#all mixed up and befuddled

[curiosityschild]

Aaaaa I did my "when do I have to leave" math bad and now I'm at yoga a half hour early

[chaeyoei]

Helooo, I’m back with more Jing yuan food. Imagine a Jing yuan that turned into a cat because some assassin accidentally mixed up the poisons with a transformation potion. So you have to take care of him since well…ur his partner. If I was taking care of cat yuan, I’d tie a red ribbon on him just like his human form. Cat yuan food fur u. Bai <33

Lmao you're keeping my mediocre writing spirit up oh well. Grammatical mistakes obv.

"Honey.. where are you?" You searched through your house. Getting slightly concerned as Jing Yuan was nowhere to be found. He could be in his office due to an emergency but he took a day off today.

"Meow."

That startled you. Did he bring home a cat?

You opened the bedroom door to be greeted by a white cat standing ontop of an unconscious body.

"Jing Yuan!" You rushed forward thinking that the person was Jing Yuan but upon getting closer and closer, your brows furrowed and your steps hatled.

It was a man dressed in black, not to mention he had a weapon. You crouched near it, trying to see the face underneath. There's a chance it could be him.

"Meow!" The cat jumped on you. Occupying your plam by jumping on it. It was so befuddling.

Something told you that this feline was your husband. The suspicion rose when you realise that cats don't have an eye covered by their hair. "Jing Yuan?" You hoped that this cat could understand you and he actually nodded with a meow.

Well whatever that was, you called the Knights and the man caught was an assassin. It took a day but you connected the dots and confirmed that the white feline was indeed your husband.

Cat Jing Yuan.. oh boy. Im going to keep it short because I have to sleep.

After coming to the realisation you had no choice but take care of your now cat husband. But for Jing Yuan..

This was a vacation he never knew he needed.

Getting to lay in your wife's lap all day, getting hugs, kisses and pats and having to not worry about work. Sign him up.

"Meow." The cat purred feeling your fingers glide through his fur.

"You're really enjoying this, huh? The assassin that mixed the chemical is being held in the shackling prison."

Honestly, he loves that stupid assassin now for giving him a free vacation. Maybe, he can ask the dude for one more....

Fu Xuan and Yanqing.

"Lady Y/N, do you know where General Jing Yuan is?" The blonde child asked, in search of his master.

"..."

"He needs to get back to work. Everyone's asking where he is." The Master Diviner grumbled, distressed by the intense questioning she has to answer.

"He... umm." You glanced at the cat who shook his head no. "So, Jing Yuan was poisoned by an assassin in his sleep, he's in no state of working."

"What?!" Both of them shouted in unison.

"General is bed ridden?" Yanqing was concerned.

"..That's not good." Fu Xuan sighed. Her frustration having turned into somewhat sympathy. "I need to keep my omnisa activated every now and then."

"I'll tell the other generals about that situation." She added.

Watching this in your arms, Jing Yuan felt a little guilty. This was becoming his guilty pleasure at this rate.

"Oh Lady Y/N, did you get a new cat?" Yanqing changed the topic.

"Yes."

"..Strange. It almost looks like him." The Lady Diviner was catching on.

Now to the thing you were talking about.

"..Jing Yuan, would you mind a red collar?" You asked the fluffy feline occupying your lap. You had to ask because it would look cute on him but did he want it as well?

"Meow." He agreed after a minute.

You giddily put the collar and ofcourse had to take a picture. Maybe you can collage the photo of human him and cat him and use it as phone wallpaper.

Lingsha. Idk why but I had to do it.

"Hmm.." The lady giggled. "Almost amusing to see the Loufu general be reduced to a mere cat."

"How long do you think the postion lasts, Lady Lingsha?"

"It's been 2 days, you say. The potion's effect lasts for a week so 5 more days remain until the Loufu General becomes himself." The Cauldron Master answered with an amused look.

Fu Xuan.. Again.

"So it was you, General." Fu Xual glared at the cat. Jing Yuan hid behind your figure.

"I apologise for lying, Lady Fu."

She sighed. "I suppose there's nothing to be done. How more until he turns back?"

"4 more days."

The pink haired woman shook her head in defeat.

I know it makes no sense.

People were beggining to question you as well. It was a bit overwhelming at times. But luckily, your cat husband was there to be your plushie.

Things he doesn't like as a cat.

Now being pampered is fine and all but it started to get boring when he had nothing to do but laze around. He also couldn't embrace you or keep you in his arms and lap anymore (obviously). It was.. irritating to say the least.

Yep I'm not happy with this. I'll update this if I can.

[roseadleyn]

no yk what? you guys are soo right.

feyre really does deserve better than nesta n lucien. she was treated like shit by them. lets see, nesta literally exposes feyre's sexual thoughts in front of tamlin and lucien, threatens to break her mind, makes her dress in skimpy clothing and dance and sexually assaults her, feeds her wine when she doesn't want to drink, twists feyre's broken bone in her arm to force her into a bargain she doesn't want, intrudes on her thoughts,

and lucien trauma dumps on her, hyperventilates when confronted with actions, mocks her at every single given opportunity, objectifies her and compares her tits to apples in front of someone she just met, grooms her into thinking his tyrant behavior, her cultural appropriation etc are a-okay,

nesta literally hides an extremely significant magical bond that affects feyre mentally n physically from her, gets her friends to hide it too, treats feyre's siblings like shit, makes her fight for an engagement ring and purposefully endangers her,

and lucien applauds when feyre commits war crimes, makes feyre wear the same clothes she was assaulted in and cosplay a whore and get fingered in front of a whole ass city, when feyre gets pregnant at 21 and the pregnancy goes wrong, nesta hides how dangerous it is from feyre and tries to control the outcome of the pregnancy and literally tells everyone other than feyre abt the dangers of the pregnancy other than feyre-

OH NO YALL. i mixed it up. all of those things were done by rhysand wow what a shocker i am befuddled bamboozled tricked

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Not my Kid AU

Bruce glanced up at the chandelier with a tired sigh. He could see a head of hair sticking through the decor.

‘What’s the worst that could happen when adopting a kid?’ He let out a mix between a chuckle and a sound of pure exhaustion.

He loves Dick with all his heart, but the boy needed to stop trying to give him gray hairs.

The boy jolted as Bruce called up to him,

“You know if you knock down any more pieces of that chandelier, Alfred is going to just throw the whole thing out. Now get down from there bud it’s breakfast time.”

Before making an entrance to the kitchen and pausing.

Sitting at the table, drowning a stack of waffles in maple syrup, was one Richard Grayson.

“Hey B! Thought I heard you say something, who were you talking to?”

“But- I-?”

Bruce stiffened as he heard the sound of hesitant feet walking up next to him.

The boy’s hair and eye color did match Dick’s and his thin frame hid well in the decorative hanging; but now that he was closer it was clear that the boy was much older than his ward.

Bruce felt his Batman instincts blaring in the back of his head but all he could do was lock befuddled eyes with the teen.

For a moment everything was silent before the kid spoke up in, surprisingly, a midwestern accent,

“Believe me sir, I’m just as confused as you are.”

Alfred merely began to set out another plate.

[guidaozongshi]

Sasuke and Japanese Masculinity

There are some Naruto/Sasuke blogs that I generally like and I am in agreement with many of their analysis but one of the ideas perpetuated by them is the idea that Sasuke is the feminine counterpart to Naruto' s masculine one or that he has characteristics typical of a heroine, which I can not agree with.

Let's start with one of the most befuddling claims that I have come across -

You can only come to the above conclusion if your only consumption of Japanese media include post 1980 Shounen or Toukatsu TV.

Theatre/Kabuki were enactment of the existing literature and I can assure you that their protagonists were FAR from the modern Shounen protagonists( I discuss this in detail below ).Almost every character in Kabuki has exaggerated make up and wore bright colour, it's not reserved for the protagonist either.

"The Ideal Japanese Hero"

This is a very broad term in itself that doesn't take into account the time period nor genre.

The character traits typical of a Shounen protagonists that presumably OP is talking about such as being short tempered/rebellious/punkish appears very late in the history of manga. These protagonists exhibited such qualities to be relatable to adolescent boys but they are not the ideal conception of masculinity in Japan and they are often criticised for being immature.

These characteristics are often not found in Seinen/Gekiga works, or any literature that is not targeted at kids.It consists of a very diverse variety of protagonists but they are much closer to the Japanese equivalent of a Byronic hero than a loud troublemaker. Take Blade of the Immortal , Vagabond , Berserk , Vinland Saga etc.

Back to Sasuke : Revenge and Restoring Honour

These are the topics that are so embedded in classical Japanese literature that there is an entire Genre dedicated to it : Jitsuroku

The one that started it all i.e Forty-Seven Ronin tells the story of revenge against a political opponent who caused the death of a Samurai lord by wrongfully framing him. This story and it's themes are embedded deep in Japanese heritage and remains one of the most influential works that would inspire similar stories.

The story of being wronged due to politics, resulting in dishonour and ultimately death and then being avenged by the protagonist who sets out to fulfill his duty of revenge and restoring their honor owing to filial piety or loyalty becomes a staple genre. One of the examples being Tales of Jiraiya, one of the many inspirations for Naruto

And Sasuke is a textbook example of such a character from this genre.

He is the typical classical Japanese male protagonist

Despite being a deuteraginist he challenged Naruto's role as a protagonist both in the text and outside of it . During the run of Naruto on Weekly Shounen Jump , Sasuke would occupy the #2 position for the vast majority of times and even beat Naruto at least once to take the #1 spot. His character and story arc was incredibly popular in Japan because it exhibited characteristics of a classical Japanese hero.

He might get mixed reactions in the West but he is beloved in Japan. So much so that some people wanted him to be the protagonist instead of Naruto.

Naruto while a beloved protagonist is considered too naive,and almost childish in his beliefs . While Sasuke is his mature counterpart who is capable of ideological introspection.

Blogs that are in favour of putting the 'heroine' role on Sasuke often use a comment made jokingly by one of the anime directors as Sasuke being the true heroine because he is to be chased and rescued by the protagonist or claim that some Japanese people discuss him as such and I am ????? Are you serious? This is such a superficial way of looking at their relationship and Sasuke's character arc or even what actually transpired between them that I am not even bothering countering it.

If you could browse 2channel back in the day , you would see hundreds of messages in various threads that Sasuke is apparently the true hero of the story or how they want Sasuke to be the protagonist. There would also be comments about how emasculating Naruto's relationship with Sasuke is but that is another can of worms.

It is a common sentiment in Japan that if Naruto was a Seinen manga, Sasuke would undoubtedly be the protagonist.

Instead of being the 'heroine' or 'feminine counterpart', Sasuke exhibits the reserved, graceful and mature masculinity typical of a classical Japanese hero in counter to the open,exuberant and juvenile masculinity of Naruto.

There are people who claim Sasuke being a bishounen and graceful is him being the feminine counterpart because he is the Yin to Naruto' Yang. I highly disagree, Yin-Yang analogy is used throughout the manga to describe contrasting forces especially darkness/hatred and light/love , it is not used to portray outward characteristics. Using Yin-Yang to explain their appearances or behaviour is just extrapolating using the philosophical concept outside of its use of the manga.

While femininity is associated with Yin, I would like people to introspect what 'feminine traits' in the Japanese context constitute. Because the 'feminine traits' that Sasuke apparently exhibits aren't feminine at all.

Sasuke-Naruto are not the only two duos with such outward contrasts anyways , it's predecessor duo and one of the most recognisable rivals (at least in Japan) like Rukawa-Sakuragi from Slam Dunk, which Kishimoto likely took inspiration from has Rukawa who is aloof and desirable vs Sakuragi who is more of a delinquent in both appearance and behaviour . Such contrasting outwardly attributes are present in a lot of Shonen rivalries, you don't need Yin-Yang concepts to explain these.

On this tangent I would actually recommend everyone to read Slam Dunk not only because it is good but to also actually understand how a normal Shonen rivalry between likely straight males works and how much of a deviation Sasuke and Naruto' relationship is. I mentioned before that Kishimoto likely took inspiration from this and I say this because in addition to Rukawa-Sakuragi's rivalry in the sport, there is a love triangle aspect to it. Sakuragi loves Akagi who has a crush on Rukawa, who doesn't care. Here's where the similarity in the dynamics ends. Sakuragi actually really likes the girl ,he only starts playing basketball to impress her and then develops a rivalry with Rukawa. I can go on about their similarities and Kishimoto's subversion but it's a topic for another post.

Getting back on topic.

Sasuke's Desirability and Beauty

One of the most common arguments that is used in favour for Sasuke as a heroine is that he is desired by multiple people in the story and how his beauty is commented and highlighted on, and that these are the features apparently typically given to the female love interest.

This is one of the most ignorant claims I have ever come accross. Japanese literature has a long-standing tradition of exalting the beauty of males and their desirability, often to denote how perfect and/or otherworldly the person is.

One of the seminal works in Japanese literature Tales of Genji had to say this about its protagonist Hikaru Genji : "His appearance tempted men and women alike, as he had smooth white skin, excellent fashion sense, which increased his fame and popularity". His beauty is commented throughout the novel and he is desired by many, this doesn't negate his very masculine character.

It brings me to the next topic:

Bishounen

This is a term with so much history and what tropes it is associated with changes according to what genre it is used in that I am not surprised that some people just use it as a synonym for feminine/homosexual men. But in the contemporary lexicon and usage it just means a pretty boy of any sexuality.

Bishounen serve as love interests in Shoujo, the entire cast in a BL, Antagonist/Rival and sometimes even the protagonist in Shounen and Seinen. It just means a man who looks handsome/beautiful in a androgynous way but at the same time not be mistaken for a girl.

I came across this post and this is what put me over the edge to actually create a proper post because the claims here are completely eregrious

" saying Sasuke is meant to be a typical Japanese ideal of masculinity....... wearing lipstick crazy"

I don't think that the author drawing Sasuke with stage makeup on a cover featuring him as an actor negates the fact that Sasuke is meant to be a typical Japanese ideal of masculinity, I have already discussed it in detail above the reasons he is considered such.

"call Sasuke the Japanese ideal of masculinity... funny... meant to be bishounen"

OP themselves doesn't have any Idea on the Japanese conceptualisation of masculinity nor the term Bishounen, which is fine if they weren't scoffing at an objectively correct reading of a character due to their own ignorance.

Being beautiful, youthful and desirable is well within the form of Japanese masculinity. Being bishounen doesn't negate masculinity, on the contrary validates it.

The sublime masculine Samurai were obsessed with keeping youthful appearances. And there is a reason almost all Japanese male idols/actors/singers strive to look androgynous.

