#Slipping is writing

[slipping-lately]

While I usually make more elaborate headcanon posts I need to ramble about Screwllum my beloved before my brain tries into mush. I'll most likely change things with this later or even delete but enjoy my rambling

Edit: There is now is in fact an updated post! My Tumblr might just be glitching or whatever but on my end it isn't showing so I'll add the link here for anyone who wants to read me just rambling for 1k words. It's only on my other account due to not wanting to lose it in this accounts reblogging madness

Screwllum given the fact his AI is the most advanced to everyone's knowledge (please tell me if my wrong, my knowledge about this aspect isn't the best given how little we in about NOUS and whatnot) had an soft of black box holds an copy of his own AI that isn't actively functional. Besides his base code and AI it also holds memories and similar things he can't and won't let himself forget. If his physical body was ever to be destroyed, became corrupted past anyone's ability to fix it, there is an backup of himself that isn't corrupted in multiple states.

For say if the corruption in his code started back centuries or even Amber era's there is something available so he can in an sense save himself. He is able to if need copy over uncorrupted or overly damaged functions and replace them before makeing needed adjustments to keep what happened from happening again.

Getting into said black box (perhaps box's given how much data he would be saving and to keep are's or specific timeframe's from risk of corruption?) is next to impossible for normal hackers. The black boxes most likely made with the assistance of NOUS themself due to the complexity of it and other important factors.

The idea overall originating from the idea of someone hacking or somehow corrupting Screwllum's major functions. You can't tell me Aha even if just an simulation in the simulated universe wouldn't try and fuck with Screwllum if he was actively connected at the same time. It's elating to see the show after the fact depending on what happens to his behavior or if it just suddenly shuts him down or makes him malfunction.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Stanley wasn't sure if he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't all too sure if he was supposed to be alive, either.

He was... somewhere. He didn't know where exactly, but it didn't matter. Nothing really seemed to matter all that much in this strange place. Compared to the unfathomable expanse of nothingness that surrounded him, everything else practically paled in comparison. Still, Stanley felt as though this all-consuming abyss that kept him prisoner within its dark maw deserved a name; at the very least, a title. Yet, it didn't feel right to call this place anything. Death too egregious, and Life too extroadinary; either terms felt far too extreme to his liking. There was nothing particularly hideous nor amazing about where he was. He was simply somewhere in-between.

For as long as he could remember, Stanley's world was just that. This somewhere; this in-between of not quite Death and not quite Life. This empty, greedy abyss that seemed to swallow him whole, stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was no sky, no ground, no anything; only the daunting dakness engulfing his every senses and leaving him horribly, hopelessly blank.

That wasn't all there was to it, however. This... somewhere, it was more than just a lifeless void.

Stanley wasn't sure if he could find the right words to properly describe it. He didn't think he could ever come to fully understand the feeling himself, but. Somehow, the abyss felt... hungry. Unimaginably, insatiably, and unbearably hungry.

The hunger seemed to eat away at Stanley, tearing off pieces of him chunk by chunk, piece by piece. With every blink, another part of himself seemed to disappear into the ravenous darkness around him. The void never took much at once, only pieces; nigh imperceptible impossibly tiny crumbs of what made him- so little that they should have hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. But Stanley noticed. He noticed every particle, every atom that was taken away from him by this greedy hunger. The darkness was eating him; digesting him.

It was as though hunger was all that mattered in this somewhere, this stomach; the world itself a single immense digestive system. He could practically feel the void's biting hunger pangs reverberate through his bones. It was so hungry, so hungry.

The dark ate him slowly, ripping him apart from inside out and outside in. It took his flesh first; stealing away the muscles and fat beneath the skin, leaving behind nothing but meager skin stretched over bone. Sometimes, not even his bones were given the luxury of being spared, and he would find himself with an odd dip in his side where the abyss had taken a rib or two; or with half his face lopsidedly sagging into a limp mess with no muscles, fat, nor eye socket to properly hold up the skin of his face onto his skull.

The hunger took without mercy, without order nor preference. It ate anything, everything, as long it helped abate the forever stabbing, starving desperation that painfully twisted and tore at its non-existent stomach. It never really was satisfied.

It got worse when it started eating his memories.

Stanley despised the thought of losing more of himself than simply his physical body to this greedy void. However, what terrified him far more than the notion that this insatiable hunger could breach even his mind, was the fact that he couldn't remember which memories it took.

Stanley couldn't remember much; before the darkness; before the endless hunger. He liked to imagine, though, of what he could have been before. He'd probably had a warm home, warmer than the cold, cold abyss. He'd probably had a loving family. Probably. He couldn't remember.

Everything turned unsure when his own mind started failing on him. Stanley tried to cling to what little he knew. He had his name held tight in his iron clad grip, repeating it to himself like a mantra. He would try and keep track of time, but it was all in vain. Time didn't seem to matter in the face of hunger. Perhaps it had been years since Stanley's arrival; hundred, maybe even thousands. Or, perhaps it had only been a few days, weeks, months. Stan once had a fleeting, terrifying thought that maybe Time too was already victim to the darkness' insatiable hunger.

However, as much as Stan could forget his past, his identity, and life, perhaps the most tragic loss to him greater than anything else was the memory of Him.

He was important to Stanley. He couldn't remember why, but he was. There was nothing of Him left in his memories. No face, no name; not even why He mattered to him in the first place. All he knew was that the loss of Him had struck him with such profound heartache and sorrow that it had left him weeping helplessly for so long, unable to move and rooted in one spot for days, weeks, years. He couldn't remember how long.

Stan was only snapped out of his comatose stupor by His hand.

It was all that was left of Him, other than the knowledge of His past existence. It was warm, a glowing red hand that pulsed almost reassuringly within Stanley's own, its long six digits curled tightly and firmly around his hand, never once faltering in its grip. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't have it. He's had it clutched within his own cold, rough palms like a lifeline since forever; every step he took and every move he made done hand in hand with Him.

Desperately, frantically, he held onto His hand, never once letting it go. Losing the hand meant losing Him for good, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with the consequences of that all alone.

However, ocasionally, even the the comforting presence of His hand was unable to keep his mind anchroed for too long, and Stanley would lose track of his memories. Plagued by odd laspes of utter emptiness, Stanley would suddenly forget. His own name, his face, everything he knew and remembered would slip withut warning between his fingers like sand; streaming down, down, down and getting lost in the gaping mouth of the void below him. He would wander aimlessly with no real destination in mind, simply roaming somwhere, anywhere.

He would come across all sorts of sights during these odd episodes of his. He'd crossed paths with hundreds upon thousands of partically decomposed remnants of once living, breathing organisms; All of them endeniably, for the lack of better words: dead. He'd walked past entire forests; enormous clusters of tall pine trees completely uprooted and floating in a massive mass of rotting leaves and half digested bark. He'd walked past countless animals, big and small, all in various stages of digestion. Animals always seemed to rot away faster than anything else, and Stanley wasn't so sure what that meant for him.

Once, Stan had somehow even found his way before the destroyed remains of a universe.

