#the others two but i think i only mentioned them

[wandaluvstacos]

all of these mentioned above are not regulations on housing. They are product regulations. Which are good! But they have very little to do with housing; no one is installing lead pipes in a house because lead pipes are not made. Because of regulations on products. Same with asbestos shingles.

Trump deserves to be [redacted], and I'm sure whatever regulations he cut are probably good ones because the GOP is a death cult who loves the suffering of others, but housing regulations in the US are notoriously awful and they're why we're in this housing crisis mess to begin with. This idea that "oh well landlords are just evil" does not take into account that... landlords are evil everywhere. Human greed exists in every country in the world. And yet some places (mostly in Asia) do not have a housing crisis.

There are some good housing regulations, for sure. A home should be habitable, with proper wiring and plumbing and all that. But that's not the problem, because we all know how to BUILD a house. There are millions of people who can figure that out. It is the regulations that stand in the way of building homes that are actually the issue. Trump and the GOP do not care about those, because they like those. Zoning was created as a way of segregating neighborhoods after the Fair Housing Act made it illegal to discriminate against race. Zoning regulations, parking mandates, the way the US requires every apartment building to have two staircases and giant elevators... these are all things that make building housing extraordinarily expensive, impractical, and unpleasant. Parking mandate regulations is why you literally cannot build charming downtowns anymore. Building an insane amount of parking - especially via underground garages for apartment buildings-- add thousands of dollars of cost to each unit in an apartment building. And parking mandate numbers were just... made up. No reason. Local officials literally just guess how much parking they THINK is needed.

I don't expect random people on Tumblr to understand the intricacies of urban design and the battles raged on that front, but not ALL regulations are good across the board. Many of them were invented to fuck over Black people, or keep poor people out of a neighborhood, or were thought up in response to one problem a guy had 50 years ago. This NIMBY idea of "oh well the only reason we can't find housing is because it's EMPTY and being HOARDED by greedy landlords" is just... not true. Landlords suck ass, but they exist everywhere. They exist in West Virginia, where housing is cheap, and they exist in California, where housing is not. It's really important to look into WHY housing is more expensive in some places more than others, and A LOT of it has to do with those local regulations. Lead and asbestos and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory simply have nothing to do with it.

Homes are expensive because of landlords hoarding them for profit, not because of regulations.

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

part two– summary | It's a shitty situation, dependency brimming unspoken and one wrong move puts your life in danger and once again, you find yourself owing everything to Joel.

content warning | DDDNE — DUBCON, coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, attempted sa (briefly), brief mentions of pregnancy and procedures to prevent it, mean!joel, unhealthy coping mechanisms for trauma, all angst no fluff but a lot of emotion, smut (bc without it who am i), sex riding an adrenaline high after life or death situation, joel fucks you against a tree, showering together, weird domesticity, guilt-riddled joel, bed-sharing, unprotected piv, creampies, lots of progress made here i promise

author's note | part three will more than likely be out by the end of this month i promise! also thank you to everyone who's shown this story so much love, it means so much to me. this chapter is about as light as this story gets...so....sorry? <3

word count —9k

part one | part three | strangers masterlist

They argue about you like you’re not standing a few feet away.

“She needs a job,” Tommy tells him, “Rules, Joel. Everyone pulls their weight—how this works.”

“You act like I don’t know that,” Joel gripes, “but what are you expecting her to do? She don’t talk, she refuses to go anywhere without me. She sure as hell ain’t gonna be much use workin’ the stables or fixin’ fences when she’s so goddamn skittish.”

Tommy shrugs, “Patrol, then.”

Joel’s eyes narrow, “Like hell,”

Another silent standoff you were more than happy to stay out of, the nylon of your coat scratching against itself as you take a couple steps back in the fear of an impending blow up.

“Give me another option then,” Tommy argues, “You just said she won’t leave your side—”

“She ain’t ready for that,” Joel says rather defensively, your brow furrowing at his disdain over the idea, ignoring the fact you were on the run for several weeks, surviving on your own—this was different.

Admittedly, you had clung to Joel.

He was safe, comfortable, and had become a strange sense of home in an unfamiliar place.

As much as he tried to act like it didn’t affect him, he’s grown used to your presence. Though, he’s set a hard boundary with you—no touching, keep your distance, and always make yourself known. You were always quiet, eerily so, and Joel hated that.

Tommy attempts to decipher Joel, staring at his brother, “You don’t think she can do it,”

“Both,” Joel admits, both of their eyes flickering toward you briefly, expressions unreadable.

“I think she’ll surprise you,” Tommy admits.

Joel shakes his head in a lazy disbelief, not believing an ounce of what Tommy is trying to convince him of, “We’ll see—but she’s with me, no one else. Not even Ellie.”

“Figured that,” Tommy retorts, “You’re goin’ out pretty far, we haven’t hit the lodge in a couple weeks. That alright?”

Your body tenses at the mention of it, but neither of them notice. Joel’s hand curls into a fist and flexes open, a nervous tic you’ve noticed about him when he was trying to steady himself, he nods silently in response.

When you both arrive back to the Miller home, Joel begins packing his bag up, already half-stuffed and switching out a few things. He tosses you a tattered bag, old and well-loved before he’s pointing toward the basement.

“A couple pairs of clothes, extra pair of shoes, nothing that ain’t a necessity—I’ll stock your pack with the other stuff come mornin’ before we head out,”

You had a night then.

There was only one lodge near Jackson that you could remember. It was the last time you saw them.

The men in tailored gear, embroidered with a gold patch that designated their status amongst the group. 

Trackers, seekers—they handled the recruiting, though often forced. They were glorified kidnappers, taking young men and women against their will if they were unfortunate enough to cross their path, but they also managed the hunting.

If someone escaped, they never came back in one piece.

Whether that was a shattered mind or a missing limb, it was never good.

The lodge was empty when you found it, just at the crest of winter when you had snuck in, fitting yourself into a sizable gap in the flooring covered by a wooden panel.

The men had been on your tail for days, tracking you through the miles of forests behind you and into the town.

Luckily, they were unsuspecting at that moment.

Your misfortune came later, but the lodge was a warning.

They were near, always near—you had no idea if they were still searching, even after a few weeks of settling in.

It was the unknown, the looming presence, that terrified you. 

They had an obligation to follow demands but most of them did it for sport.

It was never anything but a game.

—

Sleep is fickle that night, scratching at the rusted metal of your bed frame until it was caked under your nails, the soft hum of electricity above as it moved through Joel’s house, his soft footsteps as he woke, gentle as he strolled barefoot, eventually trading it for heavy footfall as his boots went on—it was early dawn when the tap came to your door, feigning sleep as you hid under the sheets.

Joel gives you a few minutes, pacing beyond the threshold.

His patience reminds you of the kind you used to wish for back when everything was different, back when you were nothing but a prisoner—you were pushing it, though. Even Joel’s patience would wear thin, making your best attempt to delay the patrol before he’s opening the door with a click, the key shoved into the mechanism before the door creaks open.

“Get up,” he barks, “we’re already late and holding up the rest of ‘em,”

You moan tiredly, barely audible, shuffling under the sheets, only for them to be ripped back in an instant.

“You’ve got about five seconds,” he warns, snatching your pack off the floor as he stands over you, daring to pry your eyes open to take a peek at him, “or I’m rippin’ you out of that bed,”

He catches your eyes as they open and his brow is cocked authoritatively, making your body move despite your apprehensiveness for the entire situation and Joel eyes you skeptically, stepping around you as you move with little enthusiasm.

“If you changed your mind, I can talk to Tommy,” Joel says with a tone that makes your chest tighten with fear—both of abandonment and helplessness, “I’m sure he’ll find somethin’ for you to do here while I go and—”

You stop in your tracks at his words, coat on and shoes barely slipped over your heel as you’re approaching him with immediate worry, shaking your head furiously as you grip onto his bicep, eyes pleading.

He’s always direct with you now, making sure your eyes connect with his. He’s learned to read you through facial expression and emotion, settling with the fact you weren’t going to speak to him, whether capable or not.

“Alright,” he sighs, and you shrug slightly but not enough to break your hold, “then hurry up.”

His voice carries the weight of a thousand other mornings like this, where silence and glances fill the space between you. He’s grown comfortable, surprisingly. He didn’t like how normal your presence had become or how you seemed to settle into his life easily.

“Probably make a few stops along the way,” Joel explains, “I took myself off patrol duty for this,” he means you, this, the burden of your situation and disruption, “the lodge is far but usually out there we aren’t dealin’ with much, less infected in the cold and all.”

But not people, you think.

He sees you tense at the mention, coat shrugging over your shoulders.

Last ditch effort. Anything.

Just change his mind.

You reach for his palm as he extends it face up, examining you carefully.

You tap your pointer finger into the center of his palm before pointing it at the floor, the hand holding his wrist tugging insistently.

Stay. A finger into his palm.

Here. A finger to the floor.

You repeat it a few times until he seems to understand through the silent communication.

“Stay..stay,” he begins, deciphering your message, “we’re not—no we’re not stayin’ here.”

Your face falls, instincts turning to drastic measures as you drop his hand, invading his space in a way he’s been careful to avoid, hands curling around the side of his face and the soft brush of his beard itching your palm before you’re leaning forward to press your lips against his own, eagerly pulling him toward you.

Joel’s quick, though. He rips your hands away, fingers tightening around your bicep harshly.

“Don’t try that shit again,” he growls, “ain’t no fuckin’ choice in you stayin’ here.”

You try to yank away from him but it was pointless.

“Are you gonna listen or do I need to drag you out?”

Your jaw tightens and you slackening under his grip and while he could let you go, he doesn’t.

You stumble behind as he pulls you with him, up the stairs, around the hall and into the living room until you’re standing at the door and he’s releasing you to jab a finger in your face, flinching with every flick as it grows closer, making you go nearly cross eyed. 

“You give me even the slightest amount of trouble while we’re out and I won’t hesitate to leave you behind,” Joel threatens, that sinking feeling of regret swirling in his gut the moment your expression softens.

She fucking trusts you, he reminds himself.

As slippery as that slope could be, he’s got a responsibility. 

You nod shakily and the tightness of his grip pierces your soul, immediately submitting to his hold as he jerks you to face forward and reaches around to grab the knob, chest pressed against your back as you step outside.

A swirling wind greets you, whistling its own kind of warning as Joel drags you through the brittle, dried grass. Your boots crunch against the frosty ground, doing your best to keep pace with him, breath puffing out in frantic clouds. Cold air bites your skin and the crunch of your boots, now on gravel, fills the silence between you. It’s tense. 

You follow him to the stable as he releases his grip on you, to the weapon compound, close at his side as he steers the horse to the front gate, looking rather apologetic to his brother who seems to sense the situation between you and Joel and quickly averts the watchful eyes of others with his voice, calling off the list of locations and names like a roll call.

“Get on,” he orders, softer now but still edged and you oblige, feeling a hovering touch of his hand over your thigh as you climb onto the horse and lean back, making room for him to climb on.

Joel’s arms snake behind him to wrap yours around his jacket before he grabs the reins and clicks his tongue. The horse hesitates, feeling your combined weight, then lurches forward. You cling to the saddle as Joel steadies you with a firm grip, holding you close as Jackson fades from view.

The solace you’ve come to appreciate slipping through your fingers, even if temporary, made the pit in your stomach grow rapidly.

The landscape stretches out in muted colors. Bare trees reach like fingers, tendrils to the gray sky and frost clings to their branches. Joel’s silence feels like a wall between you, and you bite your lip to fight the chill that’s creeping into your bones, shrugging the hood of your coat over your head as you bury your face in between his shoulder blades, eyes peeking over.

It’s a strange kind of comfort for Joel the way you settle into him, close and warm. 

As much as he tried to keep his distance, there was always a loophole.

“You gonna explain what that was back there?” Joel asks, knowing his questioning is pointless, the roar of the wind and the bumpy ride making it nearly impossible for any type of silent communication, “I don’t want you doin’ that anymore, thinkin’ you need to act that way to…I don’t know—do whatever you’re wanting to do,”

The landscape rolls by like a somber, black and white film strip; broken fences and abandoned cars sprouting from the ground, dead infected and rotting animals, houses abandoned. It wasn’t as normal now, living in a lively place with such a dichotomy only a ride away, reminding you just how temporary your life was in this world.

“Were you scared to leave Jackson?” he asks curiously, trying to decipher what he could.

You hesitate, unsure how to answer. It was a yes and no question—safe was anywhere with Joel, but you were still weary. You don’t answer immediately, so Joel assumed that wasn’t the problem.

“Is it the weather? Don’t like the snow?” you shake your head almost immediately, uncaring for the elements, finding that dying from frostbite or heatstroke were both equally miserable.

“The lodge?” he asks after a long, drawn out silence—the ride was still long, more difficult as the snow began to pick up, falling in thick sheets, “Is there somethin’ out here you ain’t told us?”

You shift slightly, the leather of Joel’s jacket creaking beneath your cheek. The question hangs heavy, like the snow. It’s too much to explain, the knot of reasons tangled inside you. You press your face into his back again, wishing you could dissolve into him and stay there. You feel his sigh before you hear it, learning the way his body works through touch and sound. It’s not disappointment—it’s understanding. 

But, that frightens you too.

Joel makes a few short stops along the way, simple checks on smaller lookouts that don't even require you to get off the horse, keeping watch as he was in and out within a couple of minutes, eyes always on you no matter where he moved.

You can sense the way his anger lingers in his face and the stiffness of his shoulders but his instinct to protect is stronger, shoving the sturdy emotion aside to traverse through the heavy storm until, hours later, the lodge comes into view, your heart hammering in your chest.

Your fingers tighten around the lapels of his jacket and he looks down, watching the way you strangle the fabric under your grip, shifting slightly on the saddle as he slows to a stop just inside the lodge before Joel helps you off the horse and ties him, leaving you for a moment that feels nothing short of a century, frozen in your spot as you hold your bag close to your chest.

“At some point you gotta start talkin’,” his voice startles you as it comes from the shadows, jacket stripped as he kneeled down at the fire pit near the center of the room, working quickly to warm the place up, “it ain’t about inconvenience either, it could get you killed.”

You move silently and sit nearby, eyes downturned and lips pulled tight.

It’s impossible to explain, the way your throat constricts at any attempt to speak, like a knee jerk reaction as you anticipate the strike of a hand or foot, a lash at your back or the hot prick of a cigarette into your skin. 

You still felt it occasionally, the phantom pain.

Your bottom lip trembles as they part, desperately wanting to make the attempt but knowing your body won’t let you out of self-preservation. Joel doesn’t see the struggle, but he can see your fingers fidgeting, restlessness laying in wait. 

“Did you bring your paper and pen with you?” Joel asks, sounding fatherly in a way that hints of a life lived and lost, “You can’t just ask the way you did this morning for no reason, I want answers,”

You nod obediently, riffling through your bag for the items.

Joel waits until they're in your hand and the fire crackles to life before he asks his first question.

“Is it the lodge? Is that why you wanted to stay in Jackson?” he asks, watching you scribble down a swift answer.

Yes. But, more.

He leans forward on his knees and into your space to read the scribbled note, sighing tiredly.

It isn’t what he wanted, obvious in the roll of his eyes.

“Explain,” He says tensely, “Stop bein’ so damn cryptic, I don’t like that shit,”

They followed me here. I hid. 

Joel’s face contorts in confusion.

“They followed you that far?”

It was their job. Bad men, all of them. They enjoy it. I hid and they didn’t find me. That time. I was worried they might find me again. They didn’t that time.

Joel examines the concentration on your phase as you write out the words, taking the notebook as you gently shove it into his palm, large fingers wrapping around the notepad.

“Who is they?” Joel asks, “You keep writin’ they,” his fingernail scratches over the word, leaving an indent in the paper, “We’re tight about patrols out here, we woulda saw ‘em. You sure it wasn’t someone else? Maybe just some random raider? They stroll through from time to time lookin’ for shelter.”

No. Not random. They wore emblems, gold and threaded to look like an anchor. There are men we serve, higher-ups. Then ones that follow a code, like an army. The men after me were hunters. Trackers. Do you understand? Not for animals.

“Sick fucks,” Joel says mostly to himself as he reads over your writing,

Don’t leave me. Please. I will do anything.

His earlier words echo in your head, seeming to cross his own mind at the same time.

