#to which the consensus seems to be ‘no. but–‘

[windvexer]

I actually do think that doing magic takes a lot of work and is kinda hard and there aren't very many good shortcuts, and many modern shortcuts actually just amount to leaving out steps, which means you either have to be powerful enough to brute-force it or it fizzles.

Look, I know some people are just much better at magic and witchcraft; anything they do works with little effort, and the lengths some of us have to go to accomplish magic seems bizarre to them. Those people are cool and I wish I was like them but I'm not.

But I also think some of the truth of how to work effective sorcery gets paved over by these "witchcraft has no rules, do anything you want" support posts.

Because A) that is not true, I believe that witchcraft has lots and lots of rules (it's just that nobody else can tell you what they are), and B) I think do anything you want is taken to mean anything you do should work, which is also not true.

I feel like I always see advice given that you don't need to do things (like use physical tools, or cast circles, or whatever). But I never see anyone explaining the techniques and paths of power that are supposed to replace them.

Let's just imagine for a moment that clear quartz really is a universal substitute. Discordians would say that it totally is. So does that mean all you have to do to sub out clear quartz is to just put it on the altar and do the ritual as if it's something else?

Or do you have to do something more?

Do you have to consecrate the stone as being something other than what it is? Do you have to ritually birth it into a new life and baptize it like a baby? Do you have to spend weeks or months honing your technique of focus and beliefs so that you can mentally shift from consensus reality to a personal reality where there is literally no difference between clear quartz and sodalite?

Do you have to raise energies of sodalite and imprint them into the quartz crystal, perhaps working over it for an extended period of time? Do you have to use energy work to tie the clear quartz into Ideal Sodalite so that it becomes like an avatar?

No, you don't have to use physical tools if you don't want to. But that shouldn't be taken to imply that tools are useless or can be replaced in a way that matters by just visualizing that you have them.

A witch spends six months propitiating a tree, ingratiating themselves with the land, offerings and acts of fealty to the tree, a week-long branch harvesting ritual, blood offerings at midnight on a holy day, then another year curing the wood and crafting a wand. Big effort, right?

And you don't need to do that. But if you want that power, what are you going to do instead?

Same with circle-casting. Same with magic on the full moon. No, you don't have to wait until the full moon. You don't have to wait until the moon is in Libra. But there's a really good reason people do those things. So if you want those effects, what actions can replace those effects?

You literally could not do the spell while the full moon is in Libra. That's fine. But then what will bridge the gap? Will you have to raise more energy somewhere else? Include a new aspect? Modify the spell for the moon you can work with?

"You don't have to follow the moon phase for magic" doesn't mean the moon phase is irrelevant and some witches just like to inconvenience themselves for no reason. But it does mean that you can probably adapt your working to overcome the moon being in the inopportune phase.

Every time I talk about how much time, energy, and effort magic can be I feel like someone always replies, "well, it's just not that hard for me! I do what I want with what I have when I need it and it always just works, with very little effort."

Which I think is very great for them, but I also don't think that most people can get results with such low effort.

So anyway my entire point is that I think sometimes the reason people struggle with getting witchcraft to work is because they are operating off of out-of-context soundbites that make it sound like you can just completely cut out some of these foundational concepts of witchcraft.

Maybe you don't have to accomplish those steps in traditional ways. Maybe you don't need all of those steps for every spell you're doing.

But if you've just cut out swaths of steps only because you heard someone say you don't need them (not because of your own experiments working with magic and determining what works best for you), then is there enough left to constitute a functional system of magic?

[miyamiwu]

Link Click Chess Theory: White vs Black

From the discussions I’ve seen online, there seems to be a consensus that characters associated with the white pieces are “good,” while those associated with the black pieces are “evil.” Putting aside the human tendency to associate lightness with goodness and darkness with evil (e.g. Morning is Good, Night breeds crime, or the racist belief that one race is inferior because of skin color), Link Click itself has dropped several hints that align White with the good side.

In this official art, Cheng Xiaoshi is next to a white rook. And, well, we all agree that Cheng Xiaoshi is good at heart...

The fact that Xia Fei is next to a white pawn, plus his mundane PV where he seems to be exploited by LX and Vein, has also gotten the fandom to think that he’s actually Good.

Lu Guang, the other protagonist, is also next to a white piece. So, if the protagonists are all white pieces, then that must mean white is good, right?

Along with the association of white = Good is the belief that the good guys are being treated badly. In Liu Xiao’s PV, Liu Xiao is playing black in the game of chess, while the white pieces (represented by the white goats) are being tortured. The white statues are also colored as if they’ve been mistreated:

Since white is suffering under the hands of black, then the whites are definitely the good pieces while the latter are evil, right?

Wrong.

Link Click has been misleading us with the whole white vs black thing.

There’s this official art, where Lu Guang is a white devil and Cheng Xiaoshi is a black angel:

Wouldn’t this mean the white pieces are actually evil, and the black pieces are the good ones? Still no.

What side the character is playing on is not indicative of the character’s individual stand or morality.

We should’ve known this. When has the message of Link Click ever been plain black and white?

There is only thing you need to know about this whole White vs Black thing, and it’s that:

In chess, the white pieces move first.

That’s it. That’s all there is to it.

Characters associated with white pieces are those who get to move first. They are those with the power or agency to do so.

In the Angel-Devil art above, we have the black Cheng Xiaoshi trapped inside a clock, which is indicative of his doomed fate. Meanwhile, the white Lu Guang is outside the clock and putting his hand over it, which is indicative of the certain degree of control he has over Cheng Xiaoshi’s life and death.

However, in the Break MV, the roles are reversed. Cheng Xiaoshi plays white, while Lu Guang is black:

(Notice the white bottom hair on CXS. White hair theory is real)

In this MV, Cheng Xiaoshi knows the truth:

“Our memories come back to life,” followed by a frame of CXS.

Clearly, CXS has more agency here, so he’s able to play a more active role in the time game and come to Lu Guang’s aid, who is now on the Black side, possibly having lost his own agency.

Conclusion

If the character is in White, then that means they have the agency to take the first move or launch an attack. They are in control. In contrast, if they are in Black, they have little to no agency and/or can only passively defend or react to a situation after it has happened.

Characters can change colors. Being either white or black is not absolute.

Link Click Chess Theory Part 2: Each Dive Is a Chess Game, and Who Plays White or Black Is Always Changing

[calcitedraws]

Little Blue Heart

Fen smut! It's finally here!

Tw under the cut

Tw: Implied attempt at forced pregnancy but the sex is Consensual

Fen is AMAB and MC is AFAB and stated as being able to menstruate but there's no stated traits or identity put to them.

--------------------

You honestly had no idea how you got here, naked from the waist down, kneeling over Fen’s face. Their eyes flit between your already glistening folds and your face. Their mouth is open slightly, their heavy breaths brushing against you.

”Just… sit. Please…” Fen purrs, reaching their hands around your thighs to grab your hips, gently pulling down. Their cheeks are warm, the flush of pink giving them a feverish look. Fen bites their lower lip. They bring their hands up, gently pressing your folds apart with their thumbs to gaze at your core.

”I… what if-“ you start.

”You won’t crush me. Love, just sit, please.” Fen pleads, pulling down on your hips again. You can’t help but lock your thigh muscles. You stutter something out, but Fen seems fed up. They lean up on one elbow to reach your folds and keep a death grip on your hip to keep you from escaping.

Fen let out little sighs and whimpers as their tongue traces up and down your folds experimentally. Their eyes flutter shut as the rest of their face relaxes.The two of you had only had sex once, around two months ago. It was more of Fen jumping your bones the moment you hinted you were okay with it.

Fen takes their time, gently massaging ‘S’ shaped patterns up and down your folds before finally pressing an open mouthed kiss to your clit. It makes you jump slightly, and you swear you feel Fen’s eyes shoot upon to look up at you. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down, making eye contact with them. Fen tentatively pressed another open mouthed kiss to your clit, their eyes half open but holding your gaze. Suddenly, their eyes narrow slightly, as they lower their position via their elbow.

”You’re uncomfortable.” Fen says parting from your folds which you’re sure was a tough decision. Their lips and chin were shiny.

