#and we're supposed to be there to help them learn

[dailyralsei]

thinking about this comic again. heh. allow me to textdump something i talked about with someone else in my replies on another site plus some new brain thoughts... biiig big text dump under the cut

ralsei likes to keep everything proper and in order in terms of roles: in chapter 1 he's stern about susie's misbehavior when she should be kinder as a hero, because she is "supposed to act like one". when she goes against this predetermined role, he tells her off but didn't realize he was being hurtful in the moment. it's established from then on that susie is the damage dealer with rude buster, ralsei is the support/healer with healprayer, and kris is the tactician with their ACTs. those are their unique abilities. in chapter 2 in the sweet cap n cakes fight, ralsei says kris's unique ability is directing susie and ralsei to ACT, and he likely says this not just because he wants to keep each person's roles unique, but also so everyone feels important and not left out.

at the beginning of the church dark world kris gets badly injured due to the glass and susie tries to heal them but it doesn't help because susie's healing at that point isn't strong enough to make a significant impact. ralsei finds them, presumably actually looking for the final prophecy panel so he knows where it is and to direct susie away from it (he says "where is it" before appearing on screen). susie asks ralsei if he can teach her how to heal better, and in hurrying to heal kris he pushes her aside. after that, ralsei tells susie not to try to heal people on her own not just because she's "not good enough" yet as it was a dire situation, but i believe it's because he knows that it's not her specific assigned job. notice how he says "don't try to fix it /alone/" instead of "you need to learn how to heal better/i can teach you how to heal better". ralsei of course doesn't realize the way he acted was harmful to susie because he's under the impression that everyone has "their thing" and healing is his thing so he should be called to help as he's the healer, and his purpose is especially important to him because he believes being a darkner is all about being useful to lightners. he, specifically, wants to be useful and called for his role because he says it's what makes darkners fulfilled, but i also feel like ralsei in particular has self worth issues more than other darkners, which amplifies his desire to be useful and to be used when needed.

then comes the next instance of ralsei being "the healer" when they all fall down into the dark zone before meeting jackenstein. i wasn't able to add this in the comic because it would have made it longer than it already is, would have included a page about it if i had more time. susie says something like "here kris, let me-" and then ralsei maxheals all of them with one spell. he says something like "everyone feeling better?/everyone okay?" and susie is bothered by this because she is again denied the chance to practice her healing, which we learn is what she's been trying to do ever since she learned how to heal after the jackenstein fight when gerson talks to her. she says "i should just stick to what i'm good at, the hurting people magic", even she knew there was an established "everyone's good at one unique thing and that's why we're all equally important and to stick to our roles"

and then, gerson pushes her to use her healing after she declares quitting so she can believe in herself again. she solves jackenstein's problem by accident, but ralsei doesn't know that until she points out that she was trying to heal the old man. ralsei is surprised that she did it after so many of his failed attempts, and he realizes he's been healing the wrong thing this entire time trying to repeatedly heal jackenstein. he /is/ the healer after all, this is his thing! he's supposed to be the best at healing, he should know how to heal someone that's in pain. but no, the person with the worse healing ability, the /damager/, is the one to solve the problem. iirc when he says "i was wondering why my healing wasn't working" he uses the sad smile portrait (the eyebagless version of that one where he has eyebags and is smiling). when he says "i suppose i was only healing the outside" iirc the dialogue portrait is the surprised neutral, as if pointing out "i guess i was wrong, at the one thing i'm good at doing......". he believes he failed at his role, he didn't fulfill his purpose. and we know how much he clings to his purpose, as if he thinks being useful is the only thing that makes him likeable. he even says "if there's one thing i like about me, it's my face" implying he doesn't like anything about himself, or doesn't see anythimg about himself that is likeable.

i believe ralsei is proud of susie when she maxheals all of them before the titan fight, that's why the page where that happens has him in awe at susie's abilities instead of resenting her. his dialogue portrait is the surprised blush when saying "susie..." because he thinks it's nice that susie is powerful at healing now. in fact i don't think he ever resented susie, just beat himself up for not being "useful enough". he beats himself up for no longer being unique and he believes he is no longer important or needed because of this. and i headcanon that that's why, in the most important fight they've faced so far where you'd need healing the most, that DUALHEAL becomes less and less effective every time it's cast, because ralsei and susie are working together, and ralsei thinks he's a failed healer. the one time ralsei has a significant helping hand with healing, a REAL *DUAL* heal, he falters, because he doesn't feel worthy anymore, because he's not uniquely the best healer and therefore he's not important anymore.

okay more brain thoughts time!! not specifically about the comic but i wanted to ramble so here you go

another thing, at the start of chapter 4 he mentions developing his own fears. at the end of chapter 3 he gives that horrible "pep talk" to tenna about darkners all going obsolete eventually and i think one of his fears is just that; even if he says it's supposed to go that way he's still terrified of it. he doesn't want to be thrown away. he doesn't want to be alone again.

he says at the beginning that he's been waiting "his whole life" for the heroes to arrive. then in chapter 2 he says "it's been ever so long", then susie says "we've only been gone a day" and he says something like "oh! that is, short, isn't it?" as if a day feels like AGES to him, very likely because he got created mere days before chapter 1 takes place. could have even been created the same day as chapter 1 because another lightner would have found the supply closet dark fountain easily if it was around for longer than a week. and it's also sadder to think that he felt like it was such a long time because he had nothing to do but prepare for the heroes alone, sit and wait alone, practice giving tutorials alone, rehearsing his summary of the prophecy alone... hiding his face, because he wasn't sure if the heroes would like it, because he didn't know if there's anything likeable about himself... he probably would have never taken that cloak off if it weren't for susie.......

now i'm going on a tangent but since i believe noelle was supposed to be the second hero and susie is the girl in "at last, the girl" if susie wasn't late, if alphys said kris and noelle should get the chalk, if noelle was the one to enter the dark world with kris, ralsei really would have never taken that cloak off. noelle wouldn't have told him to, because she likely wouldn't have been so blunt towards ralsei like susie was. that's why he's cloaked in the prophecy murals. GODDDDDDD

okay that's enough rambling.... they gotta kill me man. instead of brain, there is ralsei.

the healer ( all 11 pages + 2 new bonus pages )

this is a comic i made based on chapter 4, where ralsei is noticeably protective over the ability to heal against susie. what really pushed me to make the comic was learning that DUALHEAL in the final boss battle of chapter 4 gets worse every time you cast it, and at first i couldn't understand why ralsei was being a bit mean towards susie. when i learned about the thing with DUALHEAL, it clicked.

thank you for reading :) let me know what you think! i love reading comments and tags!!! it's my favorite part of posting on tumblr!!

[charmnyu]

 ᘏᘏ seven times you and luke castellan almost kissed! (and the one time you actually did)

‿◞ ♡ word count — 6.0k i don’t have an explanation give it a chance bae 😞

‿◞ ♡ synopsis: you and luke castellan are enemies, (hence why you’re a child of athena an he’s the son of hermes)— but theres tension. heavy tension. thats why you almost kissed luke six times (and plus the one time you succeeded!)

lovequeue ୧ notes: fluff 2 angst again ?? kissing, blood, scars, injuries and thats all i know of 😞 lmk is theres more i’m so tired.. i love u lei be the mother 2 my kids u guys say ty to leilani for being a proofreader and the bringer of this idea 😛🤑 also u don’t now how many times i almsot got caught in my cabin writing ts i’m crying

the thing about being athena's kid is that you're supposed to be smart. strategic. you're supposed to see three moves ahead, anticipate every outcome, never get caught off guard. but luke castellan has this way of making all that wisdom feel useless, like he's playing a completely different game with rules you never learned.

you hate him with the kind of intensity that makes your siblings worry you're gonna to do something stupid. which, to be fair, you probably are. (can you blame them?)

— . INCIDENT #1

the first time it almost happens, it’s in the dead of knife, sharpening your knife because you can't sleep. again. insomnia runs in your family, along with the tendency to overthink everything until your brain feels like it's going to explode. you're sitting cross-legged on the floor, zoning out and letting your mind wander, when the door creaks open.

"figured i'd find you here," luke says, and you don't look up because you know that voice, know the way it sounds when he's tired and his guard is down just a little.

"go away, castellan."

but he doesn't. instead he settles down across from you, close enough that you can smell the shampoo and something else that's just him. and for a while you both just sit there in the dim light, taking care of your weapons in silence.

"you know," he says eventually, "most people would be asleep right now."

"most people aren't planning how to beat you in tomorrow's sparring match."

he laughs, soft and low. "is that what you're doing? because i hate to break it to you, but sharpening your knife isn't going to help when we're using practice swords."

you finally look up, ready to snap something back at him, but he's closer than you expected. close enough to see the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, close enough to count his eyelashes if you wanted to. which you don't. obviously.

"i have other plans," you say, but your voice comes out quieter than intended.

"yeah? like what?"

and suddenly you're leaning forward, drawn by something you can't name, and he's doing the same. the space between you shrinks to nothing, and you can feel his breath against your lips, warm and unsteady. your heart is doing something warm in your chest, and for a second you forget why you're supposed to hate him. (you can’t count how many times this has happened to you. gods, he’s so pretty it makes your brain all fuzzy and makes it feel like it’s going to explode…)

then the door slams open and clarisse walks in, looking for her spear, and you spring apart like you've been burned. luke clears his throat and goes back to polishing his sword, and you focus very hard on your knife, cheeks burning.

clarisse gives you both a weird look but doesn't say anything, just grabs her weapon and leaves. the moment is gone, shattered like glass, and you can't figure out if you're relieved or disappointed.

“y’guys are so weird,” she says without looking at the both of you. “too obvious.” and she slams the door, a hint of arrogance and bitterness in her tone of voice. embarrassing.

luke shifts awkwardly. "i should go," luke says after a minute, standing up and giving you a small, nervous smile.

you nod, not trusting yourself to say anything that would make him want to stay. it takes you another hour to finish with your knife, and you tell yourself it's because you want it perfect, not because your hands won't stop shaking and your mind keeps wandering, and you keep thinking what would’ve happened if clarisse didn’t walk in?

the second time is a couple of months later, during capture the flag. your team is currently winning, and you've been tracking luke through the woods for the better part of an hour. he's good – annoyingly good – but you're better at reading the signs. broken twigs, disturbed leaves— everything.

you find him by the creek, crouched behind a fallen log with the red team's flag in his hands. he hasn't seen you yet, too focused on the sounds of battle echoing through the trees, and you take a moment to study him. there's dirt smudged across his cheek and his hair is falling into his eyes, and something in your chest does this stupid fluttering thing that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

you step on a branch on purpose, loud enough to make him spin around, sword already in hand.

"hey there, castellan."

his face breaks into that grin that makes half the camp (specifically the aphrodite children) go weak in the knees. not you, though. definitely not you.

"should have known they'd send their best tracker after me."

"flattery won't save you." you draw your own sword, settling into a fighting stance. "drop the flag."

"come and take it."

the fight is brutal and beautiful, the kind of dance you've been perfecting for years. he's stronger but you're faster, and you know his tells – the way his left shoulder dips before he strikes, how he favors his right side when he's getting tired. you drive him back step by step, until he's pressed against a tree with nowhere to go.

your sword is at his throat, the flag forgotten on the ground between you, and you're both breathing hard. there's sweat beading on his forehead and his shirt is torn at the shoulder, and you realize with a start that you're standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"give me the flag," you say, but it comes out breathless.

his eyes drop to your mouth. "make me."

and god, you want to. you want to close the distance between you and find out if he tastes like the strawberries he's always stealing from the dining pavilion. want to run your fingers through his hair and see if it's as soft as it looks. the want is so strong it makes you dizzy, makes you forget why you're supposed to be enemies.

you lean in, just a fraction, and his breath hitches. his free hand comes up to rest on your hip, thumb brushing against the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, and you're about to do something incredibly stupid when a horn blows in the distance.

game over. your team won.

you step back so fast you nearly trip, and luke's hand falls away from your hip like he's been burned. the flag is still on the ground between you, forgotten, and you can't quite meet his eyes.

"good game," he says finally, voice rough.

you nod and grab the flag, needing something to do with your hands. "yeah. good game."

you leave him there by the creek and try not to think about the way he said your name when you walked away, soft and wondering.

the third time happens during the summer solstice celebration. there's a bonfire and music and more alcohol than chiron would probably approve of if he knew about it. you're sitting on a log at the edge of the festivities, nursing a cup of something that burns going down and watching your siblings attempt to teach some of the younger campers new tricks and skills.

you're not much of a party person. too loud, too chaotic, too many variables you can't control. but annabeth had given you that look – the one that says she's worried about you spending too much time alone with your books – so here you are, making an appearance.

"not dancing?"

you don't have to look to know it's luke. he settles beside you on the log, close enough that his knee bumps against yours, and you take another sip of wine to steady yourself.

"not really my thing."

"come on, where's your camp spirit?"

you snort. "i think you've got enough for both of us."

he's quiet for a moment, watching the dancers spin around the fire. the light flickers across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. you force yourself to look away.

"you know," he says eventually, "we don't have to hate each other."

"says who?"

"says me. says the fact that we're both going to be here for— forever. it might be nice to not want to strangle each other every time we're in the same room." "but where's the fun in that?"

he laughs, and the sound does something warm and dangerous to your insides. "you're impossible."

"so i've been told."

the music changes to something slower, more melodic, and couples start pairing off around the fire. luke stands and extends a hand to you, and you stare at it like it might bite you. you cringe at it— it’s exactly like those high school romance movies you were forced to watch with your siblings.

"dance with me."

"i told you— i don't dance."

"i'll teach you."

and maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the way the firelight makes his eyes look gold instead of brown, but you find yourself taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. he leads you away from the crowd, to a secluded area with a fewer amount of people and where the music is softer and the shadows deeper.

his hand settles on your waist and yours goes to his shoulder, and suddenly you're swaying together in the darkness. you've never been this close to him for this long, never noticed the way he smells like leather and something clean and sharp that might be vanilla.

"see?" he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. "not so bad."

you're about to make some sarcastic comment when he spins you out and back in, and you end up pressed against his chest with his arms around you. your faces are inches apart, and you can see every detail – the flecks of gold in his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips part slightly when he looks at you.

the world narrows to just this: his hands on your back, your heart hammering against your ribs, the space between you that's getting smaller by the second. you're going to kiss him. you're actually going to do it this time, consequences be damned.

"luke! there you are!"

chris appears out of nowhere, slightly drunk and completely oblivious to what he's just interrupted. "we need you for the sing-along. connor bet travis he couldn't remember all the words to those american girl songs, and now they're arguing about it."

luke's arms drop from around you, and you step back, trying to look like you weren't just about to kiss your supposed enemy in front of half the camp.

"i should..." luke starts, looking between you and chris.

"just go," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds. "they’re waiting for you"

he hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but then chris is dragging him away and you're left standing alone in the shadows, heart still racing and lips tingling with anticipation for something that didn't happen.

you go back to your cabin early that night and lie awake staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way luke's hands felt on your waist or how right it felt to be in his arms.

