#day five: pawn to player

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[azen13]

I’ve never been to a Starlight Pawnshop before…just look at all this stuff. Too bad I can’t buy everything in this store.

Wait a minute, who left this Chess Piece out by itself? No matter, I’ll gladly take it, even if I’ve never played a single game before in my life!

A Losing Game

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Chess Pawn: A finely-carved chess pawn. If life is a chessboard, then so too are people pawns in other's games. Based on this pawn’s pristine condition, whoever controlled it loved it quite dearly.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Gaslighting

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Jing Yuan is an accomplished man. As the General of the Xianzhou Luofu, he has accumulated a list of titles and achievements that could fill a thousand archives: master of foresight; skilled with a glaive; voted “Most Attractive Bachelor” of the Xianzhou Luofu five years in a row. And, of course, his prowess at Starchess.

Yes, Jing Yuan is very, very good at Starchess. One of the best in the entirety of the Xianzhou Alliance, if not in the entire galaxy. While his knowledge of opening lines could be considered weak for his level of gameplay, after he gets settled, he excels at slowly cutting off his opponent’s options, until reaching the endgame. 

In Starchess, the endgame is extremely important. A poorly-played endgame can lead to a crushing defeat, while quick thinking and clever maneuvering of pieces can allow a pawn to be promoted to a queen, which can then help propel a player to victory.

While Jing Yuan is good at Starchess, he is almost undefeatable in the endgame.

Until today.

The ring was perfect and understated, a band of solid gold engraved with delicate patterns. He knew everything about you from years of dismantling every thread of your being apart, and knew you didn’t care for things that were too gaudy and outwardly luxurious. The night was perfectly planned: a picnic beneath the starlit sky, constellations framing your face like a crown. He had hidden the ring at the bottom of the basket, beneath a beautiful meal of the finest the Luofu had to offer. And you were going to be there, boundless in beauty and grace, sharp as a sword and sweet as sugar.

Tonight, though, Jing Yuan tastes the sea on his lips.

How long has it been since he has cried? Centuries, he thinks, standing in the foyer of his home, the front door slightly ajar. A biting wind snaps its jaws at Jing Yuan through the opening, but he cannot feel it. He can hardly feel anything. 

The numbness spreads from his heart outwards as he moves, first forwards to shut the door. A brief glance outside, and he can still imagine you standing there. In better circumstances, you and him would have gone to Fyxestroll Gardens, and enjoyed a quiet night. He would have proposed. You would have accepted. Everything would be right in the world. But when Jing Yuan opened the door, what greeted him was the greatest misfortune he had ever faced.

You stood outside, jagged shadows stretching like scars across your face, your posture guarded, your face unreadable. At first, Jing Yuan assumed you just had a terrible day, perhaps because of your job, perhaps because of something else. But then you began to speak, poison spilling from your lips, killing both you and him. He knows this is a grave mistake, but you have already drowned in these lies.

As you walk away from him, Jing Yuan makes a vow to himself: he will not let you leave. No, not like this.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Without you by his side, safe and secure in his loving embrace, the General’s night is restless; as he tosses and turns, he replays the memories of hurt again and again in his mind, trying to wrap his head around your reasoning so he can dismantle it when he has you again. He may have unknowingly made a blunder, but he will still win this game, the most important game of his life.

Maybe a stop by the Alchemy Commission–your workplace–is necessary, no? Last time he heard, investigators are still clearing out spies from the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus hiding amongst its members. 

Jing Yuan takes a moment to check his schedule, a relaxed smile falling on his face. He still has several hours before his first meeting of the day. Enough time to bring you back home, where you belong. A brief flash of uncertainty courses through his body, like a chess player second-guessing their plan, before he steadies himself. This is for your benefit, he tells himself. With all the dangers on the Luofu, someone like you cannot simply remain unprotected. 

With a calm and patient gait, the General of the Luofu makes his way to the Alchemy Commission.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He scrutinizes the cramped halls of the building you work in carefully, noting a pawn here, a bishop there. All people, yet all pieces in the game of love, and the inevitable, complete conquering of your heart. Perhaps they are playing their own games, but they do not matter. In this game, they are Jing Yuan’s pieces to move. Before today, they may have been your pieces. But while the game of life and the game of chess share many similarities, they are not one in the same. Life’s board flips and moves, expands and shrinks. Pieces change allegiances, or disappear and reappear entirely.

The board is not on your side today. You don’t even notice Jing Yuan watching you from the hall, preparing your doom. Within moments, he strides in the room, his lazy gait and relaxed expression taking control over the room and its occupants–including you–in mere seconds. Shocked faces spread like lightning, from healer to healer, before striking yours. You stand in complete terror, as Jing Yuan claims you with a simple glance, before speaking in an authoritative tone, booming like thunder.

“Mx. L/N, you are hereby arrested.” Eyes that once melted with fondness when simply seeing your face now bore into you with frigid disgust.

You can’t help but flinch from the words, mouth agape and mind blank. After a moment, you manage to collect yourself, disregarding the stares of those around you. “Excuse me? What for?” You demand. 

Jing Yuan tilts his head, looking down at you. “Sedition against the Xianzhou Luofu through serving the Plagues Author and the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus,” he cites, taking a stride forward, arms snapping to lock your limbs behind your back like shackles. “You will be taken to the Seat of Divine Foresight and given a proper sentencing for your crimes.”

Try as you may, your shouts and screams of vehement denial do you no good as Jing Yuan walks you out. Streets pass you by like snapshots of a past life. You can see the tea shop where you and Jing Yuan went on your first date. His favorite restaurant to order takeout from. The balcony overlooking the Ambrosial Arbor where he first kissed you. Thousands upon thousands of moves, each and every one thought out to perfection. Countless gambits taken, small victories celebrated, and little defeats mourned. You had nearly defeated him. Or so you thought.

Eventually, you make it to the Seat of Divine Foresight, Jing Yuan’s arms still vice like in their hold, yet not tight enough to hurt. You try to follow the turns the General takes–a right, a left, another left, up a flight of stairs, right again–but your focus wanes.

You are not guilty of any crime.

At least, so you think. Because you committed a grave offense: breaking the weak, feeble heart of your lover.

A lifelong sentence is only fair, no?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“My dearest, why must you struggle?” Jing Yuan murmurs as he pulls you into a small room with only a table and two chairs. Pulling you away from the door, the General gently places you on the ground, and remains by the exit, cutting off any chance of escape you may have.

“Why must you falsely accuse me?” You retort, voice flickering with fire and burning bright, even amongst all the encroaching darkness.

Jing Yuan’s soft smile slowly dissipates into a frown, the shine in his eyes dimming away into nothingness. “Y/N, I have been nothing but patient with you. I have explained why I must protect you. You understood then. Why can’t you understand now?” Slowly, like he’s trying to comfort a skittish animal, Jing Yuan inches towards you, arms outstretched inviting you into his embrace. 

“Because you’re a psycho!” You hiss, stepping backwards. Despite your insult, the General does not anger. Instead, disappointment flashes across his face. He takes another step forward, effectively cornering you.

With a quiet, hushed tone that echoes in the room like a hollow breeze, Jing Yuan’s arms find their way around your torso, pulling you tightly against him. Regardless of how much you struggle, you cannot escape Jing Yuan. “You don’t think that, love. You’re afraid. That’s okay. That’s why I’m here. To care for you. To protect you. To love you. Don’t you want that?” He asks quietly, letting you wear yourself out until you melt in his hands like putty, exhausted in every sense. A few moments of utter silence pass, before he speaks up again. “Why don’t we go home now? I have a surprise waiting for you.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The moment you return home, Jing Yuan locks the door. To protect you from yourself, he says. Though that’s a condensed version of his actual words, which are far more persuasive, spinning you around in a whirlwind of logic and reasoning you can’t seem to keep up with.

Only a second later, the General is down on one knee, a ring in hand and a glint of fire in his eyes. For a moment, you think the look is a soft, gentle thing. But then you see it for what it is: a love so warped it cannot simply be called love anymore.

As much as you want to reject his proposal, to slap him across the face and attempt to spark another uprising against his smothering love, you know it would do you no good. He would only force the ring on your finger and crown you his spouse, whether you liked it or not.

Checkmate.

[aangussca]

Monkey Wrench Episode 4 Fanart: Caught in Their Game (December 2024)

I absolutely LOVED the new Monkey Wrench episode! :D

HOLY COW, @zeurelart, @neatotito and the rest of the @monkey-wrench-series team did a phenomenal job this time around (please give them some love bc they absolutely deserve it)!

So it only made sense for me to finish this drawing (the idea for which had been mulling in my mind through the months MW episode 4 was being teased), which I enjoyed creating.

(Yes, I was partially inspired by Neoni's song 'Jump Rope' bc both share the theme of games (literally and symbolically). If you have already watched MW Episode 4, feel free to give it a listen - I'm curious to hear your thoughts: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhDON376rd4)

Below are the close-ups, as well as me rambling about the reasoning behind the symbolism here:

(SPOILER WARNING FOR MW EPISODE 4 FROM THIS POINT ON!)

Since I realised MW Episode 4 centred around the theme of games (literal and metaphorical), I couldn't not include references to games to associate with the following characters.

Shrike, Beebs, Agent K, and Kara = Arcade games

Campion Ajax = Chess

Tyneen = Video/computer games

Jawbone = Darts

Disco Head = Casino card games

Disco Head is the most self-explanatory (because ✨casino✨ - those cards were SO fun to render btw):

Episode 4 confirms that DH took over the Thicc Chicc Casino after Kara assassinated the previous owner, Chester McNevins, in Episode 1. It also implies DH worked with Agent K and Kara to take over the casino by "taking care" of Chester (that's just my theory ofc).

In Episode 4, Shrike is tempted by the pixel DH gave him. In a moment of cockiness, Shrike believes that he can succeed in his gambling spree from luck alone (DH even said "Today's your lucky day!" after giving him that pixel) - to which he was completely unsuccessful.

While not explicitly referenced in this drawing, a popular casino card game is Blackjack. A common misconception regarding Blackjack is that winning the game is purely determined by the luck of the players (i.e. Shrike being overconfident about his luck). In truth, there is a lot of skill and strategy required in order to be successful at the game (i.e. DH's charming persona and ability to play into Shrike's weaknesses to make him gamble all of his and Beeb's money).

Additionally, Blackjack is a game where players compete against the dealer, not each other. In my opinion, this idea makes sense (in a roundabout way, at least) for DH, given his dealings with three of the five antagonists in this episode: Agent K, Kara and Jawbone. All three have different motives to DH's, yet they work together and are connected through him.

2. Speaking of Jawbone, I wanted to reference two kinds of darts:

The game darts (which he plays in the scene at the bar)

Poison darts (which in my mind made sense given his hatred of Shrike, as seen in the green "cataclysm-poisoned saliva" and the sticker on the dart)

3. Initially, I wanted to reference a joke about "gamer rage" with Tyneen and her competitiveness.

But when watching the episode, I did not expect video games to actually be mentioned in relation to her (with Jawbone owing her a copy of the video game 'Marrow Inheritance').

4. Ah, yes: Campion Ajax (I always disliked him from the moment he was teased and, by the end of this episode, I wanted to replace all his steaks with rocks and send him on a one-way trip to the Marina Trench for trying to hurt Beebs >:[ ).

The reason why I gave Ajax a blue chess pawn was because that's how I felt he saw Beebs:

A feeble, inferior* pawn to potentially use to fulfil his selfish goals.

(*Ajax even called Beebs "inferior" when talking about his prosthetics, which... I felt so bad for poor Beebs having to endure the torment of this guy, and I'm SO glad he stood his ground and saw through his manipulation.)

5. For some reason, the idea of an arcade game fascinated me (our protagonists feeling trapped in both their insecurities and in a much bigger game, perhaps?), especially as a way to connect the antagonists to our protagonists' stories through colours (in the cabinet designs and the arcade buttons):

Yellow = Disco Head

Green = Jawbone

Red = Tyneen

Purple = Ajax

Dark blue = Kara

Black and white = Agent K

Another colour motif I included, which you can also see in the lighting and the background, is the pairing of turquoise blue (cyan) and magenta pink - which you can see in the lighting of the final battle scene.

Yes, I did intend to give Shrike and Beebs backgrounds that are different to their usual colour motifs.

Shrike (usually associated with red) = turquoise/blue

Beebs (usually associated with blue) = magenta/purple

(I'm sure you can guess why I also drew the glass screen cracked between Shrike and Beebs... given the ending.)

On top of that, you could argue that the antagonists in Episode 4 would be great as "arcade/video game bosses" who can have their own "boss fights" or merge into one big "final boss fight" (with different stages).

Also I think Agent K is cool (and would definitely make an awesome "final boss" alongside Kara) with his design and his vibes, enough said. :]

Bonus Agent K appreciation in the form of screencaps bc I can:

[westerosiladies]

Sansa Stark Appreciation Week Day Five - Pawn to Player

[sansastarkmonth2024]

Hello again! This is your reminder that Sansa Week is upon us, less than a month away! 

Our prompts are:

Day One: Little Dove

Day Two: Court Life

Day Three: Friends & Foes

Day Four: Love/Marriage

Day Five: Pawn to player

Day Six: Heritage

Day Seven: Future

Remember to use the #sansaweek2024 tag for your fan-work so that it reaches us and a wider audience. We'll see you on May 15 sharp 😊❤️

[gullemec]

From Now On

Golden Ruin - Chapter Five

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Time seems to move extra slow in Butcher's absence. You try to fill it, with doctor's visits and coffee dates and missions, but nothing seems to help. Until you come face to face with a dark reminder of your past.

Warnings: doctor's office visit, talk of pregnancy, angst, lying to your friends :(, homelander jump scare!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.5k

A/N: Now that the reader knows she is ~with child~ there's going to be mention of it a lot going forward, so i just wanted to be clear here that i am 100% pro-choice, any mentions of the fetus as being new life/a person is solely because the reader has chosen to keep the baby and thus sees it that way. i hope that makes sense! <3

Weeks pass, each one slower than the last.

You try to keep busy, filling your days with whatever work Mallory is willing to give you. Filing reports, combing through intel, even the menial, mind-numbing tasks that Frenchie and MM happily pawn off. None of it feels like enough. No matter how much you bury yourself in work, your thoughts always find their way back to him.

You take to walking in Central Park most mornings, hoping the fresh air and the familiar buzz of the city will soothe your restless mind. 

The park hums with life. Dogs chase frisbees across the grass, joggers in monochrome lycra weave through the pathways, a guitarist with a goatee strums the opening chords to Wonderwall beneath the shade of a tree. A child’s laughter rings out as they run ahead of their parents. It’s all so normal, so achingly distant from the chaos you’ve come to know with the Boys.

And yet, even here, in the flow of city life, ordinary and extraordinary in equal measure, your mind can’t help but replay that last night. The way Butcher stood in your apartment, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the walls you tried desperately to deconstruct. The look in his eyes, the way they softened when they met yours. The rare, fleeting moment of vulnerability he let slip before retreating behind his armor again.

What did he mean when he said he cared too much? When he promised you’d talk again when he got back? Was it just a placating lie to ease the goodbye? Or does he replay your words in his head the way you replay his in yours? You can’t stop yourself from wondering, obsessing. Is he thinking about you too? Is he losing sleep like you are?

The questions are endless, the answers tied to a string that some unseen force continually yanks out of your reach.

You check your phone compulsively, even though you know better. Mallory made it clear they’d have limited contact during the mission. If any updates came through, she’d be the one to receive them, not you. But the silence stings all the same. Every glance at the blank screen feels like a tiny reminder of your insignificance in the grand scheme of things.

By the third week, the anxiety starts to seep into everything. You find yourself cleaning the apartment again and again, even when there’s nothing left to clean. You reorganize your kitchen cabinets, line up your spices alphabetically, scrub the countertops until your hands ache. Anything to keep your hands busy, to stave off the creeping dread that settles in your stomach like silt when you’re still for too long.

The shelf above your record player becomes a sort of shrine. You rearrange the photos there more times than you can count. Your mother’s face smiles back at you from her frame, her warmth a bittersweet reminder of the family you’ve already lost. You’ve added a couple of new additions, too. One of the selfies you and Annie took on your cocktail night, and a candid shot of the Boys, huddled in conversation at the office. Frenchie is mid-gesture, his hands animated as always, while MM looks on with his usual calm authority. Kimiko’s face is barely visible, half-hidden behind her curtain of hair, but there’s a shy smile playing on her lips.

Butcher isn’t in that photo.