”My… thighs kind of ache, yeah.” You admit. You hadn’t even noticed until right then.

Fen crawls out from under you, guiding you gently to lay on your back. They lay on their belly, propped up on their elbows, their hands grasping your upper thighs. Fen gently thumbs at your clit, drawing infuriatingly slow circles.

“Tell me what feels good, okay?” Fen murmurs, before pressing a kiss to your inner knee, maintaining eye contact. They must’ve sensed the flip your stomach did, because they grinned (that stupid shit eating grin they did when they knew they had their ducks in a row) and pressed a kiss right next to it. They keep pressing a slow, soft line of teasing bites and kisses until they reach your center. Sometimes they pause to suck and nibble, forming a mark.

Without hesitation, Fen buries their mouth against your clit, lapping at it. Soft thrums of pleasure trail through you, as Fen experiments with their patterns. You glance down, their eyes closed and their eyebrows pressed together in thought. Suddenly a hit of pleasure causes you to gasp. Fen pauses for a moment, their wide eyes but opening just long enough to make contact with your expression.

Fen slowly does that motion with their tongue again, provoking another gasp.

“Ooooh fuck, just like that.” You breathe, resting a hand on the back of their head. Fen sets a leisure pace, switching between that specific movement and tracing your folds to collect the nectar, their soft whimpers and whines rising as the pleasure in your gut builds.

Suddenly, they nip at your clit, a brief but gentle scrape of their teeth. You let out a hiss of breath, before Fen raises their head in alarm, eyes flashing with alarm.

”Won’t do it again.” Fen murmurs, bowing their head, pressing a soft kiss at your clit as an apology before going back to the pattern that made your eyes roll back.

You feel yourself creep towards the edge quicker than you care to admit.

”Fuck, Fen- please-“ You plead.

The edge rapidly approaches. You can’t stop the noises that escape you, but they seem to egg Fen on. They suddenly do a new motion that has your brain shutting off. Fen pauses for a mere moment to judge the sound that tore out of you, before switching to that pattern, their eyes glued to you as you feel your climax about to hit.

You can’t help but grab the hair at Fens head, pulling them in further as your peak hits. You hadn’t been able to masterbate in two months, so the sensation hits through you like a bullet. Fen doesn’t slow down until your moans wean slightly, lapping at your folds, bringing you back down.

You lay, boneless on the bed, your fists in a death grip with the sheets. Fen eventually lifts their head.

”Wanna fold you in half, so badly.” They purr, “Wanna make you squirt on this cock, you’re so good for me, love.” Fens cheeks are flushed, clearly pussydrunk.

Fen crawls up, so their hands pin you in on either side of your head. You can’t think, the afterglow pulling every ounce of energy you had.

You hear their belt unbuckle, and you’re finally able to open your eyes.

Their cock is red and twitching in their death grip, a tiny pearl of precum sitting on the head. They rub the head through the aftermath of your climax, gathering the wetness. Apparently it wasn’t enough, since they lean over and open their nightstand, grabbing a bottle of lube. They drizzle a bit on before chucking it back in the drawer, grabbing their cock to align against you.

Before either of you can think too hard about it, Fen slowly pushes in, inch by inch. The unfamiliar stretch steals your breath. Fen pushes themselves down to the base, biting their lower lip to keep their whimpers down.

“So warm… You're so- fuck- you're doing so good…” Fen murmurs, burying their face into your shoulder. Their grip on your thighs tighten. Slowly, they pull out until just the head is in. Pushing back in with the same pace, Fen let's out a groan.

“So good, just… I'm gonna go faster, okay?” Fen murmurs, strained. You nod, not trusting your voice.

Fen slowly rocks their hips, starting a slow but firm pace.

“Feels so good, you're so… love you so much.” Fen purrs, “Gonna be so good for you…” their voice is strained. The pace was unbearably slow, the dragging of their cock driving you insane.

“Can I… can I go?” Fen murmurs, their voice tense and thin. You nod. The pace makes you moan and gasp, clawing at Fen for some form of support.

“Mine.” They moan, snaking a hand down to rub circles into your clit. “You're mine.”

Those words shouldn't make that fire in your belly burn a little hotter but it does.

Suddenly, Fen presses your knees up, making a perfect 90 angle. Fen presses against you, their face still buried in your neck as they pick up the pace. Their cock starts hitting something, making you squirm.

“There? That spot?” Fen purrs, almost smug if it weren't for how needy they sounded. You didn't need to answer, you're pretty sure the sounds crawling out of you said everything Fen wanted to know.

“Kiss me.” You almost demand.

“Can't. I swear I'll cum.” Fen whimpers, clinging to you.

You grab Fens chin, pushing them back just enough to stare into their eyes.

Fen had teared up, making their grey-green eyes look that much more glittery. Their lower lip was slightly swollen and bleeding from how hard they were biting it. Their cheeks were flushed. The spackle of freckles led you right to their jaw, their mouth slightly open. Something clicked inside your head as you slid your thumb over their lower lip.

Fen let out a whine as they open their mouth, taking your thumb into your mouth. You press down on the writhing, wet tongue, watching as Fens expression melts.

Fen folds you even further, your knees to your chest, their cock finding new depths to thrust into. You claw at Fens back, desperate to ground yourself as they buck their hips. The headboard slams against the wall, the rythmic thumping echoing likely through the entire house.

“Close?” Fen moans. You nod, unable to form words.

Fen grabs the back of your head with one hand, kissing you. They lap at your tongue, your cheeks, your teeth, anything their tongue can reach. They start rubbing that same pattern that had gotten you to cum the first time into your clit, making your back arch.

Your orgasm hits hard, buckling through your body. Fen cums as soon as yours starts, their hips stuttering until they press against yours as firmly as they can, shooting hot ropes into you.

The world stills as you both come down from the high, kissing frantically as if the world was ending. Fen kisses down your jaw, then your neck and chest. Eventually, they come to bury their face in your shoulder again.

Eventually, Fens cock softens and slips out. Fen gently pushes your legs to lay flat as they lay on top of you, a comforting weight.

Fen slowly runs a hand over your shoulder in slow soothing circles. You don't know how long you two lay there, the only sound being your mutual panting.

“I'm gonna grab water for us… do you need anything?” Fen sighs, propping up on their elbows. They stare down at you, their expression soft.

“... Water sounds good.” You murmur. Fen nods, kissing your cheek before shuffling out of the room, throwing on a bathrobe.

It takes a moment for the bonelessness to leave you. You sit up, running a hand through your hair. You go to stand up, tensely.

You look around Fens room. You don't often get to explore here, as the only time you get to go here it's nighttime and you're in bed for the night. Fen had practically dragged you in here to have sex, so you hadn't gotten a good look beforehand.

The walls were the same warm cream color as the rest of the house with a shelf full of little bottles with what looks like tiny model ships in them. There's an oak desk against the wall and a closet door to the right wall of the bed, the type where the doors fold open. There's a lock on the closet.

This catches your attention. Why the hell is there a lock on the closet? On shaky legs, you stand to shuffle over to it. It's a gold padlock, connected to the door handles by what looks like a bike lock. But, there's wiggle room where the bike lock doesn't fully tighten the doors together.

You press the opening as far as the mechanism will allow you to. Only a thin beam of light can shine in, revealing more than you wanted to know.

All you can make out is a calendar, tacked to the wall, it seems to have many little notes on it. You didn't know what month it was. Today's date and tomorrow's are circled with red pen and given a single blue heart sticker by the date (judging by how all the previous dates are x’d out to show the passage of time). There's also a few red hearts that seem to track several days two weeks ago. You hear Fen climb the stairs, so you quickly scamper back into the bed, flopping down right as Fen enters.

You sit up and Fen hands you a cup of water. You take it, almost gulping the whole cup down. Fen chuckles, sitting next to you on the bed. They gently place a head on your shoulder, sipping their water.

“I think we should take a nap.” Fen hums, softly. You nod, focused on the calendar. Something about it just looks so damn familiar.

As soon as you're done drinking, they take the glass and set it on the nightstand. You're guided back into bed as Fen pulls the covers over both of you. They wrap their arms around you, holding you to their chest, pressing light kisses to your shoulder.

