#└ °· ╰ let’s get lost - interactions ╯

[eexomei]

I guess that I’m not the only one but it’s so cool to see how to me personally, this interaction always seemed to carry more weight as a rare moment of vulnerability rather than an allusion to his sexuality from my point of view.

Before Tilly addresses him, Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly are discussing a romantic novel that, like many of its time, centers around a woman’s struggle in life and eventual success in securing financial stability, to then get it through marriage and some man that whisks them away and saves them. While Karen bluntly acknowledges the reality of the era; that it is real hard to be a woman. Which the other girls seem to agree with of course but also are less pessimistic than Karen at the moment. Tilly then sort of turns the conversation toward Arthur, his response is both vague and layered to me. Rather than a direct confession of romantic preference, it seems more like an attempt— an awkward one at that — to express something deeper about his worldview and the way he sees people. (In my opinion at least.)

Arthur, despite his hardened persona that he plays up and all his trauma, does know love in different forms. He has loved Hosea as a father, Dutch as a father as well, and Mary as a lost dream of a different life and of course her as a person. He may not be quick to admit it, but he does love some people in his life, even if he struggles to articulate it in a way that is less awkward. His phrasing is uncharacteristically thoughtful for a man who outwardly often masks his emotions behind sarcasm and indifference. He plays up the role of the sullen, heartless enforcer because it’s what the gang expects of him, what he believes he has to be in order to survive. But in this rare, quiet moment among the women that obviously is his family, he allows a glimpse of something more, due to how he opens up more easily towards women for a whole lot of reasons.

Arthur’s words seem less like a revelation about his romantic inclinations and more like an admission that, despite everything, he still believes in human goodness deep down, or at least that love is something that exists and people are worthy of. That some people — men and women — are worth loving, not necessarily in a romantic sense but just in general, maybe not even for him personally but that people in general do love and can love. That for all the cruelty he’s known, he has still found connections that matter. And while he won’t outright say it, perhaps this is as close as he’ll ever come to admitting that he is not as cold and detached as he pretends to be, in my humble opinion lol. To me, I’ve always seen it more like a figure of speech and also more so Arthur attempting to state that he believes that women are people too — due to how women was less than second class citizens in many cases back then — than anything else, while also confessing to not being as cynical and heartless he portrays himself as being.

I genuinely love seeing and discussing different views and headcanons (?) that people have I this fandom. I love all the bi Arthur content and ‘speculations’ for lack of better words, and as someone who’s bisexual myself I love the fandom representation. I personally don’t view him as being bi nor do I personally believe (doesn’t make it true just my silly view on it) that Arthur was meant to canonically be anything but straight. So, while I see this more as a expression of him letting his guard down just enough to reveal that he isn’t completely heartless, that he loves people (platonically in some cases and romantically in others) and is capable of love, that people can be worthy of love — it is very fun to see everyone’s else’s opinions and take on things such as this. :)

Also, just because I personally interpreted this as Arthur more so trying to express the fact that he doesn’t necessarily see women as lesser beings in a bit of a vulnerable and somewhat awkward way, rather than alluding to his feelings about men possibly being romantic — that doesn't mean that others can’t see it another way. <3 I saw this as a more ‘women are people’ acknowledgment (shocking revelation I know) and that love exists rather than him showing ‘signs’ that he’s not straight. Then again, it’s a neat interaction that makes the game feel alive and different interpretations of this is what keeps a fandom without any new canon content since 2018 alive for this long and I love it.

(And even if it somehow was supposed to canonically and intentionally make people interpret Arthur as bisexual by the developers, that’s wonderful, but I doubt that sadly and even then, I don’t think Arthur would openly express or rather hint at that he isn’t straight infront of a group of people like that. Because in my own headcanon where Arthur is bi, he probably suffers from some form of denial in the sense that he genuinely doesn’t really see too much difference between men and women in the aspect of them being both people, if that makes sense? It’s the reason why I see him as straight too so it’s funny, but I mean it as Arthur seeing women as people worthy of rights rather than the more normalised view at the time that women were second to men. Then again, I believe that Arthur likes women more than men, I don’t mean necessarily in a romantic manner, but that he just feels more comfortable with them due to his view of himself and persona he plays up, while simultaneously having the mindset that ‘while women are great they’re still softer and meant to protect’ etc.

Basically, I see Arthur as to have the mindset that ‘women shouldn’t be deemed less valued than men’ and ‘humans can be good or bad regardless of what gender they are’ but not necessarily ‘women are equal to men in what they provide, not worse just different’ if that makes any sense?

arthur morgan bisexual canon real and true and legitimate

[utopianparadoxist]

On Roxy, Centrism, Gravitation, and Love

So Candy Roxy has gotten a lot of shit--rightfully so--for taking a consistently centrist and peacekeeping role in the Candy timeline. Generally averse to the spotlight and of the opinion that the Gods, with their outsize importance and cultural weight, should stay out of the governing affairs of regular people, Roxy has largely been reduced to a passerby watching as her friends plummet the world into chaos as they try to tear each other's throats out.

But there's another way to read her fundamental centrism, one where her focus and perspective simply aren't political, but rather interpersonal. As one redditor (I lost the comment and don't know who, sorry!) put it, they read Roxy in this latest update as a character striving to "keep everyone together", to pull the fracturing group back into unity.

Pulling things together. That sounds familiar.

It sounds, in fact, like Gravity. "In physics, gravity (from Latin gravitas 'weight'[1]) is a fundamental interaction primarily observed as a mutual attraction between all things that have mass." In other words, Gravity is a word we use to describe the fact that everything that physically exists, that has substance and matter, is inexorably pulled towards each other.

Rose describes gravitation as "the intrinsic nature of nothingness", that is to say, the nature of Void itself. And while the force of Gravity gets weaker the further things are spread apart, this weak and subtle force is what draws together cosmic gases that compact and condense into each other with such intensity that they give birth to the Stars themselves.

In this way, Void is a force which creates and becomes Light. And in the same way Gravity acts as a force pulling stellar objects together, laying the foundation for organized solar systems and ultimately Life itself--could Roxy be trying to act as a force pulling her friends into harmony reflect her relationship to the Void, right at the time the Black Hole threatens to grind them all into oblivion and they most need someone to rally them to a unified cause?

Let's see how deep we can dive into the dark.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

To start with, there's some required reading to understand where I'm trying to go. The image above is from Homestuck blogger @lime-bloods, who has done some absolutely brilliant work unpacking the symbolic importance of Black Holes.

I suggest reading the images above to grasp the full context of the idea, but in essence, it suggests that Black Holes are synonymous with the concept of the Home in the bounds of Paradox Space.

As Lime-bloods states, The local Black Hole of a Cherub's birthplace is identified as that Cherub's home, and Cherubs always return to this same black hole in order to reproduce. John's speech about the note that desolation plays makes reference to "the Voids keeping neighbors apart", in other words, the houses separating communities into families.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

The Sprites, too, are bound to the gravity of their player's Home during Sburb, unable to leave the house until the player reaches unlocks the ability to summon and eventually release them. This carries over into Homestuck: Beyond Canon, where almost every sprite manifests inside the Black Hole created by The Point.

The only exception to this is Jasprose, who A) As a Light player may have some natural resistance to the call of the Void and B) was the only Sprite explicitly released from her duty by her Player--Davepeta "released themselves" as Davesprite, but we don't know if that represents true freedom from their Sprite nature or merely a more nuanced rebellion against it. That's a tangent though, lets get to The Point.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

The Plot Point is a massive machine created by Roxy and Calliope for the purpose of stabilizing a Black Hole, a supermassive source of literal and narrative Gravity, and for all intents and purposes, it represents a Space/Void fraymotif, or feat of combined Aspect magic.

And what it does once Vriska dives into it is pull her into an cocoon forcing to re-experience of her old childhood Home, her very experience of being Homestuck, to force her to confront and grow past it. In this simulacra of her Home she has to contend with the toxic family dynamics she grew up with--Mindfang and Spidermom as her mothers, Doc Scratch as her groomer and symbolic father.

Diving into the Black Hole makes her once again Homestuck.

"...Understanding that Rose's lapse into alcoholism is her own way of succumbing to 'gravity' - a pull towards toxic familial cycles which not only evokes Vriska's own "addiction" to breaking 8-balls but also literally surrounds the drinker in a dark pocket - her allusions to the Void and gravity here are also tinged by her own experience and outlook as a Seer of Light (who heavily relied on a magic cue ball as her source; a fountain of information which is symbolically opposed to the information-consuming black hole)..." @lime-bloods reader response to my ask.

Lime-Bloods also draws the insight that Rose's relationship with alcoholism--brought out by her grief over the loss/absence/non-existence of Mom in the first place--is itself her succumbing to the call of Void, of Gravity, the narrative and force that pulls her toward Roxy, Mom, and her own childhood. It is in the midst of her alcoholism, after all, that she has the very revelation that leads her to tie Gravity and Nothingness/Void together in the first place.

There's another name for that force. Another form Gravity can take, that is experienced not narratively, but emotionally.

"My instinct is that Rose has reached the same conclusion I have: that 'gravity', as a metonym for the influence of a black hole, is just the inevitable pull towards oblivion. I think she's using "nothingness" as a euphemism for "space", over which gravity has dominion, but through this we can start to appreciate how the concepts of Space and Void weave into each other ("nothingness", "space" and "void" all being functional synonyms)..." @lime-bloods reader response to my ask.

At the same time that lime-bloods identifies Gravity with characters being pulled towards their homes--and so, emotionally, toward their histories with each other, in the context of Child/Guardian pairs-they also identify Gravity with the pull towards oblivion, towards nothingness.

Towards death, like how it was in death itself that Rose's mother gained the gravity to pull her daughter's heart closer to her, bringing all of Rose's love flooding to the surface. Death is itself a kind of nothingness after all, and while Space is the neighbor holding Void's left hand on the wheel, Void spins through the cosmos holding Doom's hand on its right.

And there's something interesting there when it comes to Roxy. A recurring pattern in her emotional responses to death and brushes with mortality. When Jaspers died and she held an elaborate funeral for him in an attempt to connect with Rose, like when Rose died and she held a private funeral for her and reached out to embrace Jaspers, when Dirk committed suicide in Candy and Roxy reacted by proposing to John at his funeral--

when faced with her mortality, Roxy reaches out for love.

She actually lays out this logic explicitly in the midst of her proposal. Death reminds her that time is finite, and that reminds her that what she wants to prioritize in her life is her love and connections to the people that matter to her.

John's inner thoughts in response to her proposal describe love in a rather interesting way, too--describing it as a feeling that goes "unexamined", unobserved, not directly paid attention to, as if out of the spotlight of the concious mind, until it becomes overwhelming and crashes over you.

As if a mass of cosmic nebulae gaining enough Gravity to compact gases together intensely enough to birth Stars--or Light. This association between realized Love and Light isn't new--as the aspect of Truth and Importance, the original comic associates Light with almost every major pairing, including Dirkjake, Vrisrezi, Rosemary and Roxycallie.

But the process of being drawn closer together and developing love, of strangers becoming acquaintances becoming friends becoming family or life partners, gaining importance in each other's eyes through the mutual attraction of Gravity--that process tends to take place mostly in the Void in original Homestuck, askance and askew from the viewer's perspective, hidden and private.

Though perhaps I shouldn't limit the force of Gravity entirely to the word "Love" (perhaps Passion is a better one, Heart's echo to Void's Gravity as a horizontally mirrored pair on the wheel) after all, Terezi tells John that the purpose of kissmesitude is ultimately to force both partners to "Shine a Light" on parts of themselves that would otherwise go ignored in other to improve both parties, meaning Hate can serve much the same purpose.

Dirk, for example, shines a light on massive problems with himself and with his effects on other people interpersonally through his relationships with Jake (Love) and Hal (Hate). Both force him to contend with himself and grow, enabling his eventual rooftop conversation with Dave.

Coming back to the Candy timeline in this latest update, we find Roxy trying to pull everyone in a centrist position on the matter of Jane, again reaching out to the friends she knows and loves for support when faced with the imminent mortality of someone she cares about. She finds nothing.

The thing is, the call towards love, towards Home, isn't inherently either good or bad. What I'd call it instead is essential, as in that in the same way gravity pulls astral bodies together and keeps us bound to Earth, it is in the essence of people to be pulled towards one another.

This contextualizes the Home as a Void symbol somewhat. Above all else, what a Home literally is is a House, and what a House really is is Empty. A house means nothing by itself, its purpose to be a hollow shell encasing people away from the elements.

It is the shared life, the mutual draw of love or the conflict and hate between the people sharing that Home that defines it, that gives it distinct meaning, whether for the better or for the worse. Without that inner Light, a House is indeed a perfectly generic object--an oversized Box, forgettable, infinitely replaceable. A microcosm of the Void itself.

So as Lime-Bloods says, Gravity/Love pulls Rose towards reliving toxic family dynamics, and in this case it pulls Roxy towards saving the life of a fascist who will inevitably make the world more toxic and cruel for everyone, simply on the strength of feeling provided by Jane having been a core part of Roxy's Home herself.

That said, what is toxic in one context can be productive in another, and right now the Candy adults are desperately in need of a leader who can get them all to agree on a direction to take towards solving the very real, very imminent problem of the Black Hole obliterating the Candy Timeline to nothingness.

While Vriska suggests that it may be possible for them to save Earth C from its fate, it is really only Roxy that is stepping up to the plate of advocating for it, continuously emphasizing the metaphysical threat and her unwillingness to abandon her Home, and by association, the very Black Hole that entraps her.

She says it best herself: She feels it in her gut that they can still save this place, and who better than a Hero of Void to make that kind of determination? A Black Hole is after all as much a symbol of Void as it is one of Space.

So I suspect she's going to rise to the occasion of meeting this particular challenge, and if she does, she's going to do so on the merit of the Gravity/Love that keeps her bound to Earth C, in all its wretched beauty.

The two easiest ways I can think of to solve the Candy Earth situation are for either John to dive into the Point and become June, for all the Gods to work together on some sort of large-scale abstract fraymotif or combined God magic the likes of which we've never seen before, or some combination of both.

In any of those scenarios, it feels like Roxy will likely be coordinating and keeping the group on task, simply because everyone else is too distant and divided from each other. And all of this makes me think about someone else. The other Roxy, traveling to confront Dirk in Meat.

When I first read this update, Meat Roxy came off unusually cold to me, surprisingly callous about the idea of killing Dirk. He even came off as willing to do the deed himself if need be, and like he was simply asking Dave if he was up to the challenge.

Now I find myself wondering. It feels to me at the moment like Meat Roxy is playing it cool, so to speak, keeping his own cards close to his chest and deliberately providing the space for Dave to express his own feelings and opinion. Neither Roxy nor we get to hear Dave's answer, but considering Roxy even said he hopes things end hunky dory, he really asked the question as neutrally as possible, providing space for Dave to go either way without feeling judged.

