#we're not allowed ambiguity

[inseparabiles]

For the next like, two days, Boys and Wolves will be tagged with Geta & Cara instead of Geta/Cara.

I do not anticipate this state to last any longer than that, but presently the & team of demons in our head has scored a win.

I fucking hate tagging this fic I swear to god. No matter what we do with it it's going to give the wrong impression to someone. The A/N section to explain the relationship tag is several miles long and even that I don't think helps.

Like yes it's platonic. No they're not being platonic about it. Questions? Me too.

[mycenaae]

also my big lucanis plot critique/complaint is that they worked so so hard to sanitize the crows and caterina specifically that they wound up erasing a lot of his really interesting tie-in media backstory and the trauma he endured (which would likely be what made him compatible with spite in the first place!!!!!!!) and so now he's just like. a walking coffee ad in a kiss the chef apron, outside of his spite-and-illario-specific plotlines. but with the tie-in media in mind, caterina declaring him first talon feels like such an ominous ending to his questline & just another person controlling him from behind the scenes, instead of as a victorious end to his struggles lol

[spear-carrier-number-three]

the rampant kant hate in this fandom isn't surprising but it is exasperating.

[smonk-wonk]

how are you a holocaust survivor if you're POC?

I'm not a Holocaust survivor I'm 25?

I'm gonna guess you mean descended from Holocaust survivors & victims. In which case it's really sad that you think this way firstly? POC and non Jewish people did in fact die during the holocaust and many were targeted for not fitting the Nazis' idea of the "superior Aryan race".

From The Holocaust Encyclopedia: "When Adolf Hitler and the Nazis came to power in 1933, there were several thousand Black people living in Germany. The Nazi regime discriminated against them because the Nazis viewed Black people as racially inferior. During the Nazi era (1933–1945), the Nazis used racial laws and policies to restrict the economic and social opportunities of Black people in Germany. They also harassed, imprisoned, sterilized, and murdered an unknown number of Black people."

Also contrary to what some believe, and this may sound farfetched and I hope you're sitting down but bear with me- some people are actually more than one race. Some people are POC and white. We call this being biracial. Or in grade school, being an "Oreo". A mutt if they really want to dehumanize you

But while my relatives weren't targeted for their skin color as they were white, many people were. Black Germans and other POC did exist, were murdered and traumatized, and have passed down that generational trauma. Just as other persecuted populations even if it was much less it was no less a part of the genocide and ethnic cleansing.

[racefortheironthrone]

Hi- er, this is my first-ever writer's strike, how does one not cross a picket line in this context? I know how not to do it with things like Amazon and IRL strikes, but how does it apply to media/streaming?

Hi, this is a great question, because it allows me to write about the difference between honoring a picket line and a boycott. (This is reminding me of the labor history podcast project that's lain fallow in my drafts folder for some time now...) In its simplest formulation, the difference between a picket line and a boycott is that a picket line targets an employer at the point of production (which involves us as workers), whereas a boycott targets an employer at the point of consumption (which involves us as consumers).

So in the case of the WGA strike, this means that at any company that is being struck by the WGA - I've seen Netflix, Amazon, Apple, Disney, Warner Brothers Discovery, NBC, Paramount, and Sony mentioned, but there may be more (check the WGA website and social media for a comprehensive list) - you do not cross a picket line, whether physical or virtual. This means you do not take a meeting with them, even if its a pre-existing project, you do not take phone calls or texts or emails or Slacks from their executives, you do not pitch them on a spec script you've written, and most of all you do not answer any job application.

Because if this strike is like any strike since the dawn of time, you will see the employers put out ads for short-term contracts that will be very lucrative, generally above union scale - because what they're paying for in addition to your labor is you breaking the picket line and damaging the strike - to anyone willing to scab against their fellow workers. GIven that one of the main issues of the WGA are the proliferation of short-term "mini rooms" whereby employers are hiring teams of writers to work overtime for a very short period, to the point where they can only really do the basics (a series outline, some "broken stories," and some scripts) and then have the showrunner redo everything on their lonesome, while not paying writers long-term pay and benefits, I would imagine we're going to see a lot of scab contracts being offered for these mini rooms.

But for most of us, unless we're actively working as writers in Hollywood, most of that isn't going to be particularly relevant to our day-to-day working lives. If you're not a professional or aspiring Hollywood writer, the important thing to remember honoring the picket line doesn't mean the same thing as a boycott. WGA West hasn't called on anyone to stop going to the movies or watching tv/streaming or to cancel their streaming subscriptions or anything like that. If and when that happens, WGA will go to some lengths to publicize that ask - and you should absolutely honor it if you can - so there will be little in the way of ambiguity as to what's going on.

That being said, one of the things that has happened in the past in other strikes is that well-intentioned people get it into their heads to essentially declare wildcat (i.e, unofficial and unsanctioned) boycotts. This kind of stuff comes from a good place, someone wanting to do more to support the cause and wanting to avoid morally contaminating themselves by associating with a struck company, but it can have negative effects on the workers and their unions. Wildcat boycotts can harm workers by reducing back-end pay and benefits they get from shows if that stuff is tied to the show's performance, and wildcat boycotts can hurt unions by damaging negotiations with employers that may or may not be going on.

The important thing to remember with all of this is that the strike is about them, not us. Part of being a good ally is remembering to let the workers' voices be heard first and prioritizing being a good listener and following their lead, rather than prioritizing our feelings.

[fairuzfan]

the reason i shared my great-grandmother's story on here a few months ago is not for sympathy or anything, its to illustrate to you just how deeply, deeply anti-Palestinian the idea of zionism is.

i remember my grandmother, the one who watched her mother die in her home, she called us with a plain tone of voice, and she said "she asked to be buried in [her village] but of course the the zionists wouldn't let that happen." the thing that will not leave my head was the way my grandmother said it, the way it just seemed so natural and so obvious to her. my grandmother is *not* a quiet woman, she yells everything she ever says, whether happy or sad but this she said softly. like she was resigned to this, she expected this.

this woman was exiled once from her village, then again from Palestine, then again and again and again and eventually forced to live in poverty in a refugee camp, she knows the 'israeli' state more intimately than anyone i know, she knows what it will and won't allow in its genocidal apparatus and to her it was obvious that they would not respect her mother's body or last wishes. she knew that.

and i always go back to it when i see discussions on here or on twitter or in academia, like you guys (the moderates, the apologists) have never ever spoken to a nakba survivor or a naksa survivor. you don't know just how deeply its affected our families.

so when we ask you to completely reject zionism, when we demand it from allies, we aren't saying this to be stubborn or nonsensical, we're saying it because we know where zionism will lead us. we've been through the "we just want peace" and the "we need to just talk it out" phases already, how can you not think we've been through those phases after 75 years. we've had our meet and greets and our appeals and now we're at literally the worst stage of genocide against our people and you're still insisting on "talking it out" or some variation of it.

the truth of the matter is that we don't have patience for zionism anymore because look where it got us. look where we're at. even soft zionists, you need to stamp those people out from pretending they've got good points, or that you need to build community with them or whatever. we are literally at the worst part of Palestinian history ever, we need to stop pretending there are grey zones to this. Zionist apologists and the like are creating ambiguity that literally gets our families killed under the guise of "complication". I'm sick and tired of watching these same discussions over and over again about how "Israel is a result of antisemitism" when it very much is not. I'm sick of seeing people who know NOTHING about colonization push their own agendas and provide cover for zionists to do whatever they want. Just stop talking about things you don't understand because I promise you, you're directly contributing to the violence you claim to abhor.

[sistertotheknowitall]

Some Guy Bingo

Masterpost.

Nearly three months into (what Jason called) The Haunting, the siblings kinda started a game. (“Either we're haunting him or he's haunting us, I haven't decided yet." "Considering he's the one appearing randomly, I'd say he's haunting us.")

Technically Tim had started it with, “five bucks says Danny went to class today.” (Gotham university was having an out break of fear toxin curtesy of Dr. Crane.) However, it was Jason who kicked it off with, “ten if he says something about actual scarecrows.”

Dick had snorted and said, “fifteen if it’s a personal experience about a farm.”

“I call bingo if he makes a vague statement on agriculture.” So it was actually Steph who started it.

“Bingo? We were placing bets.”

“Unlike you Hood, some people don’t get adopted by money.”

“As if Bruce doesn’t give you an allowance.”

(“As if he didn’t offer to adopt you,” Tim tacked on.)

It became a running joke where they started calling out "bingo if -" whenever they had to go out on a call. The joke had later formed into a running game when Danny had told Cass, “fighting gods is a pass-time, it is humanity that the real fight is against.” (He had trip over a curb and laid on the ground for several minutes before she asked if he was okay.) She said it wasn’t the most concerning thing he said to her and Steph chimed in claiming, “on a scale of one to ten that statement rates at a three.”

Jason had asked why Cass and Steph always got the weird ambiguous statements and he got cryptic shit about his “soul”.

(Damian had pointed out that at least he wasn’t being constantly referred to as a baby.)

I Call Bingo, which they still played whenever a situation required more than one of them, became “on a scale”

Dick was sure that “having given up on optimism, I find your enthusiasm to be overly bright” should be ranked higher then “I don’t like two-stepping but I’m from the mid-west, so do you know how to line dance?” (Danny and Duke had gotten into an awkward side step where they kept blocking each other.) Damian said the wording seemed passive-aggressive but the tone was too positive to be rude so he gave it a three. Jason said it sounded like a bad pick up line and gave it a two.

They often debated and defended the score they gave with Barbara chiming in over coms. She had never met Danny as Oracle but he was a regular at the public library. He was always polite and respectful and had quickly become one of her favorite patrons. Like Steph and Cass she also got odd statements but hers felt more like half-hearted jokes.

Bruce didn't always join in on their game but it wasn't surprising to see the occasional score placed in their reports. (They had a file dedicated to Danny's remarks. Originally it was to keep track of what they knew about him but at this point it was just to let the others know what he said this time.) Alfred was roped into it even if he didn't really participate unless asked. ("Hey Alfie, what would you give 'i'm glad i don't have to fight my food to eat it but if Batburger keeps giving me the wrong thing I'm summoning Lunch Lady.' Cause Tim says two but I think it's a five.") (He gave it a four.)

