#that feeling when you remember nobody cared

[endless-ineffabilities]

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

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Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your good friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your good friend Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 || 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬

summary_ having an affair with General Acacius overseas while conquering lands turned into a problem after coming back to Rome, when you fell for a gladiator that turned out to be a missing prince.

warnings_ CRINGE, girthy age gap (legal) (I’m 20, sorry) historical inaccuracy, angst, violence, gore, animal death, sexism and misogyny, fluff but angst, a lot of canon divergence bc I said so. NO PROOFREAD, BEWARE!

note_ i can’t remember if Denzel’s character was named Macrino, I can’t remember which year the movie is set in, I can’t remember many things but let me know if I fucked up too much. And listen to fallen fruit from Lorde while reading.

♪ ♫ Pedro playlist | ✰ Index (+ fics here)

𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸

The sea was a free land. Nobody could conquer it because there wasn’t anything valuable floating around. Perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, a treasure may lay, but no man had shown the desire to dive into the deep.

The screams of the innocents are loud enough to make you feel empathy for them. But Acacius had trained you to put a mask of neutrality when leading war.

Loving the most effective soldier of Rome was your little secret. He married the daughter of an old emperor and he fought to get her privileges and prevent her from danger.

Always the insane little girl running around the palace, rambling about plants, the stars, a dream of Rome in flames. It was enough to be secretly sent to a scribe's university in Egypt for some time.

Upon your return, not much had changed, only that your father, once lead of the council, then the wise of Rome had died. Consequently, your evil stepbrothers were crowned emperors. They named you a soldier and made sure you were at every battlefront, hoping for your death.

But your general trained you well, and with months of practice, you ended up tangled up with him on his sheets in Greece.

Adultery was considered a crime in Rome and you’d give the perfect reason to your brothers to burn you like a witch. Or worse, to send you to fight at the arena of the Colosseum.

But the people who accompanied you and Acacius overseas were loyal and couldn’t care less if you had an older man fucking you each night. They only cared about you being a good soldier on the battlefront and being a good princess in Rome.

With a couple of hours left to be home again, you had your wounds checked. Conquering Numidia was one of the last African cities to be marked by the Romans and your brothers desperately wanted to own it. Only a few burns scattered across your leg and your shoulder needed stitches were the price to pay.

The wooden floor creaked and the general turned around alert but as soon as he saw you, he seemed to calm down.

Your arms wrapped around him and he immediately had to lean and kiss you. His lips tasted like devotion, peace, and lust. Acacius always grabbed your hips first. Then he moved to your waist, only to end up caressing your cheeks as his lips kept marking you his.

“What did the doctor say?” asked Acacius as he gasped for air.

“Nothing to worry about…” You nodded at him and he turned his back to you again, looking at his open windows, to the sea.

“What about yours? How is the scar on your nose?”

“It’s fine. Could’ve been worse” You walked towards him, sensing he had bathed like you as well, his hair looked perfectly curly and you couldn’t help but smile.

You could stay looking at the horizon forever, just because he was by your side. The sound of the waves calmed your mind after another day of calamities brought by war.

“For those who chose the sea, greatness waits at the end of the rainbow,” you said smiley. But the general remained stood silent.

“Those are ludicrous tells, the truth is that even war has infected the sea as well.”

“Because we chose to fight, then yes, the sea is also an arena. But if we chose not to, the way will not depict war” his eyes kept looking at you, completely fixated and even threatening, like Acacius was trying to understand how much you were judging him.

“We do this because we don’t have any other choice, princess y/n,” Acacius said, finally turning to look at you.

“We could run away, to the south, the islands of the Tyrrhenian Sea are empty, nobody wants to live there” your voice trembling, nervous and waiting for his response. He stared at nothing, probably thinking. And that made you uneasy.

“I can’t leave Rome, I have to go back to…” he said coldly.

“Your wife….Right”

Silence. Even the sea seized the sound of the waves.

“Haven’t you told her?”

“What’s there to be told? I said this was only a thing of passion and lust” You bit your tongue at his harsh words.

“Was it? Would you say that all those nights you shared your past with me meant nothing, Marcus?”

There it was. His most personal name, that one nobody used. The general got closer to you, paying attention to your face. Princesses did not have scars, but you did. He wanted to say so much, but he couldn’t. You noticed how his fingers were about to trace the pink scar on your chin but he moved away.

“I was drunk most of the nights, doping the pain” Finally your eyes crystallized.

“Do you love Lucilla, General?” His steps stopped then turned around to face you one last time.

His eyes looked doubtful but soon landed on his feet.

“… I do love her” you nodded, holding the tears and bursting out of his room in anger.

“Of course you do”

Your disappointment was so evident that Acacius was able to look at your face reddening and tears falling freely. He could only sigh and go back to pack his things and get ready to arrive in Rome again.

If only you knew…

…

The crowds of Rome couldn’t stop screaming your name. It was “PRINCESS Y/N!” and “ACACIUS!” everywhere.

You were no hero, you just wanted a peaceful life in a free Rome with the man you loved. And you can feel his hand brushing yours while his left salutes the parade of people chanting both of your names. The truth is you have no purpose but to serve your brothers and pretend that is your life.

The twins always hated you. Their mother was a wealthy woman but yours was the emperor’s true love. The twins used to pull your hair and always picked poisonous berries to give you as a meal while being toddlers. It got worse as everyone noticed you were your father’s favorite. And with him gone, you were utterly alone in the world.

Your clumsy steps made you arrive later. There was no crown for you waiting like it had been for Acacius. Geta and Caracalla were talking to him. And when you noticed the sword in the general’s neck, your face went serious.

“Do not forget the privileges we’ve made for your wife” you heard Geta saying.

“Same benefits we’re making for your whores, frater” The twins turned to look at you, quickly releasing Acacius and going straight to you. Their golden armors were a mere matter of display. They could barely wield a sword. They were bad with the bow and arrow and their reflections were poor too. They were good with numbers and shapes, but that wasn’t much in the city they shaped. One full of segregation and violence.

“Dear, soror… you’re back…” you think Geta gets closer to hug you, but his hand has raised and he gives you a sharp slap across the cheek.

“Dazzling and with such a big mouth as always” he added while you looked down, your cold hand against the reddening skin and sending him the worst look you had.

“Leave the princess alone, emperor. We should be focusing on the games ahead. We brought many slaves that some of them could fit as gladiators” Acacius said, looking affectionately at you, with disguise.

Caracalla only laughs in your face and his monkey reaches you for some seconds, but your brother pulls him away quickly. You wonder how far his disease has spread. Before leaving Rome, he was completely against seeing a doctor.

“Acacius is right, Geta. Let’s focus on the games” the twins agreed but sure, they had to humiliate you one last time.

“Alright then. But the next time I see you, dear y/n… I don’t want to see your hair down freely. You look like a whore and not the princess of Rome” he whispered loud enough to make everyone hear. But finally, the twins were gone.

“Are you alright?” The general asked but you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t need your help, Acacius. I’ve dealt with Geta and Caracalla since the day I was born. Which was before we met you” he sighed, understanding you were still mad from your last conversation. He appreciated your free hair, long and healthy despite the fires you went through while in combat.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt. It’s enough they sent you to serve in the war when you should be here, safe from the horrors”

“Go home to your wife, Acacius. Your dinner will be cold…” you spit out with a bitter tone before walking away, disappearing through the walls of the palace.

…

Standing naked, dripping, and waiting for servants to dry you up, you stare at the dress hanging in your room. It had been months since you wore a dress, used to armor and tight braids, and the sensation of the fabric felt odd.

As a kid, you wished to befriend your servants, but they remained professional and apologetically brushed away your questions. Which made you feel even more lonely while they dressed you up; placing gold jewelry and rings with quartz, spraying perfume, and cleaning your teeth. Geta and Caracalla always stole the sweets from you as kids, you thanked them because instead, it was Caracalla who ended up with a decayed tooth and a gold one as a replacement.

“You’re ready, princess,” said one of the servants and you smiled at her as a thank you.

The whole time while you and your brothers awaited to arrive at the Colosseum, you ignored them. You sneaked away as soon as you arrived. Knowing the place like the palm of your hand, you took a secret passage, in hopes to go and tend your horse to delay the entertainment as long as you could.

Gladiator fights were of no interest to you. But the people loved it. Their ignorance made you understand why they hadn’t tried to throw your brothers from the thrones.

But being months away made you forgetful of the architecture of the Colosseum, forgetful enough to end up in the cells of gladiators. Looking perplexed, you gulped nervously. There were indeed many slaves brought.

Being the only woman there made you the center of attention. Even worse when you looked exactly like a princess would do.

“Princess y/n, What are you doing here?” Asked one of the high-rank soldiers, running towards you.

“I wanted to tend my horse. It was brought here by accident” you replied, eyes wandering through the cells, noticing the people inside them were full of new people, probably from Numidia. You wonder if they recognized you.

Your eyes met the ocean-blue ones of a man, he certainly recognized you as he looked at you with anger. You gulped once again, looking away from him. But his gaze had been so strong that you didn’t hear a servant come running from the end of the hallway.

“A TIGER ESCAPED! A TIGER ESCAPED! CLOSE THE DOORS!” he screamed and soon everyone went into panic mode. You didn’t have enough time to process what he said and do anything. You stood there confused for some seconds. The violent roars of the animal could be heard closer. You looked around trying to find a weapon.

“Stay behind me, princess,” said the same soldier but you didn’t trust him so you went to grab a bow and arrow. The prisoners yelled and quickly you understood they were having a private show. They hated you for being Roman, and they thought they would see you dying.

But you wouldn’t give them that satisfaction as much as you sympathized with them.

The tiger appeared, big and imposing. The animal was angry, visibly distressed, and ready to attack.

You had killed men, but an animal was different. There was no exact description of what to do. Just pure instinct. So you try to calm yourself before the tiger spots you and the soldier, who are the only ones that remain vulnerable. The guards closed the entrances as protocol, unbeknownst that you were there. And it had been too late to use the secret passage.

You felt the same man’s eyes on you and indeed, he looked carefully at you, probably wondering what would be your next move.

“PRINCESS, STAY AWAY!” The soldier screamed when the tiger came running towards you two.

The tiger jumped and threw the soldier, roaring as it tried to kill him. So you ran away in hopes of aiming at the eye of the animal to gain time. Your hands shaking and you could feel your legs get tangled up in the fabric of your dress. But your nervousness isn’t visible as your hands work on getting ready for the arrow. You don’t have time to calculate, the tiger has already bitten the soldier’s fingers.