— . INCIDENT #4

the fourth time is during a thunderstorm in late july. you're in the big house library, researching something for a project annabeth assigned, when the power goes out. (how amazingly cliche…) the old building groans and settles around you, and rain lashes against the windows hard enough to make them rattle.

you're not afraid of storms – athena kids don't really do irrational fears – but there's something unsettling about being alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of thunder and your own breathing.

“ugh,” you groan, letting out sigh of annoyance. “damn it.”

you get up and (terribly) try and navigate yourself out of the big house using the dark light from outside. terrible idea. which—! is very rare for you; your ideas are always well-thought and planned.

"hello?" luke's voice echos, and then he appears in the doorway with a battery-powered lantern in his hand. "saw the light go out from the hermes cabin. figured someone might be stuck in here."

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you nearly wince at the sight of luke’s face go from smug to a frown. “…well. thanks, i guess. i’m fine.” you say automatically, even though you're clearly not fine, considering you're still groping around in the dark like an idiot.

he sets the lantern on the table, casting everything in a warm yellow glow. "what are you working on?"

you gesture to the books scattered across the table. "research. annabeth wants a full report on pre-classical greek military tactics by tomorrow."

"of course she does." he settles into the chair across from you, making no move to leave. "mind if i wait out the storm here? hermes cabin is basically a wind tunnel right now."

you shrug, trying to look indifferent. "free country."

but you're hyperaware of his presence as you go back to your books, the way he drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking, the soft sound of his breathing. the storm rages outside, and the library feels smaller somehow, more intimate in the flickering light.

"you know," he says after a while, "you don't have to prove anything to her."

you look up from your notes. "excuse me?"

"annabeth. you don't have to be perfect all the time. she's not going to love you any less if you turn in a report that's only mostly comprehensive instead of completely exhaustive."

the observation hits closer to home than you'd like to admit. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"sure you don't." his voice is gentle, understanding in a way that makes your chest tight. "it's okay, you know. to want people to be proud of you."

"what’s are you—"

"i do it too," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "i’m guilty of it. unfortunately.” he looks away from you, a visible frown on his face.

“try to be what everyone needs me to be. the perfect counselor, reliable brother, the guy who always has his shit together. it's exhausting."

you stare at him, this boy you've spent two years thinking you understood, and realize you don't know him at all. there's something vulnerable in his expression, something raw and honest that makes you want to reach across the table and touch his hand.

"luke..."

thunder crashes overhead, loud enough to make you both jump, and the moment breaks. but then the lights flicker back on and immediately go out again, plunging you back into darkness. the lantern has died too, leaving you in complete blackness.

"shit," luke mutters, and you hear him moving around. "hang on, i think there are more batteries in—"

there's a crash as he runs into something, followed by a string of creative curses that would make mr. d proud. you can't help it – you start laughing.

"it's not funny," he says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

he can’t help but admire and savor your laugh— from out of all your siblings, they’re pretty stoic. a cold and uncaring facade on most of them. (your a victim) he almost forget that their human, sometimes. hearing your laugh made his heart stop for a moment and made his stomach turn.

"it's a little funny."

you're both moving toward each other in the dark, hands outstretched, and you collide somewhere in the middle of the room. his hands land on your shoulders and yours end up pressed against his chest, and suddenly you're not laughing anymore.

"woah," he whispers with an amused tone. “miss me already?”

his thumb traces along your collarbone, and you shiver. you can't see him but you can feel him everywhere – the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the way his breathing has gone shallow and quick.

"we should find those batteries," you say, but you don't move away.

"probably."

neither of you moves. his hand slides up to cup your cheek, and you lean into the touch without thinking. this is dangerous territory, the kind of moment that changes everything, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"i can't see you," he murmurs, "but i bet you're beautiful right now."

your breath catches and you cover it up with a snarky remark. "your so corny."

he's leaning in, you can tell by the way his breath gets warmer against your lips, and you're tilting your face up to meet him when the lights suddenly blaze back to life. you spring apart, blinking in the harsh fluorescent glare, and the spell is broken.

luke runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. "i should... the storm's probably passing."

"yeah," you agree, even though you can still hear rain against the windows. "probably."

he leaves without another word, and you sink back into your chair, touching your cheek where his hand had been and wondering what might have happened if the power had stayed out just a little bit longer.

the fifth time is the worst one, because it happens right before everything goes to hades.

it's late august, just a few days before luke's supposed to leave on his quest. the whole camp is buzzing with excitement and nervous energy, and you've been avoiding him like the plague because something about the way he's been looking at you lately makes your chest feel a little too tight.

you're in the strawberry fields, helping with the late harvest because physical labor is sometimes the only thing that shuts your brain up. the sun is setting, painting everything golden, and most of the other campers have gone to dinner. you're reaching for a particularly stubborn berry when you hear footsteps behind you.

"you're missing dinner."

you don't turn around. "so are you."

luke settles beside you in the dirt, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when he reaches for the berries. you work in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter from the dining pavilion.

"i leave tomorrow," he says eventually.

"i know."

"aren't you going to wish me luck?"

you finally look at him, this boy who's been driving you crazy for two years, and something in your chest cracks open. he looks older somehow, more serious, and there's something in his eyes that you can't quite read.

"you don't need luck," you say. "you're luke castellan. you'll be fine."

he's quiet for a long moment, turning a strawberry over in his hands. "and if i wasn’t?”

the question catches you off guard. luke doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't show weakness or doubt. he's always so sure of himself, so confident, and hearing him sound uncertain makes something protective flare up in your chest.

"you’d be fine either way," you say firmly. "you're the best swordsman camp has ever seen. you're smart and brave and—"

"and what?"

you realize you've been staring at him, cataloging the details of his face like you're trying to memorize them. the way his hair falls across his forehead, the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, the exact shade of blue his eyes turn in the golden hour light.

"and you're going to come back," you finish quietly. "you have to."

something shifts in his expression, goes soft and wondering. "would you miss me if i didn't?"

the question hangs between you like a challenge, and you know this is your chance to deflect, to make some sarcastic comment that will restore the careful balance you've maintained for two years. but looking at him now, with the sunset painting him in shades of gold and amber, you can't bring yourself to lie.

"yes," you whisper. "i would."

he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and cups your face in his hands. his palms are warm and slightly rough from sword work, and you lean into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

"i've wanted to do this for so long," he murmurs, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.

"then why haven't you?"

"because you hate me."

you laugh, soft and breathless. "i don't hate you, luke. i never hated you."

"no?"

"no. i hate that you make me feel things i don't want to feel. i hate that you're always in my head, that i can't stop thinking about you even when i try. i hate that you're leaving tomorrow and i don't know when you're coming back."

his eyes search your face like he's looking for something, and whatever he finds there makes him smile – not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller and more real.

"i'm going to kiss you," he says, "unless you tell me not to."

you should tell him not to. you should remind him that you're supposed to be enemies, that this is complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.

“tell me to stop and i will.” he’s breathless, almost panting.

instead, you close your eyes and whisper, "fine."

he leans in slowly, so slowly it's almost torture, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs. his breath is warm against your lips, and you're just about to close the distance between you when—

"luke! there you are!"

annabeth's voice cuts through the moment like a knife, and you spring apart so fast you nearly fall over. she's standing at the edge of the strawberry field with her hands on her hips, looking annoyed.

"chiron's been looking for you everywhere. you're supposed to be getting ready for tomorrow, not—" she stops, taking in the scene, and her expression shifts to something you can't quite read. "oh."

luke clears his throat and stands up, brushing dirt off his jeans. "right. sorry, i was just—"

"helping with the harvest," you finish, proud of how normal your voice sounds. "we lost track of time."

annabeth looks between you and luke, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. she's too smart not to know what she interrupted, but she doesn't say anything about it.

"well, come on," she says to luke. "chiron wants to go over the quest details one more time."

luke nods and starts to follow her, but then he turns back to you. for a moment you think he's going to say something, but then he just nods once and walks away.

you sit in the strawberry field until full dark, touching your lips and wondering what might have been.

luke comes back from his quest three weeks later, and everything is different.

he's different – quieter, more serious, with shadows in his eyes that weren't there before. the scar on his face is new, a jagged line that runs from his eye to his jaw, and he won't talk about how he got it. won't talk about much of anything, actually.

you try to approach him a few times, but he deflects every attempt at conversation with jokes or excuses or simply walking away. it's like the boy who almost kissed you in the strawberry field never existed, replaced by this stranger who looks like luke but acts like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

the truth comes out two days later, when word gets out that he’s recruiting campers for kronos and betraying the gods.

he tries to burn down the camp.

you're in the big house when it happens, talking to chiron about some paperwork, when bloody and wounded kids come rushing into the place, babbling incoherent nonsense about ‘hermes kid tried to kill me!’

and you realize.

it’s luke they’re talking about.

you're already running, feet pounding against the wooden floors as you race outside. you're looking for annabeth, for your siblings, for anyone who can tell you what's happening, when you see him.

luke is standing at the edge of the woods, and even from a distance you can see that something is wrong. his posture is different, more rigid, and there's something in his hand that glints in the firelight. a sword, you realize. his sword.

you start toward him without thinking, pushing through the crowd of panicking campers. he sees you coming and his expression shifts, becomes something cold and unfamiliar.

"don't," he says when you're close enough to hear him over the chaos. "don't come any closer."

"luke, what did you do?”

he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "what happened? i'll tell you what happened. i went on a quest for my father, and you know what i found? nothing. absolutely nothing. the gods don't care about us. they never have."

"that's not true—"

"isn't it?" his eyes are wild, desperate. "when was the last time your mother talked to you, huh? when was the last time any of them bothered to acknowledge that we exist?"

you take a step closer, hands raised like you're approaching a wounded animal. "stop that— your talking stupid! what’s wrong with you?”

"i'm done pretending that this is okay, that we should be grateful for the scraps they throw us."

"what are you talking about?"

he's backing away from you now, toward the woods, and you realize with growing horror that he's leaving. actually leaving.

"i'm talking about revolution," he says. "i'm talking about making them pay for what they've done to us."

"luke, please—"

"come with me."

the words stop you cold. "what?"

"come with me," he repeats, and for a moment his mask slips and you can see the boy you almost kissed, desperate and pleading. "we could do this together. we could make them listen."

you stare at him, this person you thought you knew, and feel something breaking apart in your chest. "i can't."

"why not?"

"i… this isn’t you," your voice cracked, your hands slowly coming to rest at your sides sadly. “luke wouldn’t say that— he wouldn’t do this.”

his face hardens again. "you don't know who i am. you never did."

he's almost to the tree line now, and you know that if he disappears into those woods, you'll never see him again. not the real him, anyway.

"luke, wait—"

but he's already gone, swallowed up by the darkness between the trees. you stand there for a long moment, staring at the place where he disappeared, before turning back to help some of the injured people.

"are you okay?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that makes you look at her more closely.

"i'm fine. why?"

she hesitates, then pulls something out of her pocket. it's a piece of paper, folded small and slightly singed around the edges.

"i found this," she says quietly. "it has your name on it."

you take the paper with shaking hands and unfold it. luke's handwriting stares back at you, messy and hurried like he wrote it in a rush.

‘if only you knew, how much i really did love you deep down.’

it’s so vague, but you understand it completely. you knew deep down all those times he *did* want to kiss you— all the times the moment was stolen away and you’d ignore him for weeks— even months. you knew.

. — INCIDENT #7 (the time you did)

two years pass before you see luke again.

two years of nightmares and suffering in solitary, of jumping every time someone says his name, of wondering if you could have stopped him somehow. two years of telling yourself you hate him, that what you felt was just a stupid crush, that you're better off without him.

you hear someone call your name, and you turn to see luke standing twenty feet away with his sword drawn.

he looks older, harder, with new scars and a coldness in his eyes that makes your heart ache. but he's still luke, still the boy who taught you to dance and almost kissed you in a strawberry field, and seeing him again makes something in your chest flutter back to life.

"hey." he says, and his voice is different too – rougher, more controlled.

"luke." you raise your own sword, muscle memory taking over. "you shouldn't be here."

"probably not. but i needed to see you."

"why?"

he doesn't answer, just circles you slowly like a predator sizing up prey. but there's something else in his expression, something that looks almost like longing.

"you look good," he says finally. "older. stronger."

"you look like shit."

he laughs, and for a second he sounds like the old luke. "always so honest. i missed that about you."

"don't." the word comes out sharper than you intended. "you don't get to say things like that. not after what you did."

"what i did was necessary—"

"what you did was betray everyone who ever cared about you."

his jaw tightens. "they betrayed us first. all of us. you know that."

"that doesn't make this right."

you're still circling each other, swords raised but neither of you making a move to attack. around you the battle rages on, but it feels distant, unimportant compared to this moment.

"come with me," he says suddenly, echoing his words from two years ago. "it's not too late. you could still—"

"no."

"you don't even know what i'm offering."

"i don't care what you're offering—! the answer is no!”

something flickers across his face – hurt, maybe, or disappointment. "you always were stubborn."

"and you always were an idiot."

he suddenly stops, letting a deep breath out, one of realization yet stress.

"i dream about you," he says suddenly, voice rough with exertion. "every night. i dream about what might have happened if i'd stayed."

the confession hits you like a physical blow, and your grip on your sword wavers. he could take advantage, could end this right now, but he doesn't.

"luke..."

"i dream about kissing you in that strawberry field. about what would have happened if annabeth hadn't interrupted us."

"stop."

"i can't." his free hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin like he did all those years ago. "i've tried to forget you, tried to convince myself that what i felt wasn't real. but it was. it is."

you're staring at him, this boy who broke your heart and burned down your world, and you can feel yourself wavering. because underneath the coldness and the scars, he's still luke. still the person who danced with you in the firelight and made you laugh in the armory and looked at you like you were something precious.

"it doesn't matter," you whisper. "it's too late."

"is it?"

and then he's kissing you.

it's nothing like you imagined all those years ago. it's desperate and fierce and tastes like blood and regret, like all the words you never said and all the chances you never took. his hand tangles in your hair and you drop your sword, reaching up to grip his shirt like he might disappear if you let go.

for a moment – just a moment – you let yourself fall into it. let yourself remember what it felt like to want him, to believe that maybe you could have something good together. his lips are soft and warm and familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

but then reality crashes back in. the sounds of battle, the smell of smoke, the weight of everything that's happened between you. you push him away, hard enough that he stumbles backward.

"no," you say, and your voice is shaking. "you don't get to do this. you don't get to kiss me and expect it to fix everything."

he stares at you, chest heaving, and for a second he looks like the sixteen-year-old boy who used to sneak into the armory just to talk to you.

"i know i can't fix it," he says quietly. "i know i've ruined everything. but i needed you to know – i needed you to know that it was real. what we had, what we could have had. it was real."

tears are streaming down your face now, and you hate yourself for crying in front of him. "it doesn't matter anymore."

"it matters to me."

you pick up your sword with shaking hands. "you need to go. now. before i do something we'll both regret."

he nods slowly, like he expected this. "for what it's worth," he says, backing away, "i'm sorry. for all of it."