It was dead. There was no other way to describe the state it was in. He hadn't even known it was possible for entire universes to simply... die. Stolen away from its rightful place in the starry night sky.

The scene was everything he'd thought impossible to take place in this all-consuming abyss. It was extroadinary. A veritable bursting cacophany of light and heat. It was as though the universe's explosion had been paused at just the right moment, frozen in time at the very moment of its heat death. Its particles flickered, undulating softly and shifting ever so slightly like looking through a warped window. If Stanley stood still enough, and listened closely, he thought he could even hear the softest sound of the shattered screams of the broken remains of the universe ringing silently in the air. It was as ethereal as it was haunting.

The thought of the unimaginable power required to be able annihilate entire universes just like that... It scared Stan.

Stanley may not be sure of anything anymore, but as he watched the debris swirl gently in the blinding epicenter of the shattered universe from afar, he knew with a certainty that he didn't think he possessed anymore, that he did not belong here.

Part 1/2

[keferon]

Chapter 3 of Jazzprowl mecha! >:D

Previous chapter

Under the cut⤵️

Jazz thinks Prowl is fucking weird.

With space around him and aliens and fucking teleportation and all that crazy shit...Prowl's weirdness isn't too obvious at first. But once Jazz stops marveling at the view outside the window, his attention shifts completely to his new companion.

And. Well.

"'Your plates are so squarish.'"

Prowl takes a break from reading something on his tablet and raises his eyebrows in surprise

"They are."

Jazz moves closer curiously

"No offense okay but isn't it... Hmm. Stupid?"

He raises one hand and lightly slaps the edge of his palm against the center of Prowl's chest.

"What's the point of making armor this shape? And with so many wide gaps? All the strikes will go straight through. It's kinda dangerous. "

Prowl purses his lips in confusion.

"Excuse me? As if your armor makes more sense."

"It does."

"You...wha...you know what. Humor me, explain what you mean."

Jazz shrugs.

"It's round. And the gaps are...uh. What's the right word. They're thin? It's very hard to grab with your teeth or get under with your tentacles. See? You are. Dude, no offense, but you're like, really grabbable."

Prowl just silently opens and closes his mouth for a couple seconds, trying to think of what to say in response. Finally he decides to focus, but not on the part Jazz might have been expecting

" You... were built to fight the Quintessons?"

Jazz nods

"Course I was. Why else?"

Prowl looks....Very worried and somehow sorry for Jazz.

That's weird.

Jazz lets this detail just linger in his mind. He's not sure what conclusion to draw from it yet. And it's very likely that his poor knowledge of the unfamiliar language is setting him up. He's not sure.

------

Prowl has wheels. Jazz gives himself a mental smack for not paying attention to them in the first three seconds, but it doesn't matter now.

Because Prowl has freaking wheels in his shoulders and Jazz has a bunch of questions in his head.

Why the fuck does he have wheels??? In a place like this??

Prowl looks up at him.

"Something wrong?"

Jazz reaches out his hand mesmerized and spins one of the wheels.

The wheel spins.

What an amazing world.

Prowl looks confused again

"Jazz?"

"What are they for?"

Prowl faintly twitches one of his weird little wings.

"To drive."

Jazz spins the wheel again

"But you can't drive them! I mean, they're...uh."

He tries to find the right words in his head to say "inside your shoulders" but. Shit. He doesn't know how to say it so he accepts his linguistic defeat and helplessly twitches his horns.

"...They're on top."

Prowl tilts his head, clearly missing the point, and turns one of his legs around

"I've got another ones here...?"

Jazz instantly squats down and. Yep. There are wheels in the legs too.

Prowl moves his foot away before Jazz can spin that wheel too.

"I can just show you if you want."

That's a great idea. A fantastic one. Jazz is hellbent on seeing how it would actually work, because all his brain offers him is "fall on your back and awkwardly drag yourself along the ground?"

Prowl doesn't fall anywhere.

Instead, he suddenly ALL starts moving and freaking folds into himself? Jazz isn't sure what exactly he was expecting to see, but watching another mech fall apart like lego sure as hell wasn't that????

Not falling apart, he realizes a moment later.

Is it reassembling? Into something else???

A second ago, Prowl was standing next to him, and now there is a

Is that a fucking car???

Jazz can't say anything more clever than a loud "HAH???"

It is indeed a car. The design is very odd and Jazz can't recognize the model, but it looks like something vaguely race-y?

He pats the roof of it.

"That's so cool!!!"

The car somehow manages to look awkward and moves away from him sideways like some weird metal crab.

What the- what the hell-

------————————-

Prowl's mech has an amazing face.

Not that Jazz is staring, but he can appreciate the amazing attention to details. The eyes, the nose, even the lips. Who and why would make a mech with such lifelike face? That ..would make sense if Prowl had to appear in front of a camera, wouldn't it? Maybe he's some kind of celebrity like Blurr?

Jazz doubts it. Prowl doesn't strike him as someone who's used to attention.

But it's a good face, yeah.

Prowl valiantly ignores his staring, but after ten minutes gives up

“What?”

Jazz shrugs. He's been doing that a lot lately.

"You have a really cool face."

Prowl chokes on air and looks confused again. If you look closer. What is this face even made of? It looks metallic but it bends??? Literally...how?? How does it work?

Jazz is taller than Prowl, so he has to bend down to get a closer look. He wants to ask if the mech's face was modeled after the pilot's, but. Shit. How do you put it into simple words ?

Man. Okay. Uh. Appearance. How do you say "real?" True-positive? Wait, no, true and false are from English, this new language must contain one state word for true and false at the same time.

Prowl watches Jazz's struggle with the patience of a true buddhist monk.

What word even summarizes the state of being true or false? Hot and cold is "temperature", heavy and light is "weight" and then..

Jazz fumbles his fingers helplessly.

"What's the word for. You know how."

He claps his hands hard, and then again, barely audible.

Loud and quiet.

"Sound-positive, sound-negative, right?"

Prowl nods.

"But if I speak. I-mouth-positive."

He claps once more, quietly, barely audible

"I-mouth-positive. Sound-positive. Word-question?

If I do “quiet” but say “loud”. If I do one thing and say another, that's called-?

Prowl twitches his little wings.

"Ah. That would be veracity-negative."

Jazz makes happy finger guns.

"Yes! This..."

He points to Prowl's face

"Appearance-veracity-positive?"

He could probably phrase it more...accurately. Jazz chews his lips in concentration and tries to elaborate

"Appearance-veracity-positive-you?"

Prowl tilts his head

" Uh. Yeah? That's what I look like. I didn't change anything. It's..."

He pauses uncertainly

"Why are you asking me that?"

Jazz gives a thumbs up

"How do you say 'impressive'? Something like "eyes-positive-emotions-positive." Or it would be "good." Good sounds kind of cheap.

Jazz decides to add a couple more positive modifiers on top just in case. He's always been generous with compliments.

Prowl's wings bounce up funny.

One of the passing lilac aliens whistles.

