#but simplicity won again

[shittybundaskenyer]

[zerocoded]

summary: arguments rise between the two of you, but what you don't know is that caleb would let you punch him how many times you wished.

authors note: banner credits to the one and only cutie who draw this and i found it on pinterest! i decided to split this in two because the word count was already pass 16k, so yeah. posting the smut in the next chapter! this sucks bc i don't know how to write happy characters, i'm so sorry. i wish you a happy reading! this series was supposed to be three chapters but now it's four, i hope you don't mind hehe, enjoy!

warnings: HEAVY ANGST • bad talk about ourselves again (booh) • doubts and feeling of betrayal and guilt • we get introspective all the time im sorry • MINOR INJURY • mentions of psychological and physical torture (in the past) • obsessive!caleb • UNCANNON bc i finished this before caleb release so this is the lore i created ok • hurt/comfort • THIS IS NOT A LIGHT READING, but i promise it'll get better next chapter

word count: 9.9k

the first time you see caleb after the incident┃caleb uses you as a hostage at the farspace fleet┃you're here┃caleb teaches you his love language

colonel caleb wore real gold on his uniform and carried a fire in his gaze. his steps were precise, almost mechanical, and his towering height commanded respect wherever he went. his voice never wavered, firm and unyielding, and any flaws he might have were buried beneath the weight of his presence. the insignias on his chest gleamed like silent declarations of victory, each one a testament to battles fought and won.

the metal where there should have been flesh and bone was a source of both mystery and awe to his subordinates. what might have seemed a reminder of pain to him—his bionic arm, a testament to his devotion—was, to others, a symbol of unyielding strength. even the faint hum of its servos as he moved carried an air of authority, a silent declaration that he had sacrificed and endured more than most could fathom.

but in the quiet of his own room, colonel caleb felt less like the commander everyone revered and more like the boy you had grown up with.

his height, which once seemed awe-inspiring, became almost comical in the simplicity of his surroundings. even though the entire space was designed to accommodate him—a luxury that often left you struggling with the proportions—he still seemed impossibly large as he moved around in a sleeveless shirt and sweatpants. if you closed your eyes, you could almost see a younger version of him—slightly shorter, a little less broad—fumbling around granny’s kitchen, trying to fix something for the two of you to eat before bed.

after you both got out of that conference room, caleb seemed recharged in a way that was impossible to ignore. despite the distance still lingering between you and the stark confusion of where you both now stood, caleb seemed brighter, lighter, as if the mere fact that you were sleeping in the room next to his was enough to bring him back to life.

that observation made you see him in a different light, made your resolve crack just enough for the resentment you’d been holding onto to soften by the end of the day. it was impossible to ignore how palpable his love for you was, woven into the very air of his chambers, clinging to every word he spoke and every glance he stole.

it left you feeling recklessly cherished. dangerously so.

the notion was both thrilling and unsettling—how much power you held over him, how much of himself he seemed willing to give just to keep you near. and with that realization, the suffocating weight that had pressed on your chest since the moment he appeared at your front door in linkon city five days ago began to ease, just a little. it was still there, still sharp and heavy, but the edges had softened with the knowledge that, in some inexplicable way, you had always been his anchor.

since the false interrogation he’d orchestrated, caleb had taken to sleeping on the sofa, giving you the bed without question. you often woke to find him there, sprawled in uncomfortable positions that looked at odds with his commanding presence during the day. his sacrifice was unspoken, like so many of his gestures—a quiet, steady offering of himself to make you feel safe. 

his voice carried a tender, teasing lilt every time he spoke to you, as if he couldn’t help but let his affection seep into his words, smoothing the sharp edges of the bluntness that a few days ago defined him.

in a way, you couldn’t decide if you were grateful—or terrified—to be the center of this man’s world.

you had experienced something you hadn’t in years: the giddiness you were often reproved for as a child. it crept up on you in the quiet moments—the teasing glint in caleb’s eye, his sharp wit, the way he quirked an eyebrow when he was trying to get a rise out of you. his funny remarks and old quirks, things you thought you’d forgotten entirely, came rushing back, leaving you disarmed.

you found yourself laughing at things you hadn’t noticed were funny, smiling in ways you hadn’t realized you still could. the sense of euphoria was intoxicating, almost overwhelming. it burned through the shadows of doubt that had lingered since you arrived, leaving you to wonder if caleb’s presence—his persistence, his warmth—was the very thing you needed to feel whole again. 

but that wasn’t all. caleb had made it his mission to spend every waking second with you now, as if making amends for the two days he left you alone when you first arrived at skyhaven. he cooked for you—something he didn’t have time for before. his presence became tangible in ways it hadn’t been in years. he started tagging you along for his tasks outside the dorms, immersing you in the controlled chaos of his world.

every time you asked a question, his answers were immediate, clear, and unguarded. every time you wished for something, he set his mind to making it happen. just that morning, when you wondered aloud how daa pilots coordinated emergency landings so precisely, he’d whisked you away to the base, brimming with enthusiasm, to show you the mechanics of their operations. he even placed you inside a trainer aircraft, insisting you try it out—his face lighting up like a proud instructor—only relenting when your panicked pleas got you safely back on the ground.

he almost sounded like a nerd when he explained things, which you found oddly endearing. familiar.

even in moments of uncertainty and vulnerability, caleb remained steadfast. his decision to confine you to his chambers during the first two days—something that had frustrated and angered you—still lingered in your mind as an unfair choice. yet, he never hovered. instead, he occupied himself with tasks in the background, always ready to comfort you if needed but careful not to suffocate you. as if he understood that no amount of effort could undo the hurtful choices that had brought you both to this point.

the storm of emotions from your first 72 hours here in skyhaven still stole the air from your lungs during the nights, leaving you gasping in a silence that felt too loud. you cried yourself to sleep with an ache that defied words, an emptiness that gnawed at your chest and refused to let go. it wasn’t just the weight of what you had learned—it was the crushing realization that so much of your life had been shaped by truths you never knew, by choices made for you without your consent.

caleb noticed everything. he noticed how your showers stretched on endlessly, the way the sound of running water masked the quiet sobs you thought you could hide. he saw how your eyes darted away from his when the weight of his gaze felt too much to bear. the way your hand would unconsciously clutch at your chest, as if holding yourself together, as if your heart might betray you if you let it go.

he never mentioned it. not once. his silence wasn’t dismissive; it was deliberate, as though he understood that words could only do so much. instead, he stayed close—close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him, grounding you when you felt like you might unravel. but he never pushed. he let you have your space, retreating to the far corners of the room or busying himself with tasks that gave you room to breathe. 

one night, when the weight of it all became too much, you broke. the tears came suddenly, unstoppable, as if they’d been waiting for this exact moment to escape. you didn’t even try to hide them this time, your body trembling as you sat on the edge of the bed, clutching your knees to your chest.

caleb was there before you could even process his movement, his warmth engulfing you as he pulled you into his arms. his grip was firm but gentle, like he was holding something fragile. he didn’t say anything at first, just rocked you slightly, his breath steady and grounding against the chaos in your mind.

when the murmurs started, they were soft, barely audible over the sound of your sobs. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough and full of something that made your chest ache even more. “i’m so, so sorry, princess. i know. i know.”

his lips brushed against your forehead, lingering there for a moment before moving to your hair, your temple, your ear—soft, fleeting touches that carried an apology too big for words. you felt his chest shudder beneath your cheek, and it took you a moment to realize that his breaths were uneven.

caleb was crying too.

his words, his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your ear—it all worked together to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself. you didn’t know how long you stayed like that, the two of you wrapped in each other, but eventually, exhaustion won. your sobs quieted, your breathing evened out, and before you knew it, sleep took you.

the next morning, he didn’t bring it up. instead, his apologies came in other ways.

he made you breakfast without a word, setting the plate down in front of you before retreating to clean up the kitchen. when you needed a moment alone, he gave it without question, hovering just close enough to remind you that you weren’t truly alone.

it didn’t fix everything, not by a long shot. but it was a start. and for now, that was enough.

caleb’s quiet determination to make things right showed in ways he didn’t even realize. but for all his efforts to rebuild the fragile connection between you, there were moments when his own vulnerability slipped through the cracks.

the first time you truly saw his bionic arm—not just his hand but as an undeniable reality—was one of those moments. it wasn’t something he wanted you to see.

you caught glimpses when he wasn’t looking, stealing moments to trace his body with your eyes, searching for the details you still weren’t used to. it was as though he wore it like a symbol of his own ruin when in front of you, a quiet badge of loss. he always hid it beneath long sleeves as if punishing himself for its existence.

the only time he didn’t—when necessity gave way to something more human—was on the first morning after the investigation episode. unable to bear staying in the bed that smelled so much like him, you’d wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the soft clatter of pans and the faint smell of food. and there he was, standing by the stove in a sleeveless white shirt, his bionic arm fully exposed for the first time.

at first, you hadn’t noticed it, your groggy mind too focused on the surreal sight of him cooking breakfast. but when his eyes met yours, everything shifted. his posture stiffened, and his entire demeanor changed, as if you had caught him in a moment of weakness. the confidence he usually carried so effortlessly vanished, replaced by a flash of vulnerability so stark it made your chest tighten. it was as if your gaze alone had stripped him bare, as if you weren’t supposed to see him this way.

as if he didn’t want you to see him this way.

he turned his body slightly, instinctively shielding the metal limb from view. the movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you noticed. it was in the way he avoided your eyes after that, focusing too intently on flipping the eggs in the pan, his silence louder than any words could be. it was in the way his shoulders tensed, betraying the emotions he wouldn’t let surface.

you let it go for now, though the image stayed with you, lingering like an unanswered question.

it was your sixth day in skyhaven. yesterday evening had been spent making phone calls to friends and colleagues, reassuring them after your sudden disappearance. you’d explained the situation to everyone who mattered, carefully crafting the details to sound less alarming than they truly were. but one call had remained undone—zayne. the reasons for not dialing his number sat heavy on your chest, unspoken and hard to name. but you left it at that.

the sight of caleb cooking should’ve felt mundane by now, honestly. you’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count, growing up together had ensured that. you both had been at the mercy of puberty and hormones, awkwardness softened by familiarity. but something about the way he stood now, his presence so certain yet so quietly domestic, struck you differently. 

it was a stark contrast to the lean boy who used to tease and prod at your attention; now, caleb stood tall and broad in front of the stove, his muscles shifting with precision as he moved, every action pulling a reaction from you—a warmth that crept into your cheeks as a flashback of your first kiss in your apartment left you momentarily off balance.

all the thinking and pondering you’d done over the past three days hadn’t wavered the anger simmering inside you—not yet. caleb might have also been a victim, but he wasn’t innocent in the slightest. his choices, no matter how well-intentioned, had left scars on you that you couldn’t ignore. and you’d finally decided how to deal with it.

you were going to punch him.

in the face, preferably.

it wasn’t the most rational plan, but it was the only way you could see to start letting go of the frustration and rage that had been building inside you. you could start your healing journey from there. but first, you needed this. he had faked his death, left you to mourn him alone. if that didn’t earn him a solid right hook, what would?

so you stood in the doorway of his bathroom, your fists clenching and unclenching at your sides, watching caleb move around the kitchen like he belonged there. his back was to you, broad and steady, muscles shifting under his skin with every precise movement. his bionic arm rested at his side, but you refused to let your gaze linger on it—it wasn’t the time.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering you a small, warm smile. “morning,” he said casually, as if the weight of the last few days hadn’t fractured something between you.

and then you saw it—that small, almost imperceptible movement. the way he shifted slightly to hide the metal limb from your line of sight, as if shielding himself from judgment he thought he might find in your eyes. the gesture was subtle, but it struck you like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a fire that had been smoldering in your chest.

why did he keep doing that? why did he act like he had to hide from you? as if you were the one who couldn’t accept what he’d become, when he was the one who had shattered your world?

the tick of irritation swelled into something sharper, something more visceral. you stepped into the room, your movements slow but deliberate, the sound of your footsteps catching his attention.

“why do you do that?” you asked, your voice low but edged with something brittle.

his brow furrowed, his eyes flicking to you as he turned, uncertain. “do what?”

“this,” you said, gesturing toward his arm. “you keep hiding it. like you think i care about that more than everything else you’ve done.”

his expression shifted, a flicker of something—shame, maybe—crossing his face before he looked away, focusing on the pan in front of him. “it’s not that simple, pipsqueak” he said, his voice quieter now, guarded.

“no, it’s not,” you shot back, stepping closer. “nothing about this is simple. but you don’t get to act like you’re the only one carrying this weight.”

his grip on the spatula tightened, his jaw clenching, but he didn’t respond. that silence, that calm restraint, only made your anger boil over.

“you don’t get to hide, caleb,” you said, your voice rising. “not from me. not after everything you’ve put me through.”

he turned then, fully facing you, his expression hard but not unkind. “what is it with the lashing out just now? i’m not hiding,” he said evenly. “i just—”

“you just what?” you interrupted, stepping closer still. “you just thought it’d be easier to let me think you were dead? to leave me to grieve while you played hero for people who didn’t even care about you?”

his eyes widened, the calm facade he usually wore cracking just enough to show the vulnerability underneath. “i—i told you i’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet but edged with something raw. “i explained my reasons at the time, it was not like that”

you almost felt pity for him—almost. but the ache in your chest, the anger clawing at your throat, wouldn’t let you soften. not yet.

“then what was it like, caleb?” you demanded, your voice trembling with the weight of your frustration. “because from where i’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like betrayal.”

the words hung heavy in the air, the silence between you thick with tension. you could feel your chest tightening, the storm of emotions swirling inside you threatening to spill over.

and then, without thinking, you took a step forward and swung your fist. your knuckles connected with his jaw, the force of the punch sending a sharp jolt up your arm, but it wasn’t like you weren’t used to fight wanderers by yourself. he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his face as his eyes widened in shock.

caleb had expected it—not like this, not right now—but the moment your fist collided with his jaw, a strange sense of inevitability settled over him. he let out a sharp breath, his fingers brushing against the tender spot where your punch had landed. the sting was immediate, but it was nothing compared to the ache that had been simmering inside him for days.

he stayed still for a moment, the weight of your anger washing over him like a tide he’d been bracing for but never truly prepared to face. you were trembling, chest heaving, your knuckles still clenched as if you were debating whether to hit him again. 

caleb straightened slowly, his jaw throbbing as he met your gaze. 

the room was silent, save for your ragged breathing and the faint sound of the pan sizzling on the stove.

for a moment, you thought he might lash out, might yell or demand an explanation. but instead, he let out a soft, incredulous laugh, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“you’ve got a hell of a punch, pipsqueak” he said, his voice tinged with amusement, though his eyes still carried that familiar weight.

“don’t,” you said sharply, your fists still clenched at your sides. “don’t laugh this off. don’t pretend like you didn’t deserve it.”

his smirk faded, replaced by something softer, more serious. “you’re right,” he said quietly. “i did.”

those words took the wind out of you, leaving you standing there, unsure of what to do next. the anger that had driven you moments ago was still there, but it felt different now—muted, as if the act of hitting him had let some of it go.

“feel better?” he asked, his tone light but not mocking, hand still holding his jaw.

but his calmness, his ability to shrug off what you’d done as if it were nothing, only made something inside you snap. “no,” you said sharply, your voice trembling. “no, i don’t feel better. because none of this changes anything, caleb. none of this fixes what you did.”

he watched you quietly, his expression steady, patient. that calmness—the same calmness you’d once found reassuring—now felt like a wall you couldn’t break through. it only fueled the storm building inside you.

“you left me,” you said, your voice rising as your emotions spilled out, unchecked. “you lied to me throughout all my life, you should’ve told me something, should’ve… i don’t know!”

his lips parted as if to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“and then you show up again—alive, bigger than life, barking me orders as if i was a stranger to you. you think you can just apologize and everything will go back to how it was? do you have any idea how much you broke me?”

your voice cracked on the last words, and the tears you’d been holding back threatened to spill. you stepped closer to him, your fists pounding weakly against his chest, frustration and grief bubbling over. “i should hate you forever, caleb.”

he didn’t move, didn’t stop you, his hands hovering at his sides as if he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you. not when your words sounded so heavy.

"god," you felt your voice crack and tears started forming on your eyes.

caleb wasn’t allowed to say anything but, “i’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice breaking under the weight of his words. “i’m so sorry.”

“stop saying that!” you cried, your voice rising in a mixture of anger and desperation. “sorry doesn’t fix this. it doesn’t fix us, you asshole!”

your fists hit his chest again, harder this time, and he caught your wrists, gently but firmly. “i know,” he said, his voice steady now. “but it’s all i have. it’s all i can give you right now, princess.”

his grip loosened, and before you could pull away, he wrapped his arms around you, drawing you close. “i’m so sorry,” he murmured again, his voice low and heavy with emotion. “i know i hurt you. i know i can’t fix it overnight. but i swear, i’ll spend the rest of my life trying if you let me.”

his words broke something inside you, and the tears finally spilled over. you buried your face against his chest, sobbing openly as his arms tightened around you. his hand rested on the back of your head, cradling you gently as if he were afraid you might shatter completely.

