#i did not realize i had so many thoughts about this but here we are

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Ameena, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers��four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[pfaugh]

From "They Thought They Were Free" by Milton Mayer (1966)

A chemical engineer by profession, he was a man of whom, before I knew him, I had been told, “He is one of those rare birds among Germans—a European.” One day, when we had become very friendly, I said to him, “Tell me now—how was the world lost?”

“That,” he said, “is easy to tell, much easier than you may suppose. The world was lost one day in 1935, here in Germany. It was I who lost it, and I will tell you how.

“I was employed in a defense plant (a war plant, of course, but they were always called defense plants). That was the year of the National Defense Law, the law of ‘total conscription.’ Under the law I was required to take the oath of fidelity. I said I would not; I opposed it in conscience. I was given twenty-four hours to ‘think it over.’ In those twenty-four hours I lost the world.”

“Yes?” I said.

“You see, refusal would have meant the loss of my job, of course, not prison or anything like that. (Later on, the penalty was worse, but this was only 1935.) But losing my job would have meant that I could not get another. Wherever I went I should be asked why I left the job I had, and, when I said why, I should certainly have been refused employment. Nobody would hire a ‘Bolshevik.’ Of course I was not a Bolshevik, but you understand what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I tried not to think of myself or my family. We might have got out of the country, in any case, and I could have got a job in industry or education somewhere else.

“What I tried to think of was the people to whom I might be of some help later on, if things got worse (as I believed they would). I had a wide friendship in scientific and academic circles, including many Jews, and ‘Aryans,’ too, who might be in trouble. If I took the oath and held my job, I might be of help, somehow, as things went on. If I refused to take the oath, I would certainly be useless to my friends, even if I remained in the country. I myself would be in their situation.

“The next day, after ‘thinking it over,’ I said I would take the oath with the mental reservation that, by the words with which the oath began, ‘Ich schwöre bei Gott, I swear by God,’ I understood that no human being and no government had the right to override my conscience. My mental reservations did not interest the official who administered the oath. He said, ‘Do you take the oath?’ and I took it. That day the world was lost, and it was I who lost it”

That feels like a good, self-contained thing. But if I haven't lost you yet, there's some more afterwards that I think is about as relevant.

“Do I understand,” I said, “that you think that you should not have taken the oath?”

“Yes.”

“But,” I said, “you did save many lives later on. You were of greater use to your friends than you ever dreamed you might be.” (My friend’s apartment was, until his arrest and imprisonment in 1943, a hideout for fugitives.

...

“Of course I must explain. First of all, there is the problem of the lesser evil. Taking the oath was not so evil as being unable to help my friends later on would have been. But the evil of the oath was certain and immediate, and the helping of my friends was in the future and therefore uncertain. I had to commit a positive evil, there and then, in the hope of a possible good later on. The good outweighed the evil; but the good was only a hope, the evil a fact.”

“But,” I said, “the hope was realized. You were able to help your friends.”

“Yes,” he said, “but you must concede that the hope might not have been realized—either for reasons beyond my control or because I became afraid later on or even because I was afraid all the time and was simply fooling myself when I took the oath in the first place.

...

Shall we say, just to be safe, that three million innocent people were killed all together?”

I nodded.

“And how many innocent lives would you like to say I saved?”

“You would know better than I,” I said.

“Well,” said he, “perhaps five, or ten, one doesn’t know. But shall we say a hundred, or a thousand, just to be safe?”

I nodded.

“And it would be better to have saved all three million, instead of only a hundred, or a thousand?” “Of course.” “There, then, is my point. If I had refused to take the oath of fidelity, I would have saved all three million.”

..

“I don’t understand.”

“You are an American,” he said again, smiling. “I will explain. There I was, in 1935, a perfect example of the kind of person who, with all his advantages in birth, in education, and in position, rules (or might easily rule) in any country. If I had refused to take the oath in 1935, it would have meant that thousands and thousands like me, all over Germany, were refusing to take it. Their refusal would have heartened millions. Thus the regime would have been overthrown, or, indeed, would never have come to power in the first place. The fact that I was not prepared to resist, in 1935, meant that all the thousands, hundreds of thousands, like me in Germany were also unprepared, and each one of these hundreds of thousands was, like me, a man of great influence or of great potential influence. Thus the world was lost.”

[robolvrr]

I hope you’re having a good day/night! Can we have tfa starscream and tfp starscream with a female cybertronian that’s taller than them and got the hips?😼

Also just wanted to say I love your writing!! Happy to request my brainrot here and not feel embarrassed 😖💜

she's a brick house! ◜⁠✧*ﾟ⁠+

and if i said this freak helped cultivate my voice kink, then what?

warnings: nsfw under cut. i LOVE me a skinny twig x powerhouse ship real bad.

"don't be preposterous. i don't fear you, no matter what you hear otherwise."

tfp! starscream

him and that sass of his is often too frustrating for his associates to develop anything further than a common goal oriented relationship.

the closest? knockout. and that's simply because their snark and combined chaos doesn't edge to flat hatred or harm as his other dynamics tend to.

he's not interested in your arrival at first, until megatron mentions in passing that you were a personally selected recruit. now, his pace is measured as he mutters to himself — the last thing he needs is to be fighting for a spot at the table.

not with all the aft-kissing and manipulating he's done to establish his reputation.

your introduction is short. starscream pretends not to care.

however... you don't make it easy.

starscream had always found his frame perfection. he's slender, lithe and regardless of the many repercussions with his boss, it's no surprise his metal armor is just as opulent as the nemesis itself.

there is rarely a creature or mech he has to crane his neck for.

though when he does drink you in, his intake opens, then closes, then opens once more. those razor-sharp brows are as expressive as they are obvious.

not only do you tower over him, closer to megatron's shoulder, your paint is a deep maude and your general frame is.. well. he's not complaining.

you're not as polished.. though he can tell you take hot oil baths and your curves are well-melded. his frown blooms even more. he doesn't need to be thinking about that.

wide hips. wide legs. there's an arch of ruby metal nestled at your hips that crest similar to one of these planet's filthy paradise birds.

his sneer as he realizes of course you can't fly either is enough to prevent any concerning thoughts flooding his processor.

"i see. and just what can you do?"

"what is asked of me, starscream. i do hope there won't be issues with my presence on the bridge. we are to be working close from now on, after all."

"ah, yes, o— what?! b-but lord megatron!"

turns out that megatron has had enough of his scrap. you are within the same rank but as he quickly and scornfully realizes, perform as an overqualified sparkling-sitter.

it doesn't help that you're so painfully professional. he wants to despise you, but you firmly push him from his schemes and don't have a bucket of bolts in your helm.

he's clever. you read him and his lies. he tries and fails several assassination attempts that always end with him feeling foolish and riled.

his respect, as well as his attraction, is mournfully earned. sometimes he ponders if you know this, which makes the torture of his spark crackling in your wake worse.

"oho? but of course, my sweet!"

tfa! starscream

unlike prime starscream, he is overtly flashy and unabashed with his interest. after all, what good is rule if not with competition?

he does not fear you — he did manage with sabotaging his boss and avoiding execution while doing so. the decepitcon ranks were truly mech eat mech mentality.

let's hope you're not a gentle giant, because he's got a silver glossa and isn't afraid to use it to woo.

"is it just me, or is that chrome sparkling, darling? and here i thought you were just a brute."

alright. he's just as much of a brat.

he takes pride in reaction. not only is he a skilled strategist and fighter but he knows how to ruffle feathers.

and like the boastful seeker he is, he's going to find what makes you tick.

needles for your attention just short of pushy.

walks behind you with that crooked grin of his, even though he usually likes to glide in front of his subordinates associates. hmm, wonder why?

expect him on patrols to fly above you, flaunting off in his element. what was just a simple recon turns into a full on flight show.

no personal space. he enjoys almost, just almost, pressing up against your chassis. aren't you lucky? he's wrapped around your digit.

finds excuses to touch you. never lecherously, but in the sort of a manner a feline rubs between legs.

speaking of which... he adores yours. so strong. so shapely. just how were you forged? he wants to thank primus.

nsfw headcanons.

tfp! starscream

he desires to be in control. with how much he's realistically gotten knocked around he isn't interested in getting on his knees in the berthroom.

at least... not for now. it'll take time.

imagine his surprise when you lay on your back anyways, lips curved and valve throbbing.

it ends up with him nestled and secured deep, spike bursting with transfluid between messy, sharp thrusts.

his claws dig at your frame and leave jagged marks behind, which he doesn't apologize for because you keen so approvingly he wonders just how much you'd let him get away with.

"look at you. mewling like pleasureware. pathetic."

the praise you give is music he doesn't care to admit about. suddenly he's jackhammering and his fans and vents are blasting, metal and arousal schlicking through the darkness of your habsuite.

"and here.. the mighty.. fall."

garnet optics glare down at the slope of your neck, before he's caressing up and down and nipping near your audials.

he takes you like a conquest. his, all his. and no one is taking that from him.

"for you, lord starscream. i would fall a thousand times."

interfacing is fast, uncouth but tender. you are his prized possession.

tfa! starscream

slut. that's all i have to say.

he wants you to be rough, to break him, to make him see stars. he wants you to lose your cool and force him into submission. this within itself is a sign of his obsession, for he would rather die than ever admit defeat.

his e.m. field is constantly thrumming with want. half the time you have to wear him out so he doesn't project to the entire ship that he wants to be treated like shareware.

seductive, impish mech from pit. you question if he's been sent down to drive you to insanity.

which is why he's currently hoisted over your desk, knocking over datapads and slamming into panels with a shriek that borders pain and pleasure.

your spike is bigger than his. that doesn't mean he can't keep up with you.

he will have you work for it. even when his valve squeezes and you swear he's the tightest you've ever speared, he still manages to take it.

meanwhile, he's whispering the dirtiest commands, demanding you flip him over so he can feel you.

"ha haaaa.. so easy to wind you up, commander! d-do you always have to be so cruel?"

then he's yanking you down by the hips and feeling on your aft, dermas stretched to an wicked smile.

"harder. don't you want to make me overload?"

you can tell he's just finding excuses to grope you, especially as he uses the grip on your aft to speed up the pace. even with dimmed optics you can feel his gaze, appreciative.

thoughts and prayers to the poor vehicon that has to wipe down after you're through.

[starlight-sev]

December 1: December Moon (Snape x Reader)

(Part of @deepperplexity’s Rickmas 2024 prompts)

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything, but I really wanted to participate in Rickmas this year!

Writing’s been tough as I have a new (much more demanding) job, but I’ll do my best to get as many prompts out there this month as I can.

Gender neutral reader as always for this one. It’s platonic too. Enjoy, and happy December!

The first hour of the Yule Ball had been fun, but now the novelty was starting to wear off.

The glamour and elegance that welcomed you when you first walked into the Great Hall was now gone; napkins littered the floor, chairs were haphazardly strewn here and there from students rushing to dance in excitement, and the music had changed to ear-blasting rock.