_______________________________

Prowl thinks Jazz is fragging weird.

Okay, to be fair. Prowl has never had to be anyone's guide to interplanetary interactions.

He'd heard that races making contact with the rest of the galaxy for the first time tended to be weird. It's alright. He can understand that. Which of course doesn't mean it's any easier for him to be at the center of it all...everything.

Jazz is clingy. Friendly. He's definitely never been off his planet before, so everything around him surprises him.

Prowl's obviously “surprising” too, but there's this weird familiarity in Jazz's attitude towards him.

Prowl thinks it's because they're both mechanical life forms. It's the only guess he has that makes sense. But Prowl realizes pretty quickly that Jazz only looks like a Cybertronian at first glance. It's the details. Small and disturbing details.

Jazz was built to fight the Quintessons. His entire body, his entire design was made for it.

Now that Prowl knows that, he's starting to see it. Now that he knows where to look, he can't stop noticing.

All the plates are either round or streamlined and sharp.

He has no face, but his head is shaped in such a way that it would be very hard to grab onto. Or to hit it.

Prowl's processor involuntarily tosses him numbers.

Every bend and edge. Every detail. The visor isn't just curved, it's arched at the most perfectly calculated angle to take hits. His chest plates have the perfect ratio of thickness and curvature so that any direct hit ricochets or slips without going through the plate directly.

And Prowl is scared to even begin to analyze the structure of those legs. He originally saw their design as something similar to Empurata's. But no. The Empurata had always made it their goal to humiliate and diminish their victims. The limbs that the Empurata created were simple and often horribly, impractically awkward.

Jazz's legs are an engineering marvel and Prowl honestly almost wants to take a closer look. They bend at...how many? Five? Six places?

He leans forward quietly, pretending to want to change his posture, trying to get a better angle. There's at least one more joint under the front plates. Seven then?

Huh.

Jazz snorts

"Like what you see?"

Prowl flinches and quickly looks away. Idiot. Just because Jazz’s head is pointed in the other direction doesn't necessarily mean that's where his gaze was pointed as well.

"I apologize."

Jazz chuckles

"Hey, don't be sorry. You're giving me a reason to show off~"

Prowl gives up. Okay. Maybe it's just that Jazz's weird openness is contagious.

"Your legs are pretty..."

"Cool," Jazz offers

Prowl nods diplomatically.

"Unusual. I think cool too."

Would it be too weird to ask exactly how many joints are in them? Perhaps yes, that's personal medical information after all.

Jazz takes a few joyful little leaps

"They let me walk on walls."

"I have to admit that's impressive."

______________

"Can I join you?"

The little furry alien folds their arms across their chest and says something that...sounds disgruntled. Jazz honestly can't understand a word of it. He just saw the aliens playing something remotely resembling cards and he got curious. He doesn't remember having a fight with any of them yet.

The alien stares at him expectantly for a couple seconds and then waves one of their limbs and switches to a language familiar to Jazz

"No. Go back where you came from."

Uhm. Rude.

One of the lilac creatures smiles guiltily

"We don't play with robots."

Jazz stiffens

"But I don't..."

His attempt to explain is interrupted by the furry alien

"I don't care what you say. Whatever's underneath the metal, whatever scientific nonsense you come up with. This..."

He gestures toward the entire Jazz’s mech.

"...it's a machine. We don't play with machines. It's an unspoken rule. So go back to your corner and stay out of our way."

The lilac alien folds his limbs in embarrassment

"Hey, there's no need to be so rude."

"I'm just stating facts!"

"You could have done it politely..."

Prowl raises his eyebrows and moves away, making more room for Jazz on the bench.

"Kicked you out?"

Jazz sits down next to him and confusedly begins to play with his own fingers

"They wouldn't even let me explain."

Prowl taps him on the shoulder.

"It's hard to explain anything to them. They think you're a soulless machine just because you look like one."

Jazz snorts

"Well, that's just stupid."

Prowl shrugs

"They think you don't have a soul, so you shouldn't participate in their social interactions."

Jazz twitches his horns angrily

"That's..fucking idiotic."

"Well yeah" Prowl picks up "how can they judge whether we're sapient or not?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Where's the evidence that they themselves have more 'soul' than mold?"

"Ye..Wait what?"

(..What the hell??)

Prowl frowns.

"I should probably be more...sorry. You're new to this topic and...I'll try to explain in an unbiased manner."

Jazz nods awkwardly

Prowl pinches the bridge of his nose

"In general. We don't really meet their standards of ''alive and sapient being'' and they don't meet ours. Because of that, we...don't get along."

Jazz senses that something doesn't add up. Something dramatically big and obvious. But Prowl already looks annoyed, and Jazz is uncomfortable stressing him out with another game of charades. Probably should hold off on discussing such complicated topics until he's talking better.

____________

Prowl finds himself mentally reevaluating Jazz.

He no longer thinks Jazz is just weird.

Jazz is terrifying.

When their transport is attacked by a bunch of Quintessons, Prowl's processor tells him they're totally screwed.

The monsters have the numerical advantage, the ship is full of tiny, fragile organics, and Prowl only has one random tourist on his side who's in space for the first time.

When Jazz excitedly jumps up and asks to be let "outside to have some fun" Prowl's processor says it's suicide. If you squint and tilt your head, the stats numbers add up into a neat little ship that goes down swiftly and surely.

Then he has no time for statistics. Because one of the organics opens the airlock for Jazz and before Prowl can say anything his space tourist is already out the window.

Frag.

Frag, frag frag frag frag frag frg

"Jazz wait!"

Prowl climbs out onto the roof of the transport just in time to see Jazz tear a limb off one of the Quintesson monsters.

The sight is...creepy.

Jazz obviously doesn't have enough strength to just yank it off, so he sort of grabs the tentacle with his hand and then very quickly rotates his forearm a bunch of times literally twisting it off. The monster screams and wriggles and tries to rip Jazz's arm off, but he just lets it clench its teeth on his plates.

Prowl is in pain from just looking at this.

The monster clenches its jaws.

Its teeth cut furrows in the armor.

Jazz doesn't even twitch.

Things only get more interesting from here on out.

Earlier, all Prowl had was Jazz's word. Jazz said his job was to fight the Quintessons. Prowl automatically assumed that to have a job like that, Jazz had to be at least somewhat good at it.

This? It's not "good". It's a killing machine.

And Prowl is, just a little bit, fascinated.

Jazz tears through monsters with more than skill. No.

Prowl's processor is speeding up, analyzing the data.

These moves aren't just devastatingly efficient. They're habitual.

Jazz rips off limbs and locks jaws. Jazz knows exactly where to strike and for how long that strike will knock the creature down.

At one point, he just takes a moment to jump on top of one of the monsters and Prowl can have the pleasure of watching the sheer panic and confusion on the face of the usually inexpressively furious creature.

Quintesson twists and twitches and struggles to throw Jazz off, but he doesn't seem at all bothered by the constantly moving and shifting surface. He's clinging on tight as a damn insecticon. In a way that Prowl himself, with his angular legs, probably never could.