You hit it very near the eye and the animal roared even louder, in pain. That’s when you spotted the sword the soldier had left behind, where you threw yourself to, as the tiger had tried to attack you again. The man with blue eyes pushed the sword towards you from inside the cell and you didn’t even look to thank him, you only grabbed the weapon and rolled to the right before the animal could scratch your face and kill you.

You heard the soldier cry out in pain but you couldn’t help him. Thinking you could end the beast chasing you, you failed, sinking the sword in the ribs of the animal. You felt a deep scratch in your arm and you cried out. Anger quickly builds up as you know you had to get out of there before everyone at the coliseum found out. The tiger roared one last time and before it could throw you to the sandy ground you grabbed another arrow and directly pierced the eye of the animal. Blood starts pouring and before the tiger can try to bite and break your neck, your hands end up in its mouth.

The fangs were dangerously digging into your hands and more blood started coming. Scarlet droplets fell all over your face and you didn’t care. You screamed in pain and pulled all the strength in your body to put the pressure on your arms and hands. The men inside the cells cheered and made you even more angered. Until you had torn open the tiger’s mouth, breaking its jaw and killing the animal.

Breathe….

Pushing the dead animal aside, you sighed, resting on the dirty floor for a couple of seconds before taking a long breath and standing up.

Every man inside each cell looked at you quietly. What’s there to say?

Five guards open the main entrance and look confused at the mess, then at you tending the heavily injured soldier.

“Bring a doctor,” you tell them and they nod without asking more questions. Only one comes to your side.

“The games are about to begin, princess. I must escort you back to where you should be” Trying to catch your breath, you nodded.

“Do not say a word about this mess” The guard only bowed his head in agreement.

The least you could do was to put some bandages around the bloody hand of the soldier. Then you cleaned yourself and noticed you were a mess.

Giving that soon-to-be gladiator one last look, you tried to thank him with your eyes for what he had done to help you. He understood, giving you a cold nod.

And as you walked towards the royal platea, you wondered if that was the slave your brothers mentioned. A poet…

“Oh heavens! What happened to you?” Asked Lucilla as soon as you tried to take a seat beside Geta. Then everyone turned to look at you in horror. You noticed Acacius looked worried and he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the blood in your dress and bandaged arm.

“An accident” you replied politely at the woman, not in the mood to face the wife of your ex-lover.

“You look horrible,” said Caracalla.

“It won’t; happen again, frater” you tiredly answered, sinking onto the chair, ignoring Acacius’ eyes on you.

Soon you are surprised to see the gladiator who helped you in the arena. You don’t face him when he ends up winning and he looks at you. But you do notice Lucilla’s behavior and quickly you have connected the dots.

What an odd coincidence…

…

This time, you checked the animals first, then you made sure nobody had seen you entering the cells, but you went where the mysterious gladiator of blue eyes rested.

“Barbarian, monkey eater, slave, gladiator…. Prince of Rome, How may I call you? Hanno or Lucius?” Soon you had him inches away from your face. At that moment, you had time to appreciate his features. He was handsome and looked pretty much like he belonged to Roman royalty. But his gaze was fueled by anger and pain.

“What do you want?”

“I know Lucilla came before me. She had been waiting for you ever since I can remember” he looked at you with cold eyes and unbothered. But you knew he was curious about you too.

“What do you care? You’re the princess, you support all of this” his anger was palpable, it was part of his way of fighting you had noticed.

“Who did you lose?” You asked.

“My wife” he replied after a little silence, you nodded apologetically. He didn’t believe you.

“My father was a friend of your grandfather, part of the council. Now I realize that when he was elected emperor, he started hunting you down. I’m sorry”

“You don’t. You joined their cause and you fight proudly on the battlefront. I saw you…” you chuckle sarcastically.

“The twins you met the other day are my half-brothers. And they have tried to kill me since I was born. They sent me to war as punishment, but Acacius trained me well enough to survive each battle”

“So what? Should I pity you?”

“No, please don’t. But I don’t support any of this. I want to be a free woman and be with the man I love but I don’t think I’ll live enough to make it happen” he seemed interested in your words but pretended he wasn’t. Either way, you kept talking.

“You can’t kill Acacius. He’s leading a rebellion against my brothers” he stood quiet, trying to taste the lies in your words. But you seemed very truthful.

“Interesting that you want his head when all I’ve wanted is his heart” Through the cell his eyes sparkled and looked tentatively at you, for some seconds you got too attached to them.

“What about Macrino?” The old man had been trying to gain your brother’s trust and you thought that was suspicious.

“Don’t trust him. Stop sharing any detail that could tell him what you want or fear”

“I don’t trust you either”

“You shouldn’t,” you said, a little smile unconsciously appearing on your face. And to your surprise, Lucius smiled too. There was something about you that he found lovely. You seemed honest, but he couldn’t trust you yet. So he cursed once you had left, you had him looking forward to meet you again.

…

Across the room runs a large table filled with food. A variety of fruits, bread, lamb, duck, pork, and lots of wine. Your hands float around the punch though, reminding you of the first time you tried Egyptian beer. You ended up drunk with Marcus Acacius, laughing on the sand and soon both ended up naked. You frown, trying to forget that messy night.

“You’ve been oddly quiet these past days,” said Lucilla appearing by your side, grabbing more fruits and placing them on her plate.

“I’ve been busy”

“Have you met Macrino?” She said pointing in disguise at the man who laughs with some senators and your brothers.

“He’s been around for some time. But I don’t like him” you confessed.

“I’ve also met his poet gladiator” you added, opting to not look at her eyes because she responded very shocked.

“What?”

“He wants to kill Acacius for the death of his late wife, avenge his homeland, etcétera etcétera. I told him not to because we plan to free the city. You can’t proceed with the nonsense of taking him out of the Colosseum. Your son can’t be the alibi to start a revolution, Lucilla” you said whispering. She gasped in shock, wondering how you knew already. All while you carefully watched if any of your brothers or that nosy man were looking. Not even Acacius was looking.

You sigh, shrugging and looking at the woman.

“As soon as he came out wielding that sword in the arena, your face said everything. Then just by hearing his mysterious backstory. It was obvious, Lucilla” She didn’t say anything else, so you continued.

“I shall repeat myself once again. You won’t encourage Acacius to get your boy out of the Colosseum.”

“Why not?” you chuckled at the woman.

She was very pretty, sweet and caring. No wonder why the general loved her.

“You and your husband were lucky that I found out one of your maids heard everything and was about to spill it”

“What did you do, y/n?” She asked tired, thinking destiny was so meticulous and how you had ended up in such a position to hear and stop the maid before chaos unleashed.

“Let’s say I granted her eternal silence,” you said, Lucilla sighed, understanding. And before she could thank you, you spoke again.

“Wait till Lucius is in the arena to save him. And stop looping Acacius into this madness, you’ll make him get killed” She understood everything by the way your eyes looked at her. It shocked her, but she remained calm as you left to sit at the table. Only a woman in love spoke with a mix of venom and sweetness like that.

Taking a seat beside the General, he turned to look at you.

“What were you talking about there with Lucilla?” He asked in a very low but deep tone.

“Just gossiping about Senator Brutus and his new wife…” he knew you were lying but tried to act normal.

“Princess y/n… How true are those rumors about you breaking the jaw of a tiger?” asked a scribe, making you look away from Acacius, Lucilla returned to the table and your brother was already laughing at you for something you couldn’t hear.

“Well… it’s true, domine.” The table burst into laughter. Only the general and his wife remained silent.

“You did what?” Asked Acacius looking at you in horror.

“A princess shouldn’t be in combat” added Macrino, making you set your eyes on him.

“Oh I am a princess but I’m also a soldier, domine. And I have to thank my brothers because they made me a woman capable of wielding more than one weapon by sending me to war” The twins stopped laughing. Geta sipped from his wine and returned to you.

“That’s true. While you were there getting battle scars, Caracalla and I focused on diplomacy, ensuring we gained more land” You want to laugh at his face. The council did that, not the twins.

“Did you ensure the poor were stable by cutting from the rich? Did you do the math to financially cover each branch Rome rules, Geta? Or did you and Caracalla just point at lands on a map to get like prizes?”

“y/n…” Acacius whispered your name, trying to make you stop. The tension has risen very quickly.

“You have one task, soror. To give us India. A woman shouldn’t even be speaking on the table” Caracalla said when you were about to stand up and burst out. Marcus grabbed your hand under the table.

And immediately calmed you down.

“I’m only saying you should wisely rule this great empire. Do not let it fall…”

Soon the chatting turned into drinking after the awkward moment. When most of the men were getting drunk you returned to the table, cautiously grabbing food again. When you looked up, you encountered the image of Acacius kissing Lucilla. And it made your blood boil.

In a thick piece of fabric, you placed bread, some fruits, cheeses, and a small piece of lamb.

“What are you doing?” you nearly screamed when you noticed Acacius standing by your side.

“I’m grabbing food”

“Isn’t it a little late to eat again?” He wasn’t judging you, he never would, but he was very curious.

You would start up a little fire after seeing the painful image of him kissing his wife.

“It’s not for me…” before he could ask you you sprinted away. His blood boiled too, his hand firmly grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“What are you playing?” He asked.

“Playing? I’m definitely not”

“Is this some kind of punishment for what I told you days ago?” You sighed.

“I didn’t mean to say it was nothing. But… you have to wait, y/n” Acacius whispered and you chuckled.

“I’ve waited long enough to realize you will always be trapped in a marriage with two different kinds of love. And Lucilla will never love you like you want because her heart will always beat for that gladiator whose name was carved from the Colosseum”

You had raised your voice, Lucilla was looking at you two, and everyone else was drunk. So you violently flinched away from the man, who looked at you with a mix of pain and rage.

You leave and he immediately sends a guard to follow you in disguise.

“We must talk,” Lucilla said to Acacius, taking his hand.

He nodded.

…

What did that man have that made you feel safe? He didn’t protest when you walked inside his cell. He didn’t demand you to go away. He quietly lets you inside, talk, and explain yourself.

Two visits filled with food from your dinners were enough to let him know you had no intention of killing him. Your curiosity must’ve been too big, his eyes too attractive, and an odd vibration that warmed your chest.

To be honest, you had no idea why you came back to him. You just felt something. And you hated to admit it.

“If the emperors have made your life so difficult, Why didn’t you leave?” Lucius asked. He had eaten everything you gave him and was sitting beside you on the dirty floor.

“Every time I tried to escape, I couldn’t make it far enough. So I stayed and accepted my fate. To serve them will keep me alive ” he nodded, finally understanding why you hadn’t revealed yourself against the evil emperors.

