Jake definitely feels guilty, but I also feel that anytime he sees Ronnie a little self conscious about the scars, he’ll go and gently kiss them and reassure her that they prove that she’s a badass warrior women, that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and they prove that she is as strong as any pack member of either Red Sky or Blue River.
M you are so right and i got INSPIRED (here's what we're referencing in case y'all missed it):
Ronnie looked at herself in the full-length mirror. One hand occupied around a tube of scar removal cream, the other busy tracing her fingertips over the scars that now littered the left side of her face.
They were slightly raised and pink in color. The doctor said they should become white and flat over time - less noticeable - as he removed the stitches a few of the wounds had required. Then he handed her a scribbled note with the name of the cream she now held in her hand. To keep you pretty, he said with a smile.
The words hurt more than she thought they would. Sunk deep into her being and took root - sharp vines twisting and suffocating as she looked at her marred face.
I'm not pretty anymore, she thought, mouth downturned as she dropped her hand from poking at the scars.
Her face looked foreign to her now. Someone else's. Ronnie watched a tear slip down her cheek, watering eyes locked on those hideous scars.
I'm fucking hideous, she thought angrily, her grip on the tube of scar remover so tight it was sure to burst.
"Ronnie?" Jake called as he closed the front door of the hunting cabin.
He had been out working on the new place while she drove into town for her appointment. She didn't respond, knowing that he would find her without her voice to draw him in. Follow her heartbeat up the stairs to where she stood in front of the mirror. Her throat felt too tight to form words anyway.
"How'd it go?" he asked as he took the last step into the loft room.
He was sweaty and still coated in a fine layer of sawdust. Ronnie couldn't help the weak smile that pulled at her mouth at the sight of him through the mirror. Her Alpha, her mate, completely hers. But then she caught sight of herself once more and her expression crumbled. Her chin quivered as more tears fell from her eyes. He deserves someone prettier than me.
Jake instantly took hold of her shoulders and spun her to face him. She tried in vain to push his hands away, but it was no use. His wide, warm palms cupped her cheeks and drew her into his comfort she felt she didn't deserve.
"No! No - don't," she whimpered.
Ronnie pushed at his chest but he didn't budge. He only held her tighter. Eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he wiped his thumbs beneath her eyes to catch her tears.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Jake questioned as he searched her deep brown eyes.
Managing to pull his hand away from the left side of her face, she gestured to the raised scars now at home there wildly.
"Just - fucking look at me," she nearly shouted.
Then she turned back towards the mirror. They somehow looked worse than they did when she was alone. Bright pink and puffy and massive. Just beneath her eye. Right beside her nose. On her chin, coming up in a jagged line to her lip. She hated them. She hated how she got them. She didn't want to look in the mirror every single day and be reminded of when her entire life nearly came apart. She wanted to feel pretty for her mate. But right then, all she felt was ugly and ashamed.
Jake's hand came to rest on her waist and her eyes slipped shut, head slowly shaking back and forth. His presence was warm and heavy at her back, calming. His scent of citrus and bonfires enveloped her like morning fog.
"I am looking at you," he spoke softly, free hand moving her dark hair from her shoulder. "And you're beautiful. My gorgeous little Luna."
"But look at them," she insisted as she opened her eyes again.
She locked eyes with those bright green irises as Jake replied, "I am looking at them. We've both got our scars now."
That made Ronnie release a shuddering breath.
"Just a reminder...Of what it took to get us here...Of how much of a badass you are."
He pinched her side and she laughed. Ronnie looked back into her own face. It was going to take some getting used to. Then she glanced down at the cream in her hand. Did she want to lose this reminder? Did she want to try to erase what had happened? No. She didn't. She set the cream down the dresser beside the mirror with a kind of finality.
Jake turned her in his arms and she went easily this time, accepted him completely. He placed a slow gentle kiss on her lips. Then he gave a gentle peck to each of her scars.
"My beautiful, badass, little Luna."
