#Kill-based movement system

[6dofreviews]

Vendetta Forever | Review

There are games that demand your time and dedication with sprawling worlds, intricate narratives, and layered mechanics; and then there’s Vendetta Forever. nDreams’ latest offering delivers a fast, focused and fiendishly fun arcade shooter that understands the value of immediacy without sacrificing depth. It’s a game that will have you saying, “just one more run,” until you realise that hours…

[fiercestpurpose]

one concept im super into is that like. being a vampire is hard. there are ways to make this easier, but those mostly involve joining a coven. so young vampires are vulnerable to being preyed on (ha!) by the coven system and locked into a society created by people older and richer and much better connected.

like. getting a job is hard bc your movement is restricted during the day. the covens have agreements in place with multiple people across multiple industries. they can help you get a job that is remote work or night shift, but you have to join the coven (agree to abide by their rules and participate in their conflicts with other covens) and also agree to give them ten percent of your earnings.

finding food (assuming you’re a moral person who doesn’t want to kill people) is hard. you can eat animals. you can attack people and feed on them without killing them, which is assault. you can try and buy donated human blood from hospitals. but guess who controls most of the black market human blood trade and doesn’t want to sell it to you at a fair price? it’s the covens! also, the covens have arrangements with people they drink from directly, so it’s not like they need the human blood, but being in control of the trade gives them a lot of power in the community.

a lot of times, your options as a vampire are: live in a beautiful, luxurious base where you get free food and accommodations, are able to get a job, have protection from hunters, and have people around that you can talk to, OR, live in poverty, isolation, and fear. covens as organized crime families where it’s really, really hard not to join one of them.

[justinsentertainmentcorner]

Amanda Marcotte at Salon (06.02.2025):

History will no doubt look upon the outcome of the Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard with the same skepticism now applied to O.J. Simpson's 1995 acquittal after charges of his killing his wife and her friend. The 2022 trial, in which Depp sued Heard for defamation after she made anonymous allusions to domestic violence in a 2018 Washington Post op-ed, was a farce — by design. Depp hired publicist Melissa Nathan, who famously bragged she could "bury anyone," to seed social media networks with misogynist rumors about Heard, who had been 25 when she started dating the 48-year-old movie star. The New York Times later reported on Nathan's alleged tactics, based on court documents from a similar campaign against actress Blake Lively. The strategy, according to the Times, is "waging a largely undetectable smear campaign in the digital era," which succeeded when "online criticism of the actress skyrocketed." The evidence in Depp v. Heard, in a sane world, should have favored Heard. His claim to damages was that Heard's op-ed led to him losing his lead role in "Pirates of the Caribbean." A Disney executive denied this on the witness stand, and Depp's longtime talent agent testified that Depp's erratic behavior was what soured his reputation on set. As Jessica Winter at the New Yorker wrote during the trial, Heard produced "a trove of text messages, witness statements, and photos of injuries — which, she says, corroborate her allegations of abuse." Depp had previously sued a British tabloid for calling him a "wife-beater," and he lost, even though British law favors plaintiffs in defamation cases to an outrageous degree. The judge described Heard's side of the story as "substantially true."

[...] As that last sentence suggests, the case ended up being tried in the court of public opinion, where the preposterous story that Depp was the real victim took hold. Instructions to the jurors to ignore the crescendo of support for Depp outside the courtroom didn't matter, leading to a $15 million judgment in his favor. It's not clear how much of the pro-Depp clamor was seeded by his hired guns, but in the end, they were pushing on an open door. As journalist Kat Tenbarge reported for NBC at the time, content creators for TikTok and YouTube found that spreading sexist rumors about Heard was like printing money. There was an immense amount of public hunger in 2022 to forget all the lessons of the #MeToo movement, and instead fall back into the comfortable belief that sexism is a myth, women just make up stories for attention, and it's accused men who are the real victims. 

This week is the third anniversary of the day that a jury favored Depp over Heard. Looking back, the whole situation can be read as a portent for the 2024 election of Donald Trump. The public outpouring of support for Depp reflected a widespread willingness to choose self-delusion over facing hard truths, especially about the dangers of male domination. For a lot of people, it's exhausting hearing about how many women are beaten, raped, killed, harassed, and otherwise oppressed. It can feel much easier to believe it's all just made up. It's simpler to believe that ours is a just system, even as men still hold the lion's share of power and money. It's comforting to imagine that men react to all their privilege with grace and gratitude, and ignore the reality where all too many abuse women because they can. Trump was selling the same message to his voters: Wouldn't it be easier to live in a fantasy where patriarchy is all kittens and rainbows? Isn't it easier to live in the lie than confront the hard truth?

[...] The far-right website Daily Wire spent an astonishing amount of money promoting anti-Heard propaganda during the trial, which confused many people at the time. The Daily Wire is a political outfit, so why would they care about celebrity gossip that doesn't seem to have any partisan value to it? But they understood that Heard v. Depp did benefit Republicans, especially Trump. The entire circus was useful for convincing people that it's okay to choose disinformation over the truth, especially when the facts make you feel bad. It all goes back to George Orwell's insight with the "two-minute hate" in "1984." Self-delusion takes practice. Defending Depp was boot camp for the real test: supporting the lie that Donald Trump would make a fine president. 

The Depp v. Heard trial ended up being a decent predictor of the increased support for Trump in 2024 among young males.

[yaut-jaknowit]

Just wanted to say thank you for writing my ask! <3 I love all your works and when I saw it I got all giddy!

It sounds like you're really busy so don't worry about about continuing! I'm happy with what's written already!! <3

A Total Smash Part 2

Pairings: Dai'stbaen (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, thigh fucking, kinda? dirty talking, P in V, knotting, creampies, hints of breeding (if you squint).

Word Count: 3904

Summary: After your front door was busted down by a bad blood, your house is far too cold to sleep in alone. Dai'stbaen and yourself are forced to share a bed to keep the other alive. The cold is killing even when you are cocooned in by blankets. Dai'stbaen takes it upon himself to make sure you survive. Close contact turns into something else.

Author Note: Alright, I hoped I redeemed myself in this part! I know you didn't ask for a second part but I had someone do It. Plus, I felt a need to finish it off. So, I busted butt and whipped this thing out for you.

Masterlist

Ao3

Part 1

The bed was familiar underneath you; offering relief after a long, hard day. In this moment of time, it didn’t give a sense of ease or content. Your spine was tense from base to head. An alien figure laid next to you, breaths barely heard in the silence of your house. Someone you had only met hours ago and now had to sleep next to for warmth. Anyway to survive the night so you could make it to tomorrow for a trip to town.

Everything felt off. The silence that engulfed the entire house since the heat had been shut off. There was no use of keeping it on. That’ll will only burn out the system and make for a pain in the ass at a later date. You used the blankets to cover yourself more as the biting cold nipped through the ones you already had on you.

Yet, as you laid there longer, the cold grew more and more. Your jaw clenched to stop it from chattering. This night was going to be terrible and long. There wasn’t a chance you could sleep this off until morning.

Movement at your side caught your attention. Before you knew it, a hot, thick arm curled around your abdomen. You froze up more, hands immediately going down to grasp the muscles. The arm tugged you from one side of the bed to the other. A yelp surged past your lips. Your back was pressed against a calming warmth that soaked into your veins. You were already starting to relax when his voice broke the silence.

“There’s no need for you to shiver yourself to death. I will not allow that to happen,” he rumbled above your head. Dai’stbaen cocooned around your much smaller form. His one arm stayed firmly around your torso. The other curled under you to follow the same path as the other.

The blankets that covered him were only three layers thick. His warmth surrounded you and fought off the cold. You scootched closer to him and notched your hips snuggly against his. To keep yourself as tightly pressed to him as possible. You wanted to steal all of his heat for your own, the cold making you bitter. Yet, his warmth was softening you up.

Dai’stbaen tensed behind you, arms locking around your torso. You acted the same, afraid you somehow did something wrong. A deep rumbled poured from his chest.

“Careful.” Short, sweet, but all the threatening. A warning. You shrunk down a little and held your breath. The alien kept his grip on you tight to stop you from moving an inch more. “Stop moving,” he grunted out. One of his hands reached for your jaw and tilted your head to the side. His bright eyes could be seen through the low light of the room.

“S-sorry.” You didn’t know if it was from the cold still nipping at you or the fear that gripped your heart. The longer you laid there, the more freezing your feet got. You tried to hold off since he warned you. But when you began to lose feeling, you pushed them against his shins.

His entire body jerked. His arms completely squishing you to his chest and left no space for even a hair. A growled pierced the air. Dai’stbaen began to move. His body leaned over you and snatched more blankets from your side of the bed. They were tossed over the two of you. You gratefully took them and positioned them more over your legs.

“Better?” His voice was deeper than normal. You hummed and nodded happily. You rubbed your feet against his warm shins and began to get feeling back in them. He grunted, legs twitching for a few times before stopping. “Oomans and their fragileness.” He rewrapped his arm back around you and kept you close as possible to him. You started to relax again.

“It’s not my fault it’s cold,” you pouted and shifted again. His abs tensed against your lower back. “I’m sorry I’m not some furnace of heat.” The dark red alien chuckled then hooked a leg over your hip.

“Oomans are fragile. Yautjas are strong.” You rolled your eyes and huffed. The Yautja chortled and flexed his muscles in his arms. “You are soft and plushy.” Your head jerked back and knocked against his throat. He made choking noise for a moment then growled. You wiggled and struggled against his hold as anger flared through you. That was the last thing you thought he would said to you. Such rudeness!

Dai’stbaen held onto you tightly and tried to rein you back in carefully. “Plushy?! Seriously, that’s what you decided to call me.” At notion of him calling you plushy, you grew agitated. He essential called you fat. 

As a last resort, Dai’stbaen wrapped a hand firmly around your throat. All of your movements stopped. Hips stilling then noticing a bulge pressing against swell of your ass cheeks. “I said… to stop moving,” he snapped, hand twitching around your feeble throat. One wrong twitch could snap your neck like a twig. He wasn’t going to do that but your constant rubbing was clouding his thoughts.

One thing you didn’t expect was to learn aliens had the same anatomy as your own species. You swallowed hard. Idiotically enough, you swirled your hips back. The bulge twitched under your administrations. Dai’stbaen grunted and curled in over you. “You…” the Yautja trailed off, letting his claws bite into the soft flesh of your throat. He knew he could kill you, harm you so easily. It wouldn’t take much to do so.

Alone for so long, you blamed the need swelling in your chest on loneness. It’s been so long since you were held like this, by someone who at least seems concerned about your wellbeing. He didn’t want you to freeze and willingly let you steel his warmth as his own.

It’s been too long.

The smell of your arousal entered the air despite all the blankets that covered your form. He groaned and only rutted his crotch against the plush of your butt. He’s never felt something so soft before. He never knew ooman’s were so soft like this. Or else he would’ve been here long ago.

“Tell me… tell me you want this,” he demanded in a firm tone. The vibrations set across your skin with goosebumps following suit. You took a sharp breath in then keened, hips rocking back against the growing bulge. Dai’stbaen snarled and pinched the sides of your neck, restricting blood flow to your brain. “Words, ooman.”

“Yes!” you choked out and felt the affects of restricted blood flow. The Yautja released his hold the moment you consented to advances.

Sharp fangs scrapped against your neck and shoulder. “C’jit, you… we can’t take the blankets off,” he muttered into your flesh. That’s when you realized he was right. The cold was stronger than ever inside of the house. You wouldn’t survive long out from underneath the blankets.

You lifted a leg and tossed it over his hip, exposing yourself to him. Dai’stbaen’s free hand reached to the crotch of your pants, palming against you. A whiny pant left your chapped, dry lips. Your hips rutted against the palm, the friction barely scratching the surface of your lust. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist and tried to guide him into your shorts.

Before you had the chance, his other limb snatches your own wrist and pins both of your arms to your chest. “Needy little thing. Gonna hurt yourself doing c’jit like that,” he scolded and firmly presses his middle fingers into your clothed slit. All of your sounds echoed back at you in the bedroom. Only causing your face to build with heat that stung against the cold.

One thing he can’t stop is the movement of your hips. Each drag of your hips on his finger rubs against your clit. It’s a faded friction but a friction, nevertheless. You tucked your chin into your chest and tried to keep any noises to a minimal.

“Dai, I need this. I can’t take the teasing. I want you,” you begged the hulk of a beast behind you. His movements faltered for only a moment. “It’s been too long. I can’t take much more. I need you.”

The Yautja cursed to himself silently. Your begging was music to his ears. These missions have been hard on him. To finally have something to relieve his stress out on. Someone so small and fragile. Dai’stbaen didn’t want to break you. He was in debt to you twice due to his honor code. He vowed to take care of you in any means possible. This was a win-win situation for him too.

“I will,” he promised and let that hand down south slip down passed your waistband. “I will. Just need to prepare your tiny body for me. Gonna be a tight fit. I’ll make it fit. Treat you so good, little ooman.” His voice hovered next to your ear, making your arms break out in more goosebumps. You shuttered and leaned back against him, head thrown back with the little space offered.

