#I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense

[girl-lostconnection]

A little addition to this. Shout out to @sundaescreamcheese because they’ve guessed right.

Warnings: Banished knight!Ghost x Witch!Reader x Bloodhound knight Soap, Elden Ring AU, Johnny is a bit of a dog, possessive behaviour, suggestive themes, smut at the end, biting

“Hail, witch”, gruff low voice would have startled you if your wards didn’t tense the moment he stepped onto your territory.

You don’t know what he’s doing here, this deep in the woods, this far from his usual duties and this far from Stormveil Castle.

But you aren’t going to be rude to the man in full armour, with a sword taller than you.

If whatever he seeks can be found without much hassle and he could get off your territory that would be great.

“Hail, knight”, you muse back, careful distance from him. Your wards won’t let him step much closer to the cottage, not unless you specifically grant him entrance and for now…for now you aren’t sure you should.

The man looks at you — someone’s skull now adoring the front of his helmet, his horse a menacing thing that huffs out cold air in agitation. Yeah, it’s no easy journey to get here.

That’s why you live here.

The man in front of you is tall and absolutely huge, more monster than a knight. Makes you wonder what happened for someone like him to become Banished.

What brought him to your doorstep.

You sigh, a little grateful that Johnny is too busy fussing over chickens in the backyard because gods know he can’t stand strangers. Even more than you so.

“You seek refuge or favour?”, you tilt your head to the side, eager to get rid of him faster. Johnny may not be able to run like he did before but he’s still one very good Bloodhound. You don’t have much time until he will stalk outside to see what’s going on in front of your house.

(The previous visitor that had a gall to grab your hand before leaving was hunted down by Johnny. Hunted down and brought back, the hand that gripped you resting on the first step of your porch)

Banished knight looks at you for a few very long moments but if sensing your agitation, gets off his horse — landing on his feet with grace, that sends shivers down your spine.

He’s not just big.

He’s in a very good control of his body and he’s very aware of his size.

He’s dangerous.

Your wards tense up, not letting him through when he steps forward and he freezes as if he forgot about them. Though who knows, maybe he did forget.

Knights did have tendency to feel like they are owed entrance wherever they go, perhaps this one is no different.

“I need to find another knight. Bloodhound”, his voice is low, muffled by the helmet he doesn’t take off — dark eyes boring into you, staring you down from the high of his height.

Your brows furrow at the strange request, heart thumping faster. There’s only one knight who has been around these parts of the woods.

And he’s no longer Bloodhound. You are not giving him back. You are not going to let anyone take him away and rip him off everything you and time out here have been slowly restoring.

“I can’t help you”, you voice sharp, unusually so and Banished knight tilts his whole body forward as if trying to press himself through the wards, his fingers curling and uncurling — leather of his glove creaking.

“I don’t need much, witch. Just tell me where he went. And I will leave”, Banished presses further, shoulders tense and voice curling around your throat like a grip.

He takes a breathe before stepping back, raising his hands in half-hearted placating gesture.

“I mean no harm. I can pay if you need. Just tell me if you saw him”, he sounds almost gentle, head tilting down so he can look in your eyes without you having to crane your neck at him. “I’m…a friend”, he adds reluctantly, like he needs to physically tear the words out of himself.

Your brows furrow further and coincidentally Johnny couldn’t find a moment to show up better than now, sound of his walking uneven — still a limp to his step.

He rolls out of the house, picture of faux nonchalance, despite the sharp edge to his eyes.

“Hen, you alright? I heard-“, words die on his tongue when he sees the Banished knight, eyes widening. There is a strange kind of hunger in his gaze.

You don’t like it.

Because Banished knight sees Johnny and almost lunges himself in his direction, the only thing stopping him are the tethers of your wards, curling around his throat, forcing him back, forcing him out.

Air smells like ozone, air cracks with pressure, your fingers quickly warming up with a spell because you were right.

This man is dangerous. He saw Johnny.

You can’t let him leave now. He will need to disappear.

But Johnny grips your shoulders and shakes his head, eyes mad and desperate, an anguish to his face that you don’t quite understand.

“Nae, hen. It’s Simon. Don’t”, he breathes out, fingers digging into your skin, eyes boring into yours.

You glance back at Banished knight and he’s sitting on his knees now, tethers forcing him down, still tightly wrapped around his throat.

He’s dangerous. You don’t know him.

But Johnny’s nose presses to your cheek, breathing shuddering and he doesn’t let go of you. He doesn’t pull away until you give him a slow tentative nod.

Your fingers flick, soft popping of tethers letting go audible in the air and Johnny actually lunges himself at the Banished knight, sending them both tumbling in the snow.

Knight holds onto him with such hunger something in you churns uncomfortably. What if he will take Johnny away?

Your fingers warm up with the subconscious desire to push the strange man (Simon, his name is Simon) out. Out of your territory, out of your woods, out of your life.

But Johnny looks genuinely happy to see him so you let it go, just sitting yourself down nearby. You’ll be damned if he gets injured just because you looked away for a second.

But Simon grips Johnny like he’s the lifeline and answer to his prayers. Simon’s palms slide all over Johnny’s body, stroking sides, checking for wounds or tethers (your lips practically curl in snarl when you notice. Who the fuck does he think you are?).

He pauses at Johnny’s bad knee, touch getting more careful, eyes expectant and suddenly on you.

“Old injury”, you tell him for some reason. Not like you actually have to. You don’t owe this man anything, he’s unwelcome guest in your home. “I did what I could. If I found him later, he’d probably be without leg by now. Infection practically ate him alive”

Banished knight holds your eyes for a very long moment and then melts back into Johnny, murmuring something under his breath — too far for you to hear.

Doesn’t matter. The man isn’t staying in your home. He’s dangerous.

You tell that yourself and finally go back into the house to put kettle on. It’s too cold to stay mad out in the open. He’s not staying here anyway, so there’s no need to get too riled up.

He’s not staying but Johnny still shifts his weight from one leg to another in the doorway, Simon looming over his shoulder. They both look like a pair of big, wet from snow dogs.

You look at Johnny unimpressed but he tilts his head to the side, grown out strands of hair falling over his forehead. It should be illegal to be that bloody handsome.

You sigh and gesture for them to get in.

Okay, tea never harmed anyone. You’ll let this man warm up and he’ll be on his way before the sundown.

With or without Johnny.

The thought makes bile rise in your throat but you force it down focusing on the task at hand.

You can’t keep him if he’d want to go and you won’t humiliate yourself with begging him to stay.

But Johnny, so attuned to your moods by now, so used to having you chat for both of you steps closer — hands wrapping around your waist, part of his weight leaning on you to give a break his healthy leg.

“Yer not happy”, he notes, nose pressing to your ear, huffing out air and you can’t help but relax, letting him lean on you. He’s warm, heat rolling off him in waves, seeping through the sweater you made for him. Your head tilts back on his shoulder and he presses a kiss to your neck.

“He’s dangerous”, you muse quietly and ignore the chuckle Simon lets out. Banished knight is now sitting in front of your fireplace, cloak taken off and hanged on the chair to dry out.

Johnny just nods, calloused fingers rubbing idle circles on your solar plexus. It’s a long moment before he speaks again.

“I’m dangerous”, it’s said almost causally, his breath ghosting over your neck and you suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

“It’s different”, you snap back immediately.

Simon huffs behind your back and if Johnny wasn’t leaning on you, you’d have probably thrown something in the man. He’s not going to laugh at you in your own bloody house.

“Simon’s not bad, hen”, Johnny breathes out, tone softer, teeth grazing over sweet spot behind your ear, heat dripping down to your abdomen. Bastard. He knows what he’s doing.

“And Simon is not staying here”, you grumble, pouring herbal blend in three mugs, suppressing the urge to shiver when Johnny bites your neck.

“Hen”, he starts and you already know where it leads, you head shaking quickly.

“No”, you cut him off and nudge him with a shoulder to step back so you can move. “Move, I need to give this Banished his bloody tea”

Johnny grumbles but peels himself off you, less than happy to lose the comfort and warmth your body provides. Less than happy to let you slip out of his grasp.

“He can stay in the barn”, Johnny offers and just grins when you send him a glare. His teeth itch to sink into the nape of your neck, press you into the bed, lick the fight and agitation out of you, make you soft and pliant.

“I said no”

“Hen”

“He’s dangerous”

“Hen, have mercy”

Simon watches the way you two bicker, enjoying that none of you even noticed he took the helmet off to drink the tea you placed on the table with more force than necessary, some of it trickling down the rims of the mug.

Simon huffs out a dry chuckle when Johnny tries to pull you back into his hands and you sidestep, smacking his hands away. Leaving Bloodhound almost pouting.

“Cruel”, he complains to Simon, hands crossing over his chest. But despite everything…Johnny looks good. Better than Simon remembers him.

He’s wider now, there is bulk to him that Bloodhound Knight Johnny didn’t have. His eyes are brighter.

He is talking.

Simon didn’t even know Johnny could fucking talk, thought all Bloodhounds are mute. Courtesy of the profession.

“I understand you want to sleep with your Banished in the barn today?”, the witch arches their brow at Johnny and groans when his eyes light up.

Like a bloody dog catching the whiff of blood on the hunt. Old habits die hard, evidently.

“You can stay”, Johnny announces to Simon like it’s his personal victory, like he brought his master a good game after the hunt and is waiting to get his ear scratched.

His grin so wide it’s a miracle his face doesn’t crack. Witch rolls their eyes but Simon sees the way their lips twitch.

Seems not only he has a soft spot for Johnny.

Maybe it should’ve made him feel uneasy but if anything he feels satisfied, like something finally clicked in place. Puzzle finally unlocking in his hands, showing him the reward.

Simon tilts his head to the side, scar crossing his lips stretching when he smiles down at you.

Yeah, he’s staying.

A day turns into a couple days and then into two whole weeks because of the blizzard, Simon pushing further and further.

Eyes heavy and dark when he’d catch a glimpse of your throat or Johnny’s bites — purple bruises on your neck, soft creaking of the bed upstairs whenever it happened.

Simon doesn’t tell you that he moved from barn to the cot in the kitchen and you pretend that you don’t know he’s been sleeping there for the last week.

Simon pretends in return that he doesn’t strain his ears, catching the smallest sounds Johnny tears out of you. That he doesn’t lean on the cold wall of the kitchen, thighs spread wide, his eyes closed. That his hand doesn’t find its way to touch himself, stroking at almost lazy pace.

After all, Johnny is not starving Simon of little love here and there, eyes electric blue, mouth slick on the inner side of Simon’s thighs — your taste still on his lips.

Simon worms himself into your life and starts moving bloody furniture so he can position himself more comfortably, clicking his tongue when you hiss at him — tilting his head at you the same way a heavyweight horse would at the farm’s cat.

His fingers catch your jaw when you grumble that he rearranges your kitchen again, his lips pressing to yours.

You take a step back just to feel Johnny’s warm chest pressing into you, breathing heavier than usually, hands wrapping around you.

Simon angles your face so he can slip his tongue in your mouth, groaning appreciatively when you let him in. When you tilt your head up, allowing his fingers to curl over your neck.

Here we go. Finally.

Simon licks your lower lip, finally pulling away and reaches for Johnny just to give him a kiss just as wet, now grinning like a well-fed creature. Satisfaction dripping out his every pore.

Johnny nuzzles into your hair, breathing out a low “think Simon can sleep with us now, hen?” and you just nod. Your legs jelly that don’t hold you properly, head stuffed with cotton, skin tingling from the heat of their stares.

That’s…an unexpected turn. You were ready for Simon to leave. You were ready for Johnny to leave with him.

But this…this is a surprise.

Simon presses a short kiss to your forehead and walks away to feed the livestock. There’s a new spring to his step, as if something just depressurised his spine, letting him grow a few inches up.

