#I don't mean to be rude but this feels really mean

[moon-fics]

Hey there! 👋

Can I request a Bob Floyd xreader where the reader loves food, and when they first meet each other (like he walks into a restaurant and see her), she's stuffing her face (not too crazy though) with food cuz she's hungry and she looks up at him with a deer-in-headlights look and he thinks it's adorable but she finds it embarrassing. It's something I would do, and I think it'd be hilarious to read 🙃

Do you even have to ask? I'd write this happily even if you demanded it rudely! Love it!

It's been a long, long day. Work had you up at 5am, and you slept in, so breakfast wasn't an option. You missed lunch because your boss called you into a meeting. Now, it was finally dinner and your friends had made plans with you.

Unfortunately, they weren't there when you arrived. They texted you saying traffic was so bad that they wouldn't make it until an hour later. So, you're stuck with reservations for three with just you there.

You decide not to let your reservation at this fancy restaurant go to waste. You order something off the menu that you cannot pronounce correctly, and decide to just stick with it. The worst thing that could happen is it taste terrible, but you'll eat it anyway.

The universe smiles on you because the food is divine. It's as good as the price, and you're so hungry you basically stuff your face with it. Of course, you keep your manners and wipe your lips after every bite. You're so engrossed in finally eating you don't notice the man at another table staring at you until his friends begin laughing.

You freeze at the realization that they've probably been watching you eat and have been using you for entertainment. You slow your bites and try to recover your dignity. That stops when the man staring at you approaches your table. You're stuck mid-bite when he reaches your table, and all you can do is stare up at him with wide eyes.

"I, uh, I just wanted to say you have really pretty eyes," He says nervously. His glasses fall from his face an inch, and he pushes them back up. You realize he's wearing some sort of uniform, but you aren't sure for which branch. His brown hair is neatly pulled back and cut short. You know there's a base near here, but you barely see anyone in uniform. "That's all. Thank you!" He coughs out.

He's about to scramble back to his table when you swallow your bite and stop him. "Wait, is that why you were staring at me?" You ask firmly. He spins back around with a mortified look.

"You noticed?" He sounds surprised. As if he were somehow being the sneakiest man in the world, and assumed you didn't even notice him. "No, that wasn't- I mean, yes, I was staring because you're beautiful. It was also because my friends kept telling me to approach you," He admits.

You glance past him to see his friends with wide smiles. One of them gives you a thumbs up, and it's almost laughable. This is such a romcom type of thing to happen, and yet it's happening to you. You return your focus to him.

"So, you were just going to say I look beautiful and leave?" You rest your head on your hand. Did he even think this encounter through? What did he even want to gain from it other than saying he told you? "I mean, it's nice, but usually guys ask for a number or social." You point out.

"Yeah, I was going to ask. You just looked busy with your food, and I really didn't want to be the guy who randomly asks women for their numbers." He mumbles. You feel bad for him because he clearly wants to talk to you, but he has no idea how. He probably faces dangers regularly, but this is anxiety-inducing for him.

"Ok, so why don't you join me?" You suggest while gesturing to one of the empty chairs at your table. "You seem sweet, and it would be nice not to eat alone." He nods at your proposal and pulls out the chair across from you.

You spend the rest of the night talking and learning about each other. He's a lieutenant in the Navy and a back seater. It's much more interesting than your job, so that takes away the need to bring up your terrible day. With every new topic, his eyes light up and his lips grow into a wider smile. The more time he's with you, the better he feels about approaching your table. He doesn't want the night to end and he'll make sure to thank his friends for forcing him over here.

By the end of the conversation, he offers to pay for your meal and even asks if you want dessert. You're surprised at how much of a gentleman he is, but you don't let him pay.

"So, Bob, is this more than you expected to get from saying I was pretty?" You ask as you both exit the restaurant. The mood has shifted to a more playful atmosphere. It's much better than the awkward tense one you had when first meeting.

"I said your eyes were pretty," He corrects with an amused tone. "But after spending time with you, I'd say you were more than just gorgeous." His words make your heart race. You haven't had a man act this way towards you in a long time, and suddenly he appears while you're eating food like an animal. It's humiliating and satisfying at the same time.

"Well, you'll just have to call me for more time then." You wink. It doesn't dawn on you that he doesn't have your number. It doesn't hit him either.

You only realize when you get home and check your phone. The amount of screams you unleash into your pillow is too many. There's no way you'd run into him again. You don't even know how long he'll be in the area. Your luck ran out and you're paying for it.

--

It hasn't even been two days, and you've found him. Somehow, somewhere in the cosmos, a star is fond of you. You're staring at him from across the coffee shop. He's already gotten his order, and he's about to leave. You can either let him go and get your breakfast, or risk not eating this morning to stop him.

You'll just have to starve because you don't even get to consider the choice before you're grabbing his arm. He's a lot firmer than you thought, and it catches you off guard.

His head snaps to you, and his surprise changes to relief instantly. "I don't have your number!" He blurts out. The first thing he thought about when seeing you was the reason he never reached out.

"I know!" You laugh. "I forgot to give it to you. I didn't think I'd see you again, so when I did, I didn't want to lose you," You explain. You let go of his arm and hide both behind your back. Now, it's your turn to be timid.

"I-I carried around mine on a card in case I saw you," He confesses. He pulls out his wallet and shows you a ripped-out notebook paper with his number on it. Next to it was your name with a tiny heart next to it.

[white-hole-station]

I headcanon that Hearthians don't sleep based on Timber Hearth's actual day/night cycle (because that's too short), but their level of activity does fluctuate with it, both individually and culturally. When it's light, there's more movement and louder talking and laughing around the village, and more physical tasks are done - building, fishing, repairs, exploration. When it's dark, the town is more quiet, and people do downtime activities or more restful/indoor chores like sewing to go along with their bodies and brains' natural slowing of the pace. It's considered kind of rude to start an important conversation or demand decision-making when it's dark, and regularly pushing yourself to keep doing light-time tasks though the dark part of the rotation instead of taking a break (like I'm sure Slate and Hornfels do) is a sign of determination or a sign of chronic overwork, depending on the circumstances.

When a Hearthian goes to space, the fluctuation in energy still lingers on the Timber Hearth schedule for a couple days, but it fades fast. Either the travelers get a new circadian rhythm from the planet they're on, or, more often, they get caught in a troublesome in-between on a scale of either too revved up to be sustainable, or too low energy to be very useful. In a place like Giant's Deep, with its heavy cloud cover, it's not hard to imagine why Gabbro would wind up even more nappish than usual, being slightly sleepy most of the time even with enough rest. In exposed places like Ember Twin, the constant bright light would leave a Hearthian feeling keyed up for longer than their bodies and brains are really layed out to handle, which can easily lead to burnout (...and definitely didn't help with poor Chert's late-loop breakdown). The effect isn't extreme, but it's definitely inconvenient, and an experienced traveler will have to learn to compensate for it in different ways in the places where they make camp often.

When it comes to actually sleeping, I think each individual sort of ends up on their own natural schedule, going to bed when it's dark and they feel tired enough and being down for a few rotations before waking up again. Very new hatchlings often wake every time it's light, making them a bit high maintenance to care for.

The reality of going to bed and sleeping while others might be still be up and in the middle of their day means a Hearthian is used to drifting off with the noise of community around them...which makes going to sleep in space especially disconcerting and isolating. A lot of new travelers will leave their signalscope on, the staticy music and shifting signals filling the silence until they can get more accustomed to sleeping alone. Hornfels has spent many a first night out on the radio from mission control with the new traveler in question, just talking quietly or puttering around the museum, so that the radio picks up the noise in the background and lulls the astronaut to sleep. None of them ever planned to call so soon after launch, but they almost always do. It's okay. Hornfels doesn't mind. Even from the museum, they can hear the sounds of Timber Hearth from out the windows, and they have a hard time imagining sometimes how lonely it would be to hear nothing but the stars.

[waylamia]

All Bark

hey so this one is a doozy. and a significant departure from my previous work so just be mindful. of that.

recommended listening: Bite The Hand by boygenius, Crybaby by Nanna

You have to be equal. You need control. You don't know how to have both. You pull out your phone, open your messages. You hear his chime through the door, pulled from his pocket when he saw you typing. Pips 🧡: ur sleeping outside. He glances up at you, then back at his phone, expressionless. Yours vibrates in your hands. Cay ✈️: D: Cay ✈️: y?

reader experience notes: reader is mc, reader is gender neutral and not physically described in this fic

MDNI - minors do not interact with this work

content: emetophobia. nonsexual petplay with sexual implications. a teeny tiny bit of NSFW content. I don't know what else to say about that. post homecoming wings, post lucid dream myth and painful signal, pre relationship. spoilers for most of his cards probably but its all pretty vague (lucid dreams myth, painful signal, and hidden waves off of the top of my head) completely unnegotiated kink that isn't like. engaged with AS a kink... YET. uh. strange and peculiar d/s coded dynamics?? theologyless catholic style guilt. heavy usage of pip-squeak. pip-squeak nation RISE. MC and Caleb are just both freakazoid weirdos there's no getting around it. some. nonsexual feet stuff. at the very end. not a lot. my bad. mc/reader is trying to process big, conflicting feelings and is having a not great time about it. Caleb and MC were raised as siblings and we are in the nuance mud about it. get messy or get gone my friend. mc/reader needs an attitude adjustment and TRUST 🙏 they are not going to get it JGDJSGJKDFJSJFJFS. very cool and fun finally writing grown up Calebmc. I heart them. they have issues. in the wise words of Saucy Santana... walk em like a dog <3 LMAOOOO

approx. 11k words

The thing about Caleb is he's annoying. This fact is made worse by another: no one, in the lifetime you've spent together, has ever sided with or believed you on this. Not even Gideon, who has suffered the only experience remotely similar to yours-shared space, the closeness that comes from it-could be coaxed into saying a word against him. God knows you'd tried, back in their DAA days.

Catching his eye while yours twitched, in the brief moments when Caleb would leave the room. 'Did you-' and Gideon's gaze would drift to the window without a word. Rude, but in these moments you'd always be too irked to care. 'He just- He is so-' and every time you'd be met with pursed lips and silence, a clear indication that one way or the other, he had no desire to be involved. So you'd huff and cross your arms over your chest. Wouldn't stomp your foot like you'd really have liked to, lest you be accused of throwing a tantrum at the fine age of 18 and 1/2. The fraction included for accuracy and not any arbitrary attempt to make yourself seem more grown up.

