#but it's only for moral cleanliness.

[kcdodger]

Leftists posting about why you shouldn't vote for whoever the DNC Z puts on the ballot but not talking about Trump's activities at all has got to be the most centrist shit.

[wild-at-mind]

i'm starting to really resent people who clearly do not struggle with morality based compulsions who swan in, say something that would fucking destroy someone who did have that kind of compulsion if they attempted to live their life based on an extrapolation of what was just said, then swan out again happy as larry.

[sudorm-rfslash]

Yeah I'm into BDSM:

Boycotting

Divesting

Sanctioning

Making my voice heard

[pppt25g]

... it's not like i don't have this plot point written down, but i'm excited so there's no possible coherent explanation i could give on the context

but they're not as doomed as it looks

[surgepricing]

I think about Azula shooters often and their common refrain of "if Azula hadn't had a mental breakdown, she would've won" and I'm here to tell you that no, she wouldn't have.

There is no universe in which Azula was winning that fight with Zuko (or Katara, for that matter).

Azula spent so much of Book 2 being built up as this deadly terrifying force against whom the heroes are badly outmatched that it can be difficult to catch exactly how quickly Zuko is advancing.

Back up a bit to Book One. For the fearsome exiled crown prince of the Fire Nation, Zuko's not that impressive a firebender. He's not bad by any stretch, and he's able to lay the untrained Sokka and Katara flat pretty easily. Then he gets in the ring with Aang, who is an airbending master, and the difference between a regular bender and a master becomes apparent when Aang literally puts his ass to bed:

People have attributed this to the fact that no one's fought an airbender in 100 years, but I think it's also worth noting that Aang (a 12 year old from a pacifist nation) has probably never fought anyone before. Like, ever. And yet the second Aang thinks "okay, I'll attack back", the fight's over.

Zuko's got the same genetic predisposition for firebending talent that Azula does, yet it never seems to manifest because of his mental blocks. At the beginning of the series, he's already so beat down that all he really has is conviction, pride, and anger, so even with training from Iroh (the firebending master, thank you very much), he struggles. Yet throughout Book 2, when he has no time to train because he's on the run, he actually seems to advance faster. The fact that his bending is literally tied to his character arc (as his morals become tangled and he has to fight off aforementioned mental blocks) is pretty brilliant. Like, by the time of the Crossroads of Destiny, Zuko getting his ass handed to him by Aang is a pretty consistent feature of the show--he just can't match wits with him.

Hell, at the beginning of the series, he and Iroh (again: the actual firebending master) launch a combined power surface-to-air attack...which Aang casually swats away into a nearby ice wall. Come the Crossroads of Destiny, however, and Zuko by himself launches this bigass fireball that blows through Aang's defenses.

Zuko advances so quickly that it's scary. That prodigious talent is in him even if it doesn't come through as cleanly as with Azula. Who, by the way, was busy about to get flattened by Katara some few dozen feet away, until Zuko took over and then effectively stalemated her himself.

All of this in retrospect makes it abundantly clear why Zuko's firebending seemed to skyrocket so much when he learned true firebending from the Sun Warriors: it was really the only thing left. He's hard a hard road learning how to fight waterbenders, earthbenders, and airbenders, and even if unconsciously, he's applying the philosophy Iroh taught him about augmenting his bending style with aspects of other styles (see also, the waterbending-like fire whips he uses in the above gif). Once he actually understands fire and how it works, he's got it mastered. Hence why any gap between him and Azula effectively disappears as soon as their next fight--before her friends have betrayed her and her stability goes out the window. There's no real sense of urgency to their fight at the Boiling Rock prison. True, Sokka's presence with the sword helps, but Zuko doesn't look remotely worried and he counters Azula's every attack perfectly.

All her life, Azula only ever learned fire. She was taught by the best people the fire nation can employ, so she knows all the cool tricks, but she's still poisoned by the corrupted firebending practiced in the modern ATLA timeline. Unlike Zuko, who managed to get the basics if nothing else from Iroh (fire comes from the breath, and can be used to survive as much as to kill), Azula has always used fire as a weapon and a means to hurt others. She has no true knowledge of the craft, meaning she's got the same weaknesses as Zhao, she's just better disciplined to the point she can make up for it.

Zuko's victory was a given considering Azula's complete loss of control by the time of Sozin's comet, but even had she been in a perfect mental state, she'd have lost, because in many ways Zuko is simply the better firebender.

And that's the truth of it.

[athenaeum-of-the-herald]

• Cleanliness for the Gods •

Today, I wanted to talk about cleanliness when it comes to serving/approaching our gods.

While naturally things have changed from the practices used in ancient Greece, remembering that the gods we approach are still to be revered and respected will often lead us to a very simple but overlooked concept; are my hands dirty?

Aa always, I am a singular source! Please remember to always do your own individual research and I will attempt to cite sources as I can for convenience!

The Act of Cleanliness

When it comes to recerence of the gods, the ancient Greeks heavily valued the act of cleanliness when it came to providing offerings.

Designated hunters and gatherers were set to collect the animals and bloodless offerings (plants, herbs, etc). Not only were the collectors purified and cleansed, but their utilized tools and the collected offerings as well. This gives us some insight into how important cleanliness was seen in the eyes of the gods. [Greek Religion; Walter Burkert / Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth; Walter Burkert]

It is with this viewing that we begin to understand the importance of cleanliness when approaching the gods, and can act accordingly.

𝐌𝐢𝐚-

A commonly known impurity in hellenic polytheism is miasma, although there are some common heavy misconceptions of what it is and how it is collected.

Mia- is a known word group that encompasses the words of impurity it encompasses, miasma being the most common. It can be difficult at times to discern because the mia- word group is diverse. Robert Parker in Miasma Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion described the following:

"the mia- word group is applied to a diverse range of things, and if one isolates within it a category that seems to have real unity, the same criteria that have been applied in order to constitute it demand that phenomena described by different words should also be included, An English example will illustrate this simple point: 'innocent' thoughts associate better with a 'pure' mind than does 'pure' alcohol, Not merely words are involved, of course, but forms of behaviour - avoidance, expulsion, ablution, and the like."

With this, we understand that the mia- words - in their most basic sense - encompass words of defilement and impurity. This can be a dirtiness collected through physical defilement (miasma) or ideals and integrity (miaino). It should be known that while the two can be separated simply, they themselves are more complex, whereas miasma can be considered filthier than miaino as it refers to more physical acts and miaino refers to the act of BECOMING miasmic. However, miaino can also refer to impurities that are not physical, such as lying and injustices. These terms depend on context, and their exact definitions are not something I personally can be definitive on. However, for the sake of this post, I'll forgo miaino and refer to miasma as 2 sects; mortal and moral.

Mortal miasma refers the pollution of human and mortal existence. It is collected on a daily basis and is not inherently filthy nor evil nor disgusting. But rather, it is a separating factor between us and the divinity of the deathless gods. It is collected simply by us existing as mortals (using the bathroom, sex, giving birth, dying, etc). While not inherently evil it is impurity in itself that requires cleansing.

That said, while this is the most commonly known form of acquiring miasma, there is actually very little mention of miasma in this context in ancient texts (to my research).

Moral miasma, however, is far more referenced (such as by Homer), and is far more structured in how it is acquired.

Moral miasma is collected through injustices and crimes, as they are seen as acts of violations against Zeus. Murder, rape, incest, etc. These are afronting acts of filth. While all forms of miasma makes us ritually impure, it it moral miasma that requires ritual purification to be cleansed and deemed fit to kneel again before the gods.

Cleansing the Miasmic

The phrase "cleanliness is close to godliness" heavily applies to cleaning ourselves for the gods. It is an act that brings us closer to Them, as the action of being clean brings us closer to their divinity. Unlike us, the gods do not become miasmic or impure, and our need to cleanse ourselves for them is another factor that separates us from Them.

Khernips is another aspect of cleanliness that tends to be debated. The consideration and common acceptance is that it is purified water (adjacent to holy water) for cleansing oneself. Commonly this is done through "purification by fire." Burning herbs, using matches, etc.

With khernips, we wash our hands and feet or our bodies to cleanse ourselves and stand properly before the gods.

Cleansing can also be asking simple as washing our hands or taking showers and baths. That said, these sorts of cleansinga only apply to mortal miasma, not moral.

Because moral miasma is a violation against Zeus and dirties our very being, it cannot simply be washed away. Moral miasma requires ritual purification, which is far more complex and takes far longer than simply cleaning yourself.

This can include fasting, isolation, and other concepts that do not typically overlap with a state of normalcy. It is only through ritualistic purification that someone can become clean again before the gods after being stained with moral miasma.

Overall, I believe simple cleansing should become a part of any hellenic polytheist's normal life. And in a sense, it is. The act of washing your hands, taking showers, even your typical skincare routine. These are acts of cleansing, and setting the intention of cleansing for the gods, especially when done before offerings and devotional acts, is quite beautiful ♡

[melanchoire]

LES ──── kim minji.

── ( ☕ ) convinced a private, locked-door confrontation is the only way to finally end the never-ending war with your infuriatingly brilliant nemesis, minji, you corner her in the bathroom, only to find that your strategy backfires spectacularly as the close quarters and heightened emotions lead to an unforeseen and intensely awkward exploration of desires you never knew you harbored.

pairing. mean dom!student council president!kim minji x sub!student council vice president!fem reader

warning(s.) cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, making out.

word count. 4,9k

author’s note. rushed fic 💔 sorry if it’s bad

okay, buckle up. this is going to be a long ride, and your seat on the student council is about to get a whole lot hotter.

the air in the student council room hung thick with the scent of stale pizza and barely-contained tension. sunlight, already starting to fade, streamed through the dusty windows, illuminating the faces of your colleagues. they were a motley crew: danielle, the perpetually stressed treasurer; haerin, the quiet, dependable secretary; and a scattering of other students, eager (or perhaps just obligated) to shape the future of seoul high.

you glanced at the agenda in front of you: “student council debate: proposals for school improvement.” your stomach clenched. you’d spent weeks crafting these proposals, pouring over student surveys, and even enduring mrs. davies’ notoriously dull lectures on budget allocation. you believed in these ideas – cleaner bathrooms, a broader range of extracurricular clubs, maybe even a decent coffee machine in the teacher's lounge (okay, that one was for mrs. davies’ sake, but still!).

but your gaze kept drifting to minji, the student council president, perched at the head of the worn–out table. her expression was, as always when you presented your ideas, a carefully constructed mask of polite skepticism. her dark hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, accentuating the sharp angles of her face — you took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way minji was meticulously arranging her pens, each click a tiny hammer blow against your nerves. her posture was perfect, back ramrod straight, head tilted at a slight, perpetually critical angle. you knew that look. it was the “i’m about to dissect everything you say and make you question your entire existence” look. she looked every inch the composed, confident leader that everyone else saw. you, however, knew the carefully constructed façade for what it was.

“alright.” minji announced, her voice smooth and polished, like a freshly lacquered table. "Let's begin. (y/n), you may present your first proposal."

you stood, your heart doing a frantic tango in your chest. “good morning, everyone. my first proposal focuses on improving the condition of the student restrooms. surveys indicate a significant level of dissatisfaction, with students citing issues like lack of soap, broken dispensers, and overall cleanliness. i propose allocating a portion of the student activity fund to address these issues, including…”

you launched into your carefully prepared presentation, citing statistics, outlining potential solutions, and emphasizing the positive impact on student morale and hygiene. you even threw in a joke about the legendary bathroom graffiti, hoping for a bit of levity.

it didn’t land.

minji cleared her throat. “while i appreciate (y/n)’s... enthusiasm, i have several concerns. Firstly, the survey data, while perhaps indicative of some dissatisfaction, doesn’t quantify the severity of the problem. are the bathrooms truly unusable, or are students simply being… overly sensitive?”

a murmur rippled through the room. you clenched your fists, trying to keep your expression neutral. “the survey included open–ended responses, which clearly illustrate the extent of the problem. students have reported…”

minji cut you off, her voice dripping with condescension. “anecdotal evidence is hardly conclusive, (y/n). furthermore, allocating funds to bathroom renovations, however noble, is ultimately a short–sighted solution. wouldn’t that money be better spent on, say, academic resources or advanced technology programs? we need to prioritize initiatives that directly impact academic performance, not… superficial comforts.”

you felt your face flush. “hygiene isn’t a 'superficial comfort,' minji. it’s a basic necessity! and a cleaner environment can actually improve focus and concentration, which in turn can positively impact academic performance.”

the debate spiraled. you argued about the practicality of long–term solutions versus immediate needs. minji countered with arguments about fiscal responsibility and the importance of maintaining the school’s academic reputation. it was a dance you’d performed countless times before, a predictable and infuriating ballet of opposing ideologies.

the truth was, this wasn’t just about bathrooms or budget allocations. it was about power. it was about minji’s need to be right, to be seen as the smartest, the most capable, the most… everything.

your history with minji stretched back to freshman year. you’d both joined the debate club, brimming with naive enthusiasm and a shared love of intellectual sparring. but somewhere along the line, competition had curdled into something… else. minji seemed to resent your presence, your ideas, even your popularity. she saw you as a threat, a rival for the spotlight.

you remembered one particularly stinging incident during the regional debate competition. you’d delivered a closing argument that had earned a standing ovation. minji, who had debated before you, was noticeably frosty afterward. later that evening, you overheard her telling another debater that your argument was “emotionally manipulative” and “lacking in substantive evidence.”

the conversation still stung, festering like an unhealed wound.

the bathroom debate eventually petered out in a stalemate. you knew you hadn’t convinced minji, and she hadn’t convinced you. the vote was postponed until the next meeting, a tactic she often used to delay or bury ideas she didn’t like.

next up was your proposal to expand the school's extracurricular offerings. you suggested starting a photography club, a creative writing workshop, and even a dungeons & dragons club, based on student interest surveys. you emphasized the importance of providing students with opportunities to explore their passions and connect with like–minded individuals.

“while i appreciate (y/n)s… creativity.” minji began, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “i question the practicality of these proposals. are we truly lacking in extracurricular activities? we already have a debate club, a math club, a science club… do we really need a dungeons & dragons club?”

a few students snickered. you bristled. “those existing clubs cater to specific interests. my proposal aims to provide options for students who don’t necessarily fit into those categories. not everyone wants to debate or solve equations. some people want to create art, write stories, or… yes, explore fantastical worlds.”

minji raised an eyebrow. “and how do you propose funding these… frivolous pursuits? we already struggle to maintain funding for essential programs. are we going to divert resources from academic clubs to support activities that have little to no educational value?”

“that’s not true!” you retorted, your voice rising. “extracurricular activities can foster creativity, critical thinking, and teamwork skills. they can also provide students with a sense of belonging and purpose, which can improve their overall well–being and academic performance.”