The issue arises only when it’s time to actually sleep because Johnny is insatiable and he refuses to move anywhere from between your thighs, not reacting to anything.

Especially not to Simon walking in.

You feel hot, Johnny’s tongue sending white hot sparkles down your spine, your eyes meeting Simon’s whose pupils blow wide and god, he’s more monster than a knight.

He’s the solide presence when he crawl in bed to pull you into his lap, big palms holding you open for Johnny, fingers sinking in the meat of your thighs.

“Eager today, aren’t we, sweet’eart?”, Simon sucks his own mark in your skin, teeth grazing your throat, his grip on your thighs getting stronger when you make the prettiest needy sound.

Music for his ears.

“It’s okay. Gonna take good care of ya. Gonna take care of both of you”, he practically purrs, sliding his fingers down your body to find the fluttering hole, dipping in it just to marvel at your body swallowing his first knuckle.

Johnny whines, his tongue circling lower, curling around Simon’s fingers, making you choke on your own breathing because too much-too hot-too wet.

Simon presses a kiss to your jaw, grin wicked and dark, stubble on his cheek scratching your skin.

“Be good, luv”, he murmurs, eyes heavy and hungry when Johnny sucks his fingers in, practically gagging on thick digits. “Open up for us”

Johnny bites on the fingers in his mouth before pulling away, dropping back down between your legs, sinking his teeth in the meat of your thigh.

Marking.

Simon smiles wider and adds a second finger, pushing in deeper, cooing in your neck when your hips buckle.

There’s no rush, love. They aren’t going anywhere.

After all, you already let them in. They might as well make themselves at home.

Johnny‘s tongue traces the bite mark on your thigh, his eyes fixed on another one he left on Simon’s knuckles that are currently sinking inside of you. Wet squelching sound sending a heatwave through Johnny’s whole body.

So welcoming to them. So sweet, hen. It would be their pleasure.

[plaidos]

The craziest part of all that Dropout discourse about how they almost never feature transfems outside of drag is that dozens of people were saying shit like “Well, if you don’t have any recommendations of trans feminine comics, then you can’t complain and you’re just looking for something to whinge about and you’re just as bad as them”

like first of all, i don’t live in LA and neither to most Dropout fans — it’s their job to find interesting & exciting talent local to them, not ours. secondarily this complaint & belief basically implies that the reason Dropout barely ever features transfeminine talent is because they just haven’t “come across” any. I saw literally dozens of TME people asking “well how do we know any transfems are applying?” — first of all, transfems who applied for positions at Dropout personally reached out to me to tell me that real world staff members of Dropout agree with me & that all of the transfems who are involved behind the scenes in the company do feel like they are being undervalued and underrepresented.

but secondarily, this just implies that Dropout would’ve definitely had more transfems if only they knew about talented transfeminine performers or if ant had applied — and this betrays such an obviously transphobic understanding of this situation. There are not so few trans women comics in LA that it would not be incredibly easy for Dropout to find one, and the belief that we are is indicative that you see us as some niche incredibly rare minority. there are straight up thousands of trans people in LA. LA famously has an incredibly rich & diverse scene for transfeminine talent.

…but even beyond that, the fact that many Dropout fans can’t name any transfem comics to suggest Dropout hire (which, by the way, that’s not how this works, and the reason most of us weren’t doing this is because it doesn’t make any sense to, it would be ridiculous to demand Dimension 20 hire one specific person?) is not an indicator that they “just want to whinge and don’t actually care” — it’s an indicator that transfems are so underrepresented that many people outside of the industry haven’t seen any big popular transfeminine comedians/etc. like… isn’t that fucking sad? isn’t that tragic??? isn’t that absolute proof that we need more people like us highlighted?

it just seems like a good way to punish transfems for complaining. Like I really don’t understand why so many Dropout fans are so upset at the fact that trans women are saying “hey, it’s really disappointing how little we’re represented, could we have more?” other than because they fundamentally don’t want to see us outside of as a drag queen. Like sorry but us wanting more transfem comedians doesn’t make it our responsibility to name each one. It’s giving “if you’re a fan of this band, name five of their albums” Why? Why should transfems have to name ten counterexamples every time they felt underrepresented? It’s an objectively shitty double standard.

[jasper-ontheoffbeat]

I’M UP HATING POP PSYCHOLOGY. MEMEME

to be more serious: i have empathy for the urge to compartmentalize like this. genuinely, i do— for some, processing trauma feels easier when there are ready-made labels for the things/people that hurt them. i so deeply understand the urge to file away overwhelming chaos; to make sense of the cruel and senseless; to be comforted by pop psych “gotcha” moments and cling to categorizations. i know what it feels like to try to neatly reorganize broken self-concepts and horrifying histories. i’ve dealt with this exact issue myself.

that being said… unfortunately, it just. doesn’t. work.

automatically slapping warning labels on ASPD, NPD, BPD, etc is simply not fair nor accurate. the nuances shouldn’t be ignored: does the concept that mental health matters come with conditions? does furthering the stigma really empower victims, or does it drive offenders away from self-awareness and recovery? does it really help to boil human behavior down to lists and labels, or does it just skew our perceptions of ourselves and others even further? is it productive to focus on condensing things, or should we ultimately focus on understanding the complexities that make generalization ultimately impossible?

this is NOT to say that ANYONE has to entertain or forgive abusive people. not at ALL. i’m also not saying those who don’t care to improve should be forgiven and/or granted the opportunity to keep treating others poorly. there is a stark a difference between acknowledging nuance and normalizing/excusing abuse— you can express pain without making harmful blanket statements. in fact, it’s straight up ignorant to disregard those who are working their asses off in recovery. these disorders can be uniquely challenging to live with, and stigma makes everything 10x worse, especially when trauma, defensiveness, and self-hatred are inseparable from disordered beliefs/behaviors. you have EVERY right to cut off shitty individuals and despise them and feel rage and do whatever you need to do to heal— at the same time, people who present in malignant ways won’t get any better if they’re universally met with hostility. after all, 99% of the time, recovery seems like a far better outcome than total shunning. wouldn’t it be so much better if these people had safe spaces in which they could to learn to never abuse other humans again, and to develop healthier self-concepts?

(i say this as someone who’s been abused horribly countless times by people who present like this, developed BPD as a result, and gone through wild amounts of intensive therapy. i no longer meet the criteria for BPD.)

(of course, there are some acts that are UNFORGIVABLE. those require a… unique approach. i don’t feel qualified to go into that territory because personal experiences have left me way too biased; just know that i don’t mean to erase that line.)

also, re: MBTI/love language/brain development/brain gendering/dark empathy/blah blah blah: the same principle applies. individuals’ psychological makeups and backgrounds are too complex to accurately box in. that is the nature of the human condition, and even though it gets overwhelming, at the end of the day, it’s beautiful! there is no linear pathway for anything, and that is a GOOD thing! at best, all of those words can provide useful loose blueprints for furthering introspection; at worst, they create interpersonal divides that are either based on faulty assumptions or entirely non-existent.

we don’t have to fit into boxes to find community. it’s fine to use things like MBTI and love languages as cute, unweighted bonding tools, BUT in order to truly understand each other’s wants, needs, traits, and issues, we simply need to COMMUNICATE. no matter how isolated we feel in our struggles, WE ARE NOT ALONE. we are all mosaics of the experiences that have shaped us, and we each deserve to be understood as works of art, not as sums of our most basic parts.

tl;dr pop psychology egregiously simplifies human behavior and it is Not helpful as it seems

who up hating pop psychology

[shorthaltsjester]

endlessly thinking thoughts about cr characters, morality, and selfishness (likely place for me to be, given that my day job includes endlessly researching ethics and meaning of life) but in light of bell’s hells most recent illustration of their insularity and individualism, I’ve been really like. Trying to unpack why I find it particularly egregious in this party when obviously mighty nein were notoriously self-interested, especially at the beginning, and when vox machina had quite a few moments where their horses were far higher than they had any reason to be. And again, I really want to make it clear her that I don’t hold self-interest or selfishness to be some abhorrent and unforgivable thing, in fact I think its incredibly normal especially given the context of main characters in a story told through game mechanics that flourish on the interest of the individuals making the choices. I’ve written before about how one of the throughlines that I’ve seen in laura’s pcs (since I’m someone who particularly enjoys looking at the moral outlooks characters develop) is a common thread of morality that’s highly dependent on their own interests. And like, this is a positive throughline to me! Without getting into my own views on morality, it is particularly compelling to me for characters with isolated upbringing (which applies to vex, jester, and imogen, each in different ways) to develop a moral code informed by that isolation, and in vex we see her moral code is ‘anything goes if it protects those I hold dear’, in jester we see a moral code that doesn’t care about morality as much as it cares about the chance to care and be cared for, and in imogen we see a moral code developed in response to her very unique experience of hearing the darkest parts of people and judging them on those (which to be clear, i am not judging her for that fact, I think it makes extreme sense for someone who hears the thoughts the people have to be horrified by those things, but it does mean her moral system is almost completely backwards, where intention holds more weight than action, which perhaps makes sense of the popularity of defending all of her ideas and choices and the Right Ones by certain parts of the fandom that insist leftism is hidden in the dnd real play). And that’s all to say that, out of the cr parties we’ve seen, I don’t think any single member of bell’s hells is uniquely more or less selfish or more or less of an asshole than previous characters. And in fact, I tend to be quite fond of selfish characters, I have a well documented history of cherishing them well beyond the cr fandom. But the point is that my calling something or someone self-interested is not a value judgement in this context, it's a descriptive claim about the traits a character exhibited.

Imogen, who has insisted time and time again re: the values of the accord that she would not be swayed by the temptation of predathos because she recognizes the importance of this fight, only to turn around and pretty immediately open herself up to predathos to fulfil the most threatening part of ludinus’ plan is self-interested. I cannot conceive of any other way to describe her choices. And her being self-interested doesn’t mean she can’t also be altruistic at times, but I will be clear that I don’t think her risking killing herself as she attempts to bring down the god-eater that she released is particularly selfless. In my best faith interpretation I’d say she’s pretty middle of the road in that choice. But I bring all this up because a comparison I’ve been seeing is that bell’s hells aren’t as mean as the mighty nein or even vox machina in certain moments and that it doesn’t make sense for the fandom to view bell’s hells as likely to be villains when the same wasn’t true of the previous two campaigns, and I think I have to pretty emphatically disagree, and not because I don’t think there aren’t moments in both campaigns that feature extremely high levels of assholery and villainry from pcs – I mean, some of my favourite cr characters are percy and jester, both of whom i’d say are ‘good guys’ due to the pure luck of the found familys they fell in with and both of whom often suggested plans that were. Not okay. To say the least. But ignoring the difference between suggesting fucked up plans and walking your god-eater infused bestie back towards the troops sent to support you in keeping that entity contained, the other big difference I’ve noticed in my own introspection on how I react to bh vs mn and vm, as well as which things i cherish about previous campaigns that were really missing from c3 to what I think is the story and the character’s detriment (staying away from the shape of the narrative, just because others have made posts that put words together better about that than I can) is that while members of vm and mn remained self-interest to the end of their campaigns and have reasserted those habits in appearances since, the parties as entities working in exandria had both, to echo ashton’s apt suggestion to ludinus, grown up.

