#i have no idea what to do for a background....

[bagadew]

While this is a good breakdown, I’m not entirely sure I agree with the portrayal of the Doylist view as being inherently more true, or with the Watsonian view being more naive. I don’t necessarily think that one is better than the other, but I will argue the other sides of what was written above for the sake of balance.

Doylist point of views have a tendency to be jaded. They assume that things happen by the readers own perspective of the way the real world works, and the way the people involved think and behave. Sometimes this is appropriate, and most likely correct, like with the bunny girl the example listed above… other times it shuts down actual media analysis with bad faith takes that, refuse to connect with the media as an art form with something it is trying to say.

For instance, chalking a character’s unusual behaviour up as the result of the episode having a different writer isn’t just trite, it’s objective, and makes assumptions of things going on behind the scenes that you ultimately have no real knowledge of. Perhaps that was what was going on, perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps it was something intentional the audience was supposed to pick up on? Perhaps it’s an intentional subtlety that fits into a bigger picture the writers were trying to tell. Perhaps it will be something later. Perhaps the show is finished and it’s an echo of an idea they decided to drop? Sometimes there is no clear truth. Sometimes the truth is a mixture.

The Watsonian view meanwhile, can be about engaging with a piece of media on its own merits, and analysing it on the strength of itself on its own two feet. Things like world building and can be a legitimate answer as to why the story goes in the directions it does, especially in works where those things are the fleshed and important parts of the world.

The Watsonian fan and the writer are not a different species. Writers can and do sink hours into their world building and character work, trying to stick to the laws they created and follow them through to their natural conclusion. They put those things in their work for others to pick up on, even if those things are just background because there are more important things to put in the foreground. Those things are placed there on purpose for people to pick up on and think about.

Sometimes the curtains are blue because that was the only fabric the set designer had. Sometimes the curtains are blue because it says something about the themes of the work. Sometimes the curtains are blue because it’s the colour the character would have picked out. All of these reasons can be true and all of them can be false. It depends on the work in question.

I feel like we need a refresher on Watsonian vs Doylist perspectives in media analysis. When you have a question about a piece of media - about a potential plot hole or error, about a dubious costuming decision, about a character suddenly acting out of character -

A Watsonian answer is one that positions itself within the fictional world.

A Doylist answer is one that positions itself within the real world.

Meaning: if Watson says something that isn't true, one explanation is that Watson made a mistake. Another explanation is that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle made a mistake.

Watsonian explanations are implicitly charitable. You are implicitly buying into the notion that there is a good in-world reason for what you're seeing on screen or on the page. ("The bunny girls in Final Fantasy wear lingerie all the time because they're from a desert culture!")

Doylist explanations are pragmatic. You are acknowledging that the fiction is shaped by real-world forces, like the creators' personal taste, their biases, the pressures they might be under from managers or editors, or the limits of their expertise. ("The bunny girls in Final Fantasy wear lingerie because somebody thought they'd sell more units that way.")

Watsonian explanations tend to be imaginative but naive. Seeking a Watsonian explanation for a problem within a narrative is inherently pleasure-seeking: you don't want your suspension of disbelief to be broken, and you're willing to put in the leg work to prevent it. Looking for a Watsonian answer can make for a fun game! But it can quickly stray into making excuses for lazy or biased storytelling, or cynical and greedy executives.

Doylist explanations are very often accurate, but they're not much fun. They should supersede efforts to provide a Watsonian explanation where actual harm is being done: "This character is being depicted in a racist way because the creators have a racist bias.'" Or: "The lore changed because management fired all of the writers from last season because they didn't want to pay then residuals."

Doylism also runs the risk of becoming trite, when applied to lower stakes discrepancies. Yes, it's possible that this character acted strangely in this episode because this episode had a different writer, but that isn't interesting, and it terminates conversation.

I think a lot of conversations about media would go a lot more smoothly, and everyone would have a lot more fun, if people were just clearer about whether they are looking to engage in Watsonian or Doylist analysis. How many arguments could be prevented by just saying, "No, Doylist you're probably right, but it's more fun to imagine there's a Watsonian reason for this, so that's what I'm doing." Or, "From a Watsonian POV that explanation makes sense, but I'm going with the Doylist view here because the creator's intentions leave a bad taste in my mouth that I can't ignore."

Idk, just keep those terms in your pocket? And if you start to get mad at somebody for their analysis, take a second to see if what they're saying makes more sense from the other side of the Watsonian/Doylist divide.

[bcksbarnes]

have i found you?

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky are in the beginning stages of your relationship and get caught in a rainstorm

word count: 2.1K

the early stages of dating were always the most nerve wracking, and for bucky who hadn’t done any ounce of it in the last 80 years, it’s even more so. when you came into his life it felt like something had finally clicked into place again, like the world got a bit brighter, the fog that was there was starting to lift. 

now the problem he was having was translating those feelings into words. sure, you understood that he was more of a shower not a teller, but bucky wanted to push those boundaries for you. his therapist told him that part of growing is doing things that would make him uncomfortable; he never wanted to switch therapists faster in his life. 

but, he knew she was right.

you and bucky had decided to take things slow, even if there was no formal conversation stating that, both of you knew that it would be better in the long run to not rush into anything. you didn’t need him to open up about his past to get the idea of what had happened, you knew of his time as the winter soldier, there was no need to go into details so early on.

so most of your nights together were spent learning the song and dance of this new relationship, or whatever this was. 

despite his quiet nature, bucky was anything but a homebody. sitting still didn’t mix well with the instinct to always be on the run, and being alone meant that the thoughts that flooded his brain couldn’t be tuned out. no, bucky needed some background noise, not overstimulating, but the chatter of the people or the sound of cars passing by him to drown out the thoughts as best he could. for those reasons alone, he tried to take you out as much as possible.

your favorite thing to do together was to walk over the bridge from manhattan and into brooklyn, despite being terrified of how high up you were, bucky couldn’t imagine a better way to spend time together. it was intimate yet you were still surrounded by people. the views were stunning, and it always gave him an excuse to stop by his old neighborhood. even if so much had changed in the decades since he had lived there, he loved the warm fuzzy feeling in his chest when he got to show you his home. 

“it must be hard to come back,” you said to him one night as the two of you finished crossing the bridge, making the turn toward bucky’s old building.

his free hand was intertwined with yours, keeping you close to his side, as his metal one came up to rub at the back of his neck. you had a habit of seeing right through him.

“it can be,” he says, honestly. “everyone i know has passed away, and steve doesn’t like to visit here anymore, so it can be a little lonely.”

he doesn’t mention that you being there with him makes it feel less terrifying. his heart doesn’t sink as low as it used to, he doesn’t get choked up thinking of all he’s lost. no, instead he just squeezes your hand, needing to know that you’re right there next to him.

neither of you say anything when you pass his home, his expression is somber as he watches the family that lives there now in the window. it was different, new. he didn’t hate it, how could he hate such happiness? but sometimes he felt envious of the people who were able to continue on with their lives.

“i used to sit on that stoop and wait for steve to come over,” he said as the two of you started walking again. “i used to tell him that i’d just go to his place because he had asthma, the kid couldn’t run for shit.” bucky smirked as he thought back on the memory. “but he’d always tell me buck, i’ll be at your house. 3pm sharp. not a second later. he’d be wheezing his ass off but he was never late.”

the two of you laugh together at the thought, steve was once such a fragile being compared to how you knew him. that was the steve who was a brother to bucky.

bucky didn’t know how to explain that he hasn’t felt happiness since then, it was starting to get a little easier to smile and enjoy his life; but true happiness? jeez, he can’t even remember.

“you two seemed like you probably got into a lot of trouble.” you teased, elbowing him in the ribs playfully. 

“yeah, we did. steve really was just along for the ride, i was usually the one up to something.” there’s a smirk on his face that he can’t seem to wipe off as the two of you walk, turning onto the block of where his new apartment was. “one time i managed to get the fire hydrant opened when it was the middle of july, they wouldn't come to open the one on our block for some reason. flooded the whole street within seconds.” he chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. “steve tried to take the blame, as if anyone would believe that.”

“i bet you guys didn’t care if it was flooded.”

“not even a bit. i’d never been to a beach before so this was the only water i was around, we’d get a bunch of kids on the block, run around like it was the best damn time of our lives.”

it hits you square in the chest how much had been taken from him over this lifetime, and it was this moment where you made a promise to yourself that wherever this went between the two of you - you’d never let him look back and regret it.

“hope that wasn’t too sentimental for you.” bucky teased as his eyes trained over to you.

“no, no,” you reassure him with a smile when you meet his gaze. “i could listen to those stories all day. i like seeing how happy they make you.”

his chest bloomed with his feelings for you, it was moments like this where his tongue felt heavy in his mouth because he wanted to just spill his guts out to you and tell you everything on his mind. but, he still felt so lost. 

as the two of you get closer to his building, you notice the once blue sky starting to turn a dark grey - not the same kind as when the sunset, but when the heavens felt like they were going to open up. the air had shifted to something more still, less humid and with the few splats of drops that started to scatter around you, both you and bucky knew that you only had a few minutes to get to his place.

“let’s go,” bucky said. 

his hand tightened around yours as the two of you began to jog, trying to make it back in time. you were only about a block away before it started to come down, really come down. puddles started to form rapidly, each time you and bucky stepped into one it exacerbated how your already wet clothes clung to your bodies. a sigh of relief leaving his lips as he saw the door to his building was only a few steps away.

bucky’s hands were shaking as he reached into his pocket to grab his keys, the water getting into his eyes as he looked down. but, unexpectedly, the moment struck you. it was poetic in a way that this man standing next to you needed to live a new life, he needed to breathe. really breathe.

you don’t say anything as you turn away from him, walking towards the end of the sidewalk. the rain was coming down too hard for anyone to drive in, so you ran into the middle of the street. 

“wha-?”

bucky’s eyes were wide as he turned to look over his shoulder, watching you carefully. you stood with your head back tilted towards the sky, letting the rain cover you, cleanse you. stepping away from the door, bucky walked towards you, calling your name over the rain falling. 

“what the hell are you doing?” he asked, his hand moving to smooth over his wet locks. 

“i’m having the best damn time of my life!” you called back, your heart fluttering as you watched him. “join me!”

if bucky didn’t want you before, he definitely did now. his heart stammered in his chest as your words hit his ears, registering in his head. there was a moment of hesitation before he moved, not because he didn’t want to join you, but because you looked absolutely ethereal. angels would weep from the beauty in front of him, maybe that’s why it was raining. 

“you’re crazy!” bucky yells as he steps into the street, only taking a few strides until he’s in front of you.

the smile on your face can’t be wiped off now as you grab his hand and start running up and down the street together, like he used to do when he was a kid. bucky can’t believe his life had come full circle, and he can’t believe how hard he’s smiling, how much fun he’s having. it’s like you had planted a seed in his heart and it was now blossoming right out of his chest.

“it’s fun!” you called out to him as the two of you let go of each other’s hands, bucky’s fingers slipping out of yours as you ran ahead of him, leaving him in his place. “i want you to have fun!”

the world was spinning and rain didn’t let up. bucky was having such a good time watching you he didn’t even care how cold it felt on his skin, or how his metal arm tightened a bit when wet. no, there were no thoughts in his head that didn’t consist of you.

you’re standing right in the middle of the block again, bucky’s a little ways away from you with his hands on his hips. is this what it felt like to be free? he watched your frame, the way you weren’t afraid to take up space in this world, to let everyone know you were happy.

why should he hold back too?

he cupped his hands over the sides of his mouth as he called your name once more, getting your attention as the two of your gazes met. his smile widened and his heart fluttered, the need to tell you everything flooding him the way this rain flooded the streets. bucky had jogged over to you in an instant, his hands moving to cup your cheeks as he looked down at you.

“i like you,” he says loudly so you can hear it.

“what?” you call out to him; you heard him the first time, you just wanted to hear him say it again. 

“i said i like you!” he calls back out. “i like you so much. i think about you all the time. i don’t think i knew what living was before i met you.”

bucky doesn’t care that your hair is wet and swept over your face, he doesn’t care that both of you are slightly shivering now. he doesn’t care that he feels lighter now that he’s vocalized his feelings to you. all he cares about is that damn smile on your face, the way you grab the front of his wet shirt to pull him in closer, and the way your hearts seem to beat in sync.

the world seemed to stop as he brought his lips down to yours. your arms snake up to wrap around his neck, and he keeps a firm grasp on your cheek as the two of you let your lips take control of the moment. it’s soft yet deeply intimate, feeling him nip at your bottom lip a few times. bucky barnes was completely intoxicated by you.

and as the rain began to slow down, the world seemed to come back to life after the shower, and all you could do was slightly pull away from him, your lips still brushing against one anothers. bucky couldn’t help but chase your lips, needing a few more kisses from you at that moment.

“i like you too, buck,” you whispered against his lips. “more than you know.”

your hands slide up to wipe his hair off his damp forehead, your eyes now catching his bright blues. he chuckled quietly, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as goosebumps ran down his flesh arm.

“yeah?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “is that a promise?”

“yeah.” you grabbed the side of his neck as you pulled him in for a few more sweet kisses. “that’s a promise.”

and as the two of you moved inside to finally dry off, bucky knew his life had truly just begun.

[howlingmod]

elliot x reader where he's introducing them to his parents except reader is REALLY unsettling (as in two time levels of unsettling) elliots being a huge sap while reader just stares at his parents they fear for their dumbass son being murdered in his sleep but tough it out (barely) because they love him and he seems happy "me and the bad bitch i pulled with my autism" type dynamic

summary - elliot x reader, pre-forsaken, reader's associated with Something i will not clarify because it is a fun reference for Me. </3

misc - oh this is so cute i love aut4aut love .... accidentally focused on the reader and the parents more but just know you two are being stupid and giggling the whole time

-Elliot spoke so fondly of you to his parents. Everytime you were the subject, he'd go on excitedly about all the things you guys were up to, a cute gesture you'd done for him the other day, how you were working on something for your own family. Recently, he'd gone and visited your parents for the autumnal equinox, and he couldn't let the favor go unreturned, something you and his parents happily accepted.

