#because of my internal conflict with home as a concept

[balkanlila]

do you ever think about the diagram of the door opening as a love confession because i am trying not to think about it and could really use some help

[3liza]

last time my mom visited I was talking to her about parenting and how I appreciated a lot of the choices she and my father had made about raising me and my brother and she agreed that just listening to the child and taking them seriously was the One Weird Trick to cutting out like 60% of conflicts between parents and children. and she said one time I was about three or four years old and we were all going to the grocery store, and at the threshold of the store I just had a meltdown. i was overwhelmed, I was crying, I was just at the end of my rope like kids get sometimes. and instead of dragging me through the store my mom and dad stopped what we were doing and just asked me what the problem was. and I was able to say I didn't want to be there, I couldn't do it, I wanted to go home. and she says she and my father just looked at each other and back at me and said "okay" and we all went home that day instead of forcing the grocery store trip. and I had so few public meltdowns as a kid despite being pretty autistic because, I think, I knew that if I ever really needed to leave, my parents would understand and back me up. and that was the case throughout my childhood. which paradoxically (one might think) resulted in me having fewer incidents of being overwhelmed in the first place, which then made me better able to handle increasing amounts of stress and so on. it also taught me that expressing feelings and communicating them to my caretakers wasn't going to be punished or ignored or called weird, so unlike many other autistic kids who get judged or rebuked for expressing sensitivity or opposition, I didn't need to constantly blockade everyone and internalize everything all the time.

it's a pretty simple concept whether your kids are autistic or not, but most parents don't seem to get it. their parents taught them to just force everything and let the child deal with it alone so they just repeat the cycle even though they know how it feels.

[velaenam]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you said you were happy with your boyfriend ,then caleb came home, and now his mouth is on your neck. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 –  NSFW (18+!!) dirty...nasty!!! RAW!! smut!!!, smut w/ alcohol (dubcon), reader cheating on bf w/ LI, caleb is the other man, swearing, mature languages, sexual themes, riding, creampie,raw doggy blah blah, p to v, internal conflict from reader 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 – not proofread. i got this idea from a very wonderful post i saw from the amazing @strwberri-milk. link to the post. i kinda went crazy, i loved the concept sm. its so fun and i hope i did the og justice. also im sorry but i made ur bf so loveable im sorry for the internal conflict ur about to go thru. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 1 of idk ! next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

m.c. stirs her drink with a lazy swirl, the clink of ice against glass filling the lull between topics. it’s warm. light spills in through the kitchen window, catching the sheen of your lip gloss and the undone button of her blouse. her voice is casual, as always—too casual.

“oh, by the way,” she says, not even looking at you. “caleb’s coming back next week. shore leave. only for a bit.”

you freeze mid-sip.

not enough for most to notice, but she’s known you too long.

you set your cup down too carefully, as if grounding yourself with the porcelain. “he is?”

“mmhm.” she picks up a grape from the bowl between you and pops it into her mouth. chews. doesn’t meet your eyes. “fleet grounded his unit. some political thing. he’s visiting family. probably crashing at my place the first night—he said he wanted to see everyone.”

your stomach does a quiet, traitorous lurch.

“oh.”

you don’t mean to say it like that. like someone’s name you’ve tried not to whisper in years.

m.c. finally glances at you. there’s something unreadable in her gaze—maybe curiosity. maybe knowing. maybe something harder. “you two still talk, don’t you?”

you nod, too slow. “here and there.”

she hums. leans back, legs crossing at the ankle like she’s weighing something in her head. “he asked about you. said he saw that photo you posted—the one with your boyfriend and the birthday cake.”

your breath catches.

“what’d he say?”

m.c. smirks, but it’s faint. tired. “he said you looked good. then he changed the subject.”

your hands fold in your lap. you keep your voice neutral. “has it really been two years?”

“two and a half, i think. since you last saw him.”

you want to ask what else did he say? you don’t.

m.c. leans back, eyes flicking to your face as she wipes her hands on a napkin. “what about you and lover boy? how’s that going?”

you smile before you even think about it. automatic. polished. like second nature. “we’re very happy.”

“mm.” she raises a brow. not suspicious. just amused. “that’s what people say when they’re very engaged. or very lying.”

you let out a soft scoff. “he’s good to me.”

“you always say that first.”

“because it’s true.”

she nods slowly, resting her chin on her palm. “and?”

you pause. the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

he’s everything you were told to want. considerate. rich. driven. makes reservations for you, opens car doors, tells you how lucky he is when people are watching. he buys you jewelry you never wear and posts anniversary photos you never take. he’s safe. he fits.

and yet you find yourself measuring him against someone who’s never even tried.

“he’s stable,” you finally say. “he makes sense. my parents love him. his place has a whole wing just for books.”

“sounds like a dream.”

you smile again, quieter now. “it is.”

but m.c. watches you a second longer than comfort allows. not pressing. not cruel. just… seeing. like she’s trying to figure out what’s missing from your voice.

“i’m glad you’re happy,” she says. and for a moment, you wonder if she believes you.

you nod. drink the last of your coffee. and try not to think about a man who hasn’t even walked into the room yet, but still manages to pull the air out of your lungs.

.

the landing deck rattles beneath him as the hatch opens, hydraulic hiss like an exhale. after weeks in deepspace, everything smells like static and heat and too many days without sleep. but the gravity that wasn’t his feels good. real. like something pulling him back to where he doesn’t belong anymore.

he’s still stripping off his gloves when his comm buzzes in his jacket pocket.

incoming call: m.c.

he accepts it without thinking. holds it to his ear as he walks down the ramp, duffel slung across one shoulder, black fleet coat whipping in the wind.

“you survived,” she greets, bright as ever.

“barely.” his voice is rough. low. “tell your government contacts thanks for the political nightmare. nearly got my squad killed before they figured out how to spell diplomacy.”

“you sound dramatic.”

“you sound cozy.”

she laughs. “because i am. and you will be, too. i washed the guest sheets.”

“right. thanks.” he pauses, steps off the tarmac into the waiting shadows of the city port. “won’t be in your way too long, pipsqueak.”

“caleb,” she says. “you’re never in the way.”

he doesn’t answer that. he’s too tired to lie.

“you’ll be here in time for dinner?”

“depends on traffic. fleet’s got me filing three reports before i’m even cleared to breathe.”

she hums. “she’s gonna be surprised to see you.” he stops walking. breath catching like static in his chest. “she?”

m.c. is smug. too smug. “you know who.” he shifts his grip on the strap of his bag, jaw tightening. “you told her i was coming?”

“nope,” she says cheerfully lying. “wanted to see her face when you walked in.”

he exhales through his nose. “you’re a menace.”

“you’re welcome.” and then, gentler, “i think you should talk to her.”

he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t know how to

finally, he says, “i don’t think it would change anything.”

and m.c.—goddess bless her—just says, “then don’t say anything. just let her look at you and remember.”

the line clicks dead before he can say another word.

.

you’re in the kitchen when you hear the lock turn.

he calls your name before he even steps in fully, voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind him. there’s the soft shuffle of his coat hitting the hook, the familiar jangle of keys tossed into the bowl by the counter.

“hey, baby,” he says, stepping into your space with that easy grin. he leans in, kisses your cheek, your temple, then your mouth. he smells like leather and his cologne—the one you bought him last fall.

you smile. because you should. because it’s safe here.

“how was work?” you ask, pouring water into the pot on the stove. your voice is steady. your hands aren’t.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into your neck. “long. boring. wanted to come home to you all day.”

your pulse stutters—not because of him. but because you haven’t stopped thinking about caleb since m.c. said his name.

since she said he’s coming back.

your skin’s been prickling ever since, like the air’s heavier. like the past is sitting just outside your window, waiting for a chance to knock.

but you don’t say that. you let your boyfriend’s hands slide up under your shirt, warm palms against your ribs. his lips trace your shoulder.

“missed you,” he murmurs. “need you.” you turn to face him, let him kiss you like nothing’s wrong. like your heart isn’t sprinting. like it isn’t someone else’s eyes you keep seeing behind your lids.

his mouth is on yours, his touch gentle and familiar, and still— you flinch when he whispers, “your heart’s racing.”

you pause. then smile, small and secret. “that’s your effect on me,” you lie, threading your fingers through his hair.

and he believes it— kisses you harder. but deep down, you know better.

you know whose name is making your pulse go wild.

he picks you up, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back like he’s done a hundred times before. you let him carry you to the bedroom. let him lay you down like something precious, like he doesn’t notice the far-off look in your eyes every time he says your name.

his hands are reverent. his kisses slow, familiar, patient. he undresses you like a lover, not a stranger—but tonight, it feels far away. muted. like your body’s here, but something else is miles above it.

“you’re beautiful,” he breathes, kissing down your sternum. his fingers trace your ribs, the dip of your waist. “you always are. but tonight… it’s different.”

you smile at him, soft and practiced. “i missed you too.”

and you mean it, but not like that.

his mouth finds your collarbone and lingers there. he likes the way your breath hitches, doesn’t know it’s because you’re imagining someone else’s hands. someone else’s voice. you don’t even realize you’re clutching the sheet until he laces his fingers through yours.

“hey,” he says gently. “you okay?” your eyes meet his. he’s so kind. too kind. you could tell him the truth and it would break him.

you nod. “just overwhelmed.” he leans down, presses his forehead to yours. “i’ll be gentle.”

he thinks it’s his touch. that you’re nervous because of how much you want him. and you let him believe it.

you close your eyes. open your mouth. let the intimacy wrap around you like a warm tide, even as your thoughts drift—treacherous, unforgiving—to caleb.

to caleb………and the way he used to say your name like a secret only he got to keep.

you arch into your boyfriend’s hands.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely. imagining caleb on top of you kissing you, moaning your name like your boyfriend is doing right now. 

imagining its his dark brown hair you’re curling your fingers on, his purple gaze is the one piercing you as he fucked you so —

.

he’s asleep beside you, one arm heavy across your waist.

you stare at the ceiling.

your skin is still warm, flushed from his touch. the room smells like him. like routine and comfort and things you’ve tried to convince yourself are enough.

but your heart won’t slow down. not entirely. you shift gently, just enough to slide your arm out from under the covers, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dark.

no messages.

you check anyway.

his name sits there—caleb xia. no photo. just the initials.  he never had a photo. never needed one.

you scroll. past the old messages. the ones that never meant much until now.

"congrats on the new job. i always knew you'd do something big." "heard the city's cold this week. you still forget your jacket like an idiot?" "hope you’re doing good. i like the photo"

you reread that one.

you remember the post. your boyfriend had taken the picture. some gallery opening. new dress. new earrings. and you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking from something you couldn’t name.

you hesitate. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. just a simple message. nothing dangerous.

you: heard you’re back.

you send it.

then, you lock your phone. place it back on the nightstand like it’s burning your hand.

his arm tightens slightly in his sleep. your boyfriend. the man who holds you like a promise.

and yet. you roll onto your side, facing the wall, eyes wide open, because caleb is somewhere in this city.

and for the first time in years, you’re starting to wonder if fate didn’t just miss its shot.

if maybe—it’s circling back.

.

the city stretches out below him, all glitter and silence.

caleb stands by the window of m.c.’s high-rise apartment, arms crossed, jacket draped on the back of the nearby chair. the lights cast gold against the glass, but he’s not looking at the view. not really.

he’s thinking about you.

how you might be sleeping right now. if you still leave the window cracked even when it’s cold. if the man lying beside you knows how you sound when you laugh until you cry. if he gets your references. if he even deserves you.

behind him, m.c. pads in barefoot, two mugs in hand. she offers him one. he takes it without a word.

“you always get like this when you’re back,” she says, settling onto the couch. “broody. contemplative. tragically poetic.”

“comes with the rank, pips” he mutters. but his mouth twitches. just barely. she watches him. “you saw her post, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

m.c. sips her drink. “they met at some space tech convention. she told me about it after the second date. said he made her laugh during a seminar about aerospace ethics and that was it.”

caleb’s jaw ticks. “sounds charming.” — “he’s fine,” m.c. shrugs. “rich. clean. knows how to dress himself. his parents are political investors, i think. very... curated.”

he glances over. “what’s his name?” — “adrien…. toulouse? i can’t remember at the top of my head.”

the name tastes sour in his mouth. he looks back out the window.

“he good to her?”

“yeah,” she says. then quieter, “but that’s not the same as being right for her.” he says nothing. the silence between them settles like dust. “you missed your window,” she says gently, not unkind. he breathes in. lets it burn. “i didn’t know it was open.”

m.c. stands, finishes her drink, and sets the mug in the sink. “that’s the problem with you, caleb. you only notice things once they’re already slipping through your fingers.”

he watches her go. but his mind stays on you. on the version of you that might’ve waited, if he’d just asked. he rolls his eyes as he shifts to the couch to watch a movie.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table.

he’s sitting on m.c.’s couch, long legs stretched out, jacket shed and collar undone. the room is dim, lit only by the city outside and the soft flicker of some old-drama playing in the background. neither of them’s paying attention to it.

he glances at the screen.

just one message.

you:  heard you’re back. 

his thumb hovers over the screen.

he doesn’t open it— doesn’t delete it either.

he just sets the phone down again, face down, like he can’t stand to see it glowing anymore.

m.c. watches him from the kitchen counter. she doesn’t say anything at first—just keeps peeling the label off a bottle of water like it’s a puzzle she means to solve.

“you’re not going to answer her?” she finally asks.

he shrugs. leans his head back against the couch. stares at the ceiling like it’s got the answers he’s too coward to ask for.

“what am i supposed to say?” he murmurs. “hey, it’s me. sorry for leaving when it mattered. wanna catch up while you belong to someone else?”

“that’d be a start,” she says dryly. he exhales. rubs a hand over his face. “i saw that post. he took her to that lakeside place. she always wanted to go.”

m.c. nods. “she mentioned that.” he’s quiet. a beat. another. then: “you think he knows?”

“knows what?”

“that she still carries me in her bones.” m.c. sighs, soft but sharp. “i think she tried to bury you.”

he flinches. “but,” she adds, folding her arms, “adrien’s gonna propose. soon.”

his head snaps toward her. “what?”

“she doesn’t know,” m.c. says, voice low. “but he’s been talking to jewelers. he asked me about her ring size a month ago.”

caleb’s throat tightens.

of course he is. of course someone who didn’t waste their chance would hold onto her with both hands.

“it’s not official yet,” m.c. says, like she’s offering him a thread to cling to.

he doesn’t take it. instead, he closes his eyes and sees you. not with a ring. not in a white dress.

but in that space hoodie you used to steal from him. curled up on the floor of his dorm with your head in his lap, laughing at his annotated star maps. warm. alive. his in a way no one else ever was.

he opens his eyes again. reaches for his phone.

but he doesn’t unlock it. he just lets it sit in his palm, heavy as regret.

m.c. walks over and drops onto the couch beside him, her knees bumping his. she hands him a new drink, one he didn’t ask for, and he takes it anyway.

the silence stretches.

“xavier says hi, or the best way he could, anyways” she says after a minute.

caleb glances over. “he of on mission again?”

“yeah. some wanderer dispute ” she shrugs, swirling her glass. “he loves it though.”

“you two still good?”

“we’re solid,” she says simply. and she means it. there’s a quiet steadiness in her voice that wasn’t there when she dated anyone else. “i love him. i don’t have to guess what he’s feeling”

caleb hums. “you always hated guessing.”

“i still do.”

he sips. it’s not strong, but it burns anyway. “and you?” she asks, eyeing him sideways. “you seeing anyone?” he laughs under his breath. “you know better, pipsqueak.”

“i also know that you never stayed anywhere long enough to try.”

“fleet doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating.”

“you don’t even try while you’re here.” he shrugs. “not interested.”

“because of her.” he doesn’t deny it. just stares down into his drink like it holds a confession he’s not ready to say out loud.

m.c. lets him sit in it.

then, softly, “she deserves to be happy, caleb. you know that.”

his voice is quieter when he says, “i never said she didn’t.”

“so what’re you going to do?”

he doesn’t answer. just runs a hand down his face, jaw tight, like he’s holding in the answer with his teeth.

m.c. leans back, sighs. “i wish things had gone differently for you two.”

he glances over. “yeah,” he murmurs. “me too.”

.

the grocery store smells like citrus and warm bread. the lights are too bright for this hour. everything is a little too quiet, too still, the kind of stillness that makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

you’re pushing a cart, hair tied up, sweater too big, list half-finished. you told m.c. you’d grab a few things for her dinner party—she texted last night, “you’re my favorite guest, but i need lemons and wine.”

“best produce comes in at 8 am,” she added. you’d rolled your eyes at the time. now you wonder if you should’ve known.

you’re halfway through the produce section when it happens. you reach for a lemon at the same time as someone else. your fingers brush theirs.

you freeze.

and then you look up.

his hand is still half-extended. callused. familiar.

caleb.

fleet jacket half-zipped. hair damp like he only just showered. he looks tired, but good. leaner. older. sharp in all the same places, softer in a few new ones. his eyes meet yours and—god, he still has that look. handsome, sweet..

your name leaves his mouth like a breath he’s been holding.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out. your fingers curl around the lemon instead. like it’ll keep you grounded.

he blinks once. then lifts the corner of his mouth. “figured she’d pull something like this.” you manage a laugh—dry, breathless. “she said the best produce comes in at 8.”

he nods. “yeah. she told me the same.” you both glance at each other. then the lemon. then back.