I don't think Sasuke/Sakura shippers refuse to accept that he is Bishounen, that's quite literally one of his appeals,it's a general term not exclusively used to describe homosexual men. The origins of the term definitely contains homoeroticism but as I have said before that in contemporary usage it just means a pretty man and can be found in almost all type of Japanese media.

However if anybody uses the 'Japanese Ideal of masculinity' as an argument against him being attracted to a man, they would be displaying ignorance as these are concepts which can be found in a complementary fashion throughout Japanese literature.

Bishounen also has different tropes associated with it depending on the genre:

Comics for younger boys tend to use arrogant bishōnen in the role of the recurring minor rivals readers love to hate, though their effeminate good looks there, they will often appear older... stronger, and thus in fact more masculine than the commonly shorter and less mature protagonists.

- Manga: The Complete Guide, Del Rey

I think many people cannot let go of their Western sensibilities when analysing the text, especially in relationship to concepts like masculinity which is very dynamic even in Japan. They see two contrasting masculine characters: one being more open and brash and the other being reserved and graceful , and come to the conclusion that the latter is the feminine counterpart , which cannot be further from the truth.

Either that or some people are affected by their bias towards a certain pairing dynamic.

TL;DR Sasuke is the embodiment of classic Japanese masculinity

[leighsartworks216]

To Be Warm And Comfy

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I was only going to write down this little idea before I took a nap... And then I ended up writing the whole thing

The crochet theme actually came out of nowhere for me. I cannot crochet anything more than a chain to save my life, but I do loom knit from time to time

Warnings: self-deprecation, low self worth

Word Count: 776

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Slotted between his legs, you rested your back against Astarion's chest. His arms coiled around your waist and held you close, while he pressed his nose into your neck and peered over your shoulder. With practiced hands, the yarn slid through your fingers at the perfect tension, hooked and worked together into rows of perfect stitches.

He'd never seen anything quite like it. During his living years, he focused on intellectualism and law, not crafts. And during his servitude, sewing and embroidering came about from necessity, though he did still enjoy them. This was incredible. He couldn't stop watching as you worked in smooth movements to crochet your little project. You wouldn't tell him what it was, but he was content simply to watch.

For several weeks, this became the nightly pattern. You'd lay back in his arms while he held you, watching you work away in silence or with idle chatter. When you finished for the night, you'd set your project aside where it wouldn't get damaged, he'd gingerly bite into your neck and take his share, and he'd lay down with you as you drifted off to sleep. Usually he stayed, if he'd had enough to eat during the day and didn't need to sip on some boar or squirrels. Sometimes he would read while you crocheted, sharing his favorite bits with you. It was nice. Peaceful.

You told him, one night, that you were almost finished. He'd watched with rapt attention then, studying the way you fastened off and weaved the excess yarn back through the stitches. He'd realized almost a week ago that it was a sweater, but it was almost a marvel when you held it up by the shoulders in front of you both to show it off.

He kissed your jaw with a gentle squeeze around your midsection. "It looks wonderful, darling."

You hummed, smiling brightly. "I'm really glad you think so." You sat up and turned in his arms. He didn't fight to keep you where you were, though he certainly missed the solidness and warmth you provided. You held it out to him. "Put it on."

He frowned, confused. "Don't tell me you spent weeks making that just to give it away?"

"Of course I did, now put it on."

"I'm hardly worth the effort," he scoffed. He did not accept the gift. His expressions mixed oddly - light-hearted joy, befuddlement, self-deprecation - all flooding his system and overwhelming him. He simply could not grasp the fact you'd go through all the effort for him. "Surely it would look much nicer on you!"

You sighed, understanding and long-suffering. "Tell you what, if it doesn't fit or you don't like it, I'll keep it. Deal?"

He sighed, too. He'd hardly be able to refuse it once he put it on. But you nudged the sweater in his direction again, and how could he say no?

You watched with a wide grin as he slipped it over his head and slid the sleeves along his arms. It was... really nice, actually. Warm and soft without feeling constricting. It fit him perfectly.

"You're always so cold," you explain, wrapping your arms around his waist and relaxing forward until your chin was against his chest. "So I made you this. You can wear it when touch is too overwhelming, or if you feel too out of it to cuddle. I just want you to be warm and comfy."

He chuckles breathlessly, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. "I'm sure I'll be very comfy in this."

His undead heart ached. You went through so much trouble. He'd seen you struggle to find enough of the same yarn, watched you cuss and groan every time a stitch fell or when you had to undo a section because you miscounted. He'd held and massaged your hands when crocheting began to wear them out. 

And still you persevered. For him. You even ensured it would fit a little loose, so he wouldn't be claustrophobic. It was... a lot. To have someone go through all this trouble.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you up until he could give you a proper hug. He nuzzled his cold nose into your neck, and he sighed. Softly, sweetly - completely relaxed.

"Thank you." He bit his tongue before he could ask if you were sure, if he really was worth the effort. Surely, by making the sweater, you'd proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was. "I shall cherish it always."

"I love you," you coo sweetly by his ear.

He must look like a fool with how wide he's smiling. "I love you, too, dear."

---

Tag List:

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[aayakashii]

Hiii I was thinking a first kiss scenario (❤️21) with Lyca would be fun! Either fluff or smut works :)

21❤️ First kiss

Did I project myself into this? Yes, heavily. So I'm very sorry if some parts of it are too specific skdjdksjs 😭 but here it is!! Very fluffy btw!

You looked to your side and pursed your lips into a thin line so you wouldn’t break into a loud laugh.

Lyca was right by your side, legs crossed while he snuggled one of your pillows, with a bright and furious shade of red on his cheeks, neck and ears.

The poor boy was struggling, but powering through the grueling task he had forced upon himself.

All of that just because he asked you if you two could try to watch a romcom together.

“Why would you ever want to watch a movie like that, Lyca?” you had asked him, befuddled.

He growled, an angry pout plastered on his face.

“The blonde gigolo said I am not strong just because I can barely interact with girls! And he even said I would probably die if I ever watched a romance movie, so I have to prove him wrong!” he clenched his fists, absolutely mad with indignation.

You rolled your eyes. You had to have a serious conversation with Rui about him picking on poor Lyca, because you always ended up mixed into their mess.

“You’re walking right into his trap, Lyca. This will prove absolutely nothing and you will definitely hate it.” you tried putting a little bit of sense into his brain, but he was stubborn.

“But what if he really thinks that?! What if it's not a trap?! I have to prove it to him!”

You let out a loud sigh. There was no convincing him otherwise. He was willingly walking towards his own torture and all you could do was stand beside that dumb werewolf.

And it turns out Rui was almost right. Lyca did look like he was about to spontaneously combust while he watched those romantic scenes. You kept one eye on the movie and one on his reactions, eager to know how he would feel once the kissing scene popped up.

You didn't expect to feel disappointed though.

As the two main characters kissed passionately on the screen, Lyca began staring at the scene with what looked like curiosity. The furious blush was still there, on his cheeks, but more than anything, it looked like the gears in his mind were working overtime.

And then, he turned to you.

“Have you… have you ever kissed someone before?” he asks in a mumble, glaring at you from under his long lashes, like he was ready to fight and not talk.

The question took you by surprise. It wasn't really something you liked talking about, but you also had a weak spot for Lyca. If he was curious about it, then you wouldn't mind answering.

“Just a few times, I guess” you shrugged. You decided not to mention you regretted it mostly every single time. That was the type of talk you didn't really want to have with him, of all people.

Lyca growled and angrily pouted beside you, crossing his arms. Your hand went straight to his hair, scritching his scalp soothingly.

“Why are you mad?”

He grabbed your wrist, withdrawing it from his head. You gave him the sad puppy eyes – trying to use his own weapon against him – but he turned his head away and was adamant in not looking at you.

“Hey, tell me why you're mad. Did I upset you?” you asked, genuinely concerned.

He pouted even more.

“You already had all these experiences.”

You blinked, confused.

“And…?”

“It makes me mad!” he huffed.

You paused to think about his words. A little part of you tried to entertain the thought that he was jealous, but you quickly snuffed that little flame out. Maybe he was upset that you both had similar ages and he hadn't done the same things. That was more likely. But it’s not like his circumstances allowed him to have said experiences, though. Lyca's life was anything but mundane like yours used to be.

You put your hand back on his head again despite his warning growl.

“You don't have to be mad about that. I only did it because people were pressuring me. I have never actually kissed anyone I liked.”

It was a half-truth. Intimacy was actually a very sensitive topic for you. You always watched in horror as colleagues and friends around you had such an easy time mindlessly locking lips with each other. 

For you, it was almost physically impossible even thinking about doing that without caring about the person you'd kiss and consequently, you ended up not kissing anyone for a long, long time. 

Embarrassingly long. 

Eventually, you had forced yourself to get your first experiences out of the way just so you'd stop thinking there was something wrong with you. Obviously, they were all with people who didn't care much about you.

And you didn't exactly regret it. It made you realize that things like that aren't that big of a deal and, honestly,  sometimes it could be a sensory nightmare. So it's not like you'd be missing that much.

But deep, deep inside, you kind of wished you had them with someone you liked and who liked you back.

“Why would you do something you don't like just because of other people?” Lyca had now turned towards you, ears perked up and one eyebrow raised.

You sighed. Sometimes you think that if the world was as simple as Lyca thought it could be, everything would be a lot better.

“I'm sure you've noticed humans are very weird and stupid sometimes. That's another proof of that.” you didn't feel like explaining too much.

He hummed, deep in thought.

Suddenly, as you searched for whatever else he was thinking in his golden irises, you felt anxiety bubbling up in your stomach. Your mind was plagued by the thought of him being kissed by some random and uncaring person and you definitely didn't want him to make the same mistake as you.

“Listen. I don't want you to feel pressured when it comes to these things though.” you blurted out.

He looked at you quizzically, and then scoffed.

“I'm not feeling pressured.” he puffed his chest, as if the thought was unimaginable.

“No, I'm serious.” you tugged his hoodie's sleeve to keep his attention on you. “Even if it's not a big deal, I don't want you to kiss someone you don't like.”

He stared at you.

“Why?”

You felt your cheeks get warmer under his gaze.

“... Because I want you to have good memories. I want you to be able to remember most of your experiences fondly. I don't want you to regret anything nor feel hurt.”

Lyca stared at you, thinking. He had no problem with making eye contact even when he wasn't speaking and it served to make you even more embarrassed. Were you crossing a line? You were extremely protective of him, but he never asked any of that from you. What if you were just meddling in his business and annoying him? What if you were being a hurdle he had to cross over in order to feel more like a human? What if–

“Can you do it then?” Lyca suddenly said, snapping you out of your thoughts

You looked at him, eyes wide. Maybe you heard him wrong.

“What?”

“I wouldn't mind if you were the one who kissed me for the first time. I don't think I would regret it.” he said, scratching his head and, finally, breaking eye contact. 

He was embarrassed.

You blinked fast a few times, trying to gather your thoughts.

“A-are… are you sure?”

He dropped his arm to his side and nodded, serious as ever.

“Uhum. I am sure.”

“Don't you want to save it and do it with someone you like?”

“I like you.”

Oh god. Oh GOD.

“N-no, Lyca, I mean-”

“You don't want to kiss me?”

You rubbed your face with your hands, feeling how hot your skin was, and groaned.

“It's not that! I do want to- to kiss you! It's just-”

“Then do it.” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could possibly say.

You sighed and shifted in your seat.

“Are you sure?” you asked again. He rolled his eyes.

“I already said I am.”

“But are you REALLY sure?”

Lyca began growling, his wolf ears going flat against his head.

“I am sure!”

“Okay, then” you gulped, straightening your back and gathering all the courage you had inside “I'll have to come closer, okay?”

“Okay.” he nodded, also sitting up straight and watching your every movement.

You tentatively reached your hands towards Lyca's cheeks. He flinched as you touched him and you mouthed an apology before cupping them gently. You could feel how warm his skin was getting as you got closer and closer to his face.

His eyes were wide, and his shaky breath fanned your skin as your lips were barely apart.

When you locked your lips against his, it felt like he was melting under your touch – you felt his shoulders sagging and he unconsciously placed his hands on your waist.

It didn't feel like any kiss you had before. He was clearly clumsy and didn't know what to do (and, honestly, neither did you), but the warmth of his body embraced you gently and, when you glided your hands to his neck, you could feel the fast and loud drum of his heart under your fingertips – it was so endearing, it made you dizzy.

As you softly sucked on his bottom lip, you wondered why it all felt so sweet – were you falling for him? –, but right as you began thinking too much about it, he let out a little gasp that scrambled every coherent thought.

You brought him closer to you and pressed your lips flush against his, squeezing his shoulders with your hands before letting go and finally pushing him away. You didn't want to cross any boundaries by deepening the kiss without his consent, after all. Just touching him without having him bite your hand off was a huge achievement, so the kiss felt like a trophy.

Once you opened your eyes, Lyca was already watching you with pupils blown wide; his golden iris was barely visible and he stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless.

“Lyca! You're supposed to close your eyes when you kiss.” you playfully tapped the top of his head.

His face was scarlet red and he hid it behind the sleeve of his hoodie.

“We-well, you have to tell me that first!”

You sighed, smiling at his embarrassment, but you were sure you didn't look much different.

As you tried to calm your own racing heart, a loud thump-thump-thump caught your attention, and you peeked behind Lyca.

You gasped, trying to suppress a giggle.

His tail was wagging wildly, hitting the couch in a steady rhythm.

“I guess I don't really need to ask if you liked the kiss, do I?” You teased him, hiding how big your smile was with your hands.

“ARGH” he pushed his tail down, trying to immobilize it. “Shut up!”

You didn't know if he was talking to you or to his own tail. You let your arms fall to your sides.

“Hey, it's okay, I really liked the kiss, you know? Don’t be embarrassed.” you said, between chuckles.

He stared at you wide-eyed, searching your face for any hint of a lie or of a joke. When he couldn't find any of that, his tail began wagging once again, much to his dismay.

“T-thank you.” he grumbled, again avoiding your eyes.

Right then, as you watched him blush and fidget on his seat, you thought that maybe you could say that was your very own first kiss as well.

[vroomvroomcircuit]

A never-ending Worry

(A/N): Ikea gave me a big anxiety attack the other day. Here we are now.

Summary: Reader discovers her own anxiety together with Max through several instances.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Wordcount: 2k

🏎Masterlist🏎 _____________________ Anxiety is a peculiar thing, especially when you suffer from it. It is for (Y/N) at least.

