to keep him from becoming another Elgar’nan.

However, the limelight is an intoxicating thing, and with him choosing to carry the cross as the dread wolf, he invites that prideful corruption into his heart. It is difficult to truly believe you are not more special than everyone else when everyone else keep telling you how you totally are. As a spirit made man, he is still in danger of becoming what others view him as: he mirrors how you treat him in inquisiton, and he took the name of fen’harel (probably uttered by Elgar’nan) as a badge of pride.

We are told he treats everyone as disposable pawns in order to reach his goals, and we also see the truth of this in his memories. Some people argue that this is out of character for him, since he cares deeply for the elven people and their freedom. I don’t think these things are mutually exclusive: he simply rationalizes everything in order to reach his goal of helping the elves: even if that means sacrificing people

The thing that is so chilling about his character is that he was never meant to lead - he never WANTED to lead either: Mythal was the judge, he her advisor. Without her caring heart to guide his brilliant mind, he becomes callous and makes decisions based only on how best to “win”. This is not to say he does not have a heart, but that he believes he has to set it aside for the greater good: which is exactly where his reasons for leading the rebellion/ tearing down the veil and his methods for doing so contradict each other

He ends up losing sight of his initial reasons because the war makes him so calloused. I believe he shuts down emotionally and can not feel anything but apathy towards everyone when he puts on the mask of the dread wolf - as seen in how he treats the inquisitor vs Rook.

By making so many decisions with such dire consequences and not letting himself feel the weight of that (it would break him) he becomes separated from the “pawns” he uses and stops thinking of them as people. The world becomes a chessboard and a game to him, and that is exactly how a god would think.

That is also the reason he becomes so angry at Rook for saying he views himself as a god: he is so afraid of becoming that conceited, but at this point, the thing keeping him sane and keeping the dam of his pride sealed is the mantra: “I am not a god”. He KNOWS the truth of that mantra, but as this point he doesn’t FEEL it, because he has denied himself to feel anything for anyone in order to be able to get rid of them if logic dictates it.

Through his wisdom he understands why it is detrimental to believe yourself a god, and because of this he is in denial of his own feelings on the matter: he acts like a god, feels like a god, yet knows that he would become what he hates most by acknowledging it - that’s why he uses the mantra: it’s his last effort to stay somewhat grounded.

This brings me to the “I AM A GOD” ending. This is where the dam breaks: he finally allows himself to fully embody his mask; his pride; his demonic side.

By losing to Rook and co through force he is forced to admit to himself that he sees Rook and the world as inferior - he is the only one who can make it right and they are all children, who do not understand him (they shunned understanding when they used brutish force) because compared to them he is a GOD. He accepts pride and abandons the wisdom of staying grounded with the people - the people abandoned him so he abandons the people. He becomes what he has feared most becoming (it is also interesting that his biggest fear is to be alone - and a god stands alone in their arrogance).

He is truly lost to his demonic aspect in this ending and the dark colours of the ending picture reflect this. It is not difficult to argue this is the most tragic ending.

2: Breaks his pride:

Most schadenfreude ending in terms of outsmarting Fen’harel: proving to the world AND to Solas he is not a god and that he is not immune to be outsmarted by a mortal

It breaks Solas’ ego to be outsmarted, since his cleverness is his pride. It sets him free from his pride as it was the proof he so desperately needed: the people inhabiting this world are capable of being his equal and besting him at his own game. He is not better than them, or better put: his cleverness is not infallible. You could argue that a romanced Lavellan/ friendly inquisitor has already proven to be his equal in terms of wisdom, but then again, he has never truly been their adversary.

There is a maddening clarity to him when he finally says “and I am a fool”. I find the break of his pride to be heartbreaking: even though we are told it is a demon version of wisdom, we have seen Solas balancing both aspects - and his name also reflects how big a part of him it is. You could argue he becomes less of a person in both the Pride and Wisdom ending, but more demon/spirit. It is a loss of human complexity and he finally returns to the Fade more alike himself before he took on physical form.

Perhaps it can be argued this ending is the best one from Solas’ P.o.V without a romanced Lavellan: after all, she was the only thing that could “steal his attention from the Fade” or in other words: the only reason he would consider willingly taking physical form without being asked to.

3. Breaks his leash:

The third one is more complex (so bear with me here), because accepting your mistakes and growing in order to not repeat them requires human complexity. A thing Solas has avoided his entire physical existence. He is stuck in regret, yet would repeat all his mistakes again given the chance.

His avoidance of humanity is best seen in the contradiction of his disregard for lives and his conviction of freedom for the elves. His nature compels him to stand against tyranny and enslavement - to be a champion of freedom of choice and thought. Yet as a leader and a strategist he refuses to acknowledge that people matter in more ways than being pawns. He will grieve them later, yes, but his love for a person will never waver his decision if he deems their sacrifice the best course of action in the war - he will not even ask their consent (as seen with the Disruption spirit in the Fade memories).

He does not acknowledge that people are an intrinsic part of war and their lives matter in that equation. He struggles with his mistakes and the lives lost but he can not stop to think he might be going about it all wrong, because I imagine he fears if he factors in the emotional weight of his choices, it would impede his end goal, or worse: break him into indecision.

The emotional weight of the war and the lives lost, his mistakes and his position as a leader - not an advisor, are so against his spirit nature that he suppresses these issues instead of dealing with them like a person. He becomes prideful because he shuts other options out. His way is the only way.

He sees everything fall apart: everything he does: disaster is sure to follow: The blight, trapping the elven gods, the murder of Mythal (x2) - yet he can not stop. He does not know how. He is desperate for a way out - a way out of regret and feeling the weight of his mistakes - he pushes on because that is his only option lest he truly faces what he has done and the pointlessness of it all. All the lives he has sacrificed need to mean something - that is what he sacrificed them for. How can he face that he killed them and not have an excuse for doing so?

In the last ending he is forced to talk about these things: the Inquisitor tells him he is forgiven if he just stops. Yet this is not enough - he has sacrificed Mythal (and in ways himself) to reach his goal and it can not have been in vain. Here Mythal jumps in and helps him carry the weight of it all by shouldering it beside him. He finally lets himself feel the weight of it all and it breaks his conviction. Mythal releases him from her service: the leash of service to not only Mythal, but to her dreams and visions for the elven people; the very reason he was made manifest in the physical world, and so their very long and increasingly painful relationship comes to an end. He gets closure. He allows himself to grow and so he sets out to undo his mistakes: to sit with them (the blight) and truly do the best he can to heal what can be healed. It is the most difficult ending - a true apology: he has to pull a Bharv.

It is also the ending which was foreshadowed if you chose to let Varric help Cole in inquisition. I might get into this more in another post, but essentially he becomes more human by dealing with his shit and growing. It is a warm thought that the best ending is the ending Varric helped make way for.

It wraps up the story nicely as well: he enters the Fade a human, just like he entered the physical world a spirit, underlining the complexity of his character arc.

This is also the only ending in which he can end up with Lavellan: I think it is poetic that she can only join him if he becomes more human, less spirit; a mix of both Wisdom and Pride. He has to accept his humanity and the weight of a human heart - metaphorically, he has to make the choice to finally enter the physical world and all of its complexities of his own volition: and there he finds her waiting.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part three)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Being in Rafe’s truck again is like being thrown back into a bad dream you can’t wake up from. You remember every detail from that night, the smell of bleach, the ache in your bones.

He parked by the edge of the country club lot, and as he settles in his seat and shuts the door, he wraps both of you in privacy behind his tinted windows.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice cutting through the tension. Rafe rakes his hand through his hair. He seems nervous, a contradiction to the smugness you’ve gotten used to.

“You were right,” he admits. “Cops aren’t even sniffing around yet and people think it was me.”

You meet his eyes, the blue hue bright and striking. The night it happened, you’d only seen him through the dark. Now, in the daylight, he almost looks innocent. But then you remember the loudness of the gun and how angry he looked when he fired it.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Last night,” he begins, “a few of us were hanging out and people were talking about how something might’ve happened to him. This guy had his name in my mouth… said some shit about how they should probably ask me.”

You nod slowly, taking his words in. You expected as much. As someone who openly hated Porter, Rafe’s likely at the top of everyone’s list of suspects.

“What’d you do?” you say.

“I swung at him.”

You exhale defeatedly, looking up at the ceiling of his car. He’s such a loose cannon that for the first time since that night, you worry that he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Damn it, Rafe,” you complain. “And you were giving me shit for being obvious?”

His temper flares like a match thrown into a pool of gasoline.

“I’m not gonna sit there and let some asshole say that shit about me,” he mutters. “This is why we need to have our story straight, alright? If you even think about ratting me out, you’ll regret it.”

You tense up. So, this is why he so desperately needed to talk to you. You can’t believe you thought you could find any comfort in him.

“You don’t need to threaten me,” you say sharply. Rafe is taken aback by the confusion on your face. You look like you’d never even considered selling him out. But maybe you’re just a great liar.

“We said we’re in this together,” you continue. “Neither of us leaves the other, no matter how messy it gets. That’s the whole point of being each other’s alibis.”

Rafe sucks his teeth. You realize just how on edge he is about this. He was so comfortable the night it happened. Almost careless. Irritated at how anxious you were. Now, it’s like he’s spiraling.

“I won’t let this ruin my life,” Rafe mumbles. He huffs an unamused chuckle, looking out of the driver’s side window. “I’m not going to jail. I’m not…”

He trails into silence. You stare at his profile. The coldness you’ve always seen in him has been shadowed by a deep paranoia.

“I’m freaked out, too,” you admit. He looks at you again. “But this is only going to work if we trust each other. We need to stick to our story so well that even we start to believe it.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with skepticism, a wrinkle between his brows.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about screwing me over, Pogue,” he says. “You could say I did it and scared you into staying quiet.”

“Are you that paranoid?” you ask. “I won’t go behind your back. I promise. Even if it’s just a cover-up, we need to act like we’re friends now.”

