I was thinking about Achilles's Heel randomly today and also thinking about the Football Field scene on repeat and the two thoughts kind of merged lmao, but it made me realize: Wilhelm is Simon's Achilles Heel.
Everyone is familiar with the legend of Achilles's Heel, right? Achilles's mother, Thetis dipped her son in the river of the Underworld, Styx to give him an invincible, immortal body- a flesh even the mightiest of blades cannot penetrate. But, a major flaw creeped up in her plan- Achilles was invincible, except by the heel of his leg from where his mother held him while dipping him into the waters of Styx. A vulnerable spot in his armor.
Well, how does this relate to Simon? Well, Simon is always described as being "guarded-up"- especially in terms of expressing his unadulterated emotions. Styx is a river of tortured souls, a river of suffering. Simon's life has been nothing short of a "dip through the river of suffering" every now and then- with his family issues, to being constantly ostracised by his Hillerska peers, to the video tape scandal- it's like Simon has developed a thick skin, an armor made of suffering which makes him "strong" for facing challenges.
But, Achilles's armor, though giving him incomparable protection, also robbed him of his humanity, by making him less vulnerable to death- when mythologies are littered with stories of immortals eho envy humans for their mortality and being doomed by the curse of living. His heel was the only part of his mortality, his humanity left with him.
But Simon, although he learned how to stop himself from becoming a mess in excruciating situations, also lost a crucial element of what makes us human- vulnerability. But Wilhelm was the one with whom he could just be vulnerable- Wilhelm made him feel like a boy, a person capable of putting himself out there for someone, to love and be loved.
Often times, Achilles's Heel is a metaphor for weakness, since the hero himself fell into the arms of death because of that very heel. But for me, death is the greatest act of courage. Being on the verge of death is perhaps the scariest feeling ever- and facing its inevitability is what makes immortals envious of mortals.
Wilhelm was also seen as a weakness for Simon by the people around him- someone who is wearing down Simon, someone who will only bring suffering to him. But Wilhelm was the only one who kept Simon's emotional self intact, and treated him with the grace and delicacy that Simon's guarded self desperately needed. Wilhelm also caused him great distress, yes, there's no denying that, but it was a journey Simon needed to navigate to realize that sometimes hardening up in response to hurt and humiliation is not the best coping mechanism, after all.
With that being said, here's to MORE vulnerable moments between them in S3 because there's still a lot they need to talk about.💜
He isn’t biting down, but he’s burying the question somewhere between his ribs like it’ll help him figure himself out better if he pretends it’s not there. Except he can feel it like a warm spot, winding around his bones and echoing a sound through his veins.
There isn’t enough drama surrounding this for him to put a real name to it, so he doesn’t, but he loves the idea anyway. He loves the thought of reaching into himself and tugging free something of value, something tangible enough to make sense of.
Instead, he’s got this vibrating tension threading itself through him indelicately.
Link’s in the office when he needs him to be, which is a godsend, and Rhett’s barely through his shaky monologue before Link’s shushing him gently, getting his hands on Rhett’s waist to guide him over the couch.
And this is--
Yes. Okay, yes. This is exactly what Rhett needs, because he can’t seem to figure out how to fully fit himself within the confines of his own thoughts, and he’s, maybe just a little bit, panicking about something he can’t put his finger on. It’s okay, though; he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to figure any of this out.
Not right now, at least. And Link’s not sitting him down on the couch, he’s patting at Rhett’s sides and saying, “Come on, big guy,” as he plops himself down, spreads his legs to, presumably, make room for Rhett on the floor in front of him.
“What-- um,” but Link shushes him again, gestures at the floor. He’s jittery, like usual, but hypersensitive to every single one of Rhett’s moves, it seems.
So Rhett sits, careful and easy, on the floor between Link’s spread legs.
“You’re interrupting my alone time,” Link tells him, just barely a murmur, and Rhett’s shivering when he gets his hands in Rhett’s hair. Both of them at once, fingers dragging along his scalp. It’s supposed to feel like a scold, but it only mostly feels like a swell of pride in Rhett’s chest instead.
This is more important, otherwise Link would have shooed him away.
When he catches a knot with his fingers, he’s careful, easy, gentle about untangling it, and Rhett tilts his head back to rest on Link’s lap, to look up at him. From here, he looks like the molten center of the earth, magma and energy, and Rhett doesn’t touch but he wants to.
He wants to.
He settles for looking.
Link tugs at his hair, just a little bit, and smiles at Rhett. Tilted down, fingers still in Rhett’s hair, holding him in place just so he can smile down at him, let him know who’s got the upper hand right now.
Rhett’s okay. He’s okay, and he’s opening his mouth on reflex, before Link’s fingers have even made their way to his jaw. But his entire body is attuned to a singular thought right now, his brain firing half signals that all meet in the same place.
And he wants. It’s a direct line of heat, centralized at the very tip of his tongue.
Pressed to his teeth.
Uncurled now, and Link’s fingers are finally at his jaw, under his chin, tilting him impossibly further so he can laugh, not cruelly, dripping with globs of heat, and what Rhett might be so bold as to think is sympathy. Rhett’s mouth closes again.
The pad of his index finger, pressed to the meat of his lower lip. He says, “Calm down, man.”
He lets his eyelids flutter shut. He’s floating, just a little bit, at the thinly-veiled order. He’s trying. He’s arching into the contact, paying attention to anything that isn’t his aching jaw, his aching back, his aching cock.
Gosh, he’s hard already.
And Link’s finger finally presses inside, just between his lips to rub at his teeth, his gums. It’s not sexy, it’s not what he wants, but he thinks that’s the point.
“Alright,” Link murmurs, soft and sweet, and the hand under his chin slips down to his neck, feather light, so Rhett can open his mouth again.
