#almost scrapped this one for reasons beyond me

[tgemorbingpaper]

carlos voice shawty kinda foreboding with it!!

[catboybiologist]

Hey it's a life update that probably no one cared about or asked for

tl;dr: I'm likely quitting my PhD via mastering out, and leaving my program in June.

sappy, overly emotional vent/explanation:

I'm wrapping up my first quarter as an out-of-the-closet trans woman. I've had some serious conversations about where me and my work stand. This was always my intention after coming back from my summer hiatus/social transition: see how "reentry" works, and then assess from there.

For those that don't know, PhDs in the US take 5-7 years. Oftentimes, however, they either give you a master's along the way, or give you an option to quit halfway through with a master's. I'm in my 3rd year and have more than enough to use that option. I've toyed with this idea before, but it feels a bit different now. Last year, I was burned out from science, my project was failing, and I was under constant stress of boymoding and remaining in the closet. Now, I'm out and proud, and I deeply love my project and find it exciting. I fixed some things.

Unfortunately, I have a recurrent problem. Whenever something goes wrong in my life, the first thing to drop off is my ability to drive forward my own thesis project in a coherent way. What the actual problems are vary, but that motif stays the same. I could list off what's going on right now, but I think y'all can assume a bit of what a mid-20s, broke, recently transitioned trans woman in the US is going through at the moment. There's a lot of specifics, of course, but I'm not at liberty to say most of it.

So I'm looking around and realizing I have scraps of half finished projects, I've given support and help for other people's projects.... and then made little progress on my actual thesis. It's enough to pull together into a master's thesis, and maybe even another paper or two, but.... not a PhD.

And then there's the other side of it. The nicer reasons. Could I stay here, buckle down, maybe add years to my degree, and get through it? Probably. But honestly? I don't really want to put myself through that now. It used to be that academics was all I had. It was all my failures and all my successes. It's what I threw myself at, because I genuinely had nothing else going on. Since transitioning, the world seems so much more beautiful and rich, so much more complex and vast, with so much more to do in it. I've even had more negative experiences unrelated to academia, and while they've sucked, they've shown me that life is so much bigger than it was before.

To be blunt, to experience more of my life... it helps to have money, and it helps to have career stability. It's not the only factor by far, but certainly one defining moment when making this decision was trying to create a timeline and budget for transition related surgeries, and realizing that its near impossible in grad school.

Not to be dramatic, but I've also had a couple extremely jarring experiences in the past year that are reminded me that life is short. And I want at least some time to enjoy it.

My heart is honestly broken here, and I'm feeling extremely emotional about this. I love my lab, my colleagues, the environment of doing research, and my project. But I'm realizing that it might not be viable, or what makes me the happiest at the moment. I'm genuinely a bit distraught, and I've been crying a lot for the past few days. A lot of me feels like this is what I am, and this is what I'm good for. That I'm failing myself and every mentor that got me here. Some part of me knows that isn't true, some part of me can't let go of those feelings.

But, I know this doesn't mean "never". So many of the people in my program are significantly older than me, coming back later in life to get their degrees. I'm honestly almost positive that I'll come back to a PhD someday if I quit now. In my 30s or beyond, I think that I'll be able equipped to handle it much better.

So what's next?

Obviously, nothing is decided, and I'm just spitballing here. But I'm honestly shocked at how many viable options I have, in a very good way. A cursory scroll of Indeed was honestly therapeutic. As I said, I still love the academic research environment. I just need more money and stability, and would prefer to have a slightly different relationship to the work I do than a thesis project. Ideally, I would want to be a staff researcher in an institute or academic lab. That lets me keep a lot of the things I like about what I do now, while also making literally 2-3 times the money and having a more stable position.There's positions out there that maximize the contexts I'm the strongest and happiest with, while still being more steady and paying more. Hell, even if my responsibilities were identical, but I had more pay, I could probably more effectively address the personal problems I'm going through right now. I'm gonna stay in California for a lot of reasons, and I'm lucky that there's so many options within the state.

I have a bit of an oddball set of experience. I'll actually have two nonoverlapping master's if I do this. I already have a MS in bioinformatics, which was granted by a CS department. But my current program is in more "pure" molecular and cell biology. I'll have 5 years of grad school, 8.5 years of research experience if I include undergrad research, and instead of a PhD, 2 MSs. Which is kinda funny. But it think it helps represent my experience for what it is. I like to consider myself a "full stack" bioinformaticist- someone who can do both the experimental and analysis portions of experiments that produce large data. Hopefully I'll be able to put that to good use.

I have a lot of professional contacts that I'll slowly be reaching out to over the course of the next 6 months while I tie things up. I know this is a wildshot on tumblr of all places, but if anyone has any recommendations, advice, or contacts, I'm all ears- both for professional and job hunt related things, and also the emotional state I'm in right now.

Thank you to everyone that's made up this wonderful community we have online. I hope I'm not letting anyone down. I'll still be a biologist, I'll still be my trans self. I just won't be "Doctor" anytime soon.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Die Happy - Sanji x Reader

SUMMARY: Sanji is disillusioned about your lack of interest in him. Someone like you could pick and choose among princes, kings and emperors. What's a measly cook to you? Nevertheless, his lovesick heart continuously rejoices when you choose him to waste time with.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.3k

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

Part 2 -> "Maelstrom"

Sanji has never believed in ghouls, witches, faeries and the like. However, when he met you his belief began to shatter:

Like a dark sorceress covering the whole world with a curse, you lured all the influential, important men like fire does moths. At first, Sanji fooled himself that all those generals, merchants and noblemen only wanted something pretty to hang onto their shoulders but reality destroyed his comforting illusion when the said men offered riches most people couldn’t even fathom. If you asked them for an armada to sail to the Grand Line, they’d only ask what type of wood you’d prefer. Despite something akin to world domination lying at your fingertips, you always laughed those offers off, telling your powerful suitors that you would think about their words and get back to them.

Sanji once asked whether you’re truly considering marrying one of the generals or kings. Some more naive part of him hoped you’d say no. Alas, the truth, once again, was his adversary:

“Obviously!” you giggled at his silly question. “But I won’t marry the first one that offers me wealth and whatnot. First, I’d like to see all of my options and the world…” your voice trailed away as you vaguely pointed around the two of you. “Well, it’s a big place. Many more kingdoms to visit.”

But to his own demise, the cook was a fool unlike any other. He had no chance at winning your heart, no matter how much he’d try. Still, his untamable desire egged him on, whispering sweet songs of your grace. Even if he could taste your lips only in his imagination, he could do his best for you to have a reason to keep him around like a dog that begs for scraps at his master’s table.

Sanji knows he’s only hurting himself, only furthering his desperation when he makes you smile or earns a speck of your affection. Every dawn, he promises to free himself from your sorcery but when dusk comes and his left with the Moon, his only confidant, he realizes that he could never possess enough power to cut himself free from you. You’ve pierced his heart right through and if he pulls your knife out of his chest, he’s bound to bleed out and die. It’s better if he lets you have complete control over his mind and soul - it’s the only way he will make it out alive.

He’s left cold and lonely on that night. Soft, silver moonlight washes over him through the small porthole in the wall of his room. The sea is almost black at this hour of the night but it becomes a mystical sapphire when the Moon’s glow washes over the lazy waves making them glisten like pure diamonds.

Diamonds… maybe if he had diamonds, you’d see him as a man and not just a shipmate.

Quiet knocking on his door wakes Sanji up from his thoughts. Before he has a chance to get up and open the door or tell the guest to come in, the mysterious visitor enters out of their own volition.

Your tired face makes Sanji think about painting in museums - the ones all connoisseurs consider “classics” and “timeless”. The silk shirt you’re wearing looks not only awfully expensive but, which is much worse, to be a men’s size. Its hem ends right underneath your buttcheeks, threatening to expose your body should you lift your hands. In the darkness of his cabin, you appear as nothing beyond a phantom, a hallucination born out of desperation. And just like a ghost, you’ve come to haunt and torment him in the sweetest of ways; in a way only you can.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks in a raspy voice. Sanji is doing a great job at appearing unaffected by your rather scantily clad form.

Carefully, you close the door behind you and walk towards him. Your skin glows when you step into the rays of soft moonlight pouring in through the porthole. Dishevelled hair, half-closed eyes and a slightly puffy face - Sanji has imagined you this way countless times but never actually seen. He can feel his body burning up, telling him to seize the opportunity, to wash you in the most charming and suave words he can think of.

“Nami kicks while sleeping,” you say quietly. “I swear to god my whole side is bruised at this point. Can I sleep with you?”

Sanji has to remind himself to breathe and to do so calmly. He’s cool, completely in control of himself. His mouth feels unbearably dry.

“‘Course you can,” he answers casually. With a swift move of his arm, he lifts the duvet. “Come on in.”

The pure bliss that suddenly appears on your face forces Sanji to take in a sharp, ragged breath. It’s an expression he also imagined one too many times when his desperation poisons his mind - not that he’s willing to admit it even to himself. He knows it’s wrong to even entertain a scenario in which you would grace him with such an enraptured face. Still, his will is not as strong as he often makes it out to be.

“Sanji, you are my salvation,” you tell him while getting under the covers with him.

“I know, love.”

It’s both strange and natural, the way your body fits his. As though the two of you have done it so much the memory of your muscles twists and turns your limbs to rest in the most comfortable and intimate way. The odd familiarity makes Sanji think that maybe in another lifetime this is how he always sleeps. He wishes he could find himself in that reality even for a second. Alas, it’s too far out of his reach.

“Damn, you’re really comfortable,” you mumble against his chest. Your hot breath makes him shiver. “And warm. I don’t think I’ll be going back to my bed.” A small grin of cosiness appears on your face - one that Sanji will never forget.