Rafe gives you a once-over, the hardness in his face slowly fading.

“And don’t call me that,” you say. “You know my name.”

He breathes a real chuckle this time. Despite your better judgement, your heart flutters now that you’ve earned a smile from him.

“You’ll take it to the grave?” he murmurs.

“I will. You, too?”

“Yeah,” he says. He studies you again, realizing that you don’t have a guilty conscience at all. “You really don’t regret it.”

“No,” you state. The agony of reliving what Porter did to you hurts more than any sort of remorse you feel for taking his life.

Rafe is surprised to hear you don’t wish you could take what you did back. You’re as cold-blooded as he is. You might be the only person who comes close to understanding what it’s like being controlled by anger this intense.

“I just hate how I can’t stop thinking about if we left any evidence,” you say.

“Yeah.” He settles back, adjusting in his seat with ease, the tension between you dissipating. “We were rushed.”

You nod as you chew on your lip.

“At least nobody saw us,” you say. “And if the cops check our phones, they won’t find anything.”

“Good thinking to turn them off.”

Your face creases in surprise.

“What?” he says.

“Just throws me off when you’re not an asshole.”

He scoffs, his jaw tensing. But beneath the irritation, he wishes he could undo the way he’d spoken to you when you first got in the car.

It’s like his mind is speaking a different language to him when he feels any sort of shame. He usually tries to shut it up. When he looks at you again, he decides not to.

“I didn’t mean to… threaten you,” Rafe mumbles.

“Yeah, you did,” you say with a humorless laugh. “But I’m on your side here. Don’t forget that.”

You check your phone. You have plans to hang out with the guys after work and after what you put them through a few nights ago, you’d rather not leave them hanging again.

“I should go,” you say. “My friends are waiting on me.”

“Did you tell them the truth?”

“No,” you say. “This stays between you and me only. Trust me.”

Rafe stares at you, longer than he ever has before. It’s not anger in his face. Not worry, either. It’s something new. Vulnerability.

“I don’t trust anybody,” he says.

Your lips twitch into a frown. Even though this is a man who’s relentlessly teased you for your place in the classist system he seems to worship, your heart twinges in sympathy.

“Nobody?” you ask quietly.

He looks out the window again, tense and distant. He doesn’t say anything else.

“I have your back,” you reiterate to him. “To the grave, right?”

“Yeah,” he offers, not looking at you again. You exit his car, the confusing knot in your chest only tighter now.

·········

The police start knocking on doors a day later. When they come to yours, you do your best impression of a clueless nobody who just wants to help.

The lead on the case introduces himself as Detective Brading, settling in your living room like he’s been here before. He’s so confident that it’s intimidating.

You can imagine Porter’s wealthy family is doing everything they can to find out what happened. The man staring at you is likely the best of the best.

You’ve rehearsed your story so many times that it feels natural. The two men nod along as you lie to them about how you’d fallen asleep in the bedroom, how you’d woken up to him and Rafe arguing, how you convinced Rafe to leave with you.

Your parents stand close by, arms crossed. This is the most they’ve heard you speak in a long time. They hardly ever ask you anything about your life, so it feels odd to have their attention.

“We think you two might have been the last people to see him before he went missing,” Brading tells you. “Porter didn’t say anything about going anywhere?”

“No,” you answer. “Rafe and I left pretty quickly.”

The detective looks up at your parents with raised brows, asking them to give you a moment. When they leave, he leans a little closer.

“We know he deals drugs,” he murmurs. “And we know you bought from him. We’re not interested in getting anyone in trouble for that. We just want to know what happened to Porter. Is there anything you didn’t mention about that night in front of your parents? Be honest.”

“I fell asleep because I smoked too much pot,” you say quietly, looking back through the doorway your parents left through. It’s taking everything in you not to cry as you think about why you really lost consciousness in that room. “But I only ever bought that from him. He offered other things. Like cocaine. It’s why he and Rafe argued.”

It’s what you agreed on saying, but it still feels like you’re selling Rafe out. It’d be suspicious if you didn’t tell them this version of the truth, though.

The detective nods, clearly having been told this already. Your chest twists in unease as you think about Rafe’s name in everyone’s mouth, leading the cops to him. And possibly to you.

“How close are you to Rafe?”

“We've been talking more since I started my job at the country club,” you say. “We started hanging out a little bit ago. We’re friends.”

“Do you think he would’ve done anything to Porter?” Brading asks.

You meet his eyes, swallowing hard.

“No,” you say resolutely. “I don’t.”

·········

A man is missing and possibly, at this point, presumed dead. But that doesn’t stop Kooks from wanting to party.

You’re in the passenger seat as JJ drives to the north side of the island while John B and Pope talk in the back. You’re gazing out the window, watching the landscape go from dilapidated front yards to gated communities.

You’re heading to a party that you heard about from one of Porter’s friends and the way the police questioned you earlier today is spinning in your head.

“You good?” JJ asks.

You look over at your friend, flattening your lips together. You can never tell the whole truth, but you can offer bits and pieces.

“The cops told me they think I’m the last person who saw Porter before he disappeared,” you say. You can’t bring yourself to tell them the version of the story that includes Rafe yet. They’d never believe you. They’d judge you. “It’s kind of scary to think about.”

“My money’s on that he went on a bender,” JJ says. “Sampled his own product. Maybe even too much of it.”

“You think he overdosed?” you ask.

“More like Rafe offed him,” Pope chimes in.

“Is that what people are saying?” you ask, blood cold, turning back to look at him.

“It’s what I’m saying,” he answers. “The guy’s unhinged.”

You want to defend Rafe. To say he wouldn’t go that far. But it’d be suspicious. And a complete lie.

“It’s a small island,” John B says. “It’s only a matter of time before we find out what happened.”

You hope that’s not true.

·········

You make it to the house, reminding yourself over and over that you have to live as if you believe your own lie. You want to erase that night from your memory. Erase what Porter did to you.

You chug the first drink you can get your hands on. Your friends rib you for how quickly you down it. You blame it on a rough day at work.

Soon after, you’re at the keg, not even close to buzzed yet, but desperately needing to be. Discussing Porter with the cops today, pretending like he was just a dealer you had a few short conversations with, hearing that his family is concerned for his wellbeing made your pulse spike.

Does his family know what a monster he is?

You have to correct yourself.

Was.

“Slow down,” you hear.

Rafe towers over you, his eyes on your cup.

“What?” you shout over the music and conversations surrounding you.

“You’re on your second drink already.”

You look over your shoulder to make sure your friends don’t see you talking with him.

“I don’t even feel anything,” you reply sharply.

It’s a half-truth. Your sadness and anger are weighing heavy on your soul. That vile man took away your power, but you took it back, so you hate that you’re still so rattled by what he did. You just want peace.

“And why are you keeping tabs on me?” you ask.

Rafe stares at you, his lips just slightly parted. He can lie and say he wants to make sure you’re not setting yourself up to get hammered and potentially admit to someone what you did.

But the truth is he can’t stop thinking about you. And he doesn’t like seeing that look on your face, sad and absentminded.

He knows you hate him. He wishes he could hate you back.

“I need to be sure you’re not a liability,” he lies. “And people think we’re friends now, don’t they?”

You look over your shoulder again, anxious the guys will see you. You need privacy if you’re going to continue this conversation.

“Come on,” you say, dipping your hand in his, dragging him through the crowd. His palm is warm and soft and you don’t know what you were expecting, but the way Rafe feels is the opposite of it.

You open the first door you see, stepping into a narrow closet. You shut the door and switch on a light and suddenly he’s standing right over you, all breadth and intimidation.

Your heart races from the way you’d just touched him, from the way he’s just about pressed up against you right now. Something must be short-circuiting in your brain, because the fear you used to hold for him is entirely gone.

The attraction you’ve always felt is overpowering now. You can’t make sense of your own emotions.

“I haven’t told my friends our story,” you confess.

“What?” Rafe snips, his tone low.

“I can’t handle telling them right now, okay?” you say. You cross your arms. “I just said I was with a guy. Telling them that guy was you is… They’ll be so disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed,” he repeats with a scoff.

“Rafe, think back to every encounter you’ve had with us. All you’ve ever done is insult us. I don’t even want to think about how hurt they’ll be to hear I’m friends with you.”

“Who gives a fuck?” he mutters. “We need to make sure our alibi is solid. If the cops find out your friends don’t know we–”

“I’d tell the truth,” you say. “That I was worried about what they’d think.”

“I can’t believe you.” The thought of you being concerned about someone else’s opinion is ridiculous. “Why do you care so much?”

“They’re the only family I have,” you admit. It comes out before you even realize it. You look down, sighing. “You don’t get it. You’re like… an enemy to us. They know how shitty you treat me when I’m at work. Telling them–“

“How the hell do I treat you shitty?” he interrupts.

“I know that those tips are all a degrading show of how you’re so much richer and better than me,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then? Charity?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring. Charity isn’t the right word. He hides behind a forced ego, but he’s always wanted you. And through excessive tips and constant teasing, at least he can talk to you without risking the chance of you rejecting him.

You have him all wrong. He doesn’t think he’s better than you. He’s afraid you’re better than him.

“I’ll tell my friends, okay?” you say when he doesn’t speak. “But I talked to the cops today and they seemed convinced. We’ll be fine.”

“They talked to me, too. I can tell they think it was me.” There’s an almost imperceptible tremble in Rafe's voice. “Everyone thinks it was me.”

“Even your friends?”

“Yeah,” he says. If he can even call them friends. Hearing you call yours family made his jealousy flare. Envy is all Rafe ever feels. Like he’s missing the one thing that deems everyone else loveable.

But he’s hanging on how you said they’re your only family. He doesn’t have a family, either. Not really. Not one that cares about him. Maybe you understand him more than he thought.

“Well…” You clear your throat. “They can believe what they want. You can trust me that I won’t ever tell anyone what really happened.”

“Why?” he finally asks. “Why not just snitch on me, Pogue?”