He also doesn't seem to react to pain whatsoever.

Either so used to it or unable to feel it at all? Prowl's not sure.

Jazz takes dozens of hits. He's been dropped, scratched and bitten. His plates are full of fresh grooves intersecting older ones, but they go completely unrecognized.

It's creepy. It's unnatural.

Three monsters at once try to squeeze Jazz into a circle, and Prowl curses himself for not thinking to ask for Jazz's comm. There's no sound in space, making screaming impossible, so Prowl just pulls out his rifle and shoots one of the Quintessons.

The creature twitches in agony and loses all interest in the battle struggling to shake off the sudden source of pain.

Jazz smacks one of the remaining monsters in the face and quickly bounces back to a more comfortable distance from the huge teeth and looks toward Prowl. Spotting a rifle and happily making finger guns again.

Prowl looks at the fresh teeth marks on Jazz's hands and thinks...wow...that's some wild dangerous alien slag.

Then he looks at the angular visor and the little moving horns and bouncy movements and corrects himself. Not slag. And not that weird. Probably.

The weirdest thing he's seen was organic life and he highly doubts that anyone or anything can overtake it.

[tojisun]

the first time that biker!simon suggested that he drives you around on his bike, you were terrified to the point of declining his offer.

“i can’t,” you mumbled, fiddling with the sleeves of your sweater, your lips downturned in genuine disappointment. “‘m sorry.”

you couldn’t meet his eyes, nervous that perhaps you’ve made him upset, but simon just took your hands on his – your small palms fitting snuggly against his gloved ones – and squeezed gently.

“you don’t have to apologize for anything, sweetheart,” simon replied, pulling you close until you were forced to tilt your head up to finally meet his gaze. you rove your eyes over his features, taking in the dimple of his cheeks as he gave you a smile, all boyish and breathtaking.

“don’t worry about it, yeah?” he asked before wrapping you in an embrace after seeing your hesitant nod.

he’s right, you know that. you shouldn’t have worried about it at all, but simon had always loved his bike. had always loved the thrill of the ride; the way the wind whipped against his skin or how the sounds of the road are intensified even with his helmet. you knew it was an irreplaceable experience so of course you truly couldn’t let go of his request.

it sat there on your mind every time he picked you up in his car, his harley tucked in the garage for the day. it curled around the crevices of your heart whenever simon kissed your temple before going out for a night ride with the boys.

“take care, okay?” you would say.

“always,” he would reply, kissing you on the lips again as though sealing his promise before pulling his helmet on and hopping onto his bike. he’d kiss the edges of his gloved knuckles where your initials lay then drive off.

it sat there in the pit of your stomach until one friday afternoon, you tugged onto his sleeve and whispered, “can i hitch a ride?”

the smile on simon’s lips was blinding and you couldn’t help the swoop of giddiness that filled you up when he snatched you from you stood, lifting you up before twirling you around the room.

“you sure you want this?” he asks now, blinking down at you as you fiddle with the zippers of your leather jacket. you look at simon, watching as he twirls your helmet in his hands, and even through his balaclava you can see how his face is pinched in doubt.

(you still can’t believe how simon had stowed away your very own helmet, murmuring how he got it as a valentines gift but decided to hide it when he saw just how hesitant you were when he made the offer.

“i was scared that if you saw i got you y’r own helmet, you would’ve felt pressured to agree to ride with me,” simon whispered, rubbing a thumb at the visor before shooting you a small smile. “stop pouting, love. i know you well, after all.”)

“never surer,” you say with a giggle before showing yourself off to him.

simon hums appreciatively, beautiful eyes narrowing in muted desire. “should see you in leather more, sweet girl. look how beautiful you are.”

you playfully swat at his arm in your embarrassment before standing still when simon lifts the helmet in his hands with a quiet beckoning. you let him fit it on you, your hair gathered in one of his hands and the other gently sliding the helmet on your head. all throughout, you watch the way his eyes crinkle in delight, his touch so reverent, and it makes you choke on the intensity of your love for this beautiful man.

he taps at the top of your visor when he is done, then he is stepping away to prep himself for the ride.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” he says when he is done. “y’got nothin’ to worry about, not w’me here.”

his words burn you, filling you up with encompassing warmth that tickles your cheeks and dips into your neck. you giggle as you shake off the last of your nerves before stepping close, hovering beside his harley, waiting for his instructions.

it wasn’t long or complicated by any chance, but you can see simon’s cautiousness shining through and that eases up your own worries.

there are things for you to remember, he says, things that would ensure your safety and his. and you take him seriously, nodding when he points at his bike and tells you where to prop your feet up, where to sit, where to hold. then, he holds your hands and says that you call all the shots; that if you want to stop, to squeeze his shoulder three times and he’s pulling over.

“this is all about you havin’ fun so don’t push y’rself, alright baby?” simon murmurs, ending his tirade.

then, he takes you for that promised ride.

you two planned to go to the park, just somewhere that’s far enough from your place but still within the expansive stretch of the city road’s smooth asphalt. he asked if you would’ve preferred the beach, but that was a two hour ride and you truly couldn’t handle anything that long. when you told him so, he laughed and kissed the top of your head and said, “then i’ve got the perfect place for you.”

the purr of the machine between your legs is unusual, if not a little bit weird. your grip on simon’s waist must be painful but you don’t have it in you to loosen up, especially not when the speed kicks up to match the traffic. you bite down a squeal when he makes a turn towards the highway, your stomach flipping when you physically feel the bike leaning to your side, almost like it’d fall anytime soon.

of course it doesn’t because simon’s a damn good driver but the adrenaline is coursing through you in waves, surprisingly dousing the fires of your anxiety and replacing it instead with a pooling elation because this feels so fucking good.

you don’t even realize that your hands have loosened their hold onto simon, gripping just enough not to fall. you lift your head from where it’s pressed on his back, tilting just enough to see past his bulk and to take in the dizzying colours of the trickling dawn. the wind is cool even with your jacket, and even though your helmet and visor is obscuring your nose, you take a deep inhale.

fuck. you might just get addicted to this.

the next time that simon swerves to exit the highway, you no longer bite down your squeal, letting it instead rumble from your throat and into the air. simon’s shoulders shake and you realize that he’s laughing, high from your reaction. you couldn’t help it but giggles flutter from your lips, full of the thrill of this experience.

the park comes to view soon and you pout, wanting to keep the drive going. but simon pulls over, parks, and only when the engine stops do you feel the numbness spreading through your legs.

“you doin’ okay over there, sweetheart?” simon asks, remaining seated, unable to stand with you still holding onto him.

“mhmm!” you reply. “i can’t stand up though.”

he barks out a laugh. “oh yeah. that might take a while.” he reaches behind him to rub at the sides of your thighs, massaging whatever he can reach.

you hum, rubbing your hand on his abdomen. “s’fine. ‘m not rushing.” you nuzzle your helmet on his back, falling into silence as you feel yourself unravel from the short experience. you breathe in deeply, the air fogging your visor, and say, “i loved that, si. thank you so much.”

simon’s hold on your thighs gain strength, squeezing gently. “of course, sweetheart.” you hear the happiness in his voice, breathless from his own rush of dopamine. “thank you for trusting me.”

