#i know that's not precisely equivalent

[sparksandspears]

So I just had a mild realization. The context:

The Latin language lacks a simple word for "yes." There are a lot of words than can be used to express affirmation, but none that don't have a more complex meaning that's more common (maybe some forms of āiō, but that's almost always used as "to say," anyway).

So when modern Latin students ask how to say "yes," there isn't an exact answer. What I learned, and what I think is most common, is ita vērō, which expresses a strong positive. Ita means "thus," "in such a way," or "so," and vērō is the adverbial form of vērus, meaning "true." Taken together, ita vērō then means "it is so indeed" or "truly it is thus," which can certainly be read as a strong form of "yes."

In another manner of thinking about it, though, this means that all around the world Latin students are learning that the most correct way to say yes is "so true," and I think that's great.

[inchidentally]

okay prefacing that this is only referring to a small but loud part of the community... to follow up on the thing of supposed Lily Z fangirls turning around saying how she's "better than other wags" (????) bc she's "silent and has no public communications and doesn't take up space apart from looking beautiful" (???) (bc apparently we're not even internalizing the misogyny anymore it's just right out there saying a woman should be seen not heard, publicly beautiful but only serve her man and not want attention for herself) but then after praising that she clearly does not want a load of public attention, proceed to freak the fuck out IN. ALL. CAPS. in comments sections everywhere that she appears even in the background and draw attention to a woman who's clearly does not want be in the limelight....

so yea speaking in that vein can the other incredibly obvious fake fangirls of wags please stop using AI beauty filters on these women's pictures and posting them where they can see ?? that is not Lily Z's real jaw or mouth shape, that is not Alex's real nose and that is not Lily H's cheekbones or eye shape. guess what you aren't selling the whole I'm only here for the girls claim when you make it blatantly clear you don't think they're naturally pretty enough and have to run them through digital plastic surgery and yes we can all see how blurred and weirdly smooth it all looks when you do it so I guarantee the women themselves will go 'yikes that's me but... not me'

and reminder that a woman's college degree is not a Barbie accessory nor is it a "selling point" for her boyfriend that's rly disgusting to talk about it that way !!! pls just leave a like on the original photos of wags posted by official accounts if you're unable to inadvertently demean women whenever you post about them (and yes I know a lot of ppl aren't being weird but it's getting way too comfortable in very public spaces !) and also no she doesn't believe you when you claim you hate Oscar and think he's ugly and stupid and wish she'd just... randomly walk where he is but somehow not have him present when how would that work when you never even see her if she's not with Oscar like wtffff are ppl even doing anymore can we calm down and be normal and actually respect women and not treat them like commodities wow

[v1nsincl4ir]

I bet You weren't expecting pony Sinclair brothers on Your dash/tags today huh.

Well that's Your own fault because You should always be prepared for the mlpification of Your favourite characters it's just a part of life. Autism demands strange crossovers and mine chose this one

Yes I will consider other slasher ponyfication requests if You have any

[whisperedmeg]

COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x gf!reader

summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n

a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂‍↕️

The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.

He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.

You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”

“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[solxamber]

Going to get my driver's licence and now I'm curious. How bad do you think the twst characters would be behind a car?? Cause idk if they have cars in that world or some magic equivalent, but I'm 90% sure almost none of them now how. Like imagine Lillia behind the wheel. He would either crash the car or get you yo your destination with mild injuries. And I KNOW leona sucks at driving that sonnova gun probs doesn't even have his permit.

good luck soldier, hope you pass first try 🫡

leona is canonically good at driving! his liongarb vignette part 2 has him driving everyone and they say it's a surprisingly smooth ride, he's had his license since before he enrolled in nrc!

ooo let's see (these are my hcs)

How I think the twst boys drive:

Riddle

“If you don’t use your blinker, you deserve a revoked license and public humiliation.”

has a laminated printout of the dmv manual in his glove compartment. refers to it. frequently.

stress-mumbles the rules of the road like it’s a ritual to keep the car from crashing

WILL tailgate someone going under the speed limit while also ranting about how dangerous tailgating is

6/10 driving skills. you’ll get there. your spine might not survive the journey, but you’ll get there.

Trey

drives like a dad and acts like one too. snacks in the glovebox. tunes to an “easy listening” radio station no one asked for

makes full eye contact with you while backing into a parking space like it’s nothing. terrifying.

won’t yell at other drivers but will mutter very passive-aggressive things like “oh, nice turn signal, champ”

actually a good driver, but if you’re in a rush he suddenly forgets where the gas pedal is

9/10. safe, boring, you will arrive calmly unless you say something that triggers “dad lecture mode”

Cater

treats every red light like a selfie opportunity. traffic jam? story time.

“oops lol i forgot i was driving”—said as he casually swerves back into the lane with one hand and no shame

will absolutely blast hyperpop or sad girl music at full volume and sing along

uses gps and still misses every turn. rerouting? he’s rerouting his soul

4/10. looks good while driving but he’s taking you straight to the afterlife

Ace

somehow thinks he’s in mario kart. will try to drift. is bad at drifting.

screams “WE’RE FINEEEE” after hitting the curb for the third time

brakes too late, accelerates too fast, thinks honking is just “assertive communication”

if there’s a speed bump he’s treating it like a ramp. bonus points if he makes you hit your head on the ceiling

2/10. he’s the reason riddle has ulcers. do NOT get in the car if you value your life or bones.

Deuce

follows every rule with military precision. 10 and 2. full stops. checks mirrors like he’s solving a crime

“Yes ma’am, no ma’am, I mean—uh, officer! No officer! I wasn’t speeding I swear—” (he wasn’t. he was 5 under.)

will cry if you scream while he’s merging. please don’t scare the boy.

starts off driving like your grandma, then randomly hits you with a tokyo drift moment and doesn’t explain

7/10. either safest driver alive or full menace. depends on how much sleep he got.

Leona

the infuriatingly competent kind of driver who looks like he’s not paying attention, but then parallel parks in one smooth move without even checking the mirrors

arm out the window, seat leaned back, one hand on the wheel, vibes immaculate

doesn’t drive fast, but drives scarily efficient. like you blink and you’re at the destination

will not turn down the music. you are listening to the same remix loop for 45 minutes and you WILL like it.

9/10 driver. good under pressure, hates driving in the rain, will refuse to pick you up unless you bribe him with snacks or flattery.

Ruggie

terrifyingly resourceful behind the wheel. the kind of guy who’ll be like “oh yeah there’s a shortcut” and you end up on a goat trail with no guardrails

speed demon. not by choice. he just doesn’t believe in arriving late. or braking.

eats while driving. talks while driving. does parkour with the car while driving. you pray while riding.

every time he drives you somewhere, you owe him one. including emotional damage fees.

5/10. you will survive. but spiritually? you left your body three potholes ago.

Jack

rule follower. actual golden retriever on the road. if you litter out the window he will make a U-turn to go back and make you pick it up

will not speed, will not honk unless someone is literally on fire, will not change the radio station unless everyone agrees

but if someone cuts him off? feral instincts engaged.

quietly competitive. if someone passes him, he WILL accelerate. you may hear growling. don’t question it.

8.5/10. safe, solid, dependable. would drive you home from a party and make sure you drank water first.

Azul

thinks driving is a power move. like. he paid extra for that quiet engine start just to flex

fully uses driving time to monologue about business deals, plans, or subtle threats. you’re not sure if you’re carpooling or in a hostage negotiation

signals three miles ahead. checks mirrors like he’s being tailed by the fbi. he might be

very good at navigating. if gps reroutes, he reroutes it back. he wins against the algorithm.

9/10, but unnerving. you’re safe, but at what cost.

Jade

why does he have a license. who allowed this.

drives like he’s setting up a prank for someone ten miles ahead

never speeds, but takes the creepiest, emptiest backroads imaginable. says it’s “more scenic”

always smiling while driving. concerningly calm if something explodes. probably listening to classical music or nature documentaries

6/10. legally fine. emotionally? you’re not coming back the same.

Floyd

no one is shocked he passed the test. everyone is shocked he was legally allowed to take it

drives according to mood. if he’s bored, the car drifts. if he’s happy, he’s swerving in rhythm to the beat. if he’s angry? start writing your will.

makes driving sounds while driving. “vroom vroom~ screeeee~” for no reason

WILL throw fries at other cars. WILL try to high-five a biker at a stoplight. WILL unbuckle his seatbelt to “stretch” mid-drive

3/10. you either have the best day of your life or a near-death experience. possibly both.

Kalim

loudest driver alive. music blaring, windows down, shouting "WHEEEE~!" every time he accelerates

constantly turns around to talk to people in the backseat. like fully turns around. while driving.

forgets he’s not in a flying carpet. every stop sign is an opportunity to launch forward like it’s a joyride

someone told him roundabouts are fun so he goes around twice. just for the vibes.

4/10. he loves driving. driving does not love him back. you’re clutching the oh-shit handle the whole time.

Jamil

the only reason scarabia hasn’t been sued for vehicular crimes

drives like a tired single parent with 4 kids in the back screaming about McDonald's

SPEEDS when no one’s watching. you blink, he’s five miles ahead. shadow clone jutsu behind the wheel.

has memorized every traffic light timer in the city. never hits red. it’s… weird.

9/10. efficient, smooth, and will absolutely sigh dramatically the whole time you’re in the car.

Vil

drives a clean car. spotless. smells like luxury perfume and judgment

interior is curated. no trash. no crumbs. one water bottle and it’s aesthetically pleasing.

signals aggressively. like he flips that blinker with intent

will slow down to give you a Look if you’re in the wrong outfit to be seen with him

8/10. elegant and competent, but if you scuff his interior with your shoes, you’re walking.