You don't know when Fen falls asleep, but you can't stop thinking about the calendar in the closet. You swear you've seen it before. And then it hits you, that you have seen it.

While tracking your cycle.

You don't know how long you've been here but… yeah, those red hearts definitely tracked with your period two weeks ago. But the blue hearts probably meant…

Fen sighs in their sleep, tugging you closer.

[olderthannetfic]

There have been a number of asks over time here about non-native English speakers' feelings about porn in their native language vs in English. The consensus seems to be that one's own language, whatever it is, is tacky and unsexy while English is just better suited to porny fanfic. This seems to have more to do with context and familiarity than about the inherent sexiness of any given language.

I have a funny analogous perspective to add to that. I'm a native English speaker and most of the music I listen to is not in English. I'm not fluent in another other languages, but have enough familiarity with the ones I listen to a ton that I can muddle through some lyrics in the liner notes or make some educated guesses about the accuracy of a machine translation.

It's not 100% non-English lyrics, though. There're just enough specific songs with English lyrics or bands within these genres who default to English that I can make a good comparison, and what I find is that within these genres, lyrics in English feel shallow and campy, while lyrics in literally anything else feel evocative and deep and meaningful.

I don't feel this way about poetry in English, or even about English folk music. It's just music in a genre where I'm used to not hearing English that English sounds ineffective to me.

It's the same thing. English is hum-drum and normal to me and it feels odd using the language of everyday life in a context where I'm expecting expressions of things that are anything but mundane.

If I could read a non-Engish language fluently enough to read the fic, I'd probably feel that it was better suited to porn, too.

--

Ah yes, the experience of deep and moving lyrics 90% of which are just the word 'habibi', I know it well.

[needanaccount2readarcaneposts]

you seem to have the timeline of arcane down!! do you have the ages and how many years pass between each skip readily available by any chance?

It depends if you want the S1 version of the timeline vs. the S2 version of the timeline!

S1 version of the timeline, where Silco and Vander look much younger in the betrayal flashback, goes something like:

Betrayal (Silco and Vander look to be in their early to mid-20s?)

[general consensus is somewhere around a 10 year timeskip; could be as long as 15]

Bridge massacre (Vi is approximately 10; Powder is approximately 6; Vander is mid-to-late 30s?)

[skip forward about 5 years]

S1 Act 1 starting from apartment heist (Vi is approximately 15; Powder is approximately 11; Vander and Silco are early-to-mid 40s)

[skip forward about 7 years]

S1 Acts 2 & 3 (Vi is approximately 22; Jinx is approximately 18; Silco is late 40s to early 50s)

S2's much lamer version of the timeline is similar to above, but the bridge massacre and the betrayal are more or less concurrent. Silco only marinates in his post-betrayal angst and revelations for five years before turning up to ruin Vander's day, which... Listen, when you are a whole adult, five years is less, "At last... the culmination of all my long-held plans, the fruit of all my bitter labours, the moment towards which I have been patiently building all this time," and, "Oh my god... the sins of my ancient past resurrected to visit terrible consequences upon me!" and more, "Hm, I should re-caulk my windows."

From there, it all gets very loosey-goosey.

S2E1 picks up in the direct aftermath of the Council bombing, but most likely covers a period of several weeks, if not months: Viktor's recovery in the sourdough starter, the commissioning, creation, and unveiling of the statue of the dead Councillors, and the organisation of the memorial service, Ambessa investigating the undercity to discover Renni's grudge against Jayce and plan a major attack against said memorial service, Jayce designing and creating a whole hextech gun for Caitlyn, before the strike team begins operations in Zaun.

S2E2 skips backwards a bit in order to cover some of the same aftermath period in the undercity in the 'Sucker' montage; the chaos in the wake of Silco's disappearance puts enough strain on the Firelights' resources that they are almost at breaking point. It then catches up to the end of S2E1: there is a now a bounty on Jinx's head, which Smeech tries to collect. We see what is probably a fairly early mission of the strike team, investigating a known haunt of Jinx (the arcade) in an attempt to apprehend her. However, the strike team has to have been in operation for at least a little while now, using the Grey in Zaun, in order for Sevika to be willing to team up with Jinx to take out Caitlyn and Vi; otherwise I don't think she'd give enough of a shit.

S2E3 skips backwards a bit once more, to give us the 'strike team gassing the poors' montage. This probably also encompasses a period of several weeks to months, as each raid presumably has various scouting/intel gathering/planning stages, then debrief/intel assessment afterwards, before they plan the next raid. We also have to assume that this montage covers a long enough period that Vi and Loris grow decently close. This period outpaces the end of S2E2, and culminates in the Ashes & Blood uno reverse gas 5-way showdown.

Timeskip between S2E3 & S2E4, mostly covered in montage form: Vi's pitfighter emo phase, Jinx & Isha bonding, rise of the Jinxers , Cait's oopsie fascism phase and growing out of it. IIRC word of god says this is about six months???

S2E4-5: Stillwater heist and finding Warwick, probably just a few days.

S2E6: hanging out in the commune for... god only knows how long. How long do mind palace montages take? Think about how bad Vi's titty bandages and leather clothes must smell.

I guess at this point, it's been... I dunno, let's say nine months? a year? since the start of S2. Vi 23; Jinx 19.

S2E7: lol

S2E8: I don't fuckin' know, man. This is the point at which I started to tune out hard. How long was Vi unconscious? How long was Jinx rotting in a cell? How long did it take Ambessa to sneak all her forces out of Zaun and stage a... naval attack? huh? ok, whatever. We also have Jayce trying to convince the undercity to fight, and somehow having located Sevika and Scar to be representatives at this meeting. 🤷‍♂️

S2E9 occupies the exact reverse pocket of space-time as the adage, 'time flies when you are having fun'.

I guess by the end of S2E9, with Caitlyn's fuckass montage speech, Vi still wearing the same nasty vest, and Sevika assuming a Council seat, it's probably been a few weeks since the battle?

✨FIN✨

[crimson-kisses]

Duetsche Zunge

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Gilbert Beilschmeidt || Prussia [Hetalia] x Fem!reader Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, physical violence & the like] Author's notes: I honestly took some inspiration from @shini--chan 's works. Her every piece is marvellous, especially Gilbert's character. She has made me mad and intrigued over that man, I say. Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, and try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

Gilbert would be absolutely thrilled and intrigued if his darling already knew German—it would spare him the frustration of teaching her everything from scratch. He would be amused and think the way she spoke. Her pronunciation or tone was absolutely adorable.

But of course, being who he is, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from challenging her, testing the level of her knowledge and fluency. He’d be curious to know what her taste would be in German literature, music, or cinema. Would she favour Goethe’s romanticism, or perhaps the darker allure of Kafka’s surrealism? Would she hum along to Beethoven or lose herself in the melancholic strains of Schubert?

He would likely discover these preferences by observing (read: stalking) her, a brow arched up elegantly as he leaned back on the walls of the library. There, he would watch her conversing with others academically, seeming more like a statue of a scholar or a professor with his disguise of black-rimmed glasses and dark eyes, watching the way her lips curved around sweetly spoken words.

However, being a perfectionist, he could quickly identify any gaps in her knowledge—a slip of grammar, a wrong word here and there, or even a misstep in interpretation. Perhaps she’d confuse a complex construction for a simpler one or misuse an idiomatic expression.

Noting down the mistakes with a stern frown and a disappointed click of his tongue, Gilbert would sigh, unable to tolerate even the smallest errors. He’d push her relentlessly, unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Papers, after papers, books after books, would pile up around her as he corrected her trembling attempts, his calligraphic writing starkly perfect beside her shaky efforts.

For someone who appeared so rugged, he was surprisingly methodical, almost reverent, when it came to written words, as evidenced by the piles of his ancient diaries filled with neat, precise entries.

It was definitely a cruel mixture of his ego and intense love toward her that drove him to hone her fluency to a level of perfection he alone could crave. Writing, reading, speaking, and even singing—he demanded mastery in every form of expression, shaping her abilities into something he could both admire and control.

But he wouldn’t stop at just German. This rigorous approach extended to other languages in which he excelled, such as French, Italian, and even Russian (though his dislike for a certain Russian man might make things a bit more complicated).