“always, baby,” you reply, squeezing him again, muffling your giggles when you heard his surprised wheeze at the action. “i’ll always trust you.”

(ext.01) (ext.03) // mlist!

[alice-everafter]

"Is the room to your liking?"

Riddle's tentative voice rings through the peaceful silence. He's stood like a stranger, unsure and hesitant in his crimson pajamas. Which is ironic given the fact that it’s his own room that the two of you are in. Really, that should be you standing around awkwardly. But instead here you were, sat on his king sized bed in similar pajamas without shame.

"Riddle," you don't have to fake the giddy grin as it stretches across your face painfully wide. "Any room is to my liking considering the shack I currently call home."

He gives you a concerned little smile in response. You couldn’t help it, you were excited to finally be able to sleep on a mattress that wasn’t lumpy. Or creaky. And or slightly moldy. The point being you’re excited to get some good sleep.

Riddle flicks off the lights and starts to settle into bed. You follow his lead, because if there is one thing Riddle Rosehearts can do is be a commanding presence even in satin pjs.

He turns on his side, staring at you from across a reasonable gap given the fact that you were currently sharing a bed. A really big one at that but a bed regardless.

And then continues to stare as a questionable silence occurs.

“Do you always go to bed this early?” You blurt out before you can think any better of it. The awkwardness was just asking to be broken.

“This is early?” Riddle’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I’ve always gone to bed at this hour, even as a child.”

You can just vaguely make out the light of the still setting sun from the window behind you.

“Well, I mean, what time do you normally get up?”

“6 am.”

“Oh,” well. Maybe he’ll let you sleep in, enjoy the luxury of a non-lumpy bed while you still can.

“You seem apprehensive.” Riddle fiddles with the blanket in his hands where it rests right below his chin. You try and shoo the imagery of a small child being tucked in out of your brain.

Thank god his unique magic didn’t have to do with reading minds, otherwise you’d be thrown to the streets with a collar as a parting gift.

Speaking of collars and lack there of, today had marked a month since Riddle’s “big summer blowout” as you have codenamed it as. And what started as a “1 month of sobriety” joke by Ace turned into an actual celebration by Cater. So, naturally, you dragged yourself along and helped yourself to Trey’s mouthwatering pastries. But then one thing led to another and somehow you were roped into playing a Twisted Wonderland version of Monopoly that led to Grim melting all the plastic house pieces in a fit of firey tantrum to then being forced to fix them by Riddle in an impromptu magic lesson/lecture and—

Yeah, so a lot happened. And next thing you know, you’re being surveilled watched by Trey as you meticulously brush your teeth along to his direction… for some reason? Turns out Ace wasn’t spewing complete lies about Trey’s “fetish” for teeth. You wouldn’t call it that, personally. It was more like a… slightly uncomfortable passion.

But anyway, here you are. Sleeping over at Heartslabyul because Riddle had insisted you and Grim stay the night since by the time you had realized, it was past curfew. Though, surprisingly, Riddle insisted that you share his bed. And Grim, still more than a little apprehensive about the Dormhead, scampered off to sleep with the other freshmen. Cramped dorm rooms be damned.

“Prefect?”

You shake yourself from your thoughts, realizing you had left Riddle hanging for your answer.

“No, no. I’m just… difficult to get up in the morning.” You settle on saying, fiddling with the comforter much like Riddle was.

“Oh, well you can’t be worse than Ace. He’d sleep the entire day away if I allowed it.”

You can see that familiar spark of disapproval flare up behind his eyes and you instinctively tense up. Though as quick as it was there, it fizzles out. Reminding you that yes, this was Riddle, but not the same one that nearly decapitated you with a rose bush.

This is the one that you saw break down in tears on the Heartslabyul lawn after treating it like a playground sandbox. The one that nearly did it again—the crying part, not the sandbox bit—as he pulled you aside and apologized for nearly killing you.

You remind yourself that as you decide to take a small leap of faith with your next words.

“I was also sort of hoping to sleep in tomorrow.”

“Oh,” is all he says. Which isn’t terrible, but not exactly good either.

“Since, you know. It’ll be Sunday. And, you know, still the weekend so. Good to get caught up on sleep while you can… you know.”

He’s analyzing what you’ve said, you can tell by the way his eyes get wide and concentrated. Oh, he’s biting his lip now. That means he’s actually considering your thoughts. He’s thinking, he’s about to speak—

“Alright.”

“…Alright?”

“Yes, alright.” He seems to solidify his answer with a nod. “Let’s sleep in.”

Those words settle in your chest like the sweetest relief.

“Brilliant idea, Riddle!” You can feel the excitement as it grows in your chest. So much so you reach over and grasp his hand, shaking it in emphasis. “You won’t regret this, I tell you.”

“You’re acting like I’ve just done something revolutionary.” He titters, cheeks pink from the unexpected contact as you basically start shaking his hand like an eager businessman after a hard won deal.

“How many times have you slept in before?”

He opens his mouth to respond, ponders, and then slowly shuts it.

“See! So it's basically revolutionary. Why do you think we threw you a party?"

"Oh, and that's another thing." He seems to remember something at the mention of the party. "The fact that Ace and Cater kept congratulating me on my '1 month of sobriety' is pure nonsense. I've never had a lick of alcohol my whole life, so why would I be sober if I never got not sober to begin with?"

As he rambled, you could see his confusion slowly shifting towards indignance. His cheeks were beginning to flush, eyebrows knitting together. His fingers were clenching and unclenching in the sheets pulled over his body.

He looks at you now with pursed lips, bordering on pouty, waiting for a reply.

"...Well, it's a, um..." You stop yourself from saying joke. If you wanted Riddle to not possibly get offended, you'd need to overexplain as much as he can overthink. "It's supposed to be ironic. As in like, 'haha get it? Riddle would never get drunk and therefore sobriety makes no sense and therefore is funny!' kind of ironic."

You subconsciously ended up avoiding eye contact throughout your entire explanation. And also leaving out the comparison of his... "moments" with alcoholism, since you didn't think that would go over very well. So when you finish and decide to just bite the bullet and look, his expression is one of... disappointment?

"Oh," he says, simply and softly. "I see, I guess that... makes sense."

...Maybe you should explain the comparison. "If you need me to elaborate, I can."

"No," he quickly responds with a shake of the head. "That won't be necessary. Your explanation was more than enough."

His eyes are trained on a loose piece of thread near the edge of his pillow yet it's like he's staring straight through it.

"Is there... something else then that's on your mind?"

"I guess I am just... realizing a few things about myself. Especially in regards to these past few months. All those times when I overheard a student comment that I 'couldn't take a joke' were, in essence, correct."

"What?" Talk about a topic shift. "Wait, hold on a second, where did this come from?"

