#~fractured essence~

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

ALSO TELL US ABOUT THE SYSTEM OF MAGIC LEARNING IN SOUL-BOUND PEASE AND TANK U

WOW OKAY COMING AT ME WITH A KNIFE ARE YOU LMAO

The magic system in Soul-Bound is! Pretty big actually. The best thing I can do is try to narrow it down into smaller chunks or we'll be here all day lmao--

There are many types of magic that can be learned (and instinctual), and we have recoil, the counter-balance to that system and the use of magic in and of itself. Most places of learning for magic are huge campuses that use ley-line transportation to get around them, and are equipped to support each type of magic (the largest category being spell crafting).

They're more or less divided by (in the easiest way for me to write and to digest):

Alchemy

Spellcrafting/casting (and the subsets ⬇)

Inherited/Naturally Attuned Magics

Learned Magics

Intent-based Magics

Then there's the four types of recoil:

Recoil from unlearned magic

Recoil with understanding but a lack of skill

Recoil from magic that a user is incapable of using

Recoil that comes from too much raw magical power used

What is Alchemy?

Alchemy is, while the smallest category, not necessarily the easiest. It is technically a science based magic, and does require a lot of understanding of the world around oneself and how to use it, especially the study of magically charged components that are used when making spells and potions.

While many know of alchemy via the rearranging of existing matter into other things, and that is still a subcategory of it, it's also specifically the form of using physical components to make up, cast, or enact spells. (I'd say that the idea of Witches and cauldrons technically falls into this category).

Existing material is required for alchemical spells. Example: You can't just make fire from thin air, but you can make a potion from a dragon's lung that can allow you to cast fire when drank or used upon other equipment (flaming sword anyone?).

Usually the tactic of employing alchemical knowledge into your arsenal is for preventing the occurrence of recoil when using magic. Since the spell is confined to the potions and materials that are being used themselves, there is no risk of recoil due to not drawing from oneself to use the magic. Example: someone with a water elemental skill could use lightning potions to cast, even if they're not capable of using lightning magic. Someone who doesn't even have natural magical talent can use alchemy, and many alchemists and apothecaries are utilized by the every day citizen for things ranging from using components to warm the house in the winter to healing wounds and getting over certain sicknesses and curses.

What about Spell Crafting/Spell Casting?

Spell Crafting is a far bigger category, a little in part because it covers all magic that isn't component-based. This usually comes from some type of Affinity to magic itself, whether one is naturally gifted in using magic, or they inherited magical traits from their ancestors, or sometimes they honed their skills into being able to use certain spells, or it's an unconscious use of magic in certain situations.

These kinds of magic-use can be learned if one has an affinity for magic naturally; having a strong sixth sense, or the gift of higher sight (the ability to see spirits, fae, among other things) usually is a tell-tale sign of someone that can use magic naturally. Sometimes there is generational magic-- the child of a parent that can use shadow-magic can probably also use shadow-magic, or at least has an easier time using it than other Elements. Equally, it can be a coin toss when both parents have different magics, if their child can use either one-- sometimes they can use neither, or can only use it to a mild degree.

Magics like Necromancy (and its subsets, I'd love to dive into this one more because, well, VESPER, and also cause it's fun), Elemental magics (fire, air, ice, water, earth, plant, lightning, shadow, metal, etc etc), Shapeshifting (natural shapeshifters AND the magic are separate things), Time magics (the ability to stop, slow, reverse, and skip in time), Healing magics (wounds to self, others, and environment), Prediction/Premonition magics (seeing into the future, past, or possibilities of oneself or others), and most other magical skills you can think of would fall into this category.

You'll note that I didn't include 'Holy' magic here, and that's because it doesn't... truly exist. There are many Gods in the Soul-Bound Pantheon, and thus there isn't one true type of 'Holy' magic, though the use of Blessings from these Gods to enact spells is a thing, and also still falls into this category.

Intent-based magics also count here, and are sometimes an unconscious thing; intent-based magics are often emotion based or thought based, and can even lead to the creation of an absence of magic like the Angels in the Soul-Bound universe.

You'll think of intent-based magic as curses, blessings, and wards.

The type of intent-based magic that makes blessings and wards usually require a lot of focus to make, born from repetition. They usually take the form of physical objects like charms and tokens, statues and jewelry, where the blessing/ward is constantly thought of while the item is being made (like making a necklace for someone, and only thinking good thoughts of them or for them).

Sometimes, however, they're made purely on a whim and without much more than extreme feelings or singular powerful thoughts; this kind of magic is dangerous in its unpredictability, usually resulting in a curse. When this magic is made in a large group where the majority lacks natural affinity, it can become an antithesis to itself, and take the form of a being that needs to constantly consume natural magic to keep form: we call these things Angels. They are unnatural, a type of walking curse, and can even absorb Gods into their bottomless forms.

Angels are ultimately a form of recoil that doesn't have a singular individual to redirect to, instead rebounding on the world around them, which leads to...

Recoil.

There's four major kinds of magic recoil that one can suffer from, and that is: recoil from magic that the caster is unfamiliar with, recoil that comes from a caster that is inexperienced in using the magic they're trying to cast, recoil that comes from certain magics an individual is incapable of performing, and recoil can come from an overflow-- a loss of control-- from someone attempting to use magic.

It is always a danger when using natural magics that come from the user/self, and cannot quite be prevented, even for experienced spell casters.

Naturally, trying to cast a spell you've never used or heard of before has a high chance of recoil, a dice roll that can either end up with a successful casting, or a powerful clapback that can scar or injure the user and have dire consequences. Think a more extreme version of playing with fire. At some point you can and will lose control, and you will be burned for it in some shape or form.

Equally, even when casting a spell with an affinity one excels in, if the spell is too advanced (think levels and intensities of the same spell), it can also result in recoil. This comes from spellcasting being a lot like exercising. Lifting a heavier weight than one's stamina is used to can result in pain, or worse.

Sometimes, though, a user can have all the knowledge of a spell, but not the affinity to use it-- like a water mage attempting to use fire, or a Necromancer attempting to heal. The magic they're attempting to use is essentially the opposite of their affinity, and can give them whiplash for attempting it.

Last, and the most rare form of recoil, comes from magical overflow. Certain individuals can have a larger pool of untapped magic, and when casting, can unintentionally pour more energy into a spell than required, causing a painful burst of power. This recoil can be considered the most dangerous, as it is hard for a caster to stop the spell or the energy they're putting into it, and tire them to the point of passing out, and sometimes even afterwards until they die from exhaustion.

[wannabe-minion-of-chaos]

"Chaos theory is a lighthearted au" I say as I give Mysterion yet another existential crisis about the origins to his curse

[overx]

Headcanon ask!! Tell us about the Angels in Soul-Bound!

I touched on Angels briefly in this post but now it's time for their own individual one!

Please note that angels in Soul-Bound do not derive much inspiration from biblical canon, which is much the same for our demons. Pretty much everything in SB's world building takes inspiration from multiple sources in mythology, folklore, and pop culture, rather than attempting to be fully accurate. This is the best way for us to include so many creatures and deities that we love from extremely different origins AND make them work together. You can see this with Morozko and Quetzal for example, whose real life inspirations come from separate cultures, even though they act in similar roles in the same pantheon for our mythos.

With that disclaimer out of the way, let's talk about angels in the world of Soul-Bound.

As you might expect, they are the opposite of demons (sometimes called infernals) in pretty much every way. Where demons in our canon serve as underlings for Death in the underworld (Inferno), angels are typically bound to the mortal plane.

Angels do not work as agents of any particular god in our pantheon. They are actually an invention of living beings. See, in the world of SB, even intention can create magic.

For example, a luck charm is not inherently lucky. The act of carrying it with you, and believing it's lucky, can slowly imbue it with luck. This idea works in a variety of situations, but under normal circumstances applies mostly to small charms, family heirlooms, etc. Angels are created with this mechanic on a large scale.

If there are enough people who believe in angels, and they are simultaneously praying for one to appear, they can inadvertently create one. This nearly always happens during war or other great calamities. Because there is so little known about them by the average person, this has led to a lot of rumors and myths springing up around them, which sort of perpetuates the belief in them.

Now, because angels are not naturally occurring magical creatures, they actually lack their own magic. They are constantly absorbing energy in order to sustain their own existences, and will otherwise collapse into themselves if they cannot find enough to maintain their forms.

Most often this means consuming magical creatures, stealing that energy from those with lesser magic, or eating magic imbued items. This is where they get that many eyed / many limbed appearance from. Every angel is an amalgamation of the things it had to eat to survive. (It is also a callback to the way many traditions and holidays from older faiths were absorbed into what we now consider to be 'modern' ones.)

In most cases, humans are not fully absorbed the way magical creatures like say, dragons would be. This is partially because their intention fuels the angels, but also because humans don't really have magic on the same scale as a lot of other creatures. Usually they have to train and master it, rather than coming into the world with natural abilities. Instead an angel will just "eat" what magic potential a human has (you can think of this like losing levels and the ability to cast spells in RPGs).

It isn't really known if angels are sentient or if they're basically just wandering blackholes. They tend not to be able to find enough resources to sustain for long before they burn out, and they have even been known to try and consume each other if nothing else is available.

Basically, demons grant wishes, but angels are created from them. Where demons use contracts to access magic they might not normally have / enhance their existing abilities, angels have none to begin with and must make their own.

Angels are also the unnatural opposite to people like Raziel, but that is a post for a different time!

[glazedvsion]

great feeling when ur rewatching a show you havent seen in years so youve forgotten most of it but as ur watching u remember a scene thats coming up in approx 3 minutes in other news eleanor is abt to confront her mom and tell her "why wasnt i worth ur changing for the better" and im about to tear up in my car

[simply-simplid]

One of the greatest and most profound tragedies of Yellowjackets has and always will be Nat’s inability to free herself from the prison of that plane. She’s the one constantly returning to it, a sarcophagus holding the ghosts of her old world. She finds herself there in her nightmares, and in her final moments she recognizes that this plane has held her soul captive for 25 years. No matter what happened before the wilderness, within the wilderness, and after the wilderness- her essence was tethered to that sarcophagus where she so devotedly laid her friends to rest. It’s where she returns in her death, mocked by a ghost of her former self that she never left. And when she lays Ben to rest there, she feels the ghosts of this place pulling at her, taunting her. She rejects it, threatens it by claiming it can’t keep her there. But in the end, it’s not true. In the end, Natalie never was able to free herself from that place and everything that came with it. In the end she was fractured between two worlds and unable to make the peace between. So in the end, she returns to the souls she laid to rest there.

[x1asirene]

push n' fracture ! — caleb 夏 (f1 rider! au)

— ! lexical count : 5.7k words

— ! affinity : caleb (xia yizhou) x fem!reader

— ! essence : caleb doesn’t do rivals. especially not when they’re plastered across your skin. jealousy twists into something sharp and dangerous as possession takes over, and the line between love and obsession blurs. tangled, messy, and burning with tension—this is about claiming what’s his, no matter the cost.

— ! precautionary : fem!reader, use of ‘y/n’ and feminine pronouns, f1 rider!caleb, sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, intense physicality, car crash (non-fatal), semi-public setting, slight degradation, overstimulation, roughness, dom!caleb, rivalry-based tension, angry sex

— ! writer’s foreword : just crash-landed home from, brain leaking out my ears, and what did i do? rest? recover? touch grass? no. i opened my laptop and immediately started writing this unholy, feral filthfest. if this fic makes no sense or feels like a fever dream, blame the caffeine overdose and my sleep deprivation. also, send help (and snacks). preferably both.

— ! soundtrack in play : ohmami by chase atlantic

this is my only account. any similarities between this work and others—published or unpublished—are entirely coincidental. i pour a great deal of time, care, and emotion into what i create. it is against both my principles and my moral compass to plagiarize or steal from the work of others. i hold deep respect for the creators who came before me, and i would never knowingly compromise the integrity of their work or mine. furthermore, i do not condone the use of AI in the creation or replication of fanworks. everything here is original and made with clean intentions.

minors dni. this work contains dark, mature themes and is intended for adult audiences only. accounts that do not clearly indicate age in their bio or blog will be blocked without warning. this is for my safety and yours—respect boundaries, respect creators.

you weren’t even wearing his team hoodie.

no red bull colors. no little sticker of his number on your cheek like you wore in monaco. no subtle sign that you were his—not even a glance in his direction. instead, your shirt clung to your skin in the dry desert heat, speckled with sun and cropped enough to bare your ribs when the desert wind blew. that tight mclaren crop tee clung to your skin, the bright tarocco tone screaming his rival’s colors as you stood too close—way too close—to rafayel.

it all started with a laugh. just a laugh. nothing more.

you’d meant nothing by it—just a shared joke with rafayel in the hospitality lounge before qualifying. rafayel leaned toward you with that signature half-grin, elbow on the counter of the lounge, head tilted just enough to make it intimate. charming. relaxed. fucking smug. his hand had brushed your arm when you’d thrown your head back, the soft trill of your giggle carried into the desert air. head tipped back, fingers brushing his arm as you caught his eye and giggled at something he said. a soft, unconscious motion. a friendly exchange. nothing malicious, nothing overt.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it in the way caleb’s jaw locked during the driver briefing—helmet held by its chin bar, fzipped up to his collarbone, gloves hooked around two fingers—and for the first time in his career, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or DRS zones. his jaw flexed tight enough to cramp as he watched rafayel lean in closer, and watched you—his girl, the girl who should never let anyone that close—giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear like it wasn’t a fucking dagger straight through his sternum.

