#push and pull

[doctrined]

FIGHTER PILOT

synopsis; you had dreamed of this moment for years—joining the fleet force, flying among the best, and proving yourself in a world where only the strongest survived. being stationed under caleb, the renowned ace pilot, was an honor. he was sharp, disciplined, and impossibly skilled, a legend in his own right. everything about him demanded respect. but the moment lessons began, reality shifted. the excruciating world of fleet training was nothing compared to what lurked beneath the surface. caleb wasn’t just a pilot. he was something else entirely—something darker, something that watched you too closely, spoke too softly, and tested your limits in ways you never expected. you knew caleb as the perfect soldier, the controlled instructor. but perfection is a mask, and you were about to see what lay beneath.

in the cockpit, there’s no escape. and in his hands, neither is there mercy.

cw: this fic contains power imbalance (superior officer/instructor dynamic) and suspenseful psychological tension. expect aviation smut (cockpit intimacy, in-flight tension) with elements of authority kink, restraint/control themes, and explicit smut with detailed sensory descriptions. mind games and manipulation/gaslighting may be present as caleb pushes yn’s limits, blurring the line between training and something far more dangerous. additional warnings include breathplay/choking, danger kink (intimacy while flying), and obsession/possession themes as caleb’s control begins to take a darker turn. this is a corruption arc, where yn soon realizes that the perfect soldier isn’t just a legend—he’s something else entirely.

wc: 1.6k

chapter two:

p.s a light read for everyone. enjoy!

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ┈┈┈┈

⠀⠀⠀ Chapter One

Clear skies don’t mean safe landings.

You had dreamed of this moment for as long as you could remember—since the first time you looked up at the sky and saw those sleek fighter jets carving through the clouds, leaving a trail of awe in their wake. Joining the Fleet Force, becoming one of them. But now, sitting in the cockpit of a real fighter, your dream felt strangely suffocating.

Beside you was him.

Caleb. The man you had admired from a distance for years, the one who could twist a jet through the sky like it was an extension of his own body. The prodigy of the Fleet, with stories about him circulating throughout the academy—stories about his unrivaled skill, his unwavering discipline, and his control over everything in his path. Everyone revered him. Everyone feared him.

And now, you were in his cockpit, placed directly under his command. This was supposed to be a dream come true. But nothing prepared you for this moment. Nothing prepared you for the way he made you feel in the enclosed space of the cockpit.

“Hands on the yoke,” he commanded, his voice low, but not unkind. His tone was smooth, like velvet, but underneath it lay a steely edge. The way he spoke was controlled, calculated. There was no room for error in his world, not with him.

You placed your hands on the yoke, your fingers trembling slightly. Was it the height? The speed? The reality of flying? No. It was him. His presence. His quiet confidence that seemed to fill the space between you, suffocating the air until it felt thick with something else—something dangerous.

His hand moved over yours, almost casually, but you felt the heat of it instantly. A brush of his fingers over your knuckles, like he was testing you. The touch was nothing like you’d imagined—a professional, light gesture that shouldn’t have meant anything, yet it sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it rang in your ears like a command. “You’re flying like you’re afraid of it.”

He was right. You were afraid, but not of the plane. You were afraid of him.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable but intense, watching every move you made as if he could read your thoughts, anticipate your next mistake before you even made it. The pressure was immense. His fingers remained where they were, brushing over yours, not guiding but testing, like you were just one more thing he could control.

“Good,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting just slightly—though still distant. “You’re improving.”

The praise should have made you feel better, but instead, it only tightened the coil in your stomach. You weren’t sure what he wanted from you, but the longer you spent in the cockpit beside him, the more you understood: this wasn’t just about flying.

He leaned back slightly, not taking his hand off yours, but letting the subtle pressure shift, just enough to remind you that he was still in control. You felt the weight of it—his presence pressing in on you, the intimate space between you both almost suffocating.

“You need to focus,” he said, and his voice was a little colder now. His hand moved from yours, but not without a lingering touch that left a phantom burn on your skin. You turned your attention back to the controls, trying to steady your breath, trying to focus.

It wasn’t enough.

The plane suddenly jerked.

Your heart leapt into your throat as the world around you shifted. Instinct kicked in, but your hands moved too late. The plane veered, and you could feel the vibrations of the metal, the rush of wind outside pressing against the hull.

“Don’t panic,” Caleb said, voice calm, as if this was a training exercise and not a potential crash. “You’re in control. Take a breath.”

You couldn’t breathe.

The plane dropped again, a sharp dive that made your stomach twist.

“Focus!” His voice cut through the tension, sharp as a knife. “You’re not a rookie anymore, you’re a Fleet pilot. You handle this or you don’t fly.”