On any other day, you would’ve loved it. But sitting here at the teacher’s table, in shoes too narrow and a fancy outfit that was beginning to itch, you just felt like crawling out of your own skin.

You were technically still on supervision duty — Dumbledore had scheduled all the teachers in one hour shifts to ensure there were chaperones at all times. Casting a glance at the silver clock on the wall, your heart sunk as you realized you still had another 45 minutes before you could retreat back into the comfort of your own chambers.

Surely no one would notice if you left for a few moments though, right? If you left your jacket on your chair, you could easily pass off a quick absence as an emergency bathroom break.

You got up out of your chair and rushed out of the Great Hall as quick as you could. You forced yourself not to look back as you turned the corner and headed into a secluded spot in the courtyard.

The winter air was a welcome chill that crept across your skin as you settled down on a step. You could relax for a moment, finally. Even if it were only for a quick smoke break. You thanked Merlin for formalwear with pockets as you snagged a lonely cigarette out of your side pocket, and fumbled around looking for a lighter in the other pocket. You did bring it with you, didn’t you?

“Escaping duty, are we?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as a quiet, yet deep, voice spoke from behind you. You shot up to your feet quickly and whipped around to see Severus smirking at you.

“Bloody hell, you scared me.” You gasped, taking in his attire. You had to admit, even in all black, he still cleaned up nicely for an event as formal as this. He had on a wool coat, and what looked like a handknitted scarf. Though he wore his usual stoic expression, the way his hands were jammed in his pockets suggested he was just as cold as you were.

“Sorry.” You muttered. “I’ll go back in. Don’t tell Albus.”

To your surprise, Severus scoffed.

“I’m escaping as well, if it weren’t obvious enough. I’ve had enough of that music.”

You laughed at that. “I thought you’d like what they’re playing.”

“Why? Because of what I wear?”

You glanced away, and out of the corner of your eye, you swore Severus smirked at you.

“I didn’t know you smoke.” He observed with a murmur, quirking an eyebrow slightly as he nodded to the cigarette resting between your fingers. You shrugged.

“I usually don’t. I’ve managed to kick the habit for the most part, it’s only in situations like these when I need something to keep me sane.”

You searched your pockets again and swore under your breath. You had forgotten your lighter.

Severus almost seemed to read your mind, and with an unreadable expression, he took out a lighter of his own. You raised your eyebrows.

“You have Muggle parents too?” You asked, somewhat astonished. Most wizards would simply use their wand as a lighter, but something about having a physical object with only one purpose felt comforting to you. Familiar.

Severus nodding in response, rolling his eyes while doing so.

“Yes. My father. You?”

“My dad too.” You replied. You held the cigarette between your lips, and, to your surprise, Severus held the lighter up for you. It was a strangely intimate gesture, and your stomach did a little flip-flop as you locked eyes with him, before lighting your cigarette.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. He just nodded.

“I’d offer you a cigarette,” you continued. “But I only brought one. Sorry. I try to limit myself.”

Severus shrugged, slipping the lighter back into his coat pocket. “I don’t smoke.”

“Then why do you have a lighter?”

There was a thick silence that filled the space between the two of you as Severus pressed his lips together.

“It belonged to my father. I suppose I keep it out of spite.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but you caught the warning in Severus’s eyes as he shifted to gaze at you. You remained quiet, and turned your gaze upwards to the sky instead.

“It’s a nice evening. Full moon tonight.”

“Mm. Indeed.”

You keep your gaze on the moon as you smoke. Neither of you speak for a while, and as you finish your cigarette, you wonder if Severus glided back into the castle as softly as he came. As you finally tore your gaze away from the moon, you caught the shadow out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh. You’re still here.”

Severus smirked a little. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, no!” You mumbled quickly, shaking your head. “It’s not that. I just… didn’t think you liked me enough to stay this long.”

As if to challenge that statement, Severus stepped a little closer to you. “And what exactly brought you to that conclusion?”

You tried to mask the way your breath caught in your throat. “Nothing, I just… I don’t know. Seems you don’t like many people here. Me included.”

“I’m selective with my company.” Severus replied slowly. “The fact that I am still here should prove you wrong, should it not?”

You couldn’t exactly argue with that. You sighed, wrapping your arms tightly around your torso. The cold was starting to hit you.

Severus noticed your feeble attempt to stay warm. Rolling his eyes, he unraveled the scarf from around his neck and draped it around you without a word.

“Oh, no it’s okay-”

“You’re shivering like a damn dog. Take it.”

You go to protest, but the fire in his eyes shuts you up quickly. You give up quickly, and nod your gratitude.

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Two, actually. The lighter.”

His face is serious, but you could swear you see a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

“Okay,” you said sarcastically. “What’s your payment then?”

To your surprise, Severus actually considered your question. He cast his eyes back up to the moon and exhaled slowly before gazing at you.

“Tea tomorrow. Say, after the staff meeting?”

This wasn’t at all what you were used to from Severus. Maybe it was alcohol talking. Maybe it was the full moon. Nevertheless, you nodded slowly.

“Deal.”

Severus nodded, the faintest smile on his lips.

“Good. Now go back in there. Or else Minerva will have your head.”

You snickered, shaking your head. To your relief, you felt lighter than when you walked out fifteen minutes earlier.

“Are you coming in too?” You asked Severus as you began walking. He shrugged almost imperceptibly before following you.

“I suppose.”

“There’s still music playing. We could dance together.”

Your suggestion was a joke, but there was a part of you that was silently hoping he’d agree. Instead, Severus laughed and shook his head.

“Absolutely not. But I’ll share a drink with you.”

“Drink and a dance?”

“No. A drink. Two, maybe. But no dancing.”

You grin as the two of you walked back into the Great Hall. You slid into your seat at the teacher’s table, and Severus sat down beside you. You slide him a bottle of Firewhiskey from the middle of the table.

“How about two drinks and we sneak out of here for the night, for good this time?”

Severus smirked as he picked up a glass and held it out to you.

“Deal.”

[allbecauseoftheboys2]

Samuel sipped his beer and watched Angel and his mother yell at eachother in Cantonese. Samuel could never be entirely sure if they were actually fighting or just having an animated conversation, and he could only pick out some basic words. Whatever was happening, this was more interesting than the football game in the other room. Angel set a bowl of brussel sprouts on the counter with a thud. He gaped at something his mother said, and turned red. More shouting and gesturing. Angel's mother pointed at Samuel. Angel pulled a pie out of the oven. An oven mitt was thrown onto the counter. Angel's father's car pulled into the driveway; he had been out golfing with Samuel's brother. Angel's mother tsked, threw up her hands, and went outside to greet them. Angel harrumphed and drank a deep sip of wine. "My goodness, what was that all about?" Samuel asked after he had a sip. "My mother wanted to know why I'm not married yet," Angel grumbled. "To a woman?" "No, to you. She's fine with the gay thing, oddly. I think it's cause my sister's married with kids." Samuel raised an eyebrow. "What did she say earlier to offend you so much?" Angel folded his arms. "I told her that we were thinking of getting married, but like, we weren't sure yet. I can't quite explain to her, we're a different kind of couple." He gestured upward to the delicate gold chain around his neck. "And you know what she said to me?" "Mm?" Angel put a hand on his chest. "She had the AUDACITY to say that there used to be a parade of boys in my life, but since meeting you I have stopped sleeping with so many guys and moved in with you, so clearly I want to marry you. Sam, my mom called me a slut." Samuel laughed. "Oh sweetheart." "And sure, I did whore myself out at Folsom, but I thought I was being subtle with how many guys I mentioned having overnight..." Samuel gestured with an open palm. "Well, I mean, your mom has a point. If I domesticated a slut, it's my responsibility to house and feed them." "Domesticated?" Angel screeched. Samuel doubled over with laughter. Angel drank more of his wine. "I'm not a feral creature. Domesticated, my ass. Well. I am here making Thanksgiving dinner aren't I?" "You are. And you are doing a great job." Samuel set his glass down and embraced Angel from behind. "I'm teasing you, but I liked that you were slutty. You always knew what you wanted from other men, and got it. It impressed me." Angel leaned back against him. "Impressed huh. Are you're impressed a slut knows how to throw a Thanksgiving meal together?" "You always did like to be stuffed." Angel groaned. "Oh my god Samuel." But he couldn't suppress a giggle. "I'm sorry, I had to." "It was funny," Angel admitted. Samuel kissed his cheek. "I am pleased you are my slut now though, and that you want to live in my house and have Thanksgiving with me. I am grateful for you in my life." "Really?" "Yes. And I rather like the idea of marrying you." "You do?" "Yes." "Man, don't do that. You'd have my mom for a mother in a law," Angel said. Samuel shrugged. "I'll just have to learn how to yell in Cantonese then." "Did you understand any of that conversation we were having?" "No. I've realized that most of my knowledge of Cantonese comes from what you use in the bedroom." Angel blushed. Samuel whispered the words for "more", "harder", and "faster" in his ear, and he felt Angel's entire body go hot against his. "Oh Samuel, you stop that!" Angel hissed. "Don't tease me, especially since you know aren't letting me jerk off-" His family members came back in from putting the golf clubs away in the garage. Samuel gave him a pat on the ass. "Come on love, let's get dinner on the table. You can give me a language lesson later." "You are infuriating." Angel pointed a serving spoon at him. "You're lucky I like you." "Yeah so why aren't you married?" Angel's father asked. There was a beat of silence, and then another explosion of Cantonese. Samuel refilled Angel's glass of wine. _________________ Captions are fictional.