“guess we’ve been set up,” you murmur.

“looks like.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s just thick.  with years. with almosts. with the weight of his message still unanswered and your heart still racing.

“you look good,” he says finally.

you smile. not quite at him. “so do you.”

you shift the lemons to your cart, fingers trembling just enough to notice. he sees it—you can feel him seeing it—but he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he grabs one for himself, examining it like it’s the most important thing in the universe.

“so,” you say, trying for casual, pushing your cart a little forward, “fleet let you off the leash for a bit?”

he follows, a step behind. “briefly. they’ll reel me back in soon.”

“what’d you do this time?” — “nothing,” he says, grinning slightly. “just politically inconvenient.” you huff a laugh. it slips out easier than you thought it would.

you glance from the side,. “you didn’t message me back.”

he stops walking.

the air shifts. subtle. like the quiet pulls tighter around the both of you.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admit.

“you could’ve said anything.”

he looks at you. “would it have changed anything?”

you don’t say, so you keep walking. slowly. toward the wine aisle. he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all.

“m.c. said you’re coming to dinner tonight,” you say, voice thinner now.

“she said i owed her. didn’t mention you’d be there.”

“you think she didn’t do that on purpose?”

“i think she’s a menace.”

you both smile at the same time.

you reach for a bottle—he does too. your hands meet again. this time, neither of you pulls away right away.

he glances down at your fingers, then back up at your eyes. “how is he?” he asks.

you hesitate.

then: “he’s good to me.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you swallow hard. pull your hand back.

“he’s... safe.”

caleb nods, slow. quiet.

you can’t breathe for a second. just stand there, wine bottle forgotten in your hand, heart screaming under your sweater.

someone walks past with a squeaky cart and breaks the spell. you blink. step back. clear your throat.

“we should finish up,” you murmur.

“yeah,” he says, just as soft. “see you tonight.”

you nod.

but your fingers are still tingling from where he touched you.

.

you arrive on time, wine bottle clutched in your hand like a shield. adrien’s hand is on the small of your back, warm, grounding, his laugh low in your ear as you ring the bell.

you’re dressed too nicely. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. you just wanted to look good for dinner. but as m.c. opens the door with a grin and a flourish of perfume, and you step inside, your heart starts to climb straight out of your chest.

because he’s there.

you see caleb the moment you cross the threshold. black button-up rolled to the elbows, sleeves creased like he’d ironed them just to ruin them again. he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, profile sharper than you remember, the soft gold light casting shadows over his jawline.

his eyes meet yours instantly.

and everything slows.

he doesn’t smile. just looks. long and quiet, like the rest of the room fell away and you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

adrien doesn’t notice at first. he leans forward to kiss m.c. on the cheek, laughing at something she says about the wine, and hands it off to her with his usual charm.

“you must be caleb,” adrien says, turning to him with that open, polished grin. “m.c. told me all about you. hell of a record in the fleet. colonel, right?”

caleb straightens. takes a slow sip before offering his hand. “that’s me. and you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

they shake hands.

it’s firm…too firm. neither one lets go first.

“adrien toulouse,” he adds. “i run a few companies. data logistics, spaceport infrastructure—boring stuff.”

“not boring if it pays well,” caleb says, voice smooth.

adrien chuckles. “doesn’t hurt. my board loves it.”

“we don’t really have boards in the fleet. just casualties and black boxes.”

you laugh a little too quickly. “he’s joking.”

caleb’s eyes flick to you. unreadable. “am i?”

adrien grins, undeterred. “i respect it. not many people can make a career out of combat anymore. takes guts.”

“takes loss,” caleb replies, quiet but even. “but the perks are decent. hazard bonuses. pension. a lot of medals.”

adrien raises a brow. “better than dividends?”

“depends who you’re trying to impress.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything to shift the mood, but m.c. saves you—breezing in with a tray of olives and cured meats, laughing too loudly and ushering everyone toward the table.

“save it for the dinner table, you two. god, it’s like testosterone in a wine glass over here.”

you slip away toward the dining room. your hand is still warm where caleb looked at you. adrien slides in beside you, fingers brushing your arm, oblivious.

but caleb watches you.

and you feel it like a match pressed to skin. you’ve screamt fuck in your head about 20 times now.

the dining room glows with soft overhead lighting, and the table is full—platters of roasted vegetables, grilled fish, wine glasses catching the gold reflections like tiny stars. laughter hums under the music playing low from m.c.’s sleek speaker tucked into the corner.

xavier’s seat is empty, just a folded napkin and a half-drunk glass of sparkling water. m.c. had said he’d be late, caught in something coming back from headquarters .

you sit beside adrien, his knee brushing yours occasionally, hand warm at your back when he refills your glass. across from you—caleb. calm, unreadable. fork moving with methodical grace as he picks at his plate.

“so, colonel,” nero says, raising his glass like it’s a toast and a challenge, “what have you been up to in the galaxy’s darker corners?”

jenna smirks beside him. “he probably can’t even tell us.”

“i can tell you some of it,” caleb replies, resting his elbow on the table, glass twirling lightly between his fingers. “spent most of last month in the outer rim, negotiating a ceasefire. fleet needed someone intimidating and tired. i qualified.”

tara laughs. “you always did look mean when you haven’t slept.”

“wasn’t about sleep,” he says, shrugging. “just tired of watching people die for decisions made lightyears away.”

the table quiets for a second.

adrien cuts in with a smile, smooth and practiced. “that’s why i stayed in civilian sectors. less blood. more spreadsheets.”

jenna snorts. “what a life.”

“it has its rewards,” adrien says, eyes flicking briefly to you. his hand finds your thigh under the table. “especially when you work hard.”

you feel caleb looking at you.

just a glance. a flick of his eyes.

but it lands like a crash.

you don’t turn your head. you just reach for your wine.

m.c. speaks up, trying to shift the tone. “i think caleb’s still the only person i know who voluntarily flew into a crossfire zone just to drag out two wounded rookies.”

“they weren’t going to make it,” caleb says, flat. “and i wasn’t going to leave them behind.”

xavier walks in then, saving you from your own pulse. “sorry i’m late,” he says, sliding into his seat beside m.c. with a soft kiss to her temple.

the room lifts again—conversation swirling back to lighter things. food. travel. politics. someone makes a joke about nero’s cooking attempts. laughter picks up. wine flows freely.

but every now and then, you look up.

and caleb is watching you like he never left.

like he’s still remembering the sound of your voice when you said his name.

and you don’t look away… not right away.

.

the clatter of forks dies down. glasses half-full. conversation slow and lazy like the lull after good food and too much wine.

someone’s moved to the couch. someone else is arguing softly over music selection. xavier and nero are in a quiet debate about defense policy. m.c. watches the room like a conductor, eyes flicking, measuring, waiting.

then, casually, too casually, she sets her glass down and turns toward adrien.

“hey,” she says, bright and charming, “could you help me with that thing? the new table setting i told you about? i need a second opinion. might order it tonight.”

adrien blinks. “now?”

“yeah, i’ll be quick.” her smile is sugar-sweet. “promise.”

he leans over and kisses your cheek. “you okay here?”

you nod. “go ahead.”

and then he’s gone. down the hall. the door swings shut behind them. voices muffled.

you stay seated… you should get up.

but caleb’s still across from you.

and he hasn’t moved either.

the quiet settles in. low hum of distant voices. glass ticking against wood as someone laughs from the other room.

caleb leans back in his chair. one arm draped over the side. the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled. his gaze, fixed.

“she’s always been a terrible liar,” he murmurs, eyes still on you.

you smile without looking at him. “she tries.”

“you look different,” he says, voice low.

“older?”

“no,” he says. “quieter. like you learned how to hide things.” you finally look at him. his eyes haven’t changed. sharp, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous.

“you think you know what i’m hiding?”

“i know you,” he says. “or i did.”

“you left,” you reply, trying not to sound like it hurts.

“i had to.” you nod, once. “and i had to move on.”

he doesn’t argue. just watches you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are still his. “he loves you,” he says after a beat. “i can see that.”

“he does.”

and then, more softly: “but you don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

the words land in your chest like a bruise.

you should tell him to stop…. you should get up.

but instead, you whisper, “you don’t get to say that.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but i still wanted to.”

the hallway creaks. voices coming back. the moment’s slipping, fraying at the edges.

you stand, finally, smoothing your dress. not looking at him.

“you shouldn’t wait around for something that isn’t yours.”

“i’m not,” he says. “i’m just remembering what was.”

and when you walk away, you feel it—that heat in your spine.

he’s still watching you.

.

it’s late when the message comes in.

adrien’s beside you, asleep. one arm draped across your waist, steady breaths against your shoulder. you should be sleeping too. the apartment is quiet. the kind of stillness that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

caleb: you still up?

you stare at it for a while.

you shouldn’t answer. you really really shouldn’t answer.

but your thumb moves on instinct, like a silly idiot in love .

you: yeah.

a moment passes.

caleb: couldn’t sleep.

you wait.

caleb: been thinking about dinner. you.

your heart stutters.

you: don’t. caleb: why not? you: because it’s not fair.

there’s a long pause.

you think maybe that’s it. maybe he’ll stop.

but then—

caleb: i don’t want fair. i want true.

you close your eyes. your chest aches.

your fingers hover. shake. then:

you: i love him. caleb: i know. you: i’ve built a life. one with walls and calendars and routines and its domestic. he fits in it. caleb: but do you?

you don’t respond.

not for a long time.

you stare at the ceiling, heart beating like it’s trying to outrun your ribs.

then your phone lights up again.

caleb: do you remember the night before i left for the fleet?

you do…of course you do.

how you sat in the gazebo, knees drawn to your chest, his jacket around your shoulders. how he looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

you never talked about that night, not really, nor did you really have a chance to.

you: yes. caleb: i should’ve kissed you.

your chest collapses inward. you turn your face into the pillow so you don’t make a sound.

you: i wanted you to. caleb: i still do.

adrien shifts beside you, murmurs something in his sleep. your phone nearly slips from your hand.

you lock the screen. press it to your chest.

but you don’t delete the conversation.

you don’t reply either.

fuck. 

.

the morning light spills through the apartment windows, golden and soft. adrien is already dressed—pressed linen shirt, slacks, and that easy, handsome grin that makes him magnetic at every event. you’re still in your robe, coffee warm in your hands, the weight of caleb’s texts buried deep beneath your ribs.

“i’ve got an idea,” adrien says, turning from the mirror as he fastens his watch. “hear me out.”

you raise a brow. “those are dangerous words.”

he laughs, leans over to kiss your cheek. “my company’s hosting a celebration this weekend. nothing formal. just something small for the board and a few close friends. we booked out a beach hotel on the coast. really secluded. great food, even better cocktails.”

“sounds like a nice break,” you murmur.

“yeah—and i thought,” he says, pouring himself coffee, “why not invite the gang? the more the merrier, right?”

your stomach drops.

you look up slowly. “what gang?”

“m.c. tara, nero, obviously. xavier if he’s back. even caleb, if he’s still in town. i feel like he could use a weekend off from… whatever world-saving things he’s been doing.”

your throat dries.

adrien’s still talking. “it’ll be good for everyone to unwind. ocean breeze, bonfires, no boardroom stress. and besides—i think it’d be good for you, too. you’ve seemed… tense lately.”

you try to smile. “just tired.”

“then it’s perfect. you, me, the beach. what could go wrong?”

your phone buzzes from the counter.

m.c.: he’s in. caleb’s coming. xavier too. hope you packed something scandalous.

you stare at the message, he’d already ask them before he asked you.

your suitcase lies open on the bed, half full. a few folded dresses. sandals. sunscreen. a silk scarf you haven’t worn in years. you pause, fingers brushing the fabric, chest tight.

the apartment is quiet. adrien left earlier for a board meeting. you said you’d finish packing, take your time.

your phone buzzes on the dresser.

you already know who it is.

caleb: pack something nice. or don’t come with clothes at all.

you stop breathing for a moment. thumb hovering over the screen.

you: don’t be an ass. caleb: can’t help it.

i’m picturing you sunburnt and annoyed, drinking something fruity, trying not to stare at me.

you press your palm to your face, the blush crawling high.

you: you’re not that charming. caleb: but you are packing that black swimsuit, right? the one that fits your body so perfectly?

your heart slams in your chest. you never posted that photo. you only sent it to m.c. once, in a private message. you hadn’t even known he saw it.

you: you shouldn’t know about that. caleb: i shouldn’t want you either. and yet.

you sit on the edge of the bed. the heat of his words curling slow, making you feel something that you should only feel for your partner.

your phone buzzes again.

caleb: you really going to let him have you for the whole weekend?

you don’t answer.

you reach for the swimsuit. fold it carefully. quietly. and lay it on top of the other things in your bag. you’re already in trouble. but you zip it shut anyway.

.

the car hums down the coastal highway, sunlight flashing through the windows in golden streaks. adrien’s driving, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. the wind is warm, the sky impossibly blue. everything should feel like peace.

but your phone buzzes again in your lap.

you glance down.

caleb: what are you wearing right now? please tell me it’s something i’ll regret seeing you in.

you shift in your seat. cross your legs.

adrien doesn’t notice. he’s talking about the hotel—how the chefs are all imported from a five-star kitchen, how the fire pits are custom built into the sand, how he’s planning a surprise dinner the first night.

your phone lights up again.

caleb: let me guess. sundress. soft. stupidly pretty. easy to pull up.

you grip the phone a little tighter.

you: stop. caleb: say it like you mean it.

adrien squeezes your thigh affectionately. “you okay, baby?”

“mhmm.” you smile, tight. “just checking something.”

you angle the phone a little farther away from him. open your messages again.

you: i’m in a car with my boyfriend. caleb: and still thinking about me.

your throat goes dry. you type back quickly:

you: caleb.

he waits.

you don’t know why you do it, but your thumbs move anyway.

you: it’s a white dress. cotton. nothing special.

the reply comes almost instantly.

caleb: you in white’s always been a problem. easy to make a mess in.

you bite the inside of your cheek. stare out the window.

adrien shifts, turning the music up a little, his voice easy and soft as he asks you something about checking in. you nod. pretend to listen.

but your phone buzzes again.

caleb: can’t wait to see you. in that dress. orrr— out of it.

you don’t answer. but you don’t block him either and you don’t stop the way your stomach flips, either, because fuck, it’s intense. what the fuck are you thinking? you are in this non stop tumultuous fight against morality and dignity. 

.

the hotel sits like a dream against the coastline—white stone and glass, balconies dripping with flowers contrasting the environment, ocean waves crashing just beyond the edge of the private beach. the valet takes your bags. adrien thanks him with a generous tip and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, flashing that confident, easy grin that always draws attention.

you’re still catching your breath from the ride—heat pooling at the back of your neck, caleb’s messages burning a little too fresh in your mind—when you spot her.

m.c. is already waiting by the entrance, perched on a curved stone bench in a straw sunhat and linen dress, oversized sunglasses pushing her hair back. she grins when she sees you, stands, and practically floats toward you.

“you made it!” she says, pulling you into a hug, smelling like coconut and orange blossom. “you look like summer incarnate.”

adrien chuckles behind you. “i planned the whole thing.”

“of course you did,” m.c. smirks, kissing him on the cheek. “we should all be so lucky to have a boyfriend with a corporate card and taste.”

and then you hear it—footsteps. low voices. the weight in your chest returns before you even turn.

“hell of a place,” caleb says, sauntering up with xavier beside him, both in crisp short-sleeves and aviators, fresh off the elevator.

he’s tan. looser than you’ve seen him in years. like the salt in the air is good for him.

adrien smiles wide and steps forward, reaching to clasp caleb’s hand in that quick, firm, shoulder-slap bro-hug men have perfected.

“glad you made it,” adrien says.

“wouldn’t miss it,” caleb replies, easy.

xavier grins, giving adrien a similar greeting. “this place is insane. whose idea was it to put a full bar in the infinity pool?”

adrien laughs. “mine.”

“you’re officially my favorite person,” xavier says, heading off toward the front desk to check in, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

caleb doesn’t move.

his eyes drift to you. slow and unhurried. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to.

because the way he looks at you says enough. you glance down, fingers tightening around the strap of your purse. m.c. watches all of this. doesn’t say a word, just smiles, like she knew this was coming.

“drinks after you unpack?” she asks sweetly, “definitely,” adrien says, brushing a hand down your back. “we’ll meet you all at the pool.”

“can’t wait,” caleb murmurs, gaze never leaving yours.

the resort sprawls across the coast like something pulled from a dream—white stone buildings tiered into the cliffs, kissed by sprays of seafoam and crawling ivy. the main entrance opens into a vast open-air atrium, where sunlight floods through curved glass ceilings and dances across polished marble floors. fragrant bursts of jasmine and citrus drift from planters lining the walkways, and the sound of trickling fountains follows you with every step. 

past the concierge desk, the space widens into a sprawling promenade: a private shopping gallery lined with luxury boutiques, soft jazz playing as high-end fabrics sway behind crystal

windows. the central courtyard glows gold in the sun, with a tiered infinity pool spilling into the horizon, bordered by low cabanas, ivory parasols, and a gleaming bar half-submerged in water—guests wading up with cocktails in hand. above it all, arched balconies overlook the beach, private and serene, while the scent of salt, fruit, and sunscreen clings to the warm air. even the staff moves with a kind of reverent grace, every guest treated like royalty—

the group gathers at the front desk, luggage in tow, sun already warming their shoulders as the glass doors close behind them with a soft hiss. laughter drifts in from the lobby bar, the distant scent of espresso and saltwater mixing with perfume and cologne.