Post 4

[favroitecrime]

anyway thinking back to riley though. she was done incredibly dirty by the writers in a lot of ways. like i know we discussed at length the 'maya became riley' storyline (which.... another day) but we don't discuss how they belittled riley so, so much and never offered her a chance to grow in the eyes of those around her. her parents weren't even good parents to her lmao and a lot of their dismissive nature is brushed off for gags and giggles which is crazy. peak riley moments that come to mind were her in girl meets stem. in stem she's the brilliant riley who's top of the class right next to farkle and we can see why. she's brave, loud, proud, and refuses to be belittled and i needed more of that. anyway fuck you michael jacobs

[blubushie]

Why are intersex people called 'collateral damage'? What does that even mean

Giving an example–

"Hermaphrodite" is an intersex slur. It has always been an intersex slur. Trans people cannot reclaim this slur because while it's been used against them, it's always been used against them to compare them to US.

People—even, ESPECIALLY the queer community—often ignore blatant intersexism in favour of calling it transphobia, even when it's blatantly targetting us specifically—for example, the idea that children AREN'T being put on hormones or given top or bottom surgery. The queer community likes to promote this as a thing that's not happening when in fact it is—it just happens to intersex kids. We are FORCED onto hormones, FORCED into genital mutilation, by an intersexist medical system. But in the defence of trans people, we are "collateral damage". Our medical abuse is ignored in favour of trans people promoting a lie that these things don't happen.

I was born visibly intersex. I had surgery at birth and then again at 12 days old. I DID NOT LEARN OF THIS UNTIL LAST YEAR. I AM TWENTY-THREE YEARS OLD. When my body began feminising at 12, it took TWO YEARS before my therapist would refer me to hospital for gender dysphoria. It took another six months to be put on testosterone and to have my ovary removed. I ended up needing top surgery at 16 to remove the breast tissue I grew. Most intersex people have the opposite experience—instead of being allowed to exist in their natural intersex body, they're forced into the hormones that "match" their assigned sex at birth. They are forced into surgeries WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT to make them look "normal".

Don't even get me started on the connotations of "assigned" sex. Perisex people have an OBSERVED sex at birth. Intersex people, if they have ambiguous genitalia like I did, are ASSIGNED a sex based on what the doctor thinks they can make them pass more easily for. Most are ASSIGNED female through mutilatory surgery as newborns, because it's easier to make a vulva and vagina than it is to make a penis. Do not get me started on how the brains of children process routine neovagina dilation (which must be done daily from the time the child is mutilated, usually at birth) as SEXUAL ASSAULT. That's right, for many intersex people, the medical system assigns you as female and then sexually abuses you until you stop growing.

In many countries, intersex people who identify as a sex different from their assigned sex at birth cannot seek out transgender care. If you are assigned female they will never allow you to go on testosterone, never be approved for top surgery, etc. If you are assigned male you will never be allowed to go on oestrogen or get bottom surgery, etc. The medical system ASSIGNED you your sex, and the medical system can never be wrong, can they. This in places where trans people can receive care. We are told it's transphobia, that intersex people are just collateral damage, when in reality these policies EXPLICITLY ARE MEANT TO AFFECT INTERSEX PEOPLE. When perisex people can receive trans healthcare but intersex people cannot, that is not transphobia, THAT IS INTERSEXISM.

Or for example someone calling a trans person a hermaphrodite, and a trans person trying to reclaim the term despite it being an INTERSEX slur. This intersexism is ignored, labelled transphobia instead, and intersex people are just told we aren't actually being attacked and that we're just collateral damage. It was an intersex slur first. They are comparing them to US.

Our experiences are ignored or outright erased. The queer community does not care for us. Even when we speak of blatant intersexism we experience, we are told that we are not the target and that we are just collateral damage.

[struggling-with-drivers]

Under the Opulence - Max Verstappen

⋗ Pairing - Max Verstappen x Reader

⋗ Summary - Your family isn't kind to you, and in fact, they all think Max would be a much better fit for your sister. Max likes to differ.

⋗ Word count - 3.4k words, hurt/comfort

⋗ Masterlist - This has been finished for some time, but I've only gotten around to given it a name Feedback and reblogs are appreciated

The grandeur of your family's foyer, adorned with polished marble and intricate chandeliers, set the stage for Max’s introduction to the world you came from. As you and Max entered, the echoes of your footsteps reverberated through the opulent space, the air charged with excitement and anxiety, but most noticeably on your side, dread. 

Gabriella, your sister, emerged from an adjoining room, her presence demanding attention. With her radiant smile and effortless poise, she seemed to glide into the scene like a queen entering her court. She was the star of the family, the golden child who effortlessly commanded attention and adoration. With her striking looks and sharp intellect, she had always been the one to effortlessly charm anyone who crossed her path. Even your past romantic interests had succumbed to her allure, leaving you with the bitter taste of never good enough.

"It's okay, we're sisters," Gabriella would nonchalantly reassure you. "They weren't good enough for you if they wanted me more."

Her eyes, adorned with an air of confidence, locked onto Max, acknowledging his presence with a subtle yet unmistakable hint of curiosity. Bluntly scrutinising Max, she drank him up with her eyes, then she battered her long eyelashes a few times before slotting into the role of the perfect twin sister.

Max, a bit taken aback by the unexpected encounter, met Gabriella's gaze with a polite smile. That was all your sister needed before stepping forward, presenting her hand gracefully, a subtle gesture that belied the underlying power dynamics at play. Max, being the gentleman he was, reciprocated the greeting with a warm shake. However, as the customary exchange lingered for a moment longer than expected, you felt an unspoken tension building. 

“Gabriella, but you – my dear – can call me Gabbie.” Her voice sang in the foyer, bouncing so wonderfully off the walls. You wanted nothing more than to leave. Their hands were still intertwined. 

Instinctively, you began to withdraw your hand from his left, realising that you were caught in an awkward silence. Gabriella's grip on Max's hand tightened imperceptibly, and you hesitated for a split second, torn between asserting yourself and avoiding a confrontation. Finally, you reluctantly released Max's hand, a subtle concession that felt like surrender.

However, your parents made their grand entrance, drawn by the commotion in the foyer.

Gabriella finally let go of Max. She stepped back, allowing a brief respite from the charged exchange. 

Your mother, an elegant woman with an air of sophistication, approached with a warm smile. "Oh, there you all are! We were starting to wonder when you'd make it to the heart of the festivities."

As she spoke, her eyes lingered on Gabriella and Max, a subtle but knowing gleam in her eyes. It was as if she sensed the unspoken currents beneath the surface. Your father, a more reserved figure, stood beside her, observing the scene with a discerning gaze.

"Mom, Dad, this is Max," you introduced, trying to steer the conversation away from the palpable tension that lingered.

With an air of practised nonchalance, Gabriella returned her attention to Max, a playful smile gracing her lips. "Well, Max, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you," she purred, her words leaving an ambiguous trail of intentions.

She tried to grasp his hand once again, but instead, he started helping you out of your coat to keep his hands busy.

Max, still wanting to leave a good impression, responded with a friendly smile. "Likewise, Gabriella. Your sister here has spoken highly of you too," he said, casting a glance in your direction, before he extended a polite hand toward your parents, exchanging pleasantries as he tried to steer the conversation towards the two newcomers in the foyer. 

Gabriella subtly positioned herself beside him, a silent claim reaffirmed. The atmosphere remained charged, your parents seemingly ignorant of the intricate dynamics playing out before them. The dreadful feeling returned to you as your mom made eye contact with you once more. You averted your eyes.

Gabriella, seizing the opportunity, looped her arm through Max's, as if marking her territory. "Max, let me give you a tour of this magnificent place. There are so many things you haven't seen yet," she exclaimed, her tone holding a mixture of innocence and mischief.

Your heart sank as you watched them disappear into the lavish corridors of your family home.

“Let them go, honey. I’m sure he will be quite interested in our family’s history.” Your mother commented, foregoing the formality of any other type of recognition or greeting to you as she and your dad disappeared after Gabriella and Max.

Leaving you on your own in the opulent foyer, you wished to leave once more.

Determined to regain some semblance of composure, you wandered into the adjacent parlour, a room adorned with plush furniture and rich tapestries. The soft glow of antique lamps cast a warm ambience, but even the comforting setting couldn't dispel the growing unease. You settled into a chair, the plush upholstery offering little solace for the whirlwind of emotions swirling within. The room seemed to close in on you as you anxiously waited for Max and Gabriella to return. The dreadful feeling intensified with every passing moment, and your mind raced with unsettling thoughts.

Finally, the door swung open, and they entered the parlour. Gabriella's laughter echoed through the room. Max wore a polite smile, seemingly having enjoyed the tour, but you couldn't shake the feeling that Gabriella was orchestrating an elaborate performance.

"This place is quite… something," Max said, casting a glance in your direction as if seeking reassurance or acknowledgement. You tried to smile at him. Gabriella, however, continued to dominate the spotlight.

"We have quite the family history," she replied with a sly smile, her eyes flickering between Max and you. "It's a shame you won't be able to hear all the juicy details."

You forced another smile in response, but the unease gnawed at you. As they settled into the room, Gabriella strategically took the seat next to Max, her gestures and expressions aimed at enchanting him right before your eyes.

The conversation flowed effortlessly between them, a dance of words that excluded you from its rhythm. You felt like a mere observer in your own home, watching as Gabriella captivated Max with tales of the family's past, her laughter ringing like an enchanting melody.

Your attempts to engage in the conversation were met with fleeting glances as if your presence were an afterthought. Gabriella was ever so quick to recapture Max’s attention, despite your valiant efforts to seek a way into the discussion.

Desperate for a reprieve, you finally excused yourself under the pretence of attending to something in the kitchen. As you escaped the room, the weight of the evening bore down on you, and you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that this family gathering had become a stage for a performance in which you had no choice but to play a reluctant supporting role.

In the kitchen, you busied yourself with trivial tasks, the rhythmic clinking of dishes providing a brief respite from the orchestrated drama in the parlour. The tension that had followed you from the foyer to the parlour lingered like an unwelcome guest, and you desperately sought a moment of solitude to collect your thoughts.

As you absentmindedly stacked plates from the dishwasher, your mother entered the kitchen, her gaze lingering on you with a knowing expression. It was as if she could sense the turbulence beneath the composed facade you were desperately trying to maintain.

"Oh, dear, are you alright?" she inquired, her tone carrying a hint of concern.

You forced a smile, attempting to deflect the obvious discomfort. "I'm fine, just needed a moment away from the chatter in there."

Your mother's eyes softened, but there was a glint of curiosity. "Well, I must say, Gabriella and Max make quite the pair. They look so good together, don't you think?"

The question hung in the air, a subtle prod at the heart of the matter. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you processed the implications of your mother's words. It was a commentary that cut through the facade you were desperately trying to maintain.