“You didn’t come down here just to talk”

“I didn’t. I- I guess I just want to believe you’ll do something greater than I have always tried. Everyone talks about your rage but I think you quite act like a prospect hero… with honor” you revealed and wanted to cut your thong like you did with that old maid. You hated oversharing. But instead, Lucius chuckled and you frowned confused, expecting him to talk.

“You reminded me of my wife…”

“How so?”

“She said similar things to you” Most unexpectedly, you blushed. Thankfully the darkness of the cell made it unnoticeable.

“I’m trying to find a way to get you out of here before your mother does something rushed”

“I was very harsh with her”

“How couldn’t you? I would have behaved the same way. But she loves you and she doesn’t want to let you go just when she found you” Lucius smiled once again, making you remain still, unsure of what to do next. Soon you realized the sun was very close to coming up again.

How many hours had you spent talking with the rightful Prince of Rome?

“I must go, Geta and Caracalla will know I spent the night away,” you said standing up, trying to clean the mess your dress had become.

“Will I see you again before that revolution happens?” You smiled, walking back near him.

He was tall, you had to completely raise your head to face him.

“The final day of the games is closer. I’ll bring you more food and I’ll try to see what will the next encounters look like”

“Thank you. I judged you too fast…” he said and you chuckled.

“You still have time to change your mind”

You didn’t notice when he closed the distance. Just when his face had been inches away from yours, you gasped.

But neither of you two protested, your lips touched his at the same time.

Tasting the wine you brought him made you feel intoxicated. No intrusive thoughts appeared while you kissed him.

You could only taste his passion, his need to take control. But all his hidden softness too. One of his hand caressed with softness your cheek and the other grasped your neck.

“Stay safe, Lucius,” you said as you moved away from him.

…

The whole day was lost because you spent it sleeping. Only when you woke up for dinner, did you learn you had missed the games of the day. But Lucius was alive at least. You dreamt of his kiss but when you woke up you had an odd sensation in your stomach. Confusion filled you and then… ache.

As you brushed your hair, you got lost looking at a red candle. It had been a present from your father some years ago. A red candle to be lit whenever you felt like you needed to feel love, he had said.

The wise emperor had wished to see his daughter with her true love. Just like had always wanted but couldn’t.

There was a broad shadow that you spotted through the mirror. It made you pull out a silver knife and point a the figure.

Soon the cape was removed and you sighed but also gasped shocked to see Acacius standing in the middle of your room.

“What are you doing here?” You asked worriedly, standing up and hurrying to close your windows.

“You had spent all these past nights in the Colosseum,” he said, sounding a little angered.

“Now you’re spying on me, Acacius?” He sighed exasperated.

“What are you doing with that gladiator?”

“What do you care?” You asked with defiance.

“He’s going to get you in trouble, princess y/n” Your eyes pierced his, but you decided to move away, leaning against the towers of your bed.

“He deserves more. And not only him, but every slave we brought and all those we left in ruins” you admitted, looking at the fire of the candle.

“They do, but it’s not our duty, at least not yet. We need to focus on the plan we have…” you wanted to roll your eyes and yell at him, his wife could’ve ruined everything and he was only paying attention to you.

Only paying attention to you?

“Stop going to see that man”

“His name is Hanno and I’ll visit whenever I desire” you spit out with bitterness and you knew he was angry. Acacius clenched his jaw and sighed once again. Under his cape rested his armor, his hair messy, and his scars fading.

“Why? Because he makes you feel things?”

You remained quiet. As simple as it was, his question took you by surprise.

“I-… I don’t know. I had no reason to go back to him, but I did it anyway”

“Oh heavens, y/n. Don’t you see that I’ve always told you to wait? Because I’m counting every golden coin I have to give you that house on the island you always point at. To leave Rome with you…”

It took you on a curve. You didn’t know what to say, only the tears wanted to be present.

His hands found your hips and his lips seek yours. Sometimes, while being overseas, you two would argue. And the only cure was to be silent and kiss after a day of ignoring each other.

This time feels different. You feel so confused.

His forehead softly bumped yours and you two stayed like that for some time.

“If you had those ideas to fulfill with me. Why do you remain married, Marcus?” He smiled.

“That’s different, satis. I was set to marry when you were very young. I just can’t undo it.”

“Why do I feel like you’re only doing this because you feel pressured?”

“It’s not like that”

“Either way you wouldn’t tell me that you love me. So it’s in vane…”

“BUT I DO LOVE YOU!”

You frowned, biting the inside of your cheek. For a moment you thought you could only hear how your heartbeats slowly thumped. What you wanted to hear for years had been delivered. It felt good, even right to hear it. And when you were about to believe it, something clicked.

“No, Marcus. You just realized you hate the idea of me falling in love with someone else. Even worse when it’s the son of your wife”

Without the strength to say anything else, you moved away. Your feet quickly dragged you out of your room, and then out of the palace.

You walked through the streets of Rome, seeing all the hunger, poverty, the lack of love from the government.

By midnight you arrived at the shore. The warm sand cured your bolting mind.

There was an imminent battle coming up. You had a place in the rebellion. And yet you had to be only thinking in two men. Who had made a mess of you in a matter of days.

You had nothing with any of them. It was just the causality of what they made you feel.

Lucius made you feel like the woman you would’ve been if you had escaped Rome years ago.

Acacius made you feel adored like the woman you turned into wasn’t as bad as you thought. He believed in you.

But it wasn’t enough. None of them were enough. Your mind was spiraling and you realized you were sobbing in the middle of the dark. You can hear and faintly distinguish the sea. You had cracked, like the fallen fruit every poet and philosopher always mentioned.

And even when you knew you had to only focus on the war, you still didn’t know what to do. You barely knew the men that had you losing it.

_________________________

Taglist: @stargirl-mayaa @willowpains @nicolebarnes

I don’t love the ending but I genuinely don’t know who should reader end up with. PLEASE SEND IDEAS!!

[razorblade180]

Ekko Location

Ekko:*thousand yard stare*….

Caitlyn:(Should I tell him? No, false hope doesn’t do any good. Especially in this case.) *looks left*

Giant mural of Jinx

Caitlyn:….Ekko?

Ekko:What could you possibly want after everything?

Caitlyn:Hopefully, an olive branch. I have to tell you something but you have to promise to not get your hopes up, or tell Vi. This is something I’m trusting with you specifically.

Ekko:And how in the world did I get such an honor?

Caitlyn:Because if it wasn’t for one act of kindness, I’d be in your shoes right now.

Ekko:…What do you have to tell me?

xxxxxx

One month later. Somewhere across the water, in a nice quaint land known for its view of the ocean and mountains, a cloaked girl bobs her head to music as she roams the back alleys streets without a care in her mind.

Jinx: 🎶Do you ever wanna catch me?Right now I'm feeling ignored. *turns corner*

Jinx:So can you try a little harder? I'm really getting bor-

Ekko:*cloaked* !?….

Jinx:…..(Just when I thought I’ve wrangled all the voices. This is a low blow, me.) *closes eyes* (Just gonna breathe in and-)

Ekko:*grabs her wrist*

Jinx’s eyes immediately shoot open to see him right in front of her. She starts looking back, forth, everywhere; her thoughts trying to rationalize this moment because what do you mean he’s real!?

Jinx:Y- wha- how? How!? Fuck everything else. How?

Ekko:Let’s just say someone offered me a little hope. Honestly it was more like wishful thinking.

Jinx:Ekko, that’s not a “how” at all! You left Zaun to chase wishful thinking? That’s alone is crazy, but not as crazy as you actually finding me! I could’ve gone in any direction and stopped anywhere yet somehow you’re right here searching in the correct city? Gasps Did you put something in me?!

Ekko:What? No! Jinx, we used to spend literal hours talking about all the places we wanted go; the sight ls you wanted to see. Sometimes you rambled so much I never got a word in to say mine!

Jinx:So you’re telling you just remembered all that ramble and started flying to the places I yapped about!? Who the heck remembers stuff like that!?

Ekko:Me!! Since when have I ever forgotten anything!? Especially stuff about you!?

The girl was too stunned to speak. Ekko told no lies and he had a point, however, what the hell? How was she supposed to respond to that? She told absolutely nobody that she was leaving and left no trace, yet somehow wishful thinking from probably the world’s most annoying enforcer and childhood memories was enough for Ekko to find her in a little over a month. Jinx could only squint at him in disbelief. Sure, she could definitely break free of grip and make a break for it, yet this moment only gave her the strength to exhale tiredly before him.

Jinx:Anyone else know?

Ekko:Nope. You think people have time to chase hypotheticals?

Jinx:So you just left??

Ekko:Told them I needed some air. Had to move quickly. You don’t exactly stay in one place for long.

Jinx:…..Alright. Out with it. I know you have some rehearsed lecture and rant you’ve prepared in case you actually somehow weren’t crazy and found m-

Ekko:*hugs her* I can tell at you later.

Jinx:You really just might be crazier than me.

Her entire body relaxed as she finally put her arms around him. Despite all odds, he really was right here. Leave it the Boy Savior to yet again foil her schemes.

Jinx:At this point I should call you Ekko Location or something.

Ekko:I this point, I should put a fucking bell on you.

Jinx:I’d still get away.

Ekko:And I’d find you again.

Jinx:Heh, yeah. *hugs tightly* You would, wouldn’t you?

[littlelamy]

I just saw ‘’a walk to remember’’ and it came a lil request idea (but with a happy ending and fluff, ain’t nobody ready for heartbreak after obx4). Maybe Kook!Reader suffers with some sickness that’s manageable. She goes on a few dates with Rafe and it’s that sweet wholesome pinning. Though for her most recent doctor appointment where she went for a scan, she learns that she doesn’t have much time to live (false alarm unknown to her: doctors fucked up with the scan, she is completely fine) and when Rafe makes a heartfelt confession wanting to make things serious, she has to tell him there is no point and IT’S ALL ANGSTY and Rafe is bawling mess

a/n: thank you for requesting! it’s a bit long 🙃, hope you like it 💗!!

the summer air clung to the coast like a warm blanket, carrying the scent of salt and honeysuckle as you walked into the country club. it was one of those evenings where the world seemed too quiet, like it was holding its breath. you hadn’t planned to stay long. a drink, a few polite hellos, and you’d leave.

but then he walked in.

rafe cameron.

you’d seen him before, of course. kildare wasn’t that big, and rafe’s reputation preceded him—wild, confident, a little dangerous. he was the guy everyone talked about, the one your parents didn’t want you anywhere near.

but when his eyes found yours that night, something changed.

he smiled. not his usual cocky, smug grin, but something softer. something meant just for you.

and when he crossed the room, leaned on the bar beside you, and said, “what’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?”—you didn’t brush him off like you might’ve done with someone else.

instead, you smiled back.

the first few dates were simple, easy. a mix of late-night drives, quiet beach picnics, and stargazing. it wasn’t anything extraordinary, but somehow, with rafe, even the most ordinary moments felt different.

he wasn’t what you’d expected.

sure, he had that edge, that playful arrogance that made him irresistible. but he was also thoughtful. he remembered how you took your coffee after just one date, texted you goodnight even when he was out with his friends, and noticed the little things—like the way you twisted your ring when you were nervous.

and you found yourself looking forward to every moment you spent with him.

but underneath the easy laughter and quiet moments, there was a weight pressing on your chest. something you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much you wanted to.

your sickness wasn’t new. you’d lived with it for years, managing it like an unwelcome guest. it wasn’t life-threatening, or so you thought—it was just… a part of you.

but two weeks ago, everything had shifted.

you’d gone in for a routine scan, expecting the usual reassurances. instead, your doctor’s expression had been grim, his words careful and clinical as he explained the results.

the prognosis wasn’t good.