Rook

who gave him a license. seriously. who looked at this man and went “yes. let him command a machine.”

sings full operas while driving. makes direct eye contact through the rearview mirror. unsettling.

has taken you on backroads even you didn’t know existed. somehow it was scenic.

talks like he’s narrating a wildlife documentary about the local traffic patterns

???/10. is he a good driver? no one knows. he’s just... driving.

Epel

lives for off-roading. doesn’t matter if he’s in a prius, he’s driving that baby like it’s a monster truck

drives like a 90-year-old when vil’s in the car. drives like he’s in a nascar trial when vil’s not

says “it’s fine, I’ve done this before” and proceeds to take a left turn at 70 mph

threatens to do donuts in the parking lot and then does them.

5/10. he’s trying his best. unfortunately, his best involves sick tricks and zero concern for tire life.

Idia

doesn’t.

has a license “for legal reasons,” but he treats driving like going outside is the final boss battle

owns a tricked-out car he never drives. it has led lights, anime decals, and a built-in gaming console. he uses it as a portable man cave

the one (1) time he did drive, he wore fingerless gloves, anime osts were blasting, and he whispered “initial D style” before forgetting which pedal was the brake

2/10. technically can drive. emotionally should not. you’re safer ubering with floyd.

Ortho

doesn't technically need a license but downloaded the entire dmv handbook into his memory for fun

his “car” is less “vehicle” and more “sentient ai-controlled hovercraft with wifi and snacks”

offers in-flight entertainment. like you’re not even on a plane. he just projects movies on the dashboard

drives at optimal efficiency.

11/10. the future of driving. terrifying and amazing. please stop letting him hack traffic lights though.

Malleus

he has a license. he studied for it. memorized the entire rulebook. aced the written.

the problem is: he drives like he's never seen another car before

goes 25 in a 60 because “it is the safest way to protect my precious cargo” (YOU)

stares at traffic lights like they personally offended him

car is some luxury vintage thing that makes no sense. you have to open the door with a key made of bone or something

3/10. you are deeply loved. and deeply late.

Lilia

drives like he’s lived through every era of vehicular invention. he owned a horse-drawn carriage and a tank

owns a beat-up, pink minivan with a custom wrap and dice in the mirror

speeds. aggressively. will swerve into the drive-thru and order fifty mcnuggets “for the road”

talks with both hands while driving. both. hands.

4/10. unpredictable. fun. chaos incarnate. your insurance company hates him.

Silver

good driver. responsible driver.

...except for the part where he falls asleep at stop signs

you’ll be halfway through a deep conversation and he’ll just nod off with his foot on the brake

car is clean, smells like lavender, and has one (1) emergency granola bar in every compartment

very gentle driver. almost too gentle. like “you didn’t feel the turn because he was spiritually aligned with the wheel” kind of gentle

6.5/10. smooth ride, but someone needs to keep him awake with snacks and playlist bangers.

Sebek

shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.

drives like he’s been assigned to escort the royal heir through enemy territory

yells at everyone on the road. pedestrians, squirrels, YOU—no one is safe from his critiques of your seatbelt position

insists on narrating everything. “SIGNALING LEFT. NOW SWITCHING LANES. REMAIN ALERT!”

the gps is set to his own voice. and you can’t turn it off

2/10. the only thing louder than the engine is his righteous fury.

Grim

that’s a cat.

(he tries to drive. he sits on the wheel. honks the horn with his butt. chews the seatbelt. it's a warzone in there.)

this was so fun to do lmao

[sightseertrespasser]

Digging Up Secrets

Reverse Mecha AU spawned by @keferon

Nothing like being trapped underground with just your crush and concussion for company.

———————————————————————

Time stopped.

Or.

Prowl stopped.

Everything was loud moving crashing dangerous move move move.

The radius of destruction. Inside-outside.

He pushed Jazz Outside. Radius.

Fell. He fell. The floor, hollow topped cylinders of raw materials, Inside Radius.

Prowl was Inside the.. Radius of. The radi..

He can’t See. He can see. But he cannot See. He can’t see behind himself anymore. He can’t see outside himself anymore.

Immobilized. Blinded. Living.

Failing. His body was failing. Crushed beneath tons and tons and tons and-

A sound, different from ringing ears or groaning metal. Choppy. Static.

… voice?

“Prowl?”

A voice. He knows that one. It’s new but he knows it. He does, it’s.. His name is..

All Prowl can hear is static.

“Prowler? C’mon babe talk to me.”

Jazz.

“Ja- agh.” Prowls voice was sticky and his mouth tasted like blood. He swallowed dry air and tried again.

“Ja-azz?”

His voice cracked halfway through. Dully, Prowl hoped Jazz wouldn’t be upset.

“Prowl! Oh man I am so glad to hear your voice!” The reception was poor, or maybe Prowls hearing had finally gone with his eyesight. Either way, the pilot pressed his bleeding ear to the warm and rumbly speaker.

“You made it?” Prowl strung the words together like taffy.

“Yeah, I made it. Thanks for the assist by the way. Can I get a location?”

Task. Prowl had a task to do. Leaning backwards into his own mind, Prowl was met with collapsed corridors and broken edges. He navigated, carefully until he found the correct data packet that thankfully survived the crash.

He forwarded it to Jazz.

Just as he was about to slip under again, Jazz crackled through the comms once more, “Uh Prowler? This is for the pickup location.”

“Yes?”

“I need your location.”

“Um.” Prowl tried to think. “Down?”

Why did he need his location? His mecha was an unfathomable wreck, he couldn’t access the programs to run the numbers, but this kind of damage outpaced the repair costs.

His body was a dead weight.

“You okay man? You’re not talking like yourself.”

Prowl tried to run a diagnostic on his comms, why wouldn’t he sound like himself?

Talking.

Jazz said Talking like himself. His brain caught on there was an implication in that wording and Prowl trudged after it like a dollar in the wind.

“What do I talk like?” He needed more information.

A jump in static that Prowls brain interprets as laughter precedes Jazz’s response.

“You talk very precisely. Like. . you talk like if you don’t get everything out exactly right and in the clearest way possible then people won’t listen to you. Or they won’t understand you.”

“They don’t.”

“You also don’t usually use contractions this much.”

“They do not.” Prowl fixed. There. He was fine.

He could smell his own breath. It smelled bitter, like cleaning chemicals and hospitals.

“Can you keep talking? I think I can get a read on where you are by the strength of the signal.”

That was incredibly sensible.

“You’re so smart. Why are you so.. You- you’re the smarter-est. Smart-trest.”

There was a long pause where Jazz processed and Prowl did the human equivalent of a computer dial up tone inside his skull.

“Ooookay, hey Prowler? What do I do if I find a human with brain damage?”

The tactician pondered this riddle.

Mentally, Prowl pulled up a file of information and read it aloud, “Don’t.. let them do stupid shit..”

“Gotcha.”

The letters in his brain didn’t make sense, he tried to remember instead.

“You need to, you keep them awake because, because it’s bad if they go to sleep.”

“What happens if they go to sleep?”

“They don’ wake up anymore.”

“Hey Prowler?”

“Yeag?”

“Yeah, hey I need you to keep talking to me okay? Can you do that?”

“For the signal search?”

“Yeah, for the signal boo.”

Okay. He had a task again. Talk.

Talking is just making words with sounds and doing them in an order that you want them to do and it will make them sound like they’re not going through with what you don’t want them to do, which is the thing that is not the good thing.

Yes.

Good.

What?

“Oh ho WOW you are super out of it.”

His head lolled back towards the speaker, “What?”

Jazz’s voice was coming through much clearer than before, “I was asking about your favorite foods, then you said you didn’t remember and I was all like “Is memory loss a sign of brain damage in humans?” And then you said you didn’t remember because it’s been so long since you’ve enjoyed eating and I was like “Okay that’s actually somehow worse.” And then you asked me “what’s worse” and this is now the third time I’ve had to repeat this conversation.”

Prowl considered this information, sifting through his memories.

“It’s doughnuts.” He mumbled.

“What’s doughnuts?” Jazz grunted between his words like he’d been exerting himself.

“M’favorite food. It’s um, a circle? With a hole, in the middle. .” He tapped a finger subconsciously. “A torus.”

“Can humans taste shapes? What does a torus taste like?” A little bit of wonder was in Jazz’s voice.

“Nooo no no.” Despite himself, somehow Prowl was giggling. “They don’t taste like much. Lot’s of toppings and sweet stuff, but we used to get plain and I’d dip mine in coffee.”

“So a coffee doughnut then?”

He sounded absolutely whiny but didn’t care, “Nooo coffee doughnuts are different. Plain Doughnut dipped in, um, in plain coffee is.. what’sit.”

Prowl tried to put it into words. Sunlight through a window. Sitting on a desk and a peeling office chair. Splitting the torus because there weren’t enough left for two this time. Bitter and sweet, because Prowl got a coffee and hot chocolate for their usual order. Talking, eating, listening.

“Not plain.”

“Duly noted.” There was a hint of mischief in Jazz’s voice that had Prowl zeroing in on it.

“You- you’re- I KNOW what you’re doing you- you-“ Prowl pulled on all his linguistic prowess. “Fucker. You’re prying- plying? Probing me for all my secrets!”

Prowl thumped his gloved hand against a random dead screen inside his mecha.

“Ooo you got me there. Alien invader, come to probe ya. So what do you find attractive in a mech? Er, man.”

“Visors r hot.”

Either the speakers were shorting out or Jazz was. The static resolved back into coherent speech, “Oh I was so not expecting you to actually answer that. Your filter is a little broken right now huh?”

Refusing to answer, Prowl grumbled disgruntedly.