Like one moment I think of is beau and fjord’s convo in the nein hells episode, because beau is being her asshole self and fjord is being his ‘I care about My People and I’ll think about the rest later’ self (i say affectionately but certain parts of the fandom I recognize would view derogatorily) – clearly they’re not the kindest people as they discuss bell’s hells, but two notable things are (a) they still treat the hells with the respect and use their means to help them prepare for the battle coming, even when they hear the horrifying thought that the hells aren’t certain they’ll choose to save the gods, all the nein request is that they choose the kind option (b) they say none of their doubts to the hells themselves – likely because they have the empathy to realizes that its a high stress situation that won’t be made better by a reminding the hells how small and likely ineffectual in the universe they are – and their comments about cannon fodder are ones made in jest to each other. Even taking that in the worst faith interpretation, the jokes that beau and fjord make in a private conversation has absolutely zero influence on bh. This is quite different than bells hells, after like. as clearly betraying the accord they promised to assist (even if their intentions are ‘good’) as is possible, belittling the religious armies sent to support their endeavor to keep predathos sealed as they all feel the weight of an irrevocable change occurring in exandria, one bells hells has first account knowledge now that it IS incredibly willing to eat mortals, and laudna and ashton, the members of bells hells most often cited by certain fandom spaces as characters who have gone through so much and it only made them kind and strong, look into the faces of people facing literally existential threat and laugh and mock them. That is, mighty nein as individuals is comprised of some of the, perhaps, most asshole pcs, but The Mighty Nein as a party is committed to treating others the best they can, to leaving things better than they found them (a quote that I think is particularly exemplary of the dynamics of self-interest at play in the mighty nein, since it originated as a blatant illustration of molly’s notion of self-importance but developed to become a kind of commandment that the nein became committed to fulfilling). The opposite is true of bell’s hells, where orym and dorian at least both seem to have motivation beyond themselves, imogen’s changes but has shown she is capable of letting go of her ‘intention reigns’ requisitely individualistic perspective, and chetney plays up his selfishness but has shown himself to care quite a bit for people beyond their party but bell’s hells as an entity is uh, pretty self-interested.

To clarify some of my thoughts here in the spirit of the wicked renaissance happening rn, I’ve always felt that for good was an incredibly apt song for the mighty nein, because it really nails that feeling that perhaps they didn’t change each other as individuals to become better people on the grand scale, maybe they’ve just changed each other permanently, but they (and I would agree with this) view each other as having changed each other for the better (e.g., I don’t know if I could say whether jester is a morally better Individual at the end of the campaign, but I can say with certainty that she fulfils and makes moral choices in her work as a member of the mighty nein). And I don’t know if this can be said about bell’s hells – I think they have certainly influenced each other and changed how alone many of those characters felt, and that is not a slight on the story, it can be a great centre for a story to focus on how a relinquishment of the feeling that one is alone in the world can change them. But for the most part, that hasn’t been bh’s story, their story instead has been about validating their refusal to become anything beyond what they insist was out of their control. And not to get to annoying philosophy student about it but bell’s hells are maybe some of the most explicit examples of sartrian bad faith I’ve seen in fiction in a hot minute, because their insistence that they treat their wounds as incurable and entirely out of their hands has led to them limiting their own potential because many of them ignore their responsibility as people to make choices in their own lives. In contrast, at the end of the campaign, mighty nein are still assholes as we all like to refer to them as, but in the context of an apocalypse, I think I’d prefer the assholes like fjord – who is certainly being truthful when he says he doesn’t care about what harm comes to 200 people when jester is at risk but who also, as they traverse into aeor, is insistent that their group won’t be running away from whatever apocalyptic threat awaits them, even if that means dying in the fight – than I would an asshole like ashton – who promises to fight for the little guys but who then turns around and acts upon a philosophy that says the strongest will survive. When you look at the mighty nein, it is incredibly easy to see the fingerprints of change they’ve left upon one another, and even to see the boundaries they place on one another’s asocial behaviours through their presence in one another’s lives (more recently the group chastising jester’s fond words about ludinus is a good example, but others are yasha’s pressuring caleb and essek to move on from their wizard talks as they collect paper in aeor instead of venturing further toward the battle they have to fight, or fjord and jester’s frustrated conversation in the ukotoa reunion about how fjord made a stupid decision and he doesn’t regret but he feels dejected and jester checking him on the fact that they still need to figure out a solution). It takes some extrapolation to see how bells hells have changed each other in more than aesthetic ways, if they have at all. Because the catalyst for change is pressure to do so, and aside from moments where it was truly change or be left behind, bh doesn’t challenge each other unless forced to by morri’s trials or delilah’s interruption and on the very odd occasion an interesting game of rollies-spin-the-bottle. 

And it’s interesting because the asshole behaviour of the mighty nein, like bell’s hells, stems from being left on the outskirts of society and the mistreatment that comes with that, so seemingly the change from being alone to being with others is one that actually insists upon being challenged to grow and change. I mean, just looking at the starting points of the characters, there’s an intriguing amount of stark similarities between their pasts; jester and fearne were both people loved dearly by the family they grew up with but who were loved within the confines of a gilded cage, ashton and beau both have an glaring self awareness that their anger at the world has a very particular source (their parents) but use that as justification rather than a means of self reflection, yasha and orym are trying to navigate a world in the wake of an incomprehensible loss and a sense of duty, fjord and imogen are both seeking out knowledge of their own powers and unknowingly retreading the paths of their missing and presumed dead parental figures. The idea that bell’s hells are uniquely mistreated by society in the history of cr player characters is, politely, laughable. Absolutely they’re mistreated, and I think it could be fair to say these characters are more defined by their isolation than others but I think that has more to do with the lack of downtime rp than it has to do with the context of their suffering.

What I have loved about the mighty nein is that in their realization that the bonds they forge with each other are undermining the truths most of them had taken to be true – that they were alone and without a place in the world – they are also forced to realize that no longer being alone and isolated comes with the weight of social responsibility. And this was born out of a willingness the mighty nein had to call each other out and that the players had to allow their characters to be wrong and get called on it. Because that’s the friction of living with other people on the small party scale and the large world scale – in the mighty nein’s ability to survive as a people who cared for each other even when they didn’t agree or when they made decisions that they couldn’t understand, they were constantly developing their ability to care for the very same world that left them alone. Because in campaign two, the world as a whole had the role that the gods have in campaign 3 – why should a party of nobodies, treated like shit by the world and the people in it go through the effort of saving it?

And the mighty nein answered, in their own imperfection and assholery, that nothing is ever just one thing – one of the things I cherish most about campaign 2 is its commitment to ambiguity, allowing the complexity of the world to go unsolved because there is no solution to the fact that life is immense and sometimes incoherent. I don’t think its a coincidence that I’ve seen some of the people lamenting the idiocy of fandom members like me who think that it actually isnt a leftist win to destroy the world in the hopes of spontaneous justice arising in c3 are the same people who criticised c2’s conclusion with the cerberus assembly for not being leftist (a word which for them means . the aesthetic image of a rebellion sparked and not the unending commitment to doing what you practically can to make life more just for those around you – whether they’re particularly kind to you or not) enough. The conclusion of c2 emphasizes that the choice to make the world a better place isn’t something that can be achieved in one single sweeping action that will wipe the boards clean – there is no murder of all the members of the cerberus assembly that would’ve solved the problems that caused the assembly’s power. There is no forcing of the god’s out of exandria that will deal with the actual issue undergirding both bh and their blorbo-moralized fans' criticism of the gods, which is that mortals are cursed with the burden of free will, and being mistreated by other mortals means constantly having to try and make sense of the fact that someone chose to do something cruel to you (and, sometimes, that you made a choice that allowed that cruelty to occur) – a burden made much heavier when the person who hurt you is your cult-indoctrinated mother, or your cult leader father, or the person in the mirror. The mighty nein take up this fight, and the complexities of their individual identities begin to heal in the light of a commitment in their relationship as friends and as a team to improve the world, even on the small scale. Bell’s hells remain gridlocked and stagnant and unwilling to change in an unspoken turf war of self-interest because they’ve insisted (influenced in part by the context of the campaign 3 narrative but, as others have aptly pointed out, that narrative was much more influenced by bh’s lack of curiosity regarding anything except their own minds) upon finding a solution to a problem they’ve decided is earth-shatteringly (quite literally, to the people of ruidus) unjust based on, aside from encounters where fellow mortals were the primary oppressors, their own testimony of the god’s not listening to them and the obvious villain’s parallel testimony. Something I’ve really been chewing on lately is caduceus words to fjord about his role as a paladin of the wildmother – that maybe it just means that someday, someone will pray for a miracle, and there fjord’ll be and the weight that has given that fjord’s bond to ukotoa came from his desperation not to die and his willingness to accept whatever help would be offered, that fjord could now be the person that reaches out to someone in need, and that the hand he offers won’t come with a curse.  And I think that’s really the poignant difference between bh and mn for me, that for bh, their experiences of injustice, though did make them personally bitter, did not make them morally misanthropic.

Comparatively, Bell’s Hells chose to ensure that, because the gods never answered their prayers, they shouldn’t be permitted to answer anyone else’s. Is this an understandable position? Sure, for the walls of a preschool, not really for a group of characters that I will ever be in any way inclined to view as something close to heroes. While it’s true that there are parts of life that are beyond our control – somethings happen to us that we have no say in, and they cause injuries both physical and mental that we are left to heal without any rhyme or reason, it is still our responsibility to heal them. And if you choose not to, well, then you’ve chosen not to, and are responsible for the consequences and judgements that choice might amount to.

Anyway, sorry this is all over the place but TLDR: calling bell’s hells as a party self-interested is actually just descriptively correct – they can save members of the party made up of their close friends and still be self-interested – and while the individual members of bell’s hells actually aren’t all that uniquely self-interested in the history of cr pcs, the party is uniquely self-interested in how they’ve chosen to navigate the world an their responsibility to the people in it.

[sanakiras]

PICTURE ME LIKE I PICTURE YOU

PAIRING — kim mingyu x fem!reader

WORD COUNT — 1.2k

SYNOPSIS — mingyu is hopelessly in love with someone who doesn’t love him back, and all that lies ahead is acceptance.

TAGS — unrequited love, fwb!gyu, explicit sexual content

NOTE — just a short drabble i felt like putting out. came up w this while listening to picture you by chappell roan, such a beautiful song, give it a listen !! <3

it’s been dark outside for several hours when mingyu’s kissing every inch of your body. he pushes himself into you with ease, but his touch is light as a feather. gentle.

the pace he keeps is slow, and fuck, you don’t think it’s ever felt this intimate before.

normally he’s relatively talkative during sex — this might be the quietest he’s been in bed so far, save for the grunts and moans working their way out of his throat.

“feels so good, gyu—” you’re half-slurring your words, not missing how his big hand interwines his fingers with yours as he ruts into you, a gesture that breaks your heart.

how can something feel so right yet so wrong at the same time?

of course mingyu didn’t go into this little friends-with-benefits thing with the idea of falling in love with you. hell, it’s the last thing he expected. he wanted something without strings attached but with consistency, a sense of easiness; you turned out to be looking for the same.

but he fell in love with you in a way he didn’t think was possible. to him, it felt like the kind of love you only find in the movies; the kind you can only dream of encountering in real life. it hit him sudden and hard — he didn’t confess to you, out of fear he’d lose whatever bond you have with him.

or perhaps that’s not all there is to it. perhaps he never confessed his true feelings because he knew, deep down, that you’d never reciprocate them.

because you don’t really fall for guys like him. you much prefer guys like wonwoo.

his best friend. his roommate.

the day he first saw it, he was horrified. what was a simple interaction to anyone else, was his worst nightmare. his heart sank in his chest the second he watched you and wonwoo meet from afar — that look the two of you shared was enough.

you’d never looked at him that way.

all that’s been on his mind is your look of brutally honest disappointment when he opened the door to his dorm and told you wonwoo was out. if you’d stood any closer to him, you could probably hear his confidence plummeting to his feet, as well as his heart ripping in two.

the whole ordeal should’ve made him put an end to the agreement you had with him, but he couldn’t do it.

because it’s all he had left of you. the realization hit him like a truck; the moment he’d put a stop to it, you’d no longer be his in any way.

not that you ever really were to begin with.

he’s clinging onto this last piece of you so selfishly, he knows that, but he so much as looks at you and everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, his thoughts never seeing the light of day.

an unsettling feeling slowly brews in his ribcage. all he wants is to understand. why don’t you love him? what does his best friend have that he doesn’t?

he might just break on top of you here — would you even care?

maybe you would. or maybe you’d just pity him.

the sound of your whimpering underneath him makes a strange, achingly good combination of heartbreak and lust. he wants nothing more than to dig his teeth into your soft skin, but forces himself not to.

your legs wrap tighter around his hips, pulling him closer to you. it’s you who puts your hands on the back of his neck, kissing him so sweetly that it almost makes him believe you want him as much as he wants you.

what makes everything worse is that he knows you tried. for a little while, you tried to see if you could give him a shred of the love he so desperately wanted to give you.

but you couldn’t.