Coarse finger pads slipped between your wet folds, skimming over your engorged clit. You felt nearly the same as a Yautja female with only one clit though. One point to focus on. Dai’stbaen could do that.

He soaked his fingers in your slick before back enough so the rough finger pad of his middle digit was rubbing against you. Your arms strained against his hold. Your first reaction was to cover your mouth to prevent all these pathetic little noises to escape.

“Sh-shit,” you cursed, thigh muscles clenching. Then, you let your lifted leg fall down to trap his hand in place. “Keep doing that. Keep touching me like that.” You felt so strung up after so long without someone else to do this with.

He felt relieve and pride for doing this right without knowing how to work a ooman’s body like this. He took this knowledge and swiped up a little more slick to coat your throbbing clit. Your inner thigh muscles clamped down, hips twitching in a wild manner. In such a way, neither of you knew if it was to jerk away from the overwhelming pleasure or demand more.

The feeling in the pit of your stomach tightened. Your eyes clenched closed. “Fuck, I-I’m gonna… come,” you gasped out and felt the semi-familiar throb in your empty cunt. Your muscles clenching around nothing, desperate for something to fill you.

Teeth pinched at the crook of your neck. Not piercing the skin but enough to send the idea of being dominated straight to your brain.

White overcame your vision. You felt like you were floating the middle of space, free from your body. A scream left your throat but you couldn’t hear, only feel the vibrations. The alien growled against your back and tightened his hold around you. Your entire form twitched when you came back to it. The warmth and strength of him kept you grounded. His tongue licked up a stripe up your neck to the back of your ear. The pleasure never ending, fingers forcing you to take and take.

“C’jit, sei-i. You like that? Yeah, you do. Needy thing coming over my fingers. Gonna fuck you.” When the ringing in your ears finally disappeared, his voice could be heard growling into your ear. Some of his words, you didn’t understand. You took it as if the orgasm still ran its course through your body.

That same hand left the warmth and wetness between your legs to grasp the waistband of your pants. You didn’t have time to ask him what he’s doing. Dai’stbaen rips the cloth straight off of you. A gasp left your lips. His touch left your skin to reach between the two of you. The Yautja messed with own pants until you felt something hot and heavy touch at your lower back. It was wet and soaked into your shirt.

Dai’stbaen pulled his hips back and lined the tip at the apex of your closed thighs. Your muscles clenched at the feeling of this big, thick shaft touching your exposed skin. The head pushed forward and slid between your thighs. The top of it rubbing against your wet folds, skimming over your clit. You moaned and leaned your head back, throat exposed to him.

By the feel of him, he was large. It matched his stature.

A slickness coated him and eased the thrusts between your legs. “Pauk, this feels good, little thing. Gonna use you. Gonna pauk-de use you like the needy ooman you are. Desperate for alien cock.”

Both of his hands go to grip your hips and helped steady you. With your own free now, you reached back behind your head to dig your nails into the back of his neck. The rubbery dreads touched at your skin. You even pulled at one to see his reaction.

He snarled deep from his chest and snapped his hips harshly against yours. If it wasn’t for his hands, you would’ve been nearly flung off the side of the bed. The skin stung from the thrust, heat blooming to life.

“By Paya’s name, do that again.” Instead of clawing at his neck, you tugged on another tress. His pace quickened. The wet slapping of skin against skin could be heard even under all the blankets. All of this movement making you sweat. Drops forming across your skin. You were thankful for the heat that raced through your veins.

Your other hand glide down from your midriff to right above the apex of your thighs. Carefully, you made a circle out of your hands and found where what felt like half of him poked out from your thighs was. The head was pointed and slid through the hole you made. Each thrust, you squeezed the head in your hand.

The growls and hisses that left his throat were music to your ears. It was beauty to reduce a man of his stature to a panting, whining mess just by using your thighs. You started to rock with his motions, meeting him at the halfway point. The slapping of skin only grew louder. Your skin stinging only added to the pool growing in your belly and between your legs.

There was plenty of slick oozing from your cunt to make his ruts smooth as silk. With the hand between your legs, you helped angle him upwards to add pressure to your clit. You tugged on his tresses again at the increased pleasure. “Oh fuck,” you cursed again, toes curling on his skins. “I-I can’t believe y-you’re thigh fucking me.”

His claws dented the skin on your hips. A couple of them piercing the flesh and drawing blood. The pain was easily forgotten about. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he panted back. His jaw clenched and dug his fangs deeper into the crook of your neck. “Too big. Have to compromise.”

Underneath the blankets, it was incredibly hot. You almost wanted to rip them off so you could ride him. You didn’t care if he was too big. Who would pass up an incredible opportunity to get bulldozed by an alien of his size.

His thrusts began to grow sloppy, his growls only increasing in volume. The knot in the pit of your stomach only tightened at the thought. You pulled again on the dread and kept pulling. “I don’t care of you’re too big. I need you inside. At least the tip, please. C-can’t get the blankets dirty,” you tried to reason with him. Even if it was only the tip. Anything to feel his girth stretch you wide. Anything to come on, to squeeze around.

Another growl tumbled from his throat. “Are y-you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” Dai’stbaen had to make sure as his orgasm started to cloud his thoughts. You were ooman. Small, weak. He didn’t want to hurt or break you. He owed you his life, twice. But, he wouldn’t say he didn’t want to enter you, stretch your small cunt to fit him. Pauk, he really wanted to now.

“Yes, please!” you whined and started to guide the tip towards you soaked entrance. He slowed his thrusts to a stop and grasped the base of his cock to help. The pointed head speared between your folds. Dai’stbaen rutted forward twice, missing your pussy. Until the third time, he sunk home.

Only the head was able to fit snuggly inside of you. You shout his name. Your back arched off of his torso, hips angled down and pushed in an inch more of him.

The alien was panting, doing everything he can to stop from himself from fully sink down to the base. You squeezed him perfectly. The warmth of your pussy was like the best hunting grounds to him. He bit down harder on your neck, not regretting when he heard your whine.

It felt like he was stretching you to the limit. This was exactly what you needed. It’s been far too long since you had someone to do this with. He was hitting the right spot inside of you, making stars appear in your vision.

Your fingers instantly started to swirl around your throbbing nub. Careless mewls poured from your lips like a waterfall. You didn’t care if he heard them anymore.

Pleasure soaked in every corner of your body. You couldn’t even think at this point. Once he was inside and rubbing firmly against your g-spot, that’s when it was all over for you.

Dai’stbaen started to shallowly thrust, trying to be mindful of not to push too far in. Every rut, everything second passing, he was slowly losing his ability to think. He wanted nothing more to pin you down and fully thrust into you. You could take it. Pauk, he was trying so hard.

“Go-gonna come again!” you warned and kept your hips angle. You worked with him and returned to meeting his thrusts. Everyone, it felt like he was going just a centimeter deeper, reaching for your cervix. You were desperate to make that happen.

He felt the way your muscles throbbed hard around him, signaling your end. An end that will trigger him. The Yautja pulled his mouth back enough to rest his closed mandibles in the same spot. He didn’t want to take a chunk out of you if he could help it.

“Yeah? Pauk-di do it. Squeeze my cock needy thing. Needing a cock to come on.” It’s not like he was in a better headspace either. He tensed his jaw, eyes closing to focus solely on you. “Come on. Come all over my pauk-di cock!”

The vibrations his demand sent down your spine had you crying out. Your hips jerked harshly back and forced half of his cock inside of you. Dai’stbaen sputtered as his first instinct was to thrust all the way forward. The knot at the base of his cock barely popped in and formed just on the inside of your muscles. You cried out beautifully and arched against him. He held onto you tightly and curled around you.

His warm seed filled you, making a mess inside of you. You whined and panted; eyes closed as you weakly rested on the bed. Your energy was long lost. Your entire body was buzzing with dopamine.

Dai’stbaen held onto a thread of his sanity. He’s never felt such a vice grip around him, such warmth that welcomed him in. You’ve ruined him for anyone else. How else was he supposed to back to the mothership when he knows this? He knew his claws were hurting you but your lax body was a sign you didn’t even feel it.

The alien groaned into the crook of your neck and released his bruising grip on your hips. He lets one arm drape over your torso. The other stretches out on the bed.

Your walls kept pulsing around his sensitive knot and causing him to jerk. Each move made him move his hips closer, seemingly pushing the ball of flesh more into you.

When you finally settled, the Yautja followed suit. His were closed, basking in the aftermath of a universe rocking orgasm. Pauk, he might just take you with him. He’ll do anything to keep you at his side. Maybe… even have you carry his pups. C’jit, he shouldn’t think that while still inside of him.

Once the rush began to fade and letting you finally feel the situation you were in, you whimpered at the singing pain between you legs. Your hands weakly grasped at the sheets in front of you and attempted to pull yourself away from him. A snarling, threatening growl left his throat. Both arms encircling your torso and keeping you pressed to him. Trapped.

“Stay.” A dark tone to carry out the words.

Yet, with the pain evident between your legs, you couldn’t help but to move. Squirming only made it worse, seemingly pulling something too big lodged inside of you.

“Hurts,” you whined and accidently clenched around the shaft stuck deep inside of you. The Yautja groaned and dragged his claws against your side.

He used his mandibles to pinch the crook of your neck. Your body reacted by stilling under the instinct of his dominance. “I know. I’m sorry. Don’t move. It makes it worse.” Dai’stbaen let go of your neck to lick at the sweat dripping down your skin in a caring manner. “I have a knot. I didn’t mean to… knot you, little one. Just don’t move. It’ll go down on its own.”

Your eyes snapped open. The room was still dim; the only light coming from the snow outside. Did he just sat knot? Like… a dog? You shuttered but did as what you were told.

As time passed, the stinging lessened. Your body growing used to the stretch and accommodating it. Soon enough, it started to feel good, completely pressed against your g-spot like that. You stayed skill though and let the flesh decrease in size. Until it was small enough for it pop out of your abused hole. You clenched your thighs together to prevent any of it dripping down onto the bed and ruining your sheets.

He nuzzled against your shoulder and gave you mock kisses. One of his hands petted down your side. “Did so well, little ooman. Keep it inside like that,” he muttered into your skin. The alien moved around as if he searching for something. His hand grasped an item under the blankets and pushed it between your legs. It was your ripped off shorts. He used them to help trap his seed inside of you and clean the mess up a little.

“Hm, perfect.” His softening cock seemed to disappeared from between the two of your bodies. In you hazed state, you couldn’t care less about it and stayed on your side. The heat the two of you produce was enough to make you continuously sweat under the blankets. But, you refused to take anything off. Just encase the night grows colder.

Pain was evident in your sore body. You turned your head and pressed a chaste kiss against mandible. Dai’stbaen paused in shock before deeply purring and gathering you in his arms for the night. Nothing would or could get to you.

[coralearei]

Yandere MBTI: Mydei

Notes:

Based on the Yan!MBTI system made by @/ddarker-dreams

MDNI -- NSFW mentioned (nothing too explicit)

Word Count: 1,032

GN! Reader

Cruel - Aware - Honest - Lenient

Cruel vs. Reverent

Mydei’s cruelty sometimes comes in the form of verbal threats candidly describing what he has planned for you if you don’t acquiesce to his demands. These menacing remarks are clear, concise, and typically quite graphic— often he’ll threaten to fracture your ribs in the composed, casual manner he uses to comment on anything else. Many times, these threats will also accompany a smirk that doesn’t try to hide his exhilaration at the thought of pushing your limits.

That isn’t to say that he isn’t all bark and no bite… Mydei tends to enact physical affliction unexpectedly, without any sort of warning. He revels in your startled movements as he wills scarlet crystals to poke their keen vertices out of the ground, watching you skittishly flinch away just for another to take shape barely centimeters in front of you. He doesn’t particularly like letting the crystals impale you— a jolt or so is reasonable—  but Mydei prefers to do anything more severe with his own two hands. His touch isn’t much worse; his gauntlets feel just as solid against your skin as the crystallized blood you’re subject to on a regular basis.

Unlike the jagged gems, however, Mydei himself is far more rough with you, sadistically poking and prodding your pleading, shaking body. You can’t do much more than beg him to have mercy, to stop, and promise that you won’t make the same mistake twice. Whether or not you learn from situations like this doesn’t matter— whenever Mydei puts his hands on you, it’s not only punishment— you become a rather fine source of entertainment.

Aware vs. Delusional

Mydei doesn’t pay much attention to your own love for him— that isn’t what he wants out of you in this relationship. He also happens to be someone who harbors feelings of hatred deep within himself, and he can’t blame you for doing the same. Nevertheless, Mydei will tear down any sort of defiance on the surface level that you direct at him— that sort of behavior can be quite inconvenient and untoward to deal with. What really matters to him is your ability to follow orders and your willingness to obey.

Not unlike a lot of other people, you’re quite terrified of Mydei. This is something he not only knows, but uses against you. But he doesn’t only rely on intimidation, he’s also prone to enjoying the threats he gives you in order to force you to submit. You always do. That’s Mydei’s favorite part of your personality, or so he claims. The way you never defy him in the end might make him less of a lover and more of a predator— which he indifferently accepts. Mydei is all but used to hatred and strife anyways.