“perhaps.” minji conceded, her tone dismissive. “but i remain unconvinced that these specific proposals are the best use of our limited resources. a dungeons & dragons club? really, (y/n)?”

the snickering intensified. you felt your cheeks burning with humiliation. it wasn’t just the rejection of your ideas. it was the deliberate way minji was trying to undermine you, to make you look foolish.

you knew you couldn’t let her win. you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to remain calm. “minji, i understand your concerns about funding and prioritization. but i believe that these proposals deserve a fair hearing. i’m willing to work with you to explore alternative funding sources, such as fundraising events or partnerships with local businesses. and i’m confident that we can find a way to make these clubs sustainable and beneficial for our students.”

you looked directly at her, your eyes locking. “i’m not trying to undermine the existing programs, minji. i’m trying to create opportunities for more students to get involved and feel connected to our school community. isn’t that what the student council is supposed to be about?”

a flicker of something – perhaps surprise, perhaps annoyance – crossed minji’s face. for a moment, she seemed genuinely unsettled. then, she quickly regained her composure.

“of course.” she said, her voice cool and controlled. “i simply believe that we need to approach these proposals with a more… critical eye. we need to ensure that we're making responsible decisions that align with the school’s overall mission.”

she smiled, a practiced, polished smile that didn't reach her eyes. “but i appreciate your… passion, (y/n). we can certainly discuss this further at our next meeting.”

grabbing your backpack from the floor, you get up from your seat and leave the room. the slam of the door echoes behind you, a final, defiant punctuation mark on your simmering frustration. you practically feel the heat radiating off your face as you stalk down the sterile hallway, the linoleum a blur under your feet.

minji. just the name is enough to send a fresh wave of frustration crashing over you. President. she lords it over everyone, that title seemingly cemented to her forehead with superglue and arrogance. you knew she was sharp, intimidating even, but the position had amplified it, turning her into a veritable ice queen, ruling with an iron fist disguised as detached logic.

your ideas, again, dismissed. yasually brushed aside with a dismissive wave of her hand and a condescending, “that’s not feasible, you should realize that.” you’re tired of it. tired of the criticisms, the lack of constructive contribution, the sheer, infuriating smugness that clings to her like expensive perfume. it felt like she was deliberately targeting you, singling you out for her brand of cold, intellectual dissection.

it’s never constructive criticism, never an offer of a better solution, just pure, unadulterated dismissal. and the worst part? no one else seems to notice. they all just nod along, cowed by her supposed “seriousness and intelligence.” you suspect it’s more fear than respect, but you’re the only one who seems willing to acknowledge the elephant in the room – or rather, the ice queen sitting at the head of the table.

the student body had elected her out of respect, maybe even a little bit of fear. they saw her intelligence, her unwavering focus. they didn’t see the thinly veiled contempt that flashed in her eyes when anyone dared to disagree with her, the subtle power plays disguised as “efficient leadership.”

you shove open the door to the bathroom, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead a soundtrack to your building tension. your backpack hits the tiled floor with a dull thud, the sound momentarily satisfying in its abruptness. you stalk to the sink, your reflection staring back at you – flushed, angry, and frankly, defeated.

cold water rushes over your hands, and you splash it onto your face, hoping to shock some sense back into your throbbing head. you scrub roughly, trying to erase the image of minji’s icy face, her perpetually unimpressed expression. you need to calm down. you can’t let her get to you.

you take a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then slowly release it. better, but not enough. you repeat the process, trying to focus on the cool sensation of the water, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.

“running away again? i thought you had so many brilliant ideas to share.”

her voice, smooth and laced with a mocking amusement, slices through the fragile calm you were trying to cultivate. you freeze, your hands still gripping the edge of the sink. you don’t even need to turn around to know she’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

you groan inwardly. of course. of course, she followed you. turning around slowly, you lean against the sink, arms crossed, trying to project a facade of calm you definitely don't feel.

“i wasn't running.” you retort, your voice sharper than you intended. you turn, meeting her gaze head-on. “i just needed a break from your… unique leadership style. the air in there was getting a little…stale.”

her lips curve into that infuriatingly subtle smirk. “stale? or perhaps you realized the brilliance of my…assessment of your proposals?”

you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “assessment? you mean your flat–out rejection of everything i suggest? is that what passes for leadership these days, minji? just tearing down other people’s ideas without offering anything constructive in return?”

her smirk widens slightly. “o sensitive. i merely offered constructive criticism.”

“constructive criticism?” you scoff. “all you do is tear down ideas. you never offer any solutions of your own.”

she takes a step closer, her gaze unwavering. you have to give her credit; she really knows how to intimidate people. “perhaps if your ideas were…viable, they wouldn't require such… assessment.”

“viable?” you scoff. “last week i suggested a school–wide volunteer day at the local animal shelter. viable enough? or what about a fundraising bake sale for new library books? too radical for you, minji?”

“those are… pedestrian.” she says the word like it’s a dirty thing. “we’re the student council, (y/n), not a bake sale committee. we should be focusing on initiatives that have a real impact, something that elevates the student body. not… fluffy nonsense.”

“fluffy nonsense?” you repeat, your voice rising. “helping animals and raising money for books is fluffy nonsense? what, pray tell, constitutes a ‘real impact’ in your world, minji? another policy proposal that no one reads? another pointless survey that gets ignored?”

“trategic planning.” she says coolly, ignoring your rising anger. “long-term vision. things that require actual intellect and foresight.”

“oh, i’m sorry.” you say, dripping with sarcasm. “i didn’t realize volunteering and helping the community were beneath your superior intellect. maybe you could enlighten me, minji. what brilliant, game-changing idea have you brought to the table lately? besides, of course, pointing out everything that’s wrong with everyone else’s suggestions.”

the smirk finally fades, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. but she recovers quickly. “i’m focused on ensuring the council operates efficiently and effectively. that requires… critical thinking.”

“critical thinking isn’t the same as negativity, minji.” you retort. “it’s about identifying weaknesses and finding solutions, not just shooting everything down with a condescending smirk. you’re so busy playing judge and jury, you’re not actually contributing anything.”

“i contribute by ensuring the council doesn’t waste its time on frivolous pursuits.” she says, her voice hardening. “someone has to be the voice of reason.”

“reason?” you laugh, a short, sharp sound. “you think you’re the voice of reason? you’re the voice of 'no.' you’re the reason why nothing ever changes around here. you’re so afraid of anything that isn't perfect, you’re paralyzed. and you drag everyone else down with you.”

you can see the anger finally breaking through her carefully constructed facade. her jaw tightens, and her eyes narrow. “you’re being disrespectful, (y/n).”

“am i?” you challenge, taking a step closer to her. “or am i just finally saying what everyone else is too afraid to? you got elected president because people were intimidated by you, not because they actually liked you or thought you were a good leader. they just didn’t want to cross you.”

“that’s not true.” she says, but the words lack conviction."

“isn’n it? look around, minji. no one challenges you. no one questions you. they just nod and agree, terrified of becoming your next target.

and you eat it up, don’t you? you thrive on it. you love the power.”

“you don’t understand.” she says, her voice lower now, almost a hiss. “you don’t understand the responsibility…”

“oh, i understand the responsibility,” you interrupt. “it’s about serving the student body, not ruling over them. it’s about fostering ideas, not crushing them. it’s about building something together, not tearing everything down to prove how smart you are.”

you pause, taking a deep breath to try and control your still-rising anger. it’s exhausting, this constant battle with her. “you know what, minji? i’m done. i’m done with the student council. I'm done with your negativity. i’m done wasting my time trying to make a difference in a place where the only thing that matters is your ego.”

you reach for your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder. “you can have it, minji. you can have the presidency, the power, the endless meetings where nothing ever gets done. i’m going to go find something more worthwhile to do with my time. you know, you wouldn’t be half as insufferable if you actually used your supposed intellect for something other than belittling everyone else.”

the amusement vanishes from her face, replaced by a flicker of something you can’t quite decipher. anger? annoyance? or something else entirely?

“careful.” she warns, pushing herself away from the doorframe and taking a step towards you. “don’t confuse confidence for arrogance.”

“oh, i’m not confused.” you snap. “i know exactly what i’m seeing.”

you turn to leave, but stop at the door, looking back at her one last time. ���maybe, just maybe, if you spent less time criticizing and more time actually contributing, you might actually accomplish something. but i wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“you think you know me so well, don’t you?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

you look up at her, your heart pounding in your chest. her eyes are darker than usual, intense and unreadable. you swallow hard. “i think i know you well enough to know that you enjoy making everyone around you miserable.”

she lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “miserable? or perhaps… challenged?”

before you can retort, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your cheek. the touch is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness of her words. a jolt of electricity shoots through you, a strange mixture of surprise and… something else.

“you have no idea.” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on your lips.

and then, before you can process what’s happening, she leans in and kisses you.

your mind blanks. the world shrinks to the feel of her lips on yours, the warmth of her breath against your skin. it’s not a tentative, exploratory kiss, but a fierce, demanding claim. her mouth moves against yours with a hunger that takes you completely by surprise.

your initial reaction is shock, pure and unadulterated. this is minji, the ice queen, the epitome of composure and control. this can’t be happening. but then, something shifts. a warmth begins to spread through you, melting the anger and frustration, replacing it with a confusing rush of… desire?

her arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, erasing the space between you. the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more insistent. her tongue slides against yours, and you gasp, a wave of heat washing over you.

you find yourself responding, your own arms instinctively rising to wrap around her neck. you close your eyes, abandoning yourself to the sensation. the cool tile beneath your feet, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the lingering scent of soap – everything fades into the background, leaving only the feel of her mouth on yours, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats.

there’s a desperation in her kiss, a raw vulnerability that you never would have expected from her. it’s as if she’s trying to communicate something beyond words, something hidden deep beneath her carefully constructed facade. and you, caught in the intensity of the moment, find yourself wanting to understand, wanting to unravel the layers of her complex personality.

the kiss goes on, a seemingly endless exploration. her hands move from your waist to your hair, tangling in the strands as she deepens the kiss, tilting your head back till you fear your neck will snap. you moan softly, the sound lost in the intimacy of the moment, and she seems to take it as encouragement, pressing closer, her body flush against yours.

you can taste the lingering traces of her earlier coffee, mixed in with something altogether more raw and intoxicating. her lips feel soft, yielding, despite the possessiveness of her hold. every nerve ending seems to be firing at once, your body humming with a strange, electric energy.

air becomes a precious commodity, your lungs screaming for relief, but you can't bring yourself to break away. the kiss is too consuming, too addictive. You want to lose yourself in it, to forget the arguments, the frustrations, the complexities of your relationship.

finally, gasping for breath, she pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours. her eyes are still dark, dilated with desire, and her chest rises and falls rapidly.

"i..." she starts, her voice raspy, then stops, as though she's unsure what to say.

you stare at her, your own heart pounding in your chest, your thoughts a jumbled mess. the kiss has shattered your carefully constructed defenses, leaving you vulnerable and exposed.

she searches your eyes, her expression unreadable for a long moment before breaking into a nervous smile. “you really do get under my skin, y'know?”

she pushed open the heavy bathroom door and dragged you inside, immediately pulling you into the last stall and locking the door behind you. the small space was dimly lit and smelled faintly of cleaning products and a lingering scent of cigarette smoke.

minji pinned you against the wall, her hands gripping your hips as she pressed her body against yours. she leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear.

“god, you’re so fucking hot.” she breathed, nipping at your earlobe. “i’ve wanted to get my hands on you for so long.”

one hand slid up your side, brushing over your breast before gripping the back of your neck possessively. the other hand gripped your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. “tell me what you want, (y/n).” she growled softly, her dark eyes glinting with lust. “tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

“we shouldn't do that here, minji. i don’t want to get in trouble and–”

“shut up.”

minji’s hand slid under your shirt, her fingers trailing up your spine and leaving goosebumps in their wake. she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your neck as she inhaled deeply.

“you’re so beautiful.” she murmured, her hot breath tickling your skin. her hand reached the nape of your neck, gripping your hair and tugging your head back gently to expose more of your throat to her eager mouth.

minji’s lips attacked your neck, kissing and sucking on your sensitive skin. she bit down gently on your pulse point before soothing the sting with her tongue. her other hand slid down to the hem of your skirt, slipping underneath to caress your inner thigh.

“i want to taste every inch of you.” she breathed against your skin, her voice low and husky with desire. “i want to make you scream my name until the whole school knows who you belong to.”

she gripped your thigh tighter, her fingers digging into your soft skin as she pressed her body even closer to yours. you could feel the heat radiating off her, the hard lines of her toned body pushing against your curves.

minji’s hand slid higher up your thigh, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your panties. she rubbed you through the thin material, feeling the warmth emanating from your core.

“fuck, you’re already so wet.” she groaned, her voice dripping with lust. “you want this just as badly as i do, don’t you (y/n)? you want me to fuck you hard and raw right here where anyone could catch us.”

minji smirked wickedly as she felt you tremble beneath her touch, your body responding eagerly to her skilled ministrations. she was aware of the effect her unfiltered dirty words had on you, it was to be expected that you would be surprised and speechless when a person who is always serious and professional suddenly acts this way with you, and minji definitely wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to humiliate you in other ways.

she hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties, playfully pulling on the elastic and teasing you a little, enough that your hips involuntarily buck against minji’s hand in protest of her stopping her teasing. “god, look at this pretty pussy… i bet it tastes as good as it looks.” she purred, her finger teasing your slick folds, feeling your wetness coats her skin.

minji dropped to her knees in front of you, pushing your skirt up around your waist. she looked up at you with a devilish grin before leaning in and dragging the flat of her tongue along your slit in one long, slow lick. “mmh, fuck yes.” she groaned, the vibrations of her voice sending shockwaves through your core. “you taste even better than i imagined. and believe me, you’ve been on my mind for a long time.”

minji licked and sucked at your sensitive flesh like a woman starved, her tongue delving deep between your folds to taste every drop of your arousal. she focused on your clit, flicking the hardened nub with the tip of her tongue before sucking it between her lips, applying just the right amount of pressure.

her hands gripped your ass, pulling you harder against her face as she ate you out with wild abandon. she could feel your thighs trembling and your breathing growing ragged, knowing she had you right on the edge.

she pulled back briefly, looking up at you with a wicked smirk. “come on, (y/n). don’t hold back. i want to feel your pussy clench around my tongue as you cum on my face. i want you to soak me with your juices until i’m dripping wet.”

with that, she dove back in, attacking your clit with fervor as two fingers plunged deep inside your tight channel. she pumped them in and out, curling them to hit that special spot inside you with every thrust.

minji could feel your walls fluttering around her invading fingers, knowing you were close. she doubled her efforts, sucking hard on your clit as she fingered you faster and deeper, determined to make you come undone.

“that’s it, baby.” she encouraged, her voice muffled against your pussy. “cum for me. i want to feel this tight little cunt spasm around my fingers as you scream my name.”

“fuck minji– i can’t–”

minji looked up at you, her eyes dark and wild with lust. she smirked wickedly at your concern. “let them hear.” she growled, the words vibrating against your sensitive flesh. “i want the whole fucking school to know what a dirty slut you are, getting eaten out in the bathroom like a cheap whore.”

she punctuated her words by plunging three fingers deep inside you, pumping them harder and faster, her palm slapping lewdly against your clit with each thrust. her other hand gripped your ass, pulling you harder against her face, not letting you escape the intense pleasure.