But considering the lengths Jane was able to go and still have Candy Roxy's love keep her attached to her, at least as far as wanting to offer mercy, it seems likely to me that Meat Roxy would feel similarly merciful about Dirk. I'm sure Dirk will do everything in his power to make Roxy and Dave feel they have no choice but to try to end his life, but I think he and we may end up surprised at how far he'd have to go to really convince Roxy of that.

I suppose time will tell. This somehow feels incomplete--perhaps fittingly, even now it feels like nuances of both Void and Roxy escape me, and I find myself simply waiting for what the future will bring. But I think the association between Gravity and Love treads new ground on the subject of Void, and I hope you enjoyed reading about it.

Nothing to do now but wait for the next upd8.

Keep rising.

[storyweavingspider]

I wrote this all out once and then tumblr ate it as it was posting so I’m writing it again out of fucking spite.

Instead of a basic transition timeline, I wanna write something for the transfemmes who had their transitions delayed because of someone else, who are scared they may never be safe to transition. It’s worth surviving until you escape and can create yourself, I promise you.

In 2016, when I was 20, I first started to have realizations of Gender. I was dating my most abusive partner at the time, a semi-closeted transmasc who forced me to stop exploring my gender because of their own insecurities snd internalized transphobia - and because of how abusive the relationship was, I stopped out of fear and banished the thought from my mind. We were together for three-ish years.

These photos are the first time I put on makeup for myself that wasn’t for a costume or performance, taken about 30 minutes apart in 2016.

In January 2019, I finally escaped them safely, and immediately came out as an any-pronouns enby who often had curated facial hair. I knew nothing really about HRT and didn’t have any transfemme friends I could talk to more about it at the time. I kept my presentation and pronouns fluid through 2020-ish.

I’m including a small range of photos from this period bc I want y’all to see me experimenting with femme looks as well as having masc looks. I also used breastforms/inserts at this point depending on the day/look. These are from roughly 2019/2020:

In 2021, I started hormones (pills), stopped letting people use “he” pronouns at all for me, and settled on “They” as my primary pronoun. I also started focusing more on styling myself femininely and figuring out what I liked/wanted.

In 2022, I started interacting with the local trans community a lot more and started injections/monotherapy, which I found worked a *lot* better for me than pills.

These photos are from 2021/22:

Over 2023/24/25, I’ve increased my dosages, added progesterone, and have found better skincare/hair care routines for myself. I’d like to have surgeries eventually, but that’s complicated by the fact that many FFS surgeons only know how to work within white standards of beauty, and don’t know how to preserve “ethnic features” especially for Black trans women.

I also stopped allowing nonblack people to use “she/her/girl” pronouns for me for complicated racial reasons (although I still use other feminine terms), added “Fae/faer” as my primary pronouns in addition to “They/them”, and realized a lot more about my gender! I still identify as a non-binary trans woman, however.

These photos are from recently:

I wanted to say all this because I never thought I’d escape that relationship I mentioned and get to be myself. We broke up a week before we would’ve gotten married. I didn’t have hope and I thought being able to be who I really am was just.. lost to me. And I was wrong.

Even if it takes you longer to get there, even if you’re not safe right now or don’t feel comfortable right now, it’s worth surviving until you can, I promise. I wish I had been able to be myself in those three years I “lost” too, but I’m so fucking happy to be who I am now. I’ve been through a LOT of trauma since those first photos, I’m not gonna pretend it was easy to survive until now, but it’s so fucking worth it.

One day you’ll get to be the one telling younger trans women how it was hard for you to survive until you could transition, but that it’s so worth it to keep going until you can.

Hi girls, let’s do something! Reblog to this post with a picture of yourself, or a transition timeline if you feel comfortable about it, and things that make you happy and comfortable about yourself! To spread a bit of positivity, and show the girls that are scared that there’s joy on the other side.

[pokemonshelterstories]

Omg im so glad i found your blog, maybe you have an idea. So i have an Alakazam that is REALLY old and i thought it would be fun for her to kinda get to be together with an Abra baby (super young, not neutered yet) because shes so smart and it would be enriching. I did a normal intro and it didnt work at all, the Abra kept teleporting away whenever my Alakazam tried to sniff him and then she lost interest and didnt care anymore. Im super worried its not gonna work out because the Abra is a rescue and i really dont want to bring him back because we‘re already bonding. Heres what i tried:

1. switch their blankets around so they get used to the smell

2. let them meet through a glass door first

Any ideas? 🥺

i think you've just overestimated how much the abra line interact with each other. you're right that alakazam are incredibly intelligent pokemon, but they tend to be solitary outside of small family groups during mating season in the wild. they aren't necessarily asocial, but i wouldn't bank on your alakazam ever getting too attached.

meanwhile, abra spend almost all of their day asleep, and they tend to teleport first and ask questions later. this honestly sounds like a pretty normal interaction for two unrelated members of the line! you're doing things right so far. it just takes time. your alakazam may not show much interest in all unless you evolve your abra into a kadabra. in addition, in the wild, a mother kadabra or alakazam will only pop by a couple times a day to feed her offpsring. they wean pretty quickly, so there's not a ton of maternal impulse there.

as for taking the abra back, as long as they aren't hostile to each other, i think they're okay to stay together. they may not be best buddies or anything, but it seems like they're tolerant enough of each other. they may nor may not bond much with each other over time, but if they're both happy with you, this sounds okay.

[dumbingofage]

hi, I have a question about Charlie if you don’t mind? is she autistic/is that why she spaces out as much as she does? asking bc I have an autistic friend who mentioned feeling frustrated with spacing out, and I’m wondering if the head pressure thing would help for her but I’ve zero clue where to find info on it (google is unfortunately unhelpful). I’ve heard that weighted blankets are helpful/feel good to autistic people but nothing regarding applying pressure to the head. TIA!

When you have kids, sometimes seeing them grow up and interacting with them unlocks memories you've forgotten or at least lost focus on from your own childhood. For example, I ... must have been a very spacey kid! As one of my kids often has trouble paying attention to basically anything going on around them, I start remembering... oh, wait, I remember my dad always asking me to pay attention. I guess... this is what that is. And so I remember having extremely delayed responses to other people -- not that I wasn't precisely paying attention, but that, you know, it'd take me a while for my brain to realize... oh hey somebody said something to you, you should get in on that. Oh, that was ten seconds ago? Okay, right. My mind was everywhere. But always with one foot sort of in reality. But I also felt the frustration other people had in my delayed responses, and also my own frustration at not being able to do anything about it. How do you just pay attention? If I could, I would! Stop being mad at me.... ten seconds ago!

That's where Charlie comes from. Is it autism? Is it ADHD? A fun cocktail??? She's somewhere in there.

As for pressure to the head: I think it's sometimes helpful to have something that... singularly distracts you. Like pinching yourself to keep yourself present. That plus the whole weighted blanket angle but on a more localized scale. In theory, I assume it's comfy

i assume in theory because i have a comically large head and hats rarely fit well on me, but i guess there was that period during the pandemic where i let my hair grow out too much and it started getting in my face and i just started wearing a winter hat all the time to manage it, and... honestly i did get a lot of work done then, so

[onetiny-inkdropuniverse]

THIS

And also, the people they have giving the shovel talk never make any sense???

Like, Jason. My boy Jason. To Jason, Will Solace was one of his first introductions to Camp Half-Blood, the first place that becomes his home after losing his memories. Will introduces his best friend to camp. Will is a well-respected head counselor, the way Jason wants to be. Will is the only other person, other than him, to check on Nico after the Battle of Camp Half-Blood. Also, Jason literally lost his memory, didn't know gay people existed until the Cupid scene, and then was like, "oh okay cool". My guy has no concept of the shovel talk. When he hears that Will and Nico are dating, what he hears is, "Two people I like and respect are dating, that's awesome" and he's just happy for them.

Then, sometimes people have Percy giving the shovel talk. Hello??? I feel like a lot of people misinterpret the "not my type" scene as Percy being, like, genuinely offended... but he's actually just confused. After that, knowing Percy's personality, he'd probably just feel really awkward around Nico. Percy was always wary, creeped out, confused by, and guilty around Nico, and would likely just let Nico *live his life* after the Battle of Camp Half-Blood, being nice when they interact and not really doing much else. He's crazy uncomfortable around Nico. That's just how Percy is-- he meets a lot of people, and when things go south, he does what he needs to do to protect the inner circle he's loyal to and then hightails out of there. Nico is not in that circle. With all of his college stuff, Percy is highkey forgetting about him. In no universe is he giving the shovel talk to Nico's boyfriend, the guy who saved Annabeth's life!

Leo would never. Will is literally the guy who introduced him to Camp Half-Blood, and at least within the Canon (though I always felt like Leo and Nico would get along well after initially being at odds because they have a lot of shared experiences), Leo and Nico aren't that close. Would he possibly make some goofy off-hand joke? Maybe, personally I still don't see it. And if he did, then Hazel would slap the shit out of him.

Annabeth? Probably friends with Will. She's not doing it.

Piper? Similar situation to Jason. She also isn't that close with either of them when they first start dating. If she did have anything to say as she and Nico become better friends later on, she'd be wildly supportive.

Hazel? She'd be the most likely to say something out of all of them, given that she is the closest to Nico and knows the least about Will, but I have a hard time believing that, after seeing how Will helped Nico after the battle with Gaea, that she'd be at all serious. Probably just one joke, one time only. A little bit of badass Hazel, in a teasing tone, and that would be it.

And Frank? Are you serious? Not in a million years.

Shoutout to Reyna, who would probably be in a similar situation to Hazel: Most likely to make a little joke threat because she is close to Nico and not very close to Will, but after seeing Will help Nico, would not mean it with any seriousness.

If *anyone* is giving Will the shovel talk, it might, MIGHT just be Hades himself, thinking it's a good father move, and Nico would kill him after more than two words come out of his mouth.

What I would pay to see is an overprotective moment from Kayla or Austin or one of Will's close friends or something against *Nico*. Now there's something I can see happening, unless they become good friends right away.

And if anyone except Reyna or Hazel tried to give him the shovel talk, Will would actually destroy them. Don't even get me started. And again, Reyna and Hazel would not do that. Maybe a joke. But they'd be joking.

will solace angst is always so, SO underrated.

everyone has heard about how much trauma nico has gone through. losing his sister, being displaced in time, being homeless, walking through tartarus, saving the world multiple times.

will could never compete with that. nor any of the seven. but he still gets angry, maybe a little envious on how much attention they’re getting. on how they saved the world.

but none of them would be there if it weren’t for *him*.

he saved annabeth’s life. saved nico’s life, saved so many campers, held everyone together as a shining light.

and everyone ignores that!! ignores that he lost family too, that when austin and kayla went missing he was alone in the apollo cabin. that when the apollo cabin went to fight in the titan war, only three of them came back.

he’s not perfect. he blames the ares cabin partially for refusing to fight.

but he can’t be anything less than relaxed. if he lets his control slip, he cannot stop himself from dissolving.

and i just think that when the seven find out will and nico are dating, they try and give will a shovel talk and he just LOSES IT.

like how dare they think that he would do ANYTHING to nico when they’ve done so much worse. who was the one to stop nico from fading away? who was the one to strong arm him into care? who was the one to open the door to the possibility that yeah, he can stay at camp and he’s welcome?

idk will is so underrated and he is my Son

[anjelicawrites]

Another blurb that ran away from me and developed on its own. John Price x reader. SFW but 18 + only please!

If this was an 80's movie, this would be the moment when the record scratches into a halt, and you'd say something like "Yeah, that's me! And if you're wondering how I got here...", meaning hovering near your front door where Captain John Price is shirtless, eating a bowl of muesli with the most believable case of bed hair, as your ex is trying to win a stare contest against him, well, it's all your ex's fault, to be honest.

The asshole, meaning your ex, had decided to ditch you, after a five years relationship, when you two were talking about getting married, for a colleague, who had fucked him for a while and then moved on to someone else. The asshole, your ex, had then tried to start things back with you, right when you were out of the mourning period and did not want to try again: he's lost his chance and you're nobody's bloody rebound, right? No, it seemed, since he kept sending you gifts and flowers you promptly threw in the trash, kept calling you multiple times every day, even managing to get a hold of your new phone number, changing his whenever you tried to block him. He had even started to pop by your house, every Saturday morning, to rope you into these long conversation, which ended with him either telling you to rethink your decision, or that he will wear you down until you'll forfeit your silly ideas.

Suffice to say that your nerves were frayed, you had been stress baking for the better part of two months, bringing the excess of it you couldn't share with your neighbors to the base, counting on the personnel there to demolish the daily equivalent of the production of a small bakery.

You didn't think anyone would notice how anxious and tired you have been, how easily a noise would startle you or that you were constantly near tears because of every small mistake you did at work; for the most part you were right, no one took notice, no one but Captain Price.

Being the person who is at the end of the chain of organization and storage of all the reports written in the base, means him and his men interact with you constantly, mostly because they're late with their paperwork and you're tired of waiting. You're the one who keeps order in the chaos with a level of patience and over fixation Price has only seen in people ready for martyrdom, or serial killers. He likes you, genuinely, for the glimpses of personality that you let out at work, hell! Even when you have to pop by his office to remind him of the reports you're still missing, you're never an asshole, just someone who knows he's overworked, who understands it, but who is in no better waters than he is, so please, can he help you out at the best of his abilities? Absolutely, ma'am, and not only when paperwork is almost swallowing the two of you, you just need to give him a chance!

You never meant to share your issues with him, the guy is a colleague and you aren't even military bloody hell! But that fateful Friday afternoon you were truly at the end of your rope, desperate for a solution that seemed to elude you (despite everything you didn't want to go the police) and he was there, up on the roof where everyone goes to have smoke in peace, his eyes so soft and understanding that you had opened the floodgates, told him everything because you needed a sympathetic ear (you didn't cry, even though you almost did when he had put his big hand on your shoulder to comfort you).

He had listened, intently, unlit cigar forgot in the pocket of his military issued shirt. He had mulled over everything while you were busy blowing your nose and his lips had curved in a smile that spelled trouble.

"It's a bit cheeky." You had responded to his plan. "And I can't ask you to do that."

He had finally lit his cigar and stared at you with eyes so full of mischief you had felt warmth flood your whole body.

"You're not asking, love, I'm offering."

You had rummaged into your purse to find your own cigarettes, and to take a breather from his blue eyes boring into yours.

"Do you really think it would work?" "Muppets like him hold more respect for another man's words than they do to anything else."

And they probably don't want to mess with someone who is in the military, you think.

"What if he doesn't pop by tomorrow?" "Has he, ever?" "Nope."