"so am i."

he disappears into the woods, and you sink to your knees in the dirt, touching your lips and tasting salt. the battle is winding down around you, but you can't bring yourself to move. you just kneel there in the aftermath, mourning the boy you loved and the future you'll never have.

later, when the monsters are gone and the wounded are being tended to, annabeth finds you still sitting in the woods.

"are you hurt?" she asks, settling beside you.

you shake your head, not trusting your voice.

"i saw him talking to you. what did he say?"

you're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to explain. how do you tell someone that the person who betrayed everything you believe in just kissed you like his life depended on it? how do you explain that for one perfect, terrible moment, you kissed him back?

"he said goodbye," you finally manage.

annabeth nods like she understands, and maybe she does. maybe she knows what it's like to love someone who's chosen the wrong side, to have your heart broken by someone you trusted.

you sit together in the woods as the sun sets, and you try not to think about the way luke's lips felt against yours, or the look in his eyes when you pushed him away. try not to wonder if things could have been different, if you'd made different choices or said different words.

but deep down, you know the truth. you know that no matter how many times you almost kissed, no matter how real your feelings were, it was always going to end this way. because luke chose his path, and you chose yours, and sometimes love isn't enough to bridge that kind of divide.

the taste of him lingers on your lips for days afterward, a bittersweet reminder of what was and what might have been. and sometimes, late at night when you can't sleep, you let yourself remember the way he looked at you in that strawberry field, young and hopeful and full of possibility.

but then morning comes, and you get up and train and try to build something good from the ashes he left behind. because that's what you do. that's who you are.

and if sometimes you dream about a world where he stayed, where you got to find out what forever might have looked like with luke – well, that's between you and him, and no one else needs to know.

7/14 : did i cook with this chat

[sharkbitten-sailor]

Can you write like a grumpy!teen reader? Like they're always clapping back w insult n doesn't let people close to them x forsaken survivors who treat then like family but reader isn't used to it so they're overwhelmed? ( +1 point if the reader has spider features and we're bullied for it so they hide then :3) obviously there's a no pressure for you to write this! Have a goodnight!

(Also can I be 🗡 anon if it isn't taken? Thanks!)

[forsaken] survivors & teen!spider!reader one-shot .ᐟ

a/n; ty for requesting🫶 , and welcome aboard dear new crew 🗡!! i decided to write an one-shot for this one, i hope you dont mind <3

tw; minor gore, swearing, child abuse mentioned, violence, ect.

you were dropped in like discarded trash. middle of the forest. midnight bleeding into your skin, blood soaking what was left of your oversized hoodie and cloak. hood up, limbs trembling. no explanation. just pain. sharp, constant, alive.

your four crimson eyes didn’t blink. they didn’t need to. everything stretched clear as daylight. twisting trees, crawling silence, the kind of quiet that breathes.

none of it scared you. not anymore.

you were never quite human. not with fangs like knives, claws like warnings, and spider limbs twitching from your back like cursed scars. people didn’t see you. they saw ‘monster’, then screamed like it was contagious.

you never saw your parents either. not even a glimpse. no lullabies, no gentle hands, no stupid candles you’re supposed to blow out and wish on. nothing.

you watched from the outside. always watching. never touching.

but you tried. god, you really did. once. twice. a hundred times too many. you mimicked their smiles. memorized their words. folded yourself into the smallest shapes when they said you took up too much space.

still, they looked at you like a monster you were.

so you learned. figured out that all your trying was just noise. all those efforts to be liked, to be real, to be them, all are useless. worthless. foolish.

eventually, you stopped trying. let the world spin sideways and did nothing to stop it. you just followed. a passenger in your own skin.

and it dumped you here. this rot-soaked forest. moss chewing through every inch of peace. like the world couldn’t figure out where else to throw the last mistake it made.

why be so cruel to a monster that hasn’t even finished growing?

wasn’t it enough?

you grunt. another curse spills out, half for the forest, half for whoever decided wet grass counts as a floor. your legs don’t carry you so much as you drag them.

no clue how long it’s been. everything’s too messed up. even time’s rotten out here. the only thing you’re sure of: it’s been long enough for the pain to dull, for the wounds to stop bleeding, for your flesh to go cold and numb.

you just walk. and walk. and-

there. small thing, barely there. the light. dim, low, orange, flickering like hope with stage fright.

you quicken your pace, dragging yourself forward. your legs ache beneath you, barely functional but still, they aren't completely useless... yet.

the light becomes clearer with every step, sharpening into the outline of a wooden cabin nestled awkwardly among the trees. it looks lived in. or at least recently abandoned. maybe someone’s inside. maybe they could help y-

but you stop.

your eyes lower to your hands. these claws, dried blood caked under every curve. and behind you, the click of spider limbs shifting, ever restless.

for a moment, you forget why you hesitated, until you remember who you are. what you are. not someone who knocks on doors. not someone people help. you’ve seen how that goes. the scream, the recoil, the shotgun. or worse: pity.

god, you’re so tired of pity.

you take one step back, then another, fading once again into the edges of the forest.

... but fate absolutely loves toying with you, doesn't it.

“hey pal, is it just me or there’s something else there?”

your whole body locks up as the muscles screaming.

“something’s there?”

you don’t respond. not with words, at least.

instead, you do the dumbest thing possible. you look. head twisting slightly over your shoulder. four blood red eyes flare against the dark, locking straight onto the two voices like aiming crosshairs.

“uh, okay. definitely not a deer.”

they step into clearer view. the tall one, blue hair, stiff shoulders, an army vest strapped across his chest like it never stopped being useful. the other, lounging in a black suit and a fedora with a pistol sways lazily from the belt loop.

you don’t flinch, but your eyes narrow.

another gun. of course. always a gun. you curl your fingers in reflex as the claws twitching, limbs tensing behind you like they’ve already calculated twenty exit strategies.

“whoever’s there, show yourself.” the tough voice slices through the trees like a blade, commanding.

your back straightens. muscles coil tight. a hiss cuts from your throat before you can stop it as the fangs baring in pure instinct.

“huh?”

but then you catch it. over the blue haired one’s shoulder: the fedora guy shifts, hand hovering near the gun on their belt, thumb brushing the safety.

so much for instinct. this isn’t reaction anymore, it’s strategy. survival.

“what are you?” his voice barely leaves his lips, like the words slipped out on accident.

the distance between you and the blue haired man shrinks to just an arm’s length. too close... too stupid. you can’t strike first. not with both of them clocking your every twitch. you’ll have to let him move first. counter fast. buy just enough time to vanish before the bullet catches your blood.

except,.. he doesn’t move.

he doesn’t lunge, doesn’t flinch. just stands there, watching you like some strange artifact unearthed from a ruin. still. unreadable.

yea sure. he’s probably thinking how ugly you are. how filthy. how unnatural this body is. spider limbs, claws, red flecked eyes like a creature was designed not to be loved but feared.

you nearly growl.

“guest? you sure this is a good idea..?”

go on then. say it. spit out the disgust. call it what it is. reach for the trigger like everyone else.

make it simple.

“inside. now.”

...

wait. was that aimed at the fedora guy or-

too late. he pulls you from the dark, his grip firm yet strangely gentle like he’s afraid of deepening the wounds you already carry. funny, really.

you stumble forward as branches crack beneath your dragging feet. you blink, still trying to process what just happened.

fangs flash in warning. your bite scars; it won’t kill, but it’ll sting. that is, assuming fedora guy doesn’t end you first.

still, you begrudgingly let yourself be drawn toward the cabin. the door creaks open like it’s been waiting. a rush of warmth spills out: woodsmoke, pine, and something strangely comforting.

and inside?

not just them. more people. of course. you should’ve expected that.

damn it.

but before you can think past the nerves twitching through your spine, the pain hits. sudden, sharp, splitting straight through your skull. your body flinches.

and then everything folds.

black ink spreads. blots out sound, light, sensation. the world vanishes. you’re no longer aware of your surroundings.

just before you slip under, you think that maybe, you hear a voice. panicked, calling out. but it twists in your ears, warped beyond recognition. you can't hold onto it. can't make sense of anything anymore.

perhaps this is the end of it.

you wonder, what kind of weapon finally killed you?

how absurd your death turned out to be.

...

...

“do you think they'll wake up soon?”

“don't worry. i promise they're alive. just, not sure when.”

“alright..”

a breathless gasp cuts through the quiet.

your eyes snap open. no warning, no breath, just pure instinct. your chest seizes, lungs stuttering in confusion. a moment passes where you're nothing but a hollow shell, stretched too thin to feel real.

your vision blurs, then sharpens. slitted pupils adjust like a serpent's, narrowing, twitching before bursting wide as memory crashes in:

pain. forest. claws. shouting. the cabin. everything. you remember it all.

panic bursts through your frame. a sudden tremble overtakes you, like your body remembered fear before your mind could. what the hell happened? why are you still alive?

the question surges too fast, too loud.

just then, a hand gently presses against your shoulder. not gripping, not restraining but steady and grounding.

your gaze flicks up, locking eyes with the man in the army vest. his brow furrows. he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t flinch at your jagged breath or twitching limbs.

“you’re safe here,” the man says, voice low but firm. “just rest for now. you’re still hurt.”

you don’t answer. just stare. still. silent. a few seconds tick by before your body flinches, recoiling from his hand like it burned.

your eyes dart around. cabin walls, flickering lantern, the scratchy couch pressing into your back. a blanket thrown over you; not too heavy, but unfamiliar. your spider limbs, legs and belly got patched up neatly. the wounds don’t sting like they used to anymore.

his hand withdraws.

“sorry,” he mutters. “should’ve asked if you were comfortable.”

you don’t speak. your glare does it for you: sharp, warning, a clear back off without needing words.

he doesn’t push it.

“why am I still alive?” your voice is dry, brittle, barely more than a whisper.

the guy next to the soldier shifts awkwardly, hand brushing behind his neck. he’s wearing an old builder brothers pizza uniform. yeah, you recognize it instantly. that dumb little mascot logo burned into your brain from city corners and half-eaten fliers.

“lucky you just... passed out from blood loss,” he says. his words stumble, trailing off. “if we hadn’t found you fast enough,..” he doesn’t finish, but it doesn’t matter. you get it. blood loss. guess the wounds went deeper than you thought.

“but uhm, hey,” he says, the words tumbling out slower than intended. “i can grab you water or something? if that helps?”

his tone wobbles. half genuine, half unsure. you can’t tell if the concern in his eyes is real or just habit.

“no thanks.” your voice flatlines. flat, dry, almost mechanical.

he nods, lips pressing together, then speaks again, like he’s trying to fill the silence. “my name’s elliot, by the way.”

guest 1337, still nearby, perks up. “i’m guest 1337. if you don’t mind, could we know yours?”

you blink. no one asked you that before. not out loud. not like it mattered.

still. “[name],” you mutter. it feels strange coming out. like dust being shaken off an old tag. you can’t even remember the last time you said it to someone else. maybe this is the first.

just then, the fedora guy stumbles in from the back, gnawing on a slice of bread. his eyes snap to you instantly.

“yooo,” he greets casually, like you didn’t just wake up from near-death. he strolls over, no urgency, then slings one arm over elliot’s shoulders like they’ve been pals since birth.

“welcome to hell, kiddo!” he says with a grin, way too pleased with himself.

elliot glares at him.

guest promptly knocks the fedora guy on the head. not too hard, but firm enough to earn a muffled “ow ow! i was just trying to being friendly!” in response.

the chill in the air has faded. not entirely, but enough to feel like this place isn’t trying to freeze you out. you wouldn’t call it comfort, but it’s something.

yet the one thing stuck in your mind is that word: hell. a throwaway line from the fedora guy, apparently. but it doesn’t leave your thoughts. maybe they meant it as a joke, but your instincts aren't laughing. your gut twists, legs tense slightly under the blanket. something’s off. maybe everything is.

“ah, forgot the intro,” they say, flashing a grin too casual for the situation. “name’s chance. nice to meet ya.”

you give a short nod. it’s enough. names aren’t your priority.

“where am i?”

elliot freezes for a beat. his gaze drops to the floor. “that’s-” he trails off, voice thin. like the answer is heavier than it should be.

guest gently steps in to fill the silence. “let’s wait for the others to finish the round,” he says, eyes on the old clock mounted crookedly on the cabin wall.

“then we’ll make this thing out.” chance tosses a thumbs up at guest, already walking away. “and trust me, all will be revealed soon.” they add.

the three of them scatter, back to their half-finished tasks, simple conversations, maybe pretending things aren’t broken here.

but not before elliot insists on guiding you to your room. you argue, say you’ve got it. he ignores that, even offers a small smile. “just want to make sure you don’t trip over some junk. we’re messy here.”

annoying. but... warm. it’s that weird warmth again. the kind that makes you uncertain. not fear, not exactly. but something unfamiliar.

and then, you’re alone.

the room’s bigger than anything you’ve ever slept in. the walls echo faintly. your thoughts spiral wider than the space can contain. how are you here? why is any of this happening? what meeting are they even talking about? why is he calling this place hell?

but the stress doesn’t settle the way it usually does. it hovers instead, thin and distant. like maybe, just maybe, something’s holding it back.

or maybe it’s this strange, quiet warmth. foreign. fragile. almost kind.

and perhaps, that’s the part that scares you most.

time skip - [misc: just imagine everyone introducing themselves and explaining the realm stuff. no way im writing all that rn / im tired atm.]

so yea, totally 10 survivors here. 11 if you count yourself. you’re the youngest out of all, so.. get ready for the child treatment, i guess.

cut to the meeting, back at the big wooden table in the center. there’s a messy sketch on builderman’s blueprints, lines everywhere like someone fought the paper. shedletsky mumbles something about only 20 minutes left before the next round starts. you brace yourself, stay sharp.

“-and guest will be with elliot,” builderman says, eyes dragging off the paper.

“alright, plan's set. any questions, fellas?” he asks, scanning the room.

you hesitate for a sec, then shake your head slightly. don’t be dumb about it, this is survival. “what about me?” you ask, voice small but clear. four eyes blinking in sync.

“you?” he echoes, sounding like he didn’t expect the question. “hm. well, i think you should go with dusekkar. he’ll keep ya safe.”

that wraps it. you nod, no complaints. and with that, everyone scatters.

wait. who the hell is dusekkar.

you freeze near the fireplace, head whipping around mid-step. damn it. you didn’t ask. builderman never showed a photo, never pointed. just dropped a name like it was common knowledge.

maybe it was the shock of being accepted so fast that made your brain stall. can’t really blame yourself though. for someone who’s been hiding this long, being treated normal feels borderline unreal.

your hand lands on your chin, fingers tapping. trying to reason through the mess in your head, slow the pace of everything happening around you. too quick. way too quick to react properly.

and while you’re busy spiraling, you don't notice the soft, deliberate footsteps approaching.

“beats in threes. tension leaves,” a voice hums softly, patterned like the flicker of firelight.

you blink. turn.

there a man(?) stands.

pumpkin head. actual pumpkin head. face carved with a calm expression, flickering faint yellow behind the hollowed eyes like someone lit a lantern and forgot to blow it out. his coat has no sleeves, arms bare down to the knuckles, but it's hugged by some weird fabric. maybe ancient language. maybe nonsense. probably both. you’d never understand it either way.