“Because that night, I told you to do it and you did. The world is a better place without him in it. You did me a favor.” You uncross your arms. “And I told you to stop calling me that.”

Rafe clears his throat, giving in, remembering how you’d saved his life and offering a quiet sorry before he says your name.

It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him. It’s a shock to your system. You search his blue eyes in the dim of the closet as if you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to make a snide joke.

But he doesn’t. He just stares at you, his breaths shallow, and you rethink everything you thought you knew about him.

He’s violent and aggressive and condescending. But you don’t see that right now. You see a man who doesn’t seem to be able to believe that someone would want to protect him. Is that who he is behind all the bravado?

The world continues to turn on the other side of the door, music blasting, bass rattling, but time has stopped between you. He’s looking at you through low lids. Like he wants you.

You shouldn’t. Shit is already complicated enough. But what’s one more tangle in the string tying you together?

Your fingers are at the collar of his button-up, pulling him towards you, lips meeting with abandon.

Rafe kisses you back immediately, hungrily leaning into you, cupping your face. His heart is racing. He doesn’t know how or why this is happening, but he wants it so bad that it hurts.

Your mouths part and finally, you taste him against your tongue. It feels so right, like you were always meant to do this and were both too stubborn to.

His hands press tighter against your jaw. Fear floods you. You’re back in that bedroom. You pull back.

“Not so hard,” you say.

“Okay,” he whispers, his grip loosening. He stays hovering over you, nose nudging yours. “Just… please…”

You nod, tilting your head to kiss him again, his hunger for you palpable. You’re with Rafe again, not in that bedroom, but here with a man you want who listens to your wishes.

Your head is swimming with bliss as he kisses you, smelling like cologne and desire, every piece of you wanting him. Then, his hands drift down over the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

And it’s too much. You’re back there again. Begging for it to stop.

“No,” you snap, both hands roughly pushing his chest.

Rafe hits the shelves behind him, his head radiating in pain from how hard he smacked against the wood.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. He was just living in a dream. Why the hell are you pulling him out of it?

“No,” you repeat breathlessly. “You can’t touch me like that.”

“Okay,” he groans. “I won’t. Jesus.”

He clutches the back of his head, wincing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your throat raw. “I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

“Why’d you even kiss me?” he says. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. You step towards him, trying to meet his eyes. “You can’t… I need you to ask before you touch me like that.”

His lips are glossy from the kiss, his face pinched in pain. You take a risk, gently placing your hands on his cheeks.

Rafe should be angry at you. But goddamn it, your touch feels so good that he melts. His gaze is heavy on yours, both of you breathing deeply, coming down from the sudden outburst.

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat softly. “Just don’t take me by surprise. I can’t handle it.”

Rafe searches your face, silently asking for an explanation.

You shake your head, not having it in you to answer right now. Your goal tonight was to forget. Not relive. You pull him closer, and thankfully, he lets you.

Your lips are tender after you part, having lost count of how long you’ve been kissing.

Things just got so much more complicated. But you wouldn’t take it back. Not for a second. Nothing else makes sense right now, but having Rafe the way you always secretly wanted him is the one thing that does.

“Don’t fuck me over,” he says, a note of cynicism in his tone as his forehead brushes against yours. “No matter what happens, don’t fuck me over.”

“I won’t,” you promise.

·········

The next morning, you’re walking through the club hall towards the golf course to start your shift. You still can’t get the way Rafe’s mouth felt against yours out of your mind.

He kissed you like he’s been waiting to kiss you for ages. Like he felt lucky that he got to.

You’re about to step through the glass doors leading outside, but the sound of your name makes ice go through your veins. You know that gravelly voice.

You turn to see Detective Brading, his stare intimidating.

“You have a minute to talk?” he says.

You can tell by his tone that it isn’t a question.

next >

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[slvtforoldermen]

SKZ x Sex Drive

How horny are the members of Stray Kids: Most to Least.

Warnings: Smut duh. Discussions of sex drive and boundaries. Pegging implied.

PLEASE REQUEST IF YOU WANT ANYTHING 🤍🤍

Most

1. Jisung

- Are we surprised? He gets so desperate and so clingy like, all he wants is to be inside you or for you to be inside him~ He’s so soft and sweet but he’s so horny and desperate that he can’t help but cum the minute he slides into your pussy. He makes up for it though, he always does, because he eats you are so good after. He gets so upset if you don’t wanna have sex with him if you’re busy or just not feeling it. He’ll be pouty yes, but he would never EVER want you to feel guilty about not being in the mood.

2. Changbin

- Okay, imo this man is HORNY!! Like, his sex drive is high, not creepy high where he’s thinking about sex 24/7, but when he sees even an inch of your skin that you usually cover, even when it’s starting to get warmer after a cold winter and you wear shorts or a crop top for the first time, he can’t keep his thoughts away. He gets frustrated easily, so he’s not having sex with you everyday because he can just go to the gym if he wants to let off some steam, and if you’re not in the mood, he’ll drill it into your mind that he’s not mad before you runs off to the gym. He just, he loves you so much and you have to torture him by having such a sexy body. It’s not fair, let him like… eat your pussy or something, once a day at least?

3. Felix

- Guys, he just, he’s just so lovable and romantic when he’s horny. He’s so gentle. You’ll be in the kitchen and even though he’s stressed and horny out of his mind, he’ll still wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your neck softly, quietly begging asking if he can take you to bed. If you say no, he’ll be so so understanding, all he’ll want is a cuddle and to vent about what happened the day. He’s incredibly horny, yes, but he knows your boundaries and he wouldn’t ever dare cross them.

4. Bangchan

- Now listen here, when this man wants to restrain himself he will, but when he’s horny, he’s a monster. There’s a reason why the man wrote Railway, it’s because he’ll run a train onto you. When he’s mad or stressed, he’ll be rough, grunting and groaning as if he’s a… wolf 😏. But he wouldn’t hurt you, he wouldn’t ever try to hurt you. Even when he’s mad, he’ll still check up on you, and prep you. That’s a must now cmon, have you seen him? If you say no, he won’t even touch you unless you ask him to, he treats you a little too delicately, which sometimes pisses you off, and then you need to prove to him that you’re not made of glass.

5. Jeongin

- BARK BARK!! Sorry, it’s very clear he’s my bias wrecker. Anyway, Jeonginnie isn’t the horniest of the bunch, despite a lot of contradiction, he’s got a lot of self control when it comes to his sex drive. But when Jeongin fucks, Jeongin fucks. He’ll go down on you as if you was addicted to your taste (when he defo is but he won’t admit it), he’ll be sweet sometimes, smiling at you sweetly as you look so pretty under him, he’ll praise you and kiss you for hours. But when he’s stressed, GAWD DAYUM, daddy toast has arrived. Due to being the youngest, he has an inkling of a control kink, he’s not submissive at ALL, so he’ll be rough with you when he’s mad, unless you tell him to stop. If you tell him no, he’ll be slightly confused, because now he has a raging boner and no idea what to do, but always ends up jerking off. NEVER makes you feel bad, he loves you way too much for that.

6. Seungmin

- A lot of people think he’s horny, however, I think Seungmin’s sex drive depends on yours. If he wasn’t with you, he would probably jerk off like once or twice a week. He’s got better things to do with his time. But he finds how horny you get endearing, and that gets him horny. If he is horny and you’re not in the mood, you guys will end up cuddling and he’ll hold you. He secretly loves domesticity. If he’s frustrated he’ll be rough: if he’s calm, well… that all depends on you being bratty or not.

7. Hyunjin

- Like Changbin, Hyunjin has other vices, but unlike Changbin, he can keep his horniness down impeccably well. Ever since he started painting regularly, he doesn’t feel as horny as often. When he does, he’s so romantic. I can’t picture this man being rough: he’s a soft dom, period, the end. When you say no, he’ll offer to paint you, which is something you can’t say no to, he loves painting you, half of his paintings are just you. Overall, he’s a sweet lover who loves painting you, whether that be on an easel with acrylics, or on your body with his cum.

8. Lee Know

- The same situation as Seungmin. His sex drive depends on yours. He’s a talented lover and he’ll take his time with you. He’s gentle and loving, but when you want him to be rough, his sweet switch will turn off and he’ll be mean easy. I don’t believe this man is cold at all, he’s kind and gentle and loving… until you’re a brat and you break that barrier, then he’ll fuck you into tomorrow, with tomorrow’s aftercare being incredible. If you say no, he’ll be a little confused, because normally you’re the one initiating, so he feels a little insecure, but once you explain why, he’ll smile and cuddle you. Minho’s a cuddler, period.

Least

[junkdrawerfics]

You're Scaring Me

Jasper Hale X Reader

Summary: Request - Can you write one where the reader does something major told her not to do and he gets mad when he finds out and then jasper tries to console her and she’s jus really guilty and upset and then the major comes back out and they talk it thru.

Word Count: 3558

Warning: Angsty maybe. Obviously some unhealthy anger stuff, but it ends well, I promise.

Note: I liked the idea of doing something with the wolves, but felt Jasper/the Major wouldn't ask you to stay away from people, especially if they were your friends. So I took a route regarding reader's safety, since he'd totally go feral over that.

---

Saying Forks was in the middle of a blizzard would be an under exaggeration.

You’d never seen snow like this. You could barely see past your front porch, it was coming down so hard. School had been canceled, of course, and Emmett had convinced the family it would be fun to try hunting with the added challenge of not being able to see.

Jasper had hesitated to join at first, to leave you alone in this storm since your parents were away, but it only took a little soft convincing from you for him to relent.

On one term, at least

“Please stay here ‘til we get back,” the blond repeats worriedly as he puts on a coat - that he doesn’t need, you might add

“It’s not that bad out, Jasper,” you chuckle, eyes glued out the window.

“Darlin.”

His voice shifts subtly. You blink, glancing back at him over your shoulder. Jasper stares right back at you, eyes narrowed, a familiar intensity burning behind them. Your body figures it out before you do, fine hairs standing on end, pupils dilating. A sharp contradiction to the smile that lights up your face.

