#bread science content

[art-of-mathematics]

The MOST IMPORTANT ambigram in existence!

[holisticfansstuff]

If one is a fan actually, all the more reason to support this. None of us actually care about Marvel execs after all, we're just here for the stories. Marvel is a brand. That's it. The stories were around after all, long before the MCU was ever a thing.

CGI animators should unionize next. normally, their jobs would be too precarious to strike, since studios would replace them without a second thought, but if it's part of this larger general film strike, they might finally have meaningful power to better their working conditions

[monstersighing]

Frankenstein monster x Fem!reader

Uhhh, this is actually kinda sweet, but also horny.

NSFW, 18+, Minor Do Not Interact

Frankenstein's Monster/Creature x Fem Reader

Title: Home

Content: penetrative sex, masturbation.

+++

You find him in the forest. A man, but strange. He’s tall and broad. Covered with scars and stitches on the parts of him you can see under his dirty hooded cape. There are birds surrounding him that he is feeding with a piece of hardened bread, so he doesn’t notice you at first. When he does, he flinches and pulls his hood down.

He is huge and tall and hooded, but you are not afraid.

You coax him towards you with soft words. Promises of food and shelter. And he follows you home.

+++

He is gentle despite his size and hardly speaks.

When you ask his name, he doesn’t reply, so you call him Francis, after a statue of the saint you once saw with birds on his shoulders and little creatures at his feet.

Francis pulls pails of water from the well and chops firewood with an energy and strength that makes something turn over in your stomach. Sometimes, you see him looking at you from under his hood. His eyes are two different colours, and both are beautiful.

When you tell him that, Francis shakes his head, unbelieving, but you think you see a smile.

The next day, he leaves his hood down.

+++

One night, sat together in the glow of the fire, you ask Francis where he came from, where he was born.

“I was not born. My father, he made me. Out of many men.”

He looks at you then, as if waiting for your disgust and rejection.

“So, you are a miracle of science, then. How wonderful,” you reply.

The surprise on his face makes it light up. You think you would give him a thousand compliments if he would just look like that more often.

+++

It has been a long dirty day of planting in the fields, so you boil pans of water over the fire, empty them in the tub and sink into the water.

You can hear the rhythmic sound of wood being chopped. You think of Francis’s grating rusty voice, his muscular shoulders. You imagine what those shoulders would feel like under your hands. What your legs would feel like wrapped around his waist.

You are rubbing yourself dry when the door creaks. You turn automatically, and see Francis at the door, hand clenched on the handle.

You don’t cover yourself, just let him gaze at your nakedness.

You hear the crumple of metal as the door handle cracks in Francis’s hand and he bolts.

You dress quickly and run outside, wet hair running rivulets down the back of your neck.

You find Francis in the barn, on his knees. His eyes are closed, and he is biting down on one hand as he fucks his straining cock into the fist of the other. You watch: the heaviness of his cock, his clenched eyelids, the desperate twitches of his hips. He comes quickly, and cum spurts and dribbles over his hand. When he removes the other from his mouth, you see the marks of teeth there.

You must make a noise because Francis opens his eyes then and sees you.

His reaction is instantaneous, a pulling up of trousers as he leaps to his feet and pushes past you and out of the barn door.

You shout after him as he runs towards the forest, but he does not stop or turn to look at you.

+++

Francis does not come back that evening.

In the morning you go looking for him.

He’s in the clearing in the forest where you first saw him.

“Come home,” you say. “Come home with me.” You do not know how to tell him, and you do not know how to ask, so you rise on your toes, and pull him down by his cloak so you can kiss him.

Frencis’s kiss is uncertain, but when you coax your tongue into his mouth you can taste the berries that he must have eaten.

It starts to rain, and you grab his hand to run through the forest and across the fields back home.

Once inside your home, you notice that his cape has kept him dry, but your clothes are soaked. Your nipples are cold and hard.

You strip to nakedness under Francis’s gaze and place his mismatched hands - one broader, with callouses, the other with long fingers - on your breasts.  He kneads at them roughly, and you watch him spread his legs to accommodate his filling cock.

You splay your legs and show him how to finger your already leaking cunt. His eyes flick from your wetness to your face, his two different coloured eyes hungry.

“The bed,” you say.

He ignores you and pushes you down to the floor.

He’s still clothed and your legs are spread wide. He looks like he wants to devour you. He pushes his trousers down and pulls off his shirt with a rip of seams. There’s a neatly stitched incision on his chest, in the shape of a Y.

