#there are now enough asks to necessitate a

[oceantornadoo]

you’ve got a certain captain wrapped around your finger and he’s more than glad to be there.

it’s a celebration of your one year on the team, drinks galore at your favorite local dive in london. johnny insisted on a half-circle booth and as the person of honor, you’re smack dab between him and your captain. your captain who’s been paying your tab all night long, waving off your hands as you try to reach for your wallet.

“lieutenant, give us a dance.” gaz says with a smirk on his face. ghost, on the other side of johnny, is one too many drinks in to move, which means it’s john’s turn to scooch. except he’s leaning his head on the worn wooden backing of the booth, lost in thought. he’s seen you naked in safe houses and shared showers, so why does it feel so obscene to lift yourself over his lap? there’s barely space between his massive thighs and the table, necessitating callused paws to guide your hips over his own. it’s the scrape of denim on denim, your ass firmly over his crotch for a whole second, before he pats your hip to push you all the way. “thanks, cap.” you turn with a glimmer in your eye and he dips his hat like a gentleman of old, making you giggle in your drunken stupor.

you used to hide reactions like these, suffocated by the rigid emotional walls of the military. but now, the team’s given you a safe space to be yourself: a titan on the field and a human with emotions off it.

gaz bows to ask for your hand and you accept with a curtsy. the two of you are the best dancers on the team (not a hard competition to win) and entertain johnny with twists and turns on a dance floor of your own making. he calls out instructions in that grumbly accent of his, causing you to cry with laughter in gaz’s arms. two things happen at once: you go down on the dance floor and simon lurches off the booth. johnny catches him with quick reflexes but you’re not as lucky, landing in a pile of gaz’s limbs and your own.

someone strong lifts you up with hands tucked under your armpits, inducing a ticklish squirm you subdue with years of experience. gaz is up without help, pushing simon back from the other side so he’s straight up again. “righ’ l.t., time to get ye home.” johnny’s strong but the weight and uncoordination of a drunk simon requires gaz’s help as well. “happy anniversary, angel!” he yells out as the three stumble out of the bar and (hopefully) back towards base.

“think he’ll be ok?” despite your alcohol levels, you whip around back towards john, throwing him off guard with raised eyebrows and hands out to steady your shoulders. “man’s a human tank. i’m more worried f’r gaz an’ soap. you ok?” you nod convincingly.

sure, in your year on the team, it’s been necessary to touch your captain. hands brushing over your shoulders as he reaches for his favorite coffee cup in the highest cupboard. fingers crossing as you pour over reports into the wee hours of morning. a fist bump here and there. he slaps his men in the chest but with you he squeezes your shoulder, a movement with longer contact and more thought required. tendons and sinew coming together to acknowledge your own with practiced hand eye coordination. you don’t read into it - he’s just avoiding touching you in an uncomfortable area. you’re familiar enough to initiate it first, a friendly squeeze to his bicep after a rousing pre-battle speech. but touching him has never been like this.

you ask him to become your new dance partner and he does, hands cradling your waist with splayed fingers. your own on the breadth of his shoulders, hard and never ending. instead of the joyful twists you did with gaz, john rocks you slow and steady to the crooning beat of an 80s love song.

“didn’t know you could dance, cap.” he shrugs and it echoes through your grip on him, magnified by a hundred. “every man should be able to waltz.” there was a word he wanted to say after his last and you can’t figure it out, the staccato ending bitter in your ears. instead of pressing, you’re content to sway back and forth. it calms your spinning brain. “got any loved ones yer celebratin’ yer anniversary with?” it’s an oddly personal question, but you doesn’t acknowledge its strangeness. you sway a bit with him before answering, stepping a half foot closer.

“my family and i are celebrating on my next leave. i would celebrate with my close friends, but it’s hard to explain my position without telling them classified information.” he nodded knowingly. the music changes to a faster song but he keeps your peaceful tempo, his chest brushing your own through your well worn civvies. “no’one else?” you shake your head before realizing the implications of what he’s asking. there hasn’t been anyone else for a long time, even before you joined the team. work was busy. once you joined, it felt somehow wrong to seek companionship outside of the four men who’d been gifted to you. one more than others.

“no one else, cap.” his fingers are tracing the small of your back. you can’t tell if he knows or not. before he can say anything, you turn the questions on him. “you got someone you’re going home to?” his eyes meet yours, dark blue and smoldering. “got everythin’ i need righ’ here.” you jump a little at his words. they sober you up instantly as you realize you’re slow dancing with your superior, prolonged eye contact past what’s socially acceptable. he doesn’t let you go too far, tightening his grip on your waist. “had ‘nough?” you nod and clutch your stomach for the full effect. “take me home?” he grabs his coat and dumps it on your shoulders, the intoxicating mix of pine, soap and musk seeping into your pores. john leads you back to base with a hand on your back the whole time.

-

“c’mon, got t’ make sure you’re tucked in alrigh’.” he’s in your barracks room, private thanks to the privilege of your position. you don’t sit down on the bed but he does, seemingly exhausted by the night’s activities. “i knew you were old, but wow.” you nudge his foot to make him look up. when he does its like he’s aged five years, with a scruffier beard and deep wrinkles. “john?” you’re drunk. that’s why you say his name, why you reach out to smooth a crease on his forehead. all the while he’s quiet, content to let you play with his face.

“i’m sorry about last month.” it rolls off your tongue unbidden.

(last month. half a bottle of whiskey in his office. your ass on his desk, his hands on your waist. his beard meets your chin but before he can kiss you, you turn, letting his lips meet your cheek. “i’m sorry.” it comes out as a gasp. he doesn’t say anything, scraping his beard against your cheek. “don’t worry about it.”)

“why’d ya say that?” he murmurs. you shrug. “you seem agitated in my presence. thought it might help.” he gives you an old man groan, peeking an eye out from his hat as you giggle. “y’r killin’ me sweetheart, so i’m askin’ this once. you into this or not? i’ll go home right now.” he’s closer than you thought, almost face-to-stomach.

you pull him closer by his beard until he’s resting against your torso. the angle has to be unflattering with how you’re looking down at him, but he’s not running away screaming. “are you into me even though i turned away?” he bites out a ‘yes’ automatically. you owe him an explanation.

“i got scared. i don’t want to jeopardize my place on this team.” in a move credited to a boot camp instructor somewhere, he flips you so you’re under him on top of the covers, arms pinned by his own. “y’r permanent on this team. no matter what.” you blink at him unbelieving. “laswell picks who comes and leaves. my words are jus’ a suggestion. i’ve barely any influence.” you hardly believe that but when he’s on top of you with these sapphire eyes, it’s hard to deny him.

you kiss your captain slowly like you’ve been wanting to do for months. he captures your bottom lip with his teeth, sucking like he owns your mouth. the pace ebbs and flows, from sweet to possessive in a matter of seconds. “john, oh fuck, john.” you pant out in between kisses. he moves to your neck, sucking the soft skin there. “you gotta promise me.” you nudge him until he gives you his hand. you twist him into a pinky promise, something he didn’t know existed. “i promise, baby. now let me give you your anniversary present.”

-

idk what this is. i’m tired and hungover. pls enjoy.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I, like I suspect many of the tumblr populace, ran into the issue in my youth of reading a lot of words I never heard spoken. My vocabulary has always been above average but my implementation is often flawed.

Like the day I told my dad I was the epitome of something and he laughed in my face. It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t correctly intuit the emphasis. (Mine was Ep-i-TOME vs Ep-i-to-ME).

My dad didn’t apologize for his rudeness but after my initial disgruntlement I just learned to roll with it. I’d get corrected and laugh it off. Some words were more frustrating though because it necessitated having to rework the word in my brain every time I read it. Like a few years ago when I learned I’d had “seneschal” wrong for decades. (I can’t explain why I thought it was sen-shull and not sen-es-shawl)

I learned that I had harbinger wrong during a Transformers movie without needing to embarrass myself. Thanks, Shia Lebouf. (Har-bing-er (wrong) made way more sense than har-binge-er (right) but no one asked me)

At this point in my life though I’ve managed to work out most of the kinks. I don’t often get corrected anymore.

But there’s one other snag that crops up between me and my beloved. I’ll confidently say a word and they’ll go, “That’s not how that’s pronounced.”

“Yes it is,” I’ll say, very firmly. Because in these cases I’ll generally have heard with my ears and repeated a word verbatim. I’ll know I heard it, so it can’t be wrong.

And pretty much every time I’ll be saying the British pronunciation instead of the American one. I’ve consumed enough British media that often it’s the only time I heard certain words said and I never realized American English handles it differently.

In some cases I’ll switch to the accepted American one. But they can pry machismo out of my cold dead hands, the American version is so stupid I can’t even handle it. I now recognize we stole the Spanish word but we made it worse.

[ddarker-dreams]

delving into bf blade and stellaron hunter reader's relationship dynamics ...

blade's yearning for you is nearly debilitating. you are a virus that consumes his every waking thought; pushing him toward madness, or steering him away. this extraordinary influence is unwelcome. he tried purging himself of this condition, only to learn his misery amplifies when he's without you for too long.

he can't pinpoint exactly when you unwittingly became the center of his universe. while prolonged silence was his thing, it very much wasn't yours. you'd make observations or quips in the misguided hope he'd return the sentiment. he rarely did. rather than taking the hint, you persisted in your endeavors. when it became clear you weren't giving up anytime soon, he'd occasionally humor you.

the way you visibly lit up when he graced you with a sentence or two... he'd be lying if he said he disliked it.

upon returning from his jobs, he just so happened to linger in areas you frequented. when you made an appearance, the subsequent interactions made him feel content. you had this way of temporarily dispelling his maelstrom of negative thoughts. miraculously, this included his mara. the affliction quieted down so he could hear your musings unimpeded.

the nature of your assignments necessitated long periods of rest. this free time had you looking for ways to keep yourself entertained. befriending blade started as a side project, or, as silver wolf described it, a 'side quest that became the main plot.' this realization was a hard pill to swallow. you were convinced he tolerated you out of necessity.

budding attachment is a frightening thing. at such an early stage, the slightest error can seal its premature death. this raised the stakes. what was meant to be a pastime now held tangible weight, enough to crush you. your brilliant solution? immediate distance. not to make the heart grow fonder, but to sabotage the soil altogether.

blade reacted in a totally normal manner (he didn't). the fervor behind his confrontation almost had you fearing for your life — the look in his eyes was that of a madman. he wasn't about to let this nonsense carry on unchallenged. getting diced into smithereens was far more pleasant than enduring the cold shoulder from you. warm that shoulder up. please. he's desperate.

it's an intense relationship. he'd offer up everything for any scraps you deign to give him. he's your lover, your guard dog, a beast held back by fraying ropes. blade would quite literally do anything you asked. the satisfaction he experiences when you look his way, affection gleaming in your eyes; he'd ruin himself for more.