You spent the better part of an hour scrolling through your phone’s camera roll, searching for him. Dread grew with each swipe, the ache deepening when you realized you had no good photos of him. He’s there, yes, sprinkled in the background of candids you took of the Boys, caught in blurry profile shots or sneaky attempts to snap him without his noticing. There’s one where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, scowling at a newspaper, and another where he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze distracted and distant.

But there’s no photo that truly captures him. No image of the Butcher you know, the one who softens when he thinks no one’s watching, who hides his tenderness beneath layers of anger and sarcasm. The realization hits you hard. You never thought to take one. Not because he didn’t matter, but because, when you were with him, your phone was the last thing on your mind.

When you were with Butcher, you were caught up in the moment.

Heated arguments resolved in shed clothing and ruined bedsheets. Laughter that caught like fire between you until you were red in the face and your sides ached. Silences that stretched between you, comfortable, understanding of each other’s past hurts and present needs.

You never thought to pull out your phone. You didn’t need to. Every second with him felt too immediate, too raw to distill into pixels on a screen.

Now, standing in front of the shelf, you feel the loss acutely, not just of him, but of the moments you never captured. The shards of your heart feel like they’ve shattered all over again. You wish you had something tangible, something to hold onto while he’s gone, some proof that he was here, that he mattered to you in ways he’ll never understand.

The thought catches in your throat as you wonder—will the last photo you have of Butcher be the one in your mind from that night?

The rest of the Boys seem to sense your unease. Annie calls you at least every other day, plying you with snacks and movie nights so you’ll spend the night at her place. Hughie offers small, practical comforts, dropping off snacks, reminding you to take breaks. Even Kimiko, in her quiet way, keeps a watchful eye on you. But their kindnesses only make you feel worse. They’re carrying on, doing what they always do. 

But you’re falling apart at the fucking seams.

Some nights, when the apartment feels too quiet, you put on a record and let the music fill the space. You play the songs you know Butcher would roll his eyes at, the ones he’d complain about just to get a rise out of you, only to scoop you up and dance around the room with you anyway. You can almost hear his voice, the sharp bite of his sarcasm softened by the ghost of a smirk. But when the song ends, the silence returns, the air in the room feeling heavier than before.

Sleep becomes a losing battle. The nights stretch endlessly, your mind conjuring every worst-case scenario imaginable. You see him in a Russian forest, bleeding out in the snow, his stubborn pride keeping him from calling for help. You imagine him captured, locked in some godforsaken cell, or worse, gone entirely, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions.

Other nights, you catch yourself whispering prayers to a god you stopped believing in years ago. You pray for his safety, for his return, for the chance to finish the conversation you started.

And then there's the secret you carry. You’ve started noticing the changes in your body, the faintest curve to your stomach, the way your clothes fit just a little differently. Soon, you won’t be able to hide it anymore, not from yourself and certainly not from the others. It’s just… not  the right time right now.

Once Butcher gets back and you’ve had the chance to tell him first, then you can tell everyone else. 

But what if they don’t find the weapon? What if the mission gets prolonged? What if they do find it, and an all out war breaks out? What if, when the Boys need you most, you’ll be unable to fight, not just a burden but a liability?

Is there ever really a good time to announce that you’re carrying the child of the leader of an anti-Supe vigilante group turned CIA operative?

You find yourself staring at the photo of your parents, wondering what kind of family you’ll be able to offer this child. Will they grow up only ever knowing their father from blurred, grainy photographs?

You try to remind yourself of Butcher’s promise.

We’ll finish this when I get back .

But the longer the silence stretches, the harder it is to believe him.

That evening, as the sun slips into the Hudson and the painterly hues of the sunset are replaced by neon city lights, you sit on the couch, phone in hand, willing it to light up. It doesn’t. You lean back, staring at the ceiling, tears crawling past your temples to your ears.

“Come back to me,” you whisper to the empty room. It’s a plea, a prayer, a desperate wish.

The silence offers no answer.

~~~

A week later, you find yourself in a cold, sterile clinic, harsh fluorescent lights beating down on you like the desert sun on a dry lizard. You try not to search the faces sharing the waiting room with you, as though not being able to see them might mean they can’t see you, either. Your name is called, and you look up to see a moon-faced nurse smiling politely, clipboard in hand. She gestures for you to follow her, and your legs feel leaden as you walk down the hall, your heart pounding against your ribs.

She leads you to a small exam room, the picture of clinical sterility. You perch on the exam table, the paper cover crinkling beneath your weight. You fiddle with your fingers, taking measured breaths, trying to distract yourself from the reality of where you are. It doesn’t work.

The door opens, and the doctor steps in, a clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s a middle-aged man with kind eyes, his expression professional but warm. He glances down at the paper in his hand, skimming it briefly before looking up at you with a small, practiced smile.

“Well,” he begins, his voice calm and steady. “Your bloodwork came back positive. Based on your hCG levels it looks like you’re about eight weeks along.”

You don’t know exactly why you’re surprised. You took the test, watched as those twin pink lines stared back up at you, mocking you with their certainty. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud makes it real in a way it hadn’t been before. No uncertainty or false positives. It’s happening.

“Eight weeks...” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

The doctor nods and launches into an explanation about prenatal vitamins, ultrasounds, diet changes, and the importance of follow-up appointments. You nod along, but his words feel distant, like they’re coming from the other side of a thick pane of glass. Your mind is elsewhere, spinning with thoughts that come too fast to catch.

When he finally finishes, you murmur a polite thanks and slip out of the room, clutching a bottle of prenatal vitamins and appointment cards you barely even look at. You step out into the busy city street, the sounds of honking cars and chattering passersby crashing into you like a wave. It’s overwhelming, the chaos of the world around you only amplifying the chaos in your head.

The noise feels louder somehow, the streets more crowded, the air more stifling. Your thoughts race, one after another, as you clutch your coat tighter around yourself. What now? What does this mean? Can I even do this? What will he think?

You walk back to your apartment, your brain on autopilot, your body moving through the motions without conscious thought. Distantly, physically, you feel everything. Fear, hope, guilt. Yet your head remains oddly blank, as if protecting you from being overwhelmed.

When you step through the door, your feet instinctively carry you to the photo shelf, the spot that’s become your quiet sanctuary. You let your eyes drift over the images of your friends, your family . Each face stirs something inside you, a reminder of the love they’ve shown you in the relatively short period of time you’ve known them. 

There is a warmth in this realization. No matter how overwhelming your fears are, no matter how daunting the road ahead feels, you know they will be there for you. They’ll never abandon you. They’d stand by you and this child without hesitation.

And yet… guilt twists in your stomach. You think about the strain this will place on them, on the group. How can you drop a bombshell like this now? Not when Butcher, MM, and Frenchie are risking their lives in a foreign country. Not when the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. 

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your stomach. 

You need to keep this a secret, at least for now. Until things settle. Until you can be sure that your burden won’t drag them down.

Your hand drifts to the framed photo of your mother, her familiar peering back at you. You trace the edge of the glass with your finger, brushing it lightly over her face. You close your eyes, imagining the feel of her arms wrapping around you. You think of her quiet strength, the sacrifices she made to give you a happy childhood. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a cheating husband, enduring your father’s cruelty, she had every reason to give up. But she never did. She never let you feel the weight of her struggles. All you ever felt from her was love. Endless, unwavering love.

She gave you everything you needed to thrive, even when the odds were stacked against her. 

You can do the same.

Tears well in your eyes as you whisper, “I love you.”

The words are meant for her, but as your hand shifts to your stomach, they’re meant for the flicker of life inside you as well. For both of them. From now on and forever.

~~~

Annie insists on dragging you out to a coffee shop on the Upper West Side, and you don’t have a good enough reason to bail. It’s a cozy little place, the kind that smells like freshly ground beans and baked pastries, with fairy lights strung across the windows. You pick at the edge of your napkin as the two of you sit at a small table by the window, perfect for people watching.

Annie stirs her latte absentmindedly, her sharp blue eyes flicking to your face as she watches you. There’s no judgment, only quiet concern, the kind that makes you feel comforted and exposed at the same time.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she says, breaking the silence. “Everything okay?”

You force a small smile, glancing at the untouched cappuccino in front of you. You don't know how to tell her that the smell of it has the croissant you forced down earlier threatening to make a reappearance. 

“Yeah, just... trying to get back to normal. Whatever that means.”

She snorts softly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Normal’s overrated. Besides, I don’t think any of us get that luxury anymore.”

“Fair point,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

For a moment, the two of you sit in companionable silence against the sounds of grinding coffee beans and Macbook keyboards clicking. The clink of mugs, the hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, you can't deny that it soothes the chaos in your mind. 

Finally, she leans in, her voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel private, intimate. “They’ll be okay, you know. Butcher and the others. They’ve been through worse.”

You want to believe her, to latch onto her certainty, but the knot in your belly doesn’t loosen. “It’s not just that,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I keep replaying the last thing we talked about. I can’t figure out what he was trying to say. And now... no contact. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Annie tilts her head, studying you carefully. “You talked about something before he left?” she prompts gently.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your coffee cup. There’s something about Annie, about the genuine way she listens, that makes it harder to keep things bottled up. 

“He came over, right before he left,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “But now I’m even more confused about where we stand.”

Annie blinks, her expression softening. “Oh,” she says, sitting back slightly. “Okay. That’s... a lot.”

You laugh weakly, the sound bitter. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“And now you’re afraid he won’t come back at all . ” Her voice is kind but hits uncomfortably close to the truth.

“Exactly,” you say, your voice cracking just enough to betray the depth of your worry. “I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, you know? Like, if I laid it all out there, he’d... I don’t know, see me? But instead, he just... shut down. And now I’m terrified that’s going to be the last conversation we ever had.”

Annie reaches across the table, her hand brushing yours briefly before resting on the handle of her cup. “For what it’s worth, I think you were brave for saying something. Butcher... he’s complicated. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things, though. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Have you?” The question comes out more desperate than you intend, and you curse yourself for it.

“Yeah,” Annie says firmly. “He might not know how to handle it, but he does care about you. I’d bet anything on that.”

Her words are a small comfort. You know he cares. Is it enough, though? You can care a whole hell of a lot about a person, it doesn’t mean you’re ready to settle down with them, to start a family with them.

You nod, trying not to let your face betray your thoughts. Annie seems to sense it and doesn’t push further. She changes the subject, asking about some mundane detail of your day, and you’re grateful for the reprieve.

Still, as you sit there, forcing down sips of lukewarm cappuccino and pretending to be part of the bustling, ordinary world around you, the weight of it all doesn’t truly lift. It’s easier with Annie here, but it’s harder, too. You want to tell her so badly, to share the weight of your news, but you can’t. Not yet, at least.

It’s funny how protecting someone so often feels like betraying them.

~~~

When you arrive at the office next, there’s an uncharacteristic energy in your step. For the first time in days, you feel something close to excitement buzzing under your skin. The team in Russia finally made contact with Mallory. No radio silence, no cryptic reports of casualties, just word that they’re holed up in a safe house a couple of hours outside of Moscow. It’s enough to let a sliver of hope creep into the periphery of your consciousness.

Inside, the air in the office feels charged, like everyone is collectively holding their breath. The group gathers around a laptop hastily set up on a cluttered desk. Papers and coffee mugs are pushed aside to make room. Hughie is already hunched over the keyboard, muttering under his breath as he fiddles with the settings, trying to sharpen the grainy video feed. Annie stands behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her nerves almost as apparent as your own.

Finally, the screen flickers, and MM’s face comes into focus. His expression is calm but weary, shadows under his eyes and a tension in his shoulders that no amount of shitty lighting can hide. He glances at the camera, his lips pressing into a tired smile as if trying to reassure you all, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You exhale a shaky breath, only then realizing you’d been holding it.

“We’re making progress,” MM says, his voice weighted with exhaustion. “Can’t say much, but Butcher thinks we’re close. Tell Annie to steer clear of Vought’s HQ. It’s heating up over here, and we don’t want any blowback on your end.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of Butcher’s name. You scan the background of the video feed, hoping for even a fleeting glimpse of him. Where is he? Is he okay? The questions rise to the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back, forcing yourself to stay quiet. You don’t want to derail the conversation, or worse, give away how deeply your worry is eating at you.

“Noted. Are you guys okay?” Hughie asks, his brow furrowed as he leans closer to the screen.

MM gives a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Define ‘okay.’ Frenchie got into a shouting match with a Russian cabbie. Kinda impressive how many curse words he knows in Russian, honestly. But aside from that? We’re alive. For now.”

The screen flickers, the image stuttering for a moment before freezing entirely. Hughie groans, jabbing at the keyboard in frustration. The signal cuts out completely, leaving only a blank screen and a spinning loading icon.

“Seriously? Why do their Wi-Fi connections always suck? It’s like a spy movie cliché,” Hughie mutters, throwing his hands up in defeat.

The room lets out a collective sigh, a mix of disappointment and relief. You lean back, trying to mask the bitter sting of not hearing Butcher’s voice or even catching a glimpse of him. You tell yourself it’s enough to know they’re alive, to hear MM say they’re making progress. But the hollowness that stretches inside you like a canyon tells you otherwise.

“At least we know they’re still breathing,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. Your fingers curl around the edge of the desk, grounding yourself in the relief of that knowledge. It’s not much, but for now, it’ll have to be enough.

Annie gives your arm a reassuring squeeze, her touch warm and grounding. You glance at her, offering a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. She doesn’t press, but the understanding in her expression says she knows exactly what’s on your mind. 

~~~ 

You crouch against the brick wall of the Flatiron Building, head between your knees, inhaling slow, deliberate breaths. The bitter ghost of bile lingers in your throat, your palms pressed against the cool, rough concrete as you try to steady yourself. Every muscle in your body feels wrung out, and though the fresh air helps a little, you’re still swimming in a fog of exhaustion and anxiety.

The sound of footsteps echo down the alleyway. You glance up, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the narrow passage. Mallory stands a few feet away, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t say a word, just pulls a cigarette from her pocket, lights it, and leans casually against the wall beside you. The faint click of her lighter is swallowed by the hum of distant traffic.

You don’t bother speaking, and neither does she. The silence between you is heavy but not uncomfortable. For a moment, it’s just the faint rustle of leaves in the gutter and the occasional honk of a horn from the street. Mallory exhales a thin stream of smoke, staring off into the middle distance as if she has all the time in the world.

Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice low and even. “So, how far along are you?”

You freeze, the world tilting for a moment as the words sink in. Your stomach flips, not from nausea this time, but from the sudden wave of panic that crashes over you. “How do you—?”

“I’ve been there before,” she interrupts, her tone matter-of-fact. “I know the look.”

Your shoulders sag in defeat. There’s no point in denying it. “Ten weeks,” you murmur.

She nods once, her face betraying nothing as she takes another drag from her cigarette. Then, to your surprise, she crouches down beside you, her knees cracking slightly. The cigarette dangles loosely between her fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the crisp air.

“Does Butcher know?” she asks, her tone more curious than judgmental.

You shake your head, staring down at the cracks in the pavement. “Not yet. We didn’t leave things in a great place before he left.”

Mallory huffs softly, the sound laced with dry amusement. “Why am I not surprised?”

You don’t answer, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve instead. You don’t know what to say and, truthfully, even if you did, the nausea swirling in your gut would steal the words before you could speak them. Finally, she exhales sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“I don’t know what the hell you see in him,” she says bluntly. “He’s a wrecking ball with a God complex. But… I’ll give him this much. He doesn’t walk away from a fight, and he doesn’t quit on the people he cares about. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to show it. At least, not in a way that doesn’t involve violence and destruction.”

Her words hit like a gut punch, and you bite your lip to keep the sting of tears at bay. “I’m keeping the baby,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “Whether or not he cares enough to be involved.”

Mallory raises an eyebrow, studying you with a calculating look. She flicks the ash from her cigarette, letting it scatter onto the ground. “Well, that answers one question,” she says, her voice cool. “But let me ask you another. What are you going to do about the rest of it?”

You glance up at her. “The rest of it?”

“Your life,” she clarifies, gesturing vaguely with the cigarette. “Your future. When I first heard you joined the Boys, I thought, What the hell are they thinking? Letting someone who’s practically in bed with Vought into their little operation. But I’ve been watching you.”