“don’t give up on me,” he whispered, his voice raw. “i’ll be okay if you hate me forever, as long as you’re happy. that’s all that matters.”

“don’t say things like that,” you choked out, your voice muffled against him. “don’t be so dependent on me. you’re a dick.”

his arms around you tensed for a moment before loosening, his breath brushing the top of your head. “i’m trying not to be,” he murmured, his tone so soft it felt like a confession. “but you’re the only thing that kept me steady until now, Y/N. the only thing that makes me feel like… like i’m still human.”

his words struck you, sharp and raw, cutting through the haze of your emotions. you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes meeting his. “caleb…” you started, but you didn’t know what to say, how to piece together the whirlwind in your chest into anything coherent.

he gave you a small, almost broken smile, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i don’t mean to put that on you. i know it’s not fair, and i don’t want you to feel like you have to carry me too. but… i just need you to know that you matter. more than anything.”

“you can’t do that,” you said, your voice trembling. “you can’t put me on this pedestal. it’s not right. it’s not fair to either of us.”

“i know,” he said again, his voice cracking slightly. “but you’re not on a pedestal. you’re… you’re home. and that’s not something i can turn off, pipsqueak.”

fuck. why did he sound so broke too?

you pulled back slightly, wiping at your face as you looked up at him. his eyes were red-rimmed, tears threatening to fall but never quite spilling over. it was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen him.

he glanced down at his bionic arm, flexing the fingers absently before letting it rest at his side. “i hate this thing,” he said suddenly, his voice low and quiet. “it’s a constant reminder of when i hurt you the most.”

you frowned, confused. “caleb…”

“ever wanted me to lose more than this arm,” he continued, his tone growing darker. “they wanted me… broken. half of my body was supposed to be destroyed in their ‘plan.’ they thought they could control me better that way. make me more… dependent.”

your stomach churned at his words. “why didn’t you tell me? why do you keep hiding it from me?”

he shook his head, looking away. “i’ve already put you through enough. i didn’t want to burden you with this.”

it was strange how the weight of forgiveness didn’t feel like a single, decisive moment. it wasn’t a clean break or a sudden realization; it was more like erosion—a gradual softening of the jagged edges of anger, resentment, and grief. it was in the quiet moments, like now, when his voice was stripped of its usual command, when he stumbled over his words, when his walls came down just enough for you to see the pain he carried. it made you question your own anger, not because it wasn’t valid, but because holding onto it felt heavier than letting it go.

"but i want to know," you pressed, your voice trembling. "i need to understand, caleb. i need to know what they did to you. i need to understand why."

forgiving him didn’t mean forgetting what he’d done. it didn’t erase the nights you’d cried yourself to sleep, the hollow ache of mourning someone who wasn’t really gone. but it meant acknowledging that he’d suffered too, that his choices—terrible as they were—had been born from a place of love and desperation. of obsession.

as much as you wanted to cling to your anger, you couldn’t ignore the cracks forming in its foundation. his actions, his words—they chipped away at your defenses, forcing you to see the pain he carried. and in those moments, you realized that forgiveness wasn’t about absolving him of what he’d done. it was about freeing yourself from the weight of it. it was about choosing to let go, not for him, but for you. because holding onto that anger wasn’t just hurting him—it was hurting you too.

his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he finally looked at you. his eyes were dark, stormy, filled with something that looked too much like shame. "it’s too much," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "it’s graphic, and cruel, and i can’t… i fucking can’t make you see me like that, Y/N."

"i already see you, caleb," you countered, stepping closer still, voice cracking over something close to desperation. "i see the way you try to protect yourself by being harsh towards everyone, the way you tense up when you think no one’s looking. i see how much pain you’re in, and i see how hard you’re trying to hide it. you don’t have to protect me from this. don’t keep lying to me, i beg you."

he let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "you don’t have to beg for anything when it comes to me, princess," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "it’s not about protecting you. it’s about not giving you more reasons to hate me, do you understand? ever was shit to both of us, they still are."

"i don’t hate you," you said quickly, your voice firm. "i’m angry, yes. i’m hurt. but i don’t hate you, caleb. sometimes i wish i could."

his eyes softened, but the anguish in them didn’t fade. "i don’t want to fucking trigger you, princess, just let it go," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, flesh hand running through his brown locks in a dismissive act. he took a step back and turned to the stove, turning the fire off while avoiding your gaze.

“i can’t forgive you if you keep hiding these things.” you crossed your arms, looking at his posture, “if i thought i couldn’t handle, i wouldn’t be asking you this right now. why did you let them do it?”.

he shook his head, his hands coming up to cover his face. "you have no idea," he said, his voice breaking again. "the limits i’d go to for you. the things i’d endure. i’d let them do it all over again if it meant you’d be safe. i’d let them tear me apart piece by piece, because i—" he stopped, his hands dropping to his sides as he looked at you with an intensity that made your chest tighten, as if just imagining his devotion was already physically exhausting. "because i love you. so much it terrifies me."

he looked away again, his jaw clenching as his fingers flexed at his sides. you wondered for a second if he expected to hear those words in return one day.

"princess, i just don’t want to drag you into something you can’t unhear. something that’ll stick in your head and haunt you the way it does me.” breakfast long gone, he turned to the counter and leaned his weight on it, crossing his arms over his chest.

"but that’s not fair," you pressed, stepping closer, your voice softer now but no less determined. "you keep everything locked up inside, like you should be this invincible man. i want to know. you don’t have to protect me from this, for fuck's sake."

his shoulders sagged, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he rubbed his hand over his face. "you think i’m protecting you?" he asked, his voice low and pained. "i’m protecting me, princess. because if i see that look in your eyes—the one that says you pity me, or worse, that you’re scared of me—i don’t think i can handle that. not from you."

you reached out to touch his arm. "i’m not scared of you. and i’m not going to pity you. just fucking tell me already."

his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, the silence between you thick and heavy.

he shook his head, his bionic fingers twitching as his hands curled into fists. "they broke me, okay?" he said, his voice raw and trembling as if his patience were running thin from your persistence. "they strapped me down, cut me open while i was still awake just to see how much i could take. and i took it, all of it, because i thought if i didn’t, they’d turn to you instead. and the fucked-up part? i was willing to let them do it again if it meant you were safe."

your breath hitched, the vividness of his confession slicing through you like a blade.

“this arm,” he points and looks at it, “it has to go through repair oftenly, it hurts like a bitch, the electric current, everything… they keep increasing the power every time i go there.”

"do you know what it’s like to hear them talk about you like you’re a bargaining chip?" he continued, his voice rising slightly, anger and despair mingling in his tone. "to know they saw you as leverage, something they will certain have on the future? i couldn’t let that happen. so i let them do whatever they wanted to me, make me stronger. and yeah, it hurt. but it was nothing compared to the thought of fucking losing you, Y/N."

you swallowed hard, tears prickling at your eyes as his words sank in. "you shouldn’t have had to make that choice," you said, your voice shaking. "it wasn’t your responsibility to protect me like that. gran should’ve… she shouldn’t have put that on a child."

"but it was," he insisted, his voice firm despite the emotion cracking through it. "it’s always been my responsibility. ever since we were kids, i promised myself i’d keep you safe. and i failed you once—i’m not failing you again."

was granny josephine truly blameless, or had she knowingly set these events in motion? had she purposefully placed caleb in harm’s way, using the innocent, budding love he had for you as a tool to safeguard her fears and protect her secrets? had she manipulated his loyalty as a child, planting seeds that would root so deeply they’d shape his entire existence?

the silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken emotions. you stepped closer, your hand finding his and squeezing gently. "you didn’t fail me," you said softly, your voice breaking. "you’d died for me more than once, that’s already too fucking much, caleb."

his patience made you wonder: how many times had caleb carried this same burden? how many nights had he endured this same hollow ache you have been feeling these past few days, but without someone by his side to share it with?

did he ever feel alone? did he feel the crushing isolation when cruel people, hidden behind the guise of scientists, broke and prodded at his skin? when they searched for cracks in his mind, trying to shatter him into pieces so irreparable that the boy he once was could never return? had he felt the same suffocating weight you carried now—the weight of being someone else’s creation? of knowing that your very existence was shaped by murderous intent and corruptive minds, calling your body their experiment?

ever hadn’t succeeded in making him a servant—he told you that—, but hadn’t they almost gotten there? hadn’t they stripped away enough of his humanity to leave him standing like this, a shadow of the boy you once knew?

he looked at you then, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "i don’t deserve your forgiveness," he said, his voice barely audible.

"you may not deserve it," you began, your voice trembling slightly, "but i think i want to give it to you anyway." the words felt fragile, like they might shatter under their own weight. you looked at his bionic arm, its polished surface catching the light, and noticed the way his jaw tensed, just barely. he didn’t say anything, but the tension in the air told you he was bracing himself, waiting for whatever came next.

you also expected him to say something, to break the tension that hung in the air, but the silence stretched so long it began to feel awkward. just as you were about to open your mouth and fill the void with some kind of sentence—or at least an acknowledgment of what had just happened—you saw him grimace slightly, his hand coming up to palm his left cheek.

oh. right. you had hit him. you’d almost forgotten.

"oh shit, i’m sorry," you blurted, guilt suddenly surging up as you watched him rub his cheek.

but he waved it off, not even glancing your way. "don’t worry, princess," he said, his voice casual, though there was a faint edge to it. "i’ll finish breakfast and put some ice on it."

"are you sure?" you asked hesitantly, your guilt gnawing at you.

he nodded, finally meeting your eyes. "yeah, I’m sure. it’s not the first time i’ve been hit, and it won’t be the last."

there was an odd kind of amusement in his tone, but it didn’t do much to ease your discomfort.

"do you want something else to eat? the eggs are probably cold by now," he added, gesturing vaguely toward the pan on the counter, his tone shifting back to the calm, measured one you were used to.

you didn’t know what to say, the words catching in your throat. everything about the moment felt strange, like you were navigating a space you didn’t fully understand. "no, i’m fine," you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. "i’ll… i’ll eat later. i think i want to take a shower first."

his gaze lingered on you for a moment, unreadable, before he gave a small nod. "take your time, princess," he said, turning his attention back to the stove. 

you nodded awkwardly, already stepping back toward the door. the guilt and confusion swirling in your chest made your movements feel clumsy, uncoordinated. you needed a moment to yourself, away from his steady presence and the weight of everything unsaid between you. a shower sounded like the perfect escape.

that morning, you skipped breakfast. instead, you locked yourself in his room—ironic, wasn’t it?—and spent the hours replaying the moment over and over again in your head. the sound of your fist connecting with his jaw, the way he stumbled back, the stunned look in his eyes.

his words, your words—they lingered, looping in your mind like a broken record. every syllable from that morning carried a weight you hadn’t anticipated, carving deeper into your already-frayed emotions. you could still hear the way his voice had trembled, how it softened in places you didn’t expect. and the way yours had cracked, betraying the storm you were trying so hard to contain.

you hated that you couldn’t let it go. that you kept picking apart every second of the exchange, trying to find something you missed, some meaning hidden between the lines. 

the shower ended up lasting an embarrassing thirty-five minutes, and by the time you got out, your skin felt like it was starting to peel. turns out, skyhaven’s technology was far more advanced and exclusive than linkon’s. their residents had access to countless showers and sinks with customizable settings and precise temperature controls.

despite everything, you couldn’t help but enjoy every second of these little luxuries. you found yourself wondering if caleb might let you take some of his fancy dermatology products back to linkon with you.

by the time you got out, you remembered that caleb had mentioned during yesterday’s lunch that skyhaven would soon begin its monthly isolation week—a period where all soldiers and officers were confined to their bedchambers. it was a precautionary measure, meant to ensure that the magnetic fields and protocores keeping the island afloat remained stable and resistant to any potential failures. 

the thought of spending the upcoming period together in isolation left you with an unexpected wave of embarrassment gnawing at your mind. 

your fingers curled into the sheets as you sat on the edge of his bed, your mind a whirlwind of guilt and uncertainty. after your prolonged shower, the scene of the punch replayed endlessly in your head. you’d gone over every detail, from the sharp crack of your knuckles against his jaw to the stunned look in his eyes. had you taken it too far?

if you were going to spend the next seven days confined in this dorm with him, wouldn’t it be better to try to make amends? the tension already felt unbearable, and avoiding him would only stretch it further. you needed to face him, didn’t you?

your gaze flicked toward the door, hesitation pulling at you. you’d skipped breakfast to dodge the awkwardness, telling yourself you needed time to sort through your own emotions. but now, the thought of him sitting alone in the kitchen, nursing a bruised jaw and left to wonder about your silence, made your stomach twist. he deserved some sort of explanation—or, at the very least, acknowledgment of what you’d done.

“he’s fine,” you told yourself, standing abruptly and pacing the room. “he’s a soldier. he’s been through worse.”

but the image of his expression—the way his eyes softened, almost tender, when he said, “i did”—refused to leave your mind. 

you felt like you were going crazy. for six days, emotions like confusion, guilt, regret, anger, and love had taken turns coursing through your body, leaving you utterly whiplashed. every time you thought you had a handle on one, another would rear its head, demanding to be felt. it was exhausting.

in the last three days, caleb hadn’t been anything but kind to you. he’d gone out of his way to make you feel comfortable, to give you space when you needed it, and to be there when you didn’t. his words, his actions—everything he’d done had been soaked in care.

“pipsqueak?” caleb’s voice came through the door, soft but clear, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. “can i come in? you didn’t eat breakfast, so i brought some fruit.”

your heart leapt into your throat, and for a moment, you froze, unsure of what to do. 

was he reading your mind?

“o-oh, it’s okay,” you stammered, grimacing at how shaky you sounded. “i’m not hungry.”

there was a pause, followed by the low rumble of his laugh. it wasn’t mocking, but it carried that familiar teasing edge that made your stomach twist. “please,” he said, his tone amused. “you’re always hungry. that hasn’t changed, has it?”

you swallowed hard, your eyes darting to the door as if it might give you an answer. what was he doing? why was he being so normal? like nothing had happened? you both basically confessed your undeniable pull towards each other a few hours ago, and now he was out here laughing about your appetite.

“i’m really fine,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. “you don’t have to—”

“too late,” he interrupted, the doorknob jiggling slightly. “i’m coming in.”

panic surged through you. “wait!” you blurted, stepping toward the door instinctively. “i’m—uh—I’m not decent!”

there was a pause, and then his voice, lower but undeniably amused, came through the door again. “you’ve said that before. pretty sure it was a lie then too.”

your face heated at the memory, and you clenched your fists, both at him and at yourself for reacting this way. why couldn’t he just leave you alone for five minutes to figure out what the hell you were feeling?

“caleb,” you said, your tone sharp but shaky, “just—give me a minute, okay?”

another pause. “fine,” he said, his voice softer now. “but i’m not leaving until you eat something. deal?”

you huffed, running towards the door and fixing your hair. “deal.”

before you could change your mind, the door clicked open. caleb stepped inside, balancing a plate of sliced fruit in one hand and a small ice pack pressed against his cheek in the other. he was shirtless, his bionic arm fully exposed, the metal catching the light as he moved. it was the first time he hadn’t tried to hide it from you, and the sight made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

you barely registered the plate of fruit before your eyes caught on the bruise forming along his jaw. your fist had left a mark—faint, but undeniably there. guilt flooded your chest, your earlier resolve crumbling.

“hi,” he said, his voice laced with a teasing lilt as his gaze shifted to you. his lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. “nice shirt, by the way.”

you glanced down, realizing with a jolt that you opted to put one of his shirts after the shower, the fabric oversized and hanging loose on your frame. your cheeks heated instantly.

“i—it was just comfortable,” you stammered, tugging at the hem as if that would somehow make it less obvious. “don’t read into it.”

he chuckled, stepping further into the room and setting the plate down on the nearest surface. “oh, i’m not,” he said lightly, though the smirk never left his face. “but if you want to borrow more, just let me know.”

your embarrassment shifted into a mix of irritation and concern as your eyes darted back to the ice pack on his cheek. “what happened to not leaving until i ate?” you said, trying to deflect as you stepped closer.

“still holding you to that,” he replied, his tone playful but soft.

but you weren’t paying attention to his words anymore. your gaze was fixed on the faint purpling of his jaw, the guilt clawing its way back to the surface. without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his face as you gently turned it to get a better look.

“does it hurt?” you asked, your voice quieter now, the concern threading through your words catching even you off guard.

caleb stilled under your touch, his gaze steady on you as you inspected the bruise. “not really,” he said, his voice softer than you expected. “i’ve had worse.”

you frowned, ignoring his attempt to downplay it. “you’re not supposed to just brush it off,” you muttered, your thumb lightly grazing the edge of the bruise. “i shouldn’t have—”

“hey,” he interrupted, his voice gentle. he reached up with his flesh hand, carefully wrapping it around yours and pulling it away from his face. “don’t do that. don’t feel bad.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard. “i was expecting you to be mad,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “i thought you’d yell at me, or… i don’t know, something.”

he laughed softly, shaking his head. “why would i be mad? i deserved it.”