"Oh, Mom, they're just chatting. It doesn't mean anything," you responded, attempting to downplay the situation.

Your mother, however, seemed undeterred. "I don't know, dear. They do seem to have a certain chemistry, don't you think? They'd make a handsome couple."

The weight of her words settled on you like an anvil, and you struggled to find a suitable response. The kitchen, for a brief moment, had been a sanctuary, but now felt like a confessional where you were forced to confront the complexities of your feelings.

"I...I don't know, Mom. It's just an introduction," you stammered, your attempts to maintain composure faltering.

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment, and then she sighed, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You know, sometimes we find unexpected connections in the most peculiar places. And if they happen to find something special tonight, well, we should be happy for them, shouldn't we?"

You felt a surge of frustration and helplessness.

“It’s such a shame his looks just aren’t quite there, but he certainly has other features to make up for it. Wouldn’t you say so as well? Yes, a shame, but Gabriella has always been so kind-hearted. I’m sure she doesn’t mind either.” Your mother continued, before finally smiling at you. 

Her message was loud and clear, as she had expressed her approval of Max as a suitable match for Gabriella. 

Your mother wanted you to break up with Max and hand him over.

It was as though Max was a commodity to be exchanged, a possession for your sister to play with until she grew tired and moved on. It made you feel sick to the stomach. 

“Dinner is all ready, your father just put down the roast on the table.”

You followed your mother into the dining room, the scent of the roast filling the air. The grand table, adorned with fine china and polished silverware, became the stage for the next act in this familial drama.

As you took your seat, Max seated next to you, your parents strategically positioned Gabriella opposite Max. The tension in the room was palpable, and you couldn't shake the feeling that every word and gesture would be scrutinised.

"So, Max," your mother began, her eyes flickering between Max and Gabriella, "how did you find our home? Quite exquisite, isn't it?"

Max, thankfully pr-trained, nodded appreciatively. "It's a stunning place with so much history."

Gabriella's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and you braced yourself for what would come next. Your mother, however, wasn't finished.

"And speaking of history," she continued, casting a pointed look at Gabriella, "our family has quite a rich one. Gabriella, why don't you share some of the highlights? Max might find it fascinating."

“It’s alright, I think I heard enough earlier,” Max told your mom, “I would much rather hear childhood stories about her.” He turned his head, making himself able to look into your eyes, and you felt the dread spread. Despite the way he looked at you, it did nothing to calm you down, knowing your parents would not deliver what Max was expecting to be told about.

Max's genuine interest in hearing about your childhood seemed to momentarily disrupt the carefully choreographed performance. Your mother, however, skilfully manoeuvred to maintain the narrative she had meticulously constructed.

"Oh, Max, you're sweet," your mother said, offering a polite smile, "but Gabriella's achievements are the true highlights. She's always been the shining star of our family."

Your sister, seizing the opportunity, began to regale Max with tales of her academic triumphs, artistic pursuits, and social accomplishments. As she spoke, you felt the distance between you and Max widen, a chasm fuelled by your parents' insistence on casting Gabriella as the focal point of the conversation.

Max, sensing the discomfort, tried to redirect the conversation toward a more inclusive narrative. "I'm sure there are some other stories you could tell, perhaps some that aren’t about Gabriell-?"

“Please Max, do call me Gabby.” Gabriella interrupted Max.

Your mother exchanged a knowing glance with your father before responding, "Oh, there are plenty of stories, but I think Gabriella's achievements are what make our family truly special. Don't you agree, Max?"

Max hesitated for a moment, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. However, not wanting to create a scene, he nodded uncomfortably, "Yes, I guess Gabriella is quite accomplished."

Gabriella shot you a coy smile, her triumph was evident in the subtle control she exerted over the narrative. As the conversation continued to revolve around her, Max's attempts to steer it in a different direction seemed to hit an invisible wall.

Your parents, seemingly oblivious to Max's growing discomfort, continued to extol Gabriella's virtues. The room buzzed with the clinking of silverware and the murmur of praise, all while you sat there, a silent observer of your own family dinner.

As dessert was served, Max couldn't hide the subtle tenseness in his shoulders. He glanced at you, a mix of empathy and frustration in his eyes. Despite the challenging circumstances, you appreciated his efforts to bridge the gap.

When Max tried to ask about your childhood again, your mother skilfully redirected the conversation. "Oh, Max, we can talk about that another time. Let's focus on the present moment and enjoy the evening."

Your sister, seizing every opportunity to keep the spotlight, interjected, "You know, Max, I've always been curious about your interests and aspirations. Tell us more about yourself."

The shift in attention to Max was noticeable, but it wasn't the genuine interest he had hoped for. Instead, it felt like another tactic to steer the conversation away from you. Max, his patience waning, briefly shared short anecdotes about his work, nothing he hadn’t already told to the media. However, his eyes kept returning to you, his fingers intertwined with you. As though you were oblivious to the way your sister's feet – under the table – were trying to urge Max to look at her. 

The night wore on, and Max's frustration continued to build, a silent storm brewing within him. The genuine smile he had worn upon arrival had now transformed into a tight-lipped expression, betraying his growing discontent.

Your dad had taken it upon himself to serve a glass of whiskey to him and Max, while your mother brought forth an array of finger foods and other light and savoury snacks. Your family settled around the nice fireplace in the big sitting room, it’s even more extravagant and opulent than the smaller parlour room you had tried to take refuge in earlier in the day. 

When your sister, seemingly oblivious to the tension, leaned closer to Max, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "You know, Max, we're so thrilled to have you here. It's not often we get such distinguished company." 

Max, no longer willing to play along, shifted uncomfortably on the beige couch. "Thank you for having me. It's been... quite an experience," he replied, his tone carrying a subtle edge.

Your father, still under the illusion that the evening had gone splendidly, raised his glass. "A toast! To family and new beginnings."

Max's frustration reached its peak as his eyes locked on your dad’s raised glass. Max abruptly stood up, the sound of him slamming his glass down echoing in the sudden silence. The tension in the room was palpable as he looked directly at your parents.

"I appreciate your hospitality, but I can't ignore the blatant disregard for your own daughter," he said, his voice measured but firm. "I came here hoping to learn more about her, but it seems the spotlight is reserved for someone else."

Gabriella's eyes widened in feigned innocence, a practised mask that Max wasn't buying. Your parents exchanged uneasy glances, finally sensing the budding cracks in their carefully constructed facade.

"I won't be a part of a charade that dismisses her existence," Max continued, his frustration now laid bare. "If you can't appreciate the amazing person she is, then I want no part in this. Goodnight."

Without waiting for a response, Max pulled you from the couch. As you both retreated from the sitting room, leaving behind the echoes of tension and shattered illusions, you felt a strange mixture of relief and sorrow.

Max led you through the ornate hallways of your family home, the grandeur of the surroundings now feeling suffocating. The air outside was cool and crisp as you stepped onto the front porch, the distant sounds of the night providing a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere within.

He turned to you, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect it to be like this."

You managed a small smile, appreciating his genuine intentions. "It's not your fault. Thank you for trying."

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Your family... it's not what I expected."

You nodded, feeling a lump forming in your throat. "It's never been easy."

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but you deserve better than this," Max said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I'm here for you, no matter what."

As Max navigated the darkened streets, a palpable tension and heavy silence filled the car ride home between you and him. The glow of streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his determined expression, the lines of worry etched into his brow.

You sat beside him, lost in your thoughts, the events of the evening replaying in your mind like a broken record. The weight of the strained interactions with your family weighed heavily on your shoulders, a burden you couldn't shake.

Max glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow. "Are you okay?" he asked softly, breaking the silence that had enveloped the car.

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. "I don't know, Max. Tonight was… a lot. I’m sorry for Gabriella."

“They shouldn’t have said any of that.” Max ignored your comment, “that’s not- even I know that’s now how you treat family.”

“I’m sorry for Gabriella.” You tried to tell him once again, instead finding his hand reaching out to tangle it into yours. 

As Max's hand intertwined with yours, a comforting warmth spread through your fingertips, grounding you in the present moment. His touch was a lifeline, offering solace amidst the turmoil that had consumed your family gathering. You squeezed his hand gently, appreciating the silent support he offered.

Max pulled the car over, letting him turn to you and gaze into your eyes.

"I know you're sorry, love," Max whispered, his voice laced with understanding. "But you can't take responsibility for someone else's idiotic words. Gabriella's actions were uncalled for, and it's not your parents should have stopped it, not… Encouraged it."

His words resonated deep within you, reminding you that you were not solely accountable for the strained relationship with your parents. The weight on your shoulders began to lighten as if Max's presence alone could alleviate the burden.

You turned to him, finally meeting his concerned gaze. "Thank you, Max. Your support means the world to me."

He smiled softly, his eyes filled with tenderness. "I'll always be here for you, no matter what. We'll get through this together, alright?"

A surge of gratitude washed over you, grateful for the unwavering love and understanding Max consistently provided. You squeezed his hand once more, as he pulled out of the ditch. 

The car continued to glide through the darkened streets, but the heavy silence had transformed into a comforting embrace of shared vulnerability.

As the glow of streetlights continued to cast fleeting shadows, you realised that it was in the darkest moments that the strength of your relationship with Max shone the brightest. And with his hand clasped firmly in yours, you knew that together, you could weather any storm or awful family dinner.

⋗ a/n - thank you for reading this, sorry that it took so long to post this one

[celestialholz]

Live long and fuck in Hondas (or 'why that Vulcan salute is way more significant than you think it is')

Hey. Hey Holz. Did you know Deadpool and Wolverine fucked in the Odyessy? Did you know that they now live in a one-bed with Blind Al? Did you know that -

Yes, friend. I know all of it. And you're all super fucking valid for pointing it out.

... But maybe all of you aren't seasoned Trekkies like me. Maybe not all of you gorgeous people understand the true significance of this.

Or maybe you just want a definitive way to win the argument of "are these two fucking?"

But either way, I'm here to help, and to tell you why, amongst all the absurdly homoerotic text of this film, this moment? Might be the gayest of them all.

Now, we must start by saying that although you wouldn't know it from the bullshit Abrams films, these two:

Are the fathers of gay fanfiction. Spock and Kirk here are the reason you're living in the fantastic timeline where you can write/read men fucking without any other shred of plot and that this is a legitimate and normalised internet experience - everyone say thank you, iconic papas. These guys were so homoerotically coded that even in the 60s, the era of wondrously overdramatic performances of all kinds and fairly prevalent homophobia, The Girlies still took notice, still started mailing each other fics and making zines and being just hugely excited at the thought of these two getting space-married. They are fandom as we know it today's beginning, and seventy years later they're still an enduringly popular ship on AO3. (You should all go and watch Amok Time, by the way. Contains the Honda Odyessy scene of the 60s, except there's weird biology and wrestling and just go and put it on your screens, thank me later. They fucked on that planet.)