Her gaze sharpens, and for a moment, you feel like a bug under a microscope. “You’re sharp. A risk-taker. You think fast on your feet. But most importantly, you’re loyal. And that’s rare in this line of work.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she cuts in. “Just listen. I can make things happen for you, if you want. A more stable role. Official. CIA.” She pauses, tapping the cigarette against the brick wall. “But you’ve got to decide what you want here. This life, what we do… it’s not just dangerous. It’s consuming. Especially if you’re planning to bring a kid into the mix.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a vice. “I… I don’t know, okay? I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m just trying to keep my breakfast down right now.”

Mallory chuckles softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Fair enough. But let me give you some perspective. I’ve done this job while raising a family. It’s possible. But it’s hell. You think it’s hard now? Wait until you’re trying to keep a baby safe from Vought. Or worse, from what we do.”

She straightens up, her gaze hardening. “MM’s got Janine half the time, and even then, he can’t shield her from all of this. She’s older, she can understand some things. But a newborn?”

Your composure cracks, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back. You turn your face away, swiping at your face with trembling hands. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

Mallory sighs, tossing the cigarette into a nearby puddle. The glowing ember hisses as it dies. Then, to your surprise, she places a hand on your shoulder. Her touch is firm, grounding.

“I won’t lie to you,” she says. “I think getting tangled up with Butcher was… not your smartest move. But I’m not disappointed. And I’m not here to judge you.”

You glance up at her, searching her face for any trace of reproach. Instead, you find something softer, almost maternal. It’s the last thing you expected.

“You’ll be okay,” she says, her voice gentler now. “It won’t be easy, but you’ll figure it out. Just… don’t lose sight of who you are in all of this. And don’t let Butcher drag you down with him, no matter how much you care about him. You’ve got potential, kid. Don’t waste it.”

You nod, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Mallory stands, brushing off her pants. “Come on. Let’s get back inside before they start thinking we’ve gone soft.”

~~~

Time passes slowly, like it takes real, concentrated effort to move through. Your nights grow more restless. The doctor reassured you it’s normal in the first trimester, but you know the tossing and turning isn’t just from the tiny life stirring within you. It’s the echoing of the unknown, the nagging absence of the man who occupies far more space in your mind than you remember ever giving him permission for.

Butcher’s face haunts your dreams. His gruff smirk, the way he’d call you love like it was second nature, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes when he’d let his guard down just enough to talk about his past. Becca, Lenny, all the ghosts he carried with him. They’re etched into the corners of your memory, and they follow you into sleep.

In one dream, he’s standing in your doorway, his trench coat flaring like some antihero returning from battle. The dim light catches the hard lines of his face, but his expression softens the moment he sees you. He steps inside, his boots heavy against the floorboards, and before you can even speak, his strong arms are around you, pulling you close.

“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?” he murmurs, his voice a rough promise, the kind that aches and soothes all at once. It feels so real, the warmth of his touch, the gravelly timbre of his words, that your heart lurches, aching for it to be true.

But when you wake, the emptiness beside you feels colder than ever, the dream lingering like the first frost on a fall morning

~~~.

You step out of the van, your heels clicking against the cobblestones of the grand drive as you approach the brightly lit entrance of the Vought-sponsored gala. The mansion looms ahead, a caricatured monument to corporate wealth and hollow patriotism. Above the towering double doors hangs a massive banner, emblazoned with gold lettering.

Celebrating the Legacy of American Heroes

A legacy night. A tribute to the fallen Supes who had sacrificed everything in the line of duty . You wonder how many of those heroes had actually died cleaning up Vought’s messes, lives lost to lies, cover-ups, and the relentless hunger for profit. How many of them had their stories rewritten with the swipe of a checkbook and the threat of an NDA?

You’d been invited personally, a relic of your late father’s long and profitable relationship with Vought. You hadn’t wanted to come, but Mallory had insisted.

"It could be a goldmine of intel," she’d said. "And for once, you don’t even have to go undercover. Just smile and listen."

Earlier that evening, you had stood in front of your mirror, studying your reflection as you prepared. Your hands had wandered to the new curve of your stomach, the tiny, barely-there swell just beginning to form. Pressing a tentative finger against your belly, you marveled at the hardness beneath the soft skin. It was subtle enough that no one at the gala would notice, let alone suspect, but you still couldn’t shake the instinct to shield it. Now, as you adjust the strap of your sleek black evening gown, your clutch rests protectively against your abdomen.

Your fingers brush over the delicate chain of your necklace, feeling the small microphone hidden in its pendant, a last-minute addition from Mallory. “Just listen,” she’d warned before you left. “Annie and Hughie will be in the van outside. Don’t dig too deep, and for God’s sake, don’t draw attention to yourself.”  

Easier said than done.

Inside, the mansion is the picture of obscenely wealthy excess. Gold drapes shimmer under the glow of chandeliers, offset by deep blue accents that embody the kind of flamboyant opulence you’ve come to expect from Vought. A live jazz band plays softly in the corner, their notes weaving through the hum of polite conversation and clinking champagne glasses.

You plaster on a polite smile as you weave through the crowd, recognizing faces you haven’t seen since your father’s funeral. Old colleagues of his, Vought executives with perfectly polished veneers and embarrassingly obvious hairpieces, approach you with forced sympathy and thinly veiled curiosity.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father. Such a visionary, such a loss.”

“We were certain you’d step up as CEO! But… well, I’m sure that’s in your future, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure it won’t be long before we see you carrying on the Morgan legacy, right?”

You nod and murmur your thanks, the bile rising in your throat as you fend off their expectations with vague pleasantries. If only they knew what you were really doing, spending your nights unraveling their lies, pouring your soul into destroying the facade they’re indulging in tonight.

As the evening stretches on, you drift toward a group of executives gathered near the hors d'oeuvres table, their conversation low but animated. One of them, a heavyset man with a thick cigar wedged between his fingers, gestures emphatically as he speaks, his voice cutting through the background noise.

“...and you’re telling me no one’s confirmed a damn thing? Attacks that coordinated? It reeks of somebody pulling strings.”

Another executive, slimmer and sharply dressed, leans in. “Come on, Greg. You don’t need to confirm anything to know Vought’s had ties to Russia since the Cold War. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Greg replies, lowering his voice. “Back in ’84, they had something cooking. A black ops deal. Real hush-hush. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Your pulse quickens as you edge closer, pretending to admire an ice statue of The Deep. Your ears strain to catch every word, but their voices drop further, blending with the room’s ambient buzz.

“Whatever it is,” the slimmer man says, “I’m sure Homelander’s already got it handled. The man doesn’t miss a thing .”

The mention of Homelander sends a shiver down your spine, your clutch tightening instinctively in your grasp. You linger near the group, hoping for more, when a familiar voice breaks through the low hum of the conversation.

“Well I’ll be damned. Is that who I think it is?"

You spin around, freezing. 

Adam. 

Your former lab partner from your internship. A man with whom you shared a brief and uninspired fling, more out of loneliness than real connection. You cringe inwardly, remembering how you’d ended things abruptly after the explosion that had destroyed CytoGenix. Somehow a lifetime ago, and yet only six months ago.

He looks almost exactly the same, though his hair is cropped closer to his head, neater, and he’s wearing a tailored suit that screams Vought-sponsored success.

“Adam,” you say, forcing a polite smile. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been… ages.”

“Not since your dad’s funeral, right?” he says with a disarming grin.

Your stomach knots. The funeral had been a blur of tears, stiff condolences, and forced smiles. You barely remember who was there. You definitely don’t remember Adam being among them.

“Right,” you say carefully, your smile tightening. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”

He waves it off. “Just paying my respects. Anyway, what brings you here? I didn’t think the gala scene was your thing.”

Well, he’s right about that. Adam certainly paid you more attention than you’d ever spared him. Poor guy.

You glance down, adjusting the strap of your dress as if the movement could ground you. “Representing my father,” you say lightly, hoping to keep the conversation surface-level. “Legacy and all that.”

Adam nods knowingly, his expression softening. “Makes sense. The Morgan name still carries a lot of weight around here.”

The genuine warmth in his smile catches you off guard, and for a brief moment, you remember why you’d turned to him in the first place. Back then, his boyish charm had been a comfort during those fragile, uncertain days when you thought your time with the Boys was over.

But then Butcher’s face flashes in your mind, his gruff smirk, his scathing humor, the way he’d say your name as if it were carved from stone. You think about where he is now. Breaking into labs in Russia. Cold. In danger. Maybe worse. And here you are, standing in a gilded mansion, a month’s worth of rent glittering on your wrist.

A wave of nausea passes over you, guilt swirling in your stomach like sickness.

“And what brings you here?” you ask, desperate to change the subject.

"Funny story. After CytoGenix went under, I wasn’t sure what my next move was. Then out of nowhere, Vought reached out with a job offer. Research and development. Turns out they liked what we were working on at CytoGenix."

You stiffen, keeping your face carefully neutral. Of course, Vought had to keep their fingers in everything.

An awkward beat passes between you and Adam. He plucks two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, holding one out to you with a soft chuckle.

“Here. A toast to… old friends.”

Your heart skips. You hesitate, scrambling for an excuse.

"Oh, uh, I can’t. I’m on antibiotics—sinus infection. You know how it is."

His brow furrows slightly, then he smirks. “The old antibiotics excuse, huh? Alright, I’ll let it slide this time.”

He takes a sip of his drink, studying you over the rim of his glass. “You know, I always thought you had a knack for R&D. It’s a shame CytoGenix fell apart. What are you up to now?”

The question catches you off guard. You falter, searching for an answer that won’t draw attention to yourself. What do you say to him? That you’re deep undercover, working with a rogue group hell-bent on taking down the very company hosting this gala?

The words stick in your throat, and Adam’s curious gaze feels heavier by the second. His unexpected presence here unsettles you. Not just the reminder of your life before, when everything revolved around CytoGenix, but the uncomfortable reminder of how deeply Vought’s web entangles everyone around you.

Before you can speak, the band abruptly cuts off mid-song. A hush falls over the room, and all heads turn toward the stage.

“Guess that’s our cue to shut up. Homelander’s probably got another self-congratulatory speech lined up,” Adam quips, grinning as the spotlights sweep toward the stage.

You force a laugh, but the sound is thin, brittle. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss that,” you reply, though your pulse is already racing.

Your stomach sinks as Homelander strides into view, his polished boots gleaming under the lights. His cape flutters dramatically as he ascends the stage at the center of the room, that all-too-perfect grin stretching across his face. But his eyes are cold, dead, the smile never quite reaching them. 

“Good evening, everyone,” his voice booms, smooth and practiced. “Isn’t this just the most wonderful gathering of the best and brightest?”

The room erupts into applause. Your stomach twists, nausea rising in waves. You curl a protective hand over your abdomen. I know, baby. He makes me sick too.

Homelander continues, his tone oozing charm. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes Vought so special. Sure, it’s the heroes, the scientists, the executives. But more than that, it’s the sense of family . We’re all connected. Bound by loyalty, purpose, and yes…” He pauses, letting the word hang like a noose. “…Legacy.”

His gaze sweeps across the crowd. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that he can’t possibly know. But then his eyes land on you, those unnervingly blue eyes, as if he’s dissecting you with a glance.

“Family is everything, isn’t it?” he says, his smile tightening. “The things we inherit. The people who shape us. Some might say… it’s in our blood .”

Sweat beads down your lower back. There’s no mistaking it now. He’s looking right at you. His words feel like a blade pressed against your throat, daring you to flinch.

The applause swells again as Homelander finishes his speech. He steps down from the podium, his movements unnervingly smooth, like a predator closing in on its prey. The crowd parts for him as he weaves through the room, his eyes fixed on you.

Your heart slams against your ribs. Your gaze darts around the room, searching desperately for an escape route. Adam’s curious expression catches your eye, and he mouths, You okay?

You don’t have time to respond.

“Well, look who decided to make an appearance,” Homelander says, his sudden presence at your side sucking the air from the room.

His tone is light, but the menace beneath it is unmistakable. You don’t wait for him to say more.

You turn on your heel, muttering a quick, “Excuse me,” as you brush past Adam. Your hands tremble as you push through clusters of guests, each step feeling heavier under the weight of Homelander’s stare.

“Leaving so soon, Miss Morgan?” His voice follows you, like the snap of a trap closing.

You force yourself to keep moving, weaving through the throngs of bodies. Your mind races, replaying the layout of the mansion. The service corridor. You’d spotted it earlier while scoping the place. It’s your only chance.

You duck behind a group of laughing executives, their oblivious chatter shielding you for a moment. Homelander’s presence looms behind you, closer now. You can feel the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your skull.

Reaching the edge of the crowd, you spot the narrow service corridor just ahead. Heart hammering, you slip through the doorway, yanking off your heels as you go. The muffled hum of the gala fades behind you, replaced by the harsh echo of your bare feet against the tiled floor.

The corridor feels like a maze, but you don’t stop, don’t dare look back. The air grows cooler as you push through a heavy door and emerge into the back alley. The night is crisp, the sharp sting of the cold biting at your skin.

Your eyes dart around wildly until you spot the van idling at the far end of the alley. Relief floods through you, but you know you’re not safe yet. You sprint toward the vehicle, your clutch pressed tightly to your chest, lungs burning with every step.

Behind you, the door slams open.

“Running, are we?” Homelander’s voice is calm, almost amused.

You don’t look back. You can’t. The van door slides open as you reach it, and you throw yourself inside, gasping for air.

“Go!” you shout, your voice shaking.

Hughie doesn’t hesitate. The tires screech as the van lurches forward, sending you sprawling onto the seat. You brace yourself against the door, your hands trembling as adrenaline courses through your veins.

“What the hell happened?” Annie asks from the front seat, her eyes wide as she twists around to look at you.

“Homelander,” you choke out, your breath hitching. “He… he saw me, and—”

“Saw you?” Hughie glances at you in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But it’s not like you weren’t supposed to be there. You were invited, right?”

You shake your head violently, pressing your fists to your temples as you try to steady yourself. “It wasn’t just that. He was giving this speech about family, and—God, it felt like he was talking to me . Like he knows something. Then he started coming toward me, and I just—I just ran .”

Annie and Hughie exchange a look, their expressions unreadable.

“Do you think he—” Annie starts, her voice soft.

“I don’t know!” you snap, harsher than intended. You suck in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to calm down. “I don’t know what he knows, but the way he looked at me... It felt like he was hunting me.”

Annie’s face softens. She reaches back to squeeze your arm, her grip firm and reassuring. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters, okay?”

You nod weakly, tugging the warm wool coat you’d left in the van over your shoulders. The cool fabric is grounding, but the dread still lingers like a hand around your throat, coiling tighter with every second.

Hughie clears his throat, his voice steady but tense. “We’re heading to the office. Mallory called right before you got in. Emergency meeting.”

Your stomach drops. You’re not sure how much more you can take tonight, but you don’t argue. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the city lights blur past.

You take a deep breath and press a hand over your abdomen, trying to calm the storm inside you. You’re okay, you tell yourself. You’re okay—for now. Still, your mind spins. You don’t know what he wanted, but you do know this isn’t over. Homelander doesn’t just let things go. 

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones

[justhereforxreaders]

The Prince and the Dragon Rider - Part Seven: The Rift

Jacaerys Velaryon x dragon rider!reader

Summary: while still reeling from your first day in King’s Landing, you must come to terms with the command given during your private conversation with Princess Rhaenyra.

Warnings: angst, anxiety/panic attacks

part one: the oath

part two: tempest

part three: the dawn

part four: the test

part five: precipice

part six: pieces and players

soundtrack - listening recommendations:

• triassic love song by Paris Paloma • I’d Have to Think About It by Leith Ross • putting a spin on good luck, babe! by Egg • Call Your Mom by Noah Kahan •

After making your way through the endless maze of The Red Keep, and finally finding your newly assigned chambers within the palace, you sat in the stillness trying to calm yourself. Though you’d have likely found more rest if you had continued to wander. The opulence of the vast, unfamiliar space only made you feel more isolated and out of place.

With no other anchor to cling to as you try to soothe your heartache, your mind drifts to your mother.

Six short years of life by her side gave you little insight into the kind of person she was, or the kind of person she hoped you’d be. She was likely kind, and certainly clever, but what you knew without question was that she was incomparably fierce. In your bleakest moments on your journey with Tempest, you’d holdfast to the memory of her strength, using it endure whatever challenges you faced.

Surviving life’s hardships was your way to honor her sacrifices. And though, you told yourself that she’d be proud of who you’d become, you’d always pondered what kind of life she’d have wished for you if survival hadn’t been her primary driving force. If she’d been given the opportunity to be carefree and gentle, what kind of person would that have made you. Surely she wanted more than mere survival for you, but was the life you sold yourself to what she’d have wanted for you? Were you still honoring her memory?

