#I don't know if this was on purpose but still

[keferon]

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞

[hardknifeplays]

Simon Riley spoiling his missus rotten.

sfw, fluff, soft!simon — reblogs & likes are appreciated.

This man, Simon Riley, will never let you buy cheap things. Even if the thing you want is good quality and highly functional, and buying it really helps you to 'press down the cost'.

"No," said the man quickly when you want to buy an affordable reading tablet, his eyes are still fixated on whatever document was on his laptop screen. Confused, you raised your brow while your hands folded on your chest. "Babe, I'm just using it for reading. That's all, nothing productivity-related." you explained more, but your husband just answered you with another low hum.

"Said no," he repeated flatly. Not knowing why did he just outright denied you of the decent tablet, you sat yourself down carefully on the edge of the table next to his laptop. "But why? I will use it just for reading, I repeat, my sir, just for reading. I'm not going to play games, or even text via the tablet. It is affordable enough." you argued, your hands moving around so expressively (mostly to convince him to agree with you).

Finally, his eyes darted and met yours lazily. He studied you from your head to your torso, then back to your eyes, before letting out a long exhale.

"You don't deserve cheap things," he sighed. You rolled your eyes, and quickly responded, "It's not cheap, Si, it's affordable. Why do I have to buy more expensive things if the cheaper ones are well-functioned already? Especially just for one purpose?" and you could see he responded by wiping his face with both of his hands, before he stood up from his seat and placing himself in front of you.

His swift movement made you looked up at him, the distance between your bodies was almost non-existent and you could feel his warmth radiating towards you. A fucking human furnace, this Manchester lad. He looked at you in the eyes, this time his brows down, looking rather concerned. He lifted his finger outlined your jaw lightly, his eyes trained on your lips before his dark brown iris shot you again with a more loving and gentle expression.

"Why are you always treating yourself this way? Denying yourself from something that you truly deserved," he began, "You don't deserve cheap things, mama. I can afford your every need." as he said so, his lips met yours softly, and you felt his finger tucked some strands of your hair to the back of your ears.

When he let go of the kiss, you returned him a kiss on each cheek. "I don't always need expensive things, Simon. As long as it works well, that would be enough. We can use the money for something else. Okay?" you reassured him once again. His eyes aimed down at the table for a few seconds, before getting back to you.

"You don't always need it, but I am willing to give it to you," he stated, staring right into your eyes for a few seconds longer.

You could feel your blood flushing all over your body, spreading tingling and warm sensation just by seeing the seriousness in his eyes. It made you feel cared for, and you know at this moment that this man would always give what's best for you. Your 'enough' would never convince him, if he could go further for you, he would.

He always would.

You let out a shaky sigh, and then you placed your finger on his chest pointing at him. "Okay, your money, your rules." you chirped playfully, and a grin bloomed at the lips of your husband as he scooped you from the table and pulled you into his embrace.

"That's my missus." he smiled into your hair, finally winning you over.

[jasontoddsotherhalf]

Hey guys, I gave it a try lol let me know what yall think!

Jason Todd isn't a cruel guy.

Not on purpose, anyways. He saw some shit as a kid, as any kid did growing up in Crime Alley. His parents were murdered when he was still very young and he'd been taken in by THE Batman. Regardless of what anyone says, beating criminals up every night of your tween years does affect one's physce. Getting beat with a crowbar and killed by Joker does worse.

But now Jason is back, and he's stronger, and he's smarter. Sure he's scarred up and violent, but he's finally his own soilder, his own dog. And Jason really does love helping people. Which is why along side running the biggest crime ring Gotham had seen in years, he also works for a Mental Health Helpline.

He didn't get many calls directed to him, but he did get one tonight as he sat in his shitty apartment in Gotham, tending to a wound on his leg a few days old. He answered the phone, putting it on speaker and laying it on the coffee table.

"Hello, Gotham Mental Health Hotline. How may I help you tonight?"

A deep voice comes from the other side of the phone, a voice that Jason had heard in his dreams for years, praising him, scolding him, reading him stories to help him get to bed, waking up from resting to go fight crime.

"I'm not at risk. I don't need help." Bruce Wayne says slowly.

Jason clears his throat, his eyes narrowing. Would Bruce know it was him. Would Bruce ever be able to recognize him at all?

"I understand." Jason answered. "Is there any way I can help?"

Bruce took a shakey breath. "I don't need...help. I just...I have some heavy regrets waying on me. Mistakes that I've carried with me, guilt that acts like a noose, tighter recently than it has been in years. My son...I messed up so badly with my son. I want to fulfill my promise to him. I want to make it all okay again for my boy."

Jason shivered. He's not talking about you, idiot. He tells himself. He doesn't care that you're dead. He never cared. He's talking about perfect Dick or clever Tim. Not better-off-dead Jason Fucking Todd.

Jason slowly went back to tending to the open wound, which had started bleeding from how hard he was unintentionally prodding at it. "Have you tried talking to him? I'm sure he'd understand." Jason said through gritted teeth. It wasn't him. Batman didn't need Jason, so Bruce certainly didn't either.

"I would tell him. If he ever showed up. God, I'd tell him anything and everything." Something screeched in the background on Bruce's end and Bruce swore softly. Jason pictured him suddenly speeding through Gotham streets, the Batmobile swerving dangerously, recklessly.

Jason didn't say anything, just waited for his father- for Bruce Wayne- to keep speaking. He continued, after a moment. "I only see him sometimes, when I dream. And he's in my arms again, young and bright and so full of life and potential." So he was talking about Dick. The first Robin who had grown up, fought with Batman, and left, never to return, not as he had been. Dick was Nightwing now, and led his own team, though he was still close with Bruce. Jason relaxed. This call was not about him. He could continue with his plans of vengeance without feeling guilty. I'm sure I'll laugh about this later.

"I'm sorry sir..." Jason trailed off awkwardly. Bruce spoke before Jason could say anything else.

"He's...he's dead." Jason froze. Everything went still. It seemed as though the cars outside all went skidding to a halt, the blood in Jason's veins went cold. The only sound was the old light above him flickering. Jason stuttered slightly as he quickly searched up both Nightwing and Robin on line, a dark part of him hoping one of them had died. But no, there were only two articles published within the last few hours and it was about a case Robin, Nightwing, and Batman had dismantled the previous night.

Jason swallowed. "I'm...so sorry, sir. Do you want to talk about him?" Jason wanted him to say no, needed Bruce to say no. For once he wanted Bruce to close off everything and everyone and retreat back to the dark corner of his mind where he told no one anything.

And there was a long silence between them, Jason was sure Bruce would hang up.