Ever since her first anxiety attack at the ripe age of 16 years, (Y/n) started to worry. About everything. All the damn time. Her head is running the whole time, thinking about different scenarios that could happen. Like her best friend once said:

“The possibility of a baby killing you is slim, but never zero.”

Maybe the possibilities for any of the “what ifs” really happening is low, but she will be prepared if it does happen. It’s an odd sense of safety she can find refuge in, especially in a world of unpredictability.

This is where the peculiarity comes into play. She does not have the knowledge or vocabulary to describe it all.

But (Y/N) never really talked about her constant worries coupled with a never ending feeling of nervousness. Never spoke of this feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone feels like that, right?

“Hey Schatje? How many pairs of underwear have you packed for us?” Max called out for (Y/N) as he unpacked their suitcases, that his girlfriend herself packed for the two a couple of days before the trip even started.

A bit befuddled by his question, (Y/N) walks from the kitchen of the rental apartment, where she just finished putting away the groceries they got from their first run to the supermarket, to the bedroom.

“10 pairs for each of us. Do you think it won’t be enough? We can still go out and get some more tomorrow.” Max halts his movements for a second to check if her serious tone matches her face.

It does.

His girlfriend really means what she said.

“No, they will definitely suffice. You do know that we are here for only four days, right?” Max smiles at her. Maybe she just got something mixed up.

“Yes, of course. I planned our activities. It would be bad if I didn’t know about the length of our vacation.” She laughs to herself while moving to help Max unpacking. “Why are you asking?”

“Oh, nothing particular. Just checking.” Ok so. It is a thing for many women to overpack, especially regarding their underwear. “Can you explain your thoughts on the number to me? Why did you decide to pack 20 pairs of underpants in total?”

(Y/N) throws him a look. “Well, we need at least four, one for each day. Then I doubled that number, because something could have gone wrong on our car ride here or will on our way back, making us stay on vacation longer. Then eight felt like it’s not enough. Adding to the extra days, an accident could happen that makes you need an extra pair a day, right? And nine is an odd number that is not even a prime number, so I rounded up to ten. Completely logical.”

Well, it’s logical to her at least. Max was partially amazed by her train of thoughts and worries. He just let it be like that. After all, it’s just over packing and he loves how prepared she is in any given situation.

Prepared (Y/N) is. Always.

“Man, it is so hot, my fingers are sticky with sweat.” Daniel complaints. It’s a race weekend in Singapore and the Aussie is right. It is hot.

(Y/N), who walks with Daniel around the paddock while she waits for Max to get out of a meeting, starts to rummage in her backpack. The back she carries with her all the time. It’s close to iconic.

“Here is some hand disinfectant. It makes you feel a bit less sticky.”

Daniel smiles thankfully while taking the little bottle from the female’s hands. “Thank you. I just need to remember to put on some lotion, I don’t want my hands to dry out.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, she replaces the disinfectant with another small bottle. “Don’t worry, I got you girl.” She winks at the Aussie.

“Oh wow, do you have everything important with you? Can you flee the country with that backpack spontaneously?” Daniel jokes, but it goes over her head.

“Yes, pretty much. I got a small first aid kit, my laptop and all needed chargers for my electronics. Oh, and my passport and IDs of course. Ah, and some small knick-knacks and snacks. Gotta be prepared for the worst case scenario, right?” Her seriousness unsettles something in the driver. But he kind of lets it go, just nodding to her statement. She is right, at least a bit, after all.

“Do you get more nervous when you get into the car? Or is your level of nervousness on the same level?

(Y/N) and Max cuddle in bed back in the safety of their home in Monaco. While asking the question in the wariness of the night, she traces the same shapes over and over again in her partner’s skin. It gives her an odd feeling of safety, the repetition.

Max has a confused look on his face. “What do you mean?” “Well, does your level of feeling nervous rise from the usual one before or during a race?” It sounds plausible to her. But it doesn’t for him.

Max sits up, leaning his upper body against the headboard to have a better look at his girlfriend. “Yes, it does rise, because my usual level of nervousness is zero like for everyone else. Of course I feel different from that, when I get into the car that can bring me over the finish line as a winner. I don’t get the question.”

(Y/N) blinks at him with a frown. “Not- no, not everyone’s level is zero. It’s really just for you that low.” Of course Max is always cool as a cucumber. He only gets this feeling in extreme situations.

“Oh Schtaje. It’s really not. Most people don’t feel nervous often. Do you?” He pulled her close to him, enveloping her completely.

“Not always. Right now, I’m not. But that is, because I’m with you. I know that together we can solve anything.” Max senses that (Y/N) doesn’t want to continue the conversation. He lets it be another time, partially to not make her feel completely uncomfortable in a peaceful moment, partially because he wants to do some research.

Her conversation with her boyfriend sparked something inside (Y/N). Hearing that not everyone is feeling the same way she does, it’s a lot to take in. So she started to do some reading of her own.

Many people on the internet describe the same moments she has: Constant nervousness, the need of being prepared at all times or she’ll break out in a sweat, plus the endless worrying.

And the sudden bursts of intense panic. These moments, where an all consuming fear grips her whole body into a chokehold. That makes her breaths become heavier and her thoughts even faster.

Reading about similar experiences to hers, it makes (Y/N) feel less alone. But one word stood out to her.

Anxiety.

She heard of it and has seen the portrayals on TV. But those are not what she feels. Or is it?

Everything and nothing make sense at the same time.

“Do you want to drive?” Max offers as they get ready to go out for dinner at a restaurant that is a tad too far away to be considered walkable distance. He regularly lets her drive, it’s a bit of emancipation. Why shouldn’t she drive when she has a license for that?

(Y/N) shakes her head no. “I don’t like today’s thoughts. I also feel extra nervous right now, I couldn’t find the menu of the restaurant online.” Max nods, understanding what kind of thoughts she is talking about - intrusive thoughts.

He also appreciates her openness with him about those feelings. “It’s ok, Schatje. I love driving for you, it’s my favorite kind of ride. We will also find something for you, we can order some dishes and share them until you decide which one you want.” He gives her a reassuring kiss on the cheek, hoping to ease up her worries.

During the drive, she holds his hand on the control stick. “It’s good to have you back. Last night I woke up in a panic and thought something must have happened to you on your flight and that this was the reason I had this huge anxiety attack. I couldn’t sleep until you texted me this morning when you landed at the airport.”

His heart grows heavy at that confession. He hasn’t known the extent of her anxious feelings. Max didn’t know how much they overshadowed her in her daily life.

(Y/N) herself never realized how much she has been hindered in her routines by her own thoughts and worries.

“It wasn’t the first time this happened. But it was the worst it has been so far. I thought you died. I waited for my phone to ring or the police to stand at the door, getting notified that you died in a plane crash. I already planned the next steps I had to take from there in my head.” (Y/N) doesn’t dare to look at her boyfriend after this admission.

It is weird to say something out loud, that she used to bury deep inside of her. This kind of vulnerability, it makes her want to crawl back into that hole again.

Over the last couple of weeks she realized that those spiraling thoughts are not here to make her feel safe. That the need of over preparedness is not necessary. That her anxious feelings are not some signs of something bad.

These thoughts are false friends, waiting for your demise, your downfall, to be able to say “I told you so”.

But where to go from here, from the realization of something going gravely wrong, to getting a grip of the situation. To make it all go away?

Max squeezes her hand before putting a kiss on it without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m here for you. I want to hear all those thoughts. As silly as they may sound out loud. I can help you in differentiating if they are necessary, needed, thoughts or if they are the product of overthinking. I want to help you. I want you to not feel anxious all the time. I want to help you through the anxiety attacks. We can get counseling - for only you or together. Just, let me be here for you during every step you take.”

His pleading brings tears to (Y/N)’s eyes. She didn’t know how noticeable her anxiety issues were to outsiders. She doesn’t know what it feels like for Max, seeing her in her most anxious states.

“Yes”, she answers him, “I want you to be here with me. I don’t know if I can do it on my own.” “You don’t need to find out. I’ll be there, for better or for worse.”

Turns out, Max’ deadpan and brutal honesty is exactly what (Y/N) needs.

The evening, where he was away for a race and she had to stay behind, because of her own work schedule. (Y/N) called him in the middle of a not very pretty anxiety attack. “I have this doctor’s appointment. It’s a check-up for my physical health. And what if I-I’m deathly sick and we are catching onto that only now?”

“This is a dumb thought.”

The female halts in her movements. Is it a dumb thought?

“I mean, yes. I regularly go out to donate blood. But maybe they haven’t caught something important accidentally.”

“That is stupid and unlikely.”

She stops again. “You are right. I actually have nothing to worry about.”

The road to having less anxiety is a twisted one, paved by setbacks and a small gap between succeeding and failing. But with Max as a passenger princess on that path (Y/N) knows she got it.

She will be ok, eventually.

[hwashotcheeto]

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 (8)

Best Friend's Mother Masterlist

Chapter: Eight

Milf!Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: As Wooyoung promised, the three of you filled the two weeks leading up to the party with nothing but excitement.

WC: 4.4k (Damn)

CW: Mostly fluffy antics, one scene is suggestive, ending scene is angsty, argument, crying, talks of a narcissistic/abusive parent (again), hugs, cuddles

AN: This chapter is more of a montage, if that makes sense. It's multiple short moments all put into one chapter, all on different days over the two weeks between chapter 7 and chapter 9.

I felt like that made the most sense (and was the best way to write this) for the bridge to the Christmas party.

And this is also to prepare you all for the Christmas party because it will be a lot. So please, enjoy this, and be prepared! 💜

Tag List: @hyunjinsjeans @malldreamprincess @unlikelysublimekryptonite @becauseilovedyou @kittkat44 @babyxhoiz @asleepylilcat @mxnsxngie @rxnexxi @mommahwa1117 @acciocriativity @anxiousskylar @h3arteyes4mingi @jus2passtime

Seonghwa came into the kitchen with a large white binder and put it down on the counter. The front of the binder had “Recipes” written across the front in pretty cursive. 

You and Wooyoung looked from either side of him as he flipped the binder to a “dessert” section and began looking through the cookies. 

All the recipes were put into plastic sleeves, with no writing or scribbles, and perfectly straight. 

“Can we do those?” Wooyoung asked, stopping Seonghwa on a recipe for double chocolate cookies. .

“For Christmas cookies?” Seonghwa clarified. Wooyoung looked at Seonghwa like he didn’t understand the question. 

“Why not? Chocolate is popular at Christmas.” Seonghwa sighed and shook his head. Wooyoung made a small noise of protest, but went quiet as Seonghwa went back to looking through the recipes. 

By the end (after a few more interruptions from Wooyoung), each of you were given a different cookie to make. Wooyoung set up by the stove. Seonghwa had most of the counter space, and you were at the kitchen table. 

It wasn’t long before the chaos began. 

“Eomma, I can’t find the vanilla,” Wooyoung called, going over to Seonghwa, who was reading over his recipe. He looked up to see Wooyoung rummaging through a cabinet. You saw Seonghwa’s whole body cringe seeing Wooyoung move bottles and knock them over. 

You couldn’t help but giggle as Seonghwa rushed over and stopped Wooyoung. He reorganized the cabinet before he located the vanilla and gave it to Wooyoung. You saw a little smirk on Wooyoung’s face as he sweetly thanked Seonghwa. 

You smiled as you went back to your recipe, continuing to make the cookie you were assigned. Things were calm for another thirty seconds before Wooyoung piped up again. 

Wooyoung came over to the table and took the flour from you just as you reached for it. “Hey, I need that!” You called, going after him. 

“So do I, I’ll be done in a second.” 

You stood befuddled as you watched Wooyoung intentionally take his time slowly adding the flour to his dough. Slowly spooning the flour into the measuring cup before he dumped it into the mixture. He even took the time to scrape the flour out of the measuring cup. 

“You’re an ass,” you muttered. Wooyoung just gave you a big bright smile. 

“But you love me!” 

“I don’t know where you got that idea.” You yanked the flour away from him the second he was done with it and went back to the table. Wooyoung dramatically gasped before he started fake crying. 

The whole nine yards, with loud wails and rubbing his eyes like a baby. 

“Eomma,” he fake sobbed as he went over to hug Seonghwa, hiding his face in his sweater, still faking the crying. 

Seonghwa didn’t even look at him, he’d heard the whole interaction. He just petted Wooyoung’s hair as he continued mixing his dough. You shook your head as you finished using the flour. 

“Eomma, didn’t you hear?” Wooyoung whined, looking up at Seonghwa with dry puppy eyes. Seonghwa still didn’t look at him, but nodded silently. “You love me, don’t you?” 

“Of course I do,” Seonghwa finally said. He looked away from the bowl for just a second to kiss Wooyoung’s head. Apparently, that’s all Wooyoung needed before he went back to his station to make his cookies. 

The peace stayed for a bit longer this time. In that new lull of peace, Seonghwa softly began to sing. It was a song you didn’t know, one in Korean, but it sounded gorgeous. 

Especially hearing Seonghwa sing it. His voice was so soothing to listen to, soft and smooth, effortlessly transitioning from note to note and across the scales. His voice was comparable to bird song with how sweet the melody was. 

You took extra care to stay quieter so you could hear his voice. You noticed Wooyoung did the same. 

When the song ended, you were a little disappointed. You wanted to hear more. 

You were about to ask Seonghwa if he could sing another song when Wooyoung piped up. 

“You’ll put me to sleep if you keep singing.” All three of you laughed. But even despite the lullaby nature of Seonghwa’s soft singing, you wanted him to keep going. You wanted another song. Anything to hear more of his voice. 

But you knew there was some truth to Wooyoung’s joke. So you let it go and focused on the cookies. 

You all finished your dough around the same time. Half of your batches were baked then, and the other half of the dough would be frozen so you could bake them the day of the party. 

(Cookies are also better if you freeze the dough first, but Wooyoung whined about the idea of waiting any longer for his cookies)

And after you three had cleaned up, you all sat at the table waiting for the cookies to be done. You were the one to start the conversation. 

“You didn’t tell me your mom was a singer,” you said to Wooyoung as Seonghwa sat down next to him. The slight flush in his cheeks wasn’t missed by you. 

Wooyoung shrugged. “He doesn’t sing in front of people much.” He looked at Seonghwa disapprovingly, with his eyebrows down with a frown. “When he should, because he’s good at it.” Seonghwa looked away as his face turned redder. 

“I just don’t feel like it all the time.” 

“You should,” you encouraged, smiling warmly. “Your voice is beautiful.” Seonghwa smiled back at you. 

“Thank you, sweetie.” Your heart fluttered and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. 

Wooyoung scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You guys can be gushy later, I’m still here.” 