[moonstruckme]

If you don’t mind what about poly!marauders (emts version) x reader where she hides a injury that’s kinda serious (idk like a cut that’s pretty deep or smth) but she doesn’t think it’s serious, so she tries to hide it from them to not feel like a burden since they are always busy with work. Basically just a mix of emts marauders and casual dominance

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: mention of blood

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re trying to figure out whether putting your shoe in the washing machine will damage it irrevocably when the bathroom door handle twists. 

You look up like a deer caught in headlights. Sirius’ gaze flits from the shoe in your hand to the bloodstained sock on the floor to your wide-eyed look. 

“Shut the door!” you whisper-yell. He must be reeling, because he actually does it, closing the door with a click and dropping down beside you on the bathroom floor. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. Again, his gaze goes to your once-blue sock, now marred by a dark red stain. “Are you hurt?” 

You see the moment Sirius notices the foot you’re holding, layers of toilet paper wrapped loosely around the arch. His eyes sharpen. 

“Don’t tell James and Remus,” you plead. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks again, sternly now. 

Your lip finds it way beneath your teeth. “Not really,” you say. “It’s not terrible or anything, I just can’t get it to stop bleeding.” 

“That’s not usually a great sign, sweetheart.” Sirius scoots closer, holding out his hands. “Let me see.” 

You know better than to argue, transferring your foot into his lap. He gives you an odd look about the toilet paper before starting to unravel it, the thin material tearing under his rushed handling. Your boyfriend relaxes slightly when the wound is revealed. It’s deceptively small for how much blood seems to come out of it, the cut only a couple of centimeters along the arch of your foot. 

Sirius adjusts his grip, lifting it to the light to see it better, and you try not to look so visibly flustered at the tender way he’s handling you. 

“It’s little, see?” you say. “No need to bother anyone else.” 

He lowers your foot to give you an amused look. “Darling, as much as I love to have our dirty little secrets together,” he says, “you know they’d kill me.” 

“They wouldn’t,” you say, half desperate. “They love you, and I’ll protect you anyway.” 

Sirius’ mouth pinches. He thumbs at your ankle apologetically. “James would have us both flat on our backs in under a minute. Admire your confidence, though.” He sucks in a breath. “Rem, James!” 

The TV shuts off, and then there are footsteps on the stairs. Sirius is impervious to your glare, only picking your foot up again and turning it this way and that to see it better. 

“What?” James calls. You can hear Remus grumbling about how your apartment is hardly large enough to necessitate this much yelling. 

“In here!” Sirius shouts back. 

The door opens a second later, your other two boyfriends crowding the already small bathroom. James is crouched in an instant, setting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder to steady himself. 

“Oh, lovie, what’d you do?” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Sirius says, “Can one of you grab the first aid kit and a pen light? I can’t see if there’s anything still in here.”

“There shouldn’t be,” you say as Remus goes for the kit. “I already took out the glass.” 

Both Sirius and James look up from your foot, eyebrows raised. 

“And what were you doing that you ended up with glass in your foot?” Sirius asks. 

Your shoulders gravitate towards your ears. “Cleaning up the glass that I broke.” 

Remus hums disapprovingly as he passes a pen light to Sirius, who clicks it on, shining it onto your foot. You do your best to pretend this doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“When did that happen?” he asks. 

“This morning.” 

“Sweetheart.” James’ disapproval is evident in his voice. You can’t bring yourself to look up and witness it in his face, too. 

“And why didn’t you say anything when you hurt yourself?” Remus asks. He sits down beside you, eyes on what the other two are doing though you can feel his attention on you. 

“Because I didn’t want to bother you,” you say quietly. 

He tsks, and he doesn’t need to say anything more. It’s plain enough you’re in trouble. 

For a few moments, the silence is thick and hot, torturous, but surprisingly it's Sirius who does you the mercy of putting you out of your misery. 

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got any more glass in here.” He clicks off the pen light, and your hamstrings sigh in relief as he lowers your foot to rest back in his lap. “That’s lucky,” he tells you severely. “You can’t always rely on just picking out the big piece and having that be that.” 

“Stitches?” Remus asks, and you tense. You hadn’t even considered that. 

“I don’t think so,” Sirius says, but he sounds uncertain. “It’s just barely deep enough, though.” 

“Let’s see.” James holds out his hands, and Sirius hands it off to him. You try to ignore the fact that your foot is being passed around like something a child brought to show-and-tell. James takes up the pen light, peering at it for a few moments before nodding decisively. He pats the side of your foot. “I think you should be safe.” 

You must look as relieved as you feel, because James smiles, squeezing up the length of your calf. 

“What I really don’t understand,” he says lightly, “is why the hell you’ve been keeping it wrapped in toilet paper.” 

You can’t help but return his smile sheepishly as you shrug. “It works,” you say. “Plus, Remus gatekeeps the first aid kit.” 

“It’s only in the cabinet above the toilet,” Remus sighs. 

Sirius scoffs, and James reaches across you to pat him on the thigh. “No one can reach it up there but you, love.” 

You look over in time to catch your boyfriend’s eye roll, paired with the smirk he tries to hide. “Regardless,” he says, “it seems as though it wouldn’t be an issue if anyone who can’t reach it,” his eyes slide to yours, and you find new interest in the floor tiles, “would just ask someone else to get it for them, rather than being secretive.” You can feel his gaze searing into the side of your head, but you refuse to look up even when Sirius snickers and pinches your leg meanly. “If you didn’t have the kit, how did you clean it, dove?” 

“It’s clean,” you hedge, but make the mistake of looking up into Sirius’ stern gaze. He cocks an eyebrow as if to say Go on. “I ran it under the tap in the bathtub.” 

Remus sighs, Sirius groans, and James lets his head fall fully forward onto your knee. 

“Sweetheart,” James presses a kiss to your shin, “my love, I know you mean well, but this is why you need to tell us things.” 

“What’s the problem?” you ask as Remus moves to sit by Sirius, opening up the first aid kit. “Water’s just as good.” 

“It’s really not,” Sirius says, “seeing as water doesn’t actually kill bacteria. Do you want to stay where you are or sit up on the counter, darling?” 

“I’ve got a better idea.” James scooches over by you, lifting you by your waist and setting you in his lap. “There. Far more comfortable, don’t you think?” 

“Much.” You grin, turning your head to kiss him. “Thanks, Jamie.” 

“Spent a whole day keeping secrets and still getting the princess treatment.” Sirius’ tone is equal parts teasing and affectionate as he smooths a hand up and down your calf. “We must really love you or something.”

[calisources]

𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.

All sentences were taken from different sources about romance, marriage and specially arranged marriage and what that entails. Mentions of affairs, mistresses, wedding ceremonies and medieval talks of what marriage entails follow. Change names, pronouns and locations however you see fit.

Marriage is a marriage, whether it is arranged or not. Both necessitate the same level of dedication.

It’s not an option to be best friends with your life partner; it’s a requirement for a firm foundation in a long-term relationship.

Arranged marriage is not always a bed of roses, but it is possible to achieve with love and faith.

It’s different for women, isn’t it? They have no choice where they go. They grow up in a prison and then get married into one.

Is there anything more courageous/stupid than saying yes to spend your life with someone you have no idea about?

The country was as much of a mystery to me as the man I had married.

One day you’ll be in love with me.

You could be a titled lady. 

I have avoided the fate my father had planned for me. Surely it is I who has won, not he.

I do not care about power and wealth, father. I want to marry for love.

But if you were matched, what do you think she'd be like?

We're supposed to be unable to keep our hands off of each other. 

In this case the time is not so important for me, the person asking for commitment is.

We are trapped by convention and must marry another.

Every good child knows: duty before your heart's desire.

I am to be a bride, but whose? 

I married you to stop the bloodshed, and you keep killing. When will it be enough- when?

I found out soon after we met that Leah’s father had promised her in marriage to some young Pole.

If I ever get into an arranged marriage, I want it to be like theirs.

Arranged marriages require effort; constantly and every day. And where there is love, you want to make these efforts.

A successful arranged marriage can help climb the biggest mountain and build the biggest empire.

An arranged marriage is like wine; it tastes good with time.

You will marry him and do your duty to your House.

You are my daughter and you will do as I say. End of discussion.

Love? What does love have to do with marriage?

He'll honour his duty to family and swallow it.

I was three when my parents promised me. When a deal was struck. 

 So I was raised to be his wife. I was taught my favorite color was gold because his favorite color was gold. I was told my favorite foods were his favorite foods

I never thought what it would actually be like to have him... be gone. 

I was raised for him, and now I am... new. I am brand-new. And I do not even know how to breathe air he does not exhale.

A bride at her second marriage does not wear a veil. She wants to see what she is getting.

Marriage is a financial contract; I have enough contracts already.

The dowry, not the wife, is the object of attraction.

Arranged marriages work like this. The girl is hardly asked and is expected to follow whatever her parents deem fit.

Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of.

Maybe she'll be beautiful. Maybe she'll be rich. As long as she brings swords and men.

Perhaps love is a minor madness.

It doesn't matter who the seed is. The important thing is that it has a place in your womb.

Her maidenhood will seal an alliance and must be kept safe.

Every married woman knows a man can have mistresses and we must look the other way.

All I ask is, that you do not cast me aside. Have mistresses and lovers as you please, but confide in me as I am to be your wife.

A husband’s first and foremost job in a marriage is to protect and love his wife.

Touching without looking had been incredibly arousing.

In my opinion, most marriages are based either on money or the fear of being alone.

I want you in every way there is to want. I want you in any way you choose to share.

I'm free to do with my wife as I fucking please.

The marriage of convenience lasts until you become an inconvenience.

Ours is a marriage of convenience and nothing more.

From now on, you're sleeping in our room. There's no chance in hell I'm letting you sleep far away from me again.

You agreed to this marriage and didn’t even dare to ask my opinion on the matter.