“caleb,” his engineer’s voice crackled through the headset. “you alright, mate? you seem out of it—everythin’ okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. swallowed hard, blinked once. his grip clenched tighter around his helmet, the carbon fiber started to dent. “…peachy.”

he didn’t look at rafayel again. didn’t need to.

he’d already decided.

i’ll deal with you later.

P2 on the grid.

of course it was P2.

rafayel sat in his mclaren like he already had the win wrapped around his fingers, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the top of his wheel, the other giving a little mock salute to the crowd through the visor cam. caleb didn’t look at him. his gloves were already tugged tight, helmet sealed, eyes locked forward—but all he saw behind the visor was the orange shirt stuck to your back in the heat with the stupid bold mclaren settled on the fabric right over your heart. his number and name nowhere in sight.

“radio check,” his engineer called.

he didn’t respond.

“caleb? radio check, mate?”

his voice finally came through, taut and venomous. “loud and fucking clear.”

there was a beat of silence. a pause on the line, “you good, man?”

he forced a breath through his nose. “let’s just get this over with,” over the loud hum of the engine, all he could hear was the echoes of your laugh with that shithead rafayel.

“five lights on,” the race director counted. “and it’s lights out and away we go—!” rafayel’s launch was clean—but caleb was rabid. the red bull fired forward like a predator loosed from the leash, barely missing P3 as he launched straight into turn 1 side-by-side with the mclaren. rafayel closed him off with a hard brake, forcing caleb out wide on the dirty part of the track, but caleb didn’t lift — not even when his front wing came within centimeters of rafayel’s rear.

“he’s driving like he wants to fuckin’ kill me,” rafayel spat over comms, his voice crackling. caleb didn’t respond on his own. he was too busy chasing. he spent the first dozen laps locked inside DRS range, not even trying to overtake clean—no, every move was calculated pressure. he drove like he wanted rafayel to feel him breathing down his neck. every brake was late. every corner exit was close enough to make the mclaren engineer panic.

“back off, caleb!” his own team barked at one point. “you’re risking a collision!” but caleb didn’t care. he wanted him to feel cornered. to know that he was prey. because he was. you don’t put your hands on her, he thought darkly as he tailgated out of turn 10, and walk away unscathed.

you were on the pit wall by then—wearing orange, still—and caleb saw you glance up at the timing tower. every time his number lit up right behind rafayel’s, you tensed. he saw it.

good, he thought. watch me. watch what i do to the man who touches what’s mine.

it built slowly—tire wear creeping in, temps rising, his rear losing grip in sector 3. still he stayed out, defying every team call to box. lap 26, rafayel’s tires began to fail. the tires wore down. rear traction faded. lap times dropped. still, he didn’t box. ignored every pit call.

“caleb, come in, we’re losing compound.”

“negative.” his voice came back hoarse. “i’ve got him.”

lap 28, rafayel’s grip was breaking—caleb could see it in the rear twitch. turn fourteen, he closed in so tight the slipstream pulled bits of rubber into his halo. he could’ve tapped the diffuser with his nose cone if he wanted. could’ve unstitched the seams of that mclaren.

“final lap,” came the call. “no funny shit, caleb.” but it was too late for that. he already knew where he’d do it. turn 13. fast. blind. unforgiving. he waited for the right moment, nudged inside, and turned in early.

the contact was immediate.

carbon fiber shredded. both cars locked up in a scream of tire smoke and screeching brakes. rafayel’s mclaren spun violently off the racing line, back end slammed against the barriers, dust pluming into the air. caleb’s red bull skidded into the gravel with a thunderous jolt.

yellow flags. double waved.

red flag. the race was over.

rafayel was out. caleb’s engine stalled in the gravel. static choked the radio. “what the fuck was that?!” screamed race control. he didn’t answer. not until he saw the red flag and the dust settle. not until he saw your face on the edge of the pit wall go white.

he didn’t attend the press conference. didn’t even unbuckle until a marshal banged on his cockpit. his PR rep trailed after him with panicked eyes and a clipboard full of damage control bullet points, but caleb walked right past him, suit still half-zipped, jaw clenched hard enough he could swear his teeth would crush with the pressure. they tried to stop him. camera caught his shoulder. reporters called his name—he didn’t even turn his head.

no interviews. no apologies. no explanations.

let them speculate. let them talk.

he didn’t give a single damn.

because rafayel wouldn’t touch you again.

not after this.

you didn’t speak the entire drive back.

he’d refused the medical tent. ignored the swarm of reporters like they weren’t even there, brushed past the PR team screaming his name with a pace so brutal you’d had to jog to keep up. he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at you. just reached back once—wrist tight, fingers wrapping around yours—and yanked you with him through the mess of the paddock and straight into the red bull private lot.

the silence was suffocating. not tense in the way people usually meant it—not awkward, not uncomfortable. it was a pressure chamber. the kind that made your ears ring and your chest hurt. you could hear every turn signal click, every swipe of the wiper across the windshield, even the way caleb’s grip on the wheel creaked under his gloves. he hadn’t taken them off. still in his fireproofs, zipper low on his chest, collarbone glistening with sweat and dust, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap.

the door slammed shut behind you with a vicious bang!—a sound that echoed like a gunshot off the walls—and it made your shoulders jerk involuntarily. he didn’t say a word. didn’t glance back. just stalked across the living room like the adrenaline was still burning through his blood, ripping open the fridge like something in it might anchor him, steady the fury in his bones. but even from where you stood, you could see the tremor in his hand. the way his fingers gripped the handle too hard. the tension still coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound to the point of rupture.

he wasn’t calming down. not even close.

the silence throbbed around you, thick and charged. you shifted on your feet, breath shallow, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat.

“caleb—” you started, voice small.

“take it off.” his voice was low, sliced through the air like a whip.

you froze. your mouth parted, a breath catching in your throat. “w-what?”

he closed the fridge slowly. deliberately. then turned.

his eyes were black beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, dark and molten like they hadn’t cooled since the second his front wing clipped rafayel’s tire in that brutal turn. he took a step toward you, slow and controlled, like a predator choosing exactly how to pounce. “the fucking shirt,” he said, voice low and thick with venom. another step. “take it off before i rip it off ‘ya.”

your stomach dropped. you looked down instinctively. that stupid, traitorous mclaren tee still clung to your sweat-damp skin, streaked with grime and faint splashes of champagne from a podium that wasn’t his. that bright orange logo burned against your chest like a brand, and suddenly it felt radioactive.

you didn’t move. you hesitated.

and that was all it took.

two strides, and he was on you.

your back hit the wall so fast the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. the world narrowed—your heartbeat screamed in your ears, adrenaline flared under your skin, and caleb was there, crowding you in, body a furnace, heat rolling off him in waves. his fingers hooked the hem and yanked—not teasing, not even urgent. violent. the fabric caught against your arms, dragged over your skin so fast it left a burn, your hair tangled and pulled, nipples tightening into stiff peaks in the sudden rush of cold air.

caleb tossed the shirt onto the floor like it disgusted him.

“you wanna wear his colors?” he muttered, voice low and curling with fury. his breath hit your collarbone, his words too close, too hot. “wanna sit there in his fucking garage and giggle at his jokes while he stares at your tits through my windshield?”

tone wasn’t raised. he didn’t have to shout. it was the quietness that made it worse—quiet like a threat wrapped in velvet. quiet like a knife at your ribs.

you breath stuttered, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. “c-caleb, i wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“shut it,” he snarled it, close enough for your lips to brush, and the force of it made your breath stutter. his hands came up—hard—gripping your waist, rough fingers digging into your hips like he meant to leave marks, like he wanted to brand you into him, carve out any memory of someone else’s eyes on your skin. caleb dragged you forward, chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours like war drums.

“i don’t want your pathetic excuses,” he ground out. “you don’t wear his name. you don’t smile at him.”

the silence after was suffocating.

his fingers curled tighter around your sides. his mouth hovered near your jaw, breath ragged and warm, chest heaving with every inhale like he couldn’t catch it. rage coiled off him in waves, not loud anymore—just molten, buried deep, a kind of fury that didn’t explode. it consumed. slow. controlled. and it was deadly.

and it was all aimed at the thought of him touching you.

of you letting him.

caleb’s thumb ghosted over your ribs, rough and possessive, tracing the bare skin now exposed in the absence of that damned shirt.

his mouth crushed against yours before you could speak—hot, brutal, punishing. all teeth and fury, like he wanted to bite the silence from your tongue, like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him to the present. he didn’t kiss you so much as devour you, lips bruising, jaw tense with barely-contained rage, breathing you in like you were air after drowning.

his hands were everywhere—frantic, careless. they slid down the arch of your spine, fingers pressing into every vertebra like he meant to memorize the shape of you, then sank lower, palms gripping your ass with bruising force. he hauled you against him so hard your breath fled, pelvis grinding to his through the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. he was already half-hard. already throbbing through the thin barrier between you. the press of it against your lower stomach made your knees tremble.

and then his gaze dropped.

his eyes caught on the denim. the sound that tore from his throat was less a breath and more a mocking scoff.

the low-rise shorts clung to your hips like sin, skin peeking out from under the frayed hem, teasing with that reckless kind of innocence that only made his fury burn hotter. they sat just high enough to hint at modesty but dipped scandalously low, hugging the softness of your waist like a taunt.

slowly, he reached down—deliberate, fingers flexing—and let his hand splay flat over your stomach. his palm was hot against your skin. the heel of it rested against the waistband, and then—without breaking eye contact—he slipped his thumb beneath it. just the barest intrusion. a single brush of rough skin over the delicate swell of your mound, not enough to touch you properly, but enough to make your whole body jerk with a whimper.

“these,” he sneered. “you wore these to the paddock? while he was watching?” his voice dropped into a guttural rasp. you opened your mouth to protest, but his voice cut you off—deeper now, dipped into something feral.

“he was probably fucking imagining what you looked like bent over the pit wall in ‘em,” caleb rasped, and the way he said it—like it sickened him, like it possessed him—made your stomach twist.

his eyes darkened—and in one swift, brutal motion, he popped the button on the shorts with a flick of his thumb. the metallic click echoed in the room like a shot. then his fingers gripped the zipper and yanked it down so roughly you gasped, fabric jerking against your hips before it slid down to your thighs, pooling at your feet in a useless, tangled heap.

he didn’t stop. his hand moved fast, unforgiving—already pulling your panties to the side before you had time to react. the elastic scraped the crease of your thigh, baring you to the chill of the room and the heat of him, and still, he didn’t look away. didn’t blink. just stared down at your cunt like it had betrayed him, like it belonged to him and had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have.

“c-caleb,” you stammered, your voice catching, high and desperate, “you’re being—,” but the words dissolved on your tongue.

because his fingers were there, already brushing against slick heat, already groaning under his breath like it physically hurt him that you were wet for this—wet for him, even now, even after everything.

you could hardly breathe.

your head lolled against the wall as his fingers fucked you open—deep, firm, unrelenting. You were soaked, the wet sounds of it obscene in the charged silence, broken only by the staggered hitch of your breath and the rough rasp of his. your thighs were trembling, barely holding you upright, and caleb didn’t let up. he wouldn’t let up.

his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and absolutely feral. “you’re not even trying to stop me.” your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a soft, cracked moan. “yeah,” he hissed. “that’s what i thought.”

he drove his fingers in deeper, curling them just right—pulling a strangled sound from your throat. your hips jerked helplessly, and he groaned as your pussy clenched, dripping all over his knuckles.

“f-fuck,” you gasped, arms scrambling for purchase across his chest, clutching at the fabric of his fireproofs like he was your anchor. “c-caleb, i—nnh, please—”

you whimpered, broken and breathless, voice catching on each gasp. “i-i didn’t mean—nnh ahhh—d-didn’t mean to—”

“you wore that fucking shirt. wore his team, his number, his name. you meant it.” his teeth dragged over your neck, biting down hard enough to make your legs quake. “don’t act like you don’t like this. like you don’t love being fucked dumb right after i almost took him off the track.”

you sobbed out a noise that barely resembled his name—“p-please, i—oh, god—”

his fingers hit that spot again, and your body jolted, hips rocking into his palm like you couldn’t help it. the muscles in your stomach tensed, fluttering around the edge of your climax. he felt it, saw it, and laughed—low and delighted.

“oh, baby… gonna cum, aren’t ya’?” he mocked, breath hot against your jaw, eyes glittering. “you’re so easy. just a couple fingers and you’re already soaking me. dripping like a goddamn whore.”