His gaze bore into you, commanding, unyielding. You forced yourself to exhale, to concentrate. You gripped the yoke, fingers digging into the smooth, cold surface, and slowly, painfully, you steered the plane back on course.

When it leveled out, your heartbeat thundered in your chest.

“That’s better,” Caleb said, his voice smoother now, almost like a purr. “You didn’t think you’d be able to do it, but you did.”

He looked at you like he knew something you didn’t. Like he had been watching you all along, reading you, seeing how far he could push you before you broke.

And you were starting to feel like you were breaking.

“Let’s see if you can handle some real turbulence.” Caleb’s words were quiet, but there was a hint of something darker behind them. Something that made you wary.

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but before you could speak, the plane dipped again, this time even more violently.

You instinctively gripped the yoke harder, your hands now slick with sweat. Caleb didn’t react, didn’t move a muscle. He simply watched, his cold eyes never leaving you.

“Don’t freeze,” he warned. “Fly like your life depends on it.”

It did.

Your knuckles went white as you gripped the yoke harder, trying to force the plane back into control. You fought against the pull of the turbulence, your heart racing in your chest, your breathing shallow and panicked. But through it all, you could feel his gaze, like a weight on your shoulders, pulling you deeper into the turbulence of your own emotions.

When the plane finally steadied, the relief you felt was short-lived. Caleb leaned closer to you, his breath warm against your ear.

“Well done,” he murmured, his voice as calm as if you were simply landing in a controlled environment. “But we both know you’re capable of more.”

His hand brushed over yours again, more deliberate this time, like a promise. But the promise wasn’t of safety. It was of something else. Something darker.

“Let’s take a break,” Caleb said, sitting back in his seat, his voice casual, almost too casual.

You turned to him, your chest still tight, still shaky. He didn’t seem affected by the ordeal at all. In fact, he looked almost pleased.

“You handled it well,” he said, but there was no praise in his voice—only a calm, assessing look that made your skin prickle.

You nodded, but inside, you weren’t sure if you could handle much more. You weren’t afraid of the sky, but of what Caleb was becoming to you.

The lesson was over, but the weight of it clung to you. Every breath felt heavier, as if the air was thicker now, charged with something you couldn’t name. You tried to shake off the tension that still coiled around you, but it wouldn’t release. Your hands were still trembling, your mind buzzing, unable to process the storm of emotions that Caleb had stirred up in such a short time. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, a reminder of just how close he was.

Your gaze flickered to him, but he wasn’t looking at you now. He was observing something outside the cockpit window, his posture relaxed as if he hadn’t just put you through hell. But you could see the faintest curve to his lips, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You had passed the test. But you knew—this was just the beginning.

The lesson had only just begun. And you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

[worldimaginedreaming]

Imagine a Toxic but Passionate Rendezvous with Silco

Summary: In his hidden lair, a heated argument turns into a stolen moment. Love with Silco has always walked a sharp line between devotion and control. But you still go back. Pairing: Silco x Reader Word count: ~1,250 Warnings: toxic romance, possessiveness, jealousy, psychological tension, passionate physical affection (not explicit)

You slam the door harder than you meant to.

It rattles in its frame, echoing through the low-lit room carved into Zaun’s bones. Pipes hiss above your head. The shimmer tank pulses faintly, casting Silco’s desk in a sickly blue hue. He doesn’t look up.

Of course he doesn’t.

You cross the floor, jaw tight, boots loud against concrete. “So that’s it, then? You send men to follow me now?”

He sits still in the worn leather chair, gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin. Calm. Too calm.

“Zaun’s streets aren’t safe,” he says evenly.

You scoff. “You’re not worried about my safety. You’re worried I talked to someone you didn’t approve of.”

He tilts his head, finally meeting your eyes. That red one — the one that sees too much, reads between every breath you take.

“You were seen at the border with a chem baron’s courier. I’d be a fool not to question it.”

“And I’d be a fool to stay,” you shoot back, voice rising. “I’m not your spy. I’m not your pawn. I’m your—”

You stop yourself before the word tumbles out. His eye narrows.

“Finish it,” he says quietly.

Your pulse kicks up.

He rises slow, deliberate and crosses the room in just a few steps. When he stops in front of you, you feel the heat of his anger, but it’s leashed. Barely.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs.

You should flinch. Run. Scream.

But you don’t.

Because the worst part is that you want to hear him say it.

You want to be wanted that fiercely even if it means being consumed.

His gloved hand touches your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “They don’t know you like I do.”

You exhale. Shaky. “You don’t own me.”

His grip tightens just for a second. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

You hate that you don’t have an answer. Or maybe you do, and you’re just too afraid to say it out loud.

