#their isn't anyone unique like her

[lesbiangummybearmafia]

[insipid-drivel]

Horses: Since There Seems To Be A Knowledge Gap

I'm going to go ahead and preface this with: I comment pretty regularly on clips and photos featuring horses and horseback riding, often answering questions or providing explanations for how or why certain things are done. I was a stable hand and barrel racer growing up, and during my 11 year tenure on tumblr, Professional Horse Commentary is a very niche, yet very necessary, subject that needs filling. Here are some of the literary and creative gaps I've noticed in well meaning (and very good!) creators trying to portray horses and riding realistically that... well, most of you don't seem to even be aware of, because you wouldn't know unless you worked with horses directly!

Some Of The Most Common Horse + Riding Mistakes I See:

-Anybody can ride any horse if you hold on tight enough/have ridden once before.

Nope. No, no, no, no, aaaaaaaand, no. Horseback riding has, historically, been treated as a life skill taught from surprisingly young ages. It wasn't unusual in the pre-vehicular eras to start teaching children as young as 4 to begin to ride, because horses don't come with airbags, and every horse is different. For most adults, it can take months or years of regular lessons to learn to ride well in the saddle, and that's just riding; not working or practicing a sport.

Furthermore, horses often reject riders they don't know. Unless a horse has been trained like a teaching horse, which is taught to tolerate riders of all skill and experience levels, it will take extreme issue with having some random person try to climb on their back. Royalty, nobility, and the knighted classes are commonly associated with the "having a favorite special horse" trope, because it's true! Just like you can have a particularly special bond with a pet or service animal that verges on parental, the same can apply with horses. Happy horses love their owners/riders, and will straight-up do their best to murder anyone that tries to ride them without permission.

-Horses are stupid/have no personality.

There isn't a more dangerous assumption to make than assuming a horse is stupid. Every horse has a unique personality, with traits that can be consistent between breeds (again, like cat and dog breeds often have distinct behavior traits associated with them), but those traits manifest differently from animal to animal.

My mother had an Arabian horse, Zipper, that hated being kicked as a signal to gallop. One day, her mom and stepdad had a particularly unpleasant visitor; an older gentleman that insisted on riding Zipper, but refused to listen to my mother's warnings never to kick him. "Kicking" constitutes hitting the horse's side(s) with your heels, whether you have spurs on or not. Most horses only need a gentle squeeze to know what you want them to do.

Anyway, Zipper made eye-contact with my mom, asking for permission. He understood what she meant when she nodded at him. He proceeded to give this asshole of a rider road rash on the side of the paddock fence and sent him to the emergency room. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't have the permission from the rider he respected, and was intelligent enough to ask, "mind if I teach this guy a lesson?" with his eyes, and understand, "Go for it, buddy," from my mom in return.

-Riding bareback is possible to do if you hold onto the horse's mane really tight.

Riding a horse bareback (with no saddle, stirrups, or traditional harness around the horse's head) is unbelievably difficult to learn, particularly have testicles and value keeping them. Even professional riders and equestrians find ourselves relying on tack (the stuff you put on a horse to ride it) to stay stable on our horses, even if we've been riding that particular horse for years and have a very positive, trusting relationship.

Horses sweat like people do. The more they run, the more their hair saturates with sweat and makes staying seated on them slippery. Hell, an overworked horse can sweat so heavily that the saddle slips off its back. It's also essential to brush and bathe a horse before it's ridden in order to keep it healthier, so their hair is often quite slick from either being very clean or very damp. In order to ride like that, you have to develop the ability to synchronize your entire body's rhythm's with the rhythm of the horse's body beneath you, and quite literally move as one. Without stirrups, most people can't do it, and some people can never master bareback riding no matter how many years they spend trying to learn.

-You can be distracted and make casual conversation while a horse is standing untethered in the middle of a barn or field.

At every barn I've ever worked at, it's been standard practice with every single horse, regardless of age or temperament, to secure their heads while they're being tacked up or tacked down. The secures for doing this are simple ropes with clips that are designed to attach to the horse's halter (the headwear for a horse that isn't being ridden; they have no bit that goes in the horse's mouth, and no reins for a rider to hold) on metal O rings on either side of the horse's head. This is not distressing to the horse, because we give them plenty of slack to turn their heads and look around comfortably.

The problem with trying to tack up an unrestrained horse while chatting with fellow stable hands or riders is that horses know when you're distracted! And they often try to get away with stuff when they know you're not looking! In a barn, a horse often knows where the food is stored, and will often try to tiptoe off to sneak into the feed room.

Horses that get into the feed room are often at a high risk of dying. While extremely intelligent, they don't have the ability to throw up, and they don't have the ability to tell that their stomach is full and should stop eating. Allowing a horse into a feed/grain room WILL allow it to eat itself to death.

Other common woes stable hands and riders deal with when trying to handle a horse with an unrestrained head is getting bitten! Horses express affection between members of their own herd, and those they consider friends and family, through nibbling and surprisingly rough biting. It's not called "horseplay" for nothing, because during my years working with horses out in the pasture, it wasn't uncommon at all for me to find individuals with bloody bite marks on their withers (that high part on the middle of the back of their shoulders most people instinctively reach for when they try to get up), and on their backsides. I've been love-bitten by horses before, and while flattering, they hurt like hell on fleshy human skin.

So, for the safety of the horse, and everybody else, always make a show of somehow controlling the animal's head when hands-on and on the ground with them.

-Big Horse = War Horse

Startlingly, the opposite is usually the case! Draft and carriage horses, like Percherons and Friesians, were never meant to be used in warfare. Draft horses are usually bred to be extremely even-tempered, hard to spook, and trustworthy around small children and animals. Historically, they're the tractors of the farm if you could afford to upgrade from oxen, and were never built to be fast or agile in a battlefield situation.

More importantly, just because a horse is imposing and huge doesn't make it a good candidate for carrying heavy weights. A real thing that I had to be part of enforcing when I worked at a teaching ranch was a weight limit. Yeah, it felt shitty to tell people they couldn't ride because we didn't have any horses strong enough to carry them due to their weight, but it's a matter of the animal's safety. A big/tall/chonky horse is more likely to be built to pull heavy loads, but not carry them flat on their spines. Horses' muscular power is predominantly in their ability to run and pull things, and too heavy a rider can literally break a horse's spine and force us to euthanize it.

Some of the best war horses out there are from the "hot blood" family. Hot blooded horses are often from dry, hot, arid climates, are very small and slight (such as Arabian horses), and are notoriously fickle and flighty. They're also a lot more likely to paw/bite/kick when spooked, and have even sometimes been historically trained to fight alongside their rider if their rider is dismounted in combat; kicking and rearing to keep other soldiers at a distance.

-Any horse can be ridden if it likes you enough.

Just like it can take a lifetime to learn to ride easily, it can take a lifetime of training for a horse to comfortably take to being ridden or taking part in a job, like pulling a carriage. Much like service animals, horses are typically trained from extremely young ages to be reared into the job that's given to them, and an adult horse with no experience carrying a rider is going to be just as scared as a rider who's never actually ridden a horse.

Just as well, the process of tacking up a horse isn't always the most comfortable experience for the horse. To keep the saddle centered on the horse's back when moving at rough or fast paces, it's essential to tighten the belly strap (cinch) of the saddle as tightly as possible around the horse's belly. For the horse, it's like wearing a tight corset, chafes, and even leaves indents in their skin afterward that they love having rinsed with water and scratched. Some horses will learn to inflate their bellies while you're tightening the cinch so you can't get it as tight as it needs to be, and then exhale when they think you're done tightening it.

When you're working with a horse wearing a bridle, especially one with a bit, it can be a shocking sensory experience to a horse that's never used a bit before. While they lack a set of teeth naturally, so the bit doesn't actually hurt them, imagine having a metal rod shoved in your mouth horizontally! Unless you understand why it's important for the person you care about not dying, you'd be pretty pissed about having to keep it in there!

-Horseback riding isn't exercise.

If you're not using every muscle in your body to ride with, you're not doing it right.

Riding requires every ounce of muscle control you have in your entire body - although this doesn't mean it wasn't realistic for people with fat bodies to stay their weight while also being avid riders; it doesn't mean the muscles aren't there. To stay on the horse, you need to learn how it feels when it moves at different gaits (walk, trot, canter, gallop), how to instruct it to switch leads (dominant legs; essential for precise turning and ease of communication between you and the horse), and not falling off. While good riders look like they're barely moving at all, that's only because they're good riders. They know how to move so seamlessly with the horse, feeling their movements like their own, that they can compensate with their legs and waists to not bounce out of the saddle altogether or slide off to one side. I guarantee if you ride a horse longer than 30 minutes for the first time, your legs alone will barely work and feel like rubber.

-Horses aren't affectionate.

Horses are extraordinarily affectionate toward the right people. As prey animals, they're usually wary of people they don't know, or have only recently met. They also - again, like service animals - have a "work mode" and a "casual mode" depending upon what they're doing at the time. Horses will give kisses like puppies, wiggle their upper lips on your hair/arms to groom you, lean into neck-hugs, and even cuddle in their pasture or stall if it's time to nap and you join them by leaning against their sides. If they see you coming up from afar and are excited to see you, they'll whinny and squeal while galloping to meet you at the gate. They'll deliberately swat you with their tails to tease you, and will often follow you around the pasture if they're allowed to regardless of what you're up to.

-Riding crops are cruel.

Only cruel people use riding crops to hurt their horses. Spurs? I personally object to, because any horse that knows you well doesn't need something sharp jabbing them in the side for emphasis when you're trying to tell them where you want them to go. Crops? Are genuinely harmless tools used for signalling a horse.

I mean, think about it. Why would crops be inherently cruel instruments if you need to trust a horse not to be afraid of you and throw you off when you're riding it?

Crops are best used just to lightly tap on the left or right flank of the horse, and aren't universally used with all forms of riding. You'll mainly see crops used with English riding, and they're just tools for communicating with the horse without needing to speak.

-There's only one way to ride a horse.

Not. At. All. At most teaching ranches, you'll get two options: Western, or English, because they tend to be the most popular for shows and also the most common to find equipment for. English riding uses a thinner, smaller saddle, narrower stirrups, and much thinner bridles. I, personally, didn't like English style riding because I never felt very stable in such a thin saddle with such small stirrups, and didn't start learning until my mid teens. English style riding tends to focus more on your posture and deportment in the saddle, and your ability to show off your stability and apparent immovability on the horse. It was generally just a bit too stiff and formal for me.

Western style riding utilizes heavier bridles, bigger saddles (with the iconic horn on the front), and broader stirrups. Like its name may suggest, Western riding is more about figuring out how to be steady in the saddle while going fast and being mobile with your upper body. Western style riding is generally the style preferred for working-type shows, such as horseback archery, gunning, barrel racing, and even rodeo riding.

-Wealthy horse owners have no relationship with their horses.

This is loosely untrue, but I've seen cases where it is. Basically, horses need to feel like they're working for someone that matters to them in order to behave well with a rider and not get impatient or bored. While it's common for people to board horses at off-property ranches (boarding ranches) for cost and space purposes, it's been historically the truth that having help is usually necessary with horses at some point. What matters is who spends the most time with the animal treating it like a living being, rather than a mode of transport or a tool. There's no harm in stable hands handling the daily upkeep; hay bales and water buckets are heavy, and we're there to profit off the labor you don't want or have the time to do. You get up early to go to work; we get up early to look after your horses. Good owners/boarders visit often and spend as much of their spare time as they can with spending quality work and playtime with their horses. Otherwise, the horses look to the stable hands for emotional support and care.

So, maybe you're writing a knight that doesn't really care much for looking after his horse, but his squire is really dedicated to keeping up with it? There's a better chance of the horse having a more affectionate relationship with the squire thanks to the time the squire spends on looking after it, while the horse is more likely to tolerate the knight that owns it as being a source of discipline if it misbehaves. That doesn't mean the knight is its favorite person. When it comes to horses, their love must be earned, and you can only earn it by spending time with them hands-on.

-Horses can graze anywhere without concern.

This is a mistake that results in a lot of premature deaths! A big part of the cost of owning a horse - even before you buy one - is having the property that will be its pasture assessed for poisonous plants, and having those plants removed from being within the animal's reach. This is an essential part of farm upkeep every year, because horses really can't tell what's toxic and what isn't. One of the reasons it's essential to secure a horse when you aren't riding it is to ensure it only has a very limited range to graze on, and it's your responsibility as the owner/rider to know how to identify dangerous plants and keep your horses away from them.

There's probably more. AMA in my askbox if you have any questions, but that's all for now. Happy writing.

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

HELP YOURSELF

summary : in a family filled with intriguing members of their own right , duke has a particular interest in a certain vigilante in the family that everyone seems to overlook . this interest leads to the family to spiral into obsession .

When he was first introduce to the Wayne family , Duke was overwhelmed , everyone was so talented , so special and unique and came from such - complex backgrounds , it was hard to ever find something or anyone dull in the family . Duke had his highs with the family - from patrol , to movie nights every Saturday , food fights on Monday mornings because of course Jason had to rile up Damian but he had his lows - particularly the fact that he was the only sole meta in the family .

Something so minute shouldn't affect him , I mean come on isn't badass that he's in a family that can accomplish so much with sheer willpower without powers ? Though , it hurts every time he sees Conner teach Jon how to use his super strength without hurting himself in the process . He seethes in envy every time he witnesses it because he swears it ensnares him in a painful grasp - reminding him that he's the bystander in this family and that he's the only odd one out.

He shakes away the chill that runs up his spine and returns his focus back to the scene in front of him , a young woman is desperately trying to yank her purse away from some lacky burglar. ' Easy' Duke thinks to himself as he effortlessly swoops down from the rooftop he is perched on and landed on the thug . " Leave this poor woman alone " Duke commands as he pressed his legs onto the burglar's back. The burglar growls and pushes himself off the floor - practically making the woman scream . Duke immediately goes to jump away and reassess the situation when the burglar spins around inhumanely fast mid air to face the vigilante .

Bewilderment and confusion was all Duke felt but regardless he goes to land a sucker punch to the burglar's mask face when suddenly the burglar takes out a bomb from his inner pocket and throws it at the woman behind them. The woman screams as the bomb makes a beeline towards her and Duke wants to scream in frustration at how utterly stupid she's being and the fact that the burglar has outplayed him.

Suddenly , a figure clad in black with red accents jumps in front of the lady and catches the bomb effortlessly and throws it aside like it was nothing. Duke takes this time to sucker punch the burglar into the floor while he was distracted with the bomb's dentation , causing the man to groan in pain . While Duke is handcuffing the burglar , he eyes the figure in the corner of his eye handing the woman her purse before approaching him.

" Thank you ..... " Duke trails off as he watches the figure properly . He notes that they adorn a black body suit but has a red spider symbol in front near their chest . They adorn black helmet that covers the entirety of their face , only showing the user's dark brown eyes.

"Widow "the figure answers before leaping away from Duke . " Wait ! Who are you , I've never met you before !" exclaims as he extends his hand in attempt to reach out to them . " Just stay safe kid you don't know what you're doing " the figure says , directing a glare at him before they vanish.

That afternoon , Duke returns back to the mansion , he slumps against the kitchen table , the weight of patrolling all day and the situation of meeting a strange entity named ' Widow'. Alfred gently pats him on the back and serves him a plate of snadwhiches.

" I take it that today's patrol was exhausting Master Duke" , Alfred asks him as he begins to wash up wares in the kitchen. " You have no idea , met some weirdo who called me a kid like what the hell " , Duke complains as he takes a bite of the sandwich . " Weirdo ?" Alfred questions as he dries a plate. " Yeah some named Widow " Duke replies . Alfred drops the plate.

He feels every muscle on his body tense at the mention of her name , a name that may have been a bygone memory to many but not to him never him . Duke scrambles out of his chair and approaches Alfred . " Hey are you okay ?" Duke asks as he holds the elderly man by the hands. Alfred tries - he tries to talk but is too shocked to say anything - he fears this is a dream , a cruel dream that god bestowed upon him as a punishment - a reminder of his failure .