“don’t hold back, (y/n). i want to hear you scream. i want you to be loud enough for them to hear you all the way down the hall. let them know who this pussy belongs to now.” she demanded, her voice rough with desire.

minji attacked your clit with renewed fervor, sucking and biting the sensitive bundle of nerves, pushing you ruthlessly towards your peak. her fingers curled inside you, stroking your g–spot, determined to make you cum harder than you ever had before.

minji could feel your walls starting to flutter around her invading fingers, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. she doubled her efforts, sucking hard on your clit and pumping her fingers as fast and deep as she could, wanting to push you over the edge.

“that’s it, babe. cum on my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.” she growled, her voice dripping with lust and dominance. “i want to feel your cunt spasm and clench around me as you fucking soak my hand. give it to me, baby. give me that.”

she nipped at your clit, sending a shock of pained pleasure through you that finally tipped you over into ecstasy. your walls clamped down hard on her fingers as your orgasm crashed over you, your juices gushing out and coating her hand and wrist.

“yes, fuck yes! that’s it, scream for me (y/n)” minji cried out in triumph as she felt your pussy spasm and quake around her fingers, your body shaking with the force of your climax.

she worked you through it, her fingers slowing their movements but not stopping, drawing out your pleasure for as long as possible. finally, as your body went limp, she pulled her fingers out of you and stood up.

minji brought her glistening, soaked fingers up to her mouth and sucked them clean, her eyes never leaving yours. “mmmh, you taste fucking incredible.” she purred, licking her lips. “i could get addicted to this pussy.”

minji grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the stall, straightening your skirt and hair as she led you to the sink. she turned on the faucet, running her fingers under the cool water and rinsing the evidence of your encounter down the drain.

as you both washed your hands, minji smirked at your reflection in the mirror, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction and a hint of something more sinister.

“not bad for a quickie in the bathroom, huh?” she said with a wicked grin, turning to face you. “but don’t think we’re done, love. that was just a little taste of what i can do. i’m not nearly finished with this sexy body yet.”

she stepped closer to you, backing you up against the counter. one hand slid around your waist, pulling your body flush against hers, while the other hand cupped your face, tilting it towards hers.

“come to my dorm after the debate. i have to make it up to you for my shitty attitude.”

[writella]

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

[calder]

Themes of Gay Identity and Homophobia in Fallout: New Vegas

Revised and extended 4-30-25. Much of this essay is no longer available on the wiki. Please read attached PSA at conclusion.

Released in 2010, Obsidian Entertainment's Fallout: New Vegas actively concerns itself with the realities of gay existence, and is widely recognized as a noteworthy work of queer science fiction. New Vegas extensively examines social attitudes towards homosexuality among the game's major factions, and primarily conveys this lore through gay and bisexual characters describing their own experiences. It also allowed the player to mechanically set the Courier's sexual orientation. By taking both available perks, the player character can be bisexual. By choosing neither, the player can opt out of seeing flirtatious dialogue options.

Uniquely, Fallout: New Vegas explores homosexuality in the context of wasteland societies, and touches upon related issues. The core theme of New Vegas is that the desire to recreate the past is driven by irrational nostalgia, and any endeavor to manifest past glory is dangerous and doomed. The social issue of homophobia is used as a demonstrative example. The resurrection of corporate and military power structures presents new avenues for Old World problems such as institutional homophobia to reemerge. One of the many issues that divide the New California Republic and Caesar's Legion is the latter's open persecution of gay people. The NCR is described as tolerant and even accepting of same-sex relationships, though acceptance tends to fall off the further one moves away from the developed, urbanized core of New California.

In recent years, the Republic's rapid economic transformation has led to an unforeseen erosion of the humanitarian ideals which it was founded to serve. In practice, to recreate America was to take on its shortcomings and its sins. As subsistence scavenging has dried up, the people of the NCR increasingly turn to wage labor, entrepreneurial venture, or military enlistment to keep their families fed. Meanwhile, their government enacts morally corrosive imperialism (narrative verbiage from the PRIMA guide), their dominion expanding indefinitely as their infrastructure crumbles from within. This has led to a profit-based imperial monoculture which must conquer, consume, and coerce to perpetuate. As personal politics and service labor grow in importance, people find themselves more inclined to present as "normal" in the interest of financial stability and political expedience. A loading screen visualizes this culture of artificial social normalcy: the portrait of President Aradesh on the NCR 5$ bill neglects to depict his unibrow, earring, and facial scarification, overall portraying the once-chieftain so cleanly-cut as to be unrecognizable at first glance. He also appears to be wearing a collared shirt or suit as opposed to the robe he wore in Fallout.

In the Legion, Caesar has mandated that every legionnaire take a wife and produce children, citing high infant mortality rates and the constant need for soldiers, and going as far as instituting child quotas. He treats human beings as a resource to be exploited for war. Ostensibly in this aim homosexuality has been declared a capital offense punishable by death. Historically, routine demonstrations of violence towards women and gay people are a deliberate feature of fascist societies, the only logical cultural conclusion of a government devoted entirely to war and control.

In Forlorn Hope letter 9, an NCR soldier wrote wrote the following to his boyfriend:

Dearest Andrew, Writing this seems pretty morbid, but tomorrow we march into the no man's land between our camp and Nelson, which is crawling with Legion. The Major insisted I write this damn "if you get this, I'm dead" letter so here it is. What a crock. I have the luck of the devil and your love on my side, so I'll be home soon. Keep the porch light on for me. We'll party in New Vegas when I get back. I love you. —Devin

Devin believed he would prevail over the Legion because his love would keep him safe. He was found dying or dead on the battlefield, the letter was found on his body. In a post-release patch, the injured soldiers were removed from the battlefield for performance reasons, and never re-implemented.

Driven largely in reaction to the Legion's hyper-masculine posturing and misogyny, rumors persist across the Mojave that gay male relationships are not only common within the Legion, but condoned. These rumors are repeated commonly in NCR society. A closeted NCR Major mentions that the Legion is "a little more... forgiving" about close male "friendships," speaking in a hushed tone to avoid suspicion. At the same outpost, the player can encounter Cass, a bisexual civilian woman. She may flirt with a male Courier, who may imply they are gay, prompting her to imply gay men are more common in the Legion. Even as gay men fight and die in the name of love under his command, NCR General Oliver may remark to Courier Six at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam: "If you think after all that's happened, I'm going to grab my ankles and take it like the Legion..."

This writing pertains to institutionalized homophobia which manifests in practice though power structures and social interactions without being written into law. Simply put, in his derogatory remark, the general expresses to his army that military surrender is gay, much like their gay enemy. From the brevity and bluntness of this remark, it's clear that this sentiment is already well understood among his ranks. Logically, to project strength in the eyes of such a leader, one might also project homophobia by scrutinizing and harassing one's peers and subordinates. In this atmosphere, the expression of homophobia is not only normalized, but materially incentivized. For the ambitious, it becomes a tool, and a way of casting shame upon rivals. For the closeted, homophobia becomes a survival tactic, hoping to throw scrutiny off oneself. This is why Major Knight is immediately frightened when a male Courier flirts with him. He is so profoundly alienated that he romanticizes life as a gay man under the Legion. The Legion punish homosexuality with death, and yet Knight characterizes them as more "forgiving" than the NCR. Through these apparently disparate events, the audience can trace how a distorted perception of gay people emerges among insecure men in a military environment, and subsequently becomes ingrained in the corresponding civilian culture.

At the 188 Trading Post, a lesbian from the Brotherhood of Steel named Veronica also wryly remarks that she believes legionaries have gay sex about as often as straight sex. She also notes that this only applies to men, as women have no rights whatsoever in Legion society. In this aside, she conveys a pre-existing frustration with lesbophobic social norms. Veronica also mentions that the people of her bunker would rather she remain on the surface.

The Mojave Brotherhood of Steel has no official policy prohibiting homosexuality, but an implicit attitude among its dominant members that their limited numbers require everyone to have children to avoid extinction. Numerically, this may seem logical on the surface, given their reluctance to recruit outsiders. However, given their tiny population, this is an ineffective countermeasure, as they do not have nearly enough members to maintain genetic diversity for more than a few generations. 

This approach is not universally supported by all family units within the Brotherhood, but every individual is ultimately at the mercy of the elder. Veronica was in a lesbian relationship, but they were quietly separated by Elder Elijah, due to the dominant culture of enforcing heterosexual pairing among their population. No Brotherhood character makes any remark conveying hatred or disgust towards homosexuality; malice is not a necessary ingredient of homophobia. Fear, ignorance, tradition, and control are forces that shape their society, resulting in the needless oppression of gay people. The subject remains subtextual, apparently taboo, which may reflect their culture's origins in the U.S. Army. Additionally, the Brotherhood's medieval theming dovetails intuitively with these themes of traditional propriety, regressive superstition, and closed-minded stagnation.

Caesar's law has not ended homosexuality within his domain. Despite the obvious risks, some legionaries have continued to pursue relationships behind closed doors, especially given their access to slaves. So long as members complete their societal obligations and fulfill the child quotas, they are able to pursue romance with other men in secret. One line suggests homosexual relationships in the faction are relatively equal to the average Legion husband and wife in some ways, apparently a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" sort of open secret policy. Despite this, gay legionaries must always make sure to keep their activities hidden.

A centurion was once almost caught fraternizing with the teenage boy he had chosen to tend his tent. Despite previous "romantic" intentions, he quickly resolved to dispose of the slave to dispel suspicion. Had they been caught together, the centurion would have been charged with homosexuality and sentenced to death. This story is only known because the enslaved young man, Jimmy, managed to escape execution. Further illustrating the cruelty intrinsic to Legion governance, it's stated that homosexuality was the crime, and not the rape of a young slave; in fact, it seems Jimmy was forced to contribute to the child quota despite being a gay teenager, and the experience left him traumatized. He has resolved to never have sex with another woman, as the very notion triggers memories which fill him with disgust, and (in his own words) makes him feel like a slave all over again.

The Strip is indifferent to gay people, viewing them as another opportunity to make caps. Both the Gomorrah and the Atomic Wrangler are interested in maximizing profits, and their prostitution services cater to clients regardless of their orientation. The openly gay Jimmy works at nearby Casa Madrid, but there is some tension among his peers due to his co-worker Maude's blatant homophobia. She supposes he's "okay, for one of those," and if propositioned by a female Courier, Maude will direct them to Sweetie for such "perverted" services. Pretty Sarah must regularly intervene to keep the peace among her staff.

New Vegas ventures further into themes of healing from the trauma of sexual violence, from the perspective of a lesbian character. NCR sharpshooter Corporal Betsy is a survivor of rape, and suffers with PTSD from the incident. Her unprocessed trauma has manifested as a maladaptive tendency to aggressively and explicitly proposition the women she encounters, in an effort to reassert a sense of control. This defensive hypersexual impulse has negatively impacted her ability to connect with other women. A male superior officer notes that her behavior is inappropriate for anyone of her stature, but abstains from disciplining her out of sincere concern for her mental health. The Courier can help her begin to recognize these problems, and convince her to seek treatment from Doctor Usanagi at the New Vegas medical clinic, which proves helpful to her as she processes and heals from her trauma. An NCR side-quest involves finding and killing her rapist.

A more significant movement out west, the Followers of the Apocalypse only control one major outpost in the Mojave, the Old Mormon Fort, somewhat ironic given the social and historical connotations of Mormonism. They allow outcasts and downtrodden to take shelter among their tents here, and do not stigmatize sex workers or addicts. A bisexual ghoul sex worker named Beatrix Russel can be encountered here, and the Courier may do business with her.

The Followers tend not to form hierarchies, and insist that the Courier choose non-violent approaches while carrying out their quests, which involve directly bettering the surrounding community of Freeside. Among other tasks, the player may be tasked to distribute Fixer (a medicine comparable to methadone) to homeless people experiencing withdrawal, or aid those abused by chem dealers. The main quest giver for the faction is community coordinator Julie Farkas, a doctor with a bold and unusual mohawk.

At Red Rock Canyon, the Courier can help a young man find purpose and kinship by convincing him to leave home and join the Followers. Jerry the Punk is a Great Khan who has been ostracized for writing poetry, and the upcoming masculinity rites expected of him by his small, tense village give him reason to actively fear for his life. Jerry has positive memories of the Followers from his childhood, because there was a time when they would bring books to share with the Great Khans tribe. The Punk finds a sense of purpose and connection when he leaves his isolated home settlement of harsh, angry men to live among the Followers, who see value in his gentle, creative nature as opposed to belittling him.

At the time of the events of Fallout, the Followers of the Apocalypse presented as benevolent secular monks who opposed the Children of the Cathedral cult. In the wake of the Unity Crisis, the city of Boneyard peacefully joined the NCR. The fiction of New Vegas establishes that, in pursuit of their founding principles, the Followers developed into a transgressive force for leftist values, openly critical of the NCR's capitalistic profit-based society. Director J.E. Sawyer freely acknowledges that the values of the Followers of the Apocalypse were informed by leftist philosophy:

"The Followers of the Apocalypse: Libertarians, socialists, communists, or greens?" Sawyer: "They vary significantly, but range from anarcho-syndicatists to socialists to communists. Their general tendency to be inclusive and non-hierarchical means they don't have a single outlook or 'platform.'"

The distinctive character design of faction representative Julie Farkas resembles an archetypical punk woman. Being a far-left counterculture of a capitalistic empire, the Followers of the Apocalypse generally evoke and directly mirror the goals and organizational methods of the modern punk movement--more acutely, they embody the sensibilities of America's rail punks, a highly transient subculture who overwhelmingly emphasize volunteerism and anti-imperial philosophy, as opposed to the sensationalism of the reactionary punk rocker scene, which is defined by the moving target of aesthetic/social transgression. This read is further informed by the Followers' inclusiveness, abundantly evidenced in their care for people marginalized by other wasteland societies, including unhoused people, addicts, sex workers, gay people, tribal people, political dissidents, criminalized people, and mutated people.

The most prominent member of the faction is Arcade Gannon, a player companion and openly gay man, who was born an illegal person under NCR law. Upon meeting Courier Six, Arcade offhandedly makes his gayness known, unprompted. The audience must face the fact that Arcade's apprehension of the Legion is far from abstract; under Legion law, he would be put to death.

Arcade will not hesitate to abandon the player if he disapproves of their actions, but if his trust is carefully earned, he will reveal his origins. Arcade was born into the Enclave just before it collapsed. He hides this because his existence is a crime under New California Republic law. He abandoned his fascist background to serve the Followers' ideology of learning, harm reduction, and antifascism.

Additionally, Arcade is critical of the NCR, and encourages the player to re-route the power of HELIOS One to Freeside rather than the NCR power grid. Should the Courier sell Arcade to the Legion and subsequently lead the NCR to victory at the Dam, Arcade will ultimately be identified as Enclave-born and arrested from his position of slavery to spend the rest of his life in an NCR prison. As a gay man originally born to the Enclave, his very existence is criminalized under the law of both the NCR and the Legion.