“you keep saying that,” you said, pulling your hand free and stepping back. “but why? why do you think you deserved it?”

he sighed, his expression softening as he leaned back against the table. “because i’ve been waiting for you to hit me since the fake interrogation. hell, i was starting to get worried when you didn’t.”

“worried?” you repeated, your brows knitting together. “why?”

he hesitated, as if weighing how much to say, before meeting your gaze again. “because the girl i grew up with wouldn’t have let me get away with half the crap i’ve done,” he said simply. “she’d have punched me the second she saw me.”

his words hit you harder than you expected, a strange mix of emotions welling up in your chest. “well,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now, “maybe she’s not the same girl anymore.”

he smiled at that, the kind of smile that carried a weight you couldn’t quite name. “maybe,” he said quietly. “but she’s still in there. i see her every time you look at me like i’ve done something stupid. every time you call me out on my bullshit. and i’m glad she’s still here.”

you didn’t know how to respond to that, the raw honesty in his words leaving you momentarily speechless. instead, you looked down at the plate of fruit he’d brought, your fingers brushing against the edge.

“fine,” you said, your voice still quiet but steady. “i’ll eat.”

his smile widened, a hint of relief flickering in his eyes. “good,” he said. “because i wasn’t kidding about not leaving until you did.”

you rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite to it. as you picked up a piece of fruit, you couldn’t help but glance at him again, the bruise on his jaw and the faint smile on his lips making your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready to name.

the room settled into a quiet rhythm as you nibbled on the fruit caleb had brought, the faint rustling of his movements behind you blending into the soft hum of skyhaven's faint mechanical undertones. he had settled onto the bed at some point, the ice pack still pressed lightly against his cheek.

you didn’t look up at first, focused on the sweet tang of the fruit and the thoughts circling your head. when you finally did glance over, you saw him lying back against the cushions, his large frame sprawled out comfortably across the bed. it struck you—how long had it been since he rested properly? since he allowed himself this kind of moment?

there was something oddly humanizing about the sight of him now. his broad chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his muscles visibly relaxed beneath the glow of the dim room lighting. his eyes were closed, and for the first time since you’d arrived at skyhaven, he looked… content.

his bionic arm rested on the bed, unmoving, and yet it seemed a part of him in a way it hadn’t before. the faint light caught the edges of the metal, highlighting the intricate details of its design. you noticed the tension that usually coiled through his shoulders was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar ease.

you wondered, as the silence stretched between you, how the two of you had gone through so much in just one week. grief, anger, guilt, and even flickers of something softer—it felt like a lifetime had been compressed into the span of days.

just as you were sinking deeper into your thoughts, his voice broke the quiet. “did you call zayne?”

you blinked, the question catching you off guard as you chewed the last piece of fruit. you swallowed quickly before answering. he probably heard you talking to your friends yesterday.

“not actually. i still don’t know what to tell him.”

he shifted slightly, turning his head to look at you. “why not?” his tone was calm, curious rather than accusatory.

“it’s… complicated,” you admitted, setting the plate down on the desk beside you. “zayne’s always been logical, rational. and this? this is anything but that. you were his friend too so…”

he seemed to consider that, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he sighed and leaned back into the cushions. “did he comment on anything from my… from the explosion?” his words were careful, almost hesitant, as if he was testing the waters.

you hesitated, unsure if he was fishing for something deeper or just looking for updates on zayne. the memory of zayne handing you the documents—grandma josephine’s documents—flashed through your mind.

“not much,” you said eventually, your tone thoughtful. “he just gave me the documents grandma left with him. said she wanted me to have them. after that, he helped me deal with… everything else. the grief, mostly.”

caleb nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “he always was good at that,” he murmured, almost to himself.

you tilted your head, studying him. “why ask now?”

his lips quirked into the faintest smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i guess i’ve just been wondering… how much he knew. if he ever blamed me, or if he…” he trailed off, his voice growing quieter, “if he thought i could’ve done more.”

“zayne didn’t blame you,” you said softly, the certainty in your voice surprising even yourself. “he never said anything like that. he just… he cared. about both of us. since always.”

caleb’s shoulders relaxed a little at your words, the tension easing from his frame. he let out a long breath, his eyes closing again. “that sounds like him.”

the comfortable silence returned, but this time, it felt heavier with unspoken thoughts. you stayed where you were, watching the way his breathing steadied, his face softening in a way that felt so achingly familiar.

caleb sat up from the bed, stretching lazily as his muscles rippled under the warm light of the room, leaving the ice pack on the bedside table. the movement drew your eyes almost involuntarily to his chest, his defined pecs and the subtle line of his collarbone. you realized too late that you were staring.

“like what you see, pipsqueak?” he teased, smirking as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

your face heated instantly, and you scrambled to find a response. “i wasn’t—i mean, you’re not that impressive,” you shot back, your words stumbling over each other in your flustered state.

he laughed, low and amused, clearly enjoying your reaction. “sure you weren’t.”

before you could retort, he straightened up and glanced toward the door. “what do you want for lunch?” he asked casually, his slightly red jaw stealing your attention for a few seconds.

“lunch?” you blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “i forgot we’re supposed to spend the next few days confined,” you admitted, your tone dipping with mild disappointment. “i was really starting to like the restaurant food we’ve been eating.”

caleb chuckled, his expression softening. “well, you’ll have to settle for my cooking again. i think you’ll survive.”

your mood lifted almost immediately. “oh!” you said, excitement creeping into your voice. “can you make that dish you used to make me when i came home from college? the one with the rice and that weird sauce you wouldn’t tell me the recipe for?”

he tilted his head, pretending to think. “hmm… you mean my secret signature dish?”

“it’s not that secret if you made it for me all the time,” you countered, grinning now.

“fine,” he said with a mock sigh of defeat, standing up from the bed. “i’ll make it.”

as he moved toward the door, you hesitated, shifting awkwardly in your chair. “uh… caleb?” you started, your voice quieter now.

he turned back to you, raising an eyebrow. “yeah?”

you fiddled with the hem of his shirt, avoiding his eyes. “i was just thinking… if you wanted, you could, um, go back to sleeping in your bed. you know. with me. it’s big enough, and the sofa doesn’t look that comfortable…”

his sofa was actually very comfortable and big. but you felt bad either way.

he stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before a slow grin spread across his face. “are you worried about me, pipsqueak?”

“no!” you said quickly, your face flushing. “it’s just… i noticed the marks on your back from sleeping there. you look uncomfortable.”

his grin widened. “so, you’ve been staring at my back?”

“caleb!” you protested, standing up and trying to shove him toward the door. “don’t twist this into something weird.”

he laughed, letting you push him as he pretended to resist. “all right, all right,” he said, still grinning. “if it makes you feel better, i’ll sleep on the bed again. but…” he tilted his head slightly, the grin widening into something teasing. “can you at least warn me before you decide to punch me next time? because, honestly, this thing hurts like a bitch.”

you froze mid-push, your face heating up in a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “don’t tempt me,” you shot back, trying to sound stern but failing to keep the amused lilt out of your voice.

he chuckled, stepping just outside the door but turning back to look at you, his expression softening. “deal?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

you sighed, shaking your head as a reluctant smile crept onto your face. “fine. but only because i want to avoid another bruise on your face. it’s bad enough looking at this one.”

he chuckled, stepping out of the room but turning back for a moment. “get comfy, pipsqueak. i’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

lunch came and went, the hours passing in a strange haze of quiet conversations and unspoken tension. turns out caleb’s cooking skills have improved since your last meal together, and you’ve caught yourself praising his abilities more than once. 

the gaifan with baozi left you content and vibrant for the rest of the day, the taste of familiarity spicing your tongue along with the steamed dumplings.

at one point, caleb insisted on showing you how skyhaven’s isolation worked—something about magnetic fields and protocores stabilizing the entire floating city. you tried to follow along with your hunter’s brief knowing about fluctuations, but the way he lit up as he explained it was far more captivating than the details themselves.

“this is why we have isolation weeks,” he said, gesturing toward the ceiling as if the intricate systems were visible through the walls. “the magnetic fields can’t handle too much strain for extended periods, so every month, we scale back activity to let the systems recalibrate. it’s boring, but it keeps us alive.”

“boring?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “you’re talking about living on a floating island, caleb. that’s not boring.” you smiled. “i remember you dreaming about coming here for the first time when you graduated high school.”

he smirked, leaning against the edge of the counter. “guess i’ve been here too long. you kind of get used to it.” his tone was casual, but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression, a quiet pride that reminded you of the boy who used to explain the constellations to you back home, his enthusiasm unshakable.

later, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, he led you to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling glass windows framed the sky in breathtaking clarity. you stood there for a while, the silence between you broken only by the occasional hum of skyhaven’s systems. the view was mesmerizing—clouds streaked with gold and pink, the faint glow of the city’s lights flickering to life below.

“do you ever get tired of this?” you asked, voice quiet.

“not the view,” he said after a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “it’s the one thing that reminds me we’re all still connected to something bigger. even up here.”

you glanced at him, surprised by the weight in his words. for a brief moment, he wasn’t the confident, larger-than-life caleb you’d known these past few days. instead, he felt like something closer, more familiar—a reflection of the boy you once knew, the one who used to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders even when it wasn’t his to bear. 

his gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but his fingers brushed the edge of the glass as if reaching for something out of sight. that first night, neither of you could sleep. the air between you was heavy, the silence stretching long enough to make you wonder if he could hear the way your heart raced. 

“can’t sleep?” you finally asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper.  

“not really,” he admitted, his tone unusually soft. “too much on my mind.”  

you turned to face him, the dim light casting shadows across his face. “like what?”  

he hesitated, his jaw tightening. “everything,” he said finally. “you, mostly.”  

“me?” the word came out sharper than you intended, your chest tightening.  

he nodded, his gaze meeting yours. “i can’t stop thinking about everything i’ve put you through. how much i’ve hurt you. it’s like this weight i can’t get rid of, no matter how hard i try.”  

“yeah, you hurt me,” you said, your voice steady, though your chest tightened with the admission. “there’s no denying that, caleb. but carrying it around it’s not going to undo anything.”

his eyes softened, the vulnerability in them cutting through the walls you’d tried so hard to keep up. “you’ve always been too good to me,” he murmured. “even when i didn’t deserve it.”  

you wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of his bionic arm. “you didn’t deserve what they did to you either,” you said quietly.  

for a moment, he didn’t respond. when he did, his voice was barely audible. “i would do it all again if it meant keeping you safe.”  

the weight of his words hung between you, heavier than the silence. you didn’t know what to say, how to ease the ache in his voice. so you didn’t say anything at all. instead, you shifted closer, letting your shoulder brush against his. it was a small gesture, but it felt like everything. 

you fell asleep before he did, your breathing soft and steady in the quiet. he stayed awake, watching the way the faint light danced across your face, tracing the lines he’d memorized a thousand times before.

he turned his gaze to your sleeping form, the rise and fall of your chest a quiet reassurance that you were here, that you were safe. it was the only thing that kept him grounded, kept the shadows of his own mind from consuming him whole. and for the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened just enough to let him breathe.

you didn’t know—couldn’t know—how much he’d thought about this, dreamed about this, clung to the fragile hope that one day he could be near you again. that he could protect you, not just from the world but from himself, from the consequences of his failures and the monsters he’d let into your life. it wasn’t just love. it was something darker, deeper. devotion that bordered on obsession, a desperate need to be the shield between you and everything else.

he would protect you. from ever, from the shadows of the past, from anything that dared to hurt you. again and again and again, until there was nothing left of him.

author’s note: it was so hard to write this one guys, i didn't know if y'all would like caleb's switch up from such a hateful man (ugh) into this more real one but yeah, i had a good time writing this. I KNOW THE ENDING IS BAD, but it's not the real ending yet! see you next chapter (very soon!), xx. THE SMUT IS COMING I PROMISE. send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @bbieainee

[centrally-unplanned]

There are two big "AI Art Discourse" events of note recently, which I thought were interesting: ACX's "AI Art Turing Test" and the new paper on "AI Poetry Beating Human Poetry". Both of these I think reveal the shape of "what is AI art for", and also say a lot about how these results were utilized in discourse.

To take the latter first, some academics quizzed people on some poetry and had these results:

We found that AI-generated poems were rated more favorably in qualities such as rhythm and beauty, and that this contributed to their mistaken identification as human-authored. Our findings suggest that participants employed shared yet flawed heuristics to differentiate AI from human poetry: the simplicity of AI-generated poems may be easier for non-experts to understand, leading them to prefer AI-generated poetry and misinterpret the complexity of human poems as incoherence generated by AI.

More human than human poems! This certainly seems impressive - and it is. You couldn't have gotten these results ~5 years ago. But that maybe doesn't mean as much as you might think? Because here is the opening half of the winning "Walt Whitman AI" Poem:

I hear the call of nature, the rustling of the trees, The whisper of the river, the buzzing of the bees, The chirping of the songbirds, and the howling of the wind, All woven into a symphony, that never seems to end. I feel the pulse of life, the beating of my heart, The rhythm of my breathing, the soul's eternal art, The passion of my being, that burns with fervent fire, The urge to live, to love, to strive, to reach up higher. I see the beauty all around, the glory of the earth, The majesty of mountains, the miracles of birth, The wonder of the cosmos, the mysteries of the stars, The poetry of existence, that echoes near and far

This fucking sucks. Straight up 2/10 poem. Did this bitch seriously establish the world's most predictable rhyme scheme only to try to rhyme wind with end? You had one job that you chose for yourself, and you screwed it up! This poem has been written a million times before, and says nothing - the Miley Cyrus lyrics of verse.

The reason this won is, yes, because AI tools have advanced heavily in the past few years. But it is also because it is being tested on a dead art. No one cares about poetry - certainly not the survey respondents:

We asked participants several questions to gauge their experience with poetry, including how much they like poetry, how frequently they read poetry, and their level of familiarity with their assigned poet. Overall, our participants reported a low level of experience with poetry: 90.4% of participants reported that they read poetry a few times per year or less, 55.8% described themselves as “not very familiar with poetry”, and 66.8% describe themselves as “not familiar at all” with their assigned poet. 

"Or less" is doing a LOT of work there; "yeah I read a few nonfiction books a year" oh sure, totally. 90% of these respondents haven't read a poem that wasn't displayed in the end credits of Minecraft since high school. No one does, poetry as a medium is essentially a relic. That isn't an insult to poets, by the way! There is no shame in being a niche. Not everyone can have the reach of hentai doujin artists; the community is small but they get a ton out of it. But you can't take the art of the community and expect that art to hit outside of it.

This survey didn't ask people to evaluate art; it asked people to evaluate their stereotypical impression of an art they don't care about. It was ~600 people hired off a website, they banged it out ASAP and moved on. This is not to invalidate the results; I am not actually claiming that "real" poets would have scored much better? Maybe, I don't know - that just isn't very relevant.

Let's swing to the AI Art Turing Test results to get more into why. Again, AI art is absolutely "art" in the sense that it is able to pass the test handily. You have to be head-in-the-sand at this point to think that AI can't make an impressionist painting a la the "most liked" art in this contest:

I have seen the "well real paintings have physicality this is a jpeg" discourse points and the cope couldn't be more real - 99% of art consumption in the modern world is digital or at least prints, let's get you back to bed grandma. But I did find it pretty funny that Scott noted this AI piece as one he particularly liked:

Because it is nonsensical, right? All that "faded paint", how was it originally painted - just bucket splashes of red and blue? What are those random doors, the random stairs going nowhere on the sides, the vague-nothings engravings? Scott just didn't care about that - he liked the vibe, right? Ancient ruins, epic scale. It isn't a coincidence that the Impressionist art did the best - current AI tools are always impressionist, they have an idea of the vibe and invent the details in between. In Impressionism that is the whole point.

Now the trap is to go "REAL artists can tell because of this or that" because idk, the tools might get better, they might fill in more and more details. The real revelation here is that you don't need the tools to get better - visual art isn't so different from poetry. Most people don't pay attention to it all that much. You see thousands, thousands of pieces of art a week; you probably don't even realize how many. Do you really care if the fading paint makes coherent sense on a billboard ad or a doctor's office wall painting? So much art that is made is "industrial" in this sense - it has no need to be good. Only good enough to fulfill its utilitarian role. In these fields AI absolutely is going to Take Your Jobs in some form, and already is (though imo not a ton of them). And it won't really bother most people. This can go pretty deep - I promise you people are "utilizing" AI porn right now. They are ~appreciating the details~ way more than is typical, the product is working.

All this works until it doesn't, though. When it is an art book by a favourite artist whose vision you want to pour over, learning that all the individual details were just made by AI completely defeats the purpose, right? Imagine reading a book of these poems. Outside of the novelty, "AI is the point" factor you would rather watch infomercials on repeat, I can't imagine a more pointless use of my time. "Reading arbitrary poems" is never fun, regardless of the quality of the poems. Most people don't care about poetry! The reason you care is that you care about the poet, and what they want to say. You read poetry with context, it being inserted with intent into the pages of a manga, at the end of a video game, because you like the artist and follow them on twitter. The quality of the prose isn't more important than that.