Which was why, as fierce as you had made yourself and as hard as you fought to prove your worth within a realm of dragonlords, you also strived to preserve some of the softness within you that she was denied. If there was hope that you’d be able to find a peaceful life, you wanted your heart to be able to receive it.

However, as you sit alone with an ache so powerful it feels as though your chest has been set alight, you begin to despise your effort to protect that tenderness. If all you were meant to do was simply become a pawn in someone else’s game, what use was there for softness? What need was there for love?

You are so consumed by your thoughts that you do not hear the soft knock at your door or the quiet footsteps that tiptoe across the room as you lie motionless on top of your bedding. When Jace whispers your name from the foot of the bed, it takes you a moment to realize it is not in your head.

“Are you alright?” he whispers slightly louder, voice laced with concern. “I returned to the godswood and you had already gone.”

You sit up slowly, avoiding his eyes, and fold your legs beneath you, keeping your gaze fixed on the fabric below. After a beat and no response from you, you hear him shuffle around to the side of the bed.

“What did my mother speak to you about?” He asks quietly and your breath hitches.

He takes notice and moves to sit at the edge of the bed. Unable to bring yourself to voice the Princess’s command, you force yourself to look up and find his gaze in the dark. His eyes widen at your disheveled state and he darts a hand out to grasp yours.

“What happened?” He asks in a frantic whisper. “What’s wrong?”

You close your eyes and take your hand from his, steadying yourself with a shaky breath before finding your voice.

“I have been instructed to keep my distance from you,” your voice cracks, hoarse from hours of silence following your onslaught of tears.

“By who?” He moves closer to your face to see you clearly, “My mother?”

You sigh deeply and nod your head, he stands from the bed suddenly and you watch as he begins to pace the floor.

“She believes the nature of our companionship could be called into question, thus, jeopardizing your prospects for alliances through marriage.” You mutter.

“I fail to see why anyone would concern themselves with such speculation. You are my friend. Where is the fault in that?” He huffs and continues to pace back and forth.

“Jacaerys,” you say softly, “look at us. The closeness of our friendship is no secret to anyone, but what if you were to be discovered here? Alone in my chambers in the dead of night?” He stops in his tracks, as if this is the first he’s considered this, “Accusations and assumptions would not be difficult to form.”

“Why should it matter what they say, if it isn’t true?” He mumbles, staring intently at the floor.

“It doesn’t matter what they say or what they think,” You stand, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to contain the sorrow building within, “but I cannot allow them to turn me into a weapon to be used against you.”

His head snaps up in your direction, the confusion plain on his face as you continue.

“Look at why we’ve travel all this way in the first place. There are always going to be those looking to undermine and discredit someone in your position. Whether you admit it or not, you know our friendship could harm you and your standing. I will not risk being complicit in your pain.”

“And what of the pain that your absence would inflict? Why must we be forced to choose between happiness and duty?” He pleads and steps toward you.

“Your mother tried to have both, did she not?” You say plainly and he finds your eyes before placing his hands on your arms.

“Yes but this is different, there has to be a way,” there is a desperation in his voice that you have not heard before that breaks your heart even further, “Why must her mistakes determine our future? We can find our own path.”

You step closer and unfold your arms, taking hold of his hands as he makes to pull them away.

“The moment I took my oath, I knew I was giving up my right to my own path, Jace. For a time, it was easy to forget the larger roles we would be called to play. It felt like we could have both…” your voice trails off as you absentmindedly run your thumbs across the backs of his hands, “But the pieces are moving. And we must take our place.” Your voice wavers, if there were any tears left in your body they would be flowing freely.

He looks down at your clasped hands, gripping them tighter.

“But I can’t lose you.” He utters before returning his gaze back to yours, tears beginning to form in his deep brown eyes, “If I am to walk this horrid path then I only wish to do it with you by my side.”

You both stand quietly in the darkness, searching each other’s eyes, letting his words hang in the air around the two of you.

A hushed gasp leaves his lips and he takes a step back. Eyes wide and hands trembling as they leave yours. You cross your arms over your chest, taking a ragged breath which causes Jacaerys to take half step forward. Raising a palm in protest, you step away.

“Please go,” you sob softly.

He opens his mouth slightly, a question forming on his lips.

“Please, Jace,” you interrupt as sternly as you can manage, “I can’t.”

He closes his mouth and stares at you for a moment, unmoving, eyes locked on your face. Involuntarily, he begins to walk towards the door, still watching you intently, conflict and confusion becoming clearer upon his face with every step away from you. You nod silently once he reaches the door and with one last pained glance he exits your chambers, once again leaving you in solitude.

You retreat back to the bed and collapse into the fabric, curling up on your side as the tearless sobs begin to rack your body once more. Cursing the tenderness you have allowed to blossom there. As you desperately will the pain into numbness, you are at last given some relief as you are mercifully pulled into a dreamless sleep.

You awake with the dawn in a daze, taking a moment to remember where you are as you look about your unfamiliar surroundings. Once your mind is fully pulled from the fog of sleep, you stand from the bed and make your way across the room, trying to stretch your tired muscles as you pull fresh clothes from your bag.

As you rummage through your belongings, the red cloak you were gifted when you were sworn into service comes to the surface. You look upon it quietly for a moment before retrieving your other items of clothing and rushing back to the bed to dress yourself, doing your best to stomp out the sparks of anguish that its appearance brings forth.

Dressing yourself slowly and deliberately, you keep your mind focused on each step, trying to avoid inciting any further emotional responses. However, the red of the cloak makes that task all the more difficult as it lingers in the periphery of your vision. After fully dressing you dart back to the bag, intent on burying the cloak deep within, but a knock on the door stays your hand for the moment.

A handmaiden enters and offers you a bow.

“The Lady Baela,” she announces and backs out through the door as Baela steps forward.

“Good morrow, y/n,” she says with a bright smile.

“Good morrow, my Lady,” you bow stiffly, “how can I be of service?”

She walks forward, looking over your chambers until she spies a small table then turns back to you.

“I thought we might break fast together before we make our way to the throne room for the petitions,” she grimaces slightly at the mention of today’s events, “I imagined my cousins would be occupied with other affairs and didn’t want you to be left behind.”

The thought of the Princes causes a twisting pain in your chest but you do your best to smile politely.

“Thank you,” you mutter, “that’s very kind of you.”

She makes her way across the floor to stand next to you, a mischievous glimmer in her eye.

“I wondered if you might tell me about your travels as well,” she quirks a brow inquisitively, “Rhaena has already told me so much but I’d love to hear them from you if you’re willing to share?”

“Rhaena has told you about me?” Your brow furrows as you register her words.

“She has,” she chuckles lightly at your expression, “in letters and through most of the night, in fact.”

“That is surprising,” you say, taken aback by this revelation, “I thought she despised me.”

“She may,” she shrugs, rolling her eyes at her twin,“but more than anything she hates what she was denied. When we lived in Pentos, we had heard rumors of the wild sea dragon that lurked in the waters. For a time, Rhaena had plans to find it and claim it for herself before our mother died.”

You reel back in disbelief.

“I was unaware I had such a reputation,” you breath a laugh, a genuine smile growing at the corner of your lips.

Baela smirks and nods her head.

“You and your dragon have made quite a name for yourselves,” she takes you by the crook of the arm, “I look forward to testing mine and Moondancer’s mettle against yours one day.”

“I look forward to that as well, my Lady,” you nod in agreement.

Another knock rings out and more servants enter with platters of warm food.

“Shall we?” She asks and gestures towards the table where the meal has been placed.

“Yes please,” you say with a grateful sigh.

Conversation with Baela flowed effortlessly, bringing an ease to your soul as the two of you swapped stories over the meal. The relief was much too short lived however, as once the servants had cleared the table, Baela’s handmaiden steps forward.

“It’s time, my Lady,” she informs the two of you and you freeze in place.

Baela sees the change in your demeanor and thanks her handmaiden before she stands and moves to offer her hand to pull you from your seat.

“We’ll be along shortly.” She calls with a nod before returning her attention to you.

Her eyes soften and she sighs quietly.

“My mother used to say that The Red Keep was poisonous, but that poison could not harm a dragon.”

You take her hand and she pulls you to your feet.

“You may not be the blood of the dragon. But you certainly have the heart of one,” she smiles softly meeting your eyes to ensure you understand, “Don’t let them take that from you.”

You take a deep breath and stand at attention.

“Are you ready?” She asks calmly.

“Yes,” you pause, looking back to your belongings, “just give me one moment.”

You step over to your bag pull the cloak free, swinging it over your shoulders in one swift motion before affixing it with a black dragon clasp. Returning to Baela’s side, she beams proudly and links her arm through yours.

“Onwards, Dragon Rider.”

• @freefallthoughts @eywas-heir

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

IOTA Reviews: Collusion and Revolution

Well, the final confrontation with Lila was a bust, but maybe Chloe's swan song will be bett----HAHAHAHAHAHA! Sorry, I couldn't even finish that sentence without laughing.

Let's get into the twenty-second and twenty-third episodes of Miraculous Ladybug's fifth season: Collusion and Revolution

“Collusion” starts off with... oh, for God's sake... Gabriel monologuing to Emilie's body for the umpteenth time, only now, we see just how bad his Cataclysm wound has gotten, now making his entire hand black.

Marinette and Adrien wake up and we get a pretty cute scene of them talking on the phone while getting ready for their respective days. Afterwards, Gabriel talks with Adrien about being sent to London, and is somehow aware that Adrien hasn't told Marinette yet. Even when Gabriel tries to use his ring to keep Adrien under his control, Adrien still shows signs of resistance.

Later at school, Chloe walks up to insult Marinette and Adrien as usual, but Marinette has a little rebuttal of her own.

Marinette: Be mean while you still can, Chloe. I'm gonna let you in on a secret. Remember your friend Lila who used to hurt everyone with her lies? See her anywhere in this classroom? No, because I put a stop to her nastiness and I'll do the same with you!

Yeah, and you were only able to do so because one of Lila's minions decided they didn't like being evil, and had no plan of your own prior to that.

It's revealed that not only is Lila (I'm not calling her Cerise to make things easier for myself) still in contact with Chloe through their Alliance rings, she also somehow got her own supervillain lair. How did she set up here, much less find the resources to do so? You guessed it, never explained!

And yeah, let's just get this out of the way. I hate what they're doing with Lila here. For reasons I'll get to in a later review, it's clear that there had to be some changes made so Lila remains a key player, even after the events of “Confrontation”, so they decided to make Lila manipulate Chloe as part of her plans. For a pair of episodes that are meant to show Chloe at her absolute worst, it devalues her status as a villain if she's just going to be used as a glorified attack dog for bigger threats like Lila. Remember, we've seen Chloe come up with her own plans before (Mr. Pigeon, Dark Cupid, Darkblade, Kung Food, Antibug, Despair Bear, Zombizou, Frightningale, Queen Wasp, Queen Banana, Gabriel Agreste, Penalteam, Determination, Derision), and we know she's not a complete idiot. She doesn't need Lila to hold her hand and tell her what to do to get what she wants. I get that it's supposed to be ironic that Chloe, for all her bluster, is ultimately a pawn in a larger scheme, but it just doesn't gel with the whole “irredeemable monster” stuff the show has been going with whenever Chloe has been on screen for the past two seasons. You could easily take Lila out of these episodes and not much would really change.

During class, Chloe makes a scene by blasting some music and dancing on her desk, and we get what has to be the most unrealistic thing this entire show has done for the past five seasons: Assuming kids still care about school when the year is almost over.

Rose: Chloe, quit it! We wanna hear the lesson, we care!

When Ms. Bustier tries to send Chloe to the principal's office, Chloe calls Ms. Mendeleiev (who is the new principal after Mr. Damocles resigned), and essentially forces her to change the rules to music is allowed. After Chloe taunts Ivan, just as Marinette tries to stop Ivan from hurting her, she uses the opportunity to frame Marinette for hitting her. Oh, sorry. I mean Lila uses the opportunity to tell Chloe to frame Marinette for hitting her.

In the principal's office, Ms. Bustier tries to reason with Chloe by showing her the present she got her all the way back in Season 2's “Zombizou”.

Ms. Bustier: Chloe, do you remember this gift you gave me on my birthday? To me, that is proof that you're a fragile teenager who doesn't know love and is simply looking for attention. And... we all tried to help you. So, please, whatever it is you want, ask yourself if it's worth all the suffering you're causing.

Chloe: Did you hear that? A homeroom teacher using a student's feelings to blackmail her. This is inappropriate, utterly inappropriate! My father, the mayor, would never tolerate this in a school.

Remember kids, FUCK showing compassion to your enemies! Everyone knows Gandhi was a loser anyway.

The negative emotions attract an Akuma to Ms. Bustier, but she manages to resist Monarch's influence for now. Monarch transforms back into Gabriel, who has a meeting with Tomoe and Andre to discuss the state of Paris' law enforcement.

Tomoe: Your policemen mostly get paid for doing nothing. It seems that Ladybug and Cat Noir are the ones who have been enforcing the law in Paris the last few months, wouldn't you agree?

Because I guess Ladybug and Cat Noir have also been stopping drug rings off-screen or something.

Chloe storms into the office, and even though Lila has no idea what's going on, she tells Chloe to record the conversation. Once again, Lila has to tell Chloe just how to be mean and selfish while she chews out Andre, and that if she was the mayor, she'd ban superheroes, right before Chloe learns Adrien is going to London next year.

After a scene that's only there to remind the audience that Adrien hasn't told Marinette about London yet, we see Gabriel talking with Andre about replacing Paris' police force with robots... even though this should really be more a discussion for the commissioner. I guess the writers didn't have enough money for a commissioner model because they had to allocate resources for Ms. Bustier's baby bump.

Andre: Seriously, Gabriel, what's this whole police robot idea all about?

Gabriel: Have I ever offered a single bad idea to you, Andre? We've always helped each other, haven't we?

Andre: Remember when we were young and penniless? When Emilie, you and I would make the world right from our little attic room? You made me my very first suit so I'd feel confident and Audrey, whom I'd fallen in love with, would finally notice me? Don't you think we were much happier back then? That our lives were more beautiful, more fair?

Gabriel: Come on, you have everything to be happy, Andre. Your wife, your daughter, Paris City Hall...

Andre: A woman who barely respects me, a selfish, heartless daughter, and a City Hall that I never wanted. I only got into politics like dad to impress Audrey, you know that.

Gabriel: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Andre: Look at me, Gabe. All my life I've lied, I've cheated and I've abused my power. I used to be a dreamer, an artist, I wanted to make movies! Now I've become a tyrant in servitude to my family and friends...

Aw, poor baby. Did someone condition their daughter to develop an entitlement complex while refusing to divorce your abusive wife?

I'm sorry, but I don't feel bad for Andre at all here. While I'm happy to see that the show is trying to teach kids that male mental health is important too, it doesn't really earn him a lot of sympathy considering a lot of this is his own fault. Sure, we don't know what Audrey was like when they were younger, and she could have gotten worse as time went on, but considering how rich he is coupled with the fact that Audrey spends most of her time in New York, he doesn't really have much of an excuse to not divorce her. As for Chloe, he has even less of an excuse, since he was responsible for her upbringing. He spoiled her rotten, he refused to properly discipline her, and he failed to teach her the slightest bit of humility. I'm willing to accept that Chloe is a lost cause by the show's standards, but I can't accept the fact that Andre had nothing to do with how she turned out. He's as much of a failure as a parent as Gabriel is.

As Lila somehow finds where the two are talking so she can overhear their conversation, Gabriel secretly records Andre, altering what he says to make him look bad. While I can't exactly describe it through text, this clip from The Simpsons should summarize it.

Ms. Bustier sees the video of Andre, and this time, she fails to resist an Akuma, turning into Wonder Woman—I mean, Miss Sans-Culotte.

Miss Sans-Culotte has a okay design. I like how it's meant to have a more patriotic theme with the color scheme, and the fact that it's based off some of the people in the French Revolution, aptly named the Sans-Culotte, is a nice way to teach kids about history. The problems I have are the golden armor, which goes against the fact that was previously mentioned in this very episode that the Sans-Culotte wore more simple clothing. That, and the guillotine blade for a weapon, which gives off some uncomfortable implications. The Miraculous power this time involves the Pig Miraculous' Gift, which somehow allows her to transform anyone her blade touches into balloons... even though the Pig never had that ability, and we saw what it really did just earlier this season (Jubilation).