Batman would have. But Bruce didn't. "His name was Jason. And he was the most golden and beautiful boy on this planet. You would have never thought so from judt glancing at him once. His hair was flat and dark, And he was short and skinny and always had dirt on him somewhere. But it was in his eyes, and in his laugh. That's where his love was held. He cared so much. About everyone. He always wanted to help. He would always rush forward, even if it put him at risk. He didn't care about himself. He cared more about the wellbeing of others. He was so sweet and..." Bruce's voice cracked. "I just want my son back. My sweet boy." Jason didn't say anything. He felt his throat burn and his eyes blur. "I-i'm sorry sir. He sounds...amazing. I'm sure whatever it is you feel guilty over..." Jason took a deep breath. "I'm sure he forgives you." He lied. Partially lied. Jason didn't know anymore. One conversation where one participant didn't even know who the other was did not count as closure, and nothing was different. But it wasn't the same either. Bruce cared. All this time Jason had been looking for Batman to show the effect Jason's death had on him, when really it was Bruce he should have been looking at.

Bruce was quiet for a long long time. "I wish that was true, son. But I don't think so. Still, thank you for saying so. And thank you for listening. You're a good kid." Bruce didn't say anything else before hanging up. Jason sat in silence for a moment, frozen in time, feeling dizzy. Then he sprung up, his injured leg aching and dripping blood onto the floor, and he ran to the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet and throwing up anything he had eaten in the past 24 hours.

AU, where Jason returns to Gotham, but in between of his evil mastermind plans and managing the criminal empire, he starts working in this anonymous psychological hotline services.

And gets a call from Bruce-fucking-Wayne.

Well. It is not like Bruce announces that he is Bruce Wayne — it is anonymous, after all — but Jason knows his father's voice, alright?

'I don't need a physiological help,' his father tells him the minute he picks up the phone.

Jason... Snorts.

'Of course,' he nods, making his voice nicer. 'How can I help you?'

Bruce pauses, his breath hitching for a second; almost as if he recognized Jason's voice.

'My... my son thinks I need it, but I am fine,' Bruce insists. 'Still... I want to, well, fulfil a promise I gave... for once.'

Jason rolls his eyes, a familiar irritation flaring up in green flames before his eyes. He wonders who is this lucky son that gets to have such a diligent, responsible father - Dickhead? Tim? Damian?

'I see,' he breathes out, trying to follow a protocol of the calls. 'I am sure he will appreciate your loyalty. Will you tell him about it?'

'If he appears,' something screeches in the background, and if Jason closes his eyes, he can easily imagine Bruce leaning back on the armchair, in the Batcave. 'I... He only ever appears in my dreams, my boy.'

Jason freezes.

'Excuse me?'

'I... He is dead, my son.'

Had someone else died? Jason frowns, reaching for his phone, typing anxiously Nightwing and Robin in the search bar, trying to see if there is something serious happened; because he can't be talking about the second Robin, can he-

'I am sorry,' he blurts out, eyes drifting back to notes on the table, with some common phrases that can be used in this situation. 'I... Do you want to talk about, sir?'

Bruce is silent for a while. Jason thinks he is about to drop the call, but then, he sighs heavily on the line:

'His name was Jason. And he was the brightest boy.'

Jason mutes the microphone. He thinks he is going to vomit.

[vincentbriggs]

Starving grad student trying not to freeze in my heat sink of an apartment — the flooring’s made of godawful linoleum that pretty much just drinks all the warm air. Rugs desperately needed but not affordable. Your post of the lovely braided rug that you made reminded me that I can make my own! Perhaps it will please you to know that you are helping a poor cold student’s feet and heating bill. Pic of my little tester mockup:

Hooray! I'm always happy to hear that I've helped inspire someone to make stuff!

I'm not sure when braided rugs first became A Thing, but I'm sure it predates central heating, so this is very much their original purpose. My inspiration was a couple of old rugs from my grandparents, and they're made of thick wool:

I'm not sure how old they are, but maybe early 20th century? I don't know who made them but I don't think it was Grandma, I feel like they're a bit older than that.

Mine's still not quite done, but so close! I'm sure I'll finish it this month.

I hope you keep finding more ways to keep warm! (Have you ever made slippers?)

[domxmarvel]

For you

Pairing:In-ho x Female!Reader

You wondered why you agreed,agreed to help 456 take down the games. A group of players led by 456 tried to fight back,which caused some to die,including Young-il . You couldn't stop thinking about him and were now determined to get your revenge on the frontman.

You thought back to that moment,back when most people were alive. Back when Young-il  was still alive. He had saved you more times and you couldn’t even save him once. The night is almost over, and players are getting settled to go to sleep. you lie awake,sneaking out,using a gun you had hidden after the massive fight. You made your way through the halls,until you got stuck and threatened one of the guards into opening it. You made your way all the way to the frontman's lair. It looked like a luxury apartment with a giant cinema like screen for him to watch the players. His back was to you as he was sitting down,his hood up and you knew a mask covered his face. Pressing the gun against the back of his head.  

"Stand up," You said firmly. "Turn around." you order. The frontman freezes as he feels the cold tip of a gun pressed against his head. He silently stands up, not wanting to agitate you more. His hood was up and his face was covered by a mask. "Take off the mask" you commanded he lowered his hood and reached for the mask,but instead of taking it off he fought back,knocking the gun out of your hand.The frontman grabs your arm and twists it, causing you to drop your gun. He pushes you to the ground and pins you down. He's breathing hard, as he hadn’t expected one of the players to break in, let alone you.

"I don't know how you got in here, but now I have to deal with you." You somehow managed to hit his side causing him to roll over onto his back. Quickly seizing the moment you got on top of him,wrapping your arms around his neck. The frontman, caught off guard by your attack, coughing out as you wrap your arms around his neck. He tries to get you off, squirming and bucking his hips violently. You squeezed his neck,slowly cutting off his air.

"Stop!" he gasps out, reaching up to pull at your arms as he chokes. His struggling starts getting weaker as he slowly begins to lose air, trying to grab at you as his oxygen supplies start to run out.

"No,not this time. Now after what you did to Young-il " you lifted his head for a moment behind slamming it into the floor with a thud. "I'll make you feel the pain you made me feel" The frontman let out a cry of surprise as you slammed his head against the floor. He was dazed for a moment, but quickly refocused on trying to remove your hands from his neck.

"listen…" he managed to gasp out between chokes. "i can explain-" You eased up for a moment but didn't move your hands off. You wanted to draw it out as long as possible,you wanted him to feel pain. The frontman took a deep gulp of air before speaking up again. “…it’s… not.. what you think.” he whispered, looking up at you with desperate eyes. He knew that if you would just listen, you would understand why he did what he did. He reached up to remove his mask,revealing it was Young-il  the whole time,he was the frontman. Young-il  finally removed his mask, showing his face that you so desperately missed. He was the frontman the whole time, he never died. "Wait, please. just hear me out." he pleaded, looking up at you with desperation and pleading in his expression. Your hands felt shaky,the shock made you let go and drop him, making him hit his head yet again. This time not on purpose. Young-il  let out a cry of pain as his head hits the floor once more, leaving him dizzy this time.