“Wait, are you into Tarantulas? Is that why you let him do that shit to you?”

“Wha-? No I’m not- what? Jazz, Tarantulas is just a coworker. He’s necessary. He’s not- I need him I don’t want him Jazz.”

“Prowl I think he’s killing you. What does he do that’s so “necessary?”

Prowl tried to find the words and began a tumbling run of it.

“He listens to me. And it does, feel good sometimes. The attention. And the compliments. But I don’t need that, I don’t need to be liked by anyone. I need to be better and he listens to me and then makes me better. You don’t- you wouldn’t understand. I have to be faster. I needed to be faster and I wasn’t and Tarantulas is the only one who will help me.”

“Respectfully, but someone who lets you destroy yourself isn’t helping as much as you think they are.” The bitterness in his tone made Prowl go quiet.

“Prowl, I’ve seen you do some absolutely crazy shit to save an absurd number of people. You literally just saved my life and now you’re talking like that isn’t enough?”

“You don’t know. Tarantulas knows.”

“Then what the fuck does Tarantulas know about you that I don’t?” Jazz shouted through the speaker.

“If I was faster it would’ve been me!” Screaming into the confines of his mechas cabin, Prowl choked on the stale air.

His head spun. There was an intense pressure against his chest and something wet dripped tracks down his nose, pooling onto his visor.

“He got to the gate first. He- we had to close it from both sides. I wasn’t fast enough and he crossed over first and- and I killed my-“ His voice cracked in two.

Prowl dry heaved. He screamed. Had he ever stopped? He was blind and broken and half the man he needed to be. Stretching out what little remained of his soul until it could cast the shadow of a complete person.

Shooting pains dulled into cracked bones of exhaustion. Where the marrow seeps away to leave nothing behind but a sad sack in the limp shape of a human being.

Why was he so dizzy? Why did everything hurt? Prowl tried to scan around himself but came back with nothing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t remember why he was crying but the pain was so familiar that he did.

A sound, different from ringing ears or groaning metal. Fast. Gentle.

A voice. A voice he knew.

Prowl hiccuped and tried to lean into the sound.

“Hey hey hey, Prowl you’re okay. You’re okay we don’t have to talk about any of that anymore.”

Jazz. The voice was Jazz, he knew Jazz.

“Can you just start counting or something? Recite the alphabet?”

Prowl felt his eyes start to slip closed. Listening didn’t hurt. He wanted to not hurt.

“I’m almost there baby, you’ve just gotta stay awake a little longer. Just a little longer okay?”

Maybe it was a trade? The foggier Prowl got, the clearer Jazz became. Jazz was supposed to get closer. That was good.

“Prowler? Please say something.”

The sounds washed over him. It continued for a while, lulling him down further.

He couldn’t remember why he’d been hurting.

He couldn’t remember much of anything.

Silence.

Blissful silence.

“HONK”

Prowl woke with a shout.

“Fu- Wha- What?!”

Heart racing, Prowl tried to figure out where the hell he was and what the hell just startled the shit out of him. Coming up blank on both fronts.

“Prowl! Shit. Keep talking to me. I see plating, it’s looks like you’re face down. There’s some metal beams in the way. I can’t lift them. Tell me how to reach you.”

Prowl was still reeling from the honk. He felt out the remains of his mecha.

“There’s a breach. Right side of m’chassis.”

“Okay. Okay. Ah shitting fuck.”

Prowl was slipping again, but he couldn’t. Why couldn’t he..?

“I’m fine. Jazz. You can jus’ tell them where I’m buried. They’ll get the mecha back later.”

“And you’ll live that long?”

“Umm..no?” Prowl didn’t understand the question.

He heard something that sounded like alien cussing.

And then a scraping against his side.

“Prowl?”

“Jazz?”

“Start disconnecting. I’m getting you out.”

Prowl barely initiated the disconnect sequence before an earth shattering screech of metal tearing away whited out his thoughts.

It felt like it went on forever. The residual power sparked around the open chest wound of his mecha. Prowl was blind. Again. So much of him was missing, missing, missing.

He didn’t realize his eyes were open until a bright blue blob bobbed into view.

“Heya Prowler.”

He’d know Jazz’s voice anywhere.

Prowl was pretty much useless. All he strength was going into staying awake. Because Jazz wanted him to stay awake.

That started out easy. Staying awake. With the pain of extraction and disentangling of limbs from harnesses.

It got much harder once Jazz had him. There was this, this sound. Like a hum. But slowly ebbing and flowing, like slow calm breathing.

Prowl pressed his ear to something warm and rumbly. Metal surrounded him. He wanted it to press harder until he could phase out of his broken body. But it just held him steady.

“Dij.” He tried. “Didou get smaller?”

The voice he knew laughed in.. fear? Relief? Prowl didn’t know. Wasn’t his strong suit.

He could feel the rocking of steps. The metal got a little warmer and time ran in little circles around his head.

And Prowl fell under.

Much, much later, Prowl woke up. Properly this time.

It was a familiar enough sight. Tile ceilings, beeping machines, the general scent of chemicals that denoted Tarantulas’ presence.

The scientist wasn’t immediately here, surprisingly. When Prowl turned his aching neck to find him, instead he saw a plain blue box next to his bed.

Curiosity peaked, Prowl dragged a protesting arm over to the side table, thumbing it open on the second attempt.

Inside, were two plain doughnuts and a closed cup of coffee.

Scrawled on the inside of the lid, “Could you describe them for me later?” - J

———————————————————————

Prowl spent a good 15 minutes trying to work out how the fuck Jazz’s giant metal ass hand delivered that box into a tiny ass room three stories below ground level.

Because there was no way in fuck Tarantulas was going to let Prowl eat that, and it took him another 15 minutes to remember Tiny Jazz. Then another 15 to determine if that was a hallucination or not.

This is future science land were scientists are just wizards with an aesthetic, so Tarantulas will get Prowl back to “normal” pretty quickly.

Additionally, we’re seeing only what Prowl remembers from his conversations with Jazz. Poor dude was digging for hours trying to keep Prowl awake and not set off anymore emotional land mines. With varying degrees of success.

This is probably (for my own sanity’s sake) the only reverse mecha au story I’m writing so if this inspires you go nuts and make it!

-SSTP

[bogleech]

So I clapped back at a middle aged conservative weirdo, the kind who's on here screaming at people about politics but also trying to be a softcore pornblog or unsuccessfully use tumblr like a hookup app, and when he pulled their usual "come over and fight me" routine he also very willingly provided an address when asked, which was blurred on google street view, which is something home owners can request.

Now my obvious thought is that he sent me someone else's place, but the same google search had also provided perfectly clear images of it thanks to the real estate industry.

And when I sent him one of these, he suddenly never responded again despite sending lots of vigorous threats up to that precise second, and that suggests to me that not only did he readily give out his address when asked, but he MAY have believed, somehow, that it was safe to do so as long as the house itself wasn't visible on street view. I do not know how that could have made sense to anybody, but sometimes children think they're invisible when they close their eyes, so maybe this is the internet tough guy equivalent to that level of reasoning. Obviously I'm not gonna really doxx him or use it. I mean, if I did then at most I'd send him a cute funny greeting card?

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: deceptive solitude

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

SUMMARY: Caleb comes home from a mission and is not very happy that you would accept anyone else’s help besides his

NOTE: I hope this card is Caleb’s equivalent to the scratch off event secret times audios bc those were such a treat and I love them dearly and need Caleb’s more than I need water ♡

WARNING: smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, Caleb is wildly over protective, panty sniffer allegations are true

AO3 caleb masterlist

The sound of the front door creaks open, and a wave of anticipation surges through you. Caleb is home.

The thought alone floods your chest with warmth, it shifts in your ribs, so soft and certain. You listen as he moves through the entryway, the drop of his bag hitting the floor with practiced ease, a sound so familiar it should be comforting. Should feel like the final piece slipping into place. But something feels...off.

Seven days without him. The house has been too still in his absence, the silence stretching wide in all the spaces where he should be. Before he left, there was a rhythm, his assuring presence, his steady hands, the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed before you could even ask. Now, the absence of his touch, his voice, has hollowed something out inside you.

You smile to yourself, already picturing him stepping into the room, that half-smirk tugging at his lips, the one that always makes your breath hitch. He’ll be tired, sure, but he’ll be here. He’ll fold you into his arms, press his lips to your hair, let you trace the shape of his face like you’re learning him all over again.

The sound of shower door closing resonates through the bathroom. The quiet, deliberate click of the lock sliding into place.

You hesitate. A frown tugs at your brow. He hasn’t even come to see you.

Slowly, you rise, something uneasy curling in your blood as you step toward the bathroom. The door is cracked just enough for the light to spill through, soft and golden against the dark. You push it open.

Caleb stands at the mirror, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, drops of water trailing down his spine, but his gaze isn’t on his reflection. It’s on the gun in his hands.

He cleans it with careful, methodical precision, each movement slow, deliberate, more ritual than necessity. The Caleb you know, the one who meets you with warmth even when he’s exhausted, is absent. In his place is something quieter, heavier. The usual light in his violet eyes has dulled, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.

And that’s when you feel it, the sinking, the knowing, the truth pressing in like a storm on the horizon.

Something happened. And whatever it is, it followed him home.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, just for a second. But there’s no relief, no warmth in his gaze. Just a flicker, a glance over your form, and then he looks away. Back down to the gun. His hands move with practiced efficiency, steady, detached, as if you’re not even standing there. Why could he possibly need to clean it right now?

"Caleb?" Your voice is quiet. There is a distance that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t answer right away. The rhythmic slide of metal, the soft click of a piece locking into place, those are his only responses.

You step forward, bridging the gap just slightly. "Hey," you try again, softer now. "Are you tired?"