Anyway, these two were as close as early colour TV could ever allow two men to be, deepening their *coughs* friendship almost every single episode or film - Trek's creator Gene Roddenberry even gave them a unique word in Spock's Vulcan language, with the meaning of 'friend, brother, lover.' (And if that isn't ringing any Poolverine bells, I'm not actually sure what you want out of this post. Enjoy it anyway, love you.)

... And then we get to 1982's The Wrath of Khan, and to that moment that every iconic screen couple must face - the ol' classic, it's you or me and I won't let it be you.

Sure, the set-up's a little different here - the chamber Spock's in is filled with radiation, and the scene's quieter, softer. And Kirk isn't a mutant so he can't smash his way in, he can just sit there and inwardly die as his emotional support Vulcan does.

... But you get where I'm coming from here. Ryan Reynolds doesn't take a million other potential love scenes from across the cinematic ages - no, he takes this. What is for many the romantic acknowledgement of a whole generation. The humble and desperately sweet beginning of it everything we fans know and love nowadays. The most ambiguously romantic homosexual relationship in television, directly comparative to what is now arguably the most ambiguously romantic homosexual relationship in cinema. And lest we forget, Wade doesn't believe in a fourth wall - this is a conscious choice, both in canon and in the writer's room.

Oh it's so clever and so beautiful a girl could weep. Ryan just introduced the MCU to the gays, just as Kirk and Spock did all those years ago to the masses of the time.

And then there's what it means.

This is the Vulcan salute, created to mean either 'live long and prosper' or 'peace and long life' - it's used more or less interchangeably.

But part of that's irrelevant when you're as immortal as these two.

So we're left with the sentiments of prosperity and peace, given to a man who up to this point can't imagine ever prospering again, is the furthest thing away from being at peace. Wade gives Logan the opportunity to go on, to find the things he's been lacking for so long now - things he has already helped him find. Spock tells Kirk during The Wrath that 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,' and that's exactly what Wade's doing here - sacrificing himself for the greater good of his friends and his newly beloved, however much it will hurt them all.

And that's lovely, and poignant, and character-growing, and I think we all would have been content to leave it at that and have our noble sacrifice, however much we would have wept. Kirk goes on to find the remnants of Spock's soul in the next film in the series, to bring him essentially back from the dead because he felt it was more than his own soul's worth not to have done... which, again, ringing a bell anyone?

Because Logan, in not so many words, tells dear Wade to fuck right off, and we get this.

What we've got here is a direct translation of one of cinema's gayest moments, made somehow infinitely more gay. A true achievement here - I genuinely think I spontaneously acquired tetanus in the cinema for a good minute, my jaw dropped so hard on seeing this. The pillars are the same colour as Kirk and Spock's original uniforms, for fuck's sake. I'm dying out here.

What we've done here is create narrative equality. The whole film's kinda done that leading up to this anyway - they're both mentally fucked up men who can't die, who are constantly dying anyway, who are evenly-matched in battle and both enjoy Honda fucking, who have forged a real love even as they piss each other off at every turn.

But here, they place one another in narrative equality for the first time. It's not about a sacrifice, not now, even though they're assuming it is one - it's about what should be done. It's about righting wrongs, being heroes, being together because every option other than that is unacceptable, because neither understands quite how to lose anyone else. They've both made the same choice, and that's not to let the other die alone.

It's about holding hands and loving and never letting go, even if it kills them.

... It's just about the most romantic and gorgeous thing I've ever fucking seen.

There are no more instances of masks, once they're done in this station. They don't need them any longer; they will never need them again.

And that's only emphasised by the parting shot we get of this... almost directly after Vanessa and Wade share a final sweet look.

I don't know, man. It's almost like the true conclusion is hidden behind the acceptable masquerade. Imagine that in the MCU, folks.

They've taken one of the most intimate and sweet moments in screen history, and made even more glorious.

They did The Wrath of Khan better than The Wrath of Khan did it.

And that's... that's gay. That's just about the gayest thing they could ever have done, and I adore it to the smallest pieces.

So remember, the next time your friends disbelieve you... show 'em this. Show them that they redid the very beginnings of slash fandom, and did it better.

(And then you can add on that they now live in a one-bed with their grandma, daughter and dog, and will do for the rest of their lives. Kirk and Spock didn't even get THAT shit.)

[thesaltofcarthage]

Bowtie Hits Floor

What is this at the new poster, Aziraphale's bow tie on the ground. Neil! NEIL!!!! (:D ❤)

[inkmonster21]

I Don’t Play Anymore

Series Masterlist

Hwang In-Ho / The Frontman x Fem!Reader

Warnings: parental abuse, emotional exchanges, teasing

05. Against the Rules

The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors slide open, revealing your father and the Game Maker entering the space. Their presence adds a layer of tension to the already charged atmosphere as the elevator becomes somewhat crowded.

Your father's voice cuts through the silence, his curiosity is evident as he looks at you. "And where will you be going?" Your father's tone is a mix of concern and slight annoyance as if he's been waiting to ask this question for a while.

Your response to your father's question is straightforward and confident, mentioning Anderson's efforts to get you into the club. "That club I mentioned. Anderson got me in," you reply, your voice conveying a sense of certainty. There's a subtle confidence in your words as if you're accustomed to navigating such situations.

Your father nods, echoing his appreciation for Anderson. "I like Anderson. He's got a two-year winning streak," he remarks to the Game Maker, a hint of admiration in his words. The Game Maker listens with a subtle nod of recognition, acknowledging Anderson's achievements, “My, that is quite an accomplishment.”

“Where are you going?” As you ask your question, your father's eyes meet yours, a mix of surprise and slight hesitation evident. "We're going out for a while," he responds, his tone carrying a sense of vagueness. It's clear he's not willing to provide a specific purpose or destination, leaving you somewhat in the dark.

Your response is a simple nod, a quiet acknowledgment of his brief and somewhat evasive answer. There's an understanding that your father has his reasons for being vague, and you choose not to push further, respecting his unwillingness to disclose more information.

You step onto the ferry, joining the others on board. The space is filled with white vans, piled with bodies of the unconscious players, the silence of the environment heightened by the knowledge of their unconsciousness. The sound of the waves provides a subtle ambiance as the ferry sets off on its journey towards Seoul.

While you were away, In-Ho, the Frontman, took the opportunity to contemplate you more rationally. His mind is filled with thoughts and calculations, trying to make sense of the enigma that is you. He attempts to analyze your behavior, actions, and interactions, searching for any patterns or clues that might shed light on your true motivations. The silence and solitude allow him to concentrate, his mind working to decipher your next move.

He couldn't deny the undeniable attraction he felt towards you. It was a fact he couldn't dismiss or ignore. His mind replayed your encounters, the way you carried yourself, and the impact you had on him. There was an undeniable allure about you that stirred something within him, making it difficult to shake off his growing interest in you.

The Frontman's contemplation continues, now pondering whether you shared his attraction. Your behavior and actions had led him to believe it might be possible, but the uncertainty and ambiguity surrounding you left him uncertain. Your confidence and boldness made it difficult to decipher, leaving him unsure if your behavior was a genuine reflection of your feelings or simply part of your intriguing persona.

In-Ho acknowledged the potential risks involved. If you didn't share his attraction, and he made a move, it could lead to complications and jeopardize the delicate balance that already existed between you two. The Frontman's cautious nature comes into play, causing him to hesitate and weigh the risks of making a move.

As you confidently walk into the club, your eyes quickly spot Anderson seated at the bar. With a warm smile, you saunter over, leaning against the bar and teasing him. "You know that's not your color," you say, referring to whatever he seemed to be wearing. Your playful tone hints at your easygoing nature, the words leaving your lips with a mix of charm and humor.

Anderson turns his head, recognizing you, and a smile immediately spreads across his face. "I'll have you know, I look great in everything," he responds with a laugh, his eyes meeting yours, a hint of amusement dancing within them. His playful banter matches your tone, as he responds to your comment with a good-natured attitude.

You order a drink and take a seat on the nearby chair, sitting beside Anderson. He engages with a young man, their conversation filled with playful banter and lighthearted flirting. Anderson is at ease, exuding a relaxed and confident demeanor as he effortlessly engages with others in the bar.

As you take a sip from your drink, you can't help but comment, a playful smile playing on your lips. "I see you've made a friend," you remark, your words carrying a hint of humor. There's a subtle satisfaction apparent in your tone, as you observe Anderson's interaction with the young man. Your lips, marked by the imprint of your lipstick, gently brush against the rim of the glass, adding an air of grace and elegance to your movements.

Anderson glances at you, a sly grin dancing on his lips as he asks, "Jealous?" Your comment catches his attention, and he playfully turns his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours with a mix of amusement and curiosity as if searching for any subtle signs of jealousy on your face. He awaits your response, his tone carrying a hint of sarcasm and a touch of genuine curiosity.

You respond with a dismissive scoff, your words filled with a confident tone. Your eyes meet Anderson's, conveying a clear message of non-attachment. "Not in the slightest," you reply, your voice carrying a mix of sass and self-assurance. There's an undeniable aura of independence and resilience in your demeanor as if jealousy is a foreign concept to you.

As a man approaches you, attempting to engage in conversation, you politely decline, shaking your head gently. "No thank you," you say, your voice carrying a firm but friendly tone, clearly conveying your disinterest. Your straightforward response shuts down the interaction, and the man quickly retreats, sensing your lack of interest.

Anderson bursts into laughter, amused by your cold response to the guy's advances. "You're the coldest bitch I've ever met," he remarks, his voice filled with a mix of humor and disbelief. His comment, however, takes a sharp turn at the end, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. “He’s not my type.”

Anderson's curiosity is piqued by your response, and he raises an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement evident in his eyes. "He's not your type?" he asks, repeating your words with a hint of disbelief and intrigue. "And just what is your type, then?"

You meet Anderson's gaze, your eyes holding a depth of understanding and vulnerability. "Someone who could understand what I've been through. What we've been through," you admit, your words carrying a mix of pain and vulnerability. The weight of your experiences is evident in your voice, a somber undertone lacing the conversation. Anderson, who knows your past, meets your gaze, a look of compassion and understanding mirrored in his eyes. He listens keenly, feeling the weight of your words and the emotions they carry. Anderson raised his brow. He knew it was just as pointless as you did.

