#Robotics;Notes Elite

[soapdispensersalesman]

Akiho spitting facts

[aleese1111]

homework and heart | yeon sieun x neighbour!reader

summary: yeon sieun is just trying to get through a study session without losing his sanity, but his lifelong neighbor makes that impossible—armed with sarcasm, zero personal space boundaries, and a habit of falling asleep on his arm mid-math problem. they argue like enemies, act like friends, and care like something they won’t admit.

warnings: [fluff fluff fluff] , mutual but unspoken romantic feelings .

author's note: i just know sieun would treat his girl like a delicate flower. everything about him (apart from his psycho tendencies) screams gentleman. the reader is sort of a tsundere or something. wrote this while listening to [ My Love Mine All mine - Mitski] . requests

“your handwriting looks like a drunk spider fell in love with a pen,” she said, peering over si-eun’s shoulder.

si-eun didn’t glance up. “you’ve said that before.”

“yeah, and it hasn’t improved.”

“you’re here for math help, not calligraphy critique.”

“i’m here for the free heating,” she declared, collapsing onto his bed like it owed her rent. “your floor heating is elite. i feel like a warm croissant.”

si-eun exhaled through his nose. “you’re supposed to finish the worksheet i gave you.”

“you’re supposed to stop being a fun vacuum,” she shot back, flipping onto her stomach and burying her face in his pillow. “why do you smell like laundry detergent and sad?”

he ignored that. “that’s page two. the functions review.”

she groaned into the pillow, her voice muffled. “why are you like this?”

“efficient?”

“emotionally unbothered.”

“that’s not a flaw.”

“it is when your only reaction to my suffering is to hand me a pencil.”

she sat up and tossed said pencil at him. he caught it midair without even turning his head.

“show-off,” she muttered.

“you threw it with the force of a butterfly.”

“rude. accurate, but rude.”

they sat in silence for a moment—her pretending to work, him actually working—until she groaned again and fell dramatically across the table, narrowly missing his open notebook.

“i give up. i’m becoming a flower shop cashier. i’ll name the succulents and everything.”

“you hate plants.”

“they hate me first. it’s mutual.”

“finish number five.”

“no.”

sieun said her name.

“make me.”

he leaned back in his chair, expression flat. “do your homework.”

she leaned forward, matching his energy. “make me.”

their faces were inches apart now, eyes locked in a silent, petty standoff.

“childish,” he murmured.

“lifeless.”

“stubborn.”

“robotic.”

“you still haven’t moved.”

“you blinked first.”

“that’s not how this works.”

“says who?”

“says logic.”

she rolled her eyes and dramatically scribbled on the worksheet. “there. number five. happy?”

he checked it. “that’s number six.”

“i hate you.”

“good. now do five.”

she cursed under her breath, then muttered, “you better carry my backpack at my funeral.”

“you won’t need a backpack if you fail this class.”

“then you better carry my coffin. same energy.”

si-eun glanced at her, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

she caught it and pointed. “there. you smiled. admit you like me.”

“i smiled because you said something dumb.”

“same thing.”

they didn’t look at each other after that. not directly, anyway. but she was quietly doing question five, and si-eun casually slid a bag of her favorite snacks across the table like it didn’t mean anything.

like always.

she got up without warning and dropped beside his chair, her chin resting on his arm, body invading his space like it was natural law.

“you need a break,” she muttered.

“you’re distracting.”

“good.”

he didn’t pull away. just let her stay there, still scribbling notes while her cheek pressed against the sleeve of his hoodie.

“you’re going to smudge the ink,” he murmured.

she shrugged. “you’ll rewrite it for me anyway.”

“that’s not how this works.”

she smirked. “isn’t it?”

they stayed like that, the sound of pen on paper and her breathing settling into rhythm.

she, of course, fell asleep fifteen minutes later. head still leaning against his arm, mouth slightly open, clumsy as ever.

si-eun didn’t move.

he just kept writing with one hand, while the other lightly tugged the blanket from the bed to drape over her shoulders.

outside, the sky finally decided to rain.

inside, there was peace—chaotic, uneven, stubborn peace. the kind only the two of them could create. the kind that made sense even when nothing else did.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ ,

[docsunset]

You’re Gonna Go Far | Avengers x Reader

Avengers x Fem!Avenger!Reader, Mildly implied Tony Stark x Reader

WARNINGS : PLEASE ADHERE BY THESE. Very heavy topics. Depression, suicide, blood, gore, scalpel, talk of ripping things out, anxiety, probably mild ptsd. Some fluff, the most severe angst I’ve ever written, not proofread I wrote this in like an hour, kinda horrible

Word count: 2367 (longest fic yet!)

Notes: This is not very accurate or anything. For some context, Reader has always had banshee-like/sonic scream powers but when she used it consistently, it kinda tore up her throat and voice box so she got a new bionic one. And she lost her eye in battle somehow so she’s got a robotic one.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You never showed the signs, at least not easily.

They weren’t blatantly displayed in behaviours or messages, there wasn’t a book of those thoughts or days where it was obvious what you planned to do.

So really, nobody was to blame for what happened. Let alone you. How could they hold it against you, when nobody could even recognize it was happening.

There was nothing they could’ve done to stop it, to stop you, because it was fated to happen, scrawled in the fabric of the universe. It had to happen. You had to do it. Every arrow pointed to it, it was just a fact. But, truthfully, that was what made it the worst.

It was quick, like a snap of your fingers, and then all of a sudden, it was like the world had shifted; because it did. You were the greatest thing they had ever lost, and nobody could figure out why you left them so soon. Not even Earths Mightiest Heroes.

Not even the leader of the elite profilers that you’d known and loved far too much. It took Tony a week to find the letter you’d left. Seven days, far longer than it should have. You didn’t want anybody to find out, apparently, and that’s exactly how it turned out. Tony said you nearly always got what you wanted anyway.

So maybe it was for the best, but none of your loved ones would ever be able to understand why. They didn’t have to. It was the secret that went with you into the ground, and that was what needed to happen. But the curiosity never swayed, the yearning for the reasons you could do such a horrible thing only grew as the days and weeks passed. Though, a small part of them all, knew exactly why you did it. They just didn’t want to admit it.

There was before it happened, and there was after. And before, there has been some rough days. It had been a rough week, In fact. For everyone, really. Nobody could deny that as a fact. The missions had been particularly grueling — one with losses that left everybody a bit more empty inside — and the legal issues were almost worse. Grieving the loss of normalcy and pieces of your soul was necessary after every mission for everyone. But after a few hours, someone typically made the move to bring some sense of comfort to the team. Sometimes it was ordering food, or going out for an activity. Other times it was a movie night, or maybe an arts and craft nobody particularly tried on but goofed off with. Today it was making dinner together, like a family. The family that wasn’t asked for, but needed. The family that couldn’t bring themselves to leave one another alone, isolated, pained. And they didn’t, at least not on the surface.

Via the usage of a vote (that was mostly useless), the group had decided on making pasta accompanied by salad, strawberries, and Peter (accompanied by Steve) got put on dessert duty — blondies, if they had to guess. For a lot of it, it was a few people splitting the tasks and working, while the others talked, brought comedic relief, and would probably eventually go off to the living room while they waited on dinner when they realized they would not be of use. So, in short, you and Tony were the only two remaining in the kitchen (aside from Bruce, but he had headphones in). You sat on the counter next to a large serving platter of sliced strawberries and on your right was the stove, where you eyed some noodles being cooked and Tony perfecting his craft of Alfredo. It was domestic, sweet, and you could see the others on the couch watching what seemed to be Up, based on the tears that welled in a few of their eyes. A smile you had been unfamiliar with lately had found its way back to your lips for just a moment. “What’s on your mind, honey?” The man asked, rubbing his bearded jaw. Dark eyes gazed over towards you on the counter, curious at the very least.

“Hm?” You hummed, making true eye contact with Tony. “What’re you thinking about?” He repeated himself, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to evaluate what was wrong with you. “Uh,” you almost slipped, “nothing. Just..tired; and my ears.” For the record, both were true. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks now, but the help of naps and energy drinks had been able to mask that for the first few. Maybe your luck was running out. Although, the ear pain and migraines were properly excused, an unfortunate downside of the odd abilities you’d gotten. A tragic one you’d found the hard way in childhood. One you couldn’t shake, even to this day. “Uh-huh,” Tony sarcastically murmured, brain prowling every possible thing that could be wearing you down. Tony always knew when something was wrong, it was just a matter of getting you to fess up to it. But this didn’t feel right, didn’t sit well with him.

It was a few hours later, after everyone had eaten and gone to bed, that the reminder of just how alone you were really set in. The darkness hit you, cracked through your bruised ribs and choked its way down your sore throat. With shut curtains and shut off lights, you truly couldn’t describe the feelings you held now. Tony had started to catch on, and surely the others had too. You hoped maybe you could take that piece of pain from them, keep it hidden in your chest and away from them. It wasn’t theirs to see, to feel, or at least it shouldn’t have been.

Being an Avenger was everything to you, but it took everything in you every single day. The missions, the cruel losses, the mental and physical battles that piled up the emotions. But the sense of family, of community, the feeling of being loved by people who had been through so much, made it worth it. There would come a day when the price to pay was too much. You’d been able to shake it off easily enough your first year or so of being part of the initiative, but now you started to hold something against it. Or maybe against yourself?

It was tug-of-war in your mind, a psychological battle where you sat on the floor of the dark living room. Of course you all had dark days; that was guaranteed. But the days that you felt like you were trying to play catch up to your own life made you wish for something else, something more. Losing physical and mental pieces of yourself every mission was starting to feel like more than it was worth. I mean, really, the bionic eye and vocal box was probably a good example of that. Yes, as a family and community, the Avengers were caring and supportive, but the way you never seemed to get the same help on missions wasn’t discreet. Maybe they weren’t trying to do it, but you felt helpless when you were left to fend for yourself and wonder whether they even knew if you were still alive. Maybe that’s why you did it.

With a mind running rapid, soon enough, the tears fell — from one side, anyway. The lack of warmth streaming from your right eye was just another reminder of how you weren’t quite enough for them nor yourself.

Your sulking thoughts were interrupted by the gentle footsteps, though heavy, walking nearer in the dark. It was Steve, clear in true way he evenly held his weight even in a tired form at the late hour, the gentle sounds of his steady steps making your heart beat a little faster. Being seen meant questions, questions meant sharing more than you cared for. Though you didn’t see to care for much these days. When the footsteps stopped, you turned your head towards him, seeing the tall man holding his water bottle (what he’d come out for) staring at you with something close to understanding sympathy. You wondered if he could relate to the crippling sense of loss you felt in your own mind, or the anxiety that coursed through your veins as the serum coursed through his. “It’ll be okay, kid,” he murmured softly. Nothing intruding, no prying questions or unwarranted contact. Just — reassurance. It made you want to scream and cry like a child, cling onto him and every other Avenger as though if you let go, they would dissipate into nothingness. But you refrained, sniffing a bit before sending him a strained smile. “Mhm, thanks, Steve,” you replied with a hoarse voice. A hoarse voice that while, sounding exactly like your own, didn’t feel like it belonged to you. Something curated to make you feel whole again, like you were capable of more than you were.

“Get some rest.” You nodded silently, though he couldn’t see you anyway. It probably wouldn’t happen — sleep hadn’t been in your favour the past few weeks — months, even. It was another short moment until his footsteps began again, starting towards his quarters and you heard the door shut. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your lungs. You eyed the digital clock on the wall; it was later than you’d intended to stay out of your room.