Right when it seems like Adrien is about to tell Marinette about London, the two learn about Miss Sans-Culotte, and split up to transform into Cat Noir and Ladybug respectively. Meanwhile, Chloe hears the news about Andre before getting a call from Gabriel, who offers to “give her Andre's power”. Even though Chloe always uses her dad's power to get what she wants, she literally has to be told to accept the offer from Lila because she didn't think of the political ramifications. You see what I mean about Lila adding nothing to this episode? It'd be like if Thanos kept in contact with someone who had to tell him how to get the Infinity Stones at every step. As for Gabriel, I'll talk about his plan next episode.

Ladybug and Cat Noir confront Miss Sans-Culotte, demanding to know what she's doing.

Ladybug: Terror isn't a solution!

Cat Noir: There are elections to make your voice heard.

Miss Sans-Culotte: Or a revolution when everyone is corrupt. Nothing can stop freedom!

Because it's not like the video of Andre confessing to abusing his power, tampered or not, is an open and shut impeachment case, right?

Ladybug summons her Lucky Charm and gets a crown. After focusing on Miss Sans-Culotte and City Hall, she gets an idea.

Ladybug: Mayor Bourgeois is acting like the king of Paris, and maybe he should be removed from office after all.

Cat Noir: Are you saying we should give this villain free reign?

Ladybug: I don't know... I feel like that's what the Lucky Charm means. You're right, it's not up to us to decide who gets to be the mayor and who doesn't. An akumatized villain just needs to be deakumatized.

Yeah, remember how Ladybug said it was too risky to forge a temporary alliance with Matagi Gozen in order to stop the person who stole almost every Miraculous she had last season? Well now, she's saying they should essentially let this Akuma force the sitting Mayor of Paris out of power, which is all kinds of illegal. Now this might just be because I'm not French, and don't understand how politics work over there, but here in America, the last time some people stormed a major government establishment to protest a fair election, they were seen as fucking lunatics.

Zoe tries to reason with Miss Sans-Culotte, but she's still in favor of using that guillotine blade in ways that don't involve balloons. They try to reason with her and convince her to reason with Andre... right as Andre is about to resign himself, so this whole conflict was pointless. Still glad to know Ladybug and Cat Noir are now willing to let Akumas use their powers to get what they want when that was almost always seen as taboo.

Miss Sans-Culotte once again rejects the Akuma with ease, Ladybug uses Miraculous Ladybug to fix the damage... only to be cornered by several police robots, and ones that look really stupid at that.

Remember, Gabriel and Tomoe wanted taxpayers to pay for these.

Yeah, somehow, the Lucky Charm was actually meant for Chloe, because, well...

Cat Noir: A crown for the queen of brats, of course!

What, did calling her the literal Antichrist not do well with test audiences?

Yeah, this makes no goddamn sense. Why was the Lucky Charm prioritizing Chloe of all people instead of the Akuma as usual? What was Ladybug even supposed to do here? Yeah, she really should have stopped Miss Sans-Culotte, but was she expected to know about the police robots or something?

Chloe tells the press that Ladybug and Cat Noir helped an Akuma force the current mayor out of office. This is all part of Gabriel and Tomoe's plan, but once again, she's not wrong. The two still helped a dangerous supervillain force a major political shift, and the resulting power vacuum that allowed Chloe to rise to power is really their fault. After Cat Noir uses his Cataclysm to free himself and Ladybug from the nets the robots used to trap them with, we get the start of a running gag where Chloe struggles to say the word “democratic”, because remember, she's blonde, and therefore stupid. This happens several times across both episodes, and none of them are actually funny.

The episode ends with Chloe unlawfully taking control of Paris as the new mayor, which is totally different from Miss Sans-Culotte unlawfully forcing Andre to resign. The last time I saw double standards this blatant, I was watching RWBY.

THE BIGGEST IDIOT OF THE EPISODE IS... CHLOE

If there's one thing I love about my irredeemable villains, it's that they're so stupid, it's impossible to take them seriously. Not only did Chloe need Lila to hold her hand through every major decision she made throughout this episode (and by extension, the next), she failed to understand her dad's political career falling apart and needed to be told to take an opportunity to own an army of advanced robots, and couldn't even say the word “democratic”, which isn't that hard of a word to say even if you're borderline illiterate.

“Revolution” starts off with Chloe essentially declaring martial law in Paris for the time being. Once again, Cat Noir says the sane thing for once and suggests they go and beat up Chloe themselves. Well, I say that, but somehow, Cat Noir contradicts himself in his very next line.

Cat Noir: We can't let Chloe make up the rules.

Ladybug: If she were akumatized, it'd be easy. Find the object, break it, de-evilize her.

Cat Noir: But there is no object, and we can't attack someone who isn't akumatized, or we'd look like the supervillains.

I think you forgot something, guys...

THE ENTIRE FUCKING REASON SHE'S MAKING THE RULES IN THE FIRST PLACE IS BECAUSE YOU HELPED A SUPERVILLAIN IN THE LAST EPISODE! HOW DID YOU FORGET THIS VITAL INFORMATION?!

What the hell is with the sudden change of pace? They were willing to let Miss Sans-Culotte have her way by making Andre resign, so why can't they stop Chloe when she's already taken over Paris by force? I don't think you'd really look like supervillains if you stopped a tyrant instead of a democratically elected mayor. All you need to do is stop Chloe from controlling the robots, and you're golden.

In fact, where the hell is the rest of the Parisian government during all this, much less the French government? Why aren't they doing anything about this? We don't even get a throwaway line that explains it like Chloe bribed some politicians to keep quiet about the whole thing. Instead, despite an obvious violation of democratic rights, nobody outside of Paris is even bothering to stop this.

After a brief scene where some citizens are interviewed about Chloe, we see Adrien once again angsting about going to London. Like what Lila did with Chloe last episode, Plagg has to outright tell Adrien to talk to Marinette about this, because I guess this show has a really low opinion on the intelligence of people with blond hair. Also, good to know that even though Chloe is currently ruling over the city with an iron fist, she's still allowing air traffic to flow normally. Good thing too, as it's almost tourist season. Adrien tries to tell Marinette through a call, but she talks to him about Chloe, and how they can protest her regime.

Meanwhile, at City Hall, Chloe has already gone mad with power, as she orders her new box robots around, while Gabriel calls her to praise her for how she's been doing. Afterwards, Gabriel transforms into Monarch and absorbs the powers from a few Kwamis before Voyaging to City Hall. Chloe orders her robots to arrest Monarch, unaware than Tomoe is the one actually controlling them, only for Monarch to offer a deal... which Lila once again has to tell Chloe to listen to even though Chloe has worked with him in the past. Monarch offers to akumatize Chloe in a way that makes it look like she's not working for him. She accepts, and becomes Queen Mayor.

Queen Mayor's design is pretty simple, but I guess it works for the plan. It's just Chloe in an admittedly nice-looking jacket. Not sure if she can actually take it off like her other clothes or not, though. As for the Miraculous powers, Monarch transfers five of them to her robots, the Turtle Miraculous' Shelter, the Horse Miraculous' Voyage, the Ox Miraculous' Resistance, the Bee Miraculous' Venom, and the Rooster Miraculous' Sublimation, which gives her an unclear power. Given what she subjects her victims to later on, I guess it's the torture chamber she creates? I also don't get how the robots are capable of using the Miraculous powers when earlier episodes established you needed to have multiple Alliance rings to use them (Transmission, Pretension).

But now's as good a time as any to discuss Gabriel and Tomoe's plan, and why is makes absolutely no sense. In case you got confused, here's a quick summary: Tomoe created an army of robots designed to replace the police, and when Andre refused to use them, Gabriel recorded a private conversation so he could edit it, then transform into Monarch to akumatize someone and hope Ladybug and Cat Noir would let her force Andre to resign, then talk to Chloe about taking over as mayor, hope she says yes while Ladybug and Cat Noir do nothing to stop her, then pretend to give her control over Tomoe's robots before akumatizing Chloe so she can actually control the robots, all while praying that Chloe doesn't find out the truth, much the government doesn't get involved with this.

Gabriel and Tomoe did all of this instead of just, you know, akumatizing Chloe like usual. If the plan was to akumatize her all along while making it look like she's not akumatized, why didn't Gabriel just do that from the start as soon as Andre resigned and Miss Sans-Culotte rejected her Akuma? Also, why the hell is Chloe so crucial to the plan anyway? Yeah, they plan to throw her under the bus once they win, but wouldn't it make more sense if Tomoe, the one whose company made the robots, was the one who took over as Mayor?

It feels like the show is trying to recreate the plan from “Miracle Queen” where Chloe teams up with Monarch, but that plan at least made sense, as Chloe was crucial because of her connection to Ladybug. Here, it just feels like the writers needed an excuse to actually make Chloe a threat, but just like when Felix gave Gabriel all of the other Miraculous last season, it's forced. I'm not really seeing Chloe as a threat when she needed Gabriel to hand her the keys to an army of robots, and I don't care if that's the point. If the show wants us to take Chloe seriously as a villain, it needs her actions to speak for themselves instead of turning her into a glorified attack dog for Gabriel, Tomoe, and even Lila to an extent.

But here's my biggest problem with this plan. Consider the fact that Gabriel put Chloe in a major political position, presumably in order to bank on the fact that Ladybug and Cat Noir wouldn't use their powers to beat up a civilian. Gabriel then transformed into Monarch and akumatized Chloe into a form that would make it look like nobody would even tell she was akumatized in the first place. So let me ask this: If Gabriel's plan involves making it look like Chloe isn't akumatized, how is this going to actually attract Ladybug and Cat Noir so you can get their Miraculous?!

Yeah, Ladybug and Cat Noir eventually decide to fight Chloe anyway, but they don't learn she's akumatized until she blurts it out, and that's well into their fight. The plan is to turn the local government against Ladybug and Cat Noir and discredit in a way that prevents them from taking action against an obvious threat, but that just doesn't gel with Monarch's goal of getting their Miraculous. Did Gabriel and Tomoe assume that Ladybug and Cat Noir would just have no qualms with presumably beating up a civilian? If so, why even bother hiding the fact that Chloe was akumatized? This is a problem the plan faces no matter who the mayor is. Hell, if anything, it would be better if Chloe was akumatized from the start, as no matter how long she hides it for, she still has control over an army of robots armed with Miraculous powers, which wouldn't decrease the threat she poses in the slightest. This isn't even the first time an Akuma has hijacked the position of mayor (Rogercop), so it's even less excusable!

The next day, the students stage a protest at their school to get Ms. Bustier her job back, where Chloe (I'm calling her that instead because nobody else calls her Queen Mayor) questions why they're using their right to protest. She also plans to tell Marinette that Adrien is moving to London (something Gabriel told her earlier), but once again, Lila tells her not to. Also, you want to know how stupid the whole “Chloe can't say the word 'democracy' right” gag is? In the same scene where she struggles to say the D-word, Chloe uses the words “Libertarian”, “negative”, and “influence” correctly. It's hard to really buy Chloe as this illiterate moron while you still have her use words like this.

We get what can barely be considered a montage of Chloe abusing her power, but it's only like, three scenes before the plot kicks back in. We get a scene of Chloe screwing around in a private one-on-one class, an admittedly funny bit where she had a golden statue of herself commissioned to rest on the Arc de Triomphe, and then a scene where she shows Andre the ice cream man just how unfair her rule is.

Chloe: Did you pay the permit fee to sell your ice cream?!

Ice Cream Man Andre: I don't need a permit to sell love in Paris!

Chloe: Well, now you do! Otherwise, you'll end up in detention!

I mean, she reasonably calls out Andre for not having a permit to sell ice cream. How... evil of her?

Marinette goes back to her place, only to learn Chloe abducted her parents and placed them in “detention”, before doing the same to her thanks to one of her robots using a combination of Venom and Voyage. We do get an admittedly decent scene of Chloe threatening to tell Marinette about Adrien moving if Adrien doesn't become her deputy mayor, only for Adrien to vow to tell Marinette himself... even though he kept trying to tell her earlier in the episode, so this moment feels a little hollow. But hey, it's not like the finale will make this scene seem even worse in retrospect, right?

Adrien is sent to detention, a torture chamber where footage of Chloe mentally conditions the prisoners into believing that they're ridiculous or that they can always count on her, all while the prisoners are told to find a chair in an endless maze. Again, another decent visual I'll give the episode credit for. After Adrien, Marinette, and Alya escape detention, the former two transform into Cat Noir and Ladybug respectively and get ready to finally do something about Chloe.

Ladybug summons her Lucky Charm, a bikini bottom, and gets ready to stop Chloe alongside Cat Noir. Okay, Chloe has an army of robots on her side alongside the public's favor, so they'll need to come up with a really clever plan in order to—they're just going in guns blazing even though that's a terrible plan in a situation like this. Unsurprisingly, the two heroes immediately get trapped by a combination of Shelter and Resistance, nullifying the Lucky Charm and Cataclysm. Only now do they figure out Monarch is behind this, even though both of them saw the robots use Venom and Voyage to send them to detention, yet when Chloe actually says it, Ladybug is still shocked by this.

As Ladybug and Cat Noir start to detransform, they encourage the public to take action once they lose their Miraculous, even though Monarch will have won by then. As they do this, somehow, they stop detransforming until they manage to recharge their Miraculous by the power of because the plot says so. How did they do this?

Gabriel: I am an adult! Not transforming back is a power belonging to grown-ups!

Nooroo: I guess they must have grown up, Master.

Yes. Seriously. Even though there's been nothing else to signify that Ladybug and Cat Noir have matured this season, they now have the full power of their Miraculous at their disposal because now, they're adults. If you have to tell the audience that your characters have developed, then you've done a poor job at writing character development. Ms. Bustier takes the sash containing Chloe's Akuma while Cat Noir uses multiple Cataclysms to destroy the rest of her robots.

Ladybug de-evilizes the Akuma, oddly enough, doesn't use Miraculous Ladybug to fix the damage, doesn't give Chloe a useless Magical Charm because Andre says he's going to “correct his own errors”, and after being convinced by her students, Ms. Bustier decides to run for mayor.

We then cut to a private jet where Audrey is chewing her daughter out for failing, even though she supported her earlier when she was mayor. Yeah, you know how it seemed like Andre was finally going to properly discipline his daughter. Dream on! Instead, he just decided to send her away with Audrey, someone who he knows is a terrible person, and lets her deal with Chloe in a way that heavily implies she's going to put Chloe through hell when she isn't at school.

Audrey: Because of you, we've lost face! You've ruined our name and our reputation! You had all the powers in your hands and you foolishly lost them! Bourgeois do not raise losers. You think you're going to London on vacation? Dream on! I'm going to take control of your life again, starting with your education.

This is seriously meant to be an appropriate punishment for Chloe while Andre gets absolutely no consequences for being responsible for his daughter turning out the way she did. I have only one thing to ask.

WHAT THE FUCK, ASTRUC?!

How the fuck did anyone involved with this show think any of this was okay?! How did Andre think this was okay when in the previous episode, he pointed out how awful Audrey was?! Why the fuckare both Andre and Audrey, the two people who helped make Chloe the person she is, getting away scot-free while Chloe gets condemned for everything?! Why the fuck are we supposed to be happy Audrey is diciplining Chloe when we know she's worse than she is?! WHO THE FUCK THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE OKAY TO GREENLIGHT?!

I can either interpret this scene in two ways.

The first way is that, like he's said for a few years now, Astruc still doesn't see this as child abuse, and that Chloe is being punished like any other misbehaving child is.

THIS IS WHAT THOMAS ASTRUC ACTUALLY BELIEVES.

The second way, and I consider this to be the worse option, is that Astruc's team is fully aware that this now qualifies as child abuse, and that Chloe deserves this treatment. Put aside the fact that a common mentality of abusive parents is that they believe they're helping their children by “toughing them up”, this is still a demented way to punish any character, no matter how bad they are.

“But IOTA! Chloe needs to be punished for what she did!” Yeah, she does, but not like this. Hell, you don't need to do a lot to change the ending and avoid the harmful implications. Just have Andre be the one to move out of Paris with Chloe with the intent to send her to boarding school. Also, rather than say he's “going to take control of Chloe's life again”, have him explain that while he still loves Chloe, he isn't mayor anymore, so she can't use his name to get out of trouble, meaning that like it or not, Chloe will have to grow out of her bratty attitude or else she'll get in even more trouble. That way, we see Andre actually taking responsibility for how bad of a parent he was, Chloe realizes her old tricks won't work anymore while the door is open for a redemption should you choose to bring her back next season, and most importantly, there's no implications of child abuse here.