As Anderson reveals the deal with your father, his words hang heavy in the air. "He said if I could get two new players into those games, he'd give me ten grand," he explains, a mix of greed and ambition evident in his tone. The offer, while enticing, carries an element of moral ambiguity, raising ethical questions and sparking a sense of unease.

As you roll your eyes at the mention of the games, your words convey a sense of exhaustion and frustration. "I just got out of that place. Please let me enjoy my time," you plead, your voice tinged with a mix of disappointment and weariness. The memory of the games and their intensity still lingers in your mind, reminding you of the emotional and mental toll they took on you.

Anderson, not ready to let the subject drop, continues to press, his words tinged with curiosity and insistence. "Come on, I'm curious!" he says, his eagerness evident in his tone. He tries to persuade you, attempting to gauge your willingness or reluctance to give in to his request.

Anderson's curiosity remains undiminished, and he presses on, seeking information. "About what happened in the games, of course!" he responds, his tone tinged with intrigue. He leans in, expecting you to share details, eager to know more about your experiences and the challenges you faced.

Anderson's curiosity is piqued by your description, and his eyes widen in surprise at the scale of the operation. "It's huge," you begin, a sense of awe and disbelief evident in your voice. "It takes up the entire island. They have over 200 guards, and over 300 players to start. It's impressive." As you share more details, Anderson listens intently, absorbing the information you provide, clearly impressed by the scope and organization of the games.

You go on to describe the unique aspect of the games, explaining, "Everyone besides players wears a mask." The detail catches Anderson's attention, and his eyes narrow slightly as he listens, clearly intrigued by the peculiarity of the situation. He leans in, eager to hear more, his attention fully focused on your words.

The description of the masked participants, including the haunting presence of the Frontman's mask, leaves Anderson intrigued and slightly unnerved, “That’s not super creepy.”

You continue, adding, "The Frontman has this black matte facemask. You can't see his eyes, but... I can feel when he's looking, you know?"

Anderson, ever the joker, can't resist making a sly remark. "Sounds kinda kinky," he quips, a mischievous smile forming on his lips. His words are meant to lighten the mood and provoke a reaction from you, though there's a hint of genuine curiosity behind his comment.

As Anderson's playful remark lingers in the air, the memory of your interactions with the Frontman resurfaces in your mind. The fleeting moments of eye contact, the unspoken exchange of glances, and the subtle undercurrent of tension between you had not gone unnoticed. Despite your attempts to brush it off as harmless, there was a nagging curiosity that gnawed at you. The Frontman's rescue, the offer of his room, and the enigma that surrounded him had slowly and insidiously planted a sense of... well, it was hard to put a name on it.

You continued to drink and laugh with Anderson, the hours passing as you enjoyed each other's company. However, amid the merriment, a familiar presence entered the room, causing a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Your father had arrived, his presence commanding immediate attention.

Your father strides into the room, a commanding presence that immediately captures Anderson's attention. "Mr. (L/N), it's a pleasure!" Anderson stands up, greeting your father with a practiced smile, a touch of respect evident in his tone. Your father embraces Anderson in a friendly gesture, "You look good, son," he remarks, a mix of familiarity and affection present in his voice. The two men exchange warm greetings, and your father takes a seat, his eyes roaming the room, assessing the situation.

Your father's gaze falls upon you, and he asks, "Had enough?" There's a hint of disgust and a subtle reminder of expectations in his words, making it clear that he's scrutinizing your state and behavior.

Your response to your father's question is playful and defiant. "Cheers," you say, raising your glass and draining the remaining contents in a single swift motion. It's a clear show of independence and defiance, as you make a point to finish the drink rather than setting it aside. Despite your father's disapproval, you refuse to let him dictate your actions or dampen your enjoyment.

Despite your father's hidden anger, he remains composed, only managing a subtle hum in response. "Let's go," he demands, his tone firm and assertive, indicating that he's ready to leave. The tension in the air is palpable, but your father maintains a facade of composure, attempting to hide his displeasure and maintain appearances.

Your father's grip on your arm is firm as he guides you forcefully out of the establishment. His actions, though forceful, are subtle enough to avoid drawing too much attention. He leads you with a sense of urgency, as if eager to remove you from the environment and regain control over the situation.

As you follow your father's forceful grip, a sense of impending punishment hangs in the air. You don't resist; you know that any resistance or defiance will only make things worse. With each step, the weight of your disobedience and the impending consequences weigh heavy on your mind. The tension is palpable as you brace yourself for what may come.

The silence between you and your father on the boat is suffocating, the tension thick enough to cut through the air. Your father refuses to look in your direction, his anger, and disappointment evident in his silence. The waves crash against the sides of the boat, the sound becoming almost unbearable in the oppressive atmosphere. It's clear that your actions have triggered his fury, and the impending punishment weighs heavily on your mind, leaving you with a sense of unease and dread.

As you enter the elevator in the headquarters of the island, the weight of your father's silent anger hangs in the air. You step inside, standing beside your father. As the elevator doors close, shutting you in with your father, he grabs you by the neck in a swift and unexpected move. The sudden and forceful grip tightens around your throat, a clear indication of his frustration and anger. The silence of the elevator amplifies the intensity of the moment, making the tension between you palpable as you stand there, caught off guard by his physical display.

Your back slams against the wall with a forceful impact, the pain shooting through your body. "You little bitch!" your father growls, his words filled with anger and frustration. The violence of his action echoes in the small confines of the elevator, the force of the throw leaving you momentarily dazed and hurting.

The first slap catches you off guard, the force leaving a red mark on your cheek. "Disrespectful," he repeats, his tone dripping with frustration and outrage. The anger and disappointment in his voice are palpable as he continues, delivering the second slap with a sharp and impactful motion. The sound of the slap reverberates in the cramped space, the pain and humiliation evident in the tense atmosphere.

Your father's words cut deep, the mention of your mother adding an extra layer of pain to the situation. "You make me so ANGRY! You don't drink! It's sloppy! So much like your mother!" he yells, his voice filled with a mix of anger and disappointment.

Despite the pain and the tension, an unexpected laugh threatens to escape your lips. "And what did you do to her? Huh?" you retort, a mix of defiance and sorrow lacing your words as you challenge him, bringing up the complex history between him and your mother. The question hangs in the air, waiting for an answer, even though you know you likely won't receive a satisfactory one.

The air in the elevator grows heavy as your father draws his gun, his anger reaching its boiling point. The cold steel of the weapon is mere inches from your head, the threat clear and imminent. The tension reaches a pinnacle in the confined space, the silence and stillness only adding to the gravity of the moment.

The tension in the elevator ratchets up, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air. "Do it," you say, challenging your father, daring him to follow through on his threat. The room feels as if it has stopped, with the gun still aimed at you, the silence and tension filling every bit of space available.

With a flicker of uncertainty, your father's voice trembles slightly as he responds, "You don't think I will?" The gun still points at your face. A smile, tinged with a mix of bravado and defiance, plays on your lips. "I don't think you can," you reply the words carrying a hint of challenge and the belief that your father won't follow through on his threat. The tension in the elevator is palpable, each second feeling like an eternity as the standoff continues.

As the elevator doors slide open, revealing the entrance and the Frontman standing there, the tension hangs in the air. The Frontman's presence adds another layer of complexity to the already volatile situation, his arrival creating a slight pause in the standoff. Your father's grip tightens on the gun, the threat still looming as he stands there, a mix of anger and turmoil evident in his tense stance.

As the Frontman steps forward, his movements deliberate and controlled, he positions himself between you and the gun, breaking the line of sight and physically placing himself as a barrier between you and your father's weapon. The Frontman exudes an air of authority, his presence seemingly serving as a calming influence in the escalating situation.

The Frontman's voice cuts through the tension, addressing your father. "To your suite, Mr. (L/n)?" he inquires, maintaining a professional and composed demeanor. Despite the intensity of the situation, his tone remains calm and measured, as if his presence alone can help defuse the explosive atmosphere. The Frontman stands there, acting as a mediator and a buffer between you and your enraged father.

Your father's response is curt and short, a mere affirmation of the Frontman's question.

Your father's command is clear and resolute as he exits. "When we go home, you're going back in," he says, as he points his finger at you, his glare conveying his anger and intentions. The mention of returning to the games weighs heavy on your mind.

The elevator doors slide shut, leaving you alone with the Frontman in the enclosed space. It comes to a halt, and the doors open to reveal the top floor. You walk out with a sense of determination, your steps carrying a hint of defiance. The Frontman follows closely behind, maintaining a silent presence as you proceed to the suite.

In a fit of frustration and pent-up emotion, you swiftly open the kitchen cabinets, pulling out a glass dish with trembling hands. With a force fueled by emotional turmoil, you smash it against the ground, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the kitchen. Your scream follows suit, a fierce and cathartic release of bottled-up emotions that fills the air with an angry resonance.

The Frontman approaches you with a calm and composed demeanor. Despite your display of frustration, he doesn't react alarmed; instead, he takes a step closer, his gaze and presence unwaveringly steady.

The Frontman, with unexpected grace, hands you another plate, placing it in your hands with a gentle yet insistent grip. His actions communicate a silent understanding and acceptance as if his intention is for you to repeat the act that just occurred, offering you another opportunity to release your emotions. The gesture speaks volumes, expressing a quiet empathy and a subtle invitation to let out the turmoil that simmers within you.

With the plate in your hands, the pent-up frustration boils within you, demanding release. You raise the plate, and with a forceful motion, you smash it against the nearest surface, the shattering noise echoing in the room. Shards of glass and ceramic fly in every direction, the force of your action reverberating through the air. The catharsis of the act is momentarily soothing, as you release the pent-up emotions that have been consuming you.

You recount your brother's actions, and the sacrifices he made to keep you out of the games. Your tone carries a mix of gratitude and bitterness, as you walk through the scattered glass fragments. "He tried his best to make sure it wasn't me. He pretended to love the games, doing everything my father said, just so this wouldn't happen to me," you explain, your voice tinged with complex emotions. The mention of your brother's sacrifices hangs heavily in the air, a painful reminder of the burden of expectations and the sacrifices made in the name of love and protection.

Your laughter is a mix of sorrow and anger as you let out a bitter chuckle. "And then he died anyway!" Your words carry a sense of injustice and despair, as the reality of your brother's death and its consequences weigh heavily on your heart. The laughter, tinged with a sense of irony, serves as a release of the pent-up pain and anguish that you've held inside.