“limited time.” that’s what he’d said, as if those two words could sum up everything you were feeling.

you’d walked out of that office in a daze, the world around you moving too fast and too slow all at once.

you hadn’t told anyone. not yet. how could you?

how were you supposed to look someone in the eye and tell them your days were numbered?

when you saw rafe again, the weight in your chest felt heavier.

he greeted you with that same, easy smile, pulling you into a hug that felt like coming home.

“missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

“missed you too,” you whispered back, the words catching in your throat.

the two of you spent the evening on the porch at tannyhill, a bottle of wine between you. the night was quiet, the only sound the gentle hum of cicadas in the distance.

rafe was unusually still, his fingers tracing slow circles on your knee.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

“yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. instead, he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours.

“can i tell you something?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

you turned to him, your chest tightening. “of course.”

he hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“i know we haven’t been doing this for long,” he started, his gaze fixed on your joined hands. “but i really like you. like, really like you.”

your heart clenched painfully.

“i don’t want this to be just casual,” he continued, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his expression. “i want to be with you. for real.”

tears blurred your vision, and you looked away, your chest aching with the weight of what you had to say.

“rafe…”

“what?” he asked, leaning closer. “what’s wrong?”

you shook your head, pulling your hand from his as you stood.

“we can’t,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

his brow furrowed, confusion and hurt flashing across his face. “what do you mean, ‘we can’t’? why not?”

“because…” you wrapped your arms around yourself, as if that would somehow keep you from falling apart. “because of me.”

“what does that mean?” he pressed, standing now too.

you took a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat. “i don’t have much time,” you finally managed, your voice breaking.

the silence that followed was deafening.

“what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

you couldn’t look at him. “the doctors… they said…” you trailed off, shaking your head. “it doesn’t matter.”

“doesn’t matter?” he repeated, his voice rising. “how can you say that? of course, it matters!”

“it doesn’t change anything,” you said, turning away from him.

“like hell it doesn’t,” he snapped, grabbing your arm and turning you to face him. “we’ll get another opinion. hell, i’ll fly you anywhere—just tell me what we need to do.”

“there’s nothing you can do,” you said, your voice trembling.

“that’s not true,” he argued, his tone desperate now. “we’ll fix this.”

you shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “you don’t get it, rafe. you can’t fix this. no one can.”

he stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to process your words. then, without warning, he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it was almost hard to breathe.

“i’m not giving up on you,” he whispered fiercely.

and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe him.

it was two days later when your phone rang.

you almost didn’t answer it, too drained to face whatever news was on the other end. but something told you to pick up.

“ms. y/l/n?” the voice on the other end said. “this is dr. patel. we’ve reviewed your scan results, and there’s been a mistake.”

your heart stopped. “a mistake?”

“yes,” the doctor confirmed. “the results were mixed up with another patient’s. your condition hasn’t progressed. you’re completely fine.”

fine.

the word echoed in your mind, over and over, as relief and disbelief and anger surged through you all at once.

“are you sure?” you asked, your voice shaking.

“yes,” the doctor assured you. “we deeply regret the error and the distress it’s caused.”

you hung up without another word, the phone slipping from your hand as you stared blankly ahead.

you were fine.

but rafe didn’t know that.

telling him wasn’t easy.

when you showed up at tannyhill, he was waiting for you on the porch, his face drawn with exhaustion.

“hey,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms the moment you stepped through the door.

“hey,” you murmured, burying your face in his chest.

he held you for a long moment, neither of you saying anything. then he pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studied your face.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice tentative.

you nodded, your throat tightening. “there’s something i need to tell you.”

his brow furrowed. “what is it?”

you took a deep breath, your fingers twisting the hem of your shirt.

“the scan…” you hesitated, your heart pounding. “it was wrong.”

his eyes widened. “what?”

“the results were mixed up,” you explained, tears streaming down your cheeks. “i’m fine, rafe. i’m fine.”

for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process your words. then, without warning, he let out a shaky laugh, pulling you into his arms again.

“thank god,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

you clung to him, the relief in his embrace overwhelming.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his chest.

“don’t,” he said firmly, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands. “don’t apologize, baby.”

and when he kissed you, it felt like the first breath after drowning—a promise that everything would be okay.

because it would.

with rafe by your side, you knew it would.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[natasha-in-space]

⋆˚Longing For You˚⋆

Pairing: Saeyoung/gn!reader.

Summary: You were perfectly aware that it wouldn't be simple or even safe to be with Saeyoung as your lifelong partner. You fully accepted it. If it meant being by his side, you were more than willing to face all kinds of dangerous odds life threw your way. You never realized that Saeyoung couldn't bear the weight of your devotion to him.

Notes: 'better to be tragically in love than to have not loved at all' promt for @brighteststar707! Post-divorce angst and hurt-comfort. Implied unhealthy alcohol consumption (reader thinks of drinking as a coping mechanism but never fully commits to it). Both reader and Saeyoung need a hug.

AO3 Link - 5.2k words.

Credit: Divider by @/saradika-graphics.

Happily ever afters are a thing of fiction. You always knew that, on some level. You weren't an innocent fool, treating life as if it was a carefree fairytale.

But this was just too cruel. 

With your head resting in your arms and the entire weight of the world pressing down on you, you let out a deep sigh. The silence of your apartment felt especially draining today, seeping straight into your bones and constantly reminding you of just how utterly lonely and miserable you were. On the table slightly off to the side rested unopened bottles of vodka and tequila that you had purchased earlier today, the glass glistening almost mockingly under the ceiling lights.

Even though you bought them on a whim, you ultimately couldn't bring yourself to drink. A part of you was frustrated at that. What precisely was stopping you, after all? Nothing. 

Or, rather... nobody. 

Your unusually high levels of moping today had a valid reason. Though you wished you wouldn't care nearly as much, or even remember it for that matter. That's why you stocked up on alcohol in the first place. To become so inebriated that you'd forget. Hopefully. 

You and Saeyoung would be celebrating your first wedding anniversary today. Really, you didn't care all that much about marriage as a whole. What bothered you so much was what it stood for. Memories of a happier time that was so recent, yet felt so painfully alien to you now. Even after several months, he continued to occupy all of your thoughts. His smiles, his laughter, the red of his hair, his scent. Everything. 

You couldn't stop thinking about him. And it hurt. Nothing in the world hurt as much as this did. Like there was a gaping hole left inside you, ripped into you forcefully and unceremoniously, with no regard for the suffering it would inflict on you. Is that what Saeran meant back when he was just brought into the bunker...? You remember him saying something similar... Feeling like a half of him was missing. It's funny how life goes. Your hands moved on their own as they haphazardly grabbed at the bottle that was closest to you and ripped the cap open, hastily bringing it up to your lips. There was no enjoyment in the burning liquid trickling down your throat as you took three large gulps, almost choking as a result. It simply felt repulsive, if anything. You hadn't drunk much ever since you met Saeyoung. Nothing more than a single fruity cocktail on a romantic date night or perhaps a cup of champagne at the RFA event.

You knew Saeyoung wouldn't approve if you did, after all. Although he probably wouldn't have stopped you. He was considered of you like that. 

Immediately after you slammed the bottle back down, the hard sound reverberated throughout the apartment, followed by a dry cough. You felt no desire to continue. If anything, you just felt even more pathetic and gross about yourself, bitter tears stinging your eyes as you swallowed down the lump in your throat.

Drinking yourself to death over your ex husband. It was almost humiliating. This was definitely a rock bottom, if you ever saw one.

But it wasn't supposed to be like this. You were meant to work together as a team and support one another no matter how risky things got.

He was supposed to trust you.

And you didn't know how to live with the fact that he didn't. 

You didn't hate Saeyoung. God knows you couldn't hate him even if you tried. Your heart yearned for him with the same warm tenderness it did back in Rika's apartment all those years ago. There was a part of you that wanted to hate him. That would make everything so much easier. You could rant to a lovely bartender about your deadbeat husband, get intoxicated without any guilt holding you back, and possibly even find a handsome stranger to spend a lousy night with.

You couldn't do that, though. You couldn't even finish a bottle of tequila for heaven's sake. 

Your separation with Saeyoung was as out of the ordinary as every step you have made with him. All of you knew that his father would become a real threat to you one day. It was just a matter of time. You thought you were prepared for that day to come. However, it turns out that none of you were really prepared for that day to come. Maybe that's because you underestimated just how low that man was willing to sink to ensure that nothing and nobody would sully his good image. In the end, Saeyoung's ingrained paranoia wasn't enough to keep you out of harm's way. Maybe that's what broke you apart. That he wasn't enough. That's what he likely felt, anyway.

Saejoong captured Saeran without as much as a warning, which none of you could have predicted. And none of you expected him to dangle Saeran's life in front of you like a carrot on a stick. 

Saeyoung has never looked as terrified as he did in that moment, not even the day he recognized Saeran in Unknown. You'll remember that look of sheer, primal terror painted over his face as white as a sheet until the day you die. It felt like the weight of the entire universe was falling on you at once when you got that initial transmission from that monster of a man. What could you do to help Saeyoung at that very moment? You had no other option except to be his rock and stick with him through it all. You were happy to do that for him. You were a team, after all.

He took a bullet for Saeran, so why is it that you doing the same for him somehow turned out to be the end for your relationship? 