Manipulative vs. Honest

Mydei approaches you head-on, with no hesitation whatsoever. When you first catch his eye, he decides you'll be a pretty thing to keep around-- and he wants to have you. Your willingness to cooperate with Mydei is won over as a result of his adroitness, which you know better as his ability to humiliate you. He isn’t afraid to threaten you in public, and when he does, you never turn down his demands in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. When Mydei does win you over, he makes sure to treat you accordingly, like the good little trophy you ought to be.

Regardless of the torment his behavior causes you, Mydei isn’t guilty in the slightest about what he does to you. Verbally, he isn’t quite upfront with you about it, but Mydei’s actions speak louder than his words. He was born to rule a city-state that glorified battle and bloodshed, which is what led him to brutally murder the former king of Castrum Kremnos. Mydei doesn’t justify the way he treats you, unlike the case in which he killed his father— but he doesn’t need a reason to. His hands have already been stained with so much blood, both literal and figurative, so what’s one more instance of the suffering of another that he causes?

Ultimately, Mydei feels utterly indifferent towards your happiness, though he does tend to take a great amount of pride when your suffering is caused by his own hands. When he’s done with you, he’ll admires the wounds and welts that decorate your pretty skin, knowing that your every imperfection is the product of his handiwork.

Strict vs. Lenient

Though Mydei gives you some semblance of freedom while he’s away, you know that there’s so much more on the line if you do anything that might ignite the spark of his fury’s flames. And although Mydei is easily annoyed, there isn’t a lot you can do to truly anger him.

For the most part, he doesn’t have a problem with leaving you to your own devices. You aren’t plucked apart from your own life when Mydei decides he’s going to make you his; he inconveniently inserts himself into yours instead. In the early stages of your abruptly-begun ‘relationship’ with him, he’s around you as much as possible, which is quite often for someone who spends so much time on the battlefield. Even so, in many cases you don’t exactly see Mydei, but he’s sure to constantly make his presence known. It’s almost like you can almost feel him near you, though you can’t quite place exactly where.

Soon enough, he has to go to war again. You almost feel a sense of relief knowing that you really all alone now— assuming you are, of course. However, it’s not as if you’re completely let off the hook during Mydei’s campaigns, which can span up to several months at a time. He’ll find time to visit you more than a few times, much to your disappointed surprise. Mydei’s sporadic visits do not only serve as a method to keep you in check. They’re also for his benefit; brashly fucking you helps him release some of his pent-up anger. If you happen to be out and about when Mydei returns, he’ll find you regardless— you’re never able to get far. And when he does find you and return to his residence with you in tow, you always know to expect much worse.

[heron-knight]

so it’s generally agreed that every type of mech pilot has some sort of system in their interface that chemically rewards them whenever they kill the target and/or fills them with enough combat stims per second to kill a medium to large sized horse

Basically, all of us are united by the sacred wisdom of “emptying a magazine into a hostile point blank is the equivalent of using a Hitachi wand on max settings”

The question is, what about lower-budget mechs like those used by resistance movements? Those factions generally can’t afford the same brain-computer interface tech a lot of the time

Anyway, give me a mech engineer who used to work for the corporations before joining the resistance and is now trying to apply the mech design principles that were taught to them assuming they’ve got a corporate level of design budget, but now all they’ve got is whatever’s lying around on the base and interface tech that can barely handle an old-style noninvasive headset, let alone a real reward-feedback system— and as such they are forced to improvise to make sure the pilot is properly motivated by duct taping the contents of the shoebox under the captains bed onto the pilot’s seat and wiring it up to the trigger of the primary weapon

You see my vision here

(Bonus points if they’re doing this because the pilot also used to work for the corporation and piloting feels empty without the automatic rewards)

[reveryfics]

Half A Man

Bob Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Despite the inhumanity inflicted upon you, you discover someone who inspires you to embrace the humanity that still resides within.

A/N: I was down in the bowls of hell writing this, so enjoy over 4.7k words of angst with comfort. I don't see a lot of Bob being the one to comfort, so I had fun doing that for this. As promised the fic that tied with Bucky.

TW: Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Super soldier reader

You remember the cold. Always the cold. Not just the sterile chill of the laboratory, but the deeper, bone-aching cold of knowing you weren't human anymore. They stripped you down, piece by piece, until all that was left was a weapon. The super-soldier program, they called it. You remember the burning, too, as the serums coursed through your veins, rewriting your very DNA. Muscle grew taut and dense, senses sharpened to a painful degree, and your mind… it became a labyrinth of tactical data, a machine for death.

The imagery of your past is stark. Steel walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the glint of instruments. The faces of your handlers, always expressionless, clinical. They taught you to kill with precision, to dismantle threats without hesitation, to be a ghost in the shadows and a thunderclap in a fight. You were the culmination of their dark desires, a living embodiment of war. Every mission was a blur of violence and adrenaline, leaving you with a hollow ache where your heart used to be. You were a walking, breathing paradox: immensely powerful, yet utterly empty.

Now, the world you inhabit is different, though no less dangerous. You’re a Thunderbolt. The name itself is a contradiction – a team of former villains and morally ambiguous operatives, now tasked with doing the dirty work the established heroes won't touch. Your uniform is dark, practical, designed for efficiency, much like yourself. The base, a repurposed facility, still hums with a familiar undercurrent of power and purpose, but there’s a flicker of something new here: a sense of… team. Or at least, something that resembles it.

You’re in the briefing room, the holographic display showing schematics of a target compound. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and a faint metallic tang from the tech. Your teammates are a motley crew – then there's Bob.

Bob Reynolds. The Sentry. When you first met him, the sheer intensity of his presence was almost overwhelming. Golden light seemed to emanate from him, a stark contrast to the shadows you’d always inhabited. He’s all warmth and quiet strength, a gentle giant in a world that often feels too harsh. His eyes, a startling blue, hold a depth you find yourself drawn to, a kindness that you’ve long forgotten existed.

He catches your gaze across the table, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Your enhanced senses pick up on the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when your eyes meet. There’s a silent understanding between you, a shared burden of immense power and the weight of past choices.

Later, after the mission debrief, you find him in the training room, a place you often seek solace in the rhythm of combat drills. He’s lifting weights, effortlessly, his muscles coiling under his skin. The air hums with the soft thud of the weights and the low, steady hum of the ventilation system. You watch him for a moment, the fluid grace of his movements, the quiet concentration on his face.

He notices you, of course. His enhanced senses are as keen as yours. He sets the weights down with a soft clang and turns, a genuine smile now illuminating his features. “Rough day?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a surprising tremor through you.

You shrug, the movement stiff. “Just… the usual.” You’re not good with words, never have been. They were deemed unnecessary for your purpose.

He walks towards you, his presence filling the space with a comforting warmth. He stops a few feet away, his gaze steady on yours. "You know," he says, his voice softer now, "you don't have to carry it all alone."

You look away, towards the scarred punching bag in the corner. The super-soldier program had taught you self-sufficiency to an extreme degree. Reliance was weakness. But with Bob, it feels different. It feels… possible.

He reaches out, and for a split second, you brace yourself, a lifetime of programmed defenses flaring. But his touch is gentle, his fingers brushing against your arm, a feather-light contact that still sends a jolt through you. “You’re more than what they made you,” he says, his voice a quiet affirmation. "You’re a good man."

You feel a flicker, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the training room’s temperature. It's a fragile, unfamiliar sensation, like a seed sprouting in barren ground. He sees it, you know he does, in the subtle shift of your gaze, the slight relaxing of your jaw.

Being a Thunderbolt means facing shadows, both external and internal. But with Bob by your side, a golden light in your perpetually gray world, you begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance to build something new from the wreckage of your past. You’re still a weapon, yes, forged in fire and ice, but perhaps, with him, you’re also starting to become something else. Something… whole.

You stand there, a silence stretching between you, broken only by the distant hum of the facility. His hand remains on your arm, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts. For so long, touch had been associated with pain, with forced transformation, with the brutal realities of your existence. But this, with Bob, is different. It’s gentle, affirming, a conduit for something you can’t quite name but desperately crave.

"It's... a lot," you finally manage to say, your voice rougher than you intended. You’re not used to speaking about what's inside, about the quiet desperation that often gnaws at you. The program had trained you to compartmentalize, to bury emotion deep beneath layers of tactical data and combat protocols.

Bob’s thumb gently brushes your bicep, a small, comforting gesture. "I know," he replies, his voice soft, understanding. "Believe me, I know. It's a heavy burden, the things we've done, the things we are." He pauses, his gaze unwavering. "But it doesn't have to define you. Not completely."

You look into his eyes, those startling blue depths that seem to see right through your hardened exterior. There’s no pity there, no judgment, just a profound empathy that resonates with something buried deep within you. It's a reflection of his own struggles, you realize, the weight of his power, the constant fight to keep the Void at bay. He understands the struggle to be more than just a force of nature, more than just a weapon.

The days that follow fall into a rhythm, a fragile balance of duty and quiet moments with Bob. You find yourself drawn to him, gravitating towards his presence. During briefings, you unconsciously seek him out. On missions, his golden aura is a beacon in the darkest environments, a silent promise of support. You notice the small things: the way he hums softly when he’s deep in thought, the genuine laugh that escapes him when someone tells a particularly bad joke, the quiet strength in his hands.

One evening, you're both in the communal lounge, a surprisingly comfortable space with worn couches and a large screen flickering with some old movie. Most of the other Thunderbolts are either out on assignment or holed up in their rooms. You’re sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, a comfortable silence between you, punctuated only by the movie’s dialogue.

Suddenly, a nightmare flashes across your mind’s eye – a memory from the program, a mission gone wrong, the screams of innocents you couldn't save. Your breath hitches, and your hands clench into fists, your enhanced senses suddenly overwhelmed by phantom sounds and smells. You feel the familiar cold dread creeping in, threatening to consume you.

Before you can fully withdraw, before you can build your walls back up, you feel a presence beside you. Bob. He’s moved silently, his movements as graceful as a dancer’s. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. He simply sits closer, his warmth a subtle anchor. Then, gently, he places his hand over yours, his fingers intertwining with your clenched ones.

The simple touch is a lifeline. The cold recedes, replaced by the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against your own. You relax, slowly, the tension draining from your body. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps watching the movie, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. It’s a silent acknowledgment, a profound act of comfort that speaks volumes more than any words ever could.

You realize, in that moment, that this feeling, this fragile connection, is something new, something precious. It’s not about power or control, not about missions or protocols. It’s about being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a very long time. It’s about a flicker of hope in the vast emptiness they created within you.

You’re still a super-soldier, still a killer when the mission demands it. The scars, both visible and invisible, will always be a part of you. But with Bob, you’re beginning to understand that those scars don't have to be the entire story. Perhaps, with him, you can learn to build something new, something that resembles a life beyond the program, a life where you're not just half a man, but something… more.

The moments of shared silence, the gentle touches, the unspoken understanding – they carve out a fragile sanctuary in the brutal reality of your life. With Bob, you feel something akin to peace, a foreign sensation that settles in your chest like a warm, heavy stone. He sees you, not just the weapon, not just the product of their experiments. He sees the remnants of the man you were, and the man you could still be.

But the past is a phantom limb, always aching, always threatening to pull you back into its grasp. You try to push it down, to bury it under the weight of new experiences, of Bob’s comforting presence. But sometimes, in the dead of night, or in the sudden stillness after a particularly violent mission, the walls begin to crack.

You're in your quarters, the lights dimmed, the hum of the ventilation system a low thrum. You’ve just returned from a skirmish that pushed your limits, a brutal dance of instinct and honed reflexes. The scent of ozone and something metallic, unmistakably blood, still clings to your uniform. You strip it off, letting it drop to the floor, and step into the sonic shower, the vibrating jets a dull attempt to scour away the residue of violence.

But the shower doesn't reach deep enough. Your mind is still running, replaying every movement, every kill. The program had instilled a chilling efficiency in you, a detachment that allowed you to operate without remorse. You were a switch, flipped from 'human' to 'killer' with cold precision. Now, with Bob’s influence, that switch feels less definitive. It sometimes flickers.

You see a flash of a face, the eyes of an opponent as they registered their impending demise. A face that, in another life, might have been a civilian, a harmless individual. The imagery is sharp, almost photographic. You close your eyes, pressing your palms against the cool, slick tiles of the shower, willing the images away.

A cold dread begins to creep in, a familiar tightness in your chest. It’s the feeling of the old self, the programmed killer, trying to reassert its dominance. It’s the chilling echo of the doctors’ voices, their dispassionate instructions, the way they stripped away your humanity with every injection, every training session. You can almost hear their whispers, telling you that this is who you are, that the warmth you feel with Bob is a weakness, a dangerous distraction.

You exit the shower, not bothering to dry off, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Your body is still humming with residual adrenaline, but it's a hollow energy, without purpose. You clench your fists, your knuckles white. This is the struggle. The constant battle against the ingrained programming, the part of you that still believes violence is the only language you truly understand.