The Frontman continues to quietly listen, letting your words and emotions flow freely. His presence remains a steady and silent witness to your moment of pain and frustration, providing a non-judgmental space for you to express yourself. The weight of your emotions and the memories of your brother's sacrifices are palpable in the air, and the Frontman allows you the space to release them.

Your voice trembles with emotion as you continue, your words revealing the depth of your pain. "I was such a different person seven years ago," you confess, the weight of the past years of trauma and transformation evident in your tone. The realization of how much you've changed echoes in your words, a painful reminder of the person you once were and the person you've become.

The stream of words flows from your lips, each one carrying the burden of loss and the harsh reality of your experiences. "7 years ago, my mother died. 6 years ago, my brother died. 5 years ago, my boyfriend died. 4 years ago I won the games and killed more people than I can remember. My whole life has been a huge fuck you," you declare, your voice filled with pain, anger, and frustration. Each sentence carries the weight of the past, a stark reminder of the tumultuous path your life has taken. The years, marked by loss and violence, seem to have etched their impact deep into your soul.

Your words, tinged with bitterness and disappointment, reveal the harsh realities of your father's behavior. "My father plays with us and when he's done, he throws us in the trash," you say, your voice carrying the weight of resentment and sadness. The sense of being manipulated and used by your father's actions resonates deeply, leaving a heavy burden on your heart. The games, the death, and the loss are a byproduct of his selfish choices, and the weight of it all feels overwhelming at the moment.

You find yourself on the couch, shaking your head in your hands, mortified by your emotional outburst. "I'm sorry. This is... so embarrassing. My god," you mumble, your voice filled with a mix of embarrassment and self-awareness. The weight of what you've just revealed, the raw emotions that have been unleashed in front of the Frontman, leave you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

The Frontman, with a calm and measured presence, takes a seat next to you on the couch. His deliberate movements and gentle manner create a sense of reassurance and comfort as if silently conveying that you're not alone at this moment. There's a subtle understanding in his gaze, a non-judgmental acceptance of your emotional turmoil, a silent affirmation that it's okay to feel the way you do.

The Frontman speaks, his voice laced with empathy and understanding. "I... understand your loss," he says, his words carrying a hint of shared pain. It's a simple yet sincere gesture that acknowledges the depth of your grief and loss, a subtle connection that bridges the divide between you and the Frontman, forging a moment of shared understanding. It's as if he too has experienced similar hardships and can empathize with your struggles on a personal level.

The Frontman's words hold a subtle weight, and the depth of his understanding goes beyond what meets the eye. "I understand a lot more than you know," he says, his voice tinged with a mix of empathy and a hint of something else – a secret or a layer that he seems to keep hidden. The words, though seemingly simple, carry a sense of depth and enigma, implying that there are aspects of his past and experiences that he keeps hidden, leaving room for curiosity and speculation in your mind.

You lock eyes with the Frontman, and with a mix of vulnerability and curiosity, you ask, "Did you lose someone in the games?" Your words hang in the air, the question holding the essence of your desire for understanding and to connect on a deeper level.

The Frontman's sigh speaks volumes, conveying a sense of resignation and the weight of his past. He has never been open about the path that led him to his current role, to lead the games and all its intricacies. A layer of complexity and hidden history surrounds him, adding an air of mystery and enigma to his presence.

In a surprising turn of events, the Frontman chooses to deviate from the usual protocols. His hand moves with deliberate precision, reaching up to his face and unclasping the mask, the sound of the buckle releasing filling the room. With a swift motion, the mask falls away, revealing his face in its entirety. His features once shrouded in the anonymity of the mask, are now exposed to your sight.

As the mask falls away, you are struck by the sight of In-Ho's face. His sharp features, marked by high cheekbones and a strong jawline, exude an undeniable presence. His eyes, dark and intense, hold a piercing gaze that seems to see right through you. The clean-cut, professional hairstyle adds to his overall polished and refined appearance, making him even more distinct and attractive.

In-Ho acknowledges the unusual nature of the situation, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability and a touch of irony. "This is highly unusual, as well as against the rules," he admits his tone a mix of realization and contemplation. It's a departure from his usual composure, a moment of unexpected vulnerability as he willingly, and boldly, breaks protocol by revealing his face to you.

Your question hangs in the air, carrying a mix of curiosity and a touch of awe. "Then why do it?" you ask, seeking to understand the reasons behind In-Ho's decision to break protocol. His actions seem deliberate and significant, and the desire to know what motivated him to reveal his identity is evident. The answer may hold the key to a deeper understanding of who he is and his reasoning behind the bold move.

In-Ho's response carries a hint of introspection as he considers his actions. "I don’t have an answer," he admits, his tone thoughtful and introspective. "But when you laid yourself out bare," he continues, referring to your moment of vulnerability, "it felt like I knew you." There's a subtle recognition and understanding that In-Ho has gained through the shared moments and your honest admission of your feelings and experiences. He may not fully comprehend his motivations, but that doesn't diminish the authenticity of the connection he feels in the moment.

In-Ho's words carry a sense of sadness, and he opens up, sharing a part of his past that has affected him deeply. "I had a wife," he starts, his voice tinged with an undertone of grief, "She was with child, and she got sick." The weight of his loss and the pain of that experience linger between his words, the memories resurfacing and leaving a lasting mark on his soul.

In-Ho continues, his voice carrying a mix of sadness and guilt. "We didn't have the money for the treatment she needed. She was given two choices. Terminate the pregnancy or die trying," he reveals, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. "She said she was going to give birth even if it killed her." You could see the cold memories in his eyes as he spoke, “I borrowed money, as much as I could, but my employer found out and fired me.” The confession, laden with pain and regret, paints a vivid picture of the choices he made to try and help his wife and unborn child.

In-Ho's gaze meets yours, a mix of pain and determination echoing in his eyes. "So, I came here, I played, and I won," he says, his words carrying both a sense of accomplishment and a hint of regret. There's a tinge of exhaustion in his voice, a reminder that the victory came at a price, and it's evident that his emotional journey has been a complex and challenging one.

In-Ho's voice cracks with sadness, the weight of the memory evident in his words. "But when I got back home, I was too late," he says, the pain simmering just beneath the surface, his voice tinged with regret and grief. The tragic discovery upon his return home has left a lasting impact on him, adding a layer of bitterness to his triumph.

The emotional connection between you and In-Ho deepens in this vulnerable conversation. It feels like truth hour, where both of you are open and raw, sharing the pain and guilt that both of you carry. As he reveals his past, you find a sense of understanding in his words, realizing that he truly comprehends the depth of your feelings and the human emotions that keep resurfacing despite attempts to bury them.

As you continue to converse with In-Ho, a deeper understanding sets in, and you realize the tragic irony of his situation. "You didn't lose someone in the games," you observe. "You lost them because of the games." Your words carry a tone of empathy, recognizing the direct impact of the games on In-Ho's tragedy and the complex nature of the pain he carries.

In-Ho nods, acknowledging the truth in your statement. "I had nothing. I had changed in the games and everything outside of them felt wrong," he admits, his voice tinged with a sense of self-awareness and resignation. He pauses, considering the impact your presence has had on him. "For a while now, I've felt fine, leveled," he continues, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability. "Until you showed up."

The surprise and confusion in your voice are evident as you respond, "Me?" You are genuinely taken aback by the revelation, unsure of what role you have played in his life to cause such an impact. The confusion in your expression mirrors the curiosity you feel, seeking to understand why your presence had such an effect on him.

In-Ho nods in affirmation, his voice carrying a hint of admiration and an underlying sense of vulnerability. "Yes, you," he confirms softly, the words carrying the acknowledgment of the impact you've had on him. His sigh conveys a mix of emotions like he's trying to articulate something more profound but struggling to find the right words. "You must know the type of effect you have," he continues, "the type of woman you are." His words hold a touch of wonder as if he's come to understand something about you that has resonated on a deeper level.

A smirk plays on your lips, and you lean in closer, feeling the comfort of the couch as you settle into the moment. "Oh, I know the effect I have," you respond, your words carrying a hint of confidence and self-awareness. You lean in as you add, "I just never thought it would make a man like yourself so weak." Your tone is a mix of playfulness and a subtle challenge, as you subtly assert the power you hold and the effect it's had on In-Ho.

The smirk on your lips holds a hint of anticipation, as you propose the idea of a game. There's a playful glint in your eyes, and an undercurrent of intrigue in your tone as you ask, "Do you want to play a game?" The suggestion hangs in the air, inviting a response from In-Ho and adding a layer of excitement to the room.

In-Ho tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite the guarded nature of his expression, a spark of curiosity flickers in his eyes, and he responds with a mix of intrigue and cautious interest, "What have you got in mind?"

In a moment of playful banter, you lean forward, suggesting a game of "two truths and one lie" to deepen the connection between you two. "Since we're here getting to know each other," you propose, a mischievous glint in your eyes, "how about a game of 'two truths and one lie'?" Your words carry a sense of excitement and anticipation, inviting In-Ho to participate in this playful game of truth and deception.

In-Ho with his guarded expression that softens ever so slightly. He nods, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, as he agrees to the proposal. "Alright," he responds, a mix of curiosity and willingness in his tone.

With a moment of consideration, you straighten your seating position on the couch, readying yourself for the game. "Alright," you begin, your voice carrying elements of revelation and intrigue. "I'm the daughter of the biggest a-hole on this planet." The first statement holds the weight of truth, your frustration and resentment towards your father are evident in your tone.

Your tone is confident and direct as you clarify, "I can't stand it here,” As you clarify your statements, your voice takes on a softer tone, the smirk playing on your lips as you confess, "Three, you intrigue me.'" Your words are directed directly at In-Ho, carrying a mix of curiosity and an underlying suggestion of connection.

In-Ho smirks, his words holding a mix of banter and a touch of teasing as he responds to your statement about enjoying your time on the island. There's a hint of playful understanding in his eyes as if he's challenging you to deny the obvious. "Well," he begins, "I have to say, you've been enjoying your time here. Unless I'm wrong." His words carry a subtle edge, challenging you to acknowledge your enjoyment or to deny it if you so choose.

In a moment of playful banter, you raise your brow, feigning curiosity and challenging In-ho's assertion. A small smirk curves at the corner of your lips, as you playfully ask, "Is that your final answer?" The tension in the air is palpable, the game of truth and deception adding an extra layer of excitement to the exchange. In-Ho raises an eyebrow, responding to your question, "It is.”