Now, if you're being honest with yourself, you can admit the obvious lie in that. In your mid-to-late teens and early adulthood everything had been about proving yourself. Caleb has always been bigger than you, and back then, for a long time, you worried you'd never graduate from his shadow. Worried no one would be able to see you in it. Worried that, if you weren't careful, if you weren't loud, he'd forget to look for you in the dark too.

He never did, of course, always smiling a little too knowingly when you'd remind him or yourself how old you are, how strong you are. At the time, you'd thought he was mocking you when he'd only respond with a laugh, messing up your hair and carrying on. Only when you look back on it now, can you see it for what it was. Cherishing, endearment, warmth. Maybe that's part of it. The annoyance, you mean. The gap in your understanding. He's always known more than you. More than you about you. And though you know him better than anyone-always have-you've never been able to boast the same ability to know exactly what he's thinking, like hes always seemed able to with you. You suppose it actually makes perfect sense that that gap in comprehension has only grown, since you helped bury the idea of him. Your perfect brother, in an empty grave in the ground. Your perfect brother, and you left behind.

'Always left behind.' You brood to yourself. And maybe that's not fair. But Caleb has never asked or expected 'fair' from you. Instead, you've spent a lifetime encouraged to take and take and take from him. You don't know that you could do anything else, after all these years of programming, think that a part of you is always going to be his spoiled little sister, forever. The thought sits in you like rot. Stuck in his shadow, still small. Afraid that that's how he will always see you, too.

Maybe being brought up together actually made all the difference in the world. Maybe that was another thing you had to be honest about.

About the fact that he came back, from the dead-not-dead, after you'd mourned and surrendered yourself to a life without him, and told you he was never your brother. About how it had hurt. Wounded you, left you reeling like the blast. Sent immediately back, standing in the wake of it not knowing what to make of yourself, what you felt, what was real.

Really annoying.

Caleb is just a really annoying person. You don't know how else to explain it.

And honestly? You would never allow anyone else to agree with you. 'Annoyed with Caleb' a secret emotion only applicable and accessible to you. You think upon hearing it said-after that brief, beautiful moment of feeling finally vindicated-your mouth or fists would start flying. Because how dare some hypothetical whoever think that they know him, could speak ill of him? What could anyone say to you about the man you have trusted intrinsically since before you could even spell the word 'codependency'? Not a thing.

And then, of course, who would be the one to pull you from the word or hand or both fight?

Ugh.

Then, it's the principle. That maddening, planted seed that never sprouts but stays ever stuck in you, dug into you. Caleb is incredibly fucking annoying. And, if you are being honest with yourself-it's something you've both been working on, since he came back-dying made him way way worse.

There is a tenseness between you, something that was simply not allowed to exist before he disappeared. The security you felt in each other, the closeness that never left room for anything else to take root. When he'd been dug up, taken half of your root and soil with him, room was all that was left. Now every day it is harder for you to make a distinction one way or the other. What you were and what you are and what you may be, may be in want of, all coagulating into something phlegmy and stomach-turning. It is a change you don't know how to swallow. It chokes you, like the look on his face, the sound of his voice, back in the interrogation room. Sometimes, it feels like you're still there, taking turns strapping each other down for questioning. You still feel the weight of that collar on your throat. It feels how his necklace felt, in the year you were left with it, and so you know he feels it too. There is an ache and comfort in that thought that grounds you. It's always the same, you cling to what makes you equal.

And so, there is another thing you must admit to yourself.

The thing about you is you're annoying.

It is a fact that has never been stated to you directly, and yet you have always known. Needy and bratty and emotional and demanding and kept all to yourself for all but one pair of eyes to see. One pair of ears to be chewed off. Everything that's about him is about you too. And you're both working on being honest, but only to each other. And you've always favored actions over words. Or maybe, you just find it's easier to be honest when you don't have the chance to open your mouth and fuck it all up. You think maybe you aren't any good at this. You wonder if he thinks the same thing too. And that's the problem isn't it? You wonder. You don't know.

You don't know that you ever did.

The point. Is. You're in Skyhaven. You'd gone to the Fleet HQ first, tracked down Liam-knowing that The Colonel was in a meeting-and had him escort you to Caleb's home. Now, you're standing outside of his front door. All that expended effort, for an unplanned visit, because you're mad at him. And when you're mad at him you want to be close to him. You don't know who to attribute that quirk to. Him, for refusing to give you any goddamn space all of your growing years. Or yourself, for getting into the habit of screaming into his shirts pulled over your pillow in the one he was gone. Whatever did or didn't do it, its done now, and the pattern has been established. One of many, for the two of you.

And so, even without Liam immediately reporting back, you know you won't have much time between pressing your finger to the lock on his door and him calling out to you while he peels off his boots, irritatingly unbothered by your uncommunicated arrival.

But that's fine. You'd had time to think on the ride over, as long as you work quickly you'll get done what you need to do.

A press of your finger, a soft chime and a click, and you push your way into the quiet of his home. Almost immediately distracted from your mission by the hairs on the back of your neck raising, the thought that you need to open a window. Even with the adjustments you've both made since he first brought you here, the atmosphere is stifling. The air is stagnant and oppressive, the walls are cold, the space occupied by an emptiness no amount of furniture or plant life or plushies could overcome. That's the problem. His arm that can't feel you and his home you fear you'll never fit into. There are parts of your lives that aren't shared. More now than ever, more every day. You shake your head, efforting to evict the thought and focus.

You force yourself into action, marching like a good soldier straight to his bedroom. Ignoring, along the way, the pristine kitchen and its empty sink, the layer of dust on the shelves, the closed curtains, the way even your breath seems to echo. You are completely certain that without the falling of your feet, you'd hear your heartbeat bouncing off of the walls. You don't know how he can stand it. The silence. You'd leave your beating heart here to fill it if you could. You'd feel better, you think, knowing he had it.

Maybe you could trade. Matching pulled open ribs for matching beating heart homes. The finger you'd pressed to his door lock tingles. You know that everything that's his is yours. You know that everything that's yours is his. So when you feel yourself suffocating in this empty fucking house...

Empty house like his empty grave. It's funny, you had wanted to follow him there too.

His bedroom is the closest this place comes to not feeling like a morgue to you. You hadn't put together, until you came back to Linkon, after that first eventful visit, why that is.

It was set up just like your old room, back at Grandma's. Bigger, differently-lifelessly-styled before your interference, but with all the furnishings in the same locations, facing the same ways. You wonder if that was intentional. You wonder who it was all for. If what he said to you was true, and he really had planned never to reenter your life, then-

He's annoying. You're angry. You have to be close to him because the distance has been killing you. It's an excuse you can use to explain your being here, but not what you're about to do.

You run your hand over each of the pillows on the bed, searching for traces of warmth, looking for fallen strands of hair. You are unsurprised when all evidence points you to the one on the far left, closest to the door. You've seen the way he sleeps, like even unconscious he was ready to fight, poised for it, tense. You snarl as you pluck his pillow up, along with the comforter, and stomp out of the room.

There isn't a yard at his house but there is a balcony, and it'll have to do. Your brow furrows as you slide the glass door aside, stepping out and unceremoniously dropping the pillow and bed cover onto the ground. You stand over them, attempt to make some sense of your actions to yourself.

Stepping outside hadn't helped you ease the dread and discomfort that came with being alone in his house. The sun is starting to set. It's still warm, and the breeze is soft, just like it was at his funeral.

And the bone deep cold you feel in you now is the same as you felt then.

You think maybe the problem isn't the house, maybe it's always just been you. You, all needy and bratty emotional and demanding. The thought festers as you stare at the bedding at your feet, and finally you have your answer.

More than closeness, what you need is control.

Your stomach drops. You don't get time to process it.

There's a chime and a click, and the front door opens. He never gives you enough time. He always gives you too much.

Can two things be true at once?

"You here, Pips?" He's unzipping his boots. You don't feel the need to respond, he'll find his way to you. You're expecting him to.

Big feet pad through the house, purposeful, with a distinct lack of wandering. Like he knew exactly where he'd find you. Though you think he should have no reason to expect you out here. He's still in uniform-obviously, since he'd come straight from work to you-and he looks tired. You are surprised, ashamed of yourself, to find that doesn't deter you.

He's just looking at you, like always, and you know he's waiting for you to say something, to over-explain yourself like you tend to when you're nervous or caught off guard or just caught. All you can bring yourself to do is stare back, face blank. The sliding door is open, with you on opposite sides of it. You're gaze darts to the threshold and back up and you almost want to look away again. Coming up against the resistance you usually do when he wears his old face with his new uniform, head at a slight tilt, eyes wide and relaxed. Like he's smiling even though his expression is neutral.

"Yooou okay?" He looks you over, gaze falling to your feet, to the bedding beside them. You tense up, immediately drawing the conclusion that what you were about to do was crazy, and you absolutely needed to rein it in and back down. You sniff, shaking your head like a dog trying to shake off water, your face heating as you open your mouth to do the usual song and dance of rambling and excusing. The sooner you start it, the sooner it will be over. If you tell him to forget it happened, he will. Or, he'll pretend he will, for you. It's been enough before. Maybe pretending is enough.

You're interrupted before you can start.

"...if you're doing laundry, generally speaking you want to take the pillow out of the case first-" He steps beyond the threshold, outside, kneels before you to reach for the pillow. "-and nothing is gonna get dry all bunched up on the ground." He thumbs at the comforter with his glove, looking at you with raised brows and that too-aware-too-familiar smile that makes you feel like he can see inside you. To the meat and marrow, all raw and ugly. You're brain catches up to his words and an indignant laugh is choked out of you. Obviously you know how to do fucking laundry. Obviously the blanket is completely dry. Obviously he knows all of this. Why is he always so-

Oh.

He's giving you an out. A chance to undo what you've done, whatever you've done. To pretend, if pretending is enough for you.

He sees you. It's comforting, familiar. He tilts his head curiously, angled away from you, exposing his throat.

'I've always held myself back and endured day, after day, after day. It was suffocating.'

Annoying.

You see red. Meat and marrow. No. You won't play pretend anymore. You need to know who he is. You need to know who you are.

You've been working on being honest.

You step around and over him, back into the house. He watches you as you go, smile dropping with your continued silence. As he moves to stand, you slide shut and lock the door. He blinks at you from the other side of the glass. Mouth parting in confusion.

"Okayyy. Are we.. gonna talk about it?" It. He says, muffled by the glass. Implication being: he doesn't know whats going on. Good. You almost smile. A sick thrill running through you, followed quickly by the sorrow, the guilt. That he doesn't know what you're thinking, that you've made it so.

You realize you haven't spoken to him since his return. You open your mouth, only to close it again. You don't have the words. You don't know how to say them. The collar tightens. You want him to choke too.