"Not really." Flat. Short. The words drop heavy with stones, meant to sink you down rather than reel you in.

Your frown deepens. That unshakable gravity that always pulls him toward you, it’s missing. And you don’t understand why.

"Did something happen?" The concern in your voice sharpens, threading through the air. "Something on the mission?"

He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on his hands. Still moving. Still working. “Not with the mission.” The words are clipped, cool. A dead end.

But you don’t stop. You step closer, your pulse picking up, something uneasy curling in your chest. "Oh? I—You seemed excited to come home before you left. And now… now you— What changed?"

Silence stretches. The air feels heavier now, spreading too wide in your lungs.

"You don’t have any clue?"

His voice is low and quiet, but laced with something sharp. Accusatory. Like you should already know.

Your stomach tightens. "Caleb…"

You step closer, close enough to touch him now, but he doesn’t move. His hands are still, finally, but his posture remains stiff, guarded.

"What’s wrong?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, soft and uncertain.

His eyes cold, unreadable. His jaw clenches, and there’s a flicker of something darker, behind those purple eyes. You’ve seen that look before, but it’s always been reserved for moments of danger, not moments like this, and especially not at you.

He sighs, his fingers tightening on the counter. “Did someone help you while I was gone?” His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Your heart stops for a moment, your eyes widening in shock. “What?” you ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

Caleb’s gaze hardens, his expression shifting. “You know exactly what I mean. Did someone step in for me while I was gone?”

The question hits you like a sudden punch to the gut. How does he know? And it wasn’t something you even asked for. You were being followed, or at least felt like it. He- whoever he was, stepped in to walk with you to and you didn’t want to be alone. You were pretty sure he was a hunter, he looked familiar at least. That was it though? You even stopped a few blocks from the house so he wouldn’t know where you live. It was a weird situation yeah, but you didn’t ask for any of it, you did the best that you could on your own.

You stammer for words. “I… How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts you off, his tone sharp, as if brushing it aside. “It’s taken care of.”

You freeze, something in his words sending a shiver down your spine. Taken care of? Was that his way of saying he’d done something to them? You back away a step, the weight of uncertainty making you dizzy. You can’t tell if you’re scared because of the vague threat in his tone, or if you’re terrified of the possibility that he has hurt someone.

You take another step back, your heart hammering in your chest. You can’t breathe, the anxiety swelling, and before you even realize what’s happening, you’ve backed out of the bathroom entirely. You feel the suffocating nature of cool air on your skin.

The dull clink of the gun as it hits the bathroom counter rings in your ears, but you can't bring yourself to look. You keep your gaze fixed on the tiles. Your pulse hammers in your throat, too loud to ignore, too frantic to quiet. What did he do to that person? What has he been doing, all this time?

“Wait,” Caleb’s voice, softer now, cuts through your panic. “Wait, look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually turn, too shaken to stay in place. Caleb is standing a few feet infront you, a calculating look on his face.

He walks toward you, his eyes softened now, his posture less rigid. The tension in his body is still there, but now it’s buried beneath something gentler, almost apologetic.

“Come here,” he urges, his voice low, as he gently guides you to the bench in front of the bed.

You hesitate for a moment before sitting down, your mind still caught in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. You don’t want to be scared of him, but the way he’s reacted, it doesn’t feel like the Caleb you know. You’re not sure who you’re facing now.

Caleb kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he searches your face, his eyes searching for something. His gaze softens even more, and you can see the weight of something in his expression. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his movements slow and deliberate.

You flinch instinctively, pulling away from his touch. His eyes flicker with what almost looks like regret.

“You look so scared” he murmurs, his voice low.

"I... I just didn’t want to be alone," you admit quietly. "It was dark, and I was nervous... he walked me home.” You swallow hard, your pulse racing. “Caleb, what did you mean when you said it was ‘taken care of’? Did you—” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, the fear still clawing at your throat.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath before speaking. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” He shakes his head, his voice rougher now. “I’m pissed that someone thought they could take advantage of you.”

You feel a flicker of relief, though your heart still feels uneasy, heavy with the words you want to say. “But—”

He cuts you off, his hands cupping your face, the gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, the touch meant to calm, but there’s something about it, something too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you. Like he’s afraid of losing you.

"I understand. But it kills me that you had to be in that position in the first place, especially when I’m not around. I hate that I have to expose you to that." His eyes darken, the guilt thick in his gaze. "It feels like it’s my fault."

A strange warmth spreads through your chest, but it’s tangled with something else. A thread of unease you can’t untangle. This should feel like comfort. But instead, it feels like a weight pressing down, shifting the shape of your thoughts before you can even hold onto them.

"But you…" You hesitate, searching his face for something solid, something familiar. "You’re so different right now, Caleb."

His sigh is long, weary, as if your words ache in his chest. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and the world narrows. "My emotions go a little haywire when I think about you," he admits, his voice barely above a breath. "It’s hard to control them sometimes."

You sink to the floor with him, your knees pressing into the carpet as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is warm against yours, his scent, faint traces of soap and something uniquely him, filling your senses. You straddle his torso, feeling the solid rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

“You didn’t really seem like you missed me,” there’s an ache beneath your words that makes his heart clench.

He exhales, brushing his fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry, Pip. I wasn’t thinkin straight.”

Caleb tilts his head, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks so tired, his lashes heavy, his body worn, but still, he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“I think you’re exhausted,” you say softly, letting your forehead rest against his.

“Yeah,” he admits, his fingers grazing the small of your back, grounding you. “To say the least.”

His heart pounds beneath your fingertips, a steady, rhythmic drum against your palm as you trail your hand through his hair.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with yours.

A shudder rolls through him, his hands tightening around your waist as he kisses you back, the hunger in his touch pulling a gasp from your lungs. His lips are warm, insistent, an intensity in every movement, reverent, desperate, all at once.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and thick with desire, but there’s something else too, something deeper, a yearning that stays unspoken but presses heavy along you both.

The heat builds, an undercurrent of something hidden deep within. His voice, soft but full of something raw, and the warmth in your chest blooms. You press closer, every movement feeling like an answer to a question neither of you have dared to ask aloud. Your bodies align, fitting together with an ease that only comes from a connection that runs deeper than touch.

His hands, gentle but insistent, trace the curve of your back, as though memorizing the feel of you, each brush of his fingers igniting something inside you that feels both familiar and new. The weight of him beneath you, the way he hardens at your touch, sends a pulse of heat through you, and you can’t help but roll your hips toward him.

He groans, low, guttural, a sound that twists your stomach. You break the kiss, trailing your lips along the column of his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth. It’s a rhythm that matches your own, frantic and yearning. The air around you feels charged, shrinking until there’s nothing left but the electricity of your touch.

You tug at the towel that separates you, the tension thick as you reach for him, the feel of him so hard in your hand sending shivers down your spine. His breath hitches, eyes closing in the quiet surrender to the moment. You watch him, his jaw slack, eyes fluttering closed, aware of how every breath he takes seems to echo through you. You move slowly, savoring the intimacy, your own breath ragged, unsteady.

“God,” he groans, head tipping back as you lower yourself, your lips replacing your hand.

His fingers thread through your hair as you take him in, his grip tightening when you hollow your cheeks, drawing him deeper. The sounds he makes, the soft curses, the way he moans your name, make your skin flush with heat.

“darling” His voice is dripping slow and warm with honey “please”

You hum your approval and his hips jolt in response at the vibration.

Slowing your pace, you let your lips linger as they trail back up his stomach, the heat of his skin beneath your mouth causing your chest to tighten with something more than desire,  with a tenderness you were so ready for.

His fingers twitch against your back as you take your time, pressing soft kisses along his ribs, over the curve of his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady beneath your lips, grounding you, pulling you in deeper.

You pause at his chest, resting your cheek against him, just listening to his heart beat so quickly, feeling. His hands find your waist, his touch reverent, but he doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, letting you take what you need.

The moment you notice his heart beat start to slow, you straddle him once more, your hands bracketing his face as you meet his gaze. His dark eyes are heavy with something tender and raw. it makes you exhale a trembling breath.

“I missed you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Caleb swallows hard, his hands sliding up your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I can tell,” he teases

And when you kiss him this time, it’s not hurried, it’s devotional.

“Did you sleep in my shirts every night?” he asks, his voice thick, his fingers playing with the hem of your tee.

You nod, letting him pull it over your head. “And I wore your hoodie when it got cold one day.”

Caleb groans, his hands skimming up your bare sides. “I’m so jealous they got to touch you.”

A laugh bubbles past your lips. “Now you’re jealous of fabric?”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them onto his nightstand, where they’ll probably never be found again. His eyes flicker up to yours, so possessive and aching.

“Incredibly jealous of fabric,” his hands gripping your hips as you reach down between you, guiding him to your entrance.

The moment you sink down onto him, a soft, trembling gasp escapes your lips, your body stretching to take him in, molding around him in a way that feels both overwhelming and deeply right, like returning home from an exhausting work trip.

Caleb exhales a shuddering groan, his head tipping back as his fingers tighten on your hips, anchoring you to him. “Fuck, you’re a dream,” you breathe, voice thick with emotion, with relief. His hands slide up your back, tracing the curve of your spine.

You brace your palms against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Slowly, you start to move, grinding down against him as he meets you with deep, unhurried thrusts, each one deliberate, savoring, worshiping. The way he fills you, the way his body moves against yours, it steals the breath from your lungs, sends warmth unfurling through every nerve in your body.

“Say it again,” he rasps, his voice a desperate plea, his hands guiding your hips as he thrusts up with more pressure, his need for you tangible in every movement.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against his, letting him feel your breath, your presence. “I missed you, Caleb,” you whisper against his lips, your nails digging into his skin as you let yourself fall completely into him.