Roasted brussel sprouts with bacon

[strawberry-halla]

now im probably the many few people who actually agreed with the way bioware handled varric’s death and here’s why:

varric has been one of the most prominent dragon age characters since dragon age 2’s release. he’s basically the mascot (well, i think solas has stolen this role now but i digress), the character everybody loves! varric has been there since almost the beginning, over 10 years of our favorite dwarf.

this is the thing that hangs people up on his death in veilguard. why did they do it? why did it happen? what was bioware thinking? well i’m not expert but i think i have a pretty good idea.

varric has always been the friend who supports you no matter what, the one to pull you away from the heavy decisions the player makes to make you laugh or try to see the bright side. he made the player feel good and your character feel good, no matter who you’re playing as.

we saw this lovable dwarf go through so much tragedy in every media possible. he was dealt a bad hand at every corner but the good parts were the friends he made along the way. even if they did something bad in the end (anders and solas), varric still sees the person they were underneath everything.

so yes i think his choice to talk to solas, only to end up dying, was how it was going to end for him. varric cares so much about his friends and eventually, one of them was going to fuck that up. he got lucky so many times, escaping death at every turn. if varric would have went home to kirkwall as viscount for the rest of his days, i don’t think that would be a good end for him.

it’s a pretty thought to have, but it’s just NOT varric. he wanted to help the inquisition and he wanted to help save/stop solas because he knew him. they were friends. good ones. so of course it makes sense varric is the one to go after him.

now i think it would have been worse if varric was dead from the start of veilguard (well, he is but we don’t know that yet) because it definitely doesn’t ease the player into the reality of it. so making him a figment of solas’s blood magic on rook was a very clever way to ease them and us into accepting his death. i cannot think of a better way if i tried.

varric’s relationship with rook was so important. he was basically a mentor, a father figure for some. his role in veilguard is not a waste. rook as a character needed their mentor to ease them into this leadership. i think it would have been incredibly jarring to just have rook suddenly know how to lead the veilguard without having someone to talk to about their struggles. solas would have worked fine, but his role as the antagonist for most of the game would have made a really unrealistic connection.

and yes. i know varric’s memory is being manipulated by solas’s hand, but solas himself says that varric would never say anything to rook that they already didn’t know from him. varric’s guidance was still at play here, not solas. he just kept up the illusion varric was still alive to make sure rook would succeed. it’s incredibly shitty of him to goad this at rook, but he was never entirely wrong that rook had varric to help them. they did have varric, even when he wasn’t there. varric’s lessons and memory alone were enough.

and when rook and the player finally come to this realization in the regret prison, it just hits you all at once. i cried for about two hours once the scene ended. i had to pause my game, get up, and walk away. it was like losing a best friend. and i know how silly it sounds to mourn the loss of a video game character, but varric was more than that to many. to me. i just needed a bit to recover from the realization.

varric made a choice. one that got him killed. but he knew that it was the right one to make. solas regrets what he did to varric. he even says if he could, he wouldn’t have done it. it was an accident. a horrible accident that doesn’t justify what solas did. there is no glory in needless death. but this isn’t about solas.

varric in all his goodness as a person FORGAVE solas for this. he knew solas was still good. deep, deep down. that solas ‘wants to be the hero’ and would tear himself apart to make things better. i don’t know about you but it’s incredibly insane that someone forgives their murderer. especially varric! who said in inquisition: ‘nobody forgives someone for killing you!’ like it came full circle.

varric’s death was necessary for us and for solas’s story. i know it sounds incredibly silly to us that one character’s redemption is another’s downfall, but isn’t that how things work sometimes? you don’t have to like it or agree with it, but that’s just one thing i find so fascinating about dragon age’s characters and how they interact with one another throughout the series.

there’s an incredible post by @/corseque that explains the parallels between varric and solas that really ties this all together. please go read it if you haven’t!

i’m so so glad we had so many good memories of varric and his legacy will forever live on in-universe and amongst fans. now’s the time to make new ones with our new favorites, shall we? and we can still honor varric’s memory by writing stories, of course.

[roseyswords]

An analysis of Mastermind (the Song)

Now this is gonna focus primarily on Stolas's perspective throughout this whole song. Not that I think Blitzø or Satan's parts are less interesting they're just more straightforward than the rest of it and I don't think I can expound on them that much.

So first we have Stolas using societies already baked in prejudices against imps to immediately square away the idea that Blitzø could be to blame for the whole thing. And you'll notice that when he's doing this he's putting on the same persona that he used in Circus when he got Blitzø out of trouble with his security guards. The act of a haughty Prince that is taking responsibility for an imp. It's a bit of a go to for him.

Then he starts building up the idea of a Mastermind whose actually behind it all that just using Blitzø for nefarious purposes. I also want to point out the look on Ozzie's face here because it is expressing exactly what I was thinking when I first watched this which was " what the fuck are you going on about Stolas?"

But if you notice something that I'll talk about a bit more later he's not saying he's the Mastermind at this point. He's just talking about a vague Boogeyman esque mastermind here.

Then he goes on to detail what killing Blitzø like this would mean in Hell. First he's doubling down on how lowly he is, meaning he couldn't possibly have done it and that he is clearly just a scapegoat. Basically telling them that doing so won't solve anything. But then next he says that it would "light a fire in the hearts of his race" which as we see afterwards, it did. This whole song stoked massive support for Blitzø and if we remember resulted in the first time in history where an imp sentenced with death got away and survived.

Fuck it! I am the Mastermind. There is the briefest moment here where Stolas closes his eyes and thinks. Right before he says Fuck It. I don't think Stolas had fully cemented on the idea of taking the blame himself until this point. I think this is the point where he realized he can't back down from this, he can't just make up a Mastermind he has to be the Mastermind. I think he has this sort of as the plan the whole time but that he was also giving himself a bit of an out before by being vague. He could have said he was the Mastermind the entire song but this was the moment he started taking full ownership of the title.

I have no regrets/ I have regrets. Publically Stolas is saying that he has no regrets about the whole scheme that he used Blitzø for. But then we immediately go into private mode where Stolas is having some regrets and second thoughts about doing this. He says " why am I throwing my life away for this idiot?" He doesn't like doing this but he's going to anyway.

And he decides to do it because the alternative is Blitzø dying. And that is too horrible of a fate for him to bear. Stolas probably also feels actual responsibility for the whole situation because he made the deal to let Blitzø use the book knowing it was illegal. So if he can do anything to let Blitzø live, this is it and he's gotta do it. So then we get to

I am the Mastermind, the master of my faith. No looking back, we're doubling down. Full on. So much of Stolas arc as a character is culminating in this moment. For so long he has just been a puppet in other peoples plans. He has never been in charge of his own life but now he is the master behind his own decisions and steering his own fate. Even if it's at his own detriment. He sings about how much he loves Blitzø and death itself is the only thing that can break them. He is resolved to this fate and he's taking it head on.

There are so many fucking layers to this episode, it's a gift that keeps on giving. It's my favorite episode containing my favorite Helluva Boss song. I hope you enjoyed this attempt at a breakdown I did.

[lady-of-blossoms]

WHEN LOVE FADES

Pairings: Toji x Y/N

From this poll

synopsis: Toji’s relationship with Y/N was always a little tricky but Y/N still stayed even though her friends told Y/N how he wasn’t a good partner until he forgets their anniversary and leaves Y/N waiting for him at the restaurant for 6 hours, then when Y/N finally realizes Their love faded.

WC: 1k

CONTENT WARNING: Toji is an asshole, he forgets about your anniversary, alcohol abuse, A HELLA LOT OF ANGST, Fighting, Blaming.

A/N: Sorry this was so unintimate, i didnt have much motivation. Class has been really hard on me rn:(

I sat at a small table, a single white candle flickering in the center, illuminating the carefully crafted menu that lay untouched before me. The whispers of other couples floated around, filled with laughter and sweet nothings. I glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time. It was 9:30 PM, and the reservation had been at 3:00 PM. I could almost hear my friends’ voices in my head, their warnings echoing like a distant memory.

“Y/N, you deserve better than Toji. He’s not good for you.”

But yet, here I was, waiting. Toji and I had always walked a tightrope of chaos and comfort, his flaws often eclipsed by a flicker of charm. He’d sweep me off my feet one moment and leave me questioning my worth the next.

I poured the last drops of water from the pitcher into my glass, staring through the translucent surface. The ashy blue of his eyes would twinkle with mischief, the kind that made my heart race in ways I didn’t even want to admit. But today, they felt as distant as he was.

By the time the waitress cleared my empty table—half-heartedly touching her arm as if to say “maybe you should go”—I felt the weight of hopelessness pressing down on me. Had I been foolish to wait? To believe that today would be different?

Suddenly, the bell above the restaurant door chimed, breaking through my encasing silence. I straightened, my heart stammering as I turned to see Toji step in. He looked disheveled and slightly out of breath, his typical swagger dampened by the despair that surrounded him.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed when his eyes found me—first a flash of relief and then, confusion.

“Where have you been, Toji?” I hardly recognized the coolness in my own voice.

“I… I lost track of time. Things got a bit out of hand.” He ran a hand through his messy black hair, something he did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

My heart ached as the memories swirled around us—the fond moments we’d shared, entwined with uncertainty and unfulfilled promises. “You forgot our anniversary,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but the tremor in my words betrayed me.

“I’m here now, right?” he said, and there was a hint of desperation in the smile he tried to muster. “Let’s make the best of it.”

“Six hours of waiting is a long ‘now,’ Toji.”

The flickering candlelight danced between us, casting shadows around the worn features of his face. “I know, and I’m sorry. I just… I lost track. It won’t happen again.”

But something shifted in my heart. Each year, we’d been caught in this carousel of doubt and affection, wit and sorrow. I could internalize this moment, mark it and brush it aside, but tonight, something felt irrevocable.

“The bill…” I started, but Toji cut me off with a wave of his hand, a look of guilt etching across his face.

“We can talk about that later.”

“Can we?” I challenged quietly, rage bubbling beneath the surface. “How many ‘laters’ do we have to go through before we face what’s real?”

His eyes flickered, and for a moment, I saw the man I fell in love with, his heart laid bare in the dim light, vulnerable and exposed. But just as quickly, he masked it with nonchalance.

“It was just a bad day, Y/N. We’ve all had them.”

This was our never-ending dialogue—Toji, the eternal optimist, hiding behind reasons and excuses, often leaping from the serious to the unserious, brushing aside feelings as if they were dust. And I, the craftsperson of resilience, sweeping them under the proverbial rug of sanity.

“Six hours, Toji.” I breathed, the hurt echoing in the quiet as I struggled to find reasons to hold on. “What if today wasn’t just a bad day? What if this is just how things are now?”

Toji remained silent, swirling the ice in his glass. It was haunting, the way he could make the space between us feel like a chasm filled with regrets. We used to dance around this exhaustion, always painfully avoiding the heart of the matter.

Realization hit me like a sudden rush of cold. Our love was unfurling like an old leaf disintegrating into dust. The passion, the thrill—it was fading.

“I don’t want to keep waiting, Toji. Not for you or anyone.” I could feel the tears pooling at the corners of my eyes, a testament to the years gone by.

“What are you saying?” His voice slipped, and I could see a hint of panic in his eyes.

“I think I’m saying goodbye.”

“I won’t let you go ma…” he stated fiercely, but even that sounded hollow amidst all the despair coursing between us.

“It’s not about wanting or not wanting. This isn’t working anymore. I’ve tried to hold our little family together long enough…” A silent pause filled the air, thick with words left unspoken. What once felt sacred was now fractured, barely held together by strands of laughter obscured by shadow.

Toji reached for my hand, squeezing it tight as if it would anchor him to the present moment. “Please, don’t walk away,” he begged, his voice raw and pleading.

But I needed to walk. I needed to step into the light of clarity, however painful. I wished I could splinter away his demons, sprinkle his life with joy and love, but you cannot save someone who doesn’t wish to be saved.

“I need to know I’m enough for myself first, Toji,” I whispered, wiping away the tears that had betrayed me. “Maybe one day, you’ll understand.”

With one last lingering look, I stood and slipped out of the restaurant, leaving echoes of what once was behind me, wrestling with the shadows of heartache, yet free from the chains of those delicious, yet debilitating memories.