You're going to bend, and so am I. We're going to compromise, negotiate, and distract each other.

Being together means our priorities are going to change.

Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.

I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am much too in love.

It is certainly romantic to be in love, but there's nothing romantic about a definite proposal.

They are royals, whoever they marry is not their choice but who is better for the crown.

That is a match made in a boardroom.

Once you are wed to another, you will forget me. 

I will marry a man who desires me but I have no interest in. 

I will not be a secret kept in shadows. Once you are wed, I will leave.

How can I marry them, when I am in love with another? It is not fair to them, that I think of you when I’m with them.

Ever since I met you, no one else has been worth thinking about.

Behave yourself, out here, we are wed and what you do, reflects on me.

You are being sold like a mare and do not care.

Once I bore him a son, he shall be happy, I know it.

We hate one another but for peace, we must wed. At least, let us enjoy this part of the contract.

I am doing this for my family and for the terms you offer.

A marriage is simply an alliance.

All will be well, love can be found in a marriage. If not love, at least, good company. 

Do your duty and give him sons.  That’s all men want.

I will not be paraded around in a bedding ceremony. I will wed them and bed them, but I will not be humiliated. 

You think this title gives me power, but you forget, I am a woman.

I am lucky enough to have options. None who please me but at least, I can choose one.

Come to bed now, husband. It is our wedding night, after all.

[rememberwren]

A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 1

This is a direct sequel to Skin Deep which can be read here. From now on I'm splitting up any one shot that is longer than 10k. So here is part one of this sequel. 6k.

Johnny pierces fem!reader’s nipples.

About this: at least five nipples in this one, an altogether questionable use for a sequel, nipple play, graphic depiction of nipple piercings, alcohol, jealous!soap, spoilers in the 'about this' section, iffy writing. Reader has enough hair to “hold back” and height difference necessitates that she “looks up” to speak to Simon.

-

Thirty minutes waiting for Green Jade Chinese takeout when you’re only a block from the restaurant is a crime. It’s even more of a crime when it’s thirty minutes spent away from Ghost—whose name you have learned is Simon. Laying on the sofa in Skin Deep, your stomach gives another shameful growl. You glance at the clock on your phone, hoping he hasn’t run into trouble…though you’re not sure there’s much in the way of trouble that Simon couldn’t handle. 

The bell over the door rings, and you sit up, smile blooming in anticipation. 

“Hey youuu–fuck!” you nearly shriek. 

Standing in the doorway is a man who is decidedly not Simon, though there are similarities. They are both tall (though Simon must stand a hand taller), and broad (this bloke’s biceps are threatening the sleeves of his t-shirt as he crosses his arms across his chest), but that is where the similarities end. Where Simon is pale and blond, this man is tan and brunet, his hair a cropped mohawk that looks soft to brush one's fingers through. 

Looking over his shoulder is a beautiful woman with braids that drip down to her shoulder blades. 

“I tend to have that effect on women,” he says, glancing back at her. 

“I can imagine,” she says, no small hint of flirtation in her voice.

“Um. Sorry, but there aren’t any walk-ins,” you remind them. The sign had been right bloody there. Could they not read? A more important question: were they murderers looking for their next victim? In the city, one could never know if a person was malevolent or just stupid. 

“Where’s the big guy?” the man asks. He holds up a hand a few inches above his head. “Tall. Devastatingly handsome. Monosyllabic.” 

“He should be back any minute.” That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? You always let the murderers know that time is not on their side; no inconvenient prey here. Try again elsewhere. “Maybe you two could wait outside.” 

The man does a neat little trick with his tongue, flashing a silver barbell piercing at you like a calling card. “I’m the piercer, lass. I own forty-nine percent of the business. Let Ghost know I’m back with a client, alright? Nice meetin’ you.” 

The two of them disappear together behind the curtain at the back of the shop, leaving you hoping that a small hole will open up directly beneath your coordinates and swallow you whole. Hopefully it will leave the shop intact. Maybe you had the time to let Simon know not to look for your body—

The bell rings again, and this time it is Simon, his mask still pulled up over his nose and mouth, one paper bag of fragrant Chinese food tucked under his arm. He takes in the sight of you with your head in your hands, elbows on your knees and approaches with caution. 

“What’s this?” he wonders out loud. He sets down the bag and tears it open: egg drop soup, pork fried rice, crab rangoon. All your favorite goodies. A feminine giggle is heard from the back of the shop and he sighs, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.“Soap. What’d he say to you?” 

“Nothing. I just put my foot in my mouth.” 

“Yer a flexible one, aren’t you.”

“Just in that one, very specific way, trust me,” you say, accepting the disposable chopsticks he hands you. You break them apart and go looking amongst the packages of food for your rice. “I mistook him for a client and asked him to wait outside.” 

Simon sucks on his teeth, a sure-fire sign that he is trying not to laugh. 

You launch a chopstick at him, scoffing when he catches it nimbly out of the air and offers it back to you. 

“Careful with that,” he says solemnly. “Could have taken my fuckin’ eye out.” 

In the back, a scream rings out. You jerk, nearly upending the rice in your lap. Under his breath, Simon mutters: “Always Soap with the screamers.” 

-

That night, the two of you fuck at his flat. He puts you on top of him, where you can control how deep the penetration is, and it gives you a chance to explore the angles that you never really had a chance to explore with other partners. With others, it had been a race: rushing toward some blissful edge, hurrying to get them (and if you were lucky, yourself) off as quickly as possible. With Simon, you were just discovering that sex could be fun; sex could be slow; sex could end with no one orgasming and it could still change your life. 

He is an excellent sport while you ride him, his eyes quiet and soft in a way they aren’t when you’re outside of his flat together, when the mask is on and pulled up into place. If he weren’t so fucking put together, you might say that he were pussy drunk. As it is, he stays still, hands kneading your thighs until you nearly get a cramp in your hip and then he sits up, guiding you off of him and back into the bedsheets, laying face to face to fuck you in a way that is so painfully intimate it makes you want to shut your eyes. 

Afterwards, you curl up against his side and find yourself playing with his nipple piercing. He’s got cute nipples: small and pink as his mouth. The barbell is black, a nice contrast to his skin tone. He watches you sometimes, other times letting his eyes fall shut. 

“Did this hurt?” you ask him, tugging on the barbell a little. 

“Yes,” he says in that dry way that lets you know your question has amused him. 

“You know what I mean. You’ve gotten tattoos and had your ears pierced. What’s the worst pain?” 

 He shifts to touch a spot on his inner arm where a black and white skull rests. The skin is delightfully soft and thin. “This part nearly had me in tears. Barely felt the nipple, in comparison.” 

Your mouth says it before your brain comprehends it: “Maybe I should get mine done.” 

He stares at you, eyes briefly falling to your breasts. He reaches down and skims his fingers along the curve of one, his fingertips calloused but his touch so very soft. He says: “Soap did this, didn’t he?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re alone with Soap for sixty seconds and now you want your tits pierced. Are you saying that’s a coincidence?” 

You frown. “I don’t know. I mean, maybe he influenced me, subconsciously?”

“He didn’t ask you?” 

“No! He had a client with him.” 

Simon hums. His face is closed off, expression unreadable. You can sense there is more that he holds back the same way you can sense a body of water is deep, but he doesn’t share and you don’t push him, not sure if you’re ready to take that plunge yourself. 

“It was a silly idea,” you backpedal. “Forget I said anything.” 

“It’s your body,” Simon says, ignoring your words. “You should do whatever you want with it.”

“Yeah? You’d be surprised how rarely anybody ever says that to a woman.”

“Most people are cunts.” 

“True.” You reach out and thumb at his nipple again, just to satisfy the urge in your own tiny, one track brain. He takes a measured breath—for Simon, that’s as good as a moan. Your eyes flicker down, but his cock is hidden somewhere beneath the sheets. “Want to go again?”

He guides your hand down to wrap around his cock which is like hard steel wrapped in smooth velvet. 

You roll on top of him. The cramp in your thigh has faded by now. Reaching up, you palm your breasts, briefly playing with your nipples. You’ve never considered yourself to be particularly sexy, but the way he looks at you makes you feel powerful, like the sun lives just underneath your skin.

“I think I do want them done,” you say, watching the hungry way he watches your fingers. He sits up, tugging you onto your knees so he can take one nipple into his mouth and tease it with the sharp line of his teeth. 

You figure that’s as good a blessing as any. 

-

Simon tends to spring things on you. Texts are usually last minute and painfully succinct: dinner? or my place? He is prone to just showing up out of the blue, unafraid (and unoffended) to take no for an answer when you’re busy. 

One sunny fall afternoon, the thing he springs on you is Soap. Simon brings you to the shop, telling you that he needs to meet with a client. You’ve never tagged along to something like this before, but you’re beginning to think that there are few places Simon could go where you wouldn’t want to follow. Convinced you will be hiding in the back of the shop without a word to alert either of them to your presence, you agree easily enough. 

But when you arrive, that client is Soap, and instead of letting you hide in the back, Simon picks up a chair with one hand, hauling it across the room so that you both sit flanking Soap on either side while he’s in the tattoo chair getting some fancy, winged symbol just over his pec. 

“We’ve got a spectator? A voyeur?” Soap asks, rubbing his hands together. “Oh you know all my seedy kinks, Ghost.” 

“I can leave, really,” you offer, already moving to stand.

“Sit,” Simon says. 

You sit. Johnny sheds his shirt with obvious relish, and you find the artwork on the wall just over his shoulder to be incredibly interesting all of the sudden. 

Soap extends a hand to you. “The big guy still hasn’t introduced us. Some call me Soap, but beautiful women are allowed to call me Johnny.” 

You shake his warm hand to be friendly and make the mistake of meeting his eyes. They are very blue, framed by dark lashes and expressive eyebrows. He flashes his tongue piercing at you again and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned. He laughs. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, MacTavish,” Simon murmurs, putting a gloved hand flat on his chest to force him back against the chair. You see then that Johnny has both his nipples pierced: little golden rings that compliment his tanned skin. 

He’s fit, unfortunately.

You look back at the picture on the wall while Simon grabs the razor to shave Johnny’s pec. You learn that there’s no such thing as silence when Johnny is in the room. He keeps up a consistent chatter of conversation while Simon preps his body and lays the stencil, and it goes a long way to putting you at ease. 

“Would you hold my hand, lass?” Johnny asks, eyes big and guileless. “I’m scared of needles.”