His eyes darken, but it’s not just desire, it’s raw and aching. There’s desperation in the way he looks at you, like he needs to feel you, to prove that you’re here, real and his.

He sits up suddenly, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath, that makes your heart stutter. His hand cradles the back of your head, holding you close as if letting go would mean losing you all over again. Then, with a quiet, reverent sigh, he rolls you beneath him, his body covering yours, pressing into you with a warmth that feels all-consuming.

His movements are slow but purposeful now, every thrust measured, intentional,  he’s savoring every inch of you, making up for the time apart in the only way he can in this moment. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate to keep him there, to make this moment stretch forever. The friction, the heat, the way he fits against you, it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and it pulls a trembling cry from your lips.

His forehead presses to yours, his breath fanning across your skin. “You know you’re mine,” his voice a rough whisper, but there’s no demand in it, only longing, only a plea wrapped in certainty.

You hum softly, a sound of agreement, of surrender, your body trembling beneath him.

His hand slides in your hair, but there’s nothing forceful in the touch, only need. “Tell me you understand,” he’s barely holding together.

You open your eyes, meeting his, letting him see everything you feel. “I understand.” you breathe, and the way he exhales, like you just gave him the one thing he needed most, makes your chest tighten with something impossibly tender.

His lips brush against your temple. “Thank you, love.”

The room is warm with the scent of sweat and lingering traces of his shower. You can feel a bead of moisture slide down your chin, his, yours, both of yours together, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

Each thrust sends you spiraling closer, your fingers clawing at his back as your body tightens around him. The pleasure builds, hot and all-consuming, and then, blinding, shattering, you break into millions of pieces and float through space.

Caleb follows, his grip on you tightening almost desperately, the pressure of his hands grounding you as his body shudders with the force of his release. A strangled groan slips from his lips, raw and heavy, the sound carrying a mix of pleasure and something deeper, something more vulnerable. The way his chest rises and falls, the way his breath catches, it’s not just the culmination of desire, but the release of a weight that’s been pressing on him for far longer than either of you had realized.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s only the sound of your breathing, your bodies pressed together, hearts hammering in sync. His weight settles against you, grounding you both in the reality of this moment, of each other.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers, which had held you so firmly before, now trace slow, absentminded patterns along your ribs.

“I should have come to you first,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Instead of being angry. I—” He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your skin. “You make me feel better. I should have just gone to you.”

You reach up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s savoring it, like it soothes something deep inside him. A warmth spreads through you, wrapping around your heart. You tilt his chin up slightly, guiding his gaze to yours, wanting him to see what he means to you.

“I’m so thankful to have you back.” and you truly mean it.

Caleb’s mind churns with thoughts he can’t voice. The truth sits heavy on his chest, yet he can't bring himself to share it. The fear of you hating him, of you seeing him for what he truly is, gnaws at him. You don't deserve the darkness he carries, especially when it's something he's supposed to shield you from. It’s his way of protecting you, even if you can’t see the lengths he goes to, how far he’s willing to stretch himself just to make sure you never feel the cold of it.

He will always do whatever it takes, to keep you safe and by his side.

[ackermanrage]

I LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE FOR LEVI ARGHHH

Anyways I'm curious To see what Levi will act like around a reader that somehow matches his energy. I'm talking same Way of Talking to others , which is literally None , and Same habits maybe. What will he do when a baddie decides to match his freak. Haha.

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʟᴇᴠɪ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ (ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ)

"She's quiet. She's clean. She minds her business. I might marry her." Levi, internally, after watching you mop the floor with military-grade precision.

At first? He doesn’t notice you. Not because you're forgettable—oh no. You're just doing what he does: working in silence, saying nothing, moving with purpose, and avoiding eye contact unless absolutely necessary.

But he starts noticing the little things.

You clean your blade the same way he does.

You sigh audibly every time Hange drags you into chaos.

You sit in corners and judge people with style.

You correct people without using a single word. Just one stare.

You say "tch" and mean it.

He’s so thrown off the day you answer a sarcastic remark from Jean with an even colder one than he would’ve used. The squad stares. Levi? Just blinks. Slowly. Then turns to look at you like: “...Huh.”

Internally? He's losing it.

This man does not know how to handle someone who:

Doesn’t chase him

Doesn’t flirt with him

Doesn’t even look at him for too long But still… gets him in a way no one else does.

And when you’re both assigned to a mission together? The chemistry is so dry it’s wet.

You, whispering while watching a new recruit fumble with ODM gear:

"He’s gonna die."

Levi: "Not if he breaks both legs first."

Silence. Eye contact. A nod. Soulmates.

But then you do something small—like adjusting the collar of his cravat without comment, or wordlessly handing him tea after a long night.

He’s standing there like: “Did I just get… cared for? Without being asked how I’m feeling? What the fuck.”

You’re still completely unreadable.

And he’s pacing in his room afterward like some lovesick Victorian man, wondering when the hell you climbed under his skin.

Eventually, someone (probably Hange) asks about it.

“So, what’s the deal with you two? You just grunt at each other. Is that your foreplay or something?”

And Levi just says, completely flat: "Wouldn't you like to know."

(You overhear. You smirk. That’s your equivalent of blushing.)

The confession? Oh, it’s weird.

Levi finally corners you while you’re restocking cleaning supplies. Just stands there awkwardly until you glance up.

"Need something?"

"...Tch. No."

Pause.

"You just… piss me off less than everyone else."

You tilt your head. “That supposed to be romantic?”

He grits his teeth. "...It is if you want it to be."

You stare at him.

"...Alright," you say simply. Then go back to organizing bleach.

He’s never been more aroused in his life.

taglist: @lvstyangel @alebrasil0101 @creati-bunny @porcelain-soupspoon4 @r4td0lll @wedypopcytragedy @nxcxllxsevens @levkuna @glads-stuff

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[gettinontopic]

to engage with your addition in good faith I would just like to say that I did point out that there's no specific term for the oppression of Black men for this exact reason. As far as I understand it, which I admit may be limited (or biased by my whiteness), the reason there's no term analogous to misogynoir for Black men is precisely because there's no axis of oppression against men. Black men are absolutely oppressed & Black masculinity is absolutely stereotyped negatively but I've always understood that to not be a form of intersectional oppression (despite absolutey being an instance of anti-Blackness) precisely because anti-masculinity doesn't exist as a structural axis of oppression. These terms (like transmisogynoir, etc) exist to describe and interrogate the intersections between axes of systemic oppression so any such term incorporating anti-masculinity either A. fails to understand why these terms exist and misappropriates intersectional language or B. validates & relies on a belief in misandry as a real systemic axis of oppression. I'm not saying all this just to Disagree with you, I'd love to hear your thoughts because this ^ is just my own understanding of it and I've yet to hear it discussed in a way that actually negates any of it. Plus I am often wrong so I'd love to actually know why I'm wrong rather than just being told I am

I mean tbh this is exhausting to have to type out. You're wrong. There is a word equivalent. It's not mainstream as hell tho bc black communities don't talk like this with each other about opression, but it exist and is used. Sinple answer.

Not as simple answer:

We find all idenities, even the non opressed ones, to be part of the intersection. The intersection is not soley opressed idenities! Its about how any of you idebtities mix to shape your unique experience under a white supremacy led patriarcy.

That's what the og theory states pretty openly if you read it through a lense that doesnt start and end with "systemaic is the only ones that matter"

It cannot misuse these if the og theory ask to consider all parts, even the parts who are arguably not opressed, which it does.

For you? It's one post where you could be wrong.

For me it's been months of white users explaining how my opression works, misdefining the black theory around intersectionality, calling me names and slurs, and just gernally proving to me why transandrophobia as a word for me as a nonbinary poc is not only needed, but important.

My blogs brimming with talk about me and many other trans men of colors talks about our intersection and if the word is what stop you from exploring what we are actually saying , then it just really comes across as you never intendingbto listen anyway.

Black men use misandronoir (Spelling may vary based on circles) in irl spaces I attend and the black woman still use misgynoir and both have very good talks about what we can to structurally desmatle thebsystems that perpete that hate.

But that starts with whitenpeople believing what we say for even like, five minutes

Also:

Just because cis people don't have a word for something doesn't mean trans people can't make their own. Cis people aren't the default experience and we need to stop defining our existence around their rules if we ever want out of cishet patrarcy standards

[renthony]

I have once again seen an aggressive do-not-interact banner with a long list of super-niche terms (some of which I genuinely have never seen before--I don't know what all your damn discourse acronyms mean, tumblr), followed by "and other basic DNI criteria."

"Basic DNI criteria" is a meaningless statement. What is "basic DNI" criteria to one subgroup on tumblr is complete nonsense to others. Define what the hell you actually mean by it or don't bother with a DNI at all. Be specific and precise in your language instead of relying on vague euphemism.

"Basic DNI criteria" is just about the emptiest form of virtue signalling you could engage in, because it doesn't mean anything. It stands for nothing. It's the equivalent of a sign that says, "Warning: Do Not." It's completely hollow.

If you put "basic DNI" in your posts/bio, I'm pretty much guaranteed to block you on sight, lest I get accused of violating a boundary that was never clearly expressed in the first place.

I find the efficacy and utility of DNIs to be nebulous at best, but if you are going to use them, at least make them actually communicate something. "Basic DNI" will literally never, ever mean the same thing to any two people, no matter how obvious you think it should be.