Which is a harsh limit for all of these kinds of tests. They essentially aren't testing art, right? You do not ever get paid twenty bucks to sit down and read a dozen poems and score them. That has no bearing on how you would actually ever learn to care about a poem. Which doesn't make AI art useless or anything, more that these tests will very quickly run into their limits of what they can meaningfully tell you. The actual bar is "creating something someone cares about". From that lens, I fully believe hybrid methods that privilege artistic intent are currently working and will improve. But I think for "solo" AI art getting that to work is going to be complicated.

[mattslolita]

lights down low - c. sturniolo

in which ... chris wins another show during the versus tour so he fucks you like a champion. ( bf!chris x black!fem reader )

warnings ; smut, unprotected piv, semi-public sex, oral ( male receiving ) dom!chris, overstim

"𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒕."

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ꒰

you smiled softly behind stage as the winner was announced — once again, chris had won another show and so far he was in the lead. you couldn't make it to his other shows, so you thought it was a good idea to let nick and matt know you were coming to this show to surprise him.

as the show ended and the triplets said their goodbyes to the fans, they began to head backstage, which is where you waited nervously. nick saw you first, a grin immediately spreading onto his face as he was the first one to wrap his arms around you.

"oh my gosh twin, i missed you so bad!" you gushed as you hugged him back tighter.

"there's no way, i missed you way more!" nick laughs, as the two break apart.

"y/n!" came the sound of matt's voice next, and you squealed as you pulled him into a hug.

"bestie, i missed you!" you say, hugging matt and swaying back and forth a bit, "you need to get back up on yo grind, cause you only winning one show is not it."

"how about you go shoot some hoops, then?" matt says with an eyeroll, causing you to playfully push his arm way.

"baby? you're here?"

chris's voice causes matt to step aside as you grin sheepishly upon seeing your boyfriend chris — he wore a black beanie which had some of hair soft brown hair sticking out of it and a matching black hoodie. but even with the simplicity of his outfit, he still looked so fine.

"i missed you so much, ma," chris said, immediately going to scoop you up in his arms.

you took in the scent of his dior savauge cologne, inhaling deeply as he wrapped his arms around your waist holding you close to him — he held him in by the neck, running your hands through his hair as you softly pulled as the brown locks that adorned his head.

"okay, please get a room!" nick groaned, causing you both to pull away from the sweet embrace, "and stop hogging y/n, we missed her too!"

"not as much as i missed that pussy," chris whispered in your ear, causing your eyes to widen.

"boy!" you said, smacking his arm lightly which in turn causes him to give a light smack to your ass. "you play too damn much."

"oh come on baby, don't treat the champion like that," chris grins, looking down at you hungrily. "you know, i was thinking of you to help me win."

"oh really?" you ask, your big doe eyes staring up at him innocently, "and what're you gonna do with me now that you've won?"

"enjoy my trophy."

"fuck baby, just like that," chris moans, throwing his head back as he holds a firm grip on your hair.

you look him in the eyes as you swirl your tongue around his throbbing tip before taking him into your mouth — tears brim at your eyes as he thrusts into your mouth at a steady pace, causing you to deep throat him.

"sh-shit ma, i'm gonna cum," chris groans, "you ready?"

you let out a whimper to let him know you're ready and just then his load shoots into your mouth, which you swallow entirely. with a pop, you come up from his cock and wipe the edge of your mouth with a small grin.

"get on all fours, now," chris demands, standing up so that he's directly behind you.

you oblige and strip naked, getting on your hands and knees on the bed in front of you — being that you were on the tour bus, it was hard for you to move around so you were practically up against chris.

his hands immediately went to grip your waist as your back arched, your head coming into contact with the bed as it's pushed down. chris grabs his still throbbing cock and aligns it with your entrance, pushing himself all the way inside you.

"f-fuck, chris!" you yell out, the stretch burning you.

he gives you no time to adjust, his hips already rocking towards you at an ungodly pace causing your head to be buried into the mattress.

"fuck, right there!" you moan out, his tip kissing that sweet spot in your cervix.

"this sweet pussy, all for me," chris groans out, his grip on your waist likely to make bruises later, "you're so fuckin' tight, shit!"

"mm, keep going baby," you manage to whine out, as his cock keeps deliciously hitting your cervix at the angle.

"fuck baby, you like when i fuck you like this?" chris says tauntingly, leaning down to your ear, "my beautiful trophy, all fucked out."

"b-baby, i'm so close," you whine out.

"m'close too ma, hold it," chris grunts out lowly, not slowing his pace once. "fuck, i'm..."

with a loud moan, chris shoots his loud out into you painting your walls with his seed, which at the same time your juices spurt out of you as well.

but oh, he wasn't done. "turn and face me now, ma."

"chris, i'm sensitive!" you whine out as you turn back facing the front of him.

he looks down at you with a taunting smile, clicking his tongue. "c'mon ma, i know you can give me another one. you know your safe word."

and he's aligning his cock with your entrance again, this time he throws your leg over his shoulder as he slowly enters you, causing tears to form at your eyes at the sensitivity.

"oh my gosh!" you cry out, as he slowly moves at a steady pace trying to be thoughtful to your sensitivity.

"fuck, c'mon baby," chris says as he begins thrusting in and out you.

his looks down to see his bulge in your stomach, pressing down on it as you let out loud moans as he begins pounding into you mercilessly.

"fuck chris!" you whine, your nails digging into his back.

"look at you ma, taking my cock and doing so good for me," chris praises, causing you to moan.

one of his arms takes yours from off his back as he interlocks your hands whilst leaning down to kiss you sloppily — you know you're hair dresser is gonna be so tired of you coming back to get your hair re-done, cause you're almost certain it's messed up.

his kiss swallows any moan that threatens to spill out your mouth as the sound of squelching could be heard from the both of you, nothing but pure euphoria taking over both of your bodies as you indulge in each other.

"i'm gonna cum, baby," you whine.

"fuck, me too ma," chris moans, his thrusts becoming sloppier.

with a loud pornographic moan of his name, your orgasm washes over you for the second time as your juices spill out — chris lets out a gutteral groan as he shoots his load into you for the second time. his thrusts slow as you both ride out your high, then he pulls out of you and falls beside you.

you turn to smile at him, his hair sticking to his forehead as he immediately cups your face and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

"i've missed you so much," chris rasps, and you hold his hand in your own as you look up at him.

"i've missed you too, baby," you coo, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek.

( lilly's corner 💌 )

look who finally wrote another smut ! i hope y'all liked this one. i'm gon try & get back into my lil writing groove, possibly write some shit other than smut too <3.

[hannahbarberra162]

The Crocodile's Gambit (Croc x Reader)

on Ao3

The Crocodile’s Gambit  (1/2)

Croc x F!Reader

Fluff in this chapter, angst and fluff in the next.

WC: 3.3k

Summary: Crocodile needs a chess partner before he impales Buggy out of frustration. Again. He finds one in a most unlikely place. Set after the abolition of the Warlord system, right before Cross Guild is formed.

~~~

There were a few things that Crocodile missed about Nico Robin. The first being, she was incredibly competent. When Crocodile hired someone, he assumed they could do their job without being told how to do it. He didn’t want to have to micromanage anyone, especially grown adults. He loathed having to check in and make sure every step of a process was done correctly. He’d never had to do that with Robin, she was smart and capable. Anything he assigned her, she executed flawlessly.

But what he missed more than her competence was her chess playing ability. She was the only opponent within Baroque Works who had ever won against him. Her success rate was about 15%, which was significantly higher than anyone else Crocodile had played in years. Crocodile enjoyed winning chess matches but even more than that, he enjoyed losing them. He loved the challenge, the strategy, the simplicity, the complexity, everything about chess. And he especially loved it when he found someone who could best him.

Which made his stay with the complete idiot Buggy all the more intolerable. He and Mihawk were meeting with the Clown to determine whether a joint venture would be viable. After the absolution of the Warlord system, Crocodile had approached Mihawk for a business proposal. Crocodile had connections, money, and business acumen but didn’t like the spotlight. Mihawk had power and the reputation of the World’s Greatest Swordsman. Together, they could become unstoppable. Then, the question of the Clown arose. Buggy owed Crocodile a lot of money, Crocodile was ready to kill the Clown and be done with his foolishness completely. However, something the Clown had that neither of them did was a large loyal following. For whatever reason, the Clown’s crew were loyal to the death for their Captain. Any time the Clown docked his garish ship, he was greeted with fanfare and celebrations. There were waiting lists with hundreds of applicants, all waiting for a chance to be on Buggy’s crew. Crocodile didn’t understand why, but people were charmed by the Clown’s charisma.

Crocodile and Mihawk had been in negotiations with the Clown for a few days. It was slow going - each iteration of an alliance between the three of them had many stipulations and conditions that had to be discussed. Crocodile was fairly certain the venture would fail and he’d kill the Clown, but he kept his options open. After all, a dead Clown made no money at all. 

Crocodile was in desperate need of a good chess opponent, he felt his stress rising by the minute. Unfortunately, he knew he wasn’t going to find someone within the Clown’s ridiculous crew of idiots and low-lifes. Mihawk was a decent chess opponent, but the swordsman was rarely in the mood to play. Business dealings with the Clown left both of them irritated, and Mihawk’s outlet wasn’t chess. Each of them had their own room and office on Buggy’s ship, and Crocodile had his chess set sitting out at all times in his office, just like at home. He tried reviewing games he’d played against other opponents and playing against himself, but none of it was as entertaining as playing against another person. One morning before his meetings began, he moved a white pawn to an opening position on the board. He left for the meeting and forgot about chess for a few hours as he dealt with the Clown’s buffoonery and Mihawk’s recalcitrance. 

Returning to his office for an after lunch break, he was about to read the newspaper when he noticed someone had moved black, opposing his white pawn at e5. It had to be someone on the ship, but who? Mihawk had been with him in the meeting. Daz wasn’t a good player, he hadn’t played with Croc in years. No one from Buggy’s crew was smart enough, and Crocodile hadn’t brought anyone but Daz. Crocodile wasn’t concerned about someone infiltrating his office, but he was concerned about his growing boredom and irritation. If he didn’t find a good opponent soon, he’d probably kill the Clown before it was advisable. He decided to play the opening to the King’s Gambit, moving his pawn to f4, next to the first. Once it was time to leave for the next meeting, he knew whoever had moved the black pawn wouldn’t last more than 5 moves against him.

He was wrong. It was Crocodile who was now outclassed, outplayed, and outmaneuvered. Crocodile played delayed games against the mystery person as his meetings continued and hadn’t won a single match. Crocodile hadn’t lost this many games in decades, and he couldn’t have been happier. Crocodile returned back to his office after every meeting, eager to see his opponent’s next move. His opponent was ruthless, seeing through his plays, gambits, and traps with ease. He skewered Crocodile time and time again, to Crocodile’s delight. Every time he lost, Crocodile placed a gold coin under the black King, which was taken and the board reset the next time Crocodile returned. Crocodile wanted to know who he was playing with, but he was never able to catch the man in action, his office always empty when he returned.

Even though the negotiations were not going well, Crocodile was now having a wonderful time. He didn’t want the venture to end, he wanted to continue playing chess against his opponent. The Clown had noticed the uptick in Crocodile’s mood, asking for more ridiculous clauses in their contracts. It hadn’t helped the negotiations, but Crocodile hadn’t killed the Clown outright yet, which was saying something. Unfortunately, the time for reconciliation was coming to a close. Crocodile wanted to find out who the mystery opponent was and soon. He wanted to shake the hand of the man who had bested Crocodile so thoroughly and offer him a spot on his crew.

So Crocodile waited outside his office before his morning meeting. He wasn’t hiding, that would be childish. He was simply waiting in a concealed location to resolve an issue he was having. True, he could have waited in his office to see who the man was, but that would ruin the fun. And Crocodile hadn’t had fun in years. He would be late for the meeting, but it wasn’t going to be productive anyway, negotiations had stalled. The morning crew was coming in to clean his office - Buggy had a lot of useless staff (and a lot of overhead expenses) but Crocodile appreciated coming back to a clean office daily. He hadn’t really noticed them before, they were all part of the background for Crocodile. They were dressed like all of the other pirates who worked for the Clown - in ugly, lurid circus clothing. The various cleaners split off to their areas, with you entering his office to clean. You wiped down various surfaces, until you got to the board with Crocodile’s most recent move. You studied it for a brief moment, then picked up a black knight.

“What the fuck are you doing woman?” Crocodile recognized Daz’s voice. He must have been passing by, looking for Crocodile.

“Cleaning,” you replied, irritated by the interruption. You put the piece back down where it was previously, to Crocodile’s disappointment.

“Didn’t look like cleaning to me. Leave the Boss’s chess set alone unless you want trouble.” The maid was unconcerned by the threat, rolling her eyes at Daz’s words. 

“Game’s over anyway, doesn’t matter,” you muttered. Crocodile’s interest was piqued, was this slip of a woman his opponent? He watched you flip off Daz behind his back as he walked away. You bustled around the office, cleaning once more. As he watched, thinking you may be his opponent, he appreciated your form. You were graceful in your movements and meticulous in your work, and he found you beautiful in an unconventional way. The more Crocodile watched you, the more he realized how attractive you were. The hideous circus clothes you wore didn’t help, you had a huge orange scarf wrapped around your neck. But he saw your immense potential if you wore something less…flashy.  It didn’t take you long to finish cleaning, and before you left the room, you moved the black knight, putting Crocodile in checkmate. Crocodile ran his hand through his hair, smiling wickedly.

~~~

After his next meeting, Crocodile cleared his schedule for the rest of the day. He didn’t really care about anything the Clown had to say right now. He was far too interested in his little chess opponent to bother with anything else. He sat in a plush armchair, smoking a cigar, waiting for the time the cleaning crew came in. Around lunch time, you carried your cleaning supplies into the room. You immediately noticed Crocodile sitting in his chair and you started to back out of the room.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll come back -” 

“You’ll sit down,” Crocodile intoned, blowing billowing smoke clouds into the room. He gestured to the board in front of him. “Do you know how to play chess?” he asked. He knew you did, he was just curious what you’d say. You were a confident, aggressive chess player, and he wanted to see if that crossed over into your regular personality.

“I do, but I have to -”

“You’re dismissed from your duties for now. Sit. I won’t ask again.” You were a little nervous, but set down your cleaning supplies and sat across from him on another comfortable armchair. You perched on the end of the chair, like you were getting ready to run at a moment’s notice, fiddling with your scarf. Crocodile switched the board, you were now white.

“Go ahead. Start,” he drawled at you, blowing smoke. Your eyes flicked from the board to Crocodile, wary of the situation. Things weren’t completely genial between Crocodile and your Captain, surely you felt the tension on the ship. But you played, moving your pawn to f4. Crocodile parried, moving his pawn to e5, countering your opening. You played your turn, and by the time 15 minutes were up, Crocodile was in checkmate again. 

“Checkmate,” you said, leaning forward to stand up. Maybe you wanted to get back to work or maybe you wanted to get away from Crocodile, but neither was going to happen.

“You’re not dismissed,” Crocodile growled, steepling his hand against his hook, pleased with the match. “So, it’s you. You’re my opponent. You’re quite skilled at chess,” Crocodile observed.

“Yeah, it’s me. Do you want your coins back or something?” you replied. You were a little rough around the edges, Crocodile thought, but he could fix that. When you joined his crew, he’d work on your social skills outside of the chess board.

“No, you may keep them, you won them. I would like to make a proposition. I want to play chess with you tonight in the evening. Three games. If you win two out of three, you get 100,000 Beri.” Ideally, you’d play chess with him all day every day, but he would take things one step at a time. 

You narrowed your eyes, fiddling with your scarf. “What if I lose?” 

Crocodile leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. He spread his hands magnanimously, like he was granting you a favor. “If you lose, you have to join my crew and leave the Clown.”

You pursed your lips, thinking over his deal. “200,000 Beri,” you bartered. Crocodile smiled, enjoying your evident self confidence. 