A soft knock at your door breaks through the oppressive silence. You don't respond, a primal urge to be alone, to retreat into your shell, taking over. But the knock comes again, gentle but persistent.

"You okay?" Bob’s voice, a warm balm, cuts through the static in your mind. "Heard you came back a little… quiet."

You hesitate, caught between the instinct to push him away and the desperate need for his steady presence. The cold, logical part of your brain tells you to keep him at a distance, to protect him from the darkness within you. But the burgeoning, fragile humanity whispers a different truth.

You rise and open the door, just a crack. Bob stands there, a worn t-shirt clinging to his frame, his hair a little mussed. His blue eyes, usually so bright, are soft with concern. He takes in your wet hair, your clenched hands, the tightness around your eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice low, stepping closer without pushing, respecting the unspoken barrier you've created. He doesn't touch you, just stands there, radiating a comforting warmth. "Bad one?"

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of it, the feeling of the old self almost overpowering the new. You feel like a frayed rope, one strand pulling towards light, the other towards the darkness they forced upon you.

He sighs, a soft sound, and then, his gaze unwavering, he steps fully into your room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't invade your space, but he is there, a silent anchor. “The past has a way of clinging, doesn't it?” he says, his voice resonating with an understanding born of his own battles with the Void. “It tries to tell you who you are. But it’s a liar.”

He walks over to your bed and sits down, patting the space beside him. You hesitate, then slowly, you join him. The contact is minimal, your shoulders almost touching, but it’s enough. His presence is a shield against the creeping cold.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can see it. That’s what matters. That you’re fighting to be more than what they made you.”

You finally turn to him, your gaze searching his. "What if I can't?" The words are a raw whisper, exposing a fear you’ve never dared voice. "What if… what if I’m always going to be just a killer?"

Bob finally turns to you, his blue eyes intense, filled with a conviction that silences the whispers of your past. He reaches out, and this time, you don't flinch as his hand covers yours, warm and strong. "Then we fight it together," he says, his voice firm, unwavering. "You're not alone in this, not anymore. I know what it's like to have a monster inside. But I also know what it's like to have someone pull you back from the edge." He squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours. "And I'm not letting go."

And in that moment, even with the lingering echoes of your programmed past, with the chilling awareness of how easily you could slip, you believe him. You believe that maybe, just maybe, with Bob, you might finally find a way to silence the whispers and truly become your own man. The fight is far from over, but for the first time in a long time, you feel a genuine, fragile spark of hope.

The offer to fight it together hangs in the air, a silent promise. Bob's grip on your hand is firm, unwavering, a tangible connection to a present that feels both real and fragile. You find yourself nodding, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it speaks volumes. It's an acceptance, a surrender to a trust you never thought you'd be capable of.

The next few weeks become a delicate dance between your programmed instincts and the burgeoning hope Bob represents. During missions, the old efficiency is still there. You move with deadly precision, a silent whirlwind of controlled violence. You see the shock in your opponents' eyes, the fear, and a part of you, the part they built, feels a grim satisfaction. But now, it’s always tempered. A quick glance at Bob, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, pulls you back from the brink of total detachment. His golden aura is a constant, subtle reminder of the warmth that awaits, the humanity you're fighting to reclaim.

Back at the base, your interactions with Bob deepen. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not just in the training room, but in the quiet corners of the facility. You learn about his life before the Sentry, the anxieties he carries, the profound loneliness he sometimes experiences. He talks about himself, a bittersweet memory that haunts him, and you listen, truly listen, for the first time in your life. You realize that your shared burden of immense power and past trauma creates a bond that transcends words.

One evening, you find yourselves in the observation deck, looking out over the sprawling city lights below. The artificial glow is a stark contrast to the starlit skies you remember from your youth, before the labs, before the program. You’re silent for a long time, the quiet comfortable rather than oppressive.

"Sometimes," you begin, the words surprisingly easy to form, "I can still feel the cold. Not just the physical cold, but the… emptiness. Like they hollowed me out." You’re speaking of the emotional desolation that was a constant companion for so long.

Bob turns to you, his profile illuminated by the city lights. "I know that feeling," he says softly. "The Void, it tries to do the same to me. To convince me there's nothing left but power and destruction." He pauses, then adds, "But there's always something left. Even a flicker can become a flame."

He reaches out, his hand gently finding yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, and you notice the small scars on his knuckles, remnants of his own battles. His touch is grounding, real, a stark contrast to the phantom cold that sometimes grips you.

Despite the growing warmth, the slips still happen. They come unbidden, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. A loud noise might trigger a combat response, your body moving before your mind can process, a phantom enemy materializing in your peripheral vision. Or sometimes, it’s a moment of weakness, a wave of despair that threatens to drown the fragile hope you’re nurturing.

One particularly grueling mission leaves you more drained than usual. The enemy had been relentless, forcing you to operate on pure instinct, pushing you closer to the brutal efficiency you were trained for. You return to your quarters, the familiar scent of your own blood, mixed with dust and cordite, clinging to you. You feel raw, exposed, the veneer of control dangerously thin.

You’re trying to clean your combat knives, the methodical action usually calming. But tonight, your hands tremble. You see flashes of the fight, the precise cuts, the brutal efficiency. The faces of your opponents, briefly glimpsed in the chaos, flicker in your mind. The whispers start again, the old programming asserting itself, telling you that this is your true nature, that Bob’s kindness is a fantasy.

You grip the knife so tightly your knuckles ache. A deep, primal urge to hurt, to lash out, to destroy, bubbles to the surface. It’s not directed at anyone in particular, just a raw, unfocused aggression, a desperate need to silence the screams in your head. You feel yourself slipping, the warmth of Bob’s presence fading, replaced by the chilling embrace of the killer they created.

Suddenly, the knife clatters to the floor. You hadn't meant to drop it, but your hand had frozen. You look down, your eyes wide, your breathing shallow. The familiar cold, the emptiness, is back with a vengeance.

A soft knock at the door, and then, before you can respond, it opens. Bob stands there, his expression instantly shifting from relaxed to concerned. He sees the fallen knife, your hunched posture, the tension radiating from you.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't rush. He simply walks towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. He kneels in front of you, his gaze level with yours. "Hey," he says, his voice low, gentle, cutting through the chaotic thoughts in your mind. "You're slipping, aren't you?"

You can't meet his eyes, ashamed of the monster stirring within you. You feel a tremor run through your body, a mix of fear and the lingering aggression.

He reaches out, his hand finding yours, pulling it into his. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and strong, a lifeline in the icy grip of your past. "Look at me," he urges, his voice soft but firm.

Reluctantly, you raise your gaze to his. His eyes, those astonishing blue eyes, are filled with understanding, not fear. He sees the struggle, the darkness, and he doesn't flinch.

"You're not that, not anymore," he says, his voice a quiet, unwavering affirmation. "You're fighting it. And I'm here. We're here. Together." He squeezes your hand, a tangible anchor. "Just breathe. Focus on this. Focus on us."

And as you look into his eyes, truly look, the cold recedes, slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore. The whispers quiet. The phantom aggression lessens its grip. You’re still reeling, still vulnerable, but the darkness that threatened to consume you has been pushed back, even if just for now. With Bob, you realize, you don't have to fight the slippage alone. He's there, a constant, steady light, pulling you back from the edge, reminding you of the man you are desperately trying to become.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, Bob’s hand a warm, anchoring presence on yours. His blue eyes, deep with understanding, never leave your face. The internal storm, though not entirely quelled, has receded, pulled back by his steady gaze and unwavering belief. The whispers of the past, though still a faint echo, no longer roar in your ears.

"You're not alone in this," he repeats, his voice a soft, firm declaration that resonates deep within you. It’s a simple statement, yet it carries the weight of a world. For so long, loneliness had been your only companion, a silent testament to the monstrosity you believed you were. But Bob, with his own shared burdens and radiant strength, shatters that solitude.

You find yourself leaning into him, unconsciously at first. It's a subtle shift, a magnetic pull towards his warmth, his light. Your head tilts, drawn by an invisible force, a desperate need for connection. You don’t consciously register the movement, your focus entirely on the silent battle within and the anchor he provides.

At the same time, Bob leans in too. His gaze flickers to your lips, a silent question in his eyes. There’s no rush, no sudden movement, just a slow, almost imperceptible closing of the distance between you. He mirrors your vulnerability, meeting you in that fragile space between past and present.

Then, your lips meet.

It's not a sudden, passionate embrace, but a soft, hesitant brush of skin. A breath held, then slowly released. It’s a kiss imbued with the weight of forgotten emotions, a gentle press that speaks of shared burdens, unspoken traumas, and a nascent, fragile hope. You taste the faint saltiness of your own skin, the warmth of his breath.

A jolt, not of pain or fear, but of something profoundly new, runs through you. It's a spark that ignites a warmth in your chest, spreading outwards, chasing away the lingering cold that has been your constant companion for so long. For a fleeting moment, the roar of the super-soldier program, the screams of the past, the chilling efficiency they forged, all fade into nothingness.

In that soft, tentative connection, you feel a flood of emotions you thought long dead. Tenderness, a feeling so alien, so startling, that it brings a tremor to your lips. Vulnerability, a quiet aching that isn't weakness but a profound openness you've never known. And beneath it all, a sliver of hope, so fragile it almost breaks you. Hope for something more than just survival, more than just being a weapon. Hope for a future where humanity, however sparse it may feel in this moment, can finally take root.

When your lips finally part, it's slow, a lingering warmth in the air between you. You open your eyes, blinking, the room suddenly clearer, brighter. Bob’s face is close, his blue eyes soft, almost luminous. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds a depth of understanding that speaks volumes. In that shared silence, with the echoes of a tentative kiss still on your lips, you feel a profound shift.

You and Bob remain close, your breaths mingling in the quiet air of your quarters. The lingering warmth of the kiss hums between you, a silent symphony of forgotten desires and newfound connection. He doesn't pull away, nor do you. It's a shared moment of vulnerability, a tender acknowledgment of something profound blooming in the wreckage of your pasts.

His thumb gently brushes your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, still soft and luminous, search yours, not for answers, but for reassurance. He sees the tremor in your hands, the lingering shadow of the darkness you just fought back, and his gaze holds only understanding.

"Are you... alright?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It's a simple question, but it carries the weight of everything you've just experienced.

You take a shaky breath, the air in your lungs feeling lighter than it has in years. The cold recedes further, replaced by the unexpected warmth that now blooms in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the word "alright" feels within reach.

"Yeah," you manage, your voice a little hoarse, "Yeah, Bob. I think so."

He offers a small, relieved smile, a genuine curve of his lips that radiates warmth. His hand moves from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers gently threading into your damp hair. He pulls you closer, not with force, but with a quiet, irresistible pull.

This time, the kiss is less hesitant, more a continuation of the unspoken conversation that just transpired. It’s still soft, still tender, but there’s a deeper current of trust and longing running through it. You respond without conscious thought, your body moving instinctually towards his warmth, towards this unexpected source of comfort and acceptance.

In the gentle press of his lips, you feel the walls you’ve meticulously built around your heart begin to crumble, not in a destructive collapse, but in a slow, almost imperceptible softening. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For so long, you were a fortress, impenetrable and alone. Now, with Bob, you are learning that true strength might lie not in your ability to withstand every blow, but in your capacity to allow someone in.

When the kiss breaks, you rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed. The silence that settles between you is different now – no longer the heavy silence of isolation, but a comfortable, intimate quiet, filled with the unspoken promises of a nascent connection. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your chest, a grounding pulse in the chaotic aftermath of your inner battle.

You open your eyes, and his blue gaze meets yours. There’s a profound sense of peace in his eyes, a shared understanding that transcends words. He doesn't press you, doesn't demand explanations. He simply is there, a beacon of light in your perpetually shadowed world.

This moment, this fragile intimacy, marks a turning point. It's not a sudden cure for the deep-seated trauma of your past, but it's a powerful affirmation of your choice. In that hesitant kiss, in Bob’s unwavering presence, you chose your humanity, however bruised and scarce it might feel. And with him, you know that the fight to hold onto it, to nurture it, has just truly begun. The fight is far from over, but in that moment, you made a choice. You chose the warmth, the connection, the fragile seed of humanity. You chose Bob.

[opbackgrounds]

The Romanticism of One Piece IV: Revolution

AO3 Part I Part III

“The difference between treason and patriotism is only a matter of dates.” ― Alexandre Dumas

When it comes to the idea of freedom in One Piece, there are two related yet separate tracts the manga takes. Both are worth looking into, and both have parallels within the broader Romantic movement. The first of these is the idea of personal freedom as exemplified by pirates. The other is the pursuit of systematic freedom by Dragon and the Revolutionary Army. Robin explains the difference between the two in the post-Enies Lobby arc. By raising the flag, pirates label themselves criminals as they go out to sea, but unless they’re the Straw Hats they don’t usually go around picking fights with the World Government. The goal of the Revolutionary Army, on the other hand, is to overthrow the Celestial Dragons, which would in essence end the World Government as it currently exists. 