Unconsciously, you reached up to touch the area where the bullet scar has now resigned, imbedded in your left shoulder. A timeless reminder of you saving Saeyoung's life and dooming your happy relationship simultaneously. That was so painfully ironic. You knew he would feel guilty about it. You knew he would be stressed, scared, shaken. Maybe it's because he was left alone with his thoughts for too long. Both you and Saeran hurt and unconscious in hospital beds, while all he could do was wait and pray for the better. He probably felt like he failed you. That his presence in your life has only caused you suffering and peril. And no one was there for him to quell those dark thoughts of his in time.

In the end, you'll never know what truly prompted him to end things between you. All you knew were those sad, guilty eyes refusing to even look at you, and the tremble in his voice, almost like he would break down in tears from even the smallest pushback from you. Perhaps that's why you were also utterly powerless. You were both so stressed, scared, and hurt, each in your own way. And at the time, a part of you thought that would be for the better. For him to focus on Saeran without having to feel guilty every time he saw your bandaged shoulder. 

Naturally, you quickly regretted that choice. But it was too late. And now, you were here. On a day that should have been filled with love and joy, you instead find yourself alone in your empty apartment with just two bottles of booze to keep you company. Knowing Saeyoung, he'd probably plan some elaborate game for you to play. Of course, with him as the final reward. Or maybe he would go the romantic route and take you out somewhere remote to see the stars. Maybe you could dance together beneath the wide night sky before sharing a tender kiss under the stars to cap off the evening.

...Those thoughts didn't help you much right now, if at all. Quite the opposite, actually. You weren't really drunk. Not on alcohol, at least. Even though you weren't as seasoned as Jumin, you wouldn't get wasted after three gulps. But you were certainly drunk on your feelings of heartbreak. And maybe that was plenty to get you drunk in a whole new way.

When your fingers reached into your pocket and took out your phone, you didn't think. You scrolled aimlessly until you came across the familiar red of his hair. You didn't really expect him to pick up. You weren't certain that you wanted him to pick up at all. And yet...

"MC?" 

He does.

After hearing his voice say your name, there was a prolonged period of deafening silence. You didn't know what to say. You could only guess that you seemed strange to him right now, yet you also couldn't really bring yourself to care. Once a minute or two has passed, his voice rang out in your ear again, not cold or angry. Worried. 

"MC?" He reiterated, this time with greater urgency. It made another lump form in your throat, making it hard to breathe. He probably thought you were in danger, you were just worrying him without good reason to do so. "MC, is everything alright? Do you need h-"

"-Do you know what today is?" 

Before you had a chance to reconsider, the question already escaped your chapped lips. But you didn't dare to try and take it back. You had no desire to. Even as another long moment of heavy silence fell over you, this one more pronounced than the ones before it.

Given everything that had transpired between you two, you could only assume that Saeyoung was probably taken aback by your sudden call, and that's putting it lightly. The tone of your voice made it clear that you were not exactly in your best state of mind. There was an unsaid, unbroken bond between you that neither of you could ever fully get rid of, even though you had left the bunker weeks before. You had no doubt he knew that you were referring to your would-be anniversary, but he didn't seem know what to say. You didn't blame him. You wouldn't really know what to say to that, either.

"...Of course I know what day it is," Saeyoung murmured after that hefty pause. "Is... that why you called?"

He didn't sound annoyed with you, at least you didn't think so. Either way, you were suddenly sweating like a sinner in church, shifting uncomfortable on your stool and licking your lips.

His response made you laugh uneasily while you stared up at your apartment's ceiling. You felt your heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and sadness, but it was mostly the latter. You didn't know or care if it was your lovesickness for him or the alcohol that was clouding your judgment.

“It would’ve been our first marriage anniversary, you know that? We would’ve been married for a whole year. How crazy is that?” You said softly, but there was more to it than that. It was impossible to ignore the almost pleading and desperate undertones seeping through into your voice. You weren't really attempting to disguise it, anyways. You wanted to know that you weren't the only one losing your mind here. That he was concerned for you. That he cared.

The mere mention of your anniversary caused your breath to catch in your throat, making you feel a wave of mixed emotions. Anger, regret, nostalgia - all of them hit you over the head like a ton of bricks. Given that you were essentially baiting him with mentions to your shared past, you could only assume that Saeyoung was well aware of your intentions here. You knew you weren't being very fair to him right now. He must be struggling as well. It's not right for you to demand for his attention like this.

But despite your genuine desire to control your selfish urges, you were unable to do so.

It was a fundamental aspect of your relationship with him, funnily enough. You never knew how to back off.

"MC..." he started, your name practically strangled from his lips. It hurt you to hear him murmur it like that. As if just mentioning you by name was heartbreaking for him. "Don't do this. It's over. There's no point in dwelling on what could have been. You'll just... hurt yourself."

On a whim, you took another gulp from the bottle and immediately regretted it, spitting some of it back out as you exhaled and ran your fingers over your untidy, uncombed hair. Not necessarily because you couldn't stomach your alcohol, but because it felt so utterly wrong to drink like this with him on the line. You were such a mess, God. A complete and utter mess. This mixture of emotions just made you more obstinate and determined, and you couldn't help but question whether things would have been any different at all if you were actually intoxicated. So much for keeping to yourself and not bothering anyone with your problems. 

“There is a point. We were good, you and me. The divorce didn’t have to happen, you know,” you groaned with a slight bitterness in your voice. “It’s your damn father, it’s always your damn father and this unfair world that keeps getting in the way and hurting us. Why couldn’t you understand that, huh? That none of that was your fault?”

You decided to move away from the table - and the alcohol - and sit on your couch, leaning your head back, looking up at the ceiling. Your mind seemed scattered at best, and your eyes were a little off-focus. There was another long beat of silence on the other end of the line, and a part of you wondered if he just hang up on you. You wouldn't blame him. However, your heart pounded in your chest as you heard him take a deep, tremulous breath.

You wished he was here. 

"MC, I-"

“Listen,” your words were still shaky as you spoke. “Can you… can you come over? I just… I just need to talk to you. Please.”

Your grip on the phone tightened, your knuckles turning white from the tension in your joints. You were well aware that your remarks most likely resonated with him, possibly even evoking the same defensiveness and dread that had led the two of you to this very moment. He knew you were right, after all. He could run from it and deny it all he wanted, but you knew him. You knew that, deep down, he must have understood that it was his father that was to blame for all the pain inflicted on those he loved. Not Saeyoung himself. Never Saeyoung. Your downfall was largely due to the outside factors completely out of your control. But he was too stubborn and selfless to admit it.

"I'm not coming over, MC," he said through gritted teeth. "We agreed to keep our distance. And you're... You're better off without me, for God's sake."

You let out a frustrated grunt, steadfastly refusing to give up on this. You were in too deep already. You always had a difficult time accepting no as an answer, especially when it came to Saeyoung. The evident tremor in his voice simply made you feel even more determined to keep pushing. He wasn't fooling anyone. 

“I don’t care that you think I'm 'better off' without you. I just… I just want to see you. It’s been a month, and I miss you,” Your voice took on an even more pleading tone as you spoke. If there was any dignity left in you, it just flew straight out the window. You were willing to beg if you need to. “It’s our anniversary, Saeyoung. I won’t be able to handle it alone. Please.”

He gave another lengthy sigh at your insistence. Pain of separation and longing welled up inside you as you spoke, sending a sharp pang straight through your chest. No matter how hard you tried, you could no longer deny it. You felt the same way about him as you did before. And it was painful to keep these feelings suppressed as though they were wrong. Especially when you knew they were mutual.

"Damn it," he hissed, cursing to himself. You knew full well that you would likely regret this when you had more clarity. But right now, you didn't care one bit. You simply awaited the verdict with bated breath. Finally, you heard him taking a breath, a muffled sound similar to the creaking of a chair being heard in the background. "...I'll be there in 30 minutes."

Relief and excitement washed over you as your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You couldn't believe it, but you somehow, by some miracle, you managed to persuade him to come over. However, you surmised that he was most likely only acting out of concern for you. You were a mess. You only wanted to see him again, regardless of his intentions. As you brushed over your hair again, a small, nervous smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice growing quieter and softer as desperation gave way to anxious hopefulness. “I'll be waiting. And, uh... don't hang up. Please.”

You were simply too afraid of having false hope on your hands, even though that plea sounded foolish. You needed him to come. 

"...Alright."

You attempted to try and relax while you awaited his arrival. You rose to your feet with some difficulty, and stumbled slightly as you made your way over to the bathroom. You sprayed your face with cold water in an attempt to hopefully pull yourself together. You inspected your reflection in the mirror. The state of your appearance was disheveled, messy, and unkempt. To put it mildly, that is. You hadn't been showering in days, and the deep bags under your eyes were a dead giveaway of just how little sleep you had gotten lately. But as long as he was coming over, you didn't give a damn.

While you didn't talk much with each other except for some very short exchanges, you still could hear the sound of Saeyoung driving through the phone speaker, a sound that was in equal measure calming and anxiety-inducing, considering the circumstances. You could hear him stumble around as he got into his car, the sound being a mixture of worry and amusement on your end. You hoped he wouldn't drive carelessly. A part of you questioned whether this was a wise decision at all. If you should maybe just apologize and tell him to go back home and not trouble himself. It would probably simply hurt him to see you. But you also knew that you were already too deep into this to back out now. 

Saeyoung had no trouble parking his car outside your apartment. After all, you knew all too well what an impressive driver he was. And he was familiar with every corner of your apartment building. Not that you made much of an effort to distance yourself from him. However, looking back, that might have been more advantageous for you both. You could hear him pausing momentarily, probably to calm down, mentally prepare himself for what was to come. You followed suit. Though, it didn't really work. He went up the stairs and knocked firmly on the door of your apartment, causing all of your nerve endings to tingle with nervous excitement.

As you answered the knock on your door, your heart began to race once more. You hurried towards it, almost tripping over your own feet, and opened it, your eyes widening as you saw him standing there. Real. You managed to catch yourself on the door frame after unintentionally tripping a little while standing. You were silent for a moment, your eyes roaming over him, taking in his presence. He looked the same as always. Red, unkept hair you loved so much, striped glasses fitting perfectly on his nose, casual and comfy attire, the silver cross. You had to actively stop yourself before you would fall into him the way you typically did when you were lost because he looked that painstakingly familiar to you.

Instead, you stepped back and gestured for him to enter, swallowing down your emotions. 

"You actually came..."