You shove the notepad at him hastily, hands trembling slightly,

“Don’t get worked up," Joel says, voice a little gruff, "I’m not leavin’.”

Safe. He writes it out underneath your own words. 

Thick. Heavy. 

He nods.

Suddenly, as Joel feels around in his pocket as he stands, he comes across an object Tommy had handed him before he left, careful as he approaches you and reaches for your hand, pressing the solid weight of the object into it.

It was your knife, cleaned up and sharpened to a dangerous point.

Joel makes a noise of warning, fingers tight around your wrist.

“This ain’t yours to keep,” Joel explains, “jus’ while we’re out here, in case you come across an animal or something, it comes right back to me when we leave, understood?”

Begrudgingly, you nod.

“Put it away,” he instructed, watching as you closed the knife and stuffed it into your pocket.

You couldn’t explain it, but the frustration in him still simmered, unsure if it was because of you or not. Joel was a sorrowful man, carrying enough guilt for a thousand men—it could be that he was just having a day, desperate for a moment to himself.

It comes a while later after you’ve both settled in and the place was filled with warmth, “Keep watch, don’t wander—I’ll sleep for a couple hours then take over, got it?”

You nod quickly, perched on the wide, open window as you watch the snowfall. 

Something about it was oddly therapeutic, looking over to watch the scowl on Joel’s face soften as he fell into a deep slumber, leaning half reclined against a wall with his jacket balled up by his head to double as a pillow.

Hours pass without incident, thankfully. Joel said two, but it was already four and he was still sleeping, snoring now as he’s slumped down into a more horizontal position, growing slightly restless as the storm had calmed and the sun was shining overhead, desperate for a few moments of fresh air now that you were here, feeling comfortable enough in the quiet and with Joel’s presence that you could step out for a moment and breathe, putting on your shoes and coat quickly as you slipped out the back door of the lodge and watched a pair of birds on a branch as they hopped beside each other, chirping quietly.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this calm or relaxed, glancing over at Joel sheepishly despite his obliviousness. 

You inhale deeply, letting the crisp, post-storm air fill your lungs. 

The lodge is silent behind you, save for the faint sound of Joel’s snoring. The fresh air feels like a relief, a moment of stillness that you hadn’t realized you needed. That you deserved.

Your eyes follow the pair of birds a moment longer, chirping softly to each other.

It’s peaceful—almost too peaceful. 

A small prickle of unease creeps up your spine, but you shake it off.

It’s just quiet. 

Nothing’s wrong.

Then—

You feel your throat swell.

The snap of a twig.

You freeze. The birds flutter away, startled. Your breath catches.

You don’t have time to turn before an arm locks around your chest, a rough hand clamping over your mouth. You couldn’t scream even if you wanted to.

“Oh, easy, ea-sy,” the stranger coos with a sickening softness, “don’t wanna wake him up, do ya?”

The faceless attacker holds you tight, something sharp and jagged at your back as he guides you backwards, further away from Joel.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you struggle, but he’s strong. 

He reeks of sweat and damp clothes, his grip unyielding.

"You people think you’re so damn careful… but you’re just easy pickings if you ain’t watchin’,” he sounds so smug and amused, greedy as he dragged you further and further away, feet stumbling out beneath you as you fell into the snow against him, a grunt shooting from his chest but ultimately it was followed by a spine-chilling chuckle, a hand slipping underneath the material of your shirt and over your abdomen, “been camped out here all day watchin’ you both, thought you were a dime, though–couldn’t pass up the opportunity,”

You twist sharply, managing to get free, clawing at his arm as you shove it away. He grunts in irritation but grabs at your ankle, yanking you back down as you fall to your ass, silently groaning at the pain.

"Feisty," he mutters. "I like it. Ain’t much fun otherwise."

You’ve fought for your life plenty of times and this was no different.

It shouldn’t surprise you that misfortune met you at every turn, allowing yourself to fall into a false confidence only to be disappointed once more as the man looms over you, a shadow of menace. You kick wildly, connecting with his shin. A low snarl escapes him.

“Little bitch,” he hisses, shaking his leg as if to brush off the sting. 

But, it gives you a moment to scramble backward on your hands and heels, snow biting at your palms as you shoved your hand into your pocket to find your knife, watching as he stalked toward you in a pure rage, opening your mouth in a scream you know will never come, but then he’s tripping, scrambling to catch his bearings over you.

The tip of the blade slices through his guts like butter, feeling the bile rise in your throat at the sensation and the warm spread of blood over your hand, desperately trying to force his weight off of you, but his hands finds your face, thumbs reaching for your eyes in any attempt to injure you but then there’s a shot ringing out, startling the both of you.

Simultaneously, the man jerks violently, his hands going slack around your face as he falls with a gurgling choke. Blood flows down his neck and onto you, drenching your clothes in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You scramble to your knees, backing away without looking toward the gunman as you panic, wiping the blood from your skin and into the snow, desperate to rid yourself of the thick fluid before Joel’s invading your space, fingers tightening into your coat to yank you upright as he shoves you back against a tree, blinded with pure rage.

He had saved you. He was angry, sure. But, he saved your life. Again.

“Are you fucking stupid, girl?!” he asks, his tone tight and harsh, met with a meek nod.

“Wrong answer,” He snaps, “I said two hours, then you wake me. I said not to wander and you did—so answer me again, are you—fucking stu—”

He doesn’t register that sting of your teeth in his bottom lip until your hand curls around the back of his neck, tongue spearing into his mouth as his mouth parts in surprise, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him into the kiss. 

Thank you, it breathes.

His grip slackens for the briefest moment before turning to steel again, fingers knotted in your clothes, twisting and pulling you closer. The violence of him feels like a lifeline, like something sure and solid in this brutal world. He’s safe. 

Safe.

He shoves you harder against the tree, rough bark biting through your coat as his teeth gnash against yours, tangled breaths turning to steam in the cold.

Your head spins, heart shuddering up into your throat, and you lose yourself in the way he feels, like fury itself. His hand moves from your clothes to splay over your belly, warm and forceful where the knife was just seconds before on your attacker who lay lifeless on the snowy ground.

You can’t stop thinking. 

The coppery taste of blood lingers everywhere: on your clothes, on the dead man, on Joel’s mouth now. The snow around you is red-stained as his hands roam over you, your own hands mirroring his unspoken neediness as you tear into the belt of his jeans, feeling him undo your own in tandem, unable to look one another directly in the eye at that moment, desperate for connection by other means.

He shouldn’t be allowing this, but the urge to consume your gratitude is stronger.

His thumb fumbles with the button of your jeans, and you’re practically writhing to get them off, burning up despite the chill. You sigh internally as he manages to get them free, yanking them far enough down your thighs before he’s turning you against the tree.

The world fades around you; it’s just him, just you, each breath mingling as he frees himself from his pants. You feel his heat press against you, insistent, frenzied, somehow apologetic as it fits between your thighs.

You feel his fingers fit between your legs and spread between your folds like instinct but you’re shaking your head, hand clawing at back of his neck as you arch your ass into him, a silent plea for him to just fuck you instead, needy as you bring his mouth to yours with a distinct hunger, swallowing up his ragged breaths as he rubs his thumb and pointer finger over the head of his cock and through your slick before he’s stretching you open with little grace, mouth open in a silent gasp as your free hand grabs at his hip.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth, words dissolving into a groan as he sets an unrelenting pace. The tree bark is rough against your skin, but you don’t care, the rawness of it only adds to the frenzy growing between you. Hastily undressed and filthy, the kiss-smudged blood across his face smearing into yours.

He’s practically holding you up like this, his grip slipping over your hips as his mouth finds your neck, biting down just enough to bruise or draw blood of your own, not entirely sure.

His thrusts breath raw desperation, nails clawing at bare skin as he hisses into your neck.

There’s nothing soft about it, no measured rhythm, just a brutal need for each other. 

Joel is acutely aware of the way your body is responding to him, silent sobs racking your chest as you pull him impossibly closer, “I gotcha,” he says, “I feel you, you’re gonna give it to me, aren’t ya? S’right there, I feel it,”

And he wants it more than he was comfortable admitting to himself, the satisfaction of filling the insatiable need you had craved from him.

His hand snakes over your mouth, smothering sounds that would never surface, but the gesture is heady, biting at the skin of his palm until you knew it would sting.

Desperation blurs into pleasure, and you feel it shuddering through you like an electric current and the world comes rushing in again all at once: the cold air nipping at sweat-slick skin, branches clawing at your chest like a bitter, jealous lover. It’s hard to tell, the way you both are clawing at this for dear life, but you think this is maybe as close as the two of you have ever been, filthy and frantic and burning up together as you come, feeling Joel pull out in enough time to spill into his fist, low and drawn-out grunts that had you cunt pulsing, resting dissociatively against the tree.

It was the most human you’ve felt in years.

“Get inside,” Joel says suddenly, pulling you back to reality—surprisingly, his voice is calmer.

And for once, you don’t argue.

–

Joel watches you change, trading the bloodied clothes for fresh ones and wiping you down in between, a silent but intimate gesture that neither of you outwardly address, eyes scanning his face carefully as he taps at your chin so he can wipe underneath your neck.

And you don’t speak about it.

Joel doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He takes care of the body, stays on watch despite your quiet persistence to help

But, as your hand trembles at your side as you approach him beside the fire pit, his fingers thread into your own, a heavy weight holding you down until it stops shaking. You can feel the small tremor on his own, harbored for different reasons. But, it calms him too.

You felt like there was finally equal ground to stand on.

–

When you arrive back in Jackson a couple days later, Joel relays information about the raider with some omissions, only suggesting that there be more frequent checks, but as you and Joel settle into a routine, things become almost…too easy.

He’s always expectant of your knife the moment you approach the gates, handing it over without problem, but just as easily sliding it into your own as you settle into your patrol spot for whatever rotation you both ended up on, still increasingly weary around others that weren’t Joel, you find a similar protection with Tommy, though not entirely comparable. 

Tommy only took you out so far as to teach you how to shoot and clear out infected that were a safe enough distance they couldn’t do any real harm, only swarms passing through.

Joel still hasn’t initiated any touch with you since that day, but his actions are increasingly more intimate despite his body language around you—though, that doesn’t mean he stops you.

Maybe it was how he justified his own righteousness, that he was absolving himself of the guilt that he had knowingly allowed you to attach yourself to him, almost selfishly.

With Ellie’s growing independence becoming more and more obvious, Joel leans toward your odd connection and the ease it brings to his routine.

You’re shivering over a cup of coffee one morning despite your layers and blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the chill making your bones ache.

“You can sleep up here, you know,” Joel tells you, “the couch is comfortable, s’close to the fire, too.”

You shrug nonchalantly, sipping softly at the strong brew.

“Sleep up here,” he tries again, a command, your hesitation curling around the steaming cup as your eyes connect, nodding hesitantly.

His mug scuffs the counter as his fingers curl around the ceramic, his hip settling into the edge as he leans into the surface and you meet him with an honest gaze.

“Are you only agreeing because I’m tellin’ you to?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

Joel doesn’t harp on it, though. It was a small battle won, less worry of you catching frostbite or a cold down in the basement, your presence more apparent as you move into the neutral living space, there when he wakes and when he retires for the night, quiet and somber.

Then, there was an instance with the shower that became routine. 

Your skin caked with dirt and re-opened cuts crusted with days old blood, a particularly rough run-in with a group of infected that Joel had dealt with mostly, you trailing close behind and taking out the few stragglers.

Joel always opted for privacy anymore—save the moment at the lodge when you had shed your blood stained clothes and Joel had to make sure none of it was your own, but your body was exhausted as was your mind, losing your footing as you stumbled into the sink and made a soft noise that Joel’s never heard before.

He’s never heard anything from you, really. 

Only your breathing, heavier in moments of anxiety or despair, but soft as you slept.

You were hunched over the tub and half-dressed, your head pounding as the blood rushed there, eyes squeezing shut as you bit at the inside of your cheek and Joel’s presence is there, but far, hovering near the door as he just needed eyes on you to confirm you weren’t hurt.

As the door closes and you’re pushing back to your feet, you yank it back with a similar strength and Joel watches your hand reach for him, curling in the fabric of his shirt as you silently plead for him to come closer.

Help me, your eyes plead.

Quietly, you guide the shirt over his head and his mind finally catches up, reaching behind you as he turns the water on until the bathroom was smothered with steam, his eyes wondering anywhere but you as you both stepped in naked under the stream, guided by Joel to turn away as he washed you in silence, careful and methodical, leaning into his touch as his fingers curl around the back of your neck to wash your hair.

It happens once or twice again, based around the frequency of patrols and whenever the house was empty and though Joel is hesitant to your touch, eventually he gives in, eyes usually closed as you face him, hands tugging through his dirtied hair and over his chest, a low rumble as your fingers curl a little too low, grazing over the curve of his ass before his fingers catch your wrist and his eyes pry open, shaking his head.

Eventually, his resolve fades.

He tries, but your persistence is steadfast, growing needful to his proximity in every facet of your life and the kisses are shy at first, gentle presses to his shoulder or arm, occasionally over his chest or neck, his hands hovering but never touching without necessity. 

He doesn’t like to talk, either. But, he became familiar with the scar on your lower abdomen, just above your pelvis and thick, the skin clearly marred but not like the others on your body.

You always guide his hand away out of discomfort, unsure how to explain without using words.

Though, given what you’ve told him and the behaviors you’ve exhibited, Joel can make a guess.

He blurts it out one night as you shower until the water grows cold.

“They take something from you?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod slightly, hands curving over his shoulders to dig into the muscle and knead, his eyes downturned and dark, intimidating as always.

The doctors performed a salpingectomy on many, including you, unsafe and at risk of death given the environment and lack of understanding, there was no telling what kind of damage they had done, but the most important part was that reproduction was null, some sick and twisted belief to keep women obedient and available. 

You don’t remember much, but it was years ago.

Your face heats as you mimic a pregnant belly, ignoring how his hand guides over your breast with the soapy rag as you lock eyes with him, shaking your head.

His face twitches emotionlessly, nostrils flaring, “I’m sorry,” and he means it.

Joel remembers the harsh accusation he’d thrown at you, assuming your motives without understanding or knowing, but this—it gives him perspective. 

–

A few hours later, you wake from a night terror.

It was dark, pitch black and quiet, but you couldn’t move.

Your mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out, thrashing against invisible bindings until you come to, Joel’s hands locked around your shoulders to keep you still, shaking you back to reality.

“Hey, hey,” his voice is an instant drug that soothes, eyes ripping open and searching frantically until they land on his face, “breathe, kid—you’re here, not there,”

Joel knew—of course he did.

He stays until you calm, pushing up on your hands to sit up and reaching for his arm as he stands, repeating the same gesture in his palm that he’s come to understand, crystal clear.

Stay, you gesture.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, but you’re pulling him closer, fingers curling against his sides and Joel shakes his head, giving you some resistance, “nono—ain’t enough room for that, alright?”

Your grip tightens, begging.

Joel exhales through his nose in defeat, his hands twitching slightly where they still hold you. 

He doesn’t even need to ask, your footsteps following closely behind his own as he turns, padding back toward his room down the hall, slipping into his bed and under the sheets without a word, the weight of him next to you enough to settle your anxiety.

The second time you crawl into his bed, it’s after another nightmare. 

He doesn’t say anything—just lets out a tired sigh and shifts over, leaving space for you. You don’t touch him, not at first. Just tuck yourself into the blankets, facing away, the tension in your body easing just enough for sleep to take hold.

Then, it happens again. And again.

Every night, the same thing. 

You slip in, quiet as ever, and Joel tells himself it’s fine. That he can keep his distance.

But, you always end up entangled by the time you wake.

Your cheek pressed into his chest. His arm curled protectively around your waist. 

His breath in your hair.

Him, around you.

Joel knows he should stop this. 

He should tell you to stay in your own damn bed.

That it ain't right.

That he can’t be what you need him to be.

One night, he’s not asleep when you slip into his bed.

He feels the mattress dip, the hesitant pause before you settle in beside him, close but not touching. Joel keeps his eyes shut, breath steady, pretending he doesn’t notice.

But, then your fingers ghost over his wrist, then around his waist, your knee shifting between his thighs as you curl into him and nuzzle against his neck, lips pressing into his pulse point.

He stiffens. Feels you hesitate, then try again, pressing a kiss into the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Kid," he mutters, voice low, warning.

He can feel the neediness in your touch, eyes flicking up shyly to look at him as he bows his head to look down at you.