“i want to love you like that, y’know. i want it so bad, and i tried, but…” you told him last week while slow dancing at a friend’s birthday party, “i just can’t.”

while your head was resting between his neck and shoulder, your bodies rocking side to side to the music together, he looked up at the ceiling to hold back his tears, the corners of his mouth curling downwards. it was admirable, how he held his head high that night.

truthfully, you didn’t expect him to come knocking on your door again after that. you broke his heart — even though you never wanted to — so you wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to see you anymore.

but to your surprise, he did come back. he was less cheerful, sure, but it’s as if part of him chose to ignore what you said to him, for reasons you didn’t understand at first.

he needs to accept that you and him aren’t meant to be. perhaps that’s the sole reason he wanted to fuck you tonight.

it almost sickens him how much he wants to beg for you to try again. maybe if you saw him more often, or spent more time together doing whatever you wanted, or if he kissed you even more than he already has — maybe you’d grow to love him in the end.

he buries his head in the crook of your neck, hiding how shitty he feels.

‘cause he knows you won’t love him, no matter what he does or how hard he fights for it.

“i’m close,” he mutters, only momentarily lost in the chasing of his high, “fuck—”

you clench around him with shaky legs, and he shivers at the feel of your nails digging into his skin, hitting his climax right after you.

and it’s then that he breaks. as he lays his head down on your chest, staring at the wall, his lips trembling — he can’t hide how hurt he is anymore.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out with his face turned away from you, a few silent tears slipping from his eyes in defeat.

with a sad attempt for a smile, you stroke his naked back with your fingertips, your eyes welling up once you feel his teardrops landing onto the skin of your chest.

he’s so dear to you, as loving as a person could possibly be, yet you can’t love him back. a part you hates yourself for it, “i’m sorry, too.”

the sobs are fighting to escape his mouth, but he keeps them quiet, making you almost just as emotional as he is.

“i’ll get over it tomorrow, i promise. i’m sorry.” he whispers, his way of asking if you can stay together like this for just a little while longer.

you just let your tears go with a numb face and strained voice.

“i know.”

eventually, he has no more tears left, and his whole body shudders, feeling himself drift off into sleep with burning, tired eyelids.

he’ll be okay — it’s better like this.

it’s something he’ll come to terms with when he wakes up in the morning.

thank u for reading. please let me know if u enjoyed it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

[sabertoothwalrus]

heyy i adore your art! do you have any advce for a small artist trying to get out there?

I guess it depends what you mean by “get out there”!

I’d say number one is to ignore the numbers. Unless you’re intentionally trying to sell yourself to some app’s algorithm, obsessing over the numbers will not help you.

The thing is, it is ok to care about other feedback you get on your art. I often hear social media treated like a dichotomy, to either “ignore it completely and draw for yourself” or to “strive to be a famous viral artist”. And I’m saying it’s not that simple.

It all boils down to why you’re making art. For some people, art is a much more personal expression, and it’s not meant to be seen by others. It’s more about the process and the catharsis than the outcome. This kind of art doesn’t need to be shared with other people.

For others, it’s a living. These people don’t mind that their art becomes “marketable”, if it becomes generic with a mass-appeal. This kind of art isn’t here to send a message, it’s here to look pretty. And that’s ok.

For me, art is communication. I’m telling stories. This is why I’m most drawn to comics and animation. I don’t pay attention to numbers, but I pay a lot of attention to comments because they help me gauge how successful I was at communicating an idea, an action, a joke, etc. It’s still important you develop thick skin. You have to detach yourself emotionally from them, and use them as a tool to help you learn.

This is why clarity is one of my biggest priorities in art. Clarity has less to do with skill and more to with “can you understand what this is you’re looking at”. There are some artists out there who are very good at what they do, but they still struggle with clarity. And the inverse is true; even beginner artists can have clear, easy to follow art.

Some things I actively try to do in my art to improve clarity:

Is the pose clear? Is the figure overlapping themself too much, or is the action still readable from the silhouette?

If there’s text, is it clear? Is the direction of speech bubbles confusing? Is my handwriting/font easy to read?

Would a background or prop help clarify the setting better? (What’s the least amount of effort I can put into this that will give the necessary information?)

Are my lines too loose? Sometimes it’s fine, but if they’re too unconnected, the form gets lost. Should I close my lines better, or maybe add a tone to separate the positive and negative space?

Does the “punchline” make sense? What AM I saying? What could communicate it stronger?

If your art is clear, people will find it and share it! Just keep telling the stories you wanna tell, make the art YOU want to see, and your audience will build around you!

[cloudwisp]

Caleb and the constant yearning for you to need him and to hear the words coming from your lips. He’s already given you everything he could think of, protection and safety that makes you feel so insulated from the world. But when you need him for something else entirely that goes beyond the boundaries of your close relationship, it feeds into his appetite that he won’t be able to control if you continue to keep this up.

What started as a playful wrestle for the remote turned into you pinning him on the ground, your faces impossibly close so that you could feel the warmth of his breath blending with yours. You have the upper hand yet you’re right where he wants you as tension crackles between you and him. The shared glances clouded with lust make the intentions known when they slowly flit and linger for a sweet taste. He doesn’t have time to process before softness embraces his lips and he surrenders all senses to you.

Caleb has dreamt about this for a long time. How it would feel to squeeze the flesh of your hips and pull you closer to him, how he would respond to swallowing your moans against tongueful kisses as you lose yourself humping his warm and growing arousal in his pants. He feels so dangerously good under you, making you crave more when his hand travels beneath your shirt and teases you by tracing the underside of your breast with his thumb.

You both eventually come up for a desperate inhale to return air back into your lungs. Your cheeks flushed and parted lips swollen as you gaze down only to receive an amorous stare back at you. He chuckles softly, a smile making way and his palm cups the side of your face. “You know, I didn’t think you had that in you. Not that I didn’t enjoy the kiss... it was nice.”

His hand lowers and brushes the pad of his finger along your bottom lip. And new thoughts emerge like how your mouth would feel wrapped around his thumb as he gently presses down on your tongue. “You’re beautiful, have I ever told you that?”

“Caleb… I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what came over me.” You glance away amidst the heat of your embarrassment, and you still feel lightheaded from the remnants of the intense exchange. Some things can’t be easily undone once you start them, and yet you feel an overwhelming urgency to kiss him again. His shirt crumples around your clenched fist while your mind tries to make sense of your suppressed feelings for your childhood friend.

“Hey, hey. You didn’t do anything wrong, princess.” He carefully shifts you onto your back, tilting your chin to make you face him again. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll take care of it, hm?” He tests your reaction by hooking one of your legs over his hip and his knee slowly parts your thigh causing your breath to hitch when he makes contact with your clothed clit. He leans down to plant light kisses on your forehead, his fingers curling around the waistband of your skirt tugging at it playfully. “Can you do that for me?”

It’s adorable to him, truly. How precious and vulnerable you look with those eyes full of longing because you also share the same burning desire for something more with him. When you grant him consent with a small nod of your head, he promises that he won’t hold back pouring every ounce of his love and devotion into you that he has withheld for too many years.

[housecow]

seeing you outright mention you have death feedism tendencies is like a shotgun to the chest (positive)

i have a medical phobia that’s somehow twisted itself into death feedism ngl. also, evil feeders. 😳

someone hellbent on keeping me as fat as possible for as long as they can—knowing what cocktail of drugs keeps my heart pumping, dumbing me down and keeping me pliant with edibles hidden in my food, waking me up every few hours for feedings and funnel sessions instead of letting me sleep so the weight piles on faster than it should..

somewhere deep down i know it’s not good for me. maybe my feeder tells me about all the health problems i have while the feeding tube is in my mouth and i can barely think, but i can’t focus on what they’re saying without getting overwhelmed. if i don’t remember later, it doesn’t really matter, right?

maybe occasionally i’d “come to my senses,” during a lull in the feedings. when my feeder is busy and away for a while, after i’ve made my way through a small mountain of snacks and the mini fridge (full of shakes laced with THC to keep me docile) is just out of reach. maybe i’d try to get up, only to collapse back down because my knee problems finally caught up to me and fuck, it hurts to even try to walk. maybe then i’d finally take a look at where i am, how i’ve given up my life for someone’s (and my own, let’s be real) sick pleasure.

i’d have to deal with that realization for a while. maybe i’d start to cry, unable to handle the reality. eventually, though, my feeder would come back. they’d find me in this state and console me, getting the funnel ready because they can hear my stomach rumbling and it’s been too long since i’ve eaten. they’ll coo into my ear about how it’s all okay, how i asked for this and it’s what we both want.

they’d give my belly a shake, grasping the lowest roll in their hands and enjoying the way it makes my entire body wobble. they’d press a kiss onto the vast expanse of fat above my belly button, an area they were so excited to see expand under their care. they’d struggle a bit to lift one of my tits, eager to see how my breath hitches at the thought of their mouth on me. these are all distractions. they’ve mastered this game of manipulation and there’s no way i’d be able to find my way out of their control. their touch, the food they offer me, even those moments when i’m not high or in a haze of fullness and pleasure, were meant to further ensnare me and ensure i’m theirs for as long as i live.

my health, my life, is in my feeder’s hands. they know what’s best. as long as i keep eating, keep taking the pills they hand me, keep ignoring how hard it is to move and breathe, it will all be fine. or, that’s what i’d tell myself.

[muletia]

So. I just read the whole ‘optimus gets minified’ and I have to ask...

May I request one for Pedraking?🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇🙇

— 🩷

𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥. 𝟐 ༘⋆✿

predaking, ratchet, smokescreen ↳ all are obsessed with you btw

word count: 1300

you used the word “request” and I am currently not accepting them, but!! I love this concept and couldn’t resist adding two other characters…

Oh, no, he absolutely hates it

Predaking has no idea how this even happened. He went into recharge curled protectively around you, shielding you from the world and sharing his warmth, only to wake up small, confused, and utterly incapable of performing the one task his entire existence revolves around: protecting you

So how is he supposed to stay calm? How is he supposed to keep his cool when he’s defenseless? His strength, height, and power — all his greatest assets — have been stripped away. Without them, he can’t be a worthy mate for you. He wouldn’t dare even call himself that anymore. You don’t need a plushie; you need a strong partner, ready to push away any intruder and eliminate anyone who so much as approaches your love nest. In this form, he can’t offer you any of that. He can’t fulfill a single promise he made to you, which leaves him caught between fury and a crushing sense of inadequacy

But why aren’t you panicking? You look surprised, sure, but not terrified, even though you should be! You’re currently defenseless! What if someone decides to steal you away from him? And why are you cooing like he’s a sparkling and reaching out toward him? Oh, you want to pet him...

He won’t make it easy. Startled by your actions, he’ll jump away from you, insisting he doesn’t need your affection right now and that you should hold off until you figure out a solution to this mess.