-They were excited to meet you, happy to see the special someone who had made their boy such a happy man. He'd never shown them pictures of you, saying you were camera shy and didn't like sitting down for photos all too much, so they had no idea what to expect. They were only a little startled at the door.

-There wasn't anything extraordinarily alarming, you weren't actively on fire or immediately threatening, just a little ... odd. You had a wide-eyed look to you, one they'd initially taken as you being nervous but, confirmed by Elliot himself and the passing hours, seemed to just be a constant feature of your appearance. Neither of you were particularly dressed up, but you had both worn the sweaters that they'd sent you for Christmas the previous year, Elliot's warm red contrasting your deeper neutral starkly. (A detail which had brought a tear to his mother's eye, knowing you two had remembered and appreciated them ... she'd had to ask Elliot what you usually wore, wanting to make something that'd fit you well, she was touched to see her efforts weren't in vain.)

-You'd stuck you hand out to shake his father's hand a little earlier than he'd expected, almost as soon as the door had fallen open. A strange decision, sure, but he figured you may have come from a more formal, mannerly background, as your stilted, flat speech matched it.

"It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, the pleasure's all mine!"

-Your hands were extraordinarily cold, grip a little tight. It was fall, that could explain the temperature and, again, you may just be more accustomed to formalities. It made sense, even if he was a little unnerved by how you seemed to stare through him. He wasn't going to make fun of you for being nervous, he understands! He probably wasn't much better meeting his wive's parents. Probably.

-As you all settled in at the dinner table, Elliot largely took over the conversation. Catching up his parents on everything that'd happened since he'd visited last and answering the usual 'how have you been?' type small talk. Not wanting to leave you out, his mother had turned her attention to you.

"How's your family doing, dear? Elliot told me the ... solstice, went well," she smiled, folding her hands on her lap.

"Equinox. The solstice is in a few weeks, for winter," you started, voice stiff, "My family's good. I missed them, Risio especially."

She'd flinched a little, internally wincing at the stiffness of your voice and the correction. She hardly wanted to make a bad impression, especially if she came off as careless. "Ah, my apologies. We've never celebrated the coming-and-goings of the season much. Risio is your...?"

"Dog. I found him when I was younger."

"Oh, you have a dog? Well, isn't that just adorable! Elliot always wanted one when he was a kid, we just never really had the time for one."

You'd smiled at that, a small little crack in the neutral expression you'd kept from the moment you came in, "He told me about that. Risio likes him too, he told me he was happy I found someone to support me in life."

She'd been about to say something else when she'd halted. 'Told me,' weren't you just talking about your dog? Maybe she got lost in the conversation. She looked over at her husband, meeting an equally confused expression. You didn't seem to notice, digging around in your bag for something.

"I have a photo of him, I meant to send you an email with it a while ago but um," you pulled a Polaroid from your bag, sliding it across the table to them, "you guys don't have one and the mail doesn't work."

"Do you mean you can't send anything from your house? I'm pretty sure Elliot sent us a card from there," his father spoke up, confused by your wording once more. You only shrugged.

"It doesn't work the same. He told me as much."

In the time that he'd asked that, his mother had already gone pale looking at the photo. It seemed normal enough, a little poor in quality but not everyone has the same ease of access. It looked like a living room, an older style of home given the short, stained carpeting and bay-and-bow window showing an equally dark lawn, illuminated only by a far off, orange streetlight. There were two taller figures, presumably your parents, but neither of their faces were in frame, neither was illuminated very well either, almost fading into the background. A much younger version of you was sat on the floor, one of the few easily visible figures. You had a wide smile on your face, one that was almost shared by the large dog you had your arms thrown around. It was a bulky, old looking husky, strangely peachy in the face.

"Wow," came his mother's breathless reply. One mimicked by her husband seconds later under his breath, decidedly more grim.

You seemed to frown for only a split second, a small twitch more than anything. "This doesn't really work either. I'm sorry."

His mother was quick to shoot up, waving her hand, "Oh, no no, don't worry about it dear. I'm ... how old is your dog, anyhow?"

You'd paused, looked down in thought for a few moments. "Um," you started, quieter than before, "I think ... maybe 50? Older? I don't know. He never really told me when he was born."

The two of them stopped at that, equally as lost in what to respond with.

"Hey mom, I think there might be smoke coming from the kitchen ..." Elliot spoke up, timidly breaking the silence.

-Safe to say, they were unsettled by your history, even more so by how regularly you conveyed it all as plain, normal facts of your life. His father had stopped Elliot a little later, asking if your parents knew about the whole 'talking dog' thing. Something which Elliot confirmed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, no! They all seem to understand him, or something like that, at least ... I didn't hear him make a peep while I was over, so I'm not really sure. I mean, there was this one time where I woke up in the middle of the night and (Reader) was out in the living room and I thought they were talking to their Dad but it sounded a little weird so ..." Elliot trailed off, only shrugging a little in conclusion.

-The rest of the night they couldn't help but be unnerved. They didn't want to be rude but ... well, it was a little hard for them to accept. Elliot seemed happy at least, you talked with him the most, referencing inside jokes between the two of you freely. They had to be happy about that, any parent would be glad to know their child found someone that makes them Smile.

-Once the night came to an end, you'd all exchanged your goodbyes. Elliot leaning on you as you turned and walked out the door to your car. They'd waved you two off, sharing a look once you pulled out of the driveway onto the road.

"They seem sweet."

[joeloverture]

walk with me: pegging joel miller…

cw (18+ mdni) pegging duh, fingering m!receiving, joel sucks strap, domesticity, dirty talk, couple spanks, degradation, gnc reader i think but they have a cunt, subby joel

- begging him for it. you know this’ll be an uphill battle. after all — he was raised in texas. his ideas of masculinity are as machismo as anyone else’s with his background. ‘can i fuck you?’ ‘what? like, ride me?’ ‘no, baby, fuck you.’ seeing the blush on his face as he puts two and two together and coughs out, ‘jesus, girl. uh. i dunno. not really my thing.’ ‘but-‘ ‘but nothin’.’ ‘jooooellll!’ ‘not gonna happen, sweetheart.’

- you keep trying. of course you do.

- eventually he relents. ‘i wanna see how you take cock, please, baby’ ‘fine, but it ain’t gonna have the effect thatcha want.’

- you prep for it. bathing him beforehand, scrubbing his curls. ‘you’re so pretty,’ you say as you kiss along his shoulder blades, his clavicle, his chest. nipping gently at his happy trail.

- when he’s all dried off and has somehow let you lather him with the moisturizer you use, you spit on your fingers and squirt a generous amount of lube over your knuckles. you roll him on his stomach as he often does to you. sink a tentative finger in, waiting for any signs of pain-

- but you only get a faint grunt indicative of a feeling you know to be pleasure. you explore him, fingertips combing through his hole, watching him take your finger. ‘another, baby,’ he rasps as you curl and twist your pointer.

- you give him another. and then another. he clenches around you, cock red and angry and leaking on the sheets. you throw him a bone. a pillow under his waist, which his hips rock into. wanting. it has him fucking himself back on three of your fingers, stretching himself out just the way he will come to love

- you shimmy up the bed to lodge your plastic cock at his lips. he looks wrecked already, eyes dark, brows lined with ecstasy. you tap it on his lips. ‘baby,’ he says faintly. almost a protest. you raise a brow at him. ‘c’mon, joely. i know you’d be such a good fucking cocksucker. you need a cock in your mouth to learn your place, honey.’

- so he takes you in his mouth. starts out slow. he doesn’t have to worry about nicking it with his teeth. for better or for worse, you can’t feel it. his tongue swivels around the bottom. you clasp a hand in his still damp hair and urge him to take you deeper, deeper, until he gags. his eyes brim, watering. he sputters around your cock as you gently fuck up into his throat. with each thrust, you can feel how soaked you are.

- ‘attaboy,’ you coax. ‘knew there was a cockslut in ya.’ he whines in response, eyes rolling back as you tug his hair. you lure him off of you eventually. he’s panting, saliva strung between the tip of the dildo and his pouty lower lip.

- ‘i do alright?’ he asks, a shy smile lifting his lips when you nod at him, pat his cheek. ‘the best.’

- once you’ve adjusted behind him, on your knees, you slide through his tan cheeks. you grope at them, squeezing the skin, smacking at it. it leaves a bright red handprint in your wake. he whines at the unfamiliar sensation, and then whines again when your cock notches at his entrance. ‘please, honey, please-‘ he whines, back arching to try to get you to slip in. you’re both soaked in lube to the point where it nearly works.

- you spank him again. that shuts him up, his forehead melting into the mattress. he takes shallow rocks into the pillow, cock hard between it and his abdomen.

- eventually you give him what he wants. ‘theeeere you go. fuck me. look so pretty taking my dick, baby. got such a fuckable ass, goddamn, should’ve asked for this sooner. sucking me right in.’ he’s so hungry for it in spite of his reservations. he whines, backing up onto you as you thrust into him. there’s that relieved sigh that breaks into a moan as you push in to the base. he shudders, thighs trembling. you grip one of them to stabilize him and plant your other hand in his hair, using it to tug him up against you.

- you lean over to whisper in his ear, ‘such a little bitch for some cock up the ass. bet you’re about to bust a fucking nut.’

- he is. but he doesn’t admit it. he’s too prideful. you shove his face into the mattress below. it makes him startle, a yelp leaving him. he keens when you spread him with your free hand so you can see how you fuck into him. you rock your hips upward, curving your thrusts just so they meet his prostate. it’s so easy to tell what makes him tick, because every time you brush it, he almost screams. the muscles in his back tighten as you pound into him. ‘go ahead. admit you were wrong. tell me you like it.’

- ‘fuck-‘ his voice is muffled by the mattress. you tug his head up again. he clenches around you, slowing your thrust. ‘oh god, baby, i— shit, yeah, i like it— ohh-“

- ‘mhm? you like. this. cock.’ you rail into him on each word. he yells with each thrust.

- ‘hngggh, baby, i’m-‘

- ‘i know, joel. ‘s okay. shoot your load all over that pillow. just know you’ll be cleaning up after.’

- the thought is enough for him to come undone. he comes with a ragged, screamed moan, shuddering and bucking into the pillow and you. you smack his ass again for good measure as his cock pumps out thick ropes of cum. he’s whining and twitching on the comedown, toes curled.

- ‘jesus, mary, ‘n joseph,’ he pants.

- ‘don’t think they had anything to do with that, sweet boy,’ you say. you grope his ass a little more, admiring how the lube drips down his taint. once he’s settled, you pull out of him, kissing up his back. ‘sit up.’

- he does, and you tug the pillow out from beneath his softening cock. you put it to his lips, and automatically, his tongue swipes out to taste his saltiness. he whimpers again, one hand groping along your chest as he laps himself up. once the pillow his more damp from his saliva than his release, you lean over to kiss him, tasting him on his lips

- you squeal when he rolls you over, already fumbling with your strap’s buckles. ‘fuck, what did they make this out of? titanium?’ he asks. you laugh and unlatch it for him, feel it slide down your hips. ‘mmm, that’s more like it,’ he says as he cups your dripping mound. your clit twitches against his palm. ‘your turn, baby,’ he says, a shit eating grin on his face.

[titleknown]

...Well, as someone who's been positive on AI image-gen tools, I will say a couple of things here. On one end, I feel like part of this is a cultural shift in how art culture online has largely been gentrified to push out small and beginning artists to the more polished, professional creators.

Like, look at the average skill of your everyday webcomic artist, or even the everyday sorts of online artists you see, and you'll notice the "floor" has gotten a lot higher, in a way that I'd say is dangerous for online art.

I think it probably has a lot to do with the increased centralization of the net onto social media and the way it's anonymized small creators as a part of a larger "feed," meaning they can't grow their own communities within their own spaces and get drowned out by higher profile stuff.

I think it's better we spend our energy countering that instead of going against AI, because in large part that's been going on without AI and it's what made it present itself as such a threat.

On the other end... AI image gen is not an instant-good-art button, you do have to work at it just like with any medium, whether it be with more analog tools like traditional photobashing or more technical but still fiddly and skill-requiring tools.

Like, I've seen enough of the stuff to get an idea of what constitutes high quality use of the medium and what's low-effort slop or the janky steps of a first-timer, most often actually being able to have a distinctive style and maintain continuity/lack of jank in sequential art, and the distinguishing factor as in most art is the amount of effort and skill one puts in.

Like, @therobotmonster is doing some of the best stuff I've seen with those tools, but most of what they apply to it comes from their background in the traditional/digital-traditional arts. Hell, their technique for making comics using AI images is literally a refinement of a technique they pioneered using parts of public domain comics!

@reachartwork does it less with traditional-adjacent methods due to chronic pain issues, but still does a lot with technical methods such as inpainting/outpainting and controlnets to add artistic intent, in a way that's often very fiddly and requires tweaking and skill!

Like, getting better at a medium always looks different dependent on the medium, but you can tell and it requires effort. Like, I look back at my older photomanips and cringe a little, that shows progress!

So if anyone's looking at AI image-gen as an easy street to artistic quality, sorry, you still gotta try to get good even if the path looks different.

And on the third side... well, if you don't have any physical disabilities preventing you doing so, you should try hand-drawn illustration anyway, because doing it's good in and of itself.

Like, if there's barriers like only having a mouse instead of a tablet and such, it's still worth finding a workaround, because while it looks different, those differences can still not only provide stuff other mediums can't, but even improve your skills in other mediums!

Like, I wasn't bluffing wrt @therobotmonster's traditional art background, he literally manually hand-recolors and hand-re-inks images, and that's something he can do because of that sort of skill!

ethics of making AI images aside, I do find a bit amusing the kinds of sob stories and mental gymnastics people make up to pretend like drawing is this super technical skill with an impossibly high barrier of entry when its like one of the first hobbies toddlers pick up

suddenly a lot of people think they got the next Lord of the Rings in their head but they were never able to turn their stories into anything tangible because the evil elitist artists are hogging all the talent and skill and they need a bajilion years of training or something as if one of the most popular manga and anime of the past decade wasn't made by a guy that draws like this

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Now I have to ask- WHY do you hate Pacific Rim?