"Pip-squeak." His garbled voice is firm, but not stern. Anchor to your brewing storm. You realize you've been looking just past him, and let him pull you back. When your eyes drift to his its still his face, not the Colonel's, that you're looking at. The funhouse mirror that is your Caleb in the Colonel's uniform. This is good. This is the right way for this to happen.

You have to be equal. You need control. You don't know how to have both.

You pull out your phone, open your messages. You hear his chime through the door, pulled from his pocket when he saw you typing.

Pips 🧡: ur sleeping outside.

He glances up at you, then back at his phone, expressionless.

Yours vibrates in your hands.

Cay ✈️: D:

Cay ✈️: y?

And. Well.

...It is at this point that you realize you cannot remember what made you so angry at him in the first place. There had been a specific something, but in the time it took you to get from your place to his you'd gotten a bit distracted by everything else about the both of you. Together and separate. Meat and marrow. You know too much about each other, you don't know enough anymore, you can't think about him too long without all that you've ever swallowed trying to come up. Bring the bile with it. All of the ugliness in you.

It's his. He's the only one who gets to see it, to hold it.

You'd gotten sick on the ride home from the orphanage. It was your first time in a car, and you'd been watching the world speed by through the backseat window. Caleb was holding your hand, watching you. That had ended up being a good thing, when the wave of nausea came. As it often went when you were little, he noticed before you did. He'd shouted something at Grandma, and she'd responded in the calm, even manner she always did. None of their exchange made it to you, discomfort in your body quick to turn to gagging, heaving, vain attempts to swallow it down. Caleb was quick to turn your body to face him, away from the window, and cup his hands.

Grandma did pull over, just not fast enough. By the time she made it around the side and opened the door it was already over. Her eyes scanning from your exhausted, shaky body, to the spared interior of her car, to the bile pooled in Caleb's hands. She'd sighed, rubbed steady, gentle circles into your back as she reached for a bottle of water that had been left rolling around at your feet.

She made her way around to the opposite door, poured water over Caleb's outstretched hands until they were clean, and told him not touch anything until he could wash them properly at home. He'd nodded and kept his word.

Even though you spent the rest of that trip with your head in his lap, eyes closed to keep you from getting sick again, he didn't touch you even once.

You'd thought it was silly. What did it matter? All he had on him was you.

...You don't know how to say any of that to him. You stare, untyping, at your phone. Will yourself to respond. Honestly.

Cay ✈️: ...because I canceled our plans yesterday?

He beats you to it. Rather, he beats you to saying anything, because you're sure that wasn't the thing that set you off. He'd already apologized for it and you'd ended up having to work late anyways.

...But it would have to do.

Pips 🧡: ding ding ding!

The embarrassment has set in, total awareness that you are being ridiculous. But the noxious cocktail of shame and frustration and anger-always, these days, the anger-are at the wheel. You've done it and it's been done. You can't take it back. You won't.

You are so. Goddamn. Annoying.

You turn to walk away before you can second or fifth guess yourself when your phone vibrates again.

Cay ✈️: if i'm out here who's gonna make dinner?

---

It is decided that you will make dinner. Mostly because you know if he gets you to unlock that door and let him back in you won't have it in you to shut him out again, which is not an option when you've already committed to... whatever this is. You're fine enough at cooking, you've had plenty of practice since Caleb first left for the Aerospace Academy, though you don't think you'll ever be able to match his skill. You're clumsy with a knife, more prone to over-seasoning. Everything is a reflection. You, ever careless and dramatic.

You're still trying to figure out what you were mad about as you stare into the empty fridge.

Empty, again,like his stupid grave. Which you cannot stop fucking thinking about today. Standing here in his house, kicking him out, trying not to lose him. What are you even doing? What do you hope to achieve here? Do you want him mad at you like you're mad at him? Whatever you're mad at him for? Has it always been like this? You lashing out for something you're making up as you go? And him, always just-

"Stop." It comes out with your voice, from your mouth, but it's not your thought. Caleb used to be the only one who could cut off your endless rumination, coax you into sitting still and staying your hands and 'copy my breathing Pip. In-one, two, three, four-good. now slower.' It had been one of the harder things to teach yourself, when he left you. Harder than the braised chicken recipe, which you still can't get right. "Stop." You're talking to yourself, but your gaze turns to the sliding door anyway. Where Caleb is standing at an informal sort of attention. Arms folded and head cocked, observing, smile rising to his face when you catch his eye. You turn back to the fridge.

It isn't a difficult puzzle for you to solve. He doesn't cook much when your not around, you've talked about this. But even still the state of the thing is dire. Three protein shakes, two eggs, and an apple. What does he even eat? You know he's meticulous about his diet, so there's no way he's just eating out. You pull open the freezer, not even a frozen chicken breast. Is he just inbetween grocery trips? With his salary there's no excuse to let it get this bad. You're pulling open and checking cupboards when your phone vibrates on the counter.

Cay ✈️: I've moved some stuff around since you were here last. If you let me back in I can show you?

Cay ✈️: ...and then you can scold me for doing a bad job taking care of myself >x<

...As enticing as the idea of reprimanding him is, you aren't a fool, and you aren't falling for it. All he's done is confirm to you that he knows you know you won't be able to push him away again if you let him through that door. Just like you know he knows you know he could come in whenever he wanted, lock be damned. They've hardly stopped him before. You can't suppress the smile that thought brings to your face. Truly, it should worry you more how giddy it makes you. You're older, the game is different, but one thing remains ever unchanged: Caleb will always play with you. Always. Even when you shut him out.

Food. Dinner. The fridge.

Grandma didn't raise a quitter, but she did raise someone with solid deductive reasoning. The situation is hopeless, and you are fucked. By the time you find the half empty box of cereal-the processed-to-hell sweet crap that was only here because of you in the first place-tucked high, hiiigh up in one of the cupboards, you are already resigned to your fate.

Caleb is distinctly unpleased when you approach the glass door with two bowls of stale cereal. No milk. Milk is for Caleb's that don't die-not-die and for You's that don't go on weird ends-to-the-means-unclear power trips. Also there wasn't any. You stand opposite each other, separated by the door, you with your cereal bowls in hand, actively trying not to laugh at Caleb. Whose still crossed arms are now accompanied by a single rhythmically tapping finger and an impressively unimpressed scowl.

"'s not dinner, Pip." He's speaking low enough that you almost can't make it out through the barrier. You sigh, aggrieved, like someone who didn't start this.

"I'm not the one with the empty fridge." You make an attempt to balance both bowls in one arm with little success before deciding against it, sighing once more, at your unending trials. You move to lower one of the bowls, yours, to the floor, to free a hand. "'m gonna open the door but you better stay-" Caleb undoes the lock, slides the door open with his evol, stands back, still, and stays.

Not without sort of glowering, mind you.

"That's not dinner." His voice is clear, with the door open, so you know he's just choosing to annunciate like you can't hear him. You have to fight not to roll your eyes.

"If you wanted food you should have had food in your house." You set the bowl down just beyond the threshold, ceramic making an aggressive clink that you feel appropriately conveys your annoyance to him. "Bon appetit." You gesture at the dish, sitting down on your side of the door, already spooning the sugary, grainy, nutritionless pellets into your mouth. Caleb huffs, moving to sit as well, to be level with you. You mistake the movement for an advance into the house.

"Uh uh. Stay." His arm freezes midair, where he was reaching for the joke of a meal you prepared. A single finger twitches, a shaky breath is exhaled.

"'m not goin anywhere Pips..." It's difficult to tell, with the sunset glare at his back, but you'd swear his pupils are dilated.

"Okay." You release him, he doesn't move. "Caleb, eat." You reach a hand beyond the threshold, push the bowl towards him. Finally, he stirs. The way his fingers brush over yours as he grabs the dish is familiar, so much so, that the complete innecessity of the action doesn't even occur to you. Instead, your focus falls on his continued avoidance of the sugared cardboard crap, even with the bowl now in his hands, even with your command. He stares at the bowl in a daze. "Dude. You will survive one cheat meal, I promise you."

"I don't care about me." He shakes his head, raises the offending dish, glaring at the cereal like it was was responsible for all the evil in the world. "You need to eat something with substance." He raises a spoonful only to pour it back into the bowl in distaste. You bite down on your own spoon, teeth clinking against the metal gratingly. That is the problem. That is always the fucking problem.

You could actually strangle him.

"Caleb." You say, stern.

"Yup." He pops the 'P', like an asshole. Annoying.

"Shut up. And eat your food." You reach up to pull the door back shut, flipping the lock.

He sighs, but doesn't say a word more. Just picks up his spoon and eats, like a good boy.

---

Beyond dinner arrangements, Caleb doesn't complain. When you've both finished your bowls he pushes his right to the door, to the place where it opens. Sits, leaned back and relaxed, when you unlock it to take the bowl. He doesn't scold you, or shout at you, or call you ridiculous even though he probably should. He doesn't even try to bargain again. Just looks up at you smiling as the lock slides back into place.

You think that's the end of it, that the night will pass like this and you will both wake up tomorrow, pretending it never happened. You think that, until you're washing the dishes and hear a knock at the door. The main door, not the glass one Caleb is standing, watching you from behind. You checked, to be sure he wasn't messing with you.

Your brows furrow, because you're on a fucking private floating sky island with some sort of forcefield disguise mechanism wrapped around it, who the hell could possibly-

Your phone vibrates.

Cay ✈️: its okay.

Cay ✈️: you can open it :-)

You scoff, head darting to look at him incredulously. Locked out of his own damn house and still acting like he's in charge here. Annoying annoying annoying. You march over to the front door, throwing it open like you own the place. Because you can, not because he told you to.

It's Liam. With takeout.

"When did he even-?" You head whips to the balcony door before turning back to your unexpected guest, stunned. You move yourself to block his line of sight to the glass door as you try to recall Caleb pulling out his phone even once. You come up empty.

"Have a good night, miss." Liam says flatly, extending the bag of food to you. Paper, which you interpret to mean posh. All of the little places you frequent still use plastic. And it would certainly track for Caleb to pick something needlessly high-end. Like his stupid, expensive car and his stupid, dreary house. You take a deep breath, recognize that you are being kind of a dick.

To Liam, of course. Not Caleb, who you don't even have a last nerve for, right now.

You relieve him of the bag.

"I- thank you! I'm sorry you had to come all the way out to-" You speak up, frantic and embarrassed.

"It's no trouble. Goodnight." Mission completed, he turns to leave without ceremony. You stand still in the doorway. Your attempt to process the interaction interrupted by muffled laughter.