Anxiety sank her claws into you again: not another Saturday morning lost listening to your ex's whines and bitching!

"Let's do this!" You quipped, before you could change your mind.

Price arrives at the brink of dawn, strangely chipper for someone who must have had just a handful of hours of sleep. He makes sure to park his car where it can be easily spotted and to give you one old T-shirt of his for "realism" (the theater kid in him is having a field day, the early Internet days troll is elated: he doesn't get to be this petty at work as much as he likes).

You are still half asleep, this must be why you keep stealing glances at him as your brain keeps telling you how handsome he is in civilian clothes, and without a hat, how big his shoulders are now that he's sitting on the tiny chairs in your kitchen, drinking tea from one of your cat themed mugs.

"You hair needs to be a bit more tousled." You say, when you hear your ex's unmistakable ring at the door.

Without thinking you push your hands in his short strands and just scruff everything up, until he looks like he's fresh out of bed.

"It's showtime." He winks at you.

You try not to stop breathing when he removes his hoodie and shirt: Jesus Christ the man is packed and clothes don't make him justice! You have to force yourself from staring at the dark hairs on his chest, and the dog tags glinting in the morning sun.

Leisurely he grabs the bowl he's filled with yogurt and muesli, his naked feet slap on the tiled floor; you can't see his face, he's already sporting the most bored, uninterested expression he can muster.

From the kitchen you can hear your ex's indignant "Who are you?", followed by Price's "Who are you, mate.": how does he know that your ex hates when he's getting a question for an answer?

"You're in my partner's house!"

You can picture the way his cheeks must be turning red with anger, what you can't imagine is the long, bored, stare that Prices gives him, scanning him head to toe, only to get back to his breakfast, because the other man is not a threat.

"So, you're the loser who's sniffing around what's mine when I'm away, defending this Country."

You cringe: it's a bit too macho and chauvinistic for your tastes, but there's a message that needs to be send.

"What's yours? What's yours?" Your ex screams. "We've been together for five years!"

There's a bit of silence, broken only by Price's munching on the muesli.

"You forgot about that when you decided to go fuck that other bird, didn't you?

This is your moment. On a whim you remove your jogger pants before you join John, who is still leaning against the door frame: you're going off scrip a little, but it shouldn't be an issue.

"John? What's the racket?"

Your hair is already a mess, thanks to the ungodly hour your alarm clock had awoken you, add your naked legs and the sleepy way you're rubbing your eyes, you look like someone who has been fucked into the bed and is still trying to collect their bearings.

"Nothing, love, go back to sleep."

Your ex is fuming when he sees you slide under John's arm, who hugs you closer to his big body and kisses the top of your head.

"What's this?" Your ex screams in your face. "This is John, the man who has been making me happy ever since you left me."

Your ex is gasping, you're enjoying the way he's not finding his words.

"You didn't tell me!" "I didn't have to, it's none of your business who is fucking me so good I don't have to fake an orgasm or two to inflate his pride. You should have listened to me when I told you I'm not interested anymore."

Around your shoulder John's arm tenses when you ex lifts his hand, as if he wants to slap you.

"You're nothing but a cheap whore." "Who will not fuck you for all the money in the world." You hiss.

Calmly, John pushes you behind him and stands in his full height in front of your ex.

"Listen, muppet, I'm letting you go easy this time because I don't want to cause a scene. You call my partner a whore, you keep harassing them, and you'll have to eat through a tube for months."

The sheer malice, the threat that's lacing John's words sends a shiver down your spine: he's not playing around for the sake of this whole scene, he will hurt your ex if he keeps popping back in your life. You know you shouldn't like this, but you're so done with him stalking you that a part of you is preening.

John stands tall in front of you, arms crossed despite the bowl; you can't see the way his whole face turns dark when a joyless smile graces his lips, you notice the slight hip trust he does, as if he's challenging your ex to come at him. He doesn't pull away from the doorway until your ex slams the door of his car and races away as if the Devil is on his tail.

When he turns around all that malice is gone, back is the man who had consoled you on the rooftop, who is ten times more handsome when he looks like he's just rolled out of bed.

"This was funnier than I thought it would be!" You say.

You don't know when your laughing turns into hysterical sobs, all you can feel is John's warmth when he hugs you tight, his hands caressing your back with soothing, gentle motions, the rumble of his voice as he repeats sweet nothings until you stop, still enveloped in his safe embrace.

You know you shouldn't, because this man has helped you in this strange way, but you don't want this hug to end, or to him to go back to his home. You want to stay locked in his arms for the whole weekend and it's not because you have been ready to move on from your past relationship.

"I ought to feed you a proper breakfast, it's the least I could do!"

He doesn't stop hugging you, yet it doesn't feel awkward, as it should, you two are two strangers, basically!

"You don't have to, love, it was my pleasure."

Price would have been lying if he were to say that he hadn't noticed you, back when you started at the base: this cute thing with a spine of steel who had slapped ridiculous stickers on the work laptop and who had, somehow, trained his scary lieutenant into finishing his paperwork in time, if not with a smile under his mask, at least with some energy. He had never made a move because he knew you were taken, he didn't want to be a willing wedge in your, seemingly, happy relationship. Knowing what a muppet your ex is, he would have followed his instinct and courted you away from that imbecile. Now that you're still in his arms he wonders if you'd let him take you out on a nice date to show you what a real man looks, and acts, like.

"No, no, please! Let me!"

You're still pantless when you start dishing out containers of baked food: biscuits, half of a Sachertorte and too many muffins that he cares to count.

"I'd spare you Lieutenant Riley's cookies, they're basically sugar and I need them for his next batch of reports."

John leans against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed against his naked chest.

"Don't tell me that's how you trained Simon into finishing his paperwork in time."

You turn around, a whole plate of waffles and pancakes in your hands.

"Sorry?" You don't look at him. "I didn't mean to."

You look so earnest and embarrassed that John can't help but laugh: no one will ever be able to waterboard this information out of him.

"Let me treat you to a nice breakfast out. It's the least I can do after you have been feeding me and my men for years."

Only now you seem to clock on the fact that you two are way too undressed than what is proper.

"John, you already did so much!" "Don't let my tone fool you. It's only a tactic to discover how you managed to bend Simon's stiff neck."

You both know he's lying or that this is not his real endgame, the only question here is: do you want to play along and see where all of this will lead you?

You set the plate on the overcrowded table and take a big breathe: why shouldn't you? You'd beat yourself up for the rest of your life if you'd let a nice specimen as captain John Price slip from your fingers!

[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * PAUL LAHOTE HEADCANNONS 𐚁̸.��

𐙚 enemies to lovers

if there’s one thing everyone in la push knows, it’s that you and paul cannot be in the same room without starting a fight.

constantly. over anything, over nothing. even if there’s no real reason to fight, you’ll find one.

“move.”

“say please.”

“go to hell.”

“after you.”

every interaction feels like a battle waiting to happen. you don’t just dislike each other—you go out of your way to push each other’s buttons.

for years, it’s been nothing but cutting remarks, sharp glares, and near-constant tension.

paul loves to get under your skin. if there’s an opportunity to push you to the edge, he takes it.

it doesn’t even matter why—you two could be standing in line for food at a bonfire, and somehow it turns into an argument.

“you gonna take the whole tray of food, lahote?”

“mind your business, y/n.”

“mind your table manners.”

“you wanna come feed me, sweetheart?”

“i’d rather let you starve.”

the tension between you and paul is thick.

the pettiest fights start over nothing. and paul is the king of pettiness. you just match his energy every step of the way.

he parks his truck in your usual spot? fine. you “accidentally” bump into his side mirror hard enough to push it out of place.

paul steals your seat every time you get up and you “accidentally” step on his foot when walking past him.

there’s a lot of accidental (and not-so-accidental) touching.

shoulder brushes when you walk past him.

standing too close when you argue.

one time, you grabbed his wrist in frustration and both of you froze for a second. you let go like he burned you. he smirked like it meant something.

he loves invading your space just to see you flustered.

neither of you admit it, but there’s something else under all the hostility.

a tension that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that fighting with paul is the most intense thing you’ve ever felt.

the way he gets so close when he argues with you, like he’s daring you to back down.

the way your breath catches when he smirks at you, even if it’s infuriating.

the way everyone else can feel the unresolved tension and has their own theories about why you fight so much.

the truth that nobody knows about.

you and paul weren’t always enemies.

in fact, when you were younger, you were actually friends. not just casual friends, either—you were really starting to grow close.

he was rough around the edges even as a kid, but with you, he was different. softer.

you were always excited to see him, always the first to drag him into some new adventure. he never admitted it, but he loved it.

for the first time, paul had someone who actually wanted to be around him, someone who made him feel like he wasn’t just the loud, reckless kid with a temper.

one day, you overheard him talking with his friends—some of the older boys, the ones he was always trying to impress.

you didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the second you heard your name, you froze.

“you and y/n have been hanging out a lot.”

one of them laughed. “what, she your girlfriend now?”

paul immediately scoffed, voice laced with defensiveness. “hell no.”

your heart dropped.

“she’s annoying as hell. always following me around like a lost puppy.”

the boys laughed, and paul—your best friend—laughed with them.

you felt sick. like an idiot. like you had completely misread everything.

after that, you stopped talking to him. you ignored him in school, brushed past him like he didn’t exist. and when he finally cornered you, demanding to know what your problem was, you let him have it.

“i get it, paul.” your voice was sharp, biting. “i’m just some annoying little girl you don’t want to be seen with. so don’t worry— i won’t waste your time anymore.”

he stood there, stunned, watching you walk away.

and just like that, your friendship was over.

the thing was— paul liked you. more than liked you. he had a crush, and at that age, he had no idea what to do with that.

the older boys caught on before he even realized it himself. they saw the way he let you drag him around, the way he never told you to leave him alone, the way he looked at you when you weren’t looking.

and they teased him mercilessly.

“paul and y/n, sitting in a tree—”

“bet he’s in love with her.”

he panicked. he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of them, didn’t want them to think he was weak for liking you.

so he denied it. he scoffed, rolled his eyes, said exactly what he thought they wanted to hear. and it worked. they laughed, shoved his shoulder, moved on.

but then he saw you. saw your face, heard your voice when you told him you were done with him. and he knew he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

but instead of apologizing—because apologizing would mean admitting he cared—paul acted like he didn’t.

he pretended he didn’t care that you suddenly hated him. he acted like it didn’t bother him when you ignored him, when you gave him those cold, sharp glares.

but it did bother him. it ate him alive.

and because he was too stubborn, too proud, he fought back in the only way he knew how—by being just as cold.

if you were going to hate him? fine. he could hate you too.

by the time you were both older, the damage had been done. your old friendship was nothing but a distant memory, buried under years of resentment.

you went from being the person he trusted most to the person who got under his skin more than anyone else.

every interaction was sharp, bitter, full of tension.

“still an asshole, i see.”

“still up in my business, i see.”

paul acts like you annoy him more than anyone, but the truth?

you haunt him.

he hates that he still remembers the way you used to look at him when you were friends—like he was worth something.

he hates that he hurt you, that he was too much of a coward to stop it when he had the chance.

he hates that arguing with you is the closest thing he gets to having you in his life again.

and the worst part? he’s still so damn drawn to you.

every time you throw an insult at him, he finds himself grinning like an idiot.

every time you roll your eyes at him, he has to fight the urge to grab your face and make you look at him differently.

but instead of admitting any of it, he doubles down. he fights with you harder, because as long as you’re arguing with him, he still has your attention.

you’ve never hated someone more than paul lahote.

he’s arrogant, infuriating, and knows exactly how to push your buttons. but deep down? you hate that you still remember when he wasn’t like this.

you hate that sometimes, when you catch him looking at you, there’s something almost guilty in his expression.

you hate that your heart still races when he smirks at you. but most of all, you hate that you still care. so instead of dealing with it, you fight him. every single time.

and if your arguments feel almost too heated, if his voice gets almost too low when he growls your name, if your pulse quickens for a reason that has nothing to do with anger… you ignore it.

because there is no way you’re falling for paul lahote.

but for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time noticing each other.

you notice when he’s not around, and he notices when you’re too quiet.

he won’t admit it, but he listens when you talk—he knows what annoys you, what makes you smile, what makes you shut down.

but the ghost of the past always comes back.

everything builds until one day, one fight goes too far. maybe it happens at a bonfire, where the tension is just too much and one of you snaps.

“you know what, paul? i feel sorry for you. you act all tough, but deep down, you’re still that same insecure little boy who cared more about what his friends thought than about the people who actually gave a damn about him.”

paul’s jaw tightens. his usual cocky expression is gone. “yeah? and you’re still that same pathetic girl who actually thought i wanted to be your friend.”

silence. heavy, painful silence.

you hate it.

because there it was. the same old heartbreaking ache in your chest which proved that you never got over what happened between you two that day at school all those years ago.

your always confident eyes were now shattered to pieces as you felt little tears start to blur your vision.

paul regretted his words the second they left his mouth. he didn’t mean it. he felt sick.

he saw you standing there. the same way he saw you years ago when he confronted you about your sudden cold behavior and you threw his words to his face, saying goodbye to him, taking your friendship away with you.

neither of you said anything for a while.

both of you just stood there. taking all in. how did you get to this point? what the hell were you even doing?

but you refused to be taken for a fool again. so with the strength you had left, you breathed in and turned to leave without looking back.

paul opened his mouth but no words came out.

because maybe you were right, he was still that same insecure little boy.

you both avoid each other for days. but it doesn’t last. you’re drawn to each other like magnets, even when you try to fight it.

you miss him.

not just the bickering, not just the tension—you miss him. the way he keeps up with you, the way he notices things no one else does. and maybe that terrifies you more than anything.

eventually, paul gives in first.

the sun is out, the air warm, and you’re at the beach with some friends. you’re laughing at something the guy sitting next to you said.

you don’t even notice paul watching, his entire body tensing, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists when the guy leans in close, whispering something that makes you smile.

you don’t see him snap.

one second, you’re enjoying your time, trying to push paul’s words out of your mind. the next, there’s a shadow looming over you.

you glance up, startled, and meet his eyes— dark, blazing.

the guy beside you shifts uncomfortably. “uh—”

paul doesn’t even look at him. his focus is on you, and only you.

“we need to talk,” he says, voice tight.

you scoff, crossing your arms. “i don’t think we do.”

paul’s jaw flexes. his breathing is shallow, his entire body radiating heat—anger. jealousy. “now.”

your friend looks between the two of you, standing awkwardly. “uh, maybe i should—”

“yeah,” paul grits out. “maybe you should.”

you glare at him, but your friend mumbles something about catching up later and leaves. you turn back to paul, ready to explode.