Okay, fair warning, this is about as bitter and salty and small-minded as day-old caviar. But. My bitter, salty (probably fishy) opinion:

Pacific Rim is only a good movie because it's a well-written story about robots punching monsters.

That's it. That's all there is to the movie.

I started out merely disappointed by Pacific Rim. We went gaga for the preview materials that promised these unique well-rounded character pairs and trios with these idiosyncratic robots from all these different Pacific nations... And then the movie itself is about some bland white American guy who pilots a robot named a racial slur, the second most fleshed-out team is bland white Australian guys, and the Chinese team is there, kind of, in the background, but don't worry they're going to die first. The "character-driven story" turned out to be "various characters take turns punching aliens" but, sure, whatever, I love the MCU so why not.

The day I went from "Pacific Rim is overrated" to "Pacific Rim is the worst thing that has ever happened to human civilization, I'm extremely normal about this" was the day I saw a Tumblr post suggesting we replace the Bechdel test with the Mako Mori test. Because Mako Mori has her own plot and doesn't kiss North Carolina at the end, making her a whole new type of feminist icon.

To which I was like:

We are talking about the same movie here, right? The Pacific Rim that can't even pass the Bechdel test? The Pacific Rim that's all about might-makes-right, the Pacific Rim that has ONE speaking role for ONE female character in its (from IMDB) 50-person cast? The Pacific Rim that repeatedly puts its only female character in danger and has her rescued by first Idris Elba then North Carolina? THAT Pacific Rim?

Is there a different Mako Mori I haven't met? Because the one I've seen a) has a character arc driven by deciding whether to obey her father or follow her heart, which is as inoffensive and stale as an unblessed communion wafer, b) does nothing that Ellen Ripley didn't do 30 years earlier, but with about 5% of the character depth Ripley got, and c) stands there in silence looking sad as two men punch each other over the question of her virtue.

Any post assuming this movie invented the idea of "small Asian woman kicks monster ass" needs to learn its damn history. Especially the ones acting like her being physically small is somehow a feminist bonus. There's something embarrassingly ahistorical about the whole thing.

And look. I get how we got here. I know how easily Tumblr backs you into a rhetorical corner of "calling a story Good can never mean merely 'enjoyable'; calling a story Good must mean 'virtuous'". Until next thing you know you're arguing that actually, shipping Obi-Wan/Darth Vader is a net good for all of society, because gay divorced middle-aged tyrants who use supplemental oxygen and murdered their exes in a custody dispute over the one kid (out of two) they actually care about deserve to see themselves in sci fi too! You only end up in that corner because half the time you're arguing against someone who says that shipping Obi-Wan/Darth Vader is literally the same thing as supporting father-son incest, so your real reasons for shipping them (1. foe yay, 2. old man yaoi) seem wildly insufficient.

Much of what I see about Pacific Rim seems neck-deep in the "it's not allowed to be a Good Movie unless it single-handedly dismantles the patriarchy" fallacy. There's nothing progressive about shipping two dudes best known for chopping off each other's body parts with laser swords. And there's nothing progressive about a movie having its only female character hug the male protagonist at the end instead of kissing him. You're allowed to like a thing just because it's well-made, without acting like a bog-standard normatively-broey action flick somehow invented a new form of feminism. Anyway, "Pacific Rim is a perfectly fine movie" is the hill I will die upon, heretical though it may be.

[tricksterkisses]

I was discussing the incident mentioned later in this piece with my wife yesterday and I saw another post by someone earlier doing something mentioned in here and I'm finally going to say something about it.

There is a serious problem in leftist spaces, especially online, especially on Tumblr, when it comes to language.

The way people are expected to speak just to even enter these spaces is incredibly complex, to the point of being outright hostile to those who haven’t already spent time in them. And it’s not just newcomers; people who have important things to say, people speaking from lived experiences, people who don’t have English as a first language but still deserve to be heard, are constantly talked down to or even pushed out entirely for not using the "right" words.

This gets even worse when you factor in how often new terms are coined in English, and then people are shamed for not immediately knowing or using them.

I saw someone reblog their own post saying something like, "I know for a fact more than half of y’all didn’t understand a fucking word I said here."

And honestly? That stuck with me, because yeah, I’ve felt that before. Not because I don’t value critical thinking! because I absolutely do! I just made a post on that too! but because so many of these posts are written in a way that makes them Functionally Inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already have the right background knowledge. And at a certain point, if you actually want your words to have an impact, if you actually want to create meaningful change, then you’re going to have to accept some things:

People will not always use perfect language.

2. People will not always know the exact terminology you personally prefer they use when engaging in discourse.

3. Dismissing or attacking people for how they say something, instead of engaging with what they’re saying, is actively harmful.

And more than that, if you genuinely want people to understand and engage with the things you’re talking about, especially people who don’t speak English as a first language, especially people without access to higher education, especially people who don’t even know where to begin when it comes to self-education (because yes, that is a skill that has to be taught) then you are going to have to be the one to adjust sometimes. You are going to have to let people say things imperfectly. You are going to have to take a step back and engage with the message rather than just the words being used to express it.

One of the experiences that made me realize that I, as a non-native English speaker, was not welcome in Tumblr leftist spaces was when I spoke about real-life oppression I had experienced. I left one word out of my post, a word which honestly, was not even important when talking about an incident that had Happened To Me, not theory, not hypotheticals or any what-ifs of oppression, a story, a story about something that happened to me.

And because of that, people sat in a Discord server, picking apart my words, accusing me of awful things, and then came into my askbox throwing jargon and buzzwords I’d never even heard before, then got mad at me for being frustrated that this was happening.

Think about that. People who are directly impacted by oppression are being pushed out of spaces meant to discuss it because the way they speak doesn’t conform to certain expectations. That is not justice. That is not solidarity. That is not progress.

There is a fundamental disconnect here between theory and praxis. Ironically so many of you do not know what praxis is, because most of you engage with a lot of theory, and not a lot of praxis, you use the word praxis a lot, but, ironically, you have no idea what it means.

{to put my money where my mouth is, it means Doing Something, in the simplest possible terms}

In theory, leftist spaces should be accessible. They should be places where people can speak openly about their experiences, learn from each other, and work toward meaningful change. But in practice? There’s a gatekeeping of language so intense that many people, particularly those who are marginalized in ways beyond just their political beliefs, are outright excluded.

And this is something I need people to sit with: The assumption that the "right" language is easy to learn, or that anyone who doesn’t use it is being willfully ignorant, is an inherently privileged stance. Knowing where to find information, how to process it, and how to integrate new terminology into your vocabulary is a skill that is largely tied to education. Having the time to engage with leftist literature and theory, to stay up-to-date on every new term that gets introduced, is also a privilege. And the fact that so many people refuse to acknowledge this, that they expect perfect articulation from everyone, regardless of background, and punish those who don’t measure up, is a huge problem.

Worse still, the same people who act as gatekeepers of this language often fail to communicate their ideas in a way that is accessible at all.

This doesn’t mean that complex ideas should never be discussed. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t strive for accuracy in their language. But it does mean that if your goal is to educate, if your goal is to spread awareness, if your goal is to help people understand and join the movement, if your goal is to engage with fellow oppressed people, then you have a responsibility to meet people where they are. You have a responsibility to make your language understandable.

Because if people can’t even process what you’re saying, then what’s the fucking point?

And before anyone says, "Well, people should put in the effort to learn!" Let me make something very clear: They do.

People who are new to leftist spaces, or who are coming in from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds, are often trying their best to engage. They are listening, they are learning, they are processing. But if the response to every mistake, every slightly off phrasing, every unfamiliarity with a new term, is immediate hostility,

or even if it's just 'hey I see you're sharing a personal moment, but can you change your language to make me, personally, more comfortable with you discussing your oppression?' then you’re not teaching.

You’re just making sure only the people who already think and speak exactly like you get to stay in the room.

Your language, your terminology, your theory? none of it means anything if you can’t make it accessible to the people who actually need it. And it means nothing if you use it to Exclude rather than Include.

[tangyneon]

it was over from the start

Gazes meeting each other is good, but not enough.

Gojo wants your eyes on him—and only him—preferably for all time.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader tags: teen!gojo; first meetings; love at first sight(??); lovesick gojo(??); mostly fluffy with minimal angst; you're in 1st year while gojo's in 3rd year of high school; gojo has a very 'unique' idea of romancing in his brain; heavy on the 'one-sided enemies to lovers' vibes; word count–3114. warnings: one small discussion on death. also, gojo himself. notes: not me rewriting and reposting one of my most popular works from my old blog—YET AGAIN!!!! anyway, babes... the fic title is from "You Had Me from Hello" by Kenny Chesney. hope you'll enjoy reading this!! ❤️❤️

The sky bleeds green, the first time Gojo sees you fight.

It isn't anything enthralling, though.

Your movements are far from well-practised. Your twisted expression screams moderate unease at best, and extreme discomfort at worst. You are definitely not one of the best sorcerers Gojo has encountered so far in his seventeen years of life—

Yet, the boy finds himself utterly transfixed.

His feet stay rooted to the earth as a much brighter green beam cuts through the forest, and the third mountain of cursed spirit turns into nothing more than wisps of smoke, your form slumping to the ground not long after—

Were he a better person at heart, Gojo reckons he would have rushed to help you. But he isn't.

Not really—perhaps, not at all.

Which is why, he keeps to his vantage point—blue eyes narrowing a smidgen behind his shades, as he watches you heave yourself slowly off the mud, your face growing a scowl as you trudge towards a tree and plop down with absolutely no ceremony in front of it—

When he suddenly hears a barely-there rustle from his left.

Followed by the appearance of the steady simmer of a cursed signature, all too familiar.

"Yo, Nanamin!" Gojo doesn't miss a beat to greet, cheeks stretching into a wide grin the moment the said kouhai comes before him, feet carefully and soundlessly treading the rugged terrain.

The latter's perpetual glower turns into a momentary flicker of surprise—but it's vanished before the older boy can comment on it. Nanami's face flattens back to its usual state of annoyed indifference.

"The tournament is already over. Yaga-sensei wants us all to report to him in another ten—" he starts conveying his teacher's instructions, only to stop—a little too abruptly, might one add. And Gojo's brows furrow a bit, considering how strange this is...

Oh.

Oh—oh.

So, Nanamin has finally spotted you in the valley below, huh?

Wrapping an arm round his kouhai's shoulders, he lets his gaze go to you—absently noting how cute you look while yawning—"She is from Kyoto, isn't she?"

"Yes," The younger boy replies, pinning Gojo under a curious look. But this too is gone all too soon, all too swiftly like the ones preceding. He drops the arm the other boy has been resting on his shoulder.

Gojo lets him, though. SImply pouting in response, before humming casually, "And do you know her?"

"Personally, no," Nanami is quick to answer, but then, his voice takes on a rare thoughtful tone, "But from what I have heard from others... she's somewhat peculiar, if I may say so."

This is honestly one of the best opportunities he'll ever get to tease this stoic underclassman of his, because since when did The Nanami Kento start gossiping like old geezers and grannies—but Gojo allows this chance to pass by.

Getting more deets on you is much more important to him.

He doesn't bother to hide his burgeoning interest from his tone. "You know her name by any chance?"

Nanami does know your name.

And as far as Gojo knows, your surname doesn't belong to any of the sorcerer clans—none of the major clans at least, he is quite sure of it. You might be from a minor one, or—according to what his intuition is telling him—you're from a non-sorcerer background.

It doesn't matter to him, however—the boy doesn't take even two full seconds to decide. He's far better than his clan elders.

"And which year is she in?" he finds himself asking.

"First year," Arrives the short reply, albeit it's a bit more visibly tinged with quizzical hues than before.

The older boy doesn't seem to mind it much, though. His brain is too busy going "wow!!" over this new piece of information—it hasn't even been a handful of months since you joined the kyoto high, still you've managed to make people talk about you!? Quite impressive, he thinks amusedly as he steals another glance of you—no longer yawning but just staring vacantly at your keds—

Except, those muddy shoes are no more the object of your attention. It is him—Gojo realises in a mere fraction of an instant but with not a very inconspicuous jolt—it is very much him.

Your bright, blinding, blindingly bright gaze—every little ounce of it—is focused on him, your back straightening, shoulders tensing, brows furrowing—

One thing—no, fact—which ought to be remembered is: Gojo Satoru does not run away.

He's one of the strongest duo of Jujutsu sorcerers. The boy does not, cannot, should not run away.

Yet, that is exactly what he does when his gaze collides with yours for the very first time.

Grabbing Nanami's hand, Gojo wastes not even one moment to warp them both to the school's rooftop—very much ignoring his kouhai's yelp of surprise which anyway goes with the ear-piercing whistling of the wind—releasing his hold on the other boy, the instant their feet touch the concrete.

And taking a tiny but very important breath, the young holder of the Six Eyes turns to his underclassman and asks—his eyes the calmest he can make them seem amidst the maelstrom he's facing within.

"Tell me everything you know about her—like, right now—or I will tell your dear Geto-senpai you were the one who finished his melon pan—quit glaring and start speaking, Nanamin!!"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Turns out, Nanami's heart sports a horribly soft corner for Gojo's best friend.

Also turns out, the Tokyo High third year need not wait until breakfast the next day to approach you—given how you amble into his life in an awfully washed-out set of pyjamas and a terrible hairstyle, a full eight hours before the time he has been planning to meet you at.

After a moment's deliberation, he decides he doesn't hate it, though.

Neither you coming into his life, without any preamble, when it must have been him who startles you with his dazzling and dramatic entry into the stage of your life. Nor your pale choice of attire and hairstyle; not when they don't make you seem anything even slightly inferior to an angel—especially then when you flip the kitchen lights on, making the clock appear like a halo-ey thing behind your head—

You suddenly stop, wrenching the boy away from his lightly poetic thoughts. And your eyes as wide as saucers, he watches you suck in a sharp breath.