“p-please—ah—please, i can’t—” your words broke apart, swallowed by the sounds of your own whimpers as your orgasm built sharp and unbearable. “i-i c-can’t hold it, caleb, i—fuck—”

“then don’t.” his hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “let me hear how mine you are.” and you shattered. a sobbing, shaking mess.y our body locked up, thighs clenching around his wrist as you came with a choked cry—wet and slick and pulsing so hard around his fingers you felt your knees threaten to give out. caleb held you upright through it, murmuring dark praise between your panting breaths.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” he pressed a kiss to your temple—mockingly tender, wicked and warm. “so good when you’re ruined.” his fingers slipped free with a wet noise, glistening in the low light. he brought them to your lips, eyes still sharp and burning. “suck f’ me, will ya’?”

you blinked, dazed, mind swimming in the haze of pleasure and want. slowly, obediently, you parted your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them just before his fingers slid into your mouth. the taste was warm, messy—you, tangled with him—and the sound that escaped you was soft, shameless, utterly desperate.

caleb’s groan rumbled low in his throat, eyes darkening as he watched every motion, every subtle shift of your tongue curling around his fingers. “god, you look so pretty like this,” he rasped, dragging those soaked fingers out with a sharp pop that echoed in the quiet room. “dumb little mouth wrapped around what’s mine.”

you whimpered, the sound raw and fragile, knees trembling as they brushed his in the cramped space. your body sagged into his, burning and unsteady, craving his touch like air. then that smirk—slow, sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife dragged through silk. his voice dropped even lower, slow and deliberate, thick with dark amusement. “think we’re done?”

your breath hitched, caught in your throat as his eyes bore into yours, unblinking and heavy with promise. the room seemed to pulse around you, heat swelling in your skin, every nerve ending screaming alive. you tried to shake your head, but your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling: “n-no—please…”

his fingers curled in a slow, possessive grip against your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered just inches from his. “behave,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel. “because i’m nowhere near finished with you.”

his mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands gripped your hips, holding you so tightly it was almost painful—but you didn’t care. you were already melting into him, breath shallow and fast, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning bell.

without hesitation, he ripped open his fireproofs, pulling out his thick, heavy cock, already leaking thick beads of precum, flushed red from holding back for too long. he shifted, pressing the full length of himself inside you, inch by agonizing inch, his body a hot, solid weight that filled every space. your breath hitched sharply, a stuttered moan slipping free as your walls stretched and clenched around him, tight and trembling.

your body jolted—smack!—as he bottomed out in one punishing motion. he didn’t stop to let you adjust. he just started fucking you. hard.

“is this what you needed?” he snarled, teeth at your throat again, biting down—hard. “some real fucking? not the attention of some weak little paddock rat.”

you sobbed, arms flying to his shoulders, clawing for purchase. he drove into you over and over, hips snapping up—wet noises echoing through the room. your slick ran down your thighs, onto his, then pooling onto the floor.

“fuck, you’re mine,” he growled into your hair, voice thick with need and possession. His hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “say it. say it or i’ll fill you up and walk out without another word.”

“i—i’m yours!” you sobbed, legs trembling. “caleb, please—i’m yours, i’m yours! a-always yours!” another slap to your ass—sharp, loud. then his hand gripped your hair, yanked your head back, and his teeth sank into your shoulder—deep, a bite so hard it made stars dance behind your eyes.

“you wear my number. my colors. my fucking name on your back. not that mclaren shit or anything else. never fucking again.” caleb’s hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust a brutal claim that sent your body shuddering beneath him. his teeth grazed your collarbone, sinking in deeply with a savage bite that left a bruised crescent burning hot against your skin. You gasped, head thrown back, breath shattering into sharp sobs that mixed pain and pleasure so fiercely your whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“fucking feel that, yeah?” he growled against your skin, voice thick with venomous hunger. your hands ripped down his sides, nails clawing cruel lines along his ribs as caleb dragged his teeth lower—trail of sharp bites blooming bruises along the curve of your tits, marking you with brutal possessiveness. “you think that idiot could ever fuck you like this? make you cry out, beg, lose your goddamn mind? no chance.”

you whimpered, caught between sobs and desperate moans, hips jerking instinctively with every ruthless stroke. “n-no—! only you, caleb! please—fuck, please mmm—!” your voice broke, breath hitching in a ragged stutter as your muscles clenched around him tighter, convulsing in waves of scorching overstimulation that stole your ability to think straight.

“bark f’me, sweet girl,” his teeth sank deep into your hip, biting down hard enough to draw a gasp, pleasure twisting with pain in a raw knot of sensation that made you cry out and claw at his back. “say you’re mine. my filthy little wreck, mine.”

“’m yours! yours, caleb!” you sobbed, body trembling, tears stinging your eyes as relentless orgasms crashed over you, folding you in a violent, layered tangle of ecstasy. your voice came out breathless and shattered, “please, don’t stop! i—i’m gonna—f-fuck, i’m gonna—please, i’m c-cummin’!”

“tell me,” he snarled against your neck, voice low, dark, teeth grazing skin like a threat, “tell me who you’re cummin’ for. me or that pretty little fucker?”

his hips snapped up cruelly, deep and fast, dragging a sob from your lips. his hand stayed locked tight around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who owned every gasp, every tremble.

“you!” you cried out, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. your nails dug into the fireproofs still half-wrapped around his waist. “you, sir—only you, ah, fuckkk—!”

he grinned, vicious and possessive, like your surrender was his prize. “yeah?” he hissed, slamming into you again. “say it louder. make sure even that bastard hears it next race.” caleb didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder, rough and relentless, like he was trying to erase any trace of rafayel from your body—if there’d ever been any. one hand gripped your hip bruisingly tight, the other still curved under your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to hold his.

“damn right,” he growled, sweat-slick and flushed, but no less in control. “say my name. not ‘sir.’ not ‘please.’ mine.”

your whole body jerked with each thrust, barely able to keep upright, tears streaking your cheeks. “caleb—! caleb, i’m—i’m yours, i swear—”

“louder,” he barked, voice edged in a snarl. “c’mon, sweetheart. want you hoarse for me. want that voice ruined so you can’t say shit to anyone else.”

you shattered then—crying his name, choking on your moan as your body seized, shaking, breaking apart in his hands like it always did. and he didn’t let up. not when you came, not when your body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

“too much?” he murmured mockingly, breath hot against your temple. “too bad. i haven’t had enough yet. not till i’m sure he knows you walk funny tomorrow ‘cause of me.”

he crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your desperate sounds with a hungry roar, his fingers digging deep into your hips as he drove you harder over the edge. your walls fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing uncontrollably as you teetered on the brink—then tipped.

your body convulsed violently, a flood of sensation so fierce it wracked every nerve ending. you cried out, a broken, trembling sound filled with pure, overwhelming need. his thrusts became more savage, relentless, “mine,” he rasped between clenched teeth, voice thick and harsh as he chased his own climax, “only mine. gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll be leaking my cum for days.”

the force of him stole your breath again as another orgasm ripped through you, your body arching wildly. you trembled, clinging to him, sobbing his name like a prayer. he chased you over the edge, one hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other bruising your waist as he came with a shuddering, broken groan—low, guttural, right against your skin—his teeth sinking into your neck as he spilled hot and thick inside you, every pulse of him a claim you’d never shake.

he stayed still a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, panting like he’d survived a battle. then—slowly—he pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden empty ache, your slick and his own, trailing down your inner thighs.

your body was still quaking when caleb carried you, trembling and ruined, to the couch—his grip bruising, but reverent. his jaw was tight, his breath still shallow from the exertion, and the whole room still reeked of sex and heat and rage. your thighs stuck to his fireproofs, slick and smeared, and your chest rose in ragged, shallow pants as he laid you down like you were something precious—but barely.

"look at you," he muttered, his voice hoarse with raw satisfaction. "still shakin’. you don't even know your own name, do you?"

your only answer was a weak, broken sound—something between a whimper and a plea. he chucked, low and dangerous, fingers brushing your jaw as his other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open again just to look. but then—he stilled.

his thumb stopped where it had been tracing, reverent in its own brutal way. his gaze, once burning with hunger, flickered—hesitating. you blinked through the haze clouding your vision, and there he was again: caleb, not the fire-eyed predator but the boy who used to hold your hand under the covers during thunderstorms, the boy who always laced your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold to do it yourself.

“…fuck,” he murmured, and something in his tone cracked open. he exhaled hard and let your thigh fall gently against the couch cushion, his body sinking beside yours, no longer looming—folding. a different kind of tension took its place, quieter, older. his hand cupped your cheek again, softer now, trembling faintly.

"you okay?" he asked, and his voice was lower. wrought with guilt, with fear, with love. "talk to me, love. tell me you’re okay."

you nodded, just barely, then leaned into his palm with a broken little sound. “o-okay…’m okay,” you breathed, voice ragged but true.

he closed his eyes.

for a moment, caleb didn’t say anything. just let his forehead press to yours. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t keep anchoring you to him. then, with careful arms, he pulled you into his lap—blanketing you in the throw he’d once haphazardly tossed on the couch. your legs curled over his, trembling.

“you’re shaking,” caleb murmured again, his voice low and rough, like gravel coated in velvet. the heat radiating from his body pressed against your back was a fierce, solid warmth that somehow grounded you, but you could still feel the tremors racing through your limbs—shaky, fragile, like you were made of glass. his arms tightened around you, not crushing, but possessive, protective—as if he wanted to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

his lips brushed your skin like a feather in slow, feather-light kisses. first your bare shoulder, where the soft warmth of his mouth left a trail that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. then along the hollow of your collarbone, his breath hot and steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and sweat from the race—intoxicating and unmistakably him. when his mouth ghosted to the corner of your lips, he paused, lingering like he was memorizing your shape, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quickening pulse beneath.

“you scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he breathed, voice husky and trembling with emotion, the raw vulnerability undercut by the fire of his obsession. “the way i feel about you... it’s not normal. maybe it’s because… i love you more than you realize.”

his hands roamed slowly now, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive tenderness that set your nerves alight. one palm slid down the curve of your side, fingers pressing into your hip bone, grounding you in the heat between you. the other curled in your hair, thumb brushing your temple softly, coaxing the tension out of your clenched muscles.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “just be here with me.”

your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his gaze—dark, intense, burning with a hunger that softened only when it landed on you. the sight made your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet ache that spread through your limbs like wildfire.

your fingers twined tightly in the thick fabric of his fireproof suit, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. you curled into him, the solid beat of his heart against your palm a grounding anchor amid the storm of emotion crashing through you. no words came—only the soft press of your lips against his jaw, the whisper of a kiss that said everything you couldn’t say aloud.

caleb’s breath hitched sharply, eyes darkening with a fierce tenderness as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped silently down your cheek, his touch so gentle it made your breath catch. his smile was fragile, barely there—but real. like he was offering you a piece of his soul wrapped in vulnerability.

“you’re everything to me,” he confessed, voice thick and laden with something bittersweet, a promise and a curse intertwined. “every lap, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. you ruined me, and i don’t ever want to be put back together.”

his arms squeezed you tighter, possessive and fierce, a silent vow to keep you safe and claim you utterly. the heat from his body seeped deep into your bones, steady and relentless, chasing away the shadows that lingered inside you.

your hand rose to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, memorizing the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. “l-love you..i’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. a soft, possessive smile curved his lips. “yeah,” he said, voice low and thick with pride, “only mine.”

when he kissed you this time, it was different—slow and tender, a deep press of lips that spoke of ownership and devotion, not just need. his mouth was warm and soft, roughened by days on the track and sleepless nights, and the taste of him—smoky, faintly metallic, and utterly intoxicating—settled deep inside your senses. his hands cradled your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you were his, that you belonged here, to him, in this moment.

“sleep,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle, a soothing promise that wrapped around you like a blanket. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyelids fluttered closed, sinking fully into the fierce, steady warmth of his arms. his heartbeat thrummed against your back, a wild, unyielding fire that burned only for you—and you let yourself be consumed by it.

caleb didn’t sleep. not for a second.

he stood bare-chested in front of the fire, the room thick with heat and shadows that flickered like ghosts on the walls. the dry crackle of the flames filled the silence, but inside him, a storm still raged—cold, sharp, relentless—but not for you, no, never.

his knuckles bore the faintest traces of dried blood where he'd gripped the wall to steady you, but the ache there was nothing compared to the sharp edge of his hatred for rafayel. the mclaren tee lay crumpled at his feet—a stubborn reminder that wouldn’t fade.

he bent down and picked it up slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric, a silent vow burning hotter than the fire before him. with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it close. he traced the soft cotton absently, the smell faint but familiar, and it stabbed at him like a fresh wound. the color—too bright, too loud—reminded him of everything he hated to admit. he fed the shirt to the flames, watching the orange cotton curl, blacken, and twist in on itself. the smell of scorched cloth filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the rancor that still coiled tight inside.

he didn’t blink until the last ember faded to ash, eyes cold and unyielding, mind still racing with bitter thoughts.

rafayel had crossed a line.

and caleb’s fire wasn’t ready to die down—not yet, not ever.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[ohproserpine]

ii. deer dolly

part i | part ii | more | ao3

tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, human! possibly ooc! alastor so he's a bit more "tame" here, unsettling & obsessive behavior, jealousy, possessiveness, written before episode 7; may become inaccurate, unwanted advances (not by alastor), murder, graphic descriptions of injuries

As the days unfolded into weeks, Alastor remained true to his word. A routine soon formed between the two of you: he would make regular visits to the speakeasy, engage in polite conversations with Mimzy, and take his usual seat to enjoy your performance.