"From just now, actually." He begins picking at the thread he's been zoning out on. "I mean, you saw me. I almost talked myself into a tizzy over, what? A harmless phrase that had no intention of demeaning my character? That ended up turning into a party meant to congratulate me?"

"Well, I mean, there is an underlying comparison between your 'tizzy' moments and alcoholism so—"

"Ace was right."

You blink, momentarily wondering if the person laying across from you is actually Riddle or not.

"How?" You don't bother with hiding your incredulousness, too confused to sugarcoat.

"When he said that everyone around me only panders to my behavior." He huffs, a small humorless laugh filled with self deprecation. "I, all that time, was just silencing thoughts and behavior that I viewed as wrong even though it would've been right. It's no wonder some of the freshman are still hesitant with me. Why it feels like everyone is walking around eggshells when they talk to me."

"Even you, Prefect." He looks... small, truly like a child. Curled into himself like he wishes to disappear from sight. Blinking rapidly like he's trying not to cry. "Even you do it. You let me do what I want, you're never 100% honest with me, and you justify my responses. Like just now."

You open your mouth to rebuttal, but he shakes his head, smiling sadly.

"Don't bother, I can give you examples. Asking me if we could sleep in, expecting me to disagree. Only half explaining the meaning to me since it'd be directly referencing my anger. Which you have yet to actually name for what it is, not once."

You... hadn't even realized you were doing that. It was all just, natural. Instinctive.

"I can... I'm not the most perceptive but, I can tell when you tense up, Prefect."

He meets your gaze, and that's when you process the tension in your shoulders. You had been tensing them, for who knows how long.

"I don't blame you," he speaks before you can begin to try and say anything in response. "Not after everything I did, not after I overblotted and nearly got us all killed."

He looks defeated as he turns over to lie on his back, staring up at the canopy of his bed.

"Ace and all of them were right, I'm just a baby tyrant."

The two of you lapse into silence, you with nothing to say and him having said it all. You don't know how long you stare at his profile for, just scraping the recesses of your brain for the words to say. But eventually, you decide "fuck it" and just let him have it. Like he deserves.

"So you're a bit of a control freak." His head snaps to you but you force yourself to ignore it, barreling onwards. "Scratch that, you ARE a control freak. Can you blame yourself? What with that shitty mom you have, I'd be surprised if you didn't turn out some form of fucked up."

"My mother is—"

"Nope," you abruptly hold a finger up right to his face. "None of that, I'm talking. You want the truth so I'm giving you the truth. Your mom sucks, severely. She basically made you into the baby tyrant that you are. And we, as friends and as your dormmates, have perpetuated that attitude. Thereby continuing the cycle of tyranny until when someone eventually called you out on it, you exploded."

All that momentary fight dies out the more you went on. Every new statement was like a lash across his face. Now he refuses to look at you, too disappointed to meet your gaze. Eyes glossy with unshed tears.

You cross the invisible wall between you two and reach out, grabbing his hand once again in yours.

"But that doesn't mean you can't change." You squeeze his hand, whether to reassure yourself or him is beyond even you. "The fact that you're acknowledging your behavior is proof enough that you're on your way to fixing it. But even then, healing isn't linear. If you take a few steps back, just get back on it again. It's going to be a while but there's nothing you can do about that except let it happen and be patient. Don't let every reminder of your faults be a dissuasion, let it be a motivator to keep going."

You take a moment to breathe, but also to gauge his reaction. Wide eyed and staring at you in wonderment, Riddle lays unmoving. Nothing but the dim impression of street lights outside to illuminate his form in the darkness of his bedroom. Looking at you and only you.

"I'll do better," you tell him, resolute. "I'll hold you accountable. I'll remind myself more to say what I mean, or even call you out on your shit if I need to. And if not me then someone else will, especially Ace. Consequences be damned with him."

He's lying once more on his side, mirroring you like before. His fingers have since found their place around your hand, holding it in kind. His grip tightens with the lull in your speech. You don't know whether it was intentionally or not but it's enough to encourage you to let that last little thought out.

"And for what it's worth, I think you're doing as good a job as any, Riddle."

Silence settles in, him with nothing to say and you having said it all. Well, almost having said it all.

"So," you pipe up before those tears you can see in his eyes decide to fall. "I think this call for a concluding hug, what do you say?"

So, so many emotions fly across his face as you hold open your arms as best you can while lying on a bed. Eventually, what he settles on doing is laughing. Watery and in disbelief, Riddle laughs and leans forwards into your arms.

"Honestly," he chides without an ounce of real intent as he presses his face into your shoulder. "That's how you decide to end your thoughts?"

"I don't see you doing any better, Mr. 'I'm just a baby tyrant.'"

A month ago, that response would've gotten you a one way ticket to collar town. But tonight, he only laughs and holds you tighter.

"Touché, Prefect." He leans back enough that you're able to watch as a smile spreads across his face, unabashed and bright like the sun.

It's one of the firsts of its kind that you've ever seen on his face. You hope you can keep producing more just like it.

[cjlouwho]

Tommy wondered when they would cross paths again.

Somehow they'd managed to go seven years without meeting, so it wasn't wild to think another seven might pass before Tommy had to lay eyes on him once more.

He thought about what that meeting might look like. Whether they ran into each other at work, or at a coffee shop. Maybe Howie would need help with something and Evan would be there. Maybe they just so happen to end up on the same street and can't avoid each other.

He thought about what Evan might say to him. He'd probably look Tommy in the eyes with that million dollar smile, head tilted just so, and thank him. "You were right, Tommy," he'd say. "I didn't think so at the time, but you were right. I finally found my last, and I have you to thank for that." It wouldn't be said out of a place of anger, or spite. It would just be honest, and he'd say it as though Tommy had given him a gift.

And Tommy would smile back, because that's what he did, and he'd reply, "Told you so. I'm happy for you, Buck." And the words would sting. They cut into his flesh like a knife, blood pouring out of wound that only he could see.

He'd still be alone. Holding onto endless regrets that he couldn't find a way to rid himself of. Living off of what if's and could've been's, while Evan had the life he so deserved with a partner he so deserved.

These thoughts ran through his mind so often that he knew whenever the time came, he'd know exactly what to say to Buck. It'd be perfectly rehearsed.

But that was supposed to be seven years down the road.

So he was a bit surprised when, four months after the breakup, there was a knock on his door. And the shock at who was there had him saying the wrong name. "Evan?"

"You were wrong, Tommy," Evan started and... that's not how it's supposed to go. "I didn't know how to say it at the time because, well, you didn't really give me a chance to catch up, but you were wrong. I don't know why you think you can't be my last, but you're all I've thought about since you walked out of my place. I- I don't know what our future looks like, and I don't know if we'll be each other's forever, but I'd like to be your now. And if now turns into forever, that would make me very, very happy."

He should tell him no. Tell him it's too risky. Tell him he needs to go and really think about what he's saying.

Instead he reaches out a hand, feels warmth where Evan's palm meets his, stares into his eyes and on a shaky exhale tells him, "Come in."