"You do everything I tell you to," he murmurs, and he’s right—voice rough with sleep. "If I told you to go back to your own bed, would you listen?"

Silence.

Then, your fingers tighten slightly where they’re wrapped around him. A slow shake of your head to answer his question and a sigh from him that follows, it shakes the room.

It’s defeat.

Your lips brush against his jaw first, tentative, testing. When he doesn’t stop you, you press again, slower this time. Then lower, over the rough stubble of his throat.

Joel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. His hand finds your waist, fingers curling tight before forcing himself to loosen his grip.

His fingers twitch against your waist, the calloused pads pressing firm into the soft give of your skin. His breath is heavy, slow, controlled—because he has to be.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he says, but it’s weak, “can’t be.”

A hollow protest. 

You don’t say anything, just tilt your head, lips tracing along his pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your mouth, slow and steady. He’s always so calm, a constant beat that never skipped or faltered.

He exhales sharply, his grip tightening. “Christ,” he breathes, head tipping forward until his forehead brushes against yours. “You don’t listen worth a damn, do you?”

You shake your head again, more deliberate this time.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and searching, like he’s looking for something—one last excuse to push you away. 

But there’s nothing—he’s guilty for the need of this too.

And then you’re pulling him down, lips pressing against his, soft but insistent, and any last restraint he had left crumbles in an instant.

Joel groans against your mouth, deep and wrecked, his hands still hesitant to touch, only allowing it as you initiate, dragging his hand to your waist and down, under your thigh until he’s hiking your leg over his hip.

His lips part, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he kisses you again, harder, deeper, like he needs this just as much as you do. Like he’s just as desperate for it.

He is.

Joel pulls you closer, his hands gripping at your waist. His lips are slow at first, searching, but when you whimper against his mouth, something inside him snaps. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard, the first he’s ever heard, surprising yourself as the sound slips out, throat immediately collapsing on itself in fear, awaiting the hands that wrap tight around your throat and suffocate.

Instead, his hand fists in the fabric of your shorts, curling around your hip as your core drags over his groin, his quickly hardening cock pressing against the inside of your thigh.

"You don’t even think twice, do you?" he rasps against your lips, his breath warm and unsteady. "Just do whatever the hell I tell you without arguing?”

You nod, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. You nod, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. With your muteness, it meant Joel’s eyes had to be on you, constantly waiting and searching for communication.

It made you feel special, the way he was attentive to you at all times.

Your thumb drags over his lip as you pause for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in.

His eyes darken, something unreadable flickers across his face, and his hands still for a moment too, resting heavy on the bare skin of your leg.

“That ain’t always a good thing,” he tell you, but he’s already leaning back in, following the push into his shoulder as you raise your leg over his abdomen to straddle him, pressing him into the mattress as you grind down into him.

Somehow you know he’ll follow, that he won’t resist. 

He’s guilty, too—doesn’t ever think twice when it comes to you. That’s what eats at him the most—how easily you give in to each other. How willingly.

Your hands skim down his chest, nails scratching lightly over the thick hair there, down to his stomach, lower—until he catches your wrist, shaking his head.

"Slow down," he murmurs, voice strained, rough around the edges as your hips moving at a leisurely pace, glancing down to admire the thickness of his shaft as the fabric hugged around him, leaving no part of him to imagination, the thick trail of hair that disappeared beyond his waistband, "You don't gotta—"

You shake your head, mouth hung open in silence as your eyes fall shut.

A groan rumbles low in his chest as he lets go of you, hands falling to his side as lets you use him, slowly realizing what this moment was for you.

A reclamation of your own pleasure and autonomy, using his body for release that did nothing to benefit him outside of the wonder that bloomed into his features as you move more frantic, fabric bunching up higher at your hips as you chase your high, working toward the crest of your orgasm that you just couldn’t reach, face scrunching up in annoyance as you start to hit as his chest with soft blows, seemingly frustrated.

Joel knows what you need, skin against skin, flush connection.

You look up at him with a pout that pleads, screaming out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you as you shift, a fury of limbs as you remove your shorts with impatience, tossing them to the floor as you tug at his sweats, his cock bobbing heavy and free, just far enough down his thighs that you can see how his balls tighten at your touch, taking a moment to admire him this way, his face contorted into something unreadable as your thumb slides over his slit, leaking with precum and his tip a blushed red.

Joel lets out a strangled breath, his head tilting back against the pillow as your fingers wrap around him, slow and deliberate, dragging over the length of him with just enough pressure to make his stomach tense.

He breathes slowly, his hands twitching at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to touch you. 

To guide you. Teach you.

But he won’t—he lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace. 

You shift upwards, lining yourself up with him, the heat of your slick cunt teasing against his length, dragging up and down as you shudder at the feeling, the head of his cock sliding against your clit, the shlick of your bodies as they move against each other.

His jaw clenches, muscles taut as he watches.

Your fingers curl against his skin, nails pressing into him as you take all of him, inch by inch.

He finds himself waiting for a sound, silently begging for it, curious if you would sound as wrecked as he did, grunting when you’re seated fully, the burn mixing with pleasure so intense it makes your head fall forward. 

Joel’s breath stutters. His hands find your waist with your guidance, squeezing tight, like this was your attempt in trying to get him to ground himself too. He doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up into you—just lets you adjust, lets you take him however you want. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, voice wrecked. “You feel that?” You nod, biting your lip, rolling your hips experimentally. A pleasurable ache growing in your gut. He groans, low and guttural, his fingers digging into your flesh. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Take what you need.” 

And you do.

You start slow, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the taut muscle beneath your palms as you roll your hips, testing, searching for something you’re not sure of. The stretch is deep, almost too much, but it’s what you want—what you need.

Joel’s hands grip your waist, like he’s holding himself back, like if he lets go, he’ll take over. 

But he doesn’t. He just watches, dark eyes hooded, jaw tight as you find your rhythm.

He exhales through gritted teeth, watching the way you move, the way your body trembles every time you take him deeper, your breasts shifting under your shirt as you bounce, finding himself speaking before the words filter, like his pleasure has a mind of its own.

"You always listen so well, don’t you?"

Your breath hitches at the praise, the smallest whimper slipping from your lips, and Joel's fingers tighten on your hips, not guiding you, but steadying you, anchoring you to him. You’ve never made sounds like this before, not even by accident.

With him, the fear of retaliation has begun to ease. Each noise that slips isn’t met with anger or rage, but astonishment, eyes widening in wonder.

“You like that?” he asks, voice rough, like it’s been dragged down a gravel road, "Doin’ what you’re told?"

You nod frantically, grinding down harder, desperate for more.

For him, you think. Only for him.

Give me safety. I’ll give you everything.

He curses under his breath, his restraint fraying at the edges. "Fuck—look at you," he groans, his fingers digging into your flesh now, a warning, his own control slipping. "Takin’ me so fuckin’ good."

A shudder runs through you at his words, your walls fluttering around him, making him hiss.

"Keep goin'," he murmurs, lifting up slightly as he settles on an elbow, the thumb of his free hand stroking your skin, the tension in his body betraying how much effort it takes to stay still, “I feel ya, how bad you need it,”

Your fingers reach for him, prying his grip from your waist and guiding his hands up, over your body, pressing them against your breasts, your stomach, anywhere you can, until he gets it—until he stops holding back. He rises to meet you, arms wrapping around your waist similar to how you had cornered him on the couch in the basement, but the implication is different.

A deep, guttural groan escapes him, and then his hands are moving on their own, sliding down to grip your ass, to spread you wider as he thrusts up into you, slow but deep, pushing a broken moan from your throat.

"Yeah?" he rasps in surprise, voice strained. "Is that what you wanted?"

You nod helplessly, nails scraping over his chest as you try to keep up with his pace, but Joel doesn’t let you. He takes over now, fucking up into you with long, deliberate strokes, each one dragging a whimper from your lips.

More sounds, he needed more sounds.

"You gotta tell me," he pleads, his grip almost bruising now. "I need to hear it."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp, your head falling forward against his shoulder, and Joel growls, wrapping the arm around your back tight to keep you pressed against him.

"Say it," he demands, voice thick with need as he looks up at you, "Tell me what you need. I know you can—you’re doin’ so good," It was such a stark contrast, the praise.

Your lips part, voice shaky, barely above a whisper and broken, your voice foreign to your ears as it leaves your mouth

"You."

Joel freezes beneath you, stilling for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it’s gone, replaced with something darker, something deeper.

He wants to fucking ruin you and build you back up watching as the tears form in your eyes, knowing what the action meant, the energy and bravery it took, he doesn’t push it aside.

His chest rises sharply against yours, breath stalling like he’s not sure he heard right. His fingers twitch against your skin, gripping tighter, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You feel the weight of it, the shift in the air. 

His pulse hammers against your palm where you press against his throat, his body locked beneath you like the words had cut him deeper than any knife ever could.

Your voice.

You’ve never spoken before.

Not to him. Not to anyone.

And now, with your body wrapped around him, shaking, desperate, it’s him you ask for. 

Him you need.

His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it. 

You just press closer, urging him with slow rolls of your hips, hoping he understands, hoping he doesn’t make you say it again—because you don’t think you can.

And then, Joel moves.

Slowly. Carefully.

His hands roam, sweeping over your back, your waist, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing you, feeling you breathe. His touch is softer now, reverent, as if the moment itself has changed, evolved into something neither of you expected.

You nod to an unasked question, pressing your lips against his cheek, his jaw, anywhere you can reach, trying to coax him back, trying to keep the moment from slipping away.

His hips snap up, slow but deep, dragging a soft, broken moan from your throat that makes his grip tighten. A noise barely audible.

"That’s it," he breathes, his voice thick with something you can’t explain. His hands guide you now, steady but unrelenting, moving you with him, driving deeper, harder, every roll of your hips pulling another sound from your lips, another shudder from your body.

He drinks in every noise, every gasp, every trembling sigh like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Collecting them all and committing them to memory.

"Keep talkin’ to me," he mutters, voice ragged, desperate. "Let me hear you."

But, you can’t.

The pleasure is too much, coiling tight, pulling you under, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping against his throat as your body starts to shake through your orgasm. The energy it takes to speak, the courage bleeding you dry. You’d lost your voice again.

Joel feels it—your unraveling, your breaking, the way your walls flutter around him—and it undoes him completely. Your hands cradle your face, tilting his head back so you can see him, his dark eyes burning into yours as he thrusts up hard as he spills inside of you, not entirely thinking as he does it.

"That’s it, baby," he praises, “Keep squeezin’ me, I’m right here,”

And for a long moment, neither of you move. 

The only sound is his ragged breaths, the pounding of your heart.

His lips brush your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.

"You," he murmurs to you, soft, like it means something to him too.

Maybe it does, you weren’t sure.

–

He reaches you this way, through connection and touch.

Sex or something similar, the intensity of the moment clouding your thoughts and relaxing your worry, and his too.

It was a give and take with each other, distracting Joel from his constant stream of troubling thoughts and worries, still never approaching you—it was always under your guidance.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s wrong. But every time your hands find him, every time you press yourself into his space, silently asking for comfort, for connection, he gives in.

The moment you touch him, the constant, gnawing dread in his mind quiets.

Just for a little while. And selfishly, he needs it.

Your fingers trail up his chest, light, uncertain, tracing the scars like a map. Joel watches, his breath slow and steady, his muscles tense beneath your touch—but he doesn’t stop you.

He never does.

You cornered him in the kitchen this particular night, his hands curled over the edge of the sink with his head hung, chest heaving like he had just woken up from his own nightmare, sneaking out of bed but not quite enough that you wouldn’t notice.

When you press your lips against his skin, soft and searching, he exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long. 

Like you were the answer.

"You sure?" he asks, his voice rough, low, but there’s no demand in it. 

No expectation. 

Only restraint. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can hold back, between the constant time spent together and the nights spent inside of you, allowing your greediness to take hold.

He pushed his own aside, stuffed until it was boiling over.

You nod, and that’s all it takes.

His hands find your waist, pulling you against him, guiding you the way you he needs, the way he knows you need too, his grip firm, like he’s holding something fragile—something breakable.

That's what this was, after all.

A delicate balance. A silent understanding.

You give each other this, and in return, he gives you himself, as do you—fully, completely, no barriers, no walls.

When he moves it is slow and deliberate, when his mouth finds your throat and his fingers grip your neck, guiding you against and up on the counter, fingers spreading underneath your top before it’s torn over your head, it was all the same. His palms curve around your neck, pulling you toward him as his lips capture yours in a surprisingly tender kiss, lips parting immediately as his tongue licks along your own, mirroring his touch as you spread your legs to make room for him. 

You don’t need anything else but this.

Only this.

Only him.

Only you.

But, there’s that gnawing in Joel’s chest that makes him out to be the monster he knows he can be, taking advantage of your trauma and pushing your limits, using you like you’ve been used before.

He’s no better, he thinks.

If anything, he’s worse.

[themareverine]

Screeching because I love your writing and can’t wait to see where you go with this!

Logan Howlett, PG-13 (I’m thinking WW or trilogy Logan, but go where Lo takes you 😉)

Logan walking in on you taking an everything shower or a bath (candles lit, playlist on, etm.), dealers choice on at what point he bumbles in (or maybe NOT bumbles?) and where the muse takes you from there…

— All of You

Worst!Wolverine x fem!wife!reader

tags: fluff, some mentions of Weapon X, pre-established relationship, some heavy-handed innuendo.

a/n: and here it is, the last of my Valentine's Day requests! thanks so much for requesting my favorite variant, honey. hope you like bathtime with Logan! It isn't quiet PG-13, but it's hot enough for me.

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Logan is aware of exactly two things as he breezes through the front door after a long day on the job.

First, it’s the quiet of the house. Long shadows splay golden fingers of light across the kitchen linoleum from the single light over the stove, curtains mostly drawn across the house.

Typical for the house on a Friday night.

There’s the quiet hum of the fridge and the rhythmic tick of the clock that deepens this sense of loneliness in the shadows, and for some strange reason, it probes the hair on his arms. Shouldn’t, he can smell her around the house – and that’s the second thing he notices.

The scent of her. 

Filling up the rooms, plastering the walls. She’s really in every bone of this house, and they’d barely lived here a year. More and more Logan thinks the place was built exactly for them, for this marriage, for this life he, somehow, magically came to possess. 

Down to the studs, he believes in his soul there’s no better Eden on earth than this house and all its homey things.

It would never be the life they'd left behind in Alberta, but it was a close alternative — he could outlive a thousand suns here and be just as thrilled as the day they turned the key at the homestead, he thinks.

Her scent, and the fresh kick of mint that manages down the stairs. He smiles. No, he doesn’t just think he could be happy here for the rest of the days God gives him. He knows. Deep inside the adamantium that haunts his better parts, Logan knows. Viscerally.

Anywhere with her is home, and home is the only place he’ll ever actually want to be. 

Stopping at the stairs, he coyly smiles at the quiet hum of music floating through the walls, bringing life back into the still haven of their nest. She sings off key, but that’s alright. Most precious sound in the world is hearing her alive after what feels like a lifetime apart. 

A sour note makes him flinch, smiling again. His chuckle of amusement hangs out low in his chest as he slips out of his jacket, drapes it over the railing. 

At the kitchen island he takes off his boots, toes them over to the corner by the fridge beside the others. Washing the day from his hands at the sink, he scrubs his face with cool water – listens halfheartedly as the water rushes through old pipes rattling with the effort.

The house is old but packed with so much character – he can’t quite bring himself to change anything, not yet. Measurements on the doorway’s woodwork from children that aren’t theirs, worn-away paint from crown moulding. 

Everywhere he looks, there’s so much of him in the old bones of this place. Kinship he can’t quite place, familiarities he can’t put a finger on. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s stepping into a new world from a time he was more than ready to leave behind.

Marriage, family, settling – maybe it’s the wild blood in his veins finally breaking.

He doesn’t know, and maybe he’ll never. It makes little difference. 

Scratching through his beard, he breathes deep of the cool air and pauses. There’s a whiff of moisture in the air, humidity that isn’t the norm for their house. Both of them run hot, usually – he keeps this place cool.

And it’s never humid, if there’s one thing Logan can’t handle it’s humidity — that shit is a hard pass. 

He’d drowned on air enough in his lifetime. Duty and pride had taken him to Vietnam, China, the Amazon; Weapon X had forced him around the world as a weapon. The X-Men – Charles sent them everywhere, God knew.