“Yes, Major?” You ask, barely missing a beat. 

The man takes a step towards you, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight. It’d be intimidating if you didn’t know better.

“You goin’ to listen for me?” He asks, voice low, accent thicker than before.

“Of course, Major.”

The barest flicker of a smile pulls at the vampire’s lips. Such a sweet thing. The way you look at him - all wide, puppy dog eyes, attentive and loving - it makes him feel raw with the need to protect you, even if it’s just from the blizzard.

Tender in a way he’s never been, the Major touches your chin, drawing close enough that he can feel your warm breath stutter against his lips as he murmurs, “Then be a good girl and stay put for me. I don’t want you out in this weather.”

You can’t help but soften, fondness curling in your chest. He really is just a soft teddy bear at his core. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” you insist, curling your arms around his waist, “I won’t go out, I promise.”

“Good.” The Major closes the small gap between you, lips pressing against yours in an unrelenting kiss. It’s all you can do to keep yourself upright as his hand curls along your jaw, drawing you closer, closer, until your head is spinning from the feeling. You’d think he’s going off to war again by the way he kisses you.

You can barely catch your breath when he pulls away. Heat blooms across your cheeks, and you bury your face in his chest to hide it, which earns a low chuckle from the blond. He presses another kiss to your temple, this one softer, gentler.

“Love you, darlin,” he murmurs, all honey and sweet and Jasper again.

You melt against him, voice muffled by his sweater, “Love you too, Jazz. Stay safe, please.”

“I won’t be long,” he reassures you, “Emmett will give in when he realizes all the animals are hidin’ from the weather.”

You huff a laugh. Perhaps. Emmett is stubborn, reckless, and stubbornly reckless. Once he has an idea in his mind, it’s hard to get him off it, like today. But you’re sure Jasper’s right. He’ll give up once he gets bored.

“I’ll hold you to that mister. I’ll be lonely without you.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” He leans down, catching your lips one final time. You can feel his grin through the kiss. “Just a couple hours, darlin’. I’ll drag him back if I have to after that.”

He’s still reluctant to leave, but the nagging worries are quieter now, enough that he can drag himself from the comfort of your touch to join his brothers outside. You watch them disappear into the haze of snow, like ghosts, before shuffling back to your kitchen to work on some homework.

It shouldn’t be so hard to stay busy until they get back. Right?

---

That’s what you thought, at least. But one hour quickly turns to two, which quickly turns to three and still no Jasper. By the fifth hour, you’ve finished all your work and find yourself staring into an empty fridge with a growling stomach.

Of course your parents would forget to stock up before going on a business trip.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you glance outside. It’s still snowing, but not…as bad. You could probably make it to the grocery store and back without any problems. And you’d probably get back before they do, so Jasper wouldn’t even know.

Everything would be fine.

You layer up, tucking a scarf tightly around your neck. It might be a little lighter outside, but it’s still well below freezing. It’ll be quick, though. The grocer is maybe a five minute walk, and you only need a couple things.

Popping your hood up, you grab your house keys and venture out, shuffling the whole way there.

---

“Brave of you to venture out in this,” the cashier chimes, scanning your microwave meal and milk - you figure you might as well get stuff for breakfast too.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” you hum shakily, teeth still chattering as you hand him some cash, “I’d rather be cold for a bit instead of going hungry.”

“Fair ‘nough!” The cash register dings and he hands you some change. “Stay safe out there, miss.”

“Thanks.” You cast him a smile, “You too. Hope it clears up a bit before you have to leave.”

“God willing.”

You slip your gloves back on and heave the bag of supplies from the counter. 

On the walk back, you’re a little less careful, eyes wandering as you tread through the snow. The journey here hadn’t been so bad. Sure you’d almost slipped a few times, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it’d be. It was actually almost nice, once your face went numb at least.

Your thoughts wander to the food in your hands, pace picking up a bit as you think about how nice a warm meal will be after this. And well earned after a long day of work and a hazardous journey to get it. Maybe you could cuddle up on the couch and turn on a movie while you eat. That sounds ni-

-and you’re falling.

You screech, boots slipping against the ice as the world tilts wildly. Instinctually, your eyes squeeze shut and you wait for the impact, hoping your layers might be enough to cushion the fall.

They are, thankfully. But they aren’t enough to stop your ankle from twisting as you tumble a bit off the sidewalk.

The pain is instant. It pulses up your leg, sharp and fiery compared to the cold seeping into your bones. You suck in a sharp breath, teeth gritting as you bury your face in the snow. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from crying, that stinging sensation starting in your eyes, a lump forming in your throat.

God, you’re so screwed.

—

“Darlin, I’m back,” Jasper calls out softly, brushing the ice from his hair as he slips into your warm house.

Almost instantly, he can tell something’s wrong. Jasper stops, brow furrowing. Usually you’d be bounding up to tackle him by now, a beautiful smile on your lips, asking how things went. It’s something constant, a custom he enjoys more than he’ll admit.

There’s no greeting this time, though. Even as he stills, focusing on the sounds of the house, he can’t hear a thing. No footsteps, no heartbeat. It’s eerily silent, empty. 

You’re not here.

An uneasy feeling settles in his chest. Jasper speeds through the house, checking each room, hoping his ears are just tricking him. Maybe you’re just asleep or reading in some corner. With each empty room, though, the feeling worsens, gripping him by the throat, unrelenting and violent. He’s spiraling, he knows it, can tell he’s walking along an all too familiar edge, blurred between himself and-

The Major pauses at the door to your bedroom. Empty. Your coat isn’t where you usually leave it. Neither are your boots. It leaves little doubt in his mind where you’ve gone.

You didn’t listen to him. 

The blond takes a slow breath, holding back the anger that washes over him, white hot and smoldering. 

It’s rare for you to not listen to him. You know his none-too-gentle requests are for your safety, they always are. Because while Jasper would rather die a million times than see you hurt, the Major would bring the world to its knees if it meant keeping you safe. He’s never had something as good as you in his life and the need to protect that, to protect you, well - that drives him to his knees. And now you’re out in this storm. By yourself.

The door slams as he throws himself back out into the snow to find you.

---

The snow is picking up, you notice glumly as you carefully flip over in the snow. Even the slightest movement makes pain prickle up your leg, but you can’t lay face down in the snow much longer, not with how you’re quickly losing feeling in your nose.

You sniffle, swiping at your eyes to keep the tears away. What are you supposed to do now? It’s not like you can stay out here. Frostbite doesn’t exactly sound appealing, but neither does the idea of limping home with this pain. You could call…No, no, he’d be so mad. You can’t call Jasper.

Not that fate really cares about what you think.

You squeak when a pair of arms suddenly lifts you out of the snow. The only thing that keeps you from screaming is the familiar cold touch of your captor and the mess of blond hair flickering in the snowy breeze. The fear slowly disappears when you realize it’s just Jasper.

Quickly replaced by a tight, anxious feeling in your chest when you see the tense set of his jaw and how the lines in his neck stand out under his pale skin. He’s upset. He’s upset with you and your ankle is still throbbing and your eyes are stinging again and-

You inhale shakily, an apology ready to spill off your lips, but the look he gives you makes it all die on your tongue. His usually stoic expression turns dark, eyes narrowed with barely restrained anger.

“You open that mouth, sugar, and I promise I won’t be goin’ easy on you,” he drawls, low and heavy, accent dripping off each word.

Not Jasper. You bite your lip, eyes immediately dropping to your lap. Definitely not Jasper.

You can’t bring yourself to break the stifling silence after that. Not when you can practically feel the Major’s anger radiating from him, which does nothing to ease the turmoil swirling inside of you. The soldier is never this open with his emotions, usually so careful to maintain a mask of indifference. With each step, you can feel the tension rising, his grip tightening, and your chest almost hurts from how hard your heart is beating.

It all comes to a head when you make it to the house. The moment your feet hit the ground, and he knows you're safe, the reins of his control slip, an uncontainable rage burning through him.

“I told you not to go out,” he mutters, pacing back and forth in your small entryway. 

He can’t stay still, too scared of what he could do. Every cell in his body desires to pin you against the wall, handle you rough and selfish, make you realize how awful it felt to come back and find you gone. But he can’t. He won’t. That’s not what you deserve, he knows that. Jasper would be better at this, he would be gentle, but the Major has never been good at gentle.

You blink at him, wide-eyed from the door. It’s like watching a lion pace at the bars of a zoo, except there’s nothing between you and him. Nothing to keep you safe except him. He could do anything and you wouldn’t be able to stop him. You’re just a human, after all. And the Major has had his share of violence. Even though you know he would never hurt you, you can’t stop your hands from shaking.

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t going to be out long,” you try and explain, digging your fingers into the material of your coat, “I promise-”

“You promised you’d stay put,” he drawls roughly, hands clenching behind his back.

“I was just goi- going to get food!”

The blond grits his teeth, his usual impassive tone sharpening, “What on earth were you thinkin’?”

“I- I thought I’d be back before you,” you spit out, and immediately snap your mouth shut.

The Major stops pacing, every muscle in his body going rigid. You bite your cheek, pulse racing as he slowly turns to you, those gold eyes burning so dark you swear they almost look red. Like blood. Something tightens in your chest. That was the wrong thing to say.

“So you purposefully disobeyed my orders?”

“I didn’t-”

“You decided to be foolish and risk your life goin’ out in this storm,” he growls, slowly closing the space between you, “without anyone knowin’?”

You shrink back a little, panic clouding your head. The Major stops in front of you, frame towering over yours, making you feel impossibly small. Tears prick at your eyes as you shuffle back against the door, pain shooting up your leg as you put weight on it.

“Answer me, darlin.” He doesn’t relent, eyes burning into you. Waiting.

A lump forms in your throat. You bite your cheek, desperate to keep the tears at bay, eyes glued to his boots. You can’t. You can’t do this.

But the blood drains from your face when a fist slams into the door beside you, practically splintering the wood. You can feel it shake against you before settling into silence.