“what the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, standing up to face him. “you treat me like trash, and now you suddenly decide to act like—“

paul takes a step closer, his chest moving with each breath. “like what? huh? like i care?” he lets out a breathy humorless laugh and turns to look around before meeting your gaze again.

you roll your eyes. “i don’t have time for this, paul.”

“jesus, you— you drive me insane!” he exclaims, desperately dragging a hand through his hair.

“what? am i annoying? like a lost puppy?” you throw his words back in his face. “guess some things never change.”

he finally snaps. “i never meant that, and you damn well know it, y/n.” his voice breaks.

and for the first time, you really look at each other.

“i fucked up,” he interrupts before you can even say anything. “back then. the other night. every damn day ever since.” his hands are shaking, and he clenches them like he’s trying to ground himself.

he hated himself for what he did back then. hated himself for caring so much about what other people thought that he hurt the one person who actually gave a shit about him.

“i was a stupid kid, alright?” his voice is rough, desperate. “i didn’t mean a word of that. i was just—scared.”

“scared of what?”

“scared of how much i liked you.”

you freeze. you don’t say anything. you can’t.

“i still do,” he says, stepping even closer, voice raw and unwavering. “i don’t think i ever stopped feeling like this.”

he hesitates, his breathing uneven. “and if you tell me i don’t have a chance, i’ll walk away. i swear, i will. but if there’s even one part of you that still—” he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply. “then please, i need to know.”

your chest is tight. every inch of you is burning.

because god— you wanted him too.

you should be angry. you are angry. he hurt you—again and again. you told yourself you were done, that you wouldn’t let him do this to you anymore.

but when paul takes another step forward, you don’t move away.

his voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “say something.”

say it, and he’ll go. say it, and he won’t fight anymore.

but you don’t say it. you can’t.

because you’re looking at him, and for the first time in years, you see him—really see him. the boy you used to laugh with, the one who made you feel like you had something special. the boy who messed up, who hurt you, but who is standing here now, heart in his hands, ready to face whatever comes next.

your chest aches.

“you piss me off,” you whisper.

paul lets out a short, breathless laugh, almost in disbelief. “i know.”

“you hurt me.”

his expression twists in agony. “i know.”

you hesitate, then take a shaky breath. “don’t do that again— promise me.”

paul’s entire body stills. his throat bobs as he swallows, eyes searching yours for any sign that you’re messing with him.

then, slowly, carefully, he reaches for your hand. his fingers brush against yours—warm, hesitant, like he’s afraid you might pull away.

you don’t.

instead, you let him lace his fingers through yours, squeezing gently, grounding both of you.

a breath leaves him, like he’s been holding it this entire time. then he exhales one last shaky whisper. “i swear.”

after the truth comes out, it’s not immediate. there’s still so much tension, so much unspoken history. but little by little, things start to change.

you take it easy, to everyone’s surprise.

the arguments soften. the insults turn into teasing. the glares linger, but now there’s something else —something soft behind them.

“you still drive me insane, you know?”

“good. wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

eventually, neither of you can fight it anymore.

maybe one day you’re teasing each other, flirting/arguing, or maybe you’re just looking at each other for too long.

either way, the next thing you know, his hands are in your hair, and your lips are crashing into his like you’ve been waiting for this moment forever.

you never go back to the way things were, not exactly. but something new grows between you—something that feels even better, something real.

and at the end of the day, when he pulls you close, arms wrapped around your waist like he never wants to let go, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

[libraford]

Had my first patron interaction of the season, too.

Driving on the bike trail on the south side of town and a dude with a dog is walking opposite side of it. I pull over to let him pass. But he comes up to my windows.

Him: you lost?

Me: I'm here serving this trail.

Him: in a truck? What's there to service?

Me: trash can by the old folks home, trash can by the trailhead.

Him: well the folks at the greenhouse get that one because I put something in it every day and it's empty by morning.

Me: that's very nice of them, but i do have to check it because it's the responsibility of parks and rec, and it's on the route to another one so I might as well.

Him: well I never see trucks here.

Me: rest assured, I'm authorized to be here.

Him: i don't doubt that.

It's like... did you think I was supposed to walk 12 miles a day hauling all of the parks trash to dumpsters or did you think we could fit 175 trash cans worth of garbage into a golf cart?

[novlr]

How do you introduce side characters naturally? I have a lot of important secondary characters in my story, but every time I try to bring them in, it feels like I’m just dumping information about them. Help!

We’ve all been there. You have this amazing cast of secondary characters in your head, each with their own rich backstories and interesting personalities. But when it comes to actually introducing them on the page, you find yourself wrestling with clunky paragraphs of exposition or, worse, those dreaded character introduction scenes where the story grinds to a halt while you explain who everyone is.

The good news is that there are ways to weave your side characters into your story naturally, making them feel like organic parts of your narrative rather than additions that need explanation. So, let’s explore how to make your secondary characters shine without overwhelming your readers with too much information at once.

Why side characters matter

Before we dive into techniques, let’s understand why it’s important to include side characters in your stories. They’re not just there to fill space or give your protagonist someone to talk to. Well-written side characters can:

Add depth and complexity to your story world.

Provide different perspectives on your story’s central conflict.

Create additional tension and conflict.

Offer opportunities for subplots and parallel storylines.

Help develop your main character through their interactions.

Make your fictional world feel lived-in and authentic.

Provide comic relief or emotional weight when needed.

Introduce them gradually

One of the most effective ways to introduce side characters is to treat them like real people your readers are getting to know. Think about how you meet people in real life. You don’t immediately learn their entire life story, family history, and deepest fears. Instead, you discover things about them gradually through:

Initial impressions.

Casual conversations.

Shared experiences.

Others’ reactions to them.

Their behaviour in different situations.

This same principle applies to your writing. Instead of frontloading all the information about a character, reveal details organically as they become relevant to the story.

Example of gradual introduction:

Too much at once: “Sarah was John’s sister-in-law, a brilliant neurosurgeon who had graduated top of her class at Harvard. She’d lost her husband two years ago in a car accident and now lived alone with her golden retriever, Charlie. She loved Thai food, hated mornings, and had a secret passion for reality TV shows.”

Gradual reveal: “Sarah arrived late to dinner, still wearing her surgical scrubs. She gave John a quick, one-armed hug before collapsing into the chair beside him. ‘If I never see another brain aneurysm again, it’ll be too soon.'”

The second version gives us just enough information to be intriguing, while leaving room for natural discovery of other details later.

Show, don’t tell (but tell when you need to)

While “show, don’t tell” is solid advice, the reality is that you’ll need both techniques. The key is knowing when to use each:

Show when:

Revealing personality traits.

Demonstrating relationships.

Illustrating emotional states.

Establishing dynamics between characters.

Tell when:

Providing necessary background information quickly.

Clarifying relationships that would be confusing to figure out.

Establishing basic facts that don’t need dramatic revelation.

Use dialogue effectively

Dialogue is one of your most powerful tools for introducing side characters naturally. Through conversations, you can reveal:

Character relationships:

“Hey, boss,” Maria said, dropping a stack of files on Derek’s desk. “The Thomson case came back from legal.”

This simple exchange establishes their professional relationship without explicitly stating it.

Personality:

“Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Perfect,” Jake drawled, not bothering to look up from his phone. “Come to tell me I’m doing everything wrong again?”

We immediately get a sense of Jake’s attitude and the dynamic between these characters.

Background:

“Remember that summer we spent at Gran’s beach house? Before everything went wrong?”

This kind of dialogue hints at shared history and potential conflict without dumping information.

Connect to the main plot

Side characters should serve a purpose in your story. When introducing them, consider:

How they affect your protagonist’s journey.

What role they play in the main conflict.

How they complicate or assist the plot.

What unique perspective they bring to the story.

Create meaningful subplots

Subplots are excellent vehicles for developing side characters without overshadowing your main story. A good subplot should:

Connect to the main plot in some way.

Have its own arc and resolution.

Reveal something about the side character.

Add depth to your story’s themes.

Create additional tension or complications.

Common pitfalls to avoid

The introduction lineup: Avoid scenes where characters are introduced one after another in quick succession.

The info dump dialogue: “As you know, Bob…” conversations where characters tell each other things they already know.

The character sheet: Listing physical descriptions and personality traits without context.

The irrelevant backstory: Including details about a character that never become relevant to the plot.

The forgotten character: Introducing someone as important and then having them disappear for long stretches.

Questions to ask yourself

When introducing a side character, ask yourself:

What does this character bring to the story?

What’s the most natural way for them to enter the scene?

What’s the minimum information readers need right now?

How can this character’s introduction move the plot forward?

What makes this character memorable or distinct?

Remember, your side characters are essential elements of your story’s ecosystem. By introducing them thoughtfully and developing them naturally, you create a richer, more engaging narrative that keeps readers invested in your entire cast of characters, not just your protagonist.

Trust your readers to piece things together gradually, and focus on making each character’s introduction serve your story’s larger purpose. With practice, you’ll find that introducing side characters becomes less about managing information and more about creating meaningful connections within your narrative.

[sightseertrespasser]

Hey!

I think your Odds Of Survival is super super cool and awesome (I’m going batshit insane over it)

I’m really interested in the cybertronian political setup/worldbuilding you’ve been sprinkling in, it being revealed that Prowl and a lot of canon autobots are cons in this universe, mentions of the functionists, hints for whenabouts the quintessons arrived on cybertronian, etc.

I think the world you’ve built is so so cool. Ik you’re probably dripfeeding us crumbs intentionally and may not want to spoil things. But if there is anything you can or want to say, take this as an invitation to lore dump about whatever you want :3

If not then hope you’re having a good day and thanks for sharing your awesome creation :D

Hi!

Thank you so much for the compliment and the ask!

I do enjoy sprinkling in my world building in the stories themselves but I actually quite enjoy getting direct questions like these so I can info dump all the exposition I want. The drip feed is for satisfying narrative pacing, the ask box is for turning on the hose.

The basic premise I built off of was answering this question: If there’s no Optimus Prime, then what would happen to Cybertron?

The short version of what usually happens in most continuities is more or less as follows:

- The Functionalists and/or Sentinel Prime run Cybertron through a horribly oppressive government.

- A bunch of bots get sick of it and ignite a civil war.

- The rebellion “wins” but usually splits between the Decepticons and the Autobots, due to a division of fundamental beliefs. Decepticons are “might makes right” and Autobots are “how about not fascism?”

So what does it mean if Optimus isn’t there? What’s so special about the guy?

I have complicated thoughts on how Optimus, Megatron and their respective ideals interact and I could probably write a small essay about how they both offer Change to their followers in another tangent for another time.

The short answer is Optimus gives people the uncompromising option to Do Good. And backs that stance the fuck up every single time by his own actions. Taking the high road every time is freaking hard, and it takes an extremely stubborn, and most importantly angry kind of hope to not let it go.

Not many folks can do that. Not because they don’t want it, but because they don’t believe it’s possible.

And that’s were a lot of would be auto bots are at.

Everyone hates the Functionalists but they’re also incredibly rich in resources, controlling not just Cybertron but multiple planet spanning colonies. A lot of mechs that would have joined the rebellion in the og timelines haven’t because Megatron kinda puts out Evil Warlord vibes and not everyone is willing to work with that. People like Prowl and Elita still join because they’re the kind to go “Well we have to do something to make Cybertron better and taking the Trolly Off the Tracks isn’t an option.”

So the rebellion doesn’t quite reach the size needed to take out the Council and Sentinel in one fast all out charge. If it wasn’t for the Quintession invasion, the Decepticons would have eventually met a slow demise by attrition.

The Decepticons are low key operating like a pirate army with a very tentative ceasefire truce with the Functionalist Army. Unlike Optimus, Sentinel is a dick that can’t help but start shit with Megatron so there is almost zero collaboration between the two. Right now, the Decepticons are a downright devastating military force but in desperate need of a consistent supply of resources that raiding alone cannot stabilize.

The Lost Light is currently the only crew of the Decepticons that are legitimately trying to establish trade routes with other aliens (which is not going well because 90% of intelligent alien life views Cybertronians as colonist war machines (which is historically correct)) and they don’t exactly have the charming Beacon of Hope and Respect for Tiny Aliens that Optimus usually brings to the table.

Another thing in universe, the Lost Light is essentially considered the Island of Misfit Mechs. The ship is ancient and pretty much everyone on board got there for either “not being good enough” or from getting demoted, as is the case with Prowl.

Elita One was made the Captain because she’s competent enough to make Megatron nervous about her gathering too much influence but still too useful to kill off either. So she gets the rejects from other ships and up to a certain limit gets to do as she pleases.

That’s all I’ll write for now. Thanks again for taking an interest in my writing!

[minteagalaxea]

steep (sand) | r.r

roman and quynh . formerly john and quynh

genre: angst . smut (minors do not interact) content warnings: praise kink . sir kink . oral (m. receiving) . light bondage . nb character (afab) . multiple orgasms . squirting . voyeurism . exhibitionism (petty edition) . belly bulge word count: 5.02k inspiration: john cena's heel turn at elimination chamber . roman not showing up to work . roman reigns' several barbs about john and missionary position songs: sand by dove cameron (x) . bambi by baekhyun (slowed and reverb) (x) read also: "steep (xxviii reasons)" (x) . "steep (woo)" (x) . note: thank you so so much @spiicii for being a soundboard for this one! i'm lowkey crashing out bc of school, but this one has been motivating me lol! and thank you @lov3rla03 for being lowkey the impetus for this entire trilogy <3

like most actions regarding the company and his career, quynh always played a factor in it.

john thought back to those four years ago, where he caught them with roman in the locker room fucking after roman beat him at summerslam—how he couldn’t ignore the signs anymore there was something dangerously enticing between the two of them. quynh had always gravitated towards ambition. fuck, they had once said it themselves that they appreciated that in a partner.

and well, the rock had given him an offer he couldn’t refuse now that he was going to go up against cody rhodes at his last ever wrestlemania. and that 17th title was too tempting to resist before he could retire. and perhaps it was irrational for him to hope that maybe quynh would see him in some different light. it certainly did with roman.

god, he hated how roman managed to do it so effortlessly with them. even from before, when he was still with quynh, there was a particular ease, a flow in how they interacted on and off the camera. john knew it wasn’t a secret that quynh was one of the few people who was able to ensure roman didn’t get booed by the wwe universe. and that tension seemed to continue and worsen as roman…evolved? maybe devolved was the better word given the carnage he left in his wake, the mythos crafted for the tribal chief.

and yet despite everything, quynh stayed with him, built a life with the tribal chief like nothing mattered. like the amount of people he decimated was irrelevant. it didn’t even matter that roman fucking lost the damn title to cody rhodes, that he caused cody to start losing his relationship with his trusted allies from partnering with roman after he was suddenly a good guy.

no, it didn’t matter to quynh that he had left them behind the way john did. if anything, it only strengthened their resolve with him, to be with him. and it also didn’t matter that roman didn’t fucking show up to work half the damn time, because quynh was so in love with roman fucking reigns. never mind that the two of them were going through the same thing he and quynh went through with the whole long-distance thing.

he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer when he confronted them backstage before smackdown. his feet sought them out, a cadence forged from years of habit, years of refusing to let go, years of trying to nurture rare tea leaves into a precious bloom. yet, when he saw quynh in the dressing room, settling their breath before a long night of commentary with wade barrett and tapping their artificial nails along the table, the sight was anything but precious.

john recalled vividly summerslam almost four years ago, how roman had pointed out that their new back piece was going to look beautiful. roman wasn’t incorrect—in that mesh cropped tank and their slacks highlighted the ink on their back, the delicacy of those weaving around their body like armor. and it only got worse for him when they turned around, their shorter hair exposing their most recent piece, and john’s breath hitched every time he saw it.

their latest piece was built for sin, etched around their throat like the pièce de résistance of the inked armor all along their body. paired with their nails—short almond press-ons that were deceptively innocent with the cat-eye jade with beautiful winter flowers—and their smoky jade eyeshadow with the black and mint eyeliner? it made quynh look like a creature of sin.

and yet, sin was the last thing on quynh’s mind as they asked, “am i supposed to congratulate you for returning to your roots?” their nails tapped against the dressing room table as they presented him with an unreadable stare.

his voice was cool as he answered, “well, i thought you’d appreciate it given that you seem to have a type with bad boys.” it wasn’t a joke that they found funny, and john could see the disdain in their eyes as they shook their head, muttering something in vietnamese that john knew wasn’t anything positive. it wasn’t until they said it again more clearly that it struck him to the core, despite the amount of times he has heard it by now.

sell-out.

and fuck, that pissed him off.