Then he lines up his cock with your cunt and pushes deep inside you with a grunt. You cry out at the feeling of fullness and he begins to thrust into you, each ferocious push feeling deeper than the last.

Your legs lock as far as you can over his back, holding him deep and your hands roam his skin, touching the rough stitches that joint his arms to his shoulders. Proof that this man was made of many men. Now just one, who wants you, desperately. Who is showing you with each jolting push of his cock inside you.

His thrusts ruck up the rug beneath you, and you brace your arms against the floor. The resistance pushes him deeper into you. He comes with a howl: satisfied, animalistic. You feel his come, warm and sticky, flood into you.

He rears back then, and with his cock still seated inside you, Francis presses a finger around the stretched rim of your cunt and then inside, crooking up, hard. The impossible stretch makes your walls flutter, your thighs clench and your back arch with your orgasm.

Francis watches as his cock softens, and then slips out of your cunt, come leaking from your entrance. You sigh at the absence until he splays over you, a heavy comforting weight, and you sleep.

[kcrossvine-art]

hi friends! This recipe/review was delayed at first from- well it was a different recipe originally, technically bat tempura should be the next item but id like my first tasting experience of bat to be made by someone else who knows what bat should taste like. The recipe after bat tempura is living armor and id intended to use geoduck to mimic the scale. Living armor is interesting with dunmeshi as they used the suit of armor in 3 different ways; grilling, steaming, and souping.

Affording geoduck, a PNW delicacy, is a stretch for one dish, let alone 3. With my write-ups id like to offer a chance that readers will actually be able to make what we talk about. So I opted to use regular clams instead. I feel myself above the fire so we're still sticking with one dish, the dish that doesnt require a grill or a helmet-esque plating arrangement.

Today in our delicious dungeon, we're going to be making Living Armor Soup!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes into Living Armor Soup?” YOU MIGHT ASKThe ingredients used in the show didnt give much to work on, quoting "medicinal herb" and "special sauce".

1 lbs Mussels

Shallots

Garlic

Bay leaf

Curry powder

Chicken stock

Cream

Eggs

Its important to use cream as your dairy, the higher fat content gives you leeway with boiling and acidity to avoid curdling. Any cream should do. Still bring it to temp gently but rest assured in the moo moos protection. 

AND, “what does Living Armor Soup taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASK

A smoother, buttery-er cream of chicken soup

The mussel meat itself feels like a simplified version of chicken hearts- structurally and in taste

Its not bad. You could hard sell it to a picky eater 

Green onions would bring crispier top-notes much needed

And maybe building a roux base for the soup would fill out the low end?

I dont know what drinks would pair well with this. My heart wants to say red wine but im not a grape fan and cant get more specific than that

I think the hassle of procuring seafood is why when i ask my friends their opinions, the responses are middling to negative. You cant build a palate for it if you dont eat it enough. If i'd had fish stock i wouldve used that rather than chicken, while it doesnt turn the soup disgusting or make itself known much at all, awareness of its presence draws unfavorable comparisons to food I'd rather be eating. And eating for cheaper too (...besides the chicken hearts).

. Some mussels out of a bunch will inevitably be DOA, you wont be eating exactly a pound of them. This and waterweight are the nature of seafood. . Lay easy on the salt until the end before serving . If you have enough mussel stock left after straining, you might not need additional stock

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

From deciding to cook to sitting and eating, the process took about an hour and a half. Not bad but not great, considering this dinner left me feeling full for all of about an hour after.

And the mussels were mostly usable/alive too! I discarded maybe 3 of the whole pound! Sure seafood can be light eating- youd think the dairy and vegetables would hulk it up more. The science of what makes food filling isnt entirely understood, as is most nutrition and gastro science, so i dont know what to blame. Stunning that 1lbs of mussels was not enough to keep a 110lbs person full for an hour.

If i were to make this again, i would serve it with fresh dinner rolls (or another carb). Breads and seafood are joined at the hip in my mind. You want more delicate tastes from your fish? I got just the thing. An entire family of food with varying flavors and textures that just so happen to all work pretty well with the third thing people eat often with seafood; butter.

I give this recipe a solid 4/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) It needs workshopping beyond being recognizable to the show.

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

1 lbs mussels, cleaned and de-bearded

Butter

3 shallots, finely diced

3 garlic cloves, crushed

2 bay leaf

Curry powder to taste

120g chicken stock

100g heavy cream

2 eggs

Method:

Wash your mussels. Remove any beards and barnacles. Discard any mussels with open shells.

Finely dice your shallots and garlic.