“you’re wondering who i am. worry not, little jam.”

jam?

he gestures lightly to his own head, expression unreadable (pumpkin features don’t exactly allow much) “called by dusk, born of flame,” he hums, words slow, deliberate. “dusekkar’s the name. no shame, no game.”

“…right,” you say, still blinking. “the builder guy said i’m with you?”

he nods. “yes. match begins soon, sun runs out quick. better to know your ally than fall in the thick.”

you’re still hung up on the rhyming. the way it rolls off his tongue like it’s not a conscious choice, just... how his brain sings.

“do you always talk like that?”

he pauses. then chuckles. the sound is low, almost warm. “only when awake. dreams are silent, and rhyme takes a break.”

you don’t know how to respond, so you simply nod.

maybe knowing your weird-ass partner before jumping into whatever horror lies ahead won’t hurt.

but he doesn’t move on just yet. his glowing gaze lingers, and this time, it settles on you. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t frown. just studies your frame quietly. your clothes, your limbs, the way your features carry something not quite ordinary.

“how strange,” he says softly, not unkind. “you wear uniqueness like woven silk. most would fold it. hide it. you wear it still.”

you blink. once, then twice. nobody’s ever said that.

you’re just about to ask what he means when, again, it all fades to black.

you’re used to it by now. the dark swallows everything. still, what waits in the dark? you’ve never had the answer, and maybe that’s the part that’s beginning to gnaw.

when your eyes snap open, the atmosphere hits you like a cold slap to the spine. the ground below, no longer the soft cabin wood, is jagged and unforgiving stone. the sky above, still dark. but darker now, somehow. no moon or stars, just the void alone.

definitely not the cabin anymore.

you don’t question or shake. you’ve seen worse. maybe.

all four of your eyes flicker open at once, scanning quickly. your night vision kicks in, casting everything in eerie monochrome. a castle, probably. or something trying too hard to be one. stone beneath, patches of grass where it shouldn’t be, wooden walls jutting out like someone built blindfolded. off in the distance, a lone rocky tower claws toward the sky.

you finish your sweep and turn.

step. step.

your head whips back unnaturally fast. almost owl-like.

a figure stands there, frozen and trembling. noob.

“AH-!” they yelp, stumbling back. you hadn’t even moved, hadn’t done anything.

your eyes narrow. maybe you did scare them. maybe something inside you meant to.

“i-i didn’t know it was y-you,” noob stammers, inching forward, hesitating more than once. “s-sorry...”

they stop just outside arm’s reach. close, but not too close. fear still lingers in their voice, but something else sneaks in. slight relief?

you say nothing. just toss them a glare more weary than angry and dart off toward the nearest machine.

the generator.

at least, that’s what the survivors called it. said fixing them slows the ‘timer’. whatever that means. you don’t ask questions.

not that you know what you’re doing. you’ve never touched wires before, especially not wires this obnoxiously colorful. you’ve never had proper shelter. you’ve stolen food just to see another day. fixing machines wasn’t part of survival.

you crouch beside the gen, claws twitching with hesitation.

then, “uhm... a-actually, you’re kinda good at this,” noob says cautiously. they’re fiddling with the other side, clumsy fingers fumbling through tangled cables.

you don’t respond. just keep working. barely flinching when a spark jumps.

“...it’s just, for someone who’s never done this, you’re, uhm... b-better than expected.”

their voice is quieter now. shy. trying to fill the silence before it devours you both.

you pause for half a second.

“thanks,” you say, simple. then get back to work.

but the moment barely settles before two figures come sprinting up behind you. instinct flares, your gut already screaming. you spring off the gen, still crouched low, and two extra limbs tear from beneath the old cloak, snapping into place to shield your body.

a beat passes. then a familiar voice chirps up.

“hey, chill. just me, no need to freak out.”

you hiss something under your breath. maybe a curse, maybe just spite. low enough that no one else hears it. your limbs retract slowly, dragging along the hard stone floor as you rise.

“right. of course it’s you.”

“why so grumpy all the time?” chance teases, grinning and leaning in way too close. “very cool features, by the way.”

you shoot him a flat look. unimpressed, sure, but chance still catches that flicker of surprise in your eyes. he smirks. heh,, score.

to mask your flustered reaction, you mutter a quiet curse under your breath.

“language,” comes another voice. quieter, deeper; guest 1337.

“yea yea sir,” you shrug, eyes already drifting elsewhere. though part of you wonders how he even heard that.

behind the completed generator, noob edges closer. their posture eases just a bit. safe. not from the place. from the company.

“i-it’s good to see you guys here,” they say, barely above a whisper.

the four of you linger in the castle’s exposed courtyard, standing guard in case other survivors arrive. it’s a dead giveaway location. guest slips away, off to search for elliot like planned.

you remember. you were assigned to stay near dusekkar.

“i’m going with guest,” you insist suddenly, stepping forward.

chance blocks your path gently. “whoa kid. chill, dusekkar’s probably goin to be here soon. plus, you’ll be safer here.”

“i’m not a fragile thing,” you snap. “you don’t have to treat me like a toddler.”

your voice comes out harder than you intended. still, you mean it.

“i know you’re not,” chance says, shrugging. “but you’re still new. we’re not holding you back, just watching your back.”

you huff and turn away, tension climbing your spine like frost.

“fine,” you mutter, “whatever.”

don’t you think it’s way too peaceful for a death game like this? yeah, same.

then the world splits open with a jagged laugh, some twisted villain monologue ripped straight from an old video game. theatrical, obnoxious, wrong.

figures sprint out from the far edge of the castle: builderman, elliot, guest 1337. all of them running.

your claws twitch.

bad sign. really bad.

chance lifts his gun immediately, like he’s rehearsed this moment. the other three instinctively scatter, leaving just enough space for the shot.

you feel it before you see it.

the killer.

he towers above the ruins, chains grinding with every step like rusted warnings. red light pulses from them, casting him as a radioactive glowstick built for intimidation. two horns curl from his skull, framing a jagged crown perched like ego carved in steel. and for that classic villain flair, he wears a crimson cape that drifting behind him as if on its own.

guest doesn’t hesitate. shifts forward like a chess piece, no wasted movement. he lunges, shoulder-first, pushing the killer just enough to stagger him.

perfect setup.

chance steps in. his aim locks.

then,

boom.

his gun combusts in his hands, fire and metal biting into his face. smoke coils upward like mockery. he drops backward, coughing violently.

everyone knits their brows together in grim silence. noob flinches, builderman looks seconds away from actually yelling, while guest looks one millisecond away from straight-up decking chance on the spot.

and you snap.

“why the fuck does your gun fire on your face?!” your voice cuts cold and sharp, furious enough to sting.

chance groans, flailing around on the ground with singed eyebrows and the dumbest grin imaginable.

“i-it’s the powder,” he manged to wheeze out, coughing here and there.

you roll your eyes so hard it feels like your brain short-circuits. you’re out of brain cells, patience, and sheer willpower. arguing with this idiot gambler? a lost cause. some people are just mind-bendingly stupid, despite being fully grown, allegedly functioning humans.

the killer, meanwhile, stands motionless. still looming. then he lets out a low chuckle; mocking and amused. clearly entertained by the circus happening before him.

guest’s already repositioning to save chance’s ass, builderman’s muttering something about formation. and elliot, of course, throws a… pizza. because pizza heals people, obviously. totally normal.

the round hasn’t even properly begun, but it feels like you’re already behind.

the rest blurs into routine: killing, running, hiding, helping. every now and then, a spark flares in the chaos. sometimes it lasts. most of the time, it burns out fast.

and you? you’re still stressed out of your damn mind, even when staying near two actual admins (dusekkar and shedletsky). probably because everything is so painfully stupid. or maybe it’s just that this is your first time trying to survive with so many people watching.

you press your palms tighter, claws twitching slightly against each other. the stress is practically humming in your bones.

shedletsky crunches louder on his chicken. you’re 99% sure he’s doing it just to make you more annoyed.

“you good there kid?” he asks again, like the previous half-hearted response didn’t already answer everything. his eyes are still fixed on you. maybe he’s watching for a breakdown. maybe he’s just bored.

“yes,” you deadpan. “very good.”

your tone is flat enough to level buildings. shedletsky doesn’t react. just blinks slowly and swallows his bite.

“i see.” a beat passes. then he says, like he’s commenting on the weather: “i like your cloak.”

you blink.

“what?”

he shrugs with dramatic nonchalance. “just saying. cloak’s cool.”

“changing topics won’t help.”

“but it’s /gen.”

“the fuck is /gen.”

he gasps with theatrical offense, setting his chicken down like it needs a moment of silence. “hey, watch your language. young kids like you shouldn’t say that kinda stuff.”

you glare. “young kids like me are trying not to unravel like cheap thread in a blender.”

he raises one eyebrow. “...so you're a blender thread now?”

you hiss under your breath, regretting every life decision that led you to be stuck beside him.

but shedletsky just leans back and grabs the chicken again, like chaos is his comfort zone. “cloak’s still cool, by the way. just saying.”

you don’t answer. you’re too busy mentally preparing for another round. or emotionally preparing to commit a casual homicide with a glowstick.

same difference.

then sword guy casually, like pointing out someone forgot their keys, goes “hm? where’s matt?”

that jerks you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“... matt?”

“yeah. the pumpkin dude.”

oh. nicknames now. neat.

you glance around. rocky tower, decent elevation, stupidly quiet. shedletsky claimed this spot was perfect. easy to loop, easy to “jurk,” whatever the hell that means. you listened anyway.

speaking of glowsticks, there he is.

from a distance, you see him. red aura blazing like a warning sign with extra drama. it’s not that hard to spot. night vision helps, but tbh looks like stealth isn’t even in his vocabulary.

shedletsky, still deep in his chicken munching arc, gestures lazily. “just wait. he’s on his way.”

your claws twitch. instincts scream. but you sit. because apparently, “looping is essential.” whatever that means.

then, in the most cursed plot twist imaginable, the killer slams his foot down and spikes erupt from the ground. like, actual fences of teeth. he stomps again, leaves behind a circle near the castle entrance. how it works? no clue. but you're not dumb enough to test it directly.

you glance sideways, voice tight with concern.

“uh… can we run now?”

the spikes rattle behind you like angry teeth, glowing brighter with each passing second. shedletsky finally drops the casual act; no chicken, no snark, just sharp eyes and a grip like iron.

“get your legs on,” he mutters, voice low and tight.

the killer charges. red aura flaring, chains whipping. that freakish crown catching moonlight like it’s preparing a declaration of doom.

“I’LL TEAR YOU APART!” his voice splits the air. his laughter scrapes against your bones.

shedletsky’s gaze flicks to the circle left behind. “... that’s no good,” he mumbles. “listen, loop him long enough for the spikes to disappear.”

your eyes widen. “how long?!”

“seconds,” he hums, casual again, like this is just a math problem. “maybe just me’s enough. you stay here, m’kay?”

“WHAT?!” you snap, limbs twitching, already halfway prepared to bolt.

“when i step on that trap-” he starts, but doesn’t finish. because a clawed, burning grip latches onto your shoulder.

he yanks you back, swift and protective, shoving you behind him. cloak flares. sword swings.

CLANG.

metal meets metal. sparks scatter. the killer snarls, stumbling back just an inch.

“tch,” he hisses. “you’re going to regret that.”

shedletsky plants his feet, and without warning, he scoops you up like a sack of potatoes and leaps down the ledge. he lands hard, then sets you near the exit with a firm shove.

he goes first.

as soon as his foot hits the spike circle, it reacts violently; binary codes fracture into the air like broken glass. the glow surrounds him instantly, patterns scrambling, body tense.

must be pain. real pain.

“kid- run!” he shouts, voice tight with urgency as he glances back.

and everything flips. none of this feels like it should’ve happened. it’s not the plan. why is it always this messy? why can’t survival come with instructions and a refund policy?

the killer cackles, a bone-deep laugh that rings like victory already claimed. “SHED!!” you shout, claws flexing, heart thundering. he’s alone now. just him and glowstick doom.

you hiss under your breath, curses spilling like venom. your limbs twitch with indecision. you back off, slowly. not out of fear, but choice.

you can’t waste the chance he carved out for you.

but hell if you’re leaving him behind.

shedletsky’s voice cuts through like lightning, “i said RUN!”

no time to argue. your body drops low, tensed like a coiled spring, then, you’re gone. legs pumping, limbs dragging, cloak flapping wild behind you.

he watches you flee, a quiet chuckle slipping past his breath. he can’t let someone like you witness what comes next, now can he? someone who’s already stared hell in the face and lived. you’ve had enough pain. he knows that.

...

you don’t keep track of how long you run. the place you find feels safe. maybe. some rusted-out corner of the realm. brandon something? brandon world? who cares. there are many huge boxes (or walls?) you drop behind one of them, crouch low, breathing like your lungs are trying to escape your ribs.

everything’s getting harder. heavier. louder. this is hell. and it won’t stop burning.

your hands shake. violently. don’t be weak, [name]. not now.

a tear streaks down your cheek before you even notice it. hot and fast. you swipe it away with your palm; rough, angry. but it keeps coming. your frame trembles, and no amount of resolve can quiet the shudder running through your bones.

Then, a sound.

low. cruel. unmistakable.

a growl.

and that grinding, rising screech you’ve come to associate with dread: spikes. emerging. clawing upward from the ground like the realm itself wants you gone.

your body reacts on instinct. spider limbs snap open with a sharp crack, shielding you. you brace.

but pain hits first. hard.

it slams into you, violent and searing. you collapse to the grass, limbs twitching, body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. your breathing stutters, turning cold as each gasp scrapes frost through your lungs.

holy fuck. one of your limbs is bleeding. not a surface scratch, no, it pulses like it’s one twitch away from going numb. burning. stinging. unrelenting hellfire pain.

you want to scream. to yell. to escape this agony,

but behind the shrinking spikes looms a silhouette. familiar. unforgiving.

the demon chuckles softly, dark amusement dripping from every breath. he’s watching. enjoying the sight of you crumpled, defeated, animalistic.

then, he looms closer. the demon’s claws curl around your pantheric body; firm, yet oddly deliberate. he lifts you with ease, inspecting you like a curiosity rather than prey.

his voice slinks out: “pantheric,” he muses, tapping one claw to your ribcage as though counting what bones were still intact.

with slow theatricality, he draws back your cloak. four twitching spider limbs reveal themselves. trembling from exhaustion, still bleeding like river.

he grins. “spider features, huh? guess you’re more monster than mask.”

your breath catches. but through the haze, something new surfaces: he has them too. there, barely visible beneath his robes: curled spider legs, moving in rhythm with his breath.

is this... a coincidence?

he leans in closer, voice dipped in mockery and amusement: “isn’t it funny? you tucked them away like sin, and i wear mine like a crown.” he tilts his head, eyes flickering like dying fire. “you bite. i rip. you hide. i haunt.” a pause. his voice lowers, almost tenderly cruel: “we’re the same breed, little spider. the only difference is, i stopped pretending a long time ago.”

you try to speak, but pain robs you. words scatter. only a guttural hiss escapes.

he chuckles softly, claws brushing your wounded limb with calculated cruelty. “still trembling. that fear again? worry not,” he raises his corrupted arm. “...you’ll learn to crawl with pride. sooner or later.”

then he strikes. no hesitation. aiming straight for your torso.

but something in you snaps awake just in time.

maybe instinct. maybe desperation. the last flicker of survival.

you lunge, throwing every ounce of strength into your limbs. all four spider legs snap forward in a blur, shielding your body. barely.

and then, agony. crackling. but also... light.

a spark erupts; blinding, divine. blue and white mix in a sudden burst, swirling like protective flame. it doesn’t explode. it wraps. encasing you in a bubble-like shield that pulses like a heartbeat.

you gasp in a deep, raw and frantic way. inhale. exhale. like breathing after nearly drowning.

you don’t know what this is or where it came from. but the feeling surges through your bruised frame: comfort. alien. unfamiliar. warm in ways nothing’s ever been before.

demon king growls, then tosses you to the ground (with surprising… gentleness?) he snarls, a monstrous roar, and immediately pivots toward the source of the disturbance.

from the corner of your eye, you swear you catch a flicker of motion,

a figure. blue pumpkin head with a glowin staff.

he cancels the shield with a quick gesture, then bolts just as the demon’s claws slice the air behind him.

gone in a blink.