So with a heavy heart and heavier eye bags, you stood from the rug in the living room and trudged towards your room — the second on the left on the north hall — to find the solitude you’d left behind with the mandatory team bonding. When you reached your room, a bit messier than you could enjoy, you let out an annoyed breath. The light flicked on with a snap of your fingers, and dimmed automatically with the clock it was on. You spent maybe fifteen minutes organizing the clothes and keepsakes you’d earlier made a mess of, all the while trying to ease the anxiety thrumming beneath your skin.

When it was to your standards once more, slumping down in your chair in exhaustion seemed like the best choice. Your hands — scarred, scratched, shakier than you enjoyed — rested on the cool wood of the desk. Fingers tapped it as you eyed a notebook and pen, debating whether to do that or type out a message to the group chat. You could go for time and convenience or a last piece of sentiment.

The choice wasn’t terribly difficult, grabbing the light pink notebook with more aggression than you meant to convey and flipping to the next section of empty pages. Soon enough the pen was between your fingers, and you couldn’t find any words you wanted to write down — or maybe you couldn’t find the right ones. Because some part of you wanted to say everything, to beg and plead for help and admit everything that was wrong. But you didn’t; not really, anyway.

To Mr. Anthony E. Stark, you began to write, I’m sorry you had to learn the whole story like this, Tony. I have to come clean. For starters, I am choosing to leave the initiative. I hope you find it in you to understand.

You’d filled up two pages with the message to Tony, and had you had it in you to cry, the page probably would have been stained with tears. Then it was nearly a full page to Steve. One and a half to Natasha. Hardly over one to Thor. Peter and Clint both got a little over one and a quarter. Rhodey, Pepper, Strange, Bruce, and Happy all got their own as well. It took at least an hour, if not two. There was paragraphs of cherished memories, apologies, and finally what felt like an admission of guilt in every single one. It didn’t feel right to tell them like this. But when would you tell them if it wasn’t now? They had to learn somehow.

An ache permeated through your chest as you folded each message in half, sticking your signature seal — an origami sticky note heart — on the outside of them all, different colours for each person. You took a couple minutes to think it over anxiously before stacking them neatly on your desk. The next actions were the ones you regretted the most.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

It was a decent hour the next morning when Peter made his way to come wake you, accompanied by Steve. Breakfast had been made and they had a briefing to discuss — but the teens scream of horror was heard by nearly everybody, even Clint. Though the screams were nothing to those they’d heard from you, it made Tony’s blood curdle.

Your body was collapsed on the floor, propped up against the wall with an open eye. Blood was nearly everywhere. A scalpel was discarded towards the side. The throat piece that kept you alive — a bionic trachea, esophagus, and vocal box — had been sliced and torn from your throat, thrown ahead of you. The bionic eye had as well, blood dripping down your cheek and staining the front of your body, leaking on the carpet. The droplets had gone everywhere when you flung the metal chunk ahead of you, spraying on the papers resting on your desk. It was the crime scene nobody deserved to see.

Soon enough everybody had come running to investigate why Peter had screamed and Steve had gone paler than ever before. Tears were flowing soon enough, more screams erupting from people’s throats at the sight. People were ushered out of the room. Someone ran to puke in the nearest bathroom. Tony had come in last, confused and concerned at the commotion. But when he saw you, an open eye staring at him and an unreadable expression on your far more pale face, he could have died then and there. His heart sunk, his stomach twisted, his brain pleading. It wasn’t right. How could this happen?

But even still, nobody could find it in themselves to make it your fault. Because it wasn’t. Maybe the signs were there, maybe it was their fault for not noticing, not helping.

[luridon]

Honeycomb

If the height of happiness means death, then he's died a thousand happy, mundane ends by your hand

♡characters: yandere!bee x fem!courier!reader

♡warnings: MINORS DNI, blood, murder, victim-blaming, bugs, this may or may not be some alien/fae thing or just a supremely odd concubine sorta dude who thinks in bee metaphors of all things, MINORS DNI

♡notes: I was gonna put yandere!drone but that could have set false expectations of a robot. This is not about robots this is about bees, no explicit smut but questionable vibes abound, why do I keep writing about bugs

♡w/c: 900+ | ♡masterlist♡

He's harmless.

Something soft and tender, a lover who hasn't known anything but such a life. Something raised precious, given a large room and the sweetest, choicest food. He never learned how to work, beyond the lightest tasks. He never had to. He was supposed to find a queen, and he was to die as he lay with her.

He was born too late for that.

Winter came, and he was cast out by his kin. The sisters that fed and raised him now sent him to die. He would be a burden to the hive otherwise. When he tried to return, they threw him out again. When he tried once more, they chewed away his wings, the only way he had ever been of help to anyone, even if it was a mere task of casting a breeze for his kin.

He was born too late to die happy, and so he would die by the cold, abandoned for being too soft, too tender, too useless, even if he was raised as such, even if he never had a choice but to be so.

He cannot work. He cannot fight. He only knows how to be pretty, and even that has been ruined by the scars from his forceful exile.

He's harmless, so you take him in.

You're a traveler, a messenger, a courier for messages that require the utmost secrecy. In the lull between delivering the words of the elite, you find your pleasures in the pretty sights you see in your travels, and in mundane messages between the common folk.

He is something small and light. It is not difficult to take him with you to southern lands, away from his cold kingdom. You share with him your modest fare, your warmth on cold nights, your words until he understands them, though his mouth cannot quite form your language.

He's a pretty thing with big, dark eyes and soft fur. He's a clever thing, quick to learn, to understand. He is useful the moment he can be, a watchman on dark nights, with his glimmering gaze and the knife you gave him. His frame, thin and frail from the elements and his abandonment, fills out under your care, and he grows to tower over you, and help you carry your heavier loads.

He is useful, isn't he? He is. He has to be, or you will tire of him, and cast him aside.

He will work. No matter the burden or trial or task, he will succeed or die trying. You say you have no such burdens, but he vows it all the same, with his odd, chittering tongue.

He will bite. He will fight with fang and the stinger you gifted him. He will rend and tear until nothing remains of whatever beast may come, and bring you the spoils so that you can praise him for his good work.

He will be soft and pretty if that's what you prefer, something soft and warm to hold onto when the day is long and hard, and you'd like more of a pet than a person to soothe your strife.

It must be his nature that he prefers the last of these. That despite however much he thinks he may have grown from what fate had for him, what he likes best is to be held close by you-

How could he not adore you though? You who saw such a useless creature and deigned to give him the time to learn. How could he not think you as anything but worthy of all his paltry love? You are his wings, his sun, his queen, and he thinks sometimes, of how he was meant to die in the peak of bliss, but that even a peaceful moment just by your side is something that he revels in far beyond any memory of his indulgent youth. If happiness is death then he has died a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand times since you found him, from every moment that he is in your presence, your stern care and steadfast patience that pushed him to change.

It has to mean something, doesn't it? That you have built him up into such a being, a creature strong and capable, that you crafted him with such a heart that beats for you alone. All he is, then, all he does, then, is something born from your own doing, to turn him into this.

Whatever he breaks could only be so destroyed because you fed him until he was strong. Whatever he builds could only stand because you encouraged him to learn. Whether his hands are dyed red by beast or man, they are offerings to the one who pressed the dagger into his palm.

If you end up alone and trapped, unable to use the legs you loved to travel with nor see the sights you so adored, if you can do nothing but drown in the sweetness that you drew out from him, are you not in a cell of your own creation?

He was only a harmless thing until you took him, and helped him become more.

Perhaps your patience will wear thin before then. Perhaps you will strike him with your own present, tear yourself away from him like his wings once were, banish him from sight and cast him out of your warmth and into the cold again-

But even if you choose to end his life, why wouldn't he be glad to die at your hand? Why wouldn't it be his greatest joy to give you even a little happiness through the only thing he can give?

After all, his life was already yours to take, and he was always meant to perish by his love for his queen.

♡ a/n: Shout out to @monstermunchmurder whose tags and replies and asks have single-handedly given me the motivation work on some wips I had for this blog. Um. Hope you don't mind being tagged on the bee one?

[dumpywrites]

Club Brooklyn - Min Yoongi / Suga

Prompt: Partners in crime, one mission ruins it all.

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Slight angst, drama, mafia au, partners in crime au, mentions of violence/crime/assault

Pairing: Yoongi x she/her reader

Word count: 5.7k

a/n: I literally write this during my work lunch break lol don't know what possessed me

You had been working for the mob organization for the longest time, spending away your youth days. It wasn’t entirely by choice, but given the options, it could’ve turned worse.

Having an absent father who left you with debt was something you wouldn’t wish on anyone. One day a couple of men just came up to your small apartment, demanding you some amount, you refused, and you tried to beat them up. Did you succeed? Hell no. But you did impressively made one of them lose one tooth and knock the other straight on the nose. Having a small knowledge in Taekwondo did save your life, but also changing it from that point onwards, forever. 

Apparently, the small damage you made amused the headmaster, the boss of the organization. Instead of getting trafficked, you assumed, you were forced to train into one of the dogs, as what they called. At a young age, you then became an official guard dog of an elite gang and earned your new alias, Violet. 

The very next month was when you first got assigned with a partner. His nickname was Agust, a man who was just a few years older than you, but seemingly equipped with far more experience. Fair skin, not too tall, and jet black hair that was sometimes pulled into a small bun. There was a small scar across his right eye, but you didn’t even wanna ask why and how did he get it. He was quiet, professional, and quick. You were surprised to get paired up with someone as capable as him on your first ever gig.

It happened again in the next two months after that, the next week, and then until somehow the boss wouldn’t assign you on anything without the man coming along. You just worked together perfectly. It was almost you could read his mind without him needing to tell you anything. Your creative thinking matched well with his quick and quiet moves. 

There was never really anything between the two of you. Not even a mere friendship, just strictly business. But little by little you started to pick on his habit and so did he. You started smoking after gigs, while he now carried a few pieces of bandaid in his pocket for emergency annoying cuts, just like you did. It was bound to happen anyway when you spent that much time working together. 

Your new life was far from perfect. But it was… secure. Yes, your life was continuously put at risk, but at the very least you didn’t have to think about whether you could afford food on your plate the next day. You could afford the latest gadget if you wanted to and the apartment complex they told you to stay in was pretty sweet. 

**

Agust cursed under his breath as he peaked over his shoulder, sore feet dragging him as he kept going, hoping he had successfully flee. 

"Answer the damn phone…" He muttered through gritted teeth, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he shoved the phone back in his pocket and made a mental note to scold you about it later. His eyes turned to a small dark corner, then he spotted you, his trusted partner in crime, leaning against your track taking puffs from your cigarette, unbothered.

“You’re late.” He groaned, approaching you. 

“Your car decided it was a great time to not function.” You raised your eyebrows. “I found another car though, you’re welcome.”

“So you just left my car like that?!” He asked in disbelief as he followed you from behind. 

“I called Vante. I’m sure he’s taken it somewhere.” 

“Knowing him my car is probably torn to pieces right now, on its way to become his robot coke server or something.” He sighed. “You should’ve just left the car.”

“And risk leaving evidence???” You glared at him before you entered the car. “Why did you even buy that old ass car…”

“It’s vintage.” He corrected you as he took the passenger seat, looking vexed.

A small smile crept up on your lips, a bit amused seeing the expression on his face. “Relax, I told him to not touch it.” You flicked off the cigarette bud by the window, stomped on the pedal, and sped away. 

You arrived shortly at your hideout after a quiet ride. As usual both of you reported to your superordinates and handed out whatever was requested. In this case, an ear of a supposed business partner’s. You did not know what happened between them that your boss had to request for such thing, but you didn’t asked. Not like you had the authority to. 