Because you love him.

God help you, you love him — the rough, fraying edges, the obsession, the control. The fire behind every quiet word. The way he only breathes fully when you’re near.

And the way you only feel real when he’s watching.

His mouth is on yours before you realize you moved.

It’s not gentle. It never is. But it’s desperate. Like every word you threw at him carved something open and he’s trying to close it with his teeth.

You grab his collar, fingers curling in the fabric, and kiss him back just as hard. You taste smoke and whiskey and something darker — him. Just him.

His hands slide to your hips, then up your back, rough but reverent. Possessive. He grips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Maybe you will. But not tonight.

Later, you’re breathless on the old velvet couch in the back of his office. His coat is draped over you, and the shimmer tank hums in the silence. You lie with your head against his chest, his arm around you.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful but familiar.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again, like a vow. Or a warning.

And even though it should scare you, all you feel is the heat in your chest. The ache of wanting him — all of him, even the broken parts.

You turn your face into his shirt, inhale slowly, and let yourself believe the lie.

Just for tonight.

A/N : The second imagine of Silco. Hope u like it ! Have a good reading ! ^^ Lot of love ! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Please don't forget to share, like and subscribe !❤️❤️❤️❤️

[murdockhawkeye]

bella's power is actually perfect idc what anyone says about this

she can 1. jellify stuff 2. solidify stuff and 3. explode stuff

those were listed as three different powers in the wiki (gelidikinesis, substanciakinesis, and mecokinesis) last i checked but i'm personally of the belief it's all the same power and that she can do more

(i mean, i know some people think the 3 powers come from being alone in the moon pool - but in charlotte's case, i think the idea that she got them bc she wanted to be one of the girls makes more sense. which i'm not sure if it's sad or maybe obsessive bc of other stuff? or both? i have mixed feelings about charlotte and s2 atm)

all of those things fall under pressure manipulation - the ability to push pressure at a molecular level. which means that had the writers not forgotten about like the weather powers, bella would've definitely been able to create earthquakes - also, it's listed under the pressure manipulation wiki that users can have enhanced strength

bella. with super strength

bella could've had super strength. the writers are losers for not putting that in the show

and. one more thing. cleo's able to pull water/air around, while bella can push things inside at a molecular level. which makes them push and pull

[unsurprisinglyren]

Pre-series head canon; just before Sam is set to leave for Standford, Dean makes his move and forever changes the relationship between them.

What was between them, this twisted-up, perverse pleasure, nightly escapades and stolen glances, it was strung too tightly between them. A silk thread, poised to break. Delicate and beautifully brittle.

A glimmer of cobwebs stretched between Sam’s ribcage.

A gleam of gluttony in Dean’s gaze. Warm and improper; a secret held delicately between them both.

It had started innocuously enough. Not quite innocent. A press of Dean’s bicep against Sam’s arm as they sat side by side in an out of the way diners booth. Dad opposite them; talking some plan. A hunt. The typical salt-and-burn.

And Dean had felt the way Sam’s body had tensed. Saw the flicker of his eyelashes as he glanced first to dad, then down at his thick shake. The bright red straw, the ring of condensation left on the hard plastic tabletop when he lifted the drink to his lips.

And Dean had stared. Watching the way his little brother pursed his lips around the end of the straw, the way his cheeks hollowed out with each suck. The slurp and slosh of the milk shake. The very obvious obliviousness Sam was displaying.

The next time Dean had pressed his thigh hard up against Sam’s, instead. This time they were in a dingy cafe. Rundown. The waitstaff tired-eyed and slow-moving. It was late, or early, almost dawn. Not quite.

Sam had stiffened again, like last time. A slow tightening down the length of his spine. And something in Dean shifted, come undone. A slippery sort of emotion; a little like fondness, a lot like control.

A twisted sort of control. Where he used physical touch - wholly different than the usual shove or slap on Sam’s shoulder - this touch was private. Secluded. A brush of the back of his knuckles across Sam’s knee under the table. A lean into his personal space on the pretence of reaching for the sugar.

“Coffees too bitter.” He’d said, sparing Sam a glance and nothing more.

Sam didn’t rebuke it. Didn’t saying “but you like your coffee strong”. He sat very still and quiet, and let his big brother play.

It was only after dad and Sam had come to verbal blows about school and Sam’s future, that Dean ramped things up. There was a time limit now. He couldn’t lazily take his time; a touch here, a long look there. Couldn’t play this thing out slowly and sweetly, so he acted on impulse, beer sitting like a slosh of liquid courage and nausea in the pit of his gut.

He’d found Sam in the motel bathroom, red-rimmed eyes, cheeks rawed from crying. And really, Sam was wholly different than him and dad. Too soft. Too emotional.