In a saucepan, brown your shallots and garlic in some butter over medium-low heat. Once softened add your stock, bay leaves, and curry powder to the saucepan. Increase the heat to medium.

Add your cleaned mussles to the saucepan, the liquid should cover them but if not add more stock. Bring to a boil, and then cover and reduce to a simmer.

Keep simmering until most/all of the mussel shells open. Discard any that still havent after about 6 minutes of simmering. Set aside the remaining mussels.

Pass the liquid in your saucepan through a strainer and return the liquid into the saucepan.

In a seperate bowl, combine the eggs and cream together. Carefully stir the egg/cream mixture into the saucepan until incorporated.

Remove the meat from the mussels, either discard or save some shells for garnishing.

Place the mussel meat on the bottom of serving bowls and pour the hot broth overtop, add your garnish (if any) and enjoy!

[bluesidez]

Gym Rat Miguel Part 13

content warning: alcohol, drugs, 18+ so MDNI, food play??, fellatio, cunnilingus

word count: 5.8k (YAY FOR MY BETA! @slushycoookie )

:)

Prev | Next ✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ Masterlist

GymRat!Miguel who starts the week with hope in his heart.

He was reaching a new milestone in his life and he was really looking forward to seeing you. He’s even started to cross off the days on his calendar as he gets closer to the date. Never mind the fact that midterms were right around the corner.

At this point, the reserved rooms in the library had his and Xina’s name imprinted on the sign-up sheet. He was confident about his progress in his classes while Xina was triple checking everything.

“I swear to god if I don’t make at least a B on this, I’m going to do commit arson.”

“Do you have any gasoline?”

Xina threw her pencil at Miguel while he snickered and dodged.

GymRat!Miguel who noticed that Xina was taking a liking to these brighter sets. The shirt she was wearing right now looked a lot like the one you wore on you all’s anniversary.

GymRat!Miguel who has been texting you as much as he could because he knew your critiques were coming up. You’ve been sending him progress of your work and the occasional paint covered hand. He didn’t know how you got yellows and charcoal on your face, but it was cute and he saved every picture.

GymRat!Miguel who is laughing at his a clip that Gabriel sent him when Xina grits out his name.

“I know you might be free to live, laugh, love, or whatever, but some of us have tests coming up.”

Miguel places his phone down, “I have tests, too.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“What’s with you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing,” she breaks the lead of her pencil with how hard she’s writing across the page.

“Xina, I’m sure you’re going to do great on your tests. You’re stressing yourself out over nothing. If this is how you’re like now, the finals are going to take you out.”

“I really need to pass. Some of these tests are, like, 30% of the grade.”

“And like I said,” Miguel laid his head on the table. “You’re going to do great. Trust yourself a bit more.”

Xina flit her eyes from Miguel back to her notes, a flutter in her eyes.

GymRat!Miguel whose phone is on lockdown for the next two hours as per Xina’s request so he was now in line for snacks and drinks.

He was thinking about getting something sweet, a reward for finally finishing one of his papers and the write-up for his game.

“Migster! It’s such a coincidence seeing you here.”

Miguel tenses, that shrieking voice recognizable anywhere.

“Aaron,” he turns with a polite smile.

“Grabbing some munchies for you and your girlfriend? Where is she by the way?”

Miguel shifted his eyes to him in his peripheral and back to the bread on display.

“You’ve never seen my girlfriend.”

“Don’t act all shy, now!” Aaron nudges Miguel’s side to which he doesn’t budge. “You guys look cute together.”

He couldn’t recall a single moment where you picked him up from his robotic team meetings, the engineering building, or the science building where he could see it.

Miguel looked down at him and curled his lip a bit, “Are you stalking me?”

Aaron let out a bird-like laugh, voice making the people in front of him jump, “You’re really a riot. Dude, she’s always outside of the building waiting for you. She gave me an invite to your birthday party?”

He leans in even closer, “You’re not cheating on her are you?”

Miguel stepped forward, the line decreasing and Aaron following him like a lackey.

“That’s not my girlfriend.”

Aaron snickered, “Could have fooled me.”

GymRat!Miguel who returns to the private study room with a knot in his stomach.

He places down a sandwich and a latte for Xina and taps on his own cup of coffee.

“Can I have my phone back?”

Xina slid it back without a fight, “Don’t distract me.”

He checks his phone and it’s only emails from school and a reminder to buy protein powder.

He guesses you’re busy again.

GymRat!Miguel who fights through the beginning of the week just to breathe by the time his birthday gets here.

Peter wakes him up with a mini confetti cannon and a lit cupcake that almost burns through his comforter.