You and Seonghwa both laughed, but you both turned your attention back to Wooyoung. 

“So, who’s all coming?” Wooyoung asked, propping his head up on his hand. 

“Your uncles are coming, Yunho and Mingi,” he began, looking off into space, trying to remember everything. “The cousins that usually come to the functions too.” He paused for a second, trying to remember. “Oh, Hongjoong said he’d come.” 

“Hongjoong?” Wooyoung clarified, sitting up properly, his eyes lighting up. 

“Yes, I texted him, and he said he’d come.” 

Wooyung smiled so big and silently celebrated, bouncing in his seat a little bit. When he looked back up at you, he saw your confusion and calmed back down, ready to explain, but Seonghwa took over instead. 

“Hongjoong is one of my previous boyfriends. He and I are still on good terms, he’s Wooyoung’s favorite.” 

“Because he’s the best!” Wooyoung bounced again. Seonghwa smiled softly to himself. 

Hongjoong was his favorite too. They were great as friends, but not so much as a couple. They spent years trying to work it out, to figure out how they could function together, but it just didn’t work out. 

But even if they didn’t agree to just stay as friends, Wooyoung would never let Hongjoong go. 

“He’s a music producer,” Wooyoung started, “So obviously, he makes and produces music, and he took me with him to work sometimes, and it was SO COOL, because I got to see the studios and meet artists and I even got to help with some of the projects!” 

“He also bought you almost anything you asked for,” Seonghwa added. Wooyoung’s face fell and he waved his hand at Seonghwa. 

“That’s not why he’s my favorite, that’s not important!” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, but you were certainly intrigued. You were definitely looking forward to meeting Hongjoong, and the rest of their family. The uncles Seonghwa mentioned, and the cousins as well. 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, he’s coming, and maybe a few friends, but we’ll see as the weeks go on. It’ll be a smaller party this year.”

“In that case, can my friends come?” Wooyoung asked, looking at Seonghwa with hopeful eyes. He’d never expected to bring you along, but now that he had, what’s stopping him from inviting the rest of his friends? 

Seonghwa’s response was just a shrug. “I don’t see why not.” 

You and Wooyoung smiled brightly. 

Christmas would be amazing this year. 

Not long later, the cookies were done. They were delicious. 

“Which one of you has the gold paper?!” Wooyoung yelled from the living room, looking through his collection of wrapping paper tubes. 

“I do!” You yelled back as you grabbed it, going to the living room to give it to Wooyoung. He shrieked when you came around the corner. 

“No, just throw it! Don’t look!” 

“None of the presents are mine anyway, why does it matter?!” 

“Because you’ll spoil the surprise for other people!” 

“I don’t even know everyone or whose present is whose!” 

Distantly, in his bedroom upstairs, you could hear Seonghwa dying laughing. 

You sighed and tossed the wrapping paper onto the floor and went back to the gifts you were wrapping. 

Wooyoung’s demand was even more outrageous because the gifts you were wrapping were for the same people Wooyoung’s gifts were. 

Seonghwa had bought most of the gifts for the family that was coming, and others for one's he was going to mail to those who couldn’t make it. You offered to help wrap the many gifts he bought, since it would take him ages if he did it on his own. 

Wooyoung bought some of his gifts for the family on his own, but you knew none of the ones he was currently working on were for you or Seonghwa. 

You knew this because he told he’d done it already and was hiding it in his room. 

You sat back down at the kitchen table and went back to wrapping the gifts. It wasn’t long later before you heard Seonghwa calling for wrapping paper you had. 

You got up to go give it to him, but Wooyoung met you at the stairs. “I’ll take it up to him,” he insisted, grabbing the other end of the tube. 

“No, it’s fine,” you argued, trying to pull it back. Wooyoung shook his head and tried to pull it back, firmer this time. 

“It’s okay, I had to go up there anyway, he has one I want.”��

Well that was suspicious, especially since he’d just asked you for a different wrapping paper a minute ago. 

But he’d always yanked the tube out of your hand and was running up the stairs. 

You almost chased after him, but decided against it, and once again, went back to the table. 

 You and Wooyoung were whispering to each other from the living room as Seonghwa was making dinner, while the TV was loudly playing a movie to cover up your whispers. 

“Repeat after me,” Wooyoung started. “Yeobo.” 

“Yeobo,” you whispered back. Wooyoung nodded. 

“Okay, good, you’re getting better.” You and Wooyoung both smirked in satisfaction. The plan was coming together. 

Wooyoung had taught you a couple other Korean words to be able to make a flirty comment to Seonghwa. An ambitious sentence that translated to “Your dress would look prettier on the floor, baby.” 

You’d been practicing your pronunciation with Wooyoung since Seonghwa had started dinner, though you’d been working together on this for a few days by then. And since Seonghwa was finally wearing a dress tonight, you had the chance to say it. 

You’d been staring at the dress all night, you couldn’t help yourself. A short black dress with holes cut out for the chest and shoulders, and slits by the thighs. 

But it would definitely look better on the floor. 

“Dinner is done!” Seonghwa called, right on cue. Wooyoung gave you a reassuring smirk before he got up from the couch. 

You followed him, your heart thundering as you whispered the phrase to yourself, making sure the pronunciation was correct, repeating it over and over again, until you sat down at the table with Seonghwa and Wooyoung. 

And you were terrified. You spoke very little throughout the meal to hide your nervousness. Even with Wooyoung giving you encouraging looks across the table, you couldn’t work up the courage to say it. 

Until the meal was over and the clean up began. 

Like every other meal, you were helping Seonghwa clean up. You were rinsing the dishes off and putting them in the dishwasher as Seonghwa was putting any leftover food away. Wooyoung was wiping down the table, taking his time to hopefully hear the moment you said the line to Seonghwa. 

As you put the last plate in the dishwasher, you took one final breath, and walked up to Seonghwa. 

He looked up at you for a second before he focused back on the food. “Yes dear?” He asked as he put the lid on another container. 

You replayed the sentence in your head before you finally spit it out, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice, saying it exactly how Wooyoung had taught you. 

Seonghwa whipped his head back to you, his face instantly going red and his eyes going wide. Wooyoung covered his mouth as he tried to keep his witch cackle laugh silent. 

Seonghwa’s instant reaction was to ask you “When and where did you learn that?” but he saw his son dying of laughter out of the corner of his eye, so that answered his question immediately. 

So your moment of pride for making Seonghwa blush was short lived as he smirked instead, and said something equally seductive in Korean back to you. 

At the time, you had no idea what he said. But his voice was deeper when he spoke Korean, so his voice still sent chills down your spine and all over your body regardless. 

He could’ve told you he was going to take the trash out and you still would’ve been flustered from his voice. 

Seonghwa winked before he took the food and put it into the fridge, walking away. He was planning to tell you what he said later, when you two were alone, but Wooyoung beat him to it. 

Wooyoung ran over to you, giddy and excited, laughing as your face turned redder and redder. 

“He said ‘You better keep that promise’.” 

The fireplace roared as snow sprinkled onto the Earth outside. The only light in the living room came from the fire and the fake candles Seonghwa had strewn around the room, illuminating you and Seonghwa’s bodies. You were laying on his chest between his legs, your arms around his waist, his arms tightly holding you to his chest. 

Wooyoung had, once again, left you two alone for the night. He’d shown himself to his room after Seonghwa had suggested making hot cocoa for the both of you and curling up by the fire. 

And here you were, but the mugs of cocoa were forgotten on the coffee table as Seonghwa gazed down at you. You were now familiar with the look he gave you, his half lidded dark eyes and his lips slightly parted. 

But he wasn’t rushing into it. He took one of his hands and cradled your head in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. You leaned into his hand and melted into his touch. 

“What do you want for Christmas, jagiya?” Seonghwa said softly, barely above a whisper. 

Honestly, you hated this question. Any time anyone asked the question “What do you want for Christmas/your birthday/any other gifting occasion,” you forgot everything you ever wanted in your life. And initially, your mind did blank. 

But then you knew what you wanted, and you smiled warmly. “I’m happy with anything if I’m here with you and Wooyoung.” 

“Anything?” 

You were about to nod and confirm it, but then the blankness in your mind turned into an idea. 

“Actually, maybe something I could bring back to college to tell people I have a boyfriend.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes lit up and he smiled so big. “Your boyfriend?” You could see the light and adoration in his eyes. The pure delight, the warmth in his smile. He pulled you even closer than before, his lips hovering above yours. 

You couldn’t help but smile back, the excitement spreading through your bones and lighting up your body like thousands of little pricks of electricity. Yes, he was your boyfriend. You wanted him to be your boyfriend. 

And you said as much. 

“Yes, my boyfriend,” you whispered, your eyes falling half closed like his. Seonghwa’s lips parted again as he pulled you just a little bit closer. 

“Then do you know what I want for Christmas?” 

His voice sent shivers down your spine again, and you gulped as you looked up at him for him to continue. 

“I want you, gorgeous,” he breathed as he pulled your lips to his. You gladly kissed him back, the desire spilling over the rest of your body all over again. 

Until you felt something slap your head. 

You pulled back and went up to touch the spot that was slapped, and there was a plastic gift bow on your head. 

And from behind the couch, Wooyoung popped up with a big shit eating grin on his face. 

“Aww, you’re a cute little present,” he cooed, making his voice high and whiney and intentionally annoying. 

“You shit,” you grumbled, yanking the bow off our head and throwing it at Wooyoung. He just giggled as he ran off to his room, satisfied with his mischief. 

Seonghwa was giggling to himself as you sighed in frustration. In the back of your head, you were already resigning and thinking the moment was ruined and the tension was gone. 

Until Seonghwa pulled you back and pressed a kiss to your cheek, and peppered kisses across your skin to your lips, taking his time until you were relaxed back in his arms. He smiled into the kiss before he paused and pulled back for just a moment. 

“You are a cute little present, jagiya,” he whispered, and then held you tighter. “My cute little present.” 

And as he kissed you again, with desire and need, the world faded out. All that was in your head was his words. 

My cute little present.

Yes, yes you were. 

You finished buttoning your coat as Seonghwa did the same, with a large black wool coat that went down to his sides. For the first time since you met him, he looked more masculine, wearing a tailored men’s suit. 

It still gave you butterflies just like any other outfit he’d worn. 

“Wooyoung!” He called out, grabbing his keys. “I’m going out, I’ll be back in a couple hours.” 

Wooyoung came into the room then, and he pouted when he saw you ready to go. “You’re stealing my friend?” 

You looked at Seonghwa confused. You’d assumed he’d told Wooyoung, which is why you never said anything. But now you were surprised with the knowledge that he hadn’t. 

“It won’t be long, we’re only going to two stores,” Seongha argued, reaching for the door. 

“But you’re taking my friend.” Wooyoung whined again and stomped his foot like a child. By this point, you knew it was a joke, but you still felt a little guilty that your friend wasn’t informed that you were leaving with his mother. 

“Again, nae sarang, it won’t be long.” 

Wooyoung made another noise of anger before he stormed over and grabbed your arm, pulling you into a tight hug. 

“They’re my friend before your date!” He yelled, squeezing you tight. You couldn’t help but laugh, especially when Wooyoung giggled too. But there was truth to his claim. 

“I’m not arguing that,” Seonghwa continued, his lips twitching as he fought the smile that was forcing its way in. “But they wanted to come with me when I mentioned I was going out.” 

You piped up next, looking at your dear, whiny, childish friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Woo. I promise I will next time.” 

“No!” He cried again. “You’re staying with me! My friend!” 

And with that began a wild chase through the extravagant house, with Wooyoung pulling you along through the halls and rooms with Seonghwa chasing behind. There were a few times when Seonghwa grabbed a hold of you, but Wooyoung would quickly snatch you back. 

You were all laughing the entire time. 

When you all were finally out of breath and laying across the living room furniture, Wooyoung admitted “defeat.”

“I guess I’ll let you go,” he panted, as if he was giving you permission. You laughed breathlessly as you sat up. 

You knew he wasn’t serious, and that Wooyoung knew he didn’t actually own you and wasn’t actually giving you permission. But it all stemmed from one valid point he had. 

They’re my friend before your date. 

You’d been spending more time with Seonghwa than you had with Wooyoung for the last week or so. Usually, all three of you were together, and you found something to do. But you’d chosen Seonghwa more than your friend that brought you together. 

“Can we hang out when I get back?” You asked as you looked at him. Wooyoung turned his head from where he was laying across the arms of a chair across from you. 

He just looked at you for a few seconds. Then you saw the shift, and he realized that you understood the whole point. He smiled so big, and you couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Yeah, of course. We’ll play some games and maybe annoy Eomma.” 

“Are you sure that’s a pastime you want to add to your list?” Seonghwa asked, getting up from his spot on the couch. Wooyoung just smiled at him as he always did. Seonghwa sighed as he looked at you. “Are you ready to go, sweetheart?” 

You nodded as you stood up with him, and Wooyoung waved you both good bye. He made sure to watch as Seonghwa’s car drove away before he grabbed his phone and went to his contacts to find San’s name. 

“Is that the last of it?” You asked as you wrapped up another glass bowl full of food for the party the next day. 

“Yes,” Seonghwa said as he nodded. “I’m going to clean up, and then we just wait for tomorrow.” 

“Finally.” Wooyoung sighed as he put some of the dishes into the dishwasher. “I think if I look at any more food, I’ll throw up.” 

You shared the sentiment as you put the bowl into the fridge, You’d spent the last few hours prepping food for the Christmas party with Seonghwa and Wooyoung. You learned a lot about Korean food, which was a positive. 

But as you flopped onto the couch in the living room, you wanted nothing more than to pass out and be done with prep work and chores for the night. 

You could feel sleep pulling you in, and you were about to fall right in and sleep on the couch. 

“Wooyoung, your mother is coming to the party tomorrow.” 

Your eyes flew open. 

“What?” Was all Wooyoung said at first. “Why, how does she even know?” 

“She asked.” 

“And you said yes?!” 

You shrank back down on the couch, pretending you were actually asleep. You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, this conversation wasn’t meant for you to hear. 

But getting up and leaving now felt a little awkward, and you knew you would’ve heard about it from Wooyoung tomorrow. 

“She texted me asking if I’d seen you, because she hasn’t seen you since the school year started-” 

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that.” 

“Wooyoung, you can’t just ignore her-” 

You heard something hit the counter. “Yes I can!” 

“Wooyoung, stop cutting me off.” 

Seonghwa’s voice dropped an octave, and you could imagine the look he was giving Wooyoung as he stared at him. You could also imagine the desperate look on Wooyoung’s face, and the helplessness he was feeling when he agreed to be silent. 