Yet, despite dad’s opinion drilled into the very marrow of his bones - emotions are weakness - Dean rather liked the pinked cheeks and over-bright gaze.

“Come to have a go, too?” Sam had twisted up his mouth like he was biting back more words. Dean knew he wasn’t swallowing down the threat of fresh tears instead.

He stepped forward, casting a single look over his shoulder, but the motel room was empty, dad had taken off for some air. Hah. A stiff drink, more likely.

And Dean didn’t have a hope of convincing Sam to stay. Sam had made up his mind years ago. It was only a matter of time before dad and him went up like a powder keg, sparked and aflame and Dean stepped another step closer.

Sam’s gaze faltered, a little line of apprehension forming between his eyebrows. He didn’t understand what Dean was doing. His intentions. And to a degree Dean didn’t either. He was running on pure impulse and the dizzying need to close out this game of theirs before time was up.

“Dean?”

“Shut up.” It wasn’t meanly said. A breath. Quiet between them.

Shut up because it hurts to hear your voice.

Shut up because I’m mad at you. You’re going to leave me here with dad.

Shut up so I can kiss you.

And he did; a fumble of his fingers, outstretched, catching at the lapel of Sam’s jacket, drawing him in a step, another, until their toes bumped together, socked-feet, a rush of Sam’s breath, then Dean angled him down with a sharp tug at his jacket; and Sam went easily. Bending, dipping into the kiss like he’d expected it.

He hadn’t. Dean knew he hadn’t by the way his lips were trembling under Dean’s. Warm and not-quite pliant. But it changed swiftly, a lick of Dean’s tongue, just the tip, against Sam’s bottom lip. He tasted of salt from his tears. And something warmer. Heady and sweet and all Dean’s.

Sam opened for him; warmth and slickness and the barest little shudders of his body. It was enough. It had to be enough. It was chaste, broken by the sound of the impala’s engine, the slam of the drivers side door, the subsequent jangle of keys.

They broke apart just as dad entered. But it had been enough. The spark to light a bonfire. A pyre of wrongness and debauchery, yet oh so addictive.

A question that was left hanging between them, unanswered.

[avatar-legends-confessionblog]

I know it’s popular and I know it’s a motif that zutarians love but realistically

Zuko and Katara are not tui and la there is nothing push and pull about them. They have the exact same personality zuko’s just a bit angrier and katara’s more sarcastic but that’s more socialization. Even their functions with the story doesn’t support the push and pull. And honestly if any character relationship embodies tui and la it’s Aang and Zuko.

The foundation of their relationship is that they are Yin and Yang. Zuko and Aang spend the entire seasons locked in a push and pull relationship both emotionally and literally. (Emotionally Aang pulls zuko pushes, physically zuko pulls (trying to capture, Zuko is more a close range fighter), Aang pushes (getting away most defensive air bending is literally pushing people away)

Life and Death - Air is literally life you cannot survive without breathing and you need air to breathe. It is literally called the breath of life. In the past 100 years fire has become so synonymous with destruction and death people hate you on principle for being a fire bender. Even Zuko believed that fire bending was a tool for destruction to be used in anger. Also air can either fan or snuff out the flame, balance has to be reached to

Good and Evil - Aang by virtue of being the avatar is the “ultimate good” he also embodies a more child like innocence and his whole arc is figuring out a way to strike a balance between that innocence and duty meanwhile the Fire nation are the big bars and Suko is the face of that for a long time. He represents the darker side of child hood abuse and his entire arc is trying to regain some of that innocence back.

And I don’t even need to go into the yin and Yang you see the poem you get the metaphors.

But yeah Aang and Zuko are as tui and la as it gets which honestly it’s very specifically a water bending thing so the comparisons aren’t complete so take everything with a pinch of salt. And honestly tui and la is actually a wonderful metaphor for the physical flow of water bending because even just watching them you can see the push and pull.

But yeah Aang and zuko’s relationship to each other doesn’t get enough credit in fandom and Zuko and Katara’s is often forced into boxes it doesn’t quite fit.

They aren’t quite opposites attract the only opposite thing about them is fire and ice they are actually pretty similar, like their colors they are just hotter or cooler versions of the same personality. On similar ends on the sliding scale of temperament. And honestly I think that’s what makes them so fun!