In time, Alastor's interactions with you grew more intimate. And one night, following the success of one of your busiest night and biggest show, he surprised you with a beautiful necklace. Pulling you into your dressing room, Alastor asked for permission to formally court you. Without hesitation, you agreed, and in a burst of affection, proceeded to kiss him within an inch of your life. 

Since then, Alastor had begun to take you on dates outside the speakeasy. He whisked you away to quaint diners, lively jazz joints, and even introduced you to his mother—a sweet woman who welcomed you with open arms.

Throughout your time together, not a single one of your performances escaped Alastor'. Why would they? For him, your shows were the very essence of color in his otherwise dull and monotonous existence. His devotion to you almost mirrored religious fervor as he attended each of your shows like an impassioned disciple in the dimly lit speakeasy pews.

Your voice became a spell, luring Alastor like a foolish sailor drawn to a siren's call. In those moments, the world faded away, and he followed the melody with an irresistible pull, captivated by thoughts of you, you, you.

Only you.

Tonight, however, was anything but ordinary.

Alastor, following his usual routine, occupied his customary spot at the pub, savoring his whiskey with slow sips from his glass. However, the comforting rhythm of the night, which he had grown used to, was broken when the band screeched to a halt, the shrill notes of the violin cutting through the air. Immediately, the pub erupted in a chorus of boos and shouts.

Alastor blinked, his smile turning strained as he noticed a man stumble onto the stage. It was clear that he was intoxicated, moving about as gracefully as a headless chicken, as he made his way towards you, nearly knocking you off your feet.

Noticing the commotion, Mimzy clicked her tongue, slammed her drink onto the counter, and swiftly rose to her feet. She rushed to the stage, the glitters on her vibrant dress catching the dim lights of the speakeasy.

“Why, I oughta—" she began to seethe, as she stomped towards the stage, finger wagging in the air. “That’s the fifth time this week, Giovanni!”

"Ah, Mimzy! Jus' wanted to surprise my sweetheart," Giovanni slurred, his thick accent muddled as he clumsily leaned into you, head tucking into your neck.

Snap.

Alastor felt a visceral reaction, something within him snapping as the glass in his hand cracked under the strain of his grip. The fractured crevices dug into his skin, and golden liquor seeped out, mixing with crimson red blood.

As a regular performer at this pub, your popularity was unquestionable, and Alastor was not entirely pleased with the attention you garnered from other men. If given the opportunity, he would have you whisked away from this place. In his eyes, your voice was too lovely for a place like this. Your talent deserved a grander stage than the confines of this tacky establishment.

“Ahah,” you smiled awkwardly, shuffling away and shrugging the man's arms off of you. “Not your sweetheart, Giovanni…”

"Are you not happy to see me, carina?" Giovanni’s voice dropped to a whisper, his hand dropping to grip you by the waist. He leaned his face in closer, and you cringed. The man's breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were a bloodshot red. “Come on~ I came all the way to see you.”

“Ya' can go see and do whatevah the fuck you want with her after the show!” Mimzy scowled, stomping her heels onto the wooden flooring. “Can't have a moment of peace in here. Someone get him off my stage!”

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" Giovanni retorted, his anger bubbling over as he lashed out, kicking the microphone stand in Mimzy's direction. She barely dodged in time, the crash of the mic hitting the floor drowned out by the screeching feedback.

"Please. Just go," you pleaded, your patience wearing thin. "Why? Why do you always have to make a scene?"

"Ay, carina, don't get bratty with me. Let's talk in the back," Giovanni insisted, his grip on your shoulders tightening as he attempted to pull you off the stage. But before he could, Mimzy's guards intervened, forcefully yanking him away.

"Hey! Get ya' hands off'a me!"

Turning around, you rushed to get off the stage, but Giovanni somehow managed to break free and extended his hand, trying to grab onto you. Panic welled up within you as his hand reached out, but relief followed when he was abruptly stopped by none other than Alastor.

"Now, now," Alastor's voice had a lilt as he held onto Giovanni's wrist, but the venom woven into each word was unmistakable. His ever-present smile stretched wide, serving as a clear warning. "Causing a commotion isn't the best way to impress a lady."

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wring his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled and adjusted his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wriggle his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled, adjusting his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"Ha ha! Kind sir, when someone disrupts a delightful performance, it becomes everyone's business," Alastor laughed, the sound of it tinged with sarcasm.

"But I must commend you. My, that impromptu performance of yours was quite remarkable; you truly made a wonderful spectacle of yourself!" Alastor's grin widened, his mocking tone drawing out laughter from the crowd.

Then, Alastor bent down to meet Giovanni face to face, his amusement fading. 

“Though I think you've overstayed your welcome, no?” Alastor's grip tightened around Giovanni's wrist, the pressure leaving bruises in its wake, hues of purple, green, and blue blossoming beneath the skin.

Alastor's grin turned sharp. "You will leave. Now."

"F-Fuck are you gonna do if I don’t, aye?" Giovanni spat, attempting to maintain a façade of bravado despite the pain. He tore his hand away from Alastor's grip, cradling his wrist. "Ya' think you can tell me what to fucking do?!"

"Hmm. I would at least advise you to salvage whatever dignity you have left and leave. If you had even a dust of intelligence in that hollow head of yours, that would have been the first thing you'd have done," Alastor chuckled.

“Damn right. Ya ain't got no fuckin place in my establishment,” Mimzy scowled, snapping her fingers and gesturing towards the men surrounding Giovanni. “Take him away, boys!”

As Mimzy’s goons surrounded him again, Giovanni sneered, "This ain't over."

"Oh, my dear pal, I assure you, it is very much over. The lady has made her wishes very clear," Alastor grinned.

With a final snarl, Giovanni was forcibly led away from the scene, his protests fading into the background as Mimzy's guards escorted him out. Mimzy wasted no time, bustling backstage and barking orders to her staff to clean up and prepare the stage once more.

Alastor's charismatic facade returned as he turned to you, though a glint of irritation lingered in his eyes. "Apologies you had to see that, cher. Let's hope the rest of the evening proceeds much more smoothly."

"I hope so." With a sigh, your gaze shifted downward, and you spotted his injured hands. The glass he had broken earlier had left wounds all over his calloused palms — not deep, but enough to draw blood.

Concern etched across your face, and you gently touched Alastor's hands. The radio host, accustomed to your touch by now, allowed you to inspect the damage.

"You're hurt," you pointed out, caressing his skin.

Alastor met your gaze with a reassuring smile. "Ah, this is just a trifle. A mere inconvenience, I assure you! My, I've endured far worse during hunting, darling! This is hardly worth mentioning."

"But—" you began, only to be interrupted by his finger pushing against your red lips.

"Worry not, cher. I'll take care of it. There's no need to play nurse," he spoke with finality, as if this was a matter not open to further argument.

"Alright," You managed a small smile. "I am really sorry things turned out this way, Al. I didn't know Giovanni was going to show up again. He's always been like that for as long as I can remember. I told him to stop but he never does."

"No need for apologies. None of this fault is on you, darling. Though it does add a touch of excitement to otherwise mundane affairs, doesn't it?" Alastor chuckled heartily, though you sensed there was a bitter undertone to his laugh.

"Excitement? That man is a shitshow just waiting to happen," Mimzy returned and walked up to both of you, rolling her eyes. "And I thought I got rid of him for good..."

Suddenly, she leaned in with cosmetics in hand, deftly swiping lipstick across your lips and delicately brushing blush on your face. "Now come on, dollface, let's get you back to that stage."

You realize you're still on shift, but the thought of performing feels nearly impossible at the moment, especially with all this lingering adrenaline in your system. Admittedly, you're a bit shaken up, and all you want is to curl up by Alastor's side and savor the night with a drink in hand. 

"Oh, Mimzy…I'm not sure I can really perform right now, love. I feel…" you slowly trailed off, faltering under the weight of Mimzy's hardened gaze.

The blonde cooed out your name, her fingers gently wrapping around your arm, soothingly rubbing it up and down. "Dollface, you're not here to question; you're here to perform! Alastor here has been so kind to get rid of your little problem. Now, let's get back up on that stage and do what you're good at."

"Pardon?" Alastor snapped with a raised brow, his usually jovial tone replaced by a sharper edge. "Well, I don't mind in the least. In fact, I rather enjoyed putting that simpleton in his place. I'm sure your patrons can afford to wait, can't they? This poor dear is still shaking in her heels!"

But you intervened, mustering a smile and smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress while nervously tending to your hair. "Oh no, Al, it's alright. Mimzy's right. I can't just let one man ruin my entire night."

With a deep breath, you steeled yourself, taking a moment to compose before adding, "Besides, the show must go on, right?"

Alastor paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied your nervous tics. The radio host silently appraised your form for a few more seconds before eventually giving in. "Hmm, very well. If that's what you wish."

"Thank you, Al," you whispered with a smile, tilting your head up to press a kiss against his cheek. Your lipstick had left an imprint on his bronze skin, but he made no move to wipe it off.

With a chuckle, Alastor leaned back into you and returned the gesture warmly. 

"I'll take care of everything, doll," he whispered, voice low, before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "He won't ever bother you again."

Confused, you blinked up at him with those bright eyes he loved so much. "How do you plan to do that, Al?" you asked, but he ignored you, staring at you with that unsettling look in his eyes again.

Alastor suddenly raised your hand to his lips, brushing the knuckles with gentle pecks, causing your mind to blank and cheeks to go aflame. 

Tapping her foot impatiently, Mimzy's irritation grew as the display of affection lingered longer than she deemed appropriate. With a swift swat of her hand against the man's shoulder, she hissed at him. "That's enough outta you!"

Alastor smirked to himself and began walking back, seemingly satisfied with the subtle disturbance he had caused. He was such a bastard, but he was yours.

With a shake of your head and a smitten blush gracing your cheeks, you returned to the stage. The blinding spotlight enveloped you as Mimzy tossed the microphone back into your waiting hands. 

Meanwhile, Alastor reclined in his seat at the booth, his gaze fixed intently on you as you resumed your performance. The audience, having brushed off the brief interruption, eagerly redirected their focus to you.

Rabbit, rabbit! Won't you run away? Don't give the farmer all his fun today~ He'll get by without his rabbit pie. So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!

As you neared the end of the song, Alastor joined the crowd's applause, rhythmically snapping his fingers together.

Wonderful, as always.

.

Snap.

The sudden, jarring sound shattered the stillness of the forest, followed by a shrill scream that seemed to shake the trees. Giovanni's hands instinctively shot down to his ankle, where his bone had twisted in a gruesome sight that sent bile rushing to his throat. However, he had no time to inspect the damages as a rustling bush caught his attention. Desperately, the man began crawling on the ground, doing his best to move farther away, dragging mud and dirt all over his body.

"Don't give the farmer his fun. Fun. Fun," emerging from thick shrubs, Alastor sang lowly as he continued his slow advance, relishing in the fear that emanated from his prey. He raised his hand, fingers idly tracing over the red mark on your lips, and if he focused hard enough, he could still feel the burn of your affections. "He'll get by without his rabbit pie."

The dense forest around them seemed to close in, casting eerie shadows as Alastor's menacing silhouette moved closer. Giovanni, now gasping for breath, cast terrified glances over his shoulder, desperately searching for an escape route.

"So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run," Alastor continued to trail after the man, his axe slung over his strong shoulders, a sinister grin etched on his lips.

Ah, it had been so long since he last pursued larger prey, opting for smaller catches like rabbits and squirrels lately. This, however, was a different kind of pursuit, and the thrill was delicious.

“It's rather unsavory to disrupt a live performance,” Alastor mused, gripping his axe and running his bandaged palm along the side of the blade. "Oh, the misery! Each performance interrupted, a masterpiece marred!"

“Though I suppose you redeemed yourself with your own impromptu circus show,” Alastor snickered, reaching down and seizing Giovanni’s sprained ankle, dragging the screaming man back toward him.

"Good show!" The radio host grinned as he pressed his feet against Giovanni's back to prevent him from escaping. Alastor raised the axe high, the glint of the blade reflecting the crazed gleam in his eyes.

"Now, let's see how this act ends."

With a practiced swing, he brought the blade down, chunks of flesh and blood spraying onto his clothing and skin from the impact. Alastor laughed as the light gradually faded from the man's eyes, his once-struggling arms and legs now falling limp.

“What a show!”