I’ve seen criticisms thrown at the series that One Piece doesn’t go far enough in its revolutionary politics in that it’s not explicitly anti-monarchy. There are good kings and bad, and whether or not an island is a good place to live or not seems based more on the actions of individual people than the system overall. There are even strange cases like Iceburg who as mayor is in an elected position, but who also holds ridiculous power over the entire island’s economy after turning its biggest industry into a monopoly under his control. In the real world that would be a horrific amount of power for one person to hold, but because Iceburg himself is a good man, it doesn’t matter. 

While this train of thought is worth exploring, I think that many of these arguments miss the forest for the trees. One Piece is not a story told from the Revolutionary’s point of view. It’s a pirate manga that elevates any individual brave enough to dream. It’s through this lens that paragons of virtue like Iceburg are allowed to exist without being hashtag problematic. The Revolutionaries themselves sidestep much of the messiness that tends to follow real-world uprisings by having them portrayed as principled and virtuous to a fault. In chapter 1058 Dragon promises harsh disciplinary action against Sabo if it’s found that he killed King Cobra, when as an allied nation of the World Government, the king of Alabasta should technically be their enemy. 

This lionizing of individuals and specific institutions goes back to Mirriam-Webster’s 4a definition of romanticism, and as a children’s manga whose primary themes aren’t centered around systemic revolution, this simplicity is perfectly fine, although I personally think it would be more interesting if the Revolutionary Army was portrayed as more morally gray within the series. Despite this, there are also deliberate links between the Revolutionary Army and the historical Romantic movement. 

It starts at the very foundation of their concept and character design. Many of the highest ranking Revolutionary commanders have a European steampunk look to them, while Mariejois seems based on the Palace of Versailles. Oda would not have paired a shirtless man in a black feathered coat with a cravat had he not wanted to tap in at least a little into the design language of European historical fashion, and by extension, the French Revolution. This is best seen in the design of Belo Betty, who seems to be explicitly based on Eugune Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, a French Romantic painting depicting a personified Liberty leading Frenchmen from all walks of life as they strive to overthrow the despotic King Charles X in the July Revolution of 1830.

The term French Revolution is itself wonderfully imprecise, as France has endured several revolutions, uprisings, and revolts. One does not go through two empires and four republics without a history of civil unrest, and to this day one of France’s favorite pastimes is protesting against the government about things they don't like. But for many scholars, the first of these Revolutions in 1789 was one of the major sparks of the Romantic movement, drawing sympathy from and giving inspiration to writers and poets throughout Europe. The Revolution itself was brought on by many factors, including writings of late Enlightenment/early Romantic writer Jean Jacques Rousseau, whose work The Social Contract pushed for for a free populous living under elected governments.

It seemed that all of Europe would follow suit. Portugal, Spain, Belgium, Switzerland, Poland, the German Confederation, and Northern Italy all saw liberal uprisings of some sort during the early 1800s. Some were successful, others weren’t, but all were instrumental in destabilizing the political landscape that had existed for centuries. This followed a process that had already started globally, as the United States, Haiti, and much of Latin America had already become independent of their colonial masters. There’s a push and pull that’s often seen between art and history, with one influencing the other in an eternal tug of war. Romantic artists painted the pursuit of freedom in a positive light, which inspired frustrated men and women to take up arms against governments they felt did not adequately represent them. In turn, these revolutionaries inspired the Romantics to write and paint about the heroic deeds they saw all around them. One of the most famous Romantics of all, Lord Byron, even died in 1824 after joining the Greek war for independence. Although Byron himself had no strong political ideology and thought all governments as equally bad, the mere act of revolution inspired his romantic spirit to take up arms and fight. 

While there is no real-world equivalent to the World Government of One Piece, the greatest atrocities committed within the manga have their basis in real life, including many of the cartoonishly evil acts of the Celestial Dragons. The Atlantic slave trade, genocide of indigenous peoples under colonial rule, and the crushing poverty of the underclasses were all everyday realities, and these were all things people fought against during this time of world-wide revolution.

Again, some of these movements were more effective than others, and not all of them required violence to achieve their goals. 1807 marked the end of the slave trade in England while in 1838 slaves were freed in British colonies across the world, something once thought unthinkable. In 1861 the tsar emancipated some 23 million Russian serfs, while the Romantic era in the United States ended with the American Civil war and its bloody quest to end chattel slavery in the States.

In a twist of irony, the very same political instability brought on by decades of war ensured that the Romantic movement in France developed later than it did elsewhere. By that time, the Reign of Terror and Napoleon’s wars split Romantics abroad, and several quietly distanced themselves from France and its Revolutions. It was in this post-Revolutionary world that Victor Hugo looked at the smoking wreckage left all around him and began writing Les Miserables. In the preface of this book, he writes, 

“So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation which, in the midst of civilization, artificially creates a hell on earth…so long as the three problems of the century - the degradation of man by the exploitation of his labour, the ruin of women by starvation and the atrophy of childhood by physical and spiritual night are not solved; so long as, in certain regions, social asphyxia shall be possible…so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, there should be a need for books such as this.”  

The three problems Hugo described exist now as they did then, and One Piece is in many ways a story of ordinary people with extraordinary dreams rising up above this artificially created hell to make a better world for themselves, and the people they care for. 

Other Romantics, disillusioned by a world that did not change as they would have liked, turned their search inward. For these, systematic change wasn’t the goal; personal freedom was. And it’s this inward, more spiritual journey that exemplifies the ideal pirate within the context of One Piece, as best seen by our main protagonist, Monkey D Luffy. 

[a-very-tired-jew]

Columbia University's Joint Anti-Israel Groups Go Mask Off

Hey, remember how Columbia University had students in encampments protesting for months? Remember how their SJP, BDS movement, and associated groups endorsed terrorism, violence, and "resistance by any means"?

I remember. Well their joint SJP and BDS group called CU Apartheid Divest just posted something to their Instagram that shows it has never been about Palestine or Palestinians.

Fig. 1. CU Apartheid Divest group, made of SJP, BDS, and other groups openly admits that they are anti-Western Civilization

Read that again.

"We are Westerners fighting for the total eradication of Western civilization."

That's a wild statement to make.

So what are they posting about suddenly that has them revealing their intent for their actions since October?

Bangladesh.

The CU Activists are attempting to liken October 7th attack by Hamas with the Bangladesh student protests. Bangladesh had a quota based employment system that students were protesting, the government responded violently, and everything escalated from there due to years of government corruption, violence, and economic turmoil. This was a protest turned revolution within a country by its own people. This was not a government run by a recognized terrorist group attacking another country, killing civilians, and taking them hostage.

However, the differences and reasons between Hamas's actions and the actions of the students in Bangladesh do not matter to the anti-Zionist Activist.

We've seen this repeatedly from these activists that they will try to liken their movement and/or attach it to other conflicts around the world. Many of these conflicts differ greatly from the Israel/Hamas war as they are internal issues with internal actors being involved.

Bangladesh is students protesting against their government.

Sudan is going through a civil war between various factions.

The Congo has been experiencing decades long violence as various militias fight each other for control.

Yet I've see anti-Israel protestors tag their posts with Free Bangladesh, Free Congo, Free Sudan even though these conflicts differ in origin and parties involved.

If you continue through the IG post you'll see very little information as to the cause of the protest/revolution in Bangladesh and continued attempts to coopt the actions for their movement.

Fig. 2. CU Apartheid Divest group tries to liken its student movements to the student protests in Bangladesh and calls to escalate.

I can't help but think that the CU student activists yearn to be oppressed in a way that would allow them to respond like revolutions and protests around the world. The way they speak and write exudes a yearning for violence. In Fig. 2. they detail the actions taken by students against an authoritarian government that has actively shot and killed protestors. Whereas here in the USA the students were forcibly removed from campuses, experienced some police violence, were arrested, and then released. No curfews with a shoot on sight policy were imposed here in the USA in response to college campus protests.

Fig. 3. CU Apartheid Divest classifies this as an Intifada and likens it to Hamas's attack.

Notice in Fig. 3. that they're trying to call the actions in Bangladesh an Intifada. Not an intifada, but an Intifada which is a proper noun with its own connotation. I know I may be a stickler here, but if I see that word capitalized then I know it's referencing the First and Second Intifadas, and I know that these student groups have been calling for a Third one under the guise of "Global Intifada". They also say that Westerners need to escalate and are "obligated" to do so.

Fig. 4. CU Apartheid Divest uses tankie terminology, refers to Bangladeshis as martyrs, and calls this part of the Global Intifada.

The terminology in Fig. 4. also shows how much the Free Palestine student movement in the USA is not actually about Palestine, Palestinians, or any other movement it tries to attach itself to. These are tankies as indicated by the use of "comrades" and they are wholly opposed to Western Civilization. They genuinely state that their movement should violently escalate here in the USA and that they should be prepared for "sacrifices". This language when coupled with the use of Intifada is alarming as it appears that these student activists are preparing to follow in the footsteps of the Second Intifada, or at the very least calling for others to do so.

These students, whom call themselves the Militants of Hind's Hall (seen in the IG post, but not pictured here), are coopting, or attempting to coopt, movements and conflicts from around the world for their own ideals. As these are students in the USA who are arguably experiencing the least amount of oppression when compared to these other conflicts, and are actively attending Ivy League or R1 universities, it can only be assumed that they're yearning to live out their Glorious Revolution fantasy.

I am under no illusion that I understand their reasoning. Are things perfect here in the USA? Of course not, but when compared to the countries that these student protestors are attaching themselves to, we are leaps and bounds better. And if you disagree, then I have to ask, when was the last time we had a curfew with a shoot on sight policy?

Anyone attempting to call this movement and group "peaceful" is naive. They've been telling you for months that they're not peaceful, that their goals are not peaceful, and that the only peace they want is after they commit violence.

The IG link for reference

[owepossum]

Viktor is a character who wants to help people and is very empathetic. Will he have conflicts with Silco later in the story when Silco starts distributing shimmer and changes undercity for the worse? Or will your story go in different direction ?

Hello anon, thank you for this fascinating question! I’ll put spoilers under cut again but I think the treatment of shimmer / drug / opioid epidemic analogy was done quite poorly in the show. I suspect mostly because of screen time constraints, which is entirely understandable. However I find it hard to ignore the old adage: those who preach non violence often have violence done on their behalf. In the arc of oppression, violence is never the answer until it’s the only answer.

That’s not to say the harm in canon caused by Shimmer is justified (obviously) but I think wanting to “help” is not itself a clear moral compass.

Both Silco and Viktor wanted to help Zaunites.

Viktor tried helping within the system. He did everything the “right” way — he legitimised himself via education, he abhorred violence, he innovated in accordance with that systems imperatives (profit) and tried to maximise social good despite that. In the end, I’d argue that the system won. His innovations were used entirely to benefit Piltover, inc weapons and commerce.

Silco recognised the “base violence necessary for change” in a corrupt system. Yes he profited from shimmer, but the goal was not excess for himself. It was to arm zaunites to secure independence (and freedom from Enforcer violence). We never got to see what he would have done after that, which is a shame, as his movement was cut short.

Idek if it’s because I’m POC but It’s very telling (even without the S2 writer leak) that the writers positioned Vander as “the good guy” ultimately, because he was “peaceful”. Vander upheld a status quo that was systematically killing + exploiting Zaunites. As an audience we can absolutely empathise with his dilemma! He’s trying to protect people in a non violent way. But he’s the one with a memorial statue. Was separate really equal? Look how tenuous that “peace” was. He also wanted to help Zaunites. And yet.

I guess I jsut don’t like the dichotomy in a lot of fics that feed into this “non violence is what will heal”. That ending narration was so fucking patronising.

Then again, this is a show that has to be sold in the USA and Ch1na. God forbid you overthrow the plutocrats. Here, have one (1) seat.

Silco’s actions (and consequences) cannot be compartmentalised from Piltover (which, by definition of what we’ve been shown is a plutocratic police city-state where half its population (zaunites) have no governing voice). The fact that an unelected plutocrat can mobilise chemical warfare against half the population because she controls public utility / infrastructure is absolutely horrific.

•• mild spoilers •• the role and treatment of Shimmer follows a different arc in Devotions, partly precisely because Viktor does not abandon Silco. It’s his presence that changes Silco’s priorities and methods. He’s less consumed with betrayal and that mitigates the myopia in canon. I also think Silco’s pragmatism and revolutionary views affect Viktor too.

I’m hoping the blend is a canon divergence worth reading!

Sorry for the long post. Also: fuck Heimerdinger. Mealy mouthed self righteous hamster. complicit and wilfully ignorant.

[merwgue]

"Rhysand hasn't done anything wrong"

Here’s a breakdown of the actual legal crimes Rhysand could be charged with, based on real-world laws:

A Court of Thorns and Roses (Book 1)

1. Sexual Assault – Rhysand forces Feyre into non-consensual situations, including touching her and kissing her while under the influence of drugs.

2. Drugging/Administration of a Controlled Substance – He forces Feyre to drink faerie wine (a mind-altering substance), which removes her ability to consent and control her actions.

3. Kidnapping/False Imprisonment – Under the Mountain, Rhysand traps Feyre into a bargain that forces her to spend time with him, effectively limiting her freedom.