Simon rolls his eyes, tugs his mask into place, and starts the gun without waiting for your response. The buzzing causes a visceral reaction in you, reminding you of your own tattoo that you had received from Simon only weeks ago. A craving rises up in you, tangible in your throat (and between your legs). You shift on the chair Simon brought over for you, eyes drawn to his hands to watch him work. 

Johnny wiggles his fingers at you, palm up. 

Your chair legs screech against the floor as you scoot in bursts towards him and take his hand. You haven’t even held hands with Simon yet, and here you are holding hands with his best friend. Suddenly regret has you wishing you could draw your hand back and wipe the touch away on your leggings. Unaware of your turmoil, Johnny heaves a sigh, giving you a smile that is painfully handsome. “There. Now I feel safe.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Simon reminds him. 

“Ready to tell me where your newfound generosity has come from?” Johnny asks, straining his neck to glance down at Simon’s work. “What happened to never tattooing friends for free?”

“I want you to owe me,” Simon says, voice quiet and distracted as he traces the line work. 

“You need a favor,” Johnny guesses.

“Something like that.”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

“She wants her nipples done.” 

Simon lifts the gun away from his skin just in time for Johnny to jerk in the chair, head swiveling to look at you. Your own head has swiveled to look at Simon, who holds both hands up innocuously, looking not at all apologetic or regretful. 

“You want me to cop a feel of your girlfriend’s tits?”

“Don’t say it like that!” you squawk. 

“It’s true. We get very close and personal during a piercing, lass—“

“There’s a fundamental difference between copping a feel and touching my breast—“ You realize that you are still holding Johnny’s hand and you practically toss it away. 

“I’m not laying a finger on her,” Johnny says firmly, speaking only to Simon now (likely considering you a lost cause). “Period. Out of the question.” 

“I’m not letting her go to a stranger,” says Simon, brows drawn down low on his forehead. “So get over your own bullshit and pierce her, Johnny. It’s fine.” 

Johnny’s mouth shuts with such force that his teeth click together. He turns his eyes on you and stares. You feel like you’ve already taken your top off even though you’ve done no such thing. Shyly, you cross your arms in front of your breasts, giving him your best glare. It has the opposite of intended effect; Johnny’s gaze softens a little, turns pitying. 

“Alright,” he says. “Consider my bullshit over with.” 

Simon inclines his head in gratitude. He picks back up the tattoo gun.

-

“What’s the story with you and Johnny anyway?” you ask Simon over dinner. He rarely takes you out, more content to spend time alone in private rather than in public. His eyes can’t stop scanning the few people in the restaurant. Sometimes his hand reaches for his mask, instinct urging him to draw it back over his mouth and nose, but he doesn’t. 

“We met in the SAS, been friends ever since,” he says succinctly. 

“How’d you two go into business together?” 

“I was doing stick ‘n pokes for anyone who would sit still. He was piercing soldier’s ears in exchange for cigarettes. We both decided we’d rather live to see thirty, so when our time was up, we didn’t re-enlist, pooled our money, bought a location and never looked back.” 

You frown. “I didn’t know you were in the military.” 

He nods, sipping at a water (he’d refused your offer to share a pint together). You’re aware suddenly of how much there is about Simon that you don’t know. 

“Was Johnny the one to pierce your nipple?”

Simon stills for a moment, considering the question. At length he sets his glass down and says slowly: “Yes.”

“Why do I sense there’s a story there?”

“Because there is. I’m sure Soap will be thrilled to tell it with as many details as possible.” 

“Shouldn’t you tell me first, to control the narrative?”

Simon’s mouth twitches, lips quirking upwards at the edges. Coaxing one of his rare smiles from him never failed to make you feel like you were walking on clouds. He says: “You’re clever.”

“High praise.” 

“Does that do something for you?”

“What?”

“Being praised.”

You sputter a little, flustered. But then it occurs to you: “Are you changing the subject?” 

This time he grins, full and beautiful. You think about Soap calling him ‘devastatingly handsome’, and while there was a part of you that was sure the masses would not agree with your assessment of him, you couldn’t help but find Simon striking. Looking at his smile makes you smile, an unconscious mimicry. 

He catches the waitress as she comes by and asks for the check. 

-

“You look frightened,” Johnny says when he spots you as you come into Skin Deep. He’s seated on the couch where you and Simon had sex, texting on his phone. How he knows you look frightened, you couldn’t say; he hasn’t even looked up to greet you. 

“What gave me away?” you ask, feeling queasy. You’d spent half the night awake watching videos on reddit of people getting their nipples pierced feeling increasingly panicked. It looked brutal. It made no sense to stick a needle through one of the most sensitive parts of your body. But it hadn’t made sense to be stabbed a hundred thousand times by microneedles either—and you’d done that. Eagerly, even. 

“That look on your face that says you’re about to be sick,” Simon says from behind you. 

You turn and give him a tepid glare. It’s all you can muster.

Johnny leads you back through the curtain, which you cross with a muted giddiness (your first time in the back of the shop!). It leads to a narrow hallway with a few frosted doors. One is clearly marked as a bathroom. One isn’t marked at all. The last has the light on inside, turning the frosted glass a golden yellow. The writing on the glass says SOAP’S ARTISAN PIERCINGS. He opens the door and ushers you both in. 

The room is small, with a chair similar to Simon’s except for performing piercings. One wall is dominated by cabinets and drawers and mirrors, a small porcelain sink. A table holds a photobook which you make the mistake of skimming through—it’s full of clits, labias, penises, and nipples, all with a variety of gruesome appearing jewelry. 

“Ow,” you mutter, shutting the book.

“Getting ideas for your next piercing?” Johnny asks over his shoulder, washing his hands at the sink. He soaps himself up to the elbows, like a surgeon preparing to root around in your open chest. 

“No,” you say. “Definitely not.” 

Simon has seated himself in one of the chairs in the corner, his legs looking obscenely long with the way they are folded. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, watching you closely. You pull a face at him just to watch the way his eyes roll. 

“Everything off from the waist up,” Soap says, tugging gloves into place. “Any allergies? Latex, dyes?”

He is much more abrupt today than he had been yesterday. You’re almost moved enough to ask him if he’s upset, but perhaps this is just his professionalism. Regardless, you miss the easy-going nature that had gone so far to put you at ease yesterday. 

“No,” you say, shrugging out of your shirt. It is warm in the room but goosebumps still bloom along your arms and chest. God, are you really doing this? Are you really exposing yourself to Simon’s best friend? You glance back over your shoulder, but Simon’s face gives no indication of what you should do. The message is clear: you have to choose. Taking a deep breath, you slide the straps of your bra down your arms and reach around back to undo the clasp, folding everything nice and neatly into a pile on the chair beside you. Your nipples immediately pucker, whether from nerves or some unwilling arousal, you couldn’t say. 

Johnny isn’t even looking at you. He’s opening up packages of frightening looking tools: scissors with clamps on the end, needles, toothpicks? “Had any caffeine today?”

“No. Wait, yes. A tea.”

“Goddamnit, Ghost. You and yer bloody teas.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really,” Johnny says. “I’d prefer if you hadn’t drunk it, but what’s done is done. Makes the blood thinner though, you know.”

“Didn’t know that. I thought that was just alcohol.”

“Alcohol is worse,” he agrees. He glances over his shoulder, but towards Simon whose dark figure is haunting the corner of the room. His expression is sly. “Ghost knows all about that, aye?”

You latch on to this news eagerly. “Are you talking about when you pierced his nipple?”

Johnny’s brows lift in obvious surprise. “He told you about that?”

You hear the creak of the chair behind you as Simon shifts but you don’t turn to look at him. “He told me some of it?” you say, voice pitching upward at the end in question. 

“Which parts, exactly?”

“Just that you were the one who had done it.” 

“Left out all the tastiest bits,” Johnny says. “I bet he does that a lot when talking about his days with the 1-4-1.”

Your stomach dips. 

“That’ll do,” Simon says sternly from the corner. 

Johnny scoffs a little, muttering something under his breath as he arranges the tools to his liking. The silence that lingers is thick and awkward. Eager to break it, he turns to you and your tits. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’re working with.” 

You want to cross your arms more than you want to take your next breath, but you don’t. You don’t breathe either, really. Johnny stares at your breasts and then asks you to stand and come closer. Knees knocking together, you do, until you are close enough to smell his cologne or aftershave—whichever you aren’t sure. 

“Biggest question here,” he says, glancing back toward your eyes. “Are we doing one today or both?”

“Uh—both?”

“Let me bring this to your consideration,” Johnny says. “If you can’t go without playing with them, I recommend just doing one at a time. Because once I pierce it, it’s hands off for six months. No touching, no twiddling, no teasing, no twisting, definitely no tasting, I’m talking to you, Ghost—“

“Fuck off.”

“—so if that’s a dealbreaker, I recommend leaving one to play with. Stagger them. Mitigates the loss a little.”

You glance back at Ghost. On the one hand, nipple play is a favorite of yours. On the other hand, if you don’t do both today, you might chicken out and never come back. In the end, you decide: “Let’s start with one and see how I do.” 

“Yer the boss, hen,” Johnny says solemnly. He tears open a tiny package, the bitter scent of antiseptic stinging at your nose. “Any preference on left or right? Do yeh have a favorite?”

“A favorite?” 

He snorts. “Alright—which side do you sleep on?”

You say your left, so he takes the antiseptic wipe to the right breast and warns you with a brief, It’s chilly, before swiping it across your nipple. You hate every moment of it, mostly because the stimulation feels good in a distant, muted way. Teeth gritting, you wait for him to be done, even though he is a consummate professional and going as fast as he can. 

Next he takes one of the toothpicks, dips it in ink, and marks a spot on either side of your nipple where the needle will pierce. It’s more on the areola itself; you can’t decide if that makes it more or less tolerable.

“Go check the placement in the mirror, let me know if you’re level,” says Johnny, tossing away the toothpick. 

You turn to Ghost instead. “Will you be my mirror?” you whisper. 

The corners of his eyes crinkle behind his mask. He beckons you closer with two fingers, and you walk to him on unsteady legs. His hand cups your breast, careful not to touch any part that Johnny has sanitized as he looks you over thoroughly. 

“Perfect,” he mutters, almost like a curse. 

“Hey! No touching!” Johnny calls, crumpling a piece of trash noisily in his fist. He sounds irritated. “Don’t you make me sanitize her again!”