Every and all had landed him in the sweaty armpit of the world, and of all the places he’d ever seen, the humid ones burned the worst. 

But despite the bad memories the humidity recalls, his lip curls in a smile. At a subliminal level, he knows what this is—his sweet little wife has drawn a bath nearly every day since finishing the remodel.

Logan doesn’t remember a time where he’s ever seen another soul so excited over plumbing fixtures, but she had been – she’d almost been giddy when the claw foot bath had arrived at their doorstep, delivery boys looking strained from just wrestling the thing out of the back of the van.

Another sour note from her happy singing has him shaking his head. Logan allows it to pull him up the stairs, down the hallway. Fusty shampoos and the fresh scent of warm water sirens him to the half-cocked bathroom door.

Peeking inside reveals a half-steamed mirror, shed clothing toed off the side in a pile – gym clothes, from the looks of it.

Gently nudging open the door with his foot, Logan works off his watch, grinning crookedly as he slips into the space lightly, with ghost-like grace.

Her back is to him, looking out the open window – she’d never be able to hear a thing with headphones on, which explained her singing off key. 

She has no idea, and at some base level of him, that worries Logan. Her contentment with such vulnerability concerns him in ways he hasn’t worried about before – this visceral, almost instinctual need to protect is so strange. Foreign, almost.

A part of him that isn’t him, demands he look beyond his own skin, protect someone else. 

In all his lifetimes he’s never worried about it before, until her. Until this quiet little cathedral of a home he calls his own – this life they’ve resurrected from the ashes. It’s his now, innocent and pure.

Demands a protector, a guardian which returns. 

Finally, something worthy of everything he’s been made to be. All the things he is. 

Never had he imagined anything in the world would actually demand his abilities, this thing that lives in him and around him. The Wolverine, Logan, James, Patch — this thing, this weapon weaved into his flesh and knocked about his adamantium bones.

His entire life he’s always been better being someone else – one of the X-Men, a living weapon. A killer, a soldier, a fighter. Always spinning out of control trying to take it. 

Until her.

She demands all of him, in ways the world never has. She wants him. She asks for him.

She doesn’t demand or require, her words aren’t sentences that enslave him to what he can do. She takes all of him, regardless – she would have him, if he wasn’t everything else. Unconditionally. 

If he were just Logan, just James, simply Wolverine.

Logan believes her when she says she wants all of him. Freely. She doesn't love him because he's Wolverine, because he’s an X-Man.

She loves him because he is. 

And there’s power in this enough to drive him to his knees. 

Quietly he discards his watch beside the sink. Logan begins unbuttoning his flannel, stained with the day’s sweat and grime of the welding shop and a 12-hour day of grinding in all the places nobody advertises in school.

It drops beside her discarded clothes; he works the t-shirt over his head. Fluffs his hair with calloused, thick fingers. Empties the pockets of his jeans. 

His pulse picks up a little at the sight of her leaned back against the tub, hand playfully skipping over the luminescent bubbles that catch the light in just enough of a way that it is Eden incarnate.

She’s radiant with a dewy rosiness that sends a punch of warmth to the base of his gut. 

It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to just haul her out of the bath and have his way with her — it would be fun. It would satisfy the baser, Wolverine parts of him.

Fills that primal ache that gnaws continually at the bottom of his spine, knocks heat into his cock. Would feel spectacular.

And she’d let him do it, she’d enjoy the baser part of his sexual drive. 

But that’s not Logan, not today. Not right now. 

Right now, he could use a bath. 

Slipping up behind her, he chuckles down his nose at the sight of her, naked and fully oblivious to the world around her as her head bops side to side with whatever she’s listening to. 

The rumble of his amused chuckle bleeds through his fingers, which dust over the tops of her shoulders lightly. Jarred, her attention snaps upward and she slingshot’s the headphones off.

Her heart rabbits behind her ribs for all of a few seconds—he can feel it beneath his hand as it curves around the back of her neck as he lingers beside the tub. 

Smiling at him as a blush creeps up the length of her neck to her cheeks, she moves to face him, arms dripping over the side of the tub. Almost nose to nose, her wrinkles a little with a smile. 

“Well well,” there’s not an ounce of shame, just the way he prefers her, as her eyes skate over his bare chest, finger tracing the lines of muscle in his arm. “You’re back a little early,” there’s no clock in the room, but that’s hardly the point. 

Her eyes move from her hand on his arm to hold his, their light beckoning him like a lost moth to brazen flames.

Nails catching on his skin, she leans a little over the tub to discard the headphones, Logan’s fingers grazing his beard at the sight of pearlescent soap clinging all the places that belong to him on her frame – his places.

All his. 

There’s a little lilt in her voice as she sighs, slinking back into the steaming water.

“I didn’t know what to make for supper – I thought we could go out?”

Her brow lifts as she plays with the wet hair sticking to the back of her neck, rolling it around and off a finger.

“You hungry for something in particular?” 

She’s not being flirty, not directly.

Logan doubts she’s even aware that his blood flies with heat at the sight of bubbles and water swirling around her chest, the dewiness on her skin. He can hardly think past the idea of lathing the water from her collarbones, it sends a zing of bestial hunger stabbing into his balls that makes him almost shudder. 

Knuckles ghosting white as he grips the side of the tub, he shrugs.

“Nothin’ that requires goin’ anywhere, darlin’,” his hand drops to unbuckle his belt, and her smile quirks a little wider as it falls open with a light jingle. 

“Oh. Let’s just order in then,” her shoulder shifts, hand flitting through the foamy bubbles, “I bet if I check, Sylvia's will still be running that special for Valentine’s Day.” 

Her brow snaps up at attention as he stands to his full height to peer down at her. He discards the belt with little more than a flick of his wrist. Forgetting jeans and socks, he slowly drops into the bath and beckons her to slot between his legs with a crook of his finger and a smile. 

Obedient, she falls back against his chest when his arms wrap around her. Pulling her close, she props her foot up against the opposite end of the tub and he matches her effort, dripping sock making her snort in amusement. 

Dissolving into laughter as he gently nuzzles the soft of her neck with his scruff, he hums low and presses a soft kiss to her collarbone. 

“You even hungry for pizza, Logan?” Off a laugh, the giggle is soft, light. Strangely it sends butterflies to his chest when she sighs deeply, relaxing against his ministrations fully. “Or is there something else you want for supper?” 

His growl is dark, low in his chest. He can feel it ring against her breastbone as his arms snug around her chest, protectively. On fire from the heat of her so close and the temperature of the bath, he ignores the sweat the rises in his beard, as his temples. 

“Got everythin’ I need right here, baby,” gently nipping at the soft of her shoulder, she playfully pulls away on a sharp inhale that catches in the back of her throat. Hand skimming her side beneath the cloud of soapy bath water, his palm presses softly to the low of her stomach, making his point. 

Chuckling, he sucks in a sharp breath as she gently moans beneath the heat of his hand. 

“Who needs supper when I can eat right here, for free?” 

[gf2bellamy]

Could i request getting stuck in an elevator with Spence after hours at the BAU and the lights go out (we all know his scared of the dark) and the reader is as scared as him because she's afraid of elevators (this is a genuine fear of mine) so imagine them trying to comfort each other. just some hurt/comfort ig? I live and breathe your content <3

scared — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: they're stuck in an elevator , lights go out , mention of claustrophobia a/n: hiii !!! hope you like this :)

"I don't think so," you mumbled, deep in thought as you walked beside Spencer toward the elevator. 

"I disagree," Spencer countered without hesitation, reaching out to press the button. The faint ding of the call confirmed the elevator’s arrival. 

You sighed, already anticipating a full breakdown of his reasoning as to why he thinks Hotch has been dating someone. "Of course, you do." 

Spencer turned his head slightly, giving you that all-too-familiar Reid look—the one that said, I have evidence, and you’re about to hear all of it. "Hotch has come in two minutes later than usual. Twice this week alone." 

You raised an eyebrow. "Two whole minutes?" 

"And," Spencer continued, ignoring your sarcasm, "he’s left work earlier than usual." 

The elevator doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. You smirked as you pressed the button for your floor. "Define 'earlier.' You mean, like, 2 AM?" 

"Actually, 1:30 AM," Spencer corrected matter-of-factly. 

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Right. Because that extra thirty minutes is so telling." 

Spencer crossed his arms. "Patterns matter." 

Before you could tease him further, the elevator lurched to a sudden stop. In the same instant, the dim glow of the overhead lights flickered and died, plunging you both into darkness. 

For a second, neither of you moved. 

"...Okay," you said slowly, shifting slightly. "Did we just—" 

"Yes," Spencer cut in, his voice unusually tight. 

"Okay. Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We're okay." You repeated the words as if saying them out loud would make them true. 

Fumbling in the dark, your hands searched desperately until they found the emergency button. You pressed it. Once. Twice. Then over and over. But nothing happened. No reassuring buzz, no static-filled response. Just silence. 

"Oh my god," you muttered under your breath, pressing your back against the elevator wall. 

Spencer wasn’t talking. 

Your stomach twisted. "Spencer, what do we do?" you asked, your voice still unsteady. 

Nothing. 

You could barely see in the pitch-black space, but you knew he wasn’t moving either. 

"Spence," you called again, softer this time, hoping—praying—for a response. 

Finally, he spoke, but his voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sure it’ll work soon." 

That was when it hit you. His fear of the dark.

The quiet strain in his tone. The way he hadn’t moved an inch. 

Your fear of being trapped was bad enough, but his fear was the one you hadn’t considered. 

Swallowing hard, you shifted slightly, reaching out blindly in the darkness. "Spencer," you murmured, your hand brushing against his. He flinched, just barely, but he didn’t pull away. 

"You’re okay," you whispered, echoing your own words from earlier—this time, meant for him. 

A shaky breath. Then another. His fingers tightened around yours. 

"Let's sit down," you murmured, your voice just as unsteady as his. 

Carefully, you stepped back until your back met the cool metal wall, then slid down to the floor, gently tugging Spencer down with you. He followed wordlessly, his hand still clasped in yours. His shoulder brushed against yours.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly. 

Spencer barely responded, letting out a small, noncommittal "Mhmm." It was so quiet you couldn’t tell if it was a yes or a no. 

Your heart clenched. 

So, you did the only thing you could think of: you started talking. Quickly. Without pause. Not entirely sure if you were distracting him or yourself. 

"You know, I'm actually terrified of elevators," you blurted, tracing absent patterns over the back of his hand with your fingertips. It was meant to be a casual confession, but your voice still trembled. 

Spencer shifted slightly beside you. "Really?" he whispered. 

"Yeah." You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I hate being stuck in small spaces. Something about the walls closing in. And, well—" You gestured vaguely in the darkness. "Here we are. Living my worst nightmare." 

There was a pause, then—so quietly you almost missed it—Spencer said, "Mine too." 

Your hand instinctively tightened around his. 

Neither of you said anything for a moment. 

Then Spencer’s voice broke the silence, his words coming out in a rush. "The likelihood of something happening in an elevator is actually incredibly low," he began, his usual rambling tone filling the dark space between you. "In fact, only about one in ten million elevators experience a malfunction that leads to an accident. The technology has improved drastically over the years. In the last decade alone, elevator-related fatalities have dropped by nearly 70% due to modern safety protocols, like automatic brakes, emergency communication systems, and—" 

He trailed off, and you could feel the way his hand gripped yours a little tighter. His usual enthusiasm for facts seemed to be lacking the usual comfort he drew from them. 

You couldn’t help but notice the subtle tremor in his voice , so you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Then, he cleared his throat softly. 

"You know," he began, his voice still quiet, "statistically speaking, the odds of us being stuck in this elevator for more than an hour are incredibly low. Most malfunctions are resolved within 30 to 45 minutes. And, uh, even if it takes longer, we’re perfectly safe. The oxygen levels in here are more than sufficient for two people for several hours. Not that I’ve calculated it or anything—" He paused, and you could almost hear the faint blush creeping into his cheeks, even in the darkness. "Okay, I might have calculated it. But only because it’s interesting. Not because I was worried or anything." 

You couldn’t help but smile. "Of course not," you teased gently, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. "You’re never worried." 

"Exactly," he said and you could practically hear the awkward smile in his voice. "And, um, even if we were stuck here for a while, which we won’t be, I’d… I’d make sure you were okay. I mean, not that you need me to, obviously. You’re perfectly capable. But, you know, just in case. I’d… I’d be here." 

His words were stumbling, awkward, and so utterly Spencer that it made your chest tighten. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him beside you.

"Thanks, Spence," you murmured. "That means a lot." 

He shifted slightly. "And, uh, if you’re scared of small spaces, maybe we could… I don’t know, distract ourselves? I could tell you some facts. Or, um, we could play a game. Like… 20 Questions. Or…" He trailed off, clearly unsure if he was helping. 

You chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. "20 Questions sounds good. But only if you promise not to ask me something impossible, like the atomic weight of uranium or something." 

He let out a small, nervous laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "I wouldn’t do that. Probably. Maybe. I'll try not to." 

"Deal," you said, grinning despite the darkness. "You start." 

There was a pause, and then Spencer’s voice softened, his tone shifting from awkward to something warmer, more sincere. "Okay. Um… what’s your favorite memory at the BAU ?

You smiled softly, pressing your head against Spencer’s shoulder as you thought about his question. Your favorite memory at the BAU? There were so many to choose from. But one memory stood out, and it was impossible not to think of him when it came to mind. 

"My favorite memory at the BAU…" you began, your voice warm and a little nostalgic, "was that time you stayed late with me to help reorganize the case files after Garcia accidentally knocked over the entire shelf. Remember that?"

Spencer let out a small, breathy laugh, his shoulder shaking slightly. "How could I forget? Garcia was so upset she brought us an entire tray of cookies the next day. And then she knocked over the coffee machine trying to apologize." 

You grinned, the memory vivid in your mind. "Yeah, but… it wasn’t the cookies or the chaos that made it my favorite. It was you. You stayed with me for hours, even though you didn’t have to. And you kept making these ridiculous jokes. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard at work before." 

Spencer was quiet for a moment, and you could feel the way his hand tightened ever so slightly around yours.

"Oh," he said softly, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. "I, um… I didn’t realize you remembered that." 

"Of course I do," you said, your tone gentle. "You made a boring, tedious task into something fun." 

There was another pause, and then Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little higher than usual. "Well, um… your turn. Ask me something." 

You thought for a moment. "Okay… what’s something you’ve never told anyone at the BAU?" 

Spencer was silent for so long that you almost thought he wasn’t going to answer.

But then he said, his voice so quiet you had to strain to hear it, "I… I’ve never told anyone this, but… sometimes, when I’m working late and the office is empty, I talk to the files. Like, out loud. As if they’re people. It helps me think." 

You blinked, surprised, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest. "You talk to the files?" 

"Yes," he said, his tone defensive but playful. "And before you laugh, it’s actually a proven psychological technique. Vocalizing thoughts can help with memory retention and problem-solving." 

"Uh-huh," you said, still grinning. "And what do the files say back?" 

"Nothing," he said, his voice dry. "They’re very good listeners." 

You laughed again, the sound filling the small space, and Spencer chuckled softly beside you. For a moment, the darkness didn’t feel so oppressive. 

"Your turn," you said, still smiling. 

Spencer hesitated, then asked, his voice soft and tentative, "What’s… what’s something you’ve never told me?" 

Your breath caught, and you felt your cheeks flush. There were so many things you’d never told him—things you’d been too afraid to say, too unsure of how he’d react.

"I’ve never told you," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "that I’m really glad you’re here. With me. Right now. I mean, not here here, stuck in an elevator, but… just… in general. You make everything better, Spencer. Even when it’s scary. Even when it’s dark and small." 

There was a long pause, and then Spencer’s hand tightened around yours. "I’m glad I’m here too," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "With you." 

But before either of you could say anything else, the elevator jerked suddenly, the lights flickering back on. 

You blinked, squinting against the sudden brightness, and then the elevator began to move again.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hand still clasped in yours. "Well," he said, his voice a little unsteady, "that was… an experience." 

"Yeah," you said, your voice just as shaky. "But… not a bad one." 

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped. Then the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to reveal the familiar hallway. 

Spencer hesitated, then stood, pulling you to your feet with him. "Come on," he said, his voice soft. "Let’s get out of here." 

You nodded with a small smile, your hand still in his as you stepped out of the elevator.