But he has to stay by your side. He has to protect you, even in this form. He has to be braver, fiercer, compensating for his lost size with sheer determination. No, he won’t leave you for even a second. He’ll protect you with his entire body if necessary

So he returns to you and tries to block the entrance to your love nest, though at his current size, it’s far from impressive. Standing with his back to you, hawk-eyed and focused on the doorway, he doesn’t notice your hand snaking toward his helm. When it rests there and starts stroking, he freezes

Predaking will still try to resist. He’ll growl and brush off your affections, but with every stroke of your hand, his defiance melts away. Boldness gives way to an overwhelming need to be close to you, and soon there’s nothing left of it as he wags his tail, eagerly demanding more pets

It’ll take a long time before he remembers that he’s supposed to protect you 24/7, fully content to bask in your attention and curl up on your lap. Even your constant comments about how sweet and adorable he is stop bothering him surprisingly fast

Still, he will never accept being miniature. Being spoiled by you is undeniably delightful, but Predaking needs absolute certainty that he can defend you from hostile bots. He’ll keep searching for a way to undo this, but until then, you can enjoy your giant, adorable lap dog <3

If Predaking hates his situation, Ratchet downright loathes it

You’ve never heard so much grumpy complaining as during the size-change incident

How can humans live like this? It’s uncomfortable, impractical, weak. You can’t reach anything, the world feels so enormous. Anyone could step on you (payback for his own words, I guess), and you’re so fragile and delicate

And then there’s your behavior toward him. He doesn’t want to be treated like a sparkling. He doesn’t want your cooing and constant repetition of how adorable he is and how much you want to smother his entire faceplate with kisses (although, deep down in his spark, that’s the one thing he truly craves, as betrayed by a subtle blue blush)

He doesn’t know when you got it into your head that he needs your constant care. He can handle himself and intends to work tirelessly until he finds a way to undo this farce. Sure, he’s five times smaller, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost all his competence. He doesn’t need a nanny — especially one who keeps interrupting his work with comments about how adorable he is

But Ratchet is also a hypocrite because, truthfully, he does need you. The sudden shift in perspective is terrifying. Giants become behemoths; they loom over him, threatening to crush him. It’s easy to feel microscopic and overwhelmed, not hard to spiral into panic and uncertainty as wild thoughts conjure up visions of being stepped on. In those moments, Ratchet needs you by his side. He needs to grab onto the hem of your shirt, to feel that you’re there, that everything is okay. You won’t leave him or let anything harm him

Of course, once the fear subsides and Ratchet feels comfortable again, he reverts to his independent and grumpy self, but he’ll stop trying to push you away. He’ll appreciate your presence, even if he never really wanted you to leave him in the first place

The constant work will exhaust him quickly, especially in such a small and frail form, and then he’ll instinctively seek you out. He’ll choose the perfect moment when no one else is in the base, find you on the couch, and climb onto you, ignoring all your questions and comments. He’s tired, doesn’t know how to fix this, and needs you. Let him at least have a few kliks of napping in arms that surround him with safety

You can even kiss his forehead. After all, it’s only fair to repay all the kisses you’ve received from him, so he can feel for himself just how wonderful they are <3

Oh, and imagine a mini jealous Ratchet. He doesn’t like that you’re spending so much time talking to some young bot when you were supposed to be helping him, so he feels the need to take action and drag you away. But he’s so tiny and not at all intimidating that his “rival” can’t take him seriously... especially when he tugs at your clothes like a grumpy sparkling

Oh, so now he can be with you 24/7? Fantastic!

This entire situation is incredibly convenient for him. Sure, at first, he was a bit terrified and downcast that he couldn’t be the perfect partner for you, but he quickly discovered countless benefits to being minified

First and foremost, he gets to accompany you everywhere. He doesn’t leave your side, becoming your shadow. Even at his normal height, he tried to spend every free moment with you, but as a mini version, he’s with you always

Bathroom breaks? Smokescreen follows you, clutching onto the hem of your shirt (you’ll need to explain to him that just because he can fit in there with you doesn’t mean he should)

Feeling like stretching your legs after sitting too long and showering him with affection? He toddles after you, mimicking your every move

Taking a stroll around the base? Definitely not alone.

He’ll drain your energy before evening comes. Since he’s shrunk down to the size of a sparkling, why not act like one to get what he wants?

Need a break from his constant presence and his unique talent for never shutting up? Well, you’re going to have a huge problem because simply interrupting a cuddling session already spells trouble. Trying to untangle yourself from his limbs while avoiding sharp edges of his armor, Smokescreen sprawls across your torso, pinning you to the couch. And even when small, he’s shockingly heavy, effectively trapping you in place. Now you can continue your cuddling and smooching session

He won’t feel a shred of shame or hesitation in using his charm, either. He knows perfectly well that you find him adorable, so he’ll use his big, puppy-like optics to manipulate you to his advantage — for example, to get another round of being carried in your arms

But the most affectionately unbearable he gets is when you need to leave the base. You can’t leave him alone! What if someone steps on him? Or he gets lost in the hangar? You have to stay by his side (forever) at least until Ratchet can fix him. Smokescreen has no qualms about clinging to your leg if it means keeping you near. And no force will pry him off until you say you’ll stay the night <3

[parker-artio]

The Batfamily in who I think is the most flexible to least flexible (w/ my reasons)

Richard (Dick) Grayson- I feel like this one just makes sense, no extra information needed. He’s the last Flying Grayson, he’s cannonly super fucking flexible, not much information needed.

Cassandra Cain- Once again feel like it’s a given. She’s a baller dancer, and she moves so agile on her feet it’s practically obvious she’s flexible and easy to move

Damian Wayne- Oddly enough I think this boy is like a wet noodle when he wants to be, he is flexible. But you’d never know unless you see his ass play limbo or some shit.

Timothy Drake- He gives flexible. He probably tried to practice Dick’s moves in his room alone when he was a kid and stalked Batman and Robin. He would definitely be more flexible than Damian if Damian didn’t have his young age. Tim could easily surpass Damian in terms of flexibility if he wanted, but he just chooses not to stretch everyday (bad idea)

Stephanie Brown- She’s like Tim- does NOT stretch enough. But she could rival Tim in terms of flexibility if she actually wanted to, she can probably do flips and splits better than Tim, but when it comes to back flexibility he’d win by a landslide

Duke Thomas- He’s got a bigger build, like a quarterback who’s only a freshman kind of build. He’s good at flips, dodging, and jumping, but I don’t think he does any kind of stretches that would improve his flexibility, just the kind of ones that would make sure it’s still working.

Jason Todd- Bro is built like a double fridge with a top AND bottom freezer. He’s massive. He’s got muscles that can rival his siblings HEADS. Hes tall, he’s beefy, and he’s a marksman. He’s flexible enough to do flips and cartwheels, but he cannot do anything that involves twisting his body up.

Bruce Wayne- He used to be just like Tim flexibility wise, but then he stated to adopt kids.

Barbara Gordon- This is in no way a jab at her, I fucking love her. Before the wheelchair she’d be placed between Damian and Tim. But now she’s got her shoulder and upper back- that’s it. Which is as flexible as she can get them, but it’s also half of her body. I love her so much though, she’s badass and without her everyone would crumble. So it doesn’t matter if she’s flexible or not.

Alfred Pennyworth- He’s old.

If we want to add Kate, i firmly believe she’d be placed Steph and Duke. She’s flexible, but also just enough to do all of the stuff she needs.

(I know there’s so many other members I could add but ppl only seem to care for these guys- but I might make a more thorough and longer one, with more family members, like Harper, Selina, Helena [depending on what universe], Claire, Luke, David, Cullen, ect.)

[echo-riot]

✞⛧ Pathetic, Yet Perfect (Sevika x Reader) ✞⛧

Warnings: Implied intoxication, slightly suggestive themes, power dynamics (dominant/submissive undertones), physical comfort, mild teasing.

Summary: After a few too many drinks at the Leaky Drop, you’re lying beneath Sevika, your head resting between her thighs as you try to sober up. Amidst the haze of alcohol, Sevika’s teasing and comforting presence help dull the noise of the bar, leaving you in a quiet, almost peaceful space under her watchful gaze.

An: Don’t ask me. I just…yk cancllation headphones? Like when the world is just too loud and it like brain fucks your senses? Yeah that’s what this is but with sevika’s thighs- I had this in my notes app while searching through it so…enjoy?

You’re lying on the floor beneath Sevika’s chair at the Leaky Drop, drunk out of your mind, your head resting between her thighs. The world around you is a blur, the rhythmic shuffle of cards and the low murmur of conversations only amplifying the fog in your brain. It’s hard to focus, hard to move, and even harder to care.

Sevika’s strong legs are all you can concentrate on, the warmth of her skin grounding you as you struggle to sit up, only to flop back against her thighs, groaning softly. “Still drunk, huh?” she teases, her voice smooth as she glances down at you, the faintest smirk curling at her lips. “You really thought you could handle more than one drink?”

You mumble something, your words barely coherent as you bury your face deeper into her inner thigh, your body going numb. Her hand comes down to toy with your hair, her metal fingers brushing through the messy strands. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked more pathetic,” she says, voice low and teasing. “Can’t even keep your head up. You’re a mess, cariño.”

You try to give a response, but it probably sounds like half-slashed slurring as you nuzzle into her warmth. Sevika chuckles softly at your attempt, her gaze shifting from you to the game at the table. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke, the ash flicking off into an empty glass beside her.

“Not even making words anymore,” she observes with a smirk, her hand sliding down to gently tilt your chin up. She studies your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, the slight affection in her gaze undeniable. “You might as well just stay down there, hm?”

With a soft groan, your head lolls back down to her lap, your body going limp. It’s not sleep, just resting. The world around you spins, but it’s quieter now. Calmer. All the noise from the bar seems to fade into the background, muffled by the soft pressure of her thighs against your face. You stay still, the gentle touch of her fingers through your hair lulling you into a state of comfort.

Sevika doesn’t push you to move, her attention drifting back to the card game. Her hand stays in your hair, absently massaging your scalp as she plays, one eye on you and the other on her opponents. “You’re really good at making a scene, cariño,” she murmurs, her voice both fond and slightly amused. “People are watching.”

You mumble something about not caring and how your brain feels wonky, your head heavy in her lap as you feel a small, lazy smile tug at your lips. The world is still spinning, but in this moment, under Sevika’s gaze and the warmth of her thighs, everything feels a little more manageable.

Her fingers continue to stroke your hair, her touch gentle despite the usual roughness in her demeanor. “Of course you don’t care,” she replies, voice dry but affectionate. “You never do.” At your soft groan, she lets out a soft tsk. “Yeah, I bet your head feels wonky. You’re completely wasted.”

You nod against her thighs, the weight of your body grounding you even as you try to stay conscious. Sevika’s chuckle vibrates through her legs as she shifts in her seat, your head pressing more firmly against her inner thigh. “You’re going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” she says, a teasing edge to her voice.

You’re too drunk to care, but you enjoy the comfort of her touch, the quiet between the two of you. She doesn’t seem to mind either, her hand never leaving your hair as she focuses on her cards. The noise around you fades further, the weight of her presence enough to silence the rest of the world.

“You’re like a pet, huh?” Sevika comments, her voice smug as she shifts in her seat again. “Just lying there all obedient, your head between my legs.”

The comment feels more like a compliment than an insult, and you let out a muffled sound of contentment. It’s not sexual—just comfortable. The chaos of the bar is distant, the loud chatter and clinking glasses all muted as you relax into the quiet space between her legs.

Sevika’s fingers keep playing with your hair, her touch soft and steady as she keeps you grounded. She’s still playing cards, still winning, but she’s aware of you. You’re not completely out of it, and she enjoys the attention. The moments when she lets her rough exterior slip just a little, when she’s there, keeping the world at bay for you.

Her hand stays on your head, as the game continues, and you stay exactly where you are—perfectly still, perfectly content.

[mikanotes]

heavenly way to,

hyunju x gn!reader

genre: angst comfort, established relationship. » warnings: death, blood, mentions of injuries, murder, firearms, canon divergence. » note: yes i’m back to writing for the series that basically started this blog. hello! i love her.

synopsis: Is sacrifice for your lover a gift to be grateful for, or a burden worth being cursed for? The thought grows heavy on your mind the longer you spend in the games.