A Court of Mist and Fury (Book 2)

1. Sexual Harassment – Rhysand frequently engages in unwanted physical contact with Feyre, coercing her in various ways under the pretext of their bargain.

2. Psychological Abuse/Coercion – The manipulation and psychological control Rhysand exerts over Feyre could be classified as emotional abuse, which can carry legal ramifications depending on the jurisdiction.

A Court of Wings and Ruin (Book 3)

1. Trespassing – Rhysand repeatedly enters Tamlin’s lands without permission, which would be considered trespassing by legal standards.

2. Incitement to Violence/Sabotage – Rhysand knowingly encourages Feyre to sabotage the Spring Court while she’s undercover, which could lead to charges of inciting criminal behavior.

3. Attempted Murder (by Suggestion) – While not directly responsible, suggesting that someone (Tamlin) should kill themselves could be viewed as reckless endangerment or incitement to self-harm, which is illegal in many places.

A Court of Frost and Starlight (Novella)

1. Harassment – Rhysand's continued psychological harassment of Tamlin could potentially be charged as harassment, particularly given its persistent nature.

General Crimes Throughout the Series you can face up to a life sentence with :

1. Assault – Rhysand has a history of using his powers to physically and mentally harm others, especially when he forces Feyre into certain situations or physically manipulates her.

2. Torture – His treatment of the people in the Court of Nightmares, particularly through physical and psychological intimidation, could be considered torture or cruel and inhumane treatment under international human rights law.

3. Abuse of Power/Authority – Rhysand frequently abuses his position as High Lord, using his powers to manipulate, control, and coerce others, which could be considered an abuse of authority. (Hm hm, remember what happend to saddam Hussain?)

4. Kidnapping/False Imprisonment – By forcibly keeping Nesta in the House of Wind without her consent, Rhysand is restricting her freedom and movement. This can be legally classified as kidnapping or false imprisonment.

5. Endangerment of a Mentally Ill Person – Nesta is clearly dealing with severe trauma, depression, and possibly PTSD. Locking her up without proper care or therapy can be considered neglect and endangerment of someone with a mental illness, especially since she was using alcohol to cope. (Those teen-help programs.)

6. Illegal Detainment Without Licensing – The Night Court is not a rehabilitation facility, and Rhysand has no legal authority or medical qualifications to keep Nesta there against her will. This would violate laws that protect individuals with mental health issues from being detained in non-medical facilities by non-professionals.

4. Emotional and Psychological Abuse – Forcing Nesta into isolation and removing her autonomy could be seen as a form of emotional and psychological abuse, which has legal ramifications in many jurisdictions.

In a real-world legal system, these actions could be prosecuted as criminal offenses, including sexual assault, kidnapping, drugging, trespassing, harassment, and psychological abuse.

So yea, you're dear old boy would be in JAIL by now.

Now let's calculate The charges against Rhysand, if brought to a real-world court system, could lead to significant legal consequences. Let’s break down the potential sentences for each crime, based on common legal standards in many countries:

1. Sexual Assault

Possible Sentence: 5 to 20 years in prison, depending on the severity and jurisdiction.

Sexual assault is a serious crime, and the penalties are harsh, especially if the victim is incapacitated (e.g., under the influence of drugs, as Feyre was).

2. Drugging/Administration of a Controlled Substance

Possible Sentence: 2 to 10 years in prison.

Administering drugs to someone without their knowledge or consent is considered a felony in many places and carries a substantial sentence, especially when done to facilitate control or assault.

3. Kidnapping/False Imprisonment (Feyre and Nesta)

Possible Sentence: 10 to 30 years in prison.

Kidnapping, especially when it involves controlling someone’s freedom against their will (like forcing Feyre and Nesta into his control), carries one of the longest prison terms.

4. Endangerment of a Mentally Ill Person (Nesta)

Possible Sentence: 5 to 15 years in prison.

This charge involves negligence and the failure to provide proper care for someone in a vulnerable state. In this case, Rhysand locking Nesta up without professional help can result in significant legal consequences.

5. Harassment/Emotional and Psychological Abuse (Tamlin and Nesta)

Possible Sentence: 1 to 5 years in prison (for each offense).

Emotional abuse and psychological harassment can carry prison sentences if they lead to significant harm, especially if Rhysand’s actions contributed to worsening their mental states.

6. Trespassing (Spring Court)

Possible Sentence: 1 year or fines.

Trespassing, while a less severe crime, can result in fines or a brief prison sentence, depending on how frequently and aggressively it’s done.

7. Torture/Abuse of Power (Hewn City)

Possible Sentence: 10 to 25 years in prison.

Torturing or inflicting severe harm, even in a ruling capacity, could result in lengthy imprisonment under human rights laws.

8. Failure to Prevent Mutilation (Wing Clipping in Illyria):

Crime: Complicity in Mutilation/Assault – In many countries, allowing or failing to prevent acts of bodily harm, especially when in a position of power, can lead to charges of complicity or negligence. Clipping wings is comparable to physical mutilation.

Potential Sentence: 10 to 20 years per incident, depending on the severity of harm. Rhysand, as High Lord, could be held accountable for allowing this to continue in the military camps he oversees.

9. Endangerment of Women’s Rights:

Crime: Neglect and Discrimination – The continued allowance of these practices in Illyria could be viewed as a form of systemic discrimination and neglect. Failure to protect women from harm, despite having the power to intervene, would likely result in charges related to discrimination and endangerment.

Potential Sentence: Civil penalties and lawsuits from the affected women, alongside possible criminal charges leading to fines and 5 to 10 years imprisonment per case of systemic abuse.

10. Complicity in Abuse and Torture (Hewn City):

Crime: Torture/Degrading Treatment – As the ruler of the Night Court, Rhysand maintains direct control over the Hewn City but allows its brutal social system to continue, particularly against women. Even though he doesn't directly participate in the abuse, turning a blind eye to it could result in complicity in human rights abuses or crimes akin to torture, especially since Hewn City is described as being "hell for women."

Potential Sentence: 10 to 25 years in prison for each case of torture or degrading treatment, with possible civil lawsuits and heavy fines.

11. Denial of Safe Haven and Equal Rights:

Crime: Violation of Human Rights – Women from Hewn City are barred from escaping their abusive environments, and Rhysand’s refusal to allow them into Velaris essentially traps them in dangerous situations. In the real world, denying refuge or asylum to those in danger can be classified as a violation of human rights.

Potential Sentence: 5 to 10 years for human rights violations, with additional civil penalties from lawsuits if women can prove they were harmed as a result of being denied safety.

Crimes Against Humanity – While not on the same scale as mass genocide or war crimes, the endangerment of entire groups of women through neglect, allowing mutilation, or complicity in torture can still fall under human rights violations. Such crimes are serious, and while they may not lead to a death sentence, they would likely result in long-term imprisonment, potential international condemnation, and severe civil penalties.

Maximum Sentence: If these charges were to be tried separately and consecutively, Rhysand could face up to 80 to 100+ years in prison

Likely Sentence: In a real-world legal system, some of these sentences may be served concurrently (at the same time), leading to a likely total sentence of 25 to 40 years in prison, depending on how the crimes are classified and judged.

Additionally, he would likely face civil penalties, lawsuits from the victims (e.g., Feyre and Nesta), and substantial fines.

Thank you for reading, if you want me to do any other character just say in the comments!❤️ (this took me over 2 days to research but I had my amazing dad helping me!♥️)

[mylight-png]

Calling for the destruction of a country is hateful and wrong, and it disproportionately occurs against Israel.

When Russia attacked Ukraine, was there a massive movement to wipe Russia off the map?

When Iran was killing girls for not wearing a hijab, was there a massive movement to dismantle the entire country of Iran?

While China systemically commits genocide against its Uyghur population, is there a massive movement to get rid of China?

Even if, and this is a huge if, the accusations against Israel were true, there is no justification for trying to wipe Israel off the map.

There just isn't.

And, considering Israel is the only Jewish state in the world based on the concept of a Jewish self-determination in our indigenous homeland, such calls are also antisemitic.

[codenamesazanka]

My prediction on what was Scissors-kun's deal ended up being pretty correct: he was indeed abused - horrifically so, being tied up and locked away - and then abandoned by his family during the war because of his quirk. Except Horikoshi actually exceeded my expectations and revealed that it wasn't because of behavioral issues (not that it would've justified it! Never. but I was imagining a parallel to Toga), it was only because his quirk was a random mutation, and also his family sewn his mouth shut.

Because thing is. The set up for something like this was here all along. I predicted it based on things that were already happening in the story. Continued fear of 'abnormal' quirks; horrific domestic violence enacted due to this; Heroes never catching wind of this because this was from a family that weren't consider 'Villains', so this was Scissors-kun's normal. And this normal broke and the dark secret got revealed only because something extraordinary happened - the country collapsed. Scissors-kun family left him, so he was able to escape.

But... none of this is apparently going to be addressed. The happy ending is Scissors-kun being found and helped, instead of any widespread, far-reaching, systemic change that would prevent shit like this. No, 'but it's obviously going to be addressed off-screen' doesn't count. The story brought up on-page and explicitly that quirk discrimination is a thing, that abusive quirk counseling/treatment is a thing, that abuse and abandonment of children is a thing. I expect the solutions to be on-page and explicit as well, and not just 'if I reach out when it's not my business, then...!'

(Also. it is their fucking business. They're government employees. Their job is to save people and guarantee the welfare of all citizens. it is very much their business.)

I'm not upset that Scissors-kun isn't Shigaraki; never really expected that in the first place. Shigaraki died. Deku fucking failed. I've come to terms with it. I'm not upset that Shigaraki wasn't saved, but this kid was; not even in the meta-, story-, character-sense, because, fine, he's replacement goldfish Tenko, but I'll take the 'we'll do better next time', it's a good thing this kid gets saved, it's what Shigaraki would've wanted, it's what the League fought to destroy for. It's even good that The Old Lady has become a better person.

What baffles me is that this save occurs pretty much because of nothing except the purported 'What Deku Showed The World That Day (When He Killed A Man)'. This save isn't because Heroes and civilians have more awareness of victims. This save isn't because society is promising to stop quirk discrimination. This save isn't because Ochako learns of Toga's abusive parents and so sets out to tackle this issue of quirk-related domestic violence. This save isn't because Deku has lead a new movement to stop bystander inaction. (Moreover, about 'bystander inaction' - Scissors-kun lists 5 other people outside his immediate family of Dad/Mom/Sis who knew about him... and did nothing. His uncle, his aunt, his grandparents, his great-grandfather - if they didn't directly help sew Scissors-kun mouth shut, they still turned a blind eye and never alerted authorities. (Tenko explicitly states this as one of the factors that led to him lashing out, but I guess the story forgot about it long ago, so. Even with the memories sharing of Chapter 417 and 418, Deku never sees this.))

As I said above, none of the issues that lead to Scissors-kun being in the circumstances he was in has been addressed.

This save isn't because any random civilian has decided to help - because any rando can and should help! This isn't even because Old Lady came to the guilt-ridden conclusion herself to do better.

This save is because Old Lady, carrying the burden of guilt, watched Deku kill the kid she didn't save all those years ago (tho she doesn't know it) and is apparently inspired by this act of "I can't help but do something" to finally take action (as helpfully narrated by Hawks). It's not because civilians have done any deep thinking about the rot that permeates their culture; it's because Deku was a hard-working murderer on TV. There were dozens of other people on the street. Real change should've been a whole crowd of people seeing Scissors-kun and wanting to help - someone giving him a blanket or offering him shoes while another calls for an ambulance???

But whatever. I just want to state this: the first thing that truly saved Scissors-kun was Shigaraki's destruction. Without it, his family would've stayed in that house and kept him locked up. It's really only because of Shigaraki's destruction that Scissors-kun even got the opportunity to find freedom and get his hand held.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Rachel Bitecofer at The Cycle: Many times I’ve asked you to imagine what it would be like, what your thoughts, feelings, and beliefs about contemporary America would be like, if you were one of the 100 million plus Americans who can’t name their own state’s senators. Vox dropped a recent piece that is firewalled, but I want you to read this short excerpt from their reporting:

Now, don’t focus on the particular demographics of this particular disenchanted voter. She could be anyone: a man, a woman, old, young, Black or White. Believe it or not, there are even college educated Americans who have this kind of limited, simplistic frame for interpreting political events. Anyhoo, that is a long wind up to get to what I want to talk to you about today which is the sensitivity of the low information public to lies intended to radicalize them.

Team Trump has a shrewd strategy to use obviously illegal executive orders to prepare the MAGA base for rebellion when they are inevitably struck down. An important concept from Introduction to American Government courses is something called the Expectations Gap. The Expectations Gap refers to the gap between what a president must promise to win election (especially to win their party’s nomination) and what he or she can actually deliver through a system intentionally designed to make governing very hard. Unless a president is extraordinarily lucky, like FDR who governed through two crises and used both to reshape the size and scope of government, a president is doomed to over promise and under deliver. All of them.