[v1x3n]

SCENARIOS ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - fluff (for once) - trauma, logan being a lil sweetheart, suggestions and mentions to your past.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

Sharp breaths - in and out - as you look around the winding room. It's been a week since you saw Johnny, you haven't seen any of them so far. You never spoke to them before but you would see them standing outside your door, their shadow slipping underneath the door, or when John let himself inside and sat beside you. But this week you've been alone, no one was there. And honestly? It's been the best week of your life. 

You let the sheets fall down as you sit up, dazed. The seat beside you, lonely, stood there. You thought to yourself for a second. You missed the way the air hitched as you noticed John there, missed the way the air smelt like him. 

You despised how much you missed him. You hate the fact that he brings you a sense of comfort but then again, it's nice to feel comfort. Even if its from the man you hate the most - the man you wished would die, the man who put you through so much fucking pain. 

Ashamed in yourself you sigh, long breath escaping you when you look over at the door yet again. There's a shadow slipping through the door, the silhouette could only be one person – the man opens your door and gives you a cheeky smirk, “hi!” Logan smiles, letting himself into your room. You give him a hum in return.

Logan trots along excitedly, sitting in the loney chair, giving it and you company. “Heard bout what happened and i wanted to check on you” head tilting to the side as his eyes glint with amusement.

“Ah” you mumble. It's been weeks, months? Since you started to kinda trust Logan, you wouldn't speak to him, would never utter a word but you've gotten used to him. His smile and his silly humour. So overtime, he got more and more words out of you, your voice was slightly raspy. You clearly weren't used to talking that much. “Well… thanks.” you let out a slow mumble. 

“Mhmmm! So how are you? Has the twat bothered you?”

“Dont wanna talk about it” you mutter, eyes faced down onto your bedsheets, your mutilated hand gripping the white blanket.

It's quiet for a second but it feels like years. The silence overwhelming you. “Soo…” Logan utters, breaking the awkward, “since the doctors took my cards and we cant play snap, i dont have anymore games.” his eyebrows furrowed together, clearly irritated his precious cards was gone. “Wanna play like a word game?? Liikkkee truth or dare!” he says excitedly but it dies down when you give him a strange look. His face droops almost, “...or not cause that's for kids, obviously!”

You let out a slight, small huff in amusement, it's the closest you've been to a laugh since everything. “Howww about would you rather? Deep version” his eyebrows depart and wiggle around. You nod, thinking why not - not like you have anything else to do.

“Would you rather be blind or deaf.”

“This is deep?” you let out a scoff.

He rolls his eyes, “it'll get there.”

“Blind i think.” you look up at Logan, “what would you?” 

Logan thinks for a second as he huffs out a breath, “blind too, cause then i wouldn't be able to hear you.”

“You wouldn't be able to play snap or see me though” a chortle sounds from the two of you.

His eyes glisten slightly as he looks at you with a quirk in his lips, “you've JUST started talking to me though and i want to continue hearing your voice. “

You simply don't reply. 

“Would you ratherrrr lose all of your old memories, or never be able to make new ones?” he asks with a kink in his eyebrows. He brings his leg up and crosses it over the other as you scowl at him. “Arent, I meant to ask one?”

“No, I wanna ask!!” 

“Okay, lose all my old memories.”

He looks at you with an intrigue, “oh? That was quick. Why?” 

You murmur in response, “I'd have a better future.” you offer him not much of an explanation but he seemed okay with that by the way he shrugged. “Hmm I would too, just cause I like meeting new people. Plus I'd forget about the fat holes in my stomach, youchhh! That hurt like a bitchh!”

Despite your best efforts, a silent laugh slips from you. Logan beams at that, his eyes practically lighting up at your curved lips. “Would you rathherrr know when or how you’re going to die?” 

“Huh, uhm when.”

“Hmmm? Wouldn't that be scary though, like a countdown?”

“Atleast id know, its kinda like–... it's basically a count down anyways you just don't know”

“Damn” Logan sits up straight, smiling a little at you. “Yeahh id pick that too.”

Rounds go by, where Logan would ask random questions. Some were silly like would you rather have a mullet or be bald, then some were strangely deep. 

Hes sat with his legs crossed on the once alone chair, and you're sat up against the cold pillows of your bed. The sheets pulled down to the end of the bed, while you sat in your hospital clothes, the fabric flowing over your body. “Okay okay i have a good one, would you rather know what the happiest day of your life or the worst day of your life will be?”

“So can they have already had happened?”

“Hmmm yeah! Sure sure” 

“Worst.” 

He looks surprised as you tell him, “really? Why? That's such a downer.”

“Yeah well i'm sure the worst day of my life has already happened so- i guess it'll be like comfort nothing worse would happen.” you shrug whilst looking Logan towards his glimmering eyes. 

“I think I know the best day of my life,” Logan responds.

You hum in question.

“When I first met you, obviously!” he chuckles with a daft smile on his face. You roll your eyes at him. “Right.” 

“Okay classic question, fight 100 duck sized elephants or one elephant sized duck.” 

Once again, you roll your eyes at him. His eyes linger on your face as you think about his question. They trail over your scars that litter your face, and the way your eyebrows twitch when you think. “100 duck sized elephants.” 

“Yeahh it'll be easier, plus ducks are violent as hell! A goose once ate my top.” 

“What?” you exclaim, trying to process what you just heard, “you do know ducks aren't geese? Completely different animals.” 

“Look the same so I'm mad at both of them.” he shrugs.

Your head nods exaggeratedly. 

You Scratch softly as the scar on your cheek as Logan watches while you do. You're surprised he hasn't asked about it honestly. “Would you rather forgive the people who have wronged you or be forgiven by the people you've wronged?”

“Second one.” you reply instantly. 

“Why's that?”

You mumble while looking down, the burn on your cheek hitting you. “I can't forgive them – the people who hurt me.”

He raises an eyebrow, “you can forgive anyone, it just takes time and growth.”

“You don't understand-" the scar on your cheek dribbles a spot of blood, hitting the bed, “shit.” 

“Ah fuck.” Logan groans, quickly standing - moving to the bathroom and grabbing toilet paper. Dabbing the bleeding on the reopened wound. “It's okay, just hold this down.” you do as he says, pressing the paper to your cheek. 

“I'd forgive whoever had wronged me, I hate being mad at people!” 

You give him a small smile and he responds, “you have such a nice smile.” hs states.

Your eyes widen, “oh uhm thanks..” 

“Oh shit it's literally dinner, wanna go down to eat?” 

You tilt your head, “go down?” 

“Yeah ! like the cafeteria?”

“Oh i've just always had my food brought up-” 

Logan cuts you off, “yack that foods kinda mank, c'mon i'll buy you something.”

Who are you to say no to free food?

[meanbossart]

Astarion and Drow's antics are wonderful and I love them ever so. You've mentioned that Drow is effectively immortal (which makes sense; Bhaal had a lot of work planned for him), and eventually, even those two chaos gremlins will figure it out.

Have you ever thought about what that's going to look like? Who do you think will notice first? Will Astarion be happy he won't be alone? Is Drow going to have to figure out what to do with the idea that friends like Shadowheart will die but unless a lot of things go wrong, he won't? ....If he lives long enough for people to invent it, do you think Drow would like Bubble Tea?

Well, it is exceptionally optimistic to assume they will live long enough for that to become apparent, but not impossible!

It's kind of already in DU drow's nature to not contemplate on death at all. He thinks he's immune to it despite having zero knowledge of his own (potentially infinite) lifespan, so, in a way, he already operates as an immortal. Meanwhile, Astarion assumes he will age like a normal drow despite the godly origins, which means he would get a good 800 years outta him - if they don't both perish for some other reason long before that, which is what he's realistically expecting.

Elvish and Drow (the race) aging also works differently depending on the version of the lore which you're looking at - some places say they completely stop physically developing once they hit 25, other versions - BG for one, I think - implies that they do age, but at a much slower pace. I'm of the the school of thought that elves grow up normally until they hit their twenties, and then things gradually slow the hell down, with them eventually start to look like seniors at around 400-500 years old.

SO, if the fellas make it another six centuries, Astarion would definitely take notice of the way DU drow's body isn't really showing any signs of aging. Changes? Sure. His scars would have probably faded into near non-existence and been eventually replaced by new ones, and his skin is still subject to things like sun damage and his body overall isn't the SAME - but it's not necessarily older. I think Astarion would be ecstatic about this revelation, because if they have stayed together for that long, then that probably means that things are still going well - and that he had likely just started to panic a little bit at the prospect of his partner eventually growing old and dying.

As for DU drow, he would be exceptionally nonchalant about the news. Of COURSE he's immortal, it just makes sense that he would be - he's already got plenty of practice taking his own life for granted at that point.

Shadowheart's mortality would be something he had to deal with long before then. With her being a half-elf, her life expectancy is much shorter, at about 150-200 years I believe. DU drow would have seen her age and pass centuries ago by that point. As long as she gets to go peacefully (and all indicates that she probably will) he wouldn't have as difficult of a time grappling with her death - he doesn't like having things or people taken away from him by force, but nature's course is inevitable, and a concept he can actually wrap his head around and even appreciate.

Anyways, he would really like boba tea, but only the chewy kind.

[bejeweledinterludes]

❝ are you in the mafia? ❞

❝ … am i in the what? ❞

「 pairing 」 : dean winchester x mafia ! reader

「 word count 」 : 1.3 k

「 content / warnings 」 : mob/mafia, incorrect mafia lore that i tweaked because i said it was okay to, canon-compliant violence, mentions of death, swearing

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

HEYYY this was a request from @hpxmcusworld! i did end up making the reader gender neutral, i hope that’s okay— and that you enjoy, because this was really fun to write! thank you so so much for requesting and your kind words! <3

my masterlist

𖤐 ────────────────────────

this was so cool stupid.

that was the only thing going through dean winchester’s mind as he and sam knocked on the door of a very much too-big and not at all cool as shit house— because who in god’s name needed six garages with some fuckin’ awesome vintage cars? and a damn fountain in the driveway?

rich and pompous assholes.

that’s who.

“this ‘s so stupid,” dean echoes his half-thoughts out loud in a low mutter— throwing in an eyeroll before adjusting the tie of his fed threads.

sam squinted his eyes at his brother’s sheer reluctance to get through one single day without complaining— but before he could even say anything, a maid opened the door, looking between the both of them.

“can i help you gentlemen?” she asks, standing up a little straighter when she notices the suits.

“fbi, ma’am,” dean nods matter-of-factly as he flashes his badge, sam following suit. “need to speak to the owner of this house. it’s about the murder three days ago. it’s urgent.”

damn right, it was urgent. children were dropping like flies left and right in chicago— dying with no warning and decomposing almost immediately.

they needed answers.

so sam’s extensive research and cross-referencing police records had brought them to here— to the gigantic hand-carved wood front door of one of the families that currently ran the chicago mob.

(it also helped that one of the kids that died had been from this family, too— but sam enjoys click-clacking around on the computer.)

“oh, yes, of course,” the maid immediately recognized who they were talking about— why these definitely real fbi agents were here. “come in, please. i’ll notify of your presence.”

dean fights the urge to get excited roll his eyes.

again.

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

“sorry to keep you waiting,” your voice rings out— one that sounded like you weren’t really sorry at all.

both dean and sam’s heads perk up to look at you, the supposed owner of the house entering what the maid called the ‘sitting room’.

which was actually pretty sick, because it totally felt like a mafia movie. you sat down in the matching lavish sofa across from them. you nodded once to the maid, who excused herself scurried off immediately. dean was reminded of a scene from goodfellas, one of his favorite movies that was similar.

which wasn’t cool at all.

“you look a little young to own a house this big,” dean bluntly remarks before thinking twice— and received a ‘dude’ look from sam.

they weren’t wrong. you appeared to be the same age as dean and sam, give or take a few years— and unmistakably attractive. though, you always thought the old architecture and style of the house made you look better.

“well, technically, it’s not exactly mine— yet,” you clarify, crossing a leg over the other as you eye the two men. “but it will be someday. i’m the next best thing right now. my father’s… handling business elsewhere.”

immediately you noticed the fact that they were not like any usual stick-up-the-ass dickwads that usually were oh so graciously in your presence— they seemed… pretty close to normal, actually.

“right,” sam interjects before dean could make some other comment that would end up with them back at square one. “anyways, we’re here because of—”

“my brother,” you interrupt sam, your eyes still flicking between them— and a slight smile on your face. “but, then again, you aren’t actually real agents, now are you?”

both dean and sam look at each other at that, a slight tremor of panic passing through each of them. dean speaks up this time—

“we—”

“are hunters,” you finish, titling your head a little as you look between them. “see, i do my research, too— or rather, my people do. you’re dean. that’s sam. you’re brothers, and you hunt monsters for a living.”

both dean and sam had whatever words they were going to say taken away from them when you dropped that bomb— they were used to having to tiptoe around that subject.

“well, it really is a good thing you’re here,” you continue without a beat, leaning back against the couch again, “i’m used to monsters being… y’know, people.”

dean and sam had finally relaxed a little after the initial shock wore off— and dean was starting to realize you weren’t what he expected. and maybe this wasn’t as stupid as he thought.

it was kinda like a godfather movie, if he was being honest.

and dean loved the godfather.

“you don’t seem like a complete…” dean trails off. in this line of work, it was rare to encounter someone with a good head on their shoulders, especially if they were filthy rich— but then again, he was glad he didn’t have to babysit.

“asshole?” you finish once again, raising your eyebrows, your smile ticking up higher. “yeah, it skips a generation. so, what’s the plan?”

“the plan?” sam echoes, both he and dean scoff a little, glancing between each other and you.

“yes, the plan,” you exaggerate the last word as sam did. “firstly, how many soldiers do you need?”

“soldiers?” both dean and sam echo you this time, their expressions mixed with shock and bewilderment.

“are you going to repeat everything i say?” you shake your head a little, uncrossing your legs and reaching to pour yourself a glass of whiskey with the crystal bottle. “yes, soldiers. i’m sure you’ve heard of la cosa nostra.”

oh, shit. la cosa nostra. dean’s heard the stories from the times he’s been through illinois— it was the ruthless mafia army composed soldiers from all 5 crime families that ran chicago. the mafia’s dean looked between you and his brother— and his eyes were a little less shocked. more… excited?

“you can— you have soldiers? that would help… us?” sam is the first to speak, considering dean was a little too… preoccupied about how cool this was actually was.

“well, they’ll do anything i say, so, yes,” you smoothly lean back against the couch again, re-crossing your legs. “they’ll be at your service, if you require it.”

“cool,” dean finally speaks, a slight smile turning on the corner of his mouth.

sam snaps his head to his brother, suppressing a slight eyeroll before talking to you again. “well, we don’t really know what we’re up against, but—”

“my resources will be yours,” you interrupt, placing your crystal glass of whiskey down. “anything you need, just ask.”

“really?” dean tilts his head, smile getting a little wider. “anything?”

“anything.” it was your turn to echo as you glance between them, talking a little quieter. “my brother didn’t… deserve to die the way he did. he was just a kid.”

“and we are sorry that happened,” sam attempts to revert the conversation back to the case, and not dean’s awestruck demeanor. “we can’t imagine.”

“we’re gonna figure out whatever this is, and make sure it never happens again,” dean snaps out of it for after a second— because he could imagine what it was like to lose a younger brother. he actually has before. “we’ll get the sonofabitch— y’know, make him swim with the fishes.”

that makes you smile— actually, genuinely smile. for the first time since your brother had died a week ago.

“i have no doubts,” you nod, uncrossing your legs once more, standing up and already starting deeper into the house as you talk. “now, let me show you the weapons hall. you boys might be able to use a couple things.”

“the weapons hall? dude,” dean almost jumps up from the couch, slapping sam on the shoulder— to which raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. the facade dean always put up when he was trying not to get excited was almost gone, if not completely. “c’mon, get movin’ sammy!”

okay, dean supposed, maybe working with the mafia would be cooler than he initially first thought. because this was kinda cool. you were kinda cool.

mostly the mafia part, though. not necessarily because he thought you were super awesome or anything.

at least, that’s what dean was telling himself.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde + i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please just comment / send an ask! <3

[triplefrontierbabe]

Heyy, I love all of your fics btw, and was wondering if u could maybe write a seb hurt+comfort fic?? Maybe like age gap and reader is a rookie or smth, seb is retired and she gets hate? Or like an argument between them? No pressure tho thxx <3

The Rookie & Seb

summary: you’re a rookie f1 driver, and with the new shift in career you receive lots of unnecessary hate

pairing: f! driver reader x retired Sebastian Vettel

warning: minuscule language, mention of age gap relationship

a/n: yesss more Seb requests!! thank you anon for this!!💛💛

Thank goodness the first race of the season was done and dusted because it was not an easy introduction into your rookie year in Formula 1. Not only was that your first race but you’re the only woman on the grid, an idea that people even in this day and age can’t manage to understand. You had spent the last two seasons as a development and reserve driver, and now you were finally living your dream.