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Mobius’ unwavering belief in Loki throughout the series. I cannot reiterate enough how impactful and truly life-altering Mobius’ support and affection was to Loki. Mobius has always seen straight through him, right from the very start. Mobius has studied every single thing Loki has ever done, and probably every single thing most of his variants have ever done, and not once does Mobius falter in his belief that Loki can be good. This is probably the first time anyone besides his mother has ever told him he could be more, the first time that anyone cared enough to look past the walls and the facade Loki puts up. The first time anyone looked at him and said ‘I truly believe you can be anything. Even if you don’t believe it yourself.’
Mobius’ belief in Loki, his constant support and kindness, truly taught Loki the meaning of trust, friendship, love. In Mobius, he found someone to rely on, who would be patient with him, who would make him laugh and would never base his worth on the acquisition of a throne. Because Mobius never expected Loki to be a worthy king or a great prince or anything really, besides himself. And that was always good enough for Mobius.
That support, belief, and trust is the fundamental catalyst behind Loki’s growth and change throughout the series. By the end of season 2, the relationship he has built with Mobius and his friends is enough to give him the strength to save and eternally protect the entire multiverse. I cannot think of a greater example of a character redeeming themselves and finding their purpose through the power of the ones they love.
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Forward
Wei Ying kisses him and it’s—ah—he can’t think past the frenzied burn of it: fingers in his hair and desperate sucking at his neck and ah, ah, it’s, it’s—all-consuming, and Lan Wangji’s mind was always, ah, the thread that keeps it all together—
Helpless, entirely and rabidly so, helpless, crashing against Wei Ying’s chest and grabbing whatever his shaky hands can find, it’s—it’s all he’s—not even allowed himself to dream, and he, he can’t, can’t possibly, can’t. Breathing… can’t. He’ll never stop, never, not if he has any—he has no choice, nothing to do but keep pushing forward, forward, forward-forward-forward. The tense line of Wei Ying’s abs is overwhelming. The scent at the place where his shoulder meets neck. It’s like he’s drunk, is he drunk, did he drink anything? He can’t imagine ever putting his mouth on anything that isn’t Wei Ying’s skin. The taste is… spicy?
He never… ah, the wall, at his back. Forward or backwards? The whole room is spinning. His head is, is, alight, everything too bright and blistering to the touch. He can’t stop touching. The soft skin beneath Wei Ying’s under-robes, the breathtaking squishiness of the lobe of his ear. Is Lan Wangji just squeezing it? Everything feels three sizes too large and a hundred times too loud. He wants it all, so badly he burns. Burns. Everything burns. If Wei Ying stops touching him something terrible would happen, something catastrophic.
He doesn’t, stop. Good. Lan Wangji doesn’t think he knows how to anymore. A distant part of his brain is saying something incomprehensible about ‘self-control’, and the entire concept is ridiculous. Boring. Anything that isn’t Wei Ying gets shoved out of the way, and in the immediate vicinity is all this Wei Ying, from his fingertips to his hands to his arms to his shoulders, to his neck to his cheeks to his nose to his forehead, to his hair to the nape of his neck to the small of his back, to the un-im-not possible curve of his arse, to his thighs and his knees and his shins and his feet. His feet. Under the socks are Wei Ying’s naked feet. Lan Wangji feels shaky with the knowledge.
He wants down. He wants to be released from the vice grip on his waist (never, never let him go), wants to slide gracefully (ha) to his knees and take those socks off and marvel at every single toe. He wants to kiss his way from the devastating angle of his ankle, up the sheer muscle of his leg, hide his face in the crook of his knee. He wants the whole tour, the entire thing, wants, wants, wants, so much that he forgets to breathe. Forgets to ask. Forgets to remember, because Wei Ying is on him and the wall behind so he doesn’t fall even when he staggers. It’s… too much. Lan Wangji is vaguely aware he’s begging.
It's only half-words. “Plea,” and “hnff,” and “ah-ah-ah,” and. He’d be ashamed, but there’s no room for much besides the aching, scorching thrill of it. The desperation is rising and rising and rising like water, like a flood, rising-rising and he cannot, won’t stop it. It’d be terrifying if he wasn’t exactly this vulnerable every time Wei Ying so much as looks at him. It would be terrifying if he had even an ounce left to care.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, solid and blazing-hot at the edge of his consciousness, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” like those words alone hold power, are magic. They must be, because the fever in his blood just goes ricocheting all the way up, he’s burning alive and he doesn’t care because Wei Ying is still saying, “Lan Zhan,” and he wants him, he wants him too, and that on its own is already too far. Lan Wangji can’t… can’t.