“You haven’t told her why you don’t like her, you just stopped speaking to her. I don’t care who it is, Wooyoung, you can’t just drop out of people’s lives without an explanation.” 

“She doesn’t deserve one.” 

“I know she doesn’t deserve one, but you do.” There was a pause. “If you don’t, she won’t leave you alone, and if you don’t want her in your life, then you need to tell her.” 

“She wouldn’t accept it.” 

“And what if she does, Wooyoung? What if it works?” 

“She won’t!” By now, Wooyoung was sobbing, his voice strangled, his words choked. “You know this, Eomma, she won’t! It won’t work!” 

They both went silent, save for Wooyoung’s muffled cries, as you could imagine Seonghwa holding him tight. 

Your nose burned and your throat closed up as tears formed in your own eyes. Your heart was pounding so hard, you could hear it in your head. 

It was all too familiar. You swore you could remember thinking the same things. Having this argument with yourself for years before you went to college. Talking with your friends at the time about it, your family, and them telling you the same things. 

But there was no monster in this world scarier than the beings who brought you into this world. 

You got up from the couch and quickly made your way to the stairs, going to your room as fast as you could. You didn’t care if they saw anymore. 

You buried your face in the pillows and cried. You cried in memory of your parents. You cried for Wooyoung’s pain. You cried because you knew so many others felt this awful pain. 

And you’d lost the birth lottery. You were one of them. So was Wooyoung. 

You’d fallen asleep at some point, who knows when it was. But at some point, you were woken up by Seonghwa and Wooyoung crawling into your bed with you. Wooyoung hugged you from the back, Seonghwa held you against his chest. 

“What are you both doing here?” You mumbled, still half asleep. 

Neither of them said anything. Either because they didn’t hear you, or because the answer was obvious. 

You all were hurting in one way or another. And you all would be there for each other. 

You closed your eyes as you leaned your head on Seonghwa’s chest, and laid your hand on Wooyoung’s. He shifted to hold your hand instead, lacing his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly. 

It felt safe. It felt like home. Wooyoung felt it too. So did Seonghwa. 

Whatever happened, the three of you would be together. You’d be safe. 

Tomorrow could end any number of ways. But you all knew you’d be together by the end of it. 

And no one on this Earth could take that away from you.

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol(s) in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

[fickleminder]

The Devil Who Loved Me

AU. The aftermath of being rescued by a handsome secret agent who might or might not be entirely human.

I literally could not stop staring at Satan’s latest card (the detective one I had to bankrupt myself again to pull) and with all the controversy over the new date feature, this little fic was born 🥰💚

You’d never been a fan of boat rides, but surprisingly this one wasn’t causing your motion sickness to act up. Whoever was at the helm of this vessel knew how to handle her smoothly. You could barely feel the rocking of the waves as she cruised steadily to who-knows-where.

Too distracted by the sounds of the ocean and the shrinking view of the island resort, your shoulders jumped when a warm jacket was draped over them. You looked up to see the blond agent who had whisked you away in the dead of night, wearing a crooked grin on his handsome face.

"I'm afraid our escape was planned at the last minute so we're not properly equipped to host extra guests,” he remarked as he sat down next to you, keeping a respectful distance. “Levi sends his apologies.”

“Well, I’m glad he even let me onboard to begin with.” You pulled his jacket tighter over your flimsy night clothes, not realizing how chilly the salty air actually was until now. “Thanks.”

“What was I supposed to do? You were just standing there staring at me like a lost sheep.”

A lost sheep resigned to its fate in the slaughterhouse, he didn’t add. It had been a moment of impulse, grabbing your hand and dragging you to the docks with him. Despite being the Kingpin’s spouse, you had no part in his nefarious schemes. You were just one of his many trophies, but while you had no qualms helping the man who had broken into your room to snoop for information, you weren’t jumping at the chance to run away either.

“Where to?” The agent had asked when you took your first steps into Levi’s boat and towards freedom.

“I don’t know… I don’t— I have nothing,” you’d confessed in a daze, still gripping his hand tightly.

“Family?”

“…Not anymore. They took his money and didn’t look back.”

And now here you were, sailing with unknown men into uncharted waters. They could decide to toss you overboard to drown at any time, and yet you seemed relieved to be anywhere but in that luxurious hotel suite.

You ignored the comment about lost sheep, choosing to examine the jacket wrapped around your upper body instead. Your eyes zeroed in on the small holes perforating the smooth material, scattered around where your heart and stomach rested. Distant gunshots echoed in your ears, and you felt the phantom force of a solid back pressing you firmly against wallpaper, an immovable shield.

“Are you even human?” The words spilled out before you could stop yourself. Who were you to judge the skills of a trained secret agent anyway? “I heard them call you Satan, but I figured it was a codename or something…”

‘Satan’ raised an eyebrow, looking a mix of surprised and amused. His dress shirt and vest were equally riddled with holes, and yet not a single splotch of blood could be seen. “Asking the hard questions on the first date? How bold.”

Your cheeks warmed. Was he flirting with you? Surely not. “You’ve already seen me naked. A simple yes or no would have sufficed.”

Technically you had been wrapped in a damp towel when you walked in on him digging through your husband’s private documents, but close enough. He didn’t even bat an eyelash at the faint bruises painted across your skin, hidden by thick layers of makeup and concealer when you had first caught his attention in the casino the previous evening.

To Satan’s credit, he was a smooth talker with a smile that could charm anyone’s pants off. It was wasted on you though; he didn’t even have to seduce you for you to point out where your husband kept the papers and artifacts for the auction. In fact, you relished the memory of the befuddled agent’s jaw dropping when you simply sat down on the king-sized bed to dry your hair after handing him everything on a silver platter.

“What would you do if I said no?”

Satan’s low voice gave you pause. He looked completely serious now, and there was something in his eyes that seemed to glow supernaturally.

“…If you’re telling me that you’re the literal devil himself, then I’d say there’s no one better to escort me to hell.” You were probably going there for associating with a criminal empire anyway, albeit unwillingly; might as well walk through the gates with the most handsome demon you’d ever laid eyes on. “But why would the devil be sneaking around among humans on a remote island?”

“Let’s just say your husband has gotten his oily fingers into some prohibited magic circles,” Satan replied without missing a beat. It was your jaw’s turn to drop; it didn’t sound as though he was joking, and the Kingpin had been up to some extra shady stuff lately… “As one of the Seven Rulers, I was sent by Lord Diavolo to investigate.”

“Right. And Levi is short for Leviathan.”

Satan grinned playfully. “Of course. Who else could he be?”

Your head was beginning to spin. Maybe you were getting seasick after all. “I think I need a nap, and then hopefully things will start making sense after I wake up.”

“A tiny boat in the middle of the ocean is hardly the place for snoozing. Might I suggest a guest room in the Demon Lord’s Castle? You’ll find that the butler service there is second to none.”

“Whatever you say.” You were practically running on autopilot at this point, your mind no longer able to process the bizarreness of the conversation. “What’ll it cost me?”

“How about a proper date?” Satan winked at you. He took your hand and, when you didn’t resist, pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “I can show you all my favorite places in the Devildom.”

“…Okay.”

“Wonderful.” Satan turned towards the bow. “Levi, all clear! We can head back home now.”

“Aahhhh finally! I didn’t know how much longer I could pretend to steer this thing!” A purple-haired man emerged from the cockpit, looking completely frazzled. He stared at you curiously. “Is the normie coming with us?”

“Yes, Lord Diavolo would want to know as much detail as possible. Who better to help than the Kingpin’s very own spouse?”

“Makes sense. Anyway, we’re almost on top of one of the sea portals to the Devildom. Lotan can take us the rest of the way!”

“Wait, Levi don’t—!”

You ended up getting your nap after all, instantly passing out at the sight of a monstrous sea serpent emerging from the inky waves with a deafening roar.

[quiet-hypnotist]

Not Hypnotized

“I’m not hypnotized.” The words fizzled out in the dimly lit bedroom without any form of reaction, half forgotten the moment that they were said. Not because they would have been drowned out. This late at night even a faint whisper would have been easy to hear over the calm, steady sound of deep breaths and the barely unnoticable rustling of clothes on skin.

“I’m not spellbound.”

The only irregularity in the otherwise dark room was the pulsing swirl of coloured lights on the screen, yet that actually made it harder to really see any contours in the rest of the darkness surrounding it. So even attempting to look away would have been pointless.

“I’m not hypnotized.”

Just like it was pointless to wonder where the words were coming from or why they sounded so monotonous at each repetition. Looping facts did that after a while. Trying to analyze or interpret anything into it would have been a waste of brain cells when just thinking anything was already draining enough and sleep waited right around the corner.

“I’m not conditioned.”

The sounds hovered in the empty space as if said by someone far, far away. Detached, dazed, like the almost faded memory of a dream. They felt so unrelated to the creaking of the bed as weight shifted and muscles settled into a lazy yet eager rhythm, always tracing the same repetitive path in small circles. The pattern had a familiar quality to it as if having gone through it all so many times already to the point of not quite knowing when one time ended and the next began. There was something so soothing and natural about laying back, sinking down and rubbing without a single thought to spare about the how or why. After all, no matter what the reason was, it seemed pretty clear that it had nothing to do with the glowing words that appeared and disappeared on screen in midst the colourful lights.

“I’m not... hypnotized.”

It would be silly to see a connection between that feeling and the choir of voices that echoed from the speakers at just the right volume to draw attention yet subdued enough to never really feel that relevant. That would be like believing that there was a connection between the pace of the spiral and the speed at which that hand moved ceaselessly in circles. Or like claiming that somehow the fingersnaps echoing within the sound of the video were to blame for the way that thoughts just seemed to fall apart before they even finished forming. Coincidences, all of it. Amusing that they happened so often, certainly, but nothing that warranted a second thought. Maybe not even a first one.

“I’m not… mindless.”

The hand sped up just a little bit. Which had nothing to do with the subtle but growing change in the pattern on screen, of course. For what reason would a hand match its pace to the urgent pulsing of rippling bands of colour or the soft, husky moaning that accompanied the words whenever they flashed and became visible for just a moment or two?

“Not… hypnotized.”

The sound of slightly ragged breath mixed itself into the silence of the night and the shaking and rustling of a bed on which someone moved a lot. But none of those sounds felt important in any way or form. They concerned someone else, in another place at another time. Someone who was trying to think maybe. Someone who might be trying to read along as words and colours took turns. Since in order to form a thought perhaps one would need a chance to focus without distractions.

“Not… uhhhh...”

The voice trailed off. Trying to continue staring at the screen was surprisingly difficult and for a moment the sensation of a single tear rolling down and dropping onto the sheets was enough to lose focus. Yet once lost, it was even harder to remember what those eyes had been so focused on first and so they blinked and rolled, trying to shake the befuddled sense that they should just close like the echoes from the speakers seemed to insinuate. The longer they mumbled in the back of the video, the more they seemed to make sense. Which was the oddest thing really because the longer they moaned and giggled, the less they sounded like something that needed conscious attention.

“Blank...”

The voice had changed. Or maybe it was a different one from among the echoes that spelled out the words in front of the swirling spiral. Higher. Spaced out. Sounding so docile that it was hard to imagine it as a person’s voice as word after word bubbled into the room.

“Hypnotized..”

Every attempt at refocusing on the spiral led to blurry, teary eyes. Which led to blinking as the blinks got longer and longer, empty gaps in between brief moments of staring at the text that floated by. Lips moving as if they had a mind of their own, even if only the vapid breathy moan could be heard over the video.

“Brainwashed…!”

Pleasure ebbed and flowed through every fiber, matching the needy throbbing lights of the spiral so perfectly that even with blurry, glazed eyes watching the rhythm felt like the easiest thing in the world. The glowing text floated in and out of a head that felt far too sleepy to remember reciting it again and again.

“Oblivious...”

The pulses slowed. And so did all movement almost as if following the video’s guidance. Yet the warm pleasure remained, drawing attention back towards the dark square as if waiting. Yet there was no recognition as a spinning symbol popped up to indicate that the computer loaded the same file again from the start. The only thing that broke the silence of the moment was a small chain of words that fizzled out in the dimly lit room, forgotten the moment they were said.

“I’m not hypnotized.”

***

Did you like this story? Then there’s good news! You can consider heading over to my Patreon and pledge, which will keep me writing even more smut for you every week! Yes, for you! Since my patrons even get a chance to have me write their favorite things. So head over there and learn how!

[crocomum]

Lost Not Light: Chapter 2

Optimus Prime heeds Prowl's warnings about Megatron in the worst possible way; making him the tyrant's official chaperone aboard the Lost Light.

///////////////////////

Basically Prowl gets sent to the Lost Light for an attitude adjustment disguised as a mission and the Constructicons tag along, using the opportunity to more aggressively court their sixth now that he's essentially alone. ao3

Five Constructicons walk into a bar.

Chatter hushed to raised whispers; the bartender asked, “Any weapons?”

“Got your weapon right here,” Bonecrusher flexed. “A weapon of mass-construction.”

Awkward laughter, somebody coughed; the loud chatter and overcharged revelry recommenced. The little red and white bartender laughed the loudest, his expression of befuddled amusement. Bonecrusher grinned, real proud of himself for that one. Their entire night’s plan would fail if they couldn’t get their peds through Swerve’s door, and Bonecrusher was pretty sure he’d just earned them their ticket in with a good if hokey joke.

“Alright, alright,” the little bot nodded. “Tables are free, drinks aren’t—got any preference?”

Mixmaster took that as his cue to saddle up to the bar while the rest of them looked for the whole reason they’d decided to join in on the first night's fun.

Long Haul took point on locating their objective, using his height to scan over the crowd. Scavenger, their most curious member, turned his helm in every direction it could, not out of any enthusiasm for their objective, but to scope out all the bots who didn’t know him. Some who didn’t even know of him—the gestalt’s personal loose screw was already imagining how he could twine himself onto already established clicks; endearing himself to them in ways that had never worked among their old faction.

Bots liked chattery little try-hards. Decepticons? Scavenger never would have made it without the rest of the team, a fact they regularly reminded him of.    

Hook’s arms were crossed in front of his chassis, field held tightly around himself. The surgeon had never liked crowds—crowds meant mingling with the masses, potentially bumping armor, or even, primus forbid, talking to them. And their hoity-toity Hook was too good for that; mech thought himself too good for just about everything and everyone. Except for the gestalt. For Prowl. 