They both panic for a few seconds as they beat the life out of the fabric and Peter looks shameful before he runs to his last midterm.

GymRat!Miguel who sees that his brother has dropped a saxophone rendition of “In Da Club” and dedicated it to Miguel on his TikTok.

The comments are full of praise and begging to see Miguel.

GymRat!Miguel who doesn’t have any messages from you yet.

There’s two from his mom, one from his dad and Tyler, some sporadic messages from his abuela, celebratory words from The Geek Squad, an email from his Steam account, a bunch of messages from Xina, and nothing from you.

Miguel’s shoulders wilt, thumbs flicking through his phone.

The countdown he started stared back at him.

GymRat!Miguel who didn’t really do anything special outside of his normal routine.

Get up. Exercise. Breakfast. Rest. Think about you.

Was his last birthday this uneventful?

GymRat!Miguel who dresses up a bit for this party that Xina insisted on having.

He looks in the mirror and adjusts the chain on his neck and smooths down his jean jacket. He doesn’t feel any different from yesterday, but he does feel like a loser for moping all day.

He should be thankful that he has friends and family that reached out to him. He should be thankful that Tyler slid him a nice amount of cash. He should be thankful that Xina is going out of her way to celebrate with him.

He still wishes you would have called.

GymRat!Miguel who hears the party as he’s walking up the stairs to the apartment door. He doesn’t know what to expect, but knocks on the door with fated breath.

GymRat!Miguel who is pulled into the party and given the ugliest birthday hat he’s ever seen by a guy he vaguely remembers from the gym.

He turns to the crowd and shouts, “The Birthday Boy is here!”

Everyone in the room shouts and cheers, patting him on the back as he weaves through the sea of people.

A beer was placed in his hand and noisemakers were blown past his ears. He smiled a little at the chaos and yelled thank-you’s over the noise.

GymRat!Miguel who saw some familiar faces once he got to the living room of the apartment. Margo was inching further away from Aaron as he laughed at something with a grimace on her face.

She looked up as Miguel came closer and jumped from the couch.

“Miguel!” She gripped his shoulders. “I am so glad to see you here. Let’s go to the balcony.”

She uses Miguel like a bulldozer moving past people drinking and dancing.

As they make it outside, she thanks him.

“Aaron is entirely incapable of reading the room or shutting up. You just saved me from hearing him mansplain the mechanics of Mario Party while Doritos fall from his mouth.”

Miguel smiled apologetically as she shoved a gift bag in his hand.

“And this was a nice experience! But I want to catch a game update that happens at 2am, and I need some shut eye.”

“You’re leaving already?” Miguel huffs, weight shifting in his stance.

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I’ve been here for a while and there’s only so much grass I can take in my clothes before the shots wear off. Also, a couple has been eyeing me since I walked in, and the guy looks sinister. I’ve got to go home.”

Miguel furrowed his brow, “Need me to drive you home?”

“I’m ok. I’ll text you. Enjoy your gift!”

She hugs Miguel and books it, ribbons in her braids trailing after her.

He opens the bag and laughs when he catches the card with a dad joke staring back at him.

GymRat!Miguel who really has no clue who majority of the people standing around are.

He’s chatted with a few people and pushed away a couple of wandering hands, but outside of Margo and Ben, who was currently dancing on top of the table like a video vixen in between some girls, he hasn’t really found anyone.

There was a coarse smell that ran through the apartment. He wasn’t sure if it was because the amount of sweaty bodies pressing against each other or because of the mix of mango pineapple smoke and something else he couldn’t pick up.

The music was rattling his bones and the hairs on his skin were standing upright. Everywhere he turned, someone was there and the weight of it was becoming too much. His height could allow him relief if the ceiling didn’t feel like it was caving in.

He got to a bathroom, praying for a break, only to be met with someone sliding their nose across the counter and another person at their side sitting on the toilet. He closes the door with a panic and shuffles to the kitchen.

It’s a small break, the people lingering around the island laughing over red solo cups. He reached for his phone, heart pumping through his veins as he runs across your name in his phone.

“Nuh uh,” Miguel’s phone is snatched from his hands. He’s about to panic until he sees who it is. “Tonight, you’re living in the moment.”

“But-”

“No buts! Only shots and smiles!” Xina pocketed the device. “Now, let’s have some fun.”

She smiles at him and grabs his arm, chest pressing up against his as she leans towards his face. He can smell the alcohol on her breath before he attaches the back of his hand onto her face.

Xina stumbles back, “So I can’t kiss you on the cheek now, either?”