Another possible ending provides further insight into Caesar's hypocrisy: should the player sell Arcade into slavery and leave Caesar alive, he will keep Arcade as a personal physician and philosophical advisor. They intellectually spar at length, and Caesar grows singularly fond of him. Accordingly, Arcade imitates the historic suicide of Cato the Younger by disemboweling himself, rather than suffer the favor of the mad Caesar. The Legion's remaining medics attempted to save his life, but none were Arcade's equal. Caesar understood his doctor's final gesture of contempt, and mourned him for months.

In Old World Blues, the Think Tank are five floating brains in jars who express themselves by waving robotic arms bearing screens depicting facial features. Before the War, they were federal scientists who committed crimes against humanity in the name of weapons development. Each is stuck in some sort of neuro-bionic feedback loop which prevents them from moving forward with their projects, mentally binding them to their central laboratory. Walking through their homes at Higgs Village, it's clear each was deeply neurotic before they were transformed into floating brains.

Now without bodies, they attempt to maintain the illusion that they are exempt from sexuality as purely mental beings, but each displays obvious interest in the human form. They have codified this shaming with the term "formography." Most of the men are obsessively defensive over their complete disinterest in penises, which they talk about constantly. However, the shameless Dr. Dala shows overwhelming interest in observing and recording any and all human functions. Already androgynous in her pre-War life, Dala has taken to self-identifying as a "gender neutral entity" (though she is not known to use they/them pronouns). Regardless of the Courier's gender, they may coquettishly scratch themselves, clear their throat, and stretch in front of Dala until her biomed gel decoagulates. Dr. 8 also responds positively to graphic masturbation advice from Couriers of either gender.

The X-8 research facility is ostensibly a massive immersive shrine to Doctor Borous's hatred of Richie "Ball-Lover" Marcus, a long-dead child who bullied Borous centuries ago. He also clings to his resentment of one Betsy Bright, who refused to attend a dance with him, supposedly so she could "go smoke with RICHIE MARCUS." Clearly arrested in development, Borous has literally built a temple to the fantasy of torturing his adolescent romantic rival and feeding him to dogs. His frozen, static characterization of the jock Richie Marcus as a "pinko-commie" who "likes balls" reflects the shallowness, pettiness, and overall misanthropy underlying his patriotic identity.

It remains apparent throughout Old World Blues that the Think Tank are all chronically sexually repressed, which is inseparable from the values of the violent and judgmental pre-War culture which created them. With time and isolation, this ingrained repression has manifested as various intense and deranged psychosexual behaviors, including rage-fueled homophobia, voyeurism, and the obsessive performance of puritanical pretense.

____

“Although I’ve been out for a very long time, I made a conscious effort to be out with relation to this project, as I wanted to be visible as a lesbian in the game industry. New Vegas itself is, I think, one of (if not the) best games out there in how we treat homosexuality – and all of that is very intentional.”

“If my work on FNV, if my being out has helped even one gay person, then I have succeeded.”

— Tess “Obsidian’s Gay Cowgirl” Treadwell

____

written (with help from other editors) for Nukapedia.

Nukapedia has been seized by an alt-right high-control group.

Please see this post for more information.

[a-ikus]

w/c: 0.7k warning/s: repost, descriptions of violence, blood, implied sae x reader, knight oliver

his father had been a knight. like his father before him. like he's sure his son will be.

it paid well, getting the gig as soon as he turned eighteen at his fathers recommendation, assigned to the princess a few years his junior, head hardly brushing his elbow when the king introduced you both.

still a teenager himself, his sword was clean, hadn't seen a battle, hadn't felt the destruction of war, unchipped, unmarred. and yet, you didn't doubt his ability to protect you, to defend the crown with unwavering loyalty — to shed blood when necessary.

the first time he does so only a few years into his work at your side; your father's popularity dwindling in the kingdom, whispers of the unrest heard all throughout the palace. you were still young, only seventeen, when the truth of your position as your fathers daughter was realised.

a masked man waiting for the cover of night, sneaking into the palace, creeping by the guards at the gate, slinking by the maidens drawing your bath. slipping by everyone but him.

the first time you see your attempted assassin isn't in your bedroom, above your head wielding a weapon, it's in the hall, pinned to the wall opposite your bedroom, beneath oliver's sword, the tip of it glinting underneath the man's jaw as your protector demands he show himself. his eyes were wild, like lightning was shooting around his iris, the artery at his throat pulsing with every word, but his hand stayed steady, sword pressing forward as the man lifted his hands to raise his mask.

in a flash, the assailant grips the sword, tugging oliver down to the floor with a strong pull that sliced his large hands cleanly.

peering from behind your bedroom door, the only feature you see of the man is scarred lips, drawn back in a feral snarl, sliced hands reaching for your knights throat.

your heart beats wildly, your feet frozen in place as you stare at the assassins hands, as you hear the thunderous running of more guards. with wide eyes, you realise they'll be too slow, after the assassin strangles your knight, you'll be gutted before the guards can save you.

there's a grunt, a gurgle as the sword cuts through skin like it's water, a resounding crack sound of a rib snapping at the strength of which oliver drives the weapon into the man above him, the weapon making a new home between ribs, nestled in the mans heart. blood spills onto his hands, coating his sword from the tip down to the hilt, splattering over your knights clothes, staining the light colour with crimson.

before the man even falls to the floor, he's dead. his killer stumbling over his own feet to run to you — cupping your face with bloodied hands, as if to confirm your safety, scarlet smearing over your chin when he tilts your face toward his, over your lips, the tip of your nose, into your hair as he cradles your head to his chest, rumbling with his apologies, with his concern as he asks if you're hurt.

it's only a couple years later that oliver thinks about spilling blood on your behalf again.

your people are rioting, calling for the kings abdication, some for his execution. it's no longer safe for the crown princess to go anywhere without her knight. even after maids have drawn your bath, he is sat only a few feet away, clad in armour, with the same sword he'd killed with before, fingertips drumming against the hilt as he kept a close eye on you.

the king is going to abdicate. there's no doubt about it, his father had already confirmed it with him. but the princess must be betrothed. there needs to be a promise of the future. a royal wedding, and a little prince or princess, will boost morale in the kingdom.

it means you'll be safer. he won't have to eat, sleep, bathe by your side anymore.

maybe that's why his eyes flash when the prince kneels. maybe that's why his fingers tighten around the hilt when the prince's lips brush over your knuckles, red hair falling into his eyes, tickling your wrist. maybe that's why he wonders if his sword would cut through his organs like it had before, if the force of the hilt could crack bones like they were toothpicks. if the princes insides are the same shade of red as his hair.

[gaydrteeth]

weve graduated from jokingly saying “haha im so ocd!” when you like when things are organized to very seriously saying “we are giving eachother moral ocd” when people feel guilty the cycle is unending and hellish

im gonna crash out im sorry

[witherby]

Omg hi!!! I love your mer!reader series and I was wondering if you take request? If so could you do batfamily headcanons in squid game? (You don't have to of course.) I just finished season 2 and im really excited for season 3.

Love you and keep writing❤️

Hi there! I can sure try!!! I only ever saw season 1 and that was like two years ago but I'll do my best!

( This is operating off the assumption that they are not all in the game together, otherwise they'd all make it out very easily. )

BRUCE WAYNE:

He's killing it. Not literally — moral code and all — but he's crushing this competition. Bruce Wayne's picture is in the dictionary when you look up "Strategist." He got into the games voluntarily and he will get back out alive, no question. He's doing what he can to help other players survive, but he didn't go in as Batman so he doesn't have any of the gear to help as effectively as he could've. He's gotta play it creatively and in a way that doesn't get him or anybody else disqualified for cheating. It doesn't take long for him to find any loop holes in game rules that allow for multiple people to get out of it alive.

Bruce entered the games, not for money, but to find out who is behind them and bring them to justice, so that no other financially disparaged people have to consider putting their lives on the line in order to clear their debts and start fresh.

DICK GRAYSON:

I feel like he didn't end up here on purpose. I really think he either signed up for something and thought it was a silly lil competition, or that the organizers of the game kidnapped the wrong guy and Dick just went with it because he had nothing better to do. Either way, he's here, he's intrigued, and he's gonna save everybody he can while keeping your spirits up.

The jokes never stop. He never stops. Motormouth is what the other contestants end up calling him. Dick makes one of the masked guards snicker once before they get whisked away, and that does make him feel quite a bit bad. Dick's not immediately looking to destroy the system from the inside out (he'll come back and do that after the games are over). Instead, I think his goal would be to convince all the surviving players that they should vote to end the games and go back home. He'd try to be their voice of reason, to convince them that there are better ways to pick themselves up and rebuild their lives than risking death just to get some fast cash. And I think it works.

TIM DRAKE:

Tim is the opposite of Dick. He was not invited to play but he did deliberately steal another contestant's spot to get put into the game. Like Bruce, he's already out-logic'd most of the competitions to create the most amount of survivors, but he also came prepared. The deadliest competitions are suddenly sabotaged not to be as deadly, or not to work at all. Hidden weapons being offered to other players to start a riot and dwindle the numbers have all suddenly been replaced with soft foam bats and nerf guns.

He already knows who's behind the whole thing, he just needed an in so he could tear it all down quickly and cleanly. When Tim is done, he'll be missing for 48 hours at the absolute max, and leaving that place with justice done and a huge, smug smirk on his face. What, like it was hard?

DAMIAN WAYNE:

Damian is tough. I think he caught wind of the whole operation and went undercover as one of those masked game monitors/referees so he could also dismantle it from within, but with less computer hacking and sabotage, and more slashing. I think this method works best as early Damian, who has barely been introduced to his dad for like a week, before he just drops off the face of the planet for a couple days and comes back blood-soaked.

"Hello, father. That suspicious money scheme you had your eyes on? I solved the problem. What do you mean, what am I covered in? Would you believe me if I told you it was ketchup? By the way, your No Killing rule is stupid."

JASON TODD:

Post-resurrection, he's not doing anything with any subtlety. At least Damian took the time to work his way in with a disguise. Red Hood is finding out where the whole shindig is taking place, gathering a crew, kicking doors down, and setting it ablaze. He doesn't have time for games, and the longer he waits to act the more innocent people are dying. He shoots the giant money ball down and lets the players collect it freely, tells them how to leave, and peaces out without looking back. In and out, job done, on to the next one.

[zedecksiew]

DECOLONISING D&D

In 2019, after seeing yet another round of alarmist discourse in Xwitter about how Dungeons & Dragons is FULL of COLONIALIST tropes and patterns, and needs to be revised, SCRUBBED of its PROBLEMATIC FILTH---I rage-tweeted this brainfart:

"Decolonising D&D"

I've seen this thread round the community, since. Humza K quotes it in Productive Scab-picking: On Oppressive Themes in Gaming. Prismatic Wasteland quotes it in Apolitical RPGs Don't Exist. Most recently, it was referenced in a 1999AD post about Western TTRPGs (an interesting discussion on its own merit; one that already has a counterpoint from Sandro / Fail Forward.)

If folks are still referring to it five years later, maybe I should give the thread a little more credit? Perhaps the fart miasma has crystalised into something concrete.

In the interest of record / saving this thought from the ephemerality of Xwitter, here is the text in full, properly paragraphed, and somewhat more cleanly expressed:

+++

"DECOLONISING D&D"

Firstly: saying "D&D is colonialist" is similar to saying: "the English language is colonialist".

If your method of decolonising RPGs is to abandon D&D---well, some folks abandon English; they don't want to work in the language of the coloniser. More power to them!

For those who want to continue using the "language" of D&D---

Going forth into the "wild hinterland" (as if this weren't somebody's homeland);

to "seek treasure" (as if this didn't belong to anybody);

and "slay monsters" (monsters to whom?)

Yeah. There's some problematic stuff here, and definitely these aspects should make more people uncomfortable.

But! I think it is an error to "decolonise D&D" by scrubbing such content from the game.

That feels like erasure; like an unwillingness to face history / context; like a way to appease one's own settler guilt.

Do you live in the West? Do you live in any Asian urban metropole? White or Person of Colour(tm)---you are already complicit in colonialist / capitalist (yes, of course they are inextricably linked) behaviour. (I can't speak for urban metropoles elsewhere, but I bet they are similar centres of extraction.)

Removing such patterns from the TTRPGs you play might let you feel better, at your game table. But won't change what you are.

I think it is more truthful and more useful NOT to avert one's eyes from D&D's colonialism.

The fact that going forth into the hinterland to seek treasure and slay monsters is a thing, and fucking fun, tells us valuable things about the shape and psychology of colonialism. Why conquistadors in the past did it; why liberal foreign policy, corporations, and post-colonial societies do it today.

Speaking personally:

I write stuff that evokes / deals with the context I'm in---Southeast Asia. An intrinsic part of that is looking at the ways colonial violence has happened to us---as well as the ways / reasons we now, supposedly free, perpetrate it on others.

A long chain of suffering. Heavy stuff.

I also write for people who want to have fun / kill monsters / pretend to be elves, of course. But for those people who want to consider serious stuff like colonialism: I offer no FIGHT THE POWER righteousness, no good feeling, no answers.

Only discomfort. Because the truth is uncomfortable.

Here's a screenshot of the Author's Note for Lorn Song of the Bachelor:

"Any text inspired by Southeast Asia has to reckon with colonialism ... This text presents a difficult situation; there are no easy solutions. "... If I offered a mechanical incentive for you to fight colonial invaders, you wouldn’t be making a moral decision, but a mercenary one. "The choice you face should echo ... the kind of calculus my grandparents faced."

I stand by that.

Also: might we be more precise and more careful about using the term "decolonising", please?

Here I quote Tuck and Yang's landmark and (sadly) still trenchant "Decolonization is not a metaphor":

"Decolonization brings about the repatriation of Indigenous land and life; it is not a metaphor for other things we want to do to improve our societies ..."

+++

Further Reading

So this post isn't just me reheating a hot take, here are some touchstone writings from around the TTRPG community about colonialism as a subject and mode of play in games:

+

"Jim Corbett was called upon to hunt down another fifty maneaters over the course of the next 35 years. Together, those tigers had killed over 2000 people, for much the same reasons as the Champawat Tiger - injury, desperation, starvation, and habitat loss. Would you look at that. The root cause was British colonialism."

D&D Doesn't Understand What Monsters Are from Throne of Salt

+

"Another effect of having colonizers in my setting would be giving players the opportunity to drive them away from the islands, their home. This maybe just be for the catharsis. After all, isn’t catharsis a big part of why we play roleplaying games?"

I’m Adding Colonizers To My Setting from Goobernut's Blog

+

"When you have a slime boy and the other characters are a really fat lizard and one's playing Humpty Dumpty, it completely shatters the straight-faced serious authoritarian illusion of race, and replaces it with complete fucking nonsense. I love the idea of proliferating the number and types of "races" into absurdity, to the point where the entire logical structure of it collapses in on itself and race as a category ceases to become coherent or meaningful in any sense."