A beat passes.

Gojo swallows the last bit of his mochi, and grins.

"Heeey!! You're the newbie from Kyoto, right? Heard a lot 'bout you!!"

Honestly, though? It was less of hearing and more of extracting info, but he decides against mentioning it. You have no business knowing that, whatever the case may be.

The case at present feels a little painful to him, however—what with you letting ten terribly long seconds tick by before returning the boy a response—

Which turns out to be nothing more than a stiff smile.

And an even stiffer bow.

Followed immediately by you turning on your heel.

Were Gojo any slower, he knows you would have slipped from the kitchen without any trouble at all. But, the thing is—he isn't. Which is why not even a couple of seconds can pass before he stills you again, albeit this time not by his tall figure lounging in a scarily dark kitchen, but by his fingers grasping your wrist—

His thumb pressing into the dangerously frantic pulse beneath your skin.

You try to snatch your hand away. He lets you—but one must know: he let you only because he was too distracted by the furious warmth of embarrassment creeping into your pretty face and not because of the way your skin felt too soft beneath the callouses of his palms...

Anyway. Whatever.

Drawing in a steadying breath, he moves to speak, throw back some quip—only to be beaten to it by you. You're the first one to break the silence this time, voice quiet yet astonishingly firm.

"I don't think I can help you with anything, Senpai," you say, your careful politeness betrayed only by the faintest furrow between your brows, "Please don't bother me this way. It's nearly midnight, and I need to be back in my rooms as soon as possible—let me go, please."

No way is Gojo 'bothering' you right now—the indignant retort is the first thing the boy can think of. But he resolves to bite it back anyway.

A stupid argument isn't how he wants his story to start with you.

Sure, there might and will be many of those later on, but not now. No. He shoots you his second grin of tonight.

"Aw, I don't need your help with anything," The boy chirps back with a smile, he supposes, is winning, "But, yeah—you are right. I should not stop you like this... You need to sleep enough before tomorrow's one-on-one duels, don't ya?"

"Yeah," you agree easily, eyes drifting to your shoes in a small nod.

Gojo feels his grin widen.

Maybe, like a Cheshire Cat.

Maybe, like a Victor Cat who finally got the rat right where he wanted: in his paws. He hums—

"But you won't needing much rest if you're already determined to lose the match tomorrow—will you now?"

No, you won't.

You obviously won't—the boy likes to believe he has learnt enough about you to predict this much accurately. But, maybe... he hasn't learnt quite enough, given how you don't show any sliver of shock or fear in response to his question.

The only reaction you deign him with, is a pair of raised eyebrows—which take only a moment to descend back to their original level. A small beat passes, before you break the silence yet again—although your tone feels much firmer this time.

"What exactly are you trying to tell me, Senpai?"

"Nothing too serious," The boy ekes out the light reply—silently cursing the way his palms have grown so cold and so clammy now of all times—"Just that it does not take a hell lot of work to maintain the image of an incompetent idiot, you have been so insistent on keeping all this time—c'mon," he makes his voice extra petulant to coax some reaction out of your still placid face, "You do know what I'm speaking of, don't you?"

In retrospect, there's a chance Gojo might think he ought to have handled you with greater care.

You're new not only to your school, but also to the whole world of sorcery in general. Pressing you this hard is bound to hurt you, if not break you downright into teeny-tiny pieces—the boy does not let his thoughts be this concerned for more than a beat, though.

Not when he wants to see something—anything—come to life in those big, beautiful eyes of yours. Not when he's dying to see a spark blaze into being in them.

You fold your arms across your chest, brows huddling close in a light scowl. Gojo feels his own lips curve into a light grin, absolutely loving the fact he could finally wring a reaction out of you—never mind that it's an annoyed one. A reaction is a reaction, no matter what.

"What exactly are you trying to tell me, Senpai?" your adorable voice repeats, much stonier than before.

He resists the urge to pinch your cheeks. Or worse—coo at you.

Removing his hands from his pockets, the boy mimics your stance as he says, "Nothing which you cannot already guess, Kouhai—I mean, you're really smart, aren't you? Almost as smart as me, I believe, what with tricking those stinking geezers into thinking you are just some weakass with no cursed technique or good fighting skills, despite the insane amount of cursed energy you have..."

He deliberately trails off for a moment, wanting the scene to be a bit more dramatic and heavy with a meaningful silence—only to disrupt the silence himself not even a couple of seconds later.

"Why did you never curb your cursed energy, by the way?" The query slips past his lips into the space in between. And it takes the boy but one second to realise just how horribly genuinely curious it is—much more than he's ever been about anyone—

The tone of the ask has unsettled you too a bit, he gathers easily from the way a shadow falls on your features momentarily, and despite the not-too-little reluctance marking your face, you return an actual reply to him.

"The higher-ups were aware of my cursed energy before I even knew what the hell it meant," you say in an awfully matter-of-fact tone, but if Gojo strains his ears, he thinks there might be a tinge of resignation somewhere in between your words—"And by the time I was informed about all this, it was very late. The higher-ups would have noticed if I tried to do anything."

The "And they would have harmed me or my family if I tried anything" goes unsaid—but the boy doesn't need to hear it to know it. He has been in this world of sorcery since the day he was born; he knows the way it works far too well.

Not entirely intentionally, his voice softens with the next question, "But you tampered with something no one was aware of yet—you lied about having no cursed technique, didn't you?"

Unlike the time before, your hesitation seems to overpower you now.

Brows furrowing for a beat before flattening again, you let the silence stew for a while before stating shortly, "But my horrible fighting skills weren't really a lie—you saw me fight today afternoon, didn't you? You must know I wasn't bluffing about it, then."

He knows.

He so knows.

But he also knows that, with a cursed technique as powerful as yours—not as strong as his, no, but you can easily hold your own in a tough situation—it isn't very necessary for you to be awesome at combat. It will do nicely even if you keep fighting how you were earlier today—

The sound of a yawn breaks Gojo's musings.

And he snaps himself out of his mind—only to be met with those big eyes of yours blinking up at him—so bleary yet so bright. Stifling the urge to pinch your cheeks again, he decides to shoo your drowsiness away by casting the next ask his brain has cooked up; one, he knows, has the biggest "YES" for its answer—

"You are very scared of dying, aren't you?" The boy hums, cracking a small but deep smile, "That is why you always make yourself seem so weak—so much so that you aren't assigned onto any mission—"

"Just how much can your Six Eyes see, Senpai?"

Startled into a sudden stop—it isn't every day that the young scion of the biggest of the Big Three Families is cut off mid-sentence, after all—Gojo's smile falls flat. Even more so when he watches your lips form an easy smile, the shape growing sharper edges as you speak, "Dying is rather easy and uncomplicated, Senpai. It does not really scare me, except, perhaps, the pain I might have to suffer before it. But, do you know what's scarier, Senpai?"

"No," he says back quietly, honestly, bringing forth a new hue in your smile. A new colour that seems awfully similar to that of pity—

The boy usually detests pity. Spurns it, spits at it the few times it has been offered to him. But now when it's coming from you... he'll take it, he thinks.

He'll take any look you're willing to give him, as long as it's you on the other side.

A minute sigh reaches him, quieter than even the soft breeze outside. You sigh once more before speaking, "What's more terrifying is what will happen to my loved ones, if I just die one fine morning—I mean, I know death is inevitable, but I just want to stave it off for as long as I can, you know? I want to spend as much time as I can with my family and friends, and have as much fun as possible with them—you know what, Senpai?" you interrupt yourself suddenly, your voice becoming the sharpest it's been in the last fifteen minutes.

A feeble sound escapes the boy—reasons for which, he doesn't have one clue about.

Is it because of the sincere little hum always accompanying your words? Or, is it because of the sweet glow the full moon is giving your already-sweet face? Or, can it be because of both?

Perhaps, it is both—he decides after a moment's consideration—it is very difficult to distinguish between the beauty of your inner self and that of your outer self, after all...

Your smile simmers down to a subtle twitch of your lips.

Something stutters and stumbles inside Gojo's chest.

Expression shifting into something far wiser than he's ever thought it to be possible for anyone your age, you state coolly, "I know you view me as nothing more than a coward right now, but I believe it is better to be a coward and alive, than to be a hero and dead—well, what do you believe in, Senpai?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You're quite bold, though, for a self-admitted coward.

Far braver than he could have ever thought you could be, even if you had never called yourself a coward how you did before him then—

Gojo cracks a wry smile, thinking back to his conversation with you—only to wince the very next moment when he accidentally presses his hurt toe a little too hard by the ice bag, the poor thing all swollen and bruised and simply miserable from how utterly mercilessly the heel of your slipper stamped onto it earlier—

Okay, fine—the boy concedes to the imaginary angel perched on his right shoulder, an exasperated mix of a grumble and a sigh escaping—he shouldn't have asked you out on a date, in return for promising to keep your secrets.

It was wrong.

Extremely inappropriate, yes, he admits. And Gojo likes to see himself as a gentleman who knows how to treat people respectfully—at least, those who deserve it, and the boy genuinely deems you to be one from those deserving folks.

Still—still, still, still—

The need to see your placid smile crack—never mind it is by a glower and not by the smile he has been longing to see; the smile, he knows without seeing even once, will be just as lovely as you—this need was overwhelming too then. Incredibly so, in fact.

Shushing the annoying angel and fist-bumping his guardian devil, Gojo tosses the ice bag away and falls back into his bed, a very happy and unbelievably giddy grin splitting his face into halves—

You're one hell of a peculiar girl, heh!

© tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || header is from pinterest || masterlist.

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

Before I answer this (and because I want to answer in a way that makes sense to you), may I ask where you got this idea? As in, what sort of background do you have in religion/Christianity?

“if THAT’S a sin then EVERYBODY is going to hell” yes, you are beginning to understand

[ziorre]

✨Commission info✨

I'm ready, I'm rested, I'm refreshed! And I'm completely charged to take care of your new ideas and characters!! I truly believe that every character is awesome and original and deserves to be shown with their own story! And I'll try to help you with this in a way that is more convenient for you! You just pick one below ;)

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✨ DEADLINES: After you DM me with a brief description of your idea, I’ll tell you the approximate date when I’ll be able to proceed with your commission. But the average deadline is from 2 weeks to a month. ❗❗❗Always warn me in advance if I need to draw art by a certain deadline❗❗❗

✨ PAYMENT:  What: USD or RUB When: full pre-payment (when you sent me the email and we approved the art idea) Where: Lava.top (russian platforms, support payment via PayPal)

✨ PROCESS: You write to me in private messages on Tumblr, briefly tell me your idea of our future art, what style and what slot you want (full body / half body / bust). Then I give you my email address and you send me an email (with your Tumblr name as the topic please) with all necessary references (your character's face claim, their pose, clothes, background etc.). You describe the idea of the art in details, where it takes place, and other things that I need to know so that I can base the sketch on all that info, because after you approve the sketch, I don’t change art much in the further stages of the work, just some details. I send you the payment link on my Lava.top page. Send you the sketch. After you confirm that you like the sketch, I finish the work and send it on your email😊

✨ OTHER: - I don’t correct the art after you approved the finished version. - I don’t copy other artist’s work. - I publish every commission on my social media, if you don’t want it to be published, just let me know. - If you’re not sure about the art idea, I can suggest you 4 sketches with different poses/concepts/angles for extra $20 and you pick the one you like the most. - For significant corrections or a lot of small ones at any stage of work, an additional fee may be charged (this doesn’t apply to some small adjustments or details witch I missed). There are 3 free changes at the each stages of the work (sketch, finished version), further - $2-$5.

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And of course I can't skip to say a huge thank you to those who commissioned and continue commissioning art from me! It means a lot! For real! This is not only material support, but also moral one, saying that I’m not wasting my time and energy in vain, that I’m moving in the right direction, that people like what I do! I can't tell how inspiring it is!! 360 commissions! I’ve never imagined that one day I would draw so many art for others! Just.. wow!! Thank you again so much for trusting me bringing to life your ideas! I truly appreciate it!😌

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I think this is it, right? If you have any questions, feel free to DM me ;)  

I’ll be VERY grateful for your reblogs!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤ (and thank you very much for this in advance, it helps me A LOOOOOOOOOT, you are the ones who keep me alive literally! I see each and every one of you doing that! You’re the best!!!) Thanks for your attention! Have a good day =)

[81pastrys]

Max is streaming and toddler and p coming a joins or like are playing in the background and people are asking about them in the chat

Thanks

Stream Shenanigans

Summary— Max has friends over to stream, but Kelly left him with the girls to look over until she returns

Warnings— none really

A/N— dad max makes a comeback

Dad Max List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws

Max was doing a group stream with his buddies, two other guys sitting on his living room couch while the girls played off to the side. Kelly had gone out to run errands and left Max in charge of them.

Not much streaming got done on Max’s part however, the girls played off camera, constantly causing a ruckus or being bad.

“P!!” Max said, he got up from the couch and walked over to the girls. “Please don’t ride that in the house, you aren’t setting a big sister example.” Penelope liked riding her bike, scooter, or even put on roller skates to ride around the house.

“But Maxie!!” Before Isa was born, nearly 3 years ago, Max would not have bat an eye, Kelly allowed her and so did he. She was happy doing it so they let her, but since Isa didn’t know how to ride said toys, they banned P from doing it in the house.

“I’ve told you before P, Isa can’t do that so neither should you.” He was soft and gentle when correcting the girls. Isa watched in hopes it wasn’t her getting in trouble. Her little hands covering her mouth with anxiety. Max and P went back and forth for a minute before he just put the riding things in the garage and continued the stream.

“Max, the chat wants to know where Isa is.” One of his buddies said. Max sat back down and got comfortable, P sitting in a corner upset about her toys being taken away. Truth be told he never said she couldn’t ride them in the garage, but she took it that way. “She’s by P guys, i don’t know what she’s doing.” His friend told the stream.