In addition to dealing with the usual skepticism of a rookie, your social media was flooded with nasty comments simply because you’re a woman. A woman who is also dating Sebastian Vettel you might add.

She only has a seat because her old boyfriend pulled strings for her.

Women are ruining the sport.

She’s such a liability on and off the track.

So on, and so forth.

“I don’t get it!” You exclaim, falling back onto the couch in your and Sebastian’s living room.

“It’s like this for all rookies, dear.” Sebastian replies as he takes a seat next to you while sympathetically patting your knee.

“No, Sebastian, it’s not.” You begin, wiping a hand down your face. “Not to pull that card but I guarantee you the other rookies aren’t dealing with this kind of nonsense. I didn’t even DNF this race like everyone else, but I’m getting the brunt of all the hate.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just sits there, blank faced.

Usually Sebastian gets you. He usually understands what emotions you’re going through especially with racing. And, more often than not, he’s able to comfort you when you’re incredibly hard on yourself.

From the start, getting to the top in racing was already a more difficult path to follow. Despite it all you put in the work and some. But, as if it wasn’t hard enough, once the public got wind that you were romantically involved with the veteran driver, rumors started circulating like wildfire. Suddenly you were no longer the young woman who trailblazed a path in motorsports. Instead you were a talentless, paddock bunny whose career was built on nepotism. And that frustrated you to no end.

“Nobody understands me!” You yell as you stand up from the couch, dropping your hands to your sides.

Sebastian’s eyes stay on you as you pace the room ruminating on how you can get through his thick skull.

“Listen, I know it’s hard. I’ve been there. People are going to say things that aren’t true and that get under your skin but you just gotta let it roll off your back.” He says looking you in the eyes.

“You think I don’t know that, Sebastian? I know that’s how it is. But I have to go through this with having a man’s name attached to everything I do. If I excel it’s only because a man was there to help. I get no credit for my own talent. But if I suck, it’s because I’m a mindless woman whose only concern is chasing men and ruining the sport. And it’s not that I’m uncomfortable with accountability— I’m perfectly fine owning up to my shortcomings— but what’s it worth if I can’t even claim my own success? It’s a lose-lose situation no matter what.” As you finish, you feel tears brimming in your eyes, your frustration etched on your face.

That renders Sebastian truly speechless. His silence speaks volumes to you and it hurts. It almost feels like he genuinely cannot understand where your frustration is stemming from.

“See, you don’t get it.” You say sharply pointing a finger at him. And with that you make a quick exit and head for the bedroom.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Minutes, maybe even hours, pass before you hear a knock on the door.

“Can I come in?” Sebastian’s muffled voice says on the other side of the door. After waiting for a moment with no response, he carefully enters the room.

You lay on the bed with your back turned to him, not yet wanting to look at him. The bed dips behind you as Sebastian gingerly sits down behind you. His hand hesitates for a second before extending to gently rest on your back, rubbing slow circles.

“I’m sorry for what I said— or more of what I didn’t say.” He says letting out a small breath. “I know it’s tough out there for you but I guess I never thought outside myself to even think of what additional shit you have to face.”

His words linger in the air before you turn around and sit up in bed to look at Sebastian.

“I just feel so helpless, Seb. I feel like I’m going through this alone because nobody sees it how I do. I thought you of all people would.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t, that was an oversight on my part.” Sebastian interjects taking your hands in his.

“I love you so, so much and I cannot even begin to describe how proud I am of you for achieving your dreams. I’m sorry I didn’t get it before now. Before I even knew you, you were already on this path of greatness. Everything you’ve done in your career, you’ve done through your own power. I’m honored to just get a front row seat to watch you do what you do. No one can steal that from you.”

Your heart strains at the sound of Sebastian’s voice. Nobody has ever talked to you like that. You finally feel appreciated in a new sense. He gets it now.

“I will do everything I can to be your biggest supporter and to drown out all the nonsensical mess that’s thrown your way.”

“Sebastian, I don’t even know what to say.” You reply, your voice hoarse. The look in his eyes tells you more than words could. He’s hurt that he hurt you. He’s hurt that this is what it took for him to see things the way you experience them.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“I’m not.” he says, cracking a smile. “If you hadn’t, I probably would’ve been walking around longer acting like an idiot offering you useless advice like a broken record.”

You laugh at his words before offering him a silent thank you. And for now, that moment is all you need to lift the incredibly weight off your shoulders.

F1 Masterlist | Indycar Masterlist

requests are open!

[bueckersbitch]

Earthbound - paige bueckers x oc

✴︎ chapter one : welcome home

✴︎ based off of : the 100

✴︎ characters : paige bueckers x oc (vada rivers)

✴︎ warnings : violence, mention of abuse

✴︎ word count : 1k

✴︎ authors note : hi hi hi! moving forward each season will be a chapter, i just think this is a really good way to start off before going into longer chapters, you’ll see that clarke is not in this au. neither is finn, as paige is the main character instead of clarke. no vada in this one but trust she’s otw ;) enjoy!

✴︎ taglist : @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary @pboogerswbb @lupinqs @vamptizm @rosemariiaa @d3arapril @bueckersfive @lovegalor333 @xxloveralways14 @mrsarnold @janaelalfysblunt @tndaqlwifwy

The smell of smoke lingered in the air after the dropship crashed onto earth. Another chance. With resources scarce on the ark, the leaders had run out of solutions, only one: send 100 juvenile prisoners to the ground to see whether Earth is survivable or not. Considering the fact that Paige wasn’t melting from radiation, she’d put good money on the fact that it is.

The dropship door opened, and Bellamy Blake urged his younger sister to do the honors. Paige had heard stories about her, the girl under the floor. The ark had strict rules; resources thinning throughout the years meant each family was only allowed to have one child, so when Octavia was born, her mother had no choice but to hide the girl in her stateroom, in the small space under the floor. When the council found out, Bellamy and Octavia’s mom was floated, in other words, ejected into space.

Paige unbuckled herself, standing up and grabbing her backpack. She made her way towards the dropship door.

Octavia stepped out of the dropship, taking a deep breath, opening her eyes, and shouting “We’re back, bitches!” Hollers come from those around them as everyone leaps into their new home. Leaving their past behind.

Paige diverges from the group, finding an opening and pulling out her map. Mount Weather, their source of supply, was a good 20 miles straight ahead, on the other mountain peak. “Why so serious, P?” Lillie questioned. Paige’s best friend since first grade, Lillie was like the sister Paige never had. “You see that mountain over there, Lils?” Paige pointed. Lillie nodded, “That’s Mount Weather, meaning there’s a radiation-soaked forest in between us and our next meal.” Lillie groaned in frustration, dragging her hand over her face in disbelief while muttering, “They dropped us on the wrong damn mountain.”

Paige scouts for volunteers to take the hike with her and Lillie. She can hear bickering coming from behind her: Bellamy and Octavia, no doubt. Something about Octavia not wanting to be controlled anymore. Lillie approaches Paige with two guys, thrown in jail for stealing weed. Monty Green and Jasper Jordan smiled and waved to Paige. Paige felt empathetic for the boys. Their crime was nothing like some people down here, including her. Granted, it was justified. Paige was charged with attempted murder, defending Lillie against her abusive, now (ex) boyfriend. 

“Have room for one more?” Octavia tapped Paige’s shoulder. Paige’s braided half-up-half-down hitting Octavia’s face as she whipped herself around. Octavia backed up in retaliation. “I’m sorry about that,” Paige said, smoothing her hand over her own hair. Octavia forced a smile, stepping closer. “Okay then, let's get moving.” They wandered off into the forest. Paige glanced at Lillie, nodding before following Octavia.

Paige and Lillie walked side by side, taking in all the greenery they were stripped of on the ark. The vibrant colors provided a fresh and comforting feeling compared to the dull greys of their past home in the sky.

“Soooo what’s gonna happen with you and Ivy?” Lillie broke the silence. Ivy. A girl that Paige had been seeing on the ark before she got arrested, a casual friends-with-benefits type of ordeal. Paige scoffed, holding her backpack straps as she jumped over a log. “I don’t know. We got the whole sky separating us now.” Lillie shrugged. “The sky’s the limit, I guess.” Paige rolled her eyes at her friend’s attempt at a joke.

Monty quickly shushed the girls, ushering them over. “Look.” The group watched carefully. A deer. The first sign of life they had found since crashing from the sky. They all smiled with excitement. They’d never seen an animal in real life before, let alone so close. Jasper took a step closer. A branch broke in the result, gasping, he looks up. The deer was alarmed, thrashing its head to locate the source of the noise.

Everyone stumbles backwards at the sight that's revealed to them. A second head.

-

“A result of the radiation, definitely,” Monty reasons, still shaken up by the distorted animal. Continuing to follow the map, the sound of water floods their senses before they can see it. Emerging from the forest, they see that a river separates the two forests. “Something’s wrong, there’s not supposed to be a river here.” Paige states, eyebrows furrowing. “Well, I’m not trying to find out what could be in the water, are you guys?” Lillie asks. “Yeah, I’m cool off that.” Paige says, looking around for something to use to get across.

A perfect vine, long enough to get everybody across, one by one. Paige climbs the rock, dry hands pulling the vine to check its durability. “Seems good enough to me.” Paige gets herself ready, anchoring herself to the vine, an inch away from pushing off the rock, when Jasper yells, “Wait! Let me.” Paige is puzzled, looking to Lillie for answers; Lillie nods her head to Octavia. Paige had been completely oblivious to Jasper's growing crush on the girl.

“A’ight then, try not to fall in the water.”  Paige hands off the vine to the boy, bug-eyed goggles sat on his forehead, fingers fidgeting with nervousness in his fingerless gloves. Eager to impress Octavia, he takes a deep breath, then swings.

Cheers exclaim from the group, excitement overtaking their senses. Jasper lands safely on the other side, the vine bouncing back to Paige. Once again, she grips the vine, ready. Jasper lifts something above his head, “Guys! We made it!” Paige’s eyes move faster than she can register, reading the beat-up sign, somehow having survived three generations, it read: Mount Weather. The middle area was unreadable, but the bottom clearly said: Keep Out. Paige was about to cut through Jasper's yelling, wanting to tell him about the clear warning on the sign, when something cut him off before she could. A large spear, thrown with unimaginable accuracy, right through his chest, throwing him into the tree behind him. The group called out his name in disbelief. Paige removed her hands from covering her mouth, opting to quiet everyone down. 

One thing was for sure,

they weren’t alone.

[7azrael7]

I'm going to actually type this time since it's a lot-

But!

Shadow (I think I mentioned her before-) was my first ever (non-fandom) oc alongside one other, Light.

I originally wanted to have these two be, basically soulmates and be opposites. So I made the designs to be opposites. And then the names-

I didn't know what to call them at first, until I looked into the damn sun.

And got the idea for Light! Who was the easiest to design and figure out personality.

Now it was the others turn. I had to actually look up what the opposite of light was (I refused to use dark. I wanted something 'cool') and got Shadow! She was pain in everything.

I originally added fix to the end of their names (ShadowFox, LightFox) before chucking those out the window and giving them normal names.

But because of these two! I came up with an entire species! And now, their species' get normal names only known to family members and their lovers if they tell them. But once they're ten they get a name based off their main power.

So they still have those names and normal ones! Yippie!

Why did you give your OC their current name? Did their name change at all during development?

[brokenpinballmachine]

✶ moon rising at 12 o'clock

yan batfam x gn neglected reader

masterlist ch0 ch2 (coming....)

a/n: heehee

TW: GN reader, mention of death/death itself, blood, implications of criminals planning on doing something, monsters, insanity (Alternate versions of you are insane), probably ooc, slight crack, english not my first lang.

word count: 1,952 words (short chapter rip)

summary: Magical/name focused chapter + very chaotic. Beginning is set before the alternate versions came into y/ns dimension.

chapter 1: How I Became A Magical Hero After Finding a Magical Ring and Befriending a Magical Pet After I Was Neglected By My Superhero Family

────── ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ──────

The moon looked pretty.

Or, well, to M/n, the moon always looked pretty.

How many stories, how many lives, has it watched from up there? Each star seemed to twinkle differently every night. Some would shine brighter than others, but that was just how life worked, right? Just as some people shine brighter than others.

And to M/n, they seemed to shine the brightest.

"UWAA!! M/n, you can't just run off like that!!" Kiyoko, the magical talking fox, had large comical tears streaming from his beady eyes.

The magical person wasn't hard to spot. With their pure white costume luminescent under the glowing moonlight, they stood out like a sore thumb wherever they went, especially under the dim, decaying alleyways of Gotham at midnight.

"Kiyoko, I can take care of myself!"

"B-but, b-but! Gotham is so scary and so, so dangerous! What if you got hurt, or worse?"

M/n tilted their head to the side, placing a finger on their chin and thinking for a moment.

What would they do if they got hurt? They didn't exactly have a team. Not to mention, the Bats always seemed to be hot on their tail wherever they appeared, especially since they were now labeled a 'metahuman' due to the abilities gained from the ring.

How ironic was it that the world's greatest detectives couldn't even find someone right under their noses?

Alfred, of course, was the only one who showed any semblance of care for them, so he was the only one who knew of M/n's escapades.

He agreed to keep it a secret, but if it ever resulted in M/n's near-death or a fatal injury, he would be compelled to inform the Bats about their little cosplay heroism. Lets hope that never happens.

Suddenly, a loud scream was heard nearby, making both M/n and Kiyoko swivel their heads in the direction of the noise that echoed off the walls of the area they were in and ricocheted into their ears. "It seems we're not finished with our jobs yet, Kiyo!"

With a charge, the two of them ran towards the sound, running on top of the roofs before jumping off one and landing gracefully near two criminals and a woman. Oh dear.

"Hands off her, monsters!" M/n yelled, pointing the staff in their hands at them. It wasn't the most intimidating look, no, but still put their point across.

The woman next to them cried out louder as the two criminals looked at each other before pushing her to the ground, ripping off the expensive purse from her arm, and towering over her. "Fuck, dude, who the hell is this kid?"

"Just kill them, then we go for the girl." The other offender rolled his eyes before jumping in front of M/n.

These scum... How could they possibly think of doing such things to other humans? It didn't make sense! These actions could only be explained by the fact that they were actually monsters! Thats right, monsters! The two figures began to shapeshift into grotesque, fleshy creatures that would win an audition to be nightmare fuel for little children.

A small gasp escapes from the magical person before they turn to Kiyoko. "I knew it! Both of them are monsters!" they exclaim, pointing their staff at the two. One of the monster's eyes darts toward M/n as he rushes in from the side with a knife.

"Are you ready, M/n?" Kiyoko yells from above.

"Of course! Kiyo, lend me your strength; help me defeat these villains!"

A symbol glows beneath M/n, making the monsters halt, watching in confusion at the light. Incoherent gurgles and blabbering come from the creatures as they turn toward each other, uncertainty etched on their faces. They should probably take a few steps back if they don't want to turn blind.

With a swift flick of the wrist, M/n stabs the staff into one of the monster's chests. It enters easily through the layers of flesh that seem to melt around the area of the magical wand. The monster appears to open its mouth to scream, but no sound comes as it explodes the moment M/n pulls the staff out of its chest, glittery effulgent rainbow liquid spilling everywhere. One monster down; this was like a piece of cake!

A piece of magical cake!

The other flesh-like beast can only watch in wide-eyed horror as it steps back. Then it takes a few more. And before M/n knew it, it was running away. What a coward. Wanting to commit crime yet can't face the consequences. Before it could run far off, M/n leaps into the air and stabs its chest, the monster exploding shortly afterwards.

Both creatures convulse on the ground and two little chibi angels start floating out of them, rising into the air.