The back porch was small, nothing flashy to avoid attention, but you loved spending just a few minutes winding yourself back after a job. Reminding yourself of nature, the small things in life, the opposite of the brutal truth you had to encounter every single day. 

You took out the cigarette pack from your pocket and lit up your favorite heart shaped lighter. It was one thing that every members loved to tease you about, but you couldn’t care less. You thought the design was pretty and there was nothing wrong with it. It had been with you for almost two years now. It didn’t look as cute as it was with small bloodstain that you couldn’t remove right at the corner. 

“I told you to stop.” 

A man, your partner, approached as he lit one up for himself as well. 

“I’ll quit when you quit.” You scoffed. “I picked the habit from you anyways so it’s only fair.”

Both of you stood in silence, the sound of birds chirping filling the air and the sun was slowly setting. 

“Has Jay told you about our next gig?” You said after puffing some smoke to the opposite direction. 

“No.”

“No?” You looked at him in disbelief. “Don’t you guys live nearby or something…”

“If you hadn’t notice, people don’t really enjoy talking to me that much.” He huffed. 

“I do.” You shrugged. 

“We kinda have to with our circumstances.”

“I don’t think they hate talking to you. You just love to push people away without giving them the chance to actually do it.” You flicked some ashes into a tray next to you. “You do realize that?”

“What’s our next gig about?”

You sighed, noticing the way he avoided the topic. “We’re taking the owner of Club Brooklyn for some talk. I don’t know the details yet but we might need to disguise and blend in a little bit since it’s a public place.”

“When is it?”

“Next Saturday if I’m not mistaken.”

Your partner frowned. “I have a solo the day before.”

“I think this one’s might just be a chill gig so you’ll be alright. Is it like a big stuff?”

“Some money laundering shit. Big guy needs me there.” He frowned, huffing the last puff before squeezing the bud on the metal ashtray. 

“You’ll be fine.”

**

A loud knock followed by another, then another afterwards. It was almost four. Surely, you weren’t expecting anyone to come and visit at this hour. You quickly grab a pocket knife from your side table, proceeding cautiously. Bringing your eyes to the small peephole, you were beyond shocked. 

“What the fuck happened?!” Exclaimed you, quickly letting the person in. 

The state Agust in wasn’t something you had not seen. Bloody nose, bruised knuckles, and a small cut on side of his left jaw. It was more the fact that he just showed up at your door unpromptedly. In the years of knowing him, this was a first time. 

“Had to flee, fucker’s got government people with him. We were outnumbered.” He said with hoarse voice. 

You noticed the obvious limping and moved to his side, helped him to sit on your small couch.“What happened to your feet?”

“Metal bat.” He sighed. “Asshole.”

You sighed along him, bending down and sat on the floor. You rolled one side of his trousers up to check on it. Immediately, you cringed at the sight of the purplish hue on his skin. 

“I’ll go get some ice compression.”

You came back a few minutes later with a bag of ice pack and a glass of water. He winced at the contact with the cold surface, but he kept his composure. You handed the glass cup to him and he took it immediately, muttering a quick thanks. 

“It seems like you’re gonna need some makeup for our mission later.”

“Shit, I forgot about that.” He scoffed, rubbing his temples. 

“Just stay in, I’ll call someone to pick you up later.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t mind.” You said casually. “You want the bed?”

“The couch is fine.” He said after groaning as he moved his position. 

“If you want to wash up I have some oversized t-shirts you can use.” 

“Thanks, I’ll just stay here for now though.” He sighed. 

“Okay.” You nodded. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

Sleep didn’t take you for long. You woke up from your short sleep at around nine. You felt a bit restless at the thought of your partner sleeping in your living room. He was still asleep on the couch, both of his feet were up on the armrest and it looked unpleasant. It also seemed like he had clean himself a bit, despite still being in his clothes. 

“Hey.” I shook his shoulder lightly. “Go wash up and sleep on the bed for a bit.” 

His body must be aching but you got an immediate response. Everyone on the house was a light sleeper, it came with the job. 

It was quite the sight seeing him in your t-shirt. Funny how the oversized fit now seemingly turned into a fitted one. Thankfully, you forgot to give back a pair of sweatpants you borrowed from Vante a while ago. Suits, shirts, ties, trousers, and black boots were his usual go to. You barely saw him out of his work attire. 

“You seem comfortable.” You couldn’t help but to comment. A small smile appeared on your lips. 

“T-shirt’s a bit small but it’s alright.” He said as he dried his hair with a towel. 

“It looks good on you.” You shrugged. 

He eyed you suspiciously but commented on nothing. 

“Toast? Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Both of you sat in congenial silence, just eating the buttered toast as the TV showed a random news forecast. 

“You wanna go and rest some more?” 

“Nah, I’m good.” He dismissed.

You nodded. “You wanna watch something?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Why not.”

He stayed quiet as you browsed through the options on the screen. He seemed tensed suddenly, you weren’t quite sure why. 

“Any preference?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Don’t say that, I’m about to make you watch some old Hello Kitty movie.” You chuckled.

The corner of his lips curved a little and he turned to face you. “Hello Kitty?”

“It’s a cartoon cat from Japan.”

“I know that.” He scoffed. “You like Hello Kitty?”

“Is that surprising?”

“No, it’s on brand with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean…” You tilted your head, eyeing the guy. 

“You always carry some cartoon animal band-aids. I’m surprised you don’t stick cute stickers on your pistol.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to have a personality, okay?! You should try it.” You rolled your eyes.

“No, no, I’m not mocking you. It’s adorable.” 

The warm smile on his lips was a huge contrast to the expression you were used to see him wore. 

“It helps you know… in a way it’s kinda my escapism from who I am.” 

The man’s gaze now fixed on you, making you a bit skittish. His eyes were always so intense. 

“I don’t really like who I’ve become and it’s good to have something to remind you that your old self is still there… somewhere.” You continued. 

“How did you even end up here?”

Your eyes widened for a second. You didn’t expect him to ask you. 

“My father left me with a debt. I was about to get collected, but I somehow managed to land a punch on and knocked one tooth one of the three guys who came… Apparently they were amazed by that.” You leaned back on the sofa and continued. “It’s Mr. Lee.” You chuckled. 

“You punched Mr. Lee?! He eyed you with an astonished look. “How old were you? That’s impressive.”

“Nineteen.” You sighed. “But, aren’t you glad? We wouldn’t meet otherwise.” You hit him with your elbow playfully.

He just stared at your wall. Maybe he wondered if it was really a good thing, you being here and all. 

“How about you?” You asked, making him move his eyes back to your direction. 

“I was fifteen when my parents sold me.”

You gasped. “They— they sold you?” 

“Yeah.” He said nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal thing. “I wasn’t exactly a good kid and my parents were stuck with debts left and right. It’s also how I got this…” He pointed at the scar on his eye. “I was resisting.”

“You were so young…” You looked at him, sympathizing. 

“I was one of the first batch of trained guard dogs. They realized if they need obedient slaves, they’re gonna have to start young.”

“Did you even finished school?”

“Nope. But they we were occasionally given private lessons just so we don’t turn out as a bunch of muscles with no thoughts.”

You wondered the horror he had to go through. You were lucky enough Mr. Lee, one of your seniors, ended up being somewhat of a parental figure for you. Being a woman in this petrifying world, you could imagine what could easily happen to you on your early days. 

“It must have been so hard for you…” You cooed. 

“You went through the same thing.” 

“Yeah but the place used to be way worse…”

You wanted to continue speaking, mentioning how the knowledge of his parents selling him away must had fucked with his mind so badly. How he shouldn’t had said all those horrid things with the calmest expression ever. It must had been so lonely for him. You did not feel like you had the right to say more though. 

“Agust…”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever feel like something’s troubling you, I’m all ears. We’re partners, it’s the least I could do.” You smiled. “You hear me?”

 “Yoongi.”

Your brain suddenly fogged. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Min Yoongi.” He repeated. “It’s my name.”

Guard dogs weren’t supposed to share and know each other’s name. It was all for safety purposes and to keep things strictly professional between everyone. In the span of more than three years of working with him, he barely even called you by your codename. So why suddenly..?

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…” You stopped, barely processing things.

“I thought you might as well know about it. You might see me die one day.” He said with a stoic face. 

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“It’s the truth.” 

You out of all people knew. 

You told him to get some more rest on your bed, your mission wasn’t up until later at night after all so you got plenty of time. 

Min Yoongi. It was just a name. You wondered why did it sound so delicate coming out from his lips, like it was the most vulnerable thing he had ever shared. Probably because it was. 

Later that evening, both of you set out to the main lair to get ready. Ate some food and got dressed in some club appropriate outfit. With your trusted pistol and knife hidden on a holster, you were ready to go. 

Today’s tasks were simple. Blend in with the crowd, locate the target, and lure him to the designated room where the negotiator would be waiting. 

Club Brooklyn. 

The neon sign was big enough to lit a whole forest. And you were told to be discreet? You wondered how much did they had to bribe the police to shut them up every single time. Because for a place filled with illegal festivities, it sure looked pretty flashy. 

Both of you were already at the parking lot, waiting for a signal to enter the premise. You look to the passenger seat, seeing your partner with a bruise that was still faintly visible on his jaw. 

“Hey, let me put some more concealer on you.” 

“It’s not gonna be obvious with all the colorful lights anyway.” He complained.  

“You could be talking to someone at the restroom?” You argued. 

He sighed in defeat. “Hurry.” 

You grinned, satisfied. “Come here.” 

He inched closer, but his eyes were looking at somewhere behind you. Carefully, you put a finger on his jaw, while your other hand tapping the product lightly on his skin. You had always known how good his skin looked, but you didn’t know it looked this good up close. It was unfair. You bet he showered with a 3-in-1 soap. 

You were surprised he stayed put the whole time. You still remembered how he swatted your hand when you first met him. Yikes. Guessed he got used to being with you over time. 

“Why? Is there something wrong?” He asked when you kept staring at his face. 

“Just admiring. You look great!” You grinned cheekily. “I’m trying to put my finger on why I feel like something’s off…” You tapped your chin comically. 

“What is it.” He said with a stoic voice. 

“I prefer you with your scars better. Makeup makes you look generic.” 

When you finally let go and put away the small concealer bottle, your eyes met for a second, but you were quick to break the stare. 

And then your phone beeped, alerting the signal. It was time to go. 

“Ag— Yoongi.”

His hand was still on the door knob, but the man turned his head to you.

“This might seem dramatic, and today is just an easy gig for us, but uh… I want you to know my name as well.” You smiled, unaware of how your cheeks had grown a light shade of pink. “Because I trust you.”

There was no major reaction coming from him as you spelled out your full name, but you could feel his gaze softened he held down a smile when you giggled sheepishly after. 

“Target on three o’clock.” You whispered to your earring-slash-earpiece. 

Slowly, you moved through the crowd. Pretending to have fun, you had a glass of on your hand as you did. On the other side, Yoongi was aiming for the owner’s bodyguards, looking for a way to stir their attention away. 

“Agust, Violet, big guy is moving to the bar area.” You heard the monitor man spoke from the earpiece. 

Your attention shifted to the drink in your hand and then to the shimmery dress you wore. An idea popped up in your head. 

“I’ll distract the guards. Agust, go and try to make a deal with the man.”

There were two bodyguards of the pimp, and you needed to distract the one that watched the VIP room door. Agust would slide in to convince him he was a potential client, then lure him to the room with your people waiting inside. 

Swiftly, you move across the sea of people, trying your best to not seem suspicious. You started casually moving your body, swaying your hips to the music, slowly moving towards the direction of the guard.