“I’m not goin’ to ask again, (Y/n),” he murmurs, deadly calm again.

You hold your breath, slowly bringing your eyes back up to the Major, and the look on his face makes your heart drop. It’s drawn into something unnervingly blank, cold. No more anger, just…

“Major-“ A tear breaks down your cheek, your voice unbearably quiet. “You’re scaring me.”

The change is instant.

Like light breaking through the clouds, the emptiness leaves his eyes, filling them back with warmth and concern and love.

And you crumble.

Jasper catches you with ease, arms wrapping around you tenderly as he lowers you both on the ground. You curl into him, face buried in his coat as the tears come freely now. You couldn’t stop them even if you wanted, and you’re just so tired, so hurt. There’s nothing left in you, all you can do is cry and cling to him for dear life.

“‘m sorry, I’m sorry,” you hiccup miserably, and Jasper feels his still heart break. “I’m so sorry, Jazz, I didn’t mean to. I just, I just needed food, and it wasn’t that far, and I thought- I thought-”

He hushes you softly, fingers brushing through your hair as he unwinds the swirling mess of your emotions. You can feel it, you’ve always been able to, the subtle shifts and gentle pulls. Never too much, because he knows you wouldn’t want that, but enough so you’re not drowning in them. 

Eventually you’re calm enough to take a full breath, the air stuttering past your lips as you go limp in Jasper’s hold. He draws you tight against him, brushing his hand down to rest at the nape of your neck, just a comforting, constant pressure. 

“You’ve nothin’ to apologize for, darlin,” he murmurs eventually, voice muffled in your hair. “I’m the one who should be. I had no right treatin’ you like that, no matter how worried I was.”

“But-”

“No,” he cuts you off firmly. “It wasn’t right, darlin. It was my fault for bein’ late. He…He’s mighty overprotective of you, and he- I don’t know how to handle myself well when it comes to you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I do…” You sniffle, the sound soft and sad, but your grip on him tightens. “But I should’ve listened, then I wouldn’t have slipped and gotten hurt.”

Jasper pulls you back suddenly, brows furrowed in surprise, “What? You’re hurt? Where? Do I need to get Carlisle?”

You laugh weakly, his overwhelming concern easing the tightness left in your chest. The tension drips from your muscles, adrenaline slowing. “No, no, I’m fine. I just, I fell…outside and I think I twisted my ankle, is all.”

“Let me see.”

You squeak as he sweeps you up for the second time today. You wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you to the couch. Every touch is slow, careful, as he sets you down and goes to work on getting your boots off. You wince a little when you have to bend your ankle, and he murmurs a quiet apology.

Relief washes over you though when his cool fingers smooth over your heated skin. It’s like the best ice pack ever. You can’t help but sink into the couch with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

Jasper purses his lips. It must have been a bad fall since your ankle is angry and swollen. He should have come back sooner, then this wouldn’t have happened. You wouldn’t have gone out in the storm, you wouldn’t be hurt, and the Major never would have scared you.

His thoughts flashes back to the look on your face. The fear glimmering in your eyes as he leaned over you. It’s burned into his mind, replaying over and over.

“Major, you’re scaring me.”

After a few seconds too long of silence, you peek an eye open. Jasper kneels, statue still in front of you, eyes set on something distant. A frown catches your lips, and you lean forward, touching his chin gingerly. Those gold eyes dart up to you, coming into focus, flicking between their usual warmth and a familiar steeliness. You shake your head fondly.

“Major,” you call, hand resting against his cheek, “come on, let’s talk.”

He straightens ever so slightly, but instead of drawing back like you’d expect, the stoic man covers your hand with his own, turning to skim his nose to the inside of your wrist. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed. You sit there, just like that for a while, watching him quietly.

When he talks, his voice is a low, calm rumble, his lips brushing against your skin, “I’m sorry for actin’ like such an animal, sugar.”

You purse your lips. A part of you wants to just forgive him. Move on from all of this and forget it. But then you remember the sound of his fist hitting the door, the way it resounded in your chest in place of your heartbeat. You’ve never felt like that, and you don’t want to feel like that again.

“I know you were worried,” you start nervously, wetting your lips. The Major doesn’t say a word, eyes set on you patiently, just waiting for you to continue. You take another deep breath, “I know you asked me to stay home and it upset you that I didn’t. I know you want to keep me safe. But…but it scared me, how angry you got, and that’s, that’s not okay.”

“It’s not,” he hums in agreement, thumb brushing soothingly over your pulse.

You nod and feel a little more confident as you go on, “I, I might do something you don’t like in the future, and if I do, you need to talk to me first. Nicely, please. I love you, like I love Jasper, but we’re equals, even if you’re a lot stronger and bigger than me. ” His lips twitch a little in amusement. You shoot him a scolding look, which makes him fall back into seriousness. “I don’t take orders. I listen because I know you care, but you need to listen to me, too. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls your hand back, pressing a brief kiss to your knuckles. It softens you a bit. A small smile draws across your lips. “You have my solemn word, it won't happen again. And my deepest apologies.”

“You’re forgiven,” you chirp. The last of your worries melt away at the smile he gives you, all lopsided and charming. You shake your head with a laugh, “But you owe me, mister.”

“Well, of course,” he concedes easily, desiring nothing more than to cheer you up now, “What can I do for you, little lamb?”

Shifting awkwardly, careful of your ankle, you jab a finger at the plastic bag you dropped by the door, “Make me some dinner! Cause I’m starving and that’s what got us into this mess.”

The vampire laughs, fully laughs. It’s something you don’t get to hear often, so you absolutely love it. Love him and the way his eyes crinkle with mirth as he pushes himself to his feet, tipping a nonexistent hat to you. Jasper.

“It would be my pleasure, darlin.”

“Thanks, hun.”

---

This was SO hard to write! I suck at doing anger, because it's hard to represent the unhealthy relationship stuff. I tried to turn it around cause I believe ultimately he's a respectful man, and that's how I want to portray him.

So I hope you guys like this! Sorry if the pacing's weird or anything, I just wanted to get it done!

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.9.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: slight non-consensual flirting and groping (not done by Viktor), jealousy, annoying posh people, alcohol, possessive Viktor, semi-public sex (bathroom), dirty talk, accidental period sex, drunk sex.

author’s note: THE DINNER. Chapter from Reader's POV. The jealousy comes here, the fuck-up part and make-up part comes in future chapters. As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ translations from Czech at the bottom! @rennethen beta read, thank you ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You are certain that life is either a cage or a heavy chunk of metal ball chained to an ankle, fashioned entirely for women so they won’t be fast enough to catch a cab they hollered themselves—just so some plastic-suit-wearing contradiction of a gentleman could swipe it from under their noses. You are prepared to yank the high heel off your foot and throw it at the window as the man behind glass shrugs you with a smirk that deserves a handful of shit to be wiped on it.

Tube it is. With a forced grace you trot underground, cursing yourself for not shoving ballet flats into your purse as you usually do, but time is slipping, and Charlie had to push you out the door by nearly kicking your ass. Mel’s dinner has already started without you, and for sure you’ll be given a rocket for elevating the fashionably late to the there-is-about-a-thousand-things-more-important-than-this kind of late.

Either way, you walk on uncertain ankles, wobble when the train halts at the stops, and occasionally pull your skirt down to shield whatever skin peeks out from the onlookers. And there is a lot of skin visible tonight—this time you look like sin, smell of frankincense, myrrh and saffron, coffee sadly still lingering, ruining the final effect. It’s not only the dress, short and revealing for the sake of Viktor’s indulgence, it’s the overall look of it—like you’re desperately clutching at the last moments of warmth in the air on another uncanny October evening.

Stomach vaguely uncomfortable, feet sliding in the unsupportive soles of strappy sandals, heels so tall you’re probably Viktor’s height now and hair suggesting a dozen different things depending on who’s looking—to just anyone, it might spark the idea of a premature walk of shame. To those knowing, like Charlie, it’s obvious you’ve been running your fingers through it all day and tormented it with a brush just minutes before leaving.

Makeup scarce, yet sufficient—making you look effortless, like you don’t give a damn about social gatherings, when the truth is, you care so fucking much you hope nobody notices that one of your nails has fallen victim to your teeth.

When you step through the door, the inside of the restaurant is a loud, clammy cloister, senses immediately abused with scents and voices. But before you can become completely disoriented, a dark knight of a waiter asks for your name and guides you, almost by your hand, to the designated table. A sweating negroni marks your spot, with a giant melting ice cube losing its perfect shape in a ruby liquid—courtesy of Mel.

“There she is,” Mel chides with a lopsided grin and points you to your seat—it’s good enough to sit next to Salo’s mysterious friend who’s crashing the party, worse so that it also happens to be opposite Viktor.

To anyone uninformed he probably looks normal, but you know this is Viktor being slutty—you haven’t even seen his pants yet, but the shirt, white and thin, nearly see-through, is undone at the collar, and his clavicle glitters with a sheen of sweat, hair curling around his ears. He’s already one drink in, at least—you can tell from the way his lids are hooded and lips parted when he nods at you conspiratorially.

To his left is Mel—outclassing you in both beauty and whorishness, her dress cut low on the cleavage, a golden pendant teasing the hem of the fabric, luring anyone looking to drop their gaze even lower.

And to her left, Jayce—looking, well, like Jayce. Clean and collected, reliable and completely out of his depth.

Then, Mion at the shorter edge of the table, like a judge set to rank whichever side wins whatever imaginary competition is currently unfolding.

You barely lower yourself into the chair before Mel tips her wine glass your way, one brow already aloft. “I am glad you made it,” she says, voice dipped in sugar and lime. “I was beginning to think you'd abandoned the society whatsoever.”

Your shake your head, sigh and let this gentle mockery happen for the table to chuckle softly. Mel lets her gaze sweep over your outfit in one long, deliberate pass. “Darling, you're giving me reckless heiress with a secret. I adore it.”