I guess this really was WHEN LOVE FADES…

🏷️:

@bananaminn @morikosa @morikosahh

[lewis-just-lewis]

Hello Viktor enjoyers I make my return..I have thoughts about this latest season. Before getting into full criticism, huge props to the artistic talent that worked on this show. Fortiche as a whole has genuinely changed tv animation, the combination of 2D and watercolor sequences-the super stylized music and fight scenes, absolutely thee best animation I think I’ve ever witnessed. The music, the art, the animation-even the character designs. While I don’t care for certain choices, the designs have so much artistic talent put into them. I adore cosmic horror, and to see that utilized was very cool!

To see the character it was used for, I have thoughts on. But I enjoyed the design as it was-the writing on the other hand..I’m upset with.

Admittedly, the first watch through I had was pure adrenaline. I went into this season with two things I wanted. I wanted to see Viktor evolve closer to his league self, and I wanted to see what route Sevika and Jinx would take-whether that path be together or as individuals, I wanted to see how they helped Zaun. And technically, in a way, I got what a wanted..for a moment.

There was a rumor in circulation, that arcane was meant to be five season long. I genuinely believe this wasn’t a rumor now. There was so much missing, there were so many interactions that were needed to feel this story the way it was felt in season 1. With everyone, but primarily with Viktor and Jayce. There’s that rebuttal old as season one that goes: “Arcane is meant to be about the sisters!”

Okay, how did the sisters mend their connection? Did they ever talk about it-the fact that Vi made Jinx-or how Vi committed chemical warfare on people-HER people?? Additionally, if Viktor was meant to always be the big bad we absolutely needed more time with him!! We needed to see the wedge driven between him and Jayce, to see when that good intent took a turn to the extreme. We needed to see him have more interactions with different characters-or expand further upon his already existing relationships!

There were seeds planted that the writers completely forgot about and let decay in dried up soil. In act 3 of season 1, Viktor starts getting snippy-and then outright mad at the people around him. Someone on here did address that, Viktor does have a temper. One that we were shown, when he snaps at Jayce on the bridge-literally smacking his hand away when he tries to help him up after being outright discriminative. When Mel even alludes to hextech weaponry, he gets upset-and then outright angry-teeth bared angry at the fact she would bloody their work-HIS work with Jayce in war. He and Jayce linger on it-he begins experimenting on himself because he realizes Mel has gotten to Jayce in a way he can’t pull back. The promise to destroy the hexcore, the thing he MADE Jayce promise his last wish was violated.

He stumbles out of this upright chrysalis entirely changed, amalgamation of flesh and organic looking metal-braces permanently encased to his body. He sees the blueprints for hextech weaponry, he SEES the schematics for Catelyin’s rifle. And he just..leaves, just “I must say goodbye to this place.”

I’ve seen the argument made: “the hexcore is controlling him!”

Then why does he show clear emotion in episode six? Why then and there can he express fear, concern, gratitude, outwardly. Not in the astral realm! Outwardly-his sass is even shown to be intact when Jinx thinks she has jokes! So why the hell did he never once get angry about his agency being robbed, about his life literally being left in someone else’s hands when that was something season 1 was alluding too?

And what about sky? I’m still so throughly confused on what her purpose of being back was about. Writers have had to clarify what she’s meant to do because of the lack of context! It feels like we have four, forty-five minute episodes missing. And not just of context and story for Viktor but of Sevika-of Jinx-The underground-Zaun’s conflict with piltover! The crux of what season 1 was, these two sisters and the two cities. A Zaunite and Piltovian, we had Cait and Vi, Jinx and Silco, Jayce and Viktor-dynamics that were mapped out. That needed to be explored, how did the undercity come to forgive Jinx after her father exploited most of the residents with Shimmer?

There was an entire lead up to Cait’s role as a dictator and we see..none of it? And the aim changes to finding Warwick and then to Viktor and there is so-so so much happening. It really does feel like three seasons compressed into one, but to the worst extent that the characters don’t feel like themselves. Viktor’s confidence he exudes in season one, that defiance, that determination, the anger we see him hone later. It’s gone, we he does fight Jayce there is not a HINT of anger or resentment-just: “Oh well-I was trying to be peaceful-I am going to kill you now though.”

Sevika’s urgency to make topside pay, is still there-she’s rallying people together, but then we just don’t see her until the big fight. Sure Scar is with her there-but that doesn’t say anything about it she’s leading whole different factions of Zaun after the prison break!

The finale left more questions than things answered, and I extremely dislike the usage of a time loop. Jayce’s line to Viktor of about his disability and his disease made my blood boil on my first watch through. There are so many others ways to say humanity’s imperfections are what make us perfectly human. Use emotions for example-scientifically we as humans have the highest range of emotions, but they don’t make us weak. Our ability to feel things vastly is what drives us to do certain things, art, writing, music, creation as a whole is driven by emotion. Creation can be good or bad, enlightening or destructive, but as humans we have that innate urge to do it because of emotion. Especially those who are artists, by far my favorite part of season two is how many artists looked at what was given and went:…so. I’m going to take this, and make it my own because you clearly cannot be trusted.

In conclusion, when writing fanfic or making art it will be of season one Viktor and the Machine Herald, not the Herald of the Arcane. Shoutout to The Boy Savior though, Ekko also has issues but man did he get the best end of the deal. Viktor enjoyers take care of yourselves, canon isn’t the end all be all. Have fun with making your Au’s or fixitfics, have fun drawing versions of characters you enjoy. And if it helps, season one does end on a very bleak point, but it could be seen as the ending.

[begrudging-fudanshi]

So i stared reading windbreaker after i saw your post about it , it's wholesome manga with amazing fights

in your opinion Why didn't nii satoru reveal Sakura's past until now ? Why was Sakura alone ?

Hell yeah. Welcome to the fandom. I'm glad my propaganda has been working.

To be honest, I've been thinking about this series way too much over the last couple weeks, so this is probably going to be A Lot. I am dumping a lot of accumulated thoughts in here and simultaneously trying to keep a bunch of other thoughts from cluttering it up. If any of this feels disjointed, it's because I've been trying (I swear) to not make this like 10,000 words long lmao.

(CW: Wind Breaker manga spoilers + discussion of child neglect, trauma, feelings of worthlessness, parental loss, grief, and a suicide attempt in the context of the series. Hope you're ready for some pain.)

I'm going to answer your questions in reverse order, because I think they're actually very closely connected.

Sadly, my read on Sakura's past is really dark. Based on what we know so far, there's a lot to suggest that Sakura has been badly neglected for a long time, both physically and emotionally. Based on his lifestyle and the way he talks about himself, I really struggle to believe that he's received any genuine affection or care in many years, if ever. (I'm so glad he was able to go to Furin.)

The flashbacks at the start of episode 1 of the anime suggest he was taken in by relatives who didn't want him, and I think they basically set him up for failure in every way. They seem to have done the bare minimum required of them by the law, like sending him to school, but I can see no evidence that they did much of anything else. Like, what kind of asshole sends a 15-year-old kid to live alone in a barren apartment with literally nothing to wear except his school uniform? Caring people wouldn't let a kid live like that. (That said, I have a bad feeling that his lifestyle seen in chapter 56 is an upgrade compared to what he had before.)

Given this, it's clear Sakura really means it when he says he's always done things by himself. I think this is why he looks so torn up when his friends show him real kindness and why he's so sensitive to anyone showing affection. I also think this means that he really wants to forget his past. This is a big part of why we haven't seen it revealed yet: Sakura isn't ready to revisit it, himself.

---

Something interesting about Wind Breaker's backstories is that they all (as far as I and my notes can remember) follow a consistent pattern. They're not just lore dumps that tell us about the character's past. They actually follow each character through a process of changing their beliefs about themselves, often based on their view of the past. This is why they're all in the first person. Some of these changes happen in the present while others are part of flashbacks, but either way the process is basically the same.

In each backstory, the character starts out believing something about themselves that gives rise to a contradiction that keeps them trapped. This belief somehow keeps them from living their best life and, often, stops them from changing their ways to make their best life possible. However, someone else helps them challenge that belief, giving rise to a revelation that lets them change how they see themselves. This change enables them to see new possibilities and lets them move forward towards the life they want.

For example:

Umemiya believed his parents would blame him for their deaths, so he couldn't let himself grieve them nor believe that he deserved to live. His guilt blocked out his memory of the event, keeping him from remembering what really happened. However, a nameless(?) Furin student and Shitara helped him realize that his parents saved him and were happy to see him survive. Thus, he was able to grieve and imagine a future for himself other than his self-destruction.

Kaji believed that his rage was uncontrollable and couldn't even see himself as human. Hiragi helped him realize that he could manage his triggers and change his behavior to be able to find acceptance and live his life.

Tsubaki believed that she couldn't like pretty things or express herself how she wanted. Ito and Yui helped her learn to dress up and present herself the way she liked, allowing her to accept herself and transition. (I know she's not canonically transgender but that's still the best way I can see to describe it.)

After Yui's death, Ito believed that she might never have truly loved him. Tsubaki, Sakura, Suo, and Nirei help him realize the secret meaning of the tree that she planted in his garden, letting him live his life without worrying if she was truly happy.

What's important here is that the character must be ready to have their beliefs about themselves challenged so they can understand their full truth. Otherwise, their story of their past would be incomplete. (Consider what Umemiya's backstory would have sounded like if he still believed he was a murderer.) In fact, we already have an example of this that I'll get to, next.

Because Sakura isn't yet in a position to challenge the beliefs holding him back, he can't reveal his past, either. He has friends helping him, but it's going to be a while before they've truly shaken his most unhelpful beliefs.

---

That said, this process has actually played out with Sakura once before and I think it tells us a lot. It shows us exactly why he's not ready to reveal his past.

In chapter 1, Sakura starts out believing that he's meant to always be alone, leading him to initially reject the people of Makochi. Then, Kotoha helps him acknowledge that he does want to be accepted and convinces him to give it a shot. However, while this is great progress and very necessary for Sakura's growth, this isn't a complete resolution. He still has an even more deep-seated belief that has to be addressed.

In addition to asserting that he's meant to be alone, Sakura also lays out another belief in chapter 1 that I argue really gets to the root of his deepest trauma. He doesn't quite say it explicitly, but it underpins both his belief that he's meant to be alone and that he's worth nothing but his fists.

The closest he comes to naming it is when he describes Furin. He says it's "The lowest of the low, hated by all others, worth nothing but their fists … It's a battle to determine the trashiest of the trash. That suits me perfectly."

I have to admit, the first few times I heard and read this, I completely missed how fucked up it is for a 15-year-old kid to say this about himself. I think I've gotten so used to taking shonen protagonists' confident declarations at face value that I just didn't question it, in the same way I've learned not to question, say, 12-year-old Gon deciding to become a pro hunter and travel the world fighting adults. The way it's presented very deliberately (and, I think, cleverly) blunts the impact as well, making use of shonen stylistic conventions to disguise it as stereotypical shonen protagonist bluster. This mirrors how Sakura masks his deeper feelings about himself.