His broad chest and strong arm normally go unnoticed by you but now they’re like a fortress. And just like high stone walls are an unspoken promise of security and happiness, his firm hold on your body is a silent oath of a good night's sleep.

“Stay as long as you want,” he whispers back to you. 

Maybe if you weren’t so exhausted, you’d notice that his words aren’t a statement but a plea. They’re the last thing you remember before drifting off to a restful slumber.

Your breathing slows down and gains a steady, shallow rhythm. Keeping you close to his chest, Sanji allows his hands to gently brush against your arm and back. His movements are feathery, almost fearful. He wouldn’t want you to wake up and change your mind about spending the night beside him - he can indulge in his heart’s desire but he must do so carefully.

“If you only gave me a chance,” he whispers into the night.

Knowing you’re asleep and bound to remain ignorant of his affections, Sanji kisses the top of your head. His lips linger against your hair while he takes in the scent that haunts him day and night. Unknowingly, his grip around your body tightens at that moment as though he has suddenly grown most terrified of having you disappear. Too many nights he’s dreamed of this exact scenario only to wake up to a cold, empty bed.

When the dawn arrives and you leave his arms, this little moment of affection won't mean anything to you. It means nothing now. Sanji knows this very well. He doesn't try to lie to himself that maybe you'll wake up a changed person and finally see him as more than a friendly comrade. Although tonight means nothing to you, it holds an unspeakable weight to Sanji, who will forever gloat about the fact that when you needed help, it was him you turned to. It was his arms that guarded your sleep for a few hours.

Fighting off sleep until he collapses, Sanji revels in the feeling of you against his body and pretends, even if for one night, that you’re his the same way he will always be yours. Watching you sleep cuddled into him, he swears he could die happy now.

[theemporium]

okay okay blurb concept: what do you think ab Oscar on a blind date? maybe Lando set him up with someone?

you ask and you shall receive🫡i hope i did it justice!!🫶🏽

.

This was a stupid idea. 

In fact, it was an incredibly stupid idea for a multitude of reasons, but three in particular played in Oscar’s head on a loop as he drummed his fingers against the table, mocked by the empty seat across from him. 

The first reason was the fact Lando fucking Norris was the mastermind behind the whole thing. In all honesty, he didn’t remember the last time the Brit had a genuinely good idea outside of racing and car improvements. He wasn’t even sure how Lando made him agree, though he wondered if he had hit his head off something and forgot about the whole thing.

The second reason was that it had been a dreadfully long time since Oscar had been on a date. It was embarrassing enough that he couldn’t even remember his last date, let alone remember whether it hadn’t ended badly or not. But it definitely didn’t help that this was the first one in possibly years, and he hadn’t even played a part in planning the damn thing if the fancy restaurant Lando chose said much.

The third reason was that despite Oscar almost begging his teammate, the boy had refused to tell him who he was actually attending a date with. It’s all a part of the fun, mate, Lando had said to him with a big smile. Never heard of a blind date? It’s romantic and shit.

But nothing about the whole set up felt romantic in the slightest.

Lando had tried to reassure the boy on his drive to the restaurant. He had wanted to arrive early, to settle himself and feel like he had some control on the situation even if he really didn’t. Lando had been insistent that the girl he set him up with was just his type, but it was a little hard to believe that when Lando had also been the reason Oscar had a stripper show up on his door to celebrate the end of the last season.

A gift Lando was also insistent that he would have enjoyed. 

So now, Oscar was sat by himself in a fancy restaurant, almost twenty minutes early and looking absolutely pathetic as he sipped his glass of water and resisted the urge to scoff down the complementary breadsticks lying in the basket in front of him. He had given the waiter so many strained smiles, he was worried they were going to kick him out soon if he didn’t order something that actually cost money.

His eyes shifted down to glance at his phone, his fingers itching to reach out and dial Lando’s number again. The sickening feeling in his stomach was only growing, the anxiety bubbling inside him the longer he waited and he was honestly tempted to scrap the whole thing and lock himself in his apartment for a few days before he could face the real world again. 

And yet, before he could even unlock his phone, someone paused by his table and a voice called out his name. 

“Oscar?” 

His head snapped up, any semblance of a reply quickly leaving his mind as he openly gaped at you. You were gorgeous, beyond anything he could even imagine. Not that he cared much for looks or thought Lando would set him up with someone horrendously ugly but…fuck, he wasn’t expecting someone as pretty as you. 

And suddenly he was nervous for a million other reasons. 

“Sorry, are you not Oscar?” You continued after a few moments of silence, a look of embarrassment crossing over your face as you moved to take a step away from the table. “I’m so sorry, I could have swore you looked like the photo my friend sent me—” 

“No!” He blurted out as he quickly stood up, his chair screeching against the floor as he did. “No, I mean, yes.” Your confusion only grew. “I mean…I’m Oscar.” 

“Oh,” you said and something in your face brightened as you extended your hand to the boy, offering your name in response. “It’s lovely to meet you, Oscar.”

“Yeah, you too,” he supplied lamely, frowning a little at himself before he cleared his throat. “Uh, can I get you something? I mean, not me. I meant like I could call the waiter for you and you could order. But I should probably let you look at the menu first so—” And fuck, he didn’t think he had ever spoken this much in one go ever. 

But your giggle cut him off as you smiled at him. You glanced around, noting the high-end restaurant that you knew Lando probably got a kick out of picking before your gaze landed on the Aussie once again. 

“Can I be honest?”

Oscar nodded his head vigorously.

“This doesn’t look like your kind of scene,” you said to him, and Oscar could feel his cheeks burning.

He shrugged. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s not mine either,” you added, something almost mischievous shining in your eyes. “But there is a really cool arcade about fifteen minutes away that do really good burgers if you’re interested.”

And it wasn’t Oscar’s fault that he couldn’t bite back the massive grin on his face. “That sounds perfect.” 

And maybe—just fucking maybe—one of Lando’s plans had worked out far better than anyone ever assumed.

.

[crying-fantasies]

Size difference

Masterlist

Featuring TFA! Megatron, smut/fluff/angst, if the size difference is the thing then this Megatron is the one, CW: mentions suicide/death, grief (denial), TFA Megatron first form (I prefer that one over the Earth one), mention of deep emotion, infiltration, use of drugs and alcohol, long fic.

“Devotion inspires courage, courage inspires sacrifice, sacrifice inspires death”, or in other words, TF One has destroyed me beyond recognition, putting me in the deepest sadness (and you all are coming with me).

Watching you all overcharged by your ethanol-based liquid is always amusing, sometimes you cry, pleading for your weak planet and your horrendous kind, sometimes you laugh, making fun of all that you tried so hard to keep in one piece, intact, probably shattered once again by your social interactions out of his reach while getting whatever resources he needs to keep his plans afloat; you hate your kind, sometimes with the same fervor Lugnut hates the Autobots or whoever gets on the way for the decepticon cause, and as fast as you consume a bottle you are, once again, trying to squeeze your humorous tiny brain module for reasons to make him spare this black water planet that has only provide him endless annoyance.

“Music!”, your little watery eyes seem to brighten up as he only seems slightly amused by the way you try so hard to make him see the good in humanity, no matter the fact you already know his very much unchangeable point of view, “you guys have music, right?”

If any other decepticon were present more than one would have squashed you by the mere idea that music was something only humans had, “we do”, Megatron doesn't elaborate, he has heard war chants long enough, songs almost lost in the back of his processor, nevertheless, those out of reach memories are better than the awful music turned propaganda of the Autobots.

Since that day, you have tried your best to save your species by what they can give him over what they are, you show him arts, show him chemicals once the topic of food is mentioned.

“You guys only eat energon?”

“We consume it almost raw as our fuel”, at your fallen curiosity, by that shine of yours dying a little bit, Megatron pushes on with nothing more horrible and visceral than the truth, “Only flimsy Autobots had the shanix and riches to add elements or upgrade it”, he only has so much expression to give with his sorry state, but the way your body reflects the sudden realization and sadness is surely telling, “We were given only the scraps of their lowest grade energon, but no more”.

Day by day your view of the Autobots is twisted by him, he likes to say and think that he is only showing you how things were and still are, what once was awe upon the image of the heroes in the news changed to unconscious doubt, day by day Megatron tells you the truth about the Autobots and feels an ounce of glee when you stop looking at the news and just go about your day trying to help him back to his feet; it’s a hassle, sure, but you said it could help him, something to do with his processor, that people talked about their problems, he pushed your head down with one of his digits by the mere idea of putting your people at the same level as him, but he didn't kill you for such transgressions as you wanted to hear more, makes him remember of the days he guided the young and stray into the decepticon cause even when you are a meat bag, you added his teachings with ease and gave your comments once he was finished, long gone seem to be the days you feared him, trembling in your place, now you have the gall to talk to him, you still say “Lord Megatron” when his soldiers are present, but if not, you are brave enough to call directly his designation after poking around the topic, he couldn't care less about your perception of things as humans tend to bond easily as it seems, the push of his digit over your head was perceived by you as an endearment, even affection if he listened well to your little puff of air and laugh when you had time to realize he isn't squishing you right then and there, but what for, you've your use, with what little alchemy you make a mean energon fuel.

“Copper and other things are very common on Earth”, the little metal vase on your hands shakes with the movement, the fear of being in front of several optics is long gone to this point, maybe a little bit of your sanity too because who shakes hardly processed energon with metal inside the same container like that without the fear of it exploding? Not even the craziest decepticon can try that, and if they did then they are long gone, but no, he is presented by hardly a shot of energon in your strange concoction, or two, as you make another for him to try, one tasting better than the other, Megatron is surprised, even amazed, by the difference and the good results showed by his internal computer when the takes the second one, the nutrients on it, “the first one has industrial copper”, you smile, almost understanding, a knowing smile that portrays your human nature just right, “the second one, I bought it from traditional miners in south America, human miners that work with their hands”, by the corner of his optic he can catch Blitzwing fidgeting, maybe his tanks are empty and he wants a taste, or you lied and he isn't the first to try your alchemy if Lugnut scornful glare tells something.