If anything Zuko and Katara are two sides of the same coin. Similar in disposition different in socialization. It’s why the water siblings and the fire siblings mirror each other so well. Personality wise zuko is katara Azula is sokka if the conditions they grew up with were more extreme. (Obviously they have their differences) but even their principle relationships with their parents are similar. Zuko and Katara with their moms and Azula and Sokka with their fathers. (Again obviously the two parental situations are nothing alike just how they function with each child’s story is similar)

X

[daughter-of-lethe]

Nesta showing her feelings in actions

🤝

Cassian showing his feelings in actions

[pia-writes-things]

Push and pull - Chapter 2: Dignity

The first day at the White Tower University as lived by Siuan.

"As soon as Siuan woke up, she knew she’d had The Dream™ again. If the tear stains on her satin pillowcase, her sticky eyelashes and her salty cheeks weren’t enough clues, the nausea that rose as consciousness came to her was a sure sign."

Read on AO3.

[lyss-butterscotch]

Uh oh its be obsessed over a specific thing in multiple different fandoms enough to make one (1) fanart (maybe) and then never draw that fandom ever again time!

[thornilee013]

Bio/Masterpost

Name: Lee; they/them please!

Icon credit: @emry-stars-art

Timezone: Central US; UTC -6

Ao3: thornilee013

Main blog: @leedee013

Current WIP Projects:

Suncatchers and Golden Hours (AFTG; aka "Silly Little Jean Moreau Fic") Needle AU (AFTG) Baby Jean (AFTG) Etienne (AFTG) 101 Ways Not to Say I Do (AFTG) TLC (AFTG) Pulling Through (AFTG) "Originals" Winter Rose (1, 2) Characters (WR): Echo, Phillip, Jason 2064 Nightingale Way

Completed Projects:

Communication Issues (AFTG; 18+) Could Have Been Me (AFTG: Mixtape 2024) The Raven Queen (AFTG; Reverse Big Bang 2024) Push and Pull (AFTG; PG, Jean + Pottery) Out in the Open (AFTG; AFTG Pride Zine 2024) 1, 2, 3, Go! (AFTG; AFTG Pride Zine 2024) Lifeline (AFTG; AFTG Reverse Big Bang 2025)

For all writing updates, follow/look at the hashtag "lee's writing shenanigans"!

[hi-im-nova]

If you come across a pull/push door, here is what you do.

1st, try to push.

2nd, if 1 doesnt work then try pulling.

3rd, if neither 1 or 2 work? The door is probably locked and you shouldnt be there.

[doctrined]

⠀⠀FIGHTER PILOT

chapter one;

synopsis; You had dreamed of this moment for years—joining the fleet force, flying among the best, and proving yourself in a world where only the strongest survived. Being stationed under Caleb, the renowned ace pilot, was an honor. He was sharp, disciplined, and impossibly skilled, A legend in his own right. everything about him demanded respect. But the moment lessons began, reality shifted. the excruciating world of fleet training was nothing compared to what lurked beneath the surface. Caleb wasn’t just a pilot. he was something else entirely—something darker, something that watched you too closely, spoke too softly, and tested your limits in ways you never expected. You knew Caleb as the perfect soldier, the controlled instructor. But perfection is a mask, and you were about to see what lay beneath. In the cockpit, there’s no escape. and in his hands, neither is there mercy.

cw; This chapter contains sexual themes, power imbalance, manipulation, and psychological tension. Please read at your own risk. MDNI. 🔞

&. tags: @mariojins @dummiebunny @tenmaabnesti @starkdarya @darkx143 @rcvcgers @justpassingdontworry @icedoatlatte29 @spacenott @marina27826

word count: 3.16k

If anyone wants to be tagged in the upcoming chapters of this fic or Lucid Dreams, just comment below, and I’ll make sure to tag you. Only if you’d like to be tagged, of course!

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ┈┈┈┈

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ CHAPTER TWO

The mass hall aboard the fleet was a hive of activity, the air thick with the clatter of trays, low murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter. The overhead lights hummed with the same dull thrum of the ship’s engines, casting long shadows over the worn metal walls. Crew members, soldiers, and officers alike filled the space, sitting in groups, their voices rising and falling in casual chatter as they ate. The smell of synthetic food and fresh-brewed coffee clung to the air, a reminder of the sterile, yet strangely comforting, routine of life on board. You could hear the soft scrape of utensils against the metal trays, the clink of glasses being set down, and the rhythm of feet shuffling against the floor. It was a world of its own, disconnected from the vastness of space outside, but still thick with the weight of shared purpose.

As you walked into the hall, the noise shifted. It wasn’t a sudden silence, but a subtle lull in the conversations as eyes turned in your direction. You’d learned to tune it out, the constant awareness of being watched, but tonight, there was something different about the way the room felt. It was as if everyone knew something had shifted—you had shifted—and for a brief moment, it felt as though the whole mess hall had become a stage for a play that only the crew could understand. You made your way to the officer’s table, where a few familiar faces were already settled, deep in conversation. Your seat was toward the far end of the table, where the harsh light of the overheads didn’t quite reach. A sliver of the endless black of space was visible through the windows, distant stars twinkling like forgotten promises. It was the perfect spot—quiet enough to retreat into your own thoughts, but not so isolated as to feel like you were a stranger here.