"Widow - are you sure they said Widow ?" Alfred asks the boy frantically , panic old eyes watching Duke's intently. Duke stumbles back but answers , " Yeah that's what they said why does it matter ?" . Pin drop silence fills the manor as Alfred registers Duke's words. Alfred crouches to the ground , his hands run along the jargoned edges of the broken plate - the rough feeling grounds him , reminding him that all of this is real .

" It matters because that is your sister young master " Alfred forces out. Silence consumes them again . " What ?" Duke questions as he holds onto Alfred tighter. For the five years he has lived with the Waynes - no one never mentioned a Widow or a sister not ever so why is it now that he finds out that he has a sister and one that he has not heard or known about.

Alfred can feel warm hot tears running down his worn cheeks as nostalgic memories of him making a younger you a hot chocolate in the afternoon as you sit in the same chair as Duke had , coloring whilst simply blabbering about your day. He recalls how every night , he can feel your tiny figure sneaking into his bed to hug him with your stuffed bunny You were practically his daughter .

He also remembers that you weren't particularly liked by the Wayne family , at the time only consisted of himself and Bruce - a younger much fragile Bruce that had no idea how to raise a kid - a kid that was just put into his custody because their parents got too drugged up and k*lled themselves in the living room.

The situation wasn't ideal , Bruce was immature , till learning how to navigate his own feelings , his own anger , his own loss and so were you , a small , fragile thing that didn't quite yet understand why mommy and daddy were being put in a box .

He also remembers that tragic day - the day he lost you - . It was like any ordinary day , he dropped you off at kindergarten and watched you run to your teacher , excitedly showing her a drawing you made. He watches you smile and wave him goodbye as the teacher escorts you to your classroom. Alfred does what he usually does , returns back home and begin his preparations when he receives a call from your teacher . He remembers the dread , the sheer panic , the bone chilling anxiety that consumed him when he picked up that call to hear your teacher utter the words

" two government officials barged in class around recess and they took ( name ) I'm so sorry I tried to stop them - tried to grab the tiny thing but they had her really tight and - and they left "

[skys-archive]

I think in honor of pride month and also in general forever we should stop trying fit queer people into the identities we think they should call themselves.

And I know no one is going to see this because no one ever does but I'm going to talk about it anyway because this is important.

Bisexual doesn't mean you don't date trans people, it doesn't mean you like men and women, it doesn't mean you can't have a preference. Someone can identify as polysexual or bisexual or omnisexual and have no preference and you don't get to say that that means they're pansexual. Because no, if they don't identify as pansexual then they're not pansexual.

Transmasc doesn't mean you use he/him pronouns. It doesn't mean you identify as a man. Transfem doesn't mean you use she/her pronouns. It doesn't mean you identify as a woman. You can be nonbinary or genderqueer or agender or any gender that isn't binary and not use they/them pronouns. You can use any of those labels and still identify as a man or a woman. You can use different pronouns than is typically used for your birth sex and not consider yourself transgender. People can be gender non conforming and not he trans. People can be trans and not gender non conforming.

A trans man can be fem. A trans woman can be masc. Nonbinary people don't owe you androgyny. Intersex people don't owe you androgyny. Intersex people are people, they deserve way more attention than a way to one up transphobes. Intersex people face discrimination and body altering surgeries without their consent and then are only ever talked about to say "some cis women have penises" or "some people have an extra x chromosome" and then we never talk about the struggle they face as part of the queer community.

Asexuality and aromanticism is a spectrum. Some aces like sex, some aces are repulsed, some aces only experience sexual attraction to one person or once in their life, some aces need a deep emotional bond, some aces their attraction changes. Some aros change identities. Some aros are repulsed by romance unless it's a fictional character. Some aros have romantic feelings until they get to know someone. Some aros crave a romantic relationship but never have romantic feelings. You don't get to say someone isn't asexual or aromantic enough.

Asexuality and aromanticism is having a unique relationship with romance or sexual feelings and impulses. Someone who is transgender has a unique experience with gender. You don't get to decide that they don't have a unique experience. But guess what? You don't get to decide if they do either. Someone can have a unique experience and still not identify as asexual aromantic or transgender. You can cross dress and still fully feel like a man. You can use he/him pronouns as a cis women. You can have trauma around sex and not identify as asexual. You can never have a romantic relationship and not identify as aromantic.

You can have "contradicting" labels. I don't know as many of these because I don't personally identify as any but please fell welcome to add in reblogs. There are trans men lesbians and gay women. There are sex loving asexuals. I know there are others I just genuinely am not educated enough.

YOU DONT GET TO CHOOSE SOMEONES LABELS

ANYONE CAN EITHER IDENTIFY OR NOT IDENTIFY AS QUEER

Please feel welcome to add anything in reblogs. I'm sure there's things I've missed. I haven't talked about neopronouns I haven't talked enough about "contradicting" labels. I haven't talked about queer platonic relationships or kink or polyamory or enough about intersex people or pronouns vs gender. There's so much important things but at the end of the day it's just so important to not choose other people's labels.

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi, would it be possible for you to write something about stephxdanny where danny has an ice core and can only visit steph in the winter season, usually in the other seasons they talk through a laptop that danny made with the help of tucker? or something like that, have a nice day.

Steph has been counting down to the first day of winter. She had worked her ass off to make sure all cases she was assigned were completed.

She spoke to her teachers beforehand, asking for any classwork they would give her. Steph had even informed her mother that she would be on a trip so she would not have to worry about her (or listen to her lectures) for a while.

She had told Bruce she wanted to be benched for a couple of days. He seemed almost relieved by her request, letting her know they would only call upon her in an emergency.

Everything was all set for when Danny would arrive. She will be taking her boyfriend on a winter wonderland tour in Gotham. Each section of the city had little festivals, events, and fun holes in the walls.

Danny will arrive on time this year for the winter arts festival. Disregarding the few booths dedicated to Christmas decorations- as Danny hated that holiday with a burning passion due to years of resentment. He only associated bad members of his parents arguing around that time- there were many things she knows he adored.

Like those natural soaps from Mrs. Miller on Street Nine or the unique winter edition fudges from O'Malley's Bakery.

There is so much excitement coursing through her veins that she has to do the most push-ups until she's so tired she has to go to bed. Otherwise, Steph will never get a wink of sleep and will be too exhausted to enjoy seeing her boyfriend again.

In the morning, Danny will be going through the portal. The thought whispers in her mind and a large grin blooms. Not caring for the sweat pouring down her face or the slight shake in her arms, Steph thinks about it repeatedly.

Pumping her arms up and down, she giggles as butterflies flutter in her belly.

The following day, she gets up earlier than usual to shower, shave, and spend an hour on her hair. Usually, she doesn't bother that much, as her hair isn't too hard to manage. A good comb with a headband was her usual go-to style, but today, she wanted to curl it and braid some snowflakes into it.

Steph had taken ages picking out a good outfit. She usually dressed well, but this would be the first time she would see Danny in nearly a year. Who could blame her for wanting to look good?

She skipped out of her house, going to the oldest cemetery in Gotham. The place where she first met Danny all those years ago, ignoring the stun looks she received on the street. It wasn't often that she did her make-up that wasn't stubble or that she forgo casual wear, but when she did well, she knew she was a knockout.

It's something the Waynes always played up at the galas. There was a danger to being this pretty; she knew that better than most in places like Crime Alley, but Steph knew that if she thought she looked good, why not show it off if she felt good?

There was nothing vain in being comfortable and happy in your own skin. Steph would kick the ass of anyone who said otherwise.

Her strike was long and confident as she slowly entered Old Gotham. The buildings started to look less metal and glass, turning into red bricks and wooden beams. She takes a moment to appreciate the buildings, breathe in the lovely winter air, and take in the sounds of the city slowly coming to life.

There wasn't a lot of foot traffic in Old Gotham, seeing as most of the stuff here was protected for historical tours, some courtrooms, and the occasional little shops and restaurants.

It could have been a good tourist place, but when people came to Gotham, they tended to go further into the city where all the chain stores, newer buildings, and shopping malls were. It was why Steph had run away to her when she was fourteen. She knew that most people who visited Old Gotham were either retired or locals.

Half the time, the streets only had a few people walking them, looking into windows of small businesses or taking pictures of the old buildings. She had figured none of them would care if she ran away from home after her shitty dad got too drunk once.

Steph had been young then, too small to start her Spoiler crusade on her Da, and had chosen life on the streets as better than that hateful place. She had wandered into the cemetery, climbing into a mausoleum to escape the snowstorm that passed through the city, and sitting with he back against the coffin, feeling small and miserable.

She had never been one to fear the cemetery or the dead. She knew that living men were much worse, but even she had screamed when the coffin's lid had suddenly slid off, revealing a bright green light.

The portal inside the coffin would open at winter's first noon, then close on winter's last noon.

She remembers stumbling backward, too frightened to think correctly and run, when a head slowly reached out of the portal, gripping the side of the coffin, and a boy her age heaving himself out of the coffin with a grunt. His snow-white heart sparkled in the portal's glow, his slightly tan skin blemish-free, and his glowing green eyes pinned her to her place.

He was the definition of beauty. If it had been a movie scene, she knew the musical theme for him would have been flutes, harps and singing angles harmonizing as he slowly smiled at her.

She threw the brick she picked up in the alley as hard as she could at his face. Danny's head snapped back, nose breaking, and a gush of green blood oozed from his face as he cried out, "Why!?"

Steph pulled out the gun she had stolen from her father, aiming it at the boy who swearing and cursing up a storm from his little portal. He froze when he saw it aimed at him, the sound of her releasing the safety loud in the small stone room.

Neither mentions the slight shake in her fingers- before Bruce trained the fear out of her- as she glared at him. "Dead things should stay dead."

Then Danny had done what made her fall for him. He made two finer guns at her while narrowing his eyes. "You pull that trigger, and I'll pull mine."

"What? I have a gun!" She snapped only to watch him smirk with enough mischievous glee in his eyes that it felt like a slap. How was something dead able to seem more alive than she was?

"So does most of America. You ain't special." The boy taunted, and for some reason, that made her laugh so hard that she ended up on the floor wheezing. The conversation had been much smoother when she wasn't aiming a weapon at him.

She discovered that he was a being that could only visit her world during winter through the means of an ancient society that long ago vanished from history. He went by the name Danny. He could snap his fingers and shift into a human-looking boy, and the most surprising fact about him was that he genuinely seemed to love how different humans lived in Gotham.

She had gotten so used to how her city was terrible that she had forgotten what was good about it. The sights she saw in everyday mundane life were something Danny had waited a whole year, saving up every penny, to see.

She also found out he had the money and the smarts to get them a nice warm hotel room- separated by a door- and a love for peppermint lattes. He offered her cash to help him explore the city, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Now, three years later, every winter, Steph compiles a list of places to go, things to do, and people to meet, rekindling the love for her city burning brightly in her chest.

She protected this city by stopping her dad and breaking his plans. Her spite and hate for him was the reason.

But Danny had turned into the motivation. Into her heart. That kept her going because he saw this place- and her- as something worth crossing the realms to.

She places the two letters and a warm pastry bag on the ground. She sits down, crosses her legs, and checks her watch again. There are only five more minutes till the clock strikes noon.

Steph leans back, eyes on the lid of the coffin, waiting for a movement that will alert her that her heart has returned for another incredible three months.

Danny can't stay once winter ends; just like the snow-white of his hair, he will melt in the spring. He warned her long ago that if she really wanted to give her heart to him, then it would suffer bruises of their distance. He would care for her and her heart as much as he could, but there were rules to this world that did not allow him to truly become a part of it.

She had told him that no matter how long it would be, she would love him through each season, year, and moment she drew breath. No matter how long it's been, she will always be sitting in this exact spot again and again, every year, for this moment.

The moment winter returned him to her.

The coffin shakes a little as a familiar glow shines through the small cracks.

[lady-griffin]

Jinx's Hallucinations + Ekko

Before Act III drops, I wanted to talk about an aspect of Timebomb that I'm quite fascinated by -

Ekko isn’t a trigger for Jinx’s hallucinations.

He has even stopped her hallucinations – not intentionally or anything, but more than once Ekko's presence seems to have a nullifying impact on Jinx.

Which is odd, right?

One would assume due to their history Ekko would be just as triggering to Jinx as anyone else, if not more so, and yet the opposite seems to be true.

In Jinx's first reunion with Vi, she quickly becomes overwhelmed and has an episode due to a whole combination of factors, but notably because her hallucinations of Mylo and Claggor start attacking her, largely because she's starting to breakdown and is getting overwhelmed (a self-perpetuating cycle).

Jinx can't even begin to calm herself down, in fact she yells at everyone to shut up, because she needs to think.

Then she hears Ekko’s hoverboard and suddenly the hallucinations are completely gone.

Jinx isn’t sure if what she heard was real or not.

Which is a great detail, since it indicates Jinx is aware that the voices she hears aren’t “real," meaning she knows other people can’t hear them too. So, it's rather telling (at least for me) that she asks Vi to confirm if she too heard the hoverboard sound.

It's also impressive Jinx was able to instantly recognize the sound of Ekko's hoverboard, despite her being in the midst of a mental breakdown and unable to think properly.

It’s almost like Jinx’s brain went into fight mode or something, because seemingly all the hallucinations stopped at once because there’s now a much bigger threat Jinx needs to be on guard for – Ekko is heading her way.

I really can't emphasize how much I love that.

While not traditionally romantic, in any sense, this shows the amount of respect Jinx has towards Ekko and the threat he poses to her. He’s someone she actually has to take seriously when fighting.

Which is a bit unique for Jinx.

Throughout S1 we saw Jinx being far more scared of her hallucinations then actual real, physical threats, but in this moment it’s like her brain recognized Ekko as being the far greater threat than her hallucinations.

Which he is - but that’s also true for many of the other things Jinx faces and isn’t scared of.

Jinx does “glitch out” while fighting Ekko and the Firelights in “When These Walls Come Tumbling Down,” - but it’s more of an asset than a problem, as she easily dodges the Gorilla Mask Firelight (at least I think it’s a gorilla).

Then when Ekko disappears, Jinx's psychoses come rushing back; obviously, this has less to do with Ekko himself and everything to do with him taking Vi, but nonetheless, it's still a slight repetition of the pattern that keeps happening between them.

In "The Boy Savior," during Jinx's bridge fight with Ekko, she once again specifically doesn't experience any hallucinations; even though she was just experiencing them not too long ago.

Mylo was this 'demon' on her back that while she could initially argue against, the more upset she became, the bigger his presence was.

She saw Caitlyn as this devil figure, laughing and mocking her and her psychoses even blocked Vi almost entirely from her sight; whether literally or symbolically, Jinx clearly wasn’t fully aware she was shooting at Vi, despite her obviously seeing Vi and then shooting in her direction.

Then Ekko bursts onto the scene and suddenly no more hallucinations. Which is just...

I honestly don’t know what this is. I really don’t.

To be clear, I absolutely love this whole thing despite not knowing what it is exactly, because honestly, I'm just fascinated by this dynamic, because for whatever reason, Jinx isn't triggered by Ekko nor does she hallucinate him.

In S2, Jinx’s hallucinations have significantly decreased, but in “Paint the Town Blue," she's suddenly bombarded with pretty much everyone’s voices because she’s beyond upset and panicking about Isha being taken by the enforcers.

She sees pretty much everyone - Silco, Vi, Mylo, Claggor, Sevika, and Isha.

Jinx seeing Vi, Sevika, and Isha shows us that she can/does hallucinate people who she knows are alive.

In addition, Isha being one of her hallucinations shows us that Jinx doesn’t need to have negative or even complicated feelings towards someone for them to become a part of her psychoses, as Jinx largely thinks/feels positively towards Isha.

Though it should be noted, the hallucination of Isha isn’t acting aggressive towards Jinx, not like the others are.

Finally, Ekko or Vander are the only two she doesn't hallucinate, but we know Jinx has hallucinated Vander in the past, making Ekko the odd one out when it comes to Jinx's hallucinations once again.