“No. You haven’t done that in years and you’re drunk right now. Give me my phone back, please.”

“At least enjoy the party a little first. There’s,” she glances over to the middle of the island, “was…cake for you.”

Miguel follows her gaze to a mostly eaten cake with a part of it with teeth marks. He turns back to Xina who is pouring a shot for him.

She hands him a cup, “Just another hour. Please? I haven’t even given you your gift yet.”

“Forty five minutes and I’m going back to my dorm.”

She jumps up at down, loose straps of her dress sliding down. She pulls Miguel into the crowd with laugh and a shriek.

GymRat!Miguel who tolerates the party for a little longer, but the more he’s here, the more he regrets agreeing to stay.

He lost the stupid hat he got when he came and the beer he had was long gone.

Xina is nowhere to be found for what feels like the fifth time and between her topping off his cup every time she sees him and the guy next to him that looks like he’s about to puke over the floor, Miguel wants out.

Three doors, two heated couples, and face down body in, he finds her room.

No one is here so he steps in and sighs. He sits on the bed and holds his face into his hands.

He could hear some people riling each other up just outside the door and the thumping of a bed against the wall. He checked his watch and saw he was well overdue for his escape.

And you still weren’t here.

GymRat!Miguel who jumps up when the door bursts open, a wide-eyed Xina lighting up.

“Were you waiting for me?” her voice is drawn out, dress haphazard. She hops onto the bed and stretches out with a lazy smile.

“Xina, give me my stuff. I’m not asking again.”

“Ooh, touchy,” she takes his phone from her bra with a pout. “I can’t believe you’re still so tense with all of the alcohol.”

He’s been letting it splash out of his cup all night.

“Some people can hold their liquor,” he takes his phone and checks it. Still, nothing. “I’m leaving. Good night.”

Xina whines out a no as she reaches for him.

“Don’t go,” her words get stuck in her throat. “It’s your big day.”

Miguel looks back her, the colors in her face changing from warm to cool. He grabs a trash can from the side of the room and places it at her beside.

“Get to the bathroom if you can, Xi,” he makes quick work to clip her hair up with a lone butterfly claw. “I’ll check on you later.”

As he slips through the door as the sound of her hurling gets drowned out by the packed apartment.

GymRat!Miguel who is standing outside of the apartment by the stairs and leaning on the wall to catch his breath.

It was all too much.

He wonders how know one has come with a noise complaint yet.

He walks down the steps, the tenseness in his neck amplifying.

“Miguel!”

The way he perks up is almost comical.

You’re standing by his car with a gift bag in your hand and a worried look on your face. He hurries to you and engulfs you in a hug, sticking his nose in the top of your scalp.

“Baby, I thought you forgot.”

“How could I forget?” you push him a little. “And you smell really loud. Were you about to drive back like this?”

“I promise I only drank a beer and a shot-“

“And how come you weren’t answering the phone? I’ve been blowing it up all night. And your location is off.”

Miguel groans, “Xina took my phone.”

“Why does she have your phone? Why did she take your phone?” the tone of your voice was sharp.

“She wanted me to enjoy myself tonight,” Miguel rubbed your shoulders, trying to get you to take the wrinkle from between your eyebrows. “‘M sorry.”

You clicked your tongue and pushed his hands off of your shoulders. Miguel called your name like a plea as you walked around his car to the driver’s side.

“Sorry isn’t enough, Miguel. Something could have happened to you. My mind was going everywhere.”

Miguel followed behind, hands floating and wanting to touch, but not wanting to make you madder.

You turned to him with an irritated look and he shot his hands down.

Even when you’re mad, you’re pretty. Your lips curled up and moved a mile a minute and he just wanted to kiss you. You looked so cozy in your sweater and baggy pants. He wanted to bury his head in your chest and hold you for a while.

Your fingers waved in front of Miguel’s face, “Earth to Miguel. Are you listening to me?”

“Mm hm, I-. We…yes.”

A slew of profanities from one of the apartment balconies passed over you both, the silence between you growing.

You turn your palm over, “Give me the keys. You’re not driving.”

“But I’m fine! I can drive.”

“You’re literally dozing off standing up.”

“That’s because you’re gorgeous, bebé.”

You roll your eyes while Miguel smiles at you and crowds you against the door.

“No. No and no,” you shove his face as he laughs. “Stop being cute and hand over the keys. I’m mad at you right now.”

“No te enojes,” he whispers as your eyes peer up over your glasses. “I don’t want you to be.” (Don’t be mad)

You squish his face in between your hands.

“Then go to the passenger side.”