“150,000 Beri per night, 50,000 Beri bonus if you win all three rounds,” he countered. You agreed, shaking his hook with your hand. You were either self assured in your ability to win, or didn’t mind leaving the Clown. Either way, you’d be coming with him when he left.

~~~

Crocodile was down 1,000,000 Beri and no closer to getting you on his crew. He knew you were good, but he hadn’t anticipated you were that good. Crocodile loathed losing money, but in this instance, he didn’t mind handing it over night after night. He thought that playing face to face would increase his chances of winning, but that wasn’t the case. You were even sharper when playing with him in person rather than delayed over the course of hours and days. You were a good sport about winning, and you didn’t gloat. You also took the time to explain your thinking when Crocodile asked you about your thought processes. You did, however, have a crass mouth that Crocodile didn’t care for. 

“Sucks to suck,” you replied after Crocodile complained you ended a game too swiftly for his liking.

“Do not speak to your superiors that way,” Crocodile snapped. He was peevish after having lost three games in under an hour.

“If you’re my superior, why do I keep collecting your Beri?” you said impishly. Crocodile nearly smiled at your antics.

“Speaking in such a coarse manner makes you seem less intelligent than you truly are,” Crocodile stated. He hated to see you present yourself like the common boors that made up the rest of the Clown’s crew. You gave him a bored look. 

“Give me my pieces and I’ll play you again,” you said. Crocodile was interested in playing a fourth round against you but knew you were trying to change the subject. He picked up your knight he had taken and held it out to you in his hand. You reached for the piece but he closed his hand before you could retrieve it.

“Hand me my pieces, please,” he said. 

“Hand me my pieces, please, Sir Crocodile.” You rolled your eyes, but dutifully repeated the phrase. Crocodile smiled at you, and opened his hand once more. You took the knight, your fingers brushing against his palm. It was the first time you’d made physical contact with each other. Crocodile wanted more. 

You didn’t let Crocodile win or handicap yourself when you faced off, you always played to win. So when Crocodile won his first game, he was over the moon. He was certain you were tired when he’d won, you almost nodded off once during the game. Crocodile was concerned for your wellbeing, and it tarnished his feeling of victory. He was…worried.

“Is the Clown working you too hard? Why are you so tired?” Crocodile queried as you yawned into your hand.

“Someone is making me play chess at night after work,” you replied.

“Please, you’ve been making more than you’d earn in a month in under an hour,” Crocodile scoffed. The games between you didn’t take that long, the Clown must be putting undue stress on you. He’d…fix that for you. You hummed, resetting the board for the third game. Crocodile had enjoyed winning, but didn’t want to play if you weren’t at your best. “Let’s end early tonight. Go rest.”

You looked up at him, unsure of what to do. “But it’s only been two games, and I lost one. If I lose the next one -”

“It is my idea to conclude early, therefore you will not be bound to the usual rules. Go to bed.” Crocodile waved his hand, dismissing you. 

“Thank you, Crocodile,” you said softly, lingering by the door for a moment. It was the first time you’d thanked him without his prompting.

As the days went on, you seemed to enjoy Crocodile’s company a little bit, not bolting immediately after he paid you your Beri. You had a keen wit and were able to counter Crocodile’s acerbic remarks with ease. It was obvious to Crocodile early on in your conversations that you were not well read, something else Crocodile wanted to amend. Crocodile loaned you a book about ancient Wano battle theory, asking you to read it as it would improve your chess playing. You returned it the next day, saying you read the entire work. Crocodile questioned you about the contents of the book, trying to see if you had just skimmed it or were lying. But you were able to answer his questions and provide your own insight into the strategies listed.

“What did you think about the treatise on aggressive methods of battle?” Crocodile asked. He had found a lot of useful thought exercises in the book. Having read it in his youth, it had become a cornerstone for his own strategy in becoming a Warlord and businessman. 

“In chess? I don’t necessarily agree that aggression should be the foremost method of attack. Aggressive moves only work if it's balanced with knowledge of your opponent. If you don’t know who you’re dealing with, things may not work out the way you planned,” you said while moving your Queen to check Crocodile. Crocodile hummed in agreement. You were clearly intelligent, Crocodile just had to provide you with direction. He knew people were not given the same opportunities in life and was happy to supply you with some. 

To that end, Crocodile was now taking an interest in your formal education. He loaned you book after book, and you read them all, sharing your opinions and thoughts on the titles. You had interesting ideas, and Crocodile found himself sharing his own with you. You tended to like mysteries and fiction novels, but read anything Crocodile lent you. You picked up and assimilated new information easily and had unique ideas, things Crocodile would never have thought about on his own. Crocodile found himself sharing his favorite books with you, just to see what you would say.

He appreciated your personality outside of the chess board the more you spent time together. Crocodile tended to make people nervous, it was practically a pastime for him. However, after your initial encounter, you weren’t tense around him at all. You didn’t mince words, you said what was on your mind, even if you knew it would annoy him. You were honest, as far as he could tell, and generally well liked among your crew. He appreciated your looks, but that was secondary to your personality, a first for Crocodile. He even started to appreciate your circus outfits, always completed by a large scarf, no matter the weather. Even without your chess skill, he would have liked to bring you onto his crew. He was going to broach the subject tonight and ask you formally to leave the Clown. He knew you would agree. He was the better choice by a long shot. Crocodile had more money, more power, more influence than the Clown would ever have. He was smarter, stronger, and richer, there was no way you’d want to stay with a second-rate loser like the Clown. 

~

“Checkmate,” you said, moving a rook into place. You smiled at Crocodile, as he ran a hand through his hair. “By the way, that’s your tell.” Crocodile’s eyes snapped to yours. 

“What are you talking about? I have no tell,” Crocodile snarled. You smiled again. Anyone else would shortly have been drained of life, but Crocodile found you endearing. Cute, even. 

“It’s good to know your own tells,” you continued, undeterred by Crocodile’s outburst. “You run your hand through your hair when you are blindsided. If you can sense something is coming, you don’t. But if you are surprised, well, that’s your tell.” Crocodile paused, no one had shared that with him before. But perhaps no one had surprised him as frequently as you. 

“Speaking of surprises, I have something I’d like to ask you,” Crocodile drawled, lighting a new cigar. You were already preparing to leave after the completion of the third game. That was another thing, Crocodile found himself wanting to spend more time with you outside of your matches. Having you on his crew would help with that as well. You sat back down, watching Crocodile calmly, waiting for him to continue. “I’d like you to join my crew.”

“No.”

You declined instantly and decisively. Crocodile ran a hand through his hair, scowling.

[itsnothingofinterest]

This is probably a weird note to end my time with MHA's run on; but I find it so strange how I still see people calling Tomura out on just being a destruction-hungry villain with supposedly no plan or follow up...as though he is unique for that simplicity. Especially after the ending we got. Like, Deku and All Might never really had a plan when they were reshaping society by beating up the enemy and everything worked out fine for them, but does anyone call them out for just using violence to mindlessly solve everything with no further plan? (Well, yes. Me. Right now.)

Because like, really thinking about it; how different was All Might's plan from the start of his career to take down AFO and become a symbol, and Deku's plan to end the villains and bring everything back, from Shigaraki's plan to end hero society and bring about a world accommodating to the League? It all seemed to boil down to the same basic premise of Step 1) Beat everyone & everything making things worse, Step 2) ...it all just kind of works out from there. (I guess All Might planned on being inspiring and uplifting, but then we could also count Tomura's plan to be imposing and...uplifting but for different people. Deku was winging it every step of the way though.) Everyone's getting on Tomura's case for doing nothing but destroying; but all evidence from when the heroes do it suggests violence & destruction works. And it just never fails to bug me when people call Tomura out for stuff that's fine when heroes do it.

Which, yeah, let's touch on how it did just work out for Deku that way for no logical reason, least of all anything he planned. He punched out the big bad just like All Might and now things are like a hundred times better than they were under All Might with no more Tenkos abandoned in the street. If stuff like that just happens if you punch out your enemies hard enough, then why couldn't that happen for Tomura? Maybe if he had destroyed the government & hero society it would've, idk, been so fear/awe-inspiring that all the villains would've been nice and cooperative under the PLF and everything would've been fine. Or something. No more contrived than what we saw with the old lady plot line, MHA is just a series where that stuff works out. Heck, one time it actually did just work out that way for Tomura:

Again, violence and destruction works in MHA. I mean; duh, it's a shonen manga.

Plus all this is ignoring the fact that, unlike those two, Tomura did have a follow up to the violence. He did have a step two, or at least one & a half, after "beat down all the bad guys in the country." Rather than just going "and everything will work out from there," he had his guys plan for the future so he could say "and Spinner, Toga, and RD et. all will make sure everything works out from there." (Admittedly, not much; but also, not hopes and dreams.) He did have a plan, it was just the plan from the Overahul arc, where he was last asked to have a plan: leave it to his allies.

And hey, that means it's actually better than what we saw from genius All Might and brainiac Deku. So why are we still, even after everything was over, acting like there's some expectation as a villain he didn't meet? I guess it's just in the nature of a 'tantrum-having man-child who wants nothing but destruction' to put more forethought into the future he wants to build than the society-uplifting greatest heroes.

That or maybe everyone had really detailed follow-ups for when they won that Hori never went much into, but that'd render this post a bit pointless so shhh.

[fansblogs]

fan is a narcissist. isn’t it wonderful.

Fan and NPD: The ultimate masterpost. Or something.

Hello! First time posting something this long, so forgive me for any possible inconveniences. The purpose of this post is to explain the grounds of my headcanon and correlate this disorder to Fan, whom I believe showcases it spectacularly, as well as educating on NPD along the way. This does not mean that Fan having NPD is “canon” by any account, but he most certainly displays traits of it, and it’s something I personally believe he has!

Disclaimer that this post is being made by a questioning narcissist. If you associate NPD with abuse, demonize narcissists or so on, please block me. Disorders do not make anybody inherently evil!

..in the making of this, I forgot that tumblr had video limits. To overcome this, I’ve linked most of the scenes I’ve been using for reference when making this post! There’s plenty of times where I start to describe certain scenes, so make sure to click on the link to avoid confusion. Sorry for the inconvenience!

If this format is too cluttered and/or confusing; here’s also the Twitter version of this post.

Lastly, if any PWNPD have things they want to note or add, go ahead!

tags: @moonlightcanyon @box-of-lemon-nys

All of this information is taken straight from the DSM-5. I don’t support nor endorse the ableist view of NPD shown in the DSM, but for the sake of simplicity I’ll be referring to it, as it’s the official diagnostic criteria.

As per the DSM, NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) is defined as “a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts.”

Fan displays all of these traits outstandingly overtly, yet in such a way most people wouldn’t recognize as narcissism. Starting with the first;

“Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements).”

This has been pertinent since his appearance in S2. In fact, the first line he even speaks in the season is a proclamation of his believed superiority. Fan has based his identity on being the BEST, the #1 fan of Inanimate Insanity. 

Though there’s way too many examples of his grandiosity to compile completely, one of my favorites is this theory shown in EP 7, which perfectly displays these behaviors.

He’s confident that his theory is right, that each team will always win twice in a row. Though he provides proof, he notes “Not like you need it, right?”, showing that he believes his word is more than enough to prove something correct. Last but not least, his favorite episode (at the time) was Episode 3, the one where HE won the challenge for his team.

Again, just for the sake of simplicity, i’m picking and choosing scenes so I don’t have to note down every single time he displays this symptom.. but please keep in mind that this is a VERY obvious trait he shows almost constantly.

Though this side note isn’t really intended to be “evidence”, it feels relevant to mention that later in the series, Episode 14 becomes his favorite Episode, yet again another episode focused on his growth and accomplishments. 

Another thing important to mention here is that narcissists are SEVERELY sensitive to criticism, which we see multiple times with Fan. Episode 2 of Invitational illustrates this very well with Fan’s reactions to both Cabby’s files and her own spoken criticism of him, even refuting it by blatantly denying his negative behaviors and defending his knowledge. (Timestamp 3:39-3:58)

2. “Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.”

I’d say that this is perhaps the least evidenced of all the traits, but nonetheless, there are a few instances of this. Most relevant to me is Fan’s enjoyment of fanfic, especially the RPF he posted of him and MePhone. 

Fan has a VERY, VERY complicated relationship with MePhone. But considering the idolization he has for him, this very much reads as a narcissistic fantasy in my mind. Becoming closer to a person with such power and influence, a person you personally admire and hold great respect for their accomplishments and believe would reach out to you due to your own assumed superiority absolutely falls into the criteria of narcissistic fantasies, something Fan shows very clearly here.

3. “Believes that they are “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions).”

This symptom is heavily varied on presentation, and isn’t as cut-and-dry as “wants influential acquaintances.” In my personal experience, this is more akin to your own personal hierarchy, only caring to bond and make an effort to associate with those whom are higher in the hierarchy. 

Fan is no stranger to this. He has a clear disdain for many of the contestants and subtly belittles them, such as Lightbulb, Paintbrush, Dough, or Paper. This is not that Fan necessarily dislikes any of his teammates or acquaintances, but he sees them as worse than him, which leads to a proneness of conflict due to his indifference towards their emotions. This also leads into the low-empathy in Section 7.

Meanwhile, someone Fan DOES view as “special” is Test Tube, what one would call a CHP/FP (Chosen Person / Favorite Person). He values her input and greatly idolizes her, and of course, is HEAVILY dependent on her. I can’t even begin to explain the intricacies of their relationship in such a small paragraph.

And in a rare case of Fan refusing to associate with institutions rather people, Episode 5 he remarks that he doesn’t want his egg to hatch into a “sub-par, bowless season”, an obvious projection on his end.  (Timestamp 1:32-1:38)

I don’t think he would’ve legitimately made any actions to leave the game given that Bow didn’t appear (despite him assuming that his first interaction with Bow was nothing but a trick of MePhone’s), but his indirect threat of not wanting to be in the game without Bow, finding it too inadequate for him, still stuck with me.

4. “Requires Excessive Admiration.”

Alongside #2, this is probably the other most difficult trait to explain on the list. Fan’s no stranger to subtly fishing for compliments, but that’s the exact problem with him. He’s so subtle that many of the contestants in fact MISS his social cues, and Fan ends up being ignored or degraded instead. 

Despite this, it’s clear that he expects praise and admiration from all, even if others don’t outwardly show it often. In the rare not-so subtle cases of Fan looking for acclamation, he outwardly asks for it to boost his ego, motivation, and most of all- excitement, as shown in Nickel’s FFF. (Timestamp 0:16-0:23)

Most of the time however, Fan places himself in positions that could give him commendation, one of my favorites being this short exchange from the Purgatory Stream. Fan has a lot of admiration for Marshmallow, and he tries to impress her with his offer, hoping for approval and kudos. (Timestamp 1:20:12-1:20:20)

(Short break here. Just wanted to mention how much Fan truly adores Marshmallow. Highly encourage anybody reading this to look into it if you haven’t already.)

Multiple times on Fan’s FFF’s, he’s attempted to do quips with his interviewees. In Nickel’s interview, he refers to these as his “fan instincts.” As I was saying earlier about these cues for praise being missed, both Nickel and Balloon react to his references with annoyance, in which Fan responds with aggression and disappointment respectively. In Balloon’s interview especially, it’s clear to see that he thought him referencing Balloon’s catchphrase would earn him a laugh and praise. (Timestamp 10:30-10:38)

5. “Has a sense of entitlement (i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with their expectations).”

Perhaps one of Fan’s least hidden symptoms. Again, a trait so glaring that it’s impossible to pinpoint every example.. but of course, my favorite display of this comes from one of the oldest pieces of Fan media, where he VERY clearly shows this. (Timestamp 0:14-0:38)

Though this short is dubiously canon, seeing it within the context of NPD makes a lot of sense to me. Of COURSE Fan’s personality would be far less nuanced when first created, hence his entitlement manifesting very overtly and negatively. Though it does mellow out over time, it never truly disappears, just seeps into different faucets of his personality and actions. (Timestamp 1:37-1:43)

Take here, for example. Fan tries to justify stealing from Cabby, but the truth is simply that he felt he deserved to see what she said about him, not asking her permission first. As Test Tube said, an invasion of privacy, a serious one at that when considering the later reveal of Cabby’s files being her memory aids. Alongside that, the grandiosity he highlights in this scene (think back to Section 1) is amazing. (Timestamp 0:42-1:01)

Just a bonus clip of Fan’s entitlement in relation to this specific conflict. (Timestamp 8:44-9:02)

In another more evident demonstration, Fan simply admitted to filming FFF without OJ’s permission, not even considering the possibility of needing to ask for acceptance to film and host a show inside of the Hotel. In his view, it’s something he wants, and with nobody encouraging against it, therefore it’s his right.

Another thing I really like about this post is how “innocent” Fan comes across here. In my personal experience, entitlement has never been something I intend to be harmful to others, just something I feel I deserve because I am special, not even noticing my egotism with it. I don’t think Fan intended anything wrong with hosting the show, just assumed that OJ would be fine with it, and that he would have no need to ask for permission.

6. “Is interpersonally exploitative (i.e, takes advantage of others to achieve their own ends).”

Very much so! This is one you’d never note down when taking a first glance at Fan, but it happens to be severely true. The way the DSM words it makes it sound inherently malicious, but trust me that this is not commonly how this trait manifests. Everybody tends to be manipulative once in a while, and that doesn’t make it a necessarily negative symptom if utilized in ways that don’t harm others.