Which for the millionth is absolutely fascinating to me.

Because why?

Why doesn't Ekko trigger Jinx? Why isn't he one of her hallucinations? How come he's the only one we've seen having the ability to stop Jinx's hallucinations altogether (even if it's completely unintentional)?

For whatever reason, Jinx’s mind has seemingly categorized Ekko as being different than everyone else and while it’s obviously not this big thing the show brings your attention to, it’s also clearly there, albeit subtly.

And yeah...

I don’t really have much more to say, I just wanted to talk about this interesting aspect of Timebomb before we get to the last and final arc of Arcane.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PRINCE!ANAKIN HEADCANONS 👑

TW: at some point it contains sexual content, so if you're sensitive to that or don't feel comfortable with it, please do not read it for your own safety and comfort.

Prince!Anakin who was a ruthless, meticulous, arrogant.. yet somehow with a heart. For others he was simple a wise and intellectual future king

Prince!Anakin whose marriage between him and you was arranged to solidify an alliance between your two kingdoms, a necessity driven by political and military pressures. Anakin, now King after the recent death of his father, was resistant to the idea of marriage, especially one born out of duty rather than love. He had always been wary of love, having seen the toll it took on those around him, particularly his own family.

Prince!Anakin who refused to consumate your marriage at the beginning

Prince!Anakin who, at the beginning, highlighted the true reason of your marriage and put you in the other part of the castle so you two wouldn't see each other

Prince!Anakin who is known as a formidable and stern ruler, deeply dedicated to his kingdom. He built emotional walls around his heart, vowing never to let anyone close enough to hurt him. When you first arrived at court, he treated you with cold politeness, making it clear that this marriage was a political arrangement, not a romantic one. And yet, in contrast, you entered the marriage with hope, a believer in fairytales and the possibility of finding love even in an arranged union. Despite Anakin's cold demeanor, you remained kind and patient, trying to find small ways to connect with him (but after his countless cold responds you grew yourself impatient and sharp in tongue, although he was your king, so..being nice had to be in place..at least in public)

Prince!Anakin who, over time, began to notice your unwavering optimism and the light you brought into his otherwise pragmatic and calculated life. He admired your strength and the way you handled court politics with grace, but he kept his distance emotionally, afraid of what letting you in would mean.

Prince!Anakin who felt somehow attracted to you, even if he didn't plan this marriage, he didn't want to be married to you, yet there was just something about you he found unique, alluring and he couldn't help but be drawn to your presence (which was very frustrating and weird for him)

Prince!Anakin who whenever you asked for something he always came up with 'ask for anything and it'll be given to you. Even the half of my kingdom' thing

Prince!Anakin who, after your relentless asking, took you hunting;

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, are you sure this is an appropriate place for the queen?" one of the men spoke, clearly uneasy.

Anakin shot him an irritated glare, his patience wearing thin. He was acutely aware that the hunting grounds weren't exactly the safest place for the queen, especially given her delicate condition. But there was little he could do about it now. He’d much rather have her safely ensconced in the palace, yet the situation demanded otherwise.

His frustration mounted as more and more people questioned his decisions. He knew what he was doing; he didn’t need anyone else second-guessing him.

"Are you questioning my decision?" he snapped, turning his horse to face the man directly. The intensity in his eyes made it clear he wasn't in the mood for dissent.

The man visibly flinched, his face paling. "I—I’m merely pointing out that, perhaps, hunting isn't a... lady-like activity for the queen," he stuttered, his voice wavering. The courtiers around them shifted uncomfortably, their gazes dropping.

Anakin's hands tightened into fists around the reins of his horse. The growing annoyance was palpable in his stance. He had been patient long enough, but this was the last straw.

"Who's the king here, me or you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerously firm. His eyes narrowed, the simmering anger barely contained. He understood the risks; it was precisely why he hadn't wanted her to join. But her presence here was a necessity, and he wouldn’t tolerate any more questioning of his authority.

Anakin watched with growing concern as you struggled to ride your horse. Despite his efforts to focus on the path ahead, his gaze kept drifting to you. He saw your difficulty and felt a deep, instinctive urge to help you, to lift you onto his own horse and spare you this struggle. His grip on the reins tightened as he forced himself to look away.

"Stop that horse; you’re going to hurt yourself," he muttered, bringing his horse to a halt.

You wrestled with the reins, your legs trembling as you finally managed to bring the horse to a stop. Breathing heavily, you glanced over at him.

Anakin's eyes scanned over you with concern. You were clearly struggling, sweat glistening on your skin, the gorset clinging uncomfortably. Despite your evident distress, you still looked captivating, and it was driving him to distraction.

"Can you get down yourself, or do you need help?" he asked, his voice firm but laced with concern.

"I think I can manage," you mumbled, attempting to dismount. You nearly stumbled as you got down, and Anakin's brow furrowed, expecting you to fall. To his relief, you managed to stay upright, though he couldn't hide his frustration.

He shook his head and approached, knowing it was too risky to let you continue riding alone. Your struggle was wearing him thin, and he couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt.

"You can’t even get off a horse without almost falling," he said with a scoff.

You shot him a defiant glare, walking over to him "Not all of us are as skilled at riding as you are, Your Highness," you retorted with a touch of sarcasm, your voice dripping with mockery.

He helped you onto his horse, his hands steady as he guided you into the saddle. As you settled in, your hip brushed against his, sending a jolt through both of you. Your heart raced, and you had to look away, struggling to steady your breath.

The accidental touch ignited a fierce longing in Anakin. He let out a small, strained laugh, trying to remain composed. He positioned himself before you, his body pressing against your back as he mounted the horse behind you.

"Take the horse back to the castle," he instructed, his voice low and firm.

As he took the reins, his presence pressed against you, the tension between you palpable. Every movement seemed to heighten the charged atmosphere, and both of you were acutely aware of the closeness.

Your hands tightened around his waist, your body pressed firmly against his back. The sweet vanilla scent of yours filled his senses, and he could feel the warmth of your curves against him "Hold tight. This won’t be a slow ride," he said, his voice rough and low.

->

You gasped as he urged the horse into a faster pace. "I thought we were going hunting?" your breath warm against his ear.

The closeness of your voice managed to sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, he pushed those distracting thoughts aside and focused on guiding the horse through the hunting grounds.

"It’ll take a while to reach the animals," he replied curtly, the horse’s speed increasing.

"Slow down for—"

He smirked when he felt your grip tighten around his waist. Your face was buried against him, and he could almost feel your fear. It was both thrilling and maddening, and he could hardly ignore how much he enjoyed your closeness.

"Stop whining," he said, amusement lacing his voice.

Your fingers this time dug into his skin with your voice tinged with panic. "I’m not whining!" you protested, your breath hitching as the horse made another sharp turn.

He felt your fingers leaving an imprint on his muscles. The sensation only heightened his awareness of how tightly they were pressed together. He found himself wishing she would hold on even tighter.

"You’re going to leave marks on my stomach with your fingers," he said in a low, almost teasing tone, not easing the horse’s pace.

With a scoff, you dug your fingernails in a little deeper. "Good. Maybe it’ll teach you to slow down a bit."

As you arrived at the wooden hunting cabin nestled in the forest, Anakin led the way inside, with you following closely. The two courtiers stayed outside, leaving you alone.

"Do you know how to use a bow?" Anakin asked, his gaze fixed on a collection of hunting gear.

"Yes, my father taught me," you mumbled, your attention drawn to the array of stuffed animals lining the walls.

Anakin moved to the shelves, picking up various pieces of hunting equipment. He tried to stay focused, but he couldn't ignore the way your beautiful, the prettiest he had ever seen eyes wandered around the rustic cabin, intrigued by its contents. In some way, he wanted his gaze on him, only on him

"So, I assume you're quite skilled with the bow?"

"The last time I held a bow was ten years ago. We'll see," your tone light but confident.

He walked over to you, extending the bow toward you. His gaze lingered on you, noting how your hair was tousled from the wind and those eyes sparkled with curiosity. As he held out the bow, your hands brushed lightly, sending a subtle jolt through him.

"Let’s see if you haven’t forgotten how to shoot," he said, his voice carrying a playful edge.

you couldn't help but roll your eyes with your lips curling into a teasing smile. "Careful, Your Highness. I might mistake you for a doe."

Anakin’s brow arched in amusement. Your sarcasm was endearing, and he had to suppress a smirk at the thought of you aiming a bow at him. He moved a little closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Would you shoot me in the heart, my little doe?"

"Absolutely, I would."

A slow, teasing smirk spread across his lips at your response. The intensity in your voice stirred something primal within him. He found himself torn between wanting to silence you with a kiss and reveling in your boldness.

"Or would you aim right between the eyes?" he challenged, his tone a mix of amusement and desire.

"I’d not dream of anything better, Your Highness," you whispered with venom "i’d watch as crimson red liquid overwhelms your face while you beg for mercy, choking on your own blood."

Anakin shivered at your words, the mix of irritation and arousal making his control slip. You were infuriatingly charming, and your fierce spirit only made you more tempting. Yet, he wanted to shut you up, but he was equally captivated by your daring. His expression hardened a little due to your boldness

"You’re a little minx, you know that?"

"Oh, Your Highness," you replied with mock sweetness, "I’m your worst nightmare," and with a final glare, you turned and walked away, leaving him in the cabin.

Prince!Anakin who, one night, after a particularly stressful day dealing with court matters, found you in the royal gardens, talking softly to a group of children about a fairytale. Something about the way you spoke, the softness in your voice, and the way the children adored you, made him pause. For the first time, he truly saw you—not just as his queen, but as a woman who brought warmth and light into a cold, stone palace.

Prince!Anakin who slowly began to fall in love with you without even realizing it. He found himself seeking your counsel on matters of state, not just because you were his queen, but because he valued your opinion. Your presence became a comfort to him, a constant in his life that he didn’t want to lose. Yet, he struggled with these feelings, as they contradicted his vow to never love.

Prince!Anakin who, in time, began searching for your presence in every place, your voice in every conversation, your eyes in every crowd

Prince!Anakin who sometimes appeared in your chambers at night;

"Leave us," Anakin commanded, his voice firm, though laced with an undercurrent of urgency.

The maids exchanged quick glances but obeyed, slipping out of the room and leaving them alone in the softly lit quarters. Her room was a sanctuary, filled with warmth and quiet elegance, but the atmosphere now was thick with unspoken emotions and the heat of longing.

The moment the door clicked shut, he moved with a sudden, desperate urgency, closing the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers, the kiss searing with the force of everything he’d been holding back.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you both tumbled onto the bed, his weight pressing into you. "Your Highness—why the rush?" you teased, breathless and amused, though your heart pounded in sync with his.

He didn’t respond with words; instead, his lips trailed down your neck, each kiss more fervent than the last. The feel of your skin under his mouth was intoxicating, each soft gasp from you spurring him on. He had held back for so long, but now, he was overwhelmed by his need for you, by the depth of his desire. It was as if all the weeks and months of pent-up emotions had broken free, and he was helpless to resist.

"Can’t wait," he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with a raw hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands moved to pin you beneath him, his grip firm yet reverent, as though he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

He looked into your eyes, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that took your breath away. The world outside this room ceased to exist; all that mattered was the heat between you, the undeniable pull that had finally won out over duty and decorum.

"Neither can I," you whispered back, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the taut muscles beneath his clothing as he leaned in, capturing your lips once more.

"Doe, what are you doing?" he murmured, his morning voice raspy and thick with sleep.

"You're in my bed and already reading papers," you mumbled, pressing soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he felt your lips on him. Your touch was one of his favorite things, a soothing balm against the constant demands of his royal duties. But then, reality intruded, and a sigh escaped his lips, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders.

"I have meetings all morning," he said, his tone carrying a hint of frustration, the thought of leaving you so soon already souring his mood.

"Just show up a little later," you whispered against his ear, her voice a playful challenge. "Aren't you the king?"

His eyes fluttering shut as he savored the feeling of your breath on his neck. The temptation to stay was overwhelming. All he wanted was to remain here, wrapped in your warmth, to forget the world outside. But the demands of the crown were relentless, and he knew he couldn’t shirk his duties, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Wish I could stay here with you all morning," he mumbled with a sigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your arm. His voice held a slight edge of grumpiness, the conflict between his desires and his obligations clear.

"We can make it quick," you whispered into his ear

He could practically hear the smirk in your voice, and he knew you had him exactly where you wanted. He was already running late, but with your body pressed so temptingly against his, all thoughts of duty and meetings started to fade.

In one swift motion, he turned, pinning you beneath him on the bed "How quick?" he asked, his voice a husky growl

"Ten minutes?" you grinned

He scoffed, a smirk curving his lips as he leaned in closer, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, trapping you between his strong arms. You were a temptress, and he knew you could very well be his undoing, but right now, he didn’t care.

"Ten minutes?" he repeated, his hands sliding further up your thighs, fingers brushing against your heated skin. "Now you're just underestimating me," he murmured before capturing your lips with his, sealing his surrender.

Prince!Anakin who moved you back to his bedroom, with no care if in other places the queen has her own bed to sleep in

Prince!Anakin who had his own moment when he realized just how much he cared for you—perhaps during a crisis when you were in danger, and he found himself terrified at the thought of losing you;

Anakin sat in his dimly lit office, his mind consumed by the latest stack of documents that required his attention. The weight of ruling often bore down on him, but he carried it with the strength and resilience expected of a king. Yet, as he heard the soft but urgent footsteps approaching from behind, he felt a strange unease settle in his chest. He looked up, finding his old counselor standing before him, a grim expression etched across his face.

"What is it this time?" Anakin asked, his tone impatient as he set the papers aside.

The counselor hesitated for a moment before speaking, "It’s the queen, your highness..."

Anakin’s eyes narrowed instantly, his heart skipping a beat. The mention of you, his queen, brought an immediate sense of dread. His voice turned sharp, almost cutting. "What about her?"

The counselor’s face paled, his voice almost trembling as he replied, "Her condition has worsened."

Anakin shot up from his chair, the fear and panic he had buried deep within now clawing its way to the surface. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. He fixed his counselor with an intense gaze, the demand in his voice barely masked by his rising desperation. "What do you mean ‘worsened’? What has happened?"

"She’s been battling a high fever for the past two days," one of the maids interjected softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "Her wounds... they’re not healing as they should. Her condition is deteriorating, your highness."

Without another word, Anakin stormed out of his office, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He moved with a speed fueled by fear, every step echoing the growing terror that he might lose you. When he reached your chambers, he pushed open the door with a force that sent a gust of air rushing into the room.

There you lay, on the grand bed that now seemed to dwarf your frail figure. Your skin was pale, marred by the angry red wounds that refused to heal, and your breaths were shallow, labored. Every whimper, every groan that escaped your lips felt like a dagger to his heart.

Anakin crossed the room in swift strides, his hand immediately finding its place on your fevered cheek. The heat of your skin burned against his fingers, and the sight of you in such agony nearly brought him to his knees. The fierce king, known for his strength and resolve, felt utterly powerless in the face of your suffering.

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice laced with authority, though his eyes never left you.

"Your highness, but—" one of the maids began to protest.

"I said leave us!" he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. The maids exchanged uneasy glances before hurriedly leaving the room, closing the door behind them.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your shallow breaths and the occasional soft moan of pain. Anakin sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart breaking as he took in your weakened state. You looked so fragile, yet even in your pain, there was a beauty about you that took his breath away.

"It’s so painful..." you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible.

Anakin felt his chest tighten, a deep sense of guilt and helplessness washing over him. He gently stroked your fevered face, his thumb tracing the contours of your cheek. "I know, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m so sorry... I wish I could take this pain away from you."

He carefully pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if his embrace could shield you from the torment ravaging your body. He held you close, feeling the intense heat radiating from your fevered skin, the trembling of your weakened frame. It was as if holding you tighter could somehow anchor you to him, keep you from slipping away.