“party name?” the receptionist asks brightly, fingers poised over a sleek touchscreen monitor.

“toulouse,” adrien says, pulling out his sleek black id and card. he smiles, charming as ever. “we’ve got a few rooms under that name.”

“of course.” the receptionist begins scanning them in. one by one, the group passes over their credentials—m.c. tossing hers with a wink, xavier balancing his bag on his hip, tara and nero chatting about whether the beach view is better than the garden side.

then caleb steps forward.

his id hits the desk with a soft click.

fleet-issued. black-accented. unmistakable.

the receptionist’s eyes flicker down, and her posture shifts instantly. there’s a beat of silence.

she looks up—smiling wider now, more formal. “colonel caleb xia,” she says, her voice suddenly edged with something deeper. “welcome.” caleb blinks, casual. “just here with friends.”

“of course, sir,” she replies, fingers moving faster across the screen. “as a decorated officer of the farspace fleet, your stay qualifies for our high level courtesy protocol.”

m.c. glances at caleb. “your what now?”

the receptionist continues without missing a beat. “your group will be upgraded to the resort’s top-tier suites. each room includes a private oceanview terrace, complimentary spa credit, and full access to our elite guest-only lounge and services.”

“i didn’t—” caleb starts.

“it’s policy, sir. we’re honored to host you.”

adrien raises a brow, half-laughing, joking . “i should’ve brought my medals.” xavier whistles low. “fleet perks.” tara leans toward nero and mutters, “i knew he was important.”

caleb just shifts his weight slightly, expression unreadable, one hand resting casually in his pocket. “you all came here to relax. figured i’d make it worth your time.”

m.c. grins. “we should bring you everywhere.”

your heart does something strange. heat rising behind your collar as the front desk slides you your keycard—suite 9: north tower penthouse.

you take it with a thank-you. but your fingers brush caleb’s hand when you do.

the elevator dings softly, and the group spills out into a polished marble hallway—light slanting through tall windows, casting the floor in soft amber stripes. the suites stretch down the length of the corridor, tall doors with brushed gold handles and engraved plaques that gleam in the afternoon sun.

adrien’s at the front, laughing with nero about the time one of his board members confused a zero-gravity treadmill for an espresso machine. his voice echoes lightly off the high ceilings, easy, familiar.

you fall into step beside caleb without meaning to. he’s quiet. but he always was.

his hand brushes yours once— twice. you pretend not to notice—but you don’t pull away either.

the second time, he doesn’t move. his fingers linger just a little longer, pinky grazing yours like a secret in motion. it feels like the hallway narrows around the two of you. the air grows thicker. warmer.

m.c. glances back, says something to tara about the spa hours, but she doesn’t miss it.

you see it in the small smile she hides behind her glass.

“here we are,” adrien calls, stopping in front of the corner suites. “ocean view, floor-to-ceiling windows, personal plunge pools. you’re welcome.”

“he wants a thank you in writing,” xavier adds, nudging him.

“maybe a toast,” adrien jokes. “or a statue.” you laugh, even as your pulse is thudding in your ears.

caleb moves past you to his suite—his hand just barely brushing the small of your back as he does. not enough to be noticed.

“see you in a bit,” he murmurs.

you nod, and then step inside your own room, letting the door close softly behind you.

your bag is missing. but your thoughts are already somewhere else entirely

.

you’re halfway through unpacking when you realize it.

your smaller bag—the one with your swimsuits, the silk wrap, and your favorite perfume—is missing. it’s not in the closet. not in the bathroom. not in the entryway with the other luggage.

you check again. and again. your stomach drops.

adrien’s in the shower, humming something off-key, steam curling under the bathroom door. you step out onto the suite’s balcony, signal low, and flick open the group chat on your comm.

you: hey, anyone see a cream-colored travel bag? soft leather, gold zipper. it’s missing from our stuff. maybe got mixed up?

you wait. stare out at the ocean. the wind is warm on your skin.

a message pings a moment later.

caleb: yeah, it’s in my suite. looks like it got tucked into the side of my luggage. you can come grab it.

you freeze.

your thumbs hover.

you: oh. okay. thanks. caleb: door’s open.

adrien calls your name from inside. you glance back, then text:

you: be there in a sec.

you lock your screen. heart tapping too fast beneath your ribs.

it’s just a bag. it’s just a room. and yet— your hands are already reaching for the keycard as if your body’s moved faster than your thoughts.

his door is slightly ajar, just like he said.

you knock once, soft, “come in,” his voice calls from somewhere inside—lower than usual. unhurried.

you step in. the room smells like cedar and something clean, and there’s music playing, soft and smooth—something old, something with a bassline that rolls slow. the kind of music that gets into your pulse without asking.

and then you see him. he’s standing near the open suitcase on the bed, back to you, half-dressed—black swim trunks low on his hips, bare feet on the marble floor, a white towel slung over his shoulder. he’s rifling through folded clothes, pulling out a thin shirt, but he hasn’t put it on yet. and gods. his back is carved. every muscle cut and coiled, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, skin golden from the sun, small scars scattered like whispers from a life you’ll never fully know. his arms flex as he moves. slow. casual. you were a deer in headlights. but the headlights was a sexy 6’2 fleet colonel with the physique of a god. 

you stare longer than you mean to—longer than you should. he hears the door click shut behind you and turns, still towel in hand. and when he sees you—he smiles.

“thought you’d take longer,” he says, voice warm. low.

“you didn’t say you’d be half-naked,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice catches somewhere on the way out.

he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening. “you want me to put something on?”

your throat goes dry, “you’re impossible.” he walks toward you—lazy, deliberate steps. the shirt still hanging loose in one hand, forgotten. “you’ve seen me worse,” he murmurs.

you try to keep your eyes on his face. fail. your gaze dips—chest, abs, the faint trail that disappears below his waistband. holy fuck.  when you drag your eyes back up, he’s watching you. head to toe.

“if you’re going to keep looking at me like that,” he says softly, “you might want to close the door properly.”

you realize then—it didn’t latch. you reach back, fingers fumbling for the handle. but you don’t stop looking at him. and he doesn’t stop walking toward you.

you close the door. not all the way. just enough that it clicks. when you turn back, caleb’s closer. still shirtless. still smug. he raises an eyebrow, that infuriatingly soft curl at the corner of his mouth growing. “huh,” he says, lazy. “thought you were just here for your bag.”

your stomach flips you open your mouth, trying to find something—anything—casual to say.

“i didn’t want the breeze blowing it open,” you offer, weakly. he laughs. low and warm, the sound licking at your spine. “right. the breeze.”

you clutch the strap of your purse a little tighter. “you said the door was open.” — “it was,” he says, stepping closer.

you don’t move, “but you locked it.” his eyes drag down, slow, deliberate,not crude—intentional. like he’s memorizing the shape of your breath, the curve of your silence.

“caleb,” you whisper, he says your name back—quiet, reverent. “i’ve missed the way that sounds coming from your mouth.”

your back finds the wall before you realize you’ve been retreating. his hand finds the surface beside your head, fingers spreading out like he owns the space around you.

he’s so close now you can smell the salt on his skin. feel the heat radiating off him. “you should go,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. his voice lowers. “but you won’t.”

your breath stutters. “this is a bad idea.” — “it’s the only idea that’s ever made sense.”

your heart hammers in your chest. his fingers lift—slow—ghosting up your arm. not touching. just close.

“is he enough?” he asks, voice quieter now. “or is he just… safe?”

you don’t answer… you don’t answer him.

instead, you inhale—steadying yourself like you’re preparing for gravity to give out. and then you move, shifting just enough to duck under the curve of his arm. his bare chest grazes your shoulder as you slip past him, and the heat that radiates off his skin feels like it clings to you long after you’re out of his reach.

he doesn’t stop you. he just turns, tracking you with that same steady gaze. like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with your escape.

your footsteps echo softly against the marble floor as you reach the bed. your cream-colored bag sits there, neatly perched beside the open mouth of his suitcase, as if it had always belonged there. innocent. untouched. except now your fingers tremble just slightly as you reach for it.

you curl your hand around the handle and force your face into something neutral, something calm, even though your pulse is slamming against your ribs.

“thanks,” you murmur, your voice too soft, too normal for how wrecked you feel inside. you make it three steps toward the door before he says it.

“i took a souvenir.”

you freeze. 

your back stiffens. the room stills with you. you don’t turn. not at first. his voice is casual—low, smooth, velvet draped over something darker. “from your bag.”

you glance back over your shoulder. “what are you talking about?”

he holds something up between two fingers.

a scrap of red silk and lace.

your heart drops like a stone in your chest.

they’re unmistakable—your favorite pair. delicate, barely-there, the ones you packed last-minute without thinking. the ones you almost didn’t bring. crimson and sheer and trimmed in the thinnest whisper of embroidery.

his grin is slow. knowing. just this side of smug, “you really should pack more carefully.”

you stare at him, your mouth parted in silence, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks in a flush you can’t begin to fight. he twirls them once on his finger, then drapes them across his palm, like he’s offering you a dare. his voice drops even lower. “or maybe you left them for me.”

you don’t say anything.

you just turn, bag clutched tight in your hand, and walk.

each step feels like it echoes—too slow, too loud, too obvious. the air outside his suite is cooler, but it does nothing for the heat burning beneath your skin.

when you open the door to your room, adrien’s standing by the balcony, shirt halfway unbuttoned, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. he turns when he hears you come in, eyes flicking to your face.

he smiles, but it falters slightly. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say too quickly, dropping the bag onto the chair, avoiding his eyes. “it’s just—hot. it’s the beach.”

you grab a hair tie from the nightstand and pull your hair back, trying to pretend your ears aren’t burning.

adrien grins, walking over to brush a kiss against your cheek. “you’re right. i forgot how thick the air gets near the coast.” he pulls a linen shirt over his shoulders, still barefoot. “m.c. says everyone’s heading down to the bar soon. they’re starting the party.”

“okay,” you say, grounding yourself in the word. you focus on that—normalcy. the night. drinks. laughter. anything but what’s still fluttering in your chest.

within the hour, you’re all heading down—the group buzzing with early vacation energy. tara arrives in a gauzy wrap and sunglasses, dragging xavier by the hand. m.c. loops her arm through yours, all smiles and mischief. nero’s already asking about the drink menu before you’ve even reached the elevator.

and then caleb joins at the lobby entrance, freshly showered, crisp linen shirt open at the collar, hair damp and pushed back.

he doesn’t look at you, not directly. but his mouth quirks—just slightly—when he catches you looking at him. and god, he still has your underwear.

adrien slips his hand into yours, you smile up at him.  and pretend that you’re not still trembling on the inside.

the resort’s bar isn’t just a bar—it’s a whole open-air lounge carved into the edge of the cliffside, with glass railings overlooking the sea and sunken seating arranged in half-moons of plush white cushions and low stone tables. lights are strung overhead in warm strands, flickering like captured stars. the sun is just beginning to set, turning the sky a bruised gold and washing everything in that kind of glow that makes even tension look beautiful.

the group claims a corner table near the edge, laughter easy, legs bare and drinks already sweating in their glasses. m.c. and tara are leaned together, sharing a bowl of citrus-soaked olives, xavier and nero comparing cocktails. adrien sits beside you, his hand tracing light patterns over your thigh as he tells caleb something about property shares on the coast, voice smooth, not bragging—but close.

caleb’s across from you, lounging low, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he owns the curve of the air behind him. he’s got a glass of something dark in his hand, condensation trailing slow down his fingers. he’s half-listening to adrien, nodding politely, but his eyes keep drifting. to you.

you look away, sip your drink.

he speaks, voice low and amused. “adrien, you ever try a flamefruit old fashioned? they only serve them off-world, but i’ve got a connection.”

adrien raises a brow. “can’t say i have.”

“i’ll have the bar replicate it. you’ll love it.” caleb turns, gestures to the server without waiting for permission. “round for the table. my treat.”

m.c. smirks behind her glass. “colonel card again?”

caleb winks. “if i’ve got the perks, might as well use them.”

“what’s it taste like?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

caleb’s eyes meet yours.

and he smiles, slow and deliberate. “burns going down. sweet after.”

your breath catches. your thighs press together under the table.

adrien chuckles beside you, nudging your knee with his. “i’ll drink anything if it’s free.”

caleb raises his glass slightly, gaze still locked on you. “oh, it’s not free.”

tara fans herself dramatically. “stars, is it hot out here or is it just all this masculine tension choking the oxygen?”

m.c. laughs. “i think caleb’s trying to intimidate your boyfriend, babe.”

“oh, he’s not intimidated,” caleb says, sipping casually. “yet.”

adrien grins, unfazed. “depends. are you trying to charm me or compete with me?”

“does it matter?” caleb says smoothly. “either way, i win.”

the table erupts into a mixture of laughter and groans, but your cheeks are already burning. you don’t dare say a word. because every time you look at him, all you can think about is the red lace still sitting somewhere in his room.

the drinks arrive in short, crystal-cut glasses, glowing faintly pink-orange like sunset syrup. tiny flames flicker at the rim—real fire, hovering just above the liquid like it’s dared to touch it. a soft gasp rises from the table. they smell like heat and sugar, like something forbidden.

“they’re infused with flamefruit,” caleb explains, lounging a little deeper into his seat. “rare export. the alcohol levels double within five minutes of exposure to oxygen.”

“you mean—” m.c. squints at her glass. “this’ll make me blackout drunk?”

“if you’re lucky,” caleb says, sipping his first.

tara grins. “then i want two.”

cheers erupt across the table, glasses clinking, the laughter rising with the tide. the first round hits fast. the second hits hard.

in less than half an hour, nero’s shirtless and swaying to music that isn’t even playing. m.c. has xavier in a headlock in the pool, both of them crying laughing over something that doesn’t even make sense. tara’s floating belly-up in the water, sunglasses still on, whispering to the stars.

adrien’s sprawled across a deck chair beside you, half-asleep, half-chuckling, hand loosely tangled in yours, his voice slurred.

“you’re—so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles, “you know that?”

you smile at him, soft, but your heart’s somewhere else. because caleb hasn’t moved.

he’s sitting near the pool’s edge, ankles dipped in the water, watching everything with that quiet, unreadable expression. glass empty. gaze fixed.

you pull your hand gently from adrien’s. he doesn’t notice. you rise, your balance steady, even though your skin buzzes faintly from the drink. maybe it’s adrenaline. maybe it’s him.

you walk toward the pool. he watches you approach, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. you sit beside him, legs dangling into the water. the heat from the drink hums beneath your skin. the air smells like salt, citrus, and fire.

“they’re all gone,” you murmur.

he smirks. “lightweights.” you smile, “you didn’t finish yours.” he shrugs. “i wanted to remember tonight.”

you glance at him. his eyes are already on you.

the pool glows beneath your feet. somewhere behind you, adrien calls your name and slurs something about marshmallows, but the sound doesn’t reach you fully. not here. not beside him.

“you planned this,” you whisper. “i didn’t plan you showing up in that dress,” he says back, voice low. “but i’m not complaining.”

your stomach twists. “caleb—”

he leans in, just slightly, voice brushing your skin like velvet. “if i kissed you right now, would you still blame it on the drink?”

you don’t answer

you watch him, the edge of the pool casting shifting ripples of blue light across his chest and jaw. he looks good like this—barefoot, relaxed, but still sharp. always sharp.

“why aren’t you drinking?” you ask softly, trying not to sound like you already know.

he glances at you, half amused. “fleet protocol.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“active duty officers aren’t supposed to drink in public unless it’s sanctioned. even on leave. especially when there’s a crowd.”

you blink at him. “that’s… incredibly responsible of you.”

he snorts. “no, it’s annoying. but i’ve seen what happens when we slip. one colonel blackout-drunk in the wrong company, and it’s a planetary incident.”

you laugh—just a little. soft. “guess that’s why you let us fall apart instead.”

his expression shifts—just for a second. unreadable. raw. you don’t push, but the silence between you isn’t comfortable. it’s full. heavy with all the things you’ve been too afraid to say. a splash breaks the tension—tara, floating sideways, blinking up at the moon like it personally offended her.

“i think the diplomat’s drowning,” caleb mutters.

you both rise at once.

the rest of the night is a slow unraveling. you and caleb move from one friend to the next—xavier slung between your shoulders, nero mumbling something about becoming a beach hermit, m.c. giggling hysterically into caleb’s chest as he carries her in both arms like she weighs nothing. she calls him sir in a fake voice and salutes before passing out.

tara refuses to sleep indoors, insisting the ocean invited her personally. you bribe her with aloe vera lotion.

adrien is the last one—he stumbles into your room, mumbling praise, pressing a kiss to your temple before collapsing sideways on the bed. you help pull his shoes off. he’s already snoring by the time you dim the lights.

you stand at the door for a long moment.

caleb’s across the hall.

you decide to call it quits for the night instead.

you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above you. adrien’s out cold beside you, one arm flung across the pillow, mouth slightly open, the sound of his breathing rhythmic, steady. the room is dim, moonlight casting long silver shadows through the sheer curtains.

you try to close your eyes. you try to sleep, but your heart won’t slow down, and you know exactly why.

you slide out of bed carefully, quietly, padding barefoot across the cool tile. you reach for your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

you don’t text him.

you just open the door. across the hall, his light is still on. your heart thuds once. you knock.

he opens the door almost immediately. like he was waiting.

he’s changed into a dark tee and joggers, barefoot, hair still damp from the night. there’s no smirk this time. no tease. just the quiet question in his eyes.

you whisper, “come walk with me?”

he doesn’t answer. just nods once, grabs his keycard, and follows.