Each session would become a gruelling trial that demanded discipline, focus, and sheer willpower. He’d test her French with its elegant nuances, pushing her to appreciate the subtleties of verb conjugations and melodic flow. Italian, with its passionate rhythm, would become another challenge, the sharp sounds of “c” and “g” perfectly flowing from her lips, just as he demanded. And then, of course, there was Russian—harsh, guttural, and complex—he would revel in hearing her stumble over its sharp consonants, unable to help himself as he smirked with a mix of ego and possessiveness.

Whether it was the elegance of French, the flow of Italian, or the intensity of Russian, Gilbert would make sure she mastered every word, every subtle difference in accent, every cultural nuance, until she spoke each language with an expertise that reflected his possessive influence.

Gilbert would also push her to master ancient languages like Latin and Greek. His admiration for the roots of Western civilization would bleed into his obsessive teaching, as he demanded perfect fluency in these classical tongues.

He’d make her translate passages from Cicero or Horace, test her knowledge of Homer’s epics, and measure her understanding of Plato’s philosophy. Every misstep in conjugation or syntax would be met with sharp reprimands. Yet, at the same time, he would find immense satisfaction in hearing her articulate the beauty of ancient prose, especially when she finally grasped the elegance of Latin’s rhythm or the precision of Greek’s structure.

It would be a sight to watch the man who seemed so restless—always planning, calculating, and never stopping—suddenly appear like a scholar carved from marble. His focus was unwavering, his attention to detail sharp as a blade, whether it was through his quiet admiration or relentless demands, Gilbert made it clear that he wouldn’t stop until she was flawless—not just in language but as a reflection of his obsession with her.

The words on the paper danced as your eyes blurred, hesitant gasps escaping your quivering lips. Each tap of the thick ruler against the desk matched the frantic rhythm of your racing heartbeat. A deep sigh reached your ears, making you tense as a tear dropped, blotting the writing beneath it.

“Wrong. Do it again,” he said, his voice steady but firm, just above a whisper. You could feel the heat of his breath against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words curling into your senses like a soft yet dangerous caress. His forearms, toned and defined, flexed with each controlled motion as he tapped the ruler once more against the wood.

The veins on his arms stood out, a clear testament to the power that lay beneath his skin. His shirt, rolled up to his elbows, emphasized the muscular tone of his arms, the fabric taut as he moved with practiced precision.

“Your knuckles must be throbbing, don’t you think so?” His voice was low, almost velvety, though the slight edge in it made your skin prickle with a sense of haunting despair.

Of course, German would always be Gilbert's top priority. Whether it was the ancient words from his old Teutonic Knight days, the forgotten Prussian of his youth, or the more modern German that had evolved, he would be relentless in teaching you.

He would smirk, watching your hesitant expression, those furrowed brows and strands of hair sticking to your flushed face as you tried to keep up with his rapid-fire lessons. Every time you stumbled, he’d feel a rush of satisfaction, knowing he was pushing you—testing your limits.

And just as you began to feel like you might grasp it, he would pull you further, introducing an even more archaic form of the language. You'd be faced with Prussian words, forgotten phrases from the past, or the formal German of his time as a powerful state, and he'd watch as you struggled to keep up.

But Gilbert never took pity. To him, this wasn’t just about learning words—it was about learning what they meant, what they represented, about becoming part of a deeper history that only he understood intimately.

Naturally, he expected you to speak German at all times when addressing him. After all, he was Prussia—the proud embodiment of his nation's strength and culture, and to him, the language was not merely a means of communication, but a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. He found the way you spoke it utterly captivating—the way your lips shaped the words, how your expression would soften or harden depending on the tone.

Every mistake, every mispronunciation, only seemed to drive him further. He would often reply to you in German despite your slipping into another language— he would become cold, refusing to acknowledge you fully. His childish spite would rise, and he'd deliberately turn his back, offering you nothing but a sharp glance.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snapped, frustration mounting as you tugged at your hair, your words coming out in a burst. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and yet, Gilbert didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the soft creak of the leather under his weight barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, curling into a satisfied smirk. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, never left you as he observed your growing frustration, watching you unravel with quiet delight. He loved seeing you like this—on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, and utterly at his mercy.

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you. It was as if your words were meaningless to him. He had no intention of addressing your frustration, no intention of actually listening to what you were saying. He was too busy savoring the sight of you. The sharp tone in his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, effortless—teasing, almost mocking, a rhythm he knew all too well. Of an ancient German dialect that almost made his words hard to understand.

"Careful with the bread," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the silence like a blade. "Don’t make it too tough."

You froze for a moment, the absurdity of his words washing over you. He wasn’t listening. Not to you. Not to the frustration in your voice, not to the growing anger burning in your chest. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on you with that predatory calm, like a cat watching its prey squirm. And all the while, you could feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and demanding, making your blood boil even hotter.

Your hands, already trembling from the intensity of the situation, clenched into fists. You turned away quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Your mind raced, and you felt the overwhelming need to take out your frustration on something—anything. The dough in front of you.

You slammed your hands into it, pressing harder than necessary, your fingers digging into the soft dough with surprising force. It was as though you could feel his presence behind you, even though he said nothing more, watching you knead the dough with a strange, mocking stillness in the air. You wished it was his neck beneath your hands instead, the pressure of your palms imagining the crushing sensation of him being the one to break under the weight. The thought alone made you grit your teeth.

Gilbert’s smirk never faltered, his eyes still on you, studying every move you made. He had already won, and you both knew it. You were powerless against his presence, against his control. His lessons weren’t games. They were training. And you were exactly where he wanted you.

Though he often found amusement in the banter between you, even encouraging it at times, Gilbert wouldn’t take kindly to any attempts to push things beyond their limits. Swear words or throwing personalized insults his way would undoubtedly irritate him. He thrived on the playful back-and-forth, enjoying the challenge of testing boundaries, seeing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

But as much as he revelled in this dynamic, there were unspoken rules that, if broken, would have severe consequences. Gilbert was not one to tolerate disrespect, not even in jest. His pride, especially when it came to how others viewed his authority, was something you learned to tread lightly around.

He had a way of making you feel small when you crossed that invisible line. It wasn’t outright aggression, no—it was more subtle, calculated. His silence, his smirk, the way he’d cock his head and stare at you with those piercing eyes—each glance felt like a silent reprimand. His lessons weren’t games. This was training. And training wasn’t just about learning skills or techniques—it was about understanding power dynamics, submission, and control. For Gilbert, discipline was an art. You had to earn his approval, prove you were worthy of the lessons he would give. Disrupting that delicate balance, however, meant harsh consequences.

The playful back-and-forth, while it could go on for hours, was never just for fun. He was sharpening you, moulding you into something he could admire, something that would never question his authority again. When you got too comfortable, too confident, Gilbert would make sure to remind you that this was his world and you were merely a participant in it. A slip of the tongue, a crass word, a sharp insult—that was all it took for him to remind you who was truly in charge.

And when you crossed that line? He’d make sure you knew it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Gilbert would drop his usual teasing tone and replace it with something colder, something darker. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The shift in his demeanor alone was enough to make the air feel thick with tension. You’d find yourself walking the thin line between fear and desire, unsure of where one ended and the other began, but knowing that if you made the wrong move, there would be consequences.

The toothbrush and the mouthful of toothpaste threatened to choke you, your mouth wide open as a strong grip held your head in place by the hair. Gilbert probed the depths of your mouth with firm, deliberate strokes, bringing you to the brink of nausea. Foamy spit dripped from your lips, guttural moans of pain echoing through the washroom as tears framed your face. Your attempts to reason with Gilbert fell on deaf ears. All it took was one bad day for him (you couldn’t really tell with the man), and your profanity-laced outburst had earned you this punishment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slightly relaxed his grip on your hair, allowing you to violently spit out the bitter toothpaste that had been building up in your mouth. You instinctively reached for the tap, desperate to rinse the foul taste away, but were met with a firm hand that stopped you short. “No water for that filthy mouth of yours,” Gilbert sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to feed you a bar of soap and using the toilet brush.” You almost threw up.

While he didn’t outright disdain other languages, Gilbert was quick to show his disapproval if you focused on them too much. A subtle sneer or dismissive remark would betray his jealousy. In his eyes, your enthusiasm or preference for another tongue was a challenge to his authority, a dilution of the bond he sought to forge.