“and roman wasn’t?” john knew his voice carried an edge, a bite that he hadn’t felt before when speaking to quynh. even after their breakup, the two had at least remained on neutral terms. enough for them to be able to do their jobs without letting barbs get in the way of their performance. roman, evidently, never had such scruples. he continued, “don’t tell me you’re carrying a torch for him now that you two are together.”

john forgot what it was like to argue with quynh. how it wasn’t always the best idea because fuck, they were ridiculously at tearing people down with a well-timed question, how they probably knew more about his reactions than he did himself. and despite them no longer being together, quynh’s perceptiveness had never changed as their lips curled into a smile sharper than steel and soft as silk as they crooned, “is that what this is about? because you’re jealous?”

shit. that stung. but…not entirely incorrect, was it? because every time he saw quynh—or really, quynh with roman—it made his blood whistle the way that kettle on his stovetop when the water was way past boiling and definitely too hot for tea. he didn’t bother to deny it anymore. they backed him into a corner so effortlessly that he couldn’t win. yet, was it about winning?

his voice hardened as he dug harder and firmer, “are you serious right now? what he did isn’t the same thing?”

“no, john. at least, i don’t think so.”

“and what makes it different, then?” he asked, taking a step closer, yet stopping as their nails tapped in a cascading rhythm against the table.

the counter came easily, “because your circumstances are selfish.” this time, they took a step closer, long legs flowing as they got closer to him.

“you’re about to retire, and you decide that because you want to win so badly, you’re going to sell out on the principles you’ve extolled for who the fuck knows how long because you’re so sick of how the fans treat you and want the best for you? instead of doing the people who supported you for your entire career justice and making them proud because they wanted that win for you.”

hisis blood boiled at that comment, and he snapped, “they didn’t care about me, quynh. because everything i do isn’t enough for them, and all they’ll do is demand more.” 

“that's how fans are. but, the thing is you earned their respect. and now you’re throwing all that away because your ego can’t take it? you think they treated you like shit so instead of just maybe forcing them to respect you, you’re rejecting the people who got you here?”

his feet froze, and he could only gaze into the hard line of their grimace and the foreign steel in their eyes. john wondered if roman rubbed off on them, or if it had been there all along in their time together, and he hadn’t seen it. hadn't gotten to see it given how far away they were, where the title of being their partner was more of a formality than a legitimate description. 

his voice steeled as their arms crossed, almost daring him to argue back as he said, “that's what roman did, didn’t he? came back because nobody was acknowledging him? took that title back, made everyone acknowledge him, became a monster, and you were into it?”

their tone carried that bellicose undertone of challenge, of annoyance as they raised an eyebrow, “you think that’s the reason i got with him? because he decided to stop playing…you?”

“i think you wouldn’t be saying what you’re saying if you weren’t in his bed while we were together.”

quynh didn’t say anything, the accusation did what it was meant to. but the look of frozen, icicile-esque vitriol in their eyes felt like he had just poured boiling water onto delicate, floral tea leaves to steep and burn.

at that point, their footsteps resounded less as a soft clack, morphing into the sharpening of a sword as they strode up to him with an elegant fury as their eyes flickered down to him just slightly. damn those heels of theirs, the ones that always put them above him by an inch and a half. the same ones that put them a half-inch shy of roman’s height. and their voice, a velvety dulcet contralto that always reminded john of a sweetened green tea, tasted astringent in the air as they hissed.

“how fucking dare you.”

john knew he erred. monumentally. for a lot of reasons.

the first reason was that quynh wasn’t just an interviewer anymore. they were at the commentary desk full time. and that meant anything and everything that happened in the ring got filtered through them. john forgot about that part, about their words were perhaps one of the greatest weapons that could be wielded. it shaped a lot of public perception. he knew that a fair part of what made the bloodline so successful was quynh’s ability to weave a mythos around them.

and their career, inextricably, would always be tied to roman reigns. before the bloodline, before the tribal chief. all the way back to when roman was supposed to be another him, and yet quynh prodded roman at the seams. their questions and silence made it easy for roman to give in, to show something that wasn’t whatever the company projected. and roman got over because of it, because their disconcerting, calculated silences gave roman that space to basically reveal the true parts of himself. the ambition, the ruthlessness.

john also knew that roman wasn’t entirely subtle with the way he looked at them back then, when they were young yet sharp and intolerant of anyone’s coddling, patronizing, and condescension. while he couldn’t attest to the frequency of it, given that he wasn’t physically there for most of it, he did watch the show, and he had witnessed it once firsthand how the other man admired quynh. respectful, certainly, but when quynh stared back with that same admiration, it made that one theory that spread around a whole lot more probable about how close they really were when john wasn’t there.

quynh wasn’t giving him such a luxury to talk, to bury himself even more, and he could hear it in their voice as they released a maelstrom of bitter words, anguished as if trying to hold back tears, “the fucking audacity to act like i didn’t continue holding that torch for you when you left me and took all the pieces of me that i’ll never get back. but, i had nothing of you because you took all of that with you to hollywood and you sold out there, and you came back to sell out now to the man you used to despise.”

that stung. but, in the recesses of his mind, he considered heavily that perhaps they were right. their long-distance put a major strain on them, given their youth, and perhaps that was the thing they resented him for most. that youth of theirs was something he took, shackling them both in a relationship where they couldn’t grow because who could they grow with? like a plant expected to grow without any sunlight or water to help it thrive, maybe a part of them died because of that distance, the complacency, the pains of him not being there.

feebly, he countered, “roman’s part-time like me, how often is he showing up to these things?”

“he still travels with me. he still makes the point to ask me things instead of blindly accusing me of things that would damage any good standing i have with my colleagues here. he gives as much as he takes from me.” their voice is plaintive, and john found the words dead in his throat as quynh’s eyes flitted towards the clock outside. it was almost showtime, and that meant they had to be out at the commentary desk.

before they left, though, quynh offered him some parting words with those beautiful eyes that glowed under the clinical lighting in that shade of tea brown that john caused a lot from burning and steeping his tea for too long.

“you know, had i actually cheated on you, i wouldn’t have gotten with roman two years after our breakup—i would have gotten with him thirty minutes after it.”

as their heels clacked against the floor, it sounded like the worst echo of his life.

cruelly, or perhaps not, given quynh’s general way with words, those words lingered as he watched on the monitor them running play-by-play with wade barrett, smackdown their entire kingdom as they spun their pen. they gave him, still, a somewhat courteous, snipe about his heel turn, but that was it. and evidently, wade didn’t want to entertain it longer given that was going to influence how quynh dictated commentary for the next few hours.

the worst thing was that they left after, not bothering to stick around after thanking all of the production crew. and if what they said were true, then john was watching them enter their ride back to the hotel with roman driving. those words came back with a vengeance, pounding like a hangover of goliath-like proportions. and that pounding only continued to escalate as he returned to the hotel, with the intention to go back to his room.

until he heard rapid-fire vietnamese mixing with whatever stray bits of english he could catch to piece together stuff. john didn’t need to do that much thinking to figure out it was quynh most likely talking about him. and not in a good way. he kept his footsteps quiet as he made his way to the door, trying to hide better than the last time this happened, pressing himself up against the wall so maybe they wouldn’t catch him this time.

“he just…he questioned my integrity, ro,” they griped, feet bare as they paced on the balls of their feet, ethereal and yet strong. it was the only complete english sentence quynh had said the entire time before they spiralled into another grumble in vietnamese. from what john could also catch, he saw roman’s patient nods and comprehension of whatever else they groused in their other language.

“and he questioned your integrity, too! like you’d go after someone who was in a relationship or fresh out of one.” their voice echoed in john’s head as the other man hummed, most likely agreeing with their sentiment. yet, they weren’t done, spewing out another stream of words in vietnamese until they felt it was enough.

tilting his head inside to peek at the slightly ajar door (why was it even open, john wouldn’t know), saw the other man standing up at a measured pace. he grabbed their wrists, both of them easily fitting in his hands as he stood behind them, pressing up against them in an act of domineering kindness. his eyes could only widen as roman’s hands looped a length of silk ribbon, weaving a delicate pattern around their wrists.

“you’re not scratching yourself anymore tonight, understand?” his voice resonated into the room. yet, the thing was, the more insane and yet hot thing in john’s eyes, was how easily quynh went with it, the tension immediately dissipating with each binding of the ribbon.

roman’s back had obscured quynh’s wrists, but when he moved to face them, john caught it properly. angry little rivulets and marks on their palms, glowing menacingly under the warm hotel light alongside the ink on their back. quynh hadn’t responded, but their voice came out in a breathy assent when roman tilted their chin up with a raised brow, the silent demand for words evident.

“yes, sir.”

john hadn’t gotten hard that fast in a long time.

and perhaps it got worse when john had to press himself up against the wall further, trying to become one with it when he felt the heat of roman’s gaze at the door, as if finally noticing its slightly ajar state.

“leave it open,” quynh murmured, slightly wavering on the balls of their feet in spite of the other man holding them steady.

fuck.

quynh had to have done this on purpose—there was no way neither of them realized john was there, right back where they were just over 3 years ago, where john was watching the two go at it in the locker room after summerslam with the door accidentally ajar. he wasn’t sure if that was always a thing, or if this was just reserved for him as roman tangled them up into a kiss, stabilizing their form to effortlessly lift them into the air and onto the ottoman, jettisoning the fabrics off of their body before he sat on the edge of the bed. john observed the way the tattoos on their waist flexed as roman spread his legs up enough for them to slot effortlessly into, his large hands carding through their shorn hair. mauve now. it suited them as he watched how the other man kissed their forehead first before guiding them to his shaft. as he leaned forward, quynh settled back onto their haunches; john’s eyes couldn’t leave their form, how the artwork on their waist and thigh flexed and rippled as if it wore their body. that same curvature applied to their spine, which arched so beautifully as they leaned down to suckle on the tip.

that particular tableau was hard for john to resist, for him to try and replace the image in his mind with him there instead of roman. yet, that fantasy contained a hindrance—a lack of appreciation of quynh’s sinuous form as they suckled on the tip, dark eyes peering up at their partner as he cupped their face in his hands. he guided their head down, their body blooming under roman’s expert hands the way a flower would.

john definitely felt like he was hallucinating as he stroked himself that those flowers on quynh’s thighs felt as if they were blooming even more as they bobbed their head, taking roman to the hilt with each incremental pass down. “that’s it, baby,” roman’s baritone-bass crooned, a hand carding through their hair as they settled down to the root, resting there and making him groan as they suckled around him. john’s hand worked himself harder as he listened to their muffled moans and gazed upon their inked form.

roman continued his praise, a growling sort of thing when they started to shift their head in an unencumbered, leisurely cadence, “fuck, you’re so good to me, baby. look so pretty with your mouth full of cock.”

and the sound quynh made was crafted of shredded silk and crushed sin as their movements escalated in pace just barely. yet, roman seemed to be able to tell the difference in a way john never quite could. like knowing the subtle difference between a tea leaf being ripe for harvest and one that needed more shade. he wasn’t good at that, with the clumsiness of distance. roman was attentive to them, and his groans and grunts reflected that innate knowledge of them just like he knew everything about quynh’s tattoos.

“shit, just like that, baby, i’m so close.” roman’s voice barely broached the soft environment of the hotel room, one of the few things he had said for the majority of the evening. that wasn’t something he or quynh ever tended to struggle with—the weight of the silence, what was unsaid as much as what was. john felt that ugly pit of jealousy and anger seep through his veins while he escalated the pace of his strokes, the sight of quynh bound and kneeling and that delicate, deliberate pace they had set. they still maintained it despite roman’s words, but john knew that roman could tell the difference as something shifted, his low sounds blending with their muted moans in a mesmerizing melody.

his own hand increased its pace to that, grip firmer as he tried to emulate perhaps what quynh could do, but he knew he was failing—failing to be quiet, failing to slow down. because that was the thing, wasn’t it? how what roman was doing, or rather, what he was instructing quynh to do, wasn’t about the speed or the urgency of the act. it wasn’t about second winds or wrecking them.

john was used to that urgency, to that adrenaline that festered after anything, just like tonight when he went out and got jeered in five billion different iterations because of him spilling out his rage, his torment to the audience. that used to happen a lot with quynh back then when they reunited, the urgency of seeing them before he would have to leave again ending in a lot of quick, borderline marathon sessions because he wanted that sort of moment, or simplistic things because the thing he missed most was them.

maybe, he pondered, that was selfish. that wasn’t something he could shake off as roman tenderly carded through their hair when he spilled into their mouth, their nose pressed up in his abdomen as they bloomed for him, drinking from him akin to a dehydrated plant soaking in the rain. and that had made john spill into his hand with a groan that he knew the two definitely heard given how quiet they were.

when the samoan eventually pried quynh off of his cock, he instantly lifted them onto his lap, their legs straddling his waist. john’s eyes widened as roman asked, “you feeling better now, baby?”

because, of fucking course, the otc had an entire reason for what quynh just did for him. it was about them both, through the care he had been attempting to give them, a respite from the burning fire that john branded into their veins. that sort of twisted care that only the tribal chief seemed to understand in them, john pondered as they nodded in confirmation, kissing him with that shyness that seemed to only show up when they had the understanding that they were being watched. his cock sprung to life and got even harder, if possible, as they whispered just loud enough, “yes, sir.”

john thought that it was peculiar that their shyness still occurred in spite of them evidently leaving the door open with the understanding that he was watching. he had seen their body naked more than enough times to count. but, perhaps this was different, this new self of theirs since roman became the tribal chief, the snapshots of what he saw when he returned every now and then when he saw the way both seemed to sharpen and soften one another. the worst thing was that he couldn’t pull his gaze away as they kissed, the samoan stabilizing them given their bound wrists. he finally noticed that they didn’t develop any more rivulets or scratches on their hands.