“Glad you could join us,” said the gruff officer sitting next to you, his weathered face crinkling into a grin that didn’t quite touch his calculating eyes. He waved you in, a gesture that felt more formal than welcoming. You nodded, taking your seat, but you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off. The conversation around the table flowed easily enough—mostly idle chatter, a mix of war talk and the usual gripes about ration packs and ship repairs. But beneath the surface, something simmered. You could feel the weight of his presence across the table.

Caleb.

His eyes were on you—- always on you—like he was trying to pull the answers from the very air around you. Every so often, you caught him glancing in your direction, his gaze lingering a second too long before he quickly turned his attention back to his plate, as though he hadn’t been caught. It wasn’t new. Caleb had always been a master of subtlety. But tonight, the tension felt palpable, as if every stolen glance was a thread slowly pulling between you, stitching you both into something neither of you could quite name. You tried to ignore it. You tried to focus on your meal, on the conversation at the table, but it was impossible. Every time your eyes flickered over to him, you saw it—his smirk, the flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it would vanish behind the mask of the officer he was, the soldier in him that had been honed in years of service. But you knew him better than that.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, reaching for your drink. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—under the table, his fingers brushing against your leg just enough to send a shock through your body. It was barely there, a whisper of contact, but it felt like an electric current running between you, undeniable and dangerous.

“Something on your mind?” The younger officer beside you leaned in slightly, a teasing edge to her voice. She’d noticed the way you tensed, how your attention had drifted from the conversation. But her gaze lingered on Caleb as well, as if she too was aware of the quiet war being waged between you two.

You forced a smile, your fingers curling around your drink. “Just… distracted,” you muttered, your voice tight. But you couldn’t stop the way your eyes flicked back to Caleb once more.

He was still watching you. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the edge of his plate, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the pull of his gaze, like gravity drawing you closer with every passing second. The moment his hand brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine, you couldn’t breathe. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t look at him—- but the intensity of the moment hit you like a freight train. His fingers lingered there, just a second too long, and when you finally did glance up at him, he was already looking away, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck flexing as if he were holding himself back.

You stood abruptly, pushing your chair back, a stammering apology slipping past your lips as heat crawled up your neck. Every head at the table turned toward you, but none of them mattered—only his hand, now gone from your thigh as if it had never been there at all. The absence of his touch was humiliating, not because of the audacity he possessed, but because of the way your body still burned where his fingers had been. Your hurried steps faltered slightly as you left the table, your heart racing, the ache between your legs unbearable. It had been two weeks of this—of Caleb’s relentless teasing, of stolen touches when no one was looking, of lingering glances during lessons in the cockpit. You had hoped tonight would be different, that you could sit through dinner without feeling like your sanity was slipping. But he had other plans. And worse? You had let him. Again.

The deep murmur of conversation and laughter faded the further you got from the mess hall, and relief flooded through you at the thought of finally being alone, of catching your breath and piecing together the reckless, crumbling thoughts swirling in your head. But just as you rounded a corner, a cold hand gripped the nape of your neck and yanked you back. A quiet yelp tore from your lips as you were pulled into a shadowed alcove between two bulkheads. The cool metal of the ship pressed against your spine, and before you could react, Caleb was there—towering, close, his fingers firm against your skin.

“Relax, pipsqueak,” he mused, voice low, almost amused as he squeezed the back of your neck. “It’s just me.”

Your pulse was a frantic staccato beneath his fingers. The dim lighting cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the dangerous smirk that curled at his lips.

“Let me go.” You hated the way your voice trembled, hated that it wasn’t conviction but anticipation that made your breath hitch.

Caleb didn’t move. If anything, his grip softened just slightly, fingers grazing over your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You keep saying that.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “But then you run.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let him see how your knees nearly buckled when he spoke like that—like he knew exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed, even before you did.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” you muttered, though it was a flimsy excuse at best.

He hummed, tilting his head. “Is that right?”

Before you could respond, he was already moving—gripping your wrist, guiding you down the hall like he had every right to do so. The corridor was empty, the hum of the ship the only sound as he led you past a row of locked doors, each step sending your pulse higher. Your boots barely made a sound against the metal floor as he finally stopped, pressing a code into a panel beside a door. It slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a small maintenance room—dimly lit, empty except for a few storage crates and a workbench pushed against the far wall. Before you could question it, Caleb pulled you inside, the door sliding shut behind him. And then you were against it, the cool metal biting into your back, his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest.