The sight of him made your heart ache with longing. The longer you looked looked him, the more changes your eyes could see. He wasn't as familiar as you initially believed. He looked... unkept, tired, vulnerable. Not at all the chaotically put together man you remembered from your relationship. His eyes were dull, his skin paler than you remembered, clothes just like tad more wrinkled than you were used to. Saeyoung's fists were clinched, as if he was resisting the need to speak or act upon something. You hoped he wanted to touch you. To hold you. Just as much as you wanted to hold him. However, you were way too afraid of him leaving again to even attempt to express that desire out loud. As he entered, his movements were stiff and tense. You didn't like seeing him like this. Not with you.

"You asked me to," he mumbled his words in a somewhat gruff tone, observing the obvious messiness of your apartment. Damn it, you didn't even try to clean up since you were so frantic. He probably saw the bottles. You weren't actually intoxicated, though. Still, it left a bitter taste in your mouth to think of him seeing you like this. He probably just felt worse about himself now.

Great job, MC.

As you closed the door behind him, you let out a dry laugh. The sound bounced through the dimly lit apartment, and you stumbled slightly as you attempted to get back on your feet, the overwhelming feelings from his presence quite literally making you feel weak in the knees. You walked back to the couch and settled down on it, keeping your gaze fixed on him the entire time, as if you were terrified that if you looked away, he would vanish like a mirage.

"Yeah, I did," you admitted with a slight shaky voice. "Come sit down, will you?" 

You rubbed the cushion and pointed to the empty spot on the couch next you. You scooted closer to him as he made his way over to the couch and sat down next to you. The heat emanating from his body was so strong you could feel it even without directly touching him, the familiar scent of his cologne filling your nostrils and making your insides flutter. Orange and lavender. It was a cologne that you gave him as a Christmas present a year ago. He was still using it. You were both pleased and saddened by the thought. Following your first impulse without a second thought, you reached out and grasped at his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. As you put your hand in his, a flood of memories of your wedding day and your happier moments together swept over you.

Saeyoung flinched at the contact, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was feeling the same electric current the moment his skin touched yours. As you intertwined your fingers together, the harsh physical reminder of everything you had lost made your heart throb. You could feel his body heat through his clothes, and the closeness made all the walls you had built up inside you start to crumble. They weren't really all that strong in the first place.

Saeyoung didn't pull away.

"...I missed you," you confessed softly, almost whispering.

"MC..." he began with a slight crack in his voice. His eyes were glued to the wall ahead of him as he cleared his throat. His fingers twitches in your grasp. "We can't keep doing this, you know. We agreed-"

"I know what we agreed on," you interjected before he could finish, your hand squeezing his own in a silent attempt to get him to just look at you. "But I-" 

You squeezed your eyes shut and drew a trembling breath.

"I can't keep going like this, Saeyoung." 

The words left you in a weak whisper, only audible due to the suffocating silence of your apartment this late in the night. Panic struck when you felt him begin to move to remove his hand away from yours. You clung to him, what you said next coming out in a hurried, shaky ramble that grew louder and more emotional the longer you spoke, all the pent-up feelings seeping into your voice with no means for you to stop it.

"I know you blame yourself, and I know seeing me get hurt for you was probably like living through your worst nightmare, and I'm sorry you had to go through something that painful and scary all alone, but-" You took a deep breath. "-But it's no reason for you to blame yourself for everything that happened! It's not your fault I got hurt! It's not even your fault that Saeran got hurt!" 

The quiet felt even heavier after your outburst, almost physically weighing you down due to how charged and stagnant the air suddenly felt. The silence was thick with tension of mutual repressed emotions, each breath feeling almost painful in your lungs. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, clearly trying to contain a flood of his own hidden feelings. Though, you wished for the opposite. You wished for him to be honest with you once more and look you directly in the eyes while doing so. Even if it was ugly or nonsensical, or even downright unfair to you. You just wished for you both to stop hiding things for one another's sake.

"...Not my fault?" He repeated, and the lingering animosity in his voice was obvious even if you couldn't see his face. It was a heavy sound, despite the quiet volume with which his words were spoken. He gave a short, stifled laugh and shook his head. Though it was devoid of any joy or mirth you were used to. You loved hearing Saeyoung laugh, but not like this. This was a sharp, hollow sound. Not one filled with joy and happiness, as it should be. Finally, he turned to look at you, his eyes angry and hard. Not at you, though. You knew this ire was only ever directed at himself. You secretly hoped that, for once, he would be upset with you instead of silently tearing himself down again. That would make it less painful to witness. "MC, you almost died because of me. By the time we were at the hospital, you lost so much blood, you were in critical condition." 

Your heart squeezed in your chest. You knew what you were going to say to that. And you knew he wouldn't want to hear it. But you said it anyway.

"...You know I would've taken that bullet for you a 100 times over again if I had to. I do not regret protecting the man I love." 

You could almost see the moment he broke, which was both horrible and relieving at the same time. He sucked in a shaky breath, one that bordered on a sob, and then he grabbed at your shoulders, his fingers digging into your clothes tightly, almost painfully. 

"You would, wouldn't you? Of course you fucking would. And what would happen next, huh? How do you think I am supposed to live with myself, knowing that the one person in this entire god-forsaken world that has believed in me and loved me when all I wanted was to give up on myself, died because I couldn't protect them? Because I failed to keep them safe from harm after all they've done for me!?" He shook you a little, an action that was probably more emotional than purposeful on his part, like he was trying to literally shake some sense into you. "Do you have any idea how terrifying it was-? To sit there, with blood of two people I love and care for the most all over me!? Not knowing if- if..." 

And the tears came. Two thin streaks of clear moisture sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto your lap with silent weight of restrained hurt finally set free. You quickly became aware that you were crying now as well, your own silent, hurt tears pouring down your cheeks.

"And then, when you finally woke up, you just- smiled at me. Like nothing was wrong at all! Like you weren't just on the brink of death because of me. Do you have any idea how that felt to me?" He's not shouting anymore, previous frustration and ire replaced with broken sorrow and guilt. Which was worst for your hurting heart was a mystery to you. He shook his head again, a shaky breath leaving him. "You think I couldn't tell that you were in pain? That you were just putting on a brave face for me? I hated you throwing your life away for me like that. I don't deserve it. Not me." 

Your palm barely touched the softness of his shirt when you laid a hand over his chest. You could feel the rapid raise and fall of his chest, the trembling in his body. There was a part of you that wanted to just jump right in and hug him. But you didn't. Not quite yet.

"...I'm sorry I didn't think how my actions would make you feel, Saeyoung. I wanted you to not blame yourself for what happened, but... instead, I just made you blame yourself even more by lying to you. I should have been honest with you. Maybe if I relied on you a bit more, you wouldn't feel so responsible for my pain." With your next words, your voice hardened as you gulped. "-But I'm not sorry for keeping you safe. You might not like hearing it, but... if I was to truly die on that day, I would die with no regrets." 

"MC..." 

Your name came out like a broken plea from his lips, and the sound tugged at your heart even more. You raised your eyes to meet his own, so clouded with undeserved pain and guilt. You were not sure if you could fix it anymore, if you could take away all that pain he inflicted onto himself. However, you knew one thing.

"No matter how much it hurts, be it this bullet wound, or you leaving me with only a half of my heart to live with, I don't regret meeting you and loving you. I'll never regret it. Not in life, not in death. I want you to know that." 

When you finally drew Saeyoung into your arms, his body slumped into you with no resistance, his hands gripping the back of your shirt firmly as his body trembled with weeping sobs. And even as you cried and mourned into his shoulder in turn, there were no regrets tearing at your heart. Only pain for the man you loved and his sorrow. 

While Saeyoung may have regretted everything, you regretted nothing. 

All you could hope for was that he would come to forgive himself anew.

"...My only regret is letting you walk away, when we promised to shoulder our burdens together," you whispered into his hair as you turned to press your lips to his temple. His hold on you became more and more firm, almost crushing. Hungry. You welcomed that hunger with open arms.

"I'm the one who broke that promise." 

You hesitated.

"Then we'll rebuild that promise anew. If you'll have me." 

[furiousgoldfish]

I want to talk about a situation that happened when I was a kid, and even though this particular instance did not traumatize me (that I know of), it still deals with traumatic themes, such as physical abuse, attempted murder and severe neglect, so be careful if you're reading on! I'll explain at the end why I'm talking about it, and also psychoanalyze what I think was going on.

When I was about 6-9 years old, I had a strong conviction that my father was going to kill me. He would lock me into the basement and hurt me, and even though the injuries weren't lethal, I could feel the intent, he was out of control, not watching where he was hitting, if he was going to break my bones or not, it was erratic, terrifying. I love how I prefaced this with 'oh this didn't traumatize me' and then I started with that, but it's just the context to the actual story. That first part did probably traumatize me, I remember little of it.

Since I felt that my life was in peril, I decided, logically, that I needed to kill him before he kills me. It was justified I would defend my life with all I had. So I sneaked into the basement room, and searched for something that I could use for a weapon, next time he shuts me in there. I found one, memorized where it was, and then I was ready.

It came soon after, the event of me being alone with him in the basement, him out of control, attacking me, and again, I felt like I was about to be killed. So I grabbed a metal pole hidden next to the fireplace, used my full strength and hit him on the head with it. He fell down, and stopped moving.

I panicked then. He looked dead. I let myself out of the basement (I knew where the key was) and yelled for mother, telling her that I killed him, but I had to, because he was going to kill me. When we got back to where he was lying down, blood was trickling out of his nose. But my mother wasn't panicking like I was, she could probably see him breathing. Then he sat up.

I was even more scared then, because if he wasn't dead, then he knew I just tried to kill him, and would come after me even worse. But he didn't. He didn't even look at me. He wiped his nose, seeming completely calm, rage from before completely gone, talking only to the other family members, who seemed concerned about him.

I was told, that it's good for me that I didn't kill him, because had I done that, I would have been imprisoned for murder for the rest of my life. And other than that, everyone ignored me. Nobody talked to me, or had anything to say about the entire event. Father ignored me as well. I was not punished. Nobody was even mad at me. Nothing else was done.

The 'you'll go to prison forever if you kill him' line worked on me, because I didn't know the law, I didn't know that we don't incarcerate little kids; I was underage. They lied to me. So next time when he got me close to that feeling of 'I'm about to be murdered', I had no way to defend myself. If I killed him I would go to prison. I had no choice but to just let him do whatever and not retalliate in any significant way. Sad and painful.