“Why?”

Hyunju’s voice has never sounded so broken. She’s too astounded to even think of not letting her guard down, simply weak and vulnerable as she stares up at you. The shake in that one word, the sickening concern in her eyes— It almost makes you regret what just happened.

Almost.

“Because I care about you more than—”

“Nevermind…” she scoffs, eyes widening. She presses her lips together but it doesn’t stop the tremble of a sob waiting to escape her throat. Her gaze averts to a wall in the dormitory, silently putting a stop to whatever you were going to say.

You decide to give her space.

The bathrooms are empty, leaving you silence and space for thinking. You look at your reflection in the mirror, the blood on your face and neck. You did not kill anyone. You assured your safety. You did not kill someone. They were a problem. The thought repeats steadily in your mind as you turn on the faucet, letting water flow into your palms.

It’s as if you can see the overflowing blood on your hands, still. That player you fought to throw out of that room, the sight of the bullet shooting through their head once the door finally locked, the weight of their grip of the other the side of the handle loosening until a thud confirmed the end of a life. But they were in the spot she needed. You could not risk it. What if she had died? It was only right.

The blood washes off. The thought remains. You aren’t sure how long you spend staring at the mirror, barely even really looking at your reflection. You just know you’re asked to return to the dormitory, and that you go to bed, then the lights turn off.

You think Hyunju hates you.

You thought she would come to hate you here over trying to protect her, maybe. Now you realize, now that the blood is there, that she could simply hate you for taking away someone’s life— Even if indirectly. It makes sense to hate a now-murderer.

Yes.

Then, if she hates you, you’ll be able to sacrifice yourself for her sake if need be without wondering how well she’ll take the loss—

“Don’t just disappear.” A familiar soft voice speaks behind you. Hyunju’s arms circle around your waist and her head presses gently into your nape. She’s so warm. You almost forget your train of thoughts.

Once it comes back to you, your expression pulls into confusion. “Sorry,” you whisper, “I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Were you trying to give me space?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs, but hugs you tighter. “Because I was angry? Angry that you got yourself in so much unnecessary danger for my sake? Try making some sense.”

Your body relaxes into her hold before you even realize it, and soon, you’re turning over to look at her. She just seems a bit sad. Your hand slowly moves to her face and cradles her cheek, caressing the skin with care. “I pushed someone straight to their death and you’re telling me you were mad because I was in danger?”

She doesn’t respond, simply pursing her lips. A silent yeah. Exactly that.

“In danger? Me?”

“One second off and they could’ve switched you out of the room. And then I would have been alone with someone who practically killed you. And that would have been it. No more you at all,” she explains, and her voice begins shaking, “No more— I wouldn’t see your face anymore, wouldn’t have you with me, wouldn’t have the knowledge you’re there for me when life fucks me over— Think about it, come on.”

She’s trying so hard not to cry and stay quiet you wonder how much it must hurt. So you were wrong. It isn’t at all that person’s death that made her look at you this way. It’s somehow even worse.

You turn fully to return her embrace, hugging her firmly and kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t risk dying for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She hides her face in your neck. “I love you.”

She says it with every single fiber of her being. After all, her touch, her tears, her words before this— They’re all marks of love. You feel her hand brushing over your arm, an injury you earned yourself during that game. She traces it gently and you think you could never promise her not to die for her.

“I love you too.”

[revelboo]

Reading up on your fics has essentially become a daily activity for me. It's really helpful in rougher days I need something to look forward to :)

You also got me into blokees! I'm now gambling away in hopes of getting Kickback (my beloved).

That's all! Thank you for all the writing and please take care <3

Thank you! I’m glad you like my stories!

He’s a cutie and if they follow their current pattern, we should get Shrapnel or Bombshell in the next wave

You (Don’t) Know Me Pt 6

Insecticons x Reader

• Overwhelmed and drowning in memories, thoughts, and emotions that aren’t yours, it’s like swimming in light. Feeling both of them tangling in you, warm and coaxing softly. And you can almost sense the unspoken question there even as you retreat from them, feeling them both trailing after you like shooting stars. Every time they brush against you, more of them spills into you until you feel like you know them as well as you know yourself. Kickback just wanting to be seen and acknowledged by his brothers, knowing he’s not as strong as they are. Hating how much he has to rely on them. Shrapnel wanting to protect his hive, wanting a queen and home. To not be dependent on Megatron knowing how little he thinks of them. That they’re inferior.

• It’s a different sort of hunt, racing after you as you make them chase. Every time Kickback brushes against you, he gets a bit more of you. Learning who you are. Your dreams and desires becoming his to protect. Can feel when your confusion shifts to something more playful. Refusing to surrender to them still, but he doesn’t mind. Knows he won’t be able to fully bond with you until you let him. Until he’s worthy of it. And wants that.

• Your light and warmth beckon Shrapnel, wanting to be the one to capture you, to drift through all of you. Aware of Kickback refusing to back down, when he always submits, his brother as desperate as he is. And then you’re turning to face them and they both crash into you, twining about you. Coaxing for you to claim them in return and unable to be truly angry when you resist. Because you’re not going to be conquered. You’re going to make them prove themselves.

• “Pit spawned, greedy little glitches,” that deep, snarling voice startles you, strangely aware of your real body still pinned between them. Of the feel of Kickback’s spike rubbing against your belly and Sharpnel rutting against your inner thigh as their sparks tangle through you. And that connection pulls and shatters to make you whimper, feeling like you lost something that matters. Head lifting as they hastily right their plating protecting their sparks, you stare at Bombshell. At the blood on his clawed servos as he throws a dead deer down to make you flinch. “Like fragging sparklings.”

• Glaring at his brothers as Kickback at least looks apologetic, Bombshell licks his servos clean. This is how they repay him for providing for the hive? Shrapnel just grinning up at him before turning his attention back on their human. And you squirm between them, reaching up to catch Kickback’s head and to push him away when he tries to claim your mouth to coax you into mating again. “No,” you say and his optics narrow behind his visor as Kickback hesitates. “Talk first.” And he laughs to make you look up at him.

• “That’s more like it. Can’t have a timid queen,” the biggest one growls. Bombshell. After being tangled in his brothers, you know him well enough to be wary of him. To realize he’s as likely to eat you as fuck you. Trying to not look at the deer, your stomach roils. Is that dinner? You have a bad feeling it is and that’s a hard pass. “Make your demands,” Bombshell adds, his long glossa sliding over his servos. Making you remember exactly how those glossas feel inside you.

• Servos ghosting over soft skin, Kickback vents softly, singing out softly when you sit up to straddle him, forcing Shrapnel to let you go and back off some. “We were just worried you might eat our little queen, queen,” Shrapnel says, flashing Bombshell a grin as he turns his attention on the deer. Can feel his spike aching and hard, but behaves instead of lifting you and guiding you to ride him. Looking to you for guidance and you seem to suddenly realize they’re all watching you. Waiting.

Previous

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Gray Woman 4

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Summary: You meet a man who tests your patience. (grumpy!short!reader)

Note: To those who didn’t help me resist this beast, I blame you.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You hand over the statement and send off the client with ‘have good day’. The recitation is lifeless, meaningless as it leaves your lips on habit alone. It’s all by rote. Greet them, figure out what they want, and get them out. 

Your next customer steps up as you take a chug of cold coffee. A glimmer of recognition flickers in your head and you squint at his reddened eyes. Oh, you know this man. Well, you’re aware of his existence. 

“Hello, sir, how can I help--” 

“Shut up,” he scowls. “You serious with the hello bullshit? Look at my eyes?” 

You blink and put your cup down, “did you try milk?” 

“Milk?! Milk? You fucking burnt my retinas out.” 

“Are you having issues with your sight--” 

“That’s not the fucking point. You—You remember me now, don’t you?” 

“You grabbed me. I reacted,” you shrug. “If you’re only here to yell at me, I’ll need to call security--” 

“Fuck security,” he steps up and his nose almost touches the glass. He snarls, “do you understand who I am? How many ways I can fuck you? Figuratively and literally?” 

You stare back at him dully. You deal with people yelling about their money every day. You’re desensitized to their threats. To their chagrin. Do they really think you care? That you have any sort of emotion tied to this job? It pays the bills. 

“Would you like to make a transaction today or--” You move your hand under the desk. 

“Don’t you fucking hit that button, sweet cheeks. I’m not going to do anything. Not here. You think I’m fucking stupid?” He growls as he jabs the glass between you. “No, I want you to see what the fuck you did and why I’m going to do worse to you.” He makes a fist and hits the barrier. “And you’re going to fucking remember me.” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the counter. You sit up and look around him, “I have other customers to help. Please step aside.” 

He scoffs and thumps on the glass again. “You’re a real fucking piece of work. You let this bullshit job go to your head? Why? Cause you can hit a few keys on a computer? Money’s still in my accounts, honey. You’re nothing. I could buy you a hundred times over and still have as much left.” 

You exhale and look at him as you wave up the next person in line, “unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that money can buy class.” 

He stomps as the waiting client hesitate, “you can come up. We’re done.” You beckon them again with your fingers then reach for your cup again. 

He looms as the woman comes up to your woman. He’s close enough that you feel your discomfort. You give him a look as take her card. 

“Sir, you need to go.” You warn him. 

He puffs and shakes his head. He tuts and paces back then toward you again. He stops as if he only then notices the woman watching him in horror. He throws up his hands then marches away. 

“Sorry, about that,” you say to the woman. You take her card and swipe it. 

“No, I’m sorry. Must be horrible to deal with that at work,” she replies as she touches her cheek and glances over her shoulder. 

“Money is very personal,” you utter. “How can I help you today?” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” she assures. “I’m just adding a new payee to my account. I switched phone providers but their online portal isn’t working for me...” 

You nod and help her through the process. As promised, she’s quick. The rest of your day is not. You can’t help but check the clock repeatedly. It’s almost the weekend. So close yet so far away. 

As you get down from your chair at the end of your shift and grab your bag, Veronique approaches. You face her as you hitch up your purse. It’s unusual for her to come to you. Ever. She hides at her desk, more interested in her phone than her management role. 

“Before you go, I’d like a word.” 

You frown. This can’t be good. You rely on predictability. You could drown in it but it’s easier than change. Easier than the unexpected. 

“Sure,” you agree and follow her as she spins on her heel. 

You trail her strut into a back office. One of the executives is there. Gerald, you think? He doesn’t bother with you either. 

“Please, shut the door,” he greets you. You do as he says and Veronique perches herself behind his shoulder like a parrot. “Have a seat.” 

Wary, you cross the office and sit in the stiff seat. It squeaks as you stay on the edge. You cradle your bag in your lap. Veronique grins then wipes it away as she clears her throat. 

“You’ve worked here for more than ten years.” Gerald states. You confirm. “A long time. Must get dull.” 

“It’s work, sir,” you say. 

“You haven’t moved up much. Typically yearly raise but nothing extravagant,” he looks at his lit monitor. “You work for base pay. Not very much, yet you handle a lot of money, don’t you?” 

Your heart picks up. You can’t remember the last time you felt anything like this. That you were uncertain. Everything was always the same. Go to work, go home, sleep, wash, rinse, repeat. 

“Sir, I do my job and I do it by the book.” 

“Do you?” He tuts as he leans back and clicks around. “Because we’ve had some discrepancies brought to our attention. On a particular account. A client you’ve dealt with several times, and according to Veronique, you’ve had as many issues with.” 

You shake your head in confusion. 

“No, I don’t... no.” 

“He was here today. Mr. Hansen? We were just reviewing some footage from his last visits and his statements. There’s some really strange back and forths here.” 

You sit up even higher, “sir, no. It can’t-- I did exactly as he requested. All I did was ask for his ID.” 