“P, you can ride them in the garage, but not the living room.” Isa realized that P wasn’t going to play with her and walked past one of Max’s friends to get to Max in the middle. She crawled on his lap and showed him the bracelet she made before P had her tantrum. “Look at that!” He said.

“P helped me make it.” She said. She got comfortable on his chest and played with the bracelet while the stream went on, the other guys screaming periodically causing Isa to flinch. Max would rub her back and assure her they weren’t yelling at her but the game. “Loud boys.” She mumbled into Max’s chest and he laughed.

The chat erupted with thoughts on the little girls words saying things like, “you tell them boys Isa!” Or, “she’s got a point.” By this time P had started playing in the garage and Kelly arrived back home with groceries.

“Mama!!” She squealed and rushed off the couch to get to Kelly. She hugged Kelly’s leg and Kelly crouched down to kiss her. “Papa’s friends are loud.” Isa said like she was admitting she lied about something.

“They are huh?” Kelly asked. “What if we go lay in mama’s room and watch a show?” Kelly offered. Isa perked up at the idea, Kelly and Max’s room was across the house where they would barely hear the boys screaming. P joined and explained how Max was ‘mean’ while she was gone. “No, P I’ve told you not to do that when Isa is around.” Kelly enforced.

P got over herself quickly when a show was mentioned and the girls said bye to Max’s stream. “Bye papa’s scream!” Isa said, making the boys aww at her misunderstanding of the word. She shied into Max’s hold and he kissed her cheek.

“Be good for Mama.” She returned the kiss and followed her mum like a duckling to the master bedroom.

Yes I’ve seen the Kelly controversy, no I will not comment 🙂‍↕️

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @kallanfiona @chertik-007vvv

[ambiguous-avery]

Untamed Soul

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You x Sam Winchester | WC: 1270

Summary: You’re down bad for two guys who aren’t even yours. Then again... they’re not technically not yours either...

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, female masturbation, no wincest, no use of Y/N, pining, PWP (Plot? What plot?), unsatisfying ending, no beta we die like men

A/N: Third piece to complete the trifecta. But clearly I can’t just leave it here. Sorry not sorry, but my brain has decided that there has to be more. Just know that I am a little gremlin behind the screen, rubbing my grubby little hands together because I'm excited about this. Read about Dean’s Sly Grins and Sam’s Careful Stares

Three Hearts, One Flame Masterlist

The job hadn’t taken nearly as long as you had expected, and for once, the only injury between the three of you was your chipped nail from the damn shovel you had passed Dean so they could dig up the grave. If the case had wrapped up any earlier, then you might’ve thought that you could’ve been enjoying your shower back at the bunker rather than the motel room with the discolored walls. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. And while you weren’t particularly covered in grime, a shower was probably going to be the closest thing you could get to having some time alone.

The problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was privacy. Specifically the distinct lack of it. 

So when the most recent hunt had wrapped up and the three of you weren’t beat up, bloodied, and skulking back to the motel room to lick your wounds, you had happily leapt at the idea of some much-needed ‘you’ time while the boys went out to the bar.

You sighed contentedly, tipping your head back into the spray and reveling in the warmth. The rhythmic sound of the water hitting the tiled floor was a steady background noise as the tension melted away from you. It was a rare luxury to have a moment of peace. A moment to indulge in your thoughts.

The other problem with having the Winchester brothers as hunting partners was your attraction. To both of them.

And being in such close quarters with them for prolonged periods of time was bound to have done some irreparable damage to the way you looked at any other guy ever in your lifetime. Not that you wanted to look at anyone else.

You had two handsome-as-hell men who were each willing to lay down their lives for you. And you’d do the same for either of them. That sort of commitment was hard to find anymore. Well... maybe that level of commitment was a bit too much. But the point still stood.

But they weren’t yours. Never had been. Maybe could be?

It didn’t help that you had a good idea of what they thought of you. The funny thing about boys was that they always thought they were so subtle. But you were a hunter. A damn good one, at that. And very little escaped your keen eye. You could see it in the sly grins Dean would flash you. In the way you’d catch Sam’s careful stares out of the corner of your eye when he thought you weren’t looking. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were a little surprised that neither of them had made a move. 

Dean and you flirted plenty, made numerous allusions to actually hooking up but never gone through with it. And the kind of chemistry you shared with Sam was the kind that Hallmark movies could only hope to capture on screen. Really, any way you cut it, the three of you were a symphony, and any sort of change might throw off the harmony you had somehow managed to achieve. Things were better off staying how they were.

But no matter how many times you tried to push those thoughts aside, they always snuck back in, especially in the quiet hours.

You slid your hand down your stomach, fingers tentatively slipping between your legs and imagining that it was a hand far larger than your own. Rough and calloused. With fingers longer than yours. The air in the shower was warm, steam rising from the water turned as hot as you could get it. You could imagine an unsteady breath near your ear.

Imaginary lips pressed against the side of your neck, and your lips parted as you dragged your fingers over your center. It should’ve been alarming how easily thoughts of your hunting partners could consume you. But here in the privacy of the bathroom, it was all too easy to lose yourself in the fantasy. You let out a shaky breath as your fingers danced over your skin, each touch more electrifying than the last.

In your mind, Dean’s strong hands roamed over your body while Sam’s soft voice whispered sweet promises in your ear. Your back arched slightly and you bit your lip, a soft moan escaping you as your fingers ghosted over your clit. You leaned back against the shower wall and propped one leg up on the edge of the tub, heart rate quickening. You could almost feel Dean’s rough stubble against your skin as he kissed you, tasting of whiskey and leather. You imagined Sam’s lips trailing tender kisses down your neck before finding your breast and teasing your nipple between his teeth.

Through the haze of desire, you could hear Dean’s voice, deep and gravelly.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve got you.” It was a promise. A promise you knew you could believe.

“That’s our girl. You can let go for us,” Sam’s voice wrapped you in a sense of safety and security.

You knew without a shadow of a doubt: you belonged with them.

You belonged with Dean, with his rough exterior and kind heart. You belonged with Sam, with his soft words and gentle touch. To Dean and Sam. Would you be too greedy to ask them to share? The universe would truly be cruel if it made you pick just one. 

You pressed two fingers into yourself. They were a poor substitute for what you really wanted, but they would have to suffice. Your breath hitched as you pressed them against that soft spot, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined two sets of eyes on you. Hazel and green. Their hands. Their mouths. Their cocks.

Holy shit.

You hadn’t even begun to imagine the way they’d feel inside you. The way they’d move in tandem. Never leaving you fully empty. The thought of them filling you completely. The thrill of it all made your head spin, and those thoughts wound the coil in you tighter and tighter. You could imagine their hands grasping your hips. Your thighs. Wherever they could find purchase to pull you closer. Their mouths devouring you as they took what they wanted from you.

So close... 

Sam’s large hands splaying across your back as he presses you down. His blunted nails scraping across your skin as he presses deeper and deeper with each slow thrust. 

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Right there... 

Dean’s green eyes, bright and in awe as he sinks into you in one fluid motion. His lips on you, tasting your skin while you come apart in his hands, around his cock.

“Look at you. Taking us so well, sweetheart.”

Closer–

A heavy knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you nearly slipped as hastily pulled your hand away, startled back into reality. The abruptness of the sound echoed in the small room, shattering the illusion you had weaved in the steam.

“Got a six pack with our names on it, sweetheart!” Dean’s voice rang through the door.

“Fuck!" Your heart pounded in your chest, breaths still heavy, eyes wide from shock. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Could give you more than that,” he responded with a mischievous chuckle, and you could clearly visualize the shit-eating grin he wore, even without seeing his face.

“I’ll give you a black eye,” you muttered under your breath, the words tinged with irritation as you dipped back under the water for a quick rinse. The cascade of water washed away the remnants of your interrupted tranquility. 

So much for your privacy.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Dean taglist: @aylacavebear @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @supernotnatural2005 @maddie0101

Both: @jollyhunter @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @sir-thisisadndserver

Want to join the taglist? Comment or Ask Away!

[boxeom]

Okay so first off; I knew this was gonna be fucking soul crushing the second I saw the unreciprocated love tag (and with CALEB? might as well open a bottle of vodka now)- some of your greatest stories have either a heavy focus on one sided love or a brief mention of it in the background. Unsurprisingly, I was in absolute tears after the scene with Simone and the tears didn't get a chance to stop afterwards.

The entire fallout between mc and Caleb was just fucking phenomenal- I was holding my breath the entire time. You always write tragedy and turmoil so god damn well and it's the thing I consistently look forward to the most every single time you make something new (even though it's at the cost of my sanity lmao). The way you convey arguments and breaking points is so gut wrenchingly realistic and cruel that it just completely blows me away. And the dialogue is just another twist of the knife- mc apologizing and pleading and confessing all in one breath had me so sick to my stomach. And Caleb's fucking response????????? I have no words.

I think this is definitely one of the darkest things you've ever written and I LOVE that it was for Caleb. His characterisation is so honest to the way I genuinely think he'd be if something ever happened to lads mc- just that complete and utter destruction of whatever heart he had before that's apparent to everyone. The fact that he still has his obsessive and possessive tendencies (extremely exasperated by the world of this fic) gives this idea that it's the only way he can actually show some semblance of care. And when he's cruel, he's fucking CRUEL.

I love love love love LOVE mc's inner dialogue when Caleb comes to rescue her. The original hope of her character had already been so thoroughly torn apart that I started hoping FOR her, hoping that she'd be able to find some piece of herself again even after everything. And then I realized that SHE realized what going back to Caleb would mean- that he was just another prison of a different kind and she'd never be free from anything ever again. Like my GOD, dude.

And I can't even fucking properly write out my thoughts about the final moment because holy shit. I was in literal SHOCK. I'm not even exaggerating when I say I had to put down my phone and just stare at my wall for a few minutes. Phenomenal work as always, Saint. Thank you for sharing your incredible gift with us. You've been a source of inspiration for me for years and I hope you know that your love for what you do can be so genuinely felt. I hope you've been doing well! ❤️

THE COLONEL'S KEEPER.

in a war-torn world where survival is a privilege, you never expected to become the object of a feared colonel’s obsession. but as whispers of his lost love haunt your every moment and bullets become the least of your worries, you realize that falling for him might be the most dangerous battle of all.

⁀➷ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

⁀➷ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au

⁀➷ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, reader is not l&ds!mc, ooc, war times, unrequited love, profanity, violence, loveless sex, explicit smut, mentions of sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is advised.

⁀➷ notes. 8.3k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. this is heavily inspired by my other gojo fic s.o.s and the manhwa my beloved oppressor :) couldn’t stop thinking about this au for caleb that i had to just write it :’D reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

The world above was long dead. Ruins of cities stood as monuments to a past civilization, swallowed by the aftermath of World War VI. Beneath the surface, buried in a labyrinth of steel and stone, was where the remaining humanity clung to survival. Here, Colonel Caleb was both a savior and a nightmare—a man whose presence alone sent shivers down the spines of even the most battle-hardened soldiers.

But he was not just any soldier—he was the fleet’s best fighter pilot, a legend in the skies before the war even forced them underground. Even now, when the remnants of humanity relied on aerial supremacy to hold off their enemies, Caleb was the one they turned to. The one who led the most dangerous missions, who never failed, who returned even when others didn’t. 

You have loved him for as long as you could remember.

You were a humble nurse, stitching together broken bodies, whispering soft reassurances to the wounded. Your duty was simple yet relentless, saving as many lives as you could with the limited resources and skill at your disposal. You weren’t the best, nor did you claim to be, but you were one of the few who refused to surrender to despair, even as the war bled your world dry. While others faltered under the gravity of endless suffering, you endured. And after a year of tending to fallen soldiers and civilians, you remained steadfast. You were the only one among your female colleagues who hadn’t lost herself to the horrors of war.

That was how you met him. 

Caleb was the fleet’s toughest and most formidable leader. He was unyielding and merciless to those who dared cross him. Even with his own people, he remained strict, and his resolve never wavered even in the face of devastating losses. But the night he staggered into the private ward, wounded and bleeding out, you were the first to reach him. You ensured he was cared for, your hands steady as you fought to keep him alive. 

“You’ll make it through the night, sir.” You could still remember the desperation in your voice as you tightened the tourniquet around his broken arm, fighting to stop the bleeding. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He lay there, teeth clenched, body tense with pain, every breath labored. “If I die, I die.” 

“No!” you shot back, your grip firm with determination. “Not tonight. You will live. We’re rooting for you, sir. The people need you.”

They said falling in love during wartime was a surefire path to heartbreak. Yet, meeting Caleb, seeing beyond his striking exterior, and loving him despite the battles—both on the field and within—was a fight you willingly embraced. You surrendered yourself to him without hesitation, and in return, the hardened soldier who was weary from war found solace in you. He called you the prettiest nurse in the ward, but to him, you were far more than that. You were the one thing he never saw coming. 

You were the apple of his eyes. 

But, of course, the other nurses didn’t take kindly to that. They resented how you had unknowingly ruined their chances with him, and even more so, how an undeniable favoritism began to surface. While they were left to sleep in rusty bunk beds, you were the one Caleb brought to his private quarters, where the sheets were soft, the air was warm, and food was abundant.

It was easy for them to judge. After all, rumors spread like wildfire about the nurse who shared the colonel’s bed. The gossip wasn’t confined to just the nurses; it reached the soldiers who eyed you whenever you passed, their gazes lingering with knowing smirks as if fantasizing what their colonel saw at night. Even the older civilians bore disapproving glances whenever they saw you. Their silent verdict was clear as day. You were seen as a woman who had traded her virtue for privilege. A harlot draped in a white uniform. A disgrace hiding behind the pretense of care.

You weren’t sure if Caleb knew about it, but it was impossible not to. He simply didn’t care because he had an entire nation to think about. Clearing your name was the least of his concerns. And you knew it. After two years of serving as a war nurse, when night fell, you were simply the woman Caleb claimed as his. A common-law partner, nothing more. He never made promises, never told you that you were the only one in his heart. Because you weren’t. That space belonged to another—the woman he had truly loved. The woman he had lost to war.