However, as I read through the rest of the manga, it became clear that this is what Sakura actually, deeply believes. He's 15 years old and he truly sees himself as trash—in other words, worthless. The only way he can imagine finding worth in himself is through his strength. Even then, this is only for Sakura himself. He can't let himself imagine anyone else ever valuing him for any reason, so he must find self-worth all on his own. To put it more sharply, he can't imagine deserving unconditional love. Based on what little we do know about his past, this belief stems from a lifetime of emotional neglect.

The thing is, Sakura's belief that he's worthless is actually, paradoxically, a coping mechanism. As horrible as it is, it helps him rationalize his life in a way that lets him keep living despite his neglect and isolation. If he's truly worthless, then he's never had a reason to expect being loved or accepted by anyone—he's always been meant to be alone. This is how he can tell himself that he doesn't care and has given up. This lets him bury the pain of his isolation and pretend it doesn't truly hurt. By believing that he has always been worthless and unable to be (to deserve being) loved, he has had no reason to get his hopes up for the future, nor any reason to question why he's been treated so badly in the past. He can accept it (has to accept it), even if he hates it, because it was always inevitable.

Notice how Sakura reminds himself that he's given up right before punching the Spaltips' leader in chapter 1. This is the story he tells himself to contain the hurt. He does something similar in chapter 56, reminding himself that he's supposed to be alone as he grapples with his friends' kindness. He bludgeons himself with this reminder as a way to push away thoughts about his past. He then shifts his focus to thinking about his growing care for his friends rather than his feelings about himself. Once again, Sakura makes himself turn away.

The trouble is, this belief is his only means of holding back an unfathomable amount of pain inside of him. It's the only way he knows how to live with all the myriad ways he's been treated like shit. To doubt his own worthlessness, therefore, is to expose himself to overwhelming grief. Because, if he isn't worthless, he then has to ask himself why he had to suffer for so long. That kind of question is too awful for him—for pretty much anyone—to face on their own. This coping mechanism protects him, but it also traps him and prevents him from finding relief.

This comes to a head in chapter 1, as the townspeople surround him and the old woman tries to tend to his wound. As she reaches towards him, he screams at her to stay away. This act of genuine kindness fills him with terror. It's not just that he fears eventual rejection—Sakura fears the idea he could be accepted at all. Remember, he's just "failed" to win the fight and, worse, ended up having to be protected because he got hurt. Sakura could accept Kotoha's kindness earlier because he "earned" it by stopping her attackers, but now there's someone trying to help him for what feels like no reason. For Sakura, who must believe that he was never meant to be loved or accepted, being shown kindness for no apparent reason feels like an existential threat. It threatens to undermine the walls that he's built inside of him to keep going. This is why he allows Kotoha to help him instead—he can still rationalize her help as transactional.

This rationalization provides his means of escape. To accept his place in Makochi, he only has to accept that he doesn't have to be alone. He doesn't have to believe that he can be valued or loved unconditionally, nor that he deserved anything better. Instead, Sakura finds a way to "earn" his acceptance: The chapter culminates with Sakura accepting Bofurin, which he shows by leaping over all the others to kick the Spaltips' leader in the face.

By showing his strength, by upstaging the heroes and claiming his place among them, Sakura proves (to himself) that he is strong enough to be accepted. Rather than accept that he could always have been valued and accepted unconditionally—that he always could have been loved—Sakura would rather believe he's earned his acceptance based on his strength.

In this way, Sakura can continue to believe in his own worthlessness, saving himself from having to face his past. Because of this, even as he's learned that he can be accepted, he still maintained his belief that he was meant to be alone from the start (again, see chapter 56). This lets him continue to justify his past suffering and minimize his own pain.

This comes back around in chapter 162, when Sakura's classmates talk about his low self-esteem. Despite their efforts to show him that he's loved and valued, Sakura ultimately still believes he's only worth his strength. We see how he rejects Umemiya's praise, unable to understand how he could be praised when he "failed". Sakura can't believe he could be valued when he couldn't even single-handedly save the town.

But, as long as he believes this, his past will remain a mystery, not just to his friends and to us as readers, but even to Sakura himself. Just as Umemiya's repression kept him from realizing that his parents loved him, Sakura's repression keeps him from realizing that he has always deserved to be loved. He cannot acknowledge, can't even recognize, the pain he's endured in his life, because he still has to believe it didn't matter. Because of this, he can't let himself grieve or admit that he has always deserved better. He's still trapped believing he must always prove his worth through his strength alone.

Of course, changing this isn't going to be easy. He will get there. His friends will help him through it. Still, it's going to be rough. I think it'll be a while yet before he's ready to tell us about his past.

---

Addendum

All of that being said, something I really love about Wind Breaker is how hopeful it is and the way it shows Sakura living despite his past. To that end, I want to note one last thing: Sakura can still smile, despite everything else. No matter what he tells himself, he still feels hope.

I mentioned above that I didn't recognize Sakura's low self-esteem at first because it's masked with stereotypical shonen protagonist confidence. I think this is very deliberate by the author. We're supposed to see Sakura as cool, confident, and badass in the beginning, only to realize that he's also hurting inside. (Emphasis: that's also, not instead. These aren't mutually exclusive.) Sakura's cocky grin is part of a mask he wears, but it's not a lie.

While I believe Sakura has suffered a lot, it's important to emphasize that he's not broken or doomed to drown in grief. What I've laid out here is what I believe is going on beneath the surface, and I do believe he's going to have to face his trauma eventually, but let's not forget that our boy can still smile after all of that. The fact that he can smile doesn't mean that he's not hurting, but the fact that he's hurting doesn't mean he only feels pain. Let's not do him dirty by miring our view of him in grief. Instead, as we acknowledge how much he's suffered, let's also be happy at just how far he's come and hopeful for how far he'll go in the future.

[loweffortopinions]

Holy Maker, the dialogue in Veilguard is even worse when you look closer at it. Just look at this:

Rook: "I'm guessing you're the reason we're here." Lucanis: "Who are you? Who sent you?" Rook: "My name is Rook. Caterina sent me." Lucanis: "Caterina… But you're not a Crow." Rook: "I'm breaking you out of here, but… what are you?" Neve: "Rook. He's possessed by a demon. "Lucanis: "It's complicated." Rook: "Caterina promised us a mage killer if we broke you out of here." Lucanis: "I can still work." Rook: "Good. Because I'm pretty sure more Venetori are on their way. We have to get moving." Lucanis: "They have a vial of my blood. They can use it to control me. I cannot leave it in their hands. And… I had a contract when I was captured. One of my targets is here—Calivan. Crows don't break contracts." Rook: "All right, we'll help. But in return, I want help killing some things." Lucanis: "I'll owe you." Rook: "I'm sure we'll owe each other before this is all over. Let's go."

Just a few problems off the top of my head:

Caterina already promised that Lucanis would help us if we break him out. So… he double owes us already I guess?

I honestly didn’t realize he was possessed until Neve beat me over the head with it. At most I figured he was a mage, but with how the classes are designed, there was no guarantee for that since all classes look like mages now. Nothing clueing you in slowly... just BAM: THISMANISPOSSESSEDDIDYOUKNOW?

So you find out he’s buddy-buddy with a demon and no one’s freaking out? Why is everyone acting like this is normal? “Oh, hey, it’s Abomination Tuesday. Moving on.”

And I swear he repeats the whole “Crows don’t break contracts” thing in the very next scene with Calivan. I just… can’t.

There is probably more: Feel free to add your own thoughts. There is more scenes under the cut if anyone is interested in looking at the dialoge with Calivan, and the reunion in Treviso. Feel free to use it however you want (It should be word for word but I might've missed something).

Meeting and fighting Calivan

Calivan (target): "Ugh, this was entirely unnecessary. Zara and her little jests. 'He's already the Demon of Vyrantium! Won't this be ironic?'" (Lucanis smiles bitterly at the comment.)

Calivan: "Hilarious. And now look at the mess you've made of my facility. She always leaves me to clean up."

Rook: "So this is Calivan."

Lucanis: "He is. The target I was sent for a year ago. A Crow never abandons a contract."

(Note: *snort* Did both of them just ignore Calivans entire monloge?)

(Fight ensues. Calivan is cocky at first but grows desperate, talking about not wanting to be a victim or something similar.)

Lucanis: (Exhales) "The Crows send their regards." (He seems pleased that the contract is finished.)

Rook: "So we got your target."

Lucanis: "Yes. The job's done."

Spite: (Inhales) "Smells like blood. Ashes. Not done. Not yet."

Rook: "Lucanis... Are you all right? Lucanis? What are you looking at?"

Spite: "Careful. They know. We're not right."

Lucanis: "You cannot see him. I wondered."

Rook: "We clearly have things to discuss. Somewhere else."

Lucanis: "Agreed. I think... it's time I got some air. Shall we go?"

Rook: "I'm ready to get out of this place."

Lucanis: "Imagine how I feel."

1. The Spite reveal is so goofy, and unimmersive: The player can see Spite, but Rook can't. I just find this to be an extremly lazy way of doing things. Further, the "reveal" was ruined in the previous scene since Neve has already told us exactly what's wrong with Lucanis.

2. So... nobody really gives a shit about Calivan? I thought there might be a bit more... relief, killing the dude that's responsible for the hellhole you've been "living" in for the past year. I mean, the monologue was awful, but to just ignore him entirely...?

3. There are many unneccesary lines like "We got your target". Yes, yes we did. He's lying right there, on the floor. Dead. The pacing suffers.

Reunion in Treviso

You walk into the Diamond, there are dead Crows on the floor.)

Teia: "Maker..."

Viago: "Lucanis?"

Lucanis: "What happened here?"

Illario: (Bangs table) "A message. From Zara Renata."

Illario: "I can't believe it. You're home." (Approaches and touches Lucanis' shoulder.)

Lucanis: "Zara... her people got this close?"

Rook: "The woman who runs the prison?"

Lucanis: "The Venetori witch who captured me."

Rook: "Revenge for the breakout, maybe?"

Lucanis: "Where's Caterina?"

Teia: "She's..."

Viago: (Comforts her) "The Venetori got her in the confusion."

Illario: "I get one of you back, only to lose the other."

Rook: "Lucanis... I'm so sorry."

Lucanis: "I need to work."

Teia: "Are you sure? You should take some time."

Lucanis: "I don't need time. I need a target."

Illario: "You just got here, and already you want to leave again?"

Lucanis: "Caterina gave me a contract. I'm not breaking the last deal she ever made. And I owe Rook. Once that's done... I'll come home."

Rook: "I'll return him in one piece."

Illario: "Thank you. Illlario: Cousin. When you find Zara, I want—I need—to be there."

Viago: "We're under attack. Antaam on one side, and now Venetori on the other? Forget revenge, we need you—"

Teia: "No. Viago. Zara came for us here. In my house. She took Caterina from my house."

Teia: "You find her and cut her heart out, Lucanis. Vi and I will hold down the fort."

Lucanis: "I'll give her your regards, Teia."

Teia: "For Caterina."