He wanted German to be your priority because it was his, and he needed to hear it from your lips as proof of your connection. It wasn’t just about teaching—it was about domination, ensuring that his influence extended into every word you spoke and every thought you had. And, of course, his pride demanded it. After all, why would you need anything else when you had him?

Nonetheless, he adored your voice, no matter what language you spoke. Whether stumbling over unfamiliar words or weaving through proses, there was a softness in the way you sounded that captivated him. It wasn’t something he’d admit easily, but your voice was his favourite melody, one he could listen to for hours without growing tired.

Of course, German is sacred to him—a reflection of his very being. It wasn’t just a language; it was his legacy, his culture, and the soul of the people he had once represented. The language of warriors and poets, of triumph and despair, it was a thread connecting him to his past. He expected you to embrace it—not out of mere interest, but as a testament to your devotion to him. And he always cherished it hearing from you.

You sat beside Gilbert, stiff and uneasy, as he delved into a thick book titled 'Geodesics in Curved Spacetime'. The topic was so far beyond your comprehension that you couldn’t help but think, What the fuck even is this?

It was one of those days when he insisted you sit close, your hands folded on his thigh, while one of his palms gripped it firmly, the other flipping through the velvet pages of the Russian text. His hold on you was both grounding and possessive, the weight of it reminding you that there was no escape from his whims.

The subject seemed to irritate him more than intrigue him; his brows furrowed, and the occasional sharp exhale signaled his growing frustration. He’d call you over at times like this, either to steady his nerves or to force you into reading it aloud, despite your stumbling attempts.

Sometimes, he would pause to explain a concept in German, his voice steady and commanding, expecting you to follow his train of thought no matter how lost you felt. On other occasions, his enthusiasm would bubble over, and he would yip and yap, his words spilling in rapid, fervent analysis that left your head spinning. You could only nod along, hoping he didn’t notice your bewilderment.

Most often, though, his focus shifted to something more intimate. He would pass you a well-loved novel—its pages slightly worn, its binding soft to the touch—and order you to read aloud. His fingers would trail lazily along your arm as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the tension leaving his features with every word that left your lips. In those moments, you felt like an extension of him, your voice the tool that brought his favorite stories to life. His grip on you would loosen, his breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Those were his calmest days, and your beautiful voice, the rhythm to his immortal heartbeat, seemed to be the only thing capable of soothing his restless spirit.

Refusal—or any form of misbehavior—when he asks you to speak his language would never be tolerated. Utter refusal would be met with the coldest of glares, a silent warning that would send a shiver down your spine. Testing him with silent treatment or petty acts of defiance would only irritate him more.

His expectations are simple but non-negotiable: learn the proper German etiquette. Speak clearly, directly, and without hesitation. Your words must be precise—no unnecessary embellishments or mindless chatter. He values sincerity, respect, and most of all, discipline.

When spoken to, you are expected to answer promptly, politely, and with the right tone. You must use Bitte (please) and Danke (thank you) when appropriate— if you don’t, he’ll remind you, and the lesson will be harder than you anticipate. There is no room for laziness in his world, especially when it comes to how you communicate.

Gilbert tapped his fingers on his forearms as he stared at you from across the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. You sat with an unsightly scowl, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was thick—your earlier attempt to escape had been swiftly thwarted by his firm grip on your arm.

"And what do we say?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with impatience.

You shot him a defiant glare, the sting of your pride burning brighter than your hunger. Your teeth gound together as you glared at the plate of Sauerbraten, the tender beef marinated in rich spices paired with the tang of red cabbage and potato dumplings. The smell alone made your stomach growl, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"D..." You grit your teeth, barely able to utter the word. His unblinking stare burned into you as if daring you to try him. "Danke."

"Ah ah," Gilbert bent forward, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Full sentence."

You clenched your fists, the taste of defeat sour in your mouth. There was no escaping him now. "Danke... für das Essen."

"Good girl." Gilbert’s voice was soft, but the approval in it was unmistakable. He straightened in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

Of course, being the rather egoistical individual he is, Gilbert would revel in hearing you address him with titles in German. Whether it was Herr or Mein König, the words rolled off your tongue like honey, fueling his insatiable desire for your complete submission. He would demand such titles not merely out of tradition but as a way to solidify his dominance over you-reminding you that he was the one in control, always.

And if you hesitated or refused, you'd soon find yourself either kneeling at his feet or bent over his knees, forced to beg in the very language he adored.

The sight of you, voice trembling and face flushed, was intoxicating to him. He couldn't help but feel a massive thrill corroding his bones as your tone wavered with such an adorable desperation, the words escaping your pretty lips like a melody crafted just for him. Gilbert always loved the way you sounded, gasps, grunts or so, your voice like a finely tuned instrument only he could master.

You were his little songbird, and sometimes he liked to take that metaphor literally. He wouldn't mind having you sing as he played his flute, guiding you with gentle nods or sharp corrections if you didn't get it quite right. On calmer evenings, he'd rest his head on your lap, your soft hands threading through his silver hair as you hummed or sang him a lullaby. Those moments of quiet surrender were his personal heaven.

Every word you spoke in German was a delicacy he devoured straight from your lips. He also expected your words to reflect affection and politeness. Loving phrases, respectful tones, and perhaps even a few nicknames of your own design.

Nothing overly cheesy, of course, but Gilbert wouldn't hide his cheeky grin if you hyly called him something intimate. A soft Liebling (darling) murmured in the warmth of your shared bed would earn you a teasing remark right before he captured your lips in a sealing kiss.

In the bedroom, his expectations only deepened. He wanted to hear you whisper his name like a promise, gasping out mein Schatz as he thoroughly claimed you. Every word, every sound you made was proof of his hold over you, a mark of the loyalty he craved so desperately.

And in those moments, he'd remind you just how much he loved your voice - the voices that only he could truly bring out of you, the ones he wants to hear from you, the one thing that could ever bring peace to the storm within him.

Your dress spread around you like the petals of a flower, delicate yet trapping, as gilbert’s hands—rough and unyielding—skimmed over the bare skin of your legs. you shivered beneath his touch, every nerve on fire as you tried to suppress the sob rising in your throat.

“Was ist los, Maus?” (what's the matter, mouse?), his voice coiled around you like smoke, soft yet suffocating. his body leaned in, the weight of his presence making it impossible to move, let alone think. “Hast du etwa vergessen, wie man schön bittet?” (have you perhaps forgotten to ask nicely?).

your mind swirled, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. had he done something? the strange heaviness in your limbs, the faint haze clouding your senses—was this another one of his games?

“B-bitte,” you rasped, voice trembling as you fought to form the word, “bitte, G-Gilbert, ich—”

his grip on your hips tightened abruptly, the sharp press of his fingers stealing the rest of your sentence. his crimson eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a twisted mix of hunger and amusement.

“Das ist besser,” (That is better) he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Nicht perfekt, aber es wird reichen.” (Not perfect, but it will do)

tears pricked at your eyes, your chest heaving as you forced out another plea, desperate to appease him. “gilbert… bitte… verzeih mir,” you choked out, your voice breaking as his thumb brushed against the curve of your waist, deceptively gentle.

“ah, Liebling,” he said, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “Das ist mein gutes Mädchen.”

he pulled you closer then, his control as unrelenting as the heat radiating from him, leaving no room for escape. you were his—mind, body, and voice—and he made sure you understood it.

With every searing touch and word.

[amber-tortoiseshell]

What does the spotted pattern modifier do to the classic tabby pattern, do you have any pictures? I feel like any spotted tabbies I see have patterns that follow the mackerel pattern. Does it look differently with the classic pattern, or does it somehow not affect it or smth?

I think right now there is no real consensus on the interaction of spotted and blotched. For example Kaelin & Barsh vote for "no effect all", and puts down mackerel as the tabby (Taqpep/LVRN) genotype of spotted:

Hartwell (of messybeast) thinks it does affect it, or at least a spotting modifier which does exists: "Spotted tabbies can be due to broken mackerel stripes (in which case the spots are not so rounded) or to a spotting gene. The spotting gene breaks up the underlying mackerel or classic tabby pattern into spots."