"Motherfucker."

Your phone vibrates.

Cay ✈️: shut up and eat your food xP

---

Back in the kitchen, your assumption is proven right. Needlessly fancy food from a restaurant you aren't even going to attempt to sound out the name of. With the logo embossed, not stamped, onto the side of the paper bag. A single serving, you note, with great irritation. You're convinced now, he is actively efforting to dig himself a second grave. You grumble obscenities to yourself as you pluck the same two bowls off of the drying rack. Distributing the to-go box's contents equally between them. You, pointedly, do not look towards the balcony, as you know exactly what you will see if you do.

How can he possibly be so smug, locked out on the balcony at his own home?

You know, have known, have been saying it all night, have been saying it for years.

Caleb. Is. Annoying.

And, as you make your way over to the door, bowls in hand, a perfect replication of only an hour before, you know you can't let him get away with it.

He's grinning as you approach the door. You reflect his earlier glower back at him, and then the idea strikes you. You look into his eyes, focused and intense, and will him to guess your next move. You drop the bowls in your hands, and they fall no more than an inch through the air before being stabilized. Floating gently beside you, as you unlock the door. Something stirs in you and you swallow it down, along with the satisfied smile you don't want him to see.

"'Sposed to be for you Pip." He hovers the bowls towards your face, as if to clarify the point of discussion. Again, he is so-

"Well if you'd gotten two I wouldn't have to share." You huff out, with a roll of your eyes. Annoying.

"Didn't know if I'd earned it." Something in you stirs, at the acknowledgment of your roles in this, heat in your stomach immediately beaten down by shame, and the part of you that wants him to fight back. But he won't. You don't know if there is anything you could do to him that he'd protest to. It frustrates you. It scares you.

"You wanna come back in the house? Then you'll eat it." And you're at the door again. Not the one between you, to the balcony, but the one in your heart. You have your fingers on the lock, you've been trying to be honest. "And you couldn't have had it delivered before I went through the effort of washing the dishes?" You fail.

"Fair is fair." He shrugs his shoulders, you don't need him to elaborate. He's spent years cleaning up your messes only for you to make them again. You're only just beginning to take your turn.

You eat your second dinner in silence. This time, you don't shut and lock the door between you. You take turns pretending not to watch each other. Cornered animals waiting for the other to bite or fawn, in your view. You don't know how Caleb sees it. Sees you. You worry that he thinks of you as something other. Something lesser or more, and either way, different from him. Not his sister, not a woman, not-

"You're anxious." Any other voice, cutting through the quiet like that, would make you jump. Not his. Not with the way he says it, all low and certain.

"When did I say that?"

"You don't have to say something for me to know." That thing stirs in you again. A rumble of satisfaction at being known. And then a prey animal, seen. Ready to run. You tense, looking away from him, eyes landing on his pillow. Remember your role.

You scoff, voice mocking, a challenge. "Okay. Then why are you outside?"

He pauses, hand raising to his chin in thought. "...don't know. Haven't decided yet." Not he doesn't know, and not he hasn't decided yet. Which leaves... which means-

"I'm not doing the dishes again." You don't have an answer for him.

"I'll do em." He grabs his bowl and chopsticks, leans in, arm over the threshold, to take yours too.

"No, sit down. Stay." Your hand raises in a stopping motion between you, just nearly touching his chest.

"You said if I ate I could come inside." He grumbles, whines, leans into you, closes the distance between his body and your hand. You can feel his heart, the beat of it thunderous. You pull away as though burned.

"I said you'd eat if you wanted to come inside. That's not the same as an invitation."

A disbelieving laugh escapes him as he pulls back. "Yeah?" His grin is wide and manic. "You're being particularly cruel tonight, did I really upset you that much?"

"Yup." You nod, slowly. Pop the P, like an asshole. And suddenly you know that he knows this isn't about whatever made you mad, not anymore.

"Okay, okay. Colonel Pip-squeak, I'm staying." And an old thing is made new again, he speaks to you like he knows something you don't. Caleb is older than you, a distance of only a few years that he has never let you forget. It had mattered more to you, when you were small. One of the first ways you learned to be annoyed with him. You remember struggling after him, to climb as high on the orphanage garden tree and every tree you could find after, with him teasing all the while. He was older, his hands were bigger, that was just how it was. An insurmountable distance, established between you from day one. It was easy, in your agitation, to forget that he'd always pulled you up to meet him, in the end. There's a symbol in that, you think.

"Where'd you go Pip?" Your drawn back to the present moment.

"The playground." You don't have to say which, though you've been to many, over the years. He just knows. The way that he always knows, when it comes to you.

"You should get some sleep." 'We can talk in the morning, we can talk when you're ready.' Goes unspoken. He removes his hat, sets it at his side. Yawning, but still sitting tall. Still, somehow, accepting of this. Of you. "Be sure to lock the door."

In lieu of a goodnight, you do as told. Sliding the door shut, letting the lock click solidly into place, while he watches your hand, dazed in a way you refuse to attribute to anything but exhaustion from his work day.

You turn away from him without a word, making your way through his house to get yourself ready for bed.

---

You're in his bathroom, glaring at his toothbrush laid flat on the counter. Yours, which had been stood up nicely, in the cup by the sink, is now being used to scrub much too aggressively at your mouth. Brush and bristles catching on your cheeks and teeth like you find yourself caught on his brush's needless separation. If you didn't know better, you'd think he wanted to be apart from you. Your heart stutters. Because maybe he did. Maybe that was the thing you were missing, in your desperation to be close and close and closer still. He wasn't going to find you, that's what he'd said, if you hadn't stormed the Fleet yourself you'd never-

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter.

Cay ✈️: Goodnight Pips, sleep well.

Cay ✈️: [Sunny Apple: G'nite]

You exhale. No. No. He'd wanted to protect you, you know that. You spit into the sink, rinse your toothbrush clean and place it back in the cup. You wipe the toothpaste at the corners of your mouth onto the shirt you'd pulled over your head to sleep in. One of his, now stained by you, like many others before. You creep out into the hall, peak around a corner toward the balcony, where you can only make out the vague shape of him, faced away from the door, toward the rest of the world, either asleep or pretending at it. You turn off the house lights and make to retreat into his room, stopping briefly again at the bathroom, to place his toothbrush in the cup with yours.

In his bedroom, you pull a pillow over to the far left side of the bed. You take his place in it, pull the sheet over you. It's a warm night, even for Skyhaven. You tense and untense your body, rhythmically, try not to dwell on the too quiet of his home. On how you were right, earlier, when you thought your footfalls were the only thing stopping you from hearing your heart. It kicks up now as you shift around under the thin cover. You find yourself briefly worried that Caleb will get cold. You pluck your phone from the nightstand to check the weather. Your punishment of him not without its limits. You hum dismissively at the readout. He'll be just fine. You close the weather app and unconsciously open your messenger, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Pips 🧡: Night.

Pips 🧡: [Sunny Apple: Bye]

The walls in his house are thick, and his bedroom isn't all that close to the balcony, but still you'd swear you hear him laughing softly from outside.

Whether it is a hallucination on your part or not, the sound of it soothes you to slumber.

You are at a dog park. The one nearby Grandma's old house. Its larger, in the dream, the trees at the far end less human planted embellishment and more organic forest. The fence lining it is a sturdy iron, and not the feeble, beat up, wired one that exists in reality. You are playing fetch with a dog, your dog. Which you both cannot see and have also, in your waking life, never had. You toss the ball and assumedly the dog catches it and brings it back, as it keeps reappearing in your hand. Your voice echoes through the eerily empty park "Yes, good catch. Good boy!" You coo at it. Each time it barks out a reply. You hear its feet hitting the ground as it runs, kicking up grass and dirt as it goes, your laughter is light and giddy, as you continue to play with the unseen thing.

Until eventually it makes its way back to you-"good boy! yes, yes so good!"-and its bark is warped. Less dog, more... human.

"Woof." You look down and finally you see it, him. Caleb is there, all big and broad, sat at your feet. His eyes are dark and focused. He's panting. Red apple, like a ball, between his teeth.

You wake with a start. Breathing ragged, stuck between confusion and mute horror. You stay completely still for a long while. Playing it back, feeling more and more sick each time. Knots coiling in your stomach. What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?

You have to let him back in the house.

You throw the covers off of you, move to stand, before freezing entirely. Your shifting weight, the movement of your legs, draws your attention to the wetness between them. You exhale shakily, tears building unbidden behind your eyes. Your brain short circuits, scrambling to explain it away as just a fucked up dream. Challenging, with the subject of it currently locked outside like an animal. Your body's reaction could be written off as just that, a reaction of the body. Totally isolated from you. You will yourself to believe, in your half-sleep state, that you've not felt the knot all night long, the coil in your stomach.

The sensation now given a name, one you can't bear to repeat.

It's fucked. You're fucked. And even still, as always, you want to run to him. To have him soothe you the way only he knows how. If you went to him, now, would he be disgusted with you? All night all he'd done is listen to you. If you told him again to sit, to stay, to eat-

You gasp aloud, invisible collar tightening as if tugged. The thought is banished, and you lay back down, stock-still. No, actually. You need to go back to sleep. You need to not be near him. You need to rewrite this moment, too, as part of the bad, bad dream. Not real. Not your drowsy-but-still-very-much-awake thoughts. Not yours. Not really.

It will be like the theme park, like those days consumed by the chip. You'll forget. You'll pretend to forget.

It's the only way to ensure you both survive it.

In sleep, you are drawn back to the dog park. You know he is still there, can hear him panting and whining in your ear. You refuse to look at him. The apple, that you think now may have never been a ball, is held loosely in your palm. You stare off into the grassy field ahead, to where the horizon hides behind the treeline. From there, you wouldn't be able to see the park fence. Even within the dream, you untense. Caleb barks at you. You stare into the trees, the fullness of them, the cover. You throw the apple into them, as far as you can.

And, without even looking to see if he's given chase, you take off running after it.

It's morning, when you wake next, the sun cresting over the horizon. You paw at your sleep crusted eyes, instinctively sniff at the air for the scent of Caleb making breakfast. You'd figured, sometime in the night or early morning, he'd find his way back inside. Whatever game you were playing abandoned, in favor of play pretending none of it had happened. One game for another. Something put up on a high shelf, where you wouldn't have to look at it, where only Caleb could reach.

But there's nothing, not the smell of coffee, not the sound of sizzling, no spatula scraping at the stove. All is quiet. You frown, move to rise from the bed. Your nose scrunching in distaste when shifting your legs unsticks yourself from your underwear. Great. Gross. Before anything else, you need to change.

