Unpopular opinion: The post-war quiet is louder than any battlefield. Spent the afternoon at the old resistance outpost near Mystic Ruins. Just me, the ghosts, and the rusted husks of badniks. It’s strange. My hands remember every circuit I ever rewired under fire, but now they just… make coffee.

That hyper-vigilance has to go somewhere. Lately, it’s been a specific kind of hunger. Not for a sweet, gentle thing. I want the mess of it. The fight. To pin someone down and have them fight back just enough to make me work for it. To feel their nails dig into my back as I fuck their mouth, to taste the sharp, sweaty desperation on their skin. I want to be challenged, dominated even, by someone who isn't afraid of the fractured parts of me that still live in that war. To come so hard it feels like a surrender. Anyone else’s brain just wired for conflict, even in pleasure?