“ow…” he managed out, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his head where it was hit. He was definitely going to have a pretty big lump after getting hit twice. He looks up at you, searching your face for any type of emotion. surprise and shock were the initial ones, it seemed, but he was looking for disgust and anger.

“Listen, I can explain it all.” he told you, slowly trying to get onto his feet. Young-il  slowly stands up, a bit wobbly as he holds the side of his head. He was still in pain from his hits and he winced when he touched the lump that formed on the back of his head. His neck had red lines where your fingers were and indentations were your nails dug into his skin. “please… let me explain myself.” he pleaded, looking at you with desperation. Young-il  wanted to explain everything to you, but he knew it would be hard to get the truth out if you were so hostile. Looking at himself, Young-il  touched his neck where your fingers had left marks. He could feel your nails digging into his skin, still. He took a step closer toward you, wincing slightly as he walked.

"There better be a good fucking explanation for this" you said,crossing your arms. Young-il  held his hands up, palms facing you in a defenseless manner.

“Let me start from the beginning.” he told you, watching your expression carefully for a reaction.

“I joined the squid game as a player,” he began, “and I was able to make it through all of the games.”

"And you now run the game" you filled in by yourself

“Yeah, I do.” He confirmed your assumption. Young-il  nodded silently, watching your expression closely. He knew that this was the part that you probably going to be the most angry about.

"So why do this,why fake your own death?"

“That was a part of the plan.” he began, avoiding your gaze. He was nervous that you would react, but knew that he needed to tell you the full truth. His hand moved to his neck,touching the indentations of your nails.Young-il  winced when he touched the indentations from your nails. He remembered how much it hurt to be choked and was still feeling the effects. "Yeah.. that really hurt," he mumbled.

"No shit,I tried to kill you" Young-il  chuckled a little bit. 

“Yeah. yeah you did," he responded. He was glad that you seemed to be calming down a little, which made him feel hopeful that he would finally be able to explain himself to you. “I'm sorry for tricking you,” Young-il  said, looking at you with a solemn expression.

"And I'm sorry for almost killing you"

"It's okay," he told you. "I probably deserved it anyway," he said, the last sentence almost a joke.

"Can't exactly blame me,you did made me think you killed,well you" Young-il  nodded in understanding. He didn’t blame you at all for how you reacted. it was completely valid for you to be upset.

“I probably would’ve done the same thing if I was in your situation.” he admitted. He suddenly thought would you really have killed someone if they killed him? Young-il  couldn’t help but wonder if you really would’ve done the same thing in his situation. He knew that you were a kind person, but everyone had their limits.

“Would you, though?” he asked, curiosity getting the best of him and causing him to blurt out the question.

"Would I what?" You asked

“Would you have done the same thing if i really died?” he clarified.

"Would I have killed whoever killed you?" Young-il  nodded. You moved closer to him,"Yes" you said firmly not giving room for argument. Young-il  was slightly taken aback by your response. He wasn’t expecting you to answer with a simple yet firm ‘yes.’ He couldn’t help but feel touched that you cared for him enough to do something like that. You traced the marks on his neck,carefully around where the indents of your nails were. You kissed his neck,softly painting his neck with your lips,softly whispering."I'm sorry"

“don’t apologize,” he whispered in response.

"But I hurt you"

“it didn’t hurt that much,” he reassured you. “Besides, I'm the one who made you think I was dead. I would've done the same thing if our roles were swapped.”

"You would've killed for me?"

“Of course I would,” he told you with certainty in his voice. “I would do anything for you. ”

.***

@i-might-be-vanny

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Needlenose

Debut: Sonic the Hedgehog CD

You know me! I love funny flies, and I love funny robots! And who else but The Good Doctor Eggm'n to supply me with the goods? We meet in a dark alley in trenchcoats, and he slips me a mechanical mosquito.

Needlenose is, quite frankly, a perfect cartoon mosquito! If you want to depict a Fantastic Funny Fly, you need big ol' eyes, wings, and a proboscis, with a negligible amount of body to keep it all together. And if it's a mosquito, the proboscis must be pointy, of course! If I can't be punctured by it, it is a subpar mosquito!

Needlenose is such a perfect name for this thing. Look at it! Yeah. An insect's proboscis is not actually its nose, of course, but if you think "Needlenose" is not a good name for this creature, then, well, a ghost is going to get you. Sorry, but you would deserve it.

Needlenose isn't here to take any of your blood. It's not even here to inject any strange substances into your bloodstream. It's just here to administer a Pesky Poke! Yeowch! But at least the needle looks rather pristine and sterile. There are worse things to be stabbed by, I suppose. Now, there is something you need to knows, about this needle nose!

So far, we have been looking at the typical Needlenose, seen in its ideal form. In the Bad Future, however, it has evidently gotten into some sort of non-lethal scuffle, causing its needular nozzle to become bent! Maybe it crashed into a rock at high speed. I don't know. But at least the rest of it is still in working order!

I may adore the base Needlenose design, but the simple act of bending its proboscis a bit gives it SO much character. From little more than a tool, to a bug with backstory! It makes me imagine Needlenoses bending their noses on purpose in unique ways, as a form of self-expression. What a lovely thought!

Needlenose is so simple, yet so instantly charming, and many artists know it, because it has appeared in many official comics! This one here was reprogrammed to be helpful, so it's like a Goodnik! The 30th anniversary comic has some among a crowd of Badniks trying to destroy Sonic in order to give Eggman a very happy birthday. Even when they're objectively evil, you just have to love little Needlenose!

[anyroads]

#some like it hot#meta <- a lot of people have been reblogging my additions with these tags and for anyone who sees this I'd like to politely ask you to stop.

The addition above is not meta, because this is not a fandom post. It's critical media analysis. And while it's not very in-depth, that is still what it is. It's based in more nuanced, better-researched academic media criticism and queer studies than the superficial summary it is, but nevertheless, it's critical analysis, not meta.

I fully support fandom, don't get me wrong! But it's also possible to appreciate a piece of media without participating in fandom. Meta is a fandom-based form of analysis, and fandom's basis is a shared love for a piece of media. Critical analysis can also be inspired by love or appreciation for something, but its purpose is to look at a piece of media from an impartial perspective.

Like I said, I fully support fandom. And I also get that this site is fandom central. But being on tumblr also makes me feel like fandom is sometimes an overwhelming and overbearing entity that pushes other forms of engaging with media to the sidelines to the point where they're starting to become overlooked or forgotten, especially as someone who works in media, studied media crit, and doesn't participate in fandom.

It's important to be able to observe and critique media impartially. Fandom is inevitably biased, and that's fine for fandom, that's what it's there for! But it's so so important to also be able to understand, analyze, and deconstruct a piece of media without that bias, in order to understand its message, the effectiveness of how that message is conveyed, and the tools used to construct it.