When you and Simon have finished, Johnny adjusts the chair until it is laying flat and helps you up onto it. 

“Normally I freehand most piercings,” he says. “But since this is your first, I’m going to use a hemostat clamp. Looks like this—“ He shows you the device which looks like scissors but with clamps instead of blades, holes strategically placed for the needle to be pushed through. “—and I’ve been told it hurts more than the piercing itself, so be warned.”

“I’m warned,” you whisper weakly. 

“Arm up, over your head lass.” 

He scoots his chair beside you and then gently touches your breast, the latex warm from his body heat. He adjusts the clamp and then grips down tightly, ensuring that the marked spots of ink are within the holes. It does hurt, but not as badly as you imagined. You let out a breath. You can do this. 

“Ready for the needle?”

Yeah, you can’t do this. Your other hand reaches out blindly towards Simon. After a moment, you feel his touch: hand warm and solid where he laces your fingers together awkwardly. Neither of you have had much practice in the way of hand holding—and none at all with each other—but you feel his touch all the way in your toes, and you think that’s a pretty good sign. 

“Make all the sound you want,” Johnny mutters, breath fanning across your outstretched arm. “It helps, trust me. On three. One—“

He pierces you. You suck in a breath through your teeth. “You bastard, that hurt way more than the clamp!”

“Yeah,” says Johnny, guiding the jewelry through your nipple. He looks down at you with a sad, strange smile. “I’m a liar.” 

-

You shower together that night. The shower is small for a man of Simon’s stature. Add you into the mix and it’s positively tiny, but that just means you both have to stand close together, bodies brushing against each other with each movement. He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you to the spray to let the water run across your sore breast, thumbs kneading at the tense muscles of your shoulder blades. 

You relax back against him, feeling his hard cock against the small of your back. He doesn’t do anything about it, so you don’t either. 

“What’s the verdict?” you ask him. “Do you like it?” 

“Is it important to you that I like it?” he asks, voice rumbling against your back. 

You think. 

“Yes,” you say. 

His hand comes down to ghost over your unpierced breast, cupping it in his huge palm. Your hard nipple rasps against the calluses on his hand making you shiver even in the heat of the shower. He squeezes softly, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that is lost thanks to the roar of the water against the tiles. 

His mouth brushes against your ear, lips damp: “I like it.” 

You twist in his arms, his cock dragging against your slick body, and look up at him. His hair is plastered to his forehead, a shade darker than usual. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

You guide his hand to your hair. “Hold this for me.” 

You slip down onto your knees.

-

How’s the piercing healing? Simon messages you one afternoon. Soap won’t shut up asking me about it. 

Give him my number, you suggest. 

After a lengthy silence, Simon texts: He says he doesn’t want it.

And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Maybe it was some weird piercer/client boundary he didn’t want to cross, but Ghost had come across more stringent (in just about every aspect of life) and he had had no problem crossing the tattoo artist/client boundary to text you mock ups of your tattoo. Something in your gut goes sour. Something sows itself in the soil of your heart, something thorny and unpleasant, and you don’t like it one bit. 

It’s fine, you tell him. I’m taking care of it. 

Okay, he says. And that is the end of that. 

-

The next time you see Johnny, it is Simon’s birthday. True to form, he does not make a big fuss of it, though it’s clear that this is the first birthday he has shared with a romantic partner perhaps ever. 

He genuinely seems to appreciate the Bluetooth stencil printer you bought him as a gift (he’d looked at the wrapped present like he didn’t know what to do with it, unwrapped it with the same enthusiasm as a man walking to the gallows, but when he’d seen it, he’d given one of those slow, rare grins; the crooked ones thanks to the scar across his mouth), and you silently congratulated yourself on getting him something practical over something sentimental. 

“The boys want to get together,” he says that afternoon. “I want you to come, too.” 

How could you say no to that? 

So you doll yourself up, wearing your nicest pair of skinny jeans and a sweater to keep away the autumn chill. You are giddy at the thought of meeting Simon’s other friends, so much so that you cleanly overlook Johnny’s hot and cold act. At least there will be others there to act as buffers between the two of you. 

The pub itself is more crowded than Simon would like. He won’t even take his mask off, keeping his back against the wall and eyes on the door. Not for the first time, you wonder if he doesn’t have some sort of PTSD, something leftover from his time in the service. It would make a lot of things make a lot more sense. 

You meet Kyle, who clasps your hand with both of his own, grinning so fetchingly. “Nice to meet you,” he shouts over the sounds of the pub. “Simon’s never brought a woman around before. You must be special.” 

“That means be on your best behavior, Garrick,” Simon says dryly, shifting his mask to sip at a beer—the first you’ve ever seen him drink.

“Yes, sir.” 

John arrives next. He’s older than the others, though there’s not yet any hint of silver in his facial hair. He smiles, eyes twinkling, and shares Kyle’s sentiments. It shouldn’t make you feel as special as it does, knowing that Simon hasn’t brought a woman to meet his friends before. But it does. It means something. The two of you still haven’t discussed exactly what your relationship is, but it seems clear in the eyes of everyone around you, which makes you feel a little more like you’re standing on solid ground. 

Johnny arrives last. His easy grin falters at the sight of you. He slips into the other side of the circular booth beside John and barely greets you, barely even meets your eyes. You don’t shrink, necessarily—you’re aware that you belong here, celebrating Simon, just as much as Johnny does—but you do grow quiet, your arms crossed in your lap, leaning into the warm comfort that Simon’s body beside you provides. 

The group together are downright boisterous. Even Simon comes out of his shell some as the drinks come and go, eventually tugging the mask down to rest beneath his chin. They tell stories that make you laugh, make you tear up, make you cringe, make you groan. It eases some anxious part of your heart to hear these uncensored stories, to learn more about Simon’s past straight from the sources.

It’s clear that their time spent serving together has made a brotherhood of them, and while a small part of you feels estranged as the outsider amongst this group, the larger part thinks it’s beautiful to see. 

Simon deserves this, you think, as the group gets up: some to go to the bathroom, others to the bar, others to smoke. He deserves to be surrounded by people that love him. 

You realize right there in that cracked leather booth of the bar that you are included in that.

 You’re in love with him. 

“Oh God,” you mutter, pressing your hands to your cheeks. Suddenly your head is spinning from the few shots you had shared with the others. Air. You need air. 

Not spying Simon anywhere near the bar, you take your chances of running into him outside and step out of the pub onto the cool street. There is a bitter wind blowing that has you wrapping your arms around your middle, wishing you had worn a jacket over your sweater. Resting your back against the brick wall, you stare up at the moon and think. Nothing has changed between now and five minutes ago, except that now you are a little wiser to your own feelings. A little more aware of how invested you are in this undefined relationship. You don’t need to freak out.

You just need to talk to him and figure out where you both stand with each other. It is the only—

“You followin’ me?” You jerk, startled. Johnny stands there, having come around out of the alley, crushing the remnants of a cigarette beneath his boot. His cheeks are red from the cold, hands jammed deep into his pockets. 

“What? Of course not!” 

“Alright,” he says, his agreement sounding a lot like skepticism. He moves past you toward the pub doors. 

You know that you shouldn’t. You know that for some inexplicable reason, Johnny doesn’t like you, and that you should take this at face value and leave well enough alone. But instead it makes something inside you feel needy and desperate, desperate for this closest friend of Simon’s to like you, desperate to fit it to Simon’s old life. 

“Hey,” you say, catching his wrist. “We should plan my next piercing while you’re here.” 

He visibly shakes off your touch. His eyes look back toward the pub longingly. “Yeah. Look, not much to plan, really, is there? Just let Simon know when you’re ready and he’ll text me.” 

He opens the door. For a moment, the sounds and smells of the pub spill out onto the sidewalk, but then the door shuts and it is quiet and you are alone. 

-

“Johnny doesn’t like me much,” you say to Simon on the way home. You’re driving—three beers in total had managed to make him tipsier than you thought possible for a man of his stature.

He snorts. “Soap loves everybody, and everybody loves Soap.” 

You take your eyes off the road briefly. Simon’s figure is illuminated by a passing streetlamp, turning his silhouette into something gilded where he is slumped over in the passenger seat resting his temple against the cool glass of the window. “I don’t love him,” you say, hoping you don’t overemphasize any certain word. 

Simon looks to you. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. Not even being drunk affects the intensity of his gaze, the way it penetrates you, turns you see-through. Whatever he sees in your face must not be enough, because his head thuds as it hits the window again. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a girl who was supposed to be mine ended up being for Soap.” 

You suck in a breath, heart clenching painfully. Taking one hand off the wheel, you search for his thigh—find his knee and settle for it, stroking softly with your thumb. 

“I’m not Soap’s, baby,” you say. 

“No?” 

You shake your head. 

“Whose are you?” 

“Come on, Simon,” you mutter, face hot. “You already know.” 

“Are you mine?” 

You nod.

“Don’t say it.” 

You blink, glancing over to him. He’s watching you, eyes heavy-lidded and pitch-black in the darkness of the cab. “Why not?” 

“Because I’ll make have to you pull over.” 

-

Instead he makes you wait until he’s inside you, still feeling the rasp of his stubble against your thighs from where he had eaten you out. Then, his hands shaking, he asks you again, Whose are you? just to hear the way you chant over and over again: Yours, Yours, Yours. 

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY GALANTINE’S SHANA

I would love some Momma Hera or anything MDZS. THANK YOU. ❤️❤️❤️❤️

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

 Xichen isn't in his room.

"Told you," Wei Wuxian says. "Bet you a bottle of wine he's in Da-ge's."

"Do I look like a fool to you?" Nie Huaisang demands.

Wei Wuxian whistles. "We'd need a lot more alcohol and maybe a flow chart to answer that question."

Nie Huaisang hits him with his fan.

Lan Wangji takes a deep, calming breath. There are plenty of reasonable explanations for why his brother is out of his room after curfew that don’t involve Nie Mingjue.

He can’t think of any, currently, but that’s because the two of them slap fighting each other behind him.

“Enough,” he snaps. He can’t turn them over to the one duty senior disciple because they’re clan heirs and any punishment could have political implications, which means Xichen or Uncle need to be the ones to issue them. But Xichen isn’t here and Uncle won’t be pleased to be woken up over a couple tardy disciples. The issue of the wards is concerning, but they’d been back in place when he’d gone to check, and there’s no real reason it can’t wait to morning. “Go to your dormitory. I’ll report your actions to my uncle in the morning.”