Interview with Ava Islam - Designer of the RPG Errant from Ava Islam / The Lost Bay

+

"Perhaps most critically, the fundamental basis of power is not land or even money but manpower. That’s what local rulers fight over, and what Chinese commercial networks export, in return for unique island products. It’s what the European colonists really need (even if it’s not what they most desire). There is rich loot to be grabbed in the form of spices, Spanish silver, Indian gold, sea cucumbers (the Chinese love ’em), perfumes, dyes, cloth etc. so there’s ample opportunity for piracy, trade and smuggling, but the key to long-term success – the key to independent survival – is nakedly and unquestionably uniting people."

Counter-colonial Heistcrawl: previous high scores from Richard's Dystopian Pokeverse

+

"They worked their own land—which they dispossessed from American Indians—or became small shop owners or opportunistic gold diggers or bounty hunters or itinerant ranchers. To me, substituting these situations for one ruled by industrial monopoly ignores that the Wild West is a perfect example of how capitalism operates outside of (or prior to) mass industry, instead being composed of self-employers and self-sustainers."

Fantastic Detours - Frontier Scum from Traverse Fantasy / Bones of Contention

+

"... using the Western framing and D&D's baked-in imperialist and capitalist structure to get people earnestly participating in the experience of forming imperial power structures and the early roots of regional capitalism ... The PCs aren't the drifters on the train or the townsfolk watching with apprehension - they're the railroad itself."

An Arrow for the General: Confronting D&D-as-Western in the Kalahari from A Most Majestic Fly Whisk

+++

[suhosieun]

MBTI typings + analysis of weak hero class characters

disclaimer: this analysis would be based on cognitive functions, so please don't tag this post with "why is he an e, he should be an i" or something like that. please read about cognitive functions, it's life-changing.

and this is my personal observation and analysis, so i'm not claiming 100% accuracy. but i have been studying mbti typology for 5 years, and i believe my hyperfixation on weak hero characters is strong enough to offer an interpretation that's atleast in the right ballpark. feel free to share your own opinions, though.

yeon sieun — INTJ (Ni-Te-Fi-Se)

INTJs lead with introverted intuition (Ni), which means they're constantly absorbing patterns and projecting outcomes. that’s essentially sieun’s entire combat strategy. he fights with foresight, not force. his brain is always several moves ahead, calculating silently before acting. he also has auxiliary extraverted thinking (Te), which makes him prioritize efficiency. this explains why he’d rather stab someone with a pen and end the fight cleanly than try to brawl with someone much stronger than him. it's just more efficient.

INTJs have tertiary Fi (introverted feeling), which acts like a quiet internal moral compass. it’s always there in the background, nagging him. it's not loud enough to dictate his decisions, but still present in case he changed his mind. that’s why he hesitates to help juntae at first. not out of apathy, but because the voice in his head keeps getting suppressed by his dominant intuition, which keeps telling him to mind his own business. it keeps warning him of the consequences of getting involved. however, he takes action when he finally listens to his tertiary Fi telling him, you know it’s the right thing to do.

his inferior Se (extraverted sensing) makes him inattentive to his physical environment unless it directly interferes with his internal world. he's never interested or notices people around him, unless his peace is disrupted. a blatant example of this is when he completely misses seongje showing up at suho’s hospital. he doesn’t register what's happening around him until it directly concerns him.

he’s also emotionally private (typical INTJ trait — they don’t like performing vulnerability). sieun is more expressive in his unread text messages to suho than he ever is face-to-face. it's a classic Ni-Fi wall: he feels deeply, but processes everything internally, where no one can touch it.

ahn suho — ESTP (Se-Ti-Fe-Ni)

ESTPs are sensor-thinkers, grounded in the present and driven by logic. suho’s dominant Se (extraverted sensing) makes him highly reactive to his environment. he only intervenes when he senses something is wrong; not out of moral obligation, and definitely not out of concern for consequences. his instincts are fast, physical, and attuned to danger. we see this in his professional fighting skills (MMA trainee and all) and athletic abilities. it's also obvious in the way he expresses love through action, taking on tiring jobs for his grandma without complaint, teaching sieun how to fight. it's a classic Se expression of love: fixing, serving, fighting, guiding.

his Ti (introverted thinking) is what makes him sharp. he’s logical and objective, but not necessarily fair, because he's not led by morals (which doesn't mean that he doesn't have morals at all, but it's not the driver of his decisions). he's loyal to who he cares about, not to any sense of abstract justice. like how he’ll go to hell and back for sieun, but won’t extend that same energy to everyone (this can be backed up by sumin pd, who pointed out that unlike baku, who protects the whole school, suho only protects sieun. baku has a higher moral compass, as a high Fi-user, but more on that later). his humour is also very Ti-coded; dry, clever, and often rooted in logic ("how can you talk about food while eating?" "you talk about life while living it").

tertiary Fe (extraverted feeling) gives him just enough charm and emotional fluency to read a room, crack a joke, or comfort someone. but it’s also fragile. he gets defensive fast, especially when misunderstood or unfairly blamed (like how he gets physically aggressive when beomseok starts beefing with him for no reason). weak Fe makes him take criticism personally and lash out emotionally.

he also has inferior Ni, which means his intuition is weak, and he rarely thinks ahead. like when he gets into gilsu’s car without a solid plan. he improvises well (texting sieun from his watch), but forgets to consider that gilsu could check his phone too.

personality-wise, sieun and suho are actually a lethal pair in combat. sieun has the sixth sense of an Ni-dom, while suho has the reflexes of an Se-dom. but romantically, they’re lowkey doomed. a tertiary Fi and tertiary Fe pair. neither are good at emotional communication. both express love through action and protection, not words.

oh beomseok — INFP (Fi-Ne-Si-Te)

beomseok runs almost entirely on introverted feeling (Fi), a deeply internal moral compass that tells him this is right even when it objectively… isn’t. healthy Fi stands for staying true to your values and beliefs. unhealthy Fi becomes a justification engine. and beomseok's Fi has been warped by years of trauma. that’s how we go from offering to pay suho to save sieun from bullies to wanting to destroy suho for betraying him. he does what he feels is just. the line between good and evil becomes how do i feel about it, and the trauma twists those feelings into something darker.

his Ne (extraverted intuition) gives him imagination and ideas, but unchecked, it creates spirals; overthinking, projection, paranoia. like how he starts believing that suho and sieun were replacing him with youngyi.

tertiary Si (introverted sensing) makes him cling to what’s familiar. that’s why youngyi’s addition to their group unsettles him: she disrupts the group dynamic he’s grown attached to.

his inferior Te (extraverted thinking), the logic function, is like a faint alarm bell in the back of his mind, whispering this won’t end well, but Fi drowns it out. he knows best. or thinks he does.

youngyi — ESFP (Se-Fi-Te-Ni)

youngyi leads with dominant Se, paired with Fi — which means she lives in the moment, feels things deeply, and owns it. she’s unapologetically herself, unbothered by rejection, which is exactly the kind of ability that gets her to befriend someone as guarded as sieun. she isn’t intimidated by anyone. she's grounded in the present, quick to act, and physically assertive, often responding to situations with bold, instinctive energy.

what sets her apart from suho (who's also an Se-dom), though, is that her actions aren't filtered through detached logic (Ti), but through a strong internal value system (auxiliary Fi). she doesn’t analyze her choices with practical calculation, she feels her way through them, led by what resonates with her personally.

but Fi also governs identity. so when beomseok accuses her of ruining the group, and essentially causing suho’s coma, it doesn’t just sting, it shatters her. she doesn’t just feel attacked; she feels like her sense of self is broken. that's why she disappears from everyone's lives, because how can she face sieun, when she can't face herself? that’s the danger of Fi: when it internalizes blame, it takes everything personally.

park humin (baku) — ENFP (Ne-Fi-Te-Si)

ENFPs are chaos with a conscience. and baku is no exception. baku’s auxiliary Fi makes him emotionally honest and morally anchored, but his dominant Ne keeps his mind in motion, always bouncing between possibilities, fears, and imagined futures. that’s why he hesitates to fight again (because what if it ends the way it did with gotak?) but when something triggers his core values (Fi), when someone he loves is in danger, he acts out. consequences be damned.

he jokes around to defuse tension, but he's deeply intuitive, emotionally attuned, and cares more than he lets on. it’s why he’s one of the only people who can get someone like sieun to open up; not by forcing it, but by simply being emotionally available, non-judgmental, and real.

while his high Fi gives him access to vulnerability, it also acts as a strong boundary. he refuses to work with baekjin, despite his history with him, because it violates his sense of right and wrong, because baekjin brutally hurt gotak and ruined his career, which is unforgivable. he only crosses that boundary when threatened and forced.

baku’s tertiary Te is blunt, explosive, and reactive, especially under stress. it acts before planning. when stressed, he grabs for Te, takes charge, punches first, thinks later. his Fi follows his own moral compass. he refuses to fight and preaches non-violence. but when people precious to him are hurt, he almost chokes a guy to death.

seo juntae — ISFJ (Si-Fe-Ti-Ne)

juntae is the emotional backbone of the group. ISFJs are built to nurture, and his Fe (extraverted feeling), paired with Si (introverted sensing), makes him deeply attuned to others' emotional needs. he notices sieun skipping meals, withdrawing, and not sleeping. his Si gives him observational memory; he tracks patterns and changes, then responds with quiet care.

he’s the only character with strong Fe in the whole cast, which is why he's the only one who genuinely hates conflict, and is the peace-maker of the gang, readily resolving misunderstandings and arguments between his friends. Fe also gives him strong empathy, which is what makes him slow to judge. he can easily read tone and emotional behaviour. it’s why he doesn’t believe sieun when sieun lies and says he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, because he knows it’s not true. he’s the one who tells both sieun and bakugotak that the other doesn’t mean what they’re saying.

Fe + Si makes him the one person who understands without demanding. he’s the first to tell sieun, "it’s not your fault," not because he thinks it’ll help, but because he knows it will. and yet, he holds grudges. because Si doesn’t forget. that’s why he refuses to forgive hyoman, even after he joins their side.

go hyuntak (gotak) — ISTP/ESTP (Ti-Se or Se-Ti)

this might be a controversial take since gotak is often typed as an ISFP, but i see a strong mix of Ti and Se in how he operates. i'm still unsure which one leads, but what’s clear is that he’s an active, physical, and analytical thinker. he’s impatient, yes, but also deliberate. he observes, processes, then acts, like when he tells juntae to escape before counting opponents in the underpass fight with seongje, or when he decides to fact-check the rumor that sieun wants to fight him instead of reacting right away.

his Se is undeniable: he’s aggressive, athletic, and always grounded in his body. even after quitting taekwondo, he stays physically engaged, taking up basketball, aggressively skipping rope despite his bad knee, because “he has to do something.” that’s textbook Se: movement as expression. like suho (another high Se user), gotak communicates care through physical action; teaching juntae to fight, teaching sieun how to play basketball, physically lashing out when hyoman insults baku, or breaking into the union garage when baku disappears, even though sieun asked him not to. he acts because he has to: Ti wants clarity, Se wants momentum.

but what truly leans him toward xSTP is his low Fe. His emotional communication is clumsy; he needs baku to prompt him to apologize or say thanks. His Ti strives to stay calm and factual, but his emotions; protectiveness, irritation, and loyalty; simmer just beneath the surface. he doesn’t judge quickly (a sign of Fe-awareness), like how he defends sieun from trashy gossip despite a rocky first impression of him. still, like suho, he lashes out when he feels misunderstood, like when he says cruel things to sieun during their fallout. And with low Ni he rarely thinks far ahead; breaking into the garage wasn’t a plan, just Ti-logic and Se-impulse running full speed.

gotak is a head-heart-body kind of character. he’s loyal without needing to say it, perceptive without being flashy, and thoughtful in a language that often goes unnoticed.

geum seongje — ENTP (Ne-Ti-Fe-Si)

this is really the easiest one to type because seongje is a textbook ENTP: chaotic intellect.

dominant Ne makes him erratic, unpredictable, and dangerously flexible. he's constantly probing, experimenting, and testing limits. people are like a puzzle to deconstruct. Ne is the function that gives you the skill and urge to explore multiple possibilities, which explains how seongje can justify switching sides mid-fight if it feels fun. he'd join his enemies, then betray them for the punchline.

his tertiary Fe doesn’t function like suho or gotak’s, who pair Fe with Se. while suho and gotak are highly reactive and defensive over them/their loved ones being insulted or misunderstood, seongje’s Fe is more detached. he treats insults like jokes ("is it fun playing na baekjin's minion?" "it is fun. i get to beat up losers like you.").

his Fe makes him socially aware, but it's not a strength, it's weaponized. he understands emotional tones, social roles, and twists them to provoke or entertain. he mocks sincerity (like how he laughs at gotak over his protectiveness for juntae) but still craves attention and reaction (feels hurt because baekjin didn't ask him if he was okay after fighting with sieun).

so ENTP makes seongje unpredictable, perceptive, and always a step ahead.

na baekjin — ENTJ (Te-Ni-Se-Fi)

baekjin, as an ENTJ, is essentially a more dangerous, volatile version of sieun. he's smart, strategic, and ruthlessly efficient; a master planner who relies on his introverted intuition (Ni), to forecast outcomes and his extroverted thinking (Te), to execute them with precision. to baekjin, efficiency isn’t just useful; it’s everything. he doesn’t waste time on what feels good or what’s morally right, only what gets results.

but his inferior Fi (introverted feeling) means he lacks the internal framework to process emotions authentically. he struggles to recognize emotional nuance, both in himself and in others, which leaves him disconnected from his own vulnerability. that’s why, instead of just saying “don’t leave me,” he orchestrates emotional hostage scenarios (like threatening to hurt gotak) to keep baku close. it's twisted, but, to him, weirdly efficient. and in baekjin’s world, effectiveness often replaces intimacy.

he knows what works, not what's right. he weaponizes logic without empathy. and you can’t out-think him, because he’s already seen your next ten moves and calculated exactly where you’ll land.

baekjin uses control and intelligence as a shield, mastering manipulation to avoid vulnerability.

so that ends my analysis. if you need a detailed analysis of a specific character, have contrary opinions, questions about mbti, or need any clarification, then leave me an ask!

[waylamia]

Growing Pains

recommended listening: Ribs by Lorde

"Why can't you just GO AWAY!" There is a resounding thud, as the door is closed in his face, and that's the end of it. He stands outside the slammed-and locked?-door in shock, shoulders drooping as the clear rejection settles in. Then he hears Josephine choke out a little laugh from her place in the kitchen. "She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her.