Sly human, still not stopping to prove the worthiness of your people, “I may take it into consideration”.

It was a wrong move, as now you take that little victory as your biggest move yet, your tiny project of people he admits to “maybe keep alive” and next thing he knows you're walking without much care around, you clean them and make it feel good, you make fuel as the long lost alchemist back on Cybertron, you come up with spare parts for him to choose, your wielding work is pitiful at best, but you keep searching videos for it, other humans showing how to patch a broken metal table and you use it to fix a blaster hole.

You have your use, Megatron is a bit amused and bothered at the same time for it.

Until you dry out again, distraught, Megatron finds you looking at a patch of nature, or more like a patch robbed of anything worth in it, “humanity is like this”, you tell him, “they need a lot of steel and other things for the robots”, Megatron can almost sense you distressed levels of cortisol, he may do the same, take everything, but what for? This planet heals itself if you leave half intact, humans are far too greedy, and way too destructive if the contamination in the area is anything to go by, Megatron is mad more over the fact this patch of the planet can't contribute more for him in the long run, and for some reason that makes you laugh, before taking a little sip of your bottle and be done with it.

But your consumption of ethanol-based liquids doesn't stop, at least you do it when almost no one is present so your sad, ugly behavior is unknown most of the time, just once Megatron asks for it, and your inhibited answer makes him see you in another perspective, “they aren't paying me the extra time, they give me the extra work because she took a sick leave but her social media is full of pictures of her in the freaking beach, I’m yelled at for passing out during work hours, I don't have time to eat because I must work and then come here, my family is mad I don't spend more time with them, they make me feel guilty”, you laugh, like the last shards of your sanity are slipping by your tiny fingers, “but you guys are better than them”, how humorous and miserable, for an alien species made of metal to treat you better than your own, and that's a lot to say about those people if you feel more at ease with the Decepticons.

Your sanity gets down to another low blow when Megatron finds you with little chalky things on your hands, a doctor prescribed them to you, they are rich in vitamins and he can tell by the smell, that there is something under them, it smells like poison.

A rotten smell started to come from you, slightly covered by the smell of sweet ethanol .

“Can I see the real Megatron?”

He takes a moment to take in the idea, so he moves forward to let you get a better side of his faceplate and helm, but your face shows how lost you are, your usual smell has subdued once again, and you have one of those natural essences on.

“The real Megatron?”, takes a moment to understand, and your smile grows at his transformation, he can do this, all his people can, but you seem almost moved to tears when he takes on his original form, words barely a whisper as you mutter a low “perfect”.

Your comment about his helm resembling a crown earns you a smirk, your fingers itching to touch it if he is right, he is handsome you say, flattery won't get you far but you rebuke him, recounting all the times you have seen pretty words and pretty bodies and faces win the best job, the best everything, your words drip poison, the thought is ridiculous, but you would make a good decepticon if only you weren't bond to your meat carcass.

Turns out, not even that stops you or him, it would be a lie to say that the softness of your bare body doesn't do things to him under the obvious discomfort of pushing his digits under the fabrics covering you, it's one of the very few moments your body doesn't reek of alcohol, its absence conveying your mind and body together as one once again as he lets your tiny hands roam his faceplate with reverence, touching his supposed crown in something akin to affection.

You've always been affectionate, even when it was your default mode all along your surroundings made it impossible to show it.

He catches on the badly sewed purple patch in your clothes, just above where your primitive fuel pump should be, one which runs faster when he comments an amused “Really?” once noticing the badge made by hand, you hug his faceplate, as far as you can reach, smiling in content and pursuing asylum of his optics in the middle of them, out of reach, kissing just in the middle, Megatron is no stranger to your outbursts of affection, he has come to accept it with time as much as he had to learn to handle you without breaking a rib, again.

He could kill you, but you make an interesting diversion from what is burning outside the hideout.

Wasting energon in mass displacement is out of the question, you don't seem to mind, except when you do and pitifully cry about not being fair, Megatron smiles, handsomely you add, when the tip of his spike brushes against your entrance, impossible to fit, but your warm mouth is focused over his anterior node, hands pushing along his biolights, time and his low vents, huffing above you as steam, have taught you enough, the lack of words from his part igniting curiosity on how far he will let you do and what makes the grin in his faceplate grow, you've learned enough to know where to use those stupidly tiny nails, dull enough to catch the mesh under, drag it down, your chest, insufficient by any means, but plush as you drag it around him, getting pleasure yourself when those peaks press in the most giving mesh you seem to like, using your arms to do your best and hug tight his spike, Megatron almost laughs when your mouth stops it's work and kiss under the node, opting to vent some vapor by his intake when you look back up at him; those watery eyes of yours, for once, seem normal, giving him the best angle to look at you, the real you, licking slowly, so slowly, your eyes don't leave his optics, you're missing his spike, loving him, giving him reverence, your harmless teeth dragging above his protomesh, trying to go hard with him, wishful thinking if anything, the lame excuse of a sting makes his engines rev, watching you make a show of one person, trying to hold into the best your body can give.

Soon, your tiredness puts an end to the play, now he gets serious and overstimulated with no real release unless he gets his servos dirty, holding you in one and looking at your entrance directly even when you yell by the surprise, Megatron seems it moisture enough, you meat bags get aroused so easily, but who is he to make fun of you when he can still hear his engines revving by your heated administrations of affection, even worse yet as you also hear them, smiling with that inherent cunning nature of yours, smile soon leaving you when his glossa makes contact to your sorry entrance, all small that it can barely hold the tip of his glossa at bay, your body almost fall down his servo when your head drops back by the sheer pressure, Megatron is expecting to feel your toes on his face, your pathetic leg struts kicking at him to go slower or faster, instead, he catches your body distracted in other places, your face is flush with blood, glancing intently to his weeping spike out of your reach, toes soon curling by the deep rumble of his chuckle, moaning, hands flying to hold your face, trying to keep it all together.

“Should know you have your priorities set”, giving a fast and final taste to your entrance Megatron puts you where you want to be, and, being honest, he also does, already with practice in hand in how to put you under the side of his spike, letting you get a good hold of your space, pushing your hips, inviting him to destroy and ruin you.

He laughs lowly to himself, he has already ruined you for anyone else, he has already ruined you for your species, there will be no one else after him, and you seem content with it as you moan, freely, drowning in pleasure as his hips finally move and give you the friction you've been waiting for, holding for dear life to his servo, the practice has resulted in experience, he knows what you like too, more by the fact you two are similar down there even when it is increasingly concerning, but once his nodes push against your weeping entrance, once your fluids make it easy for him to take and for you to give, all those concerns seem to fade away, feeling a concentrated rush of desire flow through his frame as his optics take on the image of your little body taking all it can, imagining how a tight feat it will be once he can claim you.

He has already done it, your mind is his, he just needs time and resources to claim your body entirely.

Later on, while he is resting in the berth of his quarters you have the confidence to put a blanket over yourself, feeling brave enough to wander around with only the fabric on but still short to walk naked around him in the privacy of his territory.

It's okay, soon, he will fix your broken self-esteem, and make you see your use and strength, till then, Megatron is satisfied, hearing you promise him to make an alternative fuel for his people, Megatron can hardly hear your hypothesis about combining carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, hydrogen and some kind of acid with energon, the lust and passion of an organic seem to know no limitations if you two have been at it for so long, but you just promise him, he will see the real potential of your people, something worth to keep, and Megatron believes you may have some truth in your words if your keep fighting on for it, something worth fighting for.

Something worth fighting for, Megateon reminds himself of such when he is taken, broken, and all the hideout falls, he supposed you succumbed under the debris and made peace with the idea of dying fast under a rock, no suffering, no questioning, just death, deeming it enough and fair for you.

Megatron, instead, is forced to watch the organic news, in between, he sees you, your face and name, pointed as the main culprit of an unfruitful act of rebellion against the Autobots, the new allies of humanity, blinded flesh bags that know nothing of the deep hatred and disgust the very same Autobots teach as nature, Megatron knows, as his kind, the war frames, the flying frames, and the worker frames have always been on the short side of any real benefit, he expects to see you still fighting, but it soon changes when he sees the pieces scattered and poorly covered, the space bridge painted with red and explosive energon, all washed away as it never happened.

As it didn't matter at all.

Nobody mourns you as the title of a traitor is branded next to your name, no matter that Megatron has seen you do the possible and impossible to save your people from his plans, people that hardly knew the real you spew lies to make them feel and be seen better, Sentinel Prime makes him see all, amused by the flesh bag that wore the decepticon badge on its covers, telling Megatron, with words heavy with fake appreciation and genuine scorn: “how did you train that organic to bid your every word?”.

It's far from the truth, as Megatron hoped for your easy death, he would have never instructed or led you down to such a gruesome and painful one.

But alas, he is the big, bad, murderous decepticon that consumes autobot protoforms.

Once the Prime has had his fun, he lets him be, displayed for everyone to see, an example of the Autobots’ power, new sparks look at him from behind the glass, in the ocean of bright optics, ready to learn and be corrupted by the Autobots' lies, he notices a knowing pair, a visor, and Soundwave looking at him, Megatron can listen to him in his mind, and shows him the amount of your devotion for the Decepticon cause, using your body and all the components in it to create the bomb you promised him, “the power enough to force the space bridge to work”, drowning in the energon and the metal by one big intake, power enough to fuel any space bridge to let the little decepticon cross back to Cybertron and create a cover, if Megatron has anything to say about it while lowering his helm Soundwave already knows and walks with the rest of the new sparks, carrying out his mission, all that Megatron has to do is wait, get the upper hand, take all the advantages he can and all the outcomes, play the game of war in a very human fashion, something the Autobots have not encountered yet.