[crowlion]

They are deeply in love your honor

Part 2 of some of my Azutara headcanons below the cut

Part 1 here

• Katara's affection is so, so soft. Unbelievably, frustratingly so. Katara will braid Azula's hair and kiss her temples and play with her fingers like she's the most precious little meow meow in the world, and Azula doesn't really know what to do with all that tenderness. She doesn't reciprocate it much at first, if at all, because she's not really sure how to, but she eventually gets to a point where she stops pretending to hate it and starts to crave the smallest acts of affection very deeply.

• Azula has a hard time saying, so she often has to write stuff down when she feels a certain way about Katara that she can't readily express with words. And good gods is she Shakespearean levels of poetic without even meaning to be, especially when Katara is gone for long periods of time. We're talking, "It's so frustrating that when you're gone, the thought of you rattles around my chest like a storm, that I clutch onto my ribs and cling to the feeling as though I've never felt rain before. I miss you even when you're standing right here. I think even the worst parts of me would kneel just to wait for you."

• Azula finds respect in power, so she comes to develop a reverence for bloodbending. It makes Katara feel less guilty when she has to resort to it (which is rarely). There's this way Azula will look at her afterwards, too, like she's hungry, like she's going to devour her the second they get home. Azula considers bloodbending to be the waterbending equivalent of lightningbending.

• Azula is very muscular underneath all those sleeves. Katara will ask her to lift heavy things that she can definitely carry herself just to see her arms flex.

• Azula only cries in front of Zuko and Katara, though mostly the latter. She constantly wakes up from horrible nightmares and Katara is always there to comfort her through them. Most of the time Azula doesn't talk, because she hates being perceived when she's crying, even after years of dating her. Katara never pushes. She'll either sit there in silence with her and trace fingers through her hair, or tell Azula little stories about her life until she falls back asleep.

• Mentioned in part 1, but Katara has a fixation with Azula's hands. She knows they have the capability to be incredibly destructive, and yet when they're alone, Azula gets all touchy, and in the gentlest way too. Like, here are these hands that can produce lightning strong enough to kill dozens of men in a single blow, and yet the same fingers they belong to are absentmindedly drawing shapes along Katara's collarbones in soft exploration. Katara likes to study them. The way Azula's fingers flex, how precise she shapes them when she firebends, how they're so featherlight when they're touching her.

• Somewhat going off of that, Azula subconsciously thinks she might hurt her, so she's always incredibly delicate. This doesn't stop her from being very exploratory, though.

• Azula kind of likes losing to her, deep down, even though she'll never let Katara ultimately win a sparring match. She does find a thrill in the few moments Katara gains the upper hand, because it's only with Katara that she has ever felt safe in surrender.

• Katara finds an excuse to have her hands on Azula constantly. On her back, brushing strands of loose hair back into place, fixing the already perfect collar of Azula's uniform. It's such a normal thing for them that Azula feels out of place when Katara isn't touching her. She has that military walk where she marches around like she has places to be, but she makes it a point to slow down just so that Katara will put an arm around her waist and keep guiding her forward.

• Azula is pretty much exclusively physically affectionate with her when they're in private. Even so, she's quite excessive about it. She'll sit on Katara's lap when she really doesn't need to, lay on top of her chest to chest when she has an entire side of the bed available to her, lean in very close when Katara talks. Being next to her isn't enough, Azula wants to fuse Katara's very being with hers.

• Their rare sparring matches are mostly held to work out pent-up tension, which is especially common for Azula who still struggles with sorting through her emotions. But "sparring" devolves into panting, pinning, growling, accidental straddling, even more accidental kissing, more often than not.

• Katara says "I love you" often. Azula doesn't, but she does have her own way of showing Katara she loves her. She's kind of like a little magpie and will bring Katara things that either 1. remind her of Katara, 2. encompass something she thinks Katara might like, or 3. are as pretty as her. There's something to be said about Azula seeing the person she loves in everything around her.

• Going off of that, Katara's love is frustratingly stubborn. Katara will tell Azula she loves her in Azula's worst moments, like when she slips, or when she snaps at her, or when she gets cold, and distant, and horribly dry. Azula doesn't understand it until she just does, one day. It's unconditional love. Something she'd never really known until Katara showed it to her.

• Azula really likes being told she's doing a good job. She eats at Katara's praise like it's a meal.

• Azula usually starts out straddling her in bed but Katara almost always flips her around with zero warning and pins her down. Katara is quite... thorough, so she takes her sweet time undressing her and kissing every inch of her skin. Azula never outright admits to liking being the submissive one but her barely held back sounds say otherwise.

• Azula doesn't listen to anybody. In fact, she makes it a point to be as annoyingly defiant as possible. But... She does literally whatever Katara says without an ounce of hesitation. Even something as inconsequential as being handed a scroll? She has servants for that, unless Katara's the one asking. Then she just holds her hand out and takes it.

• Katara's darkness is quieter than Azula's, but no less brutal. Katara would never intentionally kill anybody, but she'd spill blood for Azula if she needed to.

• Too many people think their relationship is built on the fact that Katara "healed" Azula. That's not it at all, especially not for Katara. For her, she found someone who understood a part of her that no one else wanted to see, and what means even more to her is that Azula hadn't flinched when she saw it. She doesn't just feel loved, she feels seen.

[muletia]

𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ✧˖°

that actually catches boobies

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader 18 + valveplug, mdi!!

summary: optimus discovers boobs

cw: valveplug, breast play, nipple play, oral fixation (optimus) coming untouched, kinda stiff writing (the words weren't wording)

word count: 1300

is this good enough for valentines?

didn't go into the breast feeding kink territory but maybe someday??? who knows

You sit right in front of him, free of clothing but still wearing a bra. With a relaxed, gentle smile, you unhook it, freeing your breasts, baring yourself before him, and Optimus realizes that this must be the human equivalent of showing one’s spark in its beauty and rawness, but also the fragile trust with which you have gifted him. Wants to look you directly in the eyes, to wait for a signal that he can glance downward, but the curiosity of his former self wins out. His optics lower, studying this unfamiliar part of your body. Tries to be chivalrous in this exploration, not wanting you to suddenly change your mind, become scared, and break the trust you’ve extended to him by hiding yourself from his adoration. Optimus wants your comfort. Above all else. Even above his own.

“You are beautiful,” he says, this time looking directly into your eyes. Complimenting your body, but speaking to your soul.

“Oh, thank you,” you reply, suddenly bashful at his deep baritone, proximity, and intimacy. “You are too.” But Optimus lets you take your time, process his words in your mind, and accept them. Only then does he ask:

“May I?”

“Yes.” Because the calm and composure have returned, because there was no other answer.

Gently, with precise care to avoid your apprehensions, he takes your breast in his servo. Soft.

You feel his hesitation on your skin, his fear of squeezing too hard and causing pain. You understand it, but now is not the time for that. You desired his touch; you wanted to feel the pressure of his masculine servos in places reserved only for him, and you wanted to feel it now. To encourage him to explore further, you place your hand on his servo and gently pull it toward yourself.

“You can squeeze them lightly,��� you encourage, and only then does he allow himself to press his digits into the plush flesh.

Incomparable softness. Plush, fluffy. Extraordinary. He squeezes again, just to confirm he isn’t dreaming this sensation while awake. Velvety.

“Wondrous,” he whispers, this time caressing your breast out of reverence rather than hesitation. Digits glide over your sensitive skin, occasionally kneading the flesh, still not fully satisfied with the softness it offers. He must have truly been a good mech his entire life if all his decisions had led him to this moment.

“Feels nice, huh? They say this kind of squeezing is relaxing,” you say, trying not to make the experience too strange for him, even though every touch, every stroke teases your warmth, which begs for more stimulation. Optimus squeezes again, and you bite your tongue to stifle a moan. It’s his first time. Don’t be a pervert, you tell yourself, though your body sabotages your good intentions. Your nipples have unknowingly hardened from the exquisite stimulation, brushing against the equally firm but still sensitive servo, which partially pulls away from your breast to explore the previously hidden nub with his thumb. Optimus gently encircles your nipple with his thumb, stroking its base before moving to the tip, where he repeats the same motion, hungrily observing as it stiffens even further, as if demanding something from him.

Feels an unexpected yet irresistible urge to envelop the nipple with his glossa, shocking even himself. “It is,” he admits. Because indeed, it is a pleasant feeling. Unparalleled by any tactile sensation on Cybertron. New, but beautiful. It’s also addictive, because Optimus desires more, as he always does when it comes to you and what you can offer him. “Is this a desired reaction?” he asks, gently kneading your nipple. He wants to conceal it in his intake. To feel it closer, deeper. To find a way to possess you within himself without the connotations of spike buried in valve but equally blissful for you.

Can’t help himself. His processor floods with musings about this unfamiliar sensation, which quickly reaches his glossa, teasing his Cybertronian tongue, and reminding him of its existence. It makes every position in his intake suddenly uncomfortable, begging for movement, pleading for stimuli.

But he must be patient; doesn’t want to pounce on you like a beast, ruining the chance to fulfill his fantasies.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Very.”

He directs his gaze to your face, wanting to ensure you’ll allow him a moment of selfishness, noticing your blush and bitten lip, already understanding that this exquisite pleasure isn’t one-sided. And that makes him even happier than he already is — if that’s even possible. “I am honored that this is equally enjoyable for you. May I?” he asks. And even though you’re not entirely sure what he means or what his intentions are, you allow him, knowing he would never hurt you.

He brings his faceplate closer to your torso and opens his intake, soon enveloping your breast with the warmth of glossa. Wraps it around your nipple, slowly gliding along its entire length, exploring every bump, unevenness, and perfect imperfection.

“Oh God!” you moan, and it affects him like a red rag to a bull.

He discovers the unknown, with every lick realizing that if only you’d let him, he could spend his entire life attached to your breast. He knows that desire is currently driving his primitive thought process, but, Primus, it’s incredible. Shouldn’t be selfish, but can’t stop himself, especially when the symphony of your delicate moans and satisfied murmurs spurs him on.