"Shh, I’ve got you," he whispered into your ear, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of pain that wracked your body. He gently caressed your hair, his touch tender and full of the love he struggled to express in words.

With a wet cloth in hand, Anakin carefully dabbed it against your wounds, the coolness providing a fleeting relief. He moved with a delicate precision, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked. The sight of your suffering was unbearable, yet he forced himself to remain calm, to be strong for you.

"I’m here," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he pressed the cloth against your fevered skin.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as he closed his eyes, silently praying for your recovery. Anakin, the king who had faced countless battles, was now facing his greatest fear—losing you, the one person who had made his life worth living.

And in that moment, he would have given anything, sacrificed anything, to see you smile again.

You closed your eyes, your voice small and strained as you spoke. "You shouldn’t look at me... I’m revolting."

"Revolting?" The word was almost laughable to him. Even now, when you were so weakened by illness, you were still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. "You’re not revolting. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful," he said with a quiet intensity, his fingers brushing tenderly against your cheek.

"Have you seen my arms?" you asked, your voice tinged with bitterness.

He glanced down at your arms, at the wounds that marred your once flawless skin. The sight of them filled him with a deep sorrow, but it didn’t change the way he felt. "Yes," he replied, his tone unwavering. His fingers gently traced the inflamed skin, his touch feather-light as if afraid to cause you more pain.

You flinched slightly, the tenderness of your wounds evident. "Does this look beautiful to you?" you muttered, disbelief coloring your words.

Anakin let out a soft, almost incredulous scoff. How could you not see what he saw? Even with the pain and the sickness, you were still the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman who made him believe in something beyond duty and power. "Yes, it does. You’re beautiful, no matter what. Sick, wounded, healthy—it doesn’t matter. I will always see you as the most beautiful woman in the world," he declared, his voice firm, eyes burning with sincerity.

He saw the doubt flicker in your eyes, and it pained him deeply. How could you be so blind to your own beauty? To the strength and grace that still radiated from you, even now?

He leaned closer, his fingers drifting down to trace the delicate line of your collarbone, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. "You have no idea how stunning you are," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears. "Even like this, you take my breath away."

Prince!Anakin who's one of few hobbies was making love to you;

he loved to tease you about heirs. he brought it up often, with a playful tone, but deep down, the desire was real and intense. The thought of you carrying his child, your belly round, your breasts swollen ignited a fierce, possessive longing within him. He wanted to see you like this - pregnant and full of new life

"gonna give me heirs, hm?" he whispered with his pace quickening

your sweet, breathless moans only spurred him on. You were so beautiful beneath him, your flushed cheeks and heaving chest making you look even more irresistible, if that's possible

"you'd look so goddamn stunning with my heir inside you, sweetheart" his voice a rough murmur

his cock, all envelopted by your squishy walls, moved deeper to reach his, and yours, edge "you'd be mine, completely. Carrying my child, you'd belong to me in every way"

"am i not yours already?" you panted

his lips connected with yours, making sure to nipp on your bottom lip "you are mine, love..but having you carry my child..it's a whole other kind of mine" he groaned, his large hands moving over to your hips

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty

(if you want to be removed or added then don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[nataliesscatorccio]

okay but here's the thing I can't shut up about. they would have been these people anyway!!!! tai did everything she said she was going to. jeff reminds shauna "secrets have always been a part of us." lottie has struggled with her mental health since childhood. shaunajackie fallout was always going to be nuclear whether it happened in the woods or at college. if van and natalie weren't stuck in the woods they'd be stuck with their parents or what was left of them. and everybody knows misty was already who she is. they could have taken any route and they would have ended up at the destination of themselves anyway. say they didn't crash, say they won nationals. it doesn't matter. it doesn't fucking matter!!! fast forward twenty-five years and the class reunion plays out more or less the same. they win nationals and misty is still a nurse playing god and natalie is still in rehab or maybe not because who would be paying for it so scratch that they win nationals and natalie is still dead, and shaunajackie are still swallowing each other whole. they win nationals and nothing singularly or uniquely terrible happens to them and they still grow up to be wracked with anger and guilt anyway! they're still unsatisfied, cheating on their spouses. they're still suicidal, still schizophrenic. terrible things still happen to them but they're commonplace terrible, so who cares? get over it. all this to say the self is inescapable. all this to say this life fucks you up no matter what. there was no other way for them, there was no other fate for them. there is no ideal life where they are perfect and good. the crash isn't the tragedy. the tragedy is that they all are who they are. they are human. they win nationals, and they still have to be these people. they have to be these people, but alone. the tragedy is that they think they could have been fine if they hadn't done such terrible things to survive after the crash. but they were never fine, they were never going to be fine, and that IS fine because neither was anyone else. "we're all like this." we were always going to be. and I don't mean it's a good thing they crashed. I mean it's all a crash. there is no unscathed life.

[deathbxnny]

Hi I just wanted to say I loved the arcane adhd headcannons u wrote, the viktor one made me cry bc I want to be seen like that sooo bad. Do u think u could do some more characters? No pressure tho ur an amazing writer

Arcane characters with an S/o who has ADHD. | Caitlyn, Jinx, Ekko x Gn!Reader

(Previous part)

Aww, I'm so happy to hear that you enjoyed the last part, anon! I hope this is to your liking as well!<33

Content: Fluff, ADHD, established romantic relationships, sfw

Reader has no mentioned pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》CAITLYN

She noticed from the start that you were a little different from everyone else. Not that she necessarily cared much about it. You were still you after all, and your diagnosis is just a part of you she considers endearing.

With that said, Caitlyn always listens to your needs very closely and does everything in her power to help you out with them. She'll get you anything you ask for in hopes of making life easier for you. Whether it's medical help or just something to help with your fidgeting in general, you'll have it in no time with her.

Cait can, therefore, come off as kind of overbearing or overprotective at first. She wants you to lead a smooth and successful life, so she'll always be around to make any task doable for you. Procrastination does not exist when she's there, to say the least.

Her patience is an important part of your relationship that's practically invaluable. Your fidgety and unfocused nature took a moment for her to get used to, but she never makes a big deal out of it. Instead, she simply adapts to your needs and learns to cherish them as well.

》JINX

Probably the most understanding out of everyone, albeit in the most chaotic way possible. You two are a rather troubling duo, as she herself isn't in the best position to help you out properly. Her ideas are always outlandish yet somehow still work out in the end anyways, which is rather impressive.

You're both very fidgety, but she makes up for it with her hyper awareness. Procrastination is never a thing with her, considering how focused she always is on every project she has and so it becomes somewhat of a normal thing for you to simply work in the same space together, even if it's with just music playing in the background in-between you two.

She's the last person to ever treat you any differently for your diagnosis and doesn't ever let you feel bad for it either. You accept her, and she accepts you. Anyone that tries shaming you for it is as good as dead anyway.

You two learn how to take care of each other better than anyone else ever could. Jinx may not be able to help you out like a professional doctor could, but she'll do anything to help you out no matter what forever.

》EKKO

He doesn't entirely get it at first, mainly as he was always surrounded by people who were rather unique in their own way. But as always with anything, he still does his best to learn everything he needs to about your diagnosis and how he can help you with the resources he has. Which aren't many, but his creativity truly shines at times when it comes to you.

You're not treated any differently from everyone else, and he sure as hell doesn't allow anyone to do that either. You are normal, just with more needs that he tends to carefully. So whether it's your inability to focus well or stay still for a long time, he'll find a way to make things easier. He understands your procrastination and doesn't really push you to do things unless it's very important. But he'll work with you on any projects or missions you may have.

His patience is endless for you and his kindness even more so. He understands if you feel frustrated sometimes and tries his best to soothe you when your emotions are a little harder to process. He'll let you fidget and be yourself as much as you want to, never the type to stop you. You should be yourself around him, and he appreciates how vulnerable you are with that.

Ekko loves you no matter how hard things can get with your diagnosis. He takes every challenge on with ease and never judges you for it either.

[goldfades]

𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 ─ PB⁵

౨ৎ ─ summary | paigey being your girlfriend - a list of relationship "headcanons"

─ warnings | in a bullet-point formatting, i hope you guys like it! fluff (lmk if yall want nsfw ones bc i can provide), paige being DOWN BAD, social media tingz, maybe alluding to being outed but not really, some angst but you can skip over it, paigey being protective (duh), nothing else?

─ taglist | @xocherishxo @iienstein @yazmunson and here's a link to my taglist if anyone would like to join!!

─ ev's notes | THIS IS SUCH LONG MESS BECAUSE I'M HAVING PAIGE BRAINROT RN, but i hope y'all enjoy nonetheless LOL being in my paige era i've read so many of these and i'm sure you guys have as well, so i'm making this as unique (or descriptive) as i possibly can to make it because it's more fun to read (and write cus im a sucker for details)

PRE-RELATIONSHIP STUFF

when you guys first started dating, i feel like paige would be kind of secretive about it

maybe secretive isn't the right word but very... private but not secret type of vibe (at least irl)

not because she doesn't want to show you off, because believe me, she wants to (she's a bragger what can i say)

but just because she wants to keep you all to herself for a while

she knows that as soon as people find out about it, everyone will be talking about it and making assumptions and she just wants to keep you to herself

at least for a couple months

she doesn't care about the public's opinions but she wants to make sure that y'all are LOCKED IN before she makes it public on social media

but it's clear to paige that y'all are very much locked in after the first couple weeks

she's not new to relationships and she's had her fair share but she can tell that it's different now

so the whole "not sure if i wanna hard/soft launch her cus what if we're not a long term" sentiment turns into "i wanna keep this special thing to myself ONLY for at least a couple months"

and of course the entire team knows paige is down bad for you, they've never ever seen her this WHIPPED

because paige seems like she'd be nonchalant and SHE IS... for people she doesn't give a fuck about

so when she likes someone, she LIKES someone

she is extra what can i say

they tease her about it and in any other situation, she would be annoyed but she loooooooves it because it's like "yeah i'm in the best most awesome relationship with the cutest sweetest and kindest girl in the PLANET"

you and paige would've definitely known of each other since freshman year but like... she's kinda intimidating so you sorta tried to steer clear of her

you were really close with some of the girls on the team, specifically azzi so you saw paige kind of a lot

but sophomore year, azzi kind of pushed you guys to be close and since she knows you guys so well, IT WORKED!

you guys clicked so quick and that doesn't happen a lot with paige, it takes a lot to earn her friendship

but you practically ripped down all her walls within like an hour of talking to her

definitely the first one to catch feelings

at least... to her ;)

very much friends to lovers trope with lots of sexual tension cus who doesn't love that?

i feel like after 3 months of being really close friends, you guys would spend like a shit ton of time together

you guys were ALWAYS together

she even tried to convince you to come to practice with her but you said no cus... what the heck

everyone knows... EVERYONE knows that paige likes you

and it kind of becomes like cemented (for paige at least) after she realized you were her literal COMFORT PERSON

like after every terrible, long practice or after losing games all she wants to do is be AROUND YOU so she could forget about everything

especially when she gets injured, she's such a wreck and the only person who made her feel better was you

it wasn't even what you said or what you did, it was simply just you

and after going through such a bad time with you, she realized that she liked you and she can't keep pretending

and she asked you (yaya!) and you said yes cus you liked her back (yaya!) and everything is just YAYA

so it's safe to say she knows she's found her soulmate within a month of knowing you

but she doesn't wanna seem like she's love-bombing you or whatever so she pretended to be nonchalant

which of course FAILS because she's down bad

so she tells you she loves you within like a month of dating

i KNOW it seems bad but you guys both felt it because of the whole injury and spending every moment together

when you know, you know vibes

she told you she loved you after you were there for her through some of the worst times of her life and you said it back of course and it's all cutesy

paige's love language is TOTALLY quality time and touch

even before you were dating, she just liked having her hands on you whether it was like holding your hand while walking through a crowd, or braiding your hair, or putting her head on top of yours or something as simple as just HUGGING you

but she kept it cordial of course cus y'all weren't dating

yeah that was all thrown out the window as soon you became her girlfriend

hands on you at ALL times, it becomes so subconscious neither of you even know you're doing it anymore

so remember that whole secret relationship thing?

well... everyone kind of figures it out online after like 3 months of dating

it was because of paige, poor girl couldn't keep her hands and lips off of you after a particularly hard game and somehow 🤨🤨someone gets a picture and it was all over twitter and tiktok the next day

literally "paige bueckers girlfriend" trending after an hour of getting posted

but neither of you cared too much about it because A. it was totally worth it cus the kiss was 😫😫😫 and B. she finally doesn't have to turn off her girlfriend mode when she's with you at games

cus she has the prettiest and best gf in the world and she wants everyone to know that

the only reason she was slightly annoyed was because she couldn't hard launch you on instagram :( poor girl had potential captions in her notes :( cus she's our little drama queen:(

but that doesn't stop her cus she ends up doing it! (shameless plug right there hehehe)

now that she can freely touch you and just be herself finally, she literally doesn't GAFFF

of course nothing like over the top because sure she loves PDA to a certain extent and she's an athlete so she needs to keep it civil

RELATIONSHIP STUFF

we've already covered how paige is a physical touch and quality time girly

and paige loves spending literally all her free time with you because you just recharge her

but it isn't in like an overwhelming way

paige understand that sometimes you need quiet time (or vice versa) but the thing is she doesn't even need you to talk just being around you is enough

so idk if it's necessarily QUALITY time but just being around you and spending every free second she has with you tells you that she is in love with you

paige is the most protective person IN THE WORLD, not just with you like in general

it doesn't even have to be someone she knows, if she sees someone giving someone else a hard time SHE WILL STEP IN!

and with her friends, y'all have seen her... she does not back down and will literally murder anyone who comes for the people she cares about

so if that's with people she doesn't know, and her friends, you guys can imagine how crazy she gets over you

if somebody says something even slightly consendecing or mean, slap. someone looks at you the wrong way? slap. somebody breaths wrong around you, slap.

obviously she won't lay a hand on them first but likeeee would she back down, nope

she is actually your guardian angel

like at parties, her hand is always on you and she never ever leaves your side

you need to get a drink, she's coming to

if you need to pee? she'll wait in the bathroom for you

yeah don't expect her to leave your side

because even when she IS by your side, there is always a weirdo in your guys' ear trying to get with one (or both!) of you

but yeah she's not afraid to defend you when it comes to literally anything

and this doesn't only apply to strangers, if there is someone that you know (your friend, her friend, etc) she WILL stand by you and defend you

like she doesn't shy away from confrontation, she will say something but only if you want her to

and GOD HELP THEM if you shed a single tear, cus the next morning you bet she's saying something

like i said, paige is a confrontational person and that means she's the biggest communicator

if she has a problem, she will tell you so that you guys can fix it

but sometimes she can come off a little argumentative and like she's just attacking you

she uses a lot of "you" statements so it seems like she's pushing the blame all on to you

so that can be the root of a lot of your guys' arguments when paige is only trying to solve the issues

but of course paige doesn't back down so she will be arguing with you even if she doesn't even know why, she just hates being wrong

but she doesn't let you leave or go to sleep unless the problem is fixed (or at least on the road to being fixed)

she'll give you space, she'll go another room to take a breather but she will not let you leave until it is fixed

usually after the breather you guys can come to an agreement and then paige usually hugs all the anger outta you

cus who could resist her?

if the argument lasts a couple days (it usually doesn't unless it's something serious) paige will talk it out with her mom or her friends

and you'll usually do the same

and paige will force you to sit down and talk about it until it is FIXED because she hates not being able to talk to you

and when you guys do eventually talk about it, especially if it's a serious topic, it will end with tears with both parties

but you guys always make up and everything will be better

okay okay no more angst ... for now hehehe

i feel like paige's nervous tic would be braiding the ends of her hair so i feel like that would transfer to YOU somehow

she just likes braiding your hair!!!!!! or just running her hands through your hair, it would help her relax

and if you're like me, it will help you relax as well

if you're black/have braids, she would only touch your hair if you let her!