-> You reject Caleb's presence for the first time your shared lives. Caleb comes to terms with his role in yours.

reader experience notes: second person perspective. reader uses she/her pronouns, reader is MC but is not addressed by name in this fic, reader is not physically described beyond having hair of unspecified texture. reader is 12 and Caleb is 14.

content: teen angst </3 #brocken, extremely brief and vague mentions of child experimentation/torture/death, my fascination with grandma Josephine as a character of questionable morality, Caleb and MC were raised as adopted siblings and I do and will continue to engage with the complexities of that dynamic in my work (if you don't rock with that scroll past or block freely. protect your peace and party on. <3) pip-squeak usage as I am a pip-squeak truther.

approx. 9k words

also on AO3 (available to registered users only)

Thursday, Caleb decides, is the worst day of the week.

He's sat in the entryway of Josephine's house-two years and he still can't bring himself to call it 'home', not when you aren't around to hear it-after returning from his run. Waiting, now, for you too to return. He unties the laces of his right shoe, slowly. Mind drifting, as it tends to, when you aren't present to keep him present.

The ink had hardly dried on the adoption papers before Josephine had loaded you both up with extracurriculars... Well, maybe that isn't entirely true and maybe it isn't entirely fair, she'd given you a few weeks to adjust. But what little time she was willing to give wasn't nearly enough in Caleb's opinion. Not for two kids who's whole world (at least as far as your memory served.) consisted of the walls of the orphanage and an overgrown garden.

He remembers the first time she'd brought you to a playground. Your face settled in confusion, processing the presence of the colorful plastic structures, their cleanliness and distinct lack of rust. He remembers your little hands darting to cover your ears when two kids hopped on the seesaw, anticipating the familiar, grating screech that would not come from this parks well kept equipment. He remembers being worried. That it was too much too soon. Remembers glaring at Josephine as she sat nearby, watching, neutrally. Like if your little heart exploded again, right then, it would make no difference at all.

He doesn't notice he's practicing the speech until you speak.

'It's okay if you forget... I'm Caleb, I'll always be by your side.'

'Even if you don't remember anything, I can always say it again...'

'I'm Caleb. I-'

"Caleb!" Your voice jerks him from his thoughts, eyes darting around the playground to find you. Tenseness he hadn't even realized he was carrying falling away when he spots you. You've climbed to the highest point, not on the playground-where the other kids are giggling and racing and shoving at each other-but on a nearby tree. He squints up at you through the harsh light of the midday sun. You're smiling, full of pride at your successful ascent. He laughs. All these shiny new toys and you take to the tree. Just like the one in the garden of the orphanage. It's awful smart of you, he thinks, to find something familiar to cling to in the midst of all this uncertainty. He races to the base of it. Knowing your eyes will follow him, that when your gaze lowers down and down and down you're courage will waver and you'll need his help getting back to the ground. It's a bad habit of yours.

Cheeks puffed out at the dinner table from too big bites bites of your food, always a little more than you can chew.

Sure enough, the next time his eyes lift you're own have widened, a barely there tremble where your fingers cling to the branch supporting you. He grins up at you, making no effort keep the little bit of smug amusement at this familiar game from his expression. "You want down?" You do. You always do. But you've gotten wise to the meaning of that particular look on his face, and he can tell you don't want to give him the satisfaction. You've started to take issue with him knowing what you need before you do. Telling him it doesn't make any sense at all.

But how couldn't it? He's spent more time with you than you have.

"I can do it myself." You huff. Stretching your leg in an attempt to reach the next lowest branch, only just grazing it with your toes. Caleb folds his arms and waits. This is a part of the game too. It will go one of two ways, and in the end, the way of it will make no difference at all. Two roads always leading to the same destination.

At the table, he cuts up your food. From the treetop, he catches you.

'...Must be feeling particularly stubborn today.' He thinks as he watches you extend your arms to lower yourself down. All you'd have to do is ask and he'd get you grounded. He wouldn't even make you say please. He's not going to tell you that, obviously. You get away with enough as it is. But it's always true. You've made it half the way back when you slip, the sudden jerk you make to recover causing your load-bearing branch to snap. Your startled shriek catching just as it starts when a soft pressure envelops you. Gravity warping around you until your feet are flat on the ground.

The clanging of pans draws him back to the to the entryway. He blinks down at his shoe, which he has seemed to unconsciously retie, brow furrowing as he moves to undo it once more. A cabinet creaks shut. Josephine is in the kitchen, preparing supper. An increasingly infrequent sight, with her too long hours at jobs that pay only just well enough to provide for the three of you, often keeping her out of the house long past dark. He supposes very few things are as lucrative as groundbreaking human experimentation... But he's a little too preoccupied to tug at that old thread at the moment.

Your new schedules keep you busy from dawn to dusk. Every morning: your stretches, breathing exercises, and pills-vitamins for you both, heart medication for you-then school, then your assortment of after school activities. 'To make up for all the time you lost at the orphanage.' Right. The orphanage. Caleb rolls his eyes at the memory. 'It will give you an opportunity to get to know the other children in the area.' He could almost laugh. Maybe, to an extent, there is some amount of truth in her words when addressing you, but when it comes to him... She can try to spin it however she'd like, Caleb hears the message loud and clear.

'I'm doing you a favor, letting you stay here. So keep out of my hair.'

He gets back to untying his shoes, ignoring the presence in the kitchen. He'd seen her car in the driveway when he'd made it back, hadn't said a word when he came inside and neither had she. It was always like that, always quiet between the two of them, words only ever exchanged out of necessity and, whenever possible, through you. He could comfortably call it loathing, on his end, but he could never quite tell what exactly she felt about him. From where he stood she didn't seem to feel much of anything beyond whatever twisted attachment she had to you.

You were the only thing to ever make her eyes soften at the lab. At the orphanage, you were the only one she had wanted.

He was panicking, running down the hall to the Director's Office, told by one of the younger kids that you were 'having a test'. He'd had to rack his brain for what that could mean. Shook off memories of evol experiments and observation pods until it hit him. Adoption interview. He skids to a stop at the door, knob collapsing in on itself before he's even bothered to check the lock. It crashes heavily into the wall as he bursts in. Shouting, already, as he takes stock of the room's occupants.

"You're not taking her!"

The Director, stern set of her features uncharacteristically disturbed by the suddenness of his entrance, has her brows raised, eyes wide, mouth agape. It is seconds before she schools her expression. Tells him this is 'none of his concern', demands he 'leave at once'. He thinks of the doorknob he just reduced to nothing. Thinks she would be just as easy to-

You move into his line of sight, head poking out from behind the woman sat in the chair beside you. You tilt it at him, curiously, sat very politely on the uncomfortable leather chair in front of the Director's desk. To your right, occupying the other seat, is-

His right shoe is undone again, he peels it away from his foot, moving to set it neatly on the rack by the door, gaze pulled to the sturdy wall of wood on his way, hoping to see it finally, blessedly swing open. No such luck.

Taekwondo had been Josephine's idea. All of your activities had been Josephine's idea, really. Options laid out and organized for you to look over, ultimately not a choice at all, she demanded the time be filled with something. He'd resented it-mind reeling with images of padlocked rooms, meals pushed through quickly closed shutters. 'Time's up' and 'lights out' and 'test complete'-and he'd have fought her on it, if you hadn't been so awed. You, thrumming with energy over the possibilities, asking an unending string of questions about each option. 'do you get to dress up all fancy for dance class?' 'is sewing the one with the machine or the big sticks?' 'do you have to swim even when its super cold?' 'what about-' His defiance had died on his tongue in favor of trying to convince you to sign up for basketball with him. It made him feel better, the idea of doing these things together. Josephine could take you to as many playgrounds as she wanted, you'd find a tree, and when you couldn't, he'd be one. In his focus in the planning of your new schedules, he hadn't noticed Josephine pursing her lips.

It took a good few hours of back and forth and cross-referencing school and activity times before you'd come to an agreement. On Monday's you'd go to ballet and on Wednesdays, your study groups. Piano lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then on Friday, basketball. All of it done together. Josephine had made a face at that, one he could not name but knew he didn't like. His instincts were good, he'd discover, when just after a month into this new routine she'd called him back to the table after supper.

"She should know how to defend herself." She spoke flatly, Caleb wasn't sure she could speak any other way. Not to him at least. His brow furrows.

"...From what?" He's daring her to say it, more than anything. He knows 'from what'. Had lived through 'from what' already. Hasn't heard a word about 'from what' since Josephine brought you both into her home like it was normal. Like she was normal. Like anything she'd helped everyone at 'from what' put you through was normal.

She sighs, leaving the question to die on the table just like you. Over and over again. He scoffs. She can play pretend all she'd like with you, he is never going to let her get a do over, not really. Not when he still remembers everything.

Silence occupies every bit of space between them, gazes fixed on each other through it. Beacons on separate shores, never to meet. Caleb scowls as Josephine studies him. Like some sort of equation. Something with a solution, rather than someone with a well earned grudge. Always an obstacle, never a boy.

In the end, he'd agreed with her. You should know how to defend yourself. You won't need to, not ever. Not as long as he's around, but just in case. Everything in case.

He didn't understand why she'd felt the need to run this one thing in particular by him first. She'd been plenty comfortable making your decisions up until then, and he harbored no delusions about who held all the power here. Who's will it was that allowed you not to be separated. It is only when he goes to untie his left shoe that he notices his leg bouncing anxiously.

He doesn't like being apart from you. Always afraid when he cannot see you. He's not ashamed to admit it, at least to himself. He has every reason to be scared. Two years of uninterrupted peace. Two years since Josephine clasped your little hands across the hard metal arms of those squeaky chairs in the Director's cold office and promised you a home. Two years and he still sees bright white lab lighting in the back of his mind. Feels static in the air when he jolts awake, gasping, from his sleep. 'Don't... take her away.'

He unties his shoe, takes it off, and just holds it. He can't put it on the rack with its pair. He can't leave the entryway until you get back.

He didn't understand why she'd bothered to mention Taekwondo classes to him, to get his assent, until they had finished with signing you up.

It was an all girls class. Caleb would not be attending with you.

Josephine was very good at solving problems. And that's what he was, wasn't he? An exponent attached to you? A negative factor that needed canceling out?

It will be a very long time (a lifetime, his first) before he understands what it was she was after, what she had already started to see in him-what she was afraid of, for you.

From then, their relationship settled-like scum on the surface of water-into what it is now, which is not really a relationship at all. A family, by law. But by circumstance, by experience, something worse than strangers.

He's still adjusting to being away from you at school, now that grade division has seen you sent to different campuses entirely. The daily relief of the final bell sounding, signaling he's soon to see you, quickly stolen by the dojang with it's bolded sign reading 'WOMEN ONLY' at the door. For the first few weeks, when he'd walk you to the building after your piano lessons, he could swear that instead of the soft thud of the double doors swinging shut he'd hear the shrill beep of an observation room door being unlocked. That while he waited outside for it to be over, when he heard your name called it wasn't your name at all, but your number, or one of the other not-your-name's they used to call you. He'd still be waiting outside the dojang now, instead of the entry to Josephine's home, if the workers hadn't started shooing him away. The world, like he's always suspected, seeming to exert every effort to keep him from you.

That was when the running had started. Going straight back to Josephine's house to stew in all of his anxiety and overthinking was an unproductive and unappealing prospect. He had to find some way to get the energy out, to save himself from rumination. The first day, it came to him like instinct. You'd finished your piano lessons, he'd walked you to the dojang, the workers stationed at the door watched to be sure he'd leave, and he took off, running. By the time it was exertion making it difficult to breathe and not the fear that you wouldn't come back out of those double doors, he would return and your class would be over and the pair of you would walk home, together, how you were meant to be.

That schedule, that routine, got you through the better part of two years, and then you decided to introduce a new variable.

You've made some new friends at the dojang. Which is... good, of course. He's trying to let it be good. Trying to ignore the scratching in the back of his skull that says what your lived experience thus far has shown, that everyone is out to get you.

There'd been an argument at the dining table over it, your request to walk home with your friends instead of Caleb. The two of you locked in a silent glaring contest after you'd asked Josephine and he'd said 'No.' and you'd said 'Why?' and he'd said 'No.'

"Caleb." Josephine's voice is stern. It gives him pause, even as he refuses to break eye contact with you. It's not her tone, though he could never shake his irritation at her seemingly unshakable neutrality, it's just that he's trying to recall the last time she'd addressed him directly. Three weeks ago, he thinks, Sunday afternoon. He'd been caught sneaking an extra soda for you. "Caleb." She tries again. This time, he hears what she means to say. 'Who do you think is in charge here?' Caleb is 12, and Josephine is however the hell old she is, and he harbors no delusions about who holds the power here. But it's you they are talking about here, your safety. Of all times, of all things it should be now that the two of them see eye to eye.

"Grandma, she-"

"Is nearly a teenager herself. If you can walk twice that distance to the grocery store alone, there is no reason she can't make it back here with the company of her friends." Always hyper-logical. Always leaving little room for argument. Always serving her own ends. Either unknowing or uncaring of the turmoil he is under. Probably both. Everyone is out to get you. Josephine's continued presence, continued control of your lives, his constant reminder.

That's the end of it. The table is quiet.

'Fine,' he thinks, 'he'll just have to run farther.'

And so it becomes: get out of school, pick you up, go to piano lessons, walk you to the dojang, run the distance between there and the house and keep going after that, until he's pretty sure he feels his lungs starting to collapse. Then he'll turn around and run the distance back to Josephine's. This way, when he gets there, you're already back. He steps through the front door, you call out to him, and he can breathe again. It was a system that'd worked every Thursday since, up to and until today. Hence the sitting by the door, and the issue of his shoes.

He's back, Josephine's back, the sun is going down, and you are nowhere to be seen. In the weeks since this routine began you've never been this late before. After class corner store and park visits with your little pals never keeping you out this close to supper.

"Your time would be better spent working on your assignments or helping prepare the meal than standing idle at the door." Josephine is matter-of-fact, as ever. And as ever, Caleb is unmoved, he's still cradling his left shoe. She sighs, not having to look up from her work to know she is being ignored. "She is perfectly fine. She'll be home soon." A statement made with the surety of someone who has a tracker in your flip phone, a heart rate monitor on your little wrist watch. But Caleb really doesn't give a damn what the data points on her phone screen are telling her when its been 2 hours and 43 minutes since he last saw you. Of course he's been counting. "She needs to be allowed to find her place in the world." He frowns at that. You had a place, both of you did. Next to each other. What else is there to have?

He raises his left knee, poised to slip his shoe back on. Glancing briefly toward the kitchen. Josephine couldn't stop him, if he chose to go look for you. And the longer he spends in her home, the older he gets, the less afraid he is she'll try to send him away. Try, being the operative word, he wouldn't go without a fight. He thinks you'd fight too.

He's just begun retying his laces when the door bursts open. Nearly sending him straight to the floor, collapse halted only by quick activation of his evol. Though it isn't his influence over gravity that finally lifts the weight from his shoulders.

You look like you went running, like you ran all the way back home. Which doesn't make a lick of sense to him, considering the hour. Something's off.

"That was a dramatic entrance." His tone is light, relaxed, like he hadn't just been preparing to rip a hole through the fabric of the city to get to you. He stands, looking you over. The anxiety that's been threatening to burst from him like foam from a shaken can of soda not dissipating so much as he crushes it down, just as he would a can that'd dare to spray at you. "Having such a good time you almost forgot supper, they said it couldn't be done!" He ruffles your hair, the action familiar, playful and purposeful. He draws himself closer to you, inspecting for damage, reading you for signs of discomfort or discontent.