[goatunderthebridge]

Everyone knew that Tendou ran cold. He'd stick his hands up the other boys' shirts when they weren't being careful, chilling them to the core as he laughed. He'd even managed to convince Goshiki for a couple months that he was cold because he was a lizard person, needing to warm in the sun lest he freeze completely and die. When Shirabu saw Goshiki worry about Tendou in the winter, he knew it was time to explain that that was absolutely not the case. And it was the truth that Tendou didn't mind being cold; he had never considered himself the proper, warm kind of person anyway so what difference did it make that his body temperature acted the same way?

That was until he felt how warm Ushijima's hands were and how he flinched every time they touched.

From that moment on, Tendou began to take precautions against his coldness. He took boiling hot showers, drank hot beverages as much as he could, ate the spiciest foods, and began to wear gloves.

Ushijima didn't understand the changes. He didn't like the taste of the foods on Tendou's tongue when they kissed and he missed feeling the calluses on his hands. He frowned as Tendou grabbed his hand with his gloved one, swinging their arms once enjoined.

He notices the frown on Ushijima's face and leans closer to him. "Eh? What's wrong?"

Ushijima squeezes his gloves hand, replying, "I do not like these gloves."

Tendou hums, pulling his hand back. He hadn't really thought about how Ushijima would react to the material of the gloves. Maybe these ones were too irritable for him? He made a mental note to buy a softer pair that Ushijima would prefer.

"Sorry bud, I'll get a new pair later today-"

Ushijima grabs his hand again. Tendou's eyes widen in surprise as he watches Ushijima pull the glove off his hand and intertwine their fingers, immediately pocketing the glove before Tendou can protest.

"Better." Ushijima asserts, nodding to himself.

Tendou blinks rapidly, attempting to pull his hand back despite enjoying how warm Ushijima's hand was. Ushijima holds on though, refusing to let go and watches curiously as Tendou pulls their hands towards him.

"No, bud, you don't have to hold my hands when they're so cold! You're gonna turn into ice-"

Ushijima furrows his brows, "I do not think that is possible."

Tendou almost laughs but remains strong, adamant to make Ushijima understand. "No, no, I mean I don't want to make you feel cold."

Ushijima seems to think about this for a second. Tendou takes that as confirmation that he is indeed too cold for him and tries to pull his hand back. But Ushijima tightens his grip and pulls their enjoined hands back towards him.

"I have never been cold," Ushijima mumbles, running his other hand's thumb across Tendou's knuckles and sending a bloom of warmth across them, "I like that you cool me down."

With that, Ushijima raises their hands to his lips, pressing them firmly against the back of Tendou's hand. He leaves a warm imprint on it that Tendou relishes, squeezing his hand in response.

"I like that you warm me up." He replies before leaning fully into Ushijima and pressing their lips softly together, cold melting into warmth.

Tendou had almost forgotten that Ushijima ran hot. But it shouldn't have come as a surprise that, when it came to the two of them, they often found that what they had missed all of their lives could always be found in the other.

[eustassslut]

Thinking about how Sabo would steal all sorts of jewellery and expensive clothes from the nobles he encounters on his missions. He takes diamond bracelets, emerald rings, handbags worth more than his own bounty and clothes so rare they have waiting lists of almost a decade. Then when his mission is over he returns back to the base and gives it all as gifts to you, decking you out in the finest the four seas and the Grandline has to offer.

You don't know if it's his desire to provide for you and his own strange way of thanking you for loving him so beautifully or a way of reminding the nobles of what they have to loose and rubbing it in their faces that their important social status can be taken away so easily to be given to a commoner. Sabo is sadistic and arrogant, he burns with hatred and is motivated by a messy sense of justice but he loves you in his own weird way.

The luxurious bracelets and necklaces that cover your body and the high-end bags that you wear as though they were commonly found in a normal boutique are proof of that. He's arrogant but his arrogance always falls at your feet and submits to a desire to make you happy. However, sometimes his own whims have to win and the hours he spends between your legs as you lay sprawled out in your sheets decorated in priceless luxuries are his tools of revenge against those who oppress the world.

Sabo's tongue spreads the Revolutionary Army's message and criticises the nobles, but it also serves to make you feel good. His hands steal overpriced artisan objects and fight off corruption; but also clasp on expensive jewellery to your neck and caress your body so he never forgets how you feel pressed against him. He craves and loves you with a deep burning passion and he serves his job with that same passion. So it's only natural that they combine occasionally in your bedsheets and escape through your cries of pleasure beneath him.

[jupiterjelliez]

what do you want. im on my break

[gojoest]

part of the nerdtoru blurbs~

satoru always keeps his phone on silent and ‘do not disturb’. he loves reading books, and when he’s on the go he often listens to audiobooks on his phone, mostly science stuff, but the notifications that pop up and make his device buzz in the meantime can prove quite irritating and distracting. thankfully though, there’s an easy solution to silence them all.

but it all changed the night he accidentally left a like on one of your pictures on instagram — one of your old ones, at that — while secretly lurking on your page.

although he removed his like immediately and prayed for you to not notice it, you did. and you reacted rather quickly — by locking your account, letting him know that he got caught.

were you just messing with him? or did he make you uncomfortable? — there was only one way to find out.

he requested to follow you.

an hour passed. two. three.

there was no sign of activity on your end.

you neither deleted nor confirmed his request, leaving him hanging and waiting anxiously, unable to focus on anything he tried his hand at that night. reading books, listening to books, studying, writing, solving quizzes — nothing was working. his mind was consumed by you, by this mishap and the potential implications of it — you slipping away from him before he even caught up to you, losing his chance before he even got it…

it was past 2am — and way past his bedtime — when he finally gave up.

maybe a shower would help him calm down and collect his mind, he thought.

he stripped from his clothes and stepped toward the bathroom, leaving his phone by the sink before he let the cold water run down his body.

the ‘do not disturb’ focus was disabled. the volume of his phone was blasted to max.

he was still waiting.

(for you to stop messing with him like this)

[boundariesoverthrown]

JAMES AND LARS, DAMAGED JUSTICE TOUR – SEPTEMBER 23RD, 1989

[sfiyayaya]

slight (!) mha spoilers

am i the only one that’s oddly obsessed w fics or fanart or anything like that showcasing class 1A doing normal, mundane stuff outside of fighting in a WAR and nearly (or actually, in katsuki’s case) losing their lives?? like yes please give me little bits and pieces of momo and kirishima trading skin care tips. give me uraraka and mina and denki trying (and failing) to paint portraits of one another (while ojiro tries to remain an unbiased judge, though his favor for denki is showing pretty clearly). give me tokoyami and shoji and jirou trading playlists and talking about the rise of chappell roan (you know they love her). give me sato and bakugo sharing the kitchen as izuku sits on the counter and swings his legs and makes heart eyes at bakugo (who pretends not to notice but revels in the attention) while sato chuckles. give me tsu and iida and aoyama arguing lowly about whether or not wintermelon milk tea is the best flavor (tsu says no. iida persists. aoyama sighs.) GIVE ME sero and todoroki trying to build an intricate lego set together with sero getting increasingly frustrated that he can’t find the parts he needs and todoroki pleasantly surprised (and amused) that the otherwise composed boy would let something so small and silly get to him. give me hagakure and koda trying their best to corral koda’s little bunnies back into their cage (they fail and there’s bunny poop all over the floor and bakugo flips his shit) GIVE ME IT ALL