And then boom. Naturally, you made it all seemed like an accident as you spilled your drink all over yourself and some onto the bodyguard. 

“Oh my gosh!” You whined, trying your best to sound convincing. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been drinking too much.” You eyed the tall man with slanted eyes, giggling. “Do you want me to help you clean it up?”

“I can’t lady, I’m doing my job here.” The big man said. A sigh escaped his mouth as he looked down at his cocktail stained suit. 

“Come on… I’ll help you out.” You winked. 

The man peered over his shoulder, possibly looking for the sight of his boss. You sneaked a look too and saw your partner from afar, talking to a woman in gold silk dress. You couldn’t clearly see who the person was, but it happened so quickly. Suddenly, you saw him pulling her in for a deep kiss. 

For a split second you almost drop everything and run straight at him, but you were a fully trained dog. Instead, you pulled the bodyguard in front of you by his tie, dragging him away. 

You pressed a button on your earpiece to send a signal, letting your team know you had done your part. You were still dragging the big built man by the tie, but your mind wandered away. Your partner still had not rang his signal. 

Suddenly, your arm was yanked in a harsh force. You turned and saw a wicked grin plastered on the bodyguard’s face as he switched things, with him now dragging you instead. 

“Could you maybe stop pulling my arm like that?!” You yelled. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t just ask for this.”

Disgusting. You thought. “I was just trying to help you clean your clothes.”

“And we all know what that means.” The tone of his voice made you feel sick. 

The man was still tugging on your arm until he stopped in front of a janitors room. He shooed the janitor away just by a quick glance. 

Sensing danger, you yanked your arm off, but a punch landed on your face. It happened so quick that your reflexes missed it. You quickly got up but the man had locked the door by the time you did. 

Up until this point, there was still no signal coming from your partner. Talking and revealing your location through your earpiece would make the guy run to his boss in a jiffy, you could not risk that. You couldn’t believe you had to actually fight a pervert while your partner was out there tonguing some random woman. 

It was not until a few minutes later when you finally heard the alert sound from your earpiece. You immediately mentioned janitor’s room to your earpiece. The man’s eyes lit up, coming to a realization. He quickly ran to the door, but you beat him to it, kicking his hand away from the knob. 

“I should’ve known!” The man spat out. 

“I know, it’s almost as unbelievable as the thought of someone actually wanting to have sex with you.” 

“You slut.” 

He tried to land a low kick, but you quickly dodged it. One of the advantages of having a smaller frame. You might had lower power, but you had better stamina and speed. His punches made quite the impact though, you might need your partner to make haste and come faster because you could not keep eluding the attacks. 

Three minutes. Your partner took three minutes before showing up, opening the door with the key you figured he managed to snatch from one of the janitors. As soon as the door swung open, both of your eyes met for one second, then yours went to the lipstick stain on the corner of his lips, while his went to the damp dress clinging on your body. Seconds later you were pulled by your wrist and in a flash, the door was locked behind you, leaving the giant man inside. 

The drive back to the hideout was oddly quiet. You didn’t protest when Yoongi took over the driver seat, instead of fighting with him before with the argument of his swollen foot. He didn’t say anything either and just drove normally without any verbal complaints. The whole ride you busied yourself looking at the window, watching the vehicles passing by. You didn’t know why you were suddenly feeling so irritated. 

“Violet, did he hurt you?”

Yoongi voiced out as soon as the car was parked. You were too out of your head to notice, so he spoke again, this time calling out your actual name. 

You turned to him, still unable to utter a word. How did he make your name sounded so intimidating coming from his lips was beyond you. 

“Did he hurt you?” He repeated. 

“No.” You shook your head. 

He took off his outer and placed it on your lap. “Vante might be ogling at you.” 

Then he left the car before you could say anything back. 

The audacity of a man. First of all, you and Vante were just friends, and as far as you knew, he had never viewed you in any sexual manner whatsoever. Secondly, had he looked at himself in the mirror? The reddish lipstick stain was still very visible on his face, it was making you want to punch him in his beautiful features so badly.

But you did not say a word back. Instead, you just reported as usual, returned your gear, changed, and headed back to your place. 

**

“You need to relax.” 

You pretended you didn’t just hear the words coming out from another fellow dog who was training next to you. You kept throwing heavy punches at the boxing bag, secretly imagining it was your partner’s face instead. 

“Girl, what’s wrong?” The woman pulled you away lightly from the speed bag. 

You sighed and took off the gloves from your hand. “I’m just in a very bad mood.”

“For no reason?” 

“Oh, there’s a reason alright.” You rolled your eyes and proceeded to walk towards the lounge. 

“Why? Did you get scolded by Mr. Lee?” She asked, following you from behind. 

“No, it’s not Mr. Lee.” You breathed out a long sigh and took an empty seat. “It’s Agust.”

“You had a fight?” She exclaimed almost too loudly, making you hushed her immediately. “Sorry, I mean… I’ve always words of how in sync you guys are.”

“It’s probably nothing… To be honest I’m not quite sure why I’m this bothered.” 

“What happened?” She asked while taking two cups of fresh water, handing one to you. 

“I saw him kissing some random woman in the club during our gig.” You flinched lightly at the flashback coming through your mind. 

“Oh my god…” She scoffed in amusement. “Are you serious? You’re jealous.”

“What?! The fuck are you talking about??? We were in the middle of work! Was that really a good timing to do that???” You replied defensively. 

“Exactly, what if it was necessary…” She folded her arms and smirked at you. “Have you thought about that?”

You stopped and thought to yourself. That really did not cross your mind. What if he did that to distract someone? Or to convince the target? Why did you get so affected by something that was probably nothing?

“So you are jealous then.” She spoke upon seeing you lost in your own thoughts. 

“I’m not… stop it.” You groaned. “Maybe I just didn’t expect him to be able to do something like that.”

“Like what?! You think he can’t kiss??? Violet, he’s a fully grown adult!” She laughed. “Have you told him?”

“There’s no way I’m telling him.” You cringed. 

“Why not? You need to sort it out or else it will affect your work flow.” 

“How in the fresh hell am I supposed to tell him?” You looked at the woman in front of you with defeated expression. 

“You could tell him that you feel bothered by what you saw and be all professional about it.” She shrugged. “Or… you could tell him the truth? Tell him you’re jealous. See how it goes.” 

“You can’t be serious…”

“Just admit it.” She rolled her eyes, giggling. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He looks at everyone and everything with a blank stare.”

“Not at you though.” She smirked. 

“If you’re just hyping me up for nothing, I swea—“ You suddenly froze. 

Your co-worker gasped in excitement. “You just admitted that you like him.” She squealed. “Just tell him! Let me know how it goes.”

You went back to your apartment unit that day with questions lingering on your mind. 

So you did just had a mini revelation on your feelings. You fancied Yoongi, but what now? Sure you saw him kissing someone, and damn he seemed to be good at it too, but what about romantic feelings? You were not even sure if he was capable of something like that. You were used to being firmly business with him for years so it would feel bizarre to admit something like this. 

Am I even allowed to feel this way?

**

Weeks passed and the words were still unspoken. You figured it would go away if you chose to ignore it, but you were mistaken. Because now you noticed every small details in the things he did. Your heart beat faster when he covered for you. All the usual things he would normally do as your partner, suddenly felt totally different. 

Today, both of you just came back from a pickup gig. You were exhausted and your right hand was hurt. You had to avoid a knife attack and it sliced your palm instead. You were sitting down on an empty bed at the infirmary, struggling to open a water bottle. 

“You good?”

You looked up and saw your partner approaching. This really was not the time, you were pretty worn out already. 

“Don’t worry.”

“You can’t even open that bottle.” He snatched the drink from your hands, opened it and gave it back to you. 

You took the bottle and uttered a small thanks. 

He went to sit next to you, making a comfortable space in between the two of you on the bed.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong? It’s been weeks.”

Of course he noticed. 

“It’s just something stupid, I don’t even know what to tell you.” You stared down at your feet hanging above the floor. 

“It’s not stupid if it bothers you this much.”

How did he always manage to say all the right things with the most straight face?

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good time to talk about it now.” 

“Then when is it? I’ll wait.”

The way he looked at you made your heart sank to your stomach. 

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. “Promise me, no matter what I say to you, don’t let it affect work.”

He only nodded, waiting for you to say your piece patiently. 

“I was… jealous. I think.” You hesitantly said. You flinched just seconds later on how nervous you were feeling. 

“What do you mean?” He asked with neutral voice. 

“Back at Club Brooklyn. You kissed some random woman and I can’t keep that image out from my head. It’s driving me nuts.” You sighed in frustration. “And you did that just right after you spent the night at my place, I thought that at least—“ You stopped yourself, realizing you had said too much. “I’m sorry, it just bothers me so much. I don’t even know why you did that…”

“Hold on.” He said firmly, grabbing your shoulder as he did. “You saw that?”

“Of course I did! Must be nice smooching with some beautiful lady while your partner was busy fighting off a literal pervert.” You protested. 

“I did that to convince our target. She’s a prostitute, I told the guy I was gonna rent her.” 

“That’s the thing! I figured you could just be doing it for work too, but you were doing it for a hot minute and I—“ I stopped myself again. “It doesn’t matter anyway, this is stupid.” You slumped down and covered your face with your hands. “Now that you know, can you leave me alone for a second? The embarrassment is killing me.”

“Still can’t believe you were getting all jealous.”

Yoongi couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you looking up at him, unable to look away. Without hesitation, he moved closer, pulled you by the back of your neck, as he closed the distance between you two. 

Despite the slight chapped texture, his lips felt soft against yours. You eagerly returned the kiss, deepening it. When you broke away, his smirk was now gone, replaced by a soft smile. 

“Did you just— You just kissed me.” You said, dumbfounded. 

“And so did you.” 

“If you’re making fun of me, it’s not funny.” You said, pushing him off lightly. Your cheeks started to heat up as you did.

“You’re not gonna make fun of me back?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“I literally lost all my brain function when I saw your dress being drenched that night.” He admitted. “Couldn’t talk to you without looking at how the dress was hugging your body. I took the driver’s seat just so I can look at the road instead of you.” He sighed. “Damn, my foot was still hurting too at that time.”

“Wait…” You put your palms in the air. “So are you like, serious? This isn’t some kind of joke, right?”

“Since when do I joke like this?!” The man looked at you in disbelief. 

“Right.”

“Right.”

“So like, what are we gonna do… about this?” You said, pointing at him and back to yourself. “Do you even like…”

“I told you my name, it should be obvious.”

You had never seen him appearing so sincere, it was making you nervous. 

“I… My whole life I’ve only known fight and survive. Never really had much luck in high school either, I wasn’t popular surprise surprise.”You rolled your eyes, trying to make a light joke. “I don’t really know what to do when it comes to, well, my feelings.”

“So do I.” He said calmly. “But I still want you, despite going on fully blind.”

“I want to remind you that I’m not—“

“If you’re gonna talk down on yourself again, I’m not having it.” 

Your cheeks flushed again. “We have a lot to catch up to. I barely know what you like, I don’t even know your favorite food??? What’s even your favorite color—“

“Hey,” He called, hand resting on your back pulling you slightly to his direction. “No pressure. We’ll go with the flow and see how it goes.”

You sighed. “You sure?”

“You’ve asked me that multiple times already.” He chuckled. “Yes, I am.”

“Can you kiss me again just to make sure?”

Yoongi halted back for a second, seemingly taken aback by your boldness. He let out a soft laugh, one that sounded like music to your ears, before pulling you back in. 

To where you belonged. 