Bonecrusher only had optics for the low-quality engex, blues and bright yellows, floating in polished glasses on the bar counter, the high-grade cubes that glittered in mecha’s servos, reflecting its glowing energy off round, dirty tables, and sat unbound on shelves lined with Cybertronian liquor. All wonderful opportunities for the Bonecrusher to exhibit his virtuosity—all brilliant little bombs ready to go off with the right detonator.

Good stuff, that high-grade. Lower quality, but not cheap. Problem was, he could tell the additives it had been blended with from visuals alone; proving the blend hadn’t been mixed by a master.

The flints of minerals and metals glinted in the bar’s dim lighting, giving the cubes a glimmer that reflected off bright Autobot armor. The resulting destruction were he determined to set it off would have been pretty, bordering on beautiful, a fine example of Bonecrusher’s particular vision of art. Only there were too many variables out of his control, the timing of the sequential explosions, the specifics of minerals, and even the amount of high-grade in the bots’ tanks were unknowns that could spatter his work with imperfections. And if he couldn’t control every aspect of the demolition, it wouldn’t be perfect; if it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth it.

Prowl was worth it.

There were a lot of faces surrounding the bar, hopped up on stools, even more crowded together at the tables pushed up against the wall; toward the back, there was a circle of mecha who had cleared space for their own makeshift dance floor. If their unsynchronized bouncy shuffles could even be considered dancing. Huh, looks like the old Decepticon adage that an Autobot’s back-strut was too stiff to dance was right.

Simply put, the place was stuffed fuller than a pleasure-bot on payday.

Bonecrusher grinned behind his mask at the pack of wannabe dancers, wondering if he could convince Long Haul to toss Hook into the mass, and give this party some real entertainment. A ripple of amusement passed through the bond as Long Haul picked up on his thoughts. Beside them, Hook’s armor drew in impossibly tighter even as his field lashed out in warning at his conspiratorial teammates.

Don’t you dare.

They shared a chuckle at their surgeon’s expense but left the idea as nothing more than an amusing thought. Heavy-duty frames like theirs had to tread lightly on razor-thin ice; they couldn’t afford to crack through the Autobots' scarcely gained tolerance. There was too much ground for the Constructicons to lose so early into the voyage.

Was a big night, the first night. The Lost Light had breached Cybertron’s atmosphere and in less than a breem, the sounds of partying could be heard all throughout the ship. It bounced through the halls, coming from closed doors and shared recreational spaces, but the loudest had come from the bar. Music and mechs—now femmes too—all excitedly jabbering about what the voyage held, what their part would be in the grand epic of a quest: the adventure, the mystery, the romance.

Bonecrusher snorted at his own thoughts; romance, right.

Before the first merge, back when the Autobot was just a tool slotting in with tabs b, c, d, e, and g—before they knew Prowl was Prowl—the Constructicons would have sworn there wasn’t a romantic wire in their frames and would have fought anyone who suggested otherwise. But now?

Here they were on a ship full of Autobots, their own plating smooth where a purple sigil was once engraved, and looking for the one bot that had recently skyrocketed up their ever-lengthening frag that guy list; the only other to have made the list so fast was that puny fleshling, Spike Witwickey. The human held the record. Probably always would.

And if joining this slagged up, hug-fest, hippy-dippy ship’s crew wasn’t romance; the Constructicons would beat anyone who said as much.

The demolitionist rolled his neck, huffing and cracking stiff joints—what love did to a mech…Bonecrusher shook his helm, a rueful smile hiding underneath his mask, the demolitionist unused to his own foppish musings.

Within its casing, his spark swirled and warmed with affirmation from the gestalt bond; they all felt the same deep love for their sixth and they were all unfamiliar with the amorous turn their thoughts had turned in the light of that love. Warm fuzzies all around; Scavenger even turned from scouring his future victims (potential friends) to gently touch Bonecrusher’s elbow in assurance.

He frowned and shook off his teammate’s touch, not caring how the shorter mech wilted at the rejection; little Scav had thought they were having a moment. Over Bonecrusher’s greyed out husk. Just because he loved the little weirdo the same as he loved every other Constructicon didn’t mean he would tolerate the excavator’s wimpishness. They might be one big fragged up family who loved each other, had no hang-ups admitting as much, and would offline anyone who was dumb enough to call them weak for it—but they were in love with Prowl. It was different. New. Exciting. Terrifying. Excruciating.

Agreeing rumbles all around and Bonecrusher forced himself to focus on their self-assigned mission.

With Long Haul taking his sweet aft time finding the cog sucker they’d come to cosey up to, Bonecrusher decided to turn his gaze from the glowing cubes of temptation to the bots holding them, trying to spot who his taller teammate had missed. All he saw were blue optics and red badges.

Bonecrusher sneered behind his mask; it was no wonder the Decepticons hadn’t put their faith in the Lost Light’s frivolous voyage. The Constructicons hadn’t either. That wannabe Prime, Roddy-something, could make all the grand speeches he wanted about finding Cyberutopia and the Knights of Cybertron—but who would that utopia really be for? There wasn’t a single con onboard that hadn’t given up the faction and there wasn’t a coolant drop of doubt between them that the Constructicons would have been granted permission to join the crew’s roster had they not scrubbed their armor clean of branding before registering; idly Bonecrusher brushed a servo over the center of his bare-green chassis, the phantom ache of the nanites’ removal a reminder of just what they had been willing to give up for their ultimate goal.

The Constructicons didn’t believe in some distant fable of a Cyberutopia or need the recognition that would come with being part of the crew that found it; they believed in Prowl. They needed Prowl.

The real, tangible (touchable) Prowl who had holed himself up in the storage closet of an office he’d commandeered almost immediately after the Constructicons had placed their praxian’s soft, breakable berth into his personal quarters. They’d all made up excuses their bot didn’t believe, but had been too exasperated to call them out on, as to why all five of them were needed to heft the berth into his quarters, slowly, slow enough for an experienced construction mech to scan a full schematic of the rectangular space and learn the room’s exact measurements; course that was just hypothetical. Heh.

Out of their gestaltmates' unnecessary personal quarters, Prowl had marched around the ship like he owned it—and the Constructicons would make a valiant effort if that’s what he really wanted—looking for an empty room to take as an office. Because of course, he’d have an office. Their boss bot wasn’t on some pleasure cruise, he had a very important mission to accomplish, or so he had claimed while rejecting the Constructicons’ offer to parse out a section of their larger-than-most habitation suite for the tactician to use.

Once he’d picked a room, Bonecrusher and Long Haul had helped him set it up, tossing heavy boxes of whatever out into the hall until it was sufficiently empty enough to fit their praxian’s fancy desk and chair, barely. His gestalt mates had radiated their jealousy through the bond over Long Haul and Bonecrusher being the only ones allowed in such a tight space with their sixth, but the closet the praxian had picked out was too small to fit all the construction mechs at once; two comfortably, three if they squeezed.

They’d find him a new, bigger office later once they’d gotten ahold of or built their own blueprints of the ship.

Bonecrusher and Long Haul had used the opportunity to get in close with their smallest gestaltmate at every opportunity—Long Haul going so far as to use his longer limbs to accidentally brush against a stiff doorwing, just one digit casually running along the tip as he reached over top their praxian to look at a questionable (perfectly fine) light fixture above where he stood—it had been cute the way Prowl had chased them out immediately after; practically hissing like a turbo-fox, doorwings raised like hackles.

The desk he tossed in their direction was less so.

Long Haul had apologized for the accidental touch, not meaning a word of it. Prowl knew and went back to his usual silent treatment, watching the construction mechs through narrowed optics as they reset the desk and bowed out of the makeshift office before their praxian could start contemplating a chair toss.

The touch had been worth it though and Bonecrusher had been the first to slap Long Haul on the back out of respect for a job well done once the office door was closed. They’d be reliving the sensation of the intentional brush up in the privacy of their hab-suite for the orns—or until a more prolonged contact took its place. And there would be more: longer, willing, intimate contact with their sixth.

The Constructicons never left a job half done and wooing Prowl was easily the most demandingly complex one they had ever taken on. It would also be the most rewarding once complete. Once they were complete.  

The barbed walls their sixth had built around his spark would crumble under the might of Devastator, and each time the tactician painstakingly built them back up, blocking them from his side of the bond; the Constructicons would be observing, learning the tools and materials he used for their construction. The Constructicons’ courtship of Prowl would be a controlled demolition, identifying the structural weaknesses in his barriers and strategically (heh) targeting them, breaching closer and closer until it was too late for another rebuild because they were already on the other side.

Sweet anticipation rippled through the bond.

Turning from thoughts of their sixth to what they were attempting to accomplish for him, Bonecrusher’s visor narrowed as he sought out a homely white helm and a hideously gangly frame. Even in a crowd, the tall fragger should have been easy to spot. Was hard to hide that much ugly.

If they didn’t find their first choice of Autobum to cozy up to soon then they would need to pick another while enough of the partying crew was still sober enough to remember how well-behaved and welcoming the Constructicons had been during the Lost Light’s first underway party. They only required their chosen bot to be of a popular sort, a real name onboard and not one of the rejects who had joined as some misplaced grab at notoriety. They also couldn’t know any of the Constructicons personally, at least not too well. The one exception was Clown-dome, but he didn’t really know them, only their close association with Prowl. That fight at the cliffs didn’t count; any con would have done the same.

There he is.

Bonecrusher’s helm whipped around to where Long Haul was not so subtly shoulder gesturing to, his visor brightening as he spotted their quarry. His face mask hid the predatory smile that split his faceplate and a rumble of delight at how vulnerable their prey had left himself.

Seated all alone in a booth pushed against the side of the bulkhead, hunched over the table, and surrounded by what appeared to be multiple empty high-grade cubes sat Chromedome. There was no sign of approaching partiers, the bargoers appearing to be giving the lonesome bot a wide berth—just enough for five Constructicons to squeeze through.

Without waiting for the others, Bonecrusher set out on a path directly to the booth. Scavenger and Hook were close to follow, with Long Haul making up the rear as he usually does. A few scathing glances were sent their way as they passed partying bots and even more scrutinizing looks followed the ex-cons as they made their way through the crowd and into the empty space around their chosen company’s empty booth.

As he came closer, Bonecrusher noted that just above the table there was a single, small round window giving a limited view of the space outside. An odd design choice and one the Constructicons wouldn’t have gone with had they any part in the ship’s design. It was an obvious hull vulnerability, a waste of triple reinforced plexin-glass, and even aesthetically it was pointless—there was nothing out in space worth looking at, everything worth interest was already inside the ship.

Affirmative nods reached across the bond from everyone except Scavenger (and their silent sixth), but then the excavator had always held a strange penchant for the kitschier designs.

The closer the Constructicons came to Chromedome, the more they understood why none of his fellow Autobots had been brave enough to approach.

An open, heavy wave of misery poured from the bot at the table and the Constructicons allowed it to wash over their own tightly held fields, basking in Crum-dome’s unrestrained suffering. The four empty cubes surrounding the slumped-over mech were likely the reason for the uncontrolled emotions, but the Constructicons knew its source and it tickled their sparks seeing Chromedome exactly as he always should be. Alone.

The merriment Bonecrusher allowed to peak through his own field didn’t even need to be faked.

“Hey mech, been looking for you,” Bonecrusher’s mask lowered in an audible click, revealing a sharp-if-friendly smile. “Slide on over, we got something for ya.”

The other Constructicons' mask also lowered just as the slouching bot startled, sitting up with his visor stretched wide. “What, no you’re—”

But Bonecrusher was already lowering himself to sit, his bulk easily shoving Chromedome’s lighter frame to the booth’s corner as he slid into the long, cushy seat. Across from them, Hook and Scavenger piled in, their frames only narrowly missing each other in the cramped booth, only a vent’s worth of space between them. Long Haul hadn’t even bothered, having searched around and grabbed a chair from a table, without asking, and pulled it over to the end of the booth to sit, his legs spread around its back as he faced them.

Raising his helm toward the bar, Bonecrusher spotted Mixmaster performing an impressive balancing act with multiple cubes of high-grade balance on his bent, raised arms, a cube held in each servo for good measure. Scavenger spotted him too and they waved their teammate over, calling him through the bond.

Here, this way, we got him. 

Mixmaster’s optics lit up at the urging and carefully started making his way over to their booth, dodging various passersby and narrowly avoiding the gyrating mecha who had fumbled their way from the dancefloor. 

Chromedome didn’t wait for the mixologist to arrive before questioning the ex-cons surrounding him. “Did Prowl send you? This some kind of elavrate revenge?” The pointed accusation was dulled by slurred vocals and Bonecrusher was left wondering what the mech had actually meant to say.

Elaborate, Hook supplied and the rest of the Constructicons internally shrugged it off as unimportant. Kind of like the waste of parts himself, Chromedome.

What Prowl had seen in that walking set of rusted-rebar the Constructicons would never understand; except they did understand. They’d been in Prowl’s memories and seen everything to do with this particular toxic waste dumping ground of a relationship. Had seen their lonesome little bot’s exuberance at believing he had finally found someone who understood him, and would accept him—except Tumblr hadn’t understood him, Chromedome would never accept him; the Constructicons had done both and more. They were everything Prowl had ever wanted; he just refused to acknowledge the spark-proven truth.

Their praxian would though, there was only so long a logical processor like Prowl’s could deny the obvious. Especially with the Constructicons’ using the voyage as a means to prove their usefulness to the tactician in more ways than just their unparalleled construction abilities.

They’d have him, it wasn’t a matter of if but when.

“What, Prowl? Noooo,” Bonecrusher started, the others joining in, scoffing and snorting their denial. “Boss bot doesn’t even know we’re here—he’s been locked up in that little office of his for joors now.”

“His office? Here, on the ship; Prowl has an office?” Chromedome questioned; as if it was even a question.

“It’s Prowl, of course he has an office,” Long Haul shrugged, not feeling a need to elaborate.

The bot seemed to feel the same way, accepting the answer with a nod, but his unrestrained field was a buzz with uncertainty, hostility, and buried beneath all that, fear. That have been great, warmed Bonecrusher’s spark to know that even in a congenial setting they were able to pull that kind of reaction from a bot. Unfortunately, the Constructicons had settled on a play-nice strategy for the voyage and as satisfying as the fear was, they were attempting to engineer a more…amicable response from the mnemosurgeon.

Chromedome’s attention was taken from the Constructicons seated with him to the one who had finally reached their table as Mixmaster finally joined them. Not a drop of high-grade was spilled and he started placing the drinks on the table, putting one in front of each of the seated Constructicons before finally pushing away the empty cubes that had been surrounding Chromedome and replacing them with a bright pink, larger-than-everyone-else’s-cube containing something that smelled sweet, but potent.