[heliosunny]

My little sunny apple

Yandere!Caleb x Reader

I had one fic for Yandere!Xavier inspired by sleeping beauty. So why not Yandere!Caleb with Snow White. -There are details that are different from the game-

Growing up in a world devastated by the monstrous Wanderers, Caleb and you clung to each other like survivors in a storm. The orphaned boy you met at the shelter became more than a companion; he became your family. To you, Caleb was a brave, kind older brother, someone you could rely on. But for Caleb, you were so much more—his light.

When Caleb first arrived at the shelter, he was distant and bitter, carrying the weight of loss and distrust. At first, he resisted your attempts to befriend him, brushing off your kindness with scorn. But when he hit rock bottom—sick, starving, and too proud to ask for help—you were there, offering medicine and food, staying up through the nights to cool his fever. When the other children bullied him, you stood by his side, fighting battles that left bruises on your skin but pride in his heart.

It was your unwavering presence that sparked a change in Caleb. He vowed to be strong, to grow into someone who could protect instead of being protected. Despite the world’s chaos, the ancient apple tree in Linkon City—one of the last remnants of beauty—became your sanctuary. Under its shade, Caleb called you "Little Sunny Apple" a nickname that carried the hope and light you brought into his life.

But fate was cruel. During a catastrophic attack by the Wanderers, the shelter fell. The world you had built together shattered as the ground caved beneath your feet. Caleb was dragged from the rubble by strangers, unconscious and broken, while you were left behind, believing he had perished.

---

Caleb’s rescuers were not saviors, they were the Farspace Fleet, a militarized faction bent on survival at any cost. They took Caleb in, reshaped his broken body and fractured mind, and turned him into a weapon. His right hand, once warm and steady, was replaced with a high-tech prosthetic covered in synthetic skin. Under their harsh training, Caleb rose to power, becoming a feared colonel renowned for his ruthless efficiency. But despite his transformation, one thing remained unchanged: his obsession with finding you.

Years passed before Caleb discovered you were alive. The revelation filled him with a manic joy and a burning resolve to never lose you again. But Caleb was no longer the boy you had known. His love, once pure and selfless, had curdled into something darker. Like the wicked stepmother from a fairytale, he became consumed by his need to craft the perfect version of you—one who would never leave his side.

Through years of research into the Wanderers, Caleb had uncovered their secrets. Beneath Linkon City lay their cores, strange organic artifacts that, when harvested and refined, could create a serum granting extraordinary abilities: superhuman strength, longevity, and immunity to the Wanderers' powers. Yet the process was gruesome, requiring the deaths of countless Wanderers and innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.

From this research, Caleb created his masterpiece: a shimmering, otherworldly apple infused with the essence of dozens of Wanderer cores. He believed this "perfect apple" would make you immortal, tying you to him forever.

---

Unaware of Caleb’s transformation, you continued your dangerous work hunting Wanderers, finding solace in quiet moments at the ancient apple tree. It was there, on a rare day off, that you saw him. The man before you was a stranger, his features hardened by years of war, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Do I know you?" you asked, skepticism in your tone.

"It’s me... Caleb," he replied, his voice trembling. "Your Caleb."

You were ready to dismiss him as an imposter until he uttered the nickname only one person could know: "Little Sunny Apple."

Tears blurred your vision as years of grief and longing crashed over you. You threw your arms around him, clinging to the boy you had thought you’d lost forever. The reunion was bittersweet—a balm for your broken heart, but beneath the surface, something felt off.

---

At first, Caleb’s gestures seemed loving. He brought you baskets of apples, listened intently to your stories, and promised to protect you from all harm. But his care soon became suffocating. He insisted you quit your job, claiming he could provide for you. When you tried to cook, he took over. When you wanted to explore his ship, he forbade it, urging you to stay in your quarters for your own safety.

One day, curiosity led you to a hidden lab aboard his ship. What you found left you breathless: the glowing apple, its unnatural light casting eerie shadows. Files revealed the truth of its creation—the slaughter of Wanderers, the sacrifices of innocents, all to craft a fruit meant to bind you to Caleb.

"You weren’t supposed to see that." Caleb’s voice cut through the silence.

Horrified, you turned to face him. "How could you? All those lives… for what?"

"For you" he said, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. "To keep you safe. To make sure no one—not the Wanderers, not anyone...could hurt you."

He held the apple out to you like a sacred offering. "Eat it. Please. It will make you stronger. You won’t need to risk your life anymore."

You backed away, shaking your head. "This isn’t love, Caleb. This is control."

---

Caleb’s obsession reached its breaking point when he locked you in his quarters, convinced you would eventually "see reason." Days turned into weeks as you planned your escape, aided by Kevin, Caleb’s adjutant. Kevin, unlike his commander, treated you with kindness and respect. His gentle demeanor and steadfast loyalty reminded you of the princes from forgotten tales—a quiet hero in a story overshadowed by darkness.

Caleb noticed. His jealousy burned like a wildfire, consuming what little restraint he had left. "You still see me as your brother" he snarled one night. "But I’ll show you. I’ll make you see me as more."

Your chance to escape came during a Wanderer attack on the fleet. As chaos erupted, you and Kevin made your way to the lab, determined to destroy the apple. But Caleb intercepted you, his powers—gained from the very serum he had created, rendering him nearly unstoppable.

"Don’t do this" he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you."

"You don’t understand, Caleb" you said, tears streaming down your face. "Love isn’t about control. It’s about freedom."

In the struggle that followed, you and Kevin managed to destroy the apple. But Caleb’s fury was swift and brutal. With a single shot, he ended Kevin’s life, his eyes wild with grief and rage.

"You chose him over me" Caleb said, his voice trembling with betrayal. "But it doesn’t matter. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix you."

Caleb’s control tightened after that day. He kept you close, his obsessive love morphing into a gilded cage. You became his "perfect apple" a treasure to be admired but never freed. Yet even in captivity, your spirit remained unbroken. You vowed to find a way to escape—to remind Caleb of the boy who had once valued your freedom as much as your life.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Crawling back to you

synopsis-> His new concubine start to slowly become an obsession for him

The dimly lit chamber is thick with the heady aroma of sandalwood and smoldering embers casting their flickering amber glows across ornately gilded walls.

You kneel demurely before the towering entity that is the indominable King of Curses with a tray of succulent fruits balanced precariously in your lap.

Despite the dozens of lithe, scantily-clad courtesans draped across plush cushions surrounding Sukuna's imposing throne, not a single one possesses the capability to enrapture his full, unadulterated interest like you.

He attempts schooling his expression into one of practiced aloofness yet finds his scrutiny involuntarily drinking you in from the corner of his periphery.

The modest way loose tendrils of obsidian tresses fall around your delicately sculpted features...How those full lips part just enough to reveal a glimpse of glistening teeth worrying your lower pout while plucking a ripe persimmon free...

Even the flutter of those thick, sooty lashes framing those eyes as you peek up through them with an achingly sweet naivete.

Something viscerally primal stirs low in Sukuna's abdomen each instance your gazes accidentally lock - simultaneously thrilling yet inexplicably vexing him to the core.

He shouldn't find any fascination or particular novelty in your obvious purity and fragility, should he? After all, you pose no formidable threat to one who has mercilessly throttled nations with nary a conscious thought.

Yet he cannot prevent those four obsidian-tipped limbs from imperceptibly tightening with the overwhelming compulsion to simply...take you right there.

To lash out and possess every scant inch until the searing brand of his essence remains molten and permanently etched into your very marrow.

Maybe then you'd no longer exude such blinding radiance capable of rooting him in place like some pathetic, feeble-willed human wretch.

Every sinew instinctively coils rigid when your delicate fingertips drift upwards to present that glistening persimmon temptingly close.

Except your feather-light caress doesn't retreat once his lips part to accept your offering.

Instead, the pad of your thumb ghosts across his bottom lip with a tenderness and reverence he finds utterly transfixing.

And just like that, the last thread of rigid control over his carnal urges combusts instantaneously.

Sukuna's vision fractures into a million shards of ruby as your hopelessly innocent proximity suddenly consumes his restraint whole.

"Get out..." The abdominal maw snarls in a guttural rasp now utterly stripped of his usual controlled veneer.

Every talon-like fingernail hollows razor-deep grooves into the armrests flanking his throne when you instinctively flinch back with those dewy irises rounded in terror.

"Now."

The massive chamber remains utterly frozen until you scramble backwards on hands and knees finally fleeing his presence.

Only then does Sukuna finally permit himself to surrender - lifting a single beckoning digit to numbly brush across the very spot your captive touch seared straight through his exterior not a moment prior.

What sacrilegious witchcraft have you entangled him within?

This unfathomable compulsion to simultaneously profane and protect?

He's the almighty King of Curses - feared and reviled across every realm. Yet a solitary brush of your chaste fingertips against his mouth threatens to dismantle every staunch defense he's meticulously crafted over centuries of brutality and indiscriminate annihilation...

Head bowing forward until his pallid death mask cracks in a bitter sneer, Sukuna releases a blustering huff of mirthless derision directed solely at his own lamentable weakness.

Loathing how you've wormed your way beneath his armor so effortlessly with scarcely any intent whatsoever.

He vows to purge this infuriatingly inexplicable yearning to possess your radiance before it blossoms into something...darker. Something treacherous...

For both your sakes...

[skmhlml]

Shadow milk cookie x an shy and timid reader that came with pure vanilla cookie and everyone else's hard smutt please

🕯️ Shadow Milk Cookie x Shy!Timid!Reader 🕯️ | General + Nsfw|

🧿 you were meant to be safe under Pure Vanilla’s protection—an observer, healer, or maybe even just a supportive friend trailing behind the Five. You never expected to be the one left behind.

🧿 The moment the world shifted into Shadow Milk’s dominion, it happened so quickly you didn’t even have time to scream.

🧿 The moment you were cut off from the others, the world shifted around you—walls turned to stage curtains, and floorboards creaked like a theater’s trapdoor.

🧿 The illusion constantly shifted—some moments you’d be walking down a hallway with murals of your friends, then suddenly, you’d be standing on a stage with blinding lights, audience silhouettes staring at you in silence.

🧿 Shadow Milk Cookie doesn’t hurt you physically—he plays with your mind.

🧿 He replays scenes of your past—twisting them into pantomimes where you are the villain. Your moments of fear are exaggerated, made grotesque for entertainment.

🧿 He mocks your fear, but also protects you in his own twisted way: “Fear is honest, little Cookie. Let the others pretend to be brave… Stay close to me, and you’ll never have to lie again

🧿 Over time, you begin losing track of what’s real. You’re kept in a room that shifts each day: a cozy cottage one day, a crumbling prison cell the next.

🧿 The moment you reached for Awakened Pure Vanilla’s hand—Shadow Milk shattered.

🧿 His illusion world fractured like glass. The beautiful stage warped into raw chaos: bleeding curtains, mirrors cracking, voices screaming all around you.

🧿 You almost made it out…Until his black ribbon magic wrapped around your throat and dragged you back through the velvet maw of the Spire.

🍋▾

🧿 He uses illusion to make your body hypersensitive, then binds you to a performance platform with silken ribbons while pacing around you like a director.

🧿 He’s desperate when he touches you—needy, clinging, starved for affection. Every kiss is possessive, like he’s trying to devour the parts of you that ever loved anyone else.

🧿 You’re stripped slowly, always magically, as if your clothing unbuttons itself on command. He forces you to watch it in mirrors, your body revealed under soft stage lighting.

🧿 uses ribbons of shadow to bind you in mid-air, holding your limbs open, your back arched perfectly for his hands.

🧿 He doesn’t immediately touch you with his body— he uses delusions of himself. One whispers in your ear, another drags a phantom tongue up your inner thigh, and a third strokes his fingers over your most sensitive parts.

🧿 Sometimes he uses magical ink to write his commands on your inner thighs, chest, and neck:

• “Say my name.”

• “Don’t look away.”

• “The light is a lie.”

🧿 These glowing marks burn when you disobey—but pulse with heat when you submit, especially when you moan his name without being told.

🧿 He marks you, licking his name into your collarbone, then binding a dark silk ribbon around your throat: a “costume piece,” he says, for his lead actress.

🧿 He marks you internally, pumping his essence so deep that it seeps into your womb or core like spiritual ink, staining your insides with warmth and magical pressure. You can feel it sticking inside you long after.

🧿 He wraps his shadowy ribbons around your throat, your wrists, your thighs—not to hurt, but to heighten sensation. They pulse and vibrate in time with his thrusts.

🧿 Each moan you let out causes the restraints to tighten—or caress, depending on your obedience.

🧿 He’ll implant phantom limbs—making you feel fingers or tongues in multiple places at once: your chest, your neck, inside your heat, even behind your knees.

🧿 It’s like being taken by multiple versions of him, all praising you, mocking you, overwhelming you with affection and obsession.

🧿 You feel melting, drugged, exposed, but he forces your body to respond. Your walls tighten against your will. Your breath catches. Your eyes roll back.

🧿 After several encounters, you start to ache when he’s gone—your core throbs, thighs press together, mouth dries from the absence of his taste.