Personally, when this topic comes up, I always have to think of bengals.

Look at that curve of spots on the first one next to the spine, and that one long rosette on the next in the same position. I can't help but feel like the lines of the blotched pattern are there. Auh, I don't know. "Every bengal is genetically blotched but some have a spotted modifier thus rosetted" and "every bengal has the spotted modifier but some are homozygous blotched thus aren't affected" are both equally valid and sound models, but something pulls me toward the former.

I found some statistics in the supplementary materials of this paper: the authors tested 16 bengals for taqpep alleles and found one at 0.5 frequency.

...All right, that's a little confusing. 50% feels too much compared to the prevalence of marbled (although they didn't disclose the pattern of the cats, so it's possible they just had that much marbleds and carriers by accident or by choosing related animals), and too little for "every bengal is blotched under the rosettes". Maybe there are more, unkown and untested alleles?

AND WAIT A MINUTE!

"Pattern phenotype of F. nigripes, which resembles the atypical swirled pattern observed in domestic cats that carry the T139N allele (Fig. S2). Nine of nine F. nigripes individuals were fixed for 4 species-specific variants (T82K, H87P, E488K, F950V)." Black-footed cats seem to be genetically kind of blotched and phenotypically spotted! So a blotched-type pattern breaking up into spots is indeed possible.

A few more remarks: famously spotted breeds egyptian mau and ocicat both have a relatively high taqpep mutation frequency here (0.32 and 0.6 respectively). To me this suggest their spotting gene affects genetically blotched cats too.

...And now i looked into ocicats and found they have a sister-breed called aztec with a classic tabby pattern according to GCCF. If ocicat, too, has 60% allele frequency of blotched, that suggests the main difference between ocicat and aztec isn't mackerel vs blotched but a spotting modifier. (What's more, this ocicat breeder says not only the spotted modifier of ocicats affects blotched, but actually the mackerel allele has been completely eliminated from the breed.)

Ocicat. If you want to, you can imagine the blotched "bullseye" into the arrangement of the spots. At least I can 😆

All right, this starts to get long, and i know i won't be able to draw any real conclusions in the end. So.

Blotched is complicated*, spotted is even more complicated**, we don't know.

*several alleles that don't necessarily have the same interaction with spotted;

**probably a mix of different modifiers, and it's very well possible some of them affects blotched and some don't.

[baka-bakeneko]

Bed Dreams - Logan Howlett

DP3! Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

summary: you've been thinking of Logan, awake and asleep. Logan notices when you take a nap together.

tags: NSFW, MDNI, consensual napping, nocturnal orgasm, quickie, cowgirl, wrap it before you tap it psa

a/n: Wade, my other love, you have reminded me of my first love.

It was very rare, as roommates, that you and Logan were home alone. Al barely left the house and, as Logan's new best bub, Wade was clamped to his side every waking, and some unwoken, moments.

So for Logan to open the front door just as you relaxed into the daybed to nap was new to you.

"Hey," you said, smiling as you lounged on the couch pillow and turning your head to the television.

"Hey," he repeated, his voice nothing short of honey whiskey. "You settling in for a nap?"

You nodded, shifting a bit towards the wall to offer him space to join you. "Just a few minutes, wanna relax?"

Another rare occurrence between you two, sharing any kind of space intimately as friends. Wade usually liked to cuddle on the couch, throwing his legs over your lap while Logan tended to grimace from his recliner.

Let it be him, the old man, to love his singular brown recliner. His eyes never let off of you two, though.

It was judgemental, his glare at the two of you before peeling his eyes away in a short huff.

Logan stepped towards you, cocking his jaw at you stretched out on the daybed; you had one of Al's frilly tapestry blankets draped over your legs with your arm tucked under your head.

"Why the hell not?" He shrugged, kicking his boots off and sitting down on the edge. "No funny business, missy."

You grinned, shifting further away from Logan to accommodate his frame. He lay down with a tired exhale, his back cradled by the flimsy springs of the daybed.

Logan draped his arm out around you, allowing you to rest your head on his bicep. There was a friendly distance between you, a hands-length of breath between you as Logan stared at the ceiling and relaxed.

You curled further into yourself, slipping quickly into a nap. Logan inhaled deeply, just letting the day take a pause. His back had been hurting lately from tossing and turning overnight.

Logan tenderly tilted his head over to you, inhaling the scent from the top of your head. He sighed, blinkling slowly before finally drifting off.

He woke up moments later, it seemed, to you stirring next to him. Squinting down at you, he found you in a completely different position than before.

You were on your stomach, your arm draped over Logan's chest though your head left Logan's arm empty. He clenched his hand into a fist, distracting himself for a moment before you moved again.

It was subtle, your legs stretching out before raising a leg against Logan's. He watched you twitch, your breath escaping in sharp huffs. Raising a brow, Logan carefully reached for you, ready to wake you.

A dewy sweat beaded over your forehead, your mouth falling open with soft pitches. Logan stared, sickly intrigued while still hazy in sleep.

Then it was sudden. You moaned. Not only that, but you moaned Logan's name.

He froze, his heart skipping at the thought of you dreaming about him. Or whatever it was you were doing, which he was still concerned about.

You continued, panting in your sleep, gripping at your shirt before letting out a final moan. Logan leaned in to smell you again, not making it to your head to smell a sweet scent emanating from you.

He raised his brows, sniffing a bit harder at the scent to find where it'd come from. His query didn't go far as you shifted your leg further up his.

Oh.

So you were...in your sleep...to Logan.

Oh.

He couldn't help but laugh lowly, dropping his head back down to stare at the ceiling again. Logan gulped as he tried to will himself back to sleep.

But that was easier said than done. With his free hand, he adjusted his jeans, giving him a bit more breathing room though he was losing it. You orgasmed, in your sleep, to him.

Logan felt his heart trip again, rushing with adrenaline at the thought of how often you did it. And you lay next to him, knowing that it could happen.

He released a shuddering breath, shutting his eyes to take his mind off of it for however long it'd take for you to wake up.

It wasn't long after that you both were woken up by an audience. Blind Al, accompanied by Wade standing close behind her.

"Now I don't have a problem with y'all napping in here," Al began, with Wade accentuating with a few 'mhmm's and head bobbing. "But fuck in your own room, please."

"And how dare you not invite me to the cuddle sesh?" Wade said, partially offended as he poked Logan in the chest.

You stared up at the two of them, tucked on Logan's arm, not understanding what they meant. As you sat up, Logan's hand slipped off of your leg draped up to his waist.

You recoiled, embarrassed, and produced the same friendly sliver between you and Logan. Logan grimaced, at both your leaving and the cockblock duo.

"Fuck off," he offered to Wade, swatting his hand away before sitting up.

He looked back at you, a new glow about you from napping...among other things. Your hair was slightly mussed, the sleeve of your shirt slipped askew to your shoulder.

Logan tensed his jaw at the same time his cock flinched. He turned away and pushed to his feet, shoving Wade out of the way to the kitchen.

You edged off of the daybed after Logan, watching as he retreated to his room, punctuating his silence with his door slamming.

"What did you do to him?" Wade asked, thumbing over his shoulder after Logan.

Al's nose twitched, sniffing the air. "Y'all didn't fuck."

You straightened up and climbed off of the daybed, picking up your shoes to take to your room. "Of course we didn't, I invited him to nap with me."

"And he actually did it," Al added, shuffling to her signature seat in the living room.

"But when I ask him to have a boys' shower with me...!" Wade raised his voice, hoping Logan could hear him.

You stood in the hallway, staring across to Logan's closed off room, then over to your room next to Wade's. Instead of going to your room, you dropped your shoes at the front door then went to Logan's door.

Logan sat on the edge of his bed, willing himself to get back up and leave the apartment for a drink. That was until you opened the door.

"You okay?" You asked, holding onto the doorknob in case you needed a quick exit.

"Fine," Logan responded, short and gruff.

"Because I thought you were okay with napping next to me. If I'd have known you would embarrassed--"

Logan looked over at you, his brow quirking before sitting back on his hands. "Shut the door."

He tilted his chin for you to do so and you did with minimal hesitation. You stood against the doorknob, raising your brows at him to continue.