.

the resort is near silent at night. lanterns glow low along the stone paths, lighting the garden walkways and casting soft reflections over the still pool water. the air is warm and salty, the kind of breeze that curls around your ankles and hums beneath your skin.

you walk side by side in silence for a while. until he says, “you always used to sneak out like this.”

you smile faintly. “you always caught me.” —“because you were bad at sneaking.” a pause, “because you were obsessive.”

he glances at you. “you say that like it’s a flaw.” you laugh, soft and tired. “you still are.” he hums. “only about some things.” you walk past the little row of cabanas, their curtains fluttering in the wind.

“remember the old beach station?” you say. “the busted one we thought was haunted?” — “you mean the one i dragged you into during a thunderstorm?”

“and then left me when a bird flew into the window.” he grins, sharp and nostalgic. “you screamed first.”

“i had reason to. i thought it was a ghost.” he glances at you again, eyes softer now. “you always believed in things i couldn’t see.”

you stop walking. just for a second.

the wind picks up, and you wrap your arms around yourself. not from cold—just to keep something in.

“why now, caleb?” you ask. “why all of this?” he looks at you. eyes serious. voice low. “because for years, i told myself you’d be there when i was ready.” you inhale. feel it sting.

“and now that you’re not mine,” he adds, softer, “i can’t stop wondering if i waited too long.”

you walk again, wordless, the silence a little heavier now. not cold—just brimming. every step brushing against the edge of something you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.

then the path curves.

a narrow stone turnoff, half-hidden by a curtain of vines and low-hanging lanterns. you slip into it without thinking, your feet moving before your mind catches up. he follows. the alcove is small. private. a carved-out space in the garden wall, ivy crawling over old stone and no cameras, no windows, no footsteps nearby. the moonlight doesn’t quite reach this far. it feels like another world tucked inside the resort—untouched, unseen.

you stop walking. and then he’s there, you turn to face him—barely. his hands find your wrists. slow. deliberate.

and he pins them above your head, pressing them gently into the cool stone wall. your breath catches—more in shock than fear. your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

you can’t.

his body is close. too close. heat rolling off him in waves, his mouth just inches from yours, his knee brushing yours, chest rising and falling steady while yours stutters.

his voice is low—dangerous and velvet. “you want to know the worst part?”

you can’t speak— can barely move.

“it’s not just that i want you,” he murmurs, head tilting, his breath hot against your cheek. “it’s how much i know you want me back.”

your fingers twitch in his grip. he leans in closer—lips at your ear now.

“you lock your knees when i touch you. you look away every time i say your name. and when i held your panties in my hand—” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear—“you didn’t tell me to give them back.”

your pulse is roaring. his grip stays firm but gentle—like he’s restraining himself more than you.

“i don’t need to kiss you to know how you’d taste,” he says, voice ragged now. “i remember you. and i’ve dreamed about this for too long.”

your whole body trembles. his forehead leans against yours, and for a second—just one—he softens.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

his breath fans against your lips, heavy with want and the weight of everything unsaid. he has you pinned—not roughly, not cruelly, but like he’s clinging to the one thing in this entire galaxy that still feels real. his fingers are firm around your wrists, pressing them gently into the cool stone behind you, his body a whisper away from yours, heat coiled between you like a storm about to break.

and god, you want him. so bad.

you want him the way your body remembers—hot and hungry, instinctive. the way your heart still does—tangled in the memory of laughter in empty classrooms, late-night talks and half-written letters, the smell of his skin on your pillow long after he left.

but your heart isn’t quiet. not now.

and your mouth, when it moves, doesn’t say yes.

it says—soft, barely audible—“stop.”

he goes still— completely still. like the air’s been sucked out of him.

his fingers twitch where they hold you, then slowly, almost reverently, let go. your wrists drop to your sides, tingling, your arms aching in the absence of his touch. he steps back, just an inch, like it hurts to put distance there, but he respects it anyway.

he’s breathing hard. not from exertion, but from everything he’s holding back.

you don’t look at him right away. your head is down. your chest rises and falls like you’re trying not to cry.

and then you do.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them—warm and silent, cutting slow paths down skin that still burns from where he touched you.

you lift your head, finally, and meet his gaze. he looks stricken. like someone who just realized he’s still bleeding from a wound he thought had healed.

“you didn’t pick me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you had your chance. you left.”

he opens his mouth, but no words come.

“i waited for you,” you continue, stronger now, bitterness threading through the ache. “i waited longer than i should’ve. and you just… disappeared into the fleet. you sent reports. updates. hollow things. and i tried—i tried so fucking hard—to make peace with that.”

he takes a step closer, instinctive. but you back up, just slightly.

“and then i met someone,” you say. “someone who chose me. who stayed. who wanted a life, not just a memory.”

his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

you wipe the tears from your cheek with the back of your hand, breath sharp in your chest. “you don’t get to come back now and do this. you don’t get to touch me like i’m yours. you don’t get to look at me like that when i’ve finally, finally chosen to be happy.”

but i love you. your head buries the thought.

the silence that follows is suffocating. he’s breathing through his nose, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing the pain he caused.

you hold his gaze one last time.

then you turn, footsteps light but unsteady as you walk away from him. past the vines, past the soft lights, past the garden path that still smells faintly of sea salt and firefruit.

he doesn’t follow.

he just stands there, rooted to the stone, with the weight of your words draped over his shoulders like a cloak he’ll never take off.

.

the sun creeps through the curtains like it’s apologizing. golden and soft, too kind for the ache sitting behind your eyes.

you dress in silence.

adrien’s already downstairs—he left early to meet with one of his execs flying in for the tail end of the celebration. he kissed your forehead before he left. you barely felt it.

your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal.

except your eyes— your eyes tell on you.

by the time you reach the dining terrace, the rest of the group is already gathered at a large outdoor table. white linen umbrellas shade half-drunk smoothies and strong coffee, sunglasses hiding most of their misery. nero looks like he’s about to melt into his plate. tara’s eating fruit directly from the tray with no shame. m.c. is dressed immaculately, of course, sipping lemon water like she didn’t drag half of xavier’s body weight through the hallway the night before.

“there she is,” m.c. says when she sees you, tone light. “sleep okay?”

you nod, sliding into the seat between her and tara.

“adrien told me you were already up,” xavier says groggily. “you people with morning routines are terrifying.”

you smile, small, polite, careful.

but your heart is already scanning the table.

he’s not here. you wait. maybe he’s just late.

but then m.c. sets her glass down and clears her throat.

“before anyone asks,” she says, tone just a little too smooth, “caleb had to leave early. fleet business. emergency recall. left just before sunrise.”

there’s a collective groan of disappointment. tara swears under her breath. xavier shrugs, “figures.”

nero mutters something like, damn, i owed him twenty credits.

but your stomach sinks… he didn’t say goodbye.

m.c. doesn’t look at you when she continues, cheerful now. “good news, though. the suite arrangements are staying the same—and he left instructions to keep everything on his card. so drinks, spa, room service—go wild.”

cheers rise across the table. xavier lifts his coffee like a toast. nero suddenly looks awake. tara claps her hands like someone just proposed. you force a smile. raise your own glass, but something inside you feels hollow. like a door closed quietly in the night, and you didn’t get to see what was on the other side.

he’s gone. again, and this time, he didn’t even look back

.

the rest of the trip slips through your fingers like sand.

there are bonfires and cocktails with flowers in them. ocean breezes and overpriced massages. poolside games and laughter that never quite reaches your chest. adrien is warm and sweet, always touching your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. you let him. you kiss him when he leans in. you laugh at his jokes. you say “i love you” when he murmurs it against your temple.

but your heart stays quiet.

and caleb doesn’t message you.

not once.

no apology. no explanation. not even a hollow joke or a sign that he’d been thinking of you at all. it’s like he vanished again—just like before—leaving only the ache of what almost was. no one asks. not even m.c. she watches you sometimes, like she wants to, but she never says a word. she just stays close. brings you tea in the mornings. walks with you at night.

you keep waiting for something to break the silence.

it never does and eventually, the trip ends.

everyone hugs goodbye on the private landing deck. adrien kisses your cheek, promising he’ll take you somewhere even more beautiful next time. nero grumbles about work. tara’s already posting sunlit pictures. xavier pretends he didn’t cry when he saw the bill.

you hop in the car and look out the window as the coastline disappears beneath the clouds.

no messages.

no name lighting up your screen.

just your reflection, staring back at you, quieter now.

.

it’s been two weeks.

you’ve returned to routine—your apartment, your desk, your carefully managed calendar of quiet obligations. adrien is away on business, a two-week summit. he calls when he can. he sends gifts. you thank him with a soft voice and a smile he can’t see is empty.

you haven’t heard from caleb.

you’d convinced yourself that was permanent.

so when the building’s front desk pings you with a call, and the attendant says, “miss, there’s a colonel caleb xia here to see you. he’s requested you come down,” your breath catches like a hook in your lungs.

you almost say no, however, your feet are already moving.

the elevator doors open to the private valet entrance, and you step into the golden light of late afternoon—soft, clean, and far too warm for the cold in your chest.

and there he is.

leaning against the most stunning piece of car you’ve ever seen—gloss-black body, brushed metal trim, glowing fleet detailing along the edge of the door. a top-of-the-line sports car, modified beyond standard specs. of course.

he’s dressed simply—black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark trousers, aviator shades tucked into his collar—but he still looks like he walked out of a novel.

and when he sees you—god, he actually looks nervous.

“hey,” he says, voice low. “thanks for coming down.” you stop a few steps away. arms crossed. walls up. “what are you doing here?”

he straightens. runs a hand through his hair like he’s bracing for something. “i owe you an apology.”

you don’t answer. you just wait.

“that night,” he says, “it was a fleet emergency. a real one. intel flagged a threat linked to one of my old operations—classified level. i had to leave before sunrise. couldn’t even bring my comm back online until i cleared orbit.”

he takes a step closer.

“i wasn’t ghosting you. i wasn’t running. i just—had to go. and i’m sorry you thought i didn’t care.”

your eyes sting, but you hold his gaze.

he exhales. voice softer now. “i should’ve told you as soon as i landed. but the longer i waited, the harder it got. and i… didn’t want to make things worse for you. not if you’d already chosen to forget me.”

silence stretches. and then—he nods toward the passenger door.

“i just want to talk. no pressure. no expectations. just you and me. one hour. that’s all i’m asking.”

your hand tightens around your phone. your heart’s a mess.

you nod, following him out of the apartment entrance.

you get in.

you don’t say anything at first.

just buckle your seatbelt and stare out the window as he pulls out of the lot, the engine humming smooth and low beneath you. he doesn’t play music. doesn’t speak. just drives—steady, like he knows every road but isn’t rushing through any of them.

the city thins. buildings stretch out into tree-lined residential zones, then the pavement turns soft with shadows. he pulls off into a small overlook just past the western ridge—where the city lights look like stardust and the sky hangs low and warm in the early dusk.

he puts the car in park but leaves the engine running.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

just rests his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield like he’s trying to breathe evenly.

then, quietly: “i don’t know what the hell i’m doing anymore.”

you glance at him, unsure of what to say.

his jaw flexes. “i thought i could just see you again. that it’d fade. that i’d remember why i left it all alone in the first place.”

his voice cracks slightly when he says your name. he turns toward you, finally, and there’s nothing calm in his eyes now. none of the smooth teasing or practiced control. just hunger. grief. something that’s been clawing at him for far too long.

“but it hasn’t faded,” he says. “it’s worse.”

you shift, pulse thudding louder in your ears.

“i miss you,” he breathes. “i miss you like it’s a sickness. like it’s in my bones.”

his fingers tighten on the wheel. “i think about you every goddamn day. and it’s not just memories. it’s need. it’s knowing exactly how you sound when you laugh and how you bite your lip when you’re overthinking something. it’s how you used to tuck your feet under mine on the couch just so they’d stay warm.”

you swallow hard.

“and i’ve tried,” he continues, raw now. “i’ve tried so hard to let go. to respect what you’ve built with him. but seeing you with him—smiling, reaching for his hand, looking up at him like he’s your future—i fucking hate it.”

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

“i know what this makes me,” he says. “but if the only way i get to have you is behind closed doors—if that’s all you’re willing to give me—i’ll take it.”

your breath catches.

he leans closer across the center console. “i’ll take anything,” he whispers, “as long as it’s you.”

you sit there, the silence thick as the sky around you. the console hums gently between your bodies, the glow of the city stretching out in front of you like a life that isn’t yours.

your fingers twist in your lap, voice raw when it finally breaks free.

“i don’t want to do that to him,” you whisper.

caleb says nothing.

you stare at your hands. “he’s never lied to me. never hurt me. he’s always been there, always—shown up. and he loves me.” your throat tightens. “he really loves me.”

you turn your face toward the window, breath fogging the glass. “how do i do this to someone like that?”

caleb shifts. not toward you—just slightly. like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“i’m not asking you to stop loving him,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “i’m asking you to stop pretending that’s all you feel.”

you shut your eyes.

he leans a little closer, his voice a breath against the quiet.

“you ache when i look at you,” he murmurs. “you flinch when i say your name. like you’re terrified of what it does to you.”

your heart slams against your ribs.

he exhales. “you think i didn’t see it? in the alcove? at the pool? even now—you won’t look at me because you’re afraid you’ll want it again.”

you turn, slowly, meeting his eyes—and he’s already there. watching you like he’s memorized the exact shape of your restraint.

“you’ve been wanting to fuck me for years,” he says, low and devastating. “you want to know how i know?”

you don’t breathe.

his gaze drags down—slow, deliberate—then back up, landing squarely on your mouth. “because i’ve been wanting it just as long. and i feel it—every time i’m near you. you’re thinking about it right now, and you hate yourself for it.”

your lip trembles, and he sees it. of course he does.

but his voice softens—just slightly.

“i’m not asking you to be cruel,” he says. “i’m asking you to be honest.”

he leans back then, like he’s giving you room to choose.

like he knows he’s already cracked something wide open.

you don’t answer.

you just sit there, the words still echoing in the low, humming cabin. his voice lingers in your blood, thick and hot, and your throat feels too tight to swallow.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t speak again. he just watches you for a moment longer—like he wants to reach  out, like he won’t.

then he shifts, gently easing the car out of park.

the drive back is quiet.

the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like your whole body is trying to scream beneath the weight of what wasn’t said. the city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and reflections in glass. you don’t know what song is playing, if any. your pulse is too loud in your ears to notice.

caleb pulls up in front of your building.

he doesn’t turn off the engine.

doesn’t look at you, at first.

you reach for the door handle with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

he speaks, soft, one last time. “you don’t have to decide tonight.”

you nod, but you don’t look at him.

you open the door, step out onto the curb. the air is cooler now, night brushing your skin like a warning. you don’t say goodbye and he doesn’t ask you to.

he waits until you’re inside the building before he pulls away. you don’t watch him go. but god, you feel it.

you feel every inch of distance stretching between who you are and what you want.

and you’re still thinking about it. thinking about him. even as the elevator closes. even as your door clicks shut.

even as you crawl into bed beside a man who has never made you cry, and still—

he isn’t the one making your heart race

.

morning comes slow, the kind that bleeds in through the curtains too gently to jolt you awake. your body moves on muscle memory—coffee, robe, soft slippers against the floor. adrien is already at the dining counter, sleeves rolled, reading through a holo-brief projected over his tablet. he looks up the second you enter.

“hey,” he says, with that easy smile. “you slept in.”

you nod. pour yourself a cup. you don’t meet his eyes.

“bad dreams?”

you shake your head. “just… tired.” he watches you for a second too long. you feel it.

he sets the tablet aside, his expression softening. “you okay?”

you stir your coffee. it takes longer than it should.

he gets up, walks over, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind—warm and sure, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “you’ve been quiet,” he says. “colder, maybe. just a little.”

your throat tightens.

he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. “if there’s something wrong—if i’ve done something—”

“no,” you interrupt gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “you haven’t.”

you turn slightly in his hold, enough to face him but not enough to really look.

“i get like this sometimes,” you lie. “just… little dips. random depression waves. i don’t always see them coming.”

his brows knit in concern, but he nods. you smile, and it feels brittle.

“i’m sorry if i’ve been distant. it’s not about you. really.”

he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

“you don’t owe me apologies for how you feel,” he says quietly. “i’m not here for the best parts of you. i’m here for all of it.”

that breaks something in you. you hug him tighter than you mean to. he doesn’t question it. he just holds you. and you close your eyes. not to rest— but to hide from the truth pressing like a bruise beneath your ribs.