“Congratulations,” You pout playfully, feigning disappointment, as you slip off your shoes one by one. The tension in the room continues to rise as you challenge In-Ho with your actions.

You smile and the cross of your legs add an air of confidence and assertiveness to the scene. The suggestion of your words hangs in the air, inviting In-Ho to share his truths. "Your turn," you say, challenging him to reveal his secrets.

In-Ho's words reveal a glimpse into his personal life, "I’m the leader, I don’t drink whiskey," he says, the words hanging in the air, then he leans in closer, his eyes locking with yours as he adds, "and find you... astonishing." There's a mix of vulnerability and sincerity in his words, conveying a true sentiment.

You smirk playfully, an element of mischievousness in your tone as you respond to In-Ho's statements, knowing all too well that the truth lies within the third statement. "Hmm, has to be that third one," you say, playing along with the game and challenging him with a devious curve of your lips.

In-Ho chuckles lightly, his tone carrying a hint of amusement as he responds to your challenge. "You're at a loss," he says, fully confident in his statements, knowing that you have incorrectly guessed the lie.

Amid the tense and heated banter, you suddenly make a bold move. In a smooth motion, you reach behind your back, unclasping your bra, and letting it fall to the floor. However, the dress still covers you, maintaining a sense of decency. The act, though provocative, also holds an element of defiance, pushing the boundaries of the game and asserting your form of control. The tension in the room continues to rise as you challenge In-Ho with your actions.

The game continues, challenging you to stay on your toes. "Not many more layers to go," you say, the anticipation building with each layer of clothing being removed. "I better start winning," you add, your words dripping with playful determination. The game continues, each revelation adding fuel to the fire of this intense encounter.

In-Ho observes your actions, fully aware of the game you're playing, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He understands the subtle layers of manipulation and control at play, and his response is measured, a blend of amusement and intrigue.

You take your turn, sharing three statements that reveal different aspects of yourself. Your first two statements offer a glimpse into your past and intentions, but it's the third one that holds the most weight at the moment. "One, I graduated top of my class," you start, setting the stage. "Two, I'm going to pay you back for those broken dishes," you add with a light laugh, acknowledging the moment of rage. Then, with a direct and sultry glance into his eyes, you say softly, "Three… I know you want to kiss me."

The last line hangs in the air, its honesty and vulnerability laying bare the emotional connection brewing between you two. In-Ho's gaze meets yours, and the tension between you reaches new heights as the truth is laid out on the table. The game takes on a deeper meaning, the honesty and directness in your words leaving no room for ambiguity.

In-Ho's breath hitched, and you saw a spark of something wild ignite in his eyes. He leaned in, his movements deliberate, as if savoring the anticipation. His scent, a mixture of cologne and musk, invaded your senses, sending a shiver down your spine.

As his lips brushed against yours, you felt a rush of warmth spread through your body. His kiss was gentle at first, a soft exploration of your lips, but it quickly ignited into something more passionate. In-Ho's hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks, sending tingles down your neck. You responded eagerly, opening your mouth to deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing in a sensual rhythm.

The kiss was a whirlwind of sensations; his lips were soft yet demanding, and his taste was intoxicating. You moaned softly into his mouth, your hands instinctively reaching up to thread through his neatly combed black hair. In-Ho's grip on your face tightened, his kiss becoming more urgent as if he couldn't get enough of you.

Pulling back slightly, you gazed into his eyes, now dark with desire.

His hands traveled down your neck, gently caressing your skin, making you shiver with anticipation. The make-out session was a blur of pleasure, lust, and desire. In-Ho's lips moved from your mouth to your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses that made you squirm with delight. His hands roamed freely, exploring your body, igniting a fire within you that you never knew existed.

As his fingers traced the outline of your jaw, down to your collarbone, you couldn't help but let out a soft whimper. The sensation of his touch was driving you wild, and you craved more. In-Ho seemed to sense your need, his kisses becoming more possessive as if he wanted to brand you as his.

In-Ho's hand found its way under your dress, his warm palm making contact with the bare skin of your thighs. You gasped at the sudden contact, your body arching into his touch. His fingers trailed upwards, their path leaving a scorching trail on your skin.

"We should stop," In-Ho panted between kisses, his breath hot against your skin, But his hands didn't stop their exploration, and his lips continued to ravish your neck, making it hard to think straight.

You wanted to protest, to tell him that you didn't want it to end, but before you could form the words, the shrill ring of the phone pierced the air. The sudden interruption startled both of you, breaking the spell that had enveloped the room.

In-Ho pulled away, his eyes now a mixture of longing and frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain his composure. "I need to answer that," he mumbled, his voice rough with unspent passion.

You sat there, breathless and dazed, as he stood up and walked towards the ringing phone. The moment had been interrupted, but the tension between you was now palpable. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, a mixture of emotions swirling within you.

As In-Ho answered the call, his back turned to you, you took a moment to gather your thoughts. The intensity of the moment had caught you off guard. You never expected to feel this way about him, but there was no denying the connection that had formed.

He finished the call quickly, his voice distant as he spoke, and then he turned around, his eyes searching yours. "I will be right there," he said, his voice laced with responsibility.

You stood up, your body still buzzing with unfulfilled desire. "Busy man," acknowledging his commitments and responsibilities. As you hand him his mask, your voice steady and unwavering despite the inner turmoil, you declare, "This isn't over.”

In-Ho's smile curves his lips, acknowledging the unspoken understanding and connection between you. With a gentle yet firm grip, he pulls you in by your waist, bringing you closer to him. The proximity adds an electric undercurrent to the moment, as he holds your gaze, the world around them seeming to pause.

In-Ho leans in again, their lips meeting in a more gentle and tender exchange. The intensity remains present, but it's softer and more tender. There's a sense of vulnerability and human connection in the way their lips meld together.

He leaves you there, and as you sit, replaying the kiss in your mind, you realize that something has shifted. The emotional connection had been laid bare, and there was no going back. The tension that had built up would only grow stronger, and you couldn't wait to see where this forbidden path would lead.

Tagged:

@jspidey5

@angelsukiipls

@mrsyixingunicorn10

@calistrialynna

@gagaga167

@urlocalsabito

@starkeyszn

@calistrialynna

@justaproudslytherpuff

@honeynickel

@sylviavf

@nepenthes-things

@glads-stuff

[authorsofghosts]

Liquid Sunshine | Wolverine x Reader

Summery: Logan takes you out on a quiet Valentine's Day date to a bar in town. Of course, him being Logan, he has to make it extra some how.

Themes: Already Established Relationship, Angst, mostly Fluff, Open Ending, Pet names (Darling, Sunshine, etc), Ambiguous Logan Height, Blood mention, Drinking (duh), Drug/Tobacco Mention/Use, Kissing, Logan is Logan, Suggestive undertones mentions of Violence, actual Violence, Reader is suggested to be a mutant/X-Man (no powers written).

Word Count: 1.4k

"Logan-"

"Can it. I'm not parking next to the bar, that's asking for trouble." He grumbles, getting out of his jeep. "Come on, Sunshine."

You step out, your shoes bury into the few centimeters of snow, slipping a little. Before you know it, you're in Logan's arms. He smirks slightly, looking at your with a raised eyebrow. "Really?"

You laugh softly, embarrassed, "Shut up."

"Fallin fo' me already, dear?" He murmurs, pulling your closer and ruffling your hair. "No need, I already know ya love me."

"Don't test your luck. It's 33 degrees out and you're making me walk 15 minutes to a bar for what?"

"In case someone wants to do a Valentine's Day Massacre on lil ol' me, alright? Now shut up and get to walking." Logan growls, wrapping a possessive hand around your waist before pushing you forwards.

Despite how much you love the man, he can be a little bit of a hard ass. Even though you're lost in thoughts of wanting to slap him, his hand grabs at your hip, kneading the flesh softly. It pulls you out of your fantasy of putting him in his place for once, a soft blush on your cheeks.

He leans into you, whispering in your ear, "You look like a damn tomato, bub."

"Don't you fucking 'bub' me tonight." You mumble, snapping your attention to his smirk. The corners of his lips are flipped ever so slightly that if you hadn't been extremely close to him, you'd think he was scowling.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I feel like tonight. Especially if it has to do with ya." Logan says, his voice lowering into a soft, possessive tone. He presses his hooked nose into your neck, chuckling softly as you squirm at the sudden affectionate act.

He continues to push you forward, ignoring your protests of how close his is, enjoying how red your face and neck are getting, the heat at the tips of your ears. "So shy tonight, are we?"

"Quiet. I will call someone to pick me up." You say, the threat empty and he knows it. You would give anything to be spending time with the usually lonesome, gruff man that has a certain soft spot for you.

"Oh? Who's gonna getcha? Not Scott or Jean... not that Cajun either... I think yer stuck, little one." He pulls you closer, looking into your eyes as you both stop walking. "And I think you like that sound of that, don't ya?"

Your heart is racing, face warmer than ever. "Well-" You start, but before you can continue, he presses his lips to your mouth, the small hint of his smirk as he pours all his attention into trying to get you to open your mouth and let him in.

"Shut up and kiss me, sweetheart." Logan's gruff voice murmurs, pushing you back against a building ad he smirking, staring directly into your eyes before going back in for a more demanding, confident kiss.

If you weren't already dating this man, then you would have fallen head over heels for him. You allow him into your mouth, your tongue warring against his even though it was a losing battle.

"That's it. Gimme what I want, darlin'."

"Lo- stop, we're in public-"

"It's 11pm on Valentine's Day. If anyone's out at this time, they should expect to seeing two lovers like us kissing, baby."

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Bar's not gonna let us in if we get messy, baby." You say make, in a teasing matter. This makes him stop, look at you, and mutter something under his breathe before pulling away.

"Alright, you got me there." He chuckles, grabbing your hand and pulling you along with him. "Whatcha say you promise me something later tonight for cutting me off so soon?"

"Oh, you know I'm already planning something, Logan."

"'Att's my Sunshine."

You get to the bar, and almost as if he's forgotten his manners, his hands are wrapping around your waist and placing you on his lap as he sips from his glass. You're back is pressed against his chest and his chin is nestled comfortably between your neck and shoulder.

You can smell his last cigar, a faint tightness in your chest as you realize you haven't seen him smoke one since you got in the car. It's actually become a pattern lately. "Lo?"

"Yeah, sweetie?" He asks in a whisper, pulling you closer.

"You stopped smoking around me, huh?"

"Uh huh..." He grumbles, brows knitting together as he realizes you noticed. His Adam's apple bobs against your back as he swallows.

"Why?"