His wife.

You tried. You tried to live with the ghost between you, tried to endure the way his fingers sometimes trembled against your skin, as if remembering someone else. You tried to pretend that when he held you, it was because he wanted you, not because he needed something to numb the ache inside him.

But love, when unreciprocated, was a slow and agonizing death. 

And all you could do was live with it for as long as you were with him.

Because one day, you knew he could love you the same. And one day, when the war ends, you would be in his arms, building your life together with your kids playing freely and no longer living in fear. 

For now, you had to endure what came your way. There are no saints in war times, and patience was a virtue at times like these. 

The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nose as you moved swiftly through the underground ward, checking pulses, changing dressings, and murmuring reassurances to the wounded who groaned in pain one after another. It was just another day in the relentless cycle of war, patching up soldiers only to send them back out to die.

Then you heard him.

Colonel Caleb’s commanding voice felt like an alarm to everyone in the ward as he strode down the hall, flanked by his army of men. You weren’t even looking, but you could picture the way they walked, with Caleb at the front, exuding effortless authority, and the others keeping pace just slightly behind him.

“The turbine failed mid-air,” one of his officers reported. “Preliminary analysis suggests a mechanical fault. Possibly a lubrication issue in the main rotor bearings.”

“Or sabotage,” another interjected grimly.

Caleb didn’t slow his steps. “Has the wreckage been recovered?”

“Scouts are en route, sir. We should have an assessment within the hour.”

“Too late,” Caleb muttered. “If they hit us now, we’ll have one less bird in the sky. Reassign Squadron Echo to cover the eastern perimeter. Deploy anti-air artillery in sector four, and keep the missile launchers primed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then, a distant explosion rumbled aboveground, rattling the dim lights overhead. You even had to hold onto one of the cabinet doors to steady yourself. A fighter jet had gone down.

“Damn it.” One of the officers pulled out a small tablet, scanning over the mission logs. “Pilot’s confirmed dead. They’re already moving in on the wreckage. We need reinforcements at the north trench.”

Caleb barely hesitated. “Send Private Halloway to the front lines.”

“Roger that.”

His words were sharp and clinical. No emotion. Just another name spoken into a void, another body to be thrown into the fray. 

Your hands stilled over a soldier’s bandages. Halloway. You recognized that name.

The same Halloway who had leaned a little too close when you handed him his rations. The one who had brushed a stray lock of hair from your face and smirked, murmuring something about how the battlefield could use more beauty like yours. The kind of beauty that he fantasized at night. 

And now he was being sent to die.

A strange thrill coiled in your stomach. Caleb had heard about it. Or he might even have seen. It was a foolish and delusional thought, dangerous even, but you clung to the fact that this was surely his way of claiming you.

As his group passed, your pulse quickened. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger on him. Tall. Unshaken. Unreachable. This was your man. He was yours and you were his. 

You smiled as soon as he saw you, just a little, as if sharing a secret only the two of you understood.

But Caleb didn’t stop. He simply looked away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone. Nothing more than the cold air that he often carried. 

~~

Steam curled in the dimly lit room as you stepped out of the shower, water forming in rivulets against your skin. The underground base was always cold, but in Caleb’s quarters, the warmth always stayed. Not just because he had his own luxury of a fireplace, but because the warmth also included faint traces of him in the air, in the sheets, and in the ghost of his presence.

Not that it mattered. You were just emotional because he hadn’t been here in three days.

Sighing, you wrapped a towel around yourself, already resigning to another night alone. But just as you reached for your comb, the door swung open with a slow and deliberate creak.

You froze.

Caleb stood in the doorway, his uniform dusted with dirt and gunpowder. His sleeves were rolled up, veins prominent on his forearms and tension coiling in his stance. His gaze flicked over your damp skin, bare shoulders, the towel barely clinging to your body.

You let a small smile play on your lips. “You finally remembered where your bed is?” you teased, stepping closer. “I was starting to think you found another.”

He didn’t respond. Just shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

And the thick, suffocating silence stretched as he began removing his shoes. You took this moment to clear your throat. “I heard about Halloway,” you murmured, tilting your head. “People are saying you sent him to a death sentence.” A pause, then a knowing smile. “Did you do that for me?”

The shift was instant. And it wasn’t what you pictured in your head. 

Before you could react, Caleb was in front of you, his body pressing you back until your spine hit the cold wall. His hand gripped your jaw firmly, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark, smoldering, and unreadable. This was the version of Caleb that everyone was afraid of. 

“You worried ‘bout him?” His voice had a dangerous edge lacing each word.

While you, your breath hitched, fingers curling into the towel. “N-No.” 

“You think I didn’t hear?” His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make you gasp. “The way he talked to you? The way you smiled at him? Handsome guy, isn’t he?”

You denied everything he was saying. You knew one of his officers had been feeding him information, but they seemed twisted to make you out as someone you weren’t. Were they trying to turn him against you? “No, darling. That’s not true. In fact, I can’t even stand him.” 

His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Y/N.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “And if I catch you entertaining anyone else again, I won’t just send them to die.”

A shiver ran down your spine—fear, thrill, or perhaps something darker twisting deep inside you. His warning did what it was supposed to do: to scare the hell out of you. But the most dangerous part was how much you enjoyed it all. 

And then, before you could even form a response, he pushed you towards the bed. 

By the time you looked back at him in surprise, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, looking at you merely as an object of his desire. “Strip off,” he growled, face rigid as ever. “The past few days were damn stressful. Been thinkin’ of you naked all day.” 

And so, your nightly duties began. Caleb demanded his reward, and you were too foolishly in love that you surrendered to him without hesitation. 

Because as unhinged as his obsession seemed, it ignited something deep within you. The thought of Caleb claiming you as his prize, something he craved at the end of each brutal day, sent the most passionate fire through your veins. That the same man who barely spared you a glance in daylight was the one who burned with desperation to have you all to himself at nighttime.

“I missed you,” you whispered as you slowly unraveled your bare body in front of him, dropping the damp towel on the floor. Not once did you break eye contact, and it was the sexiest thing you had ever experienced in your life.

As for him, he had already rid himself of his clothes. They were a pile on the floor, discarded lazily as he pinned you down. First, he went for your lips. Completely devouring, savoring your taste, and dominating every inch of your mouth. The moment his tongue connected with yours, he deepened the kiss—a little too rough, too desperate that you could barely breathe. 

“M-My love,” you gasped, the only time he allowed you to catch your breath was when he was positioning himself between your legs. And then he crashed his lips onto yours once more, enjoying how you moaned against his lips, exchanging warm breaths as he explored your mouth. The kiss was so intense that you barely noticed the feeling of his hardened member pressing against your leg. It felt huge and hard as a rock, a clear sign that he had been wanting a good release for the past few days. And you? You were crazy about it. You had seen his member plenty of times before, but nothing excited you more than feeling it inside. 

That wasn’t his agenda for now, though. He took his sweet time trailing kisses along your collarbone, leaving purple marks around your neck, before he feasted on the same breast he had been kneading for more than a minute. You could feel your back arching as your body naturally responded to his touch, with your own hand guiding him to massage your other mound. He nibbled on the nipple, sucking and licking around the nub, then moving to give the other the same amount of attention. 

He was like a hungry beast that hadn’t eaten for weeks. With the way he squeezed your tits together and running his tongue along the cleavage, you could already feel yourself dripping down there. 

“C-Caleb.”

“Hm?” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he crawled down, spreading your legs apart, and eyeing the swollen lips that he was about to demolish. “Wet already?” 

You nodded, looking down at him and watching as he pressed his fingers along the slit, sliding and circling his digits on your entrance. “Mmh—that’s…” 

“Be patient now,” he mocked, “Aren’t you so needy?” 

That was true, but how could you help it? How could you not want him inside if you could see him stroking his pulsing cock while he was using his other hand to play with your clit? Just when you thought you couldn’t go crazier, he eventually sucked his digits to taste your slick, then he returned them back to your entrance, only this time, entering without warning. 

“A-Aah!”

His fingers alone could make your legs shake, and whatever he was reaching for inside you was making you weaker by the second. You were a moaning mess under him, hands clenching on his sheets for dear life as he fingered your cunt like there was no tomorrow. It was only a matter of seconds until you disintegrated in front of him—your legs trembling as your fluid released itself in a series of squirts. 

Embarrassed as you may be, it was what Caleb wanted to see. 

And he didn’t let you rest before he was already positioning his crotch on your face, his hand holding his cock in place as he slapped his swollen tip against your lips. “My turn,” he spoke in a low voice, smirking as you wrapped your shaky hand around his shaft and let your tongue swirl around his bulging pink head. You could taste the precum on his tip, licking every corner and every ridge under, from his balls back to his tip before you swallowed him entirely. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, pulling your hair as you bobbed your head on his cock, enveloping the warm walls of your mouth around his member as if you were milking him of his cum. Your eyes welled with tears as you fought the urge to gag despite feeling the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting your throat. Each and every moan he released made you more determined to please him, to be called a good girl, to be wanted. 

You could feel it. With how his cock was twitching inside your mouth, he was about to explode. But he didn’t let it happen. Everything happened in a span of a second when he pulled his member from your mouth before opening your core and slamming his cock into your pussy. 

His thick, hard cock stretched you open without mercy. And he didn’t slow down or savor the time. He was ramming into you, hands holding your hips in place while your tits bounced wildly. Caleb’s sweat was starting to trickle along his toned upper body, his abs now glistening as he continued to pound into you endlessly. 

“I’d fuck you everyday like this if I can,” he grunted, each word came out raspy. “You like that?” 

“Y-Yes! A-Aaah!” You struggled to form coherent words as he hit your sweetest spot at each hard thrust. “C-Caleb.” 

The walls were thin. But surely, the colonel’s private quarters would have some sort of soundproofing, otherwise it would be embarrassing how loud the skin-slapping and squelching noises you two were making. It didn’t help that you were practically screaming as Caleb started increasing his speed as he chased his climax. Your walls were clenching around his girth, milking him of his load that he soon spurted inside of you. 

You were in a battle of catching each other’s breaths as he pulled out, watching his cum seep out of your cunt before he plopped on the bed next to you. 

“Take the pill as soon as you wake up,” he ordered, laying on his back as he closed his eyes. His chest rose up and down as he eventually caught his breath. 

But you remained a ragdoll beside him, your lower body still twitching from the intense orgasm and muscle memory. “O-Okay.” 

The night was supposed to end romantically. It was supposed to be you and him cuddling and declaring your love for each other, but the thought of him only using your body to relieve himself was torture to your mind. You convinced yourself it meant something more, something deeper. 

But the hard truth was, you were only there to fill the silence.

You traced lazy circles over his bare chest, your voice soft yet full of devotion. “I’m all yours, Caleb. Only yours.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

~~

The next morning, the bed beside you was cold.

You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing against the empty sheets where Caleb should have been. But there was nothing—no warmth, no lingering presence, just the stark reality that he hadn’t even stayed.

But you told yourself you just had to get used to it and that Caleb would come wanting you again at night. Like he always did. And so, biting back the hollow ache in your chest, you forced yourself up, got dressed, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast. 

The moment you stepped in, you felt it.

Eyes. Watching. Judging.

The low murmurs didn’t stop as you walked past the rows of civilians, soldiers, and nurses, pretending not to notice the whispers that followed you. You kept your chin up and sat down with your tray, forcing yourself to eat the stale bread despite the tightness in your throat.

You had no illusions about what they were saying. They all thought they knew what you were or what you did. Caleb’s woman. His plaything. And after last night, they had even more reason to talk.

But you had work to do.

By midday, you were back in the ward, slipping into your role as if nothing had changed. Patients needed tending to, and you weren’t about to let their petty gossip stop you.

At least there was something to occupy yourself with. They brought in a new soldier to the base, barely back from the front lines if you could add. His face was gaunt, sunken with pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he lay on the cot. His leg was in ruins—shattered bones, torn muscle, the kind of injury that didn’t fully heal in wartime. 

You approached him carefully, offering a calm, practiced smile. “I’m here to help—”

His reaction was instant. It was as though you were the trigger to a ticking time bomb. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, snapped to you, and before you could blink, his hands already shot out, grabbing at you with a strength you didn’t expect.

“You—!” he snarled, his fingers digging into your arms, nails raking against your skin as he yanked you forward. “You whore—you whore!”

You gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was fueled by pain and rage, his voice hoarse with accusation. “Ow! P-Please!” 

“You ruin men like us! You—you—get innocent soldiers sent to die!” His nails scratched at your cheek, his grip tightening as he shook you. “You’re the reason Halloway’s gone—!”

The words hit like a slap, but before he could do more, hands were on him. And on you. Other soldiers rushed in, prying him off you, restraining him as he thrashed against the cot. 

“Stand down, soldier!” one barked.

You stumbled back, breath coming fast, your skin stinging where he had just scratched you.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the way the nurses across the ward just watched. Their gazes were cold, as if saying you deserved it. Not a single one had moved to help.

You couldn’t understand the hostility. Couldn’t fathom why people looked at you with such disdain. If it had been another woman in your place, would they have treated her the same? All you had done was love a man—nothing more, nothing less. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You simply fell in love.

But as you locked yourself in the bathroom, staring at your reflection while washing the bloody scratches from your cheek, that was when the realization struck.

They didn’t respect you because Caleb never had.

Not once had he claimed you in public, never shown his affection where others could see. He had never treated you like someone worth honoring, never given you the respect you deserved. And if the leader of this war-torn world didn’t respect you—why would anyone else?

The thought alone made your eyes well with tears, but you quickly washed them away. No. You refused to doubt. He loves me. He’d even kill for me.

A sudden knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it hesitantly, only to find Simone standing there. The only female soldier with a rank high enough to command real respect. At first, you assumed she was just waiting for the restroom, but the way she looked at you said otherwise.

“You got a minute?” she asked, her tone cool and unreadable.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah… sure.”

~~

The storage room was cold and dimly lit by the single flickering bulb overhead. Dust clung to the forgotten crates, and the faint scent of metal and oil lingered in the air. Hardly anyone came here as it was a place for old supplies and broken equipment, not whispered conversations.