I know people often use tags to organize posts on their feed for easy reference, but I have to admit, every time I see in my notes that someone's tagged this post as "meta" I die a little inside. Fandom isn't the only way to look at media.

Some Like It Hot (1959) dir. Billy Wilder

[silcoitus]

I love all your fics sm, could you possibly write reader comforting silco after his lil breakdown in s1ep6?

ngl i feel like I'm Silco in this one and I need a reader to fix me

Because this is a request, I am posting the full text. In one month, it will be converted to an AO3 link, so read it here now while you still can!

Broken

Masterlist | AO3 link

Rating: Mature

Tags: Silco x gn!reader; angst; hurt/comfort; emotional hurt/comfort; established relationship

Word count: 1.1k

Betas: @medic-simp @juniper-sunny

He told you not to come with him. To stay behind in case Jinx returned. 

You didn't like what you were seeing—the way he was starting to unravel at the ends, his perfectly manicured facade crumbling with each hour his daughter was missing. You had this feeling in your gut that it was all about to go sideways, that something awful was going to happen.

But you couldn't stop him.

So you stayed in his office, sitting in his chair and staring out the large circular window. Watching his figure striding with purpose on the streets below to disappear from your view.

Maybe you were wrong.

Maybe he would find her and bring her back home.

Maybe everything was going to be okay.

But you couldn't shake the feeling.

That this was the beginning of the end.

There's a steady thumping sound as your heel taps along the hardwood, knee bouncing erratically as you wait.

Sure, you have things you could be tending to, but your mind is elsewhere—it’s with Silco.

Will he find her?

What will happen if he does?

You could tell by how he had spoken of her recently that his grasp on her was slipping away, her attention instead on the sister she thought dead for years. Despite raising Jinx as his own, Silco could not fight the bond shared by blood—and it was driving him mad.

You don't move from your perch for a full hour. And even then, you only rise to your feet to pace the empty office, one arm barred across your stomach as the other crosses your chest, your front teeth making short, quick clicking sounds against the tip of your thumbnail. 

A nervous habit.

One Silco hated.

But he's not here to tell you to stop.

So you keep doing it.

Waiting.

Mealtime comes and goes without any change. Your stomach protests, but you ignore it. You've taken to searching Silco's desk, hands frantically rummaging through his things to see if there could be any clue as to where his daughter had disappeared to.

None of her old drawings give you any answers, a tidy pile of them in his bottommost desk drawer. And no amount of rifling through the contents of the safe (the one hidden behind the painting whose sole keepers are Silco and you) lead to any revelations.

You’re moments away from leaving to check Jinx’s workshop when the door to the office opens. Not with a bang, but with a slow, drawn-out creak.

You have one sleeve of your coat on when you look up to see Silco's figure standing in the doorway. His hair is a matted mess against his forehead, his makeup smeared with sweat, revealing the decaying, grey skin around his corrupted eye. There's dust and grime all along his coat, vest, and pants, and blood on his gold-toed boots.

“What happened?” you gasp, ditching your coat to the couchback in favor of running toward him. “Are you okay?”

He ignores you, shuffling past you. When he flops himself onto the red velvet cushions, puffs of dirt dance in the air to settle around him. Staring ahead of him, he seems devoid of light; you could almost swear that the glow of his volcanic orange eye seems dimmer.

“Silco…” you whisper, crouching to get eye-level with him.

He looks through you, the iris of his ruined eye drifting almost lazily, with none of the vigor you've come to know. 

You take both of his hands in yours, resting them on his lap as you study him. There's a tapestry of textures along his skin, dirt and grime and shimmer and blood. You squeeze his hands as your lips press together, waiting.

You never know what Silco you're going to get: the loud, snarling, erratic beast, all roars and teeth; or the silent, fuming, cold statue, impossible to read and even more impossible to crack. You've seen every side of this man, every emotion, every reaction. 

But still, sometimes, you struggle to know how to handle him. How to help him. 

It took you many years and many fights to realize that, most times, he simply wants you to listen.

So you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Your knees are sore from where they dig into the rug, both your feet fallen asleep long ago. But you stay rooted to the spot, resolutely, dutifully holding his hands as he stares straight ahead. You wonder what thoughts are swirling in that head of his, what calculations he's running, what strategies he's testing and retesting. 

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks.

“She's gone.”

You bite your tongue, allowing him to talk.

“I've lost her.” His voice feels so far away despite being right in front of you. A ghost of a whisper. A light, almost imperceptible breeze. “And I don't know if I can get her back.”

At last, his eyes move. They almost seem to stutter as they cast slowly—so slowly—down to meet your gaze. And when they lock with your eyes, you have to hold back a small whimper from escaping your lips.

Broken.

He looks so broken.

You've never seen him this bad before. In all your years—first under his employ, then as his partner—he’s never been this far gone. You could always count on a small, stubborn spark behind his eyes.

But that little flame is gone.

Replaced with deep obsidian, heavy and impenetrable.

“Oh, Silco…” you whisper, bringing one hand up to cradle his scarred cheek. 

Your touch breaks him further, cracking the dam of his resolve.

His good eye squeezes shut and his hands come up to his head, fingers tangling in his hair as he doubles over. 

He doesn't cry—you’ve never seen him cry. Instead, he tugs at his hair, his hands shaking and his breath quickening. His whole torso seems to almost vibrate with how he shakes under the massive weight of his grief.

You rise to your feet, a soft reassuring hum at your throat as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him toward yourself. The crown of his head presses to your stomach and he feels stiff in your arms, awkward and unresponsive. Rubbing circles into his back, you make soft cooing sounds as you try to calm him down, feeling so helpless.

“It's okay,” you whisper. “I've got you.”

Finally, he releases his hold on the graying tendrils of hair, his head pressing against you earnestly as he wraps both arms around your middle tightly. You return the embrace, your eyes squeezing shut as a tear escapes them. 

How you wish you could take this grief from him, endure it for him. You would suffer this pain tenfold if it meant he didn't have to.

But as you hold him in your arms, you know this is something he must overcome himself.

And when you feel warmth against your stomach—a faint dampness to the fabric of your shirt—you wonder if you'll ever be able to bring back that spark. 

Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @constantfragmentation @ariaud @jennrosefx @steponmesilco @leave-me-alone-silco @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @you-never-talk @noposwe @toripandashady @sirenofzaun @22carolina08 @roxnpens @commanderblood @medic-simp @cthezaunite @verdant-onyx @ursawastricked @artwithvivien @edlix @lackofhonor @spoczkot @witchypandamonium @lotus-99 @robin-the-enby @blissfulip @all-that-we-hope-to-be @zaunite-leo @silvia-elaine-hestia @nyx2021 @cccandynecklaces @another-batkid @toogaytofunctiondangit @rinkatai @mollymauksboi @pinklunarprincess | @mutedwordz @fly-like-egyptian-musk @jennithejester @witheringblooddemon @ladymer @redlovett

[hoiststowline]

responses to “don’t come over, I look like a mess” [w/ sunstreaker, cliffjumper, ratchet, bluestreak, hound & ironhide]

_

“What? No. What did you say? That doesn’t make any sense, I’m coming over anyways,”:

• Sunstreaker is probably the biggest repeat offender on this one, and he uses it in other situations, too. he suddenly can’t comprehend and doesn’t allow you to explain yourself, though he and you full well know he understands. grumbles the whole ‘you’re breaking up!’ schtick. pretends to drive through a tunnel when he’s forty-five seconds away (where there is no tunnels) just to hang up without letting you say a peep. he won’t leave either, so you comply and come to see him, or you will be hearing his horn for the better part of the evening.

• a second guilty charge is aimed straight at Cliffjumper. somehow, there is never any time to explain and he’s in a huge hurry, and he’s only calling you as a courtesy so you’ll be outside and ready to go. If you even get a word in, mentioning weakly you look like shit or don’t feel up to seeing him, he’ll hang up. He can’t hear your lies if he literally can’t hear them or something like that. but once he pulls up and you aren’t outside, now you’ve done it, though he never directs the frustration at you. but if he’s in such a big hurry, wouldn’t he have left by now? Surely doesn’t have the time to wait around- and he’s yelling that you look fine from the street.

“That suspiciously sounds like you just made that up. at what point has that ever stopped me before?”:

• Ratchet will express that in so many words, but his concern will triumph over most things. He’s worried by your misplaced and unusual deflection, partial to looking for his company when it’s often unattainable. He doesn’t do it on purpose, but in the spare moments he does have, he uses them to see you. So when you decline his request, he’s still coming over, hell or high water. Whatever you’re wearing or whatever you’re doing he’s fine being in the company of, so your excuses are paper thin. You don’t sound sick, but he’s gotta be certain of that...

• “yeah, a hot mess!” Bluestreak tried, you’ll give him points there. “…that’s what you meant, right?” Unsettled and nervous chatter arises on his behalf when you can’t quite articulate why you feel so messy, and he immediately begins pressing for answers. there's a full minute where he thinks he did something wrong, and just when you console him that he didn't, you can already hear his wheels burning rubber in the background. hah, good luck stopping him, he's already halfway to your place, and cannot fathom why you looking a little messy would ever prohibit him from coming over. he'll be wary and uneasy the rest of the ride, wanting to get to the root of your woes.

“You always look beautiful, but if you’re not up to company that’s okay,”:

• Hound sorta understands, yet doesn't quite completely in regards to your explanation. though he's disheartened by a handful of things- one that you don't feel up to par outwardly and think that he cares what you are wearing or how you look in this very moment. you always look perfect to him, and your comment only fuels an unsteady flame that makes him think something else is very wrong. but he won't pry or shoulder his way in, he knows you'll come around when you're ready to talk, being supportive as always. he won't argue, he's straight to the point: no, you don't look a mess. he doesn't have to see you to know that, he knows, and to call him whenever you're ready for his company because he'll be over in a heartbeat.

• if anyone gets it, it's Ironhide. your excuse is garbage and untrue, but he'll kid around and poke fun just to get you to laugh. "What, did you just wake up or somethin'?" He really misses your company if you end up canceling, but he makes sure you know that you always look good to him, no matter what. he ultimately respects your boundaries for a couple of hours, and then he's circling your block to make sure you're still alive in there. radio silence is unforgiving, but as much as he misses you, he doesn't want to cross the imaginary line that is your patience. something else must be wrong for you to disappear into your room for the majority of the day, and he intends to get to the bottom of it by the evening.

[kaira-diaries]

Chamomile Tea:

warning: smut & fluff

pairing: fem!reader x gi-hun

summary: you make gi-hun some tea to share but things escalate(in a good way !!)

wc: 1.9k

a/n: so this is the first gi-hun story I’ve written and I am now expanding my Masterlist..yay!! That being said, I gotta get something off my chest. I literally feel in my soul that gi-hun is a boob man, yk? Like reallyyyyyy a boob man. Could just be me ahh but enjoy reading (be nice this is my first story for him)

->Masterlist<-

The white sheets clung to your skin, soft and warm, carrying the lingering scent of him as you moved through the dimly lit apartment. The air was thick with the remnants of shared breaths and whispered confessions, the memory of tangled limbs and urgent hands still fresh on your skin. As you stepped into the kitchen, the cool floor sent a pleasant shiver up your spine, a sharp contrast to the heat still pulsing through you.

Your lashes fluttered closed as you sank into the memory, the recollection of his touch still lingering like a ghost against your skin. Even now, you could still feel the weight of him, the way he fit against and inside of you like he had always belonged there, the warmth of his breath fanning against your skin as he lost himself between your thighs.

Your bare feet avoided the trail of discarded clothing—his shirt draped over a chair, your dress pooled carelessly near the doorway, a testament to the passion that had unfolded hours before. The reality of him, of this, had exceeded every secret yearning you had dared to entertain. He was more than just a fleeting fantasy—he had reached into the shadows of your soul and illuminated the spaces you had long left untouched.

The kettle on the stove began to hiss, its rising whistle cutting through the quiet hum of your thoughts. You reached for the teabags, watching as the water darkened, the scent of chamomile and honey curling into the air like a gentle embrace. You let it steep for a moment, the warmth seeping into your fingertips as you cradled the mugs, reluctant to break the spell of the night.

The soft whoosh of the white sheets whispered through the air as you stepped back into the bedroom, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting golden hues across the rumpled bed. Gi-hun sat propped against the headboard, his tousled hair falling over his forehead, his bare chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The blanket pooled loosely around his waist, leaving little to the imagination.

His lips curled into a warm, lazy smile as his gaze found you, dark eyes tracing the curve of your body beneath the soft glow of the night. As you approached, his hands instinctively reached for you, but you moved with purpose, swinging your leg over his lap and settling comfortably atop him. The heat of his skin seeped through the thin fabric draped around you, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You pressed a warm cup into his hands, watching as he took it with a curious tilt of his head. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled deeply, his brows knitting together. "I don't think I've had this kind of tea before," he muttered, his voice scratchy with lingering traces of desire.

You tilted your head, a playful glint dancing in your eyes as you raised your mug to his. The soft chime of ceramic meeting ceramic echoed in the quiet room, a delicate contrast to the warmth simmering between you. A knowing smile curled at your lips as you met his gaze, your voice a gentle tease.

"There's a first time for everything."

You watched as he brought the mug to his lips, his expression shifting the moment the warmth touched his tongue. His brows lifted slightly, a hum of satisfaction vibrating deep in his chest, the sound rich and pleased. The sight made your own curiosity stir, and you followed suit, lifting your cup and letting the soothing liquid cascade over your tongue before sliding smoothly down your throat. A quiet sigh escaped you, the heat pooling in your chest, comforting and familiar.