“did so good for me, baby,” roman murmured into their lips, and quynh preened as he shifted them, carefully tipping them back to have their upper body dangling off the edge of the bed. those clawed hands gripped the ottoman with a dainty ferocity. from john’s angle peering through the door, he caught the way the tattoo underneath the swell of their chest ripple from the position with how they arched towards the tribal chief with a certain magnetism as they begged for him. that same begging that had john frozen in his self-gratification.

“sir, fuck me, please. please, i’ve been good.”

and, by john’s metrics, they might have been. but, he wasn’t the one calling the shots. he stopped calling the shots a long time ago when it came to quynh. hell, they never entertained this sort of thing despite his knowledge that quynh wanted it, wanted to explore it. that didn’t prevent him from ruminating over the hypothetical if it was him. in that hypothetical, he wouldn’t have. he would probably prolong their begging, make them apologize for the shit they spewed at him earlier.

however, roman wasn’t such a man, spreading their legs enough to tap his tip against their long-neglected entrance, slipping in without resistance, leaning down to press a kiss to their stomach before he sank into them—a slow, careful thing this time around as he grasped their waist. those large hands eclipsed the ink work as he worked up an impactful, yet slow rhythm. and that cadence had everything quynh needed to mewl and cry out in bliss with the force of it, but also the care behind it. the intention there as john could only imagine the blood rushing towards their head compiling to their bliss. and holy fuck, he was hard all over again and the only thing he could consider despite the strain on that one hand was to keep using it.

as far as he knew, this was a warped, skewed form of caretaking, a proper sort of blossoming in hot water at the right temperature, the proper amount of water, every detail precisely accounted for. roman’s hands, large and calloused with enough blood on his hands in the company, handled quynh with precision and a certain level of expertise that was equal parts innate and trained. john forgot that, that innate sense of gentleness that only seemed reserved for quynh. one of roman’s massive hands rested under the curvature of their arched back; the other fell on their abdomen, palm digging into their sensitive, neglected nub, while his fingers tapped against the imprint his cock made against their body. they had flexed and swiveled their hips upward, their inked arms on full display as their grip on the ottoman grew ironclad.

“fuck, you’re so deep,” their voice carried through the rather silent air, wrapping around john’s cock that spurred him on deeper with the intensity of an inferno. working his hand harder wasn’t even a suggestion at this point, that breakneck chase for release in diametric opposition to the crafted experience roman fostered for them.

it wasn’t even a surprise that he was about to burst, but the way that quynh’s strong, lithe frame fucking seized up when roman’s palm didn’t cease their movement, only hastening for them to just…spray a fountain of release, their nectar thin and explosive that made roman growl lowly in approval and awe. john could only concur as he stained his hand again with pearlescent ropes to coalesce with the ones drying on his skin and boxers.

apparently, the other man was similar as he praised them for being so fucking beautiful and perfect as his hips stuttered and stilled, undoubtedly spilling his cream inside of them. john couldn’t catch it past the roar of his head, barely hearing the baritone croons of “that’s it, baby” and “taking it so well, yeah?” over the squelches caused from quynh’s feat as his fingers continued their onslaught on their pearl, his cadence paradoxically unforgiving and doting. their voice came out in wispy staccatos and cries of “sir” for the man that caused them to flower in such a way.

he should have left. he really should have. the show was over, and john tried to catch his breath with heaving pants from the sheer magnitude of his crest. it didn’t go past him that he mirrored the couple in the room. everything roared in his head, and maybe that was why he couldn’t look away from them.

his eyes lingered as roman helped pull quynh back up to properly rest and straddle his lap, tucking their face into the crook of his neck and running his massive hands down the flowers winding down their arms. his lips lingered on their throat, husky declarations of praise and admiration tumbling past his lips in their name while undoing their bindings.

“how are your arms, baby?” quynh’s arms wound around his neck, impaled on his length with soft whimpers as they tried to recollect themselves.

he couldn’t catch what they said, but it was enough for them to share tender kisses with roman fucking reigns in ways john didn’t think he was capable of doing. their foreheads pressed against one another before the sight of them evaporated from view, akin to a mirage or the steam that always wafted from a hot cup of tea.

and as the tea cooled and he remained watching, john couldn’t help but wonder what inspired him to stay there despite his release drying uncomfortably with the two heavy climaxes. perhaps it was because the door hadn’t closed yet, or maybe the wishful thought of seeing quynh in that blooming glow, fully blossomed and beautiful.

john wouldn’t get his wish. the tea cooled too long.

roman’s heavy gaze met his own as he approached the door. there was no point in hiding his presence from the man, given how they all knew the door was open solely for john. however, it was never in invitation, but always in spite.

he said nothing. neither did roman. there was nothing to say. however, when roman offered steely eyes as he shut the door shut, john knew that quynh had slipped through his fingertips like the finest grains of sand, molded into the perfect counterpart for the (original) tribal chief. or, he supposed, they were a beguilingly rare tea that would never have steeped right under his clumsy hands, no matter how much he would attempt to refine it. roman showed them what it was like to steep properly, without astringency and with all those floral complexities that shone with every sip.

it didn’t matter now—he’d never get another chance to try his hand, with how much and how little they lingered on the tongue of his mind.

taglist ⇢ @yana3sworld . @roseydoesypoesy . @acute-crashout-jeyuso . @fearlesschimera . @theusotwinzcom . @geekinstilettos

[thehydraethereal]

OKAY SO when the last on ended it could pick up from there and he ties her up in a room. Then they get to where their going to and she tries to get away from him but he finds her. Then brings her back to the house and torture her ( idk if u write for that ) or he just ties her up in the basement and just leaves her there for a while idk <3

ꪖꪶꪶ I 𝘴ꫀꫀ Ꭵ𝘴 ᦔꪖ𝘳𝘬ꪀꫀ𝘴𝘴

๛༊ 𝒲ARNINGS: This work contains dark themes such as dv + mentions of; NONCON (rape); heavy violence (on reader and others); mentions of murder; abusive relationship; and possibly more. MNDI, 18+ ; IF YOU DO NOT LIKE MY CONTENT, DO NOT INTERACT.

࿐༊ 𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 1.2k. BARELY PRROFREAD.

๛༊ CATEGORY: A RAFE CAMERON DRABBLE | RAFE'S 𝓜ASTERLIST |

๛༊ MY NOTES: this is the sequel of '𝒜ll ℐ see is ℛed ℒights'. thank you all for reading and giving me so much love, I feel blessed! 🥹 hope you all enjoy this part as well. always, to my sister @highonmarvel , maybe you'd like this as a late night read. Love you forever and always, thank you for inspiring me so much! A lil something for @stargirllanaa, ofc if you wanna read. @ghostbusters6 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING. It did not turn our as violent as I would've wanted---more poetic tbh--- but you can request more and i'll write torture as well. ily and hope you enjoy this.

You barely stood awake the rest of the journey. You were lying limp on a thick blanket in a corner, and you only remembered glimpses of Rafe checking up on you, muffled voices and the never ending sound of the waves crashing on the sides of the ship. 

The sleep soothed your pain, numbing your senses, so you welcomed it thankfully. You did not want to see or talk to anyone—that person being your boyfriend that beat your brother to death—, you didn’t want to believe you’re alive, going to a future you didn’t want to have. It wasn’t up to you though, apparently Rafe was making the choices and you just had to ask how high when he told you to jump.

 The thought of finding a sharp piece of glass and using it to finish off the suffering had crossed your mind, but your body was way too weak to comply with your brain’s commands. 

Your lashes batted as you tried to open your eyes. You placed your trembling hands into the mattress and managed to sit on your bottom, letting your back fall on the wall.

 Finally, you felt a little strength running through your bones and muscles and your foggy state of mind cleared a bit and, after the days that had passed, you were able to fully open your eyes. 

The view was the same: an iron wall, a few carton boxes and the blanket around your body. 

But wait—the ship was not moving anymore. 

The door creaked open and your puffy eyes fell on your boyfriend’s emotionless ones. 

You immediately got up, bringing your knees to your chest and planting your palms into the mattress firmer as Rafe was coming closer.

His dark tee shirt clung tightly to his broad chest, bicep muscles flexing under the material as he brought his hand up to wipe at his nose with his fingers – the obnoxious habit that warned you about the stormy emotions running through his head. Fear ran through your veins as you saw in your mind, again, your brother’s blood staining Rafe’s hand

“C’mon, baby…” he spoke, now as he had fully reached your bed. 

Your feet tangled in the sheets as you moved further from him, a whine bubbling up in your throat. The pet name felt foreign and bitter. 

Rafe’s brows furrowed, and he spoke your name, it sounded as both a warning and a threat, but it also was the chant of a lost little boy begging you to just…comply with his demands. But did it terrify you to your core. 

When you still hadn’t complied, Rafe nodded to himself — another habit he owned —  and his hand extended, willing to grip your wrists. 

You whimpered as his iron, long fingers wrapped on your skin, coldness running up your spine. He managed to get you on your feet and you yelped when he smashed your back across his chest. Hard. At first, you were grateful for the sustain offered by his body because your legs felt disattached from your hips, considering the stagnation of the blood flow and muscles in your thighs, calves and ankles, but when his hardness poked your lower back, nausea filled you again.

A part of you tried to excuse him, it was telling you he ‘cannot help it’, that he is a man, and men have certain needs at any moment –you inherited this because of his constant manipulation, the contrast and bipolarity of his actions, of vulnerability and power. But having him get aroused from the way your pained whimpers sounded was cruel nevertheless. 

The following events went rapidly, and once you were off the massive ship, your numb form was secured into a backseat of a jeep.

“Can I trust you?” Rafe asked, raising his brows, and the threat behind it pinched at your brain. You knew what he meant. ‘Don’t fuckin’ run away.’ But as soon as your boyfriend left, his words were long forgotten. Fight or flight conquered all your senses and you opened the door and sprinted through the bushes adorning the dusty roads.

You knew nothing about the zone, but you would have rather stayed with a crotal than the man that murdered your brother with cold blood. 

Your heart started beating faster—if that was even possible—when you heard Rafe’s panicked and terribly angered voice behind you. 

“Hey..HEY!” he shouted behind your head and his bicep curled around your chest, stopping you from your sprint. 

You screamed, the hoarse and frightened noise filling the emptiness of the dunes. 

Rafe’s lips impacted your ear and his hand came to grip your face. The silence was not necessary—nobody cared for your cries, but Rafe needed your silence. It was his everyday bread, he was healing himself by painting your life in ashy shades of black and blue.

The new mansion was not more infant nor healing. The wealth had left its mark all over. Wealth terrified you. In your heart and soul, wealth was a synonym of dore and dreadfulness. Wealth meant the lack of freedom for others. Maybe you were globally right or maybe you were just the unfortunate stupid little girl. 

Rafe’s eyes, painted by sorrow and madness, looked at the ghostly scene he created with his own bare hands. He had never seen you this terrified and beaten before, and, as much as he desired to feel a certain fulfillment—the one he had always felt before—he did not. Actually, your tears have turned into tears for him. He felt pathetic. 

But that patheticism disappeared as soon as you jumped away from his touch. The voices were chanting in his head ‘disobedience; disobedience’ and then ‘abandonment’. Everybody, absolutely everybody in his life had given up on him at some point and then, he was powerless. But with you it was different. He had the strength to hold you back, even if that meant that you would tear your limbs off trying to uncuff yourself from his claustrophobic, torturous grip. You were the only star in his sky and he was draining all the light from every cell of your body. He knew that someday you will fade away. But until then, he had to bathe in your light as much as it was possible. 

"I need you, and you-you don't seem to understand that--" Rafe shouted in the second part, shoving his index and middle fingers in his temples, trying to show you that it's not hard to get this into your head.

However, your black and blue body, splayed across the expensively polished floor was sending a totally different visual message. Wracked sobs and whimpers were met by the back of your palm, puffy eyes staring up at the man you couldn't recognize.

Rafe screwed his eyes shut as he was breathing heavily, trying to calm himself down. "T-take me home, pleaseee--" you suddenly whined, and Rafe was immediately crouched next to your body. “Even if you could kill me and then throw my corpse away in a fuckin’ swamp, I will not live without you. If I’m on fuckin’ fire…you’ll be made of ashes too. Do you understand that?”. His yell made your throat constrict and you nodded, forcing more pain into the bruises of coagulated blood on the flesh and muscles of your neck. 

In two months, he would put a priceless diamond necklace over them—if you would be lucky enough to be unchained from his dorm—, and you would be expected to place a soft kiss on the lips that brutally murdered your true self, and drink from the poison of his being. 

[gravity-between-us]

Gravity Between Us

Chapter 3: Cosmic Ruin

Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try. Pairing: Female MC x Caleb Rating: Explicit: 18+ Spoiler Alert: Potential spoilers for Caleb's Myth as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers. Warnings: Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic (I cannot bring myself to break any of their hearts, so you could consider this an AU with only Caleb in this timeline.) MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times. Slow Burn. Explicit Smut (eventually). Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour. Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals. Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship. Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions. More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

The house is too quiet. I blink blearily at the landing pad, my sluggish brain taking too long to register what my eyes already know—Caleb’s aircraft is gone. It’s not unusual. He leaves early for duty all the time. But today, it feels… off. The space he’s left behind is heavier than it should be, like his absence has seeped into the walls, the air—into my bones.

I shuffle to the couch and collapse onto it, sinking into the cushions with a slow exhale. My limbs feel leaden, my mind foggy, like I’m moving through molasses, but I tell myself it’s just the morning. Just the remnants of sleep clinging to me like a second skin.

I tell myself a lot of things these days.

The silence stretches as I stare at nothing, trying to get my head on straight. My thoughts are a tangled mess, threads knotted so tight I don’t know where to start unravelling them.

Emotions have never been my strong suit. Not since Gran. Not since Caleb. Since they were declared dead, something inside me shorted out, like a failsafe I didn’t know existed kicked in to keep me from shattering. I flicked a switch and shut it all off because the alternative was unbearable. Grief felt too big, too endless—like drowning with no shore in sight.