paigey takes pictures OF EVERYTHING so obviously that includes you

her camera roll consists of ONLY you atp, like... 20% pics of literally anything else, and the rest would just be pictures of you or something to do with you

and oh my gosh don't get me started on the damn .5's of you, some of them are HORRENDOUSSSS and paige uses them as reaction pictures sometimes

and you found out from azzi that she does indeed use them in the girls groupchat

but she argues that you just look adorable which you respectfully disagree

oh and don't get me started on her tiktok drafts, she has at least 1,000 (rip her storage)

and when y'all started dating she just makes cute relationship tiktoks but she never posts them

EXPECT the "you're spinning me around, my feet are off the ground one" cus she wants to prove to the world that she has muscles

and the tiktok girlies will cry but WHO CARES!

oh and if you're on the basketball team, they will started to fan-girl over you as well

HELLA TIKTOK EDITS

and paige will favorite, repost and comment on them

like the most down-bad, insane comments you can think of

"GET THE STRAP GET THE STRAP!" is one of many ✨✨

if you aren't on the team, trust the tiktok girlies will find a way and they will make edits of you

and paige will do the same

obviously you do the same for her, your favorites are just paige edits atp (mine too)

ESPECIALLY THE GET IT SEXY ONE OMLL

and everyone will make ship edits and cutesy things like

"omg the way paige looks at her" and like a slideshow of paige being like all 😍😍😍

after paige gets more comfortable with like the media knowing about you two, she posts you every five seconds

usually like stories and stuff and especially if you’re also a basketball player, she reposts ALL your stuff

she is a proud gf !!!

she also has a highlight FOR SURE, she loves

also she def has like 10 diff wallpapers of you and her, some are really cute and some are really… 🫣

also paige strikes me as the type to like be texting you ALL DAY

and girl doesn’t care if you reply, she will send you 8 consecutive messages of different things

“omg look at the group chat 😂 *insert screeshot*” “baby they ran out of fucking caramel at dunkin, how does that happen ?” “i ended up going to a local cafe why did this shit cost me 9$” “baby you’re coming to my game on saturday right?” “HAHA look at this meme 😂” “why haven’t you responded to my tiktok’s in 2 days?”

yes she 100% uses the laughing with tears emoji argue with the WALL

or skull emoji

she also sends you 20 minute snapchat vlogs and they’re so chaotic, especially when she’s at practice or something

kk will steal her phone and say hi then you’ll hear them play fighting for like 80% of the vlog

also she does grwm’s on snapchat too when she’s at away games and her morning voice is SOOOO SEXY CUTE

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[cerastes]

Legitimately can't stop thinking about the brilliance of Degenbrecher's introduction as a playable character.

We've known Degenbrecher for a long, long time before this event, and even before Break The Ice, actually: Before Arknights even released, Gnosis and Degen can be seen in this pre-launch trailer at 0:14.

Degenbrecher existed for years as this larger-than-life figure shrouded in rumor and fame, with an almost supernatural countenance to her presence in the corner of the narrative she inhabits: The three-time Grand Champion of the Kazimierz Major, the dreaded Black Knight, the peerless warrior, who has the strength of ten knight companies on her shoulders alone. Spoken of in equal parts awe and fear, her stint in the knightly competitions were legendary in how one-sided they were whenever she took to the field, and Platinum even comments that her portraits on the gallery of champions all make it seem like she doesn't even age, adding a supernatural element to her legacy. All we know is that she's currently SilverAsh's bodyguard and no doubt part of why his faction is so formidable, as it would be for anyone who has a one-woman army on their payroll. When we are finally introduced to her formally in the narrative, she's all business, no non-sense, in the middle of her job, and boy howdy is she good at it: We know the kind of juice Rhodes Island Elite Operators have, they are really, really strong, and yet all Sharp can do is stall for time against her, with tacit understanding that no matter how much he tries, he is NOT overcoming her.

There is not a single thing anyone present on Doc's side can do to actually overcome Degenbrecher during Break The Ice, so the very best thing anyone could do was stall her. THAT is the winning move, or at least as close to one. She's that formidable, and then some. We only see her in business mode here, with a small glimpse to her more noble nature in that she is nothing but non-self aggrandizing compliments for Sharp for being able to even fight her, even if there is no chance he can beat her, because most people just take a single swing from her. When Doc's plan succeeds and we reach the climax, she simply sheathes, says "Well played", SA recalls her back to her pokeball, and we are left letting out a sigh of relief that we made it in time.

Then, for some more years after that, that's our impression of her: Unsurmountable. We don't know much more about her other than she is simply not someone you measure up to. This, by itself, isn't particularly unique, both as a concept or in the cast of Arknights, but it leaves you to wonder exactly what is she beyond being Unsurmountable. Who is she, actually?

Then, The Rides to Lake Silbernherze happens, where she is the main character, and after all those years of mystique and grandeur, of guessing and wondering, we finally can see her not as a plot device, but as an actual character: The very first scene is her covered in blood and raw jumping on a moving train for some mysterious purpose. Oh god, oh no, why is she soaked in blood already? Is she already in Terminator mode?

Then, in the best possible payoff of years of mystique and build-up, we learn that Degenbrecher, the person, not the plot device, the person, is fucking hilarious.

She's covered in blood because she stopped by a nearby farm to help farmers deliver a farm animal, which covered her in blood given how messy births are. She apparently didn't have to do this, and just opted to because, well, she was there, they needed help, and she's in a perpetual state of down to clown.

While pursuing possible dangerous elements to Kjerag later, she stops by to talk with tourists and recommend good spots to sightsee and eat before resuming her chase Looney Toons style.

She looks the same in the three champion portraits because she didn’t like the photoshoots so she skipped them. They were just reusing her photo.

She'll have the single most mundane conversations with the simplest people in midst of off-handedly mentioning that she quite enjoys fistfighting avalanches -- in a setting where this is not at all normal or feasible -- just to test herself. Reactions to her saying this vary from "hey is this a bit" to "oh, Degenbrecher, you card, we saw you do that the other day, next time I'll bring my camera".

She's a combination of Bugs Bunny, Sakamoto-kun, and Broly, and her main gimmick is that she's a reasonable, normal ass person in terms of personality sans the more overt feats of power like fistfighting avalanches. She's just Someone, who just happens to be mind-bogglingly strong and skilled with the greatsword and with swordbreakers.

This is doubly hilarious when you compare her to other one-woman armies we know: Nearl's dialogue is entirely composed of flowery promises for a better tomorrow and heroic declarations, Saria has woman pain 9000 and hasn't had a good day in years, Skadi is afflicted with survivor's guilt which in turn lead to a potent-self loathing and rationalizing her mere presence is what causes tragedy to those around her. Degenbrecher, in comparison, is just happy to be here, enjoys a good fight within reason, loves challenging herself, and honestly is quite content with stuff like paperwork or small talk. She's the friend you call to help you move or when your pipe busts or when you need someone to take care of your kid for a few hours if you're going to be late home due to work. And she puts her entire god damn pussy into it, too, you bet your kid is going to have the time of their life if Degenbrecher is on babysitting duty. Degenbrecher chips in for pizza night. Degenbrecher helps you change your flat tire.

The essence of Degenbrecher is that the rest of Terra is going through some really dire, really interesting times, to say the least, but she's on New Game+ just sort of doing side quests, overleveled as hell and with her shit figured out, and she decides to be as funny as possible about it.

[wchswift]

─── LAP OF (DIS)COMFORT | PT.3

pairing: worst!wolverine x fem!reader

summary: to try and resolve the awkward tension between you and logan after everything, you decide to be friends with benefits. And of course, things don't go well. pt.1 | pt.2

contents! mdni 18+, pet names, implied and explicit sex, smut (so all the usual warnings), unprotected sex p in v, teasing, slightly angst, emotional tension, swearing, blood mention, idiots in love, a lot of feelings, fighting their feelings, casual sex, jealousy, happy ending and probably more.

word count: 8k (yeah...)

ℒogan masterlist !

── english isn't my first language/no proofread, so probably some mistakes.

The air in the apartment was different now.

Everything was different now.

It had been ever since that night.

Logan and you had always existed in this precarious balance—a push and pull, tension humming between you like an electric wire stretched too tight. But at the same time, it felt natural, a unique connection. An easy connection. And that night, you'd both finally snapped. Lips crashing, hands gripping, bodies pressing too close in a moment of reckless abandon. But when you pulled away instead of making things clearer, it only tangled the lines further.

Now, you avoided each other like strangers.

You only went to the apartment when you knew he wouldn't be there, or when Wade gathered everyone together you stayed as far away as possible from where Logan was. So he did the same, and whatever connection had once existed between you had been buried beneath silence and stolen glances.

Now, Logan and Wade were away for a few days on some mission the X-Men had called them to help with. So since the apartment was empty, Al being who knows where, you and Vanessa decided to have a girls' night. Just the two of you in the apartment to gossip and have some time without Wade or anyone else always surrounding you like vultures.

When you said you'd rather do it in yours, which was literally next door, she said she didn't want to leave the apartment so she wouldn't miss the moment Wade returned. Their relationship was still complicated, but they seemed happier than ever. You thought it was cute.

So when the front door swung open that night, dragging in the scent of blood and metal, your heart lurched at the sight of him.

Logan stood in the doorway, looking wrecked.

His suit was stained dark—some of it clearly his, most of it not. His shoulders were heavy, muscles tense beneath the weight of exhaustion. His hands flexed at his sides as if they were still expecting a fight. There were no wounds—his mutation saw to that—but something in his posture, in the tense muscles on his face, told you he was barely keeping himself upright.

You stayed rooted to the couch, watching him, fingers curling against your knees. Everything inside you screamed to move, to go to him, to touch, to check—

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Vanessa didn’t hesitate. She got up immediately, crossing the room to Wade, cupping his face in her hands before pressing a kiss to his lips. “Jesus, you two look like hell,” she muttered before pulling him into an embrace.

Wade grinned. “What, this isn’t my usual charming self?”

Vanessa snorted, running her hands down his arms, checking him over, making sure he was okay. You watched. Your heart tightened for a second with something tinged with envy, the almost deadly desire to be able to do the same with Logan.

And Logan? He didn’t say a word. He just stood there for a moment longer, then exhaled sharply and walked straight past you, disappearing into his room.

You swallowed hard.

The apartment felt too quiet once he was gone, the absence of him pressing down on your chest. You didn’t even realize you were gripping the couch cushions until Vanessa glanced at you, brow raised.

“Well?” she asked.

You blinked. “What?”

Vanessa nodded toward the hallway. “Go.”

Your throat tightened. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Oh, please.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but whatever it is, it’s eating him alive. And you, apparently.”

You hesitated, your body already betraying you by shifting toward the hall. You hated this. The distance, the uncertainty, the way he acted like that night hadn’t meant anything—like you hadn’t shaken his entire world the way he’d shaken yours. And you know it was your fault. You knew you had done it when you said what you said before you turned and walked away.

But that didn't make it hurt any less.

With a quiet breath, you pushed yourself off the couch and walked toward his room.

His door wasn’t shut all the way.

You pushed it open cautiously, stepping inside. The room was dimly lit, the scent of whiskey and blood clinging to the air. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head down, his hands loosely clasped together.

He didn’t look at you when you entered. “Don’t need a babysitter.”

You ignored that. “Rough mission?”

A low scoff. “You could say that.”

You lingered by the door, shifting on your feet. “You okay?”

Logan finally looked up then, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. “Why do you care?”

The words stung, even though you knew they weren’t meant to. This was just how he operated—shutting people out, pushing them away before they could push him first. Well, especially since you did. You crossed your arms, steeling yourself. “Because you… you're my friend Logan, Wade's friend. Even after what happened, I still care about you.”

His jaw clenched, something flickering behind his eyes before he exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t.”

Your chest ached at that. “Too late.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, thick with words left unsaid, with everything you were both too damn stubborn to talk about.

The silence between you stretches, thick with everything unspoken. Logan's gaze is still locked on yours, unreadable, but there's something raw in the way he looks at you—something that makes your stomach twist.

You shouldn't be here. Not like this. Not after everything. You were the one who didn't want this to happen.

But you don’t move.

Because despite all of it—despite knowing this is a bad idea, despite every instinct screaming at you to walk away—you still want him. More than you should.

You've never met anyone like Logan. No one like Logan should want you, but he did, and God, how could you let this moment slip away?

Logan exhales sharply, his hand dragging through his hair. He looks exhausted, like the weight of the world is pressing down on him, and for a second, you think he might tell you to leave.

Finally, he exhaled, “We can’t do this.”

Your throat tightened. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, frustration edging his voice. “Whatever the hell this is. The back and forth, the looks, the tension, the damn kiss.”

You swallowed hard. “So what do you want, Logan?”

He hesitated—just for a second, just long enough for you to see the war waging behind his eyes. Then, with a humorless chuckle, he shook his head. “I don’t know.” He glanced at you, jaw clenching. “I wanted that—you. But you were the one who ran the other night, remember? The one who said I'm too fucking broke for this to work.”

You flinched at the reminder. His words struck you like a slap. He wasn’t wrong; that night, when you let yourself have it for a moment and realization had crashed over you like a tidal wave, you had pulled away first. Not because you didn’t want it—because you did, too much. You wanted him with a fervor that was almost suffocating, but because the fear of heartbreak, the fear of entangling your lives further in the chaos of both your realities, was terrifying.

“I know,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I just—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “With everything you’ve been through, everything you have to deal with, everything I have been through, and this whole… thing between us? It just—it won’t work, Logan. We’ll just make a mess of it.”

His gaze darkened. “Yeah. Probably.”

The room felt unbearably small, the weight of him, of his presence, pressing down on you. You should walk away. You should end this conversation before you got yourself into something you couldn’t handle. Something that would break you after it's over.

But instead, you met his eyes.

“But maybe we can make this work out?” you murmured, voice measured, “it can be casual. Just like you said before.”

Logan’s brows furrowed slightly.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” you continued. “It doesn’t have to be anything.”

He exhaled sharply, gaze flicking to your mouth. “That what you really want?”

No.

Not at all.

But you nodded anyway. “Yeah.”

He let out a quiet scoff, like he already knew you were both lying to yourselves. But he still sat back slightly, hands resting on his thighs as he let the weight of your words settle between you.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Something casual. No strings. No expectations.”

The second he said it, you knew this would turn into something worse. A bigger mess. A deeper ache. But you still agreed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah. We keep it simple. No commitments. No feelings.”

You took a step forward, throat dry.

Your pulse thundered as you approached him, standing between his legs. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. He was warm, solid, everything you wanted and everything you shouldn’t.

His fingers flexed at his sides before they finally moved, hesitantly finding your waist. His touch was deliberate, grounding. You rested your hands on his shoulders, fingers digging in slightly as your breathing grew shallow.

“This is a bad idea,” he murmured, his voice rougher now.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It is.”

But neither of you moved.

Instead, his grip on your waist tightened slightly, and your fingers trailed up his neck, brushing through the coarse hairs at the base of his skull. His breath hitched.

You swallowed. “Are you gonna kiss me, or are we just gonna sit here making this worse?”

So instead of answering, he closed the distance.

The kiss is slow at first, testing—like you're both waiting for the other to pull away. But neither of you does. Instead, Logan’s hand lifts to your jaw, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then suddenly, it shifts. Deepens.

You gasped against his lips, and that was all it took.

Logan pulled you onto his lap, making you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders. You melt into the heat of him, fingers threading into his hair. The kiss turns desperate, feverish, all the tension between you snapping at once.

His hands slid up your back while you sighed against his lips, his hands pressing you impossibly closer. Heat curled in your stomach, spreading fast, your body already reacting to every shift, every touch, every desperate inhale between kisses. And right now you didn't care about the blood or the dirt on his uniform, all you needed was to feel him.

He moved his hands under your shirt, rough palms searing against your skin as he lifted the fabric higher, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down your throat.

Before you could process it, he was shifting, standing up with you still wrapped around him. You let out a surprised laugh, only to yelp when he turned you around and tossed you onto the mattress.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Logan, Wade and Vanessa are in the other room.”