Your breathing is ragged, the first thing he'd noticed upon your arrival-that and your shaking-which isn't uncommon after your classes but is never so... noticeable. Especially so long after the class itself has concluded. His mouth curves downward. You're also not looking at him, which is weird for you. You've always had kind of a staring problem. Josephine has a theory about that, about you taking in as much information-data. is the word she'd used-as you can to make up for all of the blank spaces left in your memory. Caleb tries not to think about it during the day time, it only makes him angrier at her. He lets his hand graze your cheek as he removes it from the top of your head. It's warm... and wet?

"Pipsqueak, what's wrong?" He's on his knees in front of you in an instant and, yup, you're crying. The hairs on the back of his neck raise at the same time as his eyes soften. Caught between wanting to make someone hurt for the expression on your face and wanting to help you forget why you're making it. You still won't look at him, no matter how he angles his head, and you won't speak either. Josephine is quiet from the kitchen. Listening, surely, but making no effort to intervene. The first step of the scientific method is observation. Caleb prefers a more direct approach. "Hey, talk to me." He moves to wipe the tears from your cheeks, attempting to hold your head still enough to make eye contact. This appears to be the wrong move.

"Stop it!" You swat at his hands. Rubbing at the tear tracks he'd failed to sweep away. Your gaze still lowered. "Just leave me alone!" You take a single step forward, but make no other effort to get past him. Mostly because you can't. The entryway is small and Caleb is making himself as wide as possible to block you. Unwilling to let you go when you are so clearly upset. There's a way that this is supposed to go, has always gone. Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"Not until you tell me what made you cry." He's using what you call his 'don't-do-dumb-things' voice, though it cracks in the middle, betrayed by his age and the depth of his feelings both. It is a voice that has always left admonished enough to raise your white flag. Today though, it just seems to further incite your ire. You huff, show your teeth like a cornered animal, shaking your head aggressively as you wipe a fresh wave of tears away with your sleeves. When the task is done you leave your arms high, defensive.

...defensive?

He's shrinking in on himself before he can put conscious thought behind it.

"Just move!"

He does, a little. For show more than anything, a vain attempt at compromise. He is torn between wanting to abide by your wishes and feeling that this is all wrong wrong wrong. Your behavior today... it's all so weird and backwards. He's left scrambling to keep up.

You're quick to take advantage of the gap he's created, attempting to wriggle past him, all sniffly and tense. He has this feeling that if you make it to your room it will be hours before he gets the chance to get to you, he has to stall you long enough to get you talk to him. "You need to take your shoes off before you come inside!" Does he care even a little whether or not you track dirt or mud or grass into Josephine's house? No. Is he going to lay awake in bed tonight thinking about how stupid it was to reprimand you when you were so obviously at the end of your rope?

Yeah.

You look at him for the first time since you got home, which feels like progress until you full on growl, crouching down to untie your shoes in the most comically angry way he thinks anyone has ever done it. He mirrors you out of habit, reaching out to where your hands, in all their shaky frustration, struggle to undo the knots in your laces. "Let me-" This is another, in his growing series of wrong things to do.

"I told you to leave me alone!" You shriek, and then there's quiet. Caleb freezes, making note of his mistake and your reaction to analyze later, and giving you a second to process what just happened. Usually, this is the part where you take a deep breath, cry harder, say you're sorry for being mean, and let him hold you and stroke your hair and tell you 'shh shh its ok' until you're ready to talk. Today, you take your finally undone shoe and throw it at him.

...What the hell is going on?

While he's left stunned from your surprise attack, you shove him. Pushing him into the wall, more from the way it feels like you really mean it than the actual force applied, regardless it is enough for you to dart past. "Hey-hold on!" He's quick to recover, to follow your hurried steps through the living room and down the hall. He catches up, he's always been faster, and all that running- "Wait, can't we just-" He reaches for you before thinking better of it, fingers just grazing your arm before pulling away, every time he's tried to touch you you've just gotten more mad. It takes you only a second more to cross the threshold of your bedroom, not sparing him a glance as you shut him out.

"Why can't you just GO AWAY!" There is a resounding thud, as the door is closed in his face, and that's the end of it. He stands outside the slammed-and locked?-door in shock, shoulders drooping as the clear rejection settles in. Then he hears Josephine choke out a little laugh from her place in the kitchen.

"She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her. She almost sounds... relieved. Like a breath exhaled after too long being held. Does she think this is funny? He turns his gaze back to the door, the lock. He could just... open it. Could break the door down, if he felt like he needed to. "Give her time to settle." It bothers him that she knows what he's thinking. It bothers him more that she's right. He sees your face in his mind, eyes all teary and red, brows drawn and lip curled, all teeth.

"She doesn't shut me out. Not me... Not ever."

"Come cut the vegetables." There has always been a distinct difference in Josephine's treatment of the two of you, though it could be noticed only by one who knew to look for it. She is always straight faced, always composed. She does not strain herself in speaking, neither out of joy nor agitation. It is down to the choice of words. To the order of them.

Josephine offers you guidance. Suggestions, advice, requests. To Caleb, she gives orders.

And Caleb, who has always known his place, follows them.

With a sigh and a final glance at your door, he turns to pad over to the kitchen. Josephine studies his face, that same clinical manner that makes him tense even now, before smiling and handing him a knife. "She's growing up, Caleb." She gestures toward the cutting board, the assortment of washed veggies. "There are things she'll want to work out on her own." Her gaze is focused on the bubbling pot, stirring diligently, steadily. She contains what would otherwise overflow. He understands, in theory, but can't reason why 'on her own' can't include him. The thought alone turns his stomach. He redirects his attention to the work provided to him, the rhythmic movement of the knife, the repetitive thud of it hitting the cutting board. "I had... thought you'd be the first one to want for distance." The knife slips, crashes harder than intended into the board. He looks up to her, face drawn.

"Why." It is a question as much as it is not. Leaves him in the same robotic manner as small talk. 'How are you' and 'what nice weather' and 'why would I ever try to be without her?'.

"You're at that age." The non-answer of someone who has been alive longer, who has seen more, and believes themself superior for it. He can't bring himself to care. Even as she turns to him with that familiar, analytical gaze. Seeing him, standing beside him, but never with him. The relationship between the lens and the slide in the microscope.

"What age Grandma?" He jolts at his own words. The title he only deemed necessary to use when you were in earshot. Reasons with himself that maybe you can hear from in your room.

She pauses, gazed fixed but unfocused, before finding the words. "Older brother's start to find little sisters more obnoxious than cute." Up and down her eyes go, then briefly to the counter, before she turns back to her work. She sighs. Whatever she was searching him for she cannot seem to find. "You're pretty good at that." She says, not bothering with another look up. He observes his progress. Vegetables finely chopped, a small collection of which have been cut into the shape of flowers, hearts.

He hadn't realized. He bristles, feeling in some way caught. "You work late. Someone has to make sure she eats." He means for it to be a barb. As with everything else, she accepts it neutrally.

"You take care of her Caleb, very well." A pause again, a call to attention. "Like a good brother." His brow furrows. That word keeps coming up. Ever since she brought you two home. You've started to use it too. There's something that feels not quite right about it.

He's not your brother.

Before the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage, he was nothing to you. You were nothing to him.

The train of thought cuts off abruptly. That isn't right either.

Josephine watches, quiet. The scientific method demands observation first.

It isn't right for you to be nothing to him. Not ever. So there is no before. He's fine with that. But what was he, to you, at the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage again? What is he now?

Josephine turns on the radio.

It strikes him as odd. She is someone who does not need outside stimulus, someone who takes no interest in distraction. When he looks to her, watches as she stirs the pot, he tilts his head in question. She does not face him as she responds.

"She is a very special girl." Caleb knows this, resents her saying it anyway. To him, you're special because you're you. Because your eyes are your eyes and your hands are your hands and they took his without needing a reason to. For Josephine, for the other scientists, for the company that funded them, you're special because of what you do. What they can do to you. What it means that what was done could be done and you could live.

You are a breakthrough, not a person. A future, not a girl with one.

"I know you aren't fond of me."

He won't argue that. Without you present there is no need to pretend at anything else. Josephine turns the radio up.

"You understand the work we were trying to do. Whether or not you agreed with it." She lowers her voice to a whisper. Caleb stands silent, wires crossing, gears turning in him.

The mechanics of the conversation click into place.

"I didn't. And I don't." The music is a cover, in case you can hear from your room. Their separate work is a cover, in case the discussion pulls expressions from them they'd prefer the other not to read. It is oddly compassionate of her. Oddly just.

The expectation, for the first time in two years of wool and shutters and roses, is honesty.

"Perhaps because you didn't see it for yourself." There is a dreaminess to her voice that makes him feel ill. "It was... remarkable. Like watching the birth of a planet in the flesh." 'Watching,' He thinks. 'like some kind of god.' But he can't say it, not through the growing tightness in his throat. How she speak so casually about it, find any sort of beauty in it, is lost to him. He hadn't seen, no, but he'd heard. Still hears you screaming in his sleep, still wakes shaking.

"You should know that I protested." There is a creaking, cracking sort of sound, and when Caleb goes to bring the knife down on the half of uncut leek before him he finds it has been twisted beyond recognition. Josephine hums. A sound like a confirmation. "Though I suppose that wouldn't matter to you. Your concerns are more... present. Too young to be troubled with longevity."

He is concerned with your longevity.

With that, he tires of the game. Dropping the useless knife. Silencing the radio himself, a brief bout of whirring and static before all is quiet, all is crushed. Even still, when he goes to speak he finds himself whispering.

"There is nothing you could say to me that will make me think you were in the right. Not when you killed her over and over while she screamed and hurt and apologized." His breathing is ragged, has been for longer than he's been speaking. " I heard everything. I remember everything." He raises his head, evol dragging Josephine's gaze to meet his. "I remember for her."

He is met with the mask. Always the mask. He wonders if there is even anything to see underneath. If, with pretense peeled away, her face would be hollow and black, like looking into the depths of a well. From the surface, no way to see if it has gone dry. Or maybe, it would be better described as blank, like an untouched page.

No, not untouched. Erased.

What other way is there to live with what you've done.

"Do you care about her?" He doesn't mean to ask. Doesn't even mean to think it.

"More than I can express in words." There is no room for doubt in her tone. Nowhere to hide a lie in the silence surrounding them.

Still, he doesn't believe her.

"You... wanted to stop it. You protested." All of her assuredness is met with equal uncertainty on his part.

She nods slow. "I did."

"But you didn't." The whole room is heavy, ceramic dishware straining against the increased pressure, a low hum in the air, all around.

"And did you?" For once he has provoked an emotion, something unnamed, quiet and cutting. She sighs, aggrieved. "What could one person be expected to do. Even if I had voted against-" She cuts herself off abruptly, expression shifting to something calculating. Some sort of clarity settling over her. Focus. "It wasn't a failing, on your part. To not have saved her. What could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little, watched over as you were?" Something new breaks through the usual, almost robotic, calm. A fraction of a fraction of the warmth she brings to her voice when speaking to you. The shift in attitude causes his control of the space to falter, a weight lifts, pressure lightening over everything but him. Josephine takes a step forward, he takes one back. She hums, low, gathers up his chopped vegetables to deposit into the pot. Temperature lowered to a simmer. "...You're old enough to be told. Smart enough, I believe, to understand." The knife, the one he'd mangled, scrapes across the cutting board. The practical, evenly sliced bits and cute, carefully shaped pieces of veg falling indiscriminately into the vessel. Everything about the scene unsettles him.

"Caleb, I need to know that I can trust you." He doesn't respond. He knows he isn't seeing the full picture, that in whatever game they are playing she is dozens of steps ahead. 'It wasn't a failing ... to not have saved her ... what could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little ... You're old enough ... Smart enough ... to understand.' Josephine cuts the heat on the pot, steam rises, simmer receding. There is no relief in the realization that everything he believed is true.

"I don't trust you. I'm not going to trust you." He gazes at the ground, head lowered. A small sign of submission. "But that doesn't mean I can't... understand." His eyes flick up and back. A half a second not enough to see a deceptively gentle smile settle on her face.

The deal is made. Transparency traded for cooperation. Information for compliance. There is the feeling of something wrapping around his throat. Invisible, but nonetheless felt, over faded scar tissue, the memory of the buzzing and beeping collar he'd earned after he'd-

"The food will get cold, and it is getting late." Josephine says, content. Pointedly avoiding looking at him, lest she have to extend herself to offer him care on top of everything else she's done for him. "Just for tonight you may eat in your room." She prepares three plates, portions entirely equal, but only one carefully arranged, specially shaped veggies in neat little piles.

In exactly one aspect, she and Caleb are identical.

"Take this one to her door on your way." She holds two plates out to him.

'And be on your way.' Goes unspoken.

He takes the offerings wordlessly. Turning to walk, stiff and careful from the kitchen and down the hall.

"Caleb." she calls as he reaches the arched threshold between the kitchen and the living area. He freezes, but does not turn. "Be a good brother."

His brow furrows. It is said like a command, like a fine print term to their agreement he'd missed.

"...I will."

He could swear he hears the smile in her voice when she replies. "We'll talk on Thursday. When she is out."

He thinks he nods, or he tells himself to nod, but the only action of his body he is cognizant of is the falling of his feet as he covers the distance to your room.

----

He isn't surprised when his knocking at your door is met with silence.

His mouth is drawn into a line, empty hand still raised as he debates knocking again, knowing you won't answer. Your plate of food hovers at his side, held in the air by his evol.

"...Gran said we can eat in your room tonight, I brought your plate." He waits, for a beat and then longer, nothing. He frowns. Barely swallowing a frustrated sigh. You'd had a long day, a physically demanding class, and you would still rather go hungry than see him. 'Alright then,' he thinks, 'other means.' He grabs your plate from the air.

"Okay, okay... I'll leave it at the door for you." He lowers both his plate and yours to the ground simultaneously. Righting himself slowly, and taking one, two, three, four and a half steps in place before your door-the distance his stride measures between his and yours-lowering himself to the ground with each step. He sits, arms and legs crossed in front of him, uses his evol to open and close the door to his own room, and waits.

It isn't long at all before your door clicks open and you come, as he guessed you would, crawling out-low to the ground, like a little mouse-to retrieve your supper. Your hand freezes, half extended, when you notice two plates instead of the expected one, and the pair of legs folded just behind them. You sigh, like someone bested, but otherwise remain unmoving.

Caleb waits patiently for you to decide the next move, hopeful that your lack of shaking is an indication of some amount of calm. That you have settled, like Josephine said, and will let him in. While the silence drapes over you both like a blanket fort, he busies himself looking you over. Searching for clues pointing him toward the problem. Whatever left you worked up enough to shut him out entirely. You aren't hurt, not anywhere he can see, and he does feel some relief at that. Nothing physical seems to be wrong with you. The only visual difference he can find between earlier and now is a changed shirt, and a significantly less tearful face. Your head stays low, body shrinking in on itself the longer the silence looms. Behavior from you, finally, that he has a frame of reference for.