This last one is so very... disjointed. It feels like they're talking past each other half the time. And suddenly they remember; right EXPOSITION. It feels very random that they bring up the Antaam here.

Rook could've been silent this entire conversation, and it wouldn't make a difference; nothing they say contribute to the conversation. The only one that really reacts to them is Illario, barley.

So Lucanis is tasked with taking care of two Gods, AND to take care of Zara? The guy who just got out of prison, and is possessed? Fucking hell, the guy doesn't get a break. Sure, he says he wants to work... But just maybe someone else could deal with Zara, considering the contract he just undertook?

[paper-beats-writers-block]

Okay listen I am considering myself veteran Simon Snow fandom enough (there are DEF people that have been here longer) but I will take a crack at all of these. Apologies for length of post in advance haha.

NEED human blood, no. Is it better for them, definitely. There have been so so many discussions about Baz in relation to his vampirism, but here are the highlights. as we see in wayward son, lamb looks like the perfect bill of health; he's strong, sharp, and completely unafraid of what he is. And I think a huge part of this is because he drinks human blood. His color is better. His senses are sharper. He doesn't feel fatigued all the time like the books allude that Baz does. And this is probably because human blood has a lot more of the nutrients that they need. Because human blood is the closest thing to "their own" blood that vampires will ever get. Yeah sure baz can drink as many rats and rabbits and cats as he wants to, but the genetic makeup of the animals' blooc doesn't come close to a humans. (something I love about the books is the way vampirism is approached in much more of a scientific way than a magickal way) (here's another post I made about it a while ago) (And here's a fandom discussion on why baz's skin is so pale when he's supposed to be Egyptian/Italian. If you pick one of the two to read, PLEASE let it be this one)

It all depends on the vampire I think. Because I think the content of human blood is much better for the vampire because it supplements them better, I think that once most vampires try human blood for the first time there's a much lesser chance of them going back. Because another thing with the scenes with Lamb is that "if you didn't enjoy being turned then they weren't doing it right". I think a lot of baz's "morality" comes from his own prejudices against vampires. We know that Baz's vampirism is an allegory for his queerness, and just like he has internalized homophobia towards himself that he's working on, there's a lot of internalized "I hate vampires" that's going on as well. If you want me to go into more detail about this I will, just ask!

Same thing with any minority. Yes they can make a moral choice. But no that doesn't mean that mages are going to come to terms with it. Agatha was (thought she was, pick your poison) in love with Baz for years. She was still terrified that he was a vampire in Carry On. Fiona has a vampire for a nephew and a fiance, and last time I checked she was still a vampire hunter. So there's a lot lot lot of systematic injustice that's happening with vampires in the books. (and vampires aren't the only magickal creature that this is happening with. until the mage came along, only humans could attend Watford. And even then, it was only humans that could pass the entrance exam) (disclaimer. I hate the mage as much as the next bestie. however, he did begin to dismantle the rampant classicism at watford, and I will l give him half a point for that)

Baz is going to take a long as fuck time to come to terms with it. it took him over a year to realize that he deserved better from simon than Simon's flippancy and nonchalance about their relationship. and then he snapped and broke up with him, and only agreed to try again when Simon promised that he would try. This is HUUUUGE for both of them. But one of the reasons I was so disappointed that Lamb was a villain in the second book is because he was the closest thing to a mentor that Baz ever had. Lamb showed baz that being a vampire didn't mean he was an inhuman demonic being. all it meant was just. he was a being. A being that had sharp teeth, super speed and strength, and needed blood to survive yeah. But there was nothing inherently demonic and evil about the fact that he was a vampire. the evilness came from the choices he made (and this goes for everyone). This is especially prevalent in the scene where Lamb teaches and supports baz through eating without his fangs coming out. and baz is THRILLED when he can finally do it, because being able to eat without his fangs makes him feel like less of an animal. And he's still very very hung up on "no simon I will NOT drink your blood" because he's afraid to hurt him and because he's convinced drinking human blood will, once again, make him feel like a predator instead of a person. So it's going to take him years, if not decades. And I don't have a guess how it will happen for sure (or if it even happens at all) but I'm confident in answering that he is not content with his vampirism where we leave off in Snow for Christmas.

My guess there is no. See "magickal classicism". It's a headcanon of a lot of folks around here that Baz goes back to teach at watford, and while we don't know if that is the direction canon will go or not, definitely in this case no. It takes a lot of time for a group so tightly knit as the word of mages to undo centuries of prejudices, and especially one as deeply rooted as a fear of vampires. Baz can say "no I only drink rats I promise" and he'll still get more backlash than Mitali gave the mage. The people that are most important to him know who and what he is, and right now that is the safest option for him. If vampire hatred does get abolished in the world of mages then I would say "yeah there's a pretty good chance that he will!" But I just don't see that in the cards right now, especially since his vampirism is still a part of him that he holds a lot of internal hate for himself.

I actually wrote a teeny essay on this myself! (don't let essay scare you, its written in mostly the same casual haha format as the rest of this post) but here is the link for that post!! (read this part after you've read the rest of that post: I think the bubble popping was his magickal resistance, because after Smith tries to cast his dumbass spell on simon, bro is completely immune to magic. And I think that's what the pop was. some people still speculate that he;s gonna get his magic back and I'm like "no sister that shit is way gone. and our boy is happier without it so let the poor sod be")

the immune to spells thing is one that I was never sure of. sitting here thinking about it now, I would have to say that my best guess here is that. Sooooooo many people tried to fuck with his already extremely unstable magic as it is, and the pop he felt with smith was it finally just. completely giving up. The humdrum took it all away in the first place, and he has absolutely no magic left (remember from the magic post I wrote it began with simon freely sending his magic into the humdrum, and ended with the humdrum sucking the rest of his magic out of him.) so I think the "pop" was just. one too many people tried to mess with it and the spell brought the Nothing to the surface, the Nothing literally didn't have anything else to materialize as, so the Nothing spread over his entire body and became sort of like his own personal humdrum that was completely immune to magic instead of sucking it away. If that was completely nonsensical I am sorry.

I do not think the wings will ever ever go away. and I'm actually going to let adamarks take this one, because they have an AMAZING meta on Simon's wings written before AWTWB came out. Link to that one is here. (this one is so important to me and genuinely changed the way I read the books. so.)

It's possible?? Shepard's plot and narrative purpose is explained beautifully in another adamarks meta that I will also link here. But To expand upon this meta further, I think he's also a great way of tackling Penelope's internalized magickal classicism because there are so SO many times throughout WS and AWTWB that some of her thoughts and dialogue are blatantly looking down on Shep because he's not magickal. now obviously she starts to attack some of that when she starts dating him. But there's a long way to go there just like there's a long way to go with Baz and his vampirism. But I think Shep is going to be the link there, because he's going to continue to challenge the way that she thinks, and in turn, Penny will take those challenges into whatever her magickal future had in store for her. The fresh perspective that she's learning from Shepard is going to help the entire world of mages in the long run. (and also. Having Shep around is going to do WONDERS for simon. because he's going to give simon someone to talk to about being Normal. and he's going to keep Simon communicating and getting practiced at communicating).

Nah I don't think she's gonna get in trouble. She probably (definitely) should. But Mitali is the current "stand in mage" for lack of better terminology, and the stern "Don't You Boys Try And Pull Something Like That Again Do You Hear Me" look that she gives Simon and BAz in her office when they go to use the library in AWTWB is prob going to be the extent of the discussion there because Mitali had so much going on with the pop up greatest mages, and then the gang had to swoop in and save everyone again, so I'm guessing its going to be heroically dusted under the rug until everyone gets drunk and Christmas and then someone will hold over her head as everyone laughs.

Rainbow is a huge proponent for fanfic!!! the mother of the simon snow series is fangirl, literally about a girl that writes simon and baz fanfic!!! So I guess yeah its possible that she left it kind of up to interpretation for fic writers to go nuts with. She did say that Baz is her favorite character she's ever created, so it's also possible that she's leaving it for another book?? But personally, I don't think that's the case (will I be THRILLED if book four is announced HELL YEAH!!!!! but I don't think it's in the cards). I believe she's said before that she didn't want to be pigeonholed into just writing simon and baz, especially when she has soooooo many other beautiful love stories that she has already told and that she's getting ready to tell.

haha I told you this would get long and would you look at that I was really really right 💀 so If you have follow up questions or additional questions that you would like me to try and answer I can certainly do my best!! and also please understand that these are all just. my personal takes on the series (and/or takes that I agree with since not all of them are mine) <3 so I hope this answered at least part of one of the list that you left!!!!!

Questions I still have after Any Way the Wind Blows:

Do vampires really need human blood? How much?

Are there other moral vampires? (Besides Nico)

If vampires can make a moral choice, is it amoral to kill them? How are the mages going to come to terms with this?

How is Baz going to come to terms with it?

Will Baz ever "come out" as a moral vampire?

What THE HECK is up with Simon's magic? He felt a "bubble popping" when Smith cast the spell, implying THERE WAS MAGIC IN HIM. will it come back?

And why is he immune to spells now?

Will he cut his wings off?

What will Shepard be to the world of mages? A liaison to other magical beings?

Is Penelope ever going to get into a heap of trouble for her magical fraud spree?

The ending is satisfying, but I feel like these books are set up for fanfiction. Or a fourth installment.

[al-luviec]

juvie buddies

[n4b3]

.

[nomairuins]

aww its kinda cute finding me complaining abt my dads whole lisa thing from 2017. honestly so overshadowed by everything else and also i was so annoying when i was 12 aw .