Gi-hun didn’t speak. He only watched—entranced. His dark eyes traced the delicate flutter of your lashes, the way your lips, soft and full, curved around the rim of the mug before parting ever so slightly to take another sip. The way your throat bobbed as you swallowed, the soft breath you exhaled afterward—it was mesmerizing.

The truth was, to him, you weren’t just beautiful. You were art. Ethereal. Otherworldly. A vision so lovely it left him breathless, as though if he blinked too long, you might disappear like a dream slipping through his fingers.

You lifted the mug for another sip, but before it could reach your lips, Gi-hun’s hand wrapped around yours, gently prying it away. He placed it on the nightstand with slow, deliberate care, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could protest, strong hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with a quiet urgency as he pulled you flush against him. The warmth of his bare chest seeped through the thin barrier between you, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin. A soft gasp left your lips, but it quickly melted into laughter as he tilted his head, pressing a series of slow, featherlight kisses along your jaw.

His lips traveled lower, teasing the sensitive skin of your neck before trailing down to your collarbones, each kiss more deliberate, more reverent than the last. The sensation sent a delightful shiver rippling through you, and you instinctively curled your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the strands of his dark hair. A giggle bubbled from your lips, breathy and sweet, as his kisses lingered against your skin.

"You're too sweet for your own good," you whispered, your voice laced with affection.

Gi-hun pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his grip on you tightening as if he were afraid to let go. His nose brushed against yours, the smallest touch, yet it sent a rush of warmth flooding through your veins. His voice, low and earnest, settled in the space between you like a promise.

"I'll follow you anywhere."

Your heart fluttered at his words, an undeniable truth shining in his eyes. Smiling softly, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble dusting his skin. He leaned into your touch, his lashes lowering as if savoring the quiet moment, the weight of his devotion pressing against you in the most beautiful way.

His hand drifted upward, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw before his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate line over the softness of your lips. His touch was light—almost teasing—tracing the delicate shape as if memorizing every detail. A playful glint flickered in your eyes as you quipped, "That would mean you’re stuck with me and my antics. I don’t think you want that."

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, but his expression softened into something far more serious. That same hand slid lower, his fingers curling around the front of your neck, something you begged for earlier. Although this time it wasn't in restraint but in reverence. His warmth seeped into your skin. With a gentle but undeniable pull, he guided your forehead to his, the space between you vanishing in a heartbeat. His eyes fluttered shut, his breath fanning over your lips, ragged and heavy.

"I do…” his voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and aching as if the weight of his own feelings threatened to consume him. “God, I do.”

His lips brushed yours, the touch featherlight, reverent, almost hesitant—like a man savoring a moment he never wanted to end. But as you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss as sweet as it was certain, he melted into you. His fingers tightened ever so slightly at your nape, anchoring you to him, as if afraid you’d slip away.

You responded in kind, your lips moving against his in a slow, plotted dance, each press, each sigh, each lick of his tongue, each lingering second a silent confession of everything words could never quite capture.

As your tongues tangled, his kisses grew deeper, more desperate, igniting a fire in your veins. The cool fabric of the sheets slipped from your chest and fell between your bodies, discarded and forgotten, leaving your skin bare beneath his heated gaze. His eyes sparked with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine, drinking in every inch of you as though committing the sight to memory.

A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest as he pressed his face against your breasts, his breath hot and ragged against your sensitive skin. Each exhale sent tingling currents down your body, anticipation coiling deep in your core. His hair was impossibly soft beneath your fingers, thick and silken as you curled them into his locks, tugging just enough to draw a deep, approving groan from his lips. The sound vibrated against your skin, pooling warmth between your thighs as he surrendered to the delicious pull of your touch. He lifted you a moment, pushing the blanket from his lap, leaving nothing to separate him from you.

Your hand shot out before you could stop it, slamming onto the nightstand with a sharp crack as he pushed you down, sheathing himself all at once. A startled yelp tore from your lips as one of the ceramic mugs jolted, hot tea sloshing over the edge in messy rivulets. The cup teetered for a heartbeat before plunging to the floor, shattering on impact, jagged shards skittering across the wooden planks.

The scent of steeped leaves and honey filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of broken ceramic, while a dark stain spread across the tabletop, dripping slowly onto the floor. He lifted your hips, only to push them back down, setting a brutal pace.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, teeth sinking into the firm heat of his shoulder, muffling the soft, needy whimpers that spilled from his lips and into your ear. The world outside this moment ceased to exist—broken ceramic, spilled tea, the mess you'd made—all of it faded into irrelevance. Your damp fingers, sticky with the remnants of your forgotten drink, traced down the ridges of his back, nails pressing into taut muscle. You felt the way he tensed beneath your touch, the way his skin shivered as you kneaded into the knots of tension, pressing deeper, drawing him closer.

If there was one thing you knew about Gi-hun, it was that he was a boob man, always taking the opportunity to knead at your flesh, stare at the curves of your chest, touch, lick, bite.

He basically pried you from him, pushing you onto your back. You gasped in shock from the change of position and he began hammering into you harder.

And it was electrifying.

He attached himself to your chest, not letting off, or letting go as his hair tickled your collarbone. He murmured sweet praises at your beauty, and you arched, practically screaming, as he fucked you through your climax. His wasn't long after, making him collapse. The heavy weight of him was crushing and you groaned, "fuck get offf." He chuckled into your neck, rolling off of you.

You lay side by side, the weight of your bodies pressing together as you both tried to steady your breathing. His chest rose and fell, the rhythm uneven as he struggled to catch his breath. Your eyes wandered to the mess scattered across the floor; the forgotten mug shattered on the floor, and its contents spilled. A sigh slipped from your lips, the urge to tidy up gnawing at you.

“I should pick that up,” you murmured, half-heartedly attempting to sit up, but before you could make a move, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back down. You tumbled softly against his chest, the warmth of his body surrounding you, and he chuckled, the sound deep and content.

“Later,” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t help but giggle, the laughter bubbling up from within, and you let yourself sink into the moment. The mess on the floor could wait.

[harryhighkey]

hungover with in-ho

headcanons of a morning with a hungover fem!reader and her older bf hwang in-ho

this is different from what i normally do but wanted to try it out, lmk what you think pls!