Mix then took a seat on the sliver of bench remaining next to Bonecrusher, precariously balancing himself by placing a servo on one of Long Haul’s spread legs. The mixer gave said leg a squeeze, servo sliding up the larger mech’s leg higher than strictly necessary in a subtle tease.

Long Haul’s engine growled low, the larger mech sending an amused threat across the bond, implying he’d get Mix back for that later—something Bonecrusher looked forward to watching, preferably while they were all bonding and reexamining that brush of doorwings from earlier. Scavenger echoed his thoughts.

Hook sighed, loudly, continuing as though he hadn’t noticed the scrawny mech’s fear or his team’s less-than-pure turn of thought. “We helped him with the furniture arrangement and when we dared to linger–he flung the desk at us.”

Alright, back to business; being visibly chummy with Chump-dome.

“Was worried we’d have to build him a new one,” Long Haul chimed in.

“Three times!” Scavenger lifted his digits to the number, and the Constructicons all shared a laugh at the exaggerated memory.

“…heh,” Chromedome finally laughed with them, it was small, more of a chuckle than a full guffaw, but it was something. It was an in.

“He does that,” the Autobot tacked on, bringing life to his visor, the mech obviously taking the Constructions’ affectionate riffing at face value; as a derisive dig at their praxian. As if they would ever, as if Crud-dome had the right.

An astro-click of outrage flashed through the Constructicons, and in an exercise of previously untapped restraint, they reigned it in; kept their furious fields, full of violent desire, held close and their smiles wide, encouraging. Long Haul even managed a laugh, expression bright as he tilted a cube in the bot’s direction. Their faces may have been exposed, but their masks were up; even Hook had one firmly in place.

Their whole half-formed plan would fall apart if Chromedome felt threatened and seriously shooed them away, potentially calling his who-could-like-this-loser friends to do it. They needed to be big friendly hydro-pups who were happy to pall around with their new crewmates, sharing drinks and good stories all around. As the Constructicons, as Devastator, they had reputations amongst the Autobots—but that was all they had. There weren’t many bots who had actually encountered them personally on the battlefield and survived to bleat their terrified sparks out to the rest of the faction about it. And any who had ever made it to Hook’s operating table either died under the surgeon’s scalpel or offlined themselves soon after to escape the memory of piercing agony he had engraved directly into their most primordial systems.  

The Autobots knew of them, feared them and rightfully so, but they didn’t know them. Dispelling those very true rumors and winning a short-tether of trust with the crew was the second phase of their grand plan to win Prowl’s spark—the first phase was always conception, and even that was vague, Scrapper had been the master architect and without him their plans had become shaky, erased and rewritten lines on blue vellum paper. The second phase was also the most well thought out part of the plan; they weren’t even completely sure what the other phases were, only that all good plans had multiple phases. All of Prowl’s had, anyway.

But their plan was one their cute-but-competent helmsmen would have never been able to put together himself, let alone pull off. It revolved around being the one thing their sixth couldn’t be—Personable.

And it was working so far: they had gotten into the bar with no major incident, sat with a popular bot who was laughing at their jokes, enjoying their company (kind of), instead of telling them to frag off. That Chromedome hadn’t yet, considering their proximity to Prowl and the mech’s protoform deep hate of him, was their luck and they knew better than to push it.

Bonecrusher still wanted to kill him.

Stick needles into the back of their helm, root around in their processor, removing memories, leaving them spread wide open for the enemy to plug in and control—commit the deepest act of violation known to Cybertronian kind—and Cybertronians had been around for longer than most recorded species; they knew a lot.

Happen to any of them and the Constructicons would be sitting with a dead mech. Soon as they’d learned of the betrayal, they’d have welded the traitor to Hook’s med-berth, or a solid refueling table, or even built him his own personal slab of insulated metal; any flat surface would have worked, really. Then they’d have taken turns breaking him apart, putting him back together, just to take him apart all over again. It’d have been different each time, too. Each Constructicon getting to put their own preference on the method.

—Bonecrusher would widen the mech’s transformation seams, just enough to slide detonation cords throughout his frame, little tetryl boosters placed over the sensor heavy sectors, where the wires clustered. He’d set off a controlled detonation and watch as the mech’s armor rattled and broke apart in sequence, from helm to ped. After the armor fell away, the same would be done to the underlying protoform, twisting the cords into wires and fuel lines, connectors that held internals together. Layer by layer, until every piece of the mech had been broken apart under his deftly crafted demolitions. Bonecrusher would have started with the visor first, though. Just plucked that right off his face and gouged out any optics beneath. Was always fun to see himself reflected in dull optical glass, fear making them pull wide so he could see more of himself, but he enjoyed the way their electro fields went crazy wherever he touched when they didn’t know where he would touch more. The perfectly measured destruction would be beautiful, even more so if Prowl was with them watching, supervising, approving.—

They’d have killed the skinny glitch over and over again, and made him grateful for when it was the last. They still would if Prowl asked. And slag, did they wish he would ask.

But he wouldn’t. Their sixth had only gone so far as to say something mean to the scrawny slagger after finding out—Prowl was soft like that. Soft like that berth the five of them had their optics set on during that first fun move to the Lost Light. (They already had plans to modify their own after it, making it more welcoming for when their sixth eventually joined them on it.)

The Constructicons were willing to play nice with Chromedome in public, they’d suffer his continued function if only because pointing servos would immediately turn toward their sixth were he to disappear. They wanted those who would point and accuse their praxian to reassess any distaste of him because the Constructicons liked him, and they liked the Constructicons. But they had a line that couldn’t be crossed and they needed the crew to want to respect that line—Prowl.

“Yeah, he does,” Bonecrusher finally managed, vocals a rough grunt—he hoped the Autobot thought it was a laugh from shared humor. “Never seen a mech hate a piece of furniture that bad before.”

“I have,” Scavenger’s visor brightened as he wiggled in his seat, radiating an inordinate amount of enthusiasm through the bond, the excavator excited to be part of a conversation, to be tolerated by anyone but his fellow gestaltmates. “They…they hated the wash racks and never went in them, ever.”

The top of Bonecrusher’s visor raised at the mention of the seekers. The story was well known among the Decepticon rank and file but had never quite made it to the Autobots as anything more than speculation. Nothing of any significance to the war, but a juicy bit of gossip that could potentially capture a bot’s attention just enough for him to forget who was telling it.

Good call.

Scavenger beamed through the bond.

“What, ya mean the seekers? They didn’t hate wash racks, they were just scared of ‘em,” Bonecrusher said as leaned back, casually laying a strong arm across the bot’s shoulders. He felt the plating beneath his own tense, but the mech didn’t pull away. Good, good.

A tug too hard, a flex too strong, and those shoulders would buckle and bend beneath his hold; the joint sockets sparking as they tore beneath the Constructicon’s pure laborious power. The mech’s dismantling would be quick, satisfyingly so. The mnemosurgeon was worth less than a klick of the Constructicons’ time outside of a torturous setting—he wasn’t worth even a nano-second of Prowl’s.

“…The seekers were scared of wash racks?” Chromedome questioned, his tone disbelieving, the overcharged mech entirely unaware of Bonecrusher’s vicious imaginings.

Scavenger fidgeted in his seat, “they um, thought everyone wanted them? Their wings I mean. They’re not so hot though, there are uh…better wings.” The last bit was mumbled and Bonecrusher’s optics rolled behind his visor; he agreed but now wasn’t the time to subtly imply how smelter hot they all found Prowl.

“He means they thought us dirty grounders would all jump ‘em if they ever used solvent,” Bonecrusher salvaged, even though that was supposed to be Scavenger’s job. “Completely flew over their helms how not everyone’s preferences ran aerial.”

“Arrogant,” Long Haul huffed.

“Delusional,” Hook supplied.

Bonecrusher and Mixmaster hummed their agreement as they let it all sink in for the Autobot.

Chromedome’s visor was pinched, his helm tilted ever so slightly in such a way that implied concentrated thought–what little the glitched mech was capable of, overcharged or sober.

“…Did they just not wash?” The bot finally asked, likely cross-referencing everything he knew about the narcissistic frame type with the new information the Constructicons had just given him; his high-grade heavy logic drives struggling to fuse the two.

“They did,” Bonecrusher answered. “Though no one ever saw them doing it.”

“Even…even if you did, no one believed you,” Scavenger commented with a pout, having been subjected to that particular disbelief and mockery more than once.

Hook patted the excavator’s leg under the table in solidarity. The other Constructicons had shared Scavenger’s memory and believed him; hadn’t stopped them from joining in on the ridicule. Or calling him (rightfully) a creepy little voyeur.

“Most believe they made deals with Starscream for the use of his personal washracks,” Hook said. “Some even claiming it was the real reason the air armada was so loyal to him—It’s not true, but who are we to get in the way of a good rumor?”

“…So they just didn’t wash?” Chomedome asked incredulously, his optics wide in disbelief.

“Oh they did, and they were cutting deals, just not with Starscream,” Bonecrusher clarified as he glanced at the high-grade Mix had gotten them. It looked weak, but then what could he expect from an Autobot ship?

“Then who?” The bot questioned, snapped really, white plates shifting impatiently beneath Bonecrusher’s servo. A miserable and snippy drunk? Chromedome really was the worst kind of everything.

“Soundwave,” Hook answered.

“Soundwave?” Chromedome repeated.

“Soundwave,” Bonecrusher confirmed with a nod.

“But why?” The bot asked, his field finally losing that last hint of fear and hostility, replaced with open curiosity. There it was. They got him. Wouldn’t matter if the scrub bucket didn’t remember their conversation come the morning, and he probably wouldn’t. What mattered was the rest of the bar watching them have it.

“For information on Starscream, of course,” Hook smiled, delighted by the duplicitous nature of the seekers toward their own commander whenever he was reminded of it. The surgeon had always loved a good betrayal—Chromedome’s own toward Prowl the sole exception.

Were the bot not wearing a mask, Bonecrusher was pretty sure Chromedome’s jaw would have dropped. “That makes too much sense, or no sense at all, I’m not really sure I—” Cutting himself off Chromedome reached up to press long fingers onto the back of his helm. “Primus my helm hurts.”

Hook, sensing an opportunity to show off, began explaining, “It’s the high-grade, it causes the fuel in your tank to burn faster, which disrupts communication between the circuitry in your processor and your filtration system. Your processor is over-firing due to the increased demand and overcompensates for the delayed response, causing a helm-ache. Nothing a little coolant and med-grade won’t fix.”

Finishing his explanation, Hook’s derma curled into a conspiring grin. “Or if you’re looking for an immediate relief, more high-grade helps.” The medic gestured to the untouched cube of high-grade they’d bought for the Autobot.

If anything, Chromedome looked more pained by the explanation and had brought both servos up to grip his helm, squeezing and messaging it in a way the Constructicons knew wouldn’t work.

Bonecrusher used the lull in conversation to peek around the room, grinning at all the bots that had turned to openly stare at the construction mechs. He tilted his helm toward Chromedome and if not for his visor, he’d have winked. The stares were a good turn, they wanted as many optics on them as possible.

Misery had begun to seep back into Chromedome’s field, causing Bonecrusher’s grin to widen. They’d been seen, possibly accepted, which meant they were done with the scrawny bot. Best if they moved on, and found a few others to mingle with before retiring to their shared quarters. Maybe even make a few passes at Prowl if they spotted him on the way.

“Why are you here?” Chromedome questioned, breaking the table’s silence and sounding depressingly sober. Though finding no hostility directed to ward them, the Constructicons decided they had been technically successful with their mission.

The mournful mech’s misery turning toward the Constructicons was their final sign to bow out and move on, but their tolerance for Chromedome was at its lowest and the five of them sensed an opportunity. They’d continue to play nice a little longer, just enough to grab the knife of grief digging into Chromedome’s spark and twist it. All while maintaining the friendly façade of comradery.

“Course we’re here—we’re crew!” Bonecrusher crowed with a smile, acting oblivious as to the real reason the bot would be asking them that.

“No, I mean why are you here with me?” Chromedome emphasized, then through a narrowed visor. “I know Prowl hates me.”

“Hate you?” Hook frowned as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Prowl doesn’t hate you,” Mixmaster assured.

Unfortunately.

“We are not the most…approachable mecha onboard. An inevitable consequence due to our previous loyalties,” Hook tactfully remarked. “We are attempting to change that image through repeated positive contact with the crew.” The surgeon supplied, fully confident Chromedome wouldn’t remember complete details of their conversation come morning.

“Prowl had good memories of ya, figured you’d be as good a start as any,” Bonecrusher added, hating how true the former part of his statement was.

“…He did? That’s not…,” Chromedome shook his helm only to wince, clearly not sober, but wary enough to realize maybe he should be. “Why are you really here—what do you want?”

“Why, to share a drink with a fellow crewmate—and to thank you, of course,” was Hook’s honeyed response.

“Thank me?” Chromedome puzzled.

“Course, bot like Prowl never woulda bonded with us willingly; big bad cons like us? He’d sooner offline,” Bonecrusher responded, keeping the amusement he felt at watching the bot’s frame begin to slump in response to the bulldozer’s words locked in tight around himself.

Chromedome did no such thing, the now anguish bleeding from his frame. Bonecrusher greedily soaked it in, relishing the Autobot’s torment over their cheerfully delivered thanks.

“But you gave him to us,” Scavenger whispered, red visor shining with reverence.

“Wrapped him up all pretty like an energon goodie and dropped him off at our door like an early creation day gift,” Bonecrusher complimented with a soft, appreciative rumble.

Slump. Slump. Slump.

“Best present we ever got,” Mixmaster affirmed.

They all nodded and Bonecrusher even gave the bot a good little jovial shake of appreciation.

“And Constructicons have been called a lot of things over the years, but ungrateful ain’t one of them,” Bonecrusher went on; more nodding and murmurs of agreement.

“We always pay back our dues,” he promised, visor burning a dark red.

Bonecrusher’s smile, more a nasty grin, stretched wide as he pushed a high-grade cube into one of the Autobot’s now limp servos, taking it underneath his own and squeezing to make sure the grip stuck. He felt the delicate white plating crunch, satisfyingly, underneath his hold; he didn’t let go. Instead raising the servo-held cube of high-grade up. His fellow Constructicons raised theirs in answer, smiles all around.

Bonecrusher leaned in close to the lump of limp guilt—was it guilt? His derma dangerously close to touching one of the smaller mech’s audials as he growled low, hot air venting across thin armor.

“This one’s for you, Tumblr.”

Cheers.