Xichen would have been more lenient, but he thinks they could benefit from a strict punishment.

“Why don’t you escort us there?” Wei Wuxian asks with a smile that makes Lan Wangji want to lean away from him or maybe lean cl – no, definitely away. “This place is so big. You don’t want me getting lost, do you?”

The paths are rather easy to follow, even at night. They hadn’t seemed to have any trouble getting here in the first place.

Nie Huaisang retches. “Seriously? First Da-ge and now you? What is it about the Lans?” He pauses, looking Lan Wangji up and down in a way that he’s not totally certain he’s comfortable with. “Okay, I mean, I suppose I see the appeal, but still.”

Wei Wuxian reaches out to punch Nie Huaisang in the side without looking at him. “Shut up.”

“Maybe we should get more alcohol,” he continues, not listening. “I think I’m going to need it.”

Lan Wangji leaves them still bickering.

~

The next morning Nie Huaisang wails all throughout his punishment. It’s not even that bad – he doesn’t even have to do a handstand, just copy rules of punctuality and prohibition.

Wei Wuxian, on account of meddling with the wards (Xichen had been impressed but Uncle hadn’t been), has to a handstand for several hours in the courtyard.

Doing it shirtless seems unnecessary.

Winking at him every time he walks by also seems unnecessary.

“Wow,” Xichen says, the time he’s unfortunately there to witness this behavior. “Are you sure he’s adopted?”

“Shut up,” Nie Mingjue grumbles.

Xichen listens about as well as Nie Huaisang had. Lan Wangji can’t mind, because he shouldn’t be saying that to him anyway. “Because I remember you at a certain age-”

Nie Mingjue draws his sword and Xichen is laughing as he mirrors him, the two of the sparring across the courtyard.

Lan Wangji is glad that Xichen has a friend.

He just wishes him visiting wasn’t necessitated by Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang making a mess of everything as quickly as possible.

[descendant-of-truth]

I do think they kind of shot themselves in the foot when it comes to the events of Sonic Forces, not because they were bad ideas or even because they were poorly-executed, but because of how it necessitates a change in character dynamics that Sega isn't willing to let happen.

Sonic canon is now existing in a time where Eggman's succeeded in taking over most of the world before, along with imprisoning Sonic for, and I need to emphasize this every time I mention it, six months straight. If Sonic's going to be jokey and casual with Eggman after that, then we need to be able to tell that it's something of a front that he's putting up, or else the character continuity makes no sense.

Recall how, in Adventure 2, Sonic would mock Eggman a bit when he thought he had the upper hand with the fake Chaos Emerald, but not because he wasn't taking him seriously as a villain. He knew that the situation was tense, he was talking big just because that's his personality.

Also recall how he completely dropped the humor whenever things got really bad. Well, he's seen things get pretty much as bad as possible in Forces, all because of Eggman, and I just can't buy the casual nature of their interactions in Frontiers because of it. No matter how casually Sonic acts around him, it's gotta be clear that he doesn't feel comfortable with him. And as entertaining as their dialogue in Frontiers is due to that vibe, it's out of character at this point in the timeline.

Yes, Sonic was the same way with him during Forces. But Frontiers was fully willing to let Tails have more serious, grounded feelings about what happened in Forces, so why not Sonic?

And seriously, what's with this trend of letting literally everyone but Sonic experience residual effects of Forces? Tails shows lasting guilt/anxiety regarding Infinite's first attack in both the games and the comics. And in those comics, the Restoration is all about rebuilding the world after the war, pretty clearly being shaped by their experiences. Meanwhile, Sonic mentions his imprisonment exactly once, and it gets brushed aside immediately.

I understand that Sonic wouldn't want to talk about it, but at a certain point, he doesn't really need to. A shift in how seriously he takes Eggman as a threat, showing his distrust whenever possible, would easily be enough to get the point across. Maybe make a point about him being a little antsy in tight spaces or something (which is the same way Forces communicated the effects being captured had on him, by the way).

And honestly, Eggman should feel a little different, too. He's now someone who's come so close to complete world domination and still lost, I feel like we should be seeing... I dunno, something. A different edge to his hatred for Sonic after such a monumental failure, maybe. Anything to show that Forces mattered at all to the major players involved.

Like, I don't think I'm asking for much here. If we can shake up the status quo of the series by allowing Eggman to be an Actual Dad with a Child, we can allow Sonic and friends to treat him as a legitimate threat who can't be trusted. But nooo, Eggman has to be silly enough to continue the Brand Image, which means that Sonic doesn't even get to have retroactive character development like Tails did

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for this disagreement with some of my friends/colleagues?

So I(40s F) used to work in local level government. I quit to pursue other career opportunities because of burnout, but they asked me to stay on in an official-unofficial advisory capacity, and I'm still pretty close with the current office holders, particularly the current occupant of my former office (A, 30s X). Their boyfriend (H, 30s M), who also works there, isn't fond of me but more or less tolerates me when they're around, which is okay enough. Both their job and my current one necessitate a lot of travel, so it's not often an issue.

Things run pretty smoothly, overall, and I do think the entire city council has the people's best interests at heart. However, recently a natural disaster devastated our area and caused a lot of disagreement over how best to deal with it, and frankly the proposal that was eventually put forward was an awful one that would return a privileged few (about 25% of the population, after estimating numbers) to a semblance of normalcy while neglecting the other 75%. Neither A nor I are willing to back the group's play on this one, for what I feel are obvious reasons. A has gone completely no contact with all of us and I don't even know where they are right now, which aside from worrying me a lot, also hurt my position in the discussion since I officially hold no office anymore.

So I took pretty decisive action to stop them, and now three of our original council (H, plus other members E and L) are extremely pissed off at me and are trying to rally the rest to oppose me, while making some extremely shortsighted and harmful moves in the process that will hurt a lot of people. They don't seem to care, however. It's like they consider the majority lesser human beings and only care about that privileged 25%. I don't think I did everything right, but I did my best. We have to let go of the past and make the best of what we have now, for everyone's sake. No more shall man have wings to bear him to paradise. Henceforth, he shall walk.

AITA for sundering reality into fourteen reflections to stop my coworkers? Or should they have accepted that their paradise is gone, and ceded the reflections to their new fragmented, imperfect inhabitants?

What are these acronyms?

[shikai-the-storyteller]

I've been thinking a lot about Leonarda's not-death ever since it happened back in April.

("What death?" you might ask, to which I say: "EXACTLY!")

Back in mid-April, Vegetta and Leonarda were mining together in a one-block wide tunnel. A mob (a Petriman) got between the two of them, and Vegetta told Leonarda to step back while he took care of it. At this point, they'd spent enough time together that he trusted Leo to listen to him.

Instead, she was killed by the same sweeping edge bug that killed her siblings.

-

Vegetta's reaction here is what's really interesting to me. Unlike most other parents on the Island, there are no shouts or tears – only a very brief "Hmm" and then silence. He very quietly takes stock of the situation, saying "Vegetta, no" and wondering aloud why Leo didn't defend herself. In chat, Foolish says "It was a bug, right? LAG" to which Vegetta slowly responds "Yes, lag. Bug." (Despite this, Foolish still asks "WHAT HAPPENED" in chat, though Vegetta doesn't reply).

Instead, he creates a slightly wider space in the tunnel where Leo's body is. He continues quietly taking stock of the situation, wondering why Leo didn't defend herself (which is what necessitated his intervention). She'd been lagging a lot that day, and he figures that must be the cause, and eventually when Leo re-appears out of thin air in the middle of the cave and collects her stuff, she confirms that the lag got to her and that's why she didn't fight the mob.

Now here's where things get interesting:

Vegetta checks the tab list. Online, it's just him, Leonarda, Roier, and Foolish. He quietly tells Leonarda "The body has already disappeared, and without a body, there is no crime. Nothing is happening. Did you die?" Leo shakes her head, and Vegetta shakes his head too, and in the kind voice he uses sometimes with Leo, he says: "I believe you have not died. Where is the body? It isn't anywhere, no mija. If it was a mistake, it was a mistake."

Leo says: "I saw Diosito (God) pa, and I was scared. God, what am I doing here?" and Vegetta laughs, telling her it's alright. Leo says "No pasa nada (don't worry / nothing happened)" and Vegetta says: "And the people who are watching us have not seen it either." To Foolish and Roier, he messages: "Secreto."

And the funniest thing about this is it worked.

Not a single person spoke about it. I saw this entire event go down live and I didn't see a WHISPER of what transpired among fans. I can't even remember if the QSMP official accounts talked about it (they sure didn't mention it in Vegetta's recap of the day). We could discuss this in meta terms of course– Leo was having known lag issues that day, Vegetta's beloved by the admins so of course they're willing to turn a blind eye rather than slap a "?" over Leonarda's life on the Eggstatistics, but meta talk isn't what I'm interested in here.

I'm interested in q!Vegetta, the weird "god-adjacent" aura he's got, and the way the universe bends to his will.

Before he took a break from the server, Rubius seemed to be a caretaker for the Eggs who died (for example, he was present when Maxo, Quackity, and Mariana & Slime said their final goodbyes to Trumpet, Tilin, and JuanaFlippa). Because of his role as an "angel" and some of his dialogue during the early days of the server, it's not a stretch to say he probably came to collect any Egg who lost a life. I can imagine he did the same when he saw Leonarda die – that is, until Vegetta said "And the people who are watching us have not seen it either." Realistically, we know Vegetta was saying this to Chat (and possibly the admins as well), but again, we're looking at this from an "in-universe" perspective.

I wonder if Vegetta was aware of Rubius' role, and this was his way of telling Rubius "No. I won't allow that to happen." We know Rubius has a soft-spot for Vegetta (and we also know that Rubius was cast out of heaven several months later) so it makes me wonder if these two instances are connected.

Either way, this isn't the first time the laws of the QSMP universe have bent for Vegetta, and I certainly don't think it'll be the last.

Rubius or no, Leo didn't die that day.

Vegetta made sure of it.

[sickfictropes]

When everyone is so worried about the whumpee but also the Plot is happening. Like yeah they just got possessed and it was super traumatic to be moved around like a puppet. Like yeah they just got stabbed and now only a haphazardly tied cloth is stopping them from bleeding out. Like yeah they have a broken leg and it's probably infected by now. but the world is LITERALLY ACTUALLY STRAIGHT UP going to end if we don't keep going and there simply isn't time to take care of them. So all the other characters can do is share worried glances, set a hand on the whumpee's shoulder, and give them a whispered apology while knowing that isn't enough.