[fortheharbingers]

contents: a quick caleb (lads) blurb, adult content, minors do not interact!

oral (m! receiving), fingering, praise (mc kinda fucked outta their mind already if u squint)

Your head resting on Caleb’s lap, hands all over him grabbing and desperate, giving him the most pathetic cutest kitten licks with hazy dropping eyes as his hands work on you to ease you up, stretch you, open and massage you just perfectly- turning you into a melting puddle all over his lap as his free hand pets through your hair- in between your noises of pleasure and sopping wet lips around his length, you can hear him praise you, coo at you, telling you how good you’re being for him, how perfect and wonderful you are

He chuckles at your excitement and desperation to keep going further and he feels a tang of fear- concerned you might bruise yourself trying to take it all in but you give him the biggest teary eyes pleading, begging to have more of him, that it’s alright, you’re all grown now, that you’re not a little girl anymore, you can take it, take all of him-

[scliffe]

The similarities and contrast between the Noah’s Ark circus troupe and the Phantomhive household are quite interesting. The circus troupe was a group of children living in poverty who were saved by Baron Kelvin, the philanthropist. While he initially seems to have helped the children out of the goodness of his heart, he ultimately ended up using them to kidnap other children and commit a greater evil.

[The circus troupe’s name is also interesting. In Genesis, Noah’s Ark was the boat built by Noah, a man chosen by God, to spare him, his family, and some animals while the human race were condemned to death in the flood. In this case, I interpret Baron Kelvin as the “God” who condemns the kidnapped children to death while the Joker, being “Noah”, has no power but to save himself and his family.]

Similarly, the Phantomhives were a strange assortment of condemned people with nowhere else to go who were saved by Ciel Phantomhive. From the get-go, Ciel is no philanthropist and he took in these people as bodyguards or assassins to commit evildoings in the name of the greater good. It’s likely that due to Ciel’s trauma—although hiring more people and more security will likely reduce the amount of assassination attempts on his life—he refuses to hire a “normal” servant who would be helpless to defend themselves and could only end up as casualty in dangerous situations. (After all, it’s not everyday that you wake up to the rest of the house dead on your tenth birthday…)

There is also the manner in which the circus troupe and the Phantomhives treated Snake. Both parties are hiding their “dirty deeds” from him; essentially his relationship with them was built on a lie. Then while the circus troupe seems to have helped him out of philanthropy and treated him as family, from his records we knew that he actually hated living as a morbid spectacle with no dignity—a freak of nature; something for “normal” people to gawk and point fingers at.

The children of the orphanage did not have to be a circus—disabled people are just as capable as non-disabled people in some jobs, and there was also the artificial limbs technology. But they had to be the circus because it is the easiest way to kidnap children. Simply put, they have no dignity because Baron Kelvin was exploiting these disabled children who had no other choice—because they lack the capital to save themselves and their siblings in the orphanage. Although they were no longer living in the streets, in some way their situation remained unchanged.

The Phantomhives are also freaks of nature in each their own way, but they are living like normal people with dignity as part of an aristocratic household. Ciel and Sebastian met Bard before he could commit the indignity of cannibalism. They took Mey-Rin out of a life where she was treated like a weapon to be disposed after deemed useless. They gave a name to Finnian, the nameless experiment who could not even speak. They gave dignity to these people who were barely living like human beings, which is why the servants are extremely loyal to the Phantomhive household.

Ciel is not helping them out of the goodness of his heart; he recognizes their talents and abilities and chose to hire them as servants with a clearly established working relationship. He is not exploiting them for their “strangeness”—the servants are not living on his charity; they are providing their services and being compensated, thus making a living on their own. Thus, they are afforded a dignity that can only exist in a mutual two-way relationship.

Now, why is dignity so important? Because it is the basis on which Ciel’s desire for revenge stood. In the Phantomhive manor massacre three years ago, the Phantomhives lost all their dignity to a group of unknown assassins. The head of the household was reduced to ashes while the heir was murdered as a sacrificial lamb on an altar for the devil, not to mention the things the cult had done to the twins and the rest of those children—they lived worse than livestocks. This is why it was very important for Ciel to become Earl Ciel Phantomhive and reclaim the title and the lands from the queen, restoring the dignity of the Phantomhive household.

In the Athena Sanatorium for Former Servicemen, chief nurse Ada made continuous sacrifices because she recognizes that dignity is as important as human life. A person cannot live without dignity. It is such a humane concept—other creatures are capable of living just fine without it. Thus having dignity or not is what separates humans from animals or other beings.

Ciel could sacrifice his soul to the demon not because he merely wanted to live—in which case, the revenge would not be necessary as he could have lived happier without it—but also to reclaim that dignity. In Sebastian’s observation, it was beautiful and foolish—demons who could enslave themselves in order to devour human souls probably have no concept of dignity—yet he cannot stop that admiration for his master. He knows that this soul will not taste like any other livestock.

[l3viat8an]

LEVI AND FIRST KISS LEVI AND FIRST KISS LEVI AND FIRST KISS LEVI AND FIRST KISS LEVI AND FIRST KISS PLEASE ROO

Yesyesyes!!- rambling as always oops 🫶🏻

Your first kiss with Levi is gonna be clumsy and inexperience, mostly on his part. Levi isn’t used to love and affection or anything real that actually involves another living breathing person- especially not the one he has a huge crush on so you have to take your time with him.

Now I won’t lie and say you’ll be Levi’s actual ‘first kiss’ but you are his first kiss in several centuries so everything feels brand new for him.

He’s nervous and fidgety at first. He’s not sure what to do with his hands or himself or exactly what he should be doing- so you’ll probably want take the lead. Guide him, take his hands in yours and place them wherever you’d like, fair warning tho he is going to squeeze and feel up wherever you put his hands so keep that in mind!

It’s best to keep your own hands on his shoulders, or if you really want to fluster Levi some more- cup his face!! Make it feel like you want to pull him in even closer while you kiss.

For that you’ll get a cute little whine of surprise out of him, and he’ll be stunned still for a few seconds before he begins kissing you back even more eagerly. It’s still a clumsy kiss and his teeth knock into yours more then once, but he’s too happy to care and do you really mind?-

Nope~ at least not when Levi looks so cute as you break away from the kiss! He’s in absolute awe, eyes wide and glossy, his face all red and lips slightly swollen as he stutters out asking if the two of you can do that again? Please!! He’ll be good, he’ll do whatever you want next! Just kiss him again, p-please…..

[ninyard]

just thought about the jury hearing kevins 911 phone call. just thought about regardless of what andrew says on the stand, everyone’s going to hear kevin explaining what happened.