[yandere-wishes]

જ⁀❤ ︎ Yandere! Orion Pax x Reader VS Yandere! Optimus Prime x Reader

જ⁀❤︎ Old Friend by Mitski (Sped Up) and John Wayne by CAS

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ Orion Pax ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion is sweet, saccharine, bright. His smile holds nothing but promises of hope and luster. Sometimes you forget to breathe when he stands too close. Sometimes you forget just how easily the sun burns.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ He's all too luminous for a mech all so small. And yet, between his soft rays and even softer words, you can't help but wince at the prick of his abnormal obsessions. An obsession with a buried past, an obsession with a truth too shrouded to see, an obsession with you of all things...

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You notice the radiance and desperation when he holds your hand. Metalic digits scraping yours as he walks you through the mines. You can almost see how badly he craves more. A desperate need to do more, understand more, to be more. You see it again when he's pulling Jazz from the rubble of a collapsing mine, see the too-blue flicker in his optics as he shoves rocks and debris.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion is too shy to kiss, too shy to ask for attention. He smiles and looks away, optics burning holes into the Energon veins. You wonder what he sees? If all the information he's rapaciously absorbed bleeds from his optics into the world around him. What does Orion see? You need to know.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You're always blinded by his light. Maybe it blinds him too. You feel a little too powerful for a second as you pull him into a kiss. Quixotic little robot trying to conquer the sun.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You taste Cybertron under his tongue when you kiss him. Idealistic, perfect, too foreign to be true. One too many puzzle pieces too lost and fractured to understand. When he places his servos on your shoulders, you swear you feel the warmth of Cybertron's core melting into you, burning and thawing all in an effort to love.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ He's so desperate to save the world, so sure he can do it. He's so tiny you think as he runs his hands over the hologram map. So small and innocent. For such a big cruel world.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion's obsessions only grow after his transformation. The T-cog only feeds his mania, feeds his flawless hope. His light is getting more blinding now. Burning like the sun, he's going to destroy himself you think as you reach out for him...

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion dies. The little rowdy hopeful mech you always knew is thrown into the world's core. You scream after him, cry after him. Back then it had never occurred to you that he may have been better off dead. It's Optimus that reemerges from Primus's domain, Optimus not Orion. The light has reached its nuclear apex. You can't even look directly at him. Optimus is an angelic blur of hope and luster.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You're starting to miss Orion...

・┆✦ ʚOptimus Primeɞ ✦ ┆・

ᯓ★ You still taste Cybertron when he kisses you. Sugary and sweet like weeping tree sap. He's seen the world end more times than he cares to admit. You've watched him rip his own spark out more times than you care to admit.

ᯓ★ He still bleeds light, radiance glowing from scratched blue metal as he walks along the overworld wreckage. Only now...now you cover your eyes, the light has become too smoldering, suffocating. Just like the precious prime himself.

ᯓ★ Optimus's spark beats in rhythm with yours. You feel his every pulse, feel the Martix's weight bleeding into you. Optimus likes to keep you close, too close. You feel his warmth until you can't breathe. Until his essence is pulsing around you keeping you grounded as it seeps into your frame. It's such a strange thing to feel a spark crack and bleed every single day. To feel as he annihilates himself over and over again, leaving you to writhe in agony.

ᯓ★ Optimus is always gentle, he treads you so tenderly it almost hurts. He feels like everything he touches starts to break. D-16, Cybertron and finally you. That's why his kisses are feather-light. His digits slide tenderly up and down your frame...funny he used to be bolder when he worked in the mines.

ᯓ★ Sometimes when Optimus kisses you, you can feel him feeding you information. Small balls of light exchanged between tongues all harbouring promises of a light-drenched Cybertron, of a victory parade. Of Optimus holding you so tightly in his arms for as long as he's online

[utopianparadoxist]

On Roxy, Centrism, Gravitation, and Love

So Candy Roxy has gotten a lot of shit--rightfully so--for taking a consistently centrist and peacekeeping role in the Candy timeline. Generally averse to the spotlight and of the opinion that the Gods, with their outsize importance and cultural weight, should stay out of the governing affairs of regular people, Roxy has largely been reduced to a passerby watching as her friends plummet the world into chaos as they try to tear each other's throats out.

But there's another way to read her fundamental centrism, one where her focus and perspective simply aren't political, but rather interpersonal. As one redditor (I lost the comment and don't know who, sorry!) put it, they read Roxy in this latest update as a character striving to "keep everyone together", to pull the fracturing group back into unity.

Pulling things together. That sounds familiar.

It sounds, in fact, like Gravity. "In physics, gravity (from Latin gravitas 'weight'[1]) is a fundamental interaction primarily observed as a mutual attraction between all things that have mass." In other words, Gravity is a word we use to describe the fact that everything that physically exists, that has substance and matter, is inexorably pulled towards each other.

Rose describes gravitation as "the intrinsic nature of nothingness", that is to say, the nature of Void itself. And while the force of Gravity gets weaker the further things are spread apart, this weak and subtle force is what draws together cosmic gases that compact and condense into each other with such intensity that they give birth to the Stars themselves.

In this way, Void is a force which creates and becomes Light. And in the same way Gravity acts as a force pulling stellar objects together, laying the foundation for organized solar systems and ultimately Life itself--could Roxy be trying to act as a force pulling her friends into harmony reflect her relationship to the Void, right at the time the Black Hole threatens to grind them all into oblivion and they most need someone to rally them to a unified cause?

Let's see how deep we can dive into the dark.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

To start with, there's some required reading to understand where I'm trying to go. The image above is from Homestuck blogger @lime-bloods, who has done some absolutely brilliant work unpacking the symbolic importance of Black Holes.

I suggest reading the images above to grasp the full context of the idea, but in essence, it suggests that Black Holes are synonymous with the concept of the Home in the bounds of Paradox Space.

As Lime-bloods states, The local Black Hole of a Cherub's birthplace is identified as that Cherub's home, and Cherubs always return to this same black hole in order to reproduce. John's speech about the note that desolation plays makes reference to "the Voids keeping neighbors apart", in other words, the houses separating communities into families.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

The Sprites, too, are bound to the gravity of their player's Home during Sburb, unable to leave the house until the player reaches unlocks the ability to summon and eventually release them. This carries over into Homestuck: Beyond Canon, where almost every sprite manifests inside the Black Hole created by The Point.

The only exception to this is Jasprose, who A) As a Light player may have some natural resistance to the call of the Void and B) was the only Sprite explicitly released from her duty by her Player--Davepeta "released themselves" as Davesprite, but we don't know if that represents true freedom from their Sprite nature or merely a more nuanced rebellion against it. That's a tangent though, lets get to The Point.

--@lime-bloods's Void/Home Collage.

The Plot Point is a massive machine created by Roxy and Calliope for the purpose of stabilizing a Black Hole, a supermassive source of literal and narrative Gravity, and for all intents and purposes, it represents a Space/Void fraymotif, or feat of combined Aspect magic.

And what it does once Vriska dives into it is pull her into an cocoon forcing to re-experience of her old childhood Home, her very experience of being Homestuck, to force her to confront and grow past it. In this simulacra of her Home she has to contend with the toxic family dynamics she grew up with--Mindfang and Spidermom as her mothers, Doc Scratch as her groomer and symbolic father.

Diving into the Black Hole makes her once again Homestuck.

"...Understanding that Rose's lapse into alcoholism is her own way of succumbing to 'gravity' - a pull towards toxic familial cycles which not only evokes Vriska's own "addiction" to breaking 8-balls but also literally surrounds the drinker in a dark pocket - her allusions to the Void and gravity here are also tinged by her own experience and outlook as a Seer of Light (who heavily relied on a magic cue ball as her source; a fountain of information which is symbolically opposed to the information-consuming black hole)..." @lime-bloods reader response to my ask.

Lime-Bloods also draws the insight that Rose's relationship with alcoholism--brought out by her grief over the loss/absence/non-existence of Mom in the first place--is itself her succumbing to the call of Void, of Gravity, the narrative and force that pulls her toward Roxy, Mom, and her own childhood. It is in the midst of her alcoholism, after all, that she has the very revelation that leads her to tie Gravity and Nothingness/Void together in the first place.

There's another name for that force. Another form Gravity can take, that is experienced not narratively, but emotionally.

"My instinct is that Rose has reached the same conclusion I have: that 'gravity', as a metonym for the influence of a black hole, is just the inevitable pull towards oblivion. I think she's using "nothingness" as a euphemism for "space", over which gravity has dominion, but through this we can start to appreciate how the concepts of Space and Void weave into each other ("nothingness", "space" and "void" all being functional synonyms)..." @lime-bloods reader response to my ask.

At the same time that lime-bloods identifies Gravity with characters being pulled towards their homes--and so, emotionally, toward their histories with each other, in the context of Child/Guardian pairs-they also identify Gravity with the pull towards oblivion, towards nothingness.

Towards death, like how it was in death itself that Rose's mother gained the gravity to pull her daughter's heart closer to her, bringing all of Rose's love flooding to the surface. Death is itself a kind of nothingness after all, and while Space is the neighbor holding Void's left hand on the wheel, Void spins through the cosmos holding Doom's hand on its right.

And there's something interesting there when it comes to Roxy. A recurring pattern in her emotional responses to death and brushes with mortality. When Jaspers died and she held an elaborate funeral for him in an attempt to connect with Rose, like when Rose died and she held a private funeral for her and reached out to embrace Jaspers, when Dirk committed suicide in Candy and Roxy reacted by proposing to John at his funeral--

when faced with her mortality, Roxy reaches out for love.

She actually lays out this logic explicitly in the midst of her proposal. Death reminds her that time is finite, and that reminds her that what she wants to prioritize in her life is her love and connections to the people that matter to her.

John's inner thoughts in response to her proposal describe love in a rather interesting way, too--describing it as a feeling that goes "unexamined", unobserved, not directly paid attention to, as if out of the spotlight of the concious mind, until it becomes overwhelming and crashes over you.

As if a mass of cosmic nebulae gaining enough Gravity to compact gases together intensely enough to birth Stars--or Light. This association between realized Love and Light isn't new--as the aspect of Truth and Importance, the original comic associates Light with almost every major pairing, including Dirkjake, Vrisrezi, Rosemary and Roxycallie.

But the process of being drawn closer together and developing love, of strangers becoming acquaintances becoming friends becoming family or life partners, gaining importance in each other's eyes through the mutual attraction of Gravity--that process tends to take place mostly in the Void in original Homestuck, askance and askew from the viewer's perspective, hidden and private.

Though perhaps I shouldn't limit the force of Gravity entirely to the word "Love" (perhaps Passion is a better one, Heart's echo to Void's Gravity as a horizontally mirrored pair on the wheel) after all, Terezi tells John that the purpose of kissmesitude is ultimately to force both partners to "Shine a Light" on parts of themselves that would otherwise go ignored in other to improve both parties, meaning Hate can serve much the same purpose.

Dirk, for example, shines a light on massive problems with himself and with his effects on other people interpersonally through his relationships with Jake (Love) and Hal (Hate). Both force him to contend with himself and grow, enabling his eventual rooftop conversation with Dave.

Coming back to the Candy timeline in this latest update, we find Roxy trying to pull everyone in a centrist position on the matter of Jane, again reaching out to the friends she knows and loves for support when faced with the imminent mortality of someone she cares about. She finds nothing.

The thing is, the call towards love, towards Home, isn't inherently either good or bad. What I'd call it instead is essential, as in that in the same way gravity pulls astral bodies together and keeps us bound to Earth, it is in the essence of people to be pulled towards one another.

This contextualizes the Home as a Void symbol somewhat. Above all else, what a Home literally is is a House, and what a House really is is Empty. A house means nothing by itself, its purpose to be a hollow shell encasing people away from the elements.

It is the shared life, the mutual draw of love or the conflict and hate between the people sharing that Home that defines it, that gives it distinct meaning, whether for the better or for the worse. Without that inner Light, a House is indeed a perfectly generic object--an oversized Box, forgettable, infinitely replaceable. A microcosm of the Void itself.

So as Lime-Bloods says, Gravity/Love pulls Rose towards reliving toxic family dynamics, and in this case it pulls Roxy towards saving the life of a fascist who will inevitably make the world more toxic and cruel for everyone, simply on the strength of feeling provided by Jane having been a core part of Roxy's Home herself.

That said, what is toxic in one context can be productive in another, and right now the Candy adults are desperately in need of a leader who can get them all to agree on a direction to take towards solving the very real, very imminent problem of the Black Hole obliterating the Candy Timeline to nothingness.

While Vriska suggests that it may be possible for them to save Earth C from its fate, it is really only Roxy that is stepping up to the plate of advocating for it, continuously emphasizing the metaphysical threat and her unwillingness to abandon her Home, and by association, the very Black Hole that entraps her.

She says it best herself: She feels it in her gut that they can still save this place, and who better than a Hero of Void to make that kind of determination? A Black Hole is after all as much a symbol of Void as it is one of Space.

So I suspect she's going to rise to the occasion of meeting this particular challenge, and if she does, she's going to do so on the merit of the Gravity/Love that keeps her bound to Earth C, in all its wretched beauty.