“Veronique,” he looks up as his tone turns to disinterest. 

“We have the evidence. We’re submitting a report for investigation. You will be suspended. Beginning immediately.” 

Her lips curve again. Your chest turns to a pit and you puff out in disbelief. This can’t be. How could they have proof when you did nothing? 

“Security is waiting outside to escort you from the premises,” she continues with a catlike smirk. 

You look between her and Gerald. He’s already distracted by his phone. “How about the steak house, V?” He swivels to her. You’re dismissed by the back of his balding head. 

You get up and clutch your bag to your stomach. You turn and march to the door. As you exit, two uniformed men await you. They walk on either side of you, past other tellers and several managers. You’re mortified. 

How could this happen to you? You have a feeling Veronique is behind it but why? She ignores you, like everyone else. What could she possibly get out of this? 

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 002 ∘ ∘ ∘ cattle in slaughterhouse

previous masterlist next

“please look into the camera and smile!”

you straighten your back, a flicker of annoyance washing over you as you brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. you force a smile onto your lips, the kind that barely reaches your eyes ━ one you’ve perfected over the years for occasions just like this. a moment later, you hear the soft ‘click’ of the camera.

the masked people (who you now assume are some kind of guards) had told you to follow once you finished signing the contract. they hadn’t offered much else in the way of direction or explanation, only that you were about to play the first game.

the more you take in the surroundings, the more unsettled you become. the place is a maze of staircases and doors, twisting and turning in every direction like a funhouse designed by someone with a sick sense of humor. the colors here are muted, softer than the cold, sterile room where you had awoken, yet there’s something unnerving about it all, almost like a playground with a hidden, malicious edge.

the dissonance is enough to make you feel like you’re losing your grip on reality.

“please follow the other players,” a round-masked guard intones, his voice monotonous and empty.

you shake yourself out of your spiraling thoughts, realizing you’ve been standing still for too long. you step forward, scanning your surroundings, trying to keep your focus, but your eyes inevitably drift to the right. and then you freeze.

there, standing just a few feet away, is myeong-gi, your ex-boyfriend. the shock on his face is unmistakable, eyes wide with disbelief, as if he never expected to see you here, in this hellish place. you, on the other hand, aren’t surprised at all. you’d known myeong-gi was here. you had seen the familiar face in the lineup earlier, but part of you had hoped you wouldn’t have to confront him. not here, not now.

but of course, life doesn’t care about your preferences.

you quickly look ahead again, avoiding myeong-gi’s gaze. your feet carry you forward, following the others as they move down the labyrinthine corridors, but myeong-gi’s presence lingers like an uncomfortable weight in the air.

then, myeong-gi calls out, his voice cutting through the tension.

“y/nie!” the nickname hits you like a punch to the gut. you stop dead in your tracks, your pulse quickening against your will.

there it is, the reminder of a time you’ve tried to bury. you feel your chest tighten, a knot forming in your stomach. you hate how your body betrays you like this ━ how hearing that voice, those two simple syllables, can send a surge of emotion you don’t want to feel.

myeong-gi doesn’t hesitate, stepping right beside you, forcing the other players to slow down and awkwardly shuffle to a halt. the noise around you fades as if the world is pausing just for this moment. the irritating robotic voice, the shuffle of footsteps, the hum of the fluorescent lights ━ all of it fades into the background, leaving only the feeling of myeong-gi’s presence beside you.

“y/nie? fuck, it’s really you. what are you doing here?”

myeong-gi’s words come out breathless, as if he can’t quite believe it. you can see the confusion, and maybe even a little guilt, flashing in his eyes. myeong-gi places a hand on your arm, gently turning you toward him, searching your face like he’s trying to read something in it that he doesn’t understand. the touch is soft, hesitant, but you recoil inwardly.

you don’t want to be here, caught in this moment with him, but you can’t seem to find a way to escape it.

myeong-gi looks at you the way a person would examine a painting after years of not seeing it, as if trying to memorize every curve, every line of your features, as if it matters. you feel your skin flush under the intense gaze, and the old wounds, the old feelings, start to resurface ━ things you thought you had buried long ago.

but before you can process any of it, someone behind you impatiently calls out, their voice a harsh reminder of the time ticking away.

“move it! you’re blocking the way!”

your head snaps back to reality, and you grit your teeth.

“for the same reason as everyone else here,” you mutter, your voice a touch too sharp, before starting to walk again, determined to put some distance between yourself and myeong-gi.

myeong-gi follows, his steps quick and light as he stays close behind. you can feel his presence lingering like a shadow, the gap between you too narrow for your liking.

“ah… yeah…” myeong-gi’s voice trails off, hesitant, unsure.

you want to tell him to leave you alone, to stop trying to drag you back into something you’ve worked so hard to escape. but then you remember where you are. in this twisted game, nothing is what it seems. you’re both just players in a much bigger scheme, and whatever happened between you outside of these walls seems almost irrelevant now.

still, the bitterness that lingers from your past weighs on you like a chain. should you still be angry with him? should you lash out and demand answers for the way myeong-gi had treated you? or should you let it go, just for now, just to get through this?

part of you wants to ignore him, to pretend that myeong-gi doesn’t exist in this place, but then that part of you ━ the part that had walked away from myeong-gi in the first place ━ tells you to do just that. to leave myeong-gi behind, just as you did before.

“how have you been since, uh—” myeong-gi glances away awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. “since the last time…?”

you look at him out of the corner of your eye, the words hanging in the air, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“absolutely great, actually. never been better,” you lie, the words slipping out effortlessly, like they always have.

before myeong-gi can respond, the sound of a door creaking open cuts through the air, followed by the sudden rush of noise as the players begin to move forward. you’ve arrived at the first game.

you take a deep breath as the scent of fresh air greets you. you look up at the open sky above, the roofless expanse stretching out like a canvas. it’s surreal. you haven’t been outside in what feels like an eternity. the breeze brushes against your face, cool and refreshing.

“welcome to the first game,” the robotic voice announces. “all players, please wait a moment on the field.”

you feel like you’re standing inside a box.

the walls surrounding you are painted with intricate murals of nature ━ lush green fields and wide open meadows stretching under a clear, blue sky. from where you stand, the scene looks almost serene, peaceful even. but the longer you stand there, the more suffocating the place feels.

it’s as if the painted sky above is a lie, a perfect illusion masking the truth of your confinement. no matter how wide the sky appears, you can’t shake the gnawing feeling that you’re trapped in this strange, artificial world, with no way out.

your eyes scan the space ahead of you.

at the far end of the field stands a massive doll, standing still, towering over the others. you raise an eyebrow at it, your gaze lingering for a moment.

the doll is eerily lifelike, with porcelain skin and vacant eyes, its dress flowing like the wind is caught in it despite the stillness. you’ve seen dolls like that in horror movies, and it immediately sends a chill crawling down your spine. you don’t know what to make of it, but something about it feels wrong.

the whole setup is unsettling, leaving you no clearer about what kind of game you’re about to play.

“what the hell is that?” myeong-gi mutters from beside you, his voice laced with the same tension you feel but don’t vocalize.

“no idea,” you reply with a shrug.

the loud slam of doors echoes behind you, snapping your attention back to the space around you. you turn instinctively, like everyone else, your gaze darting toward the source of the noise. the doors you’d entered through are now shut tightly, sealing you in.

“the first game is red light, green light,” the robotic voice announces.

red light, green light?

so you’re really just going to play some children’s game to win an enormous amount of money? it’s so absurd it almost seems like a joke.

you look over at myeong-gi, whose face mirrors your own, a spark of something in his eyes, an almost excited glint. you give him a small, involuntary nod in return, a silent acknowledgment that you’re both thinking the same thing.

this is going to be so fucking easy.

“cross the finish line in five minutes without getting caught. if you do, you pass.”

“everyone!” a man’s voice rings out from the center of the field. “everyone, listen up! pay attention!”

you wince slightly at the urgency in the man’s tone. the shout is sharp, almost panicked, and it’s the same guy who had spoken up earlier, the one who had asked about the vote and prize money.

“listen carefully!” the man’s voice rises, his face tight with fear. “this is not just a game! if you lose the game… you die!”

your brow furrows, your stomach twisting with a combination of disbelief and growing unease. what is this guy talking about? myeong-gi scoffs, rolling his eyes. you shift your attention toward him, noting the way his lips curl in disdain.

“what is he talking about?” myeong-gi mutters, barely a whisper, but it’s enough for you to hear.

you don’t answer, but inside, your thoughts are spinning. is this guy insane? the whole thing feels like a bad joke. people don’t die playing red light, green light. it’s a game for kids. there’s no way anyone would actually die, right? it’s ridiculous.

unless… maybe it’s not. your stomach tightens, unease creeping in like cold fingers wrapping around your spine. this whole situation is fucked up, and something tells you this isn’t just a normal game. it feels… wrong. but you need the money. you have no choice. you’ll play, even if it doesn’t make sense.

“hey! what are you talking about?” a woman snaps at him. “we’re going to die playing red light, green light?”

“yes, that’s right! if they catch you moving, they will kill you! they will shoot you from somewhere! that doll’s eyes are motion detectors!–”

your heart skips a beat at the mention of the doll’s eyes. you hadn’t even thought of that ━ how they might be more than just creepy. your gaze snaps to the doll once more, its gaze unsettling, its large, unblinking eyes somehow even more menacing now.

“y/nie,” myeong-gi says quietly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. “you know, about what happened—”

you turn to look at myeong-gi, who seems almost hesitant, his words hanging in the air, unfinished. he’s looking at you like there’s something important he wants to say. you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow.

you know that expression too well. myeong-gi is holding back, unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

“what is it?” you ask, your voice low.

you’re not sure if you want to hear what myeong-gi has to say. your relationship had ended on shaky ground, and this doesn’t feel like the right moment to go digging up old feelings.

myeong-gi stutters, trying to find his words. “i wanted to tell you that i’m really—”

“let the game begin.”

the words hang in the air, and you immediately shift your gaze away from myeong-gi, your mind now focused entirely on the game. your heart pounds in your chest as the massive doll at the far end of the field suddenly turns its back to you.

“green light, red light.”

without hesitation, you take a step forward, your muscles tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap. myeong-gi follows, just a breath behind you, your steps synchronized in the eerie silence. but the moment the doll’s voice finishes its phrase, you freeze in place, muscles locking.

you remain still, your mind whirling as the weight of the situation presses down on you. your feet feel glued to the floor, like moving would invite disaster. out of the corner of your eye, you see the rest of the players doing the same, frozen, holding their breath. no one dares to make a sound.

“well done! you just need to stay calm like this!” player 456, with his voice almost frantic now, shouts from somewhere in the crowd.

his words ring in the air, bouncing off the walls in a way that should sound reassuring, but instead, they stir something deep in you. the man is shouting instructions as though he’s been through this before, but you can’t shake the gnawing sense of distrust. there’s something off about him, something that doesn’t quite sit right.

the doll’s head snaps back, its empty eyes now sweeping over the crowd.

“green light, red light.”

the cycle starts again.

you take a few steps forward, moving cautiously. myeong-gi is still with you, trailing behind, his breathing shaky. you can feel it ━ a heavy weight in the air. this game, this whole thing, it’s too easy. ridiculously simple. move when they say ‘green light’, stop when they say ‘red light’. they’re really going to win 45.6 billion won just by playing children’s games? it’s absurd. ridiculous.