Megatron, helm down and spark heavy, won't mourn you, not yet, he has to avenge you first and claim back the planet you tried to protect.

.

If you look deep enough, the TFA universe can be very dark and scary, especially if you think about how they managed to get so much technology in such a short amount of time, as in Megatron cut down to pieces to know how he works.

@tf-kinktober2024

[stripedstarsblueflags]

goodbye to a world

reading between the lines of the various goodbyes and dismissals to logan sargeant

Pt. 3: Oscar (press conference)

full series

not a goodbye (in the traditional sense of the word) but a fucking statement. obviously. because piastri.

the loscar dynamic is absolutely FASCINATING. out of all the friendships in the grid, this one plays a special role: it reminds the audience that there’s so much more than formula 1, there’s so much more to f1 drivers than this stage of their career. most of us (spectators) have a broad conception of the “typical” driver backstory; rich kid with rich parents, got in a go kart at age 4, karting and then single-seater and junior series was their whole life and they climbed up the ranks like rungs on a ladder. i think a lot of people who only watch f1 (myself included) tend to focus so much more on the Pinnacle of MotorsportTM that everything else just seems like prep. even though most if not all of the drivers grew up either 1) racing each other 2) watching each other on tv, we don’t really think of these relationships beyond and BEFORE f1.

until loscar. because what draws them together? they’re not teammates. they’re not rivals. williams is so far behind that they’re not even competitors. in many way, logan is entirely “out of oscar’s league”.

and yet they have this endearing, sweet, playful friendship that’s exactly what it seems like: people who have known each other since they were kids, grown up together, watched each other become the person they are today. there’s a casual, domestic intimacy neither of them have with their teammates, even if those relationships are also going well, because there’s this history element.

which is recalled no more vividly than when oscar and logan are compared. as they are too often.

total polar opposites. f1 stories practically the inverse of each other. one was a promising young talent who f1 teams had been keeping an eye on for years that, once thrown in the car at that “wait! isn’t he just a kid??” age, immediately proved his worth as a future superstar. Future World Champion, to quote the official moniker. “look at him go! look at OSCAR PIASTRI!” he’s a prodigy, he’s a social enigma, he’s a raw force of pure and driven talent.

then you have the other promising young talent who one f1 team had been keeping a loose eye on for years. who’s never done any free practices or tests. who’s barely even dipped his toe into the waters of f2. who’s shown a lot of raw potential but more noticeably, glittering fancy sponsors. who gets chucked into a car as a last-minute, scrapping underprepared and thrown-together plan B after the previous f2 graduate fails to keep his seat. and, while oscar soared off into the stratosphere, logan flops IMMEDIATELY.

go fucking figure. it’s almost like people like max verstappen and lewis hamilton are exceptions to the rule, not the rule itself, and an underprepared rushed overwhelmed rookie is actually NOT in a position to achieve immediate stardom! in fact, maybe that’s the OPPOSITE of what they need! so, in loscar, we have the exception to the rule (oscar) and the rule (logan). but that’s not the solidified narrative; the story, how history will remember the two of them, is that logan was nothing but a pale and washed-out shadow. always. open and shut case.

what does oscar have to say about it, though?

this was said to gp blog (great website); the full quotes from him are:

I sent him a text yesterday. He seemed okay. Obviously a little bit of a shock. Obviously it wasn't an easy time for him in F1. It was much more difficult for him than maybe I expected it to be going into F1. I think for me, his potential was much greater than what was on show in F1, for whatever reason it might be.

I know firsthand, being his teammate in the junior categories, racing him in basically everything, I know how quick he is. I don't think the change was completely unexpected...

Best of luck to him. Just a shame that, for whatever reason, he wasn't able to show everything that he's got. Because in the junior categories, he was genuinely one of the quickest guys I went up against. I think his potential is much greater than what some people have seen.

first of all, some BEAUTIFUL toeing-the-line from oscar here. he’s even more subtle than alex in that none of his words imply any sort of passive aggression or ill intent; the only emotion that’s really conveyed, in understated tones, is a mild perplexity about logan’s career and failure in general as opposed to its gut-wrenching end in question. the implications in his wording imply nothing more than a personal opinion, but the ambiguity itself is some massive shade. let’s take a closer look:

much more difficult for him than maybe i expected it to be- this is masterful. “yeah, that’s right. i’m the next-gen prodigal superstar talent with my future as a world champion pretty much written for me, and i’ve shown the skill to back it up, and not only did i know logan before the catastrophe of f1 but i regarded him with so much respect that i had actual expectations. his skill had become such an intertwined part of his character in my eyes that i just assumed things would go so much better. because i believed in him.”

his potential was much greater than what was on show in f1…- toeing the line again. balance. acknowledging both the reality and all the roads not taken. “i’m not making false claims. i’m not making excuses for him. i’m not blaming the car or the team or the lack of support or the disgrace or the mistreatment and i’m not challenging the results. i’m not talking about what happened, i’m talking about what could’ve happened. potential. i’m talking about everything that wasn’t on show– and by not on show i mean that his potential, his skill, his pace, him as a person was not seen or understood or respected or prioritized by anyone. i’m not saying ‘oh, one point in 36 starts is all anyone could do with x/y/z excuse’ i’m saying ‘you guys missed the point’.”

for whatever reason that might be/just a shame that, for whatever reason- fucking hell, this is harsh. this is practically an attack. “i’m not gonna make excuses, but i’m gonna leave this open. i’m not gonna call this bad luck or the way it goes sometimes or a bad break, i’m saying that Whatever Reason This Happened is not what should have happened. not a matter of chance or objective misfortune; this situation could have and should have worked out better and whatever obstacle got in the way of that was a matter of misjudgment.”

I know firsthand, being his teammate in the junior categories, racing him in basically everything, I know how quick he is- alex said something similar, about pace. “raw speed” he calls it. and it’s really interesting that his teammates, who learn firsthand about him as a racer, his driving style, his strengths, his weaknesses (whether they’ve been teammates for months or years) identify a specific trait/skill about logan rather than just making the empty claim that “he’s good” or “he’s better than this”. and this is very interesting coming from oscar in particular given his current teammate. lando isn’t the best starter or the best defender or the most coordinated overtaker, but even with all the areas he needs to work on he can still compensate for it by being really fucking fast. his pace is his defense; he gets clean air and boom, he’s fucking gone. obviously that’s an oversimplification but oscar directly competing against that and observing/absorbing that and bringing up the same category of skill in logan– even in flashback– can’t be overlooked. in addition: “yeah, i’ve raced against him in basically everything. you’ve watched him on tv in a backmarker team for a season or so? i’ve known him for YEARS. i know. i don’t care what you’re seeing, i’m the expert on this and i know.”

I think his potential is much greater than what some people have seen- shit, this is as close to passive aggression as he gets, but it’s still done so precisely and subtly that it’s almost an art form. i mean, leave it to oscar piastri to use the phrase “some people” and NOT make it sound like a straight up, poorly-veiled callout. try to use that in a sentence without seeming like you’re shit-talking someone, potentially in the room. this is part of the lovely passive-aggression classic: “….unlike SOME people” (sometimes while staring at them directly, depending on how passive you want the passive aggression to really be. so, he’s (in unofficial terms) calling out who– anyone who hasn’t seen logan’s potential. who have underestimated him. who have invalidated his situation and him as an athlete. this could be any category of haters– negative fans, petty journalists, the horrid type of reports who will ask questions like “what does it feel like to be the slowest driver in formula 1…”. and that would make perfect sense. almost perfect. if we thought oscar piastri paid any attention to the haters, his own or anyone else’s. if it was ever on his mind. so, people who haven’t seen his potential… what, like, team principals? the ambiguity in itself is simultaneously a direct implication and oscar piastri’s intelligence needs to be studied because it is sometimes terrifying.

oscar doesn’t make a statement on social media, doesn’t bring it up further, doesn’t make any sort of personal goodbye available to the media– of course he wouldn’t, not just because that’s incredibly private but also because he’s oscar and he’s basically kimi raikkonen (in this analogy lando is sunshine boy seb but that’s an idea for another post). oscar’s whole public image is that he doesn’t want to have a public image. he doesn’t give the media any more parts of himself than he’s contractually obligated to. what he does give is concise, serious, the strongest points in the fewest words. and because of the enigmatic, tantalizing nature of that approach paired with the fact that he’s a fucking brilliant driver, people listen to what he has to say.

so oscar has a lot more weight to throw around than alex. alex’s image is that he’s a cuddly sunshiney cat dad who is a living anomaly in that he’s a good driver and a total sweetheart at once. whether or not what he says comes from the heart (it does. he’s alex) the reaction can always be “awww look at alex he’s such a nice guy :)” and the focus is on the kindness of the gesture/praise/respect itself rather than what alex is actually saying. so if alex says logan had more potential, that’s alex being alex.

if oscar says logan had more potential, that’s a fucking statement. and if the media wasn’t coming for JV’s head at this point, oscar just gave them a diagram for how to build a guillotine.

beautiful.

[gxr25256]

Mercy in the Shadows - Sixshot x reader

🌵 If there are any mistakes, please forgive me.

--------------------------------

The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.

Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.

Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.

Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.

Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.

But then, his optics landed on "you."

It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.

A human.

The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.

He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.

He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.

There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.