A character getting injured in the middle of a fight but they're the strongest / their powers are what the team needs to win so they CAN'T be down for the count. "Are you okay? Can you stand?" - Asked by a character who knows they have no choice but to stand up and be okay

A character getting hit by a poison dart in the middle of a maze full of tricky riddles and traps that only they're skilled enough to handle getting past. The dizziness makes it hard to think but they need to push through. Stressed teammates yelling at them "you know this one! You know the answer!" because they do but they can't seem to get the words out.

a character. getting magic exhaustion. agpneraugepn and almost passing out and leaning on their teammate as they keep the spell up knowing it's the only way everyone will survive. No one can help because no one else is a mage!!! choking and coughing from the strain. falling to their knees, catching themself with one hand but keeping the other extended to keep performing the spell. it hurts so much to keep going but it's the only option.

this is one of my favorite tropes!! an injury that warrants rest and medical care vs a situation that necessitates fighting or fleeing. their team constantly keeping an eye on them, verbally checking in when they can, doing all they can to support the whumpee but knowing that survival comes first.

then the inevitable collapse afterward and everyone praising the whumpee that they did so well and that they'll take care of things from here!! oh man it's so good <3

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for yesdangerpls; alpha Jazz, a dark alley, and a very pretty omega. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Given how compatible they clearly are, Jazz wonders what it is about the scent of gunpowder and blood that this omega likes so much, but . . . 

Well. He’s a crime lord, or a vigilante, or some combination of the two. Maybe it makes him feel safe, having an alpha who smells like they can protect him in a way he’s familiar with. Jazz doesn’t actually have any idea how to fire a traditional gun, of course, but probably “ectoplasm and electricity” wouldn’t be a scent Red Hood would even recognize, much less find reassuring, so . . . 

Maybe she should take a few classes or something and start going to one of the local gun ranges, actually, if that’s something he–oh, well, that’s a presumptuous thought, Jazz recognizes, cutting it off before her inner alpha can get any more ahead of itself. 

They are very, very compatible, which is her only defense for that.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” she barely manages. “Someone safe, or–” 

“Knot me,” Red Hood snarls, less a plea and more a demand. Maybe he’s the bratty type of omega, Jazz thinks, and then has to beat down her inner alpha for immediately wanting to turn him over her knee. 

Or just shove him down to his knees and give him what he's asking her for. 

That is really, really not appropriate. Or helpful. 

Or getting out of her head, either. 

“You really don’t want me doing that right now,” she says, only barely keeping the alpha out of her voice. Red Hood makes a desperate, choked sound, digging his fingers into her back and tightening his arms around her neck and thighs against her sides, and then slips a bit away from “bratty” to . . . 

“Alpha,” he whines pleadingly. “You said I smelled good. Fucking liar. If you liked how I smelled you’d fucking knot me. M’wet, c’mon, m’wet for you, I need it so bad, stick it in me–” 

Okay, never mind: definitely still a brat. 

This is not really an ideal situation, Jazz observes. 

Well–in one sense, anyway. 

In another sense, she could just give him exactly what he’s asking for right now. 

She needs to not do that, though, which means . . . figuring something out, somehow. Just–before she ends up in sympathy rut, ideally. 

She is definitely ending up in sympathy rut no matter what, obviously, so she needs to mitigate the issue before she does. Just . . . somehow. Mitigating. Issue. 

. . . somehow. 

She's . . . not thinking as clearly as she could be, maybe.

“You're in heat drop,” Jazz says as patiently as she can, trying to just–minimize her breathing, a bit. Unfortunately talking necessitates at least a bit of it, but liminals don't need that much oxygen, really. Comparatively, she means. “You need a clinic or a spotter. Or at least a private nest, if nothing else.” 

“I need your entire fucking knot in me,” Red Hood snarls, and squeezes her tight enough with his arms and thighs that she has to put a lot less effort into remembering not to breathe. Which is actually a little helpful, honestly, but still not solving the situation.

[ddarker-dreams]

play fighting — chrollo lucilfer.

Hot cocoa is a staple when cooler weather starts setting in. 

By your reckoning, it could find a place on every tier of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. A warm, decadent cup with wisps of steam rising from the swirling surface. This mouthwatering mental image is what led you to the kitchenette. Dutifully following the package’s instructions, you rip into the chocolatey package by the serrated edge and get to work. 

All the while, a pair of inquisitive eyes track your every movement. You can’t imagine why the sight of you in fluffy pajamas pulling milk from the fridge has Chrollo’s rapt attention. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping on his own concoction. Earl gray tea, if the scent is of any indication. 

Your masterpiece is almost complete. Now, for the finishing touch — marshmallows. 

Alas. You’ve encountered a problem. The marshmallows are stored in a cabinet that evades your reach. To make matters worse, Chrollo has perched himself right where you’d need to climb up. Should you list clairvoyance among his many capabilities? Logically, you know that feat eludes him, but your suspicions remain.

“Is something the matter, dear?” 

Ah, you forgot that you’ve been silently squinting at him while the gears in your head spin. Round and round they go, never producing a viable solution. 

“No, not at all,” you dismiss. His gaze never leaves yours, even as he takes another sip of his drink. You can see it in his eyes, that ‘oh, really?’ look. You don’t appreciate that look, for you receive it often, thanks to your shenanigans. 

“Your drink’s getting cold,” he points out. 

Very astute of him. 

The way you see it, this can go a few ways. One, you could ask for his help in procuring your garnish. You could, but… he regards you with such bemusement, finding pleasure in every little thing you do. You’re tired of the court jester role. Asking him for something almost always guarantees that you’ll be putting on a metaphorical cap and bells. 

So you cling to your pride. You stand close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, as your target necessitates such sacrifice. Straining while on your tiptoes, your fingertips brush against the damnable cabinet handle, gold and mocking. Vigilant as your efforts are, they’re ultimately fruitless. Your prize remains just out of reach.

Huffing, you turn to face Chrollo, who has no right to look as innocent as he does. 

“Could you…” you trail off and shoo him with your hands. You hope that gets the message across. 

“Can I ask why? I feel perfectly content here.” 

Of course he does. 

You’re unsure what spurs on your next action. Pettiness? Irritation? Righteous anger? Who knows. You rest both your palms flat against his bicep and push, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle, which, in truth, is a fitting description. He doesn’t so much as budge. The full weight of your body and strength combined amounts to nothing. You can’t comprehend how hard his muscles feel beneath his shirt, it’s like you’re touching a wall. 

Although it’s quiet, you hear it. A breathy chuckle escapes his lips. 

Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as you go from your nice, secure spot on the floor to being lifted high. Two large hands settle right above your hips, holding you in place. Your reflexes kick in and you squirm. Fortunately, Chrollo’s grasp doesn’t falter. You realize what he’s getting at and make quick work of opening the cabinet and getting your stupid marshmallows. He brings you down. You only relax when your soles touch solid ground. 

Chrollo gives your hips a playful squeeze. 

“Try again,” he whispers near your ear.

You want nothing more than to scamper off, but his body envelops you, cutting off any escape. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, clutching a bag of marshmallows, your Hello Kitty slippers askew.

You sigh.

Life certainly has its challenges. 

Should you start with elbowing him or stomping down on his feet…? 

[justrustandstardust]

in honour of geto's birthday, i want to talk about the fandom discourse that paints him as a mother. he definitely has a degree in motherology (with a minor in babygirlism), but i also think it’s possible that gege is genuinely using his character to say something interesting about motherhood and maternity.

this post is inspired largely in part by @virgobingo's thoughtful meta on geto and monstrous femininity, which you can find here. i want to extrapolate from the trope of monstrous femininity and extend it to monstrous motherhood. (which @virgobingo also touches on; you should really check out their meta— it's awesome!)

geto's character is immediately established in a protector capacity, which is intensely reminiscent of the tropes that mothers embody in media. his whole thing is that the strong must protect the weak; it's his core belief. his character is premised around this belief, much like the way mothers' constitutions in media are premised on the principle that they'll go to any length for their children.

we're repeatedly shown his caring side during hidden inventory— he cares for riko, he expresses concern for gojo, he even asks about kuroi after he finds out toji supposedly murdered his best friend. it's made very clear that he's an outwardly caring person with a strong sense of duty. in this way, he parallels the textual role of mothers, whose function is to care and provide above all else. the repeated emphasis on his caring nature is what directly likens him to maternity, whose characteristic trait is tender love and care.

he also houses curses in his body. he unleashes them from inside of him, almost like children leaving the womb. these curses obey him and operate according to his will in a very parent/child dynamic. they are powerful, but they can only do what he tells them to do. he uses them to fulfil his duty according to his core belief: to protect the weak.

when he defects, his ideology fundamentally does not change— it just inverts. instead of the strong protecting the weak (the weak necessitating their strength because they can't protect themselves), now the strong must be protected from the weak (because the weak leech the strength from the strong, therefore rendering them weak).

nothing really changes; he still cares —fiercely— it's just in the opposite direction. he takes the tropes associated with motherhood and inverts them— he'll do anything to protect those under his care, including killing, because he wholeheartedly believes in fulfilling his duty as a protector (like a mother). his unwavering conviction and willingness to die for his beliefs (which are directly about those he's protecting) is the most flagrantly maternal thing about him.

toji's worm calls him "mommy" and it's not wrong. he takes in daughters and becomes the central figure of his "family"; his emphasis on family throughout the story (even as a youth) also speaks to his maternity, as mothers are often written as the binding emotional centres of familial structures.

after he dies, his body is taken over by someone who is Iiterally a mother. he embodies monstrous motherhood during life and after death, leading us to the question of what gege is trying to say about all of this. is caring too much a bad thing? does caring in one way open the door to caring in another? what happens when a mother's love, supposedly strong enough to lift fallen trees off their children, goes in the “wrong” direction?

there's also the fact that geto is male. i think gege is also asking us to reckon with how the tropes of maternity have been confined to women, showing us that these intense convictions and the depth of care attributed to mothers can apply to anyone, even (especially) if they are distinctly masculine. in doing this, he's also expanding the conceptual definition of motherhood, suggesting that mothers can exist beyond their provident care and one-dimensional duty to their beloveds.

geto's monstrous motherhood is an explosive reclamation of agency in a trope where women have been historically limited by the categorical imposition of maternity. it seeks to disrupt not only who we consider to be mothers but also what we consider a mother to be. perhaps the monster is not the maternal figure whose love turns vicious or violent, but us, who monstrously imprisoned them in the fixed role of "mother".