GymRat!Miguel who sits petulantly in his seat while you try your best to navigate back to his dorm.

“Baby, watch the curb-“

“Miguel, I see the curb. I’m not going to hit it.”

“Ok, but slow-“ his body jerks while as you slam the breaks, “down.”

“I’m driving perfectly, but you should remember this moment so that it doesn’t happen again.”

Miguel’s eyes shifted from the narrow road in front of him to your profile, heart full.

“And how do you drive this big ass thing everyday anyway?”

“I’m a big guy, for starters.”

“Stop talking.”

“Claro, hermosa.”

GymRat!Miguel who grips your hand tight as he brings you back to his dorm.

You’re still fussing at him, but your tone has shifted to a softer one. You wanted him to understand how scared you were.

GymRat!Miguel who is ready to pounce on you once you step into his room but you stop him with a wish for him to take a shower first.

“And then maybe we can cuddle.”

He starts hopping on one foot as he yanks his clothes off one by one, feet tripping over each other as he runs towards the bathroom.

GymRat!Miguel who walks into the room with clouds of steam behind him and a towel wrapped around his lower half.

You’re sitting on the bed with your pants on the floor, a blanket covering you, and Miguel has half the mind to dive on top of you.

As he gets closer, you look up from your phone with a glint in your eyes, “Where are your clothes at?”

“I just took a shower.”

He stands beside the bed staring at you, waiting. You scoot over closer to the wall to give him some room.

“How was the party?” you ask, trying your best to ignore your boyfriend’s muscles relaxing and tensing as he stat down. He tugged you in, laying your head against his chest and your fingers twitched as you thought about squeezing it.

“I hated every bit of it.”

“What happened?”

He maneuvered you so that you were straddling his thighs, your glasses almost falling off in the process.

“It didn’t really feel like a party for me,” Miguel fixes your glasses for you, tucking the handle back over your ear. “There were a lot of people, most of which I didn’t know. Xina was also on and off all night. And you weren’t there.”

“I tried, Miguel, I really did. But my calls weren’t going through. I thought your phone was off or something. Plus, I was getting all of your gift together.”

“What you’d get?”

He has a vice grip on your hips as you lean over to grab the bag from the floor.

You place the gift in front of you, the top of almost hiding Miguel from your view.

His hand flies for the top, throwing the red tissue paper everywhere. He reaches into the bag and grabs the first thing, a bottle of oil with a small note attached.

He looks confused before you explain yourself, “I know sometimes after your bigger workouts, your muscles get tense. This is for when I’m with you and can work those out. It smells really good too. And it’s mostly there because the massage gun I ordered didn’t come in yet.”

Miguel’s grin widens, “This is better.” His mind is short circuiting thinking about you in a masseuse scrub that hugs your body leaning over his back. Or maybe no clothes. He wants that.

You tilt the bag and he pulls out some shirts to which you hold up against his skin after you place the bag to the side.

“I think these will fit nicely,” you nod to yourself more than anything. Miguel likes the texture of it and whatever you think looks good on him.

“Thank you.”

“There’s two more things.”

He rummages through the bag again and pulls out a small box. His eyes focuses on the words.

“Is this,” he flips the box around, “us?”

You nod without saying a word.

In his hands, he holds a blind box that you made, the outside decorated in hearts and stars with your names combined together on the tab.

“This is one of the things that took me so long. I was making it from scratch.”

It was a little figure of you both inside from one of the nights of the yacht party. You made the chocolate boat come to life coupled with the red outfits you were both wearing.

Miguel stares up at you in awe, “I love it. I love it so much.”

“I’m glad. I was scared it was too cliché.”

“To who? I’m going to put it on display and project it on the wall.

He spun the figure around in his hand taking in every detail. You got everything right down to the way his hair fell. Even the box had pictures of figures from other dates and meetups.

“I would like to collect them all.”

“That requires at least two and a half more birthdays.”

GymRat!Miguel who watched you brace him for the last gift.

“Why are you so nervous? What is it?”

“Just, don’t laugh. Actually, no, you’re supposed to laugh. I was delirious when I made it.”

He pulled out a blue box with a transparent top, watching as you spun your thumbs in circles. As he untied the ribbon around it, he could see why you looked like you were about to pounce to the other end of the bed.

In the box lay a bunch of cookies in the shapes of hearts and stars to match the blind box. The ones on top are plain with holes in the middle.

He pulls one out.

“‘Birthday Blows?’”

You seal your lips tight as he reads over the rest of the cookies.

“‘Let Me Crumb On Your Face-’”

“It’s a gag gift-“

“Then let’s do it.”