He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.

This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.

He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.

Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.

Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.

An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.

The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”

The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.

“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.

Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.

The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”

The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.

It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.

And yet, he didn’t.

“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.

Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.

"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.

Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.

With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.

The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”

Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.

Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.

--------------------------------

[silverstormsxx]

some utdr concepts i came up with at 3am

Undermerge

Aight so basically Undermerge was originally created as a regular, standard AU - in fact, it was almost completed!

....until the creator scrapped it the last minute, erasing everything and leaving it behind

Due to how abrupt and rushed the erasure of Undermerge was, the codes of each character basically all fused together, creating a jumbled amalgamation of memories, personalities, etc

This amalgamation managed to survive the deletion of Undermerge because of the DETERMINATION from their variant of Frisk

After a long time of living in the empty, infinite void where their AU once was, they started to go insane.

Eventually, however, they managed to find a way to escape the void by transferring their code to other AUs!!

Shortly after escaping, they took on the name: "Union."

Union is, in appearance, virtually indistinguishable from a shadow. The fact that they don't really have a physical form adds onto this, as they are ever shifting and changing.. just like a shadow. The only reason they don't completely blend in is because of their eyes - they have white sockets, and black pupils.

Union can shift their form to more closely resemble the silhouette of whichever character they feel like the most in that moment - sans, undyne, toriel, etc.

Union is.. very mischievous. They are easily amused by seeing others in troublesome situations. They also have a tendency to prank/spook people. They are very reminiscent of an elusive face that uses their cleverness to lock you into deals, twisting your own words against you and playing mind games for their own entertainment.

They have really bad mood swings. One second they're pissed at you for breathing too loud in front of them and berating you loudly, the second they're complimenting you on how nice you look today like nothing ever happened.

This is because they don't really have a solid identity. Whenever they undergo a mood swing, they usually shift.

For example..

[As Undyne]

"COME BACK HERE YOU PUNK!! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST WALK ALL OVER ME LIKE I'M A PIECE OF TRASH?"

[Shifts to sans]

"..on second thought, i really don't have the energy to do anything about it. just don't do it again, alright pal?"

They're chaotic neutral. The only thing their jumbled up mess of a mind can really agree on is that they want to be entertained.

If you were to ever fight Union, I'd imagine the flavor text would be reused lines.

Also I feel like they would shift into muffet the most.

I think they like fucking with sanses who get angered easily like fell sans.

Uses we/us when referring to themselves for obvious reasons

Utmv Swap AU - The Cycle of Feelings

Nim takes the role of XGaster

Dream takes the role of XFrisk

Nightmare takes the role of XChara

Ink Sans takes the role of Cross Sans (not too sure about this one but eh. Suggestions?)

Deltarune: The Memories Route

Takes place in a hypothetical scenario where sans falls into a dark world in one of the later chapters and joins the party with kris!

Basically. We force deltarune sans to remember the memories of his undertale counterpart. This includes everything - his knowledge of the anomaly, gaster, timelines, saves, etc

This au mostly focuses on showcasing the player as this unfathomable, higher being to the characters in undertale and deltarune. An unknowable entity, a universal constant that you can never escape, even across alternate realities that holds power beyond what they could ever begin to understand.

Heavy focus on psychological horror.

[wanderingmind867]

There's been so many different Batman shows, and I grew up during a time when there was like 50 of them on TV (if I may be hyperbolic). I saw Batman 1966, Batman The Animated Series, The Batman (2004), and Batman: The Brave and The Bold. I saw all four of those shows to some extent, and I kind of want to dissect my opinions on each of them.

I was born in 2005, so Batman 1966 and Batman The Animated Series were both beyond my age range. But I caught reruns of both shows. I don't know if it's overplaying my hand to say what tv stations they aired on, but there was a channel for exclusively retro kids content (like 40s-80s stuff) when I was really young. So that's how I learned of Batman: 1966. The first episode I saw featured Burgess Meredith's Penguin hypnotizing Alfred. I remember that one being my first very clearly, and I then vaguely remember binging some of the first and second seasons when I got them from the public library. I loved them, although I never did get around to watching Season Three of Batman 1966. I plan to eventually (now that I have it on DVD). I'm curious to see my thoughts.

Now as for Batman The Animated Series… I caught that one on reruns too, but not on a channel for retro programming. No, reruns of it just aired late at night sometimes. And I really only remember one episode I saw as a kid: Two-Face. Both parts, but Part 1 was the real standout. I remember that one almost viscerally. It made me a fan of Two-Face, and he'll forever remain a favourite. But I didn't actually love the show that much. Beyond the occasional highlight (like Heart of Ice or Two-Face parts 1 and 2), I really don't remember much about the show. It wasn't a highlight for me. I always found Catwoman especially dull on that show. Maybe my mind would change upon revisiting it, but I don't really want to revisit it.

Now, The Batman (2004). This one started when I was yet to be born, but it ended when I was probably around 4 years old. Being born in 2004, I don't really remember seeing too much of this one on TV. Except for the time I may have gotten a DVD from a library or a blockbuster or something, and it had the debut episodes of Catwoman, Mister Freeze and Man-Bat. I also vaguely recall an episode with Joker and a Train, and Penguin with the Green Lanterns (or something like that)? I didn't actually watch much of it, except for me binging Seasons 1 and 2 online when I was slightly older. I remember liking the first two seasons. Especially the interesting takes on the villians.

Now finally, let's talk The Brave and The Bold. This one aired when I was probably in the age range of being six to nine, and I loved, loved, loved this one! It's still my favourite! I remember a lot of episodes in decent detail. I remembered the first season particularly. The Outsiders, Plastic Man, The Music Meister, Blue Beetle, Aquaman, Owlman, Bat-Mite, etc. I didn't really watch as much of seasons two and three, but season one stands out super strongly in my minds eye. There's a reason I asked for it this Christmas, after all. Also, my public library had the tie-in comic! I remember reading it! I learned about Power Girl, Sugar and Spike, Kid Eternity and Captain Marvel/Shazam through that thing! It was the best!

So I saw four Batman shows, and only really remember scraps from each of them. Maybe I should revisit them all someday. But i'm focused on Batman 1966 and Batman The Brave and The Bold for now. They're the best of the best, in my opinion. And now, if anyone wants me to, maybe i can make some more posts on this stuff later. Maybe I can rank the DC movies i saw, as well as the other dcu tv shows. Maybe I can even talk about the voice actors for each show, or whatever. I have an excessive wealth of stuff to say with these topics, I think.

[mymakuu]

My first ever fanfic!

Criticism is appreciated 

Raiden joins desperado AU

Raiden gripped the concrete as hard as he could. Shaking in pain as his blood spilled out of his chest. He reached for his weapon in a final attempt to endure it, but it was quickly kicked away.

“Are you finally done?”

Monsoon said while stepping closer, his metal feet against the concrete caused Raiden’s heart to beat faster, so fast that it was all he could hear.

“what can you even do now? Stand up. Show me a man.”

He felt Monsoon’s Sai hit his chin, not a light tapping but a slam.

Instead of giving up in that moment, Raiden forced himself to stand up. His vision was incredibly blurry, it was impossible to see Monsoon’s kick to the legs until he slammed his head on the concrete. The last thing he heard was the ringing, a loud ringing that faded into a beating, almost like a heartbeat.

Most of Raiden’s memories had completely faded like sand in the wind. But the heartbeat brought something back... something sweet, and comforting. The heartbeat no longer sounded like his own, but his mother’s.

It brought back memories of his mom rubbing his forehead back when he was very young, it was soothing… Raiden had completely forgotten about his failed battle until the ringing came back. When the ringing came back the feeling of a hand on his forehead didn’t go away, in fact, the hand felt warmer and larger than a mother’s hand. Quickly Raiden shot his eye open and saw his enemy, Jetstream Sam, rubbing his forehead. Raiden started to struggle against it but he couldn’t move, making Sam laugh.

“Nice try pretty boy”

he finally took his hand off his head

“those EMP shots we gave you won't fade for HOURS”

“WHERE AM I?”

Raiden couldn’t hide the panic in his voice, that tough cyborg façade was about to be washed away, which Sam found amusing because he laughed again.

“you’re at desperado! Do you really think we’d let a valuable asset like you die on the dirty floor? You’re trash, but-”

“shut up Sam. I’m not here for small talk obviously…”

“well, you’re here for a reason pretty boy...”

“are you going to tell me?”

“am I?”

Sam was toying with him, clear as day. Raiden scowled and decided it was best not to entertain a clown, so he just shut his mouth. Disappointingly Sam wouldn’t mimic this action.

“Have you seen your new parts yet?”

Raiden looked down, he did have new parts, red and black with the Desperado logo on his right thigh.

“what the (f word) is this?”

“your new look pretty boy”

“stop calling me that”

“you don’t like it? The logo I mean.”

The armor was beyond beauty. There wasn’t a word strong enough to describe how pretty it was. Maybe it was just the look of fresh armor, or perhaps it was the scarlet accents. It wasn’t that big ugly logo that’s for sure.

“no”

“ah you’re lying pr- “

Raiden quickly cut him off before he could spit out that nickname.

“what happened? Why is your logo on My leg?

“Well, I was getting there if you'd stopped being so catty.”

Raiden finally shut up and started waiting for Sam’s explanation. Sam put his hand to his chin and gave Raiden one of his snarky smiles. Suddenly being dead on the concrete sounded better than this. Sam was taking way too long to speak at this point, so a headache started to form in Raiden’s forehead. Raiden pushed his head back on his pillow and groaned.

“well since you want to know so bad…”

Sam chuckled again

“you put up quite a fight, we couldn’t let a pretty thing like you go to waste. So instead of shooting you dead then and there, we dragged you into the building and took you to the med bay.”