You try and fail not to remember the dream, as you dig through his drawers for some boxers. So lost in the catastrophic mess of your own head that you don't think much of anything when you come across three pairs of your own underwear. It's easy to ignore, you leave stuff here all the time, and his underwear drawer was a pretty logical place for them to end up, all things considered. Just because you don't remember it doesn't mean it didn't happen.

And again, you're kind of more worried about your dog problem.

You'd pleaded for one desperately, a few years after Grandma adopted you. You'd spent some time with a friend and her dog, watched her do tricks on command, follow your friend around all open-mouthed and bright-eyed, seen how she'd sat, her back facing the pair of you as you played, keeping silent vigil. You'd been awed, you'd been envious. But Grandma was adamant about maintaining a pet free household. And so your dreams were dashed.

Mostly. Except for the part you'd forgotten, until now.

You'd been moping about the house all day. Grandma's continued rejection of your wishes putting you in a sour mood. One Caleb had been incessantly trying to lift for the last hour at least, as you both sat on the living room floor, sat in front of the big fan, trying to keep cool in the sticky summer heat.

"Piiiips. C'mon. Let's go on a walk or something." He tosses the paper plane he just finished folding at you. It flies in circles around your head, courtesy of his evol, until you swat it out of your orbit. He makes a big show of crash landing it in front of you, making explosion noises and everything. Apparently three people need immediate medical attention. It's all very tragic. You kind of don't care at all.

You're at tough ages now, 13 and 15. You don't know if he's gotten worse at comforting you, or you've gotten worse at being comforted. There's no time to ponder it, as he has succeeded in folding the rescue helicopter, which is also just a paper plane.

"Dispatcher Pip, we need coordinates, these people are not going to make it."

You sigh dramatically, half-heartedly pointing to the crash site. "They're over there."

"Copy that, dispatcher Pip, sending in the rescue team now." The plane is thrust into the air, gently floating its way to you, just as the first did. "Oh no, we seem to have encountered an obstacle in our flight path. There is no clear path around it." Ugh! Yes there is!

You duck, raising your hands over your head defensively. "Are you saying I have a big head?"

"Negative. Gravity seems to have warped around you, the rescue copter can't escape the pull." The paper plane-copter circles your head, just like the first, the only thing keeping you from swatting it down is your desire to keep him from introducing a third.

"Well I'm not the one with gravity powers-"

"Do you wanna go get ice cream?" The suddenness of the question takes you off guard. Caleb's always been really good at that, making distractions. You blink at him three times before remembering that you're super upset. You sigh, for probably the 100th time in the last 25 minutes.

"I don't want ice cream. I want a dog." You pout at the floor, knees pulled into your chest. A finger tracing at the wood grain absently.

"Then lets go to the park." Caleb says with a shrug. You perk up. "To... get a dog?" You ask, equally hopeful and confused.

"Nnno..." He starts, and you deflate immediately. "Gran would probably send us packing if we pulled something like that. Buuut I bet there will be at least one nice doggie there for you to play with." He shuffles across the floor to you, ruffles your hair. "You're small and cute, I'm willing to bet their owners will let you." You bat at his hand.

"'m not that small..." you grumble, but don't reject the idea.

"Okay. Are we goin or not?"

---

There aren't any dogs at the park. Mid-afternoon heat keeping visitors away from the sun soaked field. You are devastated of course, and kind of annoyed, since you bothered to peel yourself off the floor and away from the fan for this. But it wouldn't be Caleb if he didn't have a backup plan.

"I'll be the dog." He says, easily.

"You'll huh?" Your head whips to him, brow raised and mouth agape.

"I'll be the dog." He shrugs, like whats he's saying makes any sense. "How did your friend and her dog play?"

You hesitate, feeling that somehow this is wrong, but not finding any real reason to say no. Find it incredibly hard to want to, when you've spent all day really really wanting a dog."...She would hold one of her rope toys and run around the field. And Buttons, that's her dogs name, would chase her. And tug at it when she'd catch her." You hold up your empty hands to him. "I don't have a rope toy though."

Caleb thinks it over. "I can still chase you? If you want?"

You nod without hesitation. Eyes widening excitedly.

He chases you around the field, barking and yipping playfully as you laugh and run away. He tugs gently at the hem of your shirt when he catches you, lets you go again when you squeal. It isn't long before you're sweaty and breathing heavy, exhausted from running around in the heat. Caleb all but drags you to the water fountain, demands that you drink and then drink some more. The breeze has picked up, to your relief. A soothing balm on your overly warm skin.

"We should head back." His breathing is still leveling out. You push away from the fountain and nudge him to take your place. When he raises his head, after a drink, he catches your frown.

"Do we have to?" Your tired, yes, but you were also having so much fun. Even if it was just pretend.

"We don't have to..." He cups your sweaty face in his equally sweaty hands. "...but anymore sun and you might start cooking." He says, patting your cheeks.

"Just a little longer. We can play a different dog game." You're eyes are big and pleading, something you know always works with him.

"...okay, okay. 10 minutes. One more dog game."

You tell him about your friend and her dog playing catch. How she'd throw the rubber ball and Buttons would chase it down and bring it back. You don't have a rubber ball, and so you improvise with a stick you find by the tree Caleb made you sit under. Compromising about play time only when you promised to stay in the shade. You throw the stick, he runs to catch it, and when he picks it up in his hands you tell him no. He's a dog, he has to use his mouth. And so he does. Runs back and forth under the sun, picking up the stick with his teeth, while you sit in the shade. He's panting again, all sweaty and beat red. You wonder how long he'll keep going, if you keep throwing it, before he tells you to stop.

He doesn't. Not until you tell him you're ready to go home.

The memory leaves you horrified with yourself all over again. God. You were spoiled. And cruel. And over all these years nothing seems to have changed, not for the better anyways. Now, on top of it all, you're a pervert too. Your list of objectionable traits only growing.

You'd managed to get changed, while you reflected-soiled underwear tucked into your bag to be dealt with whenever you got back home-and now are making your way back to the main room in the house. Expecting still, to find Caleb either in the kitchen or living area, busying himself while waiting for you to wake.

But he's not in either location. When you turn the corner, finally in clear view of the balcony, you see him there. Sat right outside the door, in uniform. One arm propped up on a raised knee, the other extended behind him, supporting him. Relaxed. Patient. Waiting. 'Stay.'

Oh.

It's worse. He's making it so much worse.

You walk to the door, open it with a shaky hand that you try desperately to control. You search yourself for words. For anything to say at all.

Your rumbling stomach cuts through the tension for you. Startles you out of your stupor.

"...Ok, you can come in. We're going to the grocery store." You give your best performance of passivity, only look at him when you recognize your avoidance of eye contact will do just as much to give you away.

When your eyes finally land on his face, his smile knocks the breath out of you.

---

From there, the day passes with frightening normalcy. The both of you get ready, make it to and from the grocery store with little drama, and Caleb, graciously, doesn't bat an eye at your sudden awkwardness. Falling easily back into step like everything is completely normal and you didn't totally overstep in pretty much every conceivable way just hours ago. You return home and he makes breakfast. You eat together at the table, the silence companionable. You, stealing glances at him all the while. Searching for any anger, or upset, or discontent. Something that says he's sick of you, because he should be.

There's nothing.

You spend the rest of the day working on one of his models. Mostly he works and you scroll on your phone, still keyed up about... pretty much everything, unable to meaningfully focus. You'd been so angry yesterday, and you'd lashed out at him, disrupted his whole day like you had any right to. Had the audacity to be annoyed with him about it. You still can't even remember what had gotten you so worked up in the first place.

"Hey, we should watch that new episode, while your here." He says offhandedly, still focused on the model in front of him.

Oh.

My fucking.

God.

You remember. You remember why you were so angry. Which sucks, because its completely stupid. You fight through the embarrassment, through the heat rising to your face, to respond. "Yeah. Sounds good." You know he hears it, but he says nothing about the way your voice cracks.

---

The sun is long past setting and Caleb is still chipping away at the model. You, for your part, have pretty much given up on assisting. Drifting in and out of consciousness from where you are sprawled out on the couch. He says something to you, a request for another piece, probably, but you miss it in your drowsy state. You rapidly blink your eyes, try and compel them into staying open.

"...huh?" you hum groggily. He turns his attention to you. Face and voice soft.

"...Said can you hand me the-" He cuts himself off, gives you a once over. Huffs out a laugh. "Coulda told me you were fading, Pips." He smiles, leans over to pinch your thigh. Startling you just slightly more alert.

"Ow!" It hadn't hurt. "Rude-"

"You can't go down yet. You gotta tell me where I'm sleeping." He says coolly. Your eyes narrow in confusion. He hums, raising himself up from his place behind the coffee table with a little 'hup'. And disappears from your line of sight.

You hear the opening of the sliding glass door.

Shit. Shit.

Your stomach drops. Heart thundering with every step his feet take back to you.

He's in front of you, pillow and comforter in hand, still smiling, all teeth.

"So, Pips, have I been good?"

Your entire body lurches, breath catching, heat rolling through you.

Everything stops moving. Like his evol is active, even though you know it isn't.

You don't know what to say. Every wire is crossed, every weapon you have, misfiring. He's still... why is he entertaining this? Why would he start it again? Is he just... messing with you? Is it a test? What are you supposed to say?

"Pips." He kneels, makes himself level with your position on the couch, looks at you, all big-eyed and focused. "Where do you want me?" He brings a hand to your ankle, rubs circles into it.

You look away from his face, to the dirty bedding in his other hand, and say the only thing that comes to mind.

"You can sleep at the foot of the bed, but those aren't coming with you."

---

He had been quick to mask his surprise. Just not quick enough for you to miss it entirely. Besides the night he was sick, its been years since you've shared a bed.

You needed a minute. To recover from what he'd said, what it had done to you. And so excused yourself to throw the pillow and comforter into the laundry, telling him as you hastened away, to wash up before bed. The fact that he'd let you go, do the deed yourself, without protest, tells you he needed that minute to. You're leaning over the running washing machine, arms braced at the front edges of it, trying to get yourself through and over the thought of 'What the fuck? What the fuck do I do?' and onto something more productive.

A part of you, the selfish, spoiled part you don't think you're allowed to deny anymore, hopes that Caleb's already solved it. That he has returned from his time outside enlightened and will, like every other time before, pick up all your troubles for you, and carry them like they weighed nothing. The other part of you, the bigger part, the one that has spent a decade trying to be his equal. Hopes that whatever truth he saw he'd tell to you.