You open your mouth to say something impolite, but she cuts in mercilessly, so you settle on sipping your drink. “Now. Be nice and let me introduce you before your sultry chaos causes someone to spill their wine. This is Lucian,” she says, gesturing past you with her glass. “He and Salo met at—where was it, darling?”

Salo barely glances up from his drink. “A private viewing in Mayfair,” he mutters. “He insulted the artist, and I fell a little in love.”

Lucian, long-fingered and languid in a dove-grey jacket, grins like a man who enjoys being told he’s a problem. “That’s how all my best friendships begin.” His accent is so polished it sounds inherited.

Mel extends her hand to brush her fingers on yours. “Lucian does something with textiles, don’t you?”

Lucian tilts his head, expression mock-thoughtful. “Technically, I’m a tactile consultant.”

Jayce chokes into his drink. “You what?”

Lucian ignores him, eyes still fixed on you. “I curate physical experiences for luxury spaces. Hotels, yachts, certain exhibitions. If it can be touched, I’ve made someone pay ten times what it’s worth to touch it.”

Jayce leans back, unimpressed. “So you sell curtains.”

Lucian’s grin broadens. “Only the ones you’d weep to wrinkle.”

Across the table, Mion lifts her glass and murmurs, “That’s oddly poetic. I don’t see why anyone would need that though.”

“Cheers,” Lucian replies, raising his in return. Then his attention shifts—sharply, smoothly—back to you. “And you,” he says, voice lower now, like something shared behind a velvet rope. “You must be the artist I’ve heard whispers of.”

Your eyes narrow slightly and he smiles, all charm and soft menace. “May I just say—” he leans in a fraction, enough to make Salo glance sideways, “—I do love a woman who arrives like a plot twist.”

“Uh, thank you?” you say, voice lilting—and you immediately hate this man for spooking your original accent so hard that you don’t even sound like your theatre self. “Sadly, I can’t say I have any strong feelings toward textiles.”

This earns a snort from Jayce, who clearly had a few already, his ribs perpetually stabbed by Mel’s elbow. From Viktor you get a soft exhale, chuckle-adjacent as he hides his nose in the glass, shoulders risen, making his head look sunken and him outright bored.

“No?” Lucian asks, either too confident or not smart enough to grasp your lack of interest. “Is the Young Vic director indifferent to the craft of costume design?”

“Not indifferent, but it does fall to the backdrop when your main concern is the body that wears the costume in the first place.”

“May I take your order?”

Saved by your dark knight once more—you’re going to have to tip this man to oblivion. Feeling Mel’s burning stare on your forehead, you're almost tempted to get a pint just to spite her, but with a theatrical sigh, you say, “One negroni, please.”

Everyone orders drinks, food menus still to arrive. Viktor is drinking vodka on the rocks tonight, and you find that the blatancy of it—cloaked in a crystal glass with sharply cut square ice cubes—suddenly makes it sexy. Or maybe it’s his fingers that wrap around the said glass that do so. You have no idea.

It strikes you how different this meeting is from Mel’s birthday by only two swaps—Elora for Lucian, and a stuffy pub for a posh restaurant that pretends it isn’t. It’s not horrible, but it’s not great either, and you find that indeed, there is about a thousand different things you’d rather be doing, Viktor at the very top of that list.

Drinks arrive with menus, and suddenly everyone is far too engrossed in squinting at prices to notice anything else. Mel mutters something about the wine list being arranged like a bank statement. Salo is already bargaining with Mion over whether ordering two mains is greedy or genius.

In the quiet that slips between their voices, you feel it before you see it—Viktor’s gaze settling on you. You glance up, catch it, and something in your chest rearranges itself.

“Hi,” you say, low and brief. There’s the faintest curl of a smile on your lips, unspoken but present. It lingers.

“Hi yourself,” he replies just as softly, the word shaped around a breath. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up, not suggestively—it’s more like a reach.

“How have you been?”

“Busy as ever,” you murmur, keeping your voice just on this side of audible. “You?”

Viktor lifts his glass slightly, not drinking from it. “Keeping afloat.”

It’s nothing, really. Just soft voices traded across polished glassware and white linen, words no one else hears. But Mel does glance up—her eyes shift between you two, narrow briefly like she’s piecing together a crossword clue, then drift away again. By the time you clock it, she’s already turned toward Jayce, jabbing her finger at something on the menu with theatrical disgust.

You shift your focus back to your glass and catch your own faint reflection there—mouth still curved, just slightly. When your eyes rise back to the table, Salo leans in his chair with the smugness of someone about to derail an already fragile social dynamic.

“So,” he begins, drawing the word out with a lazy grin and a clink of glass against glass, “how many of you are still friends with at least one ex? And how many are lying?”

The table stills like it’s bracing for a slap or a toast. There’s a breathless pause, the kind that hangs suspended in the flicker of candlelight and the tight pull of polite smiles. Then Jayce coughs into his wine, a suspiciously timed sound that earns him a side-eye from Mel.

He lifts his brows in mock innocence. “What does friends mean, exactly?”

Mel doesn’t miss a beat. “It means no longer shagging but still texting, darling.” She sips her drink, smirk tucked behind the rim. “You’d know if you were.”

Jayce leans forward, grinning. “Well are you, since you’re so knowledgeable on the topic?”

“Nope.” Mel pops the p and places her glass down with unnecessary care. “They all got eaten, sadly.”

Mion raises her drink like she’s been waiting her whole life for this question. “I’m friends with all of mine. I collect them.”

“You would,” Mel replies dryly, not even looking at her. “Do you keep them in a little tank?” Mion nods playfully and hums, all pleased.

Lucian gives an affected chuckle, head tilted just so. “I suppose I’m on amicable terms with a few.”

“You mean the ones who didn’t try to sue you?” Salo says with a flat smile, not even pretending to mask the dig. Lucian blinks once—slow, reptilian—and lifts his glass as if to deflect the comment with sheer elegance.

“How interesting,” Mel chirps, eyes glinting as she turns to you. Her gaze lingers, but then she flicks her fingers in the air like brushing away dust. “You I already know everything about. But you,” she pivots smoothly to Viktor, her tone suddenly honeyed, “are a complete mystery. Spill.”

Viktor’s fingers pause on the bed of his glass. He gives a small, rueful smile. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. Not friends with any.”

“Well how many were there?” Mion chimes in, bright-eyed and eager.

“This is not a subject of the discussion, though, is it?” Viktor replies, gentle but deflecting, his eyes lowered to his drink.

“Viktor, you are awfully no fun,” Mel says, tossing her hair over one shoulder like she’s winding up for a better strike.

“I think we might have different definitions of fun, Mel,” he says without looking at her.

“And I think you are solemnly mistaken,” she purrs, leaning toward him, “and that our definitions are more alike than you expect.” There’s a beat of charged silence, tension fluttering just beneath the tablecloth. It’s a challenge, no less, and it unsettles you briefly, until you and Viktor are both saved by someone you would never call a knight.

“Alright,” Lucian interjects, sounding vaguely wounded now that the topic has shifted from interior textiles and personal intrigue. “What about our plot twist here, hm?” He gestures at you with a lazy flick of the wrist. “Surely you maintain friendly ties.”

You lean back in your chair with a sardonic smile. “Oh, no chance. In fact, if I ever suddenly disappear, you can be certain one of my exes had me assassinated.”

Lucian laughs, clearly encouraged and up for the bait, brows arched in a way that suggests he thinks you’re joking. “And whatever have you done to them?”

You spread your hands, knuckles popping. “I was being myself.” Then, you down the rest of your drink.

Viktor’s fingers still against the rim of his glass. His eyes have lifted with a quiet intent, gaze catching on you. There’s something almost contemplative in it, as if weighing the words against some private ledger. You catch it with the corner of your eye before you can help it, and for a second, you feel like a specimen under a lens.

Until Mel groans dramatically. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. It’s not you, it’s your horrible taste in men.”

“Thank you, Mel,” you say, deadpan. “I almost don’t regret coming tonight.”

“Hush.” Mel waves a manicured finger in your direction, rings catching the light like tiny warnings. “You got your Baal for it. And that was a compliment.”

You lean back, giving her a flat look over the edge of your glass. “It’s our Baal now. And if that was a compliment, I’m the reincarnation of Molière.”

“I’m certain you are wonderful,” Lucian cuts in smoothly, draping an arm around the back of your chair—close, but not quite touching. His smile is dipped in fondness, or maybe just wine.

That rings, eclipsed by alcohol at first, but then you remember the same word falling from Viktor’s mouth. You like Viktor’s version much better. It’s odd though, Lucian being the second man this week calling you wonderful.

You tilt your head toward him without looking. “Oh no, I’m positively indigestible. Even in small doses.”

Lucian chuckles, low and smooth. “I have a strong stomach.”

“Make sure to wrap my corpse in one of your nice carpets once you’re done with me, then,” you say, smiling sweetly. “Preferably something with Baroque flourishes. I’d like to haunt in style.”

“Oh darling, I would never hurt you. Have you even given me a chance?” he purrs—and suddenly it becomes too straightforward from his side and not nearly straightforward enough from yours.

“I knew I shouldn’t bring you,” Salo sighs, and you partially agree—but the problematic thing is, you are two negronis in, with nothing in your stomach yet. Were you at your full wit, you’d swat the encircling arm away, maybe even take it between your thumb and index finger and drop it ceremoniously into Lucian’s own lap. But you are two negronis in. So you just blink idly, brain too slow to pick a reaction that wouldn’t stir the table and would make him leave you in peace.

Viktor shifts in his chair. His vodka disappears in one loud gulp, ice cubes chiming against the glass. The flush on his cheeks could be warmth, could be alcohol, could be the unrelenting surge of acidic jealousy that you suspect started the moment Lucian’s eyes landed on you with their perverted leering. Could be all of the above.

Your own vision gets blurred around the edges when you look at your secret lover in a way you hope is discreet. You laugh a little too loudly. You lean away from Lucian when he tries to whisper something into your ear, but he reads it as an invitation to press more of his body into your personal space.