His eyes darkened, the smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. “Giving you that break you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists at your sides. “This—this has to stop.”

Caleb tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking over your face, reading every unspoken word, every inch of hesitation. “Then stop me.”

Your breath caught.

The worst part was, you knew you wouldn’t.

You should push him away, remind him of the rules, of the lines he kept crossing, of the danger in whatever this was becoming. But instead, when his fingers ghosted down your arm, when his body pressed just enough to make you feel the heat of him, your resolve cracked.

This was a mistake.

A reckless, intoxicating mistake.

And you were letting it happen all over again. A shudder racked through you, spine straightening as heat prickled along your skin, your nipples pebbling underneath the light fabric of your dress. It was soft, delicate—completely at odds with the sharp hunger in Caleb’s gaze as he leaned in, eyes dark and lidded. He dragged his lower lip between his teeth, exhaling a quiet chuckle as his stare dropped to your chest.

“No bra, huh?” His voice was a purr of amusement, thick with something deeper, something that made your breath hitch. His knuckle lifted, grazing over the curve of your right breast, barely a touch—so light it should have meant nothing, but it sent fire licking through your veins. Instinctively, your back arched, your hips shifting ever so slightly toward him, seeking more. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to keep still, to resist the pull of his touch.

But Caleb saw everything. He always did.

A slow smirk stretched across his lips, lazy and knowing. “You always do this, you know.”

Your breath was uneven. “Do what?”

His fingers trailed down, barely brushing the underside of your breast before retreating, leaving you aching, restless. “Pretend you don’t want me to touch you.” His voice dipped lower, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “But you do.”

You shuddered, gripping his forearm, unsure whether it was to push him away or keep him close. “Caleb, we’re going to get caught.”

That only seemed to amuse him more. His hand dipped lower, skimming down your waist, fingers pressing, teasing—each touch featherlight but devastating. His free hand reached up, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Then you’d better be quiet,” he murmured.

Your heart pounded as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your dress, dragging up the inside of your thigh with agonizing slowness. Heat pooled deep in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat.

“Caleb—”

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he found exactly what he was looking for. His fingers traced over the damp heat between your thighs, slow, lazy strokes that sent a violent shiver through you. Your head tipped back against the cold wall, the need to breathe suddenly a battle you were losing.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice just as wrecked as you felt. His forehead pressed to yours, his fingers never stopping, never relenting. “You’re so wet for me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulder, your body betraying you as your hips rolled forward, desperate for more.

But then—footsteps. Close. Too close.

Your stomach twisted with panic, but before you could pull away, Caleb was already moving. His hand clamped over your mouth, silencing the helpless sound that slipped from your lips as he pressed you back into the shadows. Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts against his palm, your body trembling.

Someone was looking for you. A voice called out, distant but searching.

Your wide eyes snapped to Caleb’s, your hands gripping at his jacket, as if anchoring yourself. You shook your head at him, silently pleading. Not now. Not like this.

But Caleb—fucking Caleb—- just watched you. Watched every little tremor, every ragged breath, his own mouth parted, his eyes dark with something primal.

His fingers curled ever so slightly inside you. There.

White-hot pleasure slammed through you so suddenly you nearly cried out, but his hand was still over your mouth, trapping every broken sound. You clenched down around his fingers, your entire body seizing as the pleasure crested, your mind blanking. The sensation was unbearable, overwhelming—pleasure mixed with terror, the risk of getting caught heightening every pulse of sensation. You clung to him, burying your whimpers against his palm, gripping the back of his neck so tightly your fingers ached. Your entire body shook, the high dragging out endlessly because he wouldn’t stop—his fingers continued their slow torment, pushing you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were nothing but a trembling mess against him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, in awe, watching the way your body shuddered with aftershocks. His hand finally dropped from your mouth, and your ragged breaths filled the space between you.

The footsteps were gone.

The world returned slowly, your vision swimming as you blinked up at him, chest rising and falling erratically.

Caleb smirked, his face impossibly close. His breath fanned across your lips as he murmured, “I told you to be quiet.”

You barely had time to register the words before his mouth was on yours—soft, deliberate. A claiming.

No tongue. Just a bite. Just his lips pressing against yours, taking, savoring. Breathing you in.

By the time he pulled away, you were still trembling, your mind still catching up to what had just happened.

And Caleb? He just smirked.

“You really should be more careful,” he teased, wiping his fingers off on the hem of your dress. “Someone might notice how wrecked you look.”

Your body burned at his words, but you didn’t have the strength to fight back.