The two easiest ways I can think of to solve the Candy Earth situation are for either John to dive into the Point and become June, for all the Gods to work together on some sort of large-scale abstract fraymotif or combined God magic the likes of which we've never seen before, or some combination of both.

In any of those scenarios, it feels like Roxy will likely be coordinating and keeping the group on task, simply because everyone else is too distant and divided from each other. And all of this makes me think about someone else. The other Roxy, traveling to confront Dirk in Meat.

When I first read this update, Meat Roxy came off unusually cold to me, surprisingly callous about the idea of killing Dirk. He even came off as willing to do the deed himself if need be, and like he was simply asking Dave if he was up to the challenge.

Now I find myself wondering. It feels to me at the moment like Meat Roxy is playing it cool, so to speak, keeping his own cards close to his chest and deliberately providing the space for Dave to express his own feelings and opinion. Neither Roxy nor we get to hear Dave's answer, but considering Roxy even said he hopes things end hunky dory, he really asked the question as neutrally as possible, providing space for Dave to go either way without feeling judged.

But considering the lengths Jane was able to go and still have Candy Roxy's love keep her attached to her, at least as far as wanting to offer mercy, it seems likely to me that Meat Roxy would feel similarly merciful about Dirk. I'm sure Dirk will do everything in his power to make Roxy and Dave feel they have no choice but to try to end his life, but I think he and we may end up surprised at how far he'd have to go to really convince Roxy of that.

I suppose time will tell. This somehow feels incomplete--perhaps fittingly, even now it feels like nuances of both Void and Roxy escape me, and I find myself simply waiting for what the future will bring. But I think the association between Gravity and Love treads new ground on the subject of Void, and I hope you enjoyed reading about it.

Nothing to do now but wait for the next upd8.

Keep rising.

[overx]

♕ for Alexander please for the life headcanons!

❇ life philosophy headcanons. [Accepting!] ♕ — What does leading a ‘good’ life mean to your muse? Are they satisfied with the choices they make?

What does it mean for anyone? For Alexander, if you asked him directly, I'm not sure he'd have a solid answer.

His early life was pretty miserable given it lead to him being how he is now. Two halves of a whole. It also made him highly value freedom above all else. Being able to pursue your own wants and interests after being subjected entirely to someone else's will is a gift.

In short, living in the present is what matters. Lexi here doesn't have any major regrets he's trying to atone for (most of the terrible things in his life were done to him after all). Basically, he isn't the kind of person trying to live up to some moral of philosophical code.

He's friendly, even helpful, but he's no altruist. He'd say it's perfectly fine to be a self serving even, provided it doesn't harm anyone else.

At the end of the day, he just doesn't want to be like the people who hurt and experimented on him. The standard for being a good person gets pretty warped after you've been stuck in the hands of mad scientists.

[nyrrwrites]

✮⋆˙ 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐲 ( n. sully )

✮⋆˙ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : neteyam ✘ omaticayan!reader ✮⋆˙ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.3k+ ✮⋆˙ 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 : fluff!! heavy descriptions of affection & intimacy (not explicitly!) , themes of war/burden ( from neteyam ), mild angst & vulnerability, deep yearning, we're just lovesick and missing neteyam over here <3 ✮⋆˙ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 : @cafekitsune !!!

Him.

Neteyam.

His name is not just an appellation —it is a celestial phenomenon, something too vast, too consuming to be contained in mere syllables. It is an eclipse, a supernova, a ruffle between the flickering stars. It is the slow-burning fire that never dies, the heartbeat beneath the steady pulse of the universe. It is the way he exists, not softly, nor fleetingly but fiercely, with the entirety of eternity carved into the sinew of his being.

And tonight, he exists around you.

The skies stretch in its vastness, velvet blacks, deep violets, and fractured indigos, speckled with silver lights that watch but never speak. The fires burn low in the distance, scattered embers smoldering beneath the bones of the Omaticayastronghold, dusting the treetops with the faintest glimmers of bioluminescent longing.

But none of it, none of it, scorches the way he does.

Neteyam is warmth for he harbors the heat of distant suns across foreign galaxies. He is gravity for he tethers you to the ground beneath your joined figures. He is the sculptured ember of a dying fire and the soaring inferno of a newborn star. He is the steady thrum of a heartbeat in the hush of the night. 

His flesh, deep and rich azures, streaked with bold, winding stripes, transforms into glaciered sapphires beneath nature's light, a constellation of the cosmos itself splattered across his canvas.

And you are here, tangled within him.

Pressed against his chest, where the rhythmic cadence of his heart beats beneath your flitting ear — strong, fervent, a palpitation so deep, so ancient, it feels like the pulse of Eywa's child. The sound deeply lulls you, swaddling itself around your tired limbs, slipping beneath your skin until it becomes one with you.

His arms are a fortress, a place where no harm can ever reach you. They cage you in: strong, certain, protecting. 

Devoted fingers drift in tender spirals along the dip of your waist, delicate and leisured, not finding the necessity to hold tighter in order to be known —he is already there, perceived, already part of you. He maps the familiar terrains of your body; contours, planes, curves, no line left untraced.

“Yawne…”

A murmur. Aerated, deep, husked. Voice a tide of burning honey flooding your senses, dribbling down the curve of your throat and sinking into your very essence, not just heard but consumed.

The moment hangs in fragile suspension — almost as if the very air between you could shatter with one wrong exhale. There is something tender lodged beneath your ribs, your heart aching and bare, pressing subtle to compacting against bone and breath. It makes you feel full and hollow all at once, and it swells to the point of breaking and spewing wide open, ready to become.

Because this, him, Neteyam is everything. 

He is fragranced of rain-soaked forests, whirled with sun-warmed leaves, wafted in dusks and dove-hued rivers.

Your own digits wander over him, taking in the shift of pure muscle beneath the flawless blue flesh. He shivers beneath your touch — just the tiniest of tremor one perhaps would not be able to decipher. But you.

He is beautiful. Fuck, he's breathtaking.

"My beautiful boy," you always used to croon to him. Back before scarlets and conflicts tainted your young souls' childhood. He would always attempt to fight against it, the nickname, though his body's reaction to your voice uttering it rendered his actions pointless.

The burnished glow of his stare rests upon you, half-lidded and ineffable when you speak those three words. His eyes — twin suns, flaring golds, liquefied brilliance poured down on you, smolders and captures breaths in its silent intensity.

And oh, how you burn beneath that gaze.

Neteyam.

The quiet protector. The firstborn son with the weight of the whole world sunk between his scorching shoulder blades. You can feel it beneath your hands — the knots in his muscles, the tension clawed in the hollow of his spine. He carries everything, only to realize, here, in this moment, that he does not have to carry it alone.

You sink into him without questioning. Without pondering. His arms tighten — his breath cutting for a split second — before he lets you have him.

No one has ever simply let you have them before.

There is reverence in his touch, palm finding a niche on the nape of your neck, large and gentle. Fingers weave through the stray curls and cascades of braids. His thumb's pad strokes sweetly along your jaw and over your neck, coaxing the tension from your figure until you're a little more over the statement of just pudding in his hands.

He soothed you without even trying, without even the raw knowledge of how much you have longed to be touched like this — to be loved without needing to plead for it.

He is not a gentle man — no, not always. The world has not allowed him to be, for hands were built to fight, to protect, to bleed for those who cannot bleed for themselves.

But when those same hands find you, when they follow along the bent of your waist beneath the moonlight, when they knot into your hair,

They are not the hands of a warrior then. They are the hands of a man who would kneel at your feet if only to press his mouth to your blemishes, to taste every sorrow and wound the world has seared into your being and make it his own.

Your chest flutters — soft and overbearing, such a peculiar join— because you are not used to being tended to. 

“Sleep, ma y/n,” he insists one more with a sweet voice that is so soft, afraid he’ll break you if he speaks any louder.

But how can you sleep when he is the one keeping you awake?

How can you sleep when he is fire wrapped in flesh — the churn of some faraway galaxy buried beneath skin and sinew and breath?

Solace and yearning collide — warmth and ache, safety and hunger all in one being. He gives without asking. He holds without keeping. He touches without taking.

Your fingers find the stripes etched across his ribs, tracing them with your own overpowering worship. Blue melting into darker blue —linking with the faint bioluminescence of Eywa’s kiss. His skin is burning threads of silk beneath your touch, every inch of him carved by the hands of the Great Mother herself.

You feel him shiver again with the added physical contact, and you beam at how his heart vividly stutters beneath your ear. 

His exhale kisses your forehead as you nose his cheek, knotting your fingers between his. "Sleep with me, my love."

His breath stirs against your temple, as if the whole world could fall away and he would still hold you like this. But what gnaws at his bare mind is, will he always be granted to do such a beautiful thing?

You know his dreams are plagued with war.

You feel it in his breathing patterns alone — the weight of everything he carries, even now, even in sleep.

But he has never neglected your words, your queries, your pleas, your commands. The universe could burn down right before you and you’d still be safe here. In one another's embrace, heat.

He does not let go, and he attempts to sleep for you as you shift in his arms. And this time you cradle his head to your neck. Let his face find solace in the crevice there, breathing you in, letting the heat increase tenfold.

Not two halves of one whole, not tethered by tsaheylu alone. You are one soul — created from the same breath, and from the exact heartbeat as he felt yours synchronizing with his own beneath his cheek.

if fate were cruel, if time were unkind, if the world dared to pull him from your grasp he would find his way back.

Because love like this does not end. It does not break or bend, nor does it fade with the tides or crumble with the years. It remained.

Neteyam firmly, fervently believes he would spend eternity past his life chasing this, you across every star, every ocean, every sky, every brewing cosmos.

You know — you are more than aware — that he would still find a way to hold, to reach, find you.

Because that is who Neteyam is. And because you are his.

[maryychill]

Digimon Adventure Tri: why it's more than you think

Originally posted on Reddit.

I believe Digimon Adventure Tri deserves a more careful, emotionally attuned rereading. I'm not here to claim absolute truth. I just want to share what I understood and felt, hoping this might encourage viewers to see the work through a different lens, especially if they're open to reevaluating it.

Tri isn't broken, it's fractured on purpose

Tri is not a classic sequel. It doesn't try to replicate the adventure spirit of the original series. Instead, it dares to explore a more introspective and emotional space. I've read some people saying that there are many subplots. But if you pay attention, everything that seems scattered is actually tied together by one common thread: the dissonance between who they once were, and who they begin to be when life stops giving easy answers.

I understand that not everyone wants to see their childhood characters grow up. That's valid. Sometimes we'd rather keep them frozen in time, running across the digiworld without ever facing heartbreak or existential crisis.

But Tri proposes something different.

It doesn't ask us to return to who we were, it asks us to acknowledge that we've changed. It shows that heroes can hesitate, that bonds can shift, and that searching for meaning is part of the fight too.

I find it moving that these characters have grown, that they're still evolving, each in their own way. That gives me hope. Because evolving doesn't always look like a flashy transformation. Sometimes it looks like staying, questioning, choosing not to run.

And if this stage doesn't resonate with you, that's okay too. Maybe it wasn't your moment. Or maybe your connection to Adventure lives on a different plane.

The beauty is that nothing takes away what came before or what comes after. It just gains new layers over time.

An emotional, not conventional structure

Tri doesn't talk about an external enemy. It speaks of an internal fracture.

From the very beginning, it tells us:

“Demiurge, the soulless creator... Idea, the true form of the world...”

This isn't just poetic dressing, it's the story's thesis. The Digital World was created as a system, but one that never truly understood the beings it would hold. The infection corrupting digimon isn't just a virus. It's a metaphor, a crack in the digital soul.

Tri doesn't follow the traditional "adventure-enemy-digivolution" formula. Its core conflict often comes in silences, glances, inner contradictions.

What hurts isn't always what happens. Sometimes it's the feelings too complex to name.

Taichi hasn't lost his courage, he's transformed it into responsibility.

Yamato isn't angry for drama's sake, he's frustrated because he doesn't know how to reach Taichi anymore.

Sora doesn't fade, she's depleted from holding everyone together while forgetting how to hold herself.

Joe isn't a coward, he's the first to confront doubt.

Mimi isn't shallow, she's defending her authenticity in a world that tries to mute it.

Koushiro isn't just the genius, he's a child who made logic his shield to avoid emotional collapse.

Takeru isn't just the optimist, his quiet strength is how he doesn't get pulled under by others' pain.

Hikari isn't just light, she's a channel. Her sensitivity connects her to the invisible, but it also makes her deeply vulnerable.

Meiko isn't a mistake, she's the weight of quiet guilt and undeserved blame.

Himekawa isn't a villain, she's a warning, consumed by a love that couldn't let go.

Nishijima isn't a mentor, he's a man who regrets arriving too late.

A symbolic reading of the Digital World

Tri challenges the Digital World's mythology. It introduces concepts like the Demiurge (imperfect creator) and Idea (true essence), pulling from gnostic and platonic philosophy. The infection is not just a digital bug. It's the result of a world built without understanding the emotions that would one day inhabit it.