For Fan, one of the big signs of this is his tendency of sitting back and letting his team do the work. According to his patterns he’s guaranteed a win, therefore he finds he  has no reason to contribute, leaving his teammates to put in the effort to achieve it. (Timestamp 6:44-6:49)

Another thing I find I should add here is that Narcissists don’t usually intend for this manipulation to be.. legitimately evil manipulative. In our minds, we’re not doing anything wrong at all. So what if we use somebody as a means to an ends once in a while? There’s nothing wrong with it, especially if you deserve it. Fan is the same within this regard.

Funnily enough, this pattern of exploitation is a key factor of Fan’s character. Fan is THE #1 Fan of II, and as thus, must know as much about the show and its inhabitants as possible. He frequently uses the information and trivia he has collected about his fellows to steer them into giving him what he wants, no matter if it’s more information on themselves or a reaction, both things Fan finds severe intrigue and entertainment within.

Again, mentioning Nickel’s FFF (there is SO much to deconstruct there), Fan asks Nickel personal and invasive questions for his own entertainment, using Dime’s presence to utilize Nickel’s own self-confidence against him, prompting more honesty. (Timestamp 1:37-2:20)

Last but not least for this section, exploitation can be both conscious and subconscious. Though in my opinion it always seems Fan has some degree of lucidity, it’s clear from this blog post that it’s not all COMPLETELY conscious, some of his manipulative tendencies even flying over his own head. 

In this post he mocks a version of himself he believes is far from his own image, failing to notice how often he does take advantage of the others around him. In the end, it all boils down to intentions. This faux version of Fan is comically evil, and Fan believes his own personal intentions are nothing short of moral and understandable.. thus his manipulation not coming across as remotely manipulative to himself, just something he deserves.

7. “Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings or needs of others.”

A DEFINING characteristic of him. There’s so much to delve into with this specific aspect of his character, it’s practically infinite. For starters, Fan holds zero to none respect for everybody around him, viewing most of the people in his life as nothing more than simple characters.

There’s certain people who break this mold such as Test Tube or Suitcase, but most are confined to it. Even with people that Fan admires, MePhone or OJ for example, he still views as playthings. At that, Fan’s general emotional and mental disconnect from the world feeding into his low empathy leads him into the practice of stalking, in which both MePhone and OJ happen to be targets.

My favorite moments of Fan exhibiting his low empathy always tend to be when he’s alongside Paintbrush. This scene in Episode 7 really puts this into perspective.. despite Paintbrush’s outburst and clear distress, Fan sees their frustration as nothing more than laughable, even predicting the time it would take to happen. (Timestamp 12:50-13:03)

Even Paintbrush momentarily pauses in their outburst, shocked by his insensitive reaction. Later, they threaten Fan with the idea of smashing Baby Shimmer, an impulsive action in the blindness of rage. It really speaks to me how even though Paintbrush was too highstrung to adequately try to analyze Fan’s reaction, they still subconsciously realized that trying to get Fan to empathize with them was near impossible, choosing to instead threaten him in efforts of arising understanding.

Same kind of situation here. Fan only cares about Paintbrush’s emotions when Paintbrush punches him to the ground. This concern is completely unrelated to empathy of Paintbrush’s anger, merely just a self-preserving meekness in fear of being attacked again. And after Fan notices Paintbrush’s “cliche”, his attention is entirely diverted and he instead only focuses on this new discovery, again finding no meaning in Paintbrush’s emotions as his priorities are higher. (Timestamp 9:04-9:20)

Though this quote is more about Fan’s disconnect and escapism, it does highlight his apathy to others as well. I think there’s bits and pieces to be said here about Fan’s low empathy, even if not directly related to it’s portrayal in this context.

8. “Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of them.”

This symptom, just like majority of the others, is a key trait Fan exhibits. Time and time again, Fan flaunts spiteful and petty behaviors. Especially when provoked, Fan quickly finds himself vindictive and jealous. Though I do believe Fan’s grandiosity makes him believe that he has enviable characteristics, he tends to more outwardly show his jealousy toward others rather than vocalizing the assumed envy others have for him.

As I’ve referenced multiple times over, Episode 2 of Invitational is prime grounds for Fan analysis. This scene in particular shows such an evince of jealousy. Cabby first insults Fan’s formation of his identity, with an implied superiority of intelligence on her side. Watching his reaction is fascinating- first frustration, doubtful vulnerability, anger, then lastly disbelief.

Now, of course, this doesn’t exactly SEEM like jealousy, more-so defensive rage. Yet, it’s both! Fan has a lot of respect for how Cabby plays the game and her general self-image, admiring how professional and knowledgeable she comes across. Considering Test Tube’s proclamation of adoration for Cabby upon their first meeting, Fan instantly marked Cabby as somewhat of competition. 

Though he initially pursued a friendship with Cabby, he was quicker to turn on her than Test Tube, due to what I believe to be jealousy. Yes, Cabby is smart, but part of the reason Fan felt entitled to steal from her to prove that he is vasty more intelligent.. making a point that Cabby's notes on him are surface-level and nothing as good as Fan himself could create. When Cabby's file showed criticism of him, he took it even more personally than anticipated, because not only did her notes happen to belittle him, but also were severely impressive.

And as I said, during their confrontation with Cabby, Test Tube’s reaction seemed more disappointed and shocked with Cabby’s assessment of her, far more calm than Fan’s obvious anger. Again, Cabby is deprecating Fan in a way that makes her come across as far more impressive than him, far more mature and intelligent to the both of them. Not only is Cabby damaging Fan’s pride, but he sees her own self-presentation as a threat to how Test Tube perceives HIM.

This little interaction is quite a parade of envy. Vexation and jealousy tend to happen at the same time, something that’s very obviously shown here. (Timestamp 13:08-13:13)

At the end of the Episode during Fan’s elimination, Fan takes the news FAR more calmly than one would expect. Yet, this is mostly a facade, one to make himself seem far more composed and impressive than he actually is; by being so envious of Cabby, he holds himself to coming across just as dignified as she does. In matter of fact, Fan and Cabby share many of the same traits despite how differently they may manifest between them, and Fan sees part of himself in her. And for Fan.. my, is it terribly demeaning to meet somebody who’s  like you but BETTER. The envy he holds is gnawing at his core.

9. “Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes.”

As expected, a Fan special. I honestly wish I had more commentary on this symptom, but it’s so blatant and pertinent throughout his entire runtime on the show that I can’t offer up much variation that isn’t already obvious enough.

Citing this scene for example, this is clearly arrogance mixed with jealousy. Not only does he believe he’s far better than what Cabby has said about him, but he’s also jealous that Cabby comes across as more intimidating than him. (Timestamp 5:00-5:11)

Another really good presentation. His haughtiness causes him to act defensively, attempting to reassure to both himself and the Shimmers that he is in fact a threat bigger than them. When met with even more denial of his self-assumed daunting, he merely pushes it out of mind, believing that yes, he has fearful qualities about him and that his “lower score is preferable.” (Timestamp 12:05-12:30)

-

As per the DSM, NPD is diagnosed when patients meet 5 out of the 9 traits. In the case of this essay.. I managed to correlate Fan to all 9 symptoms. Though some are certainly more pervasive than others, I do believe Fan meets the full criteria… Which brings me to the end of my essay!

I have SO many thoughts about this that I couldn’t all squish into this already lengthy post. Please feel free to ask me anything about this at all, as somebody with a special interest in Fan, I could go on for HOURS.

And last but not least, if you have any questions on the topic of NPD (related to Fan or not) I’d also absolutely love to answer!

And with that.. Fan is absolutely a narcissist. Thanks for listening <3

[toriaanin]

Rings and Things

I noticed a bit of chatter about how Nicola wasn't wearing rings at the Dior show; either designer "event" rings or her own Claddagh rings.

Before diving into my wee bit of speculation, can we take a moment to acknowledge how stunning Nicola looks?! She shows up to a fashion event like this and slays with one head tilt (chin down) and a smoldering eye. Damn! Aanin; shine your light, girl!

Some are suggesting that perhaps Nicola's hands are a bit puffy right now. I count myself in with the "some" crowd because it makes perfect sense, given the treasure she may be carrying. This theory certainly explains why the Claddaghs were on her ring fingers when she arrived to her Paris hotel last night for Paris Fashion Week... they don't fit comfortably on her middle fingers, where she usually wears them.

Of course she could have had the rings re-sized so that they now live on her ring fingers... but that's a speculation (including why we see the diamond Claddagh on her right hand) for a different post 😜

Back to today's Dior outfit and the lack of rings on Nicola's hands...

Nope. No rings in evidence! Then I noticed that she's not wearing earrings either.

So... no rings and no earrings. Why?

"Surely (the naysayers would ask, in a sarcastic voice) her ears aren't swollen too?!"

Such silly naysayers (aka Jakolas and "Realists"). They ruin all the fun, don't they?

Actually, I have a few theories.

"No jewelry" was a styling choice by Aimee Croysdill, Nicola's stylist. The dress Nicola wore was a mood all it's own. Perhaps Aimee felt that the dress could have all the fun and that *any* jewelry would be overkill.

Because Nicola's hands are swollen, the designer event rings planned for the day - and provided, based on Nicola's normal ring size - didn't fit comfortably. Aimee and Nicola decided that earrings without the coordinating rings made her hands look "naked", so x-nayed the earrings too. Go with it, they decided.

No event jewelry was provided by the designer, so none was worn.

Simplicity won the day.

Speculation aside, Nicola glowed today! She didn't have to wear her rings for me to know that she's extremely happy 🤍 I am 1000% sure that we'll see her rings on her fingers again very soon.

Aanin

[special-agent-fiction]

The Cost of Silence

Full disclosure, I haven't written anything in literal years and I've never written for this fandom. And then this just...happened? I don't know what the plot is but I had to get it down.

The Cost of Silence - Thomas Shelby x Reader

For a man who bought silence with little thought to its cost, morally or financially, Thomas Shelby appeared increasingly concerned with how much it was going to cost him to hear your voice again.

Gifts had been arriving at Arrow House almost daily for a few weeks and each was met with the same disregard; a blank expression as you passed the newest Bentley parked on the drive, cold indifference to the clothes hanging in your wardrobe and an almost comical eyebrow quirk at an apparent sudden interest in art.

Today’s expensive gift was met with the same lack of interest as you closed the lid of the long red box that had become synonymous with a Shelby apology with a single finger and pushed it away from the pristine plate setting awaiting you in the dining room.

You cared little for the rows of diamonds that sat within the case. Cared less for the obvious displays of wealth that surrounded you. You were not born to be oblivious to the luxury that was your current life, years ago you would have ached for a mere glimpse inside the house you now resided in, but life in this increasingly gilded cage had numbed you.

You often longed to feel the soft notches of the table in Watery Lane as you ran your hand along the impressive mahogany piece you now ate at. Dreamt of the cobblestones under foot as you wandered the gravel driveway in twilight, longed for the ache of a day’s work in your bones.

Poverty was a strange thing to want, but with simplicity came an honesty that your life was currently lacking. You could not bring yourself to look him in the eye anymore, let alone share a smile.

You couldn’t pinpoint the moment you decided to silence yourself; couldn’t remember what atrocity had been the final straw. If anything, it had happened gradually, your voice ignored in family meetings, opinions disregarded as plans were formed, and so you began to hold back, bite your tongue and fade into the background of the life he had carefully curated in this countryside pile.

You knew it was irritating him. The thought brought a rare smile to your lips as he huffed softly from the doorway behind you, watching as your fingers skimmed past the new first editions in the library and landed on a well-worn, market-stolen title that you had brought to Arrow House when it was still new to you.

Words were not something you were able to find solace in in your life before here, your days were too busy to have the time to curl up and appreciate a book. Recently though they were you only companion in this cold house. He had noticed of course, he always notices. A newer, softer chair appeared in the parlour, a glistening tea set waited for you, the fire was stoked more frequently, and yet you remained on the hard, deep-set windowsill that offered you a glimpse at the outside world when your eyes tired of the page. Obstinance felt almost exhilarating these days.

The gifts changed from generically expensive to a more tailored selection; a new saddle, your favourite flowers planted under the bedroom window. And still you denied him. You kept your voice a murmur when talking to the staff, only laughed when he was away and refused to elaborate when questioned by visiting family.

It was noticeable now to anyone who visited the house. Family quirked an eyebrow when you walked away from meetings, their eyes flitting between you and Thomas as you sat silently through dinner, a low chuckle at their leader’s frustration. Thomas was a man who always won a battle of wills, and he was losing spectacularly.

And then he piqued your curiosity.

The office door left ajar when he had an important telephone call. Papers for the foundation you’d long planned to set up. Ledgers left open on the coffee table.

As much as you knew about how to irritate him, he knew about you. The bastard.

You stopped yourself many times; forced your hand down when reaching for a pen to jot a note in the margins of a memo, stopped yourself from adjusting a purposefully wrong number. It took everything in you not to help with the business you’d helped birth.

And then came the storm.

Gunmetal clouds filled the sky, the birds quietened, and thunder rolled in the distance. The drizzle of morning rain had dampened the estate, the heaviness in the air muffling all sound of life. When the first crack of lightening hit just outside the stable block you were already inside trying to soothe the enormous stallion that was an expensive new addition to the block.

You’d anticipated his jitters, had spent most of the afternoon gently grooming him, humming softly as he calmed. You thought you’d pre-empted the worst of it but even you jumped at the proximity of the bolt. You barely had time to register the piercing whinny or notice the beginnings of a rear-up before one leather clad hand was on the bridle the other sweeping you behind Thomas before he reached out to calm the steed. Your breaths were laboured as the horse calmed, your eyes wide as you watched Thomas whisper softly to the animal, its chest rising and falling in time with your own as you calmed simultaneously, Thomas’ soothing voice washing over both of you. It wasn’t the first time a horse had reared on you and wouldn’t be the last, it wasn’t the animal that spooked you it was the speed at which Thomas appeared. How long had he been loitering in the shadows of the stable block? Had he watched you lavish love on the beast he had bought as part of his apology accumulation?

You reached out to rub gently at the neck of your almost-trampler, eyes avoiding Thomas as you mirrored his actions, managing a brief nod at his question on your wellbeing. But for the first time in a while it wasn’t defiance that silenced you.

Gifts and gestures gave way to peaceful companionship. Where he had previously watched from the shadows and tried to elicit a response with baiting, he now stepped forward and joined your silence.

You walked together never sharing a word, rode side-by-side without comment, sat opposite each other with only fireplace crackles filling your evenings. You watched his eyes crinkle slightly as his nieces and nephews ran circles around the ground, watched his tight breath as he fought to keep composure on the telephone, smiled behind your book as he endured another ticking off from Polly. The office door stayed open, the flowers under your window bloomed and you remembered what made you want to share this life in the first place.

Throughout your silence, your morning routine had gone unchanged. Breakfast was often the only meal you and Thomas shared; the plate settings always formal in this grand room, letters gently set on a silver tray next to you and a newspaper ironed and folded next to his. This room had seen many a silent war between you both as you rejected gift after gift, unsaid words hanging heavily between you both, the house always gloomy in anticipation of the clash.

Yet this morning there was sunshine washing the dark floors as you descended the staircase. You could see blue skies in every window and hear the gentle movements of the staff as they worked. You entered the dining room to a familiar sight; Thomas reclined slightly, newspaper in hand, breakfast untouched. Your eyes landed on your assigned seat, danced over the freshly cut bloom sat in a silver bud vase and the absence of any other bribe at your place.

The jolt of surprise would be worth it, you decided. You would allow him the win. Afterall, you needed to rectify those ledger mistakes.

You fingered the soft petals as his usual greeting reached you, eyed the smudge of dirt on his shoe-tip for confirmation and took a breath.

“Good morning.”

In the end, it cost him nothing to break your silence. And that was the point.

[slippinninque]

💪🏾Grapple🤸🏾‍♀️

Terry Richmond x blackfemreader

In which Terry lends a hand

warnings: none really, fluff, long-fic, self-indulgent fic, some cursing, sparring

Terry stood before you, waiting until your hair was safely tied and feet planted firmly on the padded mat the two of you drug out.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

The two of you began to circle and while Terry could see the pink of your mouthguard, he knew that grin was by pure habit. Those eyes were sharp as they poked and prodded along his stance for any openings. Terry closed space in two large strides when he heard a car rattling by from outside, opening the gates. 

The two of you grappled, broke apart, and then got tangled again. It reminded you of how the two of you met at the local gym. You loved the sport, you loved what it took but when you came back from service, you didn’t have much to give… anything. Sleeping was hard, then became even harder. Going to the gym one late night, early morning, was your last resort.

Just your luck there was a flyer for a jiu jitsu class right near the water bottle station, the class’ location and time convenient to your schedule. It’s where you met Terry. Serious-faced and firm-handed, he taught you and a handful of others the basics with a simplicity that you appreciated. You kept going and going, even after others lost their taste for the sport, or for  stone-faced Tin-Man. You, on the other hand, finally felt as if you were moving. 

You felt like you won the lottery when you managed to get him onto his back. It was the first time you saw him smile with teeth. From there, it was history. 

Terry had an obvious advantage with his height and weight. He could easily overwhelm you if close enough and his takedowns were nasty.  It was like WWE with a damned cephalopod. Luckily, you were his perfect foil.