So I threw myself into my work.

Being a Hunter meant never having to stop, never having to think, never having to feel. Every mission was a reason to keep moving, every fight a distraction, every kill a release. Adrenaline was easier to chase than ghosts. Blood was easier to wash away than memories.

It worked. Until it didn’t.

Pain, I’ve learned, is a funny thing.

Physical pain is predictable. It follows rules. A cut will sting, a bruise will ache, a bone will break and knit itself back together in time. You learn its language, its patterns, how to endure and wield it. You can grit your teeth through it, drown it in med gel, push past it until it fades into something distant and dull.

But emotional pain?

It doesn’t obey. It doesn’t follow a script. It seeps into the cracks of your mind like ink spilled on paper, bleeding into places it doesn’t belong. It warps time, making days stretch too long and nights pass too fast. It steals the colour from the world, leaves everything muted, drained, and hollow.

And the worst part?

You can’t outrun it. Not forever.

I press my palms against my eyes and let out a slow breath. I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in my head, but eventually, I sigh and let my hands drop, staring up at the ceiling. I need to move, to work—to exhaust myself before my thoughts drown me.

The gym is quiet, save for the steady thud of my feet against the treadmill. The rhythmic pace, the hum of the machine beneath me, the burn building in my limbs—it helps ground me, gives me something to focus on besides the ghosts clawing their way up from the depths of my mind.

But no matter how fast I run, they follow.

Caleb’s voice, low and teasing, calling me "pip-squeak" like it’s second nature. The way his fingers skim my ankle, kneading lazy circles into my foot while we sit on the couch.

The treadmill beeps, signalling the end of my run. I don’t hesitate. I move straight to the weights, pressing through the burn, chasing exhaustion—but it doesn’t stop the flood.

Him spinning me around last night, laughter tangled with mine, the heat that sparked when the moment stretched just a little too long.

I drop the weights onto the rack, my breathing uneven, sweat dripping down my spine. My muscles ache, but it’s not enough. I cross the gym in a few quick strides and slam my fists into the punching bag. The leather gives beneath my knuckles with a satisfying resistance.

I hit it again. And again.

Caleb used to be an open book to me. I knew every thought before he spoke it, every shift in his expression, every flicker of emotion behind his eyes. Now, there are pages missing—whole chapters he won’t let me read. Shadows cling to him in ways they never did before. Pain he won’t name. Secrets he won’t share.

I don’t know how to bridge that gap.

After my shower, my muscles ache, and my knuckles throb with the telltale promise of bruises. I feel like an overcooked piece of pasta as I sink onto the couch, remote in hand, flipping through the endless black hole of television channels.

There’s nothing on. Or maybe there is, but my brain refuses to process any of it. Every channel blends together into an indistinguishable mess of colour and noise. I should be able to relax, to let the exhaustion in my limbs lull me into something resembling peace, but my thoughts are restless.

Of course, they drift right back to him.

Slipping into bed beside him. The way his hand found my back in his sleep, fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like he couldn’t bear for me to leave. The steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm. The feel of his skin beneath my fingertips—warm, solid, real.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I cannot sit here and think. Clearly, that is bad for me. I need a distraction.

Like divine intervention, it hits me.

Drinking.

Yes. That is the answer. A responsible, definitely healthy coping mechanism—just a little to take the edge off.

I make a beeline for Caleb’s liquor cabinet, fully prepared to make some questionable life choices. Unfortunately, my plan encounters an immediate roadblock. Apparently, Caleb does not stock normal alcohol. No wine. No beer. No fruity little drinks that go down easy, and let me pretend I am not actively making a mistake.

No, what he has is a collection of bottles with labels that look like they were designed for space mercenaries with a death wish. Dark Matter Blackout. Nebula Burn. Void’s Mercy. That last one feels ominous, but I grab it anyway.

I pour myself a shot. It smells like regret. I take it anyway. It burns like fire and bad decisions.

Perfect.

One more shot. Then another. By the time I down the third, my head feels pleasantly light, my body loose, the tension in my muscles finally unspooling.

Yet I still cannot sit still.

So I do the next logical thing: I turn on some music. Loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath my feet, loud enough for the bass to thrum in my bones, loud enough to drown out every single thought trying to claw its way back into my head.

Then, because I am apparently on a roll with making excellent choices, I decide now is the perfect time to clean.

Everything.

Every room, every surface. I scrub, I dust, I straighten, I organize. I throw myself into it with an enthusiasm that should honestly concern me. The floors gleam. The kitchen sparkles. I rearrange the throw pillows three separate times before deciding their original placement was, in fact, superior.

The house is immaculate—a sharp, perfect contrast to the absolute mess inside my head.

At some point, between scrubbing down the counters and aggressively reorganizing the bookshelf, I pick up the bottle and start using it as a microphone.

Unfortunately for literally everyone who has ever possessed the ability to hear, I am now in full concert mode.

I crank the music even louder and dance like an absolute menace through the house—spinning, swaying, shaking my hips like I am the only person in the universe. Which, technically, I am. At least in this house. I belt out the lyrics, horribly off-key, the bottle clutched in my hand like a mic, and I am killing it.

Caleb is missing out. I am a vision. A drunk, chaotic vision.

Mid-spin, a new brilliant idea strikes me.

The furniture.

It is all wrong.

Which means, obviously, I must fix it.

I grab the couch and drag it to a new spot. Step back. No. Not right. I shove it to the other side of the room. Step back. Still wrong. The coffee table gets moved next. Then the side table. Then the couch again.

I am locked in a battle of wills with this furniture.

And I am losing.

I reach for the bottle to soothe the sting of my failure—tilt it back—nothing.

I blink and shake it. As if the laws of physics might bend to my will and magically refill it.

They do not.

Betrayal. How could Caleb let this happen? How could he have the audacity, the unmitigated gall, to not predict that I would one day get tipsy and need more alcohol than he has stocked?

I grab my phone, thumbs flying across the screen.

Inara: Wow. Unbelievable. Truly. I have never known such disappointment. Caleb: … What? Inara: You. Have failed me. Caleb: Okay. I feel like I should be apologizin’, but I don’t know what for. Inara: I am in crisis, Caleb. Crisis. And where are you? Off gallivanting around, leaving me to fend for myself. Caleb: … I went to work. Inara: Question. How do you feel about change? Caleb: What did you do? Inara: Why do you always assume I did something? I just had a thought. A vision. A great and powerful idea. Caleb: Oh no. Inara: What if… hear me out… we completely reinvented the living room? Caleb: … Caleb: What does that mean? Did you move the furniture? Inara: I am taking creative initiative for our shared space. Caleb: Where is the couch? Inara: Currently… in an experimental location. Caleb: Where. Inara: TBD. Caleb: … Caleb: Is it upside down? Inara: Not right now.

At this point, I toss the phone aside because this conversation is going absolutely nowhere. With a sigh, I yank open the cabinet and reach for another bottle, tucked away behind a terrifyingly strong one labelled Celestial Burn: Nova Strength Whiskey—which, frankly, sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Instead, I grab Black Hole Rum—Guaranteed to Suck You In.

Hm. Promising.

I take a swig straight from the bottle, wincing at the burn, then turn back to the disaster I’ve created.

The living room is in ruins. Half the furniture is positioned at angles that defy logic, like some kind of avant-garde art piece that only makes sense to the deeply unhinged. The couch is half-shoved against the wall, one leg somehow balanced on a precarious stack of books. The coffee table isn’t anywhere near the couch—just abandoned mid-movement, off to the side. Pillows are scattered across the floor like casualties of war.

It’s fine. It just needs… adjustments.

My brain stutters over itself for a moment before latching onto an entirely useless thought.

Caleb’s elbows.

His elbows.

Why? Who knows.

But suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about them—how they’re weirdly sharp yet somehow elegant. Is this a thing? Do people have attractive elbows? What is he doing to them? Moisturizer? Elbow exercises??

I scowl at absolutely nothing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It must be the living room. The energy in here is all wrong. I need to fix it. Now.

Naturally, I launch myself back into the chaos, frantically dragging things around again, as if physically rearranging furniture might somehow realign the absolute mess in my head.

The living room remains a battlefield of terrible decisions and increasingly questionable interior design choices. I’ve tried every possible configuration—from asymmetry to something that’s probably a fire hazard. Nothing feels right. The universe is mocking me.

I stumble through the wreckage, gripping the bottle of Black Hole Rum like a lifeline, belting out the lyrics to some ancient pop song with the confidence of a rock star and the vocal accuracy of a malfunctioning AI.

Somewhere between a dramatic twirl on the rug and an ill-advised attempt to launch myself off the couch (which, to be fair, is mostly where it’s supposed to be), I realize the problem.

The real problem.

The root cause of my complete mental breakdown disguised as an impromptu home renovation.

Caleb.

I march to my bedroom, nearly tripping over an upturned chair, and grab the apple plushie from my bed. It’s soft. Innocent. Blissfully unaware of the fate that awaits it.

Flopping onto the floor amid the wreckage, I cross my legs and cradle the plushie as if it were Caleb himself. I glare at its stupid, stitched-on smile.

“You.” I jab a finger into its round little body. “This is your fault.”

It does not respond. Probably because it’s a stuffed apple.

I poke it again, more aggressively this time. “How dare you have such… offensively attractive forearms? And those elbows!” I shake the plushie like it can be reasoned with. “They’re not supposed to look that good, Caleb! They’re just bones! But noooo, even your damn bones are irritatingly good-looking! Why?”

The apple remains unimpressed.

I flop backward onto the floor with a groan. “I know you��re not actually Caleb. I’m not that far gone.” A pause. “…But if you were Caleb, I’d be yelling at you for scrambling my brain like this.”

I hold the plushie up, squinting into its beady little eyes. “This is your fault,” I mutter again, smushing its round face. “Your. Fault.”

Since the universe has a cruel sense of humour, it’s then that I hear the distant hum of engines, and my head snaps up.

I’m on my feet in an instant, pressing myself against the living room window like some kind of elite super spy. I think I’m being subtle.

I am not.

Caleb’s aircraft touches down smoothly, its sleek frame reflecting the evening light. The second the hatch opens, he steps out in his crisp uniform.

Colonel Caleb.

I sneer. He looks stupidly good in that uniform. I hate that uniform. All stiff formality, Fleet-approved rigidity, silent reminders of things I really don’t want to think about right now.

But also—ugh.

He looks obnoxiously good in it.

Caleb pauses at the bottom of the ramp, frowning. He definitely hears the music. His eyes sweep toward the house.

I duck lower, convinced I am hidden.

I am very visibly pressed against the glass.

I snort to myself. Angry. Happy. Frustrated. Relieved.

Because despite my spiralling, despite my brain being an absolute mess of elbows and bad decisions, I’m just glad he’s home.

Caleb steps inside, and his entire body tenses. He gawks, slack-jawed, at the disaster that was once a living room. The music is still blaring at full volume, and I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s staring at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.

I ignore the look. Irrelevant.

Instead, I scurry up to him—though, in my haste, I definitely trip over myself, catching a foot on the rug that I swear wasn’t there a second ago.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

I right myself and throw my arms around him, squeezing tightly before shoving my face against his shoulder—

And sniffing him.

Oh. Oh, he smells good. Too good. Unfairly good. That stupidly crisp, clean scent with just a hint of dark amber, spice, and him beneath it.

It is, quite frankly, mouth-watering.

I hum against his jacket in approval. He goes completely still. "Okay," he says slowly, his voice half-drowned by the music. "What—"

I cut him off before he can move, change, comment, or fix things. I grab his hand and yank, dragging him straight into the war zone that is our living room.

"Alright, resonate with me." I stop in the middle of the mess, gripping his hands and staring at him intently.

Caleb blinks. "What?"

I shake our joined hands as if that will somehow help. "Resonate with me. Right now. I need you to feel this with me."

He tilts his head, bending slightly to peer into my probably glassy, unfocused eyes. “Pip-squeak, are you drunk?"

"That’s not the important part here," I conclude, exasperated. "Listen, I think I need to use your Evol to move the couch—or possibly suck it into a black hole due to its sheer defiance."

Caleb exhales sharply through his nose, the sound suspiciously close to a suppressed laugh. "You want to use gravity manipulation—on the couch."

"Yes. It’s a menace, Caleb. A menace that needs to be neutralized."

He stares at me as if I’ve just proposed launching the couch into orbit. “Right. Okay," he says slowly, then looks back at the room, his eyes tracing the path of absolute destruction.

He’s clearly holding back a laugh, which only makes me more frustrated—because this isn’t funny! Okay, it is a little funny. But not in the ‘laugh at me’ way!

"Inara." He says my name, his voice dipping just enough to make my pulse stutter. There’s a teasing lilt to it, though—light, playful, knowing.

And just like that, my entire focus snaps to his lips. The way he says my name—like he’s savouring it, rolling it around like a particularly fine piece of chocolate. My breath hitches slightly, and then, because I’m this me instead of regular me, my brain promptly swan-dives into the gutter.

I wonder how it would sound when he’s moaning my name.

Nope. Nope. Don’t go there. Nope!

I jerk back too quickly, and before I know it, I’m stumbling—a disaster in motion. I swear the floor didn’t exist a second ago.

Caleb catches me like we’re in some kind of action movie, and I’m the heroine who somehow always trips over her own feet. His arms close around me, steady and unshaken, like he expected this.

And instead of letting me go—like a decent human being—he dips me. Full-on, dramatic ballroom-dance style. He doesn’t even look winded. He just looks... amused.

I blink up at him, still tangled in his arms as he holds me there, one brow quirked in silent amusement. He’s enjoying this.

"Fell on purpose, huh?" he drawls, voice laced with dry humour. "Just so I could catch you? You’ve got quite the dramatic flair, Inara."

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words tumble out in a mess of stuttered nonsense. "What? No! I—I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t trying—" I cut myself off with an embarrassed laugh because this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

Caleb chuckles, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Sure you weren’t.”

I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already lifting me back upright, effortlessly resetting me on my feet like I’m nothing more than an unruly puppet. He’s so natural, like there is nothing remotely absurd about this situation.

"You should probably sit down.” He nudges me toward the couch, and I let myself be guided, flopping onto the cushions with an exaggerated huff.

Caleb grins and shrugs off his uniform coat, tossing it over the back of the chair like it’s an afterthought. It’s so casual and effortless. It still makes my heart flutter.

With a swift motion, he turns the music down, the thumping bass fading to a softer pulse. I watch him, still acutely aware of the lingering weight of his hands on me, though I try to shake it off. I shift in my seat, forcing myself to look at anything other than him.

Like the dangerous creature he is, he saunters into the kitchen. His eyes glint with something playful, mischievous—like he’s plotting.