And that is during the best of times. These are not the best of times. Back in late 2009, early 2010, Republicans developed a keen strategy to try to make Barack Obama a one term president. That strategy was designed to increase the expectations gap by purposefully obstructing major legislation to deny Obama legislative wins. Its a strategy that benefitted Republicans politically so much, it became their go-to strategy throughout the full 8 years of Obama and for 4 years of Joe Biden, with one recent exception: Biden’s Infrastructure bill. They architects of the GOP’s opposition strategy had no idea at the time, but their strategy to starve the public of good government went on to play a key role in creating both the MAGA movement (right wing populism) and the Bernie Sanders movement (left wing populism). When people see their government can’t deliver solutions to their problems (or are told hyperbolic lies like Death Panels) they go a little crazy. And as demonstrated above, few voters have the sophistication to understand that Barack Obama failed to deliver on immigration reform because the Republican House simply refused to allow a vote on it.

[...] There’s just one problem: most of the executive orders Trump has issued to “finally achieve results for the American people” are illegal. Some are so grotesquely illegal they have Supreme Court justices gasping at the lunacy of the arguments coming out of what were once well-respected government lawyers. MAGA doesn’t know it yet, but most of Trump’s executive orders will never have the force of law. They will die quick deaths by a judiciary that overall seems inclined to protect the Constitution’s separation of powers system and maintain the power of the courts to review and determine the legality of actions taken by the Congress, the President, and the states. Unfortunately, Team Trump has been radicalizing the MAGA base for weeks in terms of the legitimacy of the courts.

Donald Trump’s executive orders are all about setting the MAGA base for rebellion when and if they get struck down.

[sepublic]

TW for Cults and Mass Suicide

Dana confirmed during Pixelatl 2022 that Belos was based on people like Televangelists, serial killers, and cult leaders. I’ve already discussed the serial killer aspect to Belos, and the Televangelism is obvious for a Puritan offshoot who nevertheless indulges in gilded aesthetics and glory as he builds elaborate structures for his own gain.

We’ve all acknowledged the Emperor’s Coven is a cult and the show’s point that You are not immune to propaganda, so I want to make another connection regarding the cult leader aspect. IIRC Dana mentioned the American cult movements of the 70’s, or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s alluding to. Because the Day of Unity is a mass cult suicide, so the allusion to incidents such as Jonestown and Heaven’s Gate are obvious.

Jonestown was a cult led by Jim Jones, a rich white ordained Christian minister. His cult was initially based in California but later moved to the South American country of Guyana, and 70% of Jones’ followers were black. When his cult was investigated for human rights abuses by the U.S. government, Jones got a politician looking into the case murdered. Realizing the government was going to retaliate for this, Jones had everyone commit mass suicide, talking a lot of hot shit about how they were sending a message. The followers were made to drink cyanide, those who didn’t want to were forced, and Jones chickened out of a slow and agonizing death via a gunshot wound to the head.

Heaven’s Gate was led by Marshall Applewhite, who was initially recruited himself before becoming its leader. He convinced followers that the angels of the Bible were actually space aliens, seizing upon the UFO trends of the time. He told his followers they would ascend their physical forms after committing suicide, and instructed them to do so when the comet Hale-Bopp passed by. His reasoning was that an alien UFO was hiding behind the comet, and when he and his followers ascended, their spirits would be taken in by the UFO and they would be taken to a new world.

So you can see the connecting threads in The Owl House; There’s possibly more incidents Dana was thinking of. But so far, we have a wealthy cult leader, preaching his own version of Christianity. He joined a cult but ultimately committed to the harm by liberating himself as the one in charge who knows what he’s doing to everyone else; After all, he claims to follow a doctrine but hypocritically can make exceptions for himself on convenience. It’s not as if he doesn’t/can’t know better (Just like how so many Americans will blame their education system for their ignorance, yet refuse to utilize their other resources).

He’s a white American who established his cult on colonized land, and is manipulating a minority group into committing suicide. He’s telling them that when a celestial object passes overhead, they will be led to a rapturous paradise on another planet. He himself knows exactly what fate he’s giving his followers and cowardly avoids it. Ultimately, he encourages everyone to kill themselves because he doesn’t want to face reality and it’ll make himself feel better about his situation, like a big hero.

Despite the Collector being a literal space alien who’s made complicit in this, there’s nevertheless no paradise, there’s no rapture, just death. American Evangelicalism was a breeding ground for cults like these, whose followers were dispossessed people.

The mention of space aliens also makes me think of Jacob Hopkins, who establishes Belos’ motive by being the first foreshadowing of it to begin with; Hopkins IS Belos, thematically speaking, so we have some white guy wanting to feel better about his miserable life by believing there’s some hidden, otherworldly truth to the world and he’s important for calling it out.

Ironically, Belos himself became the conspiracy, just as he became the evil strawman witch he spoke about; Going full CIA in trying to destabilize another nation by pulling the strings because its mere existence as something his white American Christian group can’t control HAS to be an inherent threat. Because of course, Hopkins and Belos wanted to murder these space aliens (which witches technically qualify as) because there’s the intersectionality of racism and the Alt-Right for them as well.

There’s something equal parts absurd and banal about it all. Sometimes there is some conspiracy or hidden truth out there, it’s just way more mundane than it’s said to be; Hence the difference between conspiracy-minded folk who need there to be a plot VS people making basic observations. Like yes the CIA did do that and publically admitted to it, even. Witches and demons exist and are hidden from society, they’re just… minding their own business. And that cult does have some secretive endgame, but it’s not a rapture event it’s just mass suicide to inflate the ego of the leader.

And I think that’s an important distinction to make; It’s the fantasy genre so it’s par for the course. But it’s nice to clarify, say in an episode where the protagonist returns to her own mundane world, that this conspiracy is likely BS with an undercurrent of bigotry to it. Some political figures need to be taken out but the real horror is how the average person isn’t a monster, but just as fooled as you, and means well when they excitedly march towards fascism. IRL witch hunters didn’t believe in otherworldly beings, they just hated women and minorities; And even in the world where one did confirm otherworldly beings, he’s just as insincere and bigoted about his approach as all the rest.

[mapsthewanderer]

The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 4000ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Caleb. Just Caleb and his chip. 18+ psychological thriller/drama, plot with p0rn aka smut and detailed descriptions of god knows what. Explicit language. All warning tags and all that jazz. Do not read if you are just a tad sensitive, I promise. This is not for sensitive souls. This is angst. This is pain. This is suffering. If you value your peace, stay the fuq away—your whole week will thank you. You are warned.

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter eight (final chapter)

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290 @justpassingdontworry

Surrender | Chapter seven

The Maze, the waterfall, Caleb

The first wave of resistance hits fast.

At first, it’s just a flicker—a glitch, a momentary misfire deep beneath the surface. A barely-there static crackling at the edges of his vision, a subtle drag in the circuits threaded through his nervous system.

Then—sharper.

A pulse at the base of his spine. A warning spike straight through his neural pathways.

Too much.

He’s pushing too far.

He’s not supposed to feel this much.

Not supposed to want this much.

The second jolt is worse—a crackle of electricity sparking beneath his skin, something tightening, resisting. His fingers dig into your waist, grounding himself in the heat of your skin, his breath ripping through his lungs.

He should stop.

He should pull away.

He should force himself back into something manageable, controllable, something that won’t send another violent surge through his system.

But—fuck.

The way you’re looking at him.

The way your breath stutters against his mouth.

The way your fingers clutch his shoulders, pressing into the soaked fabric of his shirt, gripping him like you don’t even realize you’re holding him together.

Like you’d never let him come apart.

The way your body reacts to his—heat against cold, touch against tension, fire against a machine that was designed to smother the spark before it ever had the chance to spread.

But he doesn’t want to smother it.

He wants to burn in it.

Even if it kills him.

His grip tightens at your waist, muscles coiled, everything in him bracing against another jolt of resistance. His voice comes out hoarse, gritted through his teeth as he swallows down the next surge, forcing himself past it.

“I’m not stopping.”

Then—he lifts you.

Water rushes between you, sliding over your skin, the movement slow, unhurried, but his hold is steady. His grip unshaken, even as another flicker lashes through him, rippling down his spine like fire in his veins.

His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering, his breath pulling sharp through his nose. His throat constricts, his spine stiffens, but—

He keeps walking.

Through the water.

Out of the pool.

Carrying you.

Carrying you back toward the bedroom—toward the inevitable—he moves with purpose. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as your nails drag lightly along his scalp, drawing a quiet shiver from him with every stroke.

His pulse is faster than it should be.

His breath—uneven.

But your touch—

Your touch soothes.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bedroom, you

The door slides open with a quiet hiss, cool air seeping in, stark against the lingering heat of your bodies, against the water slicking your skin.

Caleb steps through, his grip still steady, firm, unyielding. But there’s something different now.

Something raw.

Something vulnerable.

He lowers you to the floor slowly, carefully, almost too gently. And then—

Neither of you moves.

Not immediately.

Just standing there, breathing unevenly, eyes locked, the weight of something unspoken dense between you.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp shines against the water dripping from his clothes, casting faint shadows along his jaw, the slope of his collarbone, the sharp planes of his chest. The light catches against the small metal tag resting against his sternum, a glint of silver shifting with each breath.

A reminder of what he is. What he was.

His gaze flickers over you, his expression unreadable, something warring behind his eyes. His fingers twitch at his sides—a hesitation, something he can’t quite suppress.

Then, wordlessly, his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.

You do the same.

The fabric peels away in increments, water trailing down your skin, slipping over curves and angles, following the heat of exposed flesh. Each layer removed reveals more, exposes more, inch by inch, moment by moment, until the soaked weight of your clothes drops to the floor, one by one.

Until—

Nothing is left.

You stand there.

Bare.

Unhidden.

Exposed.

Just the two of you.

And for once—

Neither of you knows what happens next.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bedroom, Caleb

He could break.

He knows it.

Every second, every breath, every minuscule flare in his neural pathways is a warning—sharp, urgent, telling him that he’s pushing too far, playing with something too fragile, too volatile, too human.

And yet—

He chooses you.

He chooses this.

The weight of it settles deep in his chest—not control, not possession, but something entirely different. Something that terrifies him more than losing himself ever could.

Because this isn’t about taking.

It’s about giving.

His knees hit the floor—not as a man grasping for power, but as a man surrendering completely.

His hands find your thighs, fingers spreading against your skin. Not with force. Not with demand. But with the kind of devotion that hums through his bones, the kind of need that makes his breath come unsteady, the kind of ache that makes him feel whole even as the last fragments of himself threaten to slip away.

What’s left of him—that last, flickering fraction—isn’t meant to command you.

It’s meant to serve you.

And he wants—no, needs—to prove it.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bedroom, you

The moment he lowers you onto the bed, you feel it.

This isn’t like before.

Not a game.

Not a power struggle.

This is reverence.

His lips find your forehead first—a slow, warm press, heavy with something deeper than affection.

Then—your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your lips.

Not a tease. A promise.

The breath between you feels charged with something neither of you name. His mouth moves lower, a slow, melting descent, warm as velvet, soft as devotion.

Down your throat.

Over the rapid pulse at your neck.

Lower still.

Each kiss is placed with intention, carved into you like scripture, like he’s committing you to memory with every press of his lips, every slow exhale warming your skin.

His hands follow, fingertips ghosting over your ribs, tracing the soft curve of your stomach before sliding lower, gripping your hips—not to restrain, not to control, but to anchor himself.

Then—he pauses.

His hands slide over the inside of your thighs, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make your breath catch, your legs twitch, anticipation tightening in your core.

And then—

“Let me.”

His voice isn’t commanding. Not smug. Not even teasing.

A request.

No—a plea.

He wants this.

Not to control.

Not to break.

To worship.

Your breath shudders, heat pooling low in your stomach. The need to say yes is instinctive, undeniable, a pulse deep in your bones.

You nod.

And Caleb—

He descends.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow—not hesitant, not searching. But like he’s been thinking about this for days, mapping it out, memorizing every second, calculating exactly how he wants to make you fall apart.

Your hips twitch, a gasp slipping from your lips—

And Caleb groans.

Not in satisfaction.

In need.

His tongue flicks against your clit—before sinking lower, tasting you, breathing against you, groaning like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him feel real.

Then—a finger.

One, sliding in slow, precise, stretching you open with the kind of patience that makes your stomach clench, your thighs quiver.

His forehead presses against the inside of your thigh, his breath warm, his other hand gripping your hip just hard enough to keep you still.

A jolt. A small twitch in his neck, a faint tremor in his fingers.

The chip. Resisting.

You shift slightly, ready to stop him, to pull away—

But his grip tightens.

“I’m fine.”

His voice is hoarse. Raw. Wrecked.

“Never been better.”

His tongue meets his fingers, wet heat and precise strokes moving in tandem, dragging you deeper, higher, unraveling you thread by thread. He presses his free hand against your stomach—low, firm, just above where his fingers work inside you—

And you shatter.

Because you can feel. Every. Single. Movement.

Your spine arches, your thighs trembling, your breath breaking into a sharp, helpless moan.

And Caleb—

He watches.

Every reaction.

Every sharp inhale.

Every tremor.

Every second.

He’s learning you. Devouring you.