You’d lost.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

Caleb watched you for a moment longer, his dark eyes tracing the tremors still rippling through your body. His lips curled into a dark look, something dangerous lurking beneath the casual facade. Without another word, he pulled his hand away from your trembling form and stepped back, the distance between you now palpable. His gaze never wavered as he studied you, like a predator appraising his prey, savoring the aftermath.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, his voice low and commanding. “I expect you to be ready. Piloting lesson. No distractions.”

His words hung in the air like a promise, heavy with the weight of unspoken tension. There was no warmth in his tone—only the cold, calculated authority that had defined him from the start. It was as if the moment between you two had never happened, as if his touch had been nothing more than an inconvenient detour. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your body was still shaking, your breath ragged in your chest, struggling to catch up with the storm he’d unleashed in you. Caleb seemed to relish the silence, his expression never faltering, even as you remained frozen against the wall, your hands still gripping the edges of his jacket in desperation. He gave you one last look, a glance that was both possessive and dismissive, before turning toward the door. His boots clicked against the cold floor, each step a reminder of the power he held over you, and the power he was so determined to maintain.

“Don’t make me wait,” he added, almost like an afterthought, his words cutting through the thick silence. “You know what’s at stake.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you in the stillness of the room, the sound of his footsteps fading away. You leaned back against the cold wall, your heart still racing, your mind reeling from the moment he’d stolen from you. It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But still, there was a pull, a craving deep within you that refused to be ignored. A part of you wanted to scream, to throw yourself into something—anything—to escape the suffocating grip he had on you. But the other part, the part you hated, craved more. More of him. More of the control. More of the tension that twisted inside you every time you thought of him.

You finally pushed yourself off the wall, taking a few unsteady steps forward, the weight of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Caleb’s words echoed in your mind, a reminder of tomorrow’s lesson, tomorrow’s inevitable confrontation. The idea of facing him again sent another jolt of excitement through you, mixed with a sharp pang of fear.

One thing was clear: this was far from over.

You took a deep breath, forced your hands to steady, and nodded to yourself. Tomorrow, you would be ready. For whatever he threw at you.

And somehow, you knew that wasn’t the last of him.

[vykio]

"Kevar - Push & Pull" for the Wip game s'il te plaît Taeeeee <3

WIP Game!

Your wish is my command 🫡

Aaron squeezes the hand in Kevin’s hair, admonishing, and says, “Not yet.”  Kevin huffs, blue and reverent and defiant. Aaron allows himself to think he hung the moon exactly there to cast this light on this look—he put that there too, and it’s for him. At Kevin, Aaron narrows his eyes in warning. He tries to ignore it when Kevin glides the tips of his nails over Aaron’s ribcage, but it tickles and pulls a surprised, full-body shiver from Aaron.  “Asshole,” Aaron says with no bite, wrapping his hand around Kevin’s wrist and squeezing. He lets go to slide his hand up Kevin’s forearm, caressing. Kevin breathes, “Aaron.” It’s soft, a pleased exhale—a plea. Aaron chases it back to his lips to kiss him.

[navybrat817]

Do you have a Bucky x Nick story?

Sadly, nonnie, the fics I have that feature both Nick and Bucky, Nick is soft!dark or dark. Heed the warnings.

Well, this you just have to read. I won't spoil it.

I would actually love to write a fic where both are dark or not and willingly share you. I also have an idea in mind for dark!Bucky and Nick actually being a decent guy.

Love and thanks! ❤️

[1000-year-old-virgin]

Cynthia Erivo - Push and Pull

[imagine-creative]

I love a good toxic couple 🧎🏼‍♀️

“Those rose color glasses you got on are dangerous”- Daisy 🌼

[wayti-blog]

"Scientists are a step closer to unraveling the mysterious forces of the universe after working out how to measure gravity on a microscopic level."

"(...) now physicists at the University of Southampton, working with scientists in Europe, have successfully detected a weak gravitational pull on a tiny particle using a new technique.

They claim it could pave the way to finding the elusive quantum gravity theory.

The experiment, published in Science Advances, used levitating magnets to detect gravity on microscopic particles—small enough to border on the quantum realm.

Lead author Tim Fuchs, from the University of Southampton, said the results could help experts find the missing puzzle piece in our picture of reality.

He added, "For a century, scientists have tried and failed to understand how gravity and quantum mechanics work together. Now we have successfully measured gravitational signals at a smallest mass ever recorded, it means we are one step closer to finally realizing how it works in tandem.

"From here we will start scaling the source down using this technique until we reach the quantum world on both sides. By understanding quantum gravity, we could solve some of the mysteries of our universe—like how it began, what happens inside black holes, or uniting all forces into one big theory.""

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