Terry could get close if he wanted to, but it would only leave himself open to being climbed and toppled. Your weight and mastery of balance is what gave you an upper hand, Terry could grab you–but then it would be like dealing with a live bear-trap.

You stepped deep into his space, taking advantage of the surprise that showed in the movement. You tossed enough weight to knock him loose, then hooked an ankle around his.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

“Oh, yes I will!”

Terry managed to get on top of you and the position sent your world into darkness as his shirt blocked the fluorescent lighting of your garage. It was fine. You breathed to keep yourself steady, not minding the growing squeeze as you felt your way through. It was hard to explain grappling, but to you, it felt like trying to tie yourself into a knot only you knew how to get out of. Terry had trouble getting you to stretch out, to get into you enough to engage a lock. 

As quick as you were, you broke out and went on the defence. Scooting back on the mat as Terry got onto his feet and followed after you. He grabbed you by the legs and you snapped them around his waist. With your thighs around Terry’s midsection, cross-grabbing his sleeve as you hooked under your wrist behind his ankle and bridged off your shoulders to drop him. Terry’s pretty eyes rattled in his head for a moment before focusing on you, settled now on his chest with your thighs bracketing his head.

Wasn’t a bad sight at all, if you had to say. When Terry didn’t say anything, you hummed and squeezed threateningly.

“I…concede.” 

“Ooo, ‘concede’ Never got that one before.” 

Terry easily tipped you and you rolled onto your stomach with a giggle. Terry’s tongue poked around his cheek as he watched you. When he sat up criss-cross, you froze as you suddenly felt spotted. The feeling didn’t last as Terry launched himself at you, making you yelp as the two of you went heels over head to get into it all over again. 

This match wasn’t serious and neither were the ones that followed. An hour went by, then another. You clinked water bottles and spoke around mouthfuls of granola. At some point, Terry slotted between your legs and never moved away. The two of you were exhausted by now, but you still put him into a headlock though it was more of a headwrap.

Finally you felt good. One day, you came home and you just couldn’t sleep. One of the many advantages of being a bit off, it seems. It’s gotten worse now that you haven’t been able to get outside as often as you did before the snow came. You did the only thing you could have done–you called Terry to extend an invitation to burn of some energy in the good old fashion way. 

Now, blissfully, you felt tired. Exhaustion came cautiously for the nerves that have been going for days, you couldn’t wait to meet up with your pillow. 

“Thanks for doin’ this for me, Tin Man.” You said as you stared up at the fluorescent lights of your garage. 

“Anytime, Snaptrap.” 

He patted your thigh and the two of you parted. He stood with a small hop, looking down at you for a moment. You yawned and offered your hands, Terry taking them without pause to help you up onto your feet. He pulled you again and when you stumbled into him, Terry gave you a cheeky little wink. 

Your answer was to hop up and wrap your legs around him again. Terry caught hold of you just as you knew he would, hands big and hot as they cradled your cheeks. Terry wandered around with you in his arms, squatting down so you could pick up the discarded water bottles and going over to the trash for you to toss them.

As Terry played your legs all the way up to your bedroom. Terry stood in the middle of the room, rocking you in his arms and cuddling you as if you were his personal teddy bear. The mood cooled from it’s frenzied start, leaving the two of you floating in the 

“Terry?”

“Yes?”

He stilled but he did not let you down. You tapped his chin and tried to look as adorable as possible while covered in sweat and a bit bruised. Terry leaned forward and rubbed his nose against yours. 

“Stay for a nap?”

“Of course.” 

He pressed a kiss to your lips before whispering if you’d like for him to run you a shower first.

You wriggled insistently in his arms until you were back onto your feet. You went to pull at Terry’s shirt, going as high as you could until he took over. You were next as he, much more gently, pulled your shirt off. A trail of clothes followed the two of you and when Terry made the shower as hot as he could stand it, you got right in after him. 

The two of you soaped up one good time before the game was over. Terry innocently asked you to wash his back and gave a not-so-subtle flex. Nearly purring, you ran the soft cloth over the fine muscles and wordlessly greeted the two freckles you’ve missed. He bent this way and that so you could get all the spots, much like an appreciative big cat. 

When it was Terry’s turn, you had to bite the inside of your cheek at the feel of hands on you. They massaged and rubbed, scrubbed lightly and peppered kisses regardless of the suds on your skin. You drifted along with the steam until he pulled you out.

Toweled off and warm, the two of you hurried to dive beneath your covers. 

The pillow welcomed you and you sighed, eyes already heavy as Terry shifted and got comfortable next to you. The final drop in the bucket came in the form of Terry’s hand finding your lower belly, your sense finally clocking out as your mind began dimming.

The last thing you heard was Terry’s breath evening out before sleep came to claim you both. 

--------

✨ending notes✨: thank you so much for reading!!! I saw a jiu jitsu video and i couldn't resist 🤭 Tell me what you think! Please like, comments and reblog! thank you so much!!

💕taglist:💕@megamindsecretlair @sageispunk @miyuhpapayuh @notapradagurl7 @blackerthings

@thickeeparker @mcondance @blowmymbackout @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart

@kindofaintrovert

[heliosunny]

HIIII😘😘😘

Can I get a one shot where Fyodor is in a relationship(not romantic or benefit) where he and the reader (They have a sarcastic and unserious personalty) are using each other for their own plans, and then the reader does something incredibly clever and Fyodor realizes that he is in love with them?

I'll try my best darling🌝

Fyodor x Reader

Fyodor Dostoevsky sat at his desk, his pale fingers skimming over papers filled with cryptic calculations. Across from him, sprawled on an ornate chaise lounge, you twirled a knife lazily between your fingers.

“Really, Fyodor, this whole ‘mastermind’ thing is getting a bit predictable,” you teased, voice dripping with mockery. “Plots within plots within plots. Ever heard of keeping it simple?”

His eyes flicked to you, unimpressed. “Simplicity is for fools who lack the capacity for elegance.”

“Oh, of course,” you shot back, feigning a gasp. “How dare I question the genius of the great Dostoevsky? Please, enlighten me with another monologue about ‘higher ideals’ and ‘human decay.’”

He allowed himself the faintest smirk, returning his attention to his papers. This was your dynamic: a game of verbal sparring where neither side ever truly won. A relationship built on mutual utility and endless tension.

“I have everything in place for tomorrow’s plan” Fyodor said without looking up. “You’ll play your part, as usual.”

“Of course” you drawled. “Why wouldn’t I want to put myself in mortal danger for your little games? It’s not like I value my life or anything.”

“Spare me your dramatics” he replied coolly. “You enjoy the chaos as much as I do.”

You grinned but didn’t deny it. That was the thing about you, your irreverence masked a sharp mind, one that Fyodor had come to rely on more often than he cared to admit. Still, he never let his guard down around you. That would be a mistake.

------------

The warehouse was dark, illuminated only by the flickering glow of a single hanging bulb. It smelled of rust, oil, and danger, exactly the kind of setting that suited you and Fyodor Dostoevsky.

You stood on a rickety platform overlooking the scene below: rows of heavily armed men guarding crates filled with contraband, their boss perched smugly at a desk in the center. Fyodor leaned casually against the railing beside you, his expression unreadable as usual.

“So, what’s the plan again?” you asked, pretending to sound bored, though your heart raced in anticipation.

“You’ll take care of the distraction,” Fyodor replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll handle the rest.”

“A distraction, huh?” You grinned, twirling a smoke grenade in your hand. “You know, ‘handle the rest’ sounds like you’re planning to take all the credit.”

His lips curled into a faint smile. “Only if you fail to make it interesting.”

That was the thing about working with Fyodor: every plan he concocted was meticulously designed, every variable accounted for. But you prided yourself on introducing the one element he couldn’t predict: chaos.

“Alright, genius” you said, tossing the grenade from hand to hand. “Try to keep up.”

Below, the smugglers were on edge. They knew someone was coming, but they didn’t know who or how. You made sure their paranoia hit a peak when the first grenade clattered onto the floor, releasing a thick cloud of purple smoke.

“Intruders!” one of them shouted, drawing his weapon.

You swung down from the platform, landing gracefully amidst the chaos. “Evening, gentlemen,” you said cheerfully, dodging a bullet with a well-timed roll. “Lovely night for a trade-off, isn’t it?”

The smugglers swarmed toward you, leaving Fyodor to slip unnoticed along the shadows. He moved like a ghost, weaving through the chaos as if it were all a choreographed ballet. While you kept their attention firmly on you, tossing smoke grenades, flipping tables, and generally being an irritating whirlwind of destruction, eventually, Fyodor reached the crates.

He opened one with practiced precision, revealing stacks of falsified government documents, the key to dismantling this entire operation. With a swift movement, he swapped the documents with fakes of his own creation, ones that would incriminate not him but their most dangerous rival organization.

Meanwhile, you were running out of tricks. A particularly burly smuggler had cornered you, his fist raised. “You’re dead, you little-”

Before he could finish, you slid under his legs, grabbing the pistol from his holster and aiming it at his foot. “Careful,” you said with a wink. “I’m fragile.”

The shot rang out, sending him stumbling back, howling in pain.

“Enough!” the smugglers’ boss bellowed, his patience snapping. He turned toward the crates, his hand reaching for the documents but Fyodor was already standing there, holding one of them aloft.

“Looking for this?” Fyodor asked, his voice as cold and sharp as a winter wind.

The boss froze. “Who are you?”

“The one who ends you.” Fyodor replied simply, tossing the document into the air. Before anyone could react, you shot it mid-fall, the bullet igniting a tiny incendiary charge Fyodor had embedded inside. The document went up in flames, taking their entire operation with it.

As the room erupted into chaos, the two of you slipped away into the night, leaving the smugglers to deal with the fallout.

--------------

Back in your safehouse, you leaned against the wall, catching your breath. “You know” you said, tossing your last grenade onto the table, “you could’ve warned me about the explosive documents. I nearly burned my eyebrows off.”

Fyodor didn’t look up from the ledger he’d taken as a trophy. “I knew you’d adapt.”

You scoffed, though you couldn’t help but smirk. “One of these days, your overconfidence is going to backfire.”

He finally glanced at you, a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “And yet, here you are, alive and victorious, thanks to my overconfidence.”

“Touché” you admitted, collapsing onto the sofa.

That was the thing about you two. No matter how dangerous the game, no matter how high the stakes, you always made it out together. The line between trust and rivalry blurred with every scheme, every shared victory.

Neither of you would admit it yet, but there was no denying it anymore: you were equals in this mad, intricate dance.

------------

“Where is the ledger?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. A key piece of evidence that should have fallen into his hands was gone. His brow furrowed as he turned to you, standing nonchalantly by a shattered window.

You held up a small, leather-bound book, your grin as sharp as the blade you still carried. “Oh, this? I figured I’d hold onto it for now. You know, as insurance.”

His eyes narrowed. “Insurance?”

“Come on, Fyodor,” you said, stepping closer. “Did you really think I’d let you have all the power? You might be the devil incarnate, but even the devil needs a check and balance. Consider this my way of evening the scales.”

It was brilliant, really. You’d executed his plan perfectly, then added your own twist, ensuring that you held the upper hand. For the first time in years, Fyodor felt a flicker of surprise, a rare, exhilarating sensation. But more than that, he felt… something else.

As you met his gaze, your smirk fading into something more serious, Fyodor realized what it was: admiration. No, more than that. Love. The realization hit him like a thunderclap. He’d never intended to feel this way about anyone, least of all someone as infuriatingly clever and unpredictable as you. Yet here he was, watching you outmaneuver him with the kind of brilliance that could rival his own.

“You’re playing a dangerous game” he said softly, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you replied, your grin returning.

For the first time, Fyodor found himself wondering if you were his greatest asset or his greatest weakness. Either way, he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t let you go.

And so the game continued, the stakes higher than ever. Only now, Fyodor wasn’t sure if he was playing to win or if he’d already lost.

------------

The morning after your clever maneuver, Fyodor sat at his desk, his dark eyes fixated on the small details of his latest plan. You, perched on the window ledge with the stolen ledger still in your possession, were as insufferable as ever.

“You know,” you said, flipping through the pages idly“this little book has enough dirt to sink a dozen empires. I bet I could make a fortune selling it to the highest bidder.”

“You won’t.” Fyodor replied without looking up, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that sent chills down spines.

“Oh? And why not?” You grinned, leaning forward as if daring him to challenge you.

“Because,” he said, finally lifting his gaze, “you don’t betray me. You enjoy this too much.”

There it was again, that unspoken tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge. But before you could respond with your usual wit, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. The sound of boots thundering up the staircase followed.

“Looks like someone found us~” you remarked, sliding off the ledge with practiced ease.

Fyodor’s lips twitched into a dangerous smile. “It seems our enemies are growing bold.”

The two of you moved in tandem, slipping through the shadows like predators. The intruders, likely remnants of the organization Fyodor had dismantled, stormed in, armed to the teeth. What they didn’t anticipate was the chaos you brought to every fight. While Fyodor’s mind orchestrated the situation like a symphony, your unorthodox methods added unpredictability. Together, you were a force they couldn’t counter.

“Behind you!” Fyodor warned sharply, his hand darting to neutralize a threat near him.

But you were already moving. With a quick feint, you disarmed the attacker and sent him sprawling. “What, worried about me?” you teased.

His eyes darkened. “Always.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, but there was no time to dwell. The fight ended as swiftly as it began, leaving the room littered with unconscious bodies. You exhaled, brushing dust from your sleeves.

“Well, that was fun.” you quipped, though your heart still raced from the adrenaline.

Fyodor stepped closer, his presence suffocating yet electrifying. His dark eyes bore into yours, unrelenting. “You put yourself in unnecessary danger” he said, his voice quiet but cutting.

You raised an eyebrow. “I handled myself just fine, thank you.”

“That’s not the point.” He reached out, his hand brushing against your wrist. It wasn’t an affectionate gesture, more like a warning, a reminder of the power he wielded. “You belong to me, whether you like it or not.”

You froze, surprised by the vehemence in his tone. “Fyodor, you don’t own me” you said, your voice steady despite the fire in his gaze.

His lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t I?” His fingers tightened just enough to make you aware of the weight behind his words. “You might think you’re playing your own game, but every move you make brings you closer to me. You can deny it, fight it, but in the end, you’ll realize the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“That you’re mine” he said simply, his grip loosening as his hand fell away. “And I’m yours, though I doubt you’ll appreciate that as much as you should.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and unexpected. For once, you were at a loss for words. Fyodor, the calculating genius who trusted no one, had just laid his cards on the table. And despite your instincts screaming at you to run, to laugh it off, you couldn’t deny the flicker of something dangerously close to affection in your chest.

But you weren’t ready to let him win, not yet.

“Big words for someone whose plans I just hiịacked.” you said, smirking as you held up the ledger. “Maybe I’ll stick around… if only to keep you on your toes.”

Fyodor’s smile returned, colder but no less genuine. “Do as you wish. Just remember: no one else will ever understand you the way I do.”

And with that, the game between you continued, though the stakes had irrevocably changed. What had once been a battle of wits was now a dance of hearts, neither willing to admit defeat but both unwilling to walk away.

For Fyodor, it wasn’t just about winning anymore, it was about keeping you close, no matter the cost.

----------

Idk why but my feed is full of Fyodor's fics now ahaha.

[extremedelusions17]

sunsets and football

l.williamson x reader

again really small fic - 801 words

fluff

a/n: Leah won the poll so here it is, hope you enjoy xx

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leah Williamson and you had been inseparable since childhood. You had met when you had kicked a ball through the fence of the old, worn down fence that surrounded the grass field you would play at and someone kicked it back, since then your bond was unbreakable. As the years passed, your friendship evolved into something deeper, a connection that went beyond a simple friendship. Little did younger you know that kicking a soccer ball through a hole in a run down fence would be one of the best mishaps to ever happen to you.

It was now years later on a trip back home that you revisited that field. It was a warm summer evening, the golden hues of the setting sun casting a glow over the soccer field where Leah and you had spent countless hours practicing your skills. The familiar sound of cleats against the grass echoed as you dribbled the ball while she tried to steal it, laughter filling the air.

"Watch out!" Leah called out, attempting to steal the ball from you.

You skillfully maneuvered around her, keeping possession. "Nice try, Lee!"

As the game went on, you guys were panting, caught between the thrill of the competition and the joy of each other's company. After a seriously close play, you both just flopped onto the grass, laughing your hearts out.

"That was intense," Leah gasped, her eyes reflecting the genuine happiness she felt in these moments.

"Yeah, but it's always fun with you," you replied, catching your breath. Leaning on your side, your gaze traced Leah's form, she was still laying on her back watching the sunset.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant shades of pink and orange. You stole another glance at Leah, her features illuminated by the warm glow. In that moment, it hit you like a tidal wave– your feelings for Leah had evolved into something more than friendship, you liked Leah williamson

Sitting up, you sighed, trying to mask the sudden shift in your emotions. Leah noticed and sat up to, concerned she furrowed her brow. "Hey, what's wrong? What are you thinking about?"

You hesitated, uncertain about whether to share your newfound realization. "It's nothing, just... I appreciate our friendship, you know?"

Leah studied you for a moment, her gaze penetrating. "Are you sure about that?"

Avoiding eye contact, you mumbled out a quick, "Yeah, of course."

But Leah wasn't convinced. With a gentle touch, she turned your face towards hers. "Stop looking at me like you love me," she said, her tone soft yet piercing.

Caught off guard, you felt a flush of embarrassment. "I...I don't know what you're talking about."

Leah chuckled, her thumb brushing against your cheek. "You can't hide anything from me. We've been best friends forever. If there's something on your mind, just tell me."