__________

you would wake up to the aircon a few degrees cooler than normal, but the blanket and sheets are tight around you, so you're cosy. in-ho is very observant and knows you sleep better with a cooler temp in the air but kept warm by bedding. he wanted to make sure you got a good sleep when you finally got in last night so he made sure the room was cool before tucking you in.

you open your eyes and see your water bottle is on the bedside table filled with icy cold water, a box of painkillers sit beside it for the hungover headache in-ho was sure you were going to wake up with after how drunk you were. you take two pills and gulp it down with water. you sigh in relief at the cold water coating your throat and treat yourself to some more mouth-fulls. you think about getting up but you're not ready, instead you drop your head back to the pillow and groan at how hungover you feel.

because you slept in late, in-ho is already up. he's still in the clothes he went to bed in. he's tired from waiting up for you, drinking a coffee in the kitchen. but as he hears the sound of your water bottle being placed down followed by you groaning he comes back to the bedroom. he's annoyed with you. you left yesterday at 2:52pm and had told him you were only going out for a few drinks with friends and would be back in a few hours. then you got home at 3:24am. you'd also completely ignored your phone the whole night, which meant all of in-ho's texts and calls had gone unanswered. you didn't do it on purpose, you were just drunk and having fun with your friends.

"what happened to 'just a few drinks'?" you open your eyes again at the sound of your boyfriend and roll onto your back to see him standing beside the bed. he doesn't sound happy and his face matches his pissed off tone. your voice is whiny and croaky from just waking up as you answer him. "don't be mad at me, i don't feel well." he almost folds. almost. but he's been harbouring over this all night and morning. "i was worried. you didn't answer your phone once. do you have any idea how many times i called? i had no idea what you were doing, if you were safe-" "in-ho, please." you interrupt him, lifting the sheets and pulling them over your head to hide away.

he'd get back into the bed then, determined to let you know last night wasn't okay. he's extremely overprotective when it comes to you, that paired with his control issues had him panicking last night. he grabs the sheets to see your face again but you keep them locked over your head. you both know he could overpower you, so you speak out instead. "you can come under and talk, but you have to whisper under here, it's the one sacred under the sheet rule."

he rolls his eyes and sighs. but because he loves you, he gives into your game. he's still annoyed but your silly act of defiance has softened his resolve slightly. he joins you under the sheets, both of you now laying on your sides and facing each other. you know he's angry at you so you're trying not to laugh at your older boyfriend giving into your playful suggestion. he sees the smile you're trying to hide and then it's his turn to try not to laugh. you crack first, your laugh sounding out and his does right after. you are sunshine to him, even annoyed at you, he finds it impossible to not be lit up by you.

"come here." he snakes his arms around you and pulls you into him, you easily melt against him, your hands coming to his face as you kiss. it's intense, firm but quick. your lips come apart with a smack.

you keep your hands on his face, your fingertips leaving tiny patterns into his skin as he talks. you watch as he frowns again, this time it wasn't complete anger, it was also out of stress. "i was worried about you." subconsciously, his arms tighten around you. you nod. you explain to him what happened, how you honestly just lost track of time. he scolds you for not sending him an update that you would be out late, ending it with a "...i have to know you're safe, baby."

"i promise next time i will." you assure him. "next time?!" he's already stressing over the thought of you out drunk into all hours of the night again.

you distract him by kissing him again. it turns heated quickly, his hands slipping under your shirt.

between kisses and skilful hand movements, you now find yourself under him, topless. "we better get out of these sheets, you're about to do a lot more than whisper, my girl."

it's lucky the aircon is still set at a lower temp than normal because you two build up quite a sweat once you're both naked and you & in-ho spend the rest of what's left of the morning with him buried inside of you.

[wowgrim]

It's coming to the point where a post or reblog asking "Where are the Democrats? Why don't i see them doing more?" is an automatic unfollow for me.

Because what it really means is "I'm not getting a constant flow of angry elected Democrats in my social media feed" and "I glanced at some news websites and did not see an article praising the Democrats for standing up to Trump on the front page" or worse "I drew this conclusion from my algorithmically curated news feed."

And it gets my blood boiling. It's not good for my health. It's extremely distressing to see people who should know better spreading apathy and misinformation about the Democrats WHEN THAT'S WHAT GOT US INTO THIS SITUATION IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I don't know how to tell you that none of the above sources will give you an accurate understanding of where the Democrats are or what the Democrats are doing.

Social media still prefers and promotes inflammatory right-wing content, along with some left wing content that serves right wing purposes (basically vote discouragement and attacks on Democrats)--probably even more so than it did before the election, now that Zuckerberg, et al are openly embracing Trump is addition to Musk .

Newspapers don't think stories about "Democratic superintendent writes detailed instructions for school staff to keep ICE out of schools" and "Democrats cooperate on a legal strategy for fighting Trump's executive orders" and "Jasmine Crockett campaigns to reinstate civil rights committee" aren't as exciting or clickbaity as "politicos panic" or "no one is standing up to Daddy Trump life is over."

If you really want to know where the Democrats are and what they are doing, look it up. Go directly to their social media accounts and websites. Read websites that exclusively cover politics, like The Hill, and look specifically for articles about what Democrats are doing (news articles, not commentary).

Then get on your social media and tell people what the Democrats are doing. If you don't think the Democrats are loud enough about the good things they're doing, then you be the megaphone.

[clockwayswrites]

I'll do polls on what to write over on the @haunting-heroes-creative-games discord server, but I have a rule if it ties I'll write the loser (due to purposeful ties in the past). So have a little bit of nothing. The first paragraph of which I wrote in my phone while still quite asleep yesterday early morning.

-

Dick pressed his face between Phantom's shoulder blades. “I know you don't think much of working on a team, but while you're with us, it's my job to keep you safe. So just give practice a try, please?”

“It won’t work,” Phantom said with a huff of air that moved his whole back.

Dick just pressed closer.

“You don’t know that,” Dick murmured against Phantom’s skin.

He tasted like ozone.

“Fine. It won’t go the way that you want,” Phantom corrected.

Phantom curled forward a little and Dick followed the line of Phantom’s body. Dick wrapped himself around his lover and pulled the soft blanket formed something like a cocoon around them.

Even in the dim light, Phantom’s freckles glowed.

His skin was stardust and galaxies.

Dick kissed one of the marks.

“The only way I want it to go, is for you to give it a fair chance,” Dick said. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but at least you tried.”

“Nigh…” Phantom sighed.

“And,” Dick stressed, “it will give me enough information to make another plan.”

Phantom sighed again, but Dick smiled against the chilled skin. That sort of sigh meant that Phantom had given in—or would shortly. It was good enough for Dick.