He glances back at me, smirking. "If I’m going to understand what’s happening here, I need to get on your level, don’t I?"

Before I can even ask what the hell that means, he plucks a bottle from the shelf and pours himself a shot. Then, with effortless grace, he knocks it back in one fluid motion.

“You are a mess,” he mutters under his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, let me change first. I’m sure you’ve got more ‘furniture rearrangin’ plans for me.”

I cannot stop myself from grinning as he turns to leave, but the moment is fleeting. He is already heading down the hall to change. I wait impatiently, my foot tapping against the floor in anticipation.

When he returns, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist on the verge of unveiling a grand experiment, I sit up straighter. "So? What’s the plan? Are we resonating or what?" My excitement threatens to spill over.

His lips curl into a smirk, and there it is again—that glimmer in his eyes, the one that says he is enjoying every second of this.

"Resonate, huh? Sure. Let’s not." His voice dips, laced with amusement, as he crosses the room. "You think I am going to give you gravity manipulation in this state of mind?”

I pout. "You are no fun." With a dramatic wave of my hand, I declare, "The couch must pay."

He arches a brow, a chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Right. And I am definitely not letting you use me as some gravity-defying superpower to exact revenge on the furniture. I will handle the moving while you—" he gestures vaguely, "—supervise."

I open my mouth to argue, but the way he is smiling—genuine, unguarded—makes me hesitate. I soften.

By the time Caleb has worked his magic, shifting the furniture into something resembling order, we have eaten dinner, cleaned up my earlier disaster, and now, I am sprawled face-down on the couch. 

The world tilts around me, spinning a little too fast, and the only thing keeping me tethered is my apple plushie, clutched as if my survival depends on it.

As the alcohol wears off, the buzzing in my skull morphs into a slow, gnawing embarrassment, making my head throb all the more.

Caleb, however, seems entirely unbothered by the ordeal. He is mostly teasing me, which—if I am being honest—I deserve. He is a steady rock while I am a hurricane of awkwardness.

He walks over and rubs my back, his voice soft. "Still awake, pip-squeak?"

I grumble something unintelligible, half-turned away from him, unwilling to admit it. I just want to curl up and disappear for a while. He asks again, his tone warm with concern. "Do you want me to take you to bed?"

Bed. The last place I want to be. Just another lonely void where my thoughts lurk, waiting to ambush me. I shake my head—but immediately regret it as dizziness crashes over me like a wave.

He chuckles, clearly entertained by my self-inflicted suffering. "Sit up and take these," he says, pressing a glass of water into my hands, along with two pills, which I eye with suspicion. 

The last time he gave me pills…

Caleb notices the wariness, and his expression flickers, guilt passing over his features.

“It's just for the hangover," he reassures. "You will regret it tomorrow if you don’t take em."

As much as I want to argue, I know he is right. With a reluctant sigh, I push myself up with a groan and swallow the pills, the cool water soothing my uneasy stomach.

He sits beside me, fingers flicking the top of my head. “Dummy.”

I stick my tongue out at him petulantly, and slump against him. My head finds his shoulder, and my sight blurs as I stare at the TV screen. Drowsiness creeps in like a tide, pulling me under. I start sinking lower, sliding from his shoulder into his lap.

"What happened today?"

The words slip out of me, slurred and accompanied by a half-hearted snort. "Forearms…"

Caleb goes still. "Forearms…?"

I nod, too sleepy to elaborate. "Ridiculously attractive forearms."

Silence. I think he is trying to decipher what the hell I just said. His hand rubs slow circles on my back, but I can feel the confusion radiating off him.

After a long pause, he exhales a soft sigh. “Come on." He slips his arms under my legs, cradling my back with ease. "Time for bed."

A small, contented sigh escapes me as he lifts me. He carries me effortlessly to the bedroom, his movements sure and practiced, as if he has done this a hundred times before. Settling me onto the bed, he tugs the covers up around me, tucking me in.

As sleep pulls me under, I mumble, barely conscious, “You’re a good man."

Chapter Masterlist Thank you for taking the time to read! I started this for fun, and decided it might be something silly others may possibly enjoy with me.

If you do, leave a comment, or don't, or you know, do whatever you're comfortable with!

Take care everyone!

[chaifootsteps]

Hi! I hope you're doing well <3 i saw a post somewhere recently about "well, have you read viv's twitter for some detail that wasn't in the show" and it made me think about how media consumption has changed. Back in the early 2000s, there was a chance that you never saw a cartoon from start to finish In Order. In recent years, i went back & watched Code Lyoko & there were episodes i never saw that i got to watch - but at no point did I ever feel lost when dropped into a random episode.

All the information for the show was contained in the show & you didnt have to go through accounts online to find small pieces of info that should be in shows & I really miss that. And it's the shift of how people interact with shows & fandom now. Everything is short 8 episode seasons, so you dont get the development that should be in the shows. And you cant be dropped in a random episode and still catch on pretty quick as to what the Main Point is (Code Lyoko's being "defeat xana, save aelita from Lyoko). And i miss that vibe shows used to give.

Also, i miss physical game guides for games. There was something magical about turning a page and telling my dad (when we played games together, earlyish to mid(?) 2000s again) what to do because we've been stuck on something for a while.

Nostalgia? Tired of not having info easily accessible in shows? Who knows - the first handful of episodes for HB has that early feel, drop in (depending on episode) on an episode and yea, its hell assassins killing people. The newer season? Cant do that, too many plot lines going. Dont know where i was going with this, other than maybe quality of shows declining to try and shove So Much in shortened seasons.

Let's all crowdfund a time machine to go back, eat some pizza, buy some game guides and hit up Blockbuster, and forget that booktok and No Child Left Behind are going to come along and ruin everything.

[panharmonium]

you and i have both found precious friends, haven't we?

every so often, i get the urge to journal out insignificant fandom annoyances. i rarely have the time and generally manage to resist because, again: insignificant. extremely so. none of this is remotely important.

however, stumbling into bad fandom "takes" on the scene i'm about to discuss has prompted me to gnash my teeth so often ("how many times am i going to have to see people refusing to actually read the text?" i repeat to myself over and over) that i'm finally going to just get it out of my system. (i'm making it non-rebloggable, though. me happily typing up my own thoughts on my own blog does not equate to an invitation for internet strangers to debate inconsequential fandom opinions with me. i just like writing things down.)

anyway. i find it deeply frustrating when people complain about kakashi saying "the ones most precious to me have already been killed" as if they think it means he doesn't recognize or value the new bonds he's made, when two panels later he finishes his speech by doing just that.

it's literally the ENTIRE point kakashi is making. we've lost so much - but that's not all there is.

i don't understand how this scene became such a magnet for willful misreads. people either fixate on kakashi saying "the ones most precious to me have already been killed" and don't read beyond that panel, or they fixate on him sharing a relevant piece of his life experience with sasuke and then accuse him of "projecting," or they claim that this is a failed teaching moment when it demonstrably, textually is not! hours later, after the sun has gone down and the moon has risen, sasuke is voluntarily still sitting there, thinking about naruto and sakura, questioning the hold his quest for vengeance against itachi has had on him all his life.

this entire sequence was one of my favorite scenes when i watched/read part 1, and it was so bizarre when i broke my fandom isolation after finishing the story and saw some of the blatantly non-textual takes people had on it. there are people who talk about this scene as if kakashi waltzes in here and tells sasuke that their situations are exactly the same and orders him to "get over it." there are also people who talk about this scene as if sasuke's role in it ends with and is defined solely by his reflexive "what do you know about it?" rejection of kakashi's earlier advice. neither of these takes are remotely accurate descriptions of what happens on the page.

at no point does kakashi say "i know exactly how you feel." there is no point in this conversation where he tries to equate their situations. what he does say is "the ones most precious to me have already been killed...i know the pain of losing somebody more than i'd like to." both of these are true statements, and both of them are offered only after sasuke's highly charged, furious threat to kill the people kakashi cares about, which kakashi (CORRECTLY) interprets as sasuke's way of accusing him of not being able to understand his feelings until he's experienced the pain of loss.

kakashi answers sasuke's threat with that calm, nonconfrontational disclosure of his personal history because sasuke asked him to do so. sasuke asked "why should i listen to you??? what do you know about how much this hurts?" and kakashi doesn't brush that accusation off or say "you just have to listen to me, period, because i'm in charge"; he answers the question! he says "that's fair. here's what I've experienced. here's what i've found, after living through it." and then he steps back to let sasuke reflect on it and decide what to do next.

just because the characters in this story don't use the kind of therapeutic feelings-speak that people think defines healthy conversations doesn't mean something is missing from this interaction. the text is VERY clear about the fact that kakashi makes a successful connection with sasuke here. kakashi's disclosure snaps sasuke out of his rage. it allows sasuke, who is hurting so badly that he can't see anything outside his own pain, to experience a momentary window of clarity - to catch a glimpse of the world outside the cage his grief has constructed around him. sasuke is so activated at the beginning of this scene, incapable of listening or recognizing anything that isn't his own hurt, but the minute he hears kakashi's calm admission that the people he loves most have already been killed, all that anger dissipates. suddenly, for a brief moment, he can see. suddenly he's listening. suddenly he's genuinely thinking about what kakashi is saying.

i know some people would prefer their version of sasuke to get up and throw kakashi's counsel back in his face and march out of the village with his middle finger raised to everyone he's leaving behind, but that's not what happens. that's not how sasuke feels about this conversation. that's not the effect this interaction has on him. he's not sitting there listening to kakashi's gentle disclosure of personal information and thinking "what an asshole; he's trying to minimize my trauma!!!" he's genuinely affected. his perspective is altered. his teacher does precisely what teachers are supposed to do: give their students something to think about! and sasuke recognizes it as something that's worth considering!

does it keep him in the village? no, but that wasn't the purpose of the conversation. when kakashi and sasuke speak, there's no inkling in anyone's mind that sasuke might leave - not even sasuke is planning to do that. the purpose of this intervention is to address the conflict on top of the hospital, where sasuke let himself get so out of control that he attacked naruto with a lethal-sized chidori, nearly killing sakura in the process. kakashi doesn't have to know that orochimaru is about to make a play for sasuke's allegiance to know that sasuke's current situation is a disaster waiting to happen. he isn't "projecting" by recognizing that sasuke is in danger of hurting somebody (or himself!), and it's completely appropriate for him, as the adult in charge, to start addressing that. nor is he "projecting" by correctly recognizing that sasuke is going through a similar change to one he himself experienced, in that sasuke is being drawn out of his isolation and into genuinely caring about his teammates. those are just the observable facts of the situation. sasuke was the first one to pass kakashi's bell test. he sacrificed himself for naruto in the land of waves. he landed himself in the hospital by trying to protect naruto from itachi. right before that, he almost died trying to save sakura from gaara:

"you and i have both found precious friends, haven't we?"

kakashi can see that sasuke's bonds to his new friends have become strong enough that they might actually be capable of displacing the self-destructive desires that have been controlling him for so long. and yet there are still people who talk about the tree scene as if kakashi is wrong or deluded for choosing to have this conversation with sasuke now - as if the things he tells sasuke are trite or irrelevant or insensitive, as if sasuke isn't in PRECISELY the right place in his growth process to hear "your desire for revenge has started to hurt you and the people you care about. are you sure this is what you want?" in the past, sasuke might not have been ready to consider that question, but now - look at how hard he fights for his friends! look at how he refers to them! "my precious comrades," he says, when he used to consider them so beneath him.

it's time. when he first met team 7, he didn't have anything to counter itachi's pull on him, but now he does. he's at a crossroads. this is the right moment for him to hear what kakashi says to him here, especially when kakashi is able to say it in such a calm, neutral way. it would be negligent for kakashi not to say it, after what just happened. sasuke almost killed one of his teammates that morning. it is not malicious for an adult whose responsibility it is to keep these twelve year-olds from hurting themselves to tell sasuke, "i know it hurts. but what you're doing right now is going to end badly." or: "the power i entrusted you with is not to be used to hurt your friends."

and once again, crucially - the text is clear that sasuke hears him. sasuke absorbs what he's being offered. he is still sitting there, thinking about his friends, questioning his old goals, fighting the powerful pull of his revenge, until orochimaru's minions show up and do something that kakashi never did - manipulate him so someone else can use him for their benefit. orochimaru's minions prey on sasuke's pain in order to push him down a path that benefits orochimaru, but kakashi speaks to sasuke plainly and honestly, without judgment or self-interest. his only concern is sasuke's well-being. (you wouldn't know it, though, to hear some of fandom's hot takes.)

the thing is: everything people claim they want this scene to be is already there. "if only kakashi had used this opportunity to connect with sasuke - " that is exactly what happened. you're lamenting the absence of something that is in fact the text. no, it doesn't look like a scene in a fanfic where kakashi sits sasuke down for tea and helps him unpack all his traumatic experiences and offers lots of verbal reassurance that sasuke's emotions are Valid and he is here to Support Him No Matter What, because that kind of explicit emotional exploration would be wildly inconsistent with the source material. you have to approach stories from the inside to legitimately appreciate what they're trying to say. you have to accept their rules. and in this story's context, in no way is this scene meant to convey "kakashi's so out of touch; he totally missed the mark on this talk." this scene, as written, is a powerful moment between him and sasuke, where sasuke does hear what kakashi is saying and takes it to heart, and chews on it, and fights to believe it. ultimately, thanks to some last-minute interference from people who want sasuke to continue suffering because it advances their interests, it isn't enough to save him.

but that's not a condemnation of either party. it's the narrative, and it rocks.

i love this scene. i love how kakashi lets sasuke snarl and shout at him without ever biting back, without ever escalating, always staying quiet and calm. i love how patient he is, how an angry kid with no clue about kakashi's personal background says cutting things like "if i killed the people most precious to you then you'd understand that you don't know shit," and yet kakashi never bristles - he has no ego, no self-interest; he absorbs the anger without protest and responds by offering a private piece of himself. i love the way sasuke's expression instantly transforms from enraged, to stunned, to softened. i love how kakashi is able to tell sasuke "no" with such compassion, every time he has to say it. i love how he still believes in sasuke and gives him space to reflect and make decisions on his own. i love how even the sealing jutsu kakashi placed around orochimaru's curse mark requires sasuke's consent for it to function ("you have to want it to work"). i love how badly sasuke wants team 7 to be enough for him. i love how desperately he wants to be free. he's trying so hard.

it's so frustrating to see complaints about this scene written by people who aren't actually reading it, or who are dead set on interpreting it in direct contradiction to the text. there are enough ungenerous "takes" out there on various aspects of naruto as it is (sakura, you have my forever sympathy). criticizing this sequence in defiance of what it actually shows us on the page has never struck me as a particularly accurate or useful way of appreciating the story.