.

adrien’s message hits m.c.’s inbox just before noon, voice-attached, full of that effortless charm that makes him impossible to say no to.

“hey, sunshine. thinking of throwing something small this weekend at our place. just food, drinks, the usual. she’s been a little… off lately, and i thought maybe being around friends might help her shake it. you in?”

then, a second message, a little sheepish:

“also, i may have bought an embarrassing amount of alcohol. could use your help curating it so it doesn’t look like a cry for help.”

m.c. doesn’t even hesitate. she sends back a voice note with a laugh and a “count me in, you reckless wine hoarder.”

by the next day, he’s pulling strings.

he orders catering from her favorite fusion spot. hires a soft jazz duo for background music. stocks the bar with rare liquors—imports, aged things with names he can’t pronounce, glittery mixers from a lunar distillery she once offhandedly said reminded her of childhood.

and then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—he messages caleb.

adrien: got a favor. hosting a small get-together for her. thought maybe you could pull a few strings and get that flamefruit cocktail mix again? she loved it. figured it might get her smiling.

the message is casual. friendly. trusting.

caleb reads it twice.

he doesn’t respond immediately.

but two hours later, adrien gets a delivery confirmation for an off-world case of flamefruit extract with a note:

“tell her it burns going down, but it’s sweet after.”

adrien smiles. texts back a simple “you’re a legend.”

he has no idea what he’s set in motion.

[theophagie]

Premise one: I feel that this is rather well-known information by now, but still. Mandatory clarification that "mastery" is a concept that's improperly employed by the eng localisation (likely out of commodity), though there is at least one instance where the translation closely follows the jp text. Semantics Important

Premise two: I'll reference a couple of things from other games because they retroactively help recontextualise Riku's behavior in part, but the story that KH1 wants to tell does stand on its own regardless of their inclusion. He's just my special boy ok

Having said that. Rivalry!

Much of the conflict between Sora and Riku is shaped along the lines of what makes a hero. In light of this, it's only fitting that KH1 is the game that most closely follows the structure of a fairy tale, but that's a story for another day. I think that the initial uncertainty on whether there'd be a sequel really pushed the devs to, ah, "go ham", because KH1 is both a miniature coming of age story for Sora and the setup for many elements that will recur in the future. At the core of this idea is one world in particular, but I think that it's better to set the stage first

Home sweet home

...... Well!

Destiny Islands is a weird, fun place. I feel that many people remember KH1's prologue through rose-tinted glasses of sorts, "the simpler, better times before...", but to me it owes much of its charm to the tension between the location that it's set in (a child's dream playground, a pseudo locus amoenus even, if will) and the events that take place during it. Sora, Riku, and Kairi have been making preparations for something for some time now. The other kids don't quite know what, but they suspect that it's something dangerous - which it is. And Sora is a fourteen-year-old boy who's constantly compared and made to feel inferior to his best friend, who has been acting strangely and cruelly for a while without anyone understanding why. Growing pains...... Being on Destiny Islands at this time feels like being on a precipice. The game is really effective at capturing a certain Vibe of adolescence (this idea of being stuck in the middle of two opposite forces), but when it comes to Sora and Riku over time the unease between them develops from mundane competitiveness (however hurtful in its actualization) into a bigger conflict, one that's tied both to their characters and to the broader narrative of Kingdom Hearts

The notion that Sora can "always rely on Riku" specifically is super important. The other kids tease Sora because they perceive him to be weak and unreliable compared to him, and Riku... Well, Riku has internalized this belief as well in his urgency to just grow up and just leave already, or at least he tries to fool himself into thinking that he has, when really

One might wonder what it is exactly that led him to close himself off and double down on adopting a cool, cocky persona, but 🤫

Regardless, Riku's longing for strength and independence has quite honorable, gentle origins, ones that eventually begin to shine anew after he's freed of Ansem SoD's influence

Riku feels a certain entitlement to the title of hero, and he isn't entirely unjustified for that, but by KH1's prologue his anxieties and his impatience have already planted some seeds in him, and over time and through the influence of darkness his ambitions get warped into something self-serving rather than something altruistic. It's at this point that Riku is most cruel to Sora. Riku doesn't forcibly deprive Sora of the keyblade just because the Kingdom Key was originally his and he really wants it back, Riku does it because he actively wants to bring himself up by disempowering Sora. Like he says, this isn't rivalry anymore. It's viciousness, and it's why it's no mistake that this event keeps being referenced to this day, in varying degrees of subtlety

Nomura tells us that all that Riku does to save Kairi, he mainly does out of regret for his actions ("He's a surprising immoral guy"), and who am I object to the Word of God, but I can't help but think of it as a misguided attempt to prove himself. He is the hero! He is! Not Sora! Not Sora, who is younger and smaller and needs him to look after him.........

When the reality is that Sora scares him a little, Sora absolutely disarms him without even meaning to or being aware of it. And so Riku shuts him out, he shuts him out and he also tries his best to keep their dynamic as unbalanced as possible, because that's what allows him to both feel secure in his role and keep Sora dependent on him. Because what is it that Riku fears might happen if Sora were to realise that his presence isn't something that he needs in order to pull through?

... Yeah. It's really no wonder that this is what Maleficent latches on to in order to manipulate and corrupt him

As stated before, contrarily to Riku, Sora enters the story as an underdog, a normal boy who gets saddled with a task that wasn't meant for him - with having to be a hero - out of need, but it's no surprise that Riku's light can acknowledge Sora before he is ready to consciously do it as well: Riku is harsh on Sora to cover up how inadequate he makes him feel, and in turn those feelings of inadequacy are a reflection of his profound understanding of just how good Sora is

Riku's changes for the worse don't go without repercussions on Sora's state, which is why much of his journey throughout KH1 is split between two goals: an altruistic one - finding his friends, as well as helping Donald and Goofy on their quest, and a self-serving one - being acknowledged by the people around him. Hey, those are familiar words

It's an uphill climb, one that's made really evident by his time in Olympus Coliseum in particular. His rashness gains him his own turn at being directly mess with by a thematically-relevant villain, too

It's not surprising that Sora reacts with cockiness to the situation that he finds himself in: for what's probably the first time in his life, it's him that everyone is relying on, and he lets it go to his head a little. Not enough to distract him from what's most important, but just enough to feel the sting of Riku's jabs (who is very much projecting whenever he opens his mouth about this topic)

Their reunion in Traverse Town is a miniature minefield, because Riku's immediate instinct is to re-establish himself as the leader-keeper, and Sora's way of shutting down that thought is... a little bit of everything. On purpose, in my opinion. It's childish, it's a little arrogant, it's show-offy, it's kind of ridiculous, and it's a challenge to Riku's authority, one that he doesn't take well at all, least of all when he starts seeing in Donald and Goofy the realisation of his irrational fear of being abandoned by Sora

Sora is naive, but his inability to comprehend Riku's feelings has nothing to do with it and everything to do with his attunement to the bonds between people. They're the source of his strength! It could never cross his mind to doubt his connection to Riku, his best friend, least of all to consider it expendable or contingent on external factors

This unshakeable conviction is what defines Sora's progress, and it's what ultimately defines his path of heroism and makes the keyblade go back to him despite Riku's claim over it. Not fate or predestination, but belief and love for other people, so much love that it's detrimental to his own survival and that is also his way to hide just how little he thinks of himself even. Sora's story isn't that of a seemingly average boy who one day comes into his destined role, it's that of a boy who tenaciously fights for others and earns the right to wield a power that he was originally only granted out of necessity

I feel that this is what Riku's goodbye to Sora wants to get at

Pulling away for a second to say that no matter what, of course Riku genuinely wants Kairi to be safe, and the fact that Nomura doesn't even see it as the primary cause for his actions splits me between befuddlement and "Riku and Kairi have a complex relationship" hubris stocks. Even so, what I see in this line is also the renewed fulfillment of Sora's one selfish desire: acknowledgement. Acknowledgement from the person who most wanted him to be and remain a helpless boy on the sidelines, acknowledgement from one of the people he cares most deeply for, acknowledgement from someone who was meant to be a hero. Allowing himself to get sealed in the Realm of Darkness is not Riku's final act in KH1, Riku's final act in KH1 is to step down from his designated role and finally accept Sora, encourage him to be the hero that he couldn't be

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

By David de Bruijn

Many are shocked, wondering how this could happen in the Netherlands.

To me, their bafflement is what’s shocking.

I grew up in The Hague, where real and abundant antisemitism, from epithets in the street to physical threats to the community’s safety, was part of our daily life. As a young boy, I vividly recall how The Hague's football hooligans—viciously opposed to Ajax, Amsterdam’s “Jewish” team—walked the streets under a banner reading “We’re hunting for Jews.” (Indeed, for my entire life, football stadiums in my home country have been filled with lurid chants like “Hamas, Hamas, all the Jews on gas!” and “My dad was in the commandos, my mom was in the SS, we like to burn Jews, because Jews burn the best.”)  

In high school, second- or third-generation Moroccan kids would point and hiss “Psst, psst, that’s a Jew, that’s a Jew!” as they passed by on their bikes. 

But most impactful were the myriad security measures our community had to undertake. Seen from the front, The Hague synagogue is not recognizable, two thick green doors presenting a closed facade to the street. Behind these doors are glass doors that open only once additional permission is given. All the windows are made of bulletproof glass. A permanent police post guards the synagogue. In Amsterdam, the Jewish primary school has even more dystopian levels of protection, hidden behind several layers of metal spikes and fencing. From the outside, the view of the school is entirely closed off. (Even as I write this, I feel uncomfortably conscious of not revealing any sensitive security details.)

Self-protection was a constant—and to me, natural—part of Jewish life. Leading youngsters to a summer camp in northern Friesland meant bringing a dedicated security team and, when possible, keeping quiet the fact that it was Jewish children gathering here. 

Violent, antisemitic assaults have become increasingly regular occurrences. In May, a student at the University of Amsterdam, a young man, was assaulted by a protester in a keffiyeh, struck in the head with a wooden plank. In August, a statue of Anne Frank was defaced—for the second time—with anti-Israel graffiti. Today, walking around with a kippah in the Netherlands is an act that requires bravery.

As the situation worsened over the years—motivating some, including me, to move, others to adjust, and so many to worry—one of the most painful aspects was the way the Jewish community was gaslit. Dutch society repeatedly told its post-Holocaust Jewish remnant—and itself—that “never again” was not merely a concrete promise, but a core concept of modern Dutch morality. However, the dominant culture of the country’s immigrant communities has proven manifestly hostile to that worldview—and to Jews. 

For the North Africans living in Holland, the dominant Jewish story of the twentieth century is not Auschwitz, it is Israel, which in their distorted conception is an illegitimate, one-directional criminal enterprise directed at an innocent population. Nor—and this is crucial—is this merely an attitude about a conflict. They believe it is the crime of the twentieth century, conferring ultimate guilt on the Jewish people. “Palestine” is a phrase felt to carry the gravity of “Holocaust,” grotesquely inverting the perception of the Jewish experience.

For Holland’s Jewry, this reality has been palpable for decades. Yet nothing—no politician, no policy—has altered this reality. In the aftermath of every single violent attack—as will most likely be the case now—the political answer has been a room-temperature broth of subsidies, youth centers, dialogue forums, visits to Islamic pensioners clubs, and interfaith dialogue.

So it did not surprise me when international media outlets, like The Associated Press and The New York Times, covered this widespread attack as if it was the unfortunate, but perhaps expected, result of the Israeli fans’ conduct before and during the match, such as reportedly taunting Ajax fans with inappropriate slogans. Further, the AP wrote, the attack followed a Palestinian flag being “torn down from a building in Amsterdam on Wednesday,” and the rioters were angry because “authorities banned a pro-Palestinian demonstration near the stadium.” The Times originally pinned the attack on differences over sport and on taunts, as “violence tied to a match between Dutch and Israeli teams,” and reported that “the tensions in the hours leading up to the violence” was in part caused by “one man [being heard] saying in Hebrew, ‘The people of Israel live,’ while others shout[ed] anti-Palestinian chants using expletives.” (The Times has apparently stealth-edited its reporting numerous times since publication.)

In other words, if all you read were the initial reports, you might think that the Israelis started it, or at least had it coming.

What the reporters and media fail to understand is that this was an attack on Israeli football fans, but not one carried out by football hooligans. The Ajax team is itself Jewish friendly—fans of Amsterdam’s Ajax are affectionately (and sometimes not-so affectionately) referred to as “super Jews,” and Ajax is understood as the “Jewish team,” so it would make little sense that Ajax supporters would attack Jews or Israelis for their ethnicity—even if they are fans of an opposing team. 

No, this was straightforward: According to the accounts of witnesses and victims, it was an attack by immigrant, Muslim communities against Israelis and Jews.

[lilacxquartz]

FIRST IMPRESSIONS / final part

choso × gn!reader

ao3 • masterlist • << previous part

summary: choso promises you safety, but you can’t help but feel like staying behind would invite more danger instead.

The entirety of Shibuya was overrun with chaos at this point.

The closer you got closer to the surface, the more you could hear the screams and cries of what was unfolding in the city and you couldn’t help and yet, you couldn’t help but feel lucky in a bittersweet kind of way.

That could have been you up there; suffering with the rest.

You were never supposed to be here, after all. Just a victim of your own ignorance and caught in the middle of something you still didn’t quite understand. You were just barely grasping the concept of sorcery but it was all too late.

You were dragged into it and unintentionally involved and now, there was no way out.

Except through him.

Choso stood right before you, still not too keen on letting you go. His mind warred with itself internally, trying to seek out the logic and reasoning behind setting you free. Realistically, he knew that this was an unsustainable pipe dream unless you were also entirely on board.

He still saw you as a beacon of hope of some kind; as someone who saw him for beyond what he truly was. Being half curse himself, he hated the idea that he was born partially from human negativity and hatred but especially with how he was, for a lack of better words, developed.

Settling on an idea, the area you were both in was technically secure. If you stayed right where you were, he could come back and collect you when the main danger was gone and you’d hopefully be intact.

“Stay here,” he instructed in a slight murmur. “I…I have to settle something, but you’ll be safe here. I’ll come back for you.”

“Wait,” your replied, feeling confused, “you’re leaving?”

Choso was just as conflicted as you were. He couldn’t take you to where he needed to go; it was too dangerous. At the same time, he couldn’t just let you go completely because the rest of the district was in shambles.

“I have to confront someone from my past,” he repeated again, “then I’ll get you out of here.”

“…Who?” you tried to ask, you wanted nothing more than to understand what was going on.

“A curse user called Kenjaku,” Choso revealed, knowing that you were just barely keeping up with him at all. “He’s the one responsible for all of… this. For me. He made me into this and he’s out there hurting people I still care about.”

You cautiously nodded, trying to understand. It wasn’t quite a world you were familiar with, but you could register the sentiment behind his words. People hurt people in ‘your world’ too. It didn’t surprise you that the people with certain… abilities as he tried to explain them to you, were abusing them.

“Please,” he added, gripping onto your arm as he tried to drive the point home. “Just stay here. You’re the only one who has ever made me feel human and I want you to make it to safety. If you want to leave after…” he paused to strain himself, finding the next words difficult to utter, “then you may.”

There was something unsettling that brewed within his tone, as if there was no room for argument beyond the command he gave you. You could only nod slowly as you parsed his instructions even if you didn’t quite agree with being stashed somewhere for who knows how long.

Before he left too, he pressed his lips against your forehead as a kind gesture. It wasn’t quite a kiss, but something about it felt possessive enough.

“You’ll be safe if you stay here,” he repeated once more, nestling you within the underpass, far away from the action. It wasn’t completely safe but it was highly unlikely that you were going to encounter danger this far away even if the entire district was compromised.

“Okay,” you nodded again, although you were unsure if you could truly mean it. “I’ll stay here.”

You watched on as he disappeared into the city; his figure fading off into a blurring silhouette. A part of you wanted to follow him just to see what he was taking about in the flesh, but you were too terrified to move all at the same time.

Being left behind in the middle of everything that was going on however, felt like torture. Especially as your own anxiety began to slowly overwhelm you. Minutes felt like hours and although he claimed that you would be safe if you stayed put, the distant noises within earshot did very little to comfort you.

You tried to stay hidden, just like Choso had asked you but it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay committed to your promise.

Hearing a noise a little too close, you swallowed down a painful gulp and slipped out of the hiding spot. Just in case. You tried to go towards where there was less bustle and noise, eventually walking yourself back into what seemed to be a woman.

You blinked at the sight of her. She was calm, composed and even looked a little annoyed at the sudden clash. Dark brown hair covered her face, just barely concealing desaturated eye bags, hinting at lacking sleep.

She hummed as her eyes glossed over you. “You’re not a sorcerer.”

You gulped, finding that your voice stuttered a little as you attempted to reply, “I-I am not…”

“What is a non sorcerer doing all the way out here?” she asked both you and herself, her tone of voice carrying a distinct calmness to it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stammered, trying to find the right words, “I just got caught up in all of this. I was going to a party, then I got lost and I met this guy who told me to stay here to keep safe but then I kept hearing things…”

The woman nodded as you talked, her eyes gradually narrowing as she tried to understand your partially incoherent rambling. “Alright. You’re a civilian who got caught up in this. Not to worry, if you follow me, I can get you out of this.”