But believe it or not, things were even worse for these episodes initially. As detailed in the Season 5 scripts, there was originally a scene in “Collusion” where Andre used his powers as mayor to divorce Audrey and steal custody of Zoe while leaving her to deal with Chloe herself, officially joining Jagged Stone in the Rich Deadbeat Dads Club.

And Astruc wasn't even aware it was taken out, not being told this until he found out on Twitter.

Because somehow, he considered Andre walking out on his family and leaving his biological daughter in the hands of an abusive bitch crucial to the story.

And do you want to know the worst part? No matter how you view this scene, either way, it's portrayed as Chloe getting punished, but the next scene plays Gabriel abusing Adrien straight, ordering him to pack his things as he'll be heading to London that night. The show literally can't make up its mind on whether child abuse is bad or not. Why is it okay for Chloe to be mistreated by her parents while we're supposed to sympathize with Adrien? No matter who the victim is, CHILD ABUSE IS STILL CHILD ABUSE.

I don't care how bad Chloe is, child abuse is NEVER justifiable, and it's disgusting that the show seems to take that stance, whether they intended to or not.

Let's just get the last few minutes out of the way so I can end this. Adrien is forced to pack for London, Nathalie does nothing to stop Gabriel from doing this, Lila steals one of Tomoe's computers, Gabriel tells Tomoe about keeping Adrien and Kagami safe in London while they execute “Operation: Perfect Alliance”, Marinette and Adrien have their first kiss for the third time in five seasons, Chloe calls Marinette to tell her about Adrien, but Marinette tells her to piss off, and Chloe ends the episode crying because Astruc thinks she deserves to suffer. THERE. I'M DONE.

THE BIGGEST IDIOT OF THE EPISODE IS... GABRIEL

Gabriel joins Marinette in earning the Biggest Idiot Award for the third time this season. He had no reason to include Chloe in his stupid plan, he was essentially banking on Ladybug and Cat Noir choosing to do nothing, and tried to create a scenario were Ladybug and Cat Noir wouldn't be able to lose their Miraculous. At least you could argue that Ladybug and Cat Noir needed to stay on the down low at first. Gabriel doesn't get that excuse.

These episodes sucked, but I honestly thought they were slightly better than the last two.

Yeah, all joking aside, I thought these episodes had more positives to them than “Revelation” and “Confrontation”. Where those two episodes were insulting and confusing respectively, these two episodes were the kind of bad I've come to expect from the show. There's plotholes, bad morals, and characters acting like idiots, but it's par for the course. I was far from a fan of these two episodes, but other than the ending of “Revolution”, I was nowhere near as angry I was with “Revelation” and “Confrontation”.

Surprisingly, I was more upset rewatching “Collusion” than I did “Revolution”. Yeah, “Revolution” was bad, but at least Chloe was supposed to be a bad example of how lead a city, unlike what Andre and Ms. Bustier were doing. Those characters both taught bad morals, intentional or not, and just like Ladybug and Cat Noir, were never called out for unintentionally leading to Chloe's rise to power. With Andre, we were supposed to just be expected to be okay with all the times he abused his power as mayor while cheering when he quit with no negative repercussions, and with Ms. Bustier, we were supposed to be okay with her attempting to stage a violent coup against Andre, the character the episode is already trying to make us sympathize with.

Between these two characters, along with Sabrina and Felix, the show really loves operating on the “There's Always a Bigger Fish” rule. It doesn't matter how many bad things you do, if someone else is pulling the strings, you won't get in trouble at all... unless you're Chloe, so, in that case, BURN IN HELL. Like I mentioned earlier, you can acknowledge someone only did bad things because they were pressured to while saying they should at least be held accountable for their actions in some way that doesn't involve kicking them out of the country.

The moral of when it's okay to use violence was pretty confusing, and not just because this is a superhero show where almost every problem is solved by fighting it. Ladybug tries to convince Miss Sans-Culotte that political conflicts shouldn't be solved with violence, but even if she didn't convince her to change her mind, Andre was already ready to resign as mayor, and Miss Sans-Culotte still angrily demanded he resign in a way that sounded like a violent threat. There's also the fact that despite saying that violence isn't always the answer, the conflict that was sort of resolved with no violence ended up making things worse as Chloe was able to seize power once Andre resigned.

Also, it's pretty funny how absolutely nobody ever tried to reason with Chloe after she became mayor, not even Ms. Bustier. In that case, violence was obviously the answer, but the show never really tells us what makes Miss Sans-Culotte better than Chloe. You can't teach an anti-violence moral in one episode and then lead into an episode where violence solves the problem instead of diplomacy. And I'm not one of those saints who believes that every conflict should be handled nonviolently. Sometimes, people won't listen to words, but will at least hear you out if you use your fists. I'd personally argue the conflict of “Revolution” would have worked if had this kind of lesson. Just have Ladybug and Cat Noir tried to solve things with Chloe diplomatically during the first act, only to realize that Chloe won't budge, so they have no choice but to take her out of power themselves. It'd make a hell of a lot more sense than having Marinette and Adrien do nothing while Chloe makes everyone's life miserable because the writers need to pad the runtime.

I already mentioned this, but for an episode that tries to show how awful Chloe is, she barely does anything on her own. She needs Lila to tell her to go along with Gabriel's plan, she needs Gabriel and Tomoe to pretend to give her an army of robots, and she needs Monarch to akumatize her to make the robots even more dangerous. If you need another character to do something to make Chloe a threat, why should we only see Chloe as the threat? These two episodes keep going back and forth on whether Chloe is the worst or not. When they're not showing her taking control of Paris on her own like should be doing, the writers take the time to remind the audience that Lila and Gabriel are pulling Chloe around by telling her what to do, all while they each muse about how this is all going according to keikaku. If you want to make Chloe a threat and have her live up to her reputation as a terrible human being, she should actually have agency and should be cunning enough to be a dangerous villain in her own right.

Unlike with “Confrontation”, which gave more focus to side characters for some reason, “Revolution” actually focused on the main characters and their conflict with Chloe, like we should have gotten with Lila. Yeah, Ladybug and Cat Noir wait far too long to stop her, but unlike with Lila last episode, they at least had a semblance of a reason for hesitating to beat up a civilian. Either way, it felt like an obstacle that Ladybug and Cat Noir actually overcame together instead of someone else helping them out at the last second. Yeah, the Miraculous boost was a glorified deus ex machina, but it was at least a thing established in the show since Season 3.

Even the stuff with Chloe actually felt like stuff she would do, unlike in Season 4, which tried to give her an interest in bananas and soccer for the sake of giving her screentime as a villain (Queen Banana, Penalteam). When Chloe had free reign of the city, she actually did stuff on her own that was clever, like the detention setup. We really needed more of this Chloe for the past two seasons if the writers wanted to make her work as a villain, yet they waited until the end of the fifth season to actually do something interesting, and that was after she was told what to do for most of the episode.

And then there's how the conflict was resolved. It's really hard to buy Ladybug and Cat Noir “growing up” and unlocking the full power of their Miraculous, because just like when it was first established in Season 3, it's such a vague term, and only leaves you asking more questions. Neither Marinette or Adrien really had a big moment of personal growth this episode. Yeah, Adrien wanted to tell Marinette about London, but he had been trying to do that since Chloe first took over as mayor. While it's a decent piece of character development after keeping it secret for the past few episodes, it doesn't really do a lot to justify Adrien “growing up”.

Then again, at least Adrien actually got a moment to show his growth compared to Marinette. All she did before she “grew up” was tell the citizens of Paris to keep fighting, but it was such a vague speech and doesn't really scream becoming an adult. If she was going to sacrifice her identity or do something dangerous in order to stop Chloe, that could have worked. Instead, what I can assume was her big moment came after she defeated Chloe, the call at the end, and even then, it was just her telling Chloe how much she sucks, something she's never been afraid to say since the show started. Once again, if you need to tell the audience your show has character development, you're not good at writing character development.

Overall, while these episodes were both really bad, I still think they're at least more tolerable than the previous two.

And with that, I am officially done with the poorly written Chloe episodes. Sure, I still have three more episodes until I finish Season 5, but least this means Astruc will hopefully stop using her in the show, or at least ranting about her on Twitter. Maybe I'll make a character analysis post about her or talk about her during the overview post, but for now...

[liv-andletdie]

Silver

Rating: Teen and Up Fandom: Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess Category: M/F Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda

@zelinktines

Summary: She could still remember the day, walking through the town with her cousin, the chill breeze blowing off the lake settling in her bones even as her face and heart were warmed. The little bracelet had caught her eye, resting on a bed of red velvet the blue and amber singing together in perfect harmony. "I saw it through the window and I couldn't resist."

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Ao3 Link [X]

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Balls, Soirees, Parties, and Dinners. Each one a tedious never-ending affair filled with people all trying desperately to impress each other. Shallow words and fake smiles, pleasant "How do you do?"'s that meant nothing. Paper people all pretending to care about anyone else. Puppets, pawns, players, each with their own rehearsed scripts. Opportunistic. Parasitic. Boring.

Zelda hated it.

She had for a while. Could vividly recall nights as a child, spent hiding behind the curtains, watching everyone lie and gossip and flirt their ways to alliances and treaties. She could remember sitting in the corner, observing and analysing everything before her. Balls, like this one, were the first time she ever saw anyone lie and get away with it.

They were awful, but they were a necessary evil when it came to her court.

Auru had explained, years ago, that the Hylian Monarchy was fulled, not by any great desire to do good, but by gossip. Gossip and a hunger for power. She had rejected this at first, simply writing it off as her old tutor growing pessimistic. But now she was older. Now she could see it clearly. Gossip was the weapon of choice for most courtiers, and the ballroom was their battleground. If one wanted to survive then one had to learn to play along. Here was were the real decisions about the country were made, not the council chamber. It was all about who you could get On side.

A necessary evil.

Zelda was thinking on this as she stood, an island in the middle of a hurricane, lost so deeply to her thoughts that she almost forgot to appear interested in the Minister before her. His droning voice becoming monotone, a discordant backing to the orchestra in the corner.

"And so, in short, that is why I feel that I would be a perfect candidate for the roll," He said, his words nasal and sharp like nails down a chalkboard. "I do hope that you'll consider me for the position, Your Majesty. It would truly be an honour to stand beside you as Chair of the Rebuilding Committee."

Ah yes, She thought, The Rebuilding Committee. How could I forget?

It had been almost two years since the Twilight Invasion had swept through the country. almost two years since the Demon King had fallen, and almost two years since she had last seen her dear friend. In that time the Resistance had stepped up, organising aid for those who had been hit the hardest, conducting censuses, allocating funds for local food stores and rebuilding efforts. At the head of this all had been Auru, working day and night alongside Link to help their people, but now he was stepping down. Taking time to rest after years of work, as was deserved. Though, his absence now left an empty seat at the table that certain people were all too eager to fill.

Oh Goody.

The man in front of her, Minister Lyre if memory served, was not the first person to come begging (she had, in fact, already had this same conversation at least five times in the past few hours alone!) Each supplicant had showered her in praise and poetry. She was so smart, and so beautiful, and so kind and benevolent. Perfection. Hylia made flesh. Utter tosh. All of it empty. All of it fake. Nothing more than an attempt to get her "On Side."

Minister Lyre was proving to be a tad more difficult to deal with than the others. The rest of her petitioners had stood a respectable distance away, they had bowed and curtsied when appropriate, and they had promptly left when dismissed. She'd told them each the same thing. She would think about it and let them know once she had come to a decision. They had thankfully taken her words at face value and scuttled off to find someone else to harass for the evening.

Lyre was staying put.

She had no idea why. He had already said his piece on why he would be a perfect fit for the committee, multiple times. He'd complimented her hair, her dress, her perfume. He'd positioned himself between her and anyone else who may wish to talk to her; deliberately monopolising her time as some sort of tactic or scheme to prevent another power hungry hopeful getting their claws into her. And to top it all off he was entirely too close.

At first she has brushed it off as some kind of mistake. The ballroom was crowded after all, the floor crammed with hundreds of dancing bodies, heavy perfumes clouding the air and making it hard to breathe. But then he had stepped closer. And as she made to take a step back, to put some distance between them, he followed. Step by step. All the while droning on about how brilliant he was and how beautiful she was. It was suffocating.

"Minister," she tried, shifting back with as much subtlety as she could manage. "I do thank you for your time, however I am still in the early stages of finding a new Chair for the committee. But I will endeavour to take on board all you have said tonight regarding your… talents."

"I do hope you will, Your Majesty." He puffed out his chest with pride. "I promise you, you will not find a greater match than I."

Somehow I find that hard to believe, She thought, keeping her face contorted into a polite and regal smile. Who does this man think he is?

"Well, I will be sure to take that under advisement, Minister." She all but forced, her smile beginning to tear at the edges. "Now if you'll excuse me I -"

Something solid hit her spine as she felt her world tip forwards.

Someone had bumped into her. The room was crowded and thanks to Minister Lyre's shepherding and surrounding she'd ended up backing into the rush of dancers headed to the floor. She only had a moment to realise this before she collided with him, her hands landing squarely on his chest. Lyre let out and embarrassing squawk, his arms pinwheeling as he attempted to balance them.

"Your Majesty?!" He gasped, face turning a rather alarming shade of red.

"I am so sorry Minister," She pulled back, feeling the embarrassment zip down her spine. "It was an accident. I do hope you'll forgive me." She took a deep step back, attempting her escape, when she felt the tug on her wrist.

Her bracelet.

It was stuck. The clasp tangled in the threads of ornate embroidery at his throat. She tried to tug again but found that she was well and truly stuck.

"Majesty?" Lyre looked at her, seeming to notice that her hand was still pressed against him. She watched as the already alarming red became deeply frightening.

"Apologies," she tried to pull again. "It's my bracelet, it appears to be caught on your jacket."

"Oh! Well, let me Your Majesty-"

"No. No it's alright." She grit her teeth. This wasn't going to end well but at least it would end. "I've got this, let me just …" With her free hand, she wrapped her fingers around her wrist, pressing the silver against the silk of her glove before giving it one last almighty yank. The clasp snapped, her bracelet came loose, and the force sent her flying.

Step by step, heel over heel, she stumbled. Her slippers barely offering any friction on the polished marble flooring, her legs betraying her as she began to tip backwards. It felt like forever, her humiliation curdling in the pit of her stomach, just waiting for the fall.

The fall that didn't come.

Two warm hands found her waist, quickly righting her position, propping her up on her feet. She felt dazed and confused. She'd been falling. What was happening?

"You alright, Your Majesty?"

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no. No no no. Not him! Anyone but him! She'd be able to survive this whole humiliating ordeal, be able to brush this night off and go lick her wounds in peace if he wasn't standing behind her.

Nervously, Zelda turned her head to look and, yes. Shit. It was Him. The Hero of Twilight, Wielder of the Sacred Blade, Saviour of Hyrule. Link.

He stood behind her, eyebrows pitched upwards in worry, stunning sky blue eyes shining with concern. He looked like he wanted to say something more, mouth opening and shutting as he struggled to form the words he needed. His fingers pressing tighter into her skin.

Oh Sweet Nayru! He still had his hands on her waist!

"I-I'm alright," she choked out, feeling the tips of her ears beginning to burn. "I'm just… Excuse me."

Ducking her head, Zelda pulled herself from his hold. She needed to get out of here. She needed air. She needed quiet and space to think. She couldn't stand there, trapped between Lyre and Link, drowning in the crush of bodies, the deafening sounds of the orchestra singing. She had to run.

She almost wasn't conscious of it, the way her feet carried her across the floor, the look of worry and confusion on Link's face as she passed him. All she could focus on was her escape. The doors to the terraced gardens were just ahead of her, and with them the promise of fresh air and silence. They opened easily under her hands, swinging forward to allow her departure.

And then she was alone. Outside, in the quiet, the stars above shining and twinkling like diamonds scattered across back velvet.

She felt stupid. She was stupid. Letting herself get panicked over seeing him. Link was her friend! Any judgement she feared wouldn't come from him. He was too good for that. She needed to get herself under control, it wouldn't do her any good if she allowed herself to get flustered by this.

"You alright?" Link's voice called out, soft and sweet echoing through the silent air. She hadn't noticed him following her, hadn't heard the door open behind her, or the sound of his footsteps moving to stand next to her. She turned to look at him, the moonlight turning his hair silver, the chill painting his cheeks pink. It took her a second to remember that he'd said something.