Thank you for reading! ✒

[amaya-writes]

Hi Amaya!

I don't know if you've already gotten. One of my previous requests but I'd like to send another one in, if you don't mind.

Could you write a one shot with Kiyotaka Ayanokouji, from Classroom of the elite?

I'd really appreciate it if the reader could be kept fem! And the one shot was fluff/angst, but it's ultimately up to you.

Have a nice day/night/afternoon!

Notes: I haven't written for Ayanokouji in forever omg so I just had to do this!

Warnings: slight angst, reader doesn't realise she's being used

Characters involved: Kiyotaka Ayanokouji

Fem reader, you/yours

He tried ignoring your advances, Kiyotaka really did.

At first it was easy to simply drop a small peck or two on the crown of your head as you shifted impossibly closer to him. But you were just so needy.

"Kiyotakaaa."

The way you whined his name made the boy in question sigh as he felt you shift beside him, but he still mustered the energy to lock eyes with you.

"You're behaving weird today."

Your proximity made it easy for him to feel your skin heat up at his words, but your sudden embarrassment unfortunately did nothing to trump your neediness.

Instead, you shifted your hands from their previous position on his chest to cup his cheeks as you planted one peck after the other across his face.

"I miss you."

"I'm right here."

Your nose wrinkled in annoyance at the reply. You tried to hide it, but Kiyotaka could see the way your mannerisms shifted from playfulness to a sudden sense of discomfort.

You were getting offended. And that was never a good thing.

A soft hum left his lips as Kiyotaka shut the laptop that had been resting on his lap for the past hour, allowing it to fall onto the mattress as his hands shifted from the keyboard to the nape of your neck.

"You have me now. So, what did you want?"

Your lips morphed into a wide smile as you winded your arms around his neck. Your nimble fingers trailed through his hair, no doubt ruining his style, but Kiyotaka couldn't have voiced his annoyance even if he wanted to, for your lips were on his a moment later.

You weren't a bad kisser.

In fact, most would probably consider you a very good one.

Your lips moulded against his almost perfectly and the way you occasionally tugged on his bottom lip would have probably arose others.

You knew how to use your hands too, and carded your fingers through his hair in a calming manner that would have Kiyotaka melting in your grasp if he actually liked you.

But he didn't. And he wasn't one to lust either. Which was why your perfect kisses were nothing but a nuisance to him.

As you pulled away for air and trailed soft kisses down his neck it was clear you couldn't catch on to his true feelings. After all, if you were smart enough to read people Kiyotaka would have never picked you over the other Class A girls.

He felt almost robotic as Kiyotaka dropped one of his hands to circle your waist, the other shifting from your neck to cheek as he planted a kiss of his own on your lips.

It was chaste and lacked the arousal staining your every touch, but the gesture was enough to make a stupid smile tug on your lips.

You were buying his lies. Perfect.

"Don't you have a study session to get to?"

Your eyes comically widened at his question. The sight made Kiyotaka let out a small scoff as he watched you reach for your phone and mutter soft curses when you noticed time.

"Shit you're right. Bye hun."

You shifted to drop one last peck on his cheek before collecting your things and hurriedly racing out of his bedroom.

A soft sigh tumbled from his lips as Kiyotaka watched the door slip shut behind you.

He was free. Finally.

Kiyotaka's slight smile shifted to display his real annoyance as he turned towards the discarded laptop.

If he knew pretending to be romantically invested with you would be this tiring Kiyotaka would have opted for other methods to draw information from you.

But alas, there were only so many ways to best Class A, and none of them could be accomplished without insider intel.

He needed you. The realisation drew yet another sigh from him.

"Only a few weeks."

Kiyotaka clicked his tongue as he muttered the words, watching his laptop hum to life to display the recording app he had set up in your phone.

If circumstances hadn't forced him to be apathetic, perhaps Kiyotaka could come to actually love you. But for now you were nothing but a pawn dressed up in his queen's garbs.

And Kiyotaka couldn't wait to get rid of you.

[nepotismthis]

INSIDE JOB REWATCH NOTES

A little while ago, I did a full IJ rewatch over three weeks, which is the first time I’ve watched the seasons back to back. I made a point to take notes for fic-writing purposes, and I wanted to share them. They’re color-coded by character, worldbuilding, and production. Enjoy!

Part One:

They briefly mention the shadow-lev system in Unpresidented. I assume this is the primary mode of transportation for most of the series, and all secret societies have access.

I didn’t realize this show had a Dave Matthews needle drop

Rand is very conniving for a lot of Part 1 and a lot of the fandom forgets this… myself included I am in no way immune

This show has a lot of blood. Much more than I remember.

There’s also a LOT of electronic transition music early on, which makes the Dave Matthews needle drop even more absurd.

Reagan’s arms look really strange in Blue Bloods, which is great. The proportions are always just a little off when she wears the robot-arms, which I didn’t notice until now.

The Reptoids have a rivalry with Atlantis!

Reagan frequently wears a barrette in flashbacks (which may not be huge news to you but as someone who’s written an AU Reagan who wears a barrette it was crazy to see)

One detail that really only shows up on a big screen is that they gave Reagan pinkish coloring around her eyes when she doesn’t have the exaggerated purple eye bags, which looks really nice.

The Reptoids say that Reagan is considered an upgrade from Rand. Do with that information what you will.

Tamiko is on first name terms with the rest of the team! It makes me curious how often she sees them.

Atlantis is REALLY big. It’s also in the South Atlantic Ocean

Each opening scene is around 3 minutes in Part One, which actually changes to around 2 minutes in Part Two!

The Illuminati is referred to as a company in Mole Hunt. They’re not just an elite club, they also likely have some sort of business model.

Part Two:

In the summary for “How Reagan Got Her Grove Back,” they give away the hookup. This makes me a little frustrated, but oh well.

The Illuminati canonically toilet papered Cognito’s office in the past, which means it’s likely not hard to break into their office.

While Part One has mostly electronic background music, Part Two uses a lot of keyboard chords for transitions.

I genuinely think Reagan and Mychelle’s Hive School Reunion has my favorite opener. (where they sneak in to change the Constitution) We see the gang on a smaller mission, everyone has new outfits, and also Reagan knocks out a guy with a suitcase.

Rand canonically has a remote-controlled teleporter, which could also solve my transportation confusion from earlier.

“In the Hall of the Mountain King” is played during the roast in Reagan and Mychelle’s Hive School Reunion

Ron initially takes it upon himself to complete the mission in Rome. This is SUPER interesting to me, because he already knows it’s part of Reagan’s job. You could read this in so many ways. Did he want to keep her separate from the part of his past he repressed? Did he want to protect her from another secret society? I am not the person to give judgment on this, I just think it’s intriguing to consider.

Ron is canonically good with technology… Not only did he hack that recorder in Bohemian Grove super fast, he also mentioned literally building the Catholicizer. More on this later.

Gigi’s VA is SO good. She’s so expressive and her joke delivery is consistently on point.

Glenn is canonically a high ranking general, not just some guy (also, he’s my favorite. This is largely because I had to study most of what he references in the two years since I last watched the show.)

During the Mouth of Truth scene, Reagan mentions Ron hopefully changing his mind about sleepovers. Did they just not… stay the night with each other before We Found Love In A Popeless Place? (sadly if this is true it makes one of my fics inaccurate)

Side note: The word ‘sabotage’ is used across four of the eight episodes in Part Two. (episodes 1, 2, 4, 5) I don’t think it was used once in Part One. (take a wild guess about why I noticed this)

They use classical music in Part Two again, at the Hand mansion. I couldn’t recall the title, but it’s there.

The character animation is SO GOOD in Brettwork.

I’m obsessed with how insane JR gets once he becomes an intern.

Rand canonically collects blood samples of all his employees. Again, do with that information what you will.

Brettwork is the best written ‘episodic’ episode of the show. Fight me. Also, it was cool to see Reagan in a support role.

Ron canonically has a private instagram account

During the climax of Rontagion, Ron suggests “hotwiring the gun to the building’s lighting system,” connecting to the pattern of him being good with technology. This guy was in the wrong field. He should’ve been building stuff instead of erasing minds.

Brett remembers Ron post-memory wipe. I don’t know why that was written in, but it’s definitely theory fodder for someone.

They use a cappella music in the JRand college flashback montage! (College a cappella is very special to me and this made me giggle)

In Gigi’s Illuminati cutaway bit, she’s flanked by people in red robes. We also see these guys cheering for the Illuminati in Bohemian Grove, and one going through the TSA in the Rome episode. However, because Ron initially wears a purple robe, this begs the question: does the Illuminati have robes that indicate rank? Does this mean Ron was a higher rank, beyond just being a mind eraser?

In the opener for Appleton, Reagan checks her phone at 9:05 after it buzzes. However, the text she gets from Ron (the only notification) is timestamped as 45 minutes ago. Interestingly, she looks again at 9:50 and the notification is still from 45 minutes ago. It’s probably a production error, but it could also be theory fodder...

Ron never said Reagan needed to make a decision about Appleton, just to think about it. This is canon. I'm not making this up. I don’t deny that this was a huge (and abrupt) ask on Ron’s part, but it’s worth noting that Reagan rushed herself.

You can tell most of the soundtrack budget went into Project Reboot and Appleton. There’s a specific motif they use for emotional moments between Reagan and Ron (once when they kiss at the beginning, once in Appleton proper) which is pretty easy to pick up on.

Ron has a Illuminati mind eraser in the timeline where he works at Cognito… huh?

And... that’s it. TLDR: I love this show, the work put into the soundtrack is underrated, and there’s definitely still more out there to analyze.

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[sophaeros]

the strokes at a pub in london, with the robot gifted to them by rip it up's journalists

the strokes for rip it up - new zealand, october/november 2001 / no. 283 — web version print version

The Strokes, us and a robot in a pub...

by The Ballroom Regulars Photos by The Strokes and Ju-ju (unless otherwise noted)

'The coolest band on the planet', the saviours of Rock, featured in Elle Magazine, played on the Catwalks of New York and Paris, hounded, followed and adored - Not since Oasis broke have the British press put all their eggs in so fabulous a basket. Rumours abound - their names are made up, they were put together by the lead singers dad (John Casablancas, founder of The Elite Model Agency), they're constantly fighting with each other, they're constantly fighting with strangers, they drink too much, they're gay, they're straight, they're homophobes. Everybody wants to know everything they can. But one thing is sure, The Strokes are roundly agreed to be the quintessential Rock band, the 'great white hope' of nu-Rock'n'Roll. But they're more than that. They're five guys who hooked up in High School with a shared interest in booze, girls and guitars.

So what are they all about, besides saving us from the glut of pre-masticated pop and soul stifling dance, what are their hopes and ambitions?

Meeting Julian Casablancas is like meeting living proof that rock'n'roll will never die. At 22 he should be embracing the 'Now' culture of many of his peers. He should be scrupulously clean, drug and booze free, heading down to Florida for the summer break with a pretty blond on his arm and Basement Jaxx on his personal MP3 player.

But he's not. He's still in bed, hung over, refusing to get up. He is unwashed, jet lagged and beer crusted. YAY! When he finally does show, 2 hours late for the day's round of fanzine wackiness, he's disheveled and rye. His grin is about as infectious as rabies and he is, frankly, as sexy as fuck. "Hey" notes Ryan Gentles, their Wunderkind Manager, whose been sitting fretting in the hotel lobby for what appears to be half the night and all of the morning. "This is new..." he means Julian's tan La Coste jumper... not the attitude.

When we get our turn at The Strokes info trough the boys are tucking into Thai rice and a round of the amber nectar. It's 1pm. The sun is shining. Handshakes and suitably half-assed 'nice to meet you's' are flung at us and we wade in...