Distortions in space, corrupted binary code (like the unexplained "2" in a system built on 0 and 1), the merging of realities, and the appearance of soulless replicas like Imperialdramon, none of it is random. It all speaks to a world collapsing from within, not due to external battles.

A quiet story of transformation

At the beginning of this story, Taichi wants to bring everyone back together, but time has passed. They've taken different paths, changed in ways that aren't always compatible. It's not about caring less. It's about learning that closeness sometimes fades without meaning to, and that trying to reclaim it isn't always simple.

A common criticism is that Taichi now hesitates and that this is regression.

Taichi's hesitation isn't fear, it's awareness. A pause. A question: can I still protect, without hurting anyone?

This isn't a contradiction, it's a continuation.

Let’s go back to Adventure:

Episode 16: SkullGreymon emerges from his recklessness

Episode 19: Sora was kidnapped because of him

Episode 45: his leadership fractures the group

Episode 48: we see him doubt and we learn the origin of his guilt, blaming himself for Hikari's near death as a child.

02 never explored that aftermath. The story shifted focus to a new cast. But Tri picks up that thread and now Taichi isn't afraid of danger, he's afraid of causing harm. That’s not cowardice, it's growth.

And in that pause, we glimpse the roots of the future Taichi, who will one day become a diplomat, working for coexistence between humans and digimon.

Yamato doesn't understand the change, and he pushes, hoping to ignite the old spark. But underneath the anger is the fear of losing a connection that once felt unbreakable.

Meanwhile, the Digital World is fracturing.

Not from outside danger, but from the blurring lines between emotion and system, past and present, role and identity.

Soulless Systems

These aren't classic "villains":

Yggdrasill is not an evil mastermind or alien invader. It's a symbolic, near-divine system that governs without empathy. Cold, logical, and utterly disconnected. It never appears because it doesn't need to. Its will is carried out through proxies like Alphamon, corrupted Gennai, and even manipulated humans. Yggdrasill represents the idea of a creator that has lost touch with its creation, a divine absence rather than a presence.

Alphamon is not an enemy. He's an executor without voice or motive. He doesn't speak, doesn't hate, doesn't choose. He deletes threats because that is his function. He is kind of a ghost in armor, a weapon with no soul, following the will of a broken god.

Homeostasis is not the "good side". It's a system that seeks balance. A bodiless, emotionless protocol whose only priority is to restore order when chaos threatens to collapse the Digital World. It doesn't act out of empathy or cruelty, it simply follows its function. It doesn't shift because it changes its mind, but because its compass is not moral, it's systemic. It speaks through vessels (like Hikari) and intervenes not with force, but by rebooting what’s broken to restore balance.

Hackmon / Jesmon is not a friend or foe. He is the system's messenger. He watches from the shadows, especially focused on Meicoomon, whom he perceives as a destabilizing anomaly. But Hackmon doesn't act on feeling. He is the voice of Homeostasis. Its blade. And when observation is no longer enough, he digivolves into Jesmon. But Jesmon is not hope, is protocol. A final measure. He doesn't come to save, he comes to execute.

When the system doesn't grasp the soul

In a world where connections become unpredictable, systems try to fix what they don't understand.

But emotions can't be repaired or deleted with code.

It's there, amidst reboots and algorithms, that the chosen children must decide whether to obey or to choose.

Meicoomon, a rift in the soul

Meicoomon isn't just an infected digimon, she contains Libra, which can't be controlled or regulated.. Her bond with Meiko is the most fragile, yet it's also honest.

Meiko, a chosen child who struggles to understand and bear her role, still chooses to stay. She remains, even when she feels she's the source of the pain, and even when her presence brings discomfort to others.

Libra, the code sealed in the soul

Libra is more than just a virus or a system error. It's an anomaly within the code, a burden sealed within Meicoomon from her origin. Imagine it as a living archive, holding the emotional record of the Digital World before its reboot: light and shadow, order and chaos.

To safeguard this data, it was encrypted inside her, unbeknownst to her and beyond her capacity to handle.

But Meicoomon was not created to carry such a burden. Her sensitivity and natural instability made her vulnerable to that information. It overwhelmed her, turning her into a contradiction of innocence and chaos.

Libra is not her fault. It's the Digital World's doing for putting such a heavy burden on a digimon who simply deserved to exist.

The Reboot: resetting isn't healing

The reboot wasn't a mere narrative whim or an attempt to "fix" the Digital World. It was an emergency measure. The infection had destabilized the system so severely that Homeostasis executed its last resort to restore balance: a complete reset.

This reboot came with an incredibly high cost: the loss of memories, of everything shared between the chosen children and their partners.

It wasn't an act of malice, but one of coldness. A systemic protocol that simply doesn't account for emotions. For Homeostasis, a bond is just another variable in the equation of balance.

Some criticize the reboot for "failing" because Meicoomon remained infected. But that's precisely the point: Libra wasn't a superficial error. It was a deep rift, inscribed in her soul. It wasn't just digital, it was existential. And that can't be erased with a reset. Systems can be rebooted, but the soul cannot.

Yet, even though the reboot failed in its ultimate goal, the most valuable outcome was this: even without memories, without data, without prior programming... the bonds found their way back. Because some connections don't depend on memory. Some encounters transcend code. When the soul recognizes another, it doesn't need reasons. It simply responds.

Tri shows us that some connections can't be explained, they can only be felt. These are the bonds that endure, even through forgetfulness and loss.

And it's within this very mystery, something that completely eludes rigid systems, that the emotional and the intangible begin.

The "canon" isn't broken, the story has layers

The absence of the 02 kids has been one of the most persistent criticisms of Tri. However, from the first episode, their disappearance is presented as a deliberate choice, not an oversight. It's not a case of forgetting or erasing them. It was about narrowing the focus. Also, a narrative void designed to generate uncertainty, and that uncertainty is a key part of the emotional tone the story aims to convey.

Alphamon defeats them off-screen, and while this bothers their fans, it also emphasizes a crucial point: this isn't their story. It's the story of the original chosen children. Of those who are drifting apart and question if they are still the same people. Himekawa deceives them, telling them everything is fine, much like the system watches them silently. This manipulation also reflects an uncomfortable truth: sometimes, we grow up believing everything remains as it was, until it no longer does.

And when Imperialdramon appears in Episode 8 “Determination - Part 4”, it does so as a shadow. Not as the return of a beloved digimon, but as an anomaly. Daisuke and Ken aren't there. There's no digivice, no connection. It's a silent replica that attacks as if the Digital World were projecting a broken memory.

Could the pain of their absence have been explored more deeply? Maybe. But Tri chooses to focus its lens. It doesn't erase or contradict, it simply pauses at a different stage: the stage of those who are present. Those who, without intending to, also somewhat disappeared from themselves.

Perhaps Tri wasn't created to please. Perhaps it was created to make us feel.

Not all errors are failures

Tri isn't perfect. There are narrative moments that could have been more polished, and even the technical aspects of the art could have been refined. Yet, as a whole, it's a work that takes risks and proposes new ideas. It shifts the focus from "what happens" to "what we feel".

And for a series built on emotion and evolution, that might be one of the most natural next steps it could take.

What Tri tells us (if we dare to listen)

Tri shows us that growing up isn't just about leaving things behind, it's about relearning who you are when everything changes.

It shows us that sometimes, bonds break without anyone being at fault.

It reminds us that you can't always save another person, but you can stay, watch, feel, and simply be there.

And above all, Tri makes us realize a powerful truth: that bonds, even if they fade, change, or cause pain, are still what makes life truly meaningful. Because to feel, to doubt, to make mistakes, and to try again with another, that is truly to evolve, and it's absolutely worth it.

Recommendations for a better viewing experience

Divide it into chapters. I know Tri was originally released as OVAs, but you might find it on platforms like Crunchyroll, which divides it into episodes. This makes it easier to digest its emotional pacing.

Watch at least these prequels beforehand: Digimon Adventure, Our War Game and Digimon Adventure 02. Not because they're strictly mandatory, but because I think Tri is in direct conversation with the memories and events of those stories.

Choose the original japanese audio with subtitles. The dubs (especially in english and spanish) often contain significant errors that distort the emotional message. The original japanese voice acting is also rich with subtle nuances.

Avoid external noise. Don't let soulless criticisms or external expectations contaminate your experience. Watch Tri with a clear mind and open heart. Let the story unfold and speak to you, at your own pace, in your own way.

If it helps, approach it as a side story. Think of Tri less as a continuation and more as an exploration of this particular stage in the original Adventure kids' lives.

And if Tri wasn't for you, that's perfectly fine. Don't worry. It doesn't ruin anything, and it doesn't change anything. You can simply choose to omit its existence, or you can enjoy the layers it adds as it leads us toward the epilogue of Adventure 02.

Thanks for reading. If Tri also stirred something within you, offered you comfort, or left you with questions... it's truly wonderful to inhabit that space with you.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Just You and Me - Jey Uso x Black OC

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

~18+ THIS FIC CONTAINS SMUT!~

Author's Note: yeah... idk where this came from... ENJOY! 💖

Warnings: TOXIC... TOXIC JEY USO

“Shit”, Hazel moaned, raking her fingernails down his back as he started placing kisses on her neck. She felt him grin into her neck as she let out a gasp, as he eased his dick into her. 

“Fuck baby.” Josh groaned in her ear as he slowly pushed deeper.  Hazel wrapped her legs around his waist tighter and arched her back, pressing her breast against his chest. Josh began to move his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm, he lifted his head and captured her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. 

Hazel moaned into the kiss, her fingers tangling in Josh’s hair as their bodies moved together. She rolled her hips to meet his thrusts, sending waves of pleasure through them both. Josh trailed his hand down her side, caressing her curves before gripping her thigh. He hitched her leg higher, changing the angle and allowing him to sink even deeper.

“Feel good baby?” He muttered, breaking the kiss and staring deep into her eyes. She nodded, biting her bottom lip as he started to hit her spot, head-on. “Tell me how good it feels” 

“F-feel so good Jey.” 

Josh chuckled and dropped his head back into her neck. “That’s my name?” He asked, slowing down his thrust. “What’s my name baby.” 

"J-Josh," she gasped, her voice trembling with need. "Josh, please don't stop." 

He rewarded her with a harder thrust that made her cry out, her head falling back against the pillow. "That's better," he whispered against her flushed skin, his breath hot and heavy.

Hazel's body was on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation as Josh moved inside her. She dragged her hands down his sweat-slicked back, feeling the muscles flex and contract with each powerful thrust.

“See how good I’m makin’ you feel.”  Hazel nodded, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as Josh put her legs over his shoulders.  “You tryna’ give all this up baby? Huh? You don’t want me to make you feel good anymore?” 

Hazel gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the new position sent him impossibly deeper. "I--I want you," Hazel gasped, her words fracturing as Josh drove deeper. The new position left her completely at his mercy, her body trembling beneath him. 

“I thought you were done with me baby?” 

“Fuck, Josh.” She panted, opening her eyes and looking at him. She felt herself clench around him as she got a good look at him. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his bottom lip was tucked between his teeth, his grillz were still in his mouth, catching the dim light whenever he smiled down at her. 

Josh took her legs from over his shoulders and forced them down on the bed, holding her open for him.  Hazel let out a loud moan as she came. Her body shuddering uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Josh didn't slow his pace, working her through her orgasm with relentless precision. Hazel's fingers clutched desperately at the sheets, her back arching off the bed as aftershocks rippled through her. 

"That's it, baby. Let go for me," he growled, his voice rough with desire. His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her exactly where he wanted her. She panted as he circled his hips in a way that made stars burst behind her eyelids and more of her essence leaked out of her, making a mess on the sheets. 

“Oou shit,” Josh groaned, “You gon cum again? Go ‘head baby. Cum for daddy.” 

"I can't—I can't again," Hazel whimpered, but her body betrayed her words as heat pooled low in her belly. Josh's rhythm never faltered, each stroke deliberate and devastating.

"Yeah you can," he insisted, one hand releasing her thigh to slide between them, his thumb finding her sensitive bundle of nerves. "I know this pussy. Know what it needs." The damn broke, Hazel let out a scream as she squirted drenching Josh and the bed. 

“Yeah,” Josh growled, “Thats what the fuck i’m talkin’ bout.” his hips stuttering as he tried to keep his orgasms at bay. “Can’t nobody make you feel like this baby. Only me.” 

“Only you,” Hazel repeated and Josh groaned, his movements becoming more erratic. The wetness between them made obscene sounds that filled the room alongside their heavy breathing.

He leaned down, his grillz glinting as he whispered against her ear. “You gon leave me?” 

Hazel felt her heart constrict at his words, even as her body continued to pulse with pleasure. Something vulnerable flashed in Josh's eyes, a rare glimpse beneath his confident exterior.

"Never," she breathed, reaching up to cup his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm yours."

That was all Josh needed to hear. He let out a loud groan as he came. Hazel let out a gasp and a moan as she felt his seed hit the back of her pussy. He captured her lips in a sensual kiss as he pumped the rest of his seed into her. 

“You love me?” Josh asked and Hazel let out a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I love you.”

Yeah... uh... Happy Sunday? 😬

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