"Goodnight, little angels!" M/n cheers, turning their attention toward the trembling woman who seems to be holding her breath. It is a pity, really. So many monsters roam the world; M/n has to stop all of these transformations himself! Not even the bat and his family could grasp the duty laid upon M/n's shoulders.

A small chirp from your fox mascot pops your thought bubble. "M/n! M/n! It's Batman! And, uh, night thing, red thing, other red thing, and smaller thing…" Oh dear. How did they even find where they were? M/n had sworn they had kept their tracks hidden—maybe except for the glittery rainbow liquid covering the alleyways.

Tim looks around. It seems as if someone pulled a scene from an extremely gory video game, the kind Bruce would probably scold him for playing. If only it truly were a video game.

Bruce holds his calculated, analytical gaze, turning cold as it locks eyes with M/n. What the hell happened here? The bodies of the two criminals are not precisely a welcoming sight either. Damian can only scoff at the image.

"Kiyo!!" M/n blurts out, putting a hand over their mouth as their eyes widen. "You should've warned me earlier!!"

Kiyoko glides down toward the white-clothed figure, perching atop their head before jumping down and hiding behind the magical person. "I tried to warn you, but you were too distracted by the criminals!"

"Is that a fucking fox??" Jason asks in disbelief before turning to the rest of his family. "This is what we're worried about?"

Suddenly, the scenery shifts, the walls turning a lighter shade, and the rainbow liquid vanishes. One blink, and it seems M/n finds themselves in a new location.

────── ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ──────

"Stop!!" You managed to weasel your way into the middle of them and separate them both before things got too out of hand.

"Y.. Y..n.. /n"

"It's Y/N." You cringed at how Bruce forgot your name but pushed the thought to the back of your mind.

"Y/n, do you know these people?" Bruce finished his sentence, while the rest of the family waited for you to respond.

You turned toward the alternate versions of yourself, Vg/n eyeing you as if urging you to make the situation better. "Well, uh. They're... they're..." Shit, think of an excuse, quick! "They're... um... superhero friends visiting me! Yeah!"

Vg/n facepalmed, and V/n giggled. Well, okay, sorry, that was the best excuse you could muster right now. You don't work well under pressure! They should know that better than anyone else since they were technically still you!

Jason raised a brow at your statements.

"If they are your friends, why don't we know them?" Bruce asked.

Damian interrupted Bruce, opening his mouth to voice his own opinions. "You honestly don't believe Y/n, do you, Father? That was such an obvious lie; I could have figured that out in my sleep."

Bruce rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of everything.

"Well, what do you know about Y/n?" M/n asked, placing the staff in their hand behind them and a finger on their chin.

Then silence fell.

The family pondered. What did they know about Y/n? Their likes? Dislikes? What they did yesterday?—What have they done at all? It was a question that seemed to stop the whole family in their tracks.

"Well, I mean, I know their name is Y/n." Dick says, being the first to respond, which only earned him a small "Shut up" from Tim before awkward silence pursued once more.

Another person speaks up, this time it was you. "And if you're worried about them knowing, they already know. And, uh—it's not because I told them or anything; they're just super smart, and, um, they figured it out on their own! Yeah."

Vg/n sighed, facepalming once more for what felt like the umpteenth time. "You saying that just makes it sound like you did tell us."

"Oh, what's this? It's hangout time-o'clock!" you suddenly yelled, pushing the three versions of you outside of the manor and waving goodbye to the Bat-family. "I'll be back in an hour, uh, bye!!"

The rest only watched before chaos ensued.

"Really, Grayson, was that the best you could come up with?"

"Jeez, I don't see you saying anything better!"

"How the hell did they enter the manor?? The cameras didn't pick up any movement at the front door?"

"Well then, they obviously snuck in,"

Bruce silences his children before turning to Alfred. "Did you know about any of this?"

"I can say, Master Bruce, that I did not, in fact, know of this sort. But I can say with full confidence that I don't think you would have known either, sir."

────── ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ──────

"So how the hell are we going to get you guys out of here?" You place a hand on your hip.

"Jeez, we just arrived, and you want to get rid of us now? I'm hurt," V/n teases, earning a glare from you.

You were going to go insane; they needed to get out NOW. Who knows what else could happen? If they died here, then a whole universe would fall apart or something, right? Regardless, what would the rest of the family say after they found out about them? God, you were getting a headache.

M/n fiddles with the ring in their hand, pressing it a few times. "Waah!! Maybe I could call Kiyo; they could summon us a magical portal…"

V/n deadpans at the magic user before opening their mouth to speak.

"Okay, first of all, who the hell is 'Kiyo,' and second of all, do you really think that you could contact whoever the hell this is in an alternate universe?"

A disappointed sigh escapes M/n as they put a hand on the back of their neck, their eyes scanning everywhere as if trying to find some escape. Of course, there wasn't any, so their gaze eventually landed on yours.

It was a look that searched for some kind of answer in your eyes, an answer you couldn't give them. You weren't nearly as awesome as them, nor could you barely pack a punch. What were you supposed to do?

You were just a lost 18-year-old.

"Hey, don't be so harsh on M/n. We could at least try before we cross it off our list of options," Vg/n says as the three of you stop at a local Batburger.

With a wave of their thumb, a sparkle emits from the ring in M/n's hand as they spin around, their magical clothes disappearing with a flick of their hand, and a uniform replacing them instead. Once finished, they strike a pose, a blast of glitter escaping from behind them, which makes the you and your other two alternate selves eye each other before a fit of giggles escape your lips.

Yet despite the lightheartedness of the moment, the three variants could always feel eyes watching the back of their heads like a hawk.

────── ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ──────

GUYS LOWK I KNOW THIS WAS LIKE FILLER and im so SORRY gaaaaah!!!!! next chapter. next chapter guys. dont worry. NEXT CHAPTER. taglist: @cosmosluckycharms @the-dumber-scaramouche @lilithskywalker @senhoritaapple @aetheriis @euphoria-looney @depressed--therapist @chericia @mybones537 !!

[dragqueenstarscream]

First ask, hi hi!

Do you have any courting/flirting opinions or hcs you particularly enjoy? I just love thinking about the awkward explanations that come with exploring a relationship w a cybertronian as a human lmao

Personally I love the complimenting transformation sequences or alt modes, tried and true. Imagine how the different bots react to their little human saying that stuff? Also dirty talk is gonna take some exploring when y’all first get together bc I just thinks it’s funnier if human and cybertronian dirty talk isn’t one to one lol

(Not saying this a super original ask or anything, but I enjoy your takes:p)

hey there, welcome to the askbox!

i'm a massive sucker for transformer x human pairings. the big culture gap between the two makes for a lot of fun exploration, seeing how they'd navigate not only the differences in world, but also size.

complimenting alt modes would be a fantastic way to boost cybertronian ego, mostly because it shows that you love them for all of them. i've mentioned this idea before, but i love humans really caring for their cybertronian partner's alt mode, waxing them, buffing them, taking them to car shows, things along those lines. it's a great date idea because it gives the human a chance to flaunt their partner to other car nuts in a sneaky way.

another thing i enjoy is a human/cybertronian pairing exploring each other's bodies. i don't even mean this in a sexy way. i mean, literally, trying to figure out how the other partner's inner workings... well, work.

"what does this fan here do?"

"what are those weird blue things under your skin?"

"do you breathe out of your mouth or out of your vents?"

"why do you have this hard stuff on your fingers?"

i imagine there has to be a lot of curiosity between the two partners, so something like that would be a show of interest in the other partner as well as trust, because you're showing some vulnerabilities to the other partner. it's sweet, in a goofy sorta way.

[bunni-v1]

HIHI! Before I make my request, I just wanna say that I absolutely ADORE the way you write the crk characters! The posts you have about Shadow Milk are scarily accurate. On another note, I really enjoyed the Burning Spice x reader hcs, and for my request, could you maybe do some Burning Spice NSFW hcs?🤧🙏 I haven't seen many people do requests for him, so I figured I'd step up and ask!

Burning Spice NSFW Headcannons

🍓Girl, I gotta clear out my askbox AGAIN. I clean it out and then y'all come back with a vengeance. Anyway, you were the first person to rq this, so congrats, you get the special answered ask! Yay! Anyway, Burning Spice is SUCH a challenge for me because we have virtually no content of the guy. This is 90% guesswork on my behalf, so please give me grace lol. Sorry if these are short and kinda bad, my motivation is low rn lol

Tw: NSFW; Rough Sex; Marking (like, bruising and biting); blood mention; predator/prey dynamic mentioned

Info: Burning Spice Cookie x Reader; NSFW

-Burning Spice Cookie is surprisingly lax about sex. It's not something that interests him too much, because once you've done it so many ways, you cannot do much more spicing it up.

-Pre-corruption he had sex semi-frequently with various different partners over a long period of time, but the closer he got to corruption the more... boring sex became. There wasn't much appeal other than dominating his partner, and even then, once he did that it was kind of nothing.

-He's experienced and he's very good at what he does, but he doesn't really care to initiate in most cases. Despite what most might think of him, he values the time he spends with you. Sex seems like it would be a waste of it, so he just doesn't bother with it.

-Unless, of course, you seem to be into the idea. Then his tune changes. Oh, his little warrior wants to try something different? Alright, sure, but he won't hold back on you. (He does, of course, because he can't have you crumbling on him.)

-Your first time with him is... interesting. He is, in all meanings of the word, considerate of you and your well-being the whole time. But, he's also doing everything in his power to see what makes you tick. How far can he push you this time before you need to tap out, how many orgasms can he get, how hard can he get your legs shaking?

-He likes to push you. A big part of his style of sexual intercourse is dominating. In most cases, he likes to go as hard as he can as fast as he can, but he has an inhuman tolerance when it comes to you. So he takes his time figuring out how to dominate you.

-He likes things that puzzle him, he likes having his mind challenged, he likes to have something for his mind to do. With sex, this is especially important. He gets off on the thrill of figuring you out, he wants to see the way you react to everything.

-He's big on predator/prey dynamics, like, really big on them. He likes to set you loose and give you a fixed amount of time to throw him off your trail. Run, hide, set traps, and he'll come after you like a wild animal starved for weeks. You always think you've got him, but he waits until you're comfortable to strike, and he takes you wherever he finds you - so hiding in public isn't a smart idea... or it is... depends on what you're into.

-Speaking of, he is a big proponent of public sex. Like I said in his initial headcannons, he loves to show you off. You both have a lot of pride in being the other's partner, so why not show it off in every way possible?

-Usually, this manifests as him having you bounce on him on his throne while loyal followers come and praise him. They'll be showering him with flowery words and begging for his acknowledgment, but his eyes are only on you. He soaks in your nervous expression, loving the way you shy away from the other cookie's eyes.

-It also can be more ritualistic. What I mean is that, he very well enjoys having people watch, so why not make a festival out of it. The two of you will be on a huge platform, surrounded by rich silk sheets and the eyes of his most loyal followers. They cheer the two of you on, shouting praises and exclamations of joy as you reach your climax.

-Do not think that this means he's in any way okay with sharing. He is not, it's a one-way ticket to get crumbled. If any cookie is foolish enough to even propose the idea they don't live to tell the tale. Look, enjoy, but don't touch.

-A lot of sex with him actually starts as sparring. You are very weak compared to him, so he rarely goes out of his way to spar with you, but he does. When he does, it always ends with you bent over and babbling his name like a mantra.

-He can't help it, the way you fight him with such a cute determined little expression really makes the cogs in his head turn. Flushed face, chest heaving, oh you look heavenly. Wouldn't you look nicer with him splitting you on his dick? Yes, he seems to think so.

-He likes it when you fight back against him, make him work for his own high. It's just what he wants. Kick and bite and punch and scratch as much as you can, he wants to see the marks you leave on him. He wears them with pride, just like you should his.

-And he does mark you up, very well. Your body is littered with bites from him, and you have several new bruises where he restrains you. The most prominent ones are on your thighs, the perfect outline of his fingers practically burned into your dough.

-You always bleed when he bites, his teeth are sharp, and he never cleans it up. He likes seeing the crimson jam dribble down your body. It's a beautiful sight, the very essence of you leaking out for him to see. When he's feeling particularly romantic, he'll smear it across his lips like makeup, and kiss along your body leaving a trail of blood-soaked kisses in his wake.

-Something else to mention, he very much likes to see the two of you connected. He enjoys watching himself sink into you, and he does it in silence. To him, it's beautiful to see your bodies meld together. Even more so, he likes to see evidence of himself in you.

-So, he always cums inside and he never uses protection. He likes to see his cum leak out of your abused little hole, he'll scoop it out of you after the fact with a scary reverence in his eyes. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, but he cleans you up well, so it's best to let it be.

-He also likes to feel himself while he's inside you. He'll press on your stomach so he can enjoy the way he fits more directly. If you squirm, it just makes it all the better for him. The pleasure is only heightened by your wiggling, so keep it up.

-Okay, we have to acknowledge his size. It's impossible not to do so with how big he is in the game - he is significantly larger than every cookie we've seen so far.

-His dick is large, like very large. It's more... normal... than Shadow Milk Cookie's, but it's not regular by any means. It's big, nearly eight inches long, and about five inches thick. It's the same color as his dough all the way up to the tip, which is a deep reddish-brown color.

-The tip is flat and wide, and it's the same thickness along the entire shaft. The first push-in is always the hardest, but as soon as you adjust, it's easy to take the whole thing... well... what you can fit at least.

-Oh, one last thing, his dick is ribbed. Several bumps line the shaft in a nice pattern, and it rubs you inside like a dream. He knows the effect it has on you too, and he uses it to get you to melt against him like butter.

-He's rough, and he goes rather hard and fast, but he can slow it down sometimes. It's rare, and it isn't something he thinks to do in most cases, but occasionally... just sometimes, you'll get a sweeter side to him.

-That doesn't mean it isn't intense, though. It is intense, even more so than his other style of sex. But it's for different reasons this time.

-Instead of fucking he is making love to you, which seems to be out of character, but I promise you it's not. He loves to show you his devotion to you, and a great way of doing that is through sex.

-If you are, for any reason, feeling insecure he uses sex as a means of expressing just how much you mean to him. Words can only do so much, gifts and mortal possessions are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but this? The physical connection between the two of you? It's something more, something deeper than anything else he could give you.

-He holds you close, usually facing him on his lap, and slowly ravishes you. There is to fighting or bruising or biting like this, just raw passion that he has for you. Not an inch of your skin is without his burning touch, the heat between the two of you fogging your mind until you can no longer think.

-The pace he sets is slow and deep, each thrust and movement a deliberate show of his admiration for you. It's only then that you'll hear him praise you, words of affirmation spilling from his lips like warm honey, encouraging you to keep going for him.

-What is the most intense, what gets you shaking, is the way he looks at you. His eyes are unblinking and affixed to your face with nothing but sheer devotion and love. He doesn't let you shy away either, you need to look at him, to see how much he adores you. Only once you are jelly against him will he be satisfied that he has done his part.

[jabbasyogainstructor]

Obi-Wan does mention her in a pretty meaningful way on the Kenobi series. Twice. He doesn’t say her name, but he’s talking to Leia both times, so he can’t say her name. He messes up the fake name for Leia and says “we lost her mother a while back, and sometimes when I look at Luna (fake Leia name), it’s like I’m looking at her.” Leia immediately clocks that Kenobi must have known her parents, and she questions him about it repeatedly later on. It’s an emotional bit, I felt Padme in that moment. He also vividly describes the personality traits she gets from both biological parents, specifically saying “those are traits you get from your mother.” When Bail and Breha say “I know who she’s like,” in the very first episode, talking about Leia’s stubbornness, they also mean Padme. They don’t mean each other or Anakin. Breha never met Anakin, but she spent a lot of time with Padme. It’s mentioned in all 3 novels written about Padme’s time as queen and senator from the POVs of several handmaidens and Padme herself: Queen’s Hope, Queen’s Peril, and Queen’s Shadow, all by EK Johnson. Padme visited and stayed for extended periods of time on Alderaan with Bail and Breha Organa. Go back and watch Kenobi again, Padme can’t force ghost, but she absolutely haunts that show, as hard as Anakin does. Kenobi feels he failed them both and is still failing to protect their children. Yes, it’s the most referenced she’s been in a while, but for the original trilogy, she didn’t have a name or backstory yet.