... you wonder how did you even manage to survive that ...

but you are just... tired. so, so tired.

and just as your consciousness slips away, the round timer hits 00:00.

...

...

..

.

“they’re not breathing right- shit, what do we do?!”

“get something, anything! blankets, thread, firelight, i don’t care- just hurry!”

“someone tell me what happened!? i told you to keep them with dusekkar!”

“they were! until that thing showed up!”

“we couldn’t control what happened. they shielded themselves until the very end- they fought, damn it!”

“why wasn’t the support team rotating fast enough? where were the medics?”

“oh please, don’t pin this on prep! we were barely surviving out there!”

“it targeted me first, alright?!”

“can’t you all just stop arguing?!”

...

“it’s everyone’s fault. and no one’s.”

“they still breathe. threads run weak, but they haven’t snapped.”

“…t-thank god..!!”

“my goodness...”

“the spawn deity must’ve been watching... they’re safe. against all odds.”

...

a pause.

then you jerk upright, consciousness slamming back into place. your lungs rasp for air. vision blurry. limbs twitch.

second blackout of the day... huh?

you blink rapidly, trying to ground yourself. voices are distant now. the walls… how familiar. was it real? were they real? or just panic dressed as people?

you mutter, dryly, “god... what just- happened..”

a hand steadies your shoulder.

“you’re back,” says dusekkar quietly. “threads were fraying. we stitched what we could.”

around you, the fire crackles low. heat brushes your skin, uneven but welcome. the cabin breathes with you. survivors gather again; some resting, others pacing. their tension hasn’t left, just settled deeper into the grain of the wood.

you glance down at your own body.

wrapped in fresh bandages. everywhere. the new scars clawing across your limbs and torso, barely healed, laid over the ones already etched deep. familiar pain, unfamiliar care.

elliot sits beside you, hands shaking, still trying to steady his patchwork. his gaze is locked onto your injuries with fierce concentration, like if he slips up once, you’ll vanish again.

“[name]... you scared me,” he breathes out, each word trembling with sincerity. “you really did.”

his voice cracks on the last word.

you try to respond, but before you can, guest steps in, brows drawn tight, his usual calm now threaded with worry.

“please... for your own sake,” he says, voice low but resolute, “don’t ever do that again.”

you catch the tension in his posture: his shoulders coiled, jaw tight. as if every second you were unconscious rewrote something inside him.

across the room, builderman lets out a weary sigh, slumped over on a nearby table. his hands drag down his face like he’s trying to erase the moment from memory.

“i should’ve prepared a better backup plan,” he mutters, voice muffled by regret.

taph approaches quietly, patting builderman’s shoulder. no words. just comfort in motion, hoping to steady something broken beneath it.

chance perks up, breaking the silence with his signature grin. he kneels beside you and gives your bandaged torso a gentle, playful tap with his fist.

“gonna be real with you kid, you didn’t just do a great job. you survived. that’s more than most can say.”

his grin doesn’t fade. it’s not loud, not mocking. just genuine.

noob steps forward next, voice wobbly but sincere.

“y-yeah... chance is right.” despite their nervous tone, it’s easy to tell they mean every word. they hover a little closer now, less scared, more steady.

elliot exhales as he ties off the final bandage, visibly more relaxed now that your breathing’s returned to normal.

“all done,” he says, brushing the loose strands of hair from his forehead. "if you need anything, just ask, alright?”

you hesitate, eyes dropping to the floor.

“... thank you.”

your voice is raspy yet oddly soft. it slips out... weird. maybe it just hits harder this time.

you feel the heat creep up your cheeks. it’s new. unfamiliar.

damn. you’re being soft.

but for once, nobody makes fun of it.

chance leans back with a satisfied sigh. “look at you, catching feelings,” he jokes, nudging noob’s shoulder. “i’m proud already.”

noob giggles quietly, then shifts their feet like they want to say something else, but hold back.

elliot gives your shoulder one last gentle squeeze before standing. “you’re not alone anymore, [name]. we’ve got you. i mean it.”

then guest steps closer, hesitant at first, but he gently reaches out and gives you a few slow, awkward pats on the head. not firm or rushed, just comforting.

you blink, confused by how something so simple can feel so... safe. your mouth almost wants to say “stop it”, but you don’t. because deep down, there’s a part of you that craves it.

you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean slightly into the warmth without thinking too hard about it.

guest chuckles quietly under his breath, watching the way your shoulders relax just enough.

and for the first time, the cabin doesn’t feel like a place you’re passing through.

it feels like the beginning of something.

[extra - misc: 007n7 also wanted to be mention,,, sigh,,,]

you settle in against the cold back wall of the cabin, boredom gnawing at your senses as you flick rocks into the brush.

footsteps.

“uhm… [name]’s out here, right?” a voice calls, uncertain.

“yeah?”

007n7 steps into view. he rarely speaks, even rarer that he wanders this close to others. outcast, maybe. or maybe just cautious.

you scoot over wordlessly, and he sits nearby without asking. no big gestures, no weird expectations. just quiet company beneath the silver wash of moonlight.

and somehow, that’s enough.

not warm like elliot. not wild like chance. or pushy like guest. (or ridiculous like shed). just simple.

after a stretch of half-sentences and tossed thoughts, he finally says:

“y’know, you’re stronger than you let on. don’t lose that.”

it’s casual, soft. but it sinks deeper than expected.

you don’t reply, just stare ahead.

the moon doesn't comment. but it hears everything, doesn’t it?

a/n; ok i lied it’s not 2.2k it’s actually 6.7k words

[amidnightqueery]

I don't hate my job or anything, but man, being a float educator is so fucking thankless

[arolesbianism]

Everyday I see another youtube video or whatever say smth along the lines of "this character is badly written because they're unlikable/annoying/insert negative description here" and everyday I end up massively disappointed because I came here for analysis on the actual writing of a character not just a description of the feelings they made you experience

[dadbodsandbots]

fucked up thinking about how mason and sam echo my relationship with my dad in that he can love you with all of his being, but you live your life knowing the least about him and you can't decide if it's for the best

[altarplay]

i guess it's good to have confirmation that our best is everyone's elses mediocre. lack of effort. doesn't care enough. etc.

[inkskinned]

it is november, and yesterday it felt like it was supposed to be snowing. in boston, november used a winter month, not a fall month. it is supposed to be chilly; rarely capping over 45F. it is a sweater-and-jacket month. it is a "maybe a scarf too" month. in my childhood, november meant blizzards and sleet.

it did not snow. tomorrow the weather predicts a high of 76.

i have spent so many years of my life studying the longterm possibilities of climate change - the culmination of capitalism wreaking havoc on the bodies of people, animals, plants - but every so often i am still shocked by something small and personal.

in a hundred years, when someone goes outside in boston - will they know the feeling of "snow in the air"?

i know it's a learned feeling, a sensation that maybe only longterm experience can teach. a few years ago, i was walking with my friend who had just moved up from the south. i said it smells like snow and she gave me this look like - what the fuck. i said it feels like snow too, which didn't help. she looked up to the bright blue sky and then back at me and then back at the sky. 12 hours later, we had 3 inches. you can just tell if it's going to snow.

except i can't tell, anymore. i stand outside in a tee shirt and watch my dog dance around a lake. we're in a drought and the skin of the water has peeled back twenty meters. the lake is tamed, quiet, puddlelike and sour. my pokemon go app warns there's a weather condition in my area.

my dog gets too hot from running and sits in the water and i want to laugh about his long frame and how awkwardly he sits - and i can't. some simian part of my brain is scratching the walls. it was supposed to snow. it was supposed to snow, but now it's warm instead.

during the last full solar eclipse, the dogs and the birds and the crickets went crazy under utter darkness. we laughed at them then, promising it will all be okay in a moment. but some part of me is still locked in that long night: some animal sensation.

something is wrong, my body says. i can't afford eggs or rent. i go outside to watch a sunset and listen to birdsong. i don't bring a jacket. allergies are killing me this season, allergies i didn't have as a kid. everyone comments that halloween has started to feel strange, offkilter. that it's hard having "holiday cheer." my body thinks it's april, and then it thinks we're in september, and then june.

something is terribly wrong, she whispers. go outside. it is supposed to be snowing.

[ourceliumnetwork]

the list of traumas i need to unpack still and my coping mechanisms (or, more frequently, lack-thereof) keeps getting longer and i'm not sure i like that. I think i like less how much i already know they're hangups before they become a problem i have to actively work on, too.

[koi-fish-boy]

My limbs were bandage city today y'all I kept gettin hurt 😭

First I accidentally burned my leg w a drill. I just finished using it and was checking the hole and accidentally brought it too close to my leg

Then I nicked my knuckle on some semi circle thing trynna get it off something else, forgot what it was called. But I bled a bunch and had to get a bandaid :P

After that I stabbed my finger with some wire on accident. It's like the cable thing that's made up of a bunch of tiny metal wire strung together I also forgot what that was called but I bled again!

Then I scratched my knee on the back of a hammer and, guess what? I bled again!

And when I got home the remains of a blister fell off and left me with just a hole in my heel so that kinda sucks :P

[jewishvitya]

what made u anti zionist / helped u unlearn zionism

Unlearning is a work in progress, but basically finding out the information I was given wasn't true. I was taught the "a land without a people for a people without a land" - found out Palestinians, you know, lived here, actually. Was taught all the violence we committed was in self defense - found out we destroyed whole villages to take over the land. Was taught our military is very ethical and never violent without necessity - saw what we do to Palestinians even today (and by "today" I mean before the current escalation in Gaza, I have no idea how anyone can ignore this one now). Was taught we "made the desert bloom" - learned some about native and non-native plants, and about the colonialist nature of trying to transform a whole ecosystem to suit us instead of living with the land as it is. From "Israel vs the Palestinian territories" to learning that even the lands taken over in 48... were taken from them. From "this is our land because this is where we come from" to learning that we aren't the only people that originated in this land and we can't just override the claim of the people who lived here for generations.

None of this, like, inherently means you'll let go of zionism. I know zionists who would agree with me about many of these points. But, I suppose, for me it's a broader anti-colonialism and anti-isolationism thing, and... anti-exceptinalism?

Like, I had to unlearn the idea that antisemitism is a unique and singular kind of oppression that no oppressed group can ever relate to or have solidarity with. The idea that we're alone, we'll always be alone, we're destined to be hated and murdered in ongoing and repeated extermination attempts unless we segregate ourselves in our own state with our own military where we can double down on "kill or be killed" over and over. And because we're the only ones who are this completely rejected by the rest of humanity, anything we do to achieve that goal of safety is justified regardless of who we hurt. Or even that our unique state as victims means we can't actually cause harm in the ways that we were hurt.

Antisemitism is unique in the same way that anti-Blackness is unique and ableism is unique, they all have their own elements. That doesn't mean we can't fight together and form coalitions with other marginalized groups. Romani people are another example of how our experiences are both unique and not. They don't face antisemitism, but they were still part of The Final Solution. We're not The Ultimate Victims, we're one group among many.

All of this together, for me, meant going from "we're the only nation not allowed to have our own country, self determination," to understanding that the issue isn't the question of the right to self determination, it's the fact that we decided to exercise it at the expense of other people. Pretty sure Romani people would face the same reactions if they decided to displace another nation for the sake of their own self determination. This isn't a game of musical chairs, we can't just go "your turn in exile, get out" and expect that to be okay.

Some stateless nations live in a specific location under another country, and they can declare independence in that place without causing harm. It's unfortunate that we didn't have that. But Palestinians shouldn't pay the price.

And Jewish people should be safe everywhere, not just in the small patch of land where we're the oppressor.

Final thing is, had to read a bit about what Palestinians think of all of this. Which is complicated, no group is a monolith, and I don't think I'm qualified to break that down. But after unpacking all the "about us" things, I had to look at their goals from liberation, and now I try to do my best to stay informed and support those goals.

[the-aviary-system]

Mood. We've had to stop playing games like this because we'd get unhealthily addicted to "number go up"

Like we'd get a withdrawal like effect, we'd get anxious about missing out on potential number going up if we didn't have whatever idle game we were obsessing over running in the background of our computer 24/7. Doing schoolwork? Keep it in the background and tab in like every 5 minutes to check in on it and buy upgrades. Planning D&D? Same thing.

Other games that use the "number go up" formula often got greedy with their players and kept trying to exploit their addiction to make them spend money, they made it more and more grindy until it was impossible for free-to-play people like us to keep up. (We didn't have a job, so no consistent money, so that's a reason why we were FTP. I dunno if we would've fallen into the trap of spending tons of money on games like these if we had a consistent income)

After getting disillusioned with our latest "number go up" simulator, I decided to try cookie clicker because I heard it wasn't pay to win. Yeah, I used an autoclicker too. And CC was pretty neat and all, it wasn't exploitative, which I appreciate- it was a grindy game in its purest state, grinding for the sake of grinding, gaining numbers for the hell of it, instead of trying to make money off of players- but since it wasn't actively trying to exploit us with FOMO it let us stop and think, and we realized we don't even enjoy these kinds of games that have taken up hours and hours of our lives.

So we made a rule for ourselves. No more of these games. From now on, we only play games if we're actually enjoying them, not just playing it out of obligation to make the number go higher. And it was really hard to stop playing since we got that same kind of withdrawal effect, the little itch in the back of the head that "I could be more productive right now, if I just had one of those games open in the background while I write I would be more productive" but we had to just fight that.

Anyway, that's not to say nobody should play these games. I'm not writing this to shame anyone for playing them, I'm not trying to sound preachy and hope that it doesn't come off that way- this comic just reminded me of our experience with these types of games and I felt like talking about it since we were addicted to these kinds of games for a good while. Some people will definitely be able to handle the addicting nature of these games better than we can. Some people genuinely enjoy the grind because it lets them just turn off their brain for a little while or not have to focus too much on something. Just be mindful to not let it become an addiction, is all.