[riseatlantisss]

A New Beginning

Pairing : Astarion x gender neutral!reader, short and sweet one-shot

A/N: Minor spoilers for Astarion’s arc in BG3. The first half is from reader’s POV, the second half is from Astar’s POV, hope its not too confusing! Enjoy! Written while listening to this on repeat TW : mentions of abuse, trauma, PTSD, but most importantly : lotsss of cuddles

English isn’t my first language, sorry for any mistakes <3

It’s unlike anything else, the vivid pain of helpless past trauma that radiates through the body like a burn, the horror of it tight as a fist around the throat. Astarion knows it all too well. But in that moment, safe in his bed with the love of his life in his arms, the pain heals.

The room is pitch black as you wake up, except for the dim light of a candle glowing from your nightstand. The air around you feel cold, but the bed is warm and comfy. You don’t feel like getting up just yet. Astarion is laying on his side, facing you, eyes closed. Messy white curls are falling on his forehead and his arm is wrapped around your waist. You smile as you contemplate your so-called scary, blood-thirsty vampire boyfriend’s cute bedhead. He looks pretty damn adorable.

"You realise it's rude to stare, don't you?" Astarion says, voice gravelly and eyes still closed peacefully. "How did you know I was staring?" You ask, almost shocked. "It comes with being a vampire, darling!" He replies before tightening his grip around your waist and pulling you nearer. 

You chuckle and roll on top of him. He pulls you even closer and holds you there for a long, delicious moment. Your fingers clutch on his curly silver hair. Since Astarion made the shattering discovery that physical contact did not necessitate pain, he has been eager to use touch for comfort. Fortunately for you, when it comes to touching him, you can never get enough.

His fangs glimmer like daggers as he brushes them along your skin, devouring you with kisses, drawing his lips lower and lower until they are resting above your thrumming pulse dancing at your neck. His skin pale and his eyes red, burning brightly in the near-darkness, sharp and piercing, he glows in the dim light of the room.

The way Astarion feels in your arms—the mixture of fragility and tensile strength—makes the protectiveness surge in your chest. His warmth pierces straight through 200 years of vampiric cold. Sometimes you find yourself thinking about all the horrors he had to endure under Cazador’s control, and you shiver. You know how tough he is. Everyday he gets up to fight the same demons that left him so tired the night before. And that, my love, is bravery. You think, running your fingers through his hair and down his neck as he lets out a long sigh of joy and relief. You are so proud of him. He is free now and that’s what matters most but what’s done is done, and you’ll never be able to protect him from the past.

“Astarion, are – are you happy?” You timidly whisper, a barely noticeable worry in your voice.

Was he happy ? The words resonate in Astarion’s mind. No one ever asked him that. No one ever cared about his feelings. Never. Before you, it used to be simple. Someone else did all the thinking for him. He never had any question to answer. Hunt victims for Cazador, entertain Cazador, push through the pain of his constant abuse, and repeat. So fucking cruel, but so fucking simple. Now it is all so... complicated. Everything is different. Now, he has someone who truly cares for him ? A friend ? A lover ? Gods help him.  

But it's true. You hadn’t done anything but go out of your way to make Astarion happy since the day you’d met him. Even if he thought he was the last person that deserved to be happy. Yet every time he holds you in his arms, he is. He is the best kind of happy, a pure and wonderful happy that lights up his insides and makes his dead heart beat again. He actually didn’t think a vampire could get this happy. Brooding is in the job description. Angst is a part of the daily routine. Nobody can be a vampire without some anger issues and major emotional baggage. But in that moment, safe in his bed, holding the love of his life in his arms, he is nothing but happy. He is home. That is a gift and one he will be eternally grateful for.

Hoping actions would speak louder than words, he decides to keep quiet and pulls you in for a long, sweet kiss, holding you even tighter, never ever wanting to let you go.

“I love you,” he breathes softly after a while, keeping his mouth as close to yours as he can. “I love this. And I want it all.” 

[cerastes]

When Schwarz was new did people complain about her being too overpowered?

See, I've had this ask for two days, and I wanted to have a good chance to sit down and answer it properly, because it's a good springboard into something I find interesting, the zeitgeist back then and how it has evolved into current, modern Arknights. Let's do a little retrospective.

No, that didn't happen. As to why it didn't happen, well, there's a few factors, the first of which being Schwarz is not overpowered, she's a character with very evident flaws and very evident strengths, and these were, depending on the player, immediately understood or not really considered in depth.

See, Schwarz was the fourth 6* released after launch -- After Skadi, Ch'en, and Magallan, in that order -- and the absurd powerhouses back then were all launch Operators and arguably Ch'en: SilverAsh, Eyja, and Exusiai were the most popular back then, with Ch'en being a conditional potent burst damage dealer (her S2M3 was her main selling point, being an instant helidrop burst of damage that also hit air units). Schwarz was in a place similar to Ch'en in that she was conditional in how she blasted things; she has superior firepower but poor, strict range for a Sniper (back then, we had no such thing as categorized archetypes, so we just came up with nicknames, like "duelists" for what are now Dreadnoughts, "Schwarz-types" for Heavyshooters, "Enmity Guard" for Musha, and many others), and if you wanted to use her big killer skill, S3, she was only going to have a straight line worth of range to hit things.

See, the thing is, being strong wasn't an 'issue' back then. We wanted more and stronger units so we could break the monotony of SilverAsh swish swish, Eyja Volcano Hour, and Warfarin's Apple Pie Combo. A monotony that wasn't a monopoly, mind you, because it definitely wasn't the sole end way to deal monstrous amounts of damage and tackle hard content -- I myself was a dedicated Specter, Saria, and Angelina user -- but it was what practically all guide makers and tier lists suggested. Either way, the demand for Cool Strong New Units was definitely healthy back then, ESPECIALLY by the time of Schwarz' release, since Skadi and Magallan had been rather disappointing for 6*s; Skadi was the sole Abyssal Hunter buff that existed back then (Guard Specter had no Module, thus, no AH Buff), and without Modules or other AH buffs, all she could do was basically S2 Helidrop to kill something or use her S3 probably once per stage to become a raid boss and then sort of just stand there, offering nothing that other units couldn't since things back then were patently not strong enough to need her, as her 3* equivalent, Melantha, was pretty much enough to deal with anything that required a Dreadnought specifically, and you had other, stronger options that did more than JUST deal with strong enemies if a bomb of Skadi's caliber was needed, while Magallan suffered the unfortunate fate of being an early Summoner in a game where super instant DPS came free with your Xbox, leading to the vast majority of people to not really want to learn to play around her expensive Deployment Slot costs and dynamic gameplay, which also necessitated Mastery investment to put out numbers, investment that was not easy to make back then, as Masteries were something you REALLY rationed.

Another very important part as to why Schwarz didn't have to deal with this was because she was the only one of her type. She was a new way to play back then, so no one felt their favorite was threatened; Schwarz and Exusiai filled very different roles, with Exusiai being able to wreck high HP low DEF enemies with ease (which was basically 95% of enemies back then, notably All Bosses Except Big Bob, who has a DEF of 800) while Schwarz had HUGE chunky single hits that were meant to squash enemies even if their DEF was huge, but who ultimately would have less DPS than Exusiai in most cases. What's more, you would use Schwarz in plenty of set-ups anyways because she brought DEF Shred with her kit. People celebrated Schwarz back then because not only was she a cool new unit type, she could bring value to pretty much all sorts of parties with Physical damage, in a way that another unit I've omitted so far could for Arts damage, the support powerhouse of the early, mid, and modern game, throughout the years: Saria.

I make the specific comparison with Exusiai because eventually, the zeitgeist would change: Ash, from the R6S collab, made waves because she was strong, but also because it seemed like she'd steal away Exusiai's place as the Fast Shooter DPS Wrecker Supreme. Time would go on to prove that, no, she would not do that, because Ash is more of a Burst damage unit compared to Exusiai, with immense damage tied to a shorter window and the Stun condition, while Exusiai's DPS window isn't contingent on anything except "Does she do real damage or chip damage". But that was an early sign of things to come: Upstaging.

The initial fears of very strong units had more to do with "this unit is powercreeping an older unit" more than anything. Powercreep is inevitable, doubly so in gacha games where they gotta sell you the PNGs one way or another, and I'll always argue that Arknights has been incredibly good with handling powercreep compared to its peers (and just, as a game in general), but again, it's inevitable, so you end up with situations like Degenbrecher existing and Doctor Manhattan Exploding Ch'en and Irene right into niche uses (Ch'en nowadays being at her best as a support sub-DPS with her Module allowing for great party Offensive/Defensive SP charging, while Irene still has her powerful S1/S2/S1 loop combo with Dorothy) or, you know, Texas the Pale and Yato In A Fur Bikini completely obliterating Phantom out of the face of Terra.

All of this, in my opinion and perception, holds true nowadays: When a unit of a new archetype or playstyle releases and they are very strong, you only hear few people complaining about them being very strong, but when a unit could possibly powercreep an older unit, especially an older favorite, that number increases exponentially. Of course, creatures like Wisadel, Degenbrecher, and Ling exist, which blow other units out of the water entirely, and you've also had units like Surtr or Mlynar who aren't really directly powercreeping any specific units as much as powercreeping entire roles and concepts.

Arknights also does have more content creators now, which I also think worsens matters because they have an obligation and a blood oath to the algorithm to always make a video that goes something like "NEW OPERATOR EXTREMELY BROKEN?????" with a crappy clickbait thumbnail and since [GRUMP ALERT] most Arknights players hate thinking for themselves and love looking at The Content Creator to form their opinions on whether Unit Is Strong Or Not [/GRUMP ALERT], these sentiments, whether legitimate or not, tend to flare up more often. By the way, that's also not a good idea, because everyone thought Gnosis was an easy skip back when he released, and then it turned out Gnosis was cracked, and a shitload of CN players regretted not rolling for him, so hey, sometimes this does result in pretty funny things to occur, as it were.

But yeah, this has been a little retrospective of the zeitgeist throughout the years.