That's the hard part. Getting him to tell you. It's the one thing Caleb won't give you without first taking. Truth, confessions. You groan to yourself. Your either gonna have to tell him about the dream, or the reason you made him sleep outside.

Frankly, the choice is obvious.

You make your way out of the laundry room and into the bathroom, where you see Caleb brushing his teeth. By the time you start on yours he's rinsing his mouth out.

"Gonna grab an extra blanket from the hall closet..." He sets his toothbrush down on the counter. You make a displeased noise through a mouth full of foam and spit. Glance at him, brows furrowed, only to find he's already watching you. His mouth turns up, slow. Grinning wide enough to make his eyes squint, as he picks the brush back up, and places it in the cup. He looks to you, you hum, nod your approval. His nose wrinkles with a giddy little huff. He pats your shoulder, lets his hand rest there, as he makes his way around you and out of the bathroom. You roll your eyes, when he's gone. 'And what are you supposed to make of that?' Annoying. The same annoying Caleb. No amount of canine roleplay or psychosexual wet dreams will ever take that from you.

He's changed into his pjs and draped the blanket by the time you finish up and make for his room. Already laying at the foot of the bed, eyes closed, with the pillow you'd used tucked under his head. You don't know if he chose it because it was in his place, on the far left, or because he'd known you used it.

"I don't remember saying you could have that." You give your best effort to sound firm. Though you can tell from the way he smiles, not bothering to open his eyes, that he knows there's no bite in it.

"You've let me come this far. Is this really where you're gonna draw the line?"

You're not sure there is a line, anymore. But you don't say that. The silence, you crawling under the covers, into the bed, is answer enough. You reach for the light, pausing for a moment with your hand on the pullstring. You'll have to be honest with him, if you want any shot of him being honest with you.

...doesn't mean you can't do it in the dark, though.

You yank the light off.

"Night Pips." He wraps a hand around your ankle from over the covers, just to hold it, you think. It settles something in you that he wants to know you're there.

"I remembered why I was mad at you." You blurt out, the cover of dark doing very little to make you brave.

"Yeah?" he squeezes once, then rubs circles into the bone.

"It was the canceled plans. Kinda. But it wasn't that part." You pause, take a breath, he hums for you to continue. "...We were gonna watch the new episode of that show together. You couldn't make it and that's fine, we're adults with jobs and we get busy. I didn't care about that." Another pause, another breath, this time he just waits. "But you told me I could watch it by myself, if I wanted." You shrink in on yourself, unconsciously. "...Aaand it bothered me." You pull the blanket up over your face, despite the fact that he couldn't see your expression in the dark if he tried.

You feel him shift, rise up onto his elbows, know without seeing yourself, that he is looking at you.

"...You made me sleep outside, at my own house... because I was too considerate of your excitement and desire to not see spoilers?" And you can't even entertain the idea that he's irritated with you, because you can hear him smiling stupid big.

You always manage to forget. He's not just annoying. He's a big annoying weirdo.

"I mean. Kinda. Yeah." You sigh, lowering the blanket back down, so your mumbling can be heard more clearly. "It wasn't about the show. Or it was, at first. But then it was more than that?" You were still working out the details yourself, you don't know how to explain it to him. But this is Caleb. If you just... say exactly what you're thinking. He'll figure it out like he always does. At least you hope he will.

"I want to be the same as you. I don't like that we have our own heads... sometimes." You lose steam with each word, end of the sentence leaving you as barely a whisper.

There's a beat of quiet. Then another. "Only sometimes?"

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. But say nothing beyond it.

You did your part, now it's his turn to talk.

"...I don't want you to be the same as me Pip." His hand has reached under the covers now, wraps itself back around your ankle. Like he knows it's not what you want to hear. "You deserve more than- ow, let me finish." You'd kicked at his chest, which he should have anticipated, he knows you hate it when he does that. As he speaks, he pulls you closer, not away. Presses your foot to his ribs, shows you where to hit him next, if he upsets you again. "I'm yours. Always have been, always will be. And if it were up to me you'd have everything, it wouldn't even be a question." After that, his voice dips low.

"Everything good. And none of the bad. That's all me." More circles rubbed into you, tracing further up, on your calf now. "I'd let you crawl under my ribs though, if that's what you wanted. Use me like a jungle gym. Give you something to cut your teeth on...." You push your foot into his ribs, toes pressing into the spaces between the bones. He grips your leg tighter.

"If you're mine I'm yours."

"Pips, listen-" His hold loosens as he sighs, the first hint of frustration you've seen from him over the last two days. You pull away from his grip entirely, throwing the covers away from you. "If you're mine I'm yours. It's not a question. It's the end of the discussion." You crawl to the end of the bed, movement quick and clumsy. You lay facing him, close enough to see his eyes even in the dark.

He chokes out a bitter little laugh, wraps his arms around you, nudges a leg between yours. "You still don't get it. Even after the stunt you pulled?"

"Don't get what Caleb?" You curl into him, head tucked into the peak of his arm, breathing deep. "Don't make me guess. Just tell me, for once." And that's rich, coming from you. But you don't really care about your own hypocrisy at the moment.

"You always wanted a dog, didn't you?" you tense, freeze, and then try to pull away.

He doesn't let you.

"Ah, so you do get it." You can feel him smiling against you. "Good. That's good."

"Caleb..." You whine, pout, squirm. All the sudden feeling entirely too seen. Worried he somehow knows. About the dream, about the knot. He's laughing at you, now, strong enough to shake with it. But the way he moves against you, the boyish lilt of his voice... you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed over it. He squeezes you tight, secure and warm, even without a blanket over you.

"Don't worry about it. Same rule as always. We'll put it up on the high shelf. Til your ready to face it."

It's enough, for now. Not quite pretend and not quite honest.

You're working on it.

---

This was supposed to be a 500 word drabble. btw.

[star-light-artist]

Rogue One rewatch thoughts after all of Andor:

Wow!! They really set up exactly why Cassian knew to ask about what kind of weapon they were making, Jedha, & Galen Erso!! He literally just heard all of that from Kleya!! The writing is incredible!

They know where Saw is. They just need help getting through the door - just like how in Andor they were trying to meet with him & knew where he was, but Saw wouldn't hear them out.

Bail is wearing the same outfit he wore in Andor!!

I love Jyn so much - she hides her feelings but still obviously feels so much. The vibe is so serious & cool. So much of SW is lighthearted & the characters laugh & smile, which I love. But I also love how Jyn hardly ever smiles. She acts like she's in the genre she's in. Not overly grumpy, rude, or "I'm not like other girls" kind of way. But just because her life is hard & she has no one to trust - until later on in the movie. When she comes to trust & love Cassian. Then she smiles.

The world feels so vast & unique, yet so perfectly fitting in with Star Wars. It feels straight out of the 70s. I love that the Force & Jedi aren't at all a focus, yet they are stilp myths & an undercurrent to the culture & worldbuilding.

Andor ends with Cassian startling awake after a dream about his childhood. Jyn does the same here.

I love Chirrut so much - everything he does is profound & hilarious!

"It's not a problem if you don't look up." I love that she isn't perfectly moral. She doesn't constantly put others first. She's lost. She doesn't know her place in the galaxy or what she wants to fight for like Cassian does. She feels like a realistic, nuanced person who has been through great hardship. Yes, she's a good guy. But a person exposed to so much war, death, suffering, & paranoia would not be totally good, selfless, & idealistic. She is a victim of the world she lives in. Yet despite it all, when she figures out who she is meant to be and what she needs to do, she pulls everything together to be an unstoppable force for good alongside Cassian.

I love so much how Galen inspired Bodhi - telling him that he can be a better man if he chooses to do the right thing. He's a dad at heart, and without Jyn, he teaches Bodhi to do the right thing.

Cassian said, "You're the messenger," - oh, man, alive!! That's just what the Force healer told him!! Both Cassian & Jyn are the messengers, sent by the Force to bring Luke & Leia where they need to be.

Chirrut is such an interesting person - I'd love to know more about his religion. It's so strange that he prays to the Force. He's so very like the Force healer & Bix & Leia - the Force isn't a showy, powerful tool for them. It's instinct, guidance, a sense of someone's morality, & hope.

Cassian can't fall to the Dark Side, but he can darken his heart & become the evil he sought to destroy. If he had killed Galen, perhaps Jyn wouldn't have worked with him & the Death Star never would have been taken down. I love so much that Bix's words of regret over killing so many people finally reached him before it was too late.

Cassian loved Bix, but he had moved on, I think. The panic in his voice when he realizes Jyn is in danger is not something I've heard from him over anyone else.

Galen's confused, afraid-to-be-hopeful face when Jyn yells, "Father!" - I can't!! 😭😭 I love him so much. Such a sweet, loving, moral character who lost everything & had to live with that grief & the guilt of what he was doing for so many years. And he never gets to see his revenge. All he had was hope.

Cassian's speech about living for the rebellion - maaaan!! That's the Andor show he's talking about! He hasn't had the luxury to decide when he can be moral & when he needs to be ruthless. He snaps at Jyn because his conscience agrees with her.

Cassian gathers all his friends to help Jyn because he needs all his evil deeds - & Luthen's evil deeds - to mean something.

I would have loved to see Cassian sternly tell K2 that he needed to be their for Jyn! 🤣🤣 He loves her so much! 🥹

ANAKIN!!! A sarcastic diva as always!!

"We'll take the next chance on and on until our chances are spent." That sums up Cassian's life.

Jyn & Cassian are so cute in their matching Imperial couples costumes!! 🤣

I'm so torn between shipping Cassian with Bix or Jyn! 😭😭 Narraively, both love stories work so perfectly! Cassian falling for Jyn adds another layer to the tragedy because he never learned that Bix still loved him. He seemed unsure about seeing Bix again last time he saw Vel. I think he had moved on emotionally, but if he'd known that she still loved him & that he was a dad, he would have rushed back to them.

Someone once said that Cassian was meant to live with Bix and die with Jyn. I think that sums it up so beautifully. Cassian died so far away from Bix, but he didn't die alone or without love.

Baze gained his faith when he saw the faith his friend had even when facing death. 😭😭

Bodhi's panicked, maddened desperate final action just to tell the Rebels what they needed to do is so sad. Dying not for the mission itself, but just a step in it. One step. Without that step, though, it all falls apart. I wish we could have seen more of his relationship with Galen. His last words were, "This is for you, Galen."

Nemik's, K2's, & Kino's last or close to last words were "Climb!" That is what Cassian does, even when shot & dying. They died, so he could climb.