“A-actually… I’m waiting for someone,” you protested slightly, feeling somewhat tethered to the strange man from before. You felt like you owed it to him to at least be within the vicinity, so he didn’t think you died or something similar.

The woman frowned slightly, not liking the sound of this. “…Who?”

“He called himself… Choso?” you replied.

“I haven’t heard of him,” she murmured, feeling some slight concern build within her senses. If it was a sorcerer from the opposite end, then she especially didn’t want a civilian to get involved with the wrong people.

“Oh,” you sighed in a slightly resigned tone.

“You should come with me,” she repeated once more, in the same sort of self assured tone that Choso did. “I’ll get you out of here. Waiting around in this place will only get you killed.”

Gulping once more, you nodded and followed her forward, attempting to ignore the gnawing feeling of unease that twisted in the depths of your stomach. Choso asked you to stay and even though you strayed slightly away, you had no idea who on earth you were supposed to trust out here.

You strayed a little too close to the woman as she navigated you through the quieter streets, meeting with a tan man with thick rimmed glasses and sharp cut hair.

“Got another civilian,” she gestured with the flick of her head towards you.

The man nodded. “I’ll see if I can get a hold of someone to get them out, but it might take a while. It’s hell out there. See them through in the medical bay for now.”

“Got it,” she said before snapping her fingers and getting you to tag along right behind her once more.

This time, she brought you towards a sort of makeshift medical area that seemed to be far away from the main battle. Sorcerers, or what you assumed were such, seemed to be treated for their wounds and you were sat down not too far away, jittering a little as she made sure that you weren’t actually injured anywhere.

“Where were you initially?” she asked, as though trying to gauge just what type of mess that you were caught up in.

“T-the station,” you replied.

Her eyes slightly darkened at the mention. Shoko knew from the briefings from her colleagues that the subway was dealing with transfigured humans as well as unleashed cursed spirits, so the very fact that you, a civilian, had made it out seemingly unscathed was… well, a miracle.

After what seemed to be like hours more, there was a strangely familiar presence within the area. You could feel that you were in trouble somehow and when you saw the man from before closing in on you, you knew why.

“Hold on,” Shoko interjected, as did the tan man from before, Yaga. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” a teenaged boy with pink hair interjected, seeming oddly cheerful despite the state that he was otherwise in. “That’s my brother apparently, or something. He was misguided before, but now he’s on our side! He’s a death painting so he’s kinda like us but stronger!”

Shoko could only sigh, sensing that this whole incident was getting more and more complicated by the second. “Great…”

You tensed as the pale man closed in on you, his body quickly bridging the gap as he loomed over you. His voice was rough with worry, but he kept his volume confined to just a whisper, “I told you to stay hidden.”

Shoko narrowed her eyes as she watched, leaning slightly towards Yuji. “Hey, kid. What’s his name?”

“Choso, I think,” he replied.

“Huh,” she could only reply, wondering how on earth you got yourself involved with a death painting but chose not to read too much into it for her own sanity.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured out to him, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I heard a noise and got scared but then I found her and it technically worked out, so…”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was when I passed by the area and couldn’t find you?” he replied, not quite listening to you. “You were supposed to trust me.”

“And I do,” you tried to argue back, “but I got scared because I still don’t understand what’s happening.”

Choso’s expression grew taut as his fists clenched at his sides. He could tell that more than a few eyes were on both you and him the longer that he discussed safety matters to someone who clearly didn’t belong. It seemed as though Yaga was close to intervening, but Shoko prevented him from doing so, clearly curious by the turn of events.

“I believe you,” he sighed at last, his shoulders finally sagging. He didn’t want to cause yet another scene, blinded by his own lacking understanding. If he wanted to be more human and even be seen as such by you, then he had to recognise that irrationality in the face of fear was just a part of it.

Despite the slight audience, he pulled you into a hug in an attempt to comfort you, holding you close even in spite of the chaos that could still be heard raging just outside.

Choso knew that this would be an on and off limited thing, since his mission was not yet over but the least he simply couldn’t resist holding onto the very first person who ever saw him for who he wanted himself to be.

“You don’t have to protect me like this though,” you tried to whisper. “I think I’m safe now.”

His expression of serenity however slightly faltered, his eyes boring into yours as he attempted to keep you with him. He didn’t quite understand what you had meant and in his mind, you were close to abandoning him even though it was far from that fact.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked quietly again. “Do you want to leave all of this?”

Of course you did, he thought. Of course you didn’t want to endure this whole mess. How stupid he was to think otherwise—

“—no,” you said instead, catching him by surprise. “I want to know more about what’s truly going on.”

“Then…” he tried to find the right words again, his voice caught in the back of his throat, “would you please let me protect you? Please. If anything happens to you… I-I don’t know what I’ll do—“

“—okay,” you gently interrupted him, trying to calm him down. “I’ll trust you to do so.”

Choso then shuddered out a shaky breath, his body slacking some more as he finally secured a place in your heart, from what it looked like. Pulling slightly back, you felt a little awkward as everyone quickly averted their gazes, pretending as though they weren’t listening in on what to them, was a slightly bizarre exchange.

Choso continued to slightly shake as he took in his newfound responsibility; his body tense with protective need. He wasn’t quite sure what regular human life was like, but he wanted to protect you from the negativity that spawned from within the shadows—to perhaps even learn how to exist amidst the chaos as your hopeful equal—even if it was for just a short moment in time.

After all, how could he even begin to let someone like you go? He was glad that you didn’t want to go straight home, that you wanted to stay, because if he was being truthful to himself; he wouldn’t have let you go.

Oblivious to his spiralling thoughts, you leaned into him as he also did the same, enjoying your company in a rare moment of silence. He would have to let go soon, to carry on with protecting humanity from an ancient evil keen on carrying out its plans, but that didn’t mean that you would be very far.

Choso exhaled slowly, feeling a heavy weight slowly be lifted off of his shoulders as he peeled himself away from the hug you gave him.

It was a brief feeling that he felt from you, but for once, he felt peace within your arms.

Finally, he felt truly human.

And that was enough to keep him going.

And hopefully one day, he would return to you.

[lionhanie]

myung jaehyun ; voodoo doll

academic rivals to... crush?, childhood friends turned frenemies, jaehyun has feelings and in SEVERE denial

word count: ~1.9k

warnings: i curse like twice lmao, reader is shorter than jaehyun, jaehyun goes thru insane internal conflict because he’s coping w/ his newfound crush on u

this work is part of my boynextdoor as old 5sos songs series! ↳ if you want to listen to the song, here u go!

a/n: tbh this is one little self indulgent because i feel like jaehyun + this concept would respectfully Ruin my Life so…. voodoo doll fits the scenario well!

likes ♡ and reblogs ↺ always appreciated!

your families were close, having moved into the neighborhood around the same time. living next to a family with a son the same age as you essentially meant you would be seeing each other often; whether it was leaving the house at the same time to walk to school or being sent next door to return borrowed tupperware, it was safe to say that you were more than familiar with each other. 

it was sweet, really. the picture of you and jaehyun at your kindergarten graduation has been framed in the hallway outside your bedroom for as long as you can remember. jaehyun’s older brother used to treat you guys to ice cream after a test. hell, your families would take weekend trips together over the summer! even when you were young, your mothers always joked that it would be just perfect if the you two started dating, especially when your families trust each other already! and it would be so convenient too, being right next door and all. except, things didn’t work out as they had initially hoped. 

you were almost always competing with each other growing up -- who could get a better test score, who could get the most medals in a certain sport, who would get more votes at a class election; you name it. once, you made a bet on who would be taller than the other by the time you finished middle school; it’s a defeat that jaehyun never let you hear the end of when a routine check-up at the doctor told you that you were done growing. it was friendly competition for a while, until you both started taking the rivalry a bit too seriously. 

the tension at the dinner table was evident every time your families would join together for your monthly dinners. making sneer remarks towards each other, scoffing at the boasting of one’s achievements, ultimately resulting in a one-up battle that would always be shut down by the parents. it was just petty at this point. you really had no reason to feel so… negatively towards each other all of a sudden. 

“everytime you’re near me, suddenly my heart begins to race / every time i leave, i don’t know why my heart begins to break”

until one day, things are different for jaehyun. he catches himself looking at you from across the classroom longer than he normally does, eyes quickly darting away and cheeks slightly flushed when you address his very obvious staring. when it’s time for lunch, he finds himself sitting a little closer to your table of friends, his heart skipping a beat upon hearing your melodious laughter. when he sees you talking to another guy, he grips the notebook in his hand a bit tighter, a pang of jealousy ringing within him-- he dismisses the feeling and goes about the rest of his daily routine.

despite the apparent hostility in your friendship, you’ve never walked home without the other without good reason. making sure he got the both of you home safe was something jaehyun’s father encouraged him to do ever since you guys were in elementary school; it’s practically second nature to him. there’s not as much conversation exchanged nowadays, especially compared to how you two used to talk the entire walk home as kids, oftentimes having trouble stopping your giggles when you part ways to walk into your respective homes. 

he’s sitting on a bench outside of the school’s entrance, earbuds in as he waits for you to walk out the glass doors. a cool breeze flies by while he hums along to the song that had just come on shuffle. it’s a little strange that you weren’t out yet. it’s been over fifteen minutes since all club activities were supposed to end, and you never wanted to stay at school longer than you need to be. jaehyun contemplates going back inside to look for you, even going as far as getting up and throwing his backpack over his shoulder-- oh, there you are. 

“let’s go?” you finally walk out of the doors, fiddling with your tangled pair of earbuds. he feels a wave of relief wash over him, phew. he was worried there for a second. wait. why was he worried? it’s not like something bad could’ve happened to you; you were probably just talking to one of the teachers or something. he’s acting like you’ve never been a little late before. if anything, he’s probably made you wait even longer than he just did, and /you/ never seemed to think twice about it. what is up with him today? 

“give me those,” jaehyun says, referring to the earbuds you were currently struggling to take knots out of. he doesn’t actually wait for you to hand them to him, rather opting to grab them out of your hands, making you roll your eyes. he untangles the stubborn loops with ease, handing them back to you after. “wow, and no thank you? you’re feeling especially cold today, y/n.” he scoffs as he places his hands in his jacket pockets while he walks beside you. 

“and it hurts in my head and my heart and my chest and i’m having trouble catching my breath”

“myung jaehyun, thank you so much for helping me just now! what would i do without you?” you respond, very obviously sarcastic. “i’m exhausted, starving, and i’d rather not deal with your attitude again today, okay?” jaehyun watches as you plug your earbuds in and place both of them in your ears; you usually leave the one closest to him out to hear him better with the few sentences of small talk shared on the trip home. if he had puppy ears on his head, you would’ve seen them droop at the way you were completely ignoring him now.  he wanted to brag about the grade he got back on his english paper earlier, but it didn’t seem like a good time to do so. maybe you had a bad day. 

as you walk on the familiar route home from school, all jaehyun wants to do is crack a joke or make a fool out himself by doing something stupid-- anything that would possibly brighten up your mood a bit; except you’re focused only on whatever you’re listening to and the sidewalk in front of you. his mind is all over the place as he walks in silence beside you; what’s got you so upset? the exams coming up? surely not, you always seem to get higher scores than him with ease. is it the school festival? you’ve been stressing out over planning your club’s performance for a while... why does he want to know so badly? whatever it is, it’s hurting him to see you stray from your usual demeanor. 

“i don’t even like you / why’d you want to go and make me feel this way? / i don’t understand what’s happened, i keep saying things i never say” 

after dinner, jaehyun’s doing homework at his desk before he pauses to look out the window that faces yours, noticing your lights are off already. it isn’t too late, maybe around 11pm, but it’s definitely way earlier than your typical bed time, especially when finals are right around the corner. “i guess y/n had a rough week.” he rests his chin against his hand, internally debating whether or not to check in on you. it’s not weird to send you a text right? he’s just concerned, after all. 

to: my y/n sorry about earlier. are you going to sleep now?

“...are you going to sleep now? myung jaehyun, you sound like a freak, god. let’s just get to the point.” he mocks himself as he deletes his previous message.

to: my y/n i wouldn’t have teased u if i knew u were having a bad day :( need to talk about it?

“should i even bother apologizing?” jaehyun puts his phone down on his desk. why is it so hard for him to send you a text right now? picking it back up, he erases his message again.

to: my y/n u ok?  → sent!

“that should be fine, y/n can talk about what’s wrong if they want to. and i didn’t seem too needy… this is good, yeah.” he tries to convince himself that he crafted the perfect message literally 3 letters but okay lmfao, but he regrets making himself sound so nonchalant when, in reality, that is the last word he would use to describe himself right now. maybe he just needs to sleep on it. 

“tell me where you’re hiding your voodoo doll ‘cause i can’t control myself / i don’t wanna stay, wanna run away / but i’m trapped under your spell” 

jaehyun packs up his laptop and notebooks, arranging them haphazardly in his backpack before moving to wash up for bed. he’s a couple steps out his bedroom door, halfway to the bathroom, when he hears his phone chime three times. you’re still awake.  it’s almost embarrassing how fast he finds himself back in his room, eagerly opening his messages. 

3 new messages from “my y/n”! lmao yeah, life kicking my ass lately tell u more tmr if u want details :p  thanks for caring, jaehyun

thanks for caring, jaehyun. what? of course he would care. honestly, he’s offended; why do you think he wouldn’t care about you? he simply reacts with a thumbs up to your second message-- jaehyun hesitates momentarily, but he ends up reacting with a heart to your last message. he thinks you should get some sleep, you need it. 

now, myung jaehyun is having trouble sleeping. which is odd, because he normally knocks out the second he’s under the covers. his heart is practically beating out of his chest thinking back to your texts, even if it was only a couple words. it’s been a while since you two just… talked normally. it’s a sad realization, especially when jaehyun thinks about the years of history you have together. the thought of you laughing at his silly antics and hitting his arm playfully on your walk home, just like how you used to, gives him butterflies. it’s hard to ignore when he’s trying to rest. he’s searching and scanning every possible explanation in his head as to why he started looking at you differently now. he tosses and turns in his bed, even rearranging his pillows numerous times in a sad attempt to push his feelings for you out of his head and finally sleep. 

jaehyun could’ve sworn he hated your guts, but he can’t exactly explain why the “hate” started in the first place. could he have liked you this whole time? no, that doesn’t make sense… you know what, it’s probably some freaky magic manifestation stuff… yeah, that’s it. maybe a voodoo doll or something… because surely there’s no logical reason as to why jaehyun could possibly be falling for you after all this time. 

© lionhanie 2024 ; all rights reserved!

a/n: bye i think its so funny to think that jaehyun is just so unwilling to accept his own feelings that he blames it on LITERAL MAGIC looooooool silly boy i love him :,)

[princess-of-the-corner]

I do believe someone brought up a Bourgeois family divorce trap AU that ends in Mr. Lee x Andre

(I know because it started me writing one, it's taking a while though because I got a job and I'm not a writer)

But the concept is BEAUTIFUL. Picture with me:

Pre canon. Summer before the school year starts. Chloe and Zoe meet at some kind of summer camp. Probably not actual camping because Chloe would never, but they could be at like. Fashion camp or Model UN or something. They despise each other. They fucking hate everything about each other.

Zoe is finally finally FINALLY getting away from the bitches at home and doesn't have to posture except there's THIS girl screaming about how her Daddy is the mayor and acting just like Audrey and it is fucking insufferable. She just can't stand it. She has to beat this girl at everything to assert dominance. That's how conflict resolution works right? That's how it works at home anyway.

Chloe is finally getting a break from the peasants at home and then she's suddenly faced with this copycat American bitch who everyone has the gall to say looks like Chloe. And it's international so the mayor of paris doesn't have the same authority so she's just forced to put up with it. But this is Chloe so putting up with it means war (Sabrina could be here or maybe not. I haven't decided if I want her in on the shenanigans or not, but I'm leaning yes).

They are absolutely terrible. They are ruining the event for everyone. When one of their spats to outdo each other sets something on fire they both start throwing around their mom's name and OH FUCK you're my secret sister.

I think at this point, Chloe didn't know about ANY of this, but isn't all that shocked because she knows her parents don't love each other. Zoe knew she was an affair baby and had a secret sister but had not been formally introduced yet and wouldn't have necessarily *recognized* Chloe.

Chloe is now in emotional crisis about how her mother doesn't love her and is calling her dad and breaking her phone cuz her dad isn't giving satisfactory answers. Zoe is reeling a bit, but she tries going after Chloe. They throw hands a bit. End up in the nurse together. Talk some shit out now that they've both got it out of their system.

Zoe's surprised to realize Chloe is more mad at *herself* than at Zoe or their mom and is like "I mean you're a bitch, but so am I, what the hell did YOU do?" And Chloe's like ". . . Huh." One conversation isn't gonna erase a decades old complex but it will help her conciously realize it. They talk more and Zoe's like "I think we need to break up your parents, it's not like Audrey's taking care of either of us" and Chloe is like "Y'know what, fuck it, yeah. I just. I don't wanna deal with her anymore."

Sisters spend the rest of camp plotting and becoming fast friends. Zoe tells about her woes at school and dreams of starting fresh and Chloe is like "that would actually be so nice, I wish we could switch" and then impulsive teenagers are like "hey wait a second." Plan is now to switch places, Zoe convinces Andre to divorce Audrey while Chloe convinces Mr. Lee to move to France.