He smirked, already crawling over you. “Don’t give a damn.”

Then he kissed you again, pulling your shirt over your head—and you let him. Because at this moment, nothing else matters—not the past, not the future, not the way this is going to complicate everything.

It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

it’s almost too much. The weight of him, the way his lips find yours again, the way his hands mold perfectly against your breast, the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to—it feels like falling.

And you let yourself fall.

It wasn’t an official thing.

Hell, it wasn’t supposed to be a thing at all.

It was just sex.

That’s what you told yourself waking up tangled in Logan’s sheets, his scent clinging to your skin. What you told yourself walking out of his room that morning, glancing back just once. And definitely what you told yourself now, sitting across from him in Wade and Logan’s apartment, pretending nothing had changed.

Except… something had.

You weren’t supposed to feel different. But you did. Lighter. Like something had settled inside you.

And Logan?

Logan looked… good. Not just in the rugged, unfairly attractive way he always did, but good, lighter too. A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

Wade, oblivious, was loudly chef’ing in the kitchen.

“This is how you host a dinner!” he announced, dramatically tossing something into a pan. “A little olive oil, a lot of butter, and enough seasoning to make Gordon Ramsay weep!”

Vanessa stole a sip from his drink. “You didn’t measure anything.”

“Did my sexy friend, Gambit, measure his charm? Did I measure the perfection of my ass? No! Some things are meant to be.”

Logan shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

You caught the twitch of amusement in his expression and grinned. Wade clapped his hands, declaring dinner ready. You and Logan sat at the table as he slid plates in front of you.

“The masterpiece is served!”

You eyed the steak and roasted potatoes. Not bad. Logan raised a brow. “You actually made something edible?”

“Weird for me too,” Wade admitted, taking a bite. “Damn. Maybe I am husband material.”

Vanessa patted his cheek. “That’s cute, baby.”

Logan eyed his plate with deep suspicion. “What’d you do to it?”

“Wow. Wow.” Wade pressed a hand to his chest. “The lack of faith. Do I look like the kind of man who would tamper with a meal out of pure, petty spite?”

“Yes,” Logan and Vanessa said in unison.

Wade gasped. “Babe, et tu?”

Vanessa shrugged. “You once swapped out Logan’s beer with non-alcoholic just to see what would happen.”

You snorted, glancing at Logan. “Did he notice?”

Logan scoffed. “Of course I did.”

Wade grinned. “Not right away, though.”

Logan shot him a glare. “I did.”

“Sure, sure.” Wade smirked, cutting into his steak. “Denial is the first step.”

You bit back a grin. “To be fair, it is kinda funny.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to you, something warm behind it. “Yeah?”

“You’re fun to rile up,” you teased.

Something shifted in his expression, just enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch—and then:

“Least I don’t eat like a damn toddler.”

Silence.

Wade blinked, fork mid-air. “What.”

Vanessa stifled a laugh. “Oh my god.”

You burst out laughing. Because Wade did eat like a damn toddler. Cut-up bites, ketchup on everything, sometimes even a sippy cup.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was that Logan had made a joke.

"No! I can't believe you made a joke! Aww, I knew you had some humor in you." You exclaimed, your eyes wide with mock disbelief.

Logan just exhaled, shaking his head. “Took an easy shot.”

“Oh, spare me! That barely qualifies as a joke!”

“Shut it, Wade.”

“Don’t listen to him,” you said, turning to Logan, a playful smile lighting your face. “He doesn’t get your humor like I do.”

Logan’s gaze held yours a second too long. You saw him fight down a real smile.

That thing—that undercurrent—was back.

Wade shattered it, as always. “Okay, this is getting weird. Can we get back to admiring my culinary genius and not the undeniable sexual tension at the table?”

You rolled your eyes and took a bite of steak.

Dinner drifted into easy conversation, Wade leading with his usual running commentary. But through it all, you felt Logan. Every glance. Every flicker of a smirk. Every time your eyes met.

When Wade got up for drinks, Vanessa followed, leaving you and Logan alone.

You nudged a potato with your fork. “Didn’t think you’d stick around this long.”

Logan exhaled. “Yeah, well. Wade would’ve whined if I didn’t.”

You smirked. “So you do like him.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t not say it.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but his smirk betrayed him.

Neither of you spoke, but neither looked away, either.

His gaze dipped—just for a second.

Your breath caught before you stretched in your seat, arching slightly, just enough for your shirt to ride up an inch. You didn’t look at Logan when you did it, but you felt his eyes flicker downward.

Then, the tiniest smirk tugged at your lips.

You leaned in, breath brushing his ear. “You keep looking at me like that, Logan, someone’s gonna notice.”

His jaw tightened, a reaction that sent a thrill through you.

Just before the moment deepened, Vanessa returned, interrupting the charge in the air. You leaned away.

“We should do this more often,” she mused.

“Agreed,” Wade said through a mouthful of food. “Nothing brings people together like a good meal and unresolved sexual tension.”

You nearly choked.

Vanessa swatted Wade. “Babe.”

“What? It’s like watching two tigers circling each other. I half expect growling.”

You groaned, shoving another bite of steak into your mouth.

Logan, ever the gracious one, shot Wade a flat look. “You done?”

“Not even close.”

Dinner wrapped up soon after.

“I should probably get going,” you said, standing.

Logan stood too, casually. “I’ll walk you out.”

Wade squinted. “Ohhh, will you now?”

Logan didn’t blink. “Yeah.”

Wade turned to Vanessa. “Babe. Look at them. They think they’re sneaky.”

“Leave them alone,” Vanessa sighed.

“No, this is gold—”

“Wade,” you cut in, deadpan. “Shut up.”

Wade gasped, clutching his chest. “She shut me up.” Then, he turned to Logan, smirking. “You better marry her.”

Logan grabbed the door handle and opened it. “We’re leaving now.”

Wade called after you, laughing. “Have fun!” and because he can keep his mouth shut, he added. “Also, stay safe! And by that, I mean use protection, I’m not dealing with a mini-Wolverine running around, okay?”

As the door slammed behind you, Logan muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

You snorted. “That was so bad. Real smooth.”

Logan huffed. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

You turned to him, grinning. “Yeah, I noticed.”

His gaze dipped to your lips. Your stomach flipped.

The tension between you snapped tight.

Your fingers brushed his arm, teasing. “What now, Wolverine?”

His voice dropped. “Think you already know.”

Heat coiled in your stomach.

The second the lock clicked open, Logan pushed inside with you. The door barely shut before Logan had you pinned.

He shoved you against it, a hungry growl ripping from his throat as his mouth devoured yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow.

It was needy. Desperate. Fucking brutal.

His hands grabbed at you—hips, waist, thighs—picking you up like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, and he slammed you against the door, muscles flexing as he held you up, rolling his hips hard against yours.

“You got no idea what you just started,” he muttered, voice low, hot against your ear.

You swallowed hard. “Oh, I think I do.”

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That right?”

His fingers dragged up your thighs—slow, teasing, making you shiver.

Then, his lips brushed your ear, voice dropping into something filthy.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m gonna have you up against the door—spread out, begging, takin’ me so deep you feel me for days.”

Heat flooded your body.

He smirked. Fucking smirked, because he knew.

“You’re already soaked for me, aren’t you?” His voice was pure sin, rough and knowing. “Walked outta that dinner all sweet and teasing, thinkin’ you could provoke me.”

You whimpered, trying to move against him, but his grip tightened.

“I’m about to show you what teasing really gets you.”

And fuck, he really did.

The apartment was still thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your skin was burning, muscles weak, body utterly wrecked—in the best fucking way possible.

You barely registered Logan lifting you off the door, carrying you with ease like you were dead weight. The bastard didn’t even sound winded. Just a small huff as he maneuvered you towards the couch.

“Christ,” you muttered, boneless against him. “How the fuck are you still standing?”

He huffed a laugh, voice still rough from the way he had been groaning your name not even five minutes ago. “Got stamina, sweetheart.”

Yeah. No shit.

Logan sat down with you on top of him, keeping you wrapped in his arms like he wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon. He grabbed the throw blanket draped over the couch and pulled it over you, the warmth settling over your already overheated body.

His hands lazily traced your spine, his fingers dragging slow circles that made your skin tingle. Your head rested against his chest, his muscles still taut, his body as warm as a damn furnace.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly running through the coarse hair on his chest, tracing the dips and ridges of his body like he was some damn Greek statue sculpted out of pure, toned perfection. He let you, saying nothing, just watching you through hooded eyes, his breath deep and slow.

The silence stretched, comfortable—dangerously comfortable.

Which meant you had to ruin it. Obviously.

“So,” you started, tone casual, dragging out the word. “Rules.”

Logan snorted. “Rules?”

You hummed, still absentmindedly tracing your fingers over his abs. “You know, to keep things… simple.”

That got you an amused glance. “Simple?”

You ignored the skepticism in his voice and pushed on. “Yeah. You know, since we agreed this is just—” You gestured vaguely. “—whatever the fuck this is. Casual.”

Something unreadable flickered across Logan’s face. It was gone before you could name it. He hummed, considering. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

You smirked. “Rule one. No catching feelings.”

That earned you a look.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Logan muttered, smirk tugging at his lips. “Just think it’s funny you’re sayin’ that while still layin’ all over me, playin’ with my chest like I’m a damn teddy bear.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

He chuckled, but said nothing. Didn’t push it. But the amusement didn’t leave his face, and that irritated you more than it should’ve.

You cleared your throat. “Rule two. No staying over.”

Logan arched a brow. “And yet I’m sittin’ here with you curled up in my lap.”

You groaned, pressing your face into his chest. “You’re impossible.”

Logan just smirked. You could feel the smugness radiating off him.

You huffed. “Rule three—”

“Lemme guess. No jealousy?”

You blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

Logan smirked. “That’s cute.”

You frowned. “Why is that cute?”

“‘Cause, sweetheart, I don’t share.”

The way he said it—the deep, husky rasp of his voice, the possessive edge in his tone—sent a shiver down your spine.

You tried to ignore the way your thighs clenched. “That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Logan shrugged. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. He just looked amused. Smug. So utterly unbothered.

Asshole.

You huffed, pressing your palm against his chest and pushing yourself up a little so you could properly look at him. “Fine. But I’m still not calling you if I need a ride, or if I wanna crash at your place, or—”

“Uh-huh,” Logan murmured, his hands gripping your waist. “So you’re not gonna call me when you’re thinkin’ about me late at night? Not gonna want this again?”

His hands tightened.

Your breath hitched.

You glared at him. “That’s not what I meant.”

He gaved you that goddamn knowing, cocky grin. “Mmm.”

You hated him. You really did.

You huffed, laying back down, fingers idly brushing over his skin again. “Okay, fine. Maybe a few of these rules are meant to be broken.”

Logan snorted. “All of ‘em are gonna be broken.”

You gave him a playful glare.

Logan chuckled, tilting his head at you. “Alright, so what can we do, huh?”

You blinked. “What?”

He smirked. “C’mon, you’re layin’ down rules, so what’s allowed? What’s okay?”

Your lips parted, but before you could speak, Logan’s hands started moving—trailing over your thighs, your waist, teasing. “We can fuck. That’s obvious,” he murmured, voice all low and gravelly. “But what about you sneakin’ into my bed just to feel me? What about this—” he dragged his teeth along your jaw, making you shudder “—is that okay?”

Your brain had short-circuited. “I—I mean, yeah.”

Logan smirked. “Mmm. And what about me calling you when I need to wreck you?”

You clenched your jaw. “That’s… fine.”

Logan hummed, his breath warm against your skin. Then, just as quickly, the amusement faded, and he leaned back, watching you carefully. “And we can see other people, right?”

Your stomach dropped.

You swallowed. Forced a smirk. “Yeah. Of course.”

Logan held your gaze. “That what you want?”

You hesitated. But what else could you say?

“…Yeah.”

Liar.

The lightness was gone now, replaced with something heavier, something unspoken. Logan exhaled sharply, his hand resting on your thigh, but this time, he didn’t tease.

Neither of you spoke.

Because you both knew the rules wouldn’t matter. And they sure as hell wouldn’t last.

It’s late. Or early. You don’t even know.

The knock on your door wakes you up. Not loud, but firm.

You groggily shuffle to the door, still in your sleepwear—just one of Logan’s old shirts, oversized and worn, barely covering your thighs.

You open it, blinking against the dim light of the hallway.

Logan stands there. Disheveled. Dark circles under his eyes. His breathing uneven. His fists clenched like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Logan?” Your voice is thick with sleep. Confused. “Are you—”

“Can I come in?”

You pause. His voice is rough—not like usual. Not gruff with amusement or lust, but hoarse. Quiet.

You step aside. “Of course.”

He walks in, head down.

You close the door, turning to face him. “What’s wrong?”

His jaw clenches. He hesitates—Logan never hesitates. Then, quietly, “I just... needed to see you.”

Your chest tightens.

“Logan,” you murmur, stepping closer. Your hands find his arms, warm and solid. “Talk to me.”

His throat bobs. Then, finally, his eyes meet yours—raw.

“I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

You exhale. That’s all you need to hear.

Wordlessly, you take his hand, guiding him to the bed.

You expect him to just lay down, curl into you, let you hold him.

But when you move to pull away, his hands tighten on your hips.

His gaze is heavy.

Needy.

And then, quietly—almost fragile—he asks:

“Can I have you?”

Your breath catches.

Not fuck. Not need to be inside you. Not a filthy demand.

Just Can I have you?

Like you’re something precious.

Like he doesn’t just want you—he needs you.

You nod.

Slowly, carefully, you press your lips to his.

It starts soft. Gentle. Just a taste.

Then, Logan sighs against your mouth, and the kiss deepens—not rough, not rushed, just aching.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing your ribs, like he’s memorizing you.

You climb into his lap, straddling him.

He groans into the kiss, hands gripping your waist, but not hard—just enough to hold you.

Then, he pulls back, eyes dark, fingers brushing up your thighs, under your shirt.

“Lemme take care of you,” he murmurs.

And he does.

This time, there’s no tearing, no ripping—he peels your shirt away, slow and reverent, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

He lays you down, his lips trace your collarbone, down to your chest, his breath hot, hands skimming every inch of skin like he can’t get enough.

His mouth closes around your nipple—soft, wet heat—and you whimper, back arching.

Logan hums against your skin, lapping, sucking just enough to make your stomach tighten.

Then, he keeps going.

Trailing kisses lower.

His hands part your legs, sliding up your inner thighs, teasing—lingering.

When his fingers finally touch you, you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, eyes dark, dazed. “You’re already so wet. Always so wet, baby.”

You let out a needy little sound, pushing into his hand.

He grins—small, tender—then slowly slides one finger inside you. Making you whimper.

He presses another inside, curling just right.

“Logan—”

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Just let me make you feel good.”

And he does, God he really does.

His fingers work you open, patient, stretching you until you’re a mess against him.

His mouth follows—hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, up your thighs, teasing the spot right beside where you need him most.

Then, finally, his tongue replaces his fingers.

You shudder, hands fisting in his hair.

“Logan,” you cry.

He groans against you, lapping slow, deep strokes that have your legs shaking.

Then, right when you’re about to break, he pulls away.

You try to rise and your protest is cut off by his lips finding yours again, swallowing your whine as he guides you back against the pillows.

His cock drags against your entrance, hot and hard, teasing.

“You still okay?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His lips brush your temple. Then—slowly—he pushes inside.

You gasp.

Logan groans—deep, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sinks into you.

You feel everything.

The stretch. The heat. The way his breath stutters as he fills you completely.

His hands find your hips, holding you there, like he needs a second.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel... fuck.”

He pulls back, thrusting in slow, deep rolls of his hips.

No pounding. No bruising grip.

Just this—a steady, aching rhythm, like he’s drowning in you.

You moan, nails dragging down his back.

His mouth finds yours again—kissing you through every slow, deep thrust.

Every movement is deliberate. Devotional.

His lips brush your jaw. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

A kiss against your throat. “So fuckin’ good to me.”