And yet, here you were, in the only room without surveillance. 

Simone leaned against one of the crates, arms crossed as he narrowed her eyes at you. “You need to end things with Caleb.”

You stiffened instantly. “Excuse me?” 

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if she had already anticipated your reaction. “This thing between you and him, you know it isn’t healthy. Not for you. Not for him.”

You scoffed. Who does she think she is? “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know more than you think,” she shot back. “I know what kind of man Caleb is. What he’s become.”

You folded your arms, defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that he cares about me.”

“Cares about you?” Simone let out a humorless chuckle. “Do you even know what he’s done? How many men he’s killed just for looking at you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Five soldiers. And counting,” she continued coldly. “Some he sent straight to the gas chambers. Others? He had them tortured in ways I wouldn’t even wish on our enemies. And all because they made the mistake of mentioning how beautiful you are.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “B-But that’s because he wants to protect me. That’s just how he loves.”

Simone watched you carefully before she sighed again, her voice softening this time. “This isn’t love, Y/N. You don’t know Caleb… I don’t even know if he’s capable of loving again.”

What does she mean?

“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, almost nostalgic as if he had seen another version of Caleb that you hadn’t. “Before the war. Before his wife died. He was kind. Gentle. A man who knew the difference between power and cruelty.” She hesitated, then admitted, “She was my colleague. And my friend. Caleb’s childhood sweetheart, his true love, and his whole life. He loved her sincerely, so much so that he was fighting to make the world better for her. Not destroy it. But seeing him right now, she would’ve hated what he’s become.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Everything she had just mentioned shot a bullet straight to your heart, but you refused to let it kill you. You refused, denied. No! 

“You can’t replace her,” Simone added, her words cutting through you like a knife. “No matter how much you try. So I suggest you leave him before it destroys you.”

~~

The door to Caleb’s private quarters slammed open as you stormed inside, your blood boiling, your mind a haze of rage and betrayal. You couldn’t stop Simone’s words from echoing in your head even if you tried hard enough. You can’t replace her. She’s his true love. His whole life. 

“No.” Adamantly did you shake your head. “Stop.” 

He loved her sincerely. And still does. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you yanked at the blankets, overturned chairs, kicked over the table. The frustration inside you was begging to be released, and destruction was the only thing that made sense. How could you get extremely jealous over a dead person? You laughed in your head. She was dead. She was gone. Good for her. But despite the constant reminder to yourself that the woman you were jealous of didn’t exist anymore, you knew that you could never erase the fact that you would still never amount to her. And you hated it. You hated her! 

In your rage, you didn’t even realize you had grabbed one of his jackets from the pile of discarded uniforms until something tumbled out of the pocket.

A necklace.

It landed with a soft metallic clink against the floor. It was a simple chain, worn with age, with two wedding bands strung together. Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, seeing the engraving was delicate but unmistakable. It had Caleb’s name and hers.

Your hands trembled.

She was still here. She had never left. Not in his heart, not in his mind. He carried her with him, even now, even after all the ways he had made you believe you were his.

Something inside you snapped, as though you were a madwoman who had finally lost her sanity. Like Caleb always said, that ‘there are no saints in wartimes’. So, what was stopping you from going all out? She needed to be destroyed. She needed to be forgotten. In your desperation to search for more pieces of her, you lurched toward his drawers, pulling them open and shoving things aside. Your promise to never touch his things? Forgotten.

That was when you saw a wooden box, hidden beneath neatly folded uniforms.

You yanked it out, prying it open with shaking hands—only to find it stuffed with letters. Some yellowed with time, others crisp as if he had reread them over and over. Her handwriting. Her words. Her love, immortalized in ink.

My Dearest Caleb,

If I close my eyes, I can still see you standing on the shoreline, hands in your pockets, pretending you’re not waiting for me. But I always knew. You were never good at hiding how much you loved me.

Are you eating well? Have you been sleeping? I know you’ll lie if I ask you in person, but in a letter, you can’t hide from me. And I worry, darling. I always do.

I miss the way you hold me before you leave. I miss the way you kiss my hair, thinking I don’t notice how long you linger there. I miss the way you look at me like I’m the only thing in this world worth coming back to.

Sometimes I wonder… do you know how much I love you? Do you feel it, even when we’re apart? I hope you do. I hope it’s enough to keep you warm when the nights are cold, to keep you safe when danger is near.

Come back to me soon, my love. The house is too quiet without you. And when you do, I’ll be right here, waiting. Just like always.

Forever yours,

Your wife

A strangled sob tore from your throat.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You just couldn’t. 

Through hot tears and reckless fury, you grabbed the box and flung it into the fireplace without regard. All her letters spilled out, each and every one of them catching flame within seconds. And you didn’t hesitate to throw the necklace soon after, letting it vanish into the fire with a dull shimmer.

You stood there, watching the flames devour every trace of her. Of them.

“You’re gone,” you let out a mirthless laugh, wiping the tears that followed after. “You’re gone! Leave him alone!” 

Your entire body trembled at the thought, your chest undulating in heavy breaths. Then, as if realizing what you had done, you collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the fire.

The anger was gone.

Replaced by the terrifying thought of what Caleb would do when he came home. 

~~

The FY-26 cut through the sky like a phantom with its sleek titanium frame reflecting the nautical glow of the setting sun. It was the most powerful fighter jet in the fleet; faster, deadlier, a mechanical beast designed for war. And only one person from the DAA was given the honor to pilot it. 

Caleb gripped the throttle, voice steady as he spoke into his comms. “Specter-01 to Specter-02, enemy reconnaissance spotted at 2 o’clock, altitude 15,000 feet. Adjust trajectory and prepare for engagement.”

“Copy that, Specter-01,” came the reply of his fellow fighter pilot. “Visual confirmed. Awaiting further orders.”

Caleb’s gaze flicked to the horizon, where a lone aircraft hovered in the distance. He could hear the chatter of enemy comms scrambling to react, but for a moment, his focus drifted.

Below him, a small, crescent-shaped island came into view. His grip on the controls instantly tightened.

He knew this place.

The memory surfaced like a ghost from another life—of a time when war wasn’t all he knew. When he had taken her here, flying low so she could see the crystalline waves shimmering under the sun. He had told her to look down, to read the words he had carved into the sand earlier in the day.

"Will you marry me?"

He could still hear her laughter, the way it had crackled through the radio before she screamed yes over the comms, her excitement drowning out all other noise. His adorable pipsqueak. Her beautiful smile, her sparkling eyes… 

Caleb exhaled sharply, forcing himself back into the present. “I miss you, my love.”

That was a lifetime ago. She was a lifetime ago.

His eyes darkened as he thought of his new reality—you. You weren’t her. Not in the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, the way you looked at him with that foolish devotion. But maybe… maybe he should stop pretending that it mattered.

Maybe he should just settle with what he had left.

You were still there waiting for him. A woman who, despite all odds, loved him with reckless abandon. The same woman who cried on the night he was on his deathbed, doing everything in her might to make sure he lived. And though he could never give you what he once gave another, he knew you’d still smile, even just from the smallest things.

A glance. A touch. A mere kiss from him, and your entire world lit up.

His hands flexed against the controls.

“Specter-02, engage the target. I’m circling back to base.”

Because tonight, maybe he’d give you something to smile about.

~~

The moment Caleb stepped into his quarters, he could tell something was wrong.

The air alone was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, an unusual warmth persisting as dying embers crackled weakly in the fireplace. His gaze swept over the room—furniture askew, drawers flung open, papers and personal belongings scattered across the floor. His gut twisted. It was like a crime scene. Like something vital had been gutted from this space.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

Curled up on the floor, body trembling, and your arms wrapped around yourself like a feeble shield. Your shoulders shook through stifled sobs, but the moment your tear-streaked face lifted to meet his gaze, everything inside him snapped.

His heart slammed against his ribs, a foreign pressure crushing his chest as his vision tunneled straight to the fireplace.

No. No, no, no, no!

It was as if his vision blurred, as if there was a deafening ringing overtaking his ears as he stormed forward, shoving past the mess to get to the source of his rage. The flames had long since died, leaving behind nothing but fragile wisps of ash. But even in its destruction, he recognized what it used to be.

Burned letters.

A melted necklace, the twisted remains of two rings fused together.

The last pieces of her.

His wife.

His breath left him in a sharp, ragged exhale, his lungs refusing to pull in air as scorching rage flooded every nerve in his body.

“You,” he seethed. Your name didn’t even make it past his lips. The word was a knife, laced with something lethal, something beyond fury. His boots pounded against the wooden floor as he closed the distance between you, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’d fucking kill you! What the fuck have you done?!”

You flinched, your body recoiling as if his voice had physically struck you. “Caleb—”

“Shut up!” His hand shot out, gripping your arm down to the bone, yanking you up with enough force that your legs nearly gave out beneath you. “Do you have any fucking idea what you just did?” 

“I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking straight—” you choked out, shaking your head frantically, eyes wide with panic.

“Didn’t mean to?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound so devoid of warmth it sent chills down your spine. Before you could react, he was already shoving you back against the nearest wall, his arms caging you in, his breath hot with rage as it fanned against your skin. His eyes were cold, piercing, murderous, menacing.

“You burned her letters, our rings,” he said, each syllable aiming to intimidate you. “Destroyed the only damn thing I had left of her! And for what?!”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you tried to shake your head, tried to explain, but your throat was too tight, your breath too uneven. Caleb’s gaze alone was enough to make your entire body tremble. But you had to try. “I was hurt, Caleb,” you finally sobbed, the words tumbling out like a plea. “I—I just wanted you to forget her. I wanted you to see me!” 

“Forget her?” His jaw clenched. His grip tightened on your wrist, the pressure just shy of bruising. “You think you could ever replace her? You think you have any fuckin’ right to want anything from me? That you could be anything more than a pathetic substitute?”

The words sliced through you like a blade, carving through every delusion you had ever let yourself believe.

Yet… you had nothing left to lose.

“I love you,” you whispered, broken, desperate. “Caleb, I love you… Please. I’ll be everything you need. I’ll offer everything I have and more. Just… just forget about her.”

For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually hit you.

But then, just as fast as it came, he wrenched himself away from you, staggering back as though you were the thing poisoning him. It hurt. It hurt like hell to see the way he rid himself of you as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers itching to wreck you. 

“...Caleb.” 

“...I’m sorry, Caleb.” 

“...I love you, Caleb.”

No matter how desperately you fought to win his heart, his voice remained eerily calm when he finally spoke.

“Get the hell out of my sight.”

You stood frozen, barely able to process the words. “B-But—”

“I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” His roar thundered through the room, rattling your entire being like an insect in a heavy storm. 

You swallowed down the sob threatening to rise up your throat, willing yourself to move—to breathe—as you staggered toward the door. Your fingers curled around the handle, and for a split second, you let yourself hope for him to stop you. To say something. Anything.

But all he did was stare at you with a gaze so cold, so hollow, it made your heart cave in on itself.

And then, his final words were more merciless than you thought. 

“You wanna play with fire?” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll throw you out into the front lines soon enough. See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”

A strangled gasp left your lips, your vision blurring with fresh tears.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

And for the first time since you met him, you realized that no matter how much love you poured into him, Caleb had none left to give.

~~

He stayed true to his words. 

The front lines were nothing short of hell. Explosions tore through the sky, painting it in hues of orange and black. The ground trembled beneath relentless bombardments, screams of the wounded and dying mixing with the fusillade of gunfire. It was chaos. It was pure, unfiltered war.

And you were in the heart of it.

Thrown into the battlefield as nothing more than a discarded afterthought, yet you worked tirelessly, tending to the broken, the dying, the ones who begged for mercy even when there was nothing left to give. Blood soaked your uniform, stained your hands, and for the first time since you had arrived at this forsaken place, you realized Caleb was never coming to rescue you. That this wasn’t as simple as temporary punishment where he could rescue you back to the base the moment he saw that you had already paid for your sins. 

You had been foolish to think otherwise. Because the punishment was greater than the crime. 

Day after day, you watched the planes soar overhead, wondering if one of them carried him. If maybe, just maybe, he’d glance down and remember you. That he’d order someone to retrieve you, to take you home.

But no one came.

Not even him.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse—the enemy arrived.

You barely had time to react before the camp was raided, soldiers storming in with brutal efficiency. Screams filled the air—nurses, wounded soldiers, no one was spared. You tried to run, but hands—so many hands—gripped you, dragging you with them.

“No, please!” you sobbed, thrashing, digging your heels into the dirt. “Someone, help me!”

But the only response was the harsh, guttural laughter of the men dragging you away. You didn’t understand their language, but you understood them. The way their dark, hungry eyes lusted over your trembling form. The mocking smiles curling their lips. The way they spoke to each other, like you weren’t even human.

Like you were property.

One of them cupped your chin, tilting your face up with a sickening grin. “She’ll do nicely,” he murmured in a thick accent. 

Another joined in on the amusement. “A fitting pastime for the long nights ahead.”

A fresh wave of panic crashed over you, bile rising in your throat as you began to foresee your fate in their hands. Your fate as the enemy’s new plaything. 

“No—NO!” you shrieked, thrashing harder, your nails clawing at their arms. “Caleb! S-Someone, please!”

But no one came.

No one ever came.

That was when your real nightmare began.

They dragged you to their camp, a place so desolate, so devoid of mercy, that it made your previous suffering look like a fleeting dream. There was no hope here. No salvation.

Just pain.

The foreign army passed you from one to the next like you were nothing more than a worn-out relic of war. Their touch was greedy, using your body at their convenience, their grip bruising as they took what they wanted. They stripped you off everything; clothes, dignity, sanity. Sanity. Where is God in all of this?

Your mind drifted, escaping to anywhere else but there. You imagined a different life, a different fate. But the pain kept pulling you back. The jeers, the mocking laughter, the cruel hands that touched every inch of your skin reminding you over and over again that there was no escaping this. You felt dirty, felt disgusted of your own flesh, felt sick that you had to wake up each day living for only one and one purpose alone. 