He tries to speak but all that comes out are aborted little mewls. He’s… drowning in all of this, somehow divested of most of his clothes, and the wall is cold on his shoulder blades and Wei Ying is impossible, hip to hip, grinding in some mindless rhythm that has Lan Wangji’s heart trying to rip out of his chest, clean through. No, it’s not his heart, it’s—ah! Wei Ying’s arms around him, crushing. Mouth right back to what has to be his favourite spot, somewhere under Lan Wangji’s ear, he’d love to say exactly where but he’s melting, his whole mind is melting, and—Wei Ying helps loop Lan Wangji’s leg around his waist. Oh, he’s in the air. On the wall. Oh, he’s… lost, entirely, and the little shivers he can’t stop are only making it more, more, touch, more friction, and he wishes and wishes he could grasp even a tiny bit of what’s happening and he can’t.
“Wei Ying,” he says, miraculously, out loud. Then again, “Wei Ying—bed—”
Wei Ying laughs, and it’s the sweetest and most outrageous sound. How is everything spinning? How is any of it possible. That Wei Ying. Pulling one arm, “Yes, yes,” as if Lan Wangji said the most important thing, as if Wei Ying is also—is also—
They move, they don’t, it’s frightening, and then he hits something soft (a mat? Please be a mat) and then he hits something softer (Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei—) and then he hits something hard and his mind snaps.
Open—he’s so entirely open. Wei Ying can ask for anything and he would give it. Wei Ying wouldn’t even need to ask. Lan Wangji is aching to give him: to give, to give, to give, himself and everything he possesses, that he can reach. Attempting to get his limbs back under control, to give—
But Wei Ying doesn’t want him in control right now. His eyes are alight with something fiercer than joy, something unbreakable and unfathomable and just bursting-piping-hot. How can anyone stand it, is beyond him; it doesn’t matter. Wei Ying is looking at him like he’s ravenous. His hand trails gentle lines down Lan Wangji’s bare torso (bare? He’s so bare), and his eyes, his eyes.
“Mine,” he says, and it comes out choked, like a plea. A prayer. Lan Wangji musters all of his strength (currently close to none):
“Yours,” he nods. “All yours.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps, and then he’s on him again, and everything else shuts down.
It’s fast and scalding and desperate—
It’s slow and lingering and sweet—
It’s thudding in his chest like a warhorse through a battlefield, rampaging higher-higher-higher-higher—
Wei Ying kisses him and Lan Wangji thinks: yes. This, exactly this.
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Template by @juni38
Im going to be completely frank with you all... and admit that I read these options and wasn't sure how to take this chart,,, so uh. Under the cut is Another Version. I'd apologize but I've given you the option to keep scrolling ¯\_(・・)_/¯
(If you notice characters missing on Kim's side, I probably figured she doesn't know who they are lol)
For the record,,, if they *wanted* me to pull their hair-- *is shot several times before I can continue*
Uhh Matthew is here because I have been converted fully on he/him or enby lesbian Matthew I think. He lives in my brain rent free now, very gender. I'd pull his hair but also I think he mostly just deserves to have it played with nicely.
And Scott's here because 1) I enjoy trans Scott, 2) Kim Pine Brain Rot possibly, 3) idk he's like,, the exception. God damnit, I've fallen for the inexplicable Scott Pilgrim Effect. What the fuck--
I did think about doing this chart like everyone was actually applicable to my tastes, but even if they were I think the ones I didn't put up would have to fall on the caress side bc I just don't feel that way abt them lol.
Again, not to say that's the case for the gals over on that side,,, I just think I would want to be gentle w them shxkdjsdhbd with the exception for Lynette who probably deserves to have her hair pulled, but again I fear she would Hurt Me,,, but maybe in a fun way,,,
Anyway No One Look At Me....
(,, also,,, Ramona is so far over bc I think she would enjoy it,, otherwise she'd be closer to Kim in that section. Same thing w Roxie)
If anyone actually looks at this version, I'm not opposed to doing a version like this for Kim btw! Just ask for it so I feel like I'm not just Dropping This and scurrying away
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