Cassian & Jyn died to send the plans and never got to see their revenge. But they had hope. That's what everyone who died in this movie had. Even after they die, we see the story continue in the final few minutes. Andor leads perfectly into Rogue One, and Rogue One leads perfectly into A New Hope.

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Jonathan Pine

Summary: Not everyone is happy to see you dating your boss.

Warnings: Implied age discrimination, Implied smut. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is 40+ years old and female. No physical descriptors used.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Previous

Jonathan's work at the office often resulted in him leaving you at your desk for long periods of time while he attended meetings. This was good time for planning departmental events, following up on Jonathan's phone calls and making sure he had fresh tea waiting for him.

Really, once you got into the flow of things, the work wasn't too difficult. Starting a romantic relationship with Jonathan had disrupted things for a bit, but the two of you were mature professionals and were able to settle into a new normal. There were a few wrinkles when Jonathan would try to do more for himself or help you when you didn't ask for it. But all you had to do was call him out on it with a sharp, "I've been doing this job for several years now. I know what I'm doing," and he backed down. You can appreciate him wanting to help, but you're still a skilled professional and he needs to respect that.

Well, at least when you're at work. Outside of the office you definitely appreciate the attention, the care, the dirty words whispered into your ear. He makes you feel attractive in ways you've never experienced before.

Sometimes you think it's a bit much but he counters that he's making up for lost time.

"All those years I wanted to say something and I almost lost you," he contemplates as you're cuddled in bed. "I don't think I've ever been more grateful for Levinson. And now that I've finally got you, I have no intention of holding back, except as to respect your rules for the workplace."

"And I'm very grateful for that. I've been getting some rude looks from people in other departments," you confess.

He stiffens at that and you can feel his face go into what you've dubbed "serious mode". Normally Jonathan is capable at keeping himself looking calm and approachable. But every so often he can't hold back his scarier, more stressed expressions.

"Stop that," you gently scold as you rub his arm. "You can't control what other people think, no matter how wrong they are. Besides, what's important is that the people in our own department don't seem to mind."

"Well, except for Johnny. But that's more because he lost a bet with Bucky over the whole thing," he chuckles.

You join his chuckling. "Serves him right for not believing in us."

"Well, in his defense, I was being rather dumb about the whole thing."

"No, you were being respectful," you counter. "If anything, I was the stubborn one. Never giving you an in. Always afraid of being replaced."

"You were protecting yourself," he soothes. "And it makes sense you'd feel that way. After all, you rarely got to see the effect your presence has on me."

"What do you mean?"

"You're the reason I smile when there's nothing else to smile about," he explains. "Days you couldn't make it in? I would always be so downcast. Syverson was the first one who caught on, of course. Though he admits he first thought it was because days without your help were more stressful. He wasn't completely wrong on that, though. You make every day easier."

You giggle and try to hide your face in embarrassment but Jonathan doesn't let you, instead taking your hands and giving them gentle kisses.

"You are too beautiful to be hiding away," he whispers. His eyes darken and he maneuvers himself on top of you. "Far too beautiful," he reiterates before kissing you.

The instant you step into the break room for lunch with your work friends, they go quiet. Your smile falters but you try not to think anything of it and head over to their table. As soon as you sit, however, you're greeted by averted gazes and tight lips.

"I can guess what this is about," you start.

"You're sleeping your way into a raise," Connie asserts. "How are we supposed to not say anything about it?"

"That's not what's happening," you protest. "Yes, we're dating, but it's all above board."

"As if your job wasn't already easy enough with Jonathan as your manager," Darcy jabs. "Now you're sucking him off so you can get even less work."

"That is not true!"

"So you're not going down on him?" Edith taunts. "Maybe I'll offer so he knows what he's missing out on."

"That's not what I meant. We're dating not...not just fooling around."

"If that's true and it's all ok with HR, why are you only affectionate outside of work, huh?" Darcy questions, crossing her arms.

"To be professional," you explain. "My own life got wrecked time and time again by others sleeping with the boss and wasting work time filling around. I'm not going to do that to others."

The group responds with a combination of eye rolls, disapproving shakes of the head, and unhappy murmurs.

With a resigned sigh you get out of your chair. "I don't know what else to tell you. I'm giving you the full truth but you're not believing a word of it. I'll eat elsewhere until you come to your senses."

Though you're able to keep your voice steady, your hands are shaking. You knew there'd be pushback. And you couldn't guarantee you wouldn't feel the same if you were in their place. But it still hurts.

You sit at your desk, no longer hungry, and try to work.

Jonathan, expecting you to be at lunch with your friends, steps out of his office where he was eating with Syverson.

"Rose?" he gently asks.

"Just some..." You take a breath, not sure if you can explain without crying.

Jonathan looks back at Syverson who nods before asking, "would you care to join us for lunch?"

"I'm not hungry," you shake your head.

He moves closer and gently cups your chin. "Mon bijou, I won't ask what happened. I trust you to tell me when you're ready. But I worry about you getting lost in your own head and forgetting that you are appreciated, wanted, needed. S'il te plaît?"

"You know I can't resist when you speak French," you gently reproach.

He smiles, completely unapologetic. "Syverson and I could also use your help planning for the company picnic this summer."

"You could've just told me that," you intone, grabbing your lunch.

"Yes, but I very much prefer the sweet talk, as I know you do too."

"I swear 'sweet talk' is your native language," you tease.

"Maybe so," he smiles. "And you're the only one who gets to hear me speak it."

Next

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kmc1989;

@late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ozwriterchick; @peyton-warren; @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare

[cyberphuck]

Hey guys professional Jaydee here So the thing about depicting human (or human-like) subjects in art is that no matter what you do, every portrait is going to look a little bit "off," even the most photorealistic ones, because humans are not still-life. The way your eyeball sees images and then transmits them to your brain, and the way your brain processes them, is very different from how a static (or "still/not moving") image will look. Think of the "composite sketch" of a wanted criminal versus what their mugshot ends up looking like. Even then, what people say when they see a perfect photorealistic drawing isn't "wow it looks just like an alive person," it's "wow it looks just like a photo." What I'm trying to say here is that when you draw a portrait of someone, it's more important to capture the general feeling of that person then exactly how that person looks. For instance...

Here's famous artist Al Hirschfeld's drawing of the main characters in Star Trek TOS. Hirschfeld is famous for his style that uses very few lines, and usually one big, swooping line for the torso/body. You can tell which person is which in this drawing pretty easily. But if you were to look at an actual photo of the cast members...

.... hey, they don't look the way Hirschfeld drew them at all! But you did recognize them, because Hirschfeld captured the feeling of the characters, rather than exactly how they looked. And even though Al Hirschfeld's caricatures are an extreme example of this, you'll find that every artist does this to some degree. (Even photographers play around with focal length and lights and dark room magic to change the way their photos look, but this isn't an overly long post about photography.) What does this mean for you and Data? It means you're doing fine. Q recognized Data right away! I tend to look at pictures before I read the text, and I knew who he was too from the second I saw him. Could someone say your art looks bad and make rude comparisons? Sure, people do that with every artist, even famously "good" ones, and you'd know it if you ever heard me talk about Gustav Klimt. But, as we all know, it isn't kind to do that to someone who isn't Gustav Klimt. But, let me use my art powers to bring your drawings up to "standard." There we go, and we'll make sure everybody else is up to the same standard. Good, now we have a whole bunch of identical pictures of Brent Spiner. Alright I'm putting everything back the way it was. I think your drawings are fine. This sounds really corny, but the most important part of making art is how you feel when making it. You'll never be able to control how other people feel when looking at it, but you can experiment by looking at a whole bunch of different kinds of art and then trying all of it. Show it off with pride, and if someone says something rude about it, tell them to sit on a cactus.

Well, I just got dealt a swift kick in the guts 😳

I put a compliment on someone's Instagram art as they were asking for feedback on their Data portraits. I then asked if they'd like to see mine and they agreed. So I pm'd the sketches below. However I was (very) taken aback when they told me they looked more like some Belgian actor called Louis Thysson than Data and said I needed to practice a lot more to get to a good standard (?) This person is actually a mutual, so I did think it was a bit 'off'. Besides, I am trying to console myself that they only aspire to that very lifelike photo style - which I don't - and they only do faces while I do lots of styles, subjects and full body poses. Anyway, I thought I'd let you see and judge for yourselves... 😔

[hypermascbishounen]

man i am real sick of people seeing any complaints/criticisms about an adaptation, and taking that as a personal attack on them if they liked it. Just bc people don't like the thing you do, doesn't mean they're being hostile, or gatekeeping, or mean.

They do not need to justify not enjoying something, or to shut up so you never have to see negativity. If you do not like seeing people have opinions that aren't your own, it's on you to block them, not on them to not post how they feel about the latest big thing in the fandom they've probably been in for years, possibly decades.

[takendruid-rambles]

If you're willing to read my reply if I edited it, can't you read my reply even if it's serparate? Also I put it into a separate reply for the sake of coming at it with a fresh head.

Your criticism makes absolutely no sense because the reply was already there in your notifs when you replied to my original reply. It had been tehre for several hours. I even linked to it in that second reply just above just so it was easy to access. But, as well, complaining by telling me I could have to edited my original reply makes no sense when 1) by the time you replied, I had already sent it hours beforehand, and 2) I did edit my original reply to tell you "please look at my other reply instead of this one". You even replied to the edited version (and if you know anything about tumblr, an edit won't appear on a reblogged if it was edited after the reblog).

Plus,,, telling me to edit my original reply to add the second reply implies you would be willing to read it if I had added it to my original reply. But it would have already been sitting in your notifs box for hours above the original reply. So you wouldn't have been waiting for me to reply with my second reply. Because it was already there. Which is why I said it was convenient that you ignored it.

Also dude you don't have to "sit around, waiting". I've only been assed to reply to this now (idk when you sent it) because I couldn't be bothered opening Tumblr until now. And you stating/assuming (because you said you were asusming) I don't have treatments to attend to because I replied to your messages, and hoped you would do the same is not wrong? But also I am unable to work due to disability. Which is why I have the free time to do this. I mean I hope you're doing okay, and that your treatments go well. I'm serious btw, I don't mean that as a backhanded thing. Idk what it's for and I don't need to know, but I don't wish anything ill or worse on you because of this... You're just kinda being a dickhead in some places when I think you really didn't need to be. I know I've probably also been rude, I'm just frustrated by the shit you're saying. I'm frustrated by the Bleach stuff, yeah, but I'm mainly just really frustrated by you assuming shit about me that isn't true, and then just acting/saying shit based purely on those assumptions.

(Edit: in context to my other stuff, I don't jsut edit stuff and reply with a separate reply because it just ensures you'll get the message as a separate thing. It's so you know for certain I've replied, which I feel is just more effective than you going onto the original message to check if I've edited, right...?)