"Well, uh... I don't know. Maybe it's cause I uh..." He chokes on his words for a moment, something that usually happens when he's about to get emotional, or he's thinking too much. You turn slightly, tilting your head to meet his eyes. "Hmm?" You prompt.

"It's cause I can't smell you when I do, alright?" He mumbles into your shoulder blade, hiding his face slightly. "Now quiet b'fore I push you off and go outside ta smoke.'

"You wouldn't dare."

"Ya think?"

You don't say anything else, the tone in his voice teasing but with an underlining seriousness that makes the playful threat seem genuine. You laugh softly, shaking you head as you lean forward for your drink

As you do, however, you feel his arm around your waist tighten, holding you in place. "What's wrong?"

"Might have trouble, dearie." He grumbles, glaring at a spot you can't see.

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind that makes me grit my teeth." He growls out slightly, clearly sensing something.

You stand up and look in the direction he was, a group of men staring at you two. You quickly turn your attention back to Logan and shake your head. "They're just jealous, hun."

"From the way they're talking about you, it seems so." He holds your hand tightly, watching you closely as you sit down in the bar stool next to him. He leans forward, placing a kiss to your temple before standing up.

"Logan, don't-"

"Someone's gotta teach those creeps a lesson, Sunshine. Ain't gonna be you." You runs a hand across your cheek before turning to the group.

You watch, sipping your drink slowly as you watch your man, your man, go to do something seemingly for you, but everyone who knows him knows it's for himself. You can't hear what they're saying to each other, but you can get the jist as you see Logan's back muscles tease, the muscles in his forearms tightening as he tries to hold back his claws from extending from between his knuckles.

One of the men look past him to you, smirking as he licks his lips. "Come on, you can do better than some old man like this." He yells out at you, your eyes widening. Before you know it, that guy is knocked out on the floor, blood pooling under his head from his mouth.

"Logan, no!" You say, quickly standing up, but something stops you from walking forward. He looks back at you, a smirk on his lips. He's having fun, and honestly? He couldn't be more hot sticking up for you and the both of your relationship.

"Don't worry, Sunshine, he's not too hurt." He chuckles, wiping his fist off with a napkin before turning to the rest of the men. "Anyone else got a probably with me and my darlin' date over there? Cause I think my fist want's another round."

And then all hell broke loose. Of course it would, you're dating The Wolverine, after all. Hot headed, overly confident, and a living weapon. If his emotions weren't gonna blow over at the bar, then they would have in bed tonight. And, I mean, what's more romantic than a bar fight?

Logan walks you back to the jeep before the police arrive, opening the passenger side door for you. His jacket is wrapped over your shoulders, and he makes sure you can get into without slipping. He presses a gentle, caring kiss to your temple, lingering in the spot just long enough for your scent to get stuck in his nostrils.

He gets in the car, smiling softly as he looks over at you.

"So... about what you said earlier about having a plan for tonight?"

"Oh, you have no idea what that little stunt made me think."

[thewertsearch]

TT: You mentioned immortality. TT: Godhood makes one immortal? […] One will live forever, unless killed. The death must be either heroic or just. TT: How are those terms defined? Broadly, mysteriously, and according to the case of the individual. One may be killed by opposing a corrupt adversary and die for a just cause, as through martyrdom, for instance. This would be heroic. Or one may be subject to corruption, and slain by a hero. This would be just.

Heroic Players can die fighting 'corrupt adversaries', whereas Just Players can be 'corrupted', and 'slain by a hero'. There's a clear dichotomy here, wherein 'corrupt' God Tiers are particularly vulnerable to self-sacrificing God Tiers, and vice-versa.

I like it. It's a very mythological way for immortality to work, and it gels well with Sburb's fantasy narrative. Rose's alliance with the Horrorterrors probably marks her as corrupted, so God Tier ascension probably wouldn't grant her true immortality.

The concept is fascinatingly ambiguous, too. Morality is a controversial subject at the best of times, and allowing Sburb to judge the ethics of a Player's actions could get very tricky, very fast. There's no doubt in my mind that Sburb and I disagree vehemently about what constitutes a just cause, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

TT: Which sort of death will you have when I destroy the sun? Neither. I'm not a god. I'm a guardian, a servant, and a weapon. I have power and knowledge far surpassing a god. But I am not one.

First Guardians are considered far more powerful than God Tiers, then. Aradia was able to get the drop on Jack, but Jack's really just a Kernelsprite imitation of a First Guardian. Scratch is far more threatening, especially since his brain isn't scrambled by dog memories.

...that said, his brain might be a little scrambled by whatever was in that HONK code. Who knows what Alt-Gamzee was cooking there.

My master can't enter this universe until I am killed. […] TT: That almost sounds like martyrdom. Are you sure it won't be a hero's death? Quite sure. My master is a very evil man. TT: Who is he? I won't tell you his name. But he goes by the title, Lord English.

About bloody time. This guy’s been sneaking around the back of the story for over two thousand pages, and it sounds like we're finally going to shed some light on this mysterious adversary.

But you must decide which objective is more important. You may decide to attempt to destroy the sun and end my life. This will neutralize Jack, who is also much more powerful and dangerous than myself by virtue of the ring he wears in addition to drawing energy from the same sun as I. He poses a significant threat to reality.

I'm still skeptical about this assertion. What could Jack's other kernels possibly offer that his First Guardian powers don't render obsolete?

Anyway - even if Jack does have better numbers, Scratch is still far more dangerous by virtue of the mind he wields.

TT: But in the process of killing him and you, I release your master, who is just as deadly? He's more deadly. But the danger he poses is sanctioned by paradox space. It is a known quantity. His very existence in a universe will mean it will inevitably be torn apart. But there are rules to his entry, and his grim procession through paradox space is rather orderly. The present equilibrium has accounted for him, and will continue to.

I did wonder if English was part of Paradox Space's natural ecosystem, charged with destroying old universes in much the same way Sburb destroys planets.

Even if he is part of Skaia's ineffable plan, I don't think that should stop us from ending his sorry ass. We might not understand English's motivations, but we do know that his plans destroy anyone unfortunate enough share his plane of reality, and countless lives have already been ruined in Scratch’s quest to bring him out. I don't really care if Paradox Space sanctions his actions - he needs to be taken down, and if that upsets the natural order, then it's time for a new natural order.

Besides, we probably don't even need to destroy the Sun to stop Jack. We have plenty of other angles to work, from exploiting his psychological weaknesses to negotiating with his slightly more reasonable deputy. Additionally, Jadesprite won't be out of action forever, and Jack can't even harm Jadesprite, due to the aforementioned psychological weaknesses. Even if she's inherited Bec's 'don't fight Agents' programing, that doesn't stop her from simply stealing his Ring. She's done it before.

Jack however is a loose cannon. He will not stop until he destroys everything he encounters.

Yeah - to be honest, Scratch, I'm starting to think you're laying it on a little thick, here. Is Jack really the omniversal 'threat to reality' that you're making him out to be?

Let's not get it twisted - I have no trouble believing that he's dangerous to individual sessions. But does he really have the juice to wreak cosmic destruction on the scale of Lord English? His battery is only as strong as a couple of universes, and he has to share it with every other First Guardian in the cosmos.

Plus, the kids can't be the only Players in the multiverse to accidently prototype a First Guardian. I'm sure it's rare, but it can't be once-in-all-the-worlds rare. There should be plenty of other rogue First Guardians floating around Paradox Space - and if they're all enormous threats to reality, then reality should already have been destroyed.

In conclusion: No, Doc. I don't think Jack Noir is an English-tier threat. And for the record, I think there's a much more dangerous First Guardian in this equation than the Sovereign Slayer.

[miraculous-metamorphosis]

Love what you're doing!!! Is there anything about Marinette's and Adrien's family? Pics or just some more info about them? (I'm also kinda guessing that Julia is supposed to be Manon's replacement?)

Mod CN- So first thing's first, Manon isn't getting replaced! Marinette just has a younger sister now! But Julia and Manon are best friends.

But we did design the whole family! In fact, we designed literally every single character in the show, we just haven't shown them yet!

But for the Dupain-Chengs, we gave Marinette a younger sister b/c we felt like Mathias and Lucy would be the type of couple to have two children, by personal preference and the culture Lucy grew up in.

Mathias and Lucy haven't changed up much personality-wise in Metamorphosis, but Mathias is now a little bit more over-protective, based off of his characterization in the movie.

Lucy's side of the family is much more involved in the story now! Zhihao, Marinette's great-uncle, would be moving in to Paris to start a new restaurant there, and we plan to have several episodes focusing on giving Shu-Yin a character! We're still designing Marinette's maternal grandparents, but we have plans to give them a semi-big role in season 4!

Also, we're still working on this, but we plan to bring in some family angst, focusing on how Gina isn't spending a lot of time with her family. Making her a good person, just overall acknowledging her flaws more. As well as a deceased bigoted grandfather who still gives Mathias and Lucy trouble, even after he's long gone.

Mod LB- As for the Lachances... let's start with the elephant in the room.

As we have addressed in many posts, Gabriel is NOT the butterfly holder in this universe, neither is Nathalie for the peacock.

Despite this, Gabriel is still going to be the cause of MANY problems.

We're leaning on the idea that Gabriel is more superstitious in this rewrite, he believes in something called "The Lachance Luck." Which he believes is the root that leads to all the misfortunes the family had experienced over the years.

Also, in case you're wondering where Adrien's Bodyguard/Gorilla/Placide I.T. is, he's Major Daume now! Based off of his original conceptual design found here. We plan for Daume to be more of the fatherly figure to Adrien, allowing him to sneak around and find loopholes to give the kid more freedom. He also learns of Adrien's identity mid-season 1, and keeps it a secret, even from Adrien. He prefers to wait for Adrien to open up on his own.

Nathalie is toned down a little from the series, no longer an explorer hired by Tomoe or whatever, she's just a stoic secretary who eventually becomes more motherly to Adrien and Felix.

Amelie actually moves in with the Lachances after the death of Colt Fathom. She's still the same as she was in the series, although she butts heads with her brother-in-law frequently over his parenting skills.

As for the deceased... Emilie is, no questions asked, no ambiguity, just outright dead. A woman who haunts the narrative, and drives most of Gabriel's actions posthumously. But we still plan to give her a character, and a LOT of flaws, so she isn't going to be a fridged wife.

Oh also colt fathom isn't an abusive asshole, or that important. Just some yankee-doodle-dandy who kicked the bucket. But his death did impact who Felix is as a character, making him grow up too fast and learn to be more responsible for his grieving mother and family.