Also she was a full on character in the Clone Wars cartoon with her own episodes starting in season 1 and lasting until the end. Not just the middle and not just the love triangle. She had entire episodes devoted to her convincing independent and separatist worlds what the republic could do for them. Anakin and Obi-Wan weren’t even in two of those clone wars episodes. Tales of the Jedi, the funeral episode was almost entirely about her, we didn’t need her name spoken there. The point was that Ahsoka was so determined to pay her respects to this woman that she almost got caught.

I even got the impression that ObiWan focused so hard on Luke because he saw him as Anakin 2.0, a Skywalker padawan he would do right by this time. And if Leia was raised in a palace by the Queen and Senator for Alderaan, he knew exactly who she would become: Padme reborn, and I don’t think he could face that one. Obi-Wan raised Anakin, treated him like a brother, and then he had to kill him (or so he thought.) and he stopped Anakin only to have Padme die in front of him anyway. I mean, Obi-Wan probably sat in his Tattooine hermit cave and just focused on every person he had ever cared for and failed to protect, from Qui-Gon, to Satine, Anakin and Padme, every Jedi he’d ever called a friend, and the entire Republic itself. He refused initially to help a kidnapped 10 year old Leia because he has to watch “the boy” whose name he can’t seem to say because he knows he’s not Anakin and he knows he’s not NOT Anakin. “The girl” who both is and isn’t Padme in his mind, was their responsibility. Padme most definitely haunts the Obi-Wan Kenobi series if nothing else in the franchise.

Yes, Padme needs to be meaningfully named in future projects, but she is consistently referred to in the narrative. She’s not tuned out, people speak about her indirectly all the time. They refuse to say her name possibly because it seems to bring down the wrath of Vader. (I am theorizing that a lot of people who said her name around the time of her death got a red lightsaber height reduction. He’s pretty messed up about it.) I assume there’s lots of rumors about her: she put the emperor on the throne and then turned on him, who was the father of her baby, the other senator who was her rumored lover or one of the two Jedi who never left her side? Why is she the only senator who died? How did she die? Did she really die? There’s a more jokey version of this out there, that she’s a boogeyman on Geonosis, but I would bet that she is remembered, and respected and even feared in many places. In the Star Wars comics, she is mentioned constantly, her visage reflected in Naboo art through statues and stained glass windows, but none of that is canon anymore. Where Leia visits Naboo and looks at her and remembers that fuzzy baby memory or inherited a lot of her clothes. All Leia focused. But they were there.

There’s other tragic events people seem to prefer not to mention, Alderaan for instance. Jedi seems to be an actual banned word, Din Djarin had never even heard it before. She’s mentioned less, but she’s also been dead for years. How often do you mention long dead politicians in your everyday life? Unlike Anakin who showed up consistently in nearly every video game, movie and show, whether as himself or Darth Vader, she is actually dead. Memories of people fade, their legacies fade. Where’s Jar Jar been? He was a war hero, and he was her other senator rep for Naboo. He faded into obscurity as well, and he’s probably still alive. By the time of the mandalorian, she’s been gone at least 30 years. I don’t know in this current canon if Luke or Leia even know who their mother is yet (in legends, Luke went looking but never found her, and there are a few books relating to the movie canon that mention Leia being outed as Vader’s daughter to the New Republic, but I don’t know if they’re actually canon as of today) and I assumed that it was going to be revealed dramatically somewhere in the future.

I do agree with you that for marketing purposes, the women of star wars are woefully underrepresented. She should absolutely be on the RotS poster. They seem to still be working on the premise of “space and it has war in the title so these are boy toys.” My mother had to work to find Princess Leia merchandise for me when I was a kid, and this was before the prequels. I had a Princess Leia figurine in the gold bikini, got it for my birthday. I don’t think think that was supposed to be marketed towards 8 year old me, but it was all she could find. I used to work big box retail, so sometimes after my shift I’d go look in the toy aisle and there’s so many toys of the male characters, ones I didn’t know had names. And for like every 30 male characters, there’s one Princess Leia in the mix, no Padme/Amidala or Ahsoka or Jyn. Sometimes there’s a few Reys (they seem determined to push her more, maybe because she has no feminine dress code like most of the others do), but no Rose Tico and I’ve never seen an older, sequel trilogy Leia. Mon Mothma is non existent. Male Star Wars fans do nothing to help this situation, I have seen many claiming Leia, Ahsoka and Rey are overrated, never mind what they say about the others. (I have firmly come to believe that many of the most toxic Star Wars fans are actually just fans of complaining and this is a very convenient vehicle to project their own issues onto.)

Carrie Fisher used to complain that George Lucas owned her image, and she thought her face was everywhere. I don’t know if Princess Leia merch declined over time or if she had it better than she ever knew. Because it’s never been enough for me.

There’s rumors that Natalie Portman may return in a future season of Ahsoka or Obi-Wan, or some third and as of yet unnamed thing. Natalie herself said she would love to come back, because she feels Padme’s story isn’t finished.

You’re not wrong, she’s under-represented. But she’s never been eliminated.

No one with any kind of creative or executive power over the Star Wars franchise cares about Padme Amidala except George Lucas, and even he decided her story and her thoughts and her work weren't worth keeping in Revenge in the Sith in the end.

For the past 20 years she's been a pawn, a narrative reason to explain Anakin's fall. She gets little to no merchandise and only sparing attention in the books and comics. The Clone Wars gives her a couple of cool Senate scenes in the middle seasons and then refuses to do much with her otherwise except put her in a convoluted, contrived love triangle to showcase Anakin's possessiveness. She's nowhere to be found or mentioned in Obi-Wan despite being one of his closest friends. Ahsoka went to her funeral but still never spoke her name. Luke and Leia never mention their mother in the sequels. Andor never brings her up despite revolving around the birth of the Rebellion, focusing on the ways people resist against fascist governments, and co-starring one of Padme's best friends. It's incredibly frustrating.

She's a ghost, she's haunting the narrative, she's a core facilitator of Lucas's thematic and political messaging, but Disney will never speak her name or acknowledge her importance or do ANYTHING with her. They won't even put her on the damn ROTS 20th anniversary posters! What will it take for people to finally acknowledge Padme and give her ANY kind of respect and narrative spotlight?

[msmarvelwitch]

spoilers for sunrise on the reaping

Listen, as someone who shamelessly loves fan service I was surprised Suzanne Collins gave us any breadcrumbs at all but I was more than thrilled she got it out of the way in the first few chapters. To me it sent a message that while, yes, a lot of the fan theories were cannon after all, it wasn’t what this story was going to be about. This is very much a story about finding, losing, and regaining hope even when the cards are stacked against you. This is very plainly pointed out by Plutarch being able to spin the narrative and Wyatt constantly remarking on the odds of their situation. I think the direct parallels between Katniss and Haymitch’s life also underline the fact that there was nothing more special about Katniss than the rest of the victors - she just had what they never did, which was good timing.

I think the real tragedy of this story is that the rebellion movement was beginning well before Katniss was even alive. If the timing had been right, it would have been Haymitch that was the Mockingjay twenty five years before our story even begins. However, the victors failed. Whether it was due to Beetee’s obvious emotional investment in the planning. Or perhaps it underestimating the commitment of the Capitol to improve the Arena after Wiress embarrassed them in the prior year’s games. It doesn’t matter what particular thing prevented taking the arena down, at the end of the day they failed. Badly. And each of the victors paid a price for it. These prices sidelined them for years - decades for Haymitch at the very least.

Not only did they have to live with the failure of their plan, they also had to what the Capitol grow stronger and somewhat more competent. What really struck me while reading this was the fact that even by the 50th Hunger Games, the Capitol still seems to not quite have its shit together. The train to the is noted to be a little shabby as if it’s an old subway car and the District 12 tributes even seem less than impressed by their living quarters during training. We know from Katniss and Peeta’s games that the conditions only “improve” for the tributes over the years. All of this is definitely to fatten the pigs before the slaughter, but I can’t imagine how disheartening it must have felt for the victors who could see the incompetence of the Capitol only becoming more efficient and powerful every year as more kids died. Not to mention that they had to guide those kids to their deaths under these conditions as well. No wonder they lost hope over the years and put their aspirations of freeing the Districts from the Capitol because who would know better about the human cost of this fight better than the victors? They all know that the cards are stacked against them and the odds aren’t in their favor, so they more or less fall in line.

Then comes Katniss. She instantly stirs Haymitch awake by reminding him of Louella, not to mention the fact of the emotional connection he has to her father. I think she eventually even reminds him of Maysilee by fighting back against Haymitch on the train after he immediately writes them off as two more kids doomed to die in the arena because he has seen it so many times before. Because Katniss and Peeta are no more different or special than any of the tributes that have come before them. I think the other victors no doubt were reminded of a young Haymitch once they saw Katniss in action during the games. She’s openly rebellious to the leaders before the game but instead of scoring low on their assessment as Haymitch did, she gets the top marks. She is protective of “weaker” contestants like Rue just as Haymitch tried his best to protect Louella, Ampert, and Wellie. I think it’s Rue’s death and Katniss taking the time to honor her before her body is whisked off by the Capitol and wakes everyone back up again. It’s not that Katniss is doing anything new or different than the people who came before her, she just reminded them of all the injustices they have endured for over fifty years. It’s a long list of people who not only died during the Hunger Games, but their loved ones who were killed to crush their hopes and kept them fearful. It just goes to the timing where everyone - the victors and the citizens of the Districts - have had enough and it opens up the door to hope again. Even though the Capitol is stronger than ever and the deck is stacked against them, they decide to screw the odds and fight back anyway.

Also, because of their failures, the victors are able to learn from their mistakes during the Second Quarter Quell. Nobody understands Katniss better than Haymitch and he knows that if she is informed on the rebel plans ahead of the 75th Games, their cover will be blown because she is not a natural liar or actress. As a result, she and Peeta are kept in the dark about the plot to take down the arena and I think this was critical to the success of the plot. I wish Haymitch’s epilogue gave us a bit more into the planning and scheming the victors did ahead of the games to make sure their plan didn’t completely fail again, but it’s safe to assume that Beetee, Wiress, and Mags also had their own learnings from their failed scheme that helped take down the arena and start a revolution twenty five years later.

Now I think the themes of going against the odds even when it’s hopeless are really plainly stated here but I think the similarities in Katniss and Haymitch’s stories aren’t just fan service but essential to the plot. Which I think given today’s political climate - particularly in the U.S. - is exactly the point Suzanne is trying to make. Now, I know there is a whole debate on TikTok on whether books are political…which is a a thing people truly believe these days. However, this series has always been political and I think the timing of both “A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” and “Sunrise on the Reaping” being released over ten years after this series has been completed is no accident. Similarly to Katniss not being the first person to experience the trauma of the games and being a target of Snow, everything happening today in the U.S. is not the first time or place where something like this has happened. I think this story is meant to encourage people to keep their hope even when it feels futile and naive.

[abbzloves]

Pairing: Xavier x mc

Cw: angst, mentions of captive bird, spoilers for Caleb’s story, threats of violence, Xavier being protective, use of nickname Starlight, comfort, probably other stuff

A/n: I love Xavier so much, I just finished the Caleb story and the entire time I kept thinking that Xavier and Sylus would never do that. Zayne probs too but he’s not my favourite. Anywho, enjoy the Xavier fic, might write one about Sylus soon.

——————

Xavier’s knee bounced. Up and down and up and down and up and down. His heart raced, faster and faster. Whether it be nerves or anxiety, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both. He hadn’t seen you for a week, the last he had heard from you was that you were going to Skyhaven for a mission and you would be back. That’s it. No other communication, nothing from Jenna, Tara had no clue where you were, and Simone wouldn’t spill.

Over the past week, he had barely been able to sleep, he was so worried. After hearing about the explosion by the overpass, his anxiety spiraled further at the thought of you getting hurt. He knew you could handle yourself, his trust in you was beyond words, beyond measure even. He had seen you in countless fights, had seen you take down coutless wanderers, but he was always by your side. He was there to step in if you ever got hurt, and that’s where his anxiety stemmed from. He needed you by his side, not for your own sake, but for his.

He on his couch, waiting for something. Today was supposed to be the day you were to come home. He also knew Skyhaven was hard for you, after all, your childhood best friend had lived there. His heart tinged a bit, some jealousy creeping up through the anxiety. He pushed it aside for now, he had bigger things to focus on than his petty jealousy. His phone dinged, a light melody that he only used for you. He picked it up immediately and checked the text.

“I’m back.”

“R U home?” His breath quickened, he needed to see you.

“Yes.”

“Can I come see U?”

“Please”

He stood up. He grabbed his wallet, the book he had been reading, and the two new stuffies had caught at the arcade while you were away. He still needed his teacher with him, even after his near fifty tries a day, he only caught the two. He teleported to your front door. He needed to see you as soon as possible. He needed to be close to you, and hear your voice, and be in your presence.

He knocked three times, and unlocked the door. He called out your name and saw you by your windowsill, look out at the sky, with a solemn look on your face. You looked over at him, and a small smile grew. He knew something was off. Your emotions were always easy for him to read, you never put any effort into hiding them when he was around. He put down your stuffies on the couch, along with his book and approached you.

“How was your trip?” He stood next to you, trying to be a calm and comforting presence. Someone you could lean on. And you did, you leaned into his side a little and look into his soft blue eyes. You felt safe beside him. You felt a lump form at the back of your throat, and felt your eyes sting a little as you tried to hold back your tears.

“It was rough,” you managed to get out. A singular tear fell, and he noticed it immediately. He wasn’t sure what to do. He felt the panic creep up his throat, his eyes widened and he reached out to wipe it away.

“What happened?” His voice was measured and hardened. Ready to go after whatever had caused your pain. To stop whoever had hurt you. To protect you.

“Caleb… is alive.” More tears fell, your complicated emotions were clear on your face. Anger, fear, some resentment, longing, and pain. Xavier knew all of those well. He also knew what this would mean for you. Your childhood best friend, the one you had mourned, the one you had cried yourself to sleep over, was alive.

“What?”

“He was alive this whole time Xavier, and he’s involved with Ever. And he…” you trailed off. Xavier’s eyes quickly examined your face, and he knew something else had happened. He was not going to push, he was going to wait until you told him yourself. He, however, was more than ready to kill the bastard again if it meant keeping you safe.

“What did he do to you?” His voice, was comforting to you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck and let the tears flow. He held you tightly, unwilling to let you go. He didn’t experience what you experienced, he knew something had happened. He did not want to let you go through it alone.

“He drugged me with cold medicine. He trapped me in his house… he isn’t the same person I grew up with. He’s not my Caleb…” he stilled at that. His anger grew. You could feel a shift in Xavier’s demeanour, unlike with Caleb, you weren’t scared. You knew Xavier like the back of your hand, you had spent so much time with him. You know him now like you used to know Caleb. You held on tighter to Xavier, afraid that if you let him go, he would become a different person too. That you would loose him. Xavier’s hold tightened exponentially, and he was ready to go, to hurt Caleb. Put him back into the ground because, what he did to you, the pain he had caused you is not okay. None of it was okay. Anyone who caused you pain, regardless of it being your childhood best friend, did not deserve to be in your presence ever again, breathe the same air as you, be near you. Xavier would expect the same if he ever did that to you.

“He… did what?” He managed to ground out, through his clenched teeth, and his arms clutched you closer.

“He wanted to protect me, he said…” you sobbed out.

“Oh Starlight,” he tried to pull away a little but you wouldn’t let him. You didn’t want to see the pity on his face. “Hurting you like that isn’t protection.”

You nodded into his neck. He let go of you briefly a grabbed your legs to wrap them around his waist. He picked you and walked over to the couch. Beside the stuffies and all. Regardless of how he felt in the moment, the anger brewing under his skin making him feel like a restless animal, he knew you needed him more.

When he tried to pull away to see your face you let out another sob and clutched further. “Please don’t leave me Xavier.”

He huffed at that, and finally forced your face away from his neck. He placed his forehead against yours. Your bleary eyes stared back into his, deep sorrow and anger sketched into his features. There was no hint of pity. Your relief washed over you.

“I would never, in a million years leave you. You are the only one for me in the entire cosmos. I will always be by your side,” he cradled you close. “Can I kiss you?” He muttered so softly you almost missed it. You nodded.

He pressed his lips softly against yours. It was nice and peaceful, his touch was gentle. He pulled back, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You sighed and leaned your head against his chest. He swayed you back and forth. When your breathing evened out, his suppressed anger came to the forefront. A man was about to die. Xavier was going to kill the man a second time, the man who dared to hurt you.