I can't be assed replying to a good part your reply above because clearly you don't like the anime, so there is absolutely no point arguing, and I've already addressed the "Kisuke Manipulates Ichigo" in the second reply. I like the anime, but I have also read the manga but it was years ago so I'm short on the details of the early parts. I can tell the difference between canon and filler, the Gin stuff (amongst other stuff) was done purely for censorship it's not that deep, and I agree that the TYBW is a better story adaptation than the original (I say story adaptation because I'm personally not a fan of the art style and animation change. Just wanted to clear that up in case you were confused about why I said story adaptation instead of just adaptation).

That said, I will admit that I was wrong about the Rukia stuff. You're right that it was my own personal biases (mainly in me trying to defend myself because I felt wrongly called out... you were right to call it out, but the way you did it was just rude and unnecessary) instead of me objectively looking at it, and completely forgetting (because I read it when I was like,, 8?? maybe also 10?) that her age was emphasized in the manga. But I should note that I personally, and it's from my own observations and opinions, don't think it was necessarily because the director "manipulated the viewers" or so you claim. I believe the reason that small stuff like that was changed or removed is because Bleach, at that time, was done with cels instead of being digital, and was strictly being made into a 22 minute format. This means that some stuff would have been annoying to include, or seen as not necessary for the story. I.e: emphasis on Rukia being much older than everyone else. Also censorship.

Not saying the director didn't do anything wrong, I just kind of feel like there is some villainisation going on when it just feels like the reason stuff was changed is actually much more simpler than the Director was a dickhead. I mean I haven't looked into the Director or anything, I've just been enjoying my silly autism show that makes me laugh, and brings me incredible amounts of happiness, so I don't care to.

But I also want to point out that I mentioned that I grew up watching Bleach as a child and teenager, and have only recently started to consume it again as an adult. I didn't just mention it for shits and giggles. The reason I mentioned it is because I wanted to let you understand that this stuff is just a perspective thing. Is Rukia an adult? Yes. Do I think she's a young person? No. Do I know that she is a grown adult who is much older than Ichigo, and has lived longer? Yes. However. Given that I have been a minor almost the entire time I was actively consuming Bleach and haven't consumed it the whole time I've been an adult until now, my brain relatively defaults to Rukia being around the same level (not age? idk how to describe it, I'm not great with words) as Ichigo, Orihime, Uryu, Chad, and even myself. It's not an intentional or conscious thing, especially because I feel incredibly weirded/grossed out by Ichiruki and Ulquihime now that I'm an adult myself, but loved them when I was a kid, 9-14 give or take. It's just a default I accidentally slip into when talking about it because of my personal experience of being a minor for 11/13 years I have been a Bleach fan.

But also it's not that deep, and you just assumed someone was mischaracterising/infantilising a fictional character because they slipped up on a word in their excitement to talk about their most favourite thing in the whole world with someone they thought shared their understanding of that thing :/

And let me make that clear for you. I am autistic. Bleach is not just a normal thing I enjoy, and it isn't just any special interest. It is my number one special interest. It is genuinely the most important thing to me in the entire world outside of my friends and family. Bleach is an incredibly deep and personal thing to me, which is partially why I am so incredibly pissed off by this statement you made about me when I called Rukia "a girl". (sorry about the quality, idk why my pc does that)

I am sorry about what I said in defence of myself; trying to claim that it was me talking about it from Ichigo's perspective. I was wrong there, I admit that. But I am so incredibly serious, and I genuinely mean it when I say that the word meant NOTHING. It was a single word. A SINGLE WORD. Yet you felt it necessary to state I was infantilising her and proceeded to double down on it in the tags by implying that I was assassinating Rukia's character; referenced my statement in a way that was actually incorrect (because I didn't say Rukia was "just a girl", I said and I quote "to save a girl he knew"), and then said it reeks of a lolicon fantasy. WHAT. How did you get that from a word that had absolutely zero emphasis put onto it, and was clearly put in there just to mention Rukia's gender and not her age? Hell. Nothing about that statement even implied her maturity, age, or even how I see her as far as I am aware.

I am not as annoyed over the Ichigo manipulation thing than I am pissed about the Rukia "girl" thing because while I can argue against the Ichigo thing with facts and logic (and you also approached it in a way that was only talking about the story), the Rukia girl thing? What in god's green earth possessed you to write that? Say that about me? Assume shit about me that wasn't true, and said it like it was a fact. Stated it as though those were genuinely my intentions. Who does that? And who hurt you to result in that being the way you engage with another person when they slip up? Mind you, not stating an incorrect fact about a character, but a minor slip up in the middle of their sentence?

You could have genuinely approached it in a different way. I am so fucking serious. You could have phrased it differently but still got the point across that my phrasing was implying something to you that I didn't mean. An example: "Calling Rukia "a girl" feels like you're infantilising her, which is character assassination as it removes and ignores an important fact about her character and story. I don't know if that was your intention, but the way you've talked about her reads to me like you don't see her as the adult woman she is." And I would have responded, "oh shit, I am so sorry. That wasn't my intention, it was a complete accident. I was just excited. I hope you understand, I didn't mean for it to be read that way." No argument, no stress. A mature way to address your concerns. But you didn't do that, and now we're here. I'm not trying to control what you do, and I'm not even attempting to force you to do anything. But what I am doing is saying that there was absolutely no need for the way you approached it previously, and it's only hurt me in the process. And no one appreciates being hurt over a simple mistake, do they?

I could have just said "you're being a dickhead, fuck off" but, unfortunately, I'm not that kind of person. I wish I was, it would save me a lot of stress if I'm being perfectly honest. Nah, I prefer communication and explanation thanks to good old childhood trauma and experiences (I'm taking the piss out of myself before you say anything).

Anyway I need to let my dog out so I'll leave this off here. Hope you had fun reading it

Could never understand the people who say Ichigo is a bad protagonist/isn't relatable. HES LITERALLY MY SON WHAT DO YOU MEAN

He just wanted to help people :( he has a good heart, and is hated by people because he didn't have any grand plans. Also he is relatable, he just isn't relatable to YOU (you being the people who say he isn't relatable)

Also I need more of pre-soul reaper Ichigo/season 1 Ichigo because he was so fucking funny.

[mars-ipan]

finally checked my professors on ratemyprofessor and every professor with a rating had a good one. i feel lucky as hell

[zappedbyzabka]

*Takes CK characters away from Jon Josh and Hayden* You don't deserve them rn

[beseira]

bexstevie

"money doesn't fix everything, but it certainly makes it easier." the idea that it doesn't fix all your problems is a nice sentiment indeed-- but it's just not realistic, at the end of the day. "there's always a chance it could be bad. maybe it's the...one in a million chance or whatever." stevie nods, laughing in agreement. "i wonder that all that time...like dang, what's going on in there?" he scratches his own head. "exactly. most of the time they're going to talk in circles around you anyway. don't get paid enough for that." a waste of time and a waste of breath. "you just have to like, a decent dancer! and maybe a decent enough actor to look like you're having fun, at least." stevie thinks seira could enjoy it-- but then again, not everyone thinks dance is fun like stevie does. stevie likes most things that require burning a lot of physical energy. "everything else can be," he gives a vague gesture in the hand. "whatever." "it's not fun, no....well, some people think languages are fun, don't they? is it linguists?" stevie can't remember, but he shrugs and continues on. "whatever. anyway, it's going to be not as fun, but we could learn something new that could be kind of fun, no?" stevie tries, it sounding already like nonsense to his ears.

“yeah, life would be easier with a bunch of money on my hand”. seira’s dad had always made sure that seira loved and valued the things in life that didn’t cost money, like friends and family. seira would’ve never wished for another dad, but secretly she had hoped the family had more money, but he was a single dad caring for three children. 

“you definitely meet a lot of…” she hums “different kinds of people when you work as a barista… i mean, majority of them are nice, but there’s so often, weird and rude costumers as well” she lets out a sigh “really hope i won’t have this job for forever” the thought gives her goosebumps… being a barista for the rest of her life? she’s been one for a bit over a year and that feels like forever.

“it’s not that i hate dancing, i’m just so terrible at it” she shrugs “i think i’d like it more if i was good at it, but in order to become good i’d have to practice it” she lets out a sigh. “there’s probably people out there that enjoy studying languages, i am not one of those people though”.

[sysig]

Hazing (Patreon)

[aurorialwolf]

Hello my little chummy chum pal, I do FORMALLY apologize for coming off strong in my former message messagings, I done did not realize the consequences of the actions brought upon my happenings of my conversationals

(I am not a 40 year old predator irl, I'm just a local silly guy 😭 in all seriousness sorry for making u uncomfortable!)

Thanks for the apology, I appreciate it.

Though I still feel the need to emphasize that it's not just me as an individual you should be careful about sending those asks to. You, as an anonymous person (whom, I might add, has still NOT actually clarified their age), should not be sending those kinds of jokes to anyone underage. I don't care if you think it's funny, you have NO IDEA what the people you're sending these to might have gone through.

Someone, especially someone anonymous who is effectively a stranger, sending me, a 17 year old, jokes about "freak-offs", is inherently creepy; I don't care that you might be a minor, it's the fact that nobody knows if you are a minor or not. Even if you were, it would still be weird, especially because you sent a similar ask to a 20-year-old mutual of mine, so for all I know you're in your 20s, although possibly you're close in age to me. I don't know.

Usually I try not to get too serious on here, but this felt important enough to make a proper post about.

[adore-gregor]

Ooof

Looking at old posts, sometimes you just ask yourself what was I thinking 😅

[pushing500]

Vanic has new pyjamas, and I think they suit him very nicely.

He was not impressed by Vlaakith (who is?) and decided to not do what she told him to just because she was boring.

After ignoring Vlaakith we went back to chilling with our dream guardian.

I sure hope she stays as this lovely gith lady and doesn't reveal that she's been lying to us this whole time because she thinks we won't trust her true nature despite the fact that we were extremely polite and cordial with Omeluum in the Underdark. That would suck.

Act 2 babeyyy

Gale has a magic hat to dissuade the shadow curse. It's very effective.

Gale also has very strong opinions about Vanic's post-battle appearance. Sometimes, I wonder if Vanic gets as flustered about his companion's comments as I do.

Immediately after this, Astarion asked if Vanic would come to his bedroll that night, so I guess my lil' barbarian is keeping his options open.

[laugtherhyena]

Since i'm posting 1st round stuff again, here's some comic i started last year but never finished since i wasn't happy with how it looked