“What?”

GymRat!Miguel who ensured you that the gift was perfect. At least the movement under his towel showed that he was serious.

Now, he’s sitting against the headboard doing something he’d never thought he would do.

“You’re laughing,” Miguel throbs while you sit back and cackle at his state. “There’s a chocolate chip cookie stuck on my dick, and you’re laughing.”

“I’m sorry!” your shoulders shake as you push up your glasses. “I thought the hole would be big enough when I made it. I underestimated you. I also wasn’t expecting you to actually want to use it.”

Miguel twitched as you pushed the cookie down further, the inside of it melting from the heat. Your eyes were sparkling the longer you stared at him.

“A-Amor, we’ve been apart for too long because you should know that all you have to do is mention it once and I’m in.”

“So,” you rub a finger over the tip and like magic, Miguel was sure to follow. You shuffle your position on the bed watching him get harder. “All this took was an explanation?”

Miguel stuttered out a yes as you ghosted your fingers over his inner thighs. His breath hitched as your gaze stayed on him.

Your sweater was pooling over your shoulders and your thighs filled the space in between his.

You bent and took a bite out of the cookie, humming as the taste hit your tongue. Your fingers dig into his thighs as you lean back up.

“That’s delicious,” you chew with your hand covering your mouth. “I think I did a really good job.”

He moves your hand and follows.

“I wanna try.” Miguel whispers. He’s staring at you with heavy eyes. You smile softly and kiss his cheek, his face leaning into your lips.

You bend down and take another piece, Miguel trailing you as come up to his face. He opens his mouth, eyes going from yours to your lips as you place the piece on his tongue. The sweetness explodes in his mouth once the chocolate hits his senses.

You take a hand to the side of his face as he chews, kissing his lips and licking a crumb off. Your other hand runs up his chest, squeezing at it as you take your lips to his neck.

Miguel groans as you suck his skin, nails scratching lightly behind his ear. His hands grip the back of your t-shirt, fabric stretching in his hold.

You feel him swallow and you kiss near his adam’s apple.

“C’mere,” Miguel guides your face back to his. His kiss is desperate as he opens your mouth, moaning when he can still taste the sugar on your tongue.

Your hands warm him up as they move from his neck to his shoulders, thighs shaking when he holds your tongue in between his lips.

“Let me,” your breaths hits his lips, a whine coating your words, “let me finish.”

He continued to leave long kisses over your mouth, “Keep going, then.”

As you moved to bent to take another bite, Miguel knew you were barely holding on. He feels your breath shudder over him as you take another bite.

His mind was hazy as he watched you focus on freeing him. The heat from your face was radiating off of you and your lips were shining, glasses keeping a tiny fog at the corners.

He grit his teeth as you slid the remainder of the cookie up and off. Your tongue followed the line of chocolate along his shaft, glasses becoming crooked. A dribble of pre-cum escape’s Miguel and he trembles as he watches it blend on your tongue. He still has a mind to take the cookie out of your hand and back on the plastic bag it came out of, your mind too preoccupied to continue your endeavor.

You arch your back, shirt riding up as you take his head into your mouth. Miguel just about cries when you hollow your cheeks. The moonlight coming through the curtains leaves cool lines on your body as if he guided it.

Miguel smooths your hair back as you sink onto him deeper, a load moan escaping Miguel’s throat when you pump him with another hand.

It’s messy and fervent watching you try your best to catch every drop of him and clean the chocolate from your hands and his skin.

Your name is on the roof of his mouth as your lips connect to your grip on him.

What’s more is that your other hand reaches in between your thighs, the sound of you mixing with your hums and constricting throat.

“Mi sol,” Miguel feels like the stars are falling into his room. “Amor, bebé, I can’t take it.”

Everything was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The vision of your body before him, from the way your hips folded onto your thighs to the way your ass moved as you bobbed up and down, was perfect. The way your lips swole to sink onto him felt amazing and your fingers moving from him to yourself only moved him more.

You only moan as you move your hand from his length to the place below, holding him in your grasp. The sound of your throat gagging as you take him all in at once pulls him to the edge. He’s loud enough to where you know his neighbors heard.

A swallow or two before he lifts your head off of him, torso bowing and arching. He springs, convulsing as cum lands on your glasses.

“Shit,” he cries as you kiss the tip, mouth leaving flutters all the way down. Just as always, his mind can’t help but to think, “you’re so pretty.”

His core is sore but it’s nothing that you can’t fix. He takes your glasses off and pulls you up. He replaces your hand on yourself with his, mouth quick to taste him on your lips. Your hands grip at his shoulders as he flips your positions.