First, an Icebreaker. Giving them a present fresh from Brixton Market - Your All Plastic Friend: Sir Mixalot Prime - hastily re-christened toy Robot of Asian origin, is about as good as ice breaking gets. The mood of the interview is set... they like us, we admire and respect their ability to make Sir Mixalot simulate sexual intercourse with Nicolai Fraiture. "You bought us a present? That's so cool!" they chime satisfyingly. All except Julian who looks mortified, "I had a dream last night and that Robot... a Robot just like that destroyed the world..." Ah...Ok, maybe we should get straight to the questions.

Right, so what makes the world turn for them? Playing music and doing their stuff, by all accounts. Their stuff: a sublime mix of 70's NYC and noughty's savvy. Fashion flash and strep throats, with a smattering of anglophilia to match the op-shop chic. Garage soul sensibilities and themes as diverse as personal disgust and underage lust. They are 'The Kids' too so it seems right to mellow out with a few pop culture questions to gauge their mind sets:

In the movie Warriors, which gang did you relate to most? Fab: Oh wait...I've seen that. Is that like the 70's one where they're in gangs running across New York? Yeah! Nicky: There's the baseball gang, and the “girl gang” Fab: What was the main gang? WARRIORS! Albert: WARRIORS! Fab: Yeah, we're the Warriors!! Totally.

After an hour of this we discover that Julian always roots for the underdog and doesn't "really give a fuck about baseball" and that the last time Albert cried was "as the plane was taking off". For Fab it was when Nicky's girlfriend dumped him (for the cute one from Weezer no less). At this Nicky leaps to his feet to sing Don't Cry For Me Fabrizio! At the top of his lungs.

"The Beatles hated each other, but we love each other", Nicky says. To prove the point they all agree that if they could only take five things to a desert island they would take each other and their Manager. That is until Julian demands that one band member opt out so they can "take something more useful like a girl... or our fucking instruments". In the nick of time Nicky reasons that they can make their instruments out of coconuts and bamboo.

The band are open and unguarded - they want to chat. Chiefly with each other, but it's fine just being around this kind of energy. They even happily answer the question that's been raging through the music press for the last six months: YES! Their names are real. As Nicky puts it "Course they're fucking real," gulp, "what a stupid question."

"You wanna see my passport?" yells an unfazed Fab. Cue enormous Italian passport (he was born in Brazil of Italian parents but grew up in NYC) and suitably hideous soccer mullet teenaged photo, nom de: Fabrizio Moretti. "It looks ridiculous," he sighs, "It looks like I'm out of the Military!"

Julian is also carrying proof, so you know they've had this problem before. Cue credit card sized driver's license and an acute sense of having offended your new friends.

Julian F. Casablancas. Nicolai Fraiture. Fabrizio Moretti. Nicky Valensi. Albert Hammond Jnr. You have to ask. You just have to.

Oblivious to the fact that nearly everyone in England is named John Smith, they are dumbfounded that they get asked this question at all. "I guess we just had cool parents who chose our names," chimes Fab, "My mom was like (mock Italian accent) I think this boy will be a rocking roll star!"

The table then descends into chaos and spilt pints as they 'discuss' the finer moments of Mrs. Moretti's partum experience. "But," adds Fab soberly, "she didn't know I was only going to be a drummer... she was too extravagant."

And what about their collective name? 'The Strokes' brings all manner of vaguely squishy images to mind, not the least of which is that favoured by the British press. "What? You mean like...masturbation?" asks Julian looking all innocent, like he is daring us to say the word. Er...yeah, or is that more indicative of your interviewers mindset?

"Nah, it's got nothing to do with that... well... it has, but, no." Albert takes up the baton, "Actually I was reading something about strokes and it described it like a lightening strike in the brain that changes everything." He passes it to Fab, "It's like our music!" One hit and you're never the same again? "Exactly!"

Evidently no subject is sacred. When we finally get round to asking them the all-important 'Who was better - Wham! Or Duran Duran?' question, they almost all say Wham! (Except Fab who's enjoying singing 'Rio' at the top of his voice...bless) Why not Duran Duran? "They took themselves too seriously." states Nicky emphatically.

Fair cop. But a bit rich coming from a band that refuse to do video's, co-produced their debut album without taking any credit, and toured every little pub town from here to Toad Suck, Arkansas. A band who have yet to release an LP (slated for September) despite appearing on the cover of every self respecting music mag on both sides of the pond. They take themselves seriously, OH YES.

The album, 'Is This It', took them one month to record... one month... thirty days. It is the product of their 'salad days' gigging around Manhattan and Philadelphia.

 "That's why it works so well," says Fab, "we've had a really really long time to perfect the album outside the studio... an album that's like... that's who we are as The Strokes."

Who they are is a piece of carefully crafted art that WILL move you from the groin on out. A record to be cherished for its ability to make you smile and get up. Surely this is the wonder of 'Is This It', it's Rock 'n' Roll that makes ya wanna move.

After experimenting with a different producer, namely Gill Norton of Hüsker Dü fame, the boys went back to their old friend Gordon Raphael who originally produced their 3 song EP 'Modern Age'. They wanted to cut back on production, as Albert says, "To keep it true to the live set." They all agree that Norton was great, but not for them.

"Doing things professionally doesn't fit with our style," the lax and by now pissed voice of Julian crawls across the table, "if we stay...raw it sounds, like...great." RAW?! Talk about understated! On the track 'Take It Or Leave It' you can hear this man's tonsils crying out for mercy, you can smell the blood on Albert's shirt sleeves... This ain't no Radiohead mate.

The band even co-produced the album to maintain a level of control over the sound. The chemistry between them and Raphael worked it's way onto the vinyl.

"When you're working with someone and you know that the two of you are just doing something better than you were doing on your own. That's the best way to work." says Julian of the experience. They're not completely pleased with the Steve Albini School of Sound Engineering however. "I don't think it looks that cool when a band produce themselves," pipes Nicky, "You wanna picture the band going in and playing the songs (not) oh now they're too cerebral. It's like a fun thing." So no credits for the boys. They just wanna rock, and drink. Which has to be admired.

They're also un-phased by the press's insistence on linking them to The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, The Ramones and any number of late 70's NYC Punk they care to mention. 'Is This It' isn't going to shatter anyone's illusions about what these boys want to sound like. This album springs from the head of John Cale fully formed and fighting fit.

"What a cool band to be compared to," admits Julian about The Velvet Underground. He means a band that's beloved and credible, different and weird... not to mention fucking good. "It's sorta a subconscious goal to have music that cool, but actually make it popular... a cool way to make popular music more interesting." Hurrah.

We demand an explanation for so suddenly signing to majorinos RCA then. A chorus of oohs and ahhs goes up around the table before the earnest protestations that RCA are the best of a bad bunch, not so bad, and quite ok really fly. They do look slightly... defensive? Cautious? Albert pipes up: "It's like being a bisexual!" Being with RCA is like being a bisexual? "Yeah, you get the best of both worlds."

The rest of the band agrees. "They just give us money and stay out of our way" says Nicky, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Are they unrepentant about signing to a major?

"I had the fucking head of RCA on the phone at 4 o'clock in the morning," states Julian, "telling me how much he loved the album." Yes indeed.

So sign to the Rough Trade phoenix for your soul's sake and the Big Money for lig? Why is this not sickening? Why are the credibility censors not in overdrive? Because this is a BAND pure and simple. Mates who saw the spark reflected in each other. And they ain’t that pretty or well dressed. OK they are, but the point is, they just ARE. The Strokes were always going to happen thank Christ. A wake up call for the apathetic. No slouching unless you mean it. More than the sum of their parts, more than The Velvets/Stooges/Television honorists.

"I had this idea to make it (the album) sound like music heard in the future from 30 years ago," says Julian. Fab explains, they were listening to the radio and La Bamba by The Gypsy Kings came on.

"It was terrible and Julian said we should make it (their music) sound like it was the original, by Richie Valens."

Huh? Julian pipes up, "I wanted to make the music sound like it was from 30 years ago, but being heard now. With everything that entails. Do you understand?" If he means pared down and honest to the point of embarrassing, then yes. "Or the other way", he says, "like music from the future heard now..."

True, 'Is This It', sounds a little like it's something you dug out of your Dad's wardrobe where the band on the cover are all wearing winkle pickers, whatever they are. There's more though, an understanding and knowledge that blasts the naïveté of 60's Garage out into space. It's lyrical. 'The Space ships they won't understand'?

"The lyric is 'IN space ships they wont understand'," corrects Julian talking about the bridge to 'Last Night', "and what it means is that in the future, when we're all flying to work in fucking space ships, it'll still be the same old shit. Like, no one will understand why you have to just do it." Fab leaps up to hug Julian, "That's fucking beautiful man!"

Julian's descriptive powers aside, aren't they worried that they'll loose this edge? Money, girls, and power, have wrecked havoc with better men than them.

"But who cares as long as it sounds like we want," mutters a very distracted Nicky, only putting his head up occasionally from his magazine. "I mean, rawness (derisive snort), maybe we will want it more produced if that's what we like."

And here in lies the rub. In a perfect world RCA would not throw money at these kids. RCA would ignore them no matter how good they actually were, no matter how much they want the cotton wool cosseting of the Big League. The band would have to work, creating themselves every step of the way. Paying their dues and becoming in the end a band utterly worthy of the great white hope tag that has been hanging so carelessly on their coat hanger shoulders. They are SO good, but you want them to be great. And Christ you can smell the greatness waiting to get out in every jangled chord of Hard to Explain, on every slinky line of Barely Legal. These things take time. One album does not a legacy make. There has to be more to come, and there is such a thing as too much too soon.

A friend said, they'll get exactly what they wanted. And the sad thing is so will we, the 20-episode Pop Stars fix. Will hype drown the creative spark? The worry is that in 6 months time no ones gonna give a fig about Fab's broken hand, and Julian's Dad, anymore than they'll care about any second album. The backlash that never should have been may have already begun...

A few days later we bump into The Strokes lending moral support to fellow NYC space cadets, the Moldy Peaches, at their first London gig. The boys are high as heaven having come straight from the BBC where they recorded three songs for the legendary Top of The Pops. "Man," wails Julian, resplendent in pink silk tie and shiny grey suit jacket, "It was so fucking cool! It fuckin' rocked!"

Fab is more sedate. "I can't believe we did it, but I fucked it up!" Surely not? "I was so nervous I kept making mistakes. I sucked." But watching their performance on the show later it is easy to see that this is a band still on the rise, perfectionism aside they control the stage, the cameras and above all the hearts and souls of an audience more accustomed to Shaggy and Nelly Furtado. The fact that they're on TOTPs at all (their single Hard to Explain entered the UK charts in the top 20 on a wave of passion and NME hype) speaks volumes about the music buying public's desire for some goddamn GRUNT.

At their epoch marking, celebrity studded, sold out show at Heaven in London, tickets are changing hands for £150! At the after party the place is in a frenzy. The boys can barely move for the cameras clicking, autographs to be signed and girls hanging off every thread of their thrift store suits.

"I've been trying to get to the other side of the room for the last hour," Julian says incredulous and separated from his mates as they are accosted from all sides.

Nicky is posing in a photograph for a fan. Nicolai is signing a CD. Albert is being followed and literally clawed by a young female. It is as if she senses that this is her only chance before he gets blasted into the rock god pantheon. Fabrizio escapes the seething mass, broken hand in a sling (sadly replaced temporarily half way through their UK and Australian tour with Strokes friend Matt Romano), opting to talk to people outside the guest pass zone.