[atrwriting]

terrible company — logan howlett x reader

secret time i never used to like wolverine because i thought i was cool and then i saw deadpool 3 and my jaw dropped and i watched most of the x men movies in like three days and now here we are

side note the tiktok edits went absolutely crazy with this scene

back at school needed to write something to keep me sane enjoy

barely edited we die like overworked students men

minors fuck off plz n thnx

as always, warnings: smut smut smuttt, enemies to lovers, fingering, p in v sex, dirty talk, light face slapping (trust me!), logan's a dick

—

“what, sweetheart? — afraid you might like it?”

you rolled your eyes at the man before you: logan howlett, the most obnoxious and formidable man you had ever met. his eyes twinkled with mischief, but his smirk hinted at so much more. this was the fifth or sixth time or so that he had flirted with you outright since you had first met him, and you had still found yourself being caught off guard from his honesty and lack of embarrassment.

he was an enigma to you — such terrible company, always brooding over something. then, randomly, he would see you and his eyes would get that look — as if he forgot what made him so miserable — and flirt with you so inappropriately that you didn’t know what to do, nor feel.

you sighed, staring at him. “can always count on you for shock value, can’t it?”

he smirked then, and you rolled your eyes. continuing, you spoke, “i’ll never get you. you are so mean to everyone — besides the people you want to fuck, of course.”

you turned away then, shaking your head. you didn’t hear him follow you. you grew angry after that realization, causing another sharp breath of air to leave your nostrils in a huff. you weren’t sure if you were angry at the fact that he didn’t follow you and immediately apologize even though he would never do that, or if you were just angry at how you were upset he didn’t follow you.

you tried not to think about it. you had work to do.

your next mission would be based out in the north somewhere — cold, dark, barely any service or electricity, and horrific weather. all of that would’ve made anyone groan, but none of that was the worst part.

not even close.

the worst part was that logan was your partner.

it made bile rise in your throat at the thought.

you generally didn’t mind him — he was grumpy, sure, but someone like old yeller would be grumpy after how many years he’s been alive and after what he’s been through. what pissed you off and what you couldn’t forgive — is how he treated different groups of people. he picked on a lot of people, and even if it was just “harmless hazing” — you didn’t care. it wasn’t cool and it definitely wasn’t hot. it was hurtful and you didn’t like it. he made fun of your friends, and that was where the hate began — and there was no end in sight.

but the best part? oh — the fucking cherry on top? his endless flirtation. he flirted with you shamelessly as if he wasn’t ruthless with your friends moments prior. did he think you void of loyalty? did he think you would sleep with him after he roasted your friends just because he threw a few sleazy comments your way? how little respect did he have for you? or, worse — how little respect did he think you had for yourself?

made your fucking blood boil.

that no good, rotten, fucking —

“hey, sweetheart —“

when you were within fifteen feet of him, it felt like all you did was roll your fucking eyes and bite back a quip. all you wanted to do was put him in his fucking place, or stay as far away from him as possible. however, with a mission so important — so dire — you couldn’t ask for a reassignment and make the team succumb to immature whims. you put up with logan because neither you, the team, nor the government had more options or time.

“what, logan?” you spat, pursing your lips as you turned around to face him.

fuck, he was so goddamn handsome. his skin was tanned from constantly being outside, looking perfectly aged. his facial hair and hairstyle were out of the ordinary as well, but it only kept your attention on him longer. he was strong — so strong. his muscles could kill in mere seconds, and you realized you hated yourself for thinking this way. for falling into the trap of a man so annoying — so undeserving of your attraction — your only response was to clench your jaw and fucking glare at him.

he raised his eyebrow at your attitude. “others already took the cars and helicopter. looks like we’re takin’ in my chopper.”

he didn’t wait for you to disagree. in fact, as you were winding up your “aaaabsolutely not” he immediately turned around and left towards the front — where his motorcycle was parked outside.

you stared at him as he walked towards the bike — broad shoulders clad in the leather jacket he always wore. his legs, even covered in jeans, were so trim and muscular that you could see the power behind each stride. when he swung one leg over the seat, and two hands gripped the handle bars — you would’ve said he was attractive if it wasn’t for how horrendous he was. you would’ve bit your hand at how broad his shoulders were and the strength behind them. you should’ve torn your gaze away from him — because at that moment, the moment where you were contemplating your attraction towards him and how it worked with your hatred for him — he caught you staring.

he caught you staring — and the fucking bastard smirked.

you cursed then, and then started towards his bike. like he once did, you swung your leg over and wrapped your arms around his midsection.

“hold on tight, sweetheart,” he spoke, the vibrations of his deep voice felt against your chest. “can’t say i’d let anything bad happen to you, though.”

“just drive, logan,” you spat through gritted teeth.

he chuckled darkly then, revving his engine. “yes ma’am.”

with his back to you, unable to see his reaction — it was the one moment, the one fucking time that you didn’t roll your eyes at him. your reaction to his words — yes ma’am — was raw and surprising, unsettling almost. you shifted in your seat and adjusted your grip on him as a warmth settled in your stomach, and on the apples of your cheeks. your breaths turned shallow, too, as your whole body succumbed to the blush that overtook.

no, you thought. you think he’s hot. that’s fine. assholes can be hot — we just can’t act on how hot they are. that’s fine. it’s fine. everything is fine —

but the way he smelled? oh god, the way he fucking smelled? logan was what bath and body works modeled those mahogany or whisky or leather or whatever-the-fuck candles after. part of you wanted to curse him out, making up something to be mad at him for — but the other parts wanted to wrap your arms around him tighter and stick your nose in the back of his neck like a depraved lunatic.

but you couldn’t. you wouldn’t let yourself. you sat up straighter then — trying to put as much space as possible between you and him on a vehicle that was not meant for a rivalry between driver and passenger.

you were disgusted with yourself. so, so disgusted with yourself.

fuck, you thought. this is going to be a long night.

when you reached camp, you immediately began setting up. you set up shelter and got your supplies in order, and logan went out looking for food. that was logan’s one quality that not even you could take away from him — he was an excellent hunter. you tried to busy yourself as best as you could — setting up the tent, starting the fire, the works. the sun would almost be down before logan came back.

when you heard his footsteps, your head immediately flicked up towards him. there he was — dinner thrown over his shoulder, clad in a white tank top, and cigar in his mouth. a cloud of smoke followed behind him as he walked towards where you had set up camp.

“showing off?” you cast your gaze down, putting another log on the fire.

“…is it working?”

you couldn’t help it. you let out a small laugh.

fuck.

you cleared your throat immediately, hoping he didn’t hear it. unfortunately, there was no use in that. fear struck you when you saw the tiniest smirk on his face. you brushed it off, leaving him to go get a sweatshirt as he dressed and cleaned the animal.

“scared of a little blood, sweetheart?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his comment. “it’s an animal, logan. not our enemy.”

“…fuckin’ vegans.”

“okay, old yeller —“ you quipped, poking at the fire. “you don’t feel a drop of sadness when you go after bambi?”

“it’s meat,” that was all he said on the subject, and you didn’t feel like poking the bear.

you ate in silence and went to bed in silence. actually — you went to bed. logan stayed out by the fire until you retreated to your tent. you left him with a bottle of jameson on his right, and a cigar in his left hand. his eyes were trained on the fire.

you didn’t like the look on his face. it was either an expression of zoning out, sadness, or a mixture of both — you couldn’t be sure. any time someone had asked logan what was on his mind, it was usually met with some rude or mean insult from logan. old yeller didn’t like feelings, and that worked out well for you — because you didn’t want to hear about his feelings.

you thought he would stay out all night if he could, never sleeping. however, he did end up going to bed — but you only knew that because he woke up screaming from a nightmare.

him yelling was extremely inconvenient and frankly dangerous — it could blow your cover. in your exhausted state, you sprung up and out of your tent and dashed over to where logan was curled on the ground. he was thrashing at the air — knocking over his bottle of whisky and kicking at the fire.

“logan!” you hissed, trying to force yourself out of your discombobulated state. the thrashing continued, and in a moment of desperation — you got on top of him.

straddled him, to be more exact.

in a moment, his eyes snapped open. your back was on the ground and he was above you — one of his claws at your jugular. logan’s instincts woke up before he did as he laid on top of you and over you, breathing heavily as he kept his blade drawn at your neck with his eyes blown wide.

“you were having a nightmare,” you choked out. “you’re okay —“

he was still staring at you and breathing heavily. it was like he was in a trance — unaware of how to navigate the feeling of peace and a fight or flight response. his pupils, blown wide, showed no sign of calming down.

you reached both hands to grasp at his cheeks, feeling the tickle of his beard on your palms. “you’re safe — it’s alright.”

he dropped his head then — on your collarbone. it hung in shame, guilt, and exhaustion. the unholy trinity that followed logan howlett around for his entire life. one of your hands slid to the back of his neck, cupping the base of his head as his thumb stroked his skin.

“i’m sorry,” was all he said, head still in the crook of your neck.

“you’re good — i get them, too.”

“i’m not looking for a pity party, alright?” he snapped, pushing himself up.

that was it. the final straw.

you reached forward them, yanking him by the shirt so you were nose to nose — tongue on fire, throat hoarse with anger and tight with sadness. “you’re such an ass, you know that? all you do is insult my friends, expect me to sleep with you, and then the moment — the one fucking moment — you show any sign of humanity, i extend a fucking olive branch, and you snap at me? — the fuck is your problem, logan?”

he raised his brows then, almost in a beckoning fashion. “you think i need a shoulder to cry on, huh, sweetheart? — that’s the thing with you young people, why your friends annoy me so much — there’s no fucking time to spend whining when there’s a fucking job to do.”

“jealous, logan?” you spat, still gripping his shirt. “can’t stand the fact that i would rather console the people you insult rather than let you fuck me?”

“what you do in your spare time is yours, sweetheart —“ he scoffed. “if you want to spend it with people who don’t respect you, fine by me.”

“don’t respect me?!” you spat. your face was red and hot now, burning with rage. every word that left your mouth was coated in venom hoping to strike him like his words struck you. “you’d fuck me, leave, and then probably treat me with as much disdain as you treat everyone else — how the fuck is that better?!”

oh — you shouldn’t have.

you really, really shouldn’t have.

you felt the regret as soon the word “better” left your mouth — only a moment before you saw something switch in logan’s eyes. the switch was followed by a twitch in his jaw, the movement he makes before he basically uses someone’s spine as a tooth pick. you knew he wouldn’t hurt you — he couldn’t, he wouldn’t — but damn, the realization of how much weight your statement held in his chest concerned you.

you watched his nose crinkle in anger.

he let out a frustrated, slow breath.

another.

and another.

and then another. he was still on top of you then — staring down his nose at you. you were cocky, cocking your chin up at him — trying to feign looking him in the eyes despite your lack of height. you didn’t want to be a sexual object, there for his free use. you didn’t want to be something he could discard, worthless. you didn’t want logan to give you the same treatment he gave your friends — because that would mean you were no longer worth anything to him.

you braced yourself for his words — what you always thought would come, sooner or later. the end of flirting, and the beginning of rejection and hatred.

“that’s it, huh?” he spoke low then, fighting back anger. “the princess thought i’d leave?” his lips were barely touching yours then, threatening the barrier and final boundary of air between you two. your chest was rising and falling with every word, unable to keep your cool. he continued, “maybe i should — since now you sound like your friends — bunch of fucking whiners.”

you slammed at his chest then, trying to push him off for his hurtful words. he didn’t budge — he was the fucking wolverine, what could you do that would get him to actually move?

“the problem is, doll —“ he took both of your hands and pressed them down next to your head. “i know you’re not like them — and i like you too much to leave.”

you scoffed, gritting your teeth. “stop fucking —“

he let go of one of your wrists and grabbed your chin in his strong hand, silencing you. he stared down at you then, and no words had the chance to leave your lips. anger sent daggers from your eyes to his, but something swirled within his irises. something worse than anger — darker. stronger. harder.

“are you going to stop fucking whining and let me kiss you?” he spat. “or are you going to crawl away with your tail between your legs and be forced to use that stashed vibrator you keep in your bag?”

you sucked in a sharp breath then — eyes going wide as your lips fell open in surprise. he smirked then, obviously pleased. your chest was still rising and falling, but now it was with shallow breaths as something else filled your lungs and abdomen.

heat. pure heat. warmth spread throughout your ribs, abdomen, and core once you absorbed logan’s words. he was so mean — so fucking rude and mean — but his “no bullshit” attitude forced you to keep out of your own way in a way you didn’t want to admit you liked. you were still then — and all you could do was stare up at logan with your big, dark eyes as a smirk crept onto his face.