Taking a deep breath, you met her gaze, vulnerability laid bare. "Lee, I think... I think I might be in love with you."

A pause lingered in the air, the weight of the confession sinking in. Leah's eyes softened, and a warm smile graced her lips. "About time you realized that. I love you too, you know? More than just as a friend."

In the quiet pause that followed Leah's heartfelt words, the air between you two felt charged with a mix of emotions. Leah's eyes softened, and a genuine smile played on her lips, easing the weight of the moment. "About time you realized that. I love you too, you know? More than just as a friend."

As the words settled, the atmosphere shifted. It was as if an unspoken agreement wrapped around both of you, drawing you even closer. Without saying anything more, Leah's hand slowly found yours, fingers intertwining wordlessly, a promise of the love that had quietly grown between you. 

In that moment, as the surroundings blurred, you both savored the simplicity of a shared glance, lingering in the beauty of a quiet revelation that shifted the course of your lifelong friendship.

Leah's words still hanging in the air, the atmosphere shifted. A shared understanding emerged, a silent agreement that something more was about to unfold. Your eyes met in an unspoken connection, and Leah, sensing the shift, closed the gap between you. Her hand rose gently and cupped your cheek, and the world around you faded into the background as her lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss.

Time seemed to slow down on that soccer field, and in the simplicity of that first kiss, the years of friendship, laughter, and unspoken feelings found a new expression. The soccer field, once witness to your ever growing relationship, now held the memory of a turning point, the beginning of a love story that had been patiently waiting to unfold.

[laurabenanti]

fave creators' art challenge: 2024

based off of this post: the premise is simple. just think of your fave creators on this site and write a post listing some of your fave creations that were made by them. tell them why you like it, if the coloring is pretty, if the blending is top notch, if it inspired you or just gush about the characters... and don't forget to tag them so they can see it. (being tagged puts you at no obligation to do this yourself! just spreading the love).

everything under the cut below (because long post)

rules (that i made up):

sets should be those posted in 2024

one set per creator (otherwise i will put everything from everyone here)

picks do not need to be mutuals

* just going to go ahead and add in here now that i absolutely forgot people, but please know that i love everything you all make! please check out the other talented people i follow for more quality content. ** also this is in no particular order and i will absolutely be me repeating myself with the praise chosen because hot dang are these people talented.

@imogens-temult's super pretty set of moiraine. the color parallels are amazing, font combo is gorgeous, and just perfect. [FLASHING TW]

@shadowhaert's shaunanat set, featuring amazing green/black duotones, with a purple accent. i love the layout on this, and it works so well with the blending.

@nicknelosn's jackieshauna set. i love the typography on this sosososo much (also the blue and pink combo is so nicely done???) [FLASHING TW]

@khaotungthanawat's set for meet you at the blossom. i am not familiar with the show (read the ln awhile back), but there is something about the simplicity? it's beautifully done (and also the color yellow - my beloved).

@crowley-anthony's rio vidal/death set. the entire layout of everything is perfect: the triblends are top notch, the icons and font choice are amazing, AND it is just a nicely done set. also, again, the color yellow my beloved.

@mikelogan's super pretty flanagan formula. it is so pretty and well done. amazing layout, b&w my beloved, and also... there should always be more mike flanagan content. [FLASHING TW]

@dramatical's ghibli palette set. something about the simplicity just gives me joy. also, just gorgeously colored. amazing.

@alicenthighstower's siuraine set. the 3rd gif is so amazing with the framing. i love it so much i just- [FLASHING TW]

@ruanbaijie's set for snowfall. a very underrate cdrama, but also i just love how the text is laid out. the chinese characters being combined so nicely with the english, the coloring... truly just in love with it. (FLASHING TW)

@beetlejuce's beautifully done set for chappell roan. beautifully laid out, gorgeous coloring, and i adore it.

@tommykinard's set of maddie buckley. i love the soft blue (and, of course, the typography). i love how the font is laid out, and the transitions. forever obsessed with the lines/circle on the 3rd gif.

@eddiediaaz's set for buddie. the blends on tthe albums, the typography... beautiful. also - ever so slightly biased because a song i recommended is one of those featured. but that does not minimize the amazingness.

@maines' wizard of oz x agatha all along rainbow set. the coloring is so freaking beautiful, and is absolutely one of my favorite rainbow sets of all time. it is truly just... gorgeous. also - some of the missing scenes... still cheering on a pt. II.

@trueloveistreacherous' poker face set. i actually had something else picked originally, but my love for yellow won out again. PLUS - this is a show that needs so much more love. beautifully done.

@rosamundpkes' siuraine set. am i biased because this is set is based off a quote that i sent hella a month or two ago, and told her to make a set of? yes. BUT ALSO - do you see those tri-blends? do you see that pain in the 3rd gif? exactly.

@antoniosvivaldi's maisie peters set. there is slight recency bias, but i am obsessed with the gradients on this. it's so pretty, guys.

@guildfordd's rebelcaptain's set. this is just so pretty? and so well done? yeah, yeah, yellow bias - but i love the last gif's tie in with the icon/burst. it is just so pretty.

@henwilsons's morgana set. i am... i am so obsessed with the blending and coloring here that it's unhealthy. [FLASHING TW]

@robin-buckely's stranger things robin/steve/nancy set. this is just so amazingly laid out, and gives such good insp. just how (/positive)

@vidalharkness' obi wan set. the typography and coloring are just... so nice. also loving the overlay/texture going on in the first and last gif.

some other blogs that create amazing/inspiring content (w/ a set to showcase their work):

@taiturner's taissa turner set during tv appreciation week. amazing layout and gorgeous duotone coloring.

@magnusedom's 911 season 2 posters. they're all so unique.

@nataliescatorccio's chappell roan set. amazing layout and gorgeous blending.

@thereigning-lorelai's nancy drew/nace set. the typography is always on point, but the blends and design of the gifs are just gorgeous.

[riddle-me-fear]

Hey! Question for you both; how's it goin' being "just roommates?"

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Correction: housemates. Sometimes flatmates, depends on where we are. Actually, for simplicity's sake, we could call ourselves just "mates".

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Reminds me of a lil somethin' along the lines of "I have ya in check and soon I'll be mating ya".

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

You will never let that one go, will you?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Naht unless ya wipe it from ma memory.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh, don't give me ideas. Anyway, I'm not quite sure how to answer that question. We're quite open about our relationship, so we're clearly not "just roommates". Unless that is your way of asking how our relationship is going. In which case, it's going well!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Goin' well, all thin's considered.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Hey, we did talk about marriage just yesterday.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Which is neva goin' ta happen. Naht with yer big idea of a weddin' anyway, compulsively needin' it to be a gigantic spectacle goin' down in da history o' Gotham. Naht ta mention, ya wanna invite Bruce Wayne fo' cryin' out loud!

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Obviously! He's practically part of the family at this point, a distant uncle, or cousin, if you will. Imagine how furious he'd be if he found out we were getting married and he wasn't invited to the wedding. If I were him, I'd surely be absolutely fuming.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Oh I'm sure. Betcha wanna invite da entire bat family ova too.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Well, Babs and I are basically besties at this point, I would never hear the end of it if I didn't invite her. Dick and Tim, sure. Iiiii don't think it's a good idea to send Jason an invitation; he's even more into revenge, oh, excuse me, "justice" than bats was.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Who'd ya even want from da Rogues ta come?

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oooh, good question. Well, Harley, obviously, then Ivy, because she comes with the package. Ugh, then I'll have to worry about not having any cut flowers around. Potted plants it is, I suppose. Waylon, of course, oh I so look forward to see the look on his face, he'd cry rivers of joy the entire evening ahaha!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Hn-hnn he sure would. What about Os?

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh yes, definitely Oswald, I want to rub it all over his stupid bird face mm-hahahaha! Oh, I do think we should invite Selina, she'd forever be a pain in my ass if she wasn't there, and not in the good way. Oh! How could I forget, of course we'll have to invite Julian, William and Victor.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Who'r they again? Ya know I'm bad with names.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Right, sorry, that would be Calendar Man, Clock King and King Tut.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Aah. Yer chess club.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

We did actually play chess on multiple occasions. I always won, of course.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

We both know that's a lie, but I'mana ignore that an' just believe ya because I really don't have da energy ta argue with you today.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Ahahaha! Oh you are too adorable. Actually, who would you invite? Do you even have anyone else than me in your life?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ya mean anyone that's still alive, that ya didn't kill outta jealousy? Ya know, I'm havin' a hard time believin' Os wus mo' jealous than you. I'm actually surprised he hasn't murdered me yet.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Ahaha! But he sure does try. And fail. Miserably.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ffhhh well, Harley's one o' ma frien's, first of all. Then I'll invite Ikky, Nightmare, Terror, Horror--

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Those are all birds, Jon, I know you'd want your animal friends to be there. But I meant people. Humanoid or similar.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Then ya shoulda been mo' specific! Human... uuuh... Jervis, I s'ppose.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh dear lord...

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

... No, yeah, that's about it. But that's all purely hypothetical, tha GCPD would be on our asses befo' we even get started.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Haaaah, right you are. Shame that the one cop I'd invite is exactly the one that's absolutely unbribable. Haaaah, and just like that, my dreams are crushed into a million pieces.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Don't mean we can't pretend. Ya'd look fuckin' amazin' in a weddin' dress.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Ahaha, why thank you! I'd imagine you'd look quite stunning as well. Alright, that's it, it's decided, you and I are going on a wedding dress shopping spree this weekend. Oh, I can already see the news headlines - "THE RIDDLER AND THE SCARECROW - PLANNING FOR WEDDING?!"

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Jesus fuckin' Christ, Eddie.

[galaxysupreme17]

Lazy Sunday Morning

Y/n = Your Name

Y/n/n = Your Nickname

Agathario x daughter!reader

The sun filtered gently through the sheer curtains of their cozy Westview home, casting a warm glow on the wooden floors. It was one of those perfect, quiet mornings when the world outside seemed to slow down, offering a rare sense of peace. No missions, no magical crises-just the three of them: Y/n, Rio, and Agatha. They had lived here in Westview for years now, embracing a life of simplicity, even as witches. Today was special, though. It was a day without obligations, a day where they didn't have to be anything other than a family.

Y/n lay sprawled across the couch, cocooned in a plush blanket. The house was still. The faint sound of Rio humming drifted from the kitchen, where she was already preparing coffee. But Y/n wasn't quite ready to face the day. She sighed contentedly, burying her face deeper into the blanket, savoring the rare feeling of being able to stay in bed-or on the couch, in her case.

In the kitchen, the familiar sounds of pots and pans clinking together mingled with the smell of brewing coffee. Agatha was up now, too, and Y/n could hear her soft voice carrying through the house, lightly bickering with Rio over breakfast preparations. It was their Sunday tradition-a lazy morning where they made breakfast together, sat around in pajamas, and enjoyed the calmness that only a day off could bring.

"Mi amor, don't use too much butter," Y/n heard Rio's voice tease from the kitchen.

Agatha scoffed in mock offense. "Butter is the foundation of any good meal, hun. You can't just 'cut back' on butter. That's heresy."

Y/n smiled under her blanket but made no move to get up just yet. She could listen to her mother's playful banter all day. These moments were the kind that Y/n cherished more than anything else-the little things that made their house a home.

The aroma of breakfast finally lured her from her cozy cocoon. Groaning slightly, Y/n shuffled to the kitchen, still wrapped in her blanket, her bare feet padding softly on the floor. "Morning, Mama. Morning, Mom," she mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

"Morning, sweetheart," Rio said with a soft smile, her hair still messy from sleep. She was leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand. She always moved slower in the mornings, especially on days like this when they had nowhere to be.

Agatha, standing by the stove with her signature apron on, turned and smiled at Y/n. "Look who's finally joined the land of the living. Pancakes will be ready soon."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Homemade pancakes? Again?"

"Of course. It's tradition," Agatha said with a wink, expertly flipping a pancake.

Rio, with a mischievous grin, slipped a box of store-bought pastries onto the counter, trying to be subtle about it. "But, you know, it never hurts to have some backup options."

"Mom," Y/n laughed, shaking her head as she slid into a seat at the kitchen table, pulling her blanket tighter around her. "You're going to get in trouble with Mama."

"Too late," Agatha said, eyeing the pastries disapprovingly but with a hint of amusement. "You can't sneak that processed nonsense into my kitchen."

Rio just shrugged, unbothered. "Hey, I like variety."

Y/n grinned, feeling the warmth of home settle into her chest. It was always like this-Agatha sticking to tradition and Rio introducing her own brand of chaos. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Y/n had learned to appreciate both sides. She rested her chin in her hands, watching them with sleepy affection. "Honestly, I'm with Mama on this one. Homemade pancakes win every time."

Agatha beamed proudly as if she'd won some great culinary battle. "See? Our daughter has good taste."

"Alright, alright," Rio laughed, raising her hands in surrender. "I'll save the croissants for later."

Breakfast soon filled the table-piles of fluffy pancakes, fresh fruit, and yes, even the sneaky pastries Rio insisted on bringing out after all. Y/n, still wrapped in her blanket, dug in without hesitation. The first bite of pancakes melted in her mouth, reminding her of every Sunday morning they'd spent together like this.

"This," Y/n mumbled through a mouthful of food, "is perfect. A day of absolutely nothing."

Rio ruffled Y/n's hair as she passed behind her, grabbing a plate. "You've earned it. You've been working yourself too hard lately."

Agatha nodded in agreement. "Even witches need rest, darling. Besides, today's about us. No magic practice, no schoolwork. Just... family."

Y/n smiled softly at her mothers, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this relaxed. "I needed this," she admitted. "A break from... everything."

Agatha reached across the table, her hand resting on Y/n's arm. "We all do love."

After breakfast, they returned to the living room, and the remains of their meal were left on the table to clean up later. Y/n flopped onto the couch, pulling her blanket up to her chin and groaning dramatically. "I'm not moving for the rest of the day. You can't make me."

Rio chuckled and slid onto the couch beside her, tucking a strand of Y/n's hair behind her ear. "Who said we were doing anything today? I plan on being just as lazy as you."

Agatha, having settled into her favorite armchair, crossed her legs and smiled. "Shall we watch something, then? Maybe one of those 'modern classics' you two love so much?"

Y/n's eyes widened. "No black-and-white movies, please, Mama. Anything but that."

Rio laughed, picking up the remote. "Let's compromise-something light, something fun. How about a rom-com?"

Y/n grinned. "Perfect."

The day passed in a haze of cozy blankets, laughter, and movies. The three of them lounged around the living room, the warmth of the fireplace adding to the snug atmosphere. As the afternoon stretched on, Y/n found herself sandwiched between her moms on the couch, their soft breathing and gentle presence comforting her in a way that magic never could.

It was halfway through the second movie that Agatha leaned over and kissed Y/n on the temple. "You know we love you, right? You don't have to do anything to earn that."

Y/n glanced at her, surprised by the sudden seriousness in her voice. "I know, Mama. I love you both too."

Rio smiled from the other side, nudging Y/n's shoulder. "We're proud of you. Just for being you."

Y/n felt a lump rise in her throat but swallowed it down, feeling the warmth of their love settle into her. She snuggled deeper into her blanket, resting her head against Rio's shoulder, her eyes drooping. "This is... this is all I need," she mumbled sleepily.

And before long, they had all drifted off to sleep, the movie forgotten in the background. Y/n was sandwiched between the two women who had been her constant, family, and everything. In this house, in this small town, they weren't witches or powerful beings. They were just three people, content to be with one another.

As Y/n drifted in and out of sleep, she thought about how much they meant to her. How every little thing they did, even bickering over breakfast, made her feel safe. She smiled to herself, the last thought before falling into a deep sleep being one of pure contentment.

And with that, their peaceful Sunday carried on in the warm, quiet comfort of home.

[not-xpr-art]

Inside no 9 - Series 4 painting studies ~

Here's the next set of individual paintings for this series!! Less of a neat post than the others since there's technically 7 episodes in this one (because of Dead Line lol)

My Zanzibar painting is maybe a bit of a simple screen shot, but I just couldn't find any in that ep that weren't overly complicated lol... Plus it is a very pretty shade of green so it adds a nice bit of colour to the series!

Testament to how much Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room means to me that I was actually getting emotional painting that one pfft... There were SO many options I could have picked for that ep but again, the simplicity won out and I love how it's still very recognisably them whilst also being really aesthetically beautiful!

I can't remember who pointed it out, but someone mentioned how if Viktor had actually fallen in that scene then his nose would actually be pressed up which isn't something I thought about before lol! Realism aside, it was a joy to paint such a silly shot!

So I actually started doing two different drawings of Nick from Tempting Fate only I was really struggling to get his face right fsr so gave up and went for a much easier shot that still featured the hare and guys it honestly ended up being my absolute favourite out of all of them lol!!

My Dead Line piece really just tells me I should draw more older people tbh! Especially if they're holding knives lol

As always thanks to everyone for the love on this series <3