Sam put his hand on Raiden’s new logo.

“they gave you some new parts, monsoon tore yours up pretty bad. We decided that desperado could use someone like you…”

Raiden opened his eye, Sam's eyelids were hung a little. Not in a tired way, but in a relaxed way, it was unnerving.

“so. I'll give you 2 options… you either join Desperado, as one of our cyborgs, or we use you for scrap metal. It's up to you pretty boy”

Sam's hand was still on the Desperado logo. Sam finally took his hand off and then put it back on Raiden’s forehead, which seemed to soothe his headache a bit. This choice wasn’t hard at all, ANYONE with a moral backbone would rather die before joining a company like DESPERADO! Maybe even people without a moral backbone. Raiden was about to say his answer, but the sliding doors opened before his mouth could. He couldn’t tell who walked in by footsteps alone, they were more clicky than sundowners, but too snippy to be monsoon, and not squeaky enough to be Khamsin’s, which meant it had to be…

“Ola Mistral, come to visit Raidey?”

Raiden felt his body tense up at that awful nickname, his stomach even churned every time it echoed in his ears. Sam could tell it was making Raiden sick, so he slid a metal bucket over beside the bed with his foot.

“visit?” mistrals voice was smooth like a cup of Assam tea. But to Raiden, it sounded as smooth as the noise the bucket made on the floor. “I wouldn't say visit. I'm here to see if he weighed his options”

“He was just on that.”

“Sundowner wants an answer by tonight, any later and we’ll scrap him.”

“We can wait a bit, he already acts like scrap metal.”

“Very funny Sam, but its Sundowner’s word is what we follow. And don’t run from the heard unless you want to be mutton”

Sam was quiet for a bit, in the desperado hierarchy, Sam was at the bottom, he was new to desperado and it showed.

“talk to him, Sam. I want the word by tonight. Monsoons on call today if you need him.”

“yes, ma’am. I'm on it, ma’am”

Mistral’s heels clicked on the metal floors as she walked out of the room. It wasn’t until the sliding doors closed that Sam started talking.

“Please Raiden, just join”

“and why should I? you bunch are just a bunch of moralless terrorists. I’d rather d- “

“No, you wouldn’t. come on Raiden, just join, it's better than what's coming if you don’t”

“why would I listen to you”

Raiden attempted to spit at Sam’s face to keep him away, but Sam just put his hand over his mouth.

“I’m not taking no anymore. You're joining. Welcome to Desperado Raiden.”

Raiden felt an indescribable emotion. Anger? Sadness? Something entirely different? Whatever it was it made him throw up. Sam helped him do it in the bucket while holding his hair back too. Raiden didn’t take this as a kind gesture, after being forced to join an organization a bundle of flowers would feel like a bullet to the brain.

I'm sorry Raiden.’

Sam put his hand on an IV bag full of something blue, turning up the dial a bit. Raiden felt his head getting light and airy, and he started to wobble, before he knew it, he was out cold.

When Raiden finally opened his eyes it was dark out, the room would be pitch black if not for the medical equipment’s glow. He heard what sounded like porcelain cups clicking on each other, and heels on the ground. He noticed that one of the lights in the room was moving, it was a faint red glow. he didn’t put much thought into it, realizing that the EMP shots had finally worn off and he could move now was much more interesting. Raiden sat up and was suddenly making “eye” contact with Monsoon. The man who put him in this situation. Neither of them said anything, it was just an awkward silence for a minute or so before Monsoon set his tray down.

“You're up early.”

Raiden didn’t respond.

“I brought you some green tea”

Raiden still didn’t respond. Anything coming out of his mouth would be out of irrational anger now. He could feel his arms shaking in anger at this point. All he wanted to do was dump that hot tea on Monsoon’s face and smash the cups on his teeth.

“calm down Jack.”

Raiden stayed quiet, being called Jack wasn’t helping him calm down. He raised his arm to grab a cup but his headache had gotten worse, and it had spread to the rest of his mind by now. Monsoon picked up a cup and moved to the side of his bed, putting the cup to Raiden’s lips and making him drink it.

“don’t spit it out. It’ll help that headache of yours.”

Raiden kept it in his mouth without swallowing, the chance of a Desperado member poisoning him had gotten lower, but not low enough for him to swallow.

Monsoon set the cup down and got off the bed. He walked to the other side of the room to grab supplies from a cabinet.

“I knew your secret, Jack.”

Monsoon saying that suddenly made him swallow, he choked a bit but got over it fast. Whatever secret it was didn’t matter. If Monsoon knows it's over for him.

“you couldn’t ‘show me a man’ because you're not one.”

[itstheval]

Telling the Truth

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Why would I?"

"What? We're your-"

"Friends, yes, I know, but think about it. Think, with me. First thing I could tell you is 'We're guaranteed to win'. Cool! Blinding great. Except you'd know that winning was costing me my life. Something that seems to have upset you, even AFTER the fact!"

"Well, yes, that's because it's your LIFE! We didn't…we don't want you to die for us, Siffrin!"

"Even if it meant saving all of Vaugarde?"

"…"

"We did NOT save Vaugarde without that wish. I can tell you that with a straight face. In whatever magic realm of make believe where I don't wish, we're all standing still as statues right now. I knew that as SOON as I knew that I'd made a wish. You don't need that choice in your mind. Especially not when I'm the one who's dying…If I'm the one feeling it, it should be my choice, shouldn't it?"

"Siffrin…"

"You said first thing you could tell us. Implying there were more things." Odile's voice was stern. Cold. Steel. Good, she was the one person who could understand without her heart weeping. Maybe, just maybe, she could convince the others.

"Oh, there were plenty more things to tell you! Like how the end of the King wasn't the end of the loops? How we were trapped here, by whatever this was? Would you want to know that? That every time we won, it was just washed away like a kayak too far at sea?! Or how about everything I'd failed to do, would you want the list of that?"

"Yes."

The word cut through everything else. Her stare was impassive. Almost empty. Somehow, colder than before.

"Well, I didn't want to tell you about it. It was over a dozen loops before I found that out, and can you imagine having…having THIS conversation a dozen times? Two dozen? Watching your heart break every single time? Watching Mirabelle sob, watching Isabeau practically shut down? Just so I could have a scrap of comfort?! Any Siffrin that would do that to you is a Siffrin that wouldn't have wished at all. Any person who would destroy all of you, who would break all of your hearts, just to have two days of understanding, that person's on the path to being the next King."

"Siffrin. This was…" Odile, of all people, having to choose her words carefully. She was close to understanding. She was close to breaking. It was in her pose, her words, her face. "Not a matter of emotions, beyond a certain point. While I believe you, and your kind heart does you credit…You clearly, fundamentally, could only follow one path at a time. If you had shared your knowledge, you could have been done many loops before…We could have helped you."

"No. You couldn't."

"Oh?"

"The books that told the truth? The books that explained how bad I'd blinded myself? Written in a language only I could read! And that was AFTER I killed myself trying to speak it! The wish, to make the Head Housemaiden tell us what happened? None of you could've believed hard enough! Yeah, I could've asked you about staying together…If I'd had any reason, at all, to think that's why I was looping. NOTHING said that! That wasn't the wish I made, I wished to stay with Mirabelle. I could do that even if you all split up. It would've blinding HURT, but I could have! Nothing. Nothing at all you could have done would save me. Not until the end. Not until you DID."

"You have some proof of this?"

A thud. A book, borrowed from the House…stolen, truly, but no one there could read it, and what good was a book no one could read? A book, laying on the ground between them, the sound of it having shocked the other two from their emotional stupors.

"If you can read this…If you can tell me the title of this…I'll admit I was wrong."

Odile's hands were shaking. Odile's hands never shook. Not with the tremors of age, not with exhaustion, but now…With her fingers outstretched to the book, she was trembling. Cautious. Like it would bite her. She picked it up, turned it around, and stared at it.

Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. Flicking across the title. Opening the book, and her eyes darting back and forth. Looking for something, for anything, as even the steel in her soul bent under the weight. Her back hunched, her brow furrowed, and the signs of a headache were obvious.

A flip of the page.

Another.

Then, a scream of rage, as she tossed the book into the campfire, and fell to the ground, clutching her knees. She sobbed. The Madame, the great Odile, unflappable, steel-spined and sharp-eyed, sobbed like a lost child. It felt like the most damning victory imaginable.

"That's why I didn't tell you. How you're feeling right now. I'd do that to you, every time, for NOTHING." They had to understand, by now. Looking around, at the shattered wrecks of the three, hearing sobs and seeing blank-eyed stares, they did.

Now, only now, could the healing actually start. Now that they believed. Now that they knew. Now that they understood what hat happened, and what impossible choices there were to make. Now that it wasn't 'Silly Siffrin got mixed up in emotions, isn't it cute?', now that it wasn't 'We can talk about whatever happened, Feelings Buddy!', now that it wasn't 'Oh, your fee-fees, your ling-lings'.

Loop said to tell them the truth. They knew how much it would hurt when they said it.

Well, let's see how that works.

[kaontic]

Oh my actual Lord, the dream’s come true. O_O

*Kicks down door* OH THUNDERCRACKEEER~

BUSTER’S ‘BOUT TO GETTA NEW FRIEEEND~ (´∀`)//🐱

He’s got a pet human now too, I guess—

Why my dumb human ass, with my crappy art, could almost wish upon an evil shootin’ star, that it was me instead “What?” What—? 😶

Alright. Now we just need Skywarp to get one. Or two. Or a few. Someday. Maybe.

Um—

*Whispers* Psst, hey, Megs, I don’t wanna be that betch—I make unintentional mistakes I gotta edit for my sanity all the time—but, it’s “What do you say?”. That’s probably why they’re givin’ ya looks.