Another at your collarbone. “You got me, sweetheart. You have me so good… I'm all yours.”

Your chest tightens.

You pull him closer, wrapping around him, and Logan groans, pressing deeper, tilting his hips just right until you shudder beneath him.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “Let me feel you. Let me have this, my sweet girl.”

And when you finally fall apart, he follows, burying himself deep, spilling inside you with a shuddering breath.

The only sound left is your ragged breathing.

His weight sinks into you, warm and solid.

His lips ghost your temple.

Then, his voice—small, barely above a whisper:

“Can— Can I stay?”

Your fingers tighten in his hair.

“I don’t want you going anywhere.”

It's all so comfortable that you didn't notice when you fell asleep. You just wake up slowly. Warm. Wrapped in something solid.

It takes a second for your sleep-heavy brain to register it.

Then, you feel it.

The heavy weight of an arm slung low over your waist. A hand resting at your ribs, fingers curled lightly against your skin. The warmth of another body, pressed flush against yours.

You inhale—and the scent of him fills your lungs.

Logan.

Your stomach tightens.

Last night.

The way he showed up at your door, quiet and not-quite-broken but close. The way he touched you—like he needed you. The way he kissed you, slow and deep, like he was memorizing you.

The way he—

Your breath shudders.

Logan stirs behind you.

His arm tightens for a split second, his body shifting, his nose brushing the back of your shoulder before he stills again.

You swallow.

Your pulse is too loud.

You should move. Say something. Anything.

But you don’t.

You just lay there, tangled up in him.

Minutes pass.

Then, he sighs—a deep, slow exhale against your skin.

“…You awake?” His voice is hoarse—thick with sleep.

You pause. “Yeah.”

His hand shifts slightly against your ribs, like he might pull away.

You should let him, but you don’t.

Instead, you reach down, fingers brushing over his knuckles, light.

Then—slowly—he relaxes again, keeping his arm where it is.

The shift is small—barely there.

But it’s everything.

A moment passes. Then, with a rough, gruff exhale, Logan stretches, pulling back just enough to roll onto his back.

The absence of his warmth is instant.

You turn, watching as he scrubs a hand over his face, eyes still half-lidded.

Then, he shifts, glancing at you. His expression is unreadable. His brows furrow slightly, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

So you do what you always do—mask it.

You smirk. “So, uh… you always wake up this clingy?”

Logan snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Shut up.”

You grin. “You were wrapped around me like a damn koala.”

“Tch.” He shakes his head, rubbing at his face. “You’re full of shit.”

“You nuzzled me.”

“I didn’t nuzzle you.”

“You definitely nuzzled.”

Logan gives you a look, but there’s no real bite behind it. Just something softer. Something that wasn’t there before.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

The weight of last night lingers between you.

Then, Logan clears his throat.

“So,” he mutters, voice lower. “You, uh…” He glances away, fingers tapping once against his thigh. “You good?”

Your chest tightens.

He’s asking if you regret it.

You should make a joke. Should keep it light, keep things easy.

But you don’t.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head. “Good.”

The silent is not awkward, not really. Just… uncertain.

Neither of you know how to act.

You both know something’s different.

But saying it out loud?

That’s something else entirely.

So instead, Logan grunts, pushing himself up. “You got coffee?”

You blink at him.

That’s it? That’s how he’s handling this?

You should’ve expected that.

You sit up, the covers slipping down your chest. Logan’s eyes flicker lower for half a second before he pointedly looks away.

Oh.

That’s new.

The Logan from before wouldn’t have looked away. He would’ve stared, smirked, made some cocky comment.

But now?

Now, he’s acting like he's trying not to cross a line.

Like last night meant something.

Like he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

You feel like your heart is going to explode.

You should let him off the hook.

Make it easy.

So you stretch, deliberately slow, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re making it.”

Logan snorts, “Figures.”

He stands, stretching his arms over his head, muscles flexing, still gloriously shirtless. Then, with one last glance at you, he turns toward the door.

He doesn’t say anything else.

But as he passes, he strokes your hair—just barely.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

And you feel it.

More gentleness. More care. More of him letting you in.

And for now?

That’s enough.

For now.

After that night, everything changed. The change was subtle at first. A softer gaze held for a second too long, a touch lingering past its excuse. The air between you and Logan had shifted since that night. But despite the warmth settling between you, neither of you had spoken about it.

It’s in the way Logan lingers when he stays over at your apartment, the way his hand brushes over your back absentmindedly when you pass by him in the kitchen. How he steals bites of your food, even when he has his own plate, or how he drinks from your coffee mug like it belongs to him. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, how his fingers trace over your skin for a little too long when he helps you close up the coffee shop late at night.

There was also that morning when you woke up first, tangled in his arms, his face buried against your neck. You should have slipped out of bed, put some distance between you. Instead, you stayed. You ran your fingers through his hair, your touch light, like you were memorizing the feel of him. When he stirred, blinking up at you with sleepy confusion, you just murmured, "Go back to sleep."

And he did.

Sometimes, he stays longer than he should. Sometimes, he watches you move around your apartment, making coffee, hair still a mess from sleep, and his heart does something stupid and reckless—like want more.

Like when you were cooking in the kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts, and he came up behind you, hands on your hips, voice rough in your ear. "You’re making it real hard for me to behave right now."

You turned, arching a brow. "Since when do you behave?"

He kissed you then, slow and deep, backing you up against the counter, and you never did finish breakfast that morning.

Or the night you’d had a long shift and fell asleep on the couch, only to wake up in bed, blankets tucked around you, the faintest trace of cigar smoke lingering in the air. You hadn’t questioned it. Neither had he.

Logan would come by your coffee shop almost every morning, sitting at his usual corner table, nursing a black coffee while you worked. He didn’t say much, but his presence spoke louder than words. Sometimes, he stayed until closing, walking you home, a silent promise unspoken between you. In your apartment, things felt different too.

One night, you were sprawled on your couch after another heated round, both half-dressed, your legs draped over his lap. The TV played some old movie neither of you were watching. Logan’s fingers absently traced circles on your bare thigh, his touch lazy, almost distracted.

He exhaled through his nose, then muttered, "Uh… should we be doin’ this? This doesn’t seem very casual."

You tilted your head to look at him, amused. "Lo, we're friends, right? We sleep together, we're friends too, so it’s fine. Right?"

Logan's fingers hesitated for just a second before continuing their slow path over your skin. "Yeah, I guess." He shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. "I just don’t want us to get things mixed up and... get weird."

You grinned, unable to resist teasing him. "Weird? Are you getting too attached to me already, Logan?"

He scoffed, giving your thigh a light squeeze. "As if."

Your grin widened. "C'mon, you like me. Admit it. I bet if I disappeared, you’d miss me."

"I’d miss the sex," he shot back without hesitation, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

You feigned offense, placing a hand over your heart. "Wow. And here I was thinking we had something special."

Logan rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something softer behind them. You nudged him playfully with your foot. "It’s fine, Logan. I consider you my friend, besides everything else. And we can hang out, you know... besides just hanging out so you can be inside me."

That made him snort, shaking his head. "You're a piece of work."

You gasped dramatically. "Was that a compliment? From the great Wolverine? I'm honored."

Before you could react, he grabbed you and pushed you against the couch, settling above you with an amused grunt as you laughed beneath him. "You’re real smug for someone who just got pinned, sweetheart."

"Oh, please, I let you do this," you shot back, breathless from laughter.

Logan just smirked down at you, but the warmth in his gaze lingered a second too long. And you felt it again—that thing neither of you were saying out loud. But instead of pulling away, he let himself stay close, just for a moment longer.

Then, the misunderstanding happened.

Logan was pulling his jacket on when Laura spoke up from the couch.

"Where you going?" she asked, flipping through some book.

"Coffee shop," Logan grunted, grabbing his keys.

Laura made a face. "You sure?"

His brow furrowed. "Yeah. Why?"

She shrugged. "I dunno… I think she’s not there."

Logan stilled. "The hell you mean?"

Laura hesitated, eyes flicking toward Wade, who was too busy making inappropriate balloon animals to notice their conversation. Then she looked back at Logan. "I maybe saw her going into her apartment a little while ago. With some guy."

The words hit him like a gut punch.

He forced himself to keep his expression neutral, to shrug like it didn’t matter. "You sure?" His voice came out gruff, unreadable.

Laura just gave him a look, like she could see right through him. "Pretty sure."

Logan clenched his jaw. He didn't say anything, just grabbed his keys and left.

He told himself it was nothing. That it wasn’t his business. That he wasn’t the kind of guy to get jealous.

Casual meant casual. No strings, no expectations, no messy emotions that left a man raw and aching.

But then he checked the coffee shop anyway.

And when he found it dark, closed earlier than usual, something in his chest twisted.

His feet carried him back to the apartment before his brain even caught up. He didn’t know what he was expecting—maybe for you to already be alone, for Laura to be wrong. But standing at your damn front door, he heard it.

A voice.

A man’s voice.

Muffled through the walls, deep, unfamiliar. Logan stood there, heart slamming against his ribs, pulse pounding in his ears. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

He should walk away.

He should not fucking care.

But he did.

Goddamn it, he did.

He didn't sleep. The thought of you with someone else—another man's hands on you, another man's mouth on your skin—was a sickness in his veins. By the time morning came, he'd convinced himself that he was fine, that it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t like you owed him anything.

The next day, when he saw you, all cute and soft-eyed like nothing had happened, it took every ounce of restraint not to snap.

"Hey," you greeted, stepping close, smiling up at him. "You okay?"

His stomach twisted. "Yeah."

You frowned. "You sure? You seem—"

"You should’ve told me."

The words were out before he could stop them. Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. "Told you what?"

Logan scoffed, a bitter sound, and rubbed his jaw. "That you had someone over." His eyes flickered over your face, searching for something—guilt, confirmation, anything. "We agreed, didn't we? Casual means we can do what we want, see who we want. But you could’ve given me a fuckin’ heads-up. Could’ve saved me the trouble of showin’ up lookin’ like a damn fool."

Your stomach twisted. "Logan—"

"I ain't mad," he cut in quickly, lying through his fucking teeth. "You don't owe me shit. Just sayin', would’ve been nice to know before I walked into the coffee shop last night expectin’ to see you, only to find out you were already home—with him." His voice darkened, something sharp behind it. "Shoulda figured, huh?"

You blinked. "Wait— you think—Logan, it's not—"

"Don’t sugarcoat it," he muttered. "Laura told me and I heard him in your goddamn apartment."

"Yeah? And what exactly did Laura think she saw?" Your voice was firm now, pushing back against the storm in his eyes.

His jaw tensed. "A guy, in your fuckin’ apartment."

"Jesus, Logan," you breathed, pressing your fingers against your temples. "That guy—he’s not some random hookup, okay? He—" You let out an exasperated breath."He's my landlord. He was fixing my damn heater."

Logan froze.

You crossed your arms. "So, unless you think I’m screwing my fifty-year-old landlord with a beer belly and a receding hairline, maybe take a second to think before jumping to conclusions."

The weight in his chest lifted instantly, but the embarrassment settled in just as fast. Logan swallowed, running a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling stupid.

You sighed. "For God's sake. You really thought I’d do that?"

Logan was quiet for a long beat before he finally muttered, "Wouldn’t blame you if you did."

You frowned. "What?"

"You heard me," he gritted out, looking anywhere but at you. "Wasn’t like this was meant to be serious, right?" He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Ain't like I’m the kinda guy a girl settles down with."

Your chest tightened. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

His head snapped up, eyes locking with yours.

"You really think I still see this as some casual, meaningless thing?" you demanded. "That I'm just out here screwing around with other people? That I'm not completely fucking yours?"

Logan felt like the air had been punched from his lungs.

"I don't want to be casual, Logan. I haven't been casual—not for a long time. In my head, I’m already with you." Your voice softened, filled with something deep, something unshakable. "And I thought you felt the same."

His throat worked around his next words. "You thought right."

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but his expression was still guarded. " But if you felt that way, then why the hell are we still pretending?" he asked, voice rough, edged with something raw. "Why are we still actin’ like this doesn’t mean anything?"

You hesitated, searching his face. "I was scared," you admitted softly. "Scared that if we said it out loud, it’d break whatever this is. That it’d make it real, and real means it can be lost. And I'm sorry for yesterday, for not saying anything."

Logan exhaled sharply, his hand running through his hair before settling on your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "Darlin’, it’s already real," he murmured. "Has been since the damn start. I—hell, I tried to keep it casual, tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, but it does. You do."

Your heart pounded at his words. "Logan…"

The next second, he was kissing you.

Desperate, claiming, like he had to make up for every second he’d spent doubting this, doubting you. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body telling you everything he hadn’t said in words.

You melted into him, fingers threading through his hair, anchoring yourself to him. "Idiot," you mumbled against his lips. "You should’ve just talked to me yearly."

He huffed out a breath, forehead pressing to yours. "Yeah, well... talkin’ ain’t my strong suit, and it looks like it isn't yours either."

You smiled, brushing your nose against his."Good thing we have everything resolved now. That this is real."

Logan let out a low chuckle, his grip tightening. "Damn right. It's always been real, princess."

But this time, he wasn’t letting you go.

He cupped your cheek, voice gruff but sure. "You’re mine, darlin’." His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, gaze locked onto yours. "Always were."

Your heart clenched. "I am, Lo. And you’re mine."

Logan exhaled, leaning in, pressing one last kiss to your lips. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I am."

And then, he kissed you again—slow, deep, a promise written in the way he held you. A promise that he wasn’t going anywhere. It felt natural; like you belong to each other. Something profound and permanent. That this wasn’t just some arrangement anymore. No more lying and not saying what you really feel. No more faking about what you really mean to each other.

Finally, finally, no more pretending.

Just you and him.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

lina's notes: yayy so we've finally reached the end!! First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for all the love for this series and all the repercussion it has achieved!! When I wrote that little drabble, I didn't expect you guys to like it so much and for it to turn into a series, so I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart <3 I loved writing this so much and I'm a little sad that it's over lol. I kind of enjoyed writing about the development of this relationship between Logan and neighbor!reader. Maybe in the future I'll write some more separate things for this series if you guys want… 🫣 (and feel free to send me requests for this series at some point, if you wish) 💜

taglist: @namikyento @cruel-as-sin @lilzilla1scool @weallhaveadestiny @killerwendigo @forksloree @fandomxo @matronmothercrone @unlikeable-female-character @blossomingorchids @eternalssunshine (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[cynthiav06]

I can Almost imagine how Impressive you have to be To Pull THE percy Jackson. Like pulling any Demi-God is great but PERCY?!? The son of posiden?!? THE SAVIOR of Olympus?!?

I headcanon that Percy is really just out of Anyone's League And You gotta be Pretty damn Special to be able to Pull him

Like imagine Fumbling him or breaking his heart

THIS IS HOW IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN.

Like come on Rick you are telling me Percy the greatest demigod of all time Jackson has to be paired up with someone who has nothing in common with him, frequently condescends him, literally forces her own views on him, hates his father, has a mother who tried to kill Percy, is controlling and toxically possessive of him and most importantly someone who has completely different life goals than him?? It doesn't even make sense when you look at it rationally.

I think Rick himself was trying to put Percy down in post Son of Neptune books by making his personality all about Annabeth.

We are talking about the Savior of Olympus, the bearer of Achilles Curse, the strongest demigod, the man who denied immortality from the King of Gods, Poseidon's favorite son, the only demigod to have been approached by other Pantheons first and well respected among their demigod equivalents, the only male demigod to have respect of Artemis, only one to be favored by so many Gods on the Olympian Council and that's only pre-Heroes of Olympus.

The Survivor of Tartarus, the demigod whose blood even Gaia wanted to wake to due to his power, the first and only Greek to be made a Praetor and now two times savior of Olympus. This is all without mentioning his singular and unique feats, and he has many.

AND THIS IS WHAT RICK DOES WITH HIS CHARACTER ARC????