You stopped counting the days.

Stopped screaming when they came for you.

You had nothing left.

Their cruelty settled deep within your bones, your spirit breaking piece by piece until all that remained was a hollow shell of who you used to be.

And the worst part?

He never came.

Caleb, the man who once whispered possessive threats in your ear, who swore no one else could have you, who claimed you as his prize—had abandoned you to this.

It was almost laughable. Truly spectacular. 

As you lay on the cold, your body too battered to move, you allowed yourself to accept the truth.

He never loved you.

He never would.

~~

Before you were a war nurse, you once interned as a nurse at Akso Hospital. Life was peaceful then. Even as whispers of an impending world war grew louder, there was an unshaken belief that your nation was too powerful to fall. No one dared to wage war on the strongest nation in the world. 

That was the world you knew—quiet, bathed in golden light. You stood in the familiar white halls of the medical facility, the place where it all began. Where you trained. Where you dreamed of making a difference.

Dr. Zayne stood before you, his crisp uniform as pristine as ever, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the medical abstract he had on hand. He had always been composed and steady. A true professional that you looked up to. He was the best cardiac surgeon there was, and everyone in the same field dreamed of working with him. Of becoming like him.

“You're ready for this,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “The war will test you, but your hands—” he reached out, taking yours in his own, running his thumb across your palm—“were meant to heal.”

You gripped his hands a little tighter. “What if I can’t save everyone?”

He thought for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “You won’t,” he agreed. “But you will save someone. And that will always matter.”

You felt your chest tighten. “Thank you for being a good mentor, Dr. Zayne. I hope to see you again someday.” 

The golden light around him began to fade, his figure growing distant, hazy, slipping through your fingers.

“Good luck, Y/N.”

It was the chilling air that woke you up from your dream. The icy breeze seeped into your bones, deeper than any wound, any bruise, any violation. Every inch of you ached, skin marred with purple and black, lips split and dry. Your body was no longer your own. It was something broken, something discarded.

You barely had the strength to keep your eyes open and every breath was a struggle as your ribs protested with each inhale. The faint scent of blood and sweat lingered around you, suffocating you. Killing you.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard voices—a noise.

A sharp crack split through the air, followed by a scream—short, cut off, wet. Then another. And another.

Gunfire.

Shouting.

The heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.

You tried to move, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The exhaustion of everything they had done to you pinned you down. Your pulse was sluggish, your vision swimming, but you could hear it—him. And the distinct roar of his rage. Perhaps it was your hallucination. After all, you had already lost your mind from this war. 

But one of the soldiers outside, his voice barely rising before it was cut off—a sickening gurgle of a sound, as if something sharp had torn straight through his throat. Gunfire erupted in rapid succession, followed by panicked shouts, orders barked in a language you barely understood, only for them to be silenced just as quickly. A storm was tearing through the camp. A massacre.

Then, the door was kicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight.

You held your breath. 

The familiar combat boots. The bloodied gloves. The cold, murderous gleam of his eyes.

Caleb.

Your lips parted—half in disbelief, half in something uglier. Because now, after everything, after you had finally accepted that he was gone, he was here. His gaze was fixed on you, and something in his features cracked as he took in your state. Bruises. Cuts. The torn remains of your uniform that barely covered your violated body. His fingers twitched over the trigger of his gun.

Slowly, he took a step forward. And when he finally reached you, he knelt, his bloodstained hands brushing against your trembling form as if to confirm that you were real.

Why? Why now, Caleb?

You let out a broken sob, your body giving out as you collapsed into him, while his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly and desperately.

It was for the first time since meeting him where he genuinely, unselfishly took you in his arms with fragile care. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again. I promise.”

The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.

Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.

Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.

But, no.

The true horror was returning to Caleb.

Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. You were only going to submit yourself to a never ending cycle. Of pain. Of being unloved.

So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.

His own gun. His own weapon.

For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”

The barrel was already pressed to your temple. His hands lunged for you, fast, too fast—

BANG!

The world stilled.

Your body swayed before a slow, almost gentle descent to the ground. Caleb caught you before you could hit the dirt, but warm blood seeped between his fingers. His hands, the same hands that had killed and destroyed, now shook as they cradled you. “No! NOOO! Y/N!”

But it was too late.

You smiled with your red-stained lips. “You deserve to live a life where the women you love—” you coughed, blood bubbling at the edges of your lips as you said your last words, “leave you.”

[beeatabb]

Aftg series adaptation idea:

Every episode starts with a brief flashback to Neil's life on the run/ his childhood, and at the end of it, the scene cuts to a contradicting thing he does in the present (which would be the plot of that ep).

Like, for example, "i have been running for 9 years, always hiding, staying out of sight, (bla bla u get the picture)" and then BOOM it cuts to Neil dressed up on live TV. Like ??? Yknow, and then it proceeds with the story leading up to that moment.

Or or or

Smth about how he got his scars, some dramatic montage of Neil and Mary fleeing, shots fired in the background, her prying off Neil's kevlar vest to reveal an ugly wound, and then the scene abruptly cuts to that same wound, but healed. Camera pans out, and its Neil showing Abby his scars.

DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN??

Like there are so many options:

Playing at Evermore as a kid/ ...playing at Evermore

Neil getting struck by an iron/ showing his scars to Andrew (again. Or smth else).

Lola teaching Neil how to cut things/ kidnapping scene

Nathaniel Wesninski/ Neil Josten

Etc.

Like, this way we get bits and pieces to Neil's past like how we do in the books; we're not getting totally info-dumped, but we get insight throughout the books as to who he actually is.

It also works with how strongly Neil holds onto Mary's rules, how sick/ sorry he feels whenever he breaks them, because we can actually see why she was so hell-bent on laying low; she doesn't only come off as some paranoid freak, she had reasons- (This is getting off track, Mary ily).

And then we get to experience pure whiplash as to how crazy Neil's life acctually is without him suppressing/compartmentalizing it.

Ah, a girl can dream...

[hokusu]

#dabihawks Hawks, who's not the fastest hero who sits at number two, but the people's fastest vigilante, who crashes hero galas and every overly lascivious extravagances and press conferences that top heroes hold, to steal the food and all of their riches to distribute to the poor. His prime target, the number two flame hero.

And rising pro-hero Dabi, who watches him do it without fail, every time. Something between annoyance but impressed and confusingly fond, another purposely slowed step to not catch him.

(He could catch him if he tried, is what Dabi tells himself.)

But it is his father, so maybe vigilante Hawks is on to something. He's never approved of the waste that top heroes spend. Most definitely not his father's annual celebrations, so if he turns a blind eye, there's really no harm here, right?

And if Hawks lounges against a table at the annual bash, no eyes' on him except for Dabi's, as he bites into an apple, Dabi can't deny that he looks good doing what he does.

"Here to rob the poor old man again?" Dabi greets, for the hell of it. Not because he's not already sure of the other man's intentions. Innocent until proven guilty... except Hawks is always guilty.

Hawks snorts as he throws out a hand and props up a knee, leather pants stretching against the pose and Dabi's eyes stray too long between his legs. His hand dangles off the knee as he waves, "This what you guys call poor?"

Dabi laughs, sloshing the liquid around the glass of champagne in his hand. "Nah, but someone's gotta give him a little pity. He'll be bled dry someday if you keep coming for him."

"Will he?" Hawks muses lazily and takes another bite of the apple, the crunch of the fruit catching its juices against the corner of his mouth. Dabi licks his own lips. "And what of the people outside, already empty? I rather think I'm not bleeding him dry fast enough."

Dabi agrees, he does, but he's also a hero who's supposed to discourage criminal behavior. And yet the words don't come out that way.  "So work faster," Dabi offers. "You're the fastest out there, aren't you? Or is that name just the press getting it all wrong?"

"Who knows?" Hawks' lips quirk into a grin. "But if I didn't know any better, I'd think you're encouraging stealing, Dabi."

"I'm a hero," Dabi repeats flatly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He doesn't move to arrest Hawks. He doesn't step in to stop him, not even with the chance that presents itself. He doesn't have an answer either, to generational poverty and the poor that don't have enough to eat. He wished he did, wishes Hawks, wasn't right in his own fucked up way.

Hawks jumps off the table, finished apple core tossed into a nearby bin. And then he's at Dabi's side lightning fast, blink and he'd miss it, voice sliding temptations like the gravest of a deadly sin against his ears. "Guess I'd better get to work, lest you get any other ideas. But if you're ever having a change of heart, you could... join me."

Dabi blinks and there's a whirlwind of feathers and a gust of wind, something more than the beat of his heart and the twitch of arousal that's distantly confused. Hawks is gone, a single feather left behind. His glass of champagne and the wallet against his pockets, missing.

The entirety of the banquet table too, stripped bare. All that remains, the polished wood but not a single bite.

The crowd in the background break out in gasps and uneven chatter between shock and disarray at the sudden lack of food, their missing wallets and expensive jewelry. As if they'd attended without noticing the annual reputation that these events often held now. Daylight robbery, from theirs truly.

Join Hawks.

That's crazy talking though, isn't it?

[iamnmbr3]

@a-capricious-creative Ok I disagree with this. But first things first. Let's say everything I said in this post was wrong and every piece of meta every drarry fan has ever created is also wrong. Ok. So what? There's no reason to go on posts people make to enjoy drarry, or any other ship, and cast aspersions on drarry fans as a whole (or fans of any other ship). You can disagree with a post without saying all drarry fans don't understand the books or whatever. That's kind of rude and makes fandom a less welcoming and fun place for everyone, don't you think.

Now, to the substance of what you said. I certainly agree that Harry is generally very observant and good at reading people - and if you'd read my blog at all you'd see that this is something that I've commented on many times, as it is a key aspect of Harry's character. However, Harry is not equally observant of all characters; he pays attention more to people who are important to him to various reasons - i.e. he's just interested in them, they have info he wants, they pose a threat etc.) We never see him paying close attention to Zacharias Smith's reactions to things because he's not a character Harry cares about - or even to Ginny's reactions for that matter.

With Draco though, we get the other end of the spectrum. Harry is CONSTANTLY watching him, even though he has no real reason to. Draco is someone in a different House who Harry doesn't like. There is no reason why Harry should know that Draco has an eagle owl or what kinds of packages he gets from home or which of his expressions tend to go with what tone of voice or what clothes he owns...and yet Harry knows all these things and more. Despite not knowing them about most characters, including Ginny. How tall is Ginny relative to Harry? Don't know. What's the precise color of her eyes? What's her grandfather's name? Don't know. What's one personal item she owns? Don't know. But again, Harry knows all this about Draco.

Now, this is not to say that JKR intended to write a 7 book drarry epic. Draco serves as a foil and antagonist to Harry throughout the story and so a lot of things about him and his actions and background are relevant to the story JKR is trying to tell. She just didn't consider the narrative impact of having Harry constantly notice all this stuff about Draco despite not paying nearly the same level of attention to other characters. (Plus maybe a little bit the characters went off and did their own thing, as any writer can attest sometimes happens).

Harry doesn't know Theodore Nott's name (till book 5 when he starts hanging out with Draco. He has no idea what Zacharias Smith's opinions on politics are or what color eyes he has. In book 5 he forgets about Ginny being possessed by a Horcrux in book 2, but in book 6 he perfectl remembers every item Draco looked at in a random shop for a few seconds - also in book 2. JKR wrote the scene for plot reasons not drarry reasons. But canonically Harry is just out there living his life remembering every little thing Draco ever did, no matter how insignificant.

But he knows Draco's exact eye color, can instantly recognize him from the back from far away, knows his footsteps and his voice, and notices immediately when he has a new traveling cloak. Also, he's able to notice and perfectly read Draco's fleeting micro-expressions and is instantly aware of subtle changes in Draco's affect and skin tone (and again, can intuit the exact cause and link it to what Draco must be feeling and doing) when NO ONE else can, and Draco is in fact very good at hiding his feelings and thoughts when he wants to.

So no. This is not just Harry's natural intelligence. Draco is special.

Also, as to this assertion: "The guy grew up in a cupboard with relatives who abused him, he knows everyone’s footsteps." ???? Being abused and living in a cupboard gives you trauma, not magical footstep recognizing powers. There is NO canonical evidence to support this assertion whatsoever. It make sense that Harry would be able to distinguish the tread of the people he lived with, especially since he'd likely be hyper aware of who was in the house and where, but there's no reason he would be able to extrapolate that more broadly. He doesn't even spend time with Draco. Why does he know his footsteps?!

It's for the same reason he notices when Draco gets a new traveling cloak and remembers everything he's seen Draco do, no matter how insignificant - because he can't NOT notice, because he and Draco have always been drawn to each other like loadstones, because drarry is accidentally extremely canon.

Doesn't mean you have to ship it. But there is a strong canon reading for it. Not to mention, coming onto a drarry post and then getting mad there's drarry there is kind of a waste of time.

Can we talk about the scene where Draco gets dragged into Slughorn's party by Filch? Because that whole sequence is honestly wild from a drarry pov.

Draco of course was lurking around doing stuff for his mission - presumably he was on his way to the Room of Requirement. (Or else he wanted to steal supplies from Slughorn's office and forgot about the party).

Of course, he can't admit that so he says he was trying to gatecrash and it backfires a bit because Slughorn invites him to stay, which is the opposite of what he wants. No one else notices this though, except for Harry who sees how he really feels despite the fact that the fleeting look on his face is just there for a fraction of a second. Look at this.

Harry immediately can tell exactly how Draco's feeling despite the fact that the look is gone so fast even he barely has time to register it. It must've literally been a millisecond that the look was on Draco's face. But that was enough for Harry.

And then of course this bit is immediately followed by Harry immediately noticing that's Draco's skin is a slightly different shade than usual - a fact that NO ONE else seems to pick up on, indicating it's a very subtle change. AND the lighting level is low.

AND THEN Harry is able to recognize the sound of Draco's footsteps in seconds.

Drarry is so accidentally canon. I love it. HBP is one of my favorite drarry fics.