And when you finally break apart beneath him—

He doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

His lips press against your thigh—slow, lingering, savoring.

Like he’s just found his only remaining religion.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bedroom, Caleb

He should stop.

His body is screaming at him to stop.

Warning pulses fire through his neural pathways, static flickering at the edges of his vision, sharp jolts lashing through his skull, the chip pushing back, resisting.

But fuck—he can’t.

Not when you sound like that.

Not when your breath stutters, breaking apart into soft, gasping whimpers.

Not when your body reacts to him like this—clenching around his fingers, arching into his mouth, gripping the sheets with trembling hands, knuckles white.

Not when you’re falling apart for him so beautifully.

His breath is too quick. His jaw clenches against another sharp crackle of resistance, the chip seething inside him, fighting, trying to sever this before it goes too far.

But it’s already too late.

He’s past the point of return.

Past self-preservation.

Because the only thing left of him that still feels human—

Is you.

So he does it again.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t even give you time to recover.

He just keeps going.

Slow, patient, devastating.

His mouth finds you again—hot, wet, his tongue pressing into you, breaking you down just to put you back together.

His fingers press deeper, curling just right, dragging against that perfect spot inside you that makes your thighs shake, that makes your stomach coil too tight, too much—

His other hand slides up your ribs, not to restrain, but to feel—

To memorize the way you tremble, to map the way you react, to etch the moment into his mind as if this is the only thing that matters.

And it is.

To him, it is.

His breath hitches against your thigh, his shoulders tightening, another flicker of resistance running through his body.

He should be in agony.

And maybe he is.

But he doesn’t stop.

Because touching you is the only thing that feels real.

And when he makes you come again—

This time, it’s slower, heavier, the pleasure pulling you under like deep water, molten, thick, endless.

Caleb doesn’t let go.

His lips press against your skin, slow, lingering, his tongue giving one last flick before pulling back—

His breath is ragged, his body taut, his fingers twitching faintly from the internal warfare inside him.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“Come on, Pip-squeak.” His voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. “We need to get cleaned up.”

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, Caleb

The water is hot against his skin.

But your body?

Hotter.

You rest against his chest, your damp skin pressing into him, every inhale making you rise and fall with him in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His arms are wrapped around you—not tight, not caging, just there. Grounding. Holding onto something fragile, something sacred, something he has no right to keep.

Your scent mingles with the steam curling into the air—apples, soap, the faintest trace of sweat, something entirely, devastatingly you. It fills his lungs, coats his senses, clings to his skin like something permanent.

His fingers drift absently over your thigh, tracing lazy, weightless circles beneath the water’s surface. His touch is featherlight, but every movement sends ripples through the stillness, distorting the soft reflections against the tiled walls, stretching shadows along the edge of the tub.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the suffocating silence of the Maze.

Not the mechanical hum of shifting walls.

This is something else.

Something he doesn’t know how to name.

And fuck, it’s dangerous.

Because he likes it.

Because he wants it.

Because for the first time in days, in weeks, maybe even in years—

He doesn’t feel like a machine.

He feels like a man.

His fingers slide beneath the water, finding your wrist, tracing the delicate skin there, absentminded but reverent.

It’s too intimate.

Too quiet.

Too good.

And that’s the problem.

Because this?

This is where he could lose everything.

What happens when the last, flickering fraction of him isn’t enough?

When the chip doesn’t allow this anymore?

When you stop looking at him like he’s still the person you remember?

His throat tightens, a pulse of static flickering behind his eyes, a warning he’s been ignoring for too long. His grip on your thigh tightens slightly, just for a second, just enough to steady himself.

He wants to say something.

Something that will keep you here.

Something that will make this real.

But before he can, you shift in his arms, turning slightly, tilting your chin just enough to look up at him.

And whatever he was going to say—

Dies on his lips.

Because fuck.

You’re looking at him like you’re waiting.

Like you already know.

His fingers drift lower, brushing over the watch strapped to your wrist—the one he gave you. The one that was supposed to be a reminder, a taunt, a cruel joke about time that no longer existed.

But now—

Now it’s something else entirely.

His thumb ghosts over the metal, tracing its edges, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath it—

And suddenly—

He feels like he’s running out of time.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, you

The heat soaks into your bones, the weight of exhaustion settling over you in slow, lazy waves. The warmth of the water wraps around your limbs, lulling, pulling, keeping you in this moment longer than you should be.

But it’s not just the water.

It’s him.

His breath, deep and steady, a rhythm that calms you. His chest rises beneath your back, solid, real, something to lean into. The warmth of him cradles you, holds you in a way that makes you feel like maybe—just maybe—this is safe.

His fingers move in slow, absentminded motions, gliding over your skin, tracing patterns with no intention except the simple act of touching you.

A silent devotion.

You could melt into this.

Sink into him.

Forget.

Forget that this moment isn’t real.

Because it can’t be.

Because Caleb doesn’t exist anymore.

Because this can’t last.

And maybe that’s why—before he can break the moment first—

You do.

“I still see him, you know.”

His fingers still.

The air thickens.

The warmth of the water that had soaked into your bones seeps out, turns cold against your skin.

“Underneath everything. Underneath the programming, the control, the orders.”

He doesn’t move.

Not a shift. Not a twitch.

Nothing.

You turn slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, expecting something—anything.

And something is wrong.

His violet eyes are locked onto yours—

But they’re empty.

No flicker. No dilation.

His chest isn’t rising.

His muscles are rigid, locked into place, his body frozen in the way that isn’t human.

“You’re still Caleb.”

The words barely leave your lips before—

Static.

The sound isn’t real.

But you feel it.

A sharp, invisible crackle in the air, like electricity skimming too close to skin, like the charged silence before a lightning strike.

Caleb shudders.

Once. Hard.

Then—

Nothing.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, Caleb

Warning.

Critical malfunction in neural pathways.

Error—

Error—

Recalibrating.

But it’s not working.

The words are still there.

I still see him.

You’re still Caleb.

He wants to reject it.

He wants to override it.

But he can’t.

Because a part of him wants to believe it.

And that’s why he’s breaking.

The chip can’t process these contradictions.

His breath stutters.

His vision flickers.

The water feels too heavy, like it’s pulling him under, like he’s drowning without moving.

His fingers, once tracing you, now frozen against your skin.

He can’t speak.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

The chip doesn’t know what to do.

So it does the only thing it can.

It shuts him down.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, you

One second, he’s holding you.

The next—

His body locks up.

His eyes are open, but there’s nothing there.

No tension in his jaw.

No flicker of recognition.

No movement.

Just emptiness.

Just Caleb, frozen in place, breathless, unmoving—

Gone.

You grab his wrist.

“Caleb—”

No response.

“Caleb, wake up.”

His muscles don’t react, his pulse remains steady, but his eyes—

His eyes are vacant.

It’s like looking at a statue of him.

A body with no soul inside.

Panic claws up your throat.

“Caleb.”

You shake him, harder this time.

Nothing.

You press your palm to his chest, feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, but it’s mechanical—like a clock ticking, like something detached from him.

You want to scream.

You want to pull him back.

But you don’t even know if there’s anything left to pull.

And then—

The bathroom light flickers.

Once.

Twice.

A short, sharp burst of static fills the room.

And then—

Everything goes dark.

——————————————————————————

The room is drenched in steam, heat curling through the air in thick, damp waves, the bathwater still lapping weakly against the sides of the tub.

Caleb is drowning.

Not in water—in himself.

It’s wrong.

Everything about the way his body locks up beneath you, the way his breathing stutters then stops, the way his eyes stare through you, unfocused, frozen—

It’s wrong.

“Caleb?”

No response.

Your own breath catches, panic spiking, because he’s still sitting up against the edge of the tub, but he’s not there.

His body is tense, muscles coiled like wire, his jaw locked so tight you can see the tendons straining in his neck.

And then—

His spine jerks violently, like an unseen force just ripped through him.

The sound that tears from his throat isn’t human.

His lungs shudder, his chest rising too fast, like his body is trying to force itself to breathe, trying to override something.

“Get it out.”

The words barely make it out.

They’re shattered, strangled, like something is crushing him from the inside out.

His body convulses again, his limbs twitching, spasming, his right arm locking into place at an unnatural angle.

“Get it out—get it out—NOW!”

Oh, fuck.

——————————————————————————

Caleb shoves himself forward, but his body won’t move the way he wants it to.

He’s stumbling out of the tub, hitting the wet tile on his knees, his fingers clawing at his own skin.

“Caleb, stop!”

You reach for him, slipping, your hands skidding against the slick floor as you try to grab onto him—

But he’s not stopping.

He’s writhing. Fighting. Trapped in a body that’s shutting down around him.

His right arm is dead weight, hanging useless at his side, but his left hand grips his own neck, his fingers clawing toward the back of his skull—

Like he’s trying to rip the chip out himself.

His breath is ragged, frantic, his body rolling onto his back, heels pushing against the floor, arching in pain.

His voice cracks on a guttural, broken scream—

“F-fuck—it’s—killing me.”

You don’t think.

You can’t think.

You just act.

Your hands slam against his shoulders, your body pressing over his to stop his limbs from convulsing, your wet skin sliding against his overheated body.

“Caleb, tell me what to do!”

His eyes snap to yours, wide, desperate, pupils blown so dark you can barely see the violet.

“Override.” His fingers twitch against your forearm, clutching, shaking. “Back of my neck. EMP. Override panel. F-fuck—”

His whole body tenses, his breath catching like a glitching system, like he’s stuck between shutting down and rebooting—

And then—

His eyes roll back.

And everything stops.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, Caleb

Warning. Critical malfunction detected.

Neural pathways compromised.

Systems failing—

It hurts.

More than anything.

More than battlefields, more than crashes, more than reprogramming.

This is deeper.

This is his own mind rejecting itself.

He can feel the fire of his nerves burning out, his body losing control, his right arm gone, his left barely responding.

His spine arches off the ground, muscles seizing, a vice tightening around the base of his skull—

“Override it.”

His own voice sounds distant. Shattered.

“Pip-squeak—”

He can barely force the name out.

“You have to cut it open.”

The words stagger from his lips, barely intelligible, voice strangled in agony.

“It’s—under the skin—back of my neck—”

You freeze.

“What?!”

Caleb shakes his head, his body twitching beneath you.

“There’s—” His breath hiccups, a garbled sound of pure agony. “There’s a panel—can’t—open it manually—you have to cut.”

His fingers twitch against the tile, reaching blindly, grasping at nothing.

“Blade. Something. Just—”

His voice cuts out.

Then he seizes.

A full-body spasm, his limbs jerking violently, his spine bowing off the floor so sharply it looks like he might snap in half.

His mouth parts on a soundless scream—

You scramble.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, the bathroom, you

There’s no time to hesitate.

Your body moves before your mind does—a frantic, instinctive lurch toward the counter. Your foot slips on the wet tile, your balance tilting, adrenaline surging, hands reaching—

The first thing you touch.

A razor.

Small. Sharp. Cold.

It gleams beneath the dim light, shaking violently in your grip as you turn back toward him.

Caleb convulses again.

A violent, spine-wrenching shudder, his head snapping to the side, fingers twitching like a puppet with cut strings.

He’s slipping. Fast.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are barely a breath, a whisper raw with desperation, breaking under the weight of what you’re about to do.

Tears blur your vision.

But there’s no other option.

You press the blade to the back of his neck—

And cut.

——————————————————————————

The second the blade slices through flesh—

Caleb seizes.

A guttural, choked noise rips from his throat, a sound you’ve never heard before, something torn from the depths of his body, raw and inhuman.

His fingers claw weakly at the floor, reaching, grasping, desperate—

His right arm hangs useless, lifeless.

The wound splits open.

Beneath the broken skin—

Metal.

A panel, embedded deep beneath his flesh, glinting dull and silver in the dim light.

Then—the blood.

It wells up thick and red, spilling down his spine, pooling at the base of his neck, slick and wet against your trembling fingers. The smell hits first—sharp, metallic, coppery. The heat of it seeps into your hands, sticky, thick, staining your palms, your wrists, smearing across the floor beneath him.

Your fingers fumble, scrambling against the slickness, slipping, coated in red, but you find it—

The small access point.

Click.

The panel pops open.

Inside—wires. Circuits.

And one glowing core.

The chip.

You don’t think.

You can’t.

You grab it.

And yank.

——————————————————————————

Electricity surges.

A burst of pure energy races through Caleb’s body, a violent arc of static burning beneath his skin.

His back arches—

A scream breaks free—

The lights overhead flicker. Once. Twice.

Then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Caleb collapses.

His body hits the tile, unmoving.

His chest doesn’t rise.

His fingers don’t twitch.

You are still covered in his blood.

Wet. Sticky. Everywhere.

The scent clogs your lungs, burns your nose, smears across your skin in hot, crimson streaks.

And you—

You don’t know if you just killed him.

——————————————————————————

Chapter eight

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: I honestly don’t even know what to say—this hurt me on a metaphysical level. I really wanted Chapters 6 and 7 to be posted close together, and that banner announcement was the final push I needed to get them done. Now I just need a couple of days to breathe before diving into the final chapter. Maybe we all do. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