“that’s it, baby,” was all he whispered before he kissed you.

the hand that once held your face slid around the back of your head, holding the base of your skull up and out for him. he planted his spread knees in between your thighs, cementing himself in place as his other arm held himself up.

logan kissed you with demand in every movement. his lips lead you in a fashion that so passionate and so dominant that your brain and body were fucking putty — his to mold in his hands as he deemed fit. you should’ve been disgusted, tormented by the fact that he would do such a thing — but you couldn’t keep up the act any longer. having logan so close, so warm — it was the ultimate act of comfort.

men had kissed you before — but no man from before could kiss you like this. this. no man had the power to claim you in the open, dangerous air while on top of you and still making you feel so safe and protected. you didn’t feel the need to go out of your way to show dominance — and it felt so fucking good to turn your brain off, even for just a moment.

and logan? fuck — logan? he had wanted nothing more for months than to be exactly where he was now; on top of you, tongue exploring the mouth that loved to insult him. he knew how on edge you were, how you were always caring about everyone but yourself — he just wanted to see what you were like when you could only think about one thing, and one thing only: your own pleasure.

it started with his fingers tightening on the back of your neck ever so slightly. your throat let out a quiet sort of mewl — like he had squeezed the last shred of focus out of you. he wanted you out of focus — not necessarily under his control, he just wanted you to lose control. crying, screaming, taking out your anger on him for all he cared — but he just wanted to be the one that made you forget about everything for a little while.

…so when he felt your hands running up and down the length of his upper body, curious as to the muscles of his shoulders — he knew what to do. he couldn’t help himself, should’ve asked —

he lowered his lower body down and ground against your clothed core.

instinctively, your legs tried to wrap around his — trying to bring him closer. you were struggling, it was so cute to him. he thought about how mean it would be to tease you, even if it was for a little bit — but would quick fun honedtly help you? the stick up your ass would probably never leave, he thought — he had to do this right.

and when he did it again — the smallest whine built in the back of your throat, sending vibrations throughout your body and senses. logan’s hyper sensitive hearing sent shivers — actual shivers — up and down his spine, and right to his cock as his strained against his zipper.

he felt you clam up then, tighten — insecure. he could sense it. smell it.

“don’t you dare —“ he breathed, demanding another kiss from you. he would swallow you whole if given the choice. “those whines you make? those sweet, little noises? — they’re mine, doll. mine. you don’t get to take what’s mine, do you?”

“no —“ you whimpered, shakily. “but — i — i thought —“

he let your neck go, much to your dismay, but that empty feeling was replaced by his large, flat palm pressing against your clothes core. you jumped for a moment, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as you peered up at him through your lashes.

“thinkin’ i hate whiners?” he laughed, biting on the skin of your neck as he kept palming you. “not when they sound as pretty as you, doll. ‘m so hard for you — gotta know you want this as much as me.”

you almost let out a struggled gasp then, close to tears. he was so mean. the stress and pain of waiting could be felt all over. he was being so sweet — so generous with his touches — but you wanted more. needed more.

“wan’ it so bad, logan,” you gasped, almost hiccuping. “don’t fuck with me anymore, please — no more games.”

you felt his hand slide your zipper down its track, smirking. “no more games means you’re mine, doll. i don’t fucking share.”

you watched as his large hand — calloused from years of war, labor, and pain — found its way under your pretty, lacy thong. he wanted to rip it off you, free you from the tight clothing — but he needed you now. you needed him now, and he wouldn’t deny you any longer.

you were soaking wet when you felt two fingers slip in between your folds, sending a sharp breath to be sucked in between your lips. logan watched in awe as the flames of the fire caught the glistening wetness on his fingers, illuminating the reflection for both of you to see and witness.

it was obvious to him now — you wanted him so badly, for longer than you had ever let on.

he should’ve been slow, loving, maybe even tender — but that wasn’t him. never was, and never would be. your grip tightened on his as he slipped two fingers inside your pussy, sucking him in desperation.

you immediately tried to bite back a squeal when you felt his fingers finally slide all the way inside you, leaving no space undiscovered. the pads of his fingers were nudging at the roof of your pussy as the meat of his fleshy palm rubbed against your lonely clit — pink, puffy, and pathetic. so desperate. you were biting your lip now, screwing your eyes shut — trying to fight the urge to scream his name.

“oh, i don’t think so, doll,” he grunted. “look at me.”

you tried to look at him. you really did. when you couldn’t manage it, your eyes blurry — you couldn’t believe it: he lightly smacked your jaw.

it should’ve sent you reeling, absolutely fuming — but it only caught your attention. he was glaring down at you, fuming, with a pink hue on his cheeks. “what did i say, huh?”

you couldn’t respond. he had halted his movement, leaving you to buck into his hands.

“those moans are mine,” he spat. “you’re goin’ to be loud, and you’re goin’ to let me know exactly how it feels, alright?”

“okay,” you whimpered. “please just —“

“fucking christ —“ he spat exasperatedly. his movements were rougher now, more than ever — sending you closer and closer to the edge. “your wound so tight, you know that? so fucking concerned and always thinking — you’re goin’ to let go for me, doll, and i’m not taking my eyes off this pussy until it sings for me.”

“fuck, logan —“ you threw your head back, screwing your eyes shut.

“you wanna close your eyes, baby, huh?” he grunted with cockiness in his voice. “too much for you?” his voice was low and guttural, turning you on more and more. “need to see what it’s like when you break for me, baby. — lose it for me, yeah? come on — that’s it — that’s a girl —“

every muscle in your body was tightening with every word. you were straining against him — wanting to pull him close and push him far away at the same exact time. you wanted your orgasm, he wanted your orgasm — and you both fought the other for it. you were grinding your hips up to meet his hand — and he was pushing you back down to the ground so you’d sit-the-fuck-still and take whatever he gave you.

logan hovered over you, knees still planted between your thighs. he still worked at your pussy, still forcing it to consume everything he had to offer. his free hand grabbed at the hair at the top of your head, pulling it back so you were at his complete and total mercy, gasping and whimpering for him — and only him.

“yeah, baby — get lost in it. show daddy how much you needed this.”

you couldn’t take it anymore. you couldn’t. you just couldn’t. the relentless need to stay strong, to keep your cool, always remain calm — gone. all of it — gone. shockwaves went up and down your body, every muscle now taught. your neck stretched back and your back arched up into logan’s chest as your orgasm ran up, down, and through every vein. your throat was dry and cracked — as were any and all coherent words that left your mouth. gasps, cries, whimpers — they all went straight to logan’s cock the minute he smelled the sweet and tangy scent of your juice flowing onto his hands and palm. he wanted to lick you up and down, swallow you whole — but logan wasn’t a patient man, no — never.

and there he was. smirking, above you — not even slightly tired.

he kept up his torture — hand still working at your pussy.

“that’s it, baby — ride out that high,” he grunted in your ear, biting at your shoulder. “nice and easy. come down for me, sweetheart — daddy’s not done with you yet.”

you fell back against the dirt, gasping — wondering where the fuck you were and how logan got you there. everything about you — blurry. your eyesight, your hearing, your sense of smell — all of it: blurry. numb and tingling. you could feel everything and nothing all at once, all while trying to catch your breath.

the only thing you could do, the only thing — was reach for logan’s belt buckle, whining for more.

he smirked down at you then once more, taking his cock our for you to wrap your small, weak hand against its girthy base. you were still reeling from the orgasm, but he didn’t mind.

“greedy girl.” he kissed you, mouth hot and demanding. “pussy feels empty without me, huh? gotta change that.”

he threw one of your legs over his shoulder, your muscles stretching and conforming to his will. you pulled him close to you, whining into his kiss. he swallowed every feverish moan with everything he had, his mind now also buzzing with pleasure.

“bet your pussy feels so warm and wet —“ he breathed. “gonna let me use you, baby? hmm?”

you shook your head feverishly, tears coming to your eyes. “please, logan — please use me.”

that’s all he needed. he slid his long length inside you, and he felt every stretch. your pussy was so sweet — ready to mold to whatever he gave you. he heard your head fall back in pleasure, a loan erupting from your chest — but logan couldn’t care about that right now. all he could focus on was how your pussy opened wide for him, sucking him in like if needed him as much as he needed you. he felt himself grow longer and thicker inside of you, almost painfully.

“jesus fucking christ —“ he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and shoving his face into the crook of your neck. his guttural, deep moans were sent straight through your ear and down every nerve in your body. he grunted, “gonna let me take what i need, baby? let daddy use you?”

“yes, please —“ you cried. “need it so bad.”

he bent your leg back to your chest now, and suddenly the head of his cock was hitting a spot you had never felt before. so deep, so hidden — hot tears sprung to your eyes when he found it. every part of you was sensitive, buzzing for his touch — and all you could think about how there was more and more to give to him, only his to take.

“right there —!” you sobbed.

“that’s your spot, huh?” he spat through gritted teeth. “no boy has found that, i can tell. i can fucking smell it. you want me to pound into you there, baby? gonna let a real man show you how he fucks his girl?”

you were sobbing at this point, pulling him closer and closer into you if there was any space. you couldn’t respond. you didn’t have the strength or the brain to do so. all you could do was bite down on logan’s shoulder as he fucked into that spot — that one fucking spot — as he let out animalistic groans in your ear.

“all mine.”

“my fucking pussy —“

“good fucking girl —“

“gonna cream in this pussy until you can’t take it.”

your second orgasm ripped through you then as tears leaked from your eyes. your teeth broke logan’s skin, blood flooding your mouth as he moaned. the pain coursed through him with the pleasure, mixing within his veins until everything else and around him was forgotten. the only thing that mattered was the greedy pussy sucking him in, and the sweet girl beneath him.

logan was a fucking animal with how he chased your high. he ripped and clawed at the dirt as he drank in your second orgasm, feeling you go limp beneath him. the adrenaline coursing through his veins had a mind of its own — he wrapped your arms around his neck as he took your hips in both of his hands. he held you both upright then — smashing your hips down to meet his as you hung on for dear life. deep, broken grunts were pushed through his gritted teeth as he fought tooth and nail for his orgasm. he dove head first into it, letting you both fall to the ground.

you felt logan’s body shake — fucking shake. you had never known him to succumb to something so peaceful and powerful — so demanding of him. his muscles strained against the control like they were chains and he needed to break free. he groaned into the crook of your neck and tresses of your hair as he fucked himself into your puffy pussy, your cries mixing with his groans. logan’s thrust were desperate as he fucked his cream inside you, part of it coming out and leaking onto his cock as it mixed with your juice. the sight of it ripped through him as the want to claim you again and again took him too. he found your lips once more, both of you gasping into a kiss as you both settled back into the dirt.

it was going to be a long, long night...