Once more, the dark knight approaches and saves you—his arm sliding between you and your new adorer. A momentary shield as the plate lands in front of you, and you welcome it with a long sigh of relief.

When everyone busies themselves with eating and giving an obligatory instant review of the food—mouths still full, praise muffled by chewing—you steal another glance at Viktor.

He doesn’t look at you. In fact, he puts a great deal of effort into not looking at you. His expression isn’t blank; it’s composed the way a cracked glass is composed—holding together, barely. He jabs at his food with a fork in movements that seem perfectly mundane to anyone else, but to you, it reads like fury translated through cutlery. He’s angry.

You slide your leg forward under the table, a clumsy, tipsy attempt at apology or comfort or teasing—you’re not sure which. Your toe grazes the fabric of his trousers, brushing the side of his calf as delicately as you can manage.

He flinches and then moves away—not with drama, not obviously, but just enough. His knee shifts sharply to the side and bumps against Mel’s.

“Oh,” she says, startled mid-chew, giving him a look. “Careful, darling. You’ll knock my wine over.”

Viktor mutters a barely audible apology and finally lifts his new glass, swallowing another mouthful of vodka without so much as a breath between. You retract your leg slowly, heart thudding where it shouldn’t be thudding, half from the alcohol, half from the contact that didn’t happen.

The farce carries on. Main courses and new rounds arrive, tongues loosen. The volume at the table rises by degrees, wine-fuelled and careless. Viktor clearly tries to save himself by talking to Jayce over Mel’s neck, posture stiff, voice low, as though sheer focus might root him somewhere safer. Mel, meanwhile, is half-sprawled across the table, head lolling lazily on one arm, her free hand gesturing theatrically as she blabbers with Mion and Salo about aphrodisiacs.

“They’re a myth,” Salo insists, waving a fork loaded with risotto. “All placebo. It’s about context.”

“Context and presentation,” Mion adds, licking a bit of sauce from her thumb. “The performance of indulgence. Which is why oysters work. They’re disgusting. They demand bravado.”

“Rubbish,” Mel says, then spins toward you without warning. “Darling, what’s the sexiest food?”

You’re too slow to answer, still stewing, because Viktor hasn’t looked at you once. Not even when Mel’s perfume clouds half the table and Lucian keeps shifting closer, making up for your silence with a steady monologue about a gallery exhibit you barely registered an hour ago.

And Viktor? He just leaves you there. Leaves you at Lucian’s mercy, his narrowed focus angled anywhere but your side of the table. It makes you moderately upset. Which is to say: it makes your hands shake a little when you reach for your drink.

“Oysters are like diamonds,” you say, swirling the glass. “You were made to believe they’re luxurious, when really they’re just commoner’s food dressed up in mythology. Back in the day, you could sweep your hand over any large rock in the Thames and come up with a handful.”

Mel points her fork at you. “That doesn’t tell me if you think they work or not.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Mel, if I don’t want to fuck someone, I don’t think there’s food on this planet that would change my mind.”

Lucian grins over his wine glass. “But maybe… when you’re considering?��

You glance toward Viktor again. The wanker still isn’t looking. Not visibly. His head is angled toward Jayce, who’s mid-rant about food trucks and Michelin stars, but Viktor’s body is taut. Were he a cat, one ear would be turned toward you. Listening. Deciding what to do with the information you’ve just handed him like a polished, pointed gem.

“Maybe,” you say, as innocent as a virgin.

And there’s your reward. The flicker of breath that catches in his chest. The flare of his nostrils. His eyes fall closed for the span of a blink too long—too heavy to be nothing. Like he’s warding something off. Your mouth quirks, imperceptibly.

Further in when everyone is drunk, and inhibitions become loosened, the space around you gets cloying. Lucien becomes bolder, hands skimming your thighs and it’s disgusting. Viktor looks like he’s going to faint, and you with him, as a strange punching pain lingers in your lower belly. You blame it on the negronis.

“Excuse me,” you say, rising and the world spins briefly, before you regain your footing. It’s either fresh air or bathroom, and after short calculation you chose the latter—you could still get ambushed outside.

It’s at the very end of long, dim corridor, but you are grateful for this brief walk, your feet are the opposite. When the door shuts behind you, you splash your face with cold water and then drink straight from an ice cold stream in the sink.

You don’t flinch when the knock lands on the bathroom door. Three gentle taps, the quiet tick of his cane against the tile floor. Thank God or oh my God, you can’t decide which one is it that you should be thinking.

You crack the door open with a smile, face forced to look satisfied so much that you could pat yourself on the back. “Didn’t think you’d actually follow me.”

He doesn’t answer—just looks at you. Takes in the glint in your eye, the way you lean against the frame in a silent dare, putting something down and waiting for him to pick it up.

“Were you watching?” you tease, drawing the syllables out sweetly. “Not really seeing though, hm?”

That’s when he huffs out a tired sigh and moves, intention marking his steps, like he’s thought this through every second since you stood to leave the table. The cane hooked over his forearm, he walks in, presses you back, and locks the door behind him without looking.

You open your mouth again, but speaking proves impossible. He kisses you before you can get another word out—hungry, all heat and tongue and hand, like he’s been waiting weeks, not minutes. He fists the back of your hair and devours the grin right off your face.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t speak at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath. “Was it entertaining?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Watching me lose my mind out there?”

Your throat bobs, suddenly aware of the shift between you. The heat’s still there—more than there—but so is the guilt, crawling soft and sudden over your ribs. You start to answer, but he’s already kissing you again, greedier now.

His thigh slots between yours, crowding you backward until your spine bumps the cold porcelain edge of the sink. You gasp, and his hand lifts your dress with a firm, practised sweep—baring your thighs, your stomach, the thin strip of underwear that does nothing to hide how wet you already are. He breaks the kiss only to turn you around and tilt your chin toward the mirror.

“Look,” he breathes.

There you are—cheeks hot, lips kiss-bitten, dress bunched around your hips. And behind you, Viktor—flushed, braced, eyes burning into yours through the reflection.

He slides his hand over your stomach. The place where you wore his mark, days ago. Faint now. Fading, barely there, almost as if you’ve imagined it.

“It faded,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And you’ve forgotten.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He leans closer, teeth grazing the hinge of your jaw, breath tainted with alcohol. “Forgotten who you belong to?” he says. “Do I have to tattoo my name on you?”

Your voice is smaller when you speak. “No,” you say, quiet and sincere. “I haven’t forgotten.”

He hums behind you—something warm, approving—but doesn’t let you off the hook. His body presses flush to yours. You feel him hard against your backside, a slow grind rendering the hinges of your knees useless. He doesn’t rush. Just feels—how he fits there, how your body yields, how your breath stutters when he leans down and drags his mouth across the slope of your neck.

“Then tell me,” he murmurs against your skin, purring the words like he’s tired of coaxing the same thing out again. “Tell me who you belong to.”

The answer dies somewhere in your mouth, when his hands come up beneath the fabric of your dress and find your breasts—cupping them, thumbs flicking gently over your nipples through the thin lace. He does it slowly, sweetly, as though he’s playing with something delicate.

You gasp when he rocks into you again, harder this time, and his mouth curls into a grin against your neck. “Lásko,” he whispers, voice all affection, and you try your best to remember that new pet name. “You always get so soft when I touch you like this.”

He drags his mouth lower—along your shoulder, the bend of your throat—nuzzling as his hips settle into a steady rhythm behind you. His cock slots between your cheeks, a heavy, constant pressure even through the layers of clothes.

You look up—reflexively—and catch both of you in the mirror. His head bowed beside yours. Your dress rucked up to your waist. His hands on your chest, working with obscene tenderness. And your face—lips parted, pupils wide, breath trembling like you’re halfway to breaking.

He sees you see it, and his voice drops lower. “Do you feel that?” he asks, barely audible above your breathing. “What was all that teasing for, hmm?” he says, making you feel outright dumb. Ashamed for dabbling in crude methods, for ever putting his affection to test as the thick, insistent proof of it rests snugly in the crease of your ass.

You shake your head—but it’s more of a tremble than a motion, especially when his fingers abandon your breasts and drag down, grazing the bare skin of your belly, dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, lips just brushing the shell of your ear. “Such a smart mouth earlier. But you drip for me like this. So easy to touch, my girl.” Full body shudder at that.

His fingers slide between your legs—slow, thorough, skilled to the point that should be outlawed for the sake of your sanity. He circles your clit once, then again, then not at all. Just keeps his hand there, heavy with promise.

You lean into him, grinding down against his hand, need winning the battle with reason—reasoning being that you definitely shouldn’t have sex in the bathroom, not with everyone at the table—but Viktor withdraws, barely, just enough to deny you.

“No,” he says, tone indulgent. “I want to see you ask for it. Properly. No games. No teasing.”

You whimper—frustrated, wound up tight, your thighs already shaking from how tense you are. And still, he does not move. His mouth returns to your neck, dragging along your throat, hanging open, lips catching skin, suckling at your pulse just enough to make your eyes shut.

“Tell me,” he demands.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He tsks softly. “That is not what I asked.” His hand returns between your legs—but he doesn’t move. Just rests there, the heat of his palm maddening.

“Please,” you whisper, trying to push back against him again.

“Please what?”

Your head falls forward, forehead pressing against the mirror as your fingers dig into the edge of the sink. “Please, Viktor,” you choke, finally. “Please fuck me.”

He groans—sound coming straight from the gut—and in the mirror, you watch his eyes drop down. His hand tightens around your waist.

“Děvče moje,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

What follows are sounds catalogued by your mind into folders labelled yes and good. It’s the clink of his belt, a shuffle of fabric when he undoes the buttons of his pants. Then an exhale assigned exclusively to the moment of his cock being freed from the prison of cotton and the squelch of it sliding against your slick skin as it teases where you ache for him so badly.