They have made it, with all it entails. Young, talented, beautiful, cool and full of charisma, it seems that the rock and roll glitterati is at their blessed Rock'n'Roll feet. Hype and fashion aside, the music stands for itself. This is what we've been waiting for.

[inspirationallybored]

New Introductory Post + Get to know me!

Hi everyone!

An updated intro post, because I promised, and stuff has changed.

First of all, I am still not a robot. I am, as a matter of fact, still definitely a human.

You can call me Starfish, or Ash! Starfish is my nickname/drawing name, and Ash is the pseudonym I usually use, including for writing stuff.

Thats my writer-sona!

About me:

I am 16 years old and a cis female (she/her pronouns). Also, I'm an August Virgo!

I am an asexual, and very romantic, but not am in (or looking for) a relationship. (Also closeted irl, but brushing past that).

Currently studying in high school, and preparing for med school.

I am from, and live in India. I am also a spiritual Hindu, and love and respect all religious beliefs (including atheism and agnostic people).

My true love lies in history, mythology, and literature. Like interested to the point of obsession with them.

Probably have some sort of undiagnosed neuro divergence (but that's unimportant. maybe).

I have been writing poetry and short stories since elementary school (under my real name), and reading for as long as I can remember.

Some of my favourites:

Book series: Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Shadow and Bone (and Six of Crows), The Hunger Games

Stand-alone books: The Song of Achilles, The Little Prince, The Book Thief, Ela (it's by Sampurna Chatterjee, really underrated), The Girl who Drank the Moon, The Bell Jar, 1984

Movie: The Fault in our Stars, Into the Spider-Verse (also ASTV)

Shows/series: Brooklyn 99, Modern Family, The Good Doctor, Carmen Sandiego, Alien Stage (Ik it's not technically on tv, but ao3 lists it as such and I need to put it somewhere so)

Anime: The Apothecary Diaries, Bungou Stray Dogs, Death Note, Spy x Family, Banana Fish, Oshi No Ko

****

I am a writer, and have two main WIPs. You can see the master posts by clicking on the titles:

1. Stranger Friends- Two people become friends by sharing their deepest thoughts with each other, but never their identities.

Status- Writing (First Draft)

2. Beyond the Ripple Tides- A new recruit in an elite magical enforcement service is tasked to find out about the stirring rebellion, but with the gap in everyone's minds, nothing's what it seems.

Status- Writing (Zeroth Draft)

I have posted my original stuff (one poem and short story) under #my writing <3 (I know, very original).

My AO3 account (I recently made it, and have yet to update it): Ash_Writes_Stuff

I also like to draw, and am an amateur self- taught artist. Drawing blog is @rustic-brushes

*****

Things you'll find on my blog:

Stuff about writing, procrastinating writing, writing struggles, the likes.

I also post about my wips, dialogue prompts and other stuff. Comments are much appreciated, it's nice to get feedback.

Moots wips too!

A lot of random stuff, about life and other things. I also have a side blog for venting, lmk if you want to know about it (it's depressing, so beware)

tag games, rb games, ask games, and such (I crave interaction lol)

I WILL advocate about political and social issues, it's a part of writing, and it's a part of me.

*****

Things I am perfectly fine with:

Almost everything! Opinion-related, or about interests, or WIPs (mine or others'), or stuff I don't know about, and more. Tumblr is a free space for discussion, right? So anything and everything is a-okay. It doesn't matter if it's from the other side of the world, it's ok.

I am perfectly fine with discussing about stuff that might be sensitive to some, like mental health, politics, war, etc.

Though I am a liberal politically, all opinions and differences are welcome, just be respectful and logical.

I am open to comments, reblogs, asks (including anon asks), and DMs. Just don't be a weirdo.

Some things to be careful about (just in case anyone needs it):

No bigotry or discrimination allowed, including homo/transphobia and racism. Having opinions is ok, having prejudice is not.

No judging on difference of opinions, be respectful (again, unless someone is being a horrible person, then desecration is fine).

No NSFW stuff please, I am a minor (you get what I mean).

Avoid stuff related to financial transactions like asking money (again, I'm a minor, I don't have a bank account, and this is the internet so almost no one shares stuff like that).

Note: I love and appreciate all interactions, but I can be late in responding or not respond sometimes (life you know). I will try my very best to respond every time, but even if I don't, know I loved that you interacted.

****

My official/writing tag-list: @afantasyoffiction @inknrivers @everflowingriver @write-with-will @seastarblue @carb0n-m0n0xide @sunflowerrosy @the-ellia-west @corinneglass @ivorysmokecloud

To be added to/removed from the tag-list, you can interact with this post, or send an ask.

Feel free to ask questions or give feedback. Nice to meet you all!

[soapdispensersalesman]

I love visual novels, but sometimes I don't have the imagination powers for these shots where the game just lets you stare at a wall while the character describes what's going on.

[ckret2]

I know that making things not only canon-compliant but canon-plausible is basically your hobby, and you tend to enjoy taking every little detail no matter how inane and incorporating it into the greater lore of your work. Have you ever had a moment where you were trying to find a logical explanation for something, realized that it was EXTREMELY STUPID, and now you just avoid writing things that will make it come up?

I think most fan writers have one piece of canon where they're like "Yeah, no, that was a bad decision, I'm just replacing [unbelievable event/racist character portrayal/blatant disregard for how mental health works in reality/etc] with [piece of fanon that makes it work better]."

Usually, even when there's an obvious author mistake, you still have a cool canon-compliant thing to do with it. Curious if there's any exceptions.

yeah, there's a few things.

Evidence implies that Ford fell in the portal in 1983. Evidence implies that the show takes place during 2012, but maaaybe 2013? The show says he fell in the portal "thirty years ago." He was probably intended to fall in the portal in 1982 but that doesn't line up with some of the dates (particularly, song release dates). Also, exactly how long did he know Bill between meeting him and getting portaled? And exactly how long was the paranoia era? My solution: the show takes place in 2012, Ford got portaled in *mumble mumble*, it's been """thirty""" years since he fell in the portal, we're NOT gonna worry about it, and maybe the Eurythmics released their albums a year earlier in the Gravity Falls universe did you ever think of that? Huh?? But at any rate I just try to quietly glide over the little timeline issues without addressing them.

Anything Bill says that would validate a real world conspiracy theory is a lie; but, much more likely, I'm just never gonna talk about it so we can ignore it completely, especially if the conspiracy theory is antisemitic or racist. "A cabal of global elites secretly rules the world and has a really cool break room"? Bill's lying; but also, we're NOT gonna talk about that, just chucking it out the window completely. "Bill helped fake the moon landing"? We can crack jokes about that one but only to establish that Bill was lying. "The Egyptians made the pyramids look like Bill"? We're NOT gonna claim the Egyptians made the PYRAMIDS for Bill, at most they might have redecorated them; but we're probably not gonna talk about them redecorating the pyramids anyway; and we're gonna crack jokes about how stupid Ancient Aliens style idiocy is; and maybe we're just gonna minimize talking about Bill's relationship with Egypt entirely.

(A side note: one thing i REALLY appreciated from TBOB is that it clearly established that they did not build the pyramids for Bill, just temporarily redecorated them; they did not worship Bill, they thought he was a pest; and the book went out of its way to have Bill say anyone who claims aliens helped with the pyramids is a con artist. It didn't have to do that! But it really improved things a LOT.)

Anything not mentioned by Bill that alludes to iffy real world conspiracy theories, we're just not gonna talk about. "America is secretly ruled by someone other than the president and nobody knows," not gonna talk about that, I don't care that it's Santa. "Dapperly-dressed reptilian aliens," not gonna talk about that, I don't care that they were here to go dog sledding. "Mt. Rushmore is secretly a bunch of robots built to defend America from a future threat," NEVER gonna talk about that, Mt. Rushmore is a carving made by a racist on stolen land sacred to several Native American peoples, it does not deserve to be made cool.

and speaking of Santa: I don't care for Jewish characters getting shoved into Christmas stories, especially if they're "wow, it turns out the Christians were right about the existence of this folkloric figure associated with one of their most important holy days" Christmas stories, so there's a high chance I'm just never gonna mention the Krampus plot lmao. If I do, it'll only be because I need to acknowledge the relationship building Ford & Fidds got. (Or to acknowledge Ford's rage at being commanded to conform to holiday expectations, which is REALLY funny and he's completely right.)

Those are the things off the top of my head.

[jerktournament]

ROUND ONE - Herbert P. Bear (Club Penguin) VS Snowball (Battle for Dream Island)

!!! PROPAGANDA BELOW !!!

HERBERT: "Herbert may be a fandom darling in our fandom of like, 20 people. BUT DON'T LET THAT FOOL YOU! He is a conniving, EVIL bear, and a professional jerk and some highlights of his jerkishness include... - Spending ten years of his life (by the time the game closed) trying to destroy the Penguin Secret Agency and Elite Penguin Force (both were agencies that protected the island from disasters and villains like Herbert) with varying success... - SUCCESSFULLY destroyed the Penguin Secret Agency with a popcorn bomb, which destroyed their HQ. It should also be noted that while doing so, he locked in the player, Rookie, and Gary the Gadget Guy, presumably so the bombs explosion would have killed them all. -Teamed up with the EPF to stop the Ultimate Protobot 10,000 and the Test Bots, a small group of four dangerous robots after he personally brought them back. When Protobot went "too far" for Herbert's standards by threatening the environment and trying to completely destroy the EPF (despite the aforementioned Popcorn Bomb incident literally destroying the PSA, and also a certain Operation: Blackout), causing him to temporarily switch sides. This might sound like a character growth moment...except for the fact that he immediately betrays them once Protobot is dealt with and attacks and damages the EPF's HQ using a robot hydra made for the Medieval Party that he stole. - A canonical ex-dictator. Don't believe me? Look up Operation: Blackout on the Club Penguin Wiki! He froze several agents during his reign of terror, was open to freezing innocent civilians, and also wanted to do away with puffles- the pets of penguins. He also banned several hobbies and professions during his reign (being a Ninja, a DJ, a Pirate, etc) for no reason other than disliking them. He also destroyed the EPF'S HQ and exposed two agents' private information to the public. This means Herbert is the first and only character to canonically dox people he doesn't like on Club Penguin. -Was planning to bomb the EPF literally two months later with a hot sauce bomb (makes sense in context of the game and yes, it is more destructive than it sounds). -Brainwashed puffles into digging coins for him purely because his henchman, Klutzy the crab brought a coin slot to use for his DIY heater, instead of just removing the coin slot and retooling it to work without one like a normal person."

SNOWBALL: "OMG. SNOWBALL. SB. BABYGIRL. MI PRINCESA. HE IS SUCH A JERK. ok so for starters he is very arrogant and cocky (like a jock) and he thinks of himself as better than other contestants. snowball is also very stubborn and doesn't like people telling him what to do, and he often ditch or hurt his teammates for the sake of the challenge, thinking he was in the right to do so. he often intimidates and threatens the hosts of the show he competes on (x in bfb and two in TPOT) and he is also bery unlikeable both to fans and in universe. he was so unlikeable that in the firsr season of the bfdi franchise in a vote to regoin, he got the least votes out of 21 contestants with 8, less than 1/100 of the total votes. because of his behavior he made a reputation for himself among the other contestants, and was picked last for team making in the 5th season/TPOT. even on his new team in TPOT he is give the cold sholder by his teammates. OK NOW TO THE JERKY STUFF HE DID. so first of all he has killed at least 10 people, and he has hurt multiple contestants out of rage or for the challenge multiple times (some examples being when he broke fanny, a member of his older team from season 4 for telling him what to do, or him setting grassy, another member on his team in the 5th season on fire for the challenge. or the time that he punched grassy off inti the distance twice because "he felt like punching something "in episode 3 of TPOT). snowball also sabotaged his team in a challenge on purpose purely because of his ego (episode 4 of TPOT). he is also pretty rude to pretty much anyone and everyone, including hosts. only begrudgingly listening to them if it benefits himself. that is it (sorry for the really long propaganda he is my comfort and my favorite character from his series, i have been nominated as his no. 1 fan)"

[in1-nutshell]

Hi!