So yeah that's the story of how we had an addiction to really grindy idle games

-Emyr (he/it)

[cupcakedieabetes]

Speedrunning romance Part 2

"It seems so weird looking at him giggling." Steph muttered, "But understandable too."

Jason kept on giggling as he texted his phone, having gotten the boy's number.

"Yeah, I would have kissed him in the mouth for having done Joker, but too bad Jason got to him first." Barbara sighed.

"By the way, you haven't said anything much, Damian." Tim looked to Damian, who was quietly reading a book.

"What else is there left to say?"

All of them were ignoring Dick and B arguing with a Jason who wasn't listening shit to them. Dick was defending Jason while Bruce was protesting about Jason going after a guy who killed Joker.

"What do you mean by that?" Steph looked at Damian, who sighed, as if it was common sense.

"Jason was given the head of his enemy, a fitting gift if one should want to court him." Damian replied.

PING!

All of them looked at their phones for the notification. Jason seemed to have posted something online.

Jason Todd: Does anyone have a good recommendation for a taxidermist?

"Jason!" Bruce scolded him.

"What? Was I just supposed to keep his head in a cooler?" Jason argued.

Almost immediately, there were multiple recommendations, and taxidermists jumped at the opportunity to taxidermy the Joker's head.

Many people also wanted to watch the process and clamoured for a live stream.

"Should I learn taxidermy, too?" Tim muttered, which made Steph snort.

"Tim!" Bruce scolded him next.

Then, Alfred came in with a display case.

"Master Jason, could I recommend using this glass dome to display the head?"

Many cheered when it was revealed. Damian approved of it as it was a beautiful glass case.

"Also, a package for you arrived." Alfred handed Jason a package with multiple 'fragile' marks stamped around the package.

Jason curiously inspected it and picked up the letter addressed to him.

Hey, So. Uh. This is the heart. I wasn’t sure if you wanted it, but since I already gave you the head, I thought it might feel incomplete without the rest. Not all the rest, obviously — just the important part. Well, I guess the second-most important part, after the head. I put it in a jar of preservatives, but if you want to do something else with it, sorry. Anyway, I thought maybe you'd want to do something with it. Bury it. Burn it. Play football with it. I don’t know. But the jar is really sturdy, and I tested it with a jackhammer. I guess what I’m trying to say is… I remembered what he said when he thought I was you, and I didn’t like it. So now he won’t anymore. Hope this helps. Danny

Jason just

Swoons

He buried his face in his hands and screamed into them. The others clamoured behind him to read what was in the letter, passing it around for everyone to read.

Steph whistles.

"That's the most awkwardly romantic thing I have ever seen."

Cass nudged Jason to open the package quickly. She looked up at him in anticipation.

Damian just plucked the package and opened it, revealing a heart sitting in a jar of preservatives. He held the heart high above his head to present it to everyone.

"Jason..." Dick sniffled, arms going around Jason tightly who for once let it happen.

Bruce looked at the scene and then sighed. He couldn't be angry at how relieved everyone felt upon Joker's death. He came up to Jason and reached out to squeeze Jason's shoulder. His son, who died at the hands of Joker.

He was so glad that he was able to see him grow up so big.

"I will be paying very handsomely to the taxidermist. You just have to choose who you feel is the best." He murmured.

Tim already stole his wallet from the back of his pocket to take out a card.

"We're using his BLACK CARD!!!" Tim yelled, presenting the card into the air.

Steph wrestled him for the card, and both of them dropped to the ground.

Alfred just side-stepped them to help Dick and Jason to screen for a good taxidermist.

Cass, Barbara, and Damian were just looking at the heart in awe, and they started discussing where the best place is to display both the heart and the head.

Bruce looked at his family. He supposes he should approve of Danny, as this was the first time in so long that everything was peaceful.

"I'M GOING TO MARRY HIM!!!"

Perhaps not....

@tortoiseoffury, @eggonog, @rabidhungryrat, @leafyeyes417, @lurukifennecfox, @craftywyvern, @guppygalaxy, @koolaidkai

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

10 Sexual Harassment Hazards (That People Don’t Always Talk About)

You probably already know a lot of this, like factually and as vibes. Most women do. But sometimes it’s just good to say stuff out loud and make sure we're not memory-holing what should be top of mind.

The short answer for what counts is: a lot more than you’ve been led to believe.

So here’s a by no means exhaustive list of things that tend to fester and creep on you in the dreaded fog of "subtle" harassment at work.

1. The Creepy Client You’re Expected to Smile At It’s not always your boss. It can be a customer, a donor, or a VIP investor who says the gross stuff. And if your job depends on keeping them happy, management often looks the other way.

2. The “Jokes” That Aren’t Jokes They’ll call it “banter.” But if it makes you feel small, singled out, or sexualised, it’s not comedy. It’s cover.

3. The Mentor Who Gets Personal When someone who’s supposed to help you grow starts steering conversations to your dating life, your looks, or their “crush,” that's a classic grooming protocol.

4. The Person Who Touches Everyone - Except They Don’t! Watch for the ones who say “I’m just a hugger” but somehow only hug the cute interns. That’s calculation, not 'friendly' culture.

5. The After-Work Messages That Escalate Starts professional. Gets weird. Maybe it’s “😉” after your presentation. Maybe it’s full-blown flirting on Instagram. Either way, it’s not harmless just because it’s happening after 5 p.m.

6. The Retaliation You Can’t Prove You get left off the next project. Your hours get cut. You’re not sure if it’s connected to the way you handled someone’s advances, but… yeah, it probably is.

7. The Exclusion Because You Didn’t “Play Along” You’re suddenly not invited to team lunches. Or they say you’re “hard to vibe with.” Translation: you didn’t laugh when the jokes got gross.

8. The Comments Disguised As Compliments “You look great in that dress” hits different when it’s from someone evaluating your performance. Especially if it comes with a glance you wish you could unsee.

9. The “Nice Guy” Who Gets Weird When You’re Not Into It He was helpful, until you didn’t flirt back. Now he’s cold, nitpicky, maybe even sabotaging your work. No tantrum, just power games.

10. The Stuff That Happens Off the Clock but Still Counts Work party groping. Drunk conference creeps. Inappropriate texts on your day off. Just because it’s not technically at work doesn’t mean it won’t impact your job.

A lot of times if it’s not explicit, it sadly just doesn’t count to those in power. But guaranteed, you’ll count it, and you'll carry it. And probably learn how to laugh about it without sounding bitter. Until you can't and won't

Just know you’re not imagining it and you’re not wrong for feeling off. And definitely not the first one to think about changing your desk, your shift, or your entire career just to get away from it.

It’s not okay.

Much love 😘

[spookysanta]

Old Man. (MBJ)

Summary: You love to clown Michael about his age. But you quickly learn — again and again — that he might have a couple greys in his beard, but there’s nothing old about him.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Younger!Reader

Warnings: SMUTTTTTTTT, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, hair pulling, rough oral (m!receiveing), oral (both), slight degradation, insatiable!Michael, this is an amalgamation of a bunch of scenes i was too slutty to cut out

who's ready to get fucked uppppp! another item checked off my heathen draft checklist. have i been working on this for the last two weeks while i'm at work? yes. am i sorry? no. i'm salaried. i still got paid. so we're good! pleaaaaase send me some asks if you've got any ideas for a new fic. thxxxx

MINORS DNI PLS

The night started with a simple movie, a hoodie you stole from him and refused to return, your bare legs curled in his lap. One of his hands was lazily resting on your thigh, the other nursing a glass of dark liquor.

You were supposed to be relaxing.

But you just couldn’t help yourself.

Michael stretched, arms overhead, back arching slightly, and the obscene series of cracks that popped from his shoulders echoed around the living room. You paused the movie, turned slowly toward him, blinking with faux concern. “…That was your bones?”

He gave you a side-eye. “Don’t start.”

“I thought the popcorn bag was poppin’ again,” you grinned, eyes gleaming. “You okay, grandpa?”

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, sipping slowly.

You leaned in, faux whispering like you were trying to protect his pride. “You want me to grab the Bengay, or you good?”

Michael didn’t respond at first. Just held your gaze. Silent. Calm. Then slowly, dangerously calm, he said with a hum, “Aight. Bet.”

You giggled like it was nothing. But you felt it. The shift. His hand flexed a little tighter on your thigh. His jaw ticked. And you – naive, sweet, stupid little you – kept pushing.

When the credits rolled on The Wood and he said something about seeing it back in the day, you really lost it. “Baaaaaabe,” you gasped through laughter. “I was literally in diapers. That’s crazy. You were watchin’ Mike and Slim get into fights over girls and I was still eating applesauce and watchin’ Blue’s Clues.”

Michael just stared at you. Blank face. The kind of silence that spelled your doom.

And you were wheezing. Bent over, laughing like you paid yourself to do stand-up. You slapped his chest. “I’m–I’m sorry, I’m just saying, that’s before my ti–AH!”

You didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence.

Because in one swift motion, Michael grabbed you by the waist and flipped you onto your back. Your head bounced lightly against the couch pillow, laughter dying in your throat as his full weight pressed down over you. His hand wrapped around both your wrists and pinned them above your head. And his voice, low, deadly, and smug, brushed right along your jaw. “You done?”

“…Maybe.”

He tilted his head. “Oh, you're cute today, huh?”

“Always.”

He smirked. But there was nothing funny in the way his other hand slid down your body, skimming under the hem of your borrowed hoodie to brush over your bare stomach.

“Y’know what’s not funny?” he asked. “You thinkin’ any of these lil boys you messed with before me could ever do what I do to you.”

You blinked. Your mouth parted but no words came out.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then? Then he dragged his hand into your shorts.

You gasped, hips bucking, but he pinned you tighter, shushing you like you were interrupting him. “Still wanna play?” he murmured, fingers slipping into your folds. “Still wanna talk shit?”

Your voice cracked. “Michael–”

“Say it with your chest, baby,” he mocked. “You had all that mouth five minutes ago.”

You were soaked. Embarrassingly so. And he felt it.

“See?” he whispered, brushing your clit in slow, punishing circles. “This is why I don’t take you seriously. You talk like I can’t handle you, but your pussy doesn't know how to act when I put hands on you.”

You whimpered. And that’s when your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The screen lit up. Tati. You knew she’d be asking something ridiculous. Probably a meme. Probably an “is this you and Michael” message. You tried to reach for it against his grip, but he snatched your wrists into a tighter hold.

“Oh no,” he tsked, feigning disappointment. “You're busy right now, remember?”

“Michael–”

He didn’t even let you finish. Slid two fingers deep inside, curling just right, watching you fall apart beneath him. “You gon’ apologize?” he asked calmly, thumb still teasing, pace brutal in its precision. “Or you want me to keep proving my point?”

“I’m–I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I didn’t mean–”

“Oh, you meant it,” he growled, sliding down your body, lips dragging along your inner thigh. “And now I mean to make you forget every one of your little jokes.”

You should’ve known better.

He warned you. Gave you every chance to stop. But no. Your ass just had to crack jokes, had to flex your youth, your smart-ass mouth, like he wasn’t twice the man any of those little boys before him ever dreamed of being.

And now look at you. Legs shaking. Breath caught in your lungs like you had to think about how to exhale. And you weren’t even in the bedroom yet.

Michael tossed the blanket aside, arms hooking under your knees as he stood, lifting you like you didn’t weigh a damn thing. Your shorts were still tangled around one ankle,like  a taunt to modesty. He didn’t bother fixing them.

You clung to his hoodie, face buried in the fabric, chest heaving.

He didn’t say much as he carried you. Just huffed a laugh under his breath and muttered, “Mouth still workin’? Or I finally fucked the jokes outta you?”

You whimpered something that might’ve been a word.

“Mmhm. Thought so.”

The hallway was a blur of shadows and low light, his footsteps heavy and steady. He kicked the bedroom door open and dropped you down in the center of the bed. You bounced once as your back hit the duvet, hair spilling around your face, thighs trembling, eyes wide.

The hoodie came off in one fluid pull, revealing his torso. Chocolate skin, broad chest, sweat-slick abs that flexed with every move. His sweatpants followed, slow, deliberate, dragging down inch by inch until he stepped out of them.

Your eyes darted to the bulge in his boxers. And honestly, you hated how much that made your mouth water. And as if he knew – 

“On your knees.” His voice cracked like thunder.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. “Wh–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” his index finger – the one that was just inside you downstairs, actually, how ironic – pointed to the carpet as if to say duh. 

You obeyed. Legs weak. Sliding off the bed, you stared up at him, lips parted, still dazed from what he’d done to you on the couch.

He gripped your jaw, tilting your face. “You think I’m old, baby?” he asked, stroking the side of your throat with his thumb.

You shook your head.

“No?” he smirked. “Then why you walkin’ around like I can’t break you in half if I wanted to?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

His hand slid into your hair, fisting just tight enough to make you gasp, and he brought your mouth to him like it was owed. Like it was yours to worship.

You sucked him off like your life depended on it. Eagerly, desperately, like he was air and you’d been drowning. He groaned low in his throat, head thrown back as you took him slow and deep, letting him guide your movements until his grip tightened and he cursed under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Show me how much that smart mouth really loves me.”

You moaned, messy and wet, tears clinging to your lashes when he finally pulled away and lifted you back onto the bed. You didn’t get a second to breathe before he was over you again, cock heavy and hot between your thighs, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other handling his cock at your entrance.

“You remember what you said earlier?” he asked, tone so low it rumbled in your chest.

“…no–”

He slammed into you in one stroke. Your body arched. “Oh fuck–”

“You remember now?”

You screamed. Not a yell, not a moan. Like an actual scream. He grinned like he was proud of himself, then started moving.

Every thrust hit home. Deep. Unrelenting. Your legs were spread wide, locked around his waist. The bedframe slammed the wall in time with your gasps. He kissed you hard, tongue claiming your mouth, then dragged his lips down your neck, your chest, your breasts – biting, sucking, devouring.

“You like talkin’ shit?” he panted, his strokes turning savage. “Then go ahead. Say somethin’ now.”

You couldn’t. You weren’t even forming words anymore. Just sobbing into the pillow, clawing at the sheets above you like you’d fall apart if you let go.

“That’s what I thought.”

He kept going. Harder. Slower. Rougher. One leg thrown over his shoulder, your body bent and folded to take him as deep as humanly possible.

He watched you fall apart. The way your stomach trembled, your chest heaved, your jaw dropped in that perfect O as your body convulsed around him and you came so hard you forgot how to breathe.

But he wasn’t done.

Not until he’d fucked you through the mattress.

Not until he’d made you cum again. And again. And again.

Not until you were crying his name and begging for mercy.

Not until he collapsed on top of you, both of you sweat-drenched and broken, your body twitching through the aftershocks under his like you were still recovering from an exorcism.

He kissed your temple. Brushed damp hair back from your face. Whispered against your skin. “Still think I’m old?”

You shook your head, unable to form a thought.

“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

–

Morning sunlight streamed in through the blinds, soft and golden, casting lines across your bare legs tangled in the sheets. The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint sizzle of bacon coming from the kitchen.

Michael stood at the stove in nothing but gray sweats, his broad back flexing as he flipped pancakes like he didn’t break you in half the night before. He was whistling. 

Whistling. 