Thinking back later on this event, it was bewildering to me that I was not punished whatsoever for a murder attempt, despite getting punished for bullshit like 'talking back' or 'having an unpleasant face expression'. This was common; I could be severely punished for leaving a door open, but when I did something big, like hurt a sibling, or threaten someone, or hit my father with a metal pole in the head, there was no consequences whatsoever, nobody would have even talked to me about it. I wondered if this was just because they loved that shit, they loved watching me grow into the same violent, brutal and sadistic person they all were, because then they could go 'you're no different than us', and be right. But, unlike them, once I knew something I did hurt another person, I wouldn't do it again; I did horrible things just because I was a kid, and all adults around me were horrible, and I mimicked them, as kids do. They wouldn't punish me for mimicking their awful behaviour because they approved of that, and they didn't care if my siblings were hurt because they loved hurting children anyway.

This also reinforces the theory that punishment is just an excuse to hurt a child, because these were the legitimate reasons to invoke consequences, but they never did, punishments were dished out when they felt like torturing someone and at that point, any face expression could have been an excuse enough. They didn't care about raising a kid or teaching them right and wrong, it was all just self-serving acts of sadistic pleasure.

But to let a murder attempt fly? I thought about it more today, and realized that maybe, they were shocked I did that. Maybe it was an unpleasant surprise to find out, that under severe stress, I would make an attempt at their lives. Maybe finding out that I just tried to kill one of them, made them not want to immediately try and do more violence to me. Maybe they were concerned that I injured their family member, and were more preoccupied with that. Maybe the logistics of 'this child just attempted to kill someone' made them slightly less secure in their 'beating children is normal and good' culture, maybe it signaled to them that beating children could be, in fact, a little dangerous. Of course this didn't make them not wanna do it, they just needed to persuade the child to take it and not retalliate, thus 'you'll go to prison if you do that', and afterwards they felt comfortable again, sure that justice is on their side. To make things more sinister, beating children was not even illegal in my country during that time, so what they were doing to me wasn't punishable by law. But if I retalliated, I was a criminal, according to them.

Hitting children did become illegal by the time I was 9, but conveniently nobody bothered informing  me, and I would live many more years in belief that violence towards me was normal, necessary and completely legal, hell I believed that even killing me was legal, because everyone was acting like it very much was and were threatening it left and right.

So the reason I'm thinking about this event, is that I just got some great news. My father has colon cancer. He's currently hospitalized about it. I don't know what stage it is, but the mortality rate for it is high. He might die. He might die.

I am overjoyed. I am hopeful, I am thrilled, I could not be more happy about this. What I started with that pole in the basement, might get finished. If he dies I am free. If he dies, my version of what happened is the only one to exist. I would be safe.

I think my reaction is interesting. Because I know other victims of abuse feel some sort of grief, some sort of pain and guilt for their sick or dying abusers, especially when they're parents, because of the parental bond, and trauma bonding, and victims generally having a lot of empathy and humanity towards abusers. Not me! Apparently my father managed to never even develop the basic parent-child bond with me, and I was ready to kill him by the time I was 6. What kind of shitbag human do you have to be so that your small child tries to kill you with a metal pole and when they hear you're dying, it's the best news of their life? That's such inhumane stuff that all my basic child instincts of attaching to my caretakers got overwritten by the necessity of protecting my life. You did it so badly you messed with human DNA there! Biological instincts voted against your parenthood! Self defense murder was invoked against you. You are ruled out as a bad parent and a life threat by my tiny child instincts.

[orions-choker]

Gf pLEASE wirte something with I don't care who, and theyre your knight in like medieval timeline, and you maybe the princess??? Pleade something with medieval nobody wants to do it🥺🥺😔😔

(A/N: Woah so I got way too excited for this and accidentally maaaay have decided to start a series instead woopsies, I hope this ends up being what you wanted )

Frustrated by royal duties and the incoming of a harsh winter, a young princess finds herself in the company of a young knight James who has returned home after a long fought brutal battle. With the victory imminent for her kingdom, her father begins looking to set up political alliances with neighboring, using anything as pawn in his cruel game, including the sacrifice of his daughters happiness. Bound by an obligation to her status and yearning for for freedom she finds comfort within James.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Historical Fantasy, Princes & Princesses, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Chapter One:

“It’s far too cold to be romping about in the snow.” Came the petulant whisper of a young woman, her face reddened by the biting winds. Her arms crossed around her body in a futile attempt to stay warm, the fur lining of her chemise beneath her silks did little to stave off the cold. Even the hem of her dress was dampening from the cold snow.

As quickly as her arms had wrapped around herself she was smacked. Her body stiffening as her posture corrected and she returned her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Your highness, I implore you to remember your manners.” The spindly old woman beside her reprimanded her quickly, her wrinkled face never betraying so much as a hint of annoyance but she could hear it in her voice. “His Majesty the King will be present shortly.”

The young woman's face screwed up in annoyance. “You can just say my father you know,” She leaned over into the old woman's ear. “You don’t have to be so proper around me Mistress Andriet.” She was promptly prodded back into position and she let out a huff. Her governess was never one for warmth or fun. She didn’t think she had truthfully ever seen the old woman smile once for the many years she had been in her care.

“My Lady Y/N” The Governess chastised her, that was the closest to informality she would receive. “Have I taught you nothing in nineteen summers? You would do well to address His Majesty as such, ignoring familial relations.” Her long spindly fingers pinched Y/N’s waist in reprimand, though she could hardly feel it through her thick winter layers. “I wonder not why you haven’t been married off yet with behavior such as yours.”

It took great restraint to not roll her eyes. Call her own father by such a pompous title? She scoffed at the very idea. “I take offense to that, I am not married by my own choice.” She mumbled under her breath. “Why is it so important that we be out in the dead of winter to welcome in the return of some knights?” She asked quietly. Her eyes gazed around the courts, filled with people and palace personnel that she could not remember the names of. What kind of celebration is this? How could these people be so joyous in this weather?

Her governess let out a sigh, unimpressed by her lack of attention. Sure Y/N had been briefed on the day's agenda when she was awoken this morning, but how could they seriously expect her to remember such details when she was hardly awake? “This is that last cavalry that survived and secured His Majesty’s victory over Kingdom Castlegar, Secured your victory, that is cause for celebration don’t you think?” The old woman pulled on a tight smile at the sound of her Fathers arrival, accompanied by the loud declaration of his title from his squires.

Quickly Y/N dropped into a curtsey, her ankles crossing over one another as she tilted her head, her fur lined veil falling in front of her face. Her governess did the same beside her, dropping even lower than herself however. Y/N knew that had to be hard on her old bones, her father was a reasonable man; mostly he wouldn't care if the Governess had to forgo the depth in which she bowed. However the old woman was as stubborn as she was respectful.

As Y/N rose she felt the heavy and warm hand of her father on her shoulder. The smallest hint of affection on his face as she met his gaze once more. “Princess Y/N” He greeted her warmly. She bit back a sigh. She was never one to understand the need for formality. He was the king was he not, who would oppose him from being openly caring for her. Of course the rare private moments she got with her father were different. At the very least he allowed her to stand near him when she was expected to attend royal services such as these. Usually one of her brothers took the mantle however they were all abroad on diplomatic ventures.

She smiled politely back at him. “Father,” She greeted him back, not missing the way he sighed at her lack of care for his title in front of his court, but he didn’t reprimand her, he never did. She turned and faced the entrance of the courtyard as she heard the heavy hooves of galloping steeds. Distant cheers from city folk as the precession made its way through the streets approaching the palace. However the sight that greeted them was less than a happy one.

Far less mounted steeds entered the courtyard, she counted only twenty. This was it? The last cavalry, usually there were at the very least three hundred men deployed. Half these men were hardly in good condition either, doubled over on their horses, blood staining the the fabric of the tunic beneath the heavy plated armor. Yet still they were received with cheers as if every single man had returned. She felt sick. Blood dripped down onto the fresh snow, staining it a sparkling red that stood out against the dull winter backdrop.

Her eyes stayed trained on the red that seeped out across the crisp snow. There were flurries of movement beside her but she felt trained to that very spot. The clanking of heavy armor as the knights were attended to by fresh squires. Her fathers voice delivering a booming speech of victory, the declaration of a banquet held in these men's honor. A banquet? Food was all they could afford these people, what about the hundreds who had died. Y/N’s head was spinning as she was guided back inside by Her Governess and ladies in waiting.

“Did you see that one knight? How beautiful,” One of her handmaidens whispered softly to another as they unrobed her in her chambers. “I know, what a shame that face is wasted on poor folk.” Another gossiped as she slipped off Y/N’s Kirtle. Typically Y/N would engage in gossip with her ladies in waiting but all she could focus on was the blood. It was a stark and unpleasant reminder of the brutality carried out in her fathers name…subsequently her name. Why had they even needed to conquer that neighboring kingdom? Y/N was snapped out of the daze by the rustling of fabrics and a question. “Your Highness, which one, the scarlet velvet, or the golden silk?” One of her attendants asked, displaying before her two options for an evening gown. She blinked, oh yes, this banquet, she had to dress for the banquet. The sight of the red suddenly made her feel sick.

“The gold one, please,” She waved her hand dismissively. She was danced around her chambers by various girls as they dressed her, replacing her thick winter undergarments with something lighter. Her hair being left down in loose tresses the way she always requested. It didn’t mirror the tightly plaited styles that were common at court but she was never one to conform to what was expected of her. However much it grated on her father.

Banquets and feasts were never her favorite royal duty, what joy was there to be derived from sitting amongst gluttonous high ranking officials stuffing their guts full of mead and meats? It was a disgusting display of power and wealth in her opinion. This one however was much sadder. As she was skirted into the room into a chair beside her father she took notice at the disheveled appearances of most of the knights. Her heart ached. They had been cleaned, wounds dressed to, and given armor that was more ceremonial that practical but many of them looked so defeated.

There were of course a few younger man, boasting to each other about how well received their efforts had been, a couple boys who looked no older than fourteen wearing shell shocked expressions from the horrors they had witnessed, older men who had likely been too old to have been in battle in the first place. As she sat down her eyes landed on one in particular though. Her heart did an embarrassing flip in her chest as she drank in the sight of him.

This had to be the man her ladies were gossiping over, she could understand why. With long golden locks that fell almost wildly around his face, sharp piercing blue eyes that seemed trained on the table in front of him. He was quiet and reserved. He could be no older than thirty but no younger than herself. Her mouth felt dry watching him and she quickly picked up her drinking cup to wet her lips. He was possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

She drowned out the sounds of her Fathers boasting beside her, the excited chattering of high lords and the few knights who were in seemingly good spirits. Everything blurred around her as she kept her vision steady trained on the boy seven seats down, she counted. And when his gaze lifted to meet hers, she could have sworn she heard the harps of the heavens playing. Her eyes widened, a flush coming to meet her cheeks. He smiled at her, soft and hesitant but it felt like the floor was crumbling from beneath her.