He circles your areola, each round becoming faster. Wants more. Glossa again runs along the entire length of your nipple, pausing at the tip, which he nudges a few times. And apparently, it’s a bullseye, as he feels your encouraging touch on the top of his helm, just behind the crest. With such encouragement, he repeats the movement, working his glossa continuously to draw even more pleasure from you.

Feels his throbbing spike demanding attention, pressing painfully against the interface panel. A few drops of transfluid have already dripped from the tip, but Optimus prefers to use his free servo to cup your other breast, which he begins to knead gently, repeating the same motions as before. Doesn’t need direct touch on his spike, feeding instead on your pleasure and the sensation of the hardened nipple being worked over by his glossa. That will be enough for him to reach overload; he knows it, because he doesn’t dare ask for your help. This is your time for bliss. And while he always tries to show his adoration for you, this is also your time to be worshipped. Your satisfaction is more than enough — this time, he’s sure of it. Besides, he’s already so, so close to reaching his own climax.

“Optimus!” you gasp, and your voice reaches straight to his spike, which twitches shyly.

He caresses and kneads your breast while his glossa circles your nipple again, soon switching to licking it like a thirsty dog; messy and ravenous. Wants to bring you to overload, wants you to feel good, because only then will he free himself from the growing tension behind his interface panel. So he tries one more tactic. Hungrily sucking on your nipple, occasionally pausing to play with it using his glossa.

“Ah, Optimus!” you cry out.

You climax, and overload rolls through him, still latched onto your nipple. Raises his optics to meet your face and is greeted by a flushed but blissful expression adorned with a serene smile. When your eyes meet his, you gently stroke his helm.

“You did great,” you praise. Only then does his intake release your thoroughly ravished and coolant-slicked breast with a quiet ‘pop.’ The lower part of his faceplate shares the same fate, smeared with Cybertronian saliva, but Optimus doesn’t seem to mind. Nor does he take any action to clean himself, still fixated on your hardened nipples and your entire breast, as he doesn’t release the other one. He gives it one last squeeze and strokes the nipple with his thumb. “Oh? A second round?”

“Please.”

[unforth]

As I deepen my study with Chinese, the more I'm struck by how word meanings work. The monolingual USAdians I know or encounter online, who studied only as much as needed to get through school, really do seem to think languages are plug and play: know the word in both languages, and swap.

But that couldn't be further from the truth. There's on Chinese word, 稳当 (wĕn dang), that's really struck me for that. Because my flashcards give three translations for 稳当: reliable, secure, and stable. And in English these words are all fairly different! Clearly related but very much do not mean the same thing. How can one Chinese word mean these three different concepts? Well, of course, it doesn't. 稳当 means 稳当, some fusion of those three concepts we have words for in English but not quite any of them, that makes it appropriate to use in places where English would use any of those three. There are surely shades of meaning, and which interpretation of the meaning is most appropriate to a given context will be understood upon reading.

Now, expand this understanding - that a word doesn't mean (exact direct swap in English) but rather the word means the word, and we approximate it to the closest English equivalent we can - to *every single word in every single sentence in an entire book.*

Then translate that book.

Translation is an art, not a science, requiring tremendous verisimilitude in *both* languages, and an understanding of the story, and a deep familiarity with the culture (social, historical, linguistic, etc.) of the original work, and often knowledge of the authors intent (if possible to ascertain), and a range of other skills. Translation will always be interpretive and transformative, because (word in one language) doesn't precisely mean (word in another language). They're not "the same." If I present you a sentence with 稳当 in it, does it mean stable, reliable, or secure? Well that depends. On what? How it's being used, the surrounding context, other factors, and of course... the reader or translators interpretation.

It drives me insane when I see people present alternate translations as some kind of "gotcha" that one translator got things wrong. And don't get me wrong - of course some translations ARE just wrong, obviously if I translate 稳当 to mean "goldfish" I'm not interpreting I'm just incorrect. But beyond obvious mistakes, a world of nuance exists, and different translators can in good faith reach different conclusions on the most appropriate translation. This is WHY famous books not in English get translated repeatedly by different people, and why a reader would want to read multiple translations of the same work - to see, in different translations, some shadow of the wonderful nuance embodied by the original words that do not, and cannot, simply be swapped 1 to 1 for a perfect English translation. And this is *especially* true of a language like Chinese, which is ancient and beautiful and deeply steeped in understandings of Chinese history and literature.

Why do you think I and many others are studying Chinese for years? For me, it's all so I can read the actual books myself and get that much closer to the story, that much closer to my own interpretation. I'll never have the skills of a knowledgeable translator - this isn't my profession, it's my hobby - but I'll gleen things nonetheless and it's important to me to try.

Too many of yall disrespect those skills so much that you'll throw a sentence of a language you know nothing about into Google translate and then declare the translator Wrong (and sometimes Bad and Malicious) based on that.

稳当 means 稳当. It doesn't mean "reliable." It doesn't mean "the exact translation of 稳" plus "the exact translation of 当". It's a Chinese word with a Chinese definition that we retrofit English on to.

And the hardest part? Look, I'm still a Chinese novice. For all I fucking know, 稳当 actually MIGHT have three distinct definitions. Everything I said about it above might be wrong. I don't know enough Chinese yet to know for sure, and that's a level of nuance and understanding I'll only reach by reading more.

Multiply that by *every single word in both the original language and the language it's being translated into.*

That's what translation is.

Good luck.

[jesterkoops]

It’s really funny to me to see people suddenly going all SHOCKED PIKACHU after this episode with the realisation that the show will have to address how Helena being complicit in Gemma’s.. whatever it is is going on down there has repercussion for Mark and Helly's (and Helena's) relationship. And saying this suddenly changes how they see Mark and Helly’s relationship and HELLY BAD! NO MORE HELLY FOR MARK! NO!

Really?? It took THIS episode for you to realise this was literally going to be THE major point of conflict for them?? I remember finishing the rewatch before this season began and saying this very thing to my friends. Why else would they even make MarkHelly a thing and reveal she was Helena in the very next episode, if that’s not precisely where this was going to go? This episode hasn’t really changed how I see Mark and Helly/Helena’s relationship at all, because for me it was a given all along this was bound to come up. It was literally THE thing that shot my interest in their dynamic through the roof, when before I was like "meh, another workplace romance between leads". There was literally nothing in this latest episode that changed how I see any of these dynamics. The specifics of whether Gemma was braindead, or alive, or cryogenically frozen, or what have you has no impact on the fact that Helena is to some degree complicit in all this (to what degree, and just how much she actually knows, is still TBD; she's still such a mystery - I have another post about this in the works).

And what baffles me is that some seem to think that the people who came up with THIS show couldn’t possibly find a way to develop this that hasn’t yet occurred to us. "Well, I can't see any other way this ends if not with Mark getting Gemma back, and Helena evil/sacrificing herself for Mark and Gemma/dead" (or something along those lines). Like, sure, that's the most logical conclusion and THAT is what intrigues me: what am I missing that these writers have up their sleeves? It baffles me that it took ONE episode for some to be willing to strip away the entire complexity of the show and the innies/outies dichotomy and the moral and empathy dilemma it is supposed to force upon us through Mark acting as a 'conduit' for the audience.

Pitting up the two relationships against each other as one being superior to the other trivialises innies and their feelings the same way Lumon does. You can't on one hand feel empathy for Gemma's multiple innies and consider their feelings as valid and the impact they have on Gemma and in the same breath dismiss innie Mark's and Helly's feelings as childish and unimportant.

Being able to dismiss innie Mark's feelings as unimportant or inferior to outie Mark's feelings is an easy solution to the struggle reintegration is supposed to present. Take away that struggle, and you remove what's narratively interesting about reintegration.

Along these lines, the last few days I realised that Gemma HAD to be alive for this to be interesting because her being actually dead gives Mark (and consequently the audience) an easy way out. If the whole point of reintegration involves Mark dealing with the fact that he merged a part of him that loves Gemma with a part of him that never did and loves someone else instead... well, if Gemma is actually gone, that doesn't pose much of a challenge for Mark, does it? If Gemma were gone, his predicament would be the same as any other widower who falls in love again. But if she's alive, he has to actually wrestle with the two parts of himself that pull him in two different directions and want two different lives.

And we circle back to point 2: the only way point 3 is narratively interesting is if innie Mark's feelings are just as strong and important and valid as outie Mark's feelings.

And, to a lesser extent, for his feelings to be as strong and important and valid, Helena CANNOT just be a straight up villain because then we would circle back to point 3; it would be the equivalent of Gemma being dead. It would strip the dilemma from Mark because it would be easy for him to dismiss his feelings for her/Helly.

I admit, this is a very very tricky situation to navigate for the writers to avoid falling into cliches and to wrap it up in a way that's original and satisfying. But it's ridiculous to be definitive about an endgame at this stage when there is still so much story to go through. You are literally jumping the gun and reaching conclusions while missing a ton of information and development still.

[xechu]

[Honor & Vengeance] S. Geto - 夏油 傑

Pairing: general!suguru x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Series Warnings: please read my blog rules before interacting. 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, depiction of gore and violence, mature themes.

Chapter Warnings: mature themes

Tags: historical au, non-curse au, marriage of convenience, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, angst, hurt/comfort...will take a while to get there though

Summary: the day of your marriage, and your husband makes it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with you.

a/n: quick intro to a new series I'm working on. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading! x

Master List: chapter 2 >>

[Chapter 1]: Conqueror of Stars

Your husband despised you.