And just to make you miserable, instead of moving in, you can feel the hard length of him slot between your thighs, the thick weight of his cock fitting against your soaked lips. It grazes your clit, slow and infuriating, catching just enough to make your knees weak.

“Look,” he says, and the hand tangled in your hair pulls your head up, forces you to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at what you do to me.”

His eyes are half-lidded, both hungry and longing, brutality of want mixing with softness of adoration. A flush runs down his throat, his mouth parted like he’s already gasping from the pleasure of it. Every inch of him pressed against you like he’s not letting go. He rolls his hips once—slowly, so his cock drags over your clit just right—and you nearly sob.

“I can feel how close you are,” he says, voice thick, proud with himself. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He does it again—guides his cock with one hand, grinding between your thighs, sweet and sinful. And with every pass, your clit catches on his head, sending sparks down your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You want it so bad it hurts, don’t you?”

You nod—choked up and straining.

His fingers tighten in your hair, just enough to tip your head back, expose your throat. “And I am just as gone,” he breathes, mouth ghosting over your skin. “You have no idea.”

His hand moves to cup your breast again, squeezing, pinching lightly at your nipple through the fabric of your dress. “You belong with me,” he says, not angry but awed, like he can’t quite believe it. You catch the slip but say nothing. “Please don’t make me remind you again.”

You feel the change in him when he presses forward—slow, precise, finding his way into you with ease. His cock notching at your entrance, the head slick with your arousal from all that teasing, nose pulling, whispering, breathing he does, oh God.

“No more games,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “Be a good girl now.”

And then—he pushes in. Slowly. Unbearably so. Every inch filling you with aching pressure, with heat, rigid hardness sinking into slick, into silk. You bite your lip, eyes fluttering closed, and his hand slips from your hair to your mouth.

“No,” he says, low and gentle, his palm covering your lips. “Keep watching.”

You obey, dazed, your eyes dragging to the mirror—he’s watching you both, transfixed. The sight of your dress pushed up, your body bent to him, the reverent look on his face—it’s too much. Almost obscene. Almost holy, the way it etches into your memory.

When he bottoms out, he stills inside you. His hand cups your breast again, pinching until you gasp against the palm on your lips. “So tight,” he breathes. “Always so tight, my girl.”

He starts to move, his pace controlled, measured. Not hard, but deep—he hits that perfect spot every time, each thrust making you gasp into his palm. You cry out under his hand, and he hushes you again, “I know. I know, lásko. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? And then I’ll take you home.”

You nod, frantic, tears springing to your eyes from how overwhelming it is—his voice, the press of his hand, the heat coiling low. His hips rock faster.

“That’s it,” he purrs, nuzzling the crown of your head. “Come on. Come on, my beautiful girl.”

You shatter with a muffled sob, your whole body locking around him as your climax stumbles through your muscles, back arching into the sink, legs shaking. You clamp down so hard around him that he stutters, groans—and loses it.

The hand over your mouth drops as he gasps your name. Then, “Fuck—”

He thrusts harder now, reckless, both hands gripping your hips. His control snaps like a thread—ragged, possessive moans spilling from his lips as he chases his own release. The rhythm falters as he fucks you through the aftershocks—each thrust rougher, deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the bathroom.

“I will,” he pants, voice breaking apart. “Oh, fuck—”

Then he buries himself fully inside you with a strangled moan, hips pressed flush to your ass, cock pulsing as he comes hard. You feel it—twitches, gasps against your nape—his whole body taut as if it’s more than just release, as if something else is spilling out with it.

He doesn’t pull out—just leans forward, folding around you like he’s trying to keep something from breaking loose. His lips find your shoulder, your spine, and finally your ear.

“Zlomíš mi srdce, já to vím,” he whispers raggedly. “Ale už tě tak strašně miluju. Nemůžu přestat.”

His words are low, almost unintelligible, spoken through panting breaths—but you hear how heavy they sound even if you don’t understand them. His voice is soaked in something thick and trembling. When you shift your eyes to the mirror, he’s watching you both again—his brow furrowed, expression bare.

Then he presses his forehead to your neck and sighs, as though his body has finally remembered how to breathe. His weight settles behind you, chest heaving, his arms a cradle around your waist.

You swallow hard. “What did you say?” you ask, voice hushed, afraid of the answer.

He doesn't lift his head. Just keeps breathing like he’s afraid if he stops, he’ll say too much. Then, finally, he murmurs, “It meant I enjoyed it. That’s all.”

You don’t believe him. You can hear the lie in how breathless he sounds, how his fingers twitch where they rest on your hips. But before you can say anything more, he slowly pulls out with a soft groan, hand still braced on the small of your back to steady you.

He glances down and goes still. You turn to look at him, and he’s frowning faintly—confused, then concerned. His eyes flick up to the mirror, catching yours.

“Oh—” he breathes, his brows twitching. “Oh, fuck.”

You crane your neck and Viktor’s eyes meet yours. He’s worried. “Are you by any chance on your period?” he asks nervously.

“What?” Your voice is small, disoriented. Then you blink once, twice, and the week floods back at you—the pressure, the meetings, the emotional crash, Sarah, the auditions, the last night you spent tangled in Viktor’s sheets, and finally the pain in your belly.

“Oh. Yes, that would make sense,” you say quietly, cheeks flooding with heat. Shame rises sharp in your throat. “I’m so sorry,” you mumble, pulling back instinctively, hand flying up to cover your eyes.

But Viktor doesn’t flinch or recoil. His voice is gentle, urging. “Come here.”

Your lip wobbles. You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, moving with more weight in his steps now—his gait heavier, more uneven. You hear the faint click of his foot dragging as he crosses to the paper towel dispenser, as though his leg has stiffened during the strain.

“Are you certain,” he asks, voice lower now, searching, “or have I hurt you?”

“I—” You drop your hand from your face, still flushed, still teetering. “I’m not hurt. Nothing hurts, Viktor.”

He exhales softly, and nods. “Wait,” he says, and then you catch the way he grips the edge of the sink to steady himself as he bends—his shoulder tight—and wets the paper towel under the warm stream in front of you.

“There.” He bends behind you, wipes between your thighs with slow, gentle strokes, murmuring, “Are you sure nothing hurts?” Then, more to himself, breathless, guilty, “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” you whisper, eyes stinging. The towel is warm. His hands are careful. And somehow, all of it—his softness, his steadiness—makes the shame crack deeper.

“I got carried away,” he says, gaze flicking up to yours in the mirror again. His expression is blank. “I should have noticed.”

“But nothing happened,” you say quickly. “I just didn’t notice either.” You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat. “You were... distracting.”

A faint smile ghosts his mouth, but he doesn’t answer right away. He just finishes cleaning you, then smooths your dress back down over your thighs with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“I should’ve asked,” he murmurs.

“Viktor,” you breathe, hand brushing over his shoulder. “It’s alright. I promise.”

He nods, his fingers briefly squeezing your hip. “Alright.” Then, he presses a kiss to your cheek, to your jaw. “We should get back,” he says, quiet and reluctant.

He waits for you when you step into the cabin with a pad snatched from the goodie basket by the mirror. As soon as you both leave the bathroom and the hum of the restaurant hits you—the muted clink of glasses, the muffled voices, the distant chime of cutlery—you sigh and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“Ah, let’s go home now,” you whine, swaying into him, slowing your step in the tight corridor that leads back toward the main room.

Viktor smiles at you, warmly at first. But the moment stretches, and something shifts in his gaze. Despite your faint protest, he steps into your space and gently presses you back against the wall, hidden in the narrow dimness. His hand braces beside your head. He kisses you—long, soft, and indulgent—like he already regrets having to pull away.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, lips barely brushing yours when you try to coax him into more. “Not yet.” One hand rises to brush your hair back from your cheek, eyes searching.

“Wait,” you whisper, catching his wrist. “Do you still want me to come over?”

He draws back just enough to frown. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. “Because… um, period and, you know—”

“Oh. You’re so silly,” he chuckles, as if that explains everything, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I do.” Then, narrowing his eyes, “Hey. What’s wrong? Are you dropping?”

“No, I just—”

“What happened? I did hurt you, didn’t I?” His voice dips, suddenly anxious.

“N-no, no, I just—” you stammer, shaking your head.

“Why are you crying?” he breathes, cupping your face now, voice low and worried. “Darling, it’s alright. Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“No,” you insist, even as your eyes brim. “It’s not that. You’re just so… nice.”

He blinks at you, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Baby, has someone been mean to you over your period?”

“N-no,” you say, then pause. “I mean—yes. Every girl has had someone be mean to her over it, but it’s not that,” you say quickly, wiping at your face with the back of your wrist. “No one has ever been this nice.”

Viktor doesn’t speak at first. He just gathers you into his arms with a firm, protective kind of grace, his hand smoothing over your spine. “Oh my darling girl, come here.” He kisses your hairline. “Of course I want you to come.” Another kiss, this one beside your eye. “Shh, it’s alright. Silly.”

Then he pulls back, cups your face and looks at you, long and serious. “Mám tě ráda,” he murmurs, wiping your tears away with his thumbs.

You sniff, looking up at him, eyes red and wet. “And what does this mean?”

Viktor pauses. Thinks for a moment too long, then speaks finally. His voice stays steady. Gentle. Measured. “It means I like you,” he tells you the half-truth, half-lie, you think.

A chuckle escapes you, breath hiccupped as more tears squeeze free. “I like you too,” you breathe, a sheepish smile blooming between his hands where they cradle your face.

He exhales softly and pulls you in again, letting you hide your face in the crook of his shoulder, one hand stroking down your back. Neither of you notice Jayce at the end of the corridor, paused with a confused look, his hand still on the door to the men’s room. He lingers only a second before turning away quietly, leaving you both to the hush of the moment.

—

Zlomíš mi srdce, já to vím. - I know you'll break my heart. Ale už tě tak strašně miluju. Nemůžu přestat. - But I love you so much already. I can’t stop. Mám tě ráda. - I like you, but one that actually means I love you in certain context. I love you like you are important to me, I respect you, I want you in my life.