By all means it was improper for her to do so, but she couldn’t help the way the corners of her lips curled in response. Her eyes flittering away from his own shyly. Her fingers curled into the silks of her dress as she tried to still her fast beating heart. Her head dropped softly, allowing her hair and veil to conceal her blushing face. This was a moment she would think about late at night alone for months to come. She was sure of it.

The banquet came to a tidy close. She hesitated the longest to remove herself from her seat, her father leaving the hall with raucous laughter as he discussed future plans with his high ranking generals like they were old friends. Perhaps they were, though she couldn't imagine a time in which her father ever had time for friends, she didn't even have time for friends. Finally she lifted her head as a soft silence fell over the room, she stood from the table. Then there was a soft clanking of metal from behind her. “Your Highness,” An unfamiliar but soft and raspy voice spoke.

Quickly she turned in surprise only to see a mop of blonde hair bowing low before her. Her cheeks heated up again. “Oh!” She squeaked, quickly covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the less than lady like noise that escaped her. She could have sworn she heard him laugh softly. “My good knight, you startled me.” She quickly composed herself, speaking with a level of formality she wasn't typically accustomed to. Oddly she felt as if she wanted to impress this boy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She asked nervously.

At her acknowledgment he lifted himself up again. He was tall, quite literally towering over her in a way that didn't feel threatening, rather it felt comforting actually. He was prettier up close to, even though she could see the faint signs of a poor complexion across his cheeks and jaw, the skin left slightly pockmarked, somehow it added to just how striking he was. “Sir James, Your Highness.” He introduced himself softly. “I just-” In an instant she could see his confidence falter, what good reason did he have for speaking to a princess.

“Call me Y/N,” She said softly and quickly, her hand gently resting against the shiny ceremonious metal plating on his arm. She didn’t know why she did it, why she said that. He was just…enthralling. Quickly she pulled her hand back like she had burned herself, realizing she was bordering the line of completely inappropriate. “I’m sorry I should be leaving.” She whispered before quickly turning, leaving the dining hall.

“Okay…Y/N,” James’s voice echoed softly off the empty walls as she left, his voice calling her name would be ringing in her ears for the rest of the evening.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

I have no clue how this guy hasn't divorced his wife. If my partner looked at me with disgust about anything that wasn't literally disgusting, I'd be googling "divorce lawyer."

by Sam Williams

A week ago, my wife and I went to John Lewis to look at air fryers. As we entered the store, I put on an FFP3 mask because of Covid. My wife looked at me in disgust and said, “Oh, you’re wearing a mask?” I replied, “Yes. There’s a lot of Covid around, and I don’t want it. Do you?”

She responded, “Well, the trouble is, I’m not wearing a mask”.

I said, “Yes, I can see that. I wish you would. The trouble is, every time I’ve caught Covid, it’s been from you. I’m disabled with long COVID, and every time I get reinfected, it makes me really, really ill”.

So here’s my question: does my wife not care?

I want to use this piece to spark a debate about who we are as people. Are we kind and virtuous, or are we selfish and indifferent? Writing an article about what stops people from wearing masks, while I live with the pain caused by my wife not masking, feels like an oddly meta activity.

That’s right, folks: it was probably my wife who gave me Covid in the first place. Although, to be fair, neither of us knew about masking or long Covid back then.

The case for masks amid rising Covid I need people to wear masks or ensure clean air so it’s safe for me to go out—especially in healthcare settings. Yet, most people refuse. I asked my wife why she doesn’t wear a mask, and she said, “There’s no point, because nobody else does.”

I understand the futility in her statement. Many people don’t wear masks simply because they don’t care or because they think Covid is over.

If my wife were a cruel or unkind person, it would be easier to accept her refusal to wear a mask. But in my experience, even many kind people—even those on the political Left—can be cruel when it comes to disabled individuals.

Although my wife has struggled with my disability, she is generally a kind person. In my autistic brain, it seems perfectly logical that she should wear a mask to protect me from airborne viruses. Yet, logic loses when it comes to personal choices and disability.

Misconceptions about Covid and masks People think Covid is “just a cold.” Some even believe masks themselves make you ill. I think people don’t mask because of ableism and because they’ve been conditioned to associate masks with the pandemic itself.

It’s the same conditioning that leads them to blame lockdowns and vaccines for Covid, rather than recognising these measures were designed to mitigate its spread.

When people see me in a mask, they’re reminded of the acute phase of the pandemic. My presence confronts them with an uncomfortable truth: their refusal to mask contributes to the deaths and disabling of others. It reveals they may not be as caring as they like to think.

I wish more people would remember the Covid dead and choose to wear a mask to prevent further loss of life.

Why people don’t mask The biggest reason, I believe, is a failure of public health communication over wearing a mask. The government declared Covid “over,” and most people still trust what they’re told. Many would resume masking if asked, but the government is too afraid of the right-wing media and too indifferent to disability to make that request.

Then there’s the pervasive idea of “health supremacy”:

The belief that only people with pre-existing conditions get long Covid.

The notion that a “healthy” immune system can fight off the virus.

The argument that we don’t need vaccines or other preventative measures.

Some even suggest that “living your best life” and going out for brunch are more important than protecting loved ones. The low mortality rate of Covid is used as justification, with a dismissive attitude towards the elderly and those with long Covid.

Many fail to consider the quality of life endured by those with long Covid or the rising number of children affected. Parents, it seems, don’t care enough about their kids, or they’re unaware that long COVID in children has doubled in the past year.

There’s also peer pressure and groupthink. No one wants to stand out by wearing a mask. “If it were really unsafe, wouldn’t everyone else wear one? Wouldn’t the authorities tell us to mask up?”

When I do convince others to wear masks, it’s usually a flimsy surgical one—barely adequate protection.

The personal cost of not wearing a Covid mask If we continue as we are, everyone will eventually develop long Covid. Those who still mask are only delaying the inevitable because we’re so outnumbered.

I know people who’ve lost friendships and family connections over masking. Others restrict their contact with loved ones to stay safe. Some have even been lied to by family members about masking.

And all because people must have brunch.

It feels grossly unfair to be forced to choose between family and health. For me, it’s not just about Covid. With a weakened immune system, other airborne viruses are just as harmful. Every cold or similar illness sets me back by months.

The fatalist in me whispers: stop masking. If no one else is wearing a mask, why fight it – just let long Covid take me. Every reinfection only worsens my condition.

A systemic failure The government—New Labour or otherwise—has shown little interest in preventing the spread of Covid or developing treatments for long Covid. The societal denial of this reality is overwhelming.

Until we build a society and government centred on community and care instead of selfish individualism, we’re doomed. Is thinking of others really too much to ask?

If only long Covid weren’t an invisible disability. If it caused something visible—like the loss of a limb—perhaps people would be forced to act.

The point of wearing a mask: not just for Covid Here’s why masking matters:

It reduces your viral load if you get infected.

It sets a good example for others.

It shows courage and strength.

It protects vulnerable people, including the disabled, chronically ill, and immunosuppressed.

It proves you have empathy and intelligence.

[madeofbees]

does anyone else lie awake crying through the wee hours of mid-night wondering why you aren’t good enough, why nobody rescued you, why nobody seemed to care, at least not enough to do anything, because nobody did, they left you there, and that will never not be true, there will never be a time when somebody cared enough about you—a child—to save you.

why your pain was okay but theirs was unacceptable, and your fault

what you did wrong to not be good enough, or to deserve a softer life, what karma is lurking in your past that you still have to make up for

how to be better

or is it just me ?

[taegularities]

🤍🫂🌹

[ssaalexblake]

it’s also baffling to me that tumblr, home of the ‘why are white men Still being cast as the doctor’ for So many years now (For you know, like over a decade.) is somehow not appalled that they hired a white dude to be the next Doctor because look okay it’s okay if it’s This white man. 

I mean, I do not consent to acknowledge that they’ve shoved him in there under any circumstance, but my Only need for the casting of the next person was that it was Not a white man, otherwise i didn’t care who it was, so when they “announced” Gatwa I was satisfied (i am hesitant to say they announced it bc it was more like a tiny footnote than an announcement, oh the disrespect) and it took a whole seven days (it was literally seven days. Yes i counted. it was easy since it was only seven days) it was ‘actually sorry no it’s this white dude we’ve already had before did we forget to mention that???’ and it’s steadily gotten worse and worse. 

That This site of all places is not up in arms about both the situation and how it specifically played out is depressing, but also massively and darkly hilarious.  

Especially since i Also remember nobody on this site thought casting Whittaker was good enough but literally going backward to a previous white man is?? This is not even a metaphor about diversity getting worse, they literally looked backwards. 

But, yeah,  tenn/ant with the ‘what the future looks like’ headline is uh... Good???? Not super worrying and ominous? 

I feel like i’ve been dumped in some weird parallel universe by reactions to all of this on here like??? the whole way this was done was appalling, the situation is appalling, but i guess the bbc/disney should get a rousing round of applause for accurately judging that nobody would care about their poor actions if the specific white guy they cast was popular enough that next to nobody would care. 

( and to the ‘it’s an anniversary ep’ thing, they legit could have just set a couple of eps in the past. i don’t mean they travel to the past. i mean just say ‘hey this ep is set during s4!’ and nobody would care. this show does weirder stuff than this every second episode. and it would still be bad, but how they did it is so much Worse.)

[bowofbalance]

Thanks to my headachey ramblings at people who Do Not care about 13 at all we've got some ideas.

13 writes herself fake prescriptions to prepare for dying

She ends up in her own version of the Tritter arc

Turns out the brother thing was an incredibly elaborate lie to cover up her own suicide attempt (hence the excessive prescribing charge - it's those fake prescriptions from before)

House covers for her like he always does

Happy family :)

[loveletterworm]

(homestuck specifically does not count here because its too popular and would break the intent of this question. I dont care if you read homestuck. Pretend it doesn't exist for the purposes of this question)

[magentagalaxies]

vent incoming:

got my grades back for my courses last semester and most of it was to be expected, mostly A's, maybe an A-, etc. but i honestly can't get over the fact that my independent study (the buddy cole documentary) was for some reason given a B. like sure getting a B isn't bad per se, I usually get at least one B every semester and i honestly don't really care about what my exact gpa is as long as i can graduate, but come on. this school put me through months of psychological torment over this project and didn't even have the nerve to give me a B+??? i'm still coping with the self-doubt they forced on me and this bullshit is not helping!!

[sysig]

See you everywhere, now that you’re gone (Patreon)

[furiousgoldfish]

anyone else feel like they would rather stop existing than ask for help?