Instead, he just unclenches his jaw, relaxes, his teeth separating so Link can press his finger to the flat of Rhett’s tongue in his mouth.
He doesn’t moan, but he shifts against the floor to refrain.
It’s the pressure of it. The weight of Link’s finger on his tongue, something inescapable as he’s held in place and made to take whatever Link wants to give him. His fingers are slender and careful, tracing along the ridges of his teeth, a second one slipping between his slick lips to match the other.
He’s full, then. His mind a little blank, his jaw a little more slack. His skin is fitting itself back in place over his bones instead of crawling. He aches a little less.
And Link sucks in a heavy breath, asks him, “You gonna open up for me some more, pretty boy?”
So Rhett opens his throat, waits for the inevitable. Usually, Link curls his fingers now, pushing further back, resting the tips along the curve of his tongue, as far back as he can, and Rhett--
Gosh, he wants.
He wants and he wants and he wants.
But Link slips his fingers back out of Rhett’s mouth instead, and he can’t help the way he whines, now, how he lets the first bit of real noise leave his lungs for the first time since Link had him sit on this godawful floor like this.
He’s shushed again, a bit harsher this time, but he’s not in the mind to care about it right now. Singular thoughts, singular goal, and he’s tilting his head back and back some more, furrowing his brow, unable to fully see what Link’s thinking.
It’s only about a second before Link’s other hand is pushing his head forward, the one with slick fingers at his chin again. He opens, hopeful, and is met with two fingers at once this time, the middle and ring, long and perfect and curling and curling and pressing back and back, his other hand on the back of Rhett’s head, guiding him forward all at the same time.
He gags with it, but Link doesn’t pull away, just shushes him some more, or maybe that’s the just sound of Rhett’s pulse in his skull. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to care right now, not when everything is just starting to shift right out of their sockets again, only this time they’re realigning themselves even better than before.
Link’s murmuring something to him, something about being good, about being open, about how tight and hot he feels, and--
And his palm is resting open and warm and slick with Rhett’s own spit on his chin, curled around the lower part of his face as he fucks-- really, honestly fucks-- into Rhett’s mouth with fingers. Like, like he’s fingering him open. Curling them up and pressing like he’s looking for something.
He feels--
Fuck.
Fuck, he doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Weightless. Like his head is full of cotton, like his veins and cells and atoms have all stopped in tandem to watch him tremble to pieces.
Vaguely, he’s aware of his fingers digging dents into Link’s calves from behind him, searching desperately for something to ground himself with, but he doesn’t seem concerned, so Rhett isn’t either.
He can hear the wet sounds of Link’s fingers in his throat, has to bite back another gag.
He hears Link tell him, “Good boy, Rhett. You’re being so good.”
And Rhett tries to say thank you. He tries to blink through the bleariness and get a better picture of him, but realizes there are tears in the way, a steady stream of them making a mess down his face now. He’s wet all over, from his eyes to the bottom of his chin.
It’s obscene, and he feel so used. He’s being wrung dry, Link’s fingers rough and unforgiving in his throat, pulling out for just a moment, a beat, to let Rhett drag in unsteady breaths.
He’s floating.
He’s being held up by Link’s middle fingers on his right hand, curled deep in the back of his throat. When he tries to swallow, it’s just a pitiful, fluttering thing that has Link chuckling softly, saying, “Oh, try one more time, yeah?”
So Rhett does, and it’s even harder this time for some reason, and Link presses back at the same time, and Rhett’s gagging. It’s harsh and it starts in his spine.
He feels split open, flayed, raw, the corners of his mouth sealing themselves around the bulky knuckles of Link’s fist. He isn’t weeping, but he’s crying, he knows it. He can taste the salt of his tears on his tongue.
But god, he’s floating.
And by the time Link is pulling his fingers out, telling him, “Touch yourself,” Rhett’s just about somewhere else entirely.
Fumbling with his zipper is too hard, so he just settles for cupping his hands over himself, rocking his hips into the pressure there. It’s easier, like this, to focus on Link’s fingers sliding through the stringy mess of spit again, pressing back and back and back and curling up and up and up.
He’s ruthless.
His mouth lands on Rhett’s forehead as he tells him, “There you go. You gonna make yourself come, pretty boy?” as he thrusts his fingers into Rhett’s throat.
There’s a plea that he can’t quite form, right on the tip of Rhett’s tongue. Pressed to the meaty part of Link’s fingers.
And when he comes, it’s because Link flutters his fingers, wiggles them inside Rhett’s throat, has him jerking into the feeling of it, another gag harshing its way out of his body.
And he comes and he comes, his own hands pressed to his cock through his pants like he’s still learning how to jerk off, too desperate to take off his pants, to even dip his hand inside. Too invested in the feeling of Link’s skin on his tongue, the taste of his own desperation creeping up the inside of his esophagus.
Link’s fingers still, just resting on his tongue, and he pets through Rhett’s hair with the other hand, cradling instead of jerking him forward into the movement.
He falls back against Link, limp and tired and fuzzy.
Link slips his fingers free from Rhett’s wet mouth, pauses for a minute and shifts before he’s wiping at Rhett’s face with something. It’s soft and careful, cleaning him free of spit and tears and whatever else.
He leans forward, the shadow startling for all of a second, presses warm lips to Rhett’s forehead again.
“Better?” he asks,
And Rhett doesn’t trust his voice. He doesn’t know how he’s going to talk without the fluttering of Link’s fingers inside of him. So he nods instead.
He swallows, and swears he can feel indentions where Link’s fingers were, where his throat has made place for them.
i missed my last chance to see taeyang perform in 2017 in nyc before military and now the only other chance i have is coachella the problem is tickets cost 6.2 million dollars and i would have to fly to california. not worth it