It was evident from the very first moment you met him, which also happened to be when he lifted your veil. Your nervous yet hopeful eyes locked with his, searching for a glimmer of reciprocated emotion, but instead, he returned an unmistakable flicker of disdain and repulsion. It escaped everyone else's notice, but you were certain those negative feelings were reserved for you alone to see. To the rest of the world, he played the part of a great man, absolutely smitten with his new wife.

Pragmatism was your double-edged sword. You didn't marry with the expectation of love, but you had also wished for a bearable marriage, so that you could appease your widowed father. It was never your dream to be someone else's wife. Your father's recent insistence on marriage had puzzled you, as he had never before seemed eager to send his only daughter away. Yet, sensing an unspoken burden weighing upon him, you reluctantly acquiesced to his request. Believing in your father's good judgment, you clung to a sliver of optimism that this arrangement could be tolerable. But now, it was clear as day that it would be far from it.

True love was a rarity in this world. If given the choice, you would have continued living life as you always had. Those lucky enough to find it in their marriage were considered fortunate but most people, yourself included, would never be so blessed. If there was one luxury that neither commoners nor nobles alike could afford: it was true love.

What you hadn't anticipated, however, was marrying someone of this caliber. Your family was middle class, an awkward in-between among the elites and the common folk. Among the commoners, you were regarded as noble, but among true nobles, you were merely a commoner. The vast disparity in status made it utterly inconceivable to find yourself here, exchanging vows with none other than the King's general, his right-hand man: Suguru Geto.

The Geto household was well-known throughout the lands, their name implicitly holding power equivalent to the King's own. House Geto produced the most seasoned general of each generation, their legacy etched into history, and destined to endure for many more generations to come. Many believed the God of War had smiled upon their bloodline, bestowing upon them his favor and blessings. Suguru Geto, however, stood out from the great warriors before him, and was said to have far surpassed his predecessors, emerging as the strongest general to have ever come from House Geto.

Those who witnessed Suguru on the battlefield described him as more beast than human. He was cold, precise, and calculating—whether in the war room or amid bloodshed on the battlefield. Fear and defeat were foreign concepts to him. He never faltered in the face of war and destruction. Everyone knows that the young general is the King's most prized weapon—sharper and more lethal than any blade. Where His Majesty sought control, Suguru was there to guarantee it. With Suguru by his side, King Sato had become the most influential monarch anyone had ever seen in centuries. Thus, the King himself named Suguru Geto the Conqueror of Stars.

Now, the glaring question remained: how had you, the daughter of a mere palace judge, come to marry the Conqueror of Stars?

Even if your father were to give up his entire fortune and pull out all the stops, it shouldn't have been possible to match you with the King's general. Suguru Geto could have had anyone, yet by some twisted fate, he ended up with someone far below his station.

The King himself attended the wedding, offering his blessings and well-wishes, reinforcing the importance and power Suguru held. Strangers swarmed to congratulate you both, acting as if they'd known you their whole lives. Suguru did most of the talking, his hand steady on your back—a gesture that might seem tender to others, but to you, it felt like a collar. His voice was firm but gentle as he played the part of a lovestruck husband to perfection. It should be no surprise to you that Suguru was able to don this mask of pretense so easily, after all, being convincing was an important art of war.

"Congratulations, General Geto and Lady Geto. May your marriage be blessed with love and everlasting happiness," a serene voice greeted the both of you. It was the King's fourth daughter, Princess Ayaka.

Growing up, you had heard rumors of your husband and Princess Ayaka's relationship. A tragic story of star-crossed lovers. The two were once regarded as the perfect pair, and there were high hopes that once they had come of age, a union would form. This union would have also meant elevating the formidable Geto family into royalty. But after tragedy struck within House Geto, Ayaka was forbidden from spending time with Suguru ever again. As the years went by, the two would occasionally see each other in passing within the palace walls, only able to silently convey their feelings with stolen glances and lingering touches. It was said that Suguru had loved her deeply, but the two were never destined to be together.

Everyone in the upper echelons of society had been aware of the tragedy that struck ten years ago, nearly making the Geto bloodline go extinct overnight. You remember your father bringing you to their funeral—though the two of you remained hidden in the crowd of nobles. You recalled the young Suguru's face because it had haunted you, it was your first time truly seeing what it meant for someone to have nothing left. You will never forget the hollowness in his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the dark circles under his eyes, yet he stood tall and remained emotionless, not a single tear strayed from his eyes even though no one would have blamed him for crying.

Suguru was the sole survivor of a meticulously planned assassination, and bore the weight of the Geto legacy on his shoulders at just the mere age of eighteen. Those who had to witness the aftermath of the assassination described it as an unprecedented brutality—one that was not even witnessed in battlefields. A cruelty so sadistic that even the King himself had to decree that no one is to speak of the heinous atrocity they had witnessed, in order to avoid inciting public fear. Nothing was spared, not even the servants, not even the animals, not even his younger sister who had not come of age yet. Suguru's survival, however, only seemed to solidify everyone's beliefs that he was destined for greatness, that the God of War had smiled upon him specifically, which you thought was an absurd belief.

"Thank you for your well-wishes, Your Highness," you politely bowed your head. "It is an honor to have you attend our celebration."

"I would not miss it for the world," Princess Ayaka smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "General Geto is a treasured friend. I am relieved to see for myself that he has found a respectable woman to stand by his side."

"Indeed," Suguru replied, his grip tightening around your waist. "I could not have asked for a more suitable spouse."

His words, as convincing as they sounded, only served to heighten your discomfort as you noticed the darkened expression that momentarily clouded Princess Ayaka's features. Those sweet words were deadly daggers in disguise. You couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were running through Ayaka's mind as she witnessed this exchange.

You don’t recall the rest of your wedding celebration. Everything was grand and much too overwhelming, leaving you feeling like an utter stranger looking through the window of your own wedding, rather than experiencing it yourself. As the festivities continued around you, a sense of detachment grew, which felt like a foreshadow–a precursor to the challenges that lay ahead in your new role as Lady Geto.

—

The guests begin to trickle out of the Geto Estate one by one as nightfall approached, the silence enveloping the once lively grounds. Though the summer air was warm, a chilling stillness settled over the estate. You looked to your husband under the clear moonlight, whose face was now like a winter storm—cold and devoid of life. His hand immediately retracts from your back, as if you were made of thorns.

“Suguru–”

“Do not address me so casually,” he said, looking at you with the same disdain he had carried earlier, “Let me make myself clear: you and I are only husband and wife in the public eye. Behind closed doors, do not expect us to be anything more than strangers.” 

You were momentarily stunned by the hostility. Though you had not expected your husband to treat you with adoration, you at least expected some common decency. 

“Haibara will show you to your chambers,” Suguru said without so much as sparing another glance at you, and then he hurriedly left, as if breathing the same air as you was poison.

Haibara had been the first person to greet you when you arrived in the Geto Estate. You had arrived by carriage after several days’ ride. Unlike Suguru, he was very warm and charming, but you recognized that at the end of the day, he was still Suguru’s right-hand man—you couldn’t completely trust him or let your guard down. And since your husband had made it abundantly clear that he will not respect you, it was inevitable that even the servants will follow suit, everyone within these walls was an enemy. It wasn’t just a small obstacle ahead of you, it was a mountain you’d have to climb.

You walked behind Haibara as he ushered you to your chamber, but something felt amiss, because you realized that the two of you were straying farther and farther away from the main house. There was a hint of nervousness and pity in Haibara’s usual cheery demeanor that didn’t escape your notice, but you continued to remain silent, allowing him to lead you to your destination. The two of you crossed a bridge that spanned over a small garden pond, the wood creaking under your steps, and at the opposite end of the bridge stood a modest guest house.

Ah. You thought to yourself. So this was how it was going to be. 

“This will be your new accommodation, Lady Geto,” Haibara nervously chuckled, “Lord Geto made sure this was built before your arrival. He wanted to make sure you had plenty of peace and space.” 

You nodded as you took in your surroundings. You could understand how most people would be insulted by the arrangement, but it was peaceful. It felt like summer here. A wisteria tree stood by the entrance of the guest house, you noticed the koi fish in the pond, and beautiful blooms decorated your surroundings.

This, you realized, was probably the highlight of your day.

“Thank you, Haibara,” you smiled, “It has been a long day for you. Please, get some rest.”

—

The harsh reality descended upon you as you sat alone at the edge of your bed, the moonlight trickling in from your window. Most men would have given into their primal desires—disguised as marital duties—even if only for the first night. But your husband abandoned you, cold and untouched, and made his disgust with you abundantly clear. With each moment that passed, you found your pride and dignity chipping away. You couldn't control the way your body involuntarily trembled, and the tightness in your chest growing with every reminder of his blatant disregard for you. 

You wanted to go home, you wanted to be with your father. The thought of him alone in your old family home pained you. He had not attended the wedding ceremony, his reasoning was because you were now another man's wife, you belonged to the Geto family.

This entire arrangement felt like a cruel game—its rules unclear, and its players driven by motives you didn’t understand. First, your father's sudden insistence on handing you off to another man. And then, it was your husband's immediate hatred towards you. If he had loathed the idea of marriage, then why did he go through with it? Why did he choose you?

As you lay in your bed, you resolve to reclaim your dignity. You had done nothing to deserve Suguru's unjust wrath. He had chosen you. No one had coerced him into marrying you. Which could only mean one thing: you had more leverage than you thought. Something he most likely hoped you wouldn’t come to realize. The revelation ignited a small hope within you.

It will be a long and grueling conquest, but you refuse to let him walk all over you. You do not require love, but you require respect. 

The guest house will be the strategy room, the Geto Estate is the battlefield, and your husband is the enemy general. 

After all, he isn’t the only one who is well-versed in war.

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