“don’t move and stay still! just relax!” player 456 continues to shout, his voice growing more grating with every repetition.

the sound begins to claw at your nerves.

the same process repeats over and over, again and again. no one’s been caught, and no one has lost yet. deep down, something’s eating at you. the more players who succeed, the less of that money you’ll walk away with. you’re not a fool. you know how this works. the fewer winners there are, the bigger your slice of the pie.

you don’t want to admit it, but you secretly hope someone messes up.

come on. just one slip. one mistake.

the moment the thought crosses your mind, a high-pitched scream cuts through the air, followed by a sharp, sudden silence.

your body stiffens, but your eyes are already scanning the crowd, seeking the source of the chaos. you see her ━ player 196, her arms flailing wildly, her body twisting in desperate panic. your heart skips a beat.

one less, you think.

and then, the gunshot.

it rings out with a deafening crack, and your whole body jerks as though struck. your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach lurches violently. the girl’s body collapses, crumpling lifelessly to the floor as blood blooms from the hole in her head. your eyes widen in disbelief.

what the hell just happened?

she’s… dead. no, that can’t be real.

“player 196, eliminated.”

the next scream follows quickly, then another gunshot. another life snuffed out in an instant.

“damn, he wasn’t lying,” you mutter under your breath, the words leaving your lips barely audible, as though saying them any louder would make it worse.

panic explodes around you.

players scatter in every direction, screaming, pushing, and shoving, as if running will save them.

do they not understand? do they not see what’s happening? they’re running straight into death. your heart races, your thoughts clear despite the chaos. they’re idiots. they’re all idiots. moving means death. haven’t they seen it? haven’t they heard the shots? why would anyone risk it?

you glance at myeong-gi, still standing beside you. the smaller man looks like he’s about to crumble under the weight of what’s unfolding. his face is pale, eyes wide with terror, lips trembling, and you can feel his panic mounting as he stares at the bodies that continue to drop around you. his breaths are quick, shallow, the sound of them almost frantic.

“don’t look,” you whisper urgently, trying to keep your voice steady. “look away. you don’t need to see this.”

myeong-gi listens, his face twisted with horror as he squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to shut out the nightmare around him. your chest tightens as you watch him, a painful ache forming in your heart.

you want to protect myeong-gi from this, but there’s nothing you can do.

the gunfire is relentless, the shots punctuating the air like a heartbeat. one by one, players drop like flies, scattered like cattle in a slaughterhouse, their lives snuffed out without a second thought. you can barely keep track. you’re losing count.

“let me repeat,” the robotic voice echoes as the gunfire finally ceases. “you can move forward while the tagger shouts, green light, red light. if your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

eliminated. the word echoes in your mind like a cruel taunt. so that’s what it really meant. not disqualified, not removed from the games, but dead.

your stomach churns as you recall the word printed so plainly on the contract you signed.

you should’ve trusted your gut when you first saw it ━ should’ve walked away before it was too late. but you didn’t. and now here you are. you swallow hard, the metallic taste of fear on your tongue.

if you move ━ no, if that doll sees you move ━ you’ll die. if it sees myeong-gi move, he’ll die. the reality of the situation is stark, and it’s clawing at the edges of your composure.

“green light, red light.”

no one moves. no one even dares to breathe.

“green light, red light.”

again, not a single soul stirs.

“you’ll also die if you don’t make it there in time!” player 456 yells, his voice is strained, frantic. “that doll is a motion detector! but it can’t detect movement that’s hidden!”

your instincts kick in immediately, overriding the fear that has been paralyzing you. your eyes dart to myeong-gi, who stands beside you like a trembling leaf in the wind. the smaller man looks utterly petrified, his wide eyes locked on the doll as though sheer terror alone would keep him safe. your chest tightens.

if myeong-gi stayed behind you, the doll wouldn’t see him. he could be shielded. he’d be safe… wouldn’t he?

“get behind someone bigger than you! like you’re playing ‘follow the leader’! we’re running out of time! we’ve got to move!”

“green light, red light,” the doll turns its head again, and everyone starts moving cautiously.

you don’t hesitate this time. the second the doll’s head swivels away, you grab myeong-gi’s arm and yank him behind you.

“stay behind me,” you hiss, your voice firm, almost a growl. “i’m taller. that fucking doll won’t see you.”

myeong-gi opens his mouth to argue, his lips trembling as he tries to form words. he wants to tell you not to do this, not to risk yourself for his sake. if you die, myeong-gi couldn’t live with the guilt. he doesn’t want to be spared if it means you’d take the hit.

but the words never come.

the moment of protest vanishes as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by fear and the unrelenting pressure of time ticking away. myeong-gi doesn’t have the strength to object, nor the time to argue. your grip on his arm tightens, and before he can say anything, you’re moving.

you lead the way, each step measured and deliberate. you overtake several other players, your eyes never leaving the doll, your entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap. the second the doll’s phrase ends, you freeze, your body rigid.

the silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of shallow breathing and the occasional stifled whimper.

then, the voice comes.

“player 188, eliminated.”

“player 244, eliminated.”

each announcement is punctuated by a gunshot. the sound slices through the air like a blade, cold and unrelenting. you fight the instinct to flinch, your body stiff as a statue. you don’t move a muscle, don’t let yourself react. if you let the fear in now, even for a second, it’ll consume you whole.

your grip tightens on myeong-gi’s hand ━ no, wait. when had myeong-gi’s hand slipped into yours? you barely register the smaller man’s fingers interlaced with your own, holding on like a lifeline. somehow, it’s enough to keep your trembling at bay.

“green light, red light.”

the cycle begins again.

move. stop. watch people die. move again.

step by agonizing step, the participants inch forward, their breaths shallow, their movements calculated. with each red light, another set of gunshots rings out, and the ground becomes littered with the fallen. it’s horrific, but no one dares to look down for too long. they can’t. looking means acknowledging the truth of it, and the truth is unbearable.

eventually, the group adapts. a pattern forms ━ one that feels more like a desperate gamble than a plan. they’ve started advancing in single file, a method designed to minimize the doll’s line of sight. those at the front of the line are the most vulnerable, the first to be scanned by those unblinking eyes.

you’re near the front. of course you are.

you don’t know whether to curse your bad luck or accept it as some cruel inevitability. either way, it’s a dangerous position, and the knowledge of it hangs over you like a guillotine. you keep your head down, your focus sharp. it’s all you can do to survive.

as the finish line draws closer, the air feels heavier. the death toll has risen drastically; you wouldn’t be surprised if over two hundred people had already been eliminated. the thought barely registers anymore. the sheer scale of it is numbing.

“green light, red light.”

the doll’s phrase snaps you back into action. your muscles burn with exhaustion, but you push forward. beside you ━ or rather, slightly behind you ━ myeong-gi keeps pace. his grip on your hand hasn’t faltered once, as if letting go would spell disaster.

you don’t blame him.

the finish line is so close now. just a few more steps.

“green light, red light.”

this time, you don’t hesitate. you and myeong-gi break into a desperate sprint, your legs pumping with every ounce of strength you have left. the finish line blurs in your vision, but you keep going, driven by sheer survival instinct.

when you cross it, relief floods through you like a crashing wave. the moment your feet hit the other side, your legs give out, and you collapse onto the ground, your back slamming against the cold wall behind you. you don’t care how undignified it looks.

you’ve made it. you’re fucking alive.

your breathing comes out in harsh, ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you try to steady yourself. everything around you feels distorted, like you’re underwater. your vision wavers, the edges of your sight swimming with black spots.

a sharp sound drags you back. gunfire.

you lift your head, your movements sluggish. three more players collapse just meters from the finish line. you watch, unblinking, as their bodies crumple to the ground, motionless. the scene unfolds before you like a twisted film, surreal and horrifying.

but your mind refuses to process it.

no, they’re not dead. they can’t be. this isn’t real. this is all some elaborate trick, right? no one would actually kill people over a stupid game.

deep down, you know the truth. they are dead. those gunshots were real. this entire thing is real. but clinging to denial feels safer, like a shield against the horror threatening to overwhelm you. if you accept the truth now, you might never recover.

so you lie to yourself. it’s just a game. it’s fine. you’re fine.

and myeong-gi is alive.

“y/nie.”

the sound of your nickname pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. the voice is soft but urgent, laced with concern.

“y/nie, are you okay? are you hurt?”

you tilt your head up, your gaze meeting myeong-gi’s wide, teary eyes. he’s crouched in front of you, gripping your arm with trembling hands. the grip is almost too tight, but you don’t flinch.

you watch as myeong-gi’s expression shifts, the worry etched into every line of his face. his lips press into a thin line, his brows drawn together in distress. you can feel the fear radiating off him, see it in the way myeong-gi’s shoulders shake ever so slightly.

for a moment, you consider pulling away. you could push those hands off, brush myeong-gi aside, tell him to stop fussing. but you don’t have the strength to resist. instead, you exhale shakily and give a faint nod.

“i’m fine,” you mumble, though your voice lacks conviction.

myeong-gi doesn’t look convinced either, but he doesn’t press further. he just stays where he is, hands still gripping your arm, his presence grounding.

the reality of your situation weighs heavily on your mind. you don’t know what kind of hell you’ve stepped into, but one thing is certain: there’s sure no way out.

for now, all you can do is survive.

previous masterlist next

note ∘ ∘ ∘ the dynamic between you and myeonggi is still unclear and complicated haha… we’ll learn more about your past relationship in the upcoming chapters!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @academiq @startaegi @okaycharr @mayaswrld1212 @belladonna6-6-6 @desafortuno @noxitsnox @trizxyp @inarizqkis @gunatth @jamiliana @w4ldorfs @juuyeeos @wshyouwerehere @aspekt-touch @twomocns (please let me know if you wanna be added!)

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

I feel like Taissa is often mischaracterized as cold and/or having no remorse just because she’s ambitious and strong-willed. Her softness and empathy are often overshadowed by her ambition, which is a huge part of her character, but they absolutely shine through when you look closer. She's incredibly goal-oriented and driven, which can make her seem cold or calculating on the surface, but her actions reveal a deep sense of love and care for the people in her life. I really feel like Taissa’s compassion and strong sense of morality are criminally overlooked. In my view, she’s actually one of the most empathetic and remorseful characters on the show.

She is absolutely horrified with herself after she discovers she ate Jackie, so much so that she vomits and screams in despair. After she accidentally breaks Allie’s leg, she’s hanging her head in the locker room in shame and you can hear the remorse in her voice when she swears to Shauna that she didn’t mean to do it.

Tai supports Shauna through her pregnancy in the wilderness and through her affair with Adam (Tai is the first person Shauna tells about both of these things, and Tai passes no judgment, offering only warmth), she risks her own life to save Van from the wolves and doesn’t leave her side as she waits for the group to go get help, she is the only one to show genuine understanding and empathy for Natalie in the adult timeline (“Who does Natalie have?”), she is the one to stop Nat from shooting the blackmailers, and she is so scared of hurting her family that she begs Simone to leave her.

She is just as against Lottie’s leadership and the Wilderness worship as Nat is and she is not afraid to speak up about the dark practices she senses the group is descending into (“She’s not God you guys”). The only reason she eventually joins in Lottie’s circles is because she wants to support Van.

She’s not someone who wears her heart on her sleeve like Natalie, but she expresses her affection through actions: protecting others, making tough decisions, and taking on burdens to keep the group (or her family) afloat. Her empathy is quieter, but it’s always there, and it’s a core part of who she is. She just doesn’t allow herself the vulnerability of fully leaning into that side, because it might feel like a weakness in the face of all the responsibility she carries. It’s easy to misinterpret her actions—like freezing out Allie, forcing Shauna to burn Jackie’s body, or relentlessly pursuing her Senate campaign—as prioritizing ambition over her friends and family, but in her mind, she’s doing it for the people she loves, to create a better future for them. Her intentions are rooted in love, even if they don’t always land the way she hopes.

Does she do some really, really fucked up things sometimes? Yes, definitely. But so does every single character on this show, that’s the point. They all have some degree of kindness and compassion within them (yes, even Misty), but none of them know how to show it in a healthy way. Taissa’s way of showing love may be a bit gruff and stoic on the surface, but underneath you can tell how much she cares about the people around her and is absolutely terrified of hurting them.