[fag4dykestobin]

i kind of sat down and thought about steve and robin cooking together, and then i entered a fugue state and came out of it with a little over 1.7k words written about them being domestic besties (domesties?). so um. enjoy :)

-

Robin has destroyed one of her mom’s pans again, so she’s been banished to Steve’s house.

Well, okay, let’s back up.

Robin, waking up and feeling especially productive, had taken it upon herself to make some scrambled eggs. Nice and simple, right? So she had grabbed the first spatula and pan she could find, and… scrambled those eggs! She even remembered the salt and pepper! Unfortunately, as Robin had remembered after she oh-so-lovingly scraped off the nonstick coating, metal utensils and nonstick pans didn’t really get along. Oops. Panicking, she had scraped her mess into the trash and called Steve to pick her up. So, really, she had banished herself, preemptively.

“How the hell did you even do this much damage?” Steve asks, holding up the pan. The look of befuddlement on his face is picture perfect; you could teach children how to identify emotions with that face. Robin would pinch his cheek if she wasn’t so embarrassed.

“I don’t know! I just tried to make some eggs!”

“Rob, there’s like, a solid cube of—”

“A cube is a 3D object, dingus.”

“This is a 3D object!”

“Not in that way! It’s not a cube! You mean a square!”

Steve throws up his hands, one of them brandishing the pan and waving it around. “Fine! There’s a solid square…” Steve gives Robin a look. She nods her head at him in acquiescence. “... Of coating rubbed off of this thing. Why were you punishing your eggs like that?”

Robin leans back on the counter she’s been sitting on, legs swinging. Her heel hits the cabinet once, and Steve’s eye twitches, but he says nothing. Because he loves her. But she tries to avoid doing it again, for his sake. “I had to get that yolk distributed! I was working fast, Evie, the burner was on and I wanted it evenly mixed—!”

“So why didn’t you mix it in a bowl before that?!” Steve looks so stressed. It's kind of funny, given how unimportant the subject matter is. Robin suppresses a grin.

“I forgot! I was groggy!”

Steve groans, setting the ruined pan down and rubbing a hand over his face. “... When we move in together,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Robin, “I am keeping my metal utensils in a locked safe.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling that always appears when Robin is reminded of their future together, their permanence in each other’s lives, it fizzes and pops in her chest like a sparkler. It’s still such a comforting feeling, even after all these months.

It doesn’t stop her from antagonizing him a little. “Like I don’t know what combination you’ll set it to,” she scoffs.  “I could just break in. To spite you.”

Steve sits with that for a moment. “You’re breaking my heart, Robbie, you know that? You break my heart.” Not a real comeback. She’s won their battle of the bits, this time around.

“Well, anyway,” Steve continues, “I am really hoping you didn’t eat those eggs after seasoning them with metal filings.”

“It wasn’t— I don’t think the coating is metal. I don’t know what it is, actually, but I don’t think it falls under metal filings.”

Steve hmms. “Well, it’s not, like, plastic, right? Or silicone? That would just melt.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, it can’t be metal, because it loses a fight with metal spatulas.”

Steve thinks for a second. “Is… God, I mean, I guess there are other, other uh… what’s the word? For, like, not from plants?” Robin scrunches her brow in thought. “Synthetic? Inorganic?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Yeah, both of those work. There’s probably things that aren’t plastic or metal that can be used to cook with, but it feels weird. That there’s another category out there.”

Robin nods in agreement, and they sit in companionable silence for a moment, contemplating on the nature of cookware.

“Anyway, no, I still haven’t eaten.”

Steve curses, gets up from leaning on his kitchen island, and steps over to the cabinets where he keeps his pots and pans. “Yes, God, okay, let me feed you. Still want eggs?”

“You know it!” Robin says, and Steve gets to cooking, bustling around the kitchen with practiced motions. It’s nice to watch him cook. He gets very focused, in a way that doesn’t usually come naturally to him. Steve doesn’t usually like talking while he’s cooking, but he hums bits of songs, bobs his head to the beat.

In no time at all he has a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Robin, and she hops off the counter to sit at a stool at the kitchen island. She grabs the plate from Steve and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek, making him roll his eyes with a smile and subtly wipe her spit off.

Steve takes a seat across from her, and she notices that he doesn’t have anything. Did he already eat? “Did you already eat?” Robin asks.

Steve blinks. “Oh. No, I forgot.” He has a tendency to do that; when he cooks for someone, he can get so caught up in it that he forgets to make some for himself, and is left to scramble afterwards. “I’ll make myself some eggs after you’re done.”

An idea comes to mind. An attempt at redemption, maybe. “Let me?” Robin asks.

“And let you ruin my pans? No thanks.”

A flash of genuine hurt passes through Robin, and she lets it show on her face in the form of a pout. The comment isn’t unfounded, but… “No, please! I know what I did wrong, I’ll do better this time. I’m not sleepy anymore, either.” She just wants to take care of Steve like he takes care of her. She wants to feed him eggs, goddamnit! When was the last time anyone fed him eggs? Actually, if she thinks about that one, she’ll get sad, so she stops thinking about it.

Steve can obviously see her earnestness, and he softens. And rolls his eyes. But that’s just him being Steve, so Robin loves it. “Whatever you want, Birdie. Just don’t burn them. Oh, and use garlic powder.”

So Robin practically inhales the rest of her eggs and toast (very tasty, as always) and gets to work. Steve sits at his stool at the island, trying and failing not to watch Robin like a hawk as she bumbles around his kitchen (“That’s not enough garlic powder, Rob, put some more in there, it won’t bite!”  and “Use the small pan on the top shelf— no, the other small pan. No, the other—”), but she does eventually get a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. Not as good looking as the one Steve presented her, but it smelled good, and didn’t have weird inorganic pan flecks in them. Steve gives her a sloppy kiss on her cheek this time, over-exaggerating and putting way too much saliva in it, seriously, was he a dog or something? Robin BLECH’d and rubbed at her cheek, but he looked happy at his plate of food, so. Overall success, even if sacrifices had to be made.

Robin leaned on the island on her elbows, face a foot away from Steve’s as he picked up a forkful of egg. He side-eyed her.

“Do you… want some…?”

Robin waved a hand at him. “No, dingus. Eat it! Do you like it?”

“Okay, okay!” Steve rolled his eyes and ate his forkful. Robin stared at him as he chewed, looking out for emotions such as delight and wonder, but also disgust and revulsion.

She found nothing. Steve looked normal. He ate another forkful, eyeing her.

“So?” Robin prods.

“They’re eggs?” Steve says, mouth still half full.

“Swallow!” Steve rolls his eyes and does as she asks. “Nothing else? They’re just eggs?”

Steve nods, shrugging a little. Robin feels a little let-down. The first time Steve had made her eggs, it was life-changing. He put heavy cream in them. Robin doesn’t think her parents had ever bought heavy cream in their lives.

Robin guesses that it makes sense, though. This is just how he makes eggs, duh. Still, it makes her feel kind of bad, that she couldn’t give Steve the same feeling he gave her.

Steve seems to sense her inner turmoil. “They’re— it’s good, though! You did a good job. I do like it.” He seems kind of… embarrassed, but grateful. “You didn’t have to make them for me. Thanks.”

Robin bumps his shoulder with her own, and then retreats to her seat, allowing him a bit more personal space. But not too much! She kicks at his shins, and he kicks back, a smile on his face.

Cleanup is easy as Steve washes the dishes and Robin dries. It’s the small, domestic things, like this, that make her so excited to eventually live together. It’s so easy and companionable, full of chatter about band practice and Dustin’s latest science experiment. She can’t wait to graduate.

After the dishes, though, they’re both at the kitchen island again, silently staring at the pan Robin had ruined at her house earlier.

“... It seems like a waste to throw away,” Robin complains.

“I know, right? But it’s, like, useless now.”

Robin hums. “I mean, no, it’s still like… metal. I feel like we should be melting it down.”

Steve stares at her. “In what world would it be more useful melted down?”

Robin squawks, indignant at her idea being challenged. “You know what I mean!”

“No I don’t! Do you just want a, a… what’s the word? A bar of metal.”

“Ingot.”

“Do you just want an ingot hanging out on our mantelpiece?!”

“Well, I didn’t before, but now I do!”

They look at each other for only a moment before dissolving into simultaneous giggles, shared joy crackling and leaping between them.

Steve settles down first. Still grinning, he turns to put the pan at the very top of a relatively bare cupboard. “Fine, we’ll just… keep this to be melted down later.”

Robin can’t do anything to stop the twin grin on her face, not that she would ever want to. “I love you, Evie.” The words come easy, and the delight and surprise on Steve’s face is as wonderful as always. He pulls her into a hug.

“I love you too, Rob.”

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Bring Your Robin To Work Day

by lemonlimemadness “So!” Dick says with great fanfare, throwing himself across Bruce’s designated chair with nary a care in the world. The Justice League look on with a mix of befuddled awe, like they’ve never seen a child dressed up like a traffic light before. Which they haven't. Bruce mentally steels himself as Dick clears his throat. “Why am I here, you ask? Well, when two people love one another very, very much-” “You’re adopted.” Bruce says. Or; Bruce lets Dick attend a Justice League meeting on the Watchtower. Bruce has regrets. Words: 4216, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 8 of fueled by coffee, spite and kirby music Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Clark Kent, Diana (Wonder Woman), Oliver Queen, Barry Allen, Hal Jordan (Green Lantern), Alfred Pennyworth Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent, Diana (Wonder Woman) & Dick Grayson, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman) & Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Dick Grayson is a Menace, Dick Grayson Meets the Justice League, Batfamily Meets the Justice League (DCU), Dick Grayson Revealed as Robin, Robin Reveal, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Tired Parent Bruce Wayne via https://ift.tt/Csaj0UV

[truths33k3r4]

Hi Melissa I love your story and I was wondering how would the turtle react to a toddler? Scared, calm, excited, irresponsible behavior.

(totally not for fanart reasons)

Hey, @oddartistl3!

I’ll go through each turtles reaction~

Michelangelo- Mikey would go through a few mixed emotions if he were to find a toddler in his home. The first would be surprise, wondering how in the world the little human made it down to the sewers, but that feeling would be swallowed almost instantly by his curiosity and kindness, taking the toddler and flinging them up onto his shoulders asking them all the questions he can think of. And in return, answering any questions the child may have for him, the giant, human-turtle teen. 😅

Lotus- Lo’s blood pressure would shoot up at an exponential rate if she were to find a HUMAN CHILD anywhere near her. If there’s one, then others will come looking for it. She would stand frozen in the shadows, conflicted by her want to protect the defenseless child, while also not wanting to risk her family and herself being found. Eventually, her heart would win over her head, and she would carefully take the child, holding it tight to her plastron, and returning it to the surface as quickly as possible.

Donatello- Don’s brain would utterly short-circuit at the sight of some mini, germ-ridden biohazard in his home. He would sit frozen in place with his mouth agape and eyes wide wondering

HOW THE SHELL DID IT FIND MY HOME?!?

His mind would begin rummaging through the dusted files of childhood, trying to decipher what the child would want as he tried to figure out how to bring it back to the surface. (AFTER toddler proofing as many pipes and appliances of his home as quick as mutantly possible.) He would give it one of his granola bars to snack on, (after looking up if it was safe for them to eat), and wordlessly hand it off to Leo as the freckled brother attempted to figure out a solution.

Raphael- “… What… the frick??????” Raph would be totally befuddled at such a weird sitch happening like a toddler being found in his home. That’s hidden. In the SEWERS OF NEW YORK. He would silently and secretly follow the child through the tunnels, making sure it followed the literal crumbs he left in a trail back to the surface. But before the child could even taste the crumb left on the unsanitary grounds of the tunnel, Raph leapt from where he was hiding and plucked the kid into his arms, bapping the soiled crumb out of their hand. After inwardly getting reprimanded by his twins voice in his head about “causing a child to catch four of the five food borne illnesses”, he grumbled and held the kid tight as he ran to reach the surface. When the child squirmed or started crying, the fiery brother would begrudgingly hum a simple tune to keep them distracted.

Leonardo- Leo’s eyes would blow out wide as his mouth dropped at the unexpected guest in his home. His medic brain would fight a glorious battle against his leader side, trying to gauge if it would be wise to care for the little stranger or just ignore them and let them find their own way back to the surface. Immediately his big brother instincts would bring the battle to a close, resulting in him walking up to the child and asking them if they’re hurting anywhere. After checking them over, and placing bandaids on any scratches or scrapes, (and of course kissing each one so the “boo boo would heal faster.”) Leo would hold out his hand to the child, asking them if they remembered how to go back home.

There ya go! Cant wait to see what you make with this! 😁

Hope you have a wonderful day! To God be the glory!

~ Melissa

[wondercourse]

something that sucks about discovering the possibility of being mixed-origin is that it directly ties me to syscourse in most people's minds if i choose to talk about it online (which i am lol).

it shouldn't. i should be allowed to navigate this outside of the lens of syscourse. to one side, i am now the enemy; to the other, i am now an ally. i can't just be.

honestly thank god i'm in therapy because it's such a "hey man how's it going" thing. she wants to focus on what's actually important in this process as we slowly transition from phase 1 to phase 2 (she doesn't refer to it with phasic language but funny enough her philosophy lines up with it so). she doesn't care about origin! she just wants to aid in my recovery.

not so on the internet! i have to fit into a box, and being put in that box shuts me out of so many things. the quoigenic label automatically categorizes me in the minds of many and that drives me up a wall, especially as someone who Doesn't Like The Labels.

fortunately, outside of setting boundaries and being frustrated by this realization, this doesn't have that negative of an effect on me like it would've as a teenager. random people's preconceived notions about me don't define my identity, i do.

i just think it's wild that i even needed to realize this at all. that something as simple as changing my label—even with the possibility of still being totally traumagenic—creates narratives in people's minds. i'm a faker. i don't have trauma. i'm a poor, misguided traumagenic system that got dragged into pro-endo rhetoric. i'm this. i'm that.

like that's weird. and i think what bothers me about it is that for a lot of people who may perceive me, there's morality attached to that. i'm bad now or i'm good now. and while i think that both sides of this suck, the worst thing is that in the eyes of some, i have attached a term to myself that makes me less than, and that says "fakeclaiming/suicide baiting/harassing this person is okay".

again, i'm in a spot where i recognize that this doesn't ACTUALLY define my morality—identifying as quoigenic is morally neutral—nor does it make it okay for people to treat me like shit for it, but it's just like...what? like idk i'm just recognizing and acknowledging how asinine that is in general.

anyway, i hope this appropriate for the sysconversation tag. just wanted to talk about that because i was thinking about it in the context of the choice to keep this account separate from my other blog because of this. i'm okay, just befuddled.