"Do you know you orgasm in you sleep?" Logan teased, smirking at you.

Something about his grin, so thin edged between menacing if not for the light in his eyes, gave you the feeling of being expertly seen.

Too seen, as if the animal man mutant was in fact targeted on you. Your breath stilted a beat, staring at Logan.

"I...I've been told of it before." You tried to hide the blush from your answer, keeping your eyes on him.

Logan's smirk strained a bit, his eyes flicking down your body in a half-second. "And you didn't think to warn me just in case? What about funny business?"

You broke, laughing nervously as you looked away. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't think it'd happen, it's usually in my bed."

Logan stood up, cocking a brow at you before reaching to undo his jacket. His smirk never left, turning away from you for a second as he went to his closet for a white beater.

"So, it's nothing about me being in your little wet dreams?"

You were struck still, as if Logan's words had Medusa's power. He liked how you squirmed so miniscule where you stood.

Your scent was strong, a growing sweat emerging from his line of questioning. Even now, he noticed how you were edging your thighs together as if to stop your arousal.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." You were sure, or as sure as you could be, that when you did that, you didn't think you were saying anyone's name. Not that there were a lot of names on your roster.

It was a measly little crush you thought you were keeping quiet, but you were apparently projecting your crush on Logan as loud as possible.

Logan rolled his beat down to cover his body, looking over his shoulder to you. He turned and cornered you against his door.

"You made my name sound so good on your lips," he whispered down at you, his eyes eneveloping all of your intimate beauty.

Your eyes sparkled as he closed in, your blushing cheeks so biteable and inviting. Logan grit into his teeth, holding back even though he wanted to devour you. He had to admit to himself that he'd been hunting you in the apartment soon after you moved it.

It'd been too long since he'd been around a woman, much less a woman like you. Logan shut his eyes to breathe you in again, reminding himself of how he thought of you in his sleep. He'd wake up restless, harder than his own fucking claws, having to take matters into his own hands.

You bit into your bottom lip, titling your head up to meet Logan's eyes again. If he kept staring at you so hungry, you were sure you'd hyperventilate into your worst party trick again.

But Logan liked it. Because it involved him. It starred him.

"I must be good in your head, I make you cum every time." Logan's hand ghosted up your neck, bracing your jaw to hover just before your lips. "And so intensely, I want to make it real."

You begged internally for Logan to do so, your pussy pulsing readily as it did when you involuntarily came. His thumb brushed along your bottom lip, awaiting your answer only for you to whimper out: "Please."

Logan's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring like an animal. The brown in his eyes was slivered against his dilated pupils.

He dove into your lips, kissing hungrily and taking every soft whimper you offered in response. Logan reached to lock the door, allowing you to curl your arms around his neck.

He bent, grabbing the backs of your legs and carrying you over to his bed. "Strip. I wanna see that wet pussy."

You edged onto your elbows, working down your pants while your nerves enlivened against Logan's clean sheets. Your butt greeted his pillow comforter as you peeled your jeans down your thighs, only for Logan to take them the rest of the way.

He aggressively tugged them off of your ankles, leaving your legs suspended in the air for a moment until Logan grabbed onto them. Your breathing came uneven as Logan ran his calloused hands up your legs, admiring them begore draping your ankles against his shoulders.

He avowed to himself to try every position imaginable, just to taint your dreams further with his presence. He kissed at your ankle, nipped at your skin before raking his eyes down to glance at your bare pussy.

Shutting his eyes, Logan metered his excitement. He would not wear you out in your first time with him; maybe if he'd keep you overnight you'd realize how long his stamina was.

"Tell me how you want me," Logan ordered, though it was posed as a question.

Logan was stood between your legs, admiring and caressing them, pressing his waist just inches before your core.

"Like you are," you rushed out, reaching for your shirt to peel it off. "Right now."

Logan's eyes were graced with your natural form, the afternoon sun streaking across his comforter and your naked skin. The gold gave you the glow of a goddess, waiting patiently to be praised.

Logan would readily bend to your whim this way; his normally built up, guarded nature felt flawed as he was coaxed in your direction.

He reached to peel up his shirt, to embrace your skin with his, but you stopped him with a shake of your head. "Take your cock out and fuck me." The words made your mouth feel weird, though it came straight from your dreams.

Logan sneered, capturing your lips again as he undid his pants and pushed them far enough to free his cock, throbbing and leaking.

He braced a knee on the bed, guiding his cock up and down your slickened lips before sinking in an inch. You both paused, adjusting to this bold step in your relationship. His cock stretched at your entrance, making you point your toes in silent exclamation.

Logan noticed your pert nipples harden, your stomach hollowing as your walls pulsed eagerly around him. He relaxed his shoulders, once again pacing his desire from splitting you in half.

"Logan," you moaned, raising your hips for him to continue. "Please."

His ears perked at the soft piques that escaped your parted lips, trying to chase more of him. Logan's hand ran down to your hips, holding them off of the bed to sink in another inch.

You craned your head back to release a pent up moan. Logan instinctively reached out to clamp his hand over your mouth, bewildering you in the process.

"Shh, we have roommates." He spoke softly, a new tone for him. His eyes narrowed, boring into you and making you squirm under his stare.

Logan was in control over you, just as you wanted, inching further into and earning another muted sound. He dropped your legs, no longer able to keep the distance from you.

He slid over your body, hissing at the feeling of your nipples pebbled against his chest. Logan took your legs around his waist, thrusting in the rest of the way and earning a heightened noise from behind his palm.

He was burning alive, the heat from your cunt only driving him over the edge. Logan ducked his face for a moment, trying to regain himself from with anfew soft whimpers.

You were delighted to hear him break so close to your ear; your eyes fluttered as your hands drifted under his shirt to admire the structure of his back.

You shrugged his shirt up, guiding it over his head before tangling it off of his arms. Logan reluctantly broke away for a moment, tossing his shirt to the head of his bed before grabbing at you again.

He turned you both, sitting up on the edge of the bed and sinking even further into you. You and Logan looked down at him, realizing he was still inches out of you though he was already ringing your core.

He held his hands at your hips, biting his lip as his thumb brushed over the bulging lower part of your stomach. You rested your hands on his shoulders, circling your hips on his length before edging up on your knees.

Logan exhaled, another whimper escaping him as you met his eyes. Riding him, you felt his hands grip into your ass, following your movements on him.

He seethed, tilting his head back as you panted before his mouth. Logan took over a moment, thrusting upward into and earning a whimper.

He no longer wanted to keep you quiet, ready to hear and ingest every noise you made while fucking. Louder than in your dreams, earning the real thing.

"Logan," you mewed, staring into the man's feral eyes.

He growled, pressing his chest to yours so you could feel it. Your nipples grazed his wiry hairs, sliding down on his huge cock as he ran his dull nails down your thighs.

It was a salacious trio, earning you to pause midway and slam down on his length. You cried out, which Logan soaked in with running his lips up your elongated throat.

He gripped tighter at your ass, rolling your hips further to take in more of his cock. Logan grit, attempting to withhold longer than your now gripping pussy, ready to milk him dry.

Logan succumbed, groaning outwardly as his claws emerged from his knuckles and he came with a purpose for the first time in years.

You rolled your hips into Logan, riding into his spurting cock as your pussy drank it in. Ducking your head back, you whined, already wanting to go again.

Leveling back before Logan, you ran your hands up to curl your fingers through the short hair on his nape.

Logan kept you still, sparing his eyes away for a moment to will his claws back in without cutting you. He was slow in his efforts, distracted slightly by your descension to sucking on his neck.

He tilted his head to allow you further, grunting as your teeth grazed his skin. It was an intimate bubble you two curated, sweaty and clumsy. The streaks of sun stretched further into the room, decorating you both in golden hour glow.

Logan slid a hand up to your breast, kneading at it gently before taking your nipple into his mouth. You whimpered into his neck, pulling off of him to caress his nape.

You both froze as a knock on the door interrupted your intimacy.

"Logan, buddy, do you want to go get some shwarma? Tony Stark and friends went to this one up the street..."

"No." Logan barked out, causing you to flinch on his cock. He moaned lowly at your reaction before aiding you off of his length.