I mean, that’s pretty accurate Megatron dialogue ngl. Like this is the same guy that said in G1 “Power flows to the one who knows how”, as if that was an actual full sentence.

Ik, that’s beside the point of what the frag’s goin’ on, so, “respectfully” (with heavy emphasis on the quotation marks)—

Can ya just…rip out your own chain-smoker soundin’ aft voice box, and shove it? Pretty please? Mr. Geneva Suggestions?

“YoU kNoW tHe LiMiTs Of My PoWeR! i NeEd SoMeOnE tO wIElD mE!”

“But my leader, you have your fusion cannon—”

“Do NoT qUeStIoN mE sTaRsCrEaM!”

Unless Skybound’s gonna give us a “good” aft explanation for this, like some Cybertronian gunformer curse we dunno about yet (given the serious corruption goin’ on, from the looks of it, with Star and Op)—

I would say more about Megs’ gun mode as an effective concept, but I’ll save all that for another post.

Instead I’ll just spout out this scrap to review:

Most explanations are welcome for why villains do what they do, even if it’s just “Cuz I’m evil”. 😈

(TF One Sentinel tho…yeah. Gotta make a post regardin' him as well)

Here, they wanna save their home planet as energy sources dwindle.

Ok, so resources. Got it. Yes. #1 reason why wars are fought, and wars need soldiers to fuel ‘em. Enemies turned potential recruits who are prisoners don’t comply? Well, logically speaking then— 🤡

Or maybe, just maybe—this might sound crazy, but—how about not start a whole goddamn war that will worsen this crisis, Megs?

How about not turn fellow Cybertronians into the worst versions of themselves, and delete their innocence? Cuz great, now ya created a monster that will betray ya!

Ask yourself: What the frag are you fighting for?

Cuz you’re just makin’ the problem worse, mate.

At least Jetfire tried to look beyond Cybertron peacefully for a solution, which despite how well that went, sounded a helluva lot better than exhaustive in-fighting, but no, frag exploration.

Frag trading with “filthy” organic alien species.

Frag experimenting for new sources of energy (lookin’ at you, Shockwave. Now I know your aft was enabled).

Frag examining Cybertron’s history for answers.

Frag speaking with Optimus like a civilized individual.

Population control’s where it’s at, apparently. ಠ_ಠ)

Jesus, so many questions NOT ENOUGH DEETS. (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

WE NEED MORE FLASHBACKS STAT.

Skybound Megs so far, is coming off as a guy who, when the worst happens, will just use the situation/impending apocalypse to his advantage to do terrible stuff, and get away with it through all the chaos.

Furthermore, it’s like we’re watching him live out some sick fantasy of his while he’s all “This is for the greater good of Cybertron!”. Like no bitch! There’s other options! You have no excuse!

You wanna be a pred, who kills for pleasure and power, while demanding to share that experience with others with or without their consent.

There. That’s what kept me up last issue.

Well, this is one moral of this ongoing story, and life advice I guess:

BEWARE THE F*CKIN’ NICE ONES!

For they may be the worst of all. Great…

*Proceeds to pollute my sketchbook with more Megatron art cuz I am indeed that betch*

[blue-thief]

Ok. Thoughts on the Itoshi Sibs / their parallels with Isagi?

HELLO this took forever for me to answer because summer school and the sadness. as you know.

also i went too crazy with tying blue lock into my fixation with japanese nationalism so it got way too complex and i got scared but now i'm just gonna make that its own post (<- said the same thing about bsd. that analysis about bsd's connection with japanese nationalism has been sitting in my docs for a year now i think)

(smh this is what happens when the japanese imperial army almost wipes out your entire bloodline /gen /srs)

anyway. all that waiting to say that rin is... just some guy to me

usually a fw anime boys named rin. esp if they're the sworn rival of the plain protagonist. not necessarily this one though

i have no clue why he doesn't scratch my brain properly. he just doesn't. i need to spend a good three hours staring at the ceiling at night to figure that out

when you first sent me this i didn't really care for sae much either. now i do

that's how long this has been sitting in my drafts 😃😃

(i've written and scrapped thousands of words for this ask sob sob)

(this answer wasn't even formatted this way originally)

i've probably told you the story of how sae grew on me before but like

i don't plan out my fics right

i do play out random scenes in my head to test out if i like them or not

(shivers because updating my fic is another thing that is taking forever.......)

and i was just fucking around with random jokes kaiser and sae could say to each other

then i imagined sae smiling

and i was like "what the fuck... why is that so endearing........"

that was the turning point but it really was a lot of sitting and contemplating sae's character honestly

to really understand him and why he'd be friends with kaiser

and sae is kinda just like me frfr

that guy can't do anything other than soccer/football. he has nothing going on beyond that

and yeah. yeah... i get that.......

it's the reason why i like a bunch of other bllk characters but it's most pronounced with sae yk

(SORRY MR. SNUFFY)

and like. just his inability to be a normal fucking person 😭😭 too real

anyway those are my general itoshi brothers thoughts

now for the parallels part.

(this is the part that killed me and i wanna go more in-depth. but i'm saving that for another post. because holy shit my original idea was so fucking ambitious)

i had other thoughts and god i wish i wrote that stuff down

but the major thing i want to get into here is dependence

isagi is independent. soo independent it's kinda crazy

this was outlined most during the second selection with bachira where he had to learn to play by himself

meanwhile there's rin who seems independent on the surface

however, rin has always been dependent on sae in one way or another

when they were younger, rin was dependent on sae to take care of and guide him

rin also depended heavily on sae on the field

now that they are older, sae's attempt to shake rin off has just made rin's dependence on sae even more intense, just in a different way

rin's only motivation to play soccer/football had been to "crush" sae

...but now he's met isagi

and his obsession has found a new object

with the recent chapters, now we know he places isagi and sae on a similar level in his personal hierarchy, and his desire to destroy sae has bled into rin's feelings toward isagi

while rin has only one rival, the same can't be said for isagi

isagi gains rivals like pokemon, and while they have all played a significant roll in isagi's development as a person and a character, his obsession doesn't consume him. in the PXG vs BM match, he's doesn't fully comprehend the effect he's had on kaiser and rin

and mannn i wish i could find this analysis, but it's gone now

but someone compared isagi's desire to "devour" to rin and nagi's desire to "kill"

I WISH I COULD REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT THEY SAID

but from what i remember, "devouring" someone is temporarily defeating them, but both parties ultimately improve so there's room for them to meet again and help each other improve even more

however, "killing" someone is defeating them completely so they're never able to play/improve ever again

which outlines the fact that while isagi can be a little bitch on the field, he wants his rivals to improve alongside him, and in the end, he wants the best for people (in terms of soccer/football)

which is why he never became overly-dependent on bachira and why he treats midfielders as actual human beings 😭😭

isagi is independent, but he pushes for the people around him to be just as independent

the itoshi brothers are different though

rin is codependent on sae, and you could say his hatred/obsession with isagi is a different type of codependency

but that thing about treating midfielders as human beings...

uh. that doesn't really apply to rin

sae is somewhat similar with how he "tamed" shidou but it's not THAT imbalanced lmao

there's also how the three of them are on different places of the striker-midfielder spectrum

in-universe and within the fandom, rin is perceived as japan's ultimate striker. his raw shooting power + metavision makes him perfect for this position.

however sae, another metavision user, is the perfect midfielder

then there's isagi who's tried emulating rin's play style at first but is ultimately most similar to sae, leading people to say that isagi is better suited to be a midfielder rather than a striker

while rin represents what the ultimate japanese striker is, something isagi is trying to reach, sae's path is one that isagi could easily fall down instead

many people have theorized that sae became a midfielder to improve rin's chances at becoming a better striker. sae may be considered to have a strong ego, but if this turns out to be true, that might not be the case lmao

errm. idk how to end this off. sorry for the wait sob sob

[heavysass]

as much as i generally like the new reaper-sojourn interaction, as it is nice getting any ties of chase to the og overwatch team and knowing reyes had friends even when his reputation was on its lowest, it also makes the thing they are hellbent on avoiding so much more noticeable

why is one of overwatch's most notable critics, and in that probably one of the biggest haters of blackwatch and their deals, the one offering comfort to the worst offender? and not, you know, his best friend? one of the very few who are actively worried about him as far as current canon lore tells us? at least his protégé who is due to an actual confrontation with him? tbh /to me/ this interaction feels like it could've worked better with anyone else from the strike team, but exposition on why gabriel went to talon concerns jack and cassidy above all else

it genuinely is so strange seeing how connected characters all have something to say to each other even in the non-canon limbo that is in game interactions, but the gabriel-jack bond, which is one of the actual bases of the whole story, and which often shows up when these two are concerned in the extra lore content because it is pretty unavoidable to their characters, seems to be actively glossed over in game /where it actually matters/. they have mean rivalry kill chatter against each other and that is it. all you get is the knowledge soldier 76 is actively following reaper now, no reasons beyond taking talon down. if your only contact with overwatch is what is currently in game and the famous cinematics you could never guess their importance to each other's build up, when every other iconic duo, as ow is obsessed with yin-yang types, has at least some solid nods going on (sounds silly to people who care about any of this, but go check any lore explanation video comment section on youtube and see how many casuals are only vaguely aware of the lore through in game interactions and second hand word)

(it is awkward, since we are getting these little but thoughtful interactions scrapped off pve recently to half the cast. even OW1 never quite delivered anything big about their past but they had their familiarity. and i mean, they did talk to each other at least)

........on the other hand, that interaction is also fascinating because it makes code of violence even more of a bizarre tipping point. gabriel's, and not reaper's, aknowledgement of vivian's support and worry makes his choice of abandoning his friends, his family, his goddamn small child, to play a violent assassin terrorist so funny. this dialogue puts it quite plainly, it was an active choice. they keep painting him as more of a massive asshole or a complete rancorous dumbass with every new personal lore drop, the contrast to what we believed (or knew, before the change of writing direction) of noble gabriel reyes in the golden era up to retribution is almost surreal

[queen--kenobi]

Kinktober 2024 Day Twenty Five: Gun Play

Aemond Targaryen x (male) OC (Tymon Lannister)

Warnings: NSFT (gun play, dry humping), death threats, internalized and exteralized homophobia, fellas is it gay to put your gun in your rival's mouth?