They switch, hijinks ensue. Zoe's convinced the best way to break up Andre and Audrey is to find someone else for Andre to pursue. Chloe's decided the best way to get Mr. Lee to uproot his life is to get him an SO who lives in Paris. They did not go into this expecting to ship their fathers, but they're both in the wrong countries and it's too late to back out now.

Lucky for them, the two guys really hit it off and (in this AU anyway. Canon Andre can fuck off) both care about their daughters and are trying to do what's best for them. With Zoe having no friends in NYC and Chloe having Some Friends in Paris, plus Mr. Lee having a job that switches countries much easier, it's not too hard to figure out which one they're gonna go with.

(Background absolute befuddlement of both groups of classmates going on also. Because like. Zoe can pretend to be awful. She canonically spent most of her schooling pretending to be awful. But I think she's more regular mean girl level and not Chloe's level of Extra, plus it's very hard to be extra mean to Marinette specifically when baby gay has a crush. Chloe meanwhile is just straight up not doing U.S.A. class because it is aggressively not worth her time. She's climbing out windows and using all her computer time to set up a dating profile for her dad on grindr. All of Zoe's classmates are so fucking baffled).

Hate that I need to make OCs for Zoe's classmates. Need to rewatch the NYC special and find some backgrounders to adopt. Or some side characters from other media to file the serial numbers off of. (I am lowkey turning Chloe interacting with knockoff Heather Chandler or Regina George around in my head and cackling)

This is fucking beautiful lmao

[lanternfields]

brozone reunion in my beneath the mind au is something I love to imagine but i know its going to be a bitch to write because of the lingering plot points I still have to connect with branch and clay and how the hell they get involved with the delayed world tour that happens like two months after floyd's capture by V&V

basically brozone reunion in this one is going to be a shit fest cause of the sheer number of awareness each of the bros have about the current conflict with the rock trolls having tried to unite most of the other trolls tribes for last few decades and recently nearly wiped out the resistance cause like this is the bros ranked on how much they know on the conflict goes like this:

John Dory- He knows the most cause he technically was on the rock trolls side at first but switched sides after the bergen colony arc and has been going through a psychological shit storm in his head because one he has PTSD from being a rock zombie for like 3 years, two he has survivors guilt from the bergen colony and before that that he's been dealing with for years.

-AND now he just suddenly got reunited with his brothers who he knew at the back of his head knew they've changed like he has, but he wasn't prepared on how much HE had changed instead of them cause like he's been an officer for nearly a decade at that point and gives of a drastically different vibe than what he did when he was brozone leader

-Then there's the whole elephant in the room with the bros having witnessed a fight between resistance soldiers and rock trolls at mount rageous during their whole thing of saving floyd and jd being part of that fight and also in the bros eyes him nearly dying but jd didn't see that way cause he got use to this type of thing happening a lot

Floyd- He comes in second cause floyd in this au is actually part of an internal rebellion within the rock trolls and his job has been helping and aiding trolls escaping the rock trolls, still deciding on exactly how he get's captured by Velvet and Veneer but it will definantly be something about floyd blowing his cover as a rebbellion member and Barb using him for a deal in mount rageous.

I haven't delved into this concept much yet but floyd's role is pretty important for the whole au

Bruce- He's aware of the ongoing conflict between the resistance and the rock trolls cause some of the other islands that vacay island is close too actually helps medically wise in supplies to the resistance though the giant races are mostly keeping themselves out o the trolls conflict. Bruce is scared shitless about the conflict because the rock trolls have been taken other genered trolls as prisoners so he stays in vacay island where it far enough from the conflict where his family is safe

- but he does occasionally visit the other islands that vacay is close with just to help out with how bad things are getting in recent years where he actually ends up bumping into jd when one of his squad members recently recovered fully and was being brought back to the field like 4ish years before the brozone reunion.

- and that reunion on the island was bad, bruce was literally running after jd when his eldest brother immediately ran away from him when he saw Bruce from afar cause jd was wearing a resistance uniform and looked pretty banged up and not to mention that 'HE'S IN THE RESSITANCE?!" cause Bruce knows about how brutal things have been getting and just how many trolls were getting killed and he just found out that his eldest brother who hadn't seen in decades and has a lot of baggage with but still loves is out there getting into stuff that's going to kill him and Bruce doesn't actually get to talk to jd at all cause he lost him and bruce went back home and told brandy everything that just happened and brandy is with him with trying to find out more about jd's involvement and bring him to safety but before that could happen bruce gets a letter from one of the resistance carriers handed to him and it's from jd with him basically asking bruce to not get involved with the resistance at all because of him and to just stay out of it for their own safety this doesn't do much cause Bruce still tried to find at least one lead but gets nothing about jd until 4ish years later when branch and poppy come to him to ask help to rescue floyd

Branch- all he knows that there been conflict with the rock trolls and the other troll tribes but he doesn't know all the details of that's been going on lately, but he knows the that resistance and the rock trolls have a connection to the abandoned bergen town and the near extinction with the bergen race because of the altered plot of trolls 1 in my au. When gristle tells the pop trolls about what happened about 7 years after the trolls left the troll tree that rock trolls invaded their town using violent creatures and knocking them out from with a red string?

-But yeah he doesn't fully know as of now that jd is an officer nor what his place is in the resistance

Clay- has no fucking idea what the hell has been going on since he and viva are isolated with the putt putt trolls while of this is happening. still don't know how to get him into this point of the story but i am working on it

---

i did not anticipate for this to be this long but oh well I needed to post something of my BTM au since its been a while since i even fleshed this au out on my tumblr

[imperiuswrecked]

Here lies Namor. Invader. Avenger. International Terrorist. - Namor (2024) #1

I am Namor. The Terrorist Propaganda says I have issues. Don't trust the Terrorist Propaganda. - Bucky Barnes: Winter Solider (2014) #1

You know what annoys me about Aaron's writing, where is Defender? Namor is part of and actually is the instigator in creating Marvel's The Defenders, the first trio called Titians Three consisted of him recruiting Hulk & Silver Surfer to aid him in stopping humans from hurting the Natural World in The Sub-Mariner (1968) #34. This would later spin out into Doctor Strange recruiting Namor, Silver Surfer, Hulk, and later joining them Valkyrie for the main and first wave of The Defenders. A team made up of outsiders who defended the world from supernatural threats. Namor is literally a founding member of (in my very strong opinion) the best modern team he's ever been on.

Yes, he's Namor the Avenging Son, but he was only ever called Terrorist by his enemies. Namor wouldn't think of himself in that way, he'd call himself a Defender, a Protector of his people, of the seas, his home. If Aaron means Invader as in he was part of the Invaders team then that also is a defense because he and the Invaders were fighting in WWll.

Namor knows the humans see him as a threat and for the most part he doesn't care if they label him as a monster because he's always had this strong belief of defending his home and people, he worked past his hatred of humans to help them all the way back in the golden age, but time and time again the humans do something that he has to respond to.

If you ask me for 2 panels to understand Namor in a nutshell then it would have to be;

The Defenders (1972) #53

Sub-Mariner (2007) #4

He's actually so easy to understand if people actually took the time to read his freaking comics. He's complex yeah, but that's what makes him so interesting as the first comic Anti-Hero!

Aaron focusing on Namor's outsider status isn't something new, it's been explored in his comics a lot of times. What really frustrated me was back in Avengers (2018) #9 Aaron had the chance to set up Namor to combat Captain America in terms of ideology of what is right and wrong, how is the defense of his homeland wrong? how is resistance against oil drillers, and poachers, and corporate greed, and polluters, and giant space robots falling and crushing his city and people wrong???

Human Laws have always been in favor of Humans, not the Atlanteans, not the Sea. Instead of exploring the concept of Namor being a Defender of his home and his people, Aaron constantly labels Namor a Terrorist. The he makes Namor want to atone for the wrongs he's done (never specifying exactly which ones, just a general "crimes against surface humanity") while never addressing or exploring the wrongs done to him by the humans/surface world!

Even now Aaron sets up Namor for conflict under the sea, and states it's for the best interest of the human world that their shipping lines and cruises be uninterrupted by the "shrieking blue skinned warriors who've invaded their coasts". Basically it's "We humans don't care if the Atlanteans are suffering so long as they suffer in silence and don't bother us or disrupt our money & lives".

Aaron writes in Avengers that Captain America offered aid to help the Atlanteans, but it's Namor who's rejected it, why would he accept help from the people who constantly hurt his people? Why would Namor ever trust them when they've broken his trust so many times in the past? Humans make promises and then break them all the time. Why should Namor ever accept the crumbs they deign to give him in return for obedience and silence so the humans can keep doing whatever they think is right? Why is the Surface World more moral and more right than the Undersea World? It's Namor's land, it's his home, they broke his laws, they broke his home, his people, his seas.

I've always said the biggest obstacle and mistake writers often encounter when writing Namor is they come at him from a very surface world mindset, where the humans are right and Namor isn't. Namor was never meant to be a champion of humans, but of the Atlanteans, the Seas, and all it's creatures.

I could not care less that you are breaking the Laws of Man. What you do here violates the Law of Namor. And thus you shall now endure Namor's Justice. - Defenders (2012) #1

Namor being seen as a Invader/Terrorist began back with his first fight against The Human Torch in Marvel Mystery Comics (1939) #8, Jim was championed as the Hero of Humanity, while Namor was labeled as Public Enemy No. 1. and even now 85+ years later Namor faces persecution for doing what he was raised to do all his life, be a king, be a protector of his people, take justice and vengeance for the wrongs done against his home and people.

Aaron wants to focus on Namor's outsider status of being born half human/half atlantean. He's already shown Namor being bullied and nearly killed as a child for being born different by his people, but that isn't anything new, that's been canon that Namor is an outsider among humans and atlanteans, it's canon that the Atlanteans are just as racist as the humans, but often they're framed as worse than the humans.

One comic reviewer questioned if Aaron is making statements about the current political climate but honestly anyone who reads Namor comics can see these themes, the tensions among atlanteans and humans, have always been there. What remains to be seen is if Aaron can actually deliver on some good writing.

[reorientation]

this isn't a kink ask, more a reflection on my own desires and experiences. would love your answer on this as a dom in the space!

okay, so, i like your blog A LOT. i've been saving asks in my phone notes app for weeks in case i finally become less scared to send them 👀

but i had this experience where a man i really trusted was busted for masturbating too fantasies of corrupting me and my (now ex) girlfriend as well as legit rapes that women in our extended friend group confided in him about. (and for the viewers at home, because i know you're thinking it, this wasn't discovered in anywhere NEAR a hot way. his girlfriend found bikini pics of us on his phone and grilled him for hours until he confessed everything sobbing like a little bitch 💀💀)

so... naturally this made me feel violated and *not in the hot way.* while i've had this kink before this incident, it's definitely made me more hesitant about expressing it. i constantly wonder if it's hypocritical for me to get off sexting men about orientation play if i'm an anonymous anon, while being repulsed if it's men in my life feeling that way about ME. this guilt has led to me holding back on being as active in this space as i was. how can i get off on the idea of a man wanting to rape and "correct" me when i met one in real life and went no-contact with him, y'know?

anyways. this is a hefty ask, thank you for reading. and most importantly, thank you for being a dom in the space that consistently draws the line between fiction and reality. it makes biting your forbidden fruit a lot sweeter💕

Hm - since you came asking, I'll give you my opinion, but I'm not sure it's one you'll want to hear.

I feel good about my participation in this space, and that's because of a few important factors: I'm sure that regardless of my kinks, I can treat the gay and trans people in my life as people deserving of respect and autonomy, not as fantasy objects; I believe that you can't harm anyone with what happens solely within your own mind; I think that while sexuality is powerful, it isn't more real than other parts of our lives, and as such, concepts like "pretending" and "acting" still apply to it.

The story you told is troubling to me. You frame it as your ex-friend being caught doing something wrong and shameful, but I don't see what he actually did besides "thinking the wrong things while masturbating".

Don't get me wrong: there are bits of this that could get extremely shitty, depending on the specifics. If he ever pushed a woman who came to him for support to give details about her rape for his own gratification, that's deeply immoral. If he was treating you or your girlfriend differently in ways that made you uncomfortable because of what he thought about when he jacked off, that's wrong too.

But you didn't describe any of that happening - you described his girlfriend interrogating him until he broke down, and then... telling you about his sexual fantasies? Causing you, your girlfriend, and several rape victims to feel violated, and destroying a friendship that you valued, and presumably deeply harming the guy? That seems like an incredibly serious ethical misdeed to me - the actual source of all the harm here.

You had the right to end a friendship over feeling skeeved out, of course - you're not obligated to stay friends with someone. But I think that the internal conflict you're feeling is meaningful and valuable, because it does point out some real contradictions between how you treat different parts of your life. What makes you feel like I'm okay for having rape and orientation play fantasies, but your friend wasn't? (If I had fantasies about my friends, would you think less of me?)

I'm not going to try to tell you what the answer is, though I could certainly speculate, since the psychology of kink is half the reason I'm on here. But I think that if you try to reason through it from a first-principles approach - thinking about what you believe and what your values are - you'll come out with a better understanding of your relationship to sexuality, as well as less internal tension about the kink.

[halfbaked00q]

hm. hmm. okay wait. can we talk about something. so in Skyfall. Bond's last words to Silva. "Last rat standing." Yes he says it flippantly but like. how do I put this. okay like. lowkey? Iiiii kind of feel like. this is the EXACT kind of thing he WOULD end up (accidentally?? inadvertently?? reflexively??) internalizing?

Like okay as you know, I do find 'Bond as incredibly chameleonic' to be incredibly compelling and also lowkey a headcanon I have for Bond. That the man Method Acts. including his very persona. Which blah blah makes him very effective as an agent etc, but also comes at the cost of being incredibly detrimental to him having, like. a stable sense of self?

Like he doesn't have self-esteem issues or issues knowing who he is, whatever. But just that, like... he's as constant as a river bank. I.e. -- the river may always continue to flow, and there may always BE a river bank. But the river bank also inexorably, unstoppably, incrementally adapts and moves and shifts and changes in response to any and every influencing factor, every single day.

And like, as I hope we've established here, Bond very much is NOT a blunt instrument; he just plays one on TV. But it's also veeerrry interesting to me that we get this sooo early on in Casino Royale, that it may not have been, but by calling him that, M, like, spoke it into existence. That who Bond is/part of who Bond Is, is "blunt instrument." (in a way Bond is like a Twilight Zone or maybe Black Mirror version of that one children's book about the girl and lima beans concept, except instead of it being like she was trying so hard to fit in she denied a fundamental part of herself and ended up this eldritch chameleonic horror, it's that as, like, a function of being a Highly Effective Agent... he manifests these chameleonic traits)

But yeah like. thinking like in terms of "well what happens after Skyfall?" and "what does this mean for Bond into the future?" and also. honestly, this ties into the whole idea that "....Bond would be very brainwashable...."....... kind of like how Vesper was a Formative Moment for him, I do think that this, unchecked, also has the potential to be a Formative Moment for him.

...........and okay lmao because I have a 00q agenda. I admit this actually DID start as a huh, this has the potential to be(come) a sort of inflection point for him..... and this is why he needs Q, Q would make sure to set him straight and set him on the right path. (actually there IS a fic where Bond calls back the last rat standing line, and Q corrects him with "a prize I have won." -- edit: citation found! once again lmao it's Pursuit by Kirsten).

Iii... normally do have a bit of a hard time imagining what might, to my mind, break Bond's loyalty (fidelity?) and cause him to go off the deep end/go rogue., but. I think this has the potential to do it. If we really drill into it and follow it down the path it leads. tbh I think if we'd gotten Marc Forster or a Marc Forster-esque director for the film following Skyfall (i.e. if we'd gotten another QoS-esque film. :') which in a more beautiful world where we could really explore the Craig!Bond world and didn't have to deliver on a James Bond TM movie..) ...then this could have been a veeryyyy interesting avenue of character study/character conflict to go down.

It would also have been interesting cuz there's an element of like. thought virus? to it. that like, Bond's 'Silva moment' isn't *getting tortured* (things done *to* him) like Silva's was -- granted Silva was tortured for an extended period of time and that would tend to have a detrimental effect on a person's psyche- but like, generally, Bond seems pretty able to shake off physical things done to him as long as he has a home base to reflect back to (he like snarled and chomped at the bit with M sure but then she was like so are you gonna get back to work or not? nd he immediately was like understandable, I'll go shower and change immediately -- but rather, would be entirely reflexive - Silva shining a purposefully distorted mirror to him.