You reached for his shirt and put it on just as Wade wiggled the door handle.

"C'mon, Wolvie. I'm sure some food will cheer you up."

"Fuck off, Wade," Logan replied, undressing fully before climbing after you.

He grabbed your ankle, turning you onto your stomach. You grinned, hiding your giggles into the comforter as his shirt rode up to your stomach.

Logan teasingly bit at the backs of your thighs, then your ass before dragging his tongue up your back. You crooned, raising your hips in response.

"I want to replace every dream with the real thing," Logan huffed behind your ear, lining up behind you.

You raised up on your elbows, angling your hips, ready for Logan to keep going.

"Logan, the door is locked, bud!" Wade called out, making you snicker lowly.

Logan dropped his head back with a groan. "There's a reason!"

"You know to hang your mask on the door when you're 'polishing your claws'. And to hang mine when you need help."

You raised a curious brow back at Logan, who shook his head.

"Wade, seriously?"

"Come on, Droolverine. Let's hang out!" Wade rhythmically patted on the door.

You sat up as Logan climbed off of the bed and went to the door. He unlocked it, throwing it open far enough to greet Wade with his full frontal.

"Wade, for the last time, fuck off," Logan offered, leaning into the doorway.

Wade's eyes migrated carefully down Logan's torso, remapping everything he'd seen before, then barely dipped his eyes to take in his friend's hardened length.

"Oh, so you were 'polishing your claws'," Wade said with a wink. "And you don't need help with your honey badger?"

Logan snarled, earning Wade raising his hands in defeat. "Fair enough, I'll leave you to it. Hey, have you seen our other roomie? She's not in her room but her shoes are still here."

"Wade, they're fuckin'." Al called out from the living room. "Now go get some damn shwarma, 'cause I'm starving."

Wade laughed at Al, not taking it seriously until Logan opened the door further, showing you sat on his bed, in his shirt.

"And I wasn't invited? Come on!"

[verdantwyrm]

Do you think Jimmy has SA'ed other people before before joining pony express..?

Cause his line to Daisuke when they are about to spike Swansea with mouthwash drink kinda implies that y'know he could possiblely make people faint and abuse them..?

i am questioning this and i dunno but i would lean on to no, though idk why

Honestly, it's a tricky question to answer. Rape comes in many different forms.

I do find it very strange and very questionable that Jimmy knows how to do this, but again, the way he does it doesn't raise any concerns. He didn't drug Swansea with anything particular he literally just put so much ethanol into a drink that it caused him to pass out, which is still alarming; but it's not specific. Anyone can do that and anyone can and will pass out after drinking too much, like Jimmy even said himself, even he has to have his limit.

I don't think personally that Jimmy has raped someone or drugged someone, but there's definitely been some questionable hookups from his youth. To me Jimmy seems like the kind of guy to use sex as a form of self-harm or punishment, so any and all instances of it haven't been the best, nor have they been healthy, but they've been consensual to some degree.

Jimmy's overall character sucks if you try to write him out as this always horrible, always terrible cruel man that has been that way since he was young. No, it's a million more times satisfying, heartbreaking and destructive if the events of the game are his first-ever real spiral that just kept on going because of the circumstances that let him abuse his power (And Pony Express enabling his behaviour)

He's spiralled before, but not much had come out of it besides something getting broken or a hospital trip of some kind, but because of his environment, the people around him, and the things in place to uplift and amplify the outcome, it does way more harm. It is the environment that they're all in that cements their doom, not just the actions of one guy.

[mitamicah]

Behold: the Böle Arena & Club sticker is here 👀✨

[lizard-ratt]

Instinct #1: wait patiently for ao3 to be back online, so as to not make the situation worse, whatever the situation is

Instinct #2: spam refresh until my love, my one true love, ao3 is back online, so I know right away when I can embrace her once more

[edenfire]

by popular demand: hedgehog scott and kitty wallace💗💞

[thetriggeredhappy]

consensus seems to be a loud “no” so this is my routine soapbox about Why People Do ‘Nice Things’ In Their Community

for this one in particular, the long and short of it is that One Day, You Will Meet.

listen. one day, you will, more likely than not, meet your neighbor. if you live in an apartment building, there will be a fire drill, or there will be a noise complaint about one of you, or there will be a power outage and you will make eye contact as you both peek out the door. if you live in a house, maybe their mail was delivered to you mistakenly, or they might need to park in your driveway or in front of your house as there’s piping maintenance in front of theirs, or there’s a lost dog that you believe is theirs, or vice versa. and the fact of the matter is, if the very first time you speak to this other person is because of circumstances in which one of you could be reasonably framed as Being Inconsiderate, as Overstepping, as Treading On Your Space and Life, you are not going to have a pleasant experience with this person. maybe you’re irritated with them, maybe you feel guilty, maybe you just feel downright awkward around this complete stranger whose territory encroaches upon your own.

so, for both of your sakes, that should not be the first time you meet.

the cultural notion of ‘saying hello to your new neighbors’ is, yes, a nice thing to do, but it’s also practical. if you introduce yourself, make minimal small talk, make mention of anyone else you live with, your pets, your kids, an approximation of your hours, now your neighbor is no longer ‘probably grumbling about this asshole next door who comes and goes at all times of night’. now your neighbor is going, ‘ah, right, Tabitha mentioned some classes going late, must be that!’. now when your neighbor comes over and asks that the party you’re hosting please quiet down after 10 or so, your first thought might be, ‘oh, right, he has two school-aged kids who will need to be in bed’ rather than ‘how dare he be so uptight! mind your business!’

if once a season you make a point to, for some reason, in some manner, extend a tiny kindness and politeness to your neighbor, then when there’s a major power outage, you will feel significantly less uncomfortable with the idea of walking over and knocking on their door and asking if by any chance they might have batteries that fit your flashlight. that one day, your elderly neighbor might feel comfortable with asking you to keep an eye out for their escaped cat. the point of this is not to become best friends with other people you don’t know and who very well might be assholes, but instead to cease being strangers.

this doesn’t even need to be in person. many times, because of my own issues, i haven’t felt confident enough to have a real conversation impromptu for no reason. instead, when i move in, i’ve made a little box of baked goods, written a little note introducing myself and saying what the food was, and in some cases provided a method of contact, and left it at their door at a reasonable hour. sometimes this garners a response - sometimes it doesn’t. but now that there’s a method easily available to contact me if they need something, i feel much more comfortable hosting for friends, coming and going at odd hours, leaving entirely for the weekend. one former neighbor told me that it made her feel more comfortable with the idea of raising her kids there, when she felt it wouldn’t be ‘impolite’ to try to meet the other people who lived nearby. she said that knowing my name made her feel like, if something was badly wrong and her husband wasn’t there, she could reasonably have someone nearby who she could go to for help, because she knew who i was and that i was surely friendly.

maybe you bake, maybe you make paper as a hobbyist, maybe you carve little wooden ducks, maybe you grow flowers. whatever it is that you do, making an effort to give something small and tell your neighbor your name is the kind of thing that will go a long, long way towards making you both feel like real human people, and will stop a lot of arguments a long time before they start. it’s nice, sure, but also, if you’ve given your neighbor a number to text, they don’t have to use your landlord as a liaison with your lost package or to let you know that they’re planning on using a power saw all day Saturday and to let them know if there would be a better specific time.

wait was everyone not taught growing up that you should occasionally give some kind of homemade gift to your neighbors. is that really not something everyone knows they should try to do

[stick-by-me]

HEY EVERYONE LOOK AT MY RAD NEW SMIDGE ART‼️‼️‼️(Made by the lovely @shmunter as a commission :D)

This is gonna be the status art (the art in my pinned post) for "hnngh". We're kinda still in hnngh mode rn but we're slowly moving out of it xD

(The crow is named Francis btw! I'll probably post like. Sticker Mascot Lore™ at some point, but if anyone is actually interested lmk and I'll post it faster xD)

[stargirlfeyre]

Tamlin fans saying that they hope the show gets cancelled after season 1 so Rhys fans have to worry about everyone hating him…

Babes this is the same generation that grew up obsessed with Damon Salvatore and Klaus Mikaelson. Please get real with yourself.

[oliveroctavius]

keep it up you'll get the hang of it