"I'm fine Link, Just… overwhelmed." It wasn't a lie, the atmosphere in the ballroom had been slowly suffocating her. She watched him nod, his eyes turning to steel.

"I saw what happened with Lyre," he said, his voice going cold. He looked angry. "Did he…?" The rest of his question hung in the air unsaid. Did he touch you? Did he say something? Did he hurt you?

"No. Oh goodness, no." Zelda waved away the notion, her hand still wrapped around her wrist keeping the bracelet in place. "He was being pushy and annoying, but he didn't do anything." She watched his gaze soften slightly, his eyes dropping to her wrist then back to her face, eyebrow arched in a question.

He could say a lot without words.

"I got shoved," she sighed. "It was an accident but the force sent me forward and then…" she trailed off, the embarrassment threatening to take over again. Before her, Link's expression softened into one of gentle amusement, his lips quirked in a small smile as he seemed to ask, Then what?

"It sounds so stupid."

Link let out a huff of laughter, "I spend all day with the new recruits." He shrugged. "It can't be worse than anything I've already heard from them."

Pushing down the question of What did new military recruits talk about?, Zelda squared her shoulders, ready to give her answer even if it did feel a little stupid.

" It's my Bracelet." She lowered her hand from her wrist, holding the broken jewellery in her palm. "It got caught on his stupid jacket and I had to break it to escape," She heaved a sigh, looking at the mangled clasp. "It's a shame, I really liked this bracelet."

Beside her, she could feel Link shift his weight, a nervous energy in his movement. As if he was building up the courage before he spoke. "Well," he sounded shy, "I can't promise anything, but I'd be happy to take a look if you want."

"Really? I don't want to impose."

He let out another silent laugh. "Hardly imposing if I offer, is it?" Link held his hand out, the soft leather of his glove absent. the bare skin of his palm seeming to glow in the light of the stars.

"No, I suppose it isn't." She dropped the bracelet into his waiting hand, trying not to touch his naked fingers. "Thank you, Link." She watched as he pulled it closer to himself, inspecting the metal and jewels.

"Blue and Orange?" He tilted his head at her, the action reminiscent of a confused puppy. "Not your usual style."

He was right. Normally her jewellery constituted of heavy restrictive golds, rich rubies, and deep amethysts. If she did wear any blue stones then they were usually dark sapphires and lapis lazuli. Not the bright, electric blue of the abalone that hung next to its amber cousins, resting in their beds of shining silver.

"I saw it in Laketown," she started, her gaze fixed on his fingers as he fiddled with the metal. She could still remember the day, walking through the town with her cousin, the chill breeze blowing off the lake settling in her bones even as her face and heart were warmed. The little bracelet had caught her eye, resting on a bed of red velvet the blue and amber singing together in perfect harmony. "I saw it through the window and I couldn't resist. It just…" she paused.

"Reminded you of someone?"

There was no hiding it. It had been almost two years since Zelda had last seen her friend, since she had turned away under the bright desert sun, since she shattered her only means of return.

Midna.

Zelda sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. It felt a little silly, being so sentimental. But it had been so long and she missed her so much, and the colours of those stones had matched The Twilight Princess's hair almost exactly. "You're not going to laugh at me are you?"

"I'd be a hypocrite if I did," Link was looking at her now, his eyes so bright and so blue and so unbearably soft. He fiddled with something around his neck, fingers hooking around a dull pewter chain. She hadn't noticed it before, the faint shine of the metal had probably been hidden by the high collar of his shirt. "It's nice to have something that makes her feel a little closer," he tugged the chain further, pulling it free from his tunic to show her. A little mirror, highly polished silver, dangling in the space between them. "Like she's here in some way, y'know?"

"I know," She took a step closer, capturing the mirror between her fingers. She wanted to have a closer look, wanted to see what Link saw when he looked at it. Flipping it around she noticed an engraving, a wolf's head carved into the polished metal. Faint tool marks around the edge showed that this had been crafted by hand, made with care. "This is beautiful, Link."

"Thank you," He ducked his head, the beginnings of a blush forming at the tips of his ears. "I asked Rusl to make it for me. So y'see, I can't judge 'cus I'm just as sappy as you."

"I wouldn't say sappy."

"Oh I would," He chuckled, eyes fixed once more on her bracelet. "We're a couple of big old softies deep down, no matter how hard you try to hide it." Link lifted his hand to hers, the one still holding his necklace. She felt his fingers trail over her wrist, the faint touch scorching her through the thin fabric. "There," something clicked between his fingers as he tilted his head to look at her, a proud smile on his lips. "I think that should hold for the rest of the night."

Dropping her gaze from his lips to her wrist, she saw it. Her bracelet, whole again, sparkling, the bright colours bouncing off of the wolf mirror.

"You fixed it!" She gasped.

"I said I'd try," He shrugged slightly, a sheepish flush dusting over his cheekbones. "Though I'd still take it to a jeweller when you've got time. Just in case."

"Oh Link," She cried, a rush of emotion overtaking her. She felt so relieved, so happy, so joyous! She didn't know what came over her as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her in a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you so much! I was so worried that I'd ruined it forever!" She felt like crying a little, the feeling that she's almost lost the last little piece she had of Midna hitting her sharply. She held Link a little closer, her arms tangled around his shoulders.

"It's no problem," his voice was soft, his breath warm against her cheek. He slid his hands around her waist, holding her to him, returning the hug. She could almost feel his heart beat where it was pressed against her. "I'm just glad I could help."

"You've done more than help!" She pulled back slightly to look at him, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders, fingertips brushing against the back of his neck. His pulse was racing. "You've… you've…" She trailed off, the words dying on her lips as she looked at him.

They were so close like this. Pressed together from sternum to shin. His hands cupping her waist, the small of her back, pressing her so gently. Almost caressing her. His eyes shone bright and blue and breathtaking as he looked at her, his gaze drifting over her face before landing on her lips. She could feel the blood rush to her head, making her dizzy. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she watched him swallow.

She could kiss him, if she wanted. It would be so easy. From this angle, this distance, all she had to do was lean in. Just lean in and press her waiting lips to his.

By Holy Din, she had the biggest crush on him.

He seemed to drag himself back to reality, clearing his throat with a short sharp cough. "You were saying something?" His blush was mesmerising.

"Was I?" She felt tipsy, the woodsy scent of his cologne was intoxicating. "I've completely forgotten. Silly me. Must be one too many glasses of champagne." She hadn't touched a drop all night, she rarely did at events like these.

"Yeah… me too," he was lost again, his eyes fixed on the spot where her pulse jumped under her skin. Pulling himself back he choked "The ch-champagne I mean."

A loud cheer rang out from the ballroom, the drunken courtiers yelling in delight. They must have started the Volta, Zelda thought absently, watching the silhouettes of the dancers twirl behind the curtain. Their loud cries seemed to finally jostle Link from his thoughts, hurling him forcefully into the present. She tried to swallow the pang of hurt as he let her go, hands falling from their home at her waist as he took a step back.

He did this sometimes. Pulled away when she'd much rather he moved closer. As if he didn't trust that he was allowed these moments, that she wanted his closeness, his time, his presence in her life. He wasn't subtle, she knew how he felt, and even though it was agony to wait, she respected him. She'd move at his pace.

Link turned from her towards the railing that overlooked the gardens. His bare hands pressed against the worn old stone. She watched as he took a deep breath, then another, as if to centre himself. The air turning white around him.

"You know," she called, moving to stand next to him, her gaze raking over the shadows, topiaries and flower beds hidden in the half dark. "I never did thank you for breaking my fall in front of Lyre."

She felt his laugh more than she heard it, his shoulder brushing against hers. "Ah shucks," he breathed. "It was nothing."

"It was hardly nothing," she wanted to scoff. "You saved me from causing quite the scene. I imagine that it would have reached every tea house in Castle Town by tomorrow. Can you imagine it?" she held her arm out in front of her, as gesturing to a sign or a marquee. "The Ice Queen of Hyrule, tripped over her own feet."

His laugh was audible now, ringing warmly in the cold night air. "Those vultures," he chuckled, leaning forward onto his elbows. "I'm more glad that I could stop you from hitting your head. A fall like that would have ached like a bitch come morning. Trust me."

Zelda folded down onto her elbows, her head turning towards his. "You have a lot of experience getting hit in the head?"

"I used to work with goats Your Majesty," he tilted his head to face her, his eyes and smile warm. "I know they don't look it, but can get awful violent when they're moody."

"I see," she couldn't help the smile on her face as they talked. It felt like so long since she'd had a real conversation like this, no posturing or begging or excessive flattery just to get something. A simple conversation without expectation. Talking simply for the joy of spending time with each other. "Well, then you truly are my Hero."

Link rubbed the back of his neck, his flush back on his face as a large toothy grin curled over his lips. "You flatter me."

"I mean it. First you save me from Lyre, and then you fix my favourite bracelet." She turned, letting her back rest against the stone railing, her hands propped up by her sides. "However shall I reward such courageous behaviour? With riches? Titles? Land?" She laughed at her own dramatics, watching as he moved to stand in front of her. The light from the ballroom causing a halo to glow around him.

"How 'bout a dance?"

His words caught her off guard. Link never danced at these things, always claiming he had two left feet, but here he was. Standing before her with a look of open and honest hope in his eyes.

"A dance?" She needed to be sure, that she had heard him correctly; that the Hero of Twilight, Wielder of the Blade of Evil's Bane, her best friend, Link, wanted to dance with her!

She was no stranger to being asked to dance, in fact it was how many of her courtiers attempted to cajole or convince her to support them in some passion project or political play. They asked because they wanted her to do something for them, they expected her too.

Link just wanted to dance.

"Just the one," he bargained, the light in his eyes dimming the longer she stayed quiet. "I-if that's alright?"

"Oh, Link." She felt giddy, light-hearted, and tipsy. She wanted to tell him that it was more than alright, that she would give him all of her dances. Every waltz and foxtrot and Volta and jig. Anything he asked for she would give. "I would be honoured to dance with you."

Joy lit up his face like a candle in a pitch dark room, his eyes burning bright as his smile stretched wide and lovely. His cheeks had turned pink again, but this time Zelda was sure that it had nothing to do with the chill. She held her hand out to him like an offering and he gazed at her as if she was something holy.

"Lead the way, Link."

"As you wish, Zelda."

He took her hand in his, his thumb barely ghosting over her knuckles, as he lead her back into the ballroom. That awful place with it's bright lights and suffocating air, with it's drunken chatter and endless petitioners, didn't seem so daunting any more. The lights were not blinding, the air felt fresh. With Link by her side, falling into step with her as the first strings of the waltz began to play, Zelda couldn't help but feel that maybe Balls weren't too bad after all

Fin

[baneonono]

watch house for the first time with me

we’ve made it through season 2 and through the first five episodes of season 3 and there was lots to scream about. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am going to hate the whole house gets arrested plot. like I’m gonna furious typing out whole essays type mad but we’ll see.

21

GUYS I WANT HOUSE TO WEAR THE SUIT. I UNDERSTAND THAT HE DOESNT THINK IT MATTERS BUT IM LOSING MY MIND. I KNOW EVERYTHINGS GOING TO BE OKAY BUT IM STRESSED AND CAN HOUSE JUST WEAR A SUIT

Can everyone just be fixed please I don’t want to deal with this anymore

22

If that baby died, I’m crying

Are we starting Wilson Cuddy stuff because boring

Chase working at the nicu😭😭😭😭

HE CHOSE NICU😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Chase working with kids😭😭😭😭😭😭

Honestly house is real for wanting foreman to fight with him. Like it’s just his way of wanting original thoughts and that is relatable

Wilson checking cuddy for cancer-

NO THE BABY DIED

Chase my baby boy I adore you it’s okay

Cuddy wanted Wilson to be the father of her child😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I’m gonna break down if we get a scene of Wilson hearing this

23

House being a piano player is actually one of my favorite things about him

Dude I trust House but like I wouldn’t trust him that much @ cuddy

IS WILSON JEALOUS THAT HOUSE HAS ANOTHER FRIEND

I would do so much for James Wilson. I don’t think yall understand. I love him dearly

The entire diagnosis department pacing is so funny

24

SOMEONE SHOT HOUSE. BABE THAT IS MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT JERK

“I wanted to see you suffer” girl he suffers every day you just had to come into the hospital and watch

“She killed herself” still not House’s fault bro

Wilson doing houses physical therapy is hilarious

I need house back 

This episode is weird

What in the world did I just watch

Season threeeeeeee

1

Okay I am so grateful we got the scene of Cuddy and Wilson trying to come up with cases to give house. Like😭😭😭😭😭 I love them

Chases haircut😭 he looks amazing

House lost his leg pain and got 10x the whimsy

“I’m not going away” please never go away Wilson 

Wilson. House was right. What do you mean you can’t tell him. 

2

Wilson maybe you should tell house that he was right. Listen to Cuddy. Wilson I adore you why are you doing this to me. 

Chase winking at the parents🥰

Whaaaattttt lying to house has consequences. Telling him that he’s bad at his job affects him. That’s so craaaazzzzy

Oh Wilson comparing house to Icarus, you’re so iconic. I love my toxic old men yaoi with Greek mythology references. That’s actually the only way I’ll tolerate it

3

Everyone is going through so many radical position shifts this episode. Guys can we have some consistency (@ cameron)

People just go running to Wilson when they want house to do something huh. 

I love when house operates on patients. Just love him entirely in his element

Awww house is proud of Cameron for killing a dude, it’s always nice to hear from our dad that he’s proud of us

4

House you do not need your carpet back. Why are you like this. Iconic but why

I need this girl to leave. House isn’t that attractive

I’m glad Cuddy is standing her ground on this one

Love how Wilson walked in on them in his office and just was like “weird typo”

Can Cameron stop psychoanalysing house 

Need this girl to stop 

Foreman you pawning that off in Wilson was not slick

HOUSE BEING GOOD WITH KIDS I LOVE TO SEE IT(also just taking drugs)

Wilson don’t let house out of your sight while he’s drugged, he’s got a girl really into him and I don’t think we should let him alone

House😭😭😭😭😭 please stop throwing away Wilson’s gifts

Cameron did not need to sit next to house

WILSON JUST WALKING OUT OF HIS OFFICE 

Thinking about the triplets going all over the hospital looking for house this episode

😭😭😭😭😭😭house got a gift😭😭😭😭😭😭oh my little neurodivergent bonding

5

This husband being so ride or die. I love to see it. Yes sir saw an opportunity to step in and took it. 

Oh she’s sick, okay well, we’ll get to see more of him?

House leaving to go break up Wilson flirting with a girl. Bro just say you’re jealous and go

THE LOOK ON CHASES FACE AT FOREMAN WHEN CAMERON SAID SHES HITTING THAT  WAS SO FUNNY. BABY BOY WHAT WAS THAT

“Great I haven’t committed a felony yet today” -Chase

Guys the pill only stops pregnancy, not STDs, maybe they wear conforms to prevent STDs

Why does Wilson just do things for house. I mean beyond being in love with him. 

I hate this apologzie to the patient thing today. I don’t care about this stupid jerk. I prefer my smart jerks

Really was not expecting an incest plot from this show but I should’ve. 

House getting arrested is insane

[thataromanticbisexual]

I have an arcane 'hot take'

I wish they ended season two off at the end of act 2—now stay with please just stay with me for a moment!!

just so you know this is a really long rant so i'm sorry in advance, spoilerss ahead ofc!

main focus characters mentioned + timebomb—

────────── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ──────────

Most of us know (at least i think everyone knows) that arcane was originally supposed to be a five season show, i repeat a five season show. And i really fucking wish they kept it this way, or at least made it a season longer than it ended up being. But don't get me wrong, i'm happy (and maybe a little heartbroken) with the ending we got. I just wish they didn't condense it down into the two seaon show.

In all honesty, It felt a tiny bit rushed. And yes, maybe that was our fault for making so many theories, but either way, they introduced so SO many new themes, for non league players (like myself) an episode or half on magic on it's own, and don't get me started on the new characters. There wasn't enough time to explore all of their backstories, or their motives in only nine episodes. We needed more time, i'm sure we can all agree on that, right? Do you get what i mean?

To get a better idea of what I mean next I’ve provided visual representation, oh yeah

Personally think this would’ve been a pretty good ending for the season. The cliffhanger would leave fans pissed but it would do numbers.

So instead of cramming all of the seasons plots + sub plots into those three acts, they could extend it and explore those points in more detail and depth. We'd be able to develop a much better understanding of those plots.