Happy. Clearly very pleased with himself.

You walked in gingerly, hair still messy, hoodie thrown over your sore body, and the slightest limp in your step. 

He clocked it immediately. “Mornin’, baby,” he said over his shoulder, smug as hell. Bastard. “Sleep good?”

You shot him a glare that held no real weight. “You tried to rearrange my spinal column.”

Michael grinned. “Did I succeed?”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t answer. Just grabbed a cup from the cabinet, poured yourself some juice, and leaned against the counter.

“I was nice,” he said. “You had jokes, remember? I was just tryna make sure you remembered who you were talkin’ to.”

“Mm,” you sipped. “Could’ve just shown me your driver’s license, old man.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. The room went still.

You froze.

Michael turned his head slow. Real slow. That little crooked smile stretched across his face like a wolf baring its teeth. “What was that?”

You slapped your hand over your mouth like that would undo it. Eyes wide. Shaking your head like no no no nope didn’t say that, even though the evidence was loud and clear.

His brows lifted. “Really?”

You were gone before he could put the spatula down. “BABE–!” you yelped, darting out of the kitchen, juice sloshing dangerously in your cup.

Unfortunately for you, you didn’t make it very far.

Michael stalked after you, bare feet against the floor like a threat, laughing deep and dark from the back of his throat. “Oh nah. Don’t run now. You were BOLD a second ago!”

You threw the juice cup on the hallway table and made a sharp left toward the bedroom, sliding sock-footed like a cartoon character. “I take it BACK!”

“You meant it!” he shouted, footsteps getting louder.

“I DIDN’T, I SWEAR–”

He caught you halfway through the doorway, arms around your waist, lifting you right off the ground like you weighed nothing. You screamed through laughter, legs kicking. “Kari!”

“Nah, keep that same energy!” he said, tossing you onto the bed.

You bounced once. Tried to scramble away.

He pounced, landing right on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head like last night was muscle memory, like he was built for this. You squealed, squirmed, already breathless with laughter and anticipation. “ See, I was gonna let you rest,” he said, shaking his head like he was disappointed in you. “I really was.”

“You should,” you said weakly. “You’re probably still sore–”

He kissed you hard, swallowing the laugh before it could leave your throat. “Too late.”

His mouth moved down your jaw, to your throat, down to where the hoodie was barely hanging on your body. “You wanna keep acting up?” he grumbled, dragging the hoodie up over your hips. “Cool. Let me show you what happens when you play too much.”

You writhed beneath him, still laughing, but it was panicked now. Desperate. Your body remembered exactly what he did to you last night. The ache between your thighs hadn’t even faded. But Michael wasn’t interested in mercy. Not when you kept calling him old.

He peeled your hoodie off entirely, exposing your bare chest, your soft belly, the deep grooves of finger-shaped bruises blooming along your hips like love notes. “Damn, baby,” he muttered, dragging his knuckles down the side of your ribs. “I did all this?”

You nodded, cheeks hot, lips parted.

He grinned. “Good.”

He moved slow(er) this time, kissing your neck. 

Sweet. Soft. Which only made it worse. 

Ugh. Just punish me, already! You thought, brows furrowed in anticipation.

He worked down your body like he had all the time in the world, tongue tracing lazy circles on your collarbone, his hands kneading your thighs until your toes curled into the sheets. “You remember the rules, right?” he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses between your breasts. “Smart mouths get shut up.”

You whimpered.

“Wanna test me again?”

You shook your head.

He smirked. “Nah, you do. That’s why you ran.” Then he bit your inner thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make you yelp.

You didn’t get to process when his mouth was on you again.

He released your wrists to spread you open with his thumbs, flattening his tongue against your clit and dragging it slowly back and forth. No rush, no mercy. Just languid, wet strokes, over and over, until your back arched and your fingers clawed the sheets.

You moaned loud, tried to close your legs.

He held them open. He made you take it. Made you feel every inch of his tongue, the press of his nose, the scrape of his teeth.

His one – devious, downright evil – goal was to make you cum. As many times, and as violently, as he could. When you came, it hit you like a ton of bricks.

Your whole body shook. You sobbed out his name. Your thighs clamped tight around his face and he didn’t move. Just moaned into your pussy like it got him high.

When he finally pulled away, your eyes were glassy. Michael crawled back up your body, slow and heavy, dragging his cock against your still-throbbing center. “I want you to feel me this time,” he whispered. “Every stroke. Every inch.”

You whimpered, trying to close your legs. But he just slid between them again, lined himself up, and sank into you to the hilt with a deep thrust that knocked air out of your lungs.

Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out at all.

Michael didn’t move. Just watched your face. Studied the way your lashes fluttered, the way your hands scrambled to hold on to something. “You okay, baby?” he asked, voice thick, teasing.

You nodded weakly.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Good. ‘Cause I’m just getting started.”

Then he pulled out painfully slow… and slammed back in.

He kept the pace like that. Slow, heavy, unrelenting. Your nails carved red lines down his back but he didn’t stop. Just kept fucking you like he was trying to leave a permanent impression, like your body was a memory foam mattress and he was trying to stamp his name into it.

“Still think I’m old?” he grunted, biting your shoulder.

You shook your head. “Mm-mm–”

“Say it.”

“You’re not–fuck–you’re not old, Michael, please–”

He snapped his hips harder, and you shattered again, crying out, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave breaking over rocks.

But he still didn’t stop. “You wanted to act up?” he panted, fucking you through it. “Now you gon’ take all of this.”

You weren’t even speaking anymore. Just babbling, trembling, letting him use your body however he wanted.

And when he finally came, spilling deep inside, teeth gritted, groaning your name like a prayer, you were limp. Gone. A complete puddle of ecstasy melted into the mattress, eyes unfocused, mouth slack.

He collapsed on top of you, chest to chest, hearts pounding together. For a long time, the only sound in the room was your breathing and his heartbeat in your ear. And then, Michael pulled back, kissed your nose, and brushed sweat-slick hair off your forehead. “You gon’ behave now?”

You couldn’t speak.. just gave him a dazed thumbs up.

Michael laughed. Laughed, kissed your cheek again, and stood up, stretching like he hadn’t just turned you into pulp. “I’ll get you some water.”

As he walked out of the room, still naked, still grinning, you let your hand fall over your face and whispered to no one in particular: “…I need to mind my business.”

 

Later, as the morning bled into the afternoon and found yourself tangled in his embrace, eyes closed in a blissful daze, you felt something.

Movement. 

The kind of movement to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your eyes popped open, all inklings of drowsiness leaving your body.

And there he was, towering above you like he was hunting. Michael slid back down your body, eyes locked on yours. He didn’t say a word; just spread you out again, thighs pushed open with his forearms locked tight beneath them. You were too tired to fight his insatiability. And frankly, you deserved more love-making than the brutal punishment he’d provided two days in a row.

But there was no warm-up. He didn’t offer any teasing. No playful licks. His lips locked around your clit and put his tongue to work like his life depended on it. And these are the moments where he was most dangerous.

Because Michael didn’t eat pussy to make you cum.

He ate you out like he was trying to ruin you for every man who would ever think about stepping to you again. 

Like he wanted a piece of you to keep with him at all times.

Like your orgasm was a challenge, and his ego would never let him lose.

Your back arched the second his tongue hit just right at that spot – laid flat and wide.

You tried reaching for something – anything – for purchase, but your fingers just clawed the sheets. Your legs twitched, tried to close, but his forearms locked tighter, his way of saying you weren’t going anywhere, without his mouth ever leaving your aching cunt.

“About to cum already?” he murmured between strokes. His lips glistened, beard damp with your juices, tongue still circling slow. “I just started, baby.”

You whined, almost wanting to climb out of your skin. The pleasure, the overstimulation, the ache that still burned in your hips when you tried to wriggle away… it was too much. 

But then came the fingers.

His index and middle fingers sunk perfectly deep inside, your hole practically begging for them to enter. Curling up with pinpoint accuracy, pressing against that spot that made you curse god. He didn’t even break rhythm, tongue still flicking, lips never letting go, while his fingers pumped in and out of you with intent.

It was absolutely filthy the way he knew exactly how to unravel you.

And before you could even think – you couldn’t stop it. Your body snapped, and the orgasm hit like a tidal wave – violent, raw, loud. “Michael–!”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even linger to come up for air.

If anything, he got hungrier. “You’re not done,” he growled, voice muffled against your clit. “Give me another.”

You cried out, shaking your head. A shallow “Uh-uh” escaped your throat in protest, but your hips bucked into his mouth like your body had already betrayed you.

And then… you felt the build. The tingle. That oh-so sickeningly-sweet, painfully-blissful pressure low in your belly that warned you it was about to get messy. “No–Michael, please, I–”

“You what?” he taunted. “Gon’ squirt for me?”

You whined.

“Go ahead, baby. Fuckin’ drench me.”

Your brain couldn’t move fast enough before your thighs clamped around his face and the gush of it hit hard everywhere, hot and wet like a flood. His face, his mouth, his chest. And the bed – the poor bed – was completely soaked. Your body shook, back arched so hard it felt like you’d ascended to heaven, and you screamed his name like an apology for every utterance of the word “old” within his earshot.

Michael moaned. Like, actually.

Like it turned him on, like the taste of you soaking his face made his cock twitch, made his hunger double. He kept licking, sloppy now, messy, his beard slick and jaw locked like he wanted every last drop.

You tried to crawl back. Pull away. “It’s t-too m-much, Michael, I c-can’t–”

He grabbed your hips, yanked you right back down to his mouth. “I said give me another.”

You sobbed as he dragged it out of you… over and over. Until your body was wrung dry, twitching with aftershocks, tears streaming down your cheeks, thighs sticky and shaking, voice hoarse from screaming.

When he finally pulled back, he looked up at you like he just conquered something sacred – his lips swollen, his beard wet, and his chest heaving. 

You were a ruined, soaked mess on the bed. But Michael… 

Michael looked refreshed. Smug. Charged. Like every drop of you he swallowed sent lightning straight to his cock – and he was still starving. “You still with me, baby?” he asked, even though he could see the answer written all over your face: dazed, eyes glossy, mouth parted and gasping.

You managed a nod. A twitch of your fingers.

He grinned like that was permission enough. “Then turn over.”

You didn’t move – more specifically, you couldn’t move.

So he flipped you face-down into the sheets, hips yanked up and back until you were on your knees, your ass arched high and your chest pressed low into the mattress. You could barely hold yourself up as your thighs shook. Your pussy was swollen and glistening, practically pulsing in desperation

Michael just groaned. “Look at this fuckin’ pussy,” he muttered behind you, dragging his fingers through the slick. You jolted. “Still drippin’ for me. Still open. You meant it when you said I was old, huh? That's why you actin’ up?”

You shook your head into the pillow.

He slapped your ass. Just once. Sharp. “That was a question.”

“No,” you gasped. “I didn’t–I didn’t mean it–”

“Oh you absolutely did,” Grabbing his cock and lining it up with your entrance, taunting the hole with his leaking head. “And now you gon’ take what you started.”

The air rushed out of your lungs as he pushed into you again. Your knees nearly gave out, but his hand was already fisting in your hair, pulling your head up as he started to fuck you deep.

He didn’t dare to fuck you fast. Well, not yet, at least. Just long, heavy strokes that pressed every inch of him into you until you were babbling nonsense. Your mouth hung open. Drool hit the sheets. “Oh my God–”

Michael just moaned behind you, gripping your hip with one hand, your hair with the other, driving into you like he was building something permanent. “You feel that?” he growled, dragging his cock out slow, then slamming back in hard. “Ain’t no little boy ever made you feel like this.”

“Michael–”

He yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear. “Say it.”

You sobbed. “No one–no one ever–fuck, baby–”

“You gon’ behave now?”

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks.

But he wasn’t finished – even though you relented, he still wasn’t satisfied, while your pussy was still fluttering around him like it couldn’t stand to be empty, and while your thighs were sticky and trembling from rounds one and two (and three, honestly) and you still had more to give.

He dropped your hair and pressed his palm between your shoulder blades, pushing you flat into the bed. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them down behind your back, and fucked into you hard, truly punishing you like the ragdoll he loved to turn you into.

Your voice cracked as you squirted again, just a little, just enough to make him growl. “You like this shit,” he spat, slapping your ass again. “You love actin’ up just to get fucked stupid.”

You didn’t even try to deny it. Because you were already cumming on his cock again, a silent scream stuck in your throat, your whole body convulsing as you lost yourself.

And he followed you over the edge not long after – the hold on your hips gripping you so tight you’d feel everything tomorrow, spilling deep inside you with a loud shuddering moan and a gasp of your name, head thrown back.

He pulled out slow, collapsing onto the mattress and pulling you into him, your back to his chest. The mess between you two was evidence of your punishment(s), though all he wanted in that moment was to kiss the back of your neck and shoulders as you both came down from your highs.

“You still think I’m old?” he whispered, smug as hell.

You groaned. “I think… I need physical therapy.”

Michael laughed. “Good. I’ll make the appointment for us.”

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[starmocha]

Oh oh oh since we're sharing pregnant mc hcs, how about one where they got a bit carried away, they did it, she got pregnant, he "died", by some miracle she didn't lose the baby, she's an excellent, doting, badass mom. then when he comes back he finds the love of his life with a little 1 year old baby girl that could be considered mc's perfect clone except for the eyes. the eyes are his. IMAGINE THE ANGST THE HURT THE TEARS THE LOVEEEEE!!!!!

🫵 are you guys using my Caleb-addled brain to sneak around my “I don’t take requests” condition. /lh 😔 this is who I am now, I guess. I see Caleb, I cave… 🥺

Endless Summer

It was an ambush, another attempt on his life.

It was the thirteenth time in three months, as a matter of fact. Caleb had thwarted all of the previous attempts with ease, always on guard, untrusting of those who claimed to have vowed their loyalty to him as their colonel.

As you learned, you couldn’t trust anyone in Skyhaven, much less the Farspace Fleet. Dark secrets surrounded this seemingly elite entity and though it appeared like the place ran like a machine with perfect precision and efficiency, there was still an insidious side that Caleb refused to let you see.

It wasn’t just his life they were after. They were after yours as well, using you as the ultimate pawn to get to him. Little do they suspect, while you may be his greatest weakness, you were also his strength, his sole reason to persevere.

This was to be a fatal lesson for many to learn.

It was supposed to be a celebratory banquet, thrown in honor of the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel’s latest achievements. There were no deceptions by the hosts, but a traitorous group seized this opportunity to trap the young colonel and all doors within the banquet halls locked, keeping many of the guests hostages in the process.

Within the center of the room, Caleb calmly eyed all of the familiar faces that loomed overhead on the second floor as all around, innocent guests rushed to the exits, banging and screaming for help. He tried to push you away, get you to safety.

They were after him, after all. You didn’t need to be in the crossfires.

You didn’t have time to react, hearing that first gunshot that led the way for the onslaught of bullets.

Something in Caleb snapped that night. The barrage of bullets that came at him and you from all directions would have taken down anyone, but they all froze midair only because of his Evol freezing them in their track and keeping them suspended as if time had frozen at this very moment. He soon, however, learned it was merely a distraction.