Had Rick not been so obsessed with shoving Percabeth down our throats, he could have totally made Seafam Arc, and all our fics would have not been fics. We wouldn't even have needed headcanons for seafam cause Amphitrite and Triton and all of Atlantis would have absolutely loved him cause come on, it's Percy. It's impossible not to love him. So let's assume that's exactly what happened.

So the whole of Atlantis, Seafam, and most of the Olympian Gods love Percy and not to mention Sally and Paul, who are also very protective of Percy.

The new Lord of the Wild is his best friend, The Lieutenant of Artemis is his other best friend and cousin, both the children of Hades/Pluto are his best friends/cousins, the only other demigod to be blessed by Poseidon with a rare gift is also his very close friend not to mention other members of the Seven also respect him greatly and owe him quite a bit.

Hestia, Apollo, Hermes, Aphrodite, Artemis,Hades, Hepheastus, and even Dionysus and River gods either openly favor him or have much respect for him. (Poseidon and the Seafam are implied, Bob and Damasen as well).

This isn't even taking into account all the pegasi and nymphs and sea creatures who love him and that he has a literal hell hound.

Percy not only has friends in high places and the favor of literal gods on top of being Poseidon's favorite son as told by Poseidon himself, all the people with special abilities are all close friends with him.

In Riordanverse, Percy is like the only person you don't want to cross like ever.

So you know logically if anyone needs an explanation as to why Annabeth isn't a good match for him and someone like Rachel would have fit much better. A mortal blessed with sight much like his Mother later turned Oracle of Delphi, the girl who saved his life in literally the very first two encounters they have, a girl under protection of Olympians and blessed by Apollo?

Apollo could have definitely waived the celibacy rule as there have been mentions of married women later becoming oracles in Greek mythology( May Castellan too if you count the books) and that the rule is only to prove devotion to the God nothing more. And if Apollo can't, then Delphi, who is a spirit older than Gods themselves, could just change allegiances. She once belonged to Poseidons' domain, so there's that.

But since I am biased in favor of Rachel, literally any other ship but Percabeth would have been logical and fitting and better off compatibility wise.

[whyohwhydoris]

Hermione should have left Ron

So, to start, if this leaks through into a pro-Ron sphere let me know so I can try and tag it and people can properly filter it out. Secondly, I am an ardent Hermione and Harry shipper, so take this with a grain of salt. Thirdly: How the fuck did Hermione end up with Ron when he abandoned her while a genocidal mad-man was in power and specifically intent on targeting and probably killing muggle-born magic users?

That's kind of my thesis here. A lot of the time, people will look at the Harry/Ron dimension. Look at how every other instance of necklace influence we see seems to fade immediately after removal. Look at the viciousness of Ron's words. Look at the disregard of all Harry has lost, and all he is facing.

But Ron's betrayal of Hermione feels like the greater sin to me. Ron, uniquely of the three, could choose live his life under the new regime. He comes from an ancient pureblood lineage. His family is, despite their financial difficulties, quite distinguished with a number of members in tough, technical lines of work which speak to power and skill.

In contrast, Harry "has" to fight this fight. His very birth doomed him to it. Not because of his heritage, but because of prophecy. Because Voldemort fears him as a symbol. And, Hermione, uniquely among them, is not targeted and at threat for who she is but what she is. There is no polite lies she can tell herself to diffuse what Voldemort and the others would do to her and people like her.

The only threat to Ron, to the Weasleys, is their political opinions. And changing an opinion is easy. Where as, much like anyone faced with a genocidal regime, Hermione will never be able to escape the active threat of death.

And so, as she ages, I do not know how Hermione would be able to trust - truly trust in the way required to spend a life together - Ron. Because he abandoned her to death. She pleaded with him to stay. And he didn't. Let aside that he abandoned Harry, and that Hermione is serious in her commitments - that such a betrayal alone would be a black mark on Ron's book for many, many years. One which he would struggle to clear away. He abandoned her and everyone like her to death. Or, at the very least to being permanent mind-slaves under the imperious curse.

And, don't get me wrong, JKR doesn't understand social politics worth a dickybird. She's thicker than shit when it comes to the nuances of race, gender, ethnicity, nationality - basically any of the complex milieu of factors from which an individual identity is formed. And as such, I am not surprised she didn't realize the implications. But we, as the wider community, are - I would hope - rather more aware?

As such, I suggest again, Hermione should have left Ron. Because his betrayal isn't just a fight. it is a moment of existential abandonment. And his arguments for it - his motivations - are what? That it's hard? That they are hungry, cold, and struggling to find the answers they need? But Ron doesn't leave and join some other part of the fight. To the best of my knowledge, he hides out with Bill. So it isn't like his 'protests' - concern over Ginny and his family, his sense of betrayal, his sense of defeat - are even something he himself seeks to address. So he leaves, abandoning Hermione to persecution, torture, enslavement, and death; he abandons Harry to torture and death; he doesn't do anything constructive other than, seemingly, mope; and he comes back and "helps to save the day" but in a manner that completely misses that time Hermione and Harry almost died anyway when he wasn't there.

So, where does the Harmione come into this? Well, it is clear that friendship is an important foundation for Hermione. It's inherent in the canon of the Ron/Hermione dynamic. And Harry is probably her singular best friend. Both Hermione and Harry go through a similar arc here where their very existence is a threat to this new state. Both go through the trial of being able to flee and live in hiding, but choosing not to.

Because that's the important thing about Harry's choice. As much as Harry's choice is framed as his destiny, it isn't. But he chooses it anyway. His life might be forfeit, but that alone cannot explain why he chooses to fight. And so, he is acting out of clear principle. And that principle centers people like Hermione: the weak and/or systemically disadvantaged.

To me, Ron is clearly acting out of a self-interest. He doesn't want to feel guilty. He feels bad about his friends not for them. His initial betrayal is about his family and his sister and his sense of despair and his idolization/dehumanization of Harry. Where as Harry is not acting because he will feel guilty if he doesn't; he is acting because he sees and comprehends no other option which he is capable of pursuing. It is the difference between being reactive and proactive in morality. And, for Hermione, that kind of core character difference would matter.

And most importantly, Harry doesn't betray Hermione. He doesn't abandon her. Even with the Firebolt it is Ron who leads the charge, and Harry who immediately reunites as soon as socially viable for a 13 year old boy. Harry's the one who find Hermione when the troll is loose. Harry is the one who stand beside her when Ron goes on his sixth year revenge-tour (revenge for what? good question.) So, you have before Hermione two men. And two very different examples of masculinity and fidelity. Both flawed - don't mistake me. And yet I cannot fathom, with those two examples, Hermione being able to accept that Ron is what she wants or needs. Because he falls short in such essential ways at tremendous odds with her own underlying character. He might be a good man. But he wouldn't be good enough. Some wounds heal clean, but Ron's betrayal I think would leave a scar that Hermione would never be able to forget.

I know people will hide behind the horcrux - "It made him say those things!" But I'm not sure it did. They can say he turned around and tried to come back. But you can't unring a bell. In every other instance, we see removing the horcrux provides immediate relief - it's why Hermione suggests it. But even when Ron does, nothing seems to change. He still walked out, and he kept walking. He may have felt guilt. May have decided against it eventually. But that's the kind of post-facto decision making which doesn't come to grips with the fact that his fundamental morality was - uniquely among the three it seems - sufficiently lacking to understand what he was condemning the other two to. Death and torture. Pain and suffering he cannot imagine. Threats which he alone could hide from - and did.

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Quarterfinals, Match 2

expand to see all propaganda received! (wall of text warning oh my god this is a severe cautionary message)

Lauryn Hill:

"she paved the way and was hot as fuck the whole time"

"Girl c'mon. Look at her. You're gonna try and tell me that isn't the most beautiful and attractive person alive? Okay. You're lying but okay."

"if u freaks don't give ms. lauryn hill the respect she deserves..."

"actually one of the prettiest women ever I'm such a lesbian for her. like irl I'm already a lesbian but she is helping"

Damon Albarn:

"Don’t think Damon should be here? Why don’t you get your head checked by a jumbo jet? Maybe you’ll feel heavy metal and calm down."

"If Damon is in the “some guy” category, he’s the heavenly and heartbreaking version. Damon is the sort of significant stranger I’d see on the train out of Colchester but could never speak to, just a face seen in passing yet too radiant to be real. I’d fall in love for an hour and carry the ache for a month."

"Damon sets the standard for me. I think he’s the most fascinating man alive. What I find attractive in Damon is not just his gorgeous bone structure and boyish charm, but how wholly he’s committed himself to music. Damon is an artist who walked the walk: in one of his roughest years with some of his rawest songwriting, he said he was no longer excited by anything except the creative process. He was disillusioned with the celebrity of it all, with his relationships suffering for it, and only wanted to make art: nothing more, nothing less. He would go on to compose film scores, write operas and stage musicals, produce other artists’ records, form collectives to fulfill his passion for world music, and create some of the most globally successful music of his career in a completely innovative format that placed him as the phantom behind the characters. Whenever one band takes a break, he makes a solo record or puts together a supergroup to stay busy. He’s uniquely collaborative and still writes personal letters inviting artists to record with him, and yet can function as a one-man show, acting as a multi-instrumentalist, a singer-songwriter and a producer. He’s been a constant voice of bringing British music to the world *and* bringing world music into Britain. Sure, he’s won Brit Awards and a Grammy among others, but he also has a Guinness World Record and was named an Officer of the British Empire for his services to music; his long work with Africa Express earned him respect even from peers who’d previously dismissed him, and his commitment to support his Malian collaborators in the face of violence earned him the title of Local King in Mali. There is so much talent in the world, but there is truly no one else with a career that looks like Damon Albarn’s. Damon is far more than just a prettyboy to look nice on a magazine cover, but looks are the ultimate point of this tournament, so make no mistake: he was terribly, terribly pretty. You watch him performing in the 90s, you sift through photoshoots and interviews and documentaries, and it feels *cruel* how beautiful he was. If his talent was god-given, so was his face. To put a bow on this thesis: I don’t know if Gorillaz and Damon’s musical universe would be the experimental, globe-trotting, boundary-pushing community affair it is if Blur hadn’t become such a central figure in Britpop and if Damon had not been made such a media spectacle, and I don’t know if Damon would have been that spectacle if he wasn’t so ungodly pretty. The domino effect is that Damon’s cherubic face launched a thousand multimedia art school projects for decades to come."

"I wish I was basically any bloke in the 90s so I could tongue Damon Albarn down. Damon will see a man and ask “is anyone gonna kiss that?” and not wait for a response."

"I have a pillow with his face on it. I sleep with it every night 😊"

"“I’m more homosexual than Brett Anderson, always have been. As far as bisexuality goes, I’ve had a taste of that particular fruit, or have been tasted you might say…” is just the rawest most Shakespearean statement ever"

"he is the ultimate Pretty Boy ™. his glorious golden locks, his electric blue eyes. he is if Princess Diana was a Britpop Dude. he is the Regina George of Britpop. he is if Aphrodite took male form. Zeus would come down to earth to fuck him if he knew. he is a caffeinated orange cat let loose. he is deranged. he is unhinged. you never know what will come out of his mouth. he had sexual tension with every single man who knew him. he pulled justine fucking frischmann. his aura knows no bounds. he is a siren. he is a weird guy. but being so gorgeous stunning ethereal didn't stop him from also being one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation"

"THE MAIN BLUR"

"literally where do i even begin. i could write entire essays on this man. a good place to start would be the beetlebum music video, i suppose. i'll never forget the first time i watched that music video. something in me changed, my brain chemistry was altered, my life was never the same, i view the world a lot differently now. and a lot of the viewing i'm doing is of pictures of damon albarn's face because of boy do i have a lot of those saved. every time i try to look for a photo of something on my phone i can't find it because there's so much damon. okay that's maybe an exaggeration but this man has the most unfathomable beauty ever. his eyes? HIS EYES. god dammit i love his eyes i want to stare at them until the end of time like nothing else exists. i'm so normal about this man (lying) and while i'm usually very shameless about my interests i'm actually incredibly glad this propaganda is anonymous because otherwise. yeah. but the world deserves to see damon albarn's beauty and also hear his fantastic voice because what the fuck. his voice is literally the most gorgeous sound ever produced like bro sounds like that and expects me not to fall in love? i want this man to sing his silly songs and talk absolute nonsense to me until the sun eventually blows out and the world ends. cmon damon girlies let's demolish this tournament i know there are a lot of you."

"He’s beautiful. He’s a little rat. He’s a sweetheart. He’s a dickhead. He’s a musical genius. He’s a dumb bitch. He’s a jock. He’s a weirdo. He’s real. He’s an illusion. He’s everything. He’s just Damon."

"DAMON DAMON DAMON where do I begin oh jeez I've hyperfixated on this man for a solid 4 years and still going strong. Damon makes me wish that British people are real. That says A LOT. This man created a whole ass ANIMATED BAND WITH A SHIT TON OF LORE as a SIDE HUSTLE??? Not to mention, what other man has collaborated with Stevie Nicks, MF DOOM, Del the Funky Homosapien, Snoop Dogg, AND Beck?! People, we're literally in the presence of a god. And he's STILL GOING. Anyways, TL;DR, damon is so so so neat and cool and he should definitely win this competition. Thank you."

"Okay 90s Damon is The Perfect Boy yes yes, but the people who parrot the Daily Mail and say "he's ugly now" will never understand. I would still suck every drop from him on his deathbed."

"Vote for whoever you want to. But Damon is so pretty."

"i did not spend hours admiring this beautiful man's face on pinterest just to see him lose."

"Damon Albarn just brings me joy. When I'm watching him perform, following along as the camera lingers on and adores his pretty face, I get butterflies like I'm 15 again. It's nice to still feel that totally unguarded giddiness sometimes."

"God let the intrusive thoughts win making Damon. What if he's a beautiful blond twink with eyes like saucers and dick to his knees, he reads Herman Hesse and plays footie and is insufferable about both, he'll be the most prolific musician of his generation and write operas and seminal albums in 5 different genres and also he's gonna be the dumbest bitch alive? He'll also be kinda bi, but only kinda. And send."

"when i found out about his existence, my life was changed forever. i wish i could use him like the hannah montana boot milk pillow and chuck him at the wall so he makes a loud thud"

"Think of the drama and anon fights it'll cause if Damon wins it all! And think of how quiet it'll get after Damon's out. You'll miss him when he's gone, like memories of a noisy house years after it's grown silent. Choose Damon, and keep the messy train chugging."

"Even the Gallagher brothers have the hots for him."

"Kiss kiss I love him also you can't vote for any of the Seattle men they're literally copy and paste it's not fair. We need Brit representation"

"I want to take care of him, I want to provide for him. I need to gauge his baby blue puppy dog orbs out to I can clean them with wood varnish, paint shades of Pantone 320 C in his eyes, spray eau de parfume by dior in them and sew it back into his eyes like that scene in Toy Story 2."

"Seeing as simply filling the page with ‘Damon’ written 10000000 times isn’t going to cut it 😅 may I admit/submit: I DO have him tattooed on my being (no descriptive, is this anon?); he’s inspired somewhat unhinged late night/early morning fandom conversations in which I’ve served as ‘parish’ priest hearing confessions from all manner of folk about what they’d like to do to him/receive from him; sadly I lost an essay where I detailed why the letters that make up his name suit him so well, and described him as the hot caramel sauce to Graham’s cool vanilla ice cream. He’s a faerie princess with a nose that makes people weep and a voice that feels like the warmest home and he gives amazing hugs. He loves trains and chickens and his tuxedo cat. He’s annoying and sweet and somewhat unhinged and his music saves people and all this is on top of that fantastic dick. He’s a dream yet very real and we’re fucking blessed to be on earth at the same time as him, amen"

"Damon Albarn was a beautiful, beautiful boy. The world saw that, regardless of if every individual reading this has the same taste in men; it felt like a truth of the universe at the time. They don't make celebrities that angelic in face and erratic in personality anymore."

"I need to touch his eyebrows, nose and prostate just one time JUST ONE TIME COME ON"