─────────────────────────

An example of the extended plots i'd like to make clear is Maddie. She was iffy from the start. Sure she was cute and seemed sweet and all, but there was something off about her. And then we learn that she was actually working under Ambessa's wing, fuck we've already missed so much.

Why was she working for Ambessa? Why was she smiling like a bitch when she was abt to shoot Cait? Did she have ulterior motives outside of being a pawn in Ambessa's game? There's other points that i can't think of right now, but there's missing infomation. There is holes.

Then there's Enforcer Vi, Act 2 Caitlyn and Vi. Their arcs in the story were watered down DRASTICALLY. In a simple summary, we witnessed vi become an enforcer, the caitvi get together and divorce in the same episode. Then we saw the start and the end of Caitlyn's dictator arc from the 6 month timeskip in like under 20 minutes of screentime. And we also got 2 lousy minutes of pit fighter Vi from said timeskip. There was major external and internal struggle for the both of them during this time in their lives and it impacted them a shit tonne in different ways, and it was basically was skipped over like it was nothing. These experiences alone impacted their mental health heavily. We could’ve gotten so much more from this!! Be so fucking for real.

And then there's Jinx and Isha. We got flashbacks during Act 2 Ep6, but thats the thing, they were just flashbacks. We didn't get to experience the whole thing. We see this huge change in Jinx after the time skip, and it was all because she had Isha to ground her. And we see nothing of this. The character development was pivotal, and we missed it.

Same slightly goes for Ep9. Jinx lost Isha, and she's about to kill herself. Then Ekko steps in and saves the day. Next time we fucking see them they're in different outfits, they've got paint and doodles on each other, AND they've teamed up? Ugh! Again we've missed so much. And to top it all off, it was confirmed that they scrapped at least 30 minutes of timebomb footage between?? God damn.

All of these points could have been explored deeper if only we had more time. More of Maddie’s story, more of pit fighter Vi, more of dictator Cait, more of Jinx, Isha, Ekko.

Sometimes these things can’t be helped but it would’ve been so nice.

Got opinions? If you do I’d actually love to hear more theories from you people. I love to see your thoughts and stand points.

(and i also just want to point out that theres a FUCKING petition to relase the extended cut of the caitvi sesbian lex scene, which is so crazy and insane... anyway heres the link if you want it)

[alaynasansa]

Sansa watched him walk off, his body swaying heavily from side to side with every step, like something from a grotesquerie. He speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke to me gently too. He's still a Lannister, her brother and Joff's uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again

“I...” Sansa did not know what to say. Is it a trick ? Will he punish me if I tell the truth ? She stared at the dwarf's brutal bulging brow, the hard black eye and the shrewd green one, the crooked teeth and wiry beard. “I only want to be loyal.”

“Loyal,” the dwarf mused, “and far from any Lannisters. I can scarce blame you for that. When I was your age, I wanted the same thing.” He smiled. “They tell me you visit the godswood every day. What do you pray for, Sansa ?”

I pray for Robb's victory and Joffrey's death... and for home. For Winterfell. “I pray for an end to the fighting.”

“We'll have that soon enough. There will be another battle, between your brother Robb and my lord father, and that will settle this issue.”

Robb will beat him, Sansa thought. He beat your uncle and your brother Jaime, he'll beat your father too.

It was as if her face were an open book, so easily did the dwarf read her hopes. “Do not take Oxcross too much to heart, my lady,” he told her, not unkindly. “A battle is not a war, and my lord father is assuredly not my uncle Stafford. The next time you visit the godswood, pray that your brother has the wisdom to bend the knee. Once the north returns to the king's peace, I mean to send you home.” He hopped down off the window seat and said, “You may sleep here tonight. I'll give you some of my own men as a guard, some Stone Crows perhaps—”

“No,” Sansa blurted out, aghast. If she was locked in the Tower of the Hand, guarded by the dwarf's men, how would Ser Dontos ever spirit her away from freedom ?

“Would you prefer Black Ears ? I'll give you Chella if a woman would make you more at ease.”

“Please, no, my lord, the wildlings frighten me.”

He grinned. “Me as well. But more to the point, they frighten Joffrey and that nest of sly vipers and lickspittle dogs he calls a Kingsguard. With Chella or Timett by your side, no one would dare offer you harm.”

“I would sooner return to my own bead.” A lie came to her suddenly, but it seemed so right that she blurted it out at once. “This tower was where my father's men were slain. Their ghosts would give me terrible dreams, and I would see their blood wherever I looked.”

Tyrion Lannister studied her face. “I am no stranger to nightmares, Sansa. Perhaps you are wiser than I knew. Permit me at least to escort you safely back to your own chambers”

Sansa Week 2024 : day five — pawn to player

[chupenguin]

I'm back to my roots, writing Inazuma Eleven fics, and I'm so happy because it's been five years, and I can see how much better I am at writing now.

So anyway, I have a small part of this Sakuma x Fudou are stupid as fuck for 8 years fic:

Can’t we just talk about this tomorrow?

When they reunited after the Football Frontier International, even if being members of Inazuma Japan should have smoothed out rough edges between them, they crashed, and it brought a storm down on the team.

Two sharp players with even sharper words ready for each other. They bite and push and throw hands; the team looks at them and wonders when everything changed so much.

From a quiet and collected team to whatever they were now.

Wild and strong and untamed.

Sakuma is their new captain because it couldn’t be any other way; everyone loves them, and everyone trusts Sakuma’s judgment. He’s always been a strong player. Back when Kidou was part of their team, Sakuma had been the one to share the captain's burden with him, the other playmaker, when Kidou couldn’t see through something. Both pawn and knight, and every role they threw at him, Sakuma excelled at it. They are a player like no other, but Fudou’s presence throws him out of balance.

Fudou, who is taking Kidou’s locker and Kidou’s spot at their table and Kidou’s role as playmaker. They butt heads, always at each other's level. Where Fudou sees the secret to a new strategy, Sakuma finds a quirk to fix. When Sakuma has a bad day, Fudou laughs and pushes and bites, telling him to do better if he wants to keep the captain band. Fudou pulls on their hair like a kindergarten kid, and Sakuma’s answer is a kick in the crotch. A bit unbalanced, Fudou says, but he’s having too much fun with it.

He leaves the locker room after their fight, ignoring Sakuma's screams for him to come back, and starts walking toward the building.

Teikoku has a small residence for the students that come from other parts of Japan or need to stay at school grounds for some reason. Fudou is glad about it, because there’s no way his family could afford sending him to Tokyo another way. What he’s not glad about is how some of his teammates are also staying there.

He sees them in class and in training, and then, instead of being left alone, he finds them in the dorms. Henmi, Sakiyama, and Narukami are sitting in the common room when Fudou walks in muttering under his breath.

“Pray for your captain because he’s going to be dead in a ditch by tomorrow night.”

“Here we go again,” Henmi groans; this can’t be happening. “This is bullshit.”

“You’re on his side because they don’t give you half of the shit he gives me,” Fudou points at the three of them. “He’s an asshole and rude and can shove all that pride wherever it fits.”

“You’re so obsessed with Sakuma, man,” Narukami says, adding an absurd amount of o’s to that so. “He’s the only thing you talk about.”

“Maybe because he thinks so highly of himself that I can’t stop thinking about punching the smile out of their face.”

Sakiyama pats his shoulder, eyebrows arched and an amused expression on his face.

“There are so many annoying things about that idiot I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh yes?” Henmi, the little shit, dabs at him. “Like what?”

Fudou tries to make a mental list.

Sakuma is as stubborn as a mule and would kick you as hard as one if you mess with him. They’re loud and complain about everything, and they have so much pride that it should make him float away. But instead of that, he stays with his feet on the ground and holds so much presence that it annoys Fudou’s eyes, the way he fills the room with just walking in.

The annoying smirk when he knows that he’s right or when they’re better than Fudou at something. The way everyone on the school grounds loves him and praises him and the way he is a good captain, even if Fudou is waiting for him to fail.

It infuriates him how Sakuma plagues his thoughts.

“I just hate them,” and he ignores the three guys sitting on the couch and starts climbing the stairs. “I just—”

“-hate him,” Sakuma complains, lying on the floor of Genda’s bedroom. “I’m going to throw him out of the bus next time we travel for a game.”

“He’s not that bad; you two are making it bad.”

“I can’t stand him, Genda!”

He loathes Fudou Akio with the burning passion he only has for a few things.

“You were fine during the world tournament,” Genda keeps playing with his cat; he’s not ignoring Sakuma, but he doesn’t plan to indulge in the drama either. “I’ve never seen you like this with anyone.”

They don’t tend to hate people. Sakuma may not be the easiest-going person around; that’s true. Genda is the social butterfly of Teikoku, and his brother is the most outgoing of the family; Sakuma just flows with the people and doesn’t bother to hide it when someone disgusts him. Why should they? If he has a problem with someone, he lets them know.

But Fudou? He gets under his skin and on their nerves in a way no one else could. He’s new levels of annoying.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Sakuma says behind their hands to muffle a scream. “A fucking asshole too smart to kick him out of the team. He’s the most infuriating, annoying, frustrating person in the whole world.”

“That’s a lot of adjectives.”

“If you have nothing constructive to say, shut up, Genda.”

“I’m just saying that it doesn’t sound like hate to me.”

Traitor.

His best friend was a fucking traitor.

Luckily for Genda, there’s a knock on the door, and Genda’s mom's head appears behind it.

“Jirou, dear, are you staying for dinner?”

And like that, the elephant in the room gets ignored again.

[kieraplaysthesims]

October 1911

Antonija has always been a child with a vivid imagination and a natural flair for storytelling. On this bright, picturesque summer morning, her room is flooded with golden light. The warm hues of sunlight highlight her blond hair as she sits cross-legged on the soft rug in the family parlor, enraptured by her dollhouse. The intricate toy, adorned with miniature horses and a whimsical coach, seems to come alive in her hands. Antonija raises a tiny carved knight into the air triumphantly, narrating an adventure only she can envision.

In the distance, the rolling hills of Henford-on-Bagley stretch endlessly under a sapphire sky. Wisps of clouds float lazily, casting fleeting shadows over the countryside. The gentle murmur of a nearby brook and the chirping of birds add a peaceful rhythm to the moment. The Janosovski farm, perched amidst this idyllic landscape, is vibrant with the energy of the family, yet calm with the serenity of nature.

The younger children’s laughter echoes faintly from the garden, but Antonija is lost in her world, oblivious to everything except her story. Her delicate features are scrunched in concentration as she decides the fate of her toy characters, her nimble fingers moving them across the dollhouse’s wooden floors.

As the day stretches on, Mateja peeks into the room, holding a tray of freshly baked biscuits. She smiles warmly at her daughter, recognizing the creativity she too nurtured as a child. Antonija’s personality shines brightest in moments like these—her kindness reflected in the nurturing roles she assigns her toys, her intelligence in the complex plots she spins, and her playfulness in the joy she derives from her imagination.

In the warm glow of the family library, Aleks sat across from Katarina guiding her through her first chess game. The golden tones of the late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting a gentle light on the polished chessboard. Bookshelves towered around them, filled with dusty tomes and vibrant novels, giving the room an air of quiet concentration and shared learning.

Aleks, now 16, had always been patient and thoughtful, especially with his younger siblings. His serious demeanor softened as he explained each move. "Now, Katarina," he said with a faint smile, moving a pawn forward, "this piece can only move one square forward—unless it's their first move."

Katarina, recently turned five and full of curiosity, leaned forward in her chair, her chin resting on her small hand. Her dark eyes darted between the pieces, as if studying the tiny battlefield with the intensity of a seasoned player. She furrowed her brow, mimicking the concentration she saw in her older brother. "So… the queen can go anywhere?" she asked, her voice laced with awe.

Aleks nodded. "Yes, but that also makes her the most valuable. You have to protect her, or the game can turn quickly."

Katarina reached for a knight, her small fingers hovering above it before stopping to think again. "This one moves funny, like a little hop," she mused aloud, drawing a chuckle from Aleks.

"Exactly," Aleks encouraged, "it moves in an 'L' shape—two squares one way, then one square another. Or vice versa."

Their mother, Mateja, peered in from the doorway, a smile spreading across her face as she observed the scene. Aleks, always the teacher, was sharing not only his knowledge but also his quiet warmth. Katarina, ever inquisitive, was soaking it up like a sponge. This was not just a game—it was a moment of connection, a blending of their personalities. Aleks, strategic and composed, was nurturing Katarina’s growing curiosity and confidence.

The Janosovski library buzzed with the energy of youthful enthusiasm as Katarina and Antonija sat across from each other at the chess table, their laughter occasionally breaking the scholarly silence of the room. Antonija, at the tender age of six, had eagerly insisted she was ready to tackle the "big kid" game, while Katarina, five and ever the spirited companion, nodded with wide-eyed agreement.

The chess pieces stood as silent witnesses to the chaos that unfolded. Antonija, her blond hair carefully braided and tied with a neat ribbon, jabbed at the board with one finger. "I think the horsey should jump over here!" she declared triumphantly, moving a knight three squares in the wrong direction. Her face lit up with pride at her daring maneuver.

Katarina, her dark hair loosely tied back and her expression one of exaggerated contemplation, squinted at the board. "But wait! What if my queen goes... um... there?" She reached for the piece but paused dramatically, her small hand hovering as though pondering the weight of her decision. Then, with a sudden burst of confidence, she plopped the queen onto an entirely random square, knocking over a pawn in the process.

Antonija clapped her hands together. "That was amazing!" she exclaimed, as though Katarina had executed a masterstroke.

"Right? I think I’m winning," Katarina replied with absolute conviction, despite the board being in complete disarray.

The game quickly devolved into gleeful improvisation. Pieces danced across the board without rhyme or reason, and every move was met with giggles and shouts of encouragement. The library, with its towering bookshelves and solemn portraits, seemed to come alive with their boundless joy, the quiet dignity of the room giving way to the innocence of childhood.

From the doorway, Mateja peeked in, her face softening at the sight of her youngest children. While their "strategy" was anything but refined, the sight of Katarina and Antonija bonding over a game meant to teach patience and logic brought her a quiet sense of pride. It wasn’t about the rules or the outcome—it was about the pure delight they found in each other’s company.

As the light streaming through the windows began to fade, the girls leaned back in their chairs, their small faces flushed with excitement. Antonija declared, "This is the best game ever! Let's play again tomorrow!"

Katarina grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, but next time, I'm moving all the pawns first. They look the coolest."

[nitrosodiumfmp]

Thoughts on technological feasibility

I often make posts like this during the Doubt. Curiously, on this project, it's less of a "this idea or that idea" Doubt and more of a "how the hell will this work?" sort of Doubt. Because my idea this time is so open-ended, a spooky adventure through a big city where exploration and mystery-solving come before a coherent environment, it is less about deciding what game I want to make. The first thing I thought about is how the player will interact with the world. My first idea was something akin to how Morrowind does levels; interact with the door and get moved into a building, but it would just be a new map. Then I thought about how Unreal player starts aren't really fluid like that - I can only assume the engine isn't designed for that more antiquated way of level-making.

My next thought was to do one large map - doors would be operated by Timelines; press up to them and press E, and it runs a timeline which slides it away into the wall, before sliding back after five seconds or something. Like a Doom door. That sort of thing is really simple when you think about it, and I could even do more complex versions where the door actually rotates and opens outward. Then I could do key-locked doors where grabbing the key (press up and press E, same method) changes some GotKey bool which then allows you to trigger the Timeline. You could have buttons to trigger custom events and activate things in different parts of the map. And then of course, we have the notes. The story will be told through notes, written by citizens of the City about day-to-day life, or secret messages left for someone in particular. I'm pretty good at telling a story, so as long as it can prop the game up, I'm golden.

One thing I entertained was the idea of enemies. They don't have to be particularly advanced, just "look at you and charge" enemies like Overdeath. I thought up strange lanky beings, the effective police force of the City, gliding along like shadowy spectres. They'd have big Spot Lights in their faces and their Pawn Sensing would be the same size, so if you're caught in their light, you're dead. They wouldn't be in all of the city, just restricted areas. To make it so players could get in but enemies couldn't, they'd probably be accessed only by platforming or Elevators, which would run on timelines and would be activated by buttons.

[hasbr0mniverse]

HasbrOmniverse Comic Of The Day! Devil’s Due Publications - G.I. Joe A Real American Hero! #32 - Cover Date July 2004 - Storylines/Events: Players & Pawns Part Five