You get quiet after you yell. It's one of the first things Caleb figured out about you. A burst of emotion followed by shyness, worry. Josephine commented on it once, and only once, halfheartedly joking under her breath that perhaps it was 'just your nature to explode'. Her mug had shattered in her hands, ceramic slicing into the tender flesh between her right thumb and pointer finger. Neither of them spoke a word about it.

"...'m sorry-" you only barely get the word out before he is reassuring you.

"-it's okay." His arms unfold. Hands sat in his lap, open, always ready for you to take.

You don't say anything else. Apology as far as you had planned, as far as you are willing to go, and then you are stuck. Caleb grabs both plates, holding them out to you.

"...Food?" Your growling stomach replies for you. You nudge open the door.

----

Your chopsticks are placed gently onto your emptied plate. As you ate in your-relatively, considering the day you've had-companionable silence Caleb has been careful to keep his tracking of your movements to the corner of his eye. For all of your staring you don't particularly enjoy the favor being returned. He takes the last bite from his own plate-his pace set to match yours-before stacking the dishware and utensils in the space between your bodies on your floor. A physical barrier providing you the distance you require to be open and honest. Caleb, once more, exercises his endless patience.

"...I'm mad at you." You finally say, knees hugged to your chest. And, yeah, he kind of figured.

"Aw man, really?" The frowning emoticon is all but spoken aloud in his tone. You look at him, expression somewhere between glaring and baffled and he snorts. Maybe it isn't the time to play with you, but you just make so hard to help himself.

And maybe, secretly, there is a small part of him that thinks you deserve to be poked at, just a little, for scaring him.

"...You're the actual worst." Your head falls over your knees, face tucked in. He's grateful you don't see his mouth twitch downward, the furrow he quickly straightens out of his brow. He shuffles around the remains of supper over to you.

"Alright, alright. 'm sorry for teasing..." He pets your head, smoothing your hair as he goes. "...do you wanna tell me what happened?" You tense and his hand freezes, afraid to have re-triggered whatever part of you didn't want him touching you earlier, but you are quick to relax again. He moves his hand to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing a heart over the peak of your arm before stilling. He should tell you that you don't have to talk about it, if you aren't ready. But he doesn't want to, can't bring himself to.

Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"...they don't like me." You whisper, a choked little sound immediately following. Tears still left to shed, it'd seem. He puts an arm around you, hugs you into his side as best as he's able with you all folded over yourself.

"Who doesn't like you?"

You mumble something into your knees.

"Huh?" He leans into you, cheek resting on your shoulder.

"The girls in my class."

"...your friends? Or other girls?" Your head lifts with an annoyed huff. Like the problem is him being slow and not you being extremely cryptic.

"They aren't my friends and its your fault." He turns his head to meet your eyes, face twisted in confusion. You're glaring, again.

"My fault? What did I do?" He'd only even seen the girl's on maybe three occasions, crossed paths while seeing you off or meeting at the door on your return home. And he'd been polite even though, if he's being honest with himself, he kind of wished they'd never shown up.

You shake your head. "It's not what you did it's what I said I wouldn't do." You turn your head away from him, gaze dropping to your fingers drawing shapes into the floor.

His jaw drops. "Okay. Pip. You've lost me." You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and shove yourself out of his hold. There's no real aggression behind it, not like earlier, but he allows it all the same.

He thinks he might still get yelled at.

...Or, he would think that, if you didn't look so shy.

You've turned to sit facing away from him now. He leans back and watches you with a tilt of his head. You take another deep, steadying breath before your hand shoots out to rip the comforter off of your bed, huddling yourself under it completely. He blinks, and, afforded the security of you being unable to see his face, grins a little.

Silly girl.

"Uh oh. My pip-squeak got swallowed by a blanket monster. Now I'm gonna have to eat all the cookies and chips in the house by myself." He nudges a lump of covered extremity with his foot.

"Caleb..." You groan, muffled by the thick, downy barrier between you and the world.

"Pip!" He replies, with all of the enthusiasm of a guy who would really like to know what's going on.

There's no further groaning or sighing or huffing from you. Just quiet. You're sat so still for so long that he's almost worried you fell asleep sitting up. He opens his mouth just as you finally speak up.

"They were only being nice to me 'cause they wanted me to introduce them to you. 'Cause they thought you were cute." He hears you, even through the muffle and your keeping your voice intentionally low. His lips purse. "They asked me to, while we were hanging out today. Got mad when I said no." He stares at the blanket pile that makes up your body. "They said... a bunch of mean stuff about me over it... I forgot most of it already. One of 'em threw her juice at me, and they laughed when I started crying about it." Your hand reaches out from the wadded comforter, pointing at your discarded shirt on the floor, the front stained pink. He worries himself over not having noticed, and as if you can hear his thoughts you continue. "...I turned it backwards before I came in, so my jacket would cover it. I don't know. It's embarrassing."

It's silent. In the wake of your confession. You stewing in your mortification, and Caleb trying to get to somewhere more useful than really angry at a collective of little girls.

As usual, he grounds himself by focusing on the most important thing he can do, taking care of you.

"...Does the blanket monster have room in its stomach for one more?"

You contemplate it, for a moment. Caleb is already gripping at a corner of the comforter, waiting for your permission to move in.

"...yeah... I guess."

He lifts the comforter, slides underneath, and places himself in front of you. The limited space leaves your noses all but touching. Your gaze is on your lap, where your hands sit, you're picking at the skin of one of them. Caleb keeps one arm raised above you both, providing what little structure he can to your makeshift tent. The other, he uses to swat at yours. "Hey, don't do that..." He takes your hand in his to stop you, to steady you, an anchor.

"If they got to hang out with you for a month and they still don't like you then they don't deserve you. And frankly, I think they should have their brains scanned, something is clearly misfiring." It's dark under the covers, but even still he can see you trying to fight down a smile. He smiles too, no fight at all. "And if they don't like you, I don't like them." You start to giggle and his grin widens. He doesn't tell you that he didn't like them regardless. That he is, in some part, relieved that the last few miserable weeks of Thursdays are finally over. "You can tell them I said that. Or I can, next week. When I pick you up." Silence falls. His smile slowly falling with it.

"I still... want to walk home by myself. After Taekwondo." To his great misfortune, you choose now to look directly at him. Leaving him to hope desperately that the relative darkness, covers him trying to school his expression.

"...how come?" He asks, quiet and making great efforts to suppress a whine. "I'm gonna be 13 soon. And I have to... I want to... be able to do some things by myself."

'She's at that age...'

He had been doing so well, not thinking about his conversation with Josephine.

'She's growing up, Caleb.'

'There are things she'll want to work out on her own.'

'Be a good brother.'

He doesn't know how.

He doesn't want to.

He wants to tell you no and to walk you home and to tell those little brats from your class to fuck off and-

"...alright."

You perk up, surprise evident on your face. "really?"

"I have conditions." He looks at you seriously. You nod, a single, strong movement of your head. He raises his hand to count. "One, you get a 30 minute window after class time to make it home." a finger raised. You are already furrowing your brow in protest. "Two, if those girls say or do anything else to you you have to tell me. Right away, no exceptions." Another, and you make a contemplative noise. "Three, if it rains or snows I will come to get you. You don't leave the dojang alone when the weather is bad." Message delivered, he lowers his hand. "If you agree to the terms, your request is accepted."

"...what happens if I don't come home in 30 minutes?" Your smiling when you say it. He scoffs, you must be feeling better if your already feeling mischievous.

"Well, pips its seems that the obvious outcome is that I would come find you. And you'd lose your privileges. Indefinitely."

"What? That's not fair? What if its super windy and I-"

"Clause 3."

"Well fine, no weather but what if I wanted to-"

"Clause 1 Pip, come on."

"You are such a meanie!" Your pounding at his chest with your little fists, but your both laughing, and there's no venom behind it. "Fine, whatever. I accept your stupid terms." You hold your hand out to shake his. The verbal contract warranting seriousness, a real seal. He rolls his eyes like he isn't the one that started it and gives your hand a firm shake. Neither of you bothers to let go.

For a moment you just sit there, quiet under the comforter together. A somberness falls over him, a resignation.

Being a good brother... kind of sucks.

He doesn't know where the thought comes from, what part of it is difficult to swallow, but regardless he shakes it off. Pulls up the roots before they can dig deeper into him. Josephine was right about everything else. Whether he liked it or not, she was probably right about this too. Besides, all he wanted was to be what you need. If this is it, he can do it. He can. He has to. He gets to. He'll be happy to. He won't ask for anything else.

Actually, that's a lie.

"One more thing." When he turns his eyes back to you he catches that you've been staring, a familiar warmth washes over him.

"Hm?" You tilt your head. He makes sure you intend to hold his gaze before speaking, a finger brushing your cheek affectionately.

"Next time you're mad at me, don't run away. Don't hide from me when you're upset." He tucks an errant bit of hair behind your ear. "I don't care if you throw things, or hit me, or yell. Just let me..." Fix it. "...just let me help."

You look him over, he doesn't know what for, what to show you, just hopes you find it. Whatever you need, whatever you want. He'd give you anything. You extend your pinky to him. "Promise?" A question. Another contract. More serious, even, than the last.

He locks his with yours, mouth lowering to rest on his hand. "Yeah. Promise."

...

This fic did everything but take me out back and shoot me I swear. I estimated this concept to run me a clean 2.5k words. Brother. It has been a long week. Thanks for reading! love ya <3

[homunculus-argument]

Come to think of it, I really like doing worldbuilding in common misconceptions caused by survivor/sample bias. I got too gleefully into infodumping about worlds I made up, so I'm going to be merciful and throw a cut-off right here:

(damn, you're still reading? Well, that's on you. Here we go.)

In The Book I Am Not Writing, the fisher folk have very strict concepts of ritual purity, being strict about seemingly arbitrary rules of cleanliness, and they simply don't do extramarital relationships. They are, however, polygamous both ways, so consulting the other spouses about introducing another wife or husband into the marriage is always an option. They also seem to have absurdly large flocks of children. Being both an unusual ethnicity who are commonly considered pretty, and also essentially completely off-limits for casual sex, they are often fetishised, and there's a myth that fisher men are so insanely good in bed that their wives simply cannot resist the temptation of their four sexy husbands even if they're otherwise absolutely done getting pregnant all the time.

The truth is a lot more complicated than that. First of all, in the multiple-spouse marriages, all children are raised between all parents and many clans consider it inappropriate to inquire which kids are biologically whose, so if one or two of the partners has fertility issues, nobody from the outside would know. And the seemingly arbitrary purity rules aren't all that random either - many of them actually ensure a higher standard of hygiene than what other cultures around them have. This, and restrictions about marrying within one's own clan to avoid inbreeding, ensure healthier children. They aren't fucking and getting pregnant more than any other peoples, they have more children because of lower infant mortality.

The Travellers are also "outsiders" living in diaspora, who are - as their name implies - itinerant and never stay in one place for long. Not by choice, though many of them will say they'd rather live this way than to ever settle down, but because almost all towns and cities have discriminatory laws explicitly prohibiting Travellers in particular from staying in the city for too long, or limiting how many of them can be allowed within the city walls at the same time. They don't call themselves Travellers, but refuse to tell outsiders what their own language's name is for their own people, out of fear that the name would be appropriated and turned into a slur. Secrecy is the only privacy that they are allowed to have.

An unusually large number of Travellers also have unusual physical traits, dysmorphic structural features, and congenital disabilities. This is used as xenophobic cannon fodder by citizens of the Empire, treated as proof that the Travellers are so morally crooked that it even deforms their bodies. This, of course, is bullshit. In truth, Travellers do not have any more disabled or deformed babies than anyone else - what they do have is a strong culture of NEVER abandoning one of their own. No matter what. So while people of the Empire associate health and beauty with moral goodness, and consider having "imperfect" babies shameful, Travellers simply don't practice the common peoples' common habit of abandoning or discreetly 'disposing' of children who aren't likely to survive into adulthood, or who will need support their entire lives. "What can be done to one of us, they will do to all of us" is how they live, so nobody gets left behind.

On the opposite end of society there are the Baronesses, the Empire's all-female army of trained magic-wielders. A military class, whose inherent magical powers do not even manifest in every child or even every generation, but when it does, it's always on girls. Daughters are trained for combat, they are the ones to carry on the family name. Since a woman does not need to be married in order to be sure that all her children are hers, sons are not particularly valued even as political tokens for arranged marriages. It is considered common knowledge that there's something in "wielder blood" that makes the male carriers of it weak just as it makes the female ones strong, and that is considered the reason why the male members of wielder families tend to be so dysfunctional, emotionally frail, rampant with substance abuse and more likely to die in the womb or in early infancy.

It is politely never questioned how downright convenient it is that it just happens to be the less wanted sex who are far, far more likely to simply perish away for no apparent reason, especially when it comes to the most harsh, highest-ranking, and most competitive wielder families.

Far across the great ocean, on the opposite corner of the map of the world that the Empire knows of, are the Northlands. Almost mythical mystical lands, that are the source of the various types of thick white pelts and some other exotic goods, commonly supposed to be populated by completely wild, savage people. Northmen are all lumped together, as most people of the Empire would find it hard to believe that the Northmen have even one civilised culture, not to speak of consisting of several cultures and creeds with their own languages and customs. The only few Northmen that the Empire has seen have been foreign sailors in port towns, or perhaps someone's unit of rare exotic bodyguards, undoubtedly a weird flex.

Northmen are considered feral, and the "civilised" ones a strange exception to a supposed rule. It is said that they are exclusively carnivores, eating only meat like tigers and drinking only alcohol. That they are nocturnal, with eyes like cats and wolves that gleam in the dark, and that sunlight hurts them. The sun never rises in their lands, so naturally the people are as pale as cave olms, just like the pelts of their animals are all white. And just like cats and wolves, their infants are all born with blind blue eyes, which either stay blue or turn yellow once they grow.

This, too, is a mishmash of myth and half-truth. Northfolk who venture this far south are more likely to eat meat than any fruit or vegetable they are offered, since they are more familiar with what goat or chicken taste like than any fruit of this strange climate. Northland alcohols are generally bitter ales and dry wines, and the sweet liquors and strong wines of Southlands are a treasured luxury for the ones who are familiar with them, and a very fast way to get shitfaced if one isn't. They aren't nocturnal at home, but having no other protection from the relentless sun, they do prefer to move at dusk to avoid getting sunburn. And The Long Night only lasts a few weeks or months, but that's difficult to explain to people whose common language doesn't have words for "snow" or "winter."

There are no Nothfolk with yellow eyes, but blue eyes are very common, and to Southland people to whom both eye colours are unnatural and associated exclusively with beasts and carnivores, they rarely notice that they've never seen a yellow-eyed one. And being born with blue eyes like wolf pups and kittens isn't a myth, that really is a thing that happens to white people.