It'd play with the idea of Bond being less a man and more of like, a tangled myriad of philosophical thought experiments in a trench coat lmao - if a tree falls in the forest etc, and like if you know a thing to be true but the rest of the world believes something else then what really is the truth. is there some immutable Other quality, or is truth relative. Also very quantum physics coded of him - there's that thing in quantum physics where like by observing it you change it, right? Bond is like that. By being observed, he is changed. Again, great for a highly effective field agent etc, bad for a guy trying to be(come) a Real Boy.

and ALSO (carrying through the theme of loss as a major shaping factor on him, e.g. w/ Vesper), the like other side of the coin/corresponding whole of his 'Silva moment' would also be the loss of M, who - up to that moment - was his, like,. primary primogenitor of self image. (please clap - I feel like this is a banger of a phrase I just coined.) Like not only does he have Silva shining this dark distorted reflection to him (purposefully darkened and distorted by Silva), but Bond also lost his main touchstone. as maybe-destructive and toxic as that relationship might have been. (see also: wire mother. who doesn't even provide sustenance)

aaaand bringing it back to 00q to again, lol. This also taps into my thing of "Mallory may have inherited the seat but Q was the one who inherited the throne" (also a banger of a line I just coined - I never put it that way before, I think I mostly said like, Q is M's spiritual successor or whatever?) I don't think I tagged these posts anything specific but I think you get a lot of them if you search 'inherited' on my blog lmao) of like. Q is the true inheritor of Bond from M etc. But yeah this is where, to bring it back to 00q, Q comes in. Cuz with M gone. Bond would be left adrift. He needs a new anchor, he needs a new touchstone, he needs a new hunting-bird-handler, he (gonna be bold and throw in some food, for ME, if no one else) needs a new mommy!! And that's gonna be Q!!!!!

kind of a sidebar but also related - but this is also why I'm like. we need more Skyfall-characterization Q lmao. for MY personal tastes, but ALSO cuz imo Skyfall-era Q is sooooo interesting and compelling, he's got his own thing going on yea but! he also has shades of Vesper to him, he also has shades of M to him!! literally they created him in a lab as the/potential to be the perfect guy on the end of the tether (comms) for Bond. He banters with Bond, the way he likes, he bullies Bond, also the way he likes (the man is a brat but also suuuch a sucker for being bullied LMAO. seriously). AND, unlike wire mommy who doesn't provide sustenance. Q provides sustenance!! They've known each other for like 2 minutes and Q is like yeah sure I'll commit treason for you kitten. (did I accidentally write part of a ship manifesto lol. anyway. *here's wonderwall voice* this is why 00q)

I think once I (re?)watch Spectre, it'll be interesting to see what, if any, kind of throughline they carry into it from Skyfall. I mean I guess arguably, Bond cutting & running w Madeleine at the end shows how adrift he is left in the wake of M's death. (his anchor has been cut, and they never deigned to give him a new one. or they never figured out he became anchorless, and thus weren't able to do anything about it? Like, I think the "usual" turn of phrase would be the loss left him rudderless, but he's NOT that, he very much has a rudder. as evidenced by him haring off to take care of M's mission posthumously. he very much has a rudder; he just now has no anchor/tug line. so like an unleashed dog who lost his main handler he's absolutely running amok.

anyway to in conclusion to sum up. "last rat standing" yeah yeah callback but also! Iii think. fascinating implications for Bond psyche (esp as Skyfall would lead us to believe, word association is a very important and Very Meaningful part of a psych eval process). v interesting potential implications (or paths of exploration) into where Bond goes post-Skyfall. and also, here's how 00q can still win (really, more here's why 00q Needs to Happen. for a sane and healthy Bond. like okay suuuuure there are oooother ways it could happen to. But think of how perfectly Q would fit into the picture. would be a waste of a perfectly good Q to not take advantage of this, really!). and also, Have I Convinced You Yet of my Fucky Wibbly Oobleck Identity intensely chameleonic (even/often to his detriment) Bond headcanon yet, lmao.

[clfixationstation]

Greetings, happy new year! 🎉 I recently read this brief post of yours regarding the symbolism of the praying mantis in Mikasa Ackerman's story. I had looked through the tag of "Mikasa analysis" trying to look for AOT meta related to her and, while there wasn't much content, I saw this one and I loved it. You also seem to be the only one around here using that tag, so I was wondering: Do you have any other thoughts on Mikasa's character that you've yet to share, or any additional comments to add to her themes/development? Thank you!

I do indeed! I've been meaning to create a separate Mikasa-centered post based on my "who understands Eren best?" post

It can be difficult to place Mikasa's level of understanding of Eren because it's layered in so much trauma, but I will not downplay her relationship to Eren.

Mikasa's character is centered around accepting the dichotomy of the world being both very cruel and very beautiful. Though she knows it to be reality, Mikasa struggles to accept this concept. It is a truth that always lurks in the back of Mikasa's mind, brought forth by tragedy, forcing her to face it over and over again.

This applies to how Mikasa views her relationship to Eren as well. Mikasa had a somewhat distorted perception of Eren during much of the story, only able to see his "beauty." (I'd even argue Eren's "cruelty" may have appeared beautiful, or positive, to Mikasa because she associated it with Eren rescuing her)

But throughout season 4, Mikasa witnesses the violence this "new", cold version of Eren is capable of. Mikasa's romanticized view of Eren saving her breaks down, allowing her to reckon with the true horror of that day: she was a child, terrified on the ground, watching another child gruesomely kill adults without hesitation or remorse.

By confronting her trauma, Mikasa is able to accept Eren's "cruelty" and see him more fully. She even begins to doubt the beauty she used to see in him. This internal conflict, between the beauty Mikasa saw in Eren for all those years and the detached cruelty he exhibits in season 4, binds her into inaction for much of the final season. It is only when Mikasa accepts Eren's duality - kindness and brutality - that she is able to take action and save humanity.

Despite not knowing the full truth of Eren's motives and mentality, Mikasa holds her own unique, accurate, understanding of Eren.

And to be clear, none of this is an insult to Mikasa. It's okay to acknowledge that Mikasa's view of Eren was a little distorted. Eren's cruelty is what saved her as a child, and so she views it in a romanticized light for a while. Which is completely understandable! Eren is what has pulled her through the cruelty of life for so long :(

It's also okay to acknowledge Mikasa didn't understand Eren's drive for freedom. That just isn't what their relationship was built on - she understands a different part of Eren. The part that yearns for the home he lost, just as she does, consumed by his destructive bend towards freedom but never truly gone.

Mikasa being able to see and hold that part of Eren wasn't enough to save him, but it was enough to grant him some peace in the end.

[pinkeoni]

genuine question: what do you even like about mike? like honestly every time i go through your blog there is a new post about how people mischaracterize him so it makes me wonder, what do you like about him if all you see is some plain ass dude who has nothing going for him? or hell, do you even like mike at all?

i agree with you on a lot of things: i think will is gnc and is based on female horror tropes. and i don't think that mike is an incompetent clockable gay who gets bullied for nail polish and gets swept off his feet by big buff hero will. etc etc. like i get that, and i get that it's annoying people turn mike into something he's not.

but then i see some of your other posts, like the fact that you seem dismissive of theories suggesting mike may have mental health issues. or that he's self-sacrifical. or he has issues with his family (and ofc, disclaimer that i don't think the wheelers are abusive people). and it confuses me, because the concept of mike struggling with stuff is not inherently "babygirl"—yes people can make it annoyingly babygirl, but it just seems like you're against any struggles that mike has if they overlap with will's. this is different from people giving mike will's story (having an abusive alcoholic dad, being bullied for outward gayness, etc.) these are just broad concepts that these two can share.

so i guess that aside from my original question of what do you like abt mike/if you even like mike, i wanted to ask what you seem to think mike's struggles/conflicts are. or i guess if your answer is that he has little to no struggles, i can see why you treat him as though he is the character equivalent of white bread — which i will have to agree to disagree with, i guess.

Hello anon,

I do like how devoted Mike is to his friends, especially in the early seasons, although we see him starting to slip away from that later on, especially in season 3. I do think he has trauma from losing El in season one and his fear of losing her is so great that + societal expectations of the 80s that I think part of his struggle is learning to let El go so he can get back to what made him a strong friend in the early seasons, and of course finally reckon with his feelings for Will.

Yes, Mike is a main character, but I feel that his strengths come from when he is supporting others. We see how sweet he is when he is taking care of El in seaosn one or how dedicated he is to Will on season two. I think that his strongest moments come out when he is fighting for someone else.

I don't entirely agree with many of the analyses on here that focus on Mike's mental health and family struggles. By all means, I don't want to discourage people from analyzing him, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with it. Like you said anon, agree to disagree.

It's interesting you say "it just seems that like you're against any struggles that mike has if they overlap with will's" because back in my day (2022) it seemed to me that the perogative of Mike stans in the fandom was the make Mike the paragon of trauma and mental illness, even if it meant taking aspects of other characters arcs and then barring said character from their own story.

Patrick wasn't actually meant to be a Vecna victim, it was Mike. Will can't be Vecna'd next season (despite having a pre-existing connection to him) because Mike has to be Vecna'd. Will can't have internalized homophobia because Mike does. The Byers have a better home life than the Wheelers despite the actions of Lonnie Byers leaving their household financially and emotionally dependent on their oldest child. I think a lot of these Mike stans are no longer super active in the fandom (or I blocked them) although I do sometimes see this type of thinking slipping through the cracks here and there.

I'm going to answer your question "do you even like mike at all?" I'm going to propose a question back to you: "Why do I need to?"

I like Mike enough. Like I said I like his devotion to his friends in earlier seasons. There are plenty of characters that I enjoy more than him. I also make it pretty clear on my blog that Will is my #1 fav. There are definitely plenty of people in the byler fandom who prefer Mike to Will or even don't like Will, and honestly that's fine.

[blankcest]

MACKEREL AU HOWS THE DYNAMIC AFTER THEY'RE TOGEHTER? LIKE ONCE THE TORTURE IS OVER AND THEY'VE RELATIVELY CALMED DOWN? I NEED DOMESTIC OLD MAN STANS AND THEIR PSYCHADELIC GOD FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION

ANON I AM SO SORRY TO BREAK IT TO YOU BUT THIS TOXIC YAOI THRUPLE NEVER OFFICIALLY GET TOGETHER 💔 (AT LEAST, in this AU)

Stancest does become real (because of course im not a monster) but Billfordstan does not 💔

Mainly for the same reason it’s hard to write Ford going back to Bill after the events in cannon, and especially after knowing what happens in TBOB. After all the shit Bill put Him and Stanley through in this AU, it would be INCREDIBLY hard for them to ever trust Bill to properly care for them as equals. Either through friendship or a romantic pairing.

As well as my interpretation of Bill has him having a hard time conceptualizing Romance in a general sense. Like he knows its real, and he plays along with it, knows the words to say and the emotions they’re suppose to convey. But to say he himself actually understands those feelings is extremely up in the air for me.

Bill is really interesting. He was interesting and fun before TBOB, but TBOB really breathes a depth into his character that we never really saw before.

He’s someone who is extremely well… delusional is the best word I can think of. He’s convinced himself that he “liberated” his dimension, and that he wants to “liberate” more. He’s convinced himself that he knows more then he actually does, and that he enjoys being the Bad guy. That isnt to say he DOESNT enjoy it, just little moments. Small moments when he lets himself break, lead me to believe hes more aware of his purposeful insanity then he really allows himself to acknowledge.

I think about calling himself a monster, I think about him keeping the spec of his dimension under his hat. I think about the fact he was, in his own twisted way, deeply attached to Ford as a person. His offer to ford being genuine and then giddiness of Ford supposedly accepting distracting him.

To me, Bill uses his twisted perception of reality and morality to deal with his Sadism as well as cope with the extreme lost and guilt of his home. Not to mention being alive for literal trillions of years can also make you a bit coocoo. As well as allow you to see how relative a lot of concepts SUCH AS morality, taboo, pain, etc actually are.

THE POINT, of this little rant is that Bill would need to go through EXTREME recovery before he would even be ready to even look at the Stan twins as equals. And the Stan twins would need to be EXTREMELY FORGIVING, which lets be real they are both stubborn old men who love holding grudges, before any type of relationship (platonic or otherwise) could form or develop between the three.

This isnt to say it’s impossible? Bill is in the theraprism. As well as I think AUs such as Handyman Bill AU + more tackle the idea of Bill’s recovery well and keep him in character.

Forcing him to confront his actual feelings, grow attachments to actual people as equals, and even the internal conflict that would create cause of his attachment to his pervious persona are all good and interesting things that feel well, right for his character!

So like! It could be possible that somehow during the Sea Grunks era they find bill and all 3 are forced to unpack their complicated feelings about one another, but I will tentatively say that this AU doesn’t really have that as end game. It’s a major maybe though cause rotating it in my brain is getting the juices flowing…

[kn-1013]

i know i've been on my anti-modern AU propaganda lately and it's just because i've been delving deeper into the sally face ao3 tags and i just keep finding them over and over. it's frustrating because there are a lot of really interesting concepts out there that would fit really well and make for a genuinely really interesting story in the 90s, but they get thrown off because the author doesn't know enough about the 90s to write for that time period, so they make it into a modern au instead. there's nothing inherently wrong with that, and i think there's room for modern aus to be done well here, i even have my own half-serious modern au, but i do think you often lose part of what makes sally face special when you turn the story into any other kind of contemporary love story/horror story/etc where all the characters just have ~iphones~ and use ~snapchat~ and all these things.

like, the 90s was not some kind of alien planet, and a vast number of the problems that you're solving with smartphones can be worked around very easily with just a bit of research or thought. long distance walkie-talkies, pagers, and PDAs were all (though sometimes expensive) perfectly capable contemporary technologies for talking to people when you are not physically with them. in fact, a lot of the abbreviations and slang we use over text right now was developed by young people in the 90s using pagers to talk to their friends. PDAs were a bit more out there in the 90s than they were in the aughts, but it's still completely plausible for henry in particular to have one, considering he already owns a home computer, which was not at all ubiquitous in the 90s. considering the apparent financial limitations that he and sal live under (it's never stated explicitly, but i mean, they live at addison's, they can't be in a great financial situation) and how insanely expensive computers were back then, it's more than likely that henry's job requires a home computer of some sort, meaning that a PDA would probably be incredibly useful to him if he were away from it, because there's no way in hell he's getting himself a luggable or another kind of early laptop to bring with him, that would've been too expensive.

and that's ignoring the fact that so many situations where two characters are apart form each other but need to communicate could just be fixed by rewriting the plot so that they can meet in person. i know that's not what people wanna hear because rewriting sucks, but you can find a lot of reasons for characters to meet each other randomly or to have reasons to meet up later if you give it a bit of problem-solving. part of what makes the pre-smartphone era interesting to write for and so optimized for horror, and probably a big reason that gabry chose this time period for the story in the first place, is the level of disconnection between each character in the story BECAUSE they don't have things like smartphones. having to work around this technological limitation is part of the fun, because you get a very enjoyable push and pull of closeness vs. disconnection between each character.

this is great for alienating ash, the only one who doesn't live in the apartments (except for neil), and causing her internal conflict about her relationships with the rest of her friends, especially as the story progresses and they start discovering more shit about the cult, and her instincts are to call the cops because she's a lot more normal than her friends are. or, it's good for alienating travis, who also doesn't live there and is far more isolated than everyone else (more on that next), or for creating an unhealthy and codependent relationship between sal and larry, who, with the walkies, are the only two in the friend group who DO have semi-instant access to each other all the time--all of which are plot points i put into my writing.

and if that's not enough, think about the implications for travis's character in particular. his father is a preacher, and a huge talking point of christian extremists in the 90s was that things like television were evil and demonic in some way. they campaigned against these things heavily. with the kind of person that we know kenneth phelps to be and the way many technologies we take for granted today, including TVs, were still being adopted by older generations, it's not out of the question at all that travis doesn't own something like a TV or a VCR, putting him even more out of the loop with what other people his age are doing than he already would be, having approximately 0 friends. he doesn't know what DND is, and he doesn't know how to look it up because he's not familiar with computers or the internet, he just knows his dad thinks it's demonic, so he steers clear of it.

the intention of cult leaders like kenneth is to keep their victims as isolated as possible, and not owning a TV, VCR, home computer, etc, is a great way to keep travis and his sisters isolated and disconnected from their peers, and therefore more connected to the cult, and it's a lot easier to justify not owning these things in the 90s, where the story already takes place, than it is if you're writing a modern au. a modern au for this situation would require all kinds of technological workarounds to make sure that travis owned a phone but couldn't do anything his father didn't want him doing on it. he's the kind of father who would go through and monitor his kid's texts, he wouldn't just let travis have snapchat or whatever, but i digress.

i know i'm just doing my petty bitching and people can do whatever they want however they want to, but i really do feel like there's a huge piece of the story that is lost in turning the sally face story as it is into some kind of modern au, and it's pretty unfortunate to me that people seem to think that the 90s was such a primitive alien world of incomprehensible technology that they don't want to write for that time period at all. it's really not as terrifying as it seems, genuinely. a surface level understanding of the era's technologies would be straightforward enough for anyone who wasn't there to write something perfectly coherent, if lacking in specific cultural/technological details that nobody but me cares about because i have autism.

if you're a sally face fan reading this and you struggle with writing for the american 90s because you weren't there, go look up pagers (also called beepers) and PDAs (which are basically early pocket computers) and how they work. ask older family members if or how they used them. go look at the different kinds of home computers of the era from companies like packard-bell and IBM. learn what a pentium III is/was, or what it means to be X86 compatible. look at the history of the CD-ROM, and how when it was invented, it could contain so much data that consumers had absolutely no idea what to do with them until people started putting video games on them. go watch cathode ray dude, LGR or techmoan on youtube.

go learn things about this era, it's good for you and you will have a lot of fun, even if you're not like me, i promise, and your fanfiction will be better for it. please learn about this era. take my hand. we can go to beautiful places together.