He yanks your underwear off, reveling in the way the fat of your thighs move. He wastes no time in bending your body up, one knee digging into the bed and the other foot on the ground as he lodges his face into you.

“Miguel!” you grip onto the edge of the twin mattress trying to find your balance as he starts to indulge in you in place of the cookies.

You’re already so wet and it excites him. He’s sucking your clit in slow motions, rubbing his tongue over the nub at a steady tempo. Your eyebrows are furrowed as your sweater scrunches up.

Miguel grips his arms around your thigh on his shoulders, fingers kneading the flesh. You try to muffle yourself as the sound of Miguel slurping you up gets louder and louder.

“My neck, baby,” you sigh through your whines. Your hands hit the bed then grip his hair and you feel fireworks going off.

He only kneels on the ground, holding your hips so you don’t slide off of the edge. He quickens his pace, tongue sliding into your entrance.

You shake and bend around him as he digs his head deeper, groaning as his forehead meets your stomach.

The ceiling is blurry, your brain not knowing whether to focus on the building slick going down Miguel’s chin or the vibration of his voice thumbing through you.

It could also be his buzzing phone that keeps drifting next to you.

Ignoring it is almost impossible, the feeling of it becoming irritating.

You take his phone in your hand, eyes focusing on the blue light and the pit of your stomach drops when the name flashes across the screen.

“Miguel, stop.”

He looks up like a deer in headlights, face flushed and doused.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something off?”

You shove the phone his face, legs pushing off of him to get away, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

He catches the phone as you sit and opens it. You look over to see what feels like a thousand messages from Xina.

“whete did you to?”

“I can’t bepkwvw you lert mr here”

“Mkguel”

“mgel”

“answer the freaki b phohe”

“I knoq you’ee sgull uo”

“come bacl to ny riom”

“k feel ndytee now”

“beter”

“better”

“i missss u”

“You were in her room?” the bed sheets make a peculiar sound under your palm.

“Only to get away from the party and to look for my phone. She came in afterwards. These,” he places the phone on the bed, “these aren’t what they look like.”

“Then what the fuck does it look like? Because to me, it looks like you’re a liar.”

Miguel’s mouth gapes open and he flounders, not knowing what to say that’ll make you see the truth.

“God,” you climb off of the bed and head to bathroom. He crawls into a run after you, tight on your heels. “I feel so fucking stupid.”

“Amor-”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“Baby, please, just listen to me.”

“I’ve been listening to you for weeks, trusting you for weeks, and look where it’s gotten me! You let your ‘friend’ run you and belittle me, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

Miguel’s heart sank as he watched you wipe away at your skin furiously. A stutter fights the words leaving him, “W-What are you saying?”

You brush past him and snatch your clothes from the floor. His strides are wide to meet you.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re getting what you want.”

“What are you talking about? I-I don’t understand.”

“This has been going on nonstop. Outside of school, when we rain checked, it was her. When we made plans, you’re always mentioning her. You’re spending every moment with her. I’ve been texting and calling you all fucking day, and you say your phone is with her.”

Your fingers press into his chest with every pronoun, his face crumbling at your words.

“I waited things out because I didn’t want to be the girlfriend that makes herself sick over every girl that passes you by, but this is making me insane.”

He says your name with a crack in his voice, “You don’t have to worry about her. I’ll talk to her. I’ll sort things out.”

You pick up your phone and dial a number, waiting only second before the call drops. You do it again, and turn the phone to his face. His name in your phone is there in all caps, one ring, and the call doesn’t go through.

“What was that again about sorting shit out?”

He pinched his brow, lost.

“You can be so,” you looked around like the word was in the room, “stupid sometimes.”

The settings on his phone are opened to his blocked contacts, your name the only one on the list.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and almost laughed in disbelief at the situation. Your throat was tight as you looked straight at the wall.

“I didn’t do this!”

“Then who did, Miguel?” you wiped a tear from your face just as fast as it fell. You trudged towards the door, limbs heavy as Miguel pulled at them, a bubble of no’s coating air.

“Let me go.”

“Then please don’t go. I don’t know how this happened, but none of it’s true. We can talk. I-I love you. I need you. Mi amor, por favor no me dejas.” (My love, please don’t leave.)

Your sweater almost rips as you pull his arms from around you and grab the door knob, a sob growing at the bottom of your jaw.

“Wipe your fucking face,” was all you said in response as you slammed the door after you.

Miguel watched the door rattle against the hinges in horror, cheeks burning with tears