Also thanks to @writingbylee for being on the same wavelength as me and providing me some inspiration

If pressed, Aemond would have trouble explaining what led to this. 

The simple explanation is he wanted to fight Tymon; if he's looking for a fight, a way to unleash some of his rage, Tymon is a reliable source. Truth be told, Tymon seems to get the same relief he does. Certainly, he never backs down from Aemond's challenges, even initiating his fair share. Ever since he met Tymon, the two scrap like cats and dogs.

This isn't their first or second fist fight. They exchange words, a challenge is issued, and then they end up meeting in the middle of the night. As much as Aemond wants to kill Tymon and get rid of him once and for all, he never does. Aemond tries not to think about the why too much. He sticks to the standard reasoning of the Lannisters are a powerful ally, one his grandfather knows without a doubt will back them should Rhaenyra attempt to leave the valley their father gifted her and take the entire territory for herself. Killing Jason's only son would be foolish. 

Aemond refuses to examine the issue beyond that. 

This particular fight they're out in the desert, away from everyone else. Aemond knows Tymon's routine and routes, his comings and goings and when. Initially, it had been so he could see Elayna before Tymon. The look of irritation when Tymon sees Aemond with Elayna was always worth it. The element of surprise is on his side so he took advantage of it. It wasn't long before the two of them were rolling in the dust and dirt, fists flying.

Aemond has no idea what possesses him when he pins Tymon underneath him tonight. He acts without thinking, grabbing his gun. The vague thought Tymon wouldn't shut up even with a gun to his head crosses his mind. 

Sticking the barrel in Tymon's mouth feels natural. It comes to him without a second thought. Tymon opens his mouth to smart off to him, and Aemond shoves the cold metal into his mouth. 

“Say another word, and I will blow your brains out.”

He utters the words as a promise. Tymon glares up at him. While the light from the full moon is bright, Aemond can't see his green Tymon's eyes are. He's sure they're blazing with indignant fury. Aemond smirks. His blood thunders through his veins, the high of coming out on top almost euphoric. Aemond keeps his finger off the trigger. Part of his brain screams at him to keep his finger there and show Tymon he's as serious as the grave, but he knows if his finger stays, he will kill Tymon.

He misses the calculating gleam in Tymon's eyes. Aemond quickly adjusts, properly pressing his weight across Tymon's abdomen. Sitting on Tymon's chest and watching him struggle to breath does cross his mind, but somehow it feels too intimate. 

“My gun looks good in your mouth.” Aemond taunts. He wants to see rage flash in Tymon’s eyes, see how far he can provoke him. The insinuations aren't for his benefit but to provoke Tymon. He waits with baited breath. Tymon's eerily white teeth gleam in the moonlight when he snarls, but Aemond fails to notice he only sees the top row.

Tymon's tongue flicking out and running along the top of Aemond's fingers causes Aemond to inhale sharply. He yanks his gun out of Tymon's mouth with a noise of disgust, not caring if he hurts him in the process. As soon as the barrel leaves his mouth, Tymon laughs. It's a low, delight chuckle at Aemond's obvious rage and discomfort. 

“If you're going to kill a man, you really should learn to shut up.”

Aemond snarls. The crack of his pistol hitting Tymon's cheek rings out in the night. Tymon's head jerks to the side from the force. He laughs harder. Aemond tries to ignore all of the blood leaving his head as his anger builds. How dare Tymon do this. His incessant laughter only stokes the rage inside of him. Aemond presses the barrel in the center of Tymon's forehead. Tymon, surprisingly, sits up as he does so.

“Thought you said you were going to kill me if I said another word. Or was that a lie? Can you not finish the deed when you're made fun of?” Tymon's eyes flick to Aemond's. “Bet you won't even look me in the eye when do it.”

Aemond shakes. His lips curl back even farther. The audacity of Tymon to act as if he's the coward in this situation. His blood pressure rises. He jams the pistol into the soft skin of Tymon's forehead. Tymon presses as far up as he can to meet him. 

Both pause when Tymon's stomach brushes against Aemond's erection. It's nothing more than a symptom of his rage, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing. Tymon's eyes flick down. He smirks, a slow and satisfied expression. 

“Maybe that's the reason you can't look me in the eye.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Tymon almost yelps when Aemond grabs him by the hair. 

“I should kill you.”

“Oh, I doubt you will.” Tymon tries his best to sound cocky, but Aemond hears the twinge of pain. His triumph is short lived; Tymon purposefully flexes his abdomen. The brief friction makes Aemond push backward and away.

He stops abruptly. His ass rests perilously close to Tymon's groin. Tymon clearly is also affected by the situation, if the hardness against Aemond is anything to go by. Tymon's eyes go wide.

The two of them stare at each other, both of their chests heaving.

Aemond should get up. He should get up and leave. Tymon tilts his head. Experimentally, he lifts his hips, a silent challenge to see what Aemond will do. Aemond clenches his jaw. Despite himself, he's never been able to back down from a challenge. At least, that's what he tells himself as he responds in kind, rolling his hips forward.

Both their breaths catch.

Everything quickly dissolves into a blur. If Tymon wants to be treated like a whore, Aemond will do just that. Besides, the itch to put the blond fucker in his place is too strong to ignore. Aemond uses his grip in Tymon's hair to pull him into a more upright position. He refuses to let the other get an iota of pleasure out of this. Still, for every roll of Aemond's hips against Tymon's clothed stomach and chest, Tymon lifts his hips in response. At one point, Tymon even plants his feet underneath him. Aemond's trigger finger itches, and the urge to put a bullet in Tymon's leg almost overtakes him, but the change in angle means more pressure and friction for him.

He hates this. Aemond hates this. He hates how good it feels, even with the sensations muted because of their clothing. The hatred only makes him angrier, and it makes him harder somehow. He wants, no needs, to put Tymon in his place. 

Thankfully, their desperate rutting doesn't last long. Aemond comes quickly, which somehow is both embarrassing and a relief. By the time he comes down from his high, he feels a wet spot on the denim of Tymon's pants. They both stare at each other for a moment. 

Fuck.

Tymon moves first, nearly throwing Aemond off of him. He scuttles away until he's several feet back. Aemond stares at him.

“You tell anyone what happened, and I'll say you forced yourself upon me.” Tymon's tongue darts out to lick his dry lips. Aemond scoffs.

“As if I would admit to fucking you.” The rage and indignation on Tymon's face soothes some of his own anger. 

“Are we in agreement? This never happened.”

Aemond rolls his eyes. Still, he reaches up and crosses his heart. 

“Not a single soul.”

“Good.”

Tymon gets to his feet first, scrambling off into the night. Aemond watches him go for a second. Eventually, he moves forward, grabbing his gun from where he dropped it and standing up. 

This never happened. And it won't happen again. 

[everybody-loves-purdy]

Any personal theories/headcanons as to WHY the shadowclan apprentices sided with darktail? It sort of seems like a seed of resentment was already growing within the shadowclan apprentices before Darktail even showed up. Like I think about it and I have a hard time describing it. It seemed like the apprentices already had this sort of edgy, dark rejection for clan society, but with no real aim or depth (the same way a misanthropic 15 year old would say “society is so f-ed up, people are so stupid” without much deeper analysis). It kind of seems like it bloomed from a detachment between the older and younger clan members (not sure if it’s some attempt at a “spend time with your kids so they don’t fall influence to dark shit” message, or a general message of how younger generations feel alienated by older systems which leaves room for radicalization into harmful groups, or what). But between the way the apprentices acted, the way Violet was treated, and the general aloofness to the very clear issue brewing by older clan members, I get the vibe that there’s something so much more going on. It almost feels like Shadowclan has a more apathetic approach towards social bond and structure (at least at the time). When Leafpool goes to help Littlecloud before he dies, she’s shocked at the condition he’s in and how little help he’s received (if I remember correctly she says something to the affect of “they didn’t even get him water” or “no one’s helped him” or something). It feels like there’s so much potential there, but it felt so sloppily executed, and we’re never really given an explanation beyond “Rowanstar was a bad leader”.

I completely agree. It wasn’t just Rowanstar, all the older members of ShadowClan were complicit. There’s a scene where Twigpaw sees two apprentices scrap and draw blood over a piece of prey and Tawnypelt is just like “let them fight it out”. I think the apprentices ultimately were all so rebellious because of this culture of apathy and lack of discipline in ShadowClan at the time. These apprentices could just do whatever and there wouldn’t be much pushback, if any. I’m no psychologist so forgive me if I’m wrong, but couldn’t that environment leave someone, particularly a young person, deep down feel like the group that they’re in doesn’t particularly care for them? So the apprentices kept pushing boundaries more and more with little pushback until Darktail arrived. Darktail’s Kin had rules, and these rules were enforced, finally these apprentices found a leader who would at least give them some structure.

And that’s not mentioning how I feel that the apprentices were never given a reason to do clan tasks other than “you have to” and made caring for the vulnerable a punishment in an environment where resentment towards the system is already being fostered, meanwhile Darktail’s Kin made that kind of stuff optional.