[absolxguardian]

@egregiousderp #especially since you can find writings of early modern and medival european men writing about the pros of being friends with your wife#they have no concept of romance just friendship and carnal desire#if you actually like your wife shes your best friend#so its culture!#<-absolxguardian’s prev tags#I CAN COMMENT ON THIS ACTUALLY!#because marriage wasn’t so much about sexual desire as it was about the duty of procreation and lineage for a lot of nobler houses?#it’s more tied in with the idea of status or duty!#you see that especially well in some of the chivalry movements#wanting to have sex with someone was almost completely divorced from the idea of proper marriage#seducing a guy you like so he has to ‘do the right thing’ and make your child legitimate was a thing#we have a very different view of sex and marriage post-birth control pill is my theory at least#it’s still super odd as an ace person seeing these people who don’t even LIKE their spouses as people but are so horny for them they marry

You're exactly right. My tags were just about one aspect of this different system, not differentiating between friendship and feelings of emotional affection towards your spouse/sex partner (romance). This isn't even getting into marriage, which was a thing that could be separate from both sexual attraction and friendship/romance. The idea that the birth control pill caused a major sea change is commonly accepted historiography (as well as easier to use condoms and for a period of time before HIV emerged cures for all STDs). A lot of our contemporary sex negative ideas are out-dated good advice when sex could be very dangerous (of course these ideas have forgotten their purpose. They become self justifying with their own value judgements, instead of practical advice about pregnancy being dangerous and new people causing complications).

Another thing that has occured to me since writing those tags is the idea that some contemporary historians have, deeming very close friendships between 17th and 18th century as "romantic friendships" (and thus sexless). This is done in a very no-homoing way, but considering this a way to make their relationship not queer is asexual erasure. But on the other hand, these relationships weren't considered deviant or even all that close to sodomy in their own time periods. But if their culture can be seen as not differentiating between romance and friendship, then what?

I'd put my guess for the emergence of romance as a concept in Europe as with the movement- romanticism- it takes its name from. But I don't feel like I know enough to confidently present this as a thesis, and I haven't been able to find an actual acadmic paper saying the same thing. Potentially you could say that courtly love is the first instance of romance in Europe, but you could also classify it as being about sexual tension and unconsummated sexual relationships. They did consider what they did dancing around the line, in a time when you weren't required to like your spouse. (And this is just Europe, but I know very little about this kind of intellectual history elsewhere, since I can only read stuff that has been translated into English).

I'm currently in a philosphy of sex and love class, and after four weeks I have no more insight into what romantic love is. But most of the texts we've read have been about figuring out a definition for love in general. The only guy who put forth an idea about romance specifically, has a definition that is incompatible with polyamory. But I am writing this right before doing the readings for our upcoming week that is focused on polyamory, so maybe I'll have more to say in two hours.

[guy who is aromantic voice] sexual attraction just makes more sense than romantic attraction. like ok, you want to fuck someone. this is quantifiable. it is quite easy to grasp what "i want to fuck someone" looks like, even if you have no idea what it feels like. romantic attraction, though? this is a nebulous construct which seems to largely be "glorified friendship with sex" in the popular imagination. what even is the difference between friendship and romance? the line between friendship and sexual attraction, though both can coexist, is that when there's sexual attraction present, you want to fuck someone. the line between friendship and romantic attraction, so far as i can perceive it within a heteronormative, amatonormative framework, is that it is... friendship where you want to fuck someone. what?

[kouzih]

can you PLEASE write sub namgyu headcannons (I love your work sm😣)

Sub!Nam-gyu (Player 124) headcanons .ᐟ

( i wasn't in the mood to write at all sorryyy and ty ^^ )

warnings : smut stuff

tags,, @gongyoosgf @cybrasigilism @paulilvsremus

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Well, it might be hard for you to dominate him, but that doesn't mean he can't be a submissive.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ On movie nights, slide your hand under his shorts, caress his thighs, and continue watching the movie as if nothing's happening. Little whimpers will fill your ears. ( Also he curses under his breath but that doesn't mean he's not enjoying it )

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ He tries not to make a sound because he wants to enjoy the movie. At first he tries to pull your hand away, but when you continue he starts moving his legs every few seconds. Hoping you would stop keep doing that and keep your hands to yourself.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ He loves having his hair pulled, in fact, every touch of his hair drives him crazy. His hair is stuck to his face due to the sweat and you're moving it aside? His breathing gets heavier as his eyes follow your hands.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Or you're pulling his hair as a warning? He struggles to keep his head from moving.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Touch him in any way you can, it doesn't even matter how you move. Also did you know that his neck is sensitive? He enjoys having your hands on his own throat just as he loves to strangle you. He also finds it extremely erotic when you gently run your fingers over the nape of his neck, especially when you whisper something in his ear while doing it.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ He's not that loud, but he still tries to cover it up by mumbling under his breath. Breathless whimpers would flow from his lips if ask him to talk.

"Y-you do this on purpose.. don't you?"

"Maybe..but, god. You look just so cute like this."

"Stop saying that." His voice breaks when he tries to speak.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Teasing Nam-gyu by making fun of him turns him on immidetialy. You can use such interesting props like..ice cubes, to tease and touch his sensitive spots, making him more aroused. ( his skin will go numb because of the cold feeling.. )

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ He loves it when you tie him up, especially when you tie him around his wrists and carefully tie a bow at the end. Running your fingers over his body, tracing his veins and whispering soft, seductive words in his ear.

[shiny-jr]

I know "FROM: Diasomnia" is kinda old now but the line "I am your most beloved and loyalest of companions (in the world?)" something like that? But that line is something I come back to sometimes. It's such an intriguing thing for him to say, especially after what he did/said in the impostor AU "This... this cannot be my player!"

It's alright if not but I was hoping you'd comment on the kinds of mindsets they have as they're writing? Unless it's spoilers!! But it's just so? ?? Like where are they coming from with this? Is it just sheer delusion/desperation to appeal at this point or is there motivation behind it? I ask because of Silver's comments about the two older fae possibly knowing something he doesn't.

I also wanted to say that your imposter series totally inspired me to get back into writing fanfiction! I just gotta get my head in the game 💪(ò_óˇ) And I totally relate to that other anon!! It's all just so interesting!! I love self-aware/meta stuff like that, it's totally itched a scratch I barely knew I had!

SECOND ASK: "Add on to FROM diasomnia ask BUT is it possibly that Malleus and Lilia believe the player will forgive them (before the rest, at least since they went from murder to guarding the ramshackle dorm unasked) because they knew about it for the least amount of time and they think it'll give them more leeway?

(Which, for me, it just might give them more leeway depending on how everyone else is behaving. Aaugh!!! What a nightmare to be stuck in!! It's so fun to think about all the different motivations/desires that the characters are acting on and how they might've all interacted with each other over it"

MY RESPONSE: I'm honestly surprised that people still read that series, and it has been a hot minute since I updated it, haha... Don't worry, I've been working on drafts for it again. Not much, but something, if that's any sort of comfort for those that somehow do remember and enjoy that series.

Anyways, I usually don't like to comment too much on my own work. Sometimes I will, but it's not often, as I don't like to state "no, some of y'all are wrong, this is actually what I meant" because, well, it's boring in a sense? It ruins the fun, in a way.

I like others to have their own opinions and thoughts, which is why I don't often elaborate on stuff and leave it open ended for that purpose. I will say though, that the imposter AU/letters have the characters acting more "delusional" or "unstable" compared to my other AUs.