Ca…leb…

The moment he saw the crimson blood seeping from your side, that knife pulled out quickly, and you were falling, eyes closing, as he ran toward you yelling your name. His Evol flared out of control, the gravity in the room suddenly immensely heavy, as dozens of men were pulled to their knees in futile struggles.

Open your eyes, he pleaded, his uniform soaked with your blood. His face twisted in pain, a million thoughts rushing through his mind, all of the memories of the past resurfaced in quick successions. All of those years of smiles and laughter that transitioned to pain and distrust only to slowly return to some semblances of the past were now coming to an end before his very eyes. He couldn’t lose you like this, not when he had promised that he would make things right again, to be the man that you deserved. Please…please…

You struggled to breathe, the pain unlike anything you had experienced in your life. As he watched you teetered closer to death, he was filled with wrath, an anger that could not be calmed by any forces in this world.

Caleb held his hand out, and a gun laying on the floor levitated before it rushed into his grip from across the room, and without a thought or any remorse or even hesitancy, he fired bullet after bullet into each man’s head, a clean shot straight through the center, not flinching even as the surrounding guests screamed and huddled to the floor, covering their ears from that violent, horrid sound.

When the last traitor fell, Caleb dropped the gun with a clatter, and his arms wrapped entirely around you, pulling you closer to his body for warmth. Your breathing had weakened even more, but he could still save you. He hadn’t failed you. Not yet, not ever. You were going to live. He would make sure of it.

Even if he now realized you were safer away from him.

Colonel Caleb, you had only slept for four hours last night, the robotic voice of an OTTO said with some semblance of concern in its artificial vocal. It levitated after its owner as the young colonel adjusted his uniform. The robot continued, explaining, An adult man of your age requires ei—

“I’ve slept enough,” he interrupted firmly, ignoring the robot, whose monitor quickly displayed a digitalized look of concern. Caleb had thought often of shutting down the robot and dismantling it, but he could never carry through, remembering that he had purchased this robot for you.

In this cold, monotonous so-called-home of his in Skyhaven, Caleb had few things that reminded him of you. A few plushies you two had won together sat on his living room couch, some snapshots you two had taken together at a photobooth, and perhaps a few furniture pieces you had ordered to be sent directly to his home. You had been in the process of bringing warmth and life into this place when everything came to an abrupt stop.

If he hadn’t taken you to that banquet that night nearly two years ago, Caleb wondered how things would have played out. You wouldn’t have gotten injured that night, but he feared perhaps it would just delay that same outcome. That night, he found himself at a fork in the road, forced to make a decision that would change the course of both of your lives.

Keep you by his side, where he had foolishly believed you would always be safe under his protection, or, let you go, let you believe that whatever had happened that night, he was the one who had died, finally taken away by Death himself. It was better to let you believe he had actually died this time, to keep you from searching for him, to keep you far away from Skyhaven—to keep you from him.

Since that night almost two years ago, Caleb’s nightmares had worsened. He relived the dreadful night, but he had also had other terrifying dreams so horrendous, he would wake up screaming in cold sweats, completely disoriented, unsure if he was trapped within another layer of the nightmare, or if he was truly awake.

“She’s safe, she’s safe,” he would often mutter to himself, an attempt to convince himself that he had made the right choice, that setting you free was the only way he could keep you safe. As long as you lived, he would bear the weight of his sacrifice, even if it meant never seeing you ever again.

It was sunny in Linkon, not a cloud in the sky, and the weather warm and inviting, but to Caleb, it was a place he had forbidden himself from ever stepping foot in again, out of fear that your paths would cross. In all of those times since he had distanced himself from you, allowed you to believe he was dead, he had managed to avoid any reason to step foot in the place that was once his home.

When his adjutant, Liam, had informed Caleb that his schedule required him to attend a conference meeting in Linkon, the young colonel stiffened, the atmosphere in the room stifling almost as if he was using his Evol. He suppressed his initial instinct to yell, knowing Liam was well aware of Caleb’s situation and had in the past made the necessary arrangements to prevent him from having any reason to step foot in that city.

It seemed he couldn’t stay away from Linkon forever, so he resigned to this situation, still remaining vigilant in his stance. Linkon was a big city, and there was no reason for your paths to cross. He would make do with this troublesome situation for the time being.

Now, Caleb had intended to return to Skyhaven the moment the meeting ended, and yet, against his better judgment, he found himself wandering down familiar streets, lost in memories of happier times. As he walked, before his eyes, he saw the silhouettes of him and you as children running down the street after school to your favorite little vintage grocery store.

Caleb, you dummy, you can’t use your Evol!

Don’t blame my Evol because you can’t run fast on those short legs, pipsqueak!

Caleb chuckled. He couldn’t help it. The memories of those years seemed so much more carefree. He often wished to go back to that time when the only things that weighed on yours and his shoulders were school or silly childish arguments.

As he approached the old grocery store, closed just a few years prior, he was surprised to learn that it was now under new ownership. The familiar place of his childhood was now a small trendy café, popular with college students and young couples.

To his astonishment—and, perhaps, also relief—the vibrant hydrangea garden in the back remained. Bushes of the white, blue, and pink flowers bloomed in the garden, showing that its new owner took well care of the plants. They looked like the hydrangeas of his childhood, of those long summer afternoons that never seemed to end as he and you made this place just another secret hideout only you two would ever know. As he walked down a beaten path, distracted, he was stirred out of his nostalgic thoughts when he felt something bumped into his leg. He peered down, surprised to see a little girl in a light orange dress, the same color as the sunset he used to see in his airplane when he was a pilot, was clinging to his leg. He looked around, not seeing any adult in sight to indicate they were the child’s guardian.

He furrowed his brows, a little in annoyance, as he was not prepared to suddenly be grappled with the responsibility of a lost child. He knelt down lower, and immediately, he startled as he took in the little girl’s appearance, a near perfect carbon copy of you, but the eyes—he stared into sweet little violet eyes that mirrored his own, seeing his shocked face reflected in these orbs. The girl looked up at him with curiosity, the wind swaying her short bob while a little yellow chunky cartoon airplane hairclip held her side bangs in place.

Suddenly, she started tearing up, breaking Caleb out of his trance and for the first time in a while, he felt panicked, unsure of what to do. The girl started to cry and Caleb immediately lifted her up, her head resting onto his shoulder as he rubbed her back and soothed her.

He shushed her gently, his caregiver instinct reignited after years of dormancy. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?” he asked her gently, his soothing voice a complete opposite to the tone he used as colonel.

The girl sobbed. She looked so young, Caleb realized, surmising that she probably had barely started learning to speak.

“Are you lost?” he asked in that same tender tone despite knowing the child would be unable to answer him. He continued, “You miss your mommy, don’t you?”

He rubbed her back again, wondering with trepidation if this child’s mother was who he thought it would be. For just a second, his heart stopped when he felt the little girl gripping the fabric of his uniform with her small hands. Quickly, he recomposed himself.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, his hand smoothed the back of her hair. “Let’s go look for your Mommy, alright?”

“Ma...ma…” the girl struggled to say. She rubbed her face against Caleb’s shoulder, and he smiled gently, unbothered that his once pristine uniform was now covered in a child’s snot.

“Okay, mama,” he repeated, “I’ll help you find your mama, sweetheart.”

When he was just about to turn around to head back to the café, he froze again, hearing a familiar voice he hadn’t heard in years. He could feel his heart beating against his chest, actually feeling every heavy thump as the seconds passed and the voice grew closer, a name cried out—the little girl’s.

The child in his arms wriggled, and cried louder, seeing her mother over Caleb’s shoulder. “Mama! Mama!”

Stiffly, Caleb knelt lower and gently set the girl down to her feet, barely registering as the child toddled passed him to her mother.

A completely different feminine voice called out, angry. “Were you trying to kidnap a child in broad dayli—”

Caleb stood up and turned around, his face pale.

“Cale…Caleb?” You stared in shock, feeling like you were seeing his ghost again. Again.

“Mama…Mama…!” Your daughter nuzzled her face against your chest as you held her. You broke out of your trance and instantly redirected your attention to your child. You quickly soothed her, well aware that Caleb’s eyes were locked on you, his face just as shocked as yours but for entirely different reasons. Once the little girl calmed down you passed her off to your companion, saying, “Tara, take her back to the café.”

Tara looked at you worriedly, her eyes darting to Caleb with suspicion. One look into Caleb’s eyes, seeing that same, perfect shade of purple, and the young woman quickly understood the situation. She nodded quietly and took the girl from you. “Come on, sweetie, auntie Tara is going to buy you a cupcake, okay?”

You waited until Tara and your daughter were out of sight. You couldn’t look at him. You wanted to look at him, to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you, to make sure that this was not an illusion, not a cruel, mocking figment of your imagination. But you couldn’t. You felt cowardly in that instance, being afraid of the truth. Afraid of his reaction. Of everything.

“You were…you were pregnant?” he questioned, feeling a wave of guilt washed over him.

Just hearing those words made you realized this was him. This was Caleb, the man you thought was taken away from you. Again.

Suddenly, you broke down crying and you looked up at him with tears running down your cheeks.

“Caleb, you dummy,” you sobbed, “You fucking dummy!”

He gasped, unprepared when you rushed at him and started beating his chest half-heartedly with your small fists as you continued to sob and curse him over and over again. He let you carry out your anger, let you punished him as you saw fit in this moment, but when the punches weakened, he gently grabbed your wrists, lowering them to your sides before his arms wrapped around you in comfort, his apologies immediate.

“Yeah,” he agreed in that ever familiar soft and gentle tone reserved only for you, “I am a fucking dummy.”

You sniffled against his chest, gripping tightly the lapel of his coat.

The afternoon passed slowly, initially tensed and awkward, but eventually all of the missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and you both struggled to come to terms with the picture of the missing years. You peered at the man to your side, seeing Caleb hunched over, his cap in his lap, looking much like a sinner struggling to come to terms with his wrongs.

“You didn’t know,” you whispered after a while, wanting to break this stifling silence. You reached for his arm, but he tensed before his shoulders slumped again.

“That’s no excuse,” he said, looking up at you. He started to reach for your cheek, hesitating at the last second, as if he was afraid that you would recoil from his touch. He started to pull back but you grabbed at his hand, guiding it to your cheek. He stared in shock as you nuzzled your face against his palm, and you gazed at him with glistened eyes.

“You’re not allowed to die again,” you scolded him. “Promise me that.”

He nodded numbly, his voice clear and steady. “I promise,” he said, repeating in a more hushed, firm tone, “I promise.”

He leaned forward, guiding your lips to his, his words still repeating in between breath. You let him drown you in his kisses, let yourself dizzied and relent to his feverish promises. When your lips parted, just a few centimeters, his warm breath grazed over your trembling lips before he pressed another kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I... will you…”

You looked up, seeing the struggles in his violet eyes. He appeared to hesitate again, unsure of what right he had to seek your forgiveness, wondering if he was overstepping the boundary between the two of you.

You gently coaxed him, seeing relief washed over his guilty features. “Will I what?”

“Will you…let me make things right?” he asked, “Let me…earn your forgiveness. I…please…”

He almost wanted to say, I can’t lose you again but the words died at his lips. He, of all people, had no rights to utter such words in your presence. He looked so defeated, beaten down to the point he no longer recognized himself anymore.

You took his hand, just like you always seemed to do, and you pulled him to his feet, to his surprise. He gazed at you questionably, his heart stopping at your words.

“Caleb,” you said his name so sweetly, “I want you to meet…our daughter.”

The summer air was warm even as the sky darkened, and stars after stars appeared above to illuminate the world below. The gentle breeze ruffled Caleb’s hair as he stared down at the sleeping girl in his arms. Maybe it was because she was still so young and impressionable, or perhaps she could already sense who he was to her, but the girl clung to him immediately, already feeling safe and protected in his presence.

His heart felt heavy, overwhelmed by guilt, a feeling of failure, and also of self-loathing, but as he gazed down at his daughter, another feeling stirred, just as intense but much more forgiving. He didn’t think he could feel such love as he did now as he peered down at the sleeping girl, nuzzled against him on his lap, peacefully slumbering away.

He wondered what she was dreaming of as he admired how much she resembled her mother. Hesitantly, he let his finger caressed her cheek, in complete, silent awe at how soft and delicate her skin was. He was almost afraid of hurting her, feeling a need to protect her just as he protected her mother. He looked up at you, his cheeks and ears reddening when he realized you had been laughing at his expense.

“It’s alright,” you told him amid your giggles.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“You deserve it, you big dummy.”

He let out a huff, in mock annoyance, but he agreed with you. “Alright,” he conceded, “I deserve it.”

“Do you want to begin your path to seeking forgiveness from us?” you asked him, a playful, teasing lilt in your voice, unmissed by Caleb as he raised a brow in curiosity.

“Just like that?” he questioned, confused by your leniency with him.

You nodded. “You still love me, right?”

“I’ve never stopped,” he said, his solemn words had you blushing against your better judgment, your heart quickening when he looked at you so lovelorn. You quickly composed yourself, returning to your mischievousness from seconds ago.

“You love her, right?” you asked, your eyes shifting to your sleeping daughter in his arms.

He sighed, mesmerized. “So much already,” he whispered, and again, you found yourself softening, touched by his sincerity.

“Okay, we’ll forgive you,” you answered, catching Caleb’s attention as he looked at you almost bemused by your easygoing attitude. “First step.”

“Which is?”

“You have to make us your specialty,” you said, laughing at Caleb’s look of complete bewilderment unfit for a colonel of his status. Clearly, you had blindsided him completely with this first condition. You clarified with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, “You have to make your braised chicken wings.”

He stared at you as if not comprehending your words. You laughed and leaned closer to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “I ate a lot of braised chicken wings while pregnant,” you said, reminiscing to that lonely period in your life without his presence. You reached over and brushed your daughter’s flyaway hair out of her face, continuing softly, “But they weren’t as good as yours.”

Caleb let out a huff of breath, a soft, resigned laugh as he readjusted his arm, letting it wrapped around you as he pulled you closer into his embrace. He leaned over and kissed the top of your head. “Okay,” he answered, “I take it she also likes braised chicken wings then?”

You leaned into him, nodding once. “She’ll love yours more,” you said, and then looked up, your heart quickening again as you gazed into his beautiful violet eyes, grateful that your daughter had chosen to inherit this sole feature from her father. Breathlessly, you uttered softly, your words for his ears only, “She’ll love you.”

“And you?” he whispered back, that same hesitancy still prominent in his tone. He looked at you expectantly as he asked, “Do you still love me?”

“I’ve never stopped,” you echoed his words back to him, continuing in that same hushed tone, “I’ll always love my dummy Caleb.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, holding you just a bit tighter, as if he was afraid this was a cruel, taunting dream he would wake up from.

As Caleb watched your eyes closed, he looked down, eyes darting from you to his daughter, and he wondered if he deserved any of this. In the warm summer night, surrounded by the blossoming blue and pink and white hydrangeas, he silently apologized for his mistakes, promising that for the remainder of his life, he would become a better man, deserving of both of you.

Just like the little boy from long ago, once he had made a promise to you, he would never break it.

He swore it on his life.