How would TFA team and elite guard react to buddy children?

(Like for example: Buddy adopted some children)

Ooohhh! This is going to be fun! Since you did not specify which characters specifically, I will be picking them at random.

Hope you enjoy!

Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz, and the Jettwins reaction to single parent Human Buddy

SFW, platonic, familial, Human reader

TFA

Buddy was Sari's babysitter.

Well, her human babysitter. Professors Sumdac thought it was important to at least have another person in Sari's life that wasn't him or a robot.

And they were a great babysitter. They had the job roughly 3 years before the Autobots came to Detroit.

That was roughly the time they had recently adopted a set of baby triplets. They had opened their door one night and a classic wicker basket filled with the babies. The note on the basket simply said to take care of them. Buddy's original plan was to take them to Fanzone in the morning.

But Buddy had gotten attached to them.

Buddy explained their new situation to the Professor which was met with understanding and a pay raise with additional medical insurance.

Buddy's friends had noticed their sudden absences and tired look on their face. Everyone was getting worried. So, an intervention was called.

"Why is everyone here?"--Buddy

"It's an intervention kid."--Ratchet

"For who?"--Buddy

"For you! You've been so sleepy and tired recently."--Bumblebee

"Not to mention you missed our game tournament."--Sari

"The gaming--Oooh! I forgot to tell you guys!"--Buddy

"Forgot to tell us what?"--Optimus

"I'll show you guys tomorrow! Make sure to bring the Elie Guard if you guys want!"--Buddy

The next day Buddy came into the base with a baby carrier and two in the stroller.

To say everyone was surprised was an understatement.

Optimus

Vietnam flashbacks to the first episode.

Optimus is surprised to find out that Buddy was taking care of new born children. Even more finding out they are triplets.

Twins are something that rarely happens on Cybertron. Even fewer after the war was over. Triplets were in a sense unheard of.

He is nervous to even touch the little ones. They looked so fragile and tiny! They were even smaller than Sari!

The babies on the other hand were enamored by the firetruck.

By the end of 15 minutes, Optimus had his servos with the triplets who were crawling around and hugging his digits.

He swears to protect these kids with his life.

"Gah!"--Baby 1

"Aw they like you Prime! Isn't that cute, wait are you crying?"--Buddy

Optimus sniffling and trying not to let the tears spill.

"...no-no... I'm fine..."--Optimus

Ratchet

At first Ratchet thinks the smaller humans are the equivalent of human minibots.

Then he finds out they are babies, he stops for a good couple of seconds.

Rebooting: Grampa mode activated.

As said before, it's rare to have twins on Cybertron. He had never seen triplets in all of his technical career.

He suddenly understands why Buddy has been acting the way they had for the past months. They were taking care of the kids.

Ratchet makes sure to brush up on his knowledge of babies to help Buddy out a bit. While Buddy takes a break or a much needed nap, he makes sure the kids are well taken care of.

"Aww. The Doc bot's gone soft!"--Bumblebee

"Hear that kiddo. That's the sound of a bot who's going to get strapped to the medical slab in 5 minutes if he doesn't quit."--Ratchet

"Bah!"--Baby 2

Jazz

Jazz is floored by the amount of cuteness these babies are.

He totally gets why Buddy would be tired from these kids.

It's bad enough trying to keep track of the Jettwins and they are at least old enough to be here. Those babies still have a long way to go before even walking!

Jazz handles the babies with the utmost care. Makes sure that the babies are having fun while being safe.

The babies themselves are enamored by Jazz's voice. He is the to go bot for nap time. The babies fall asleep in record time.

"So these little guys are all related?"--Jazz

"Yeah they are."--Buddy

"I wish you luck then. If the Jettwins were hard enough now..."--Jazz

"...I know Jazz, I know..."--Buddy

Jetfire and Jetstorm

The twins are freaking out!

In a good way!

They've never seen another set of twins back on Cybertron, much less human twins.

Now they know that they know that there can be triplets!...

Jazz has to calm them down before they can hold the babies. And they have to promise Buddy that they will not use their powers around the babies.

The twins once they have the babies are uncharacteristically quiet and still. They take in the tiniest details of the babies and how each one differs from the other.

They promise each other to look after them, even when they get older. Siblings have to stay together. The triplets are now the twins siblings now. Buddy has two more robo kids to take care of.

"Buddy! It's my turn to get 1 but Jetfire isn't letting them go!"--Jetstorm

"Jetfire, listen to your brother and pass your siblings to him, gently."--Buddy

"Please! Just a little longer!"--Jetfire

"You either pass your siblings or they come with me and you have to go back to Sentinel."--Buddy

"Here brother!"--Jetfire

Somewhere on the Steelhaven.

"...Someone just insulted me..."--Sentinel

[sunnydalelibrarian]

Buffy Rewatch: Episodes 5-8

Episode 5: "Never Kill a Boy on The First Date"

Giles' little "you are not funny" look when Buffy says "Oh great I kill them, you fence their stuff!"

The Master's such a dick, but why is he actually hilarious? Orlock meets the Joker fr

Ah this is the first bit we properly see that he's in a sunken church! That's so cool, I forgot all about that

I also forgot how funny Giles is, if I wrote down all of his hilarious one-liners we'd be here all week

Emily Dickinson is actually so Buffy-coded in general

I love how for a second Buffy genuinely thinks Giles is about to be sexist about poetry but no, he's just bitching about Americans again!

Xander Angel and Owen in the one room, this girl cannot catch a break

Giles in the cold storage 😂

Aw, that was a very dad speech

Ah, the Anointed One and the age old creepy kid trope. Gotta love it!

Episode 6: "The Pack"

Hyena Xander was a total dick

The piggy 🥺 Oh god the little piggy

Oh high school dodgeball, I remember those days, they were the absolute worst

Love how Buffy was so ready to throw hands for Willow even against her other best friend

Look I know he's possessed but if Buffy doesn't hit Xander soon I'm gonna

The soundtrack of this episode is on point though

The fact that Giles is fully ready to believe that Xander's being an asshole because teenage boys just are

Oh this scene (you know the one) was unnecessary. It is definitely giving "written by a man in the 90s"

Principal Flutie really set the stakes, huh?

Malleus Maleficarum mention!

The jolt of sheer horror that went through me when we saw that woman had a baby on her back

Willow's little smirk when Xander gives himself away, that's my girl!

The first thing Xander does upon being unpossessed is run to help Willow though <3

I love how this episode really cements that Buffy and Willow are Giles' kids, Xander is that weird pet his kids brought home and he didn't want but is begrudgingly fond of

Episode 7: "Angel"

Ah yes, the episode where Angel gets a personality beyond "hot and broody"

Poor Giles, does this man ever sleep?

I'm remembering why I actually liked Buffy and Angel together at the start

"No, no, no. No speaking up. That way leads to madness and sweaty palms." Willow is so me fr

I fully forgot this entire plot line even happened

I fucking lost it when Darla pulled out the pistols oh my god

Oh shit I forgot he fucking killed her here

Oh the cross! I remember this shot vividly

Episode 8: "I, Robot, You, Jane"

Listen, I know people talk a lot of shit about this episode but it's one of my favourites

Not the CGI demon dissolving, I can't!!

"I'll be back in the Middle Ages" "Did you ever leave?" Oh I love Jenny so much, she's such an icon

Also, this episode introduced such a cool concept in terms of how medieval methods of magic intersect and/or clash with emerging technology and that's fascinating

Willow has a picture of her and Giles in her locker, that's too cute, I can't believe I never noticed that! That's her dad fr

Not Jenny rocking up to class visibly hungover 😂 have I mentioned I love her?

I love how Willow and Buffy are both dressed like teenage girls, not like they're trying to be in their late twenties already

Not Buffy's birthday being different across two shots and wrong both times 😂

The demon changing that kid's report to say "Nazi Germany was a model of a well-ordered society" - if Moloch the Corrupter thinks it's good, that speaks for itself! Take notes 2025 America!

"Those boys aren't sparklingly normal as it is!"

"Your spider sense?" "Pop-culture reference. Sorry."

Let's be honest, Jenny Calendar had my heart from the minute she pointed out the racism and misogyny underpinning the intellectual elitism of academic institutions

Wait is Jenny the first person to say Giles' first name aloud? Because I'm binge-watching and I don't think we've heard it before

The way he pulls out her chair for her. A gentleman even in the face of trying to stop a demon.

"Remember me? Your girlfriend? I think it's time we break up! But maybe we can still be friends!" Oh Willow I love you so much

"Let's face it: none of us is ever going to have a happy, normal relationship"... yeah

[pango-doots]

Y'know looking back on my time in the NSR fandom it's weird how victimized people tend to make the NSR elites, which I really don't think is warranted beyond Sayu's team and Yinu who are MINORS that were employed into a fascist government system under the guise of success. Yes, NSR was a fascist government, or at the very least an authoritarian hand over a dystopian society.

Even if its general tone is light-hearted and silly, the game tackles themes of propaganda, scapegoating, wealth inequality and planned obsolescence, environmental destruction, media control, saving face for tourists, authoritative voting and more, yet most of them aren't the player's main gameplay focus; a lot of lore and context clues are in the background like the town's layout, interacting with certain objects and talking to NPCs. But those themes are a core message of the game and by only treating the members of NSR as regular old musicians you take out all the nuance.

(Plenty more under the cut. TL;DR: No Straight Roads is a relevantly socio-political game and I wish fans would utilize that side of the characters more)

Both halves of the revolution had their faults, and I do like that there is no 100% right or wrong side; no straight road, if you will. BUT ALSO. BBJ realized the entire city was suffering in some way under NSR's leadership and had nothing to lose by challenging the status quo (they literally live in a fucking sewer, I'd be full of rage too). They didn't benefit from initial fame, wealth, or military protection like NSR did; not to mention they were also egged on and decieved by one of their closest allies. When voices don't work ala DK West's attempt, then you turn to action. Action can include smacking the shit out of government officials, as a treat (I enjoyed every second trying to get an S rank in Supernova's level <3)

On that note, the woobification is ESPECIALLY bad with DJSS, Neon J and 1010. I love the silly object heads and sexy robots as much as anyone else but they are specifically meant to be critiques of self-absorbed billionaires (sorry to tell DJSS fans this but he's supposed to be Elon-Musk-adjacent) and the k-pop industry with its military involvement, plus the use of militial force to keep rowdy citizens in line. I'm begging people to PLEASE handle them with more care.

Thankfully, it's clear that NSR reduces its chokehold by the end of the game and all the artists put in a lot of work to improve thanks to BBJ's push. Whether the game's writers made that decision to appeal to their own government's approval or was a genuine end to the story, I like that Tatiana has a moment of reflection and does a complete 180 to make the city better in the end (beyond the threat of the city being destroyed ofc). Even if it's unrealistic, it's a hopeful message and shows that anyone can be corrupted by the right circumstances.

Just PLEASE don't forget the characters' actions and choices along the way for the sake of ship fics and cute art. There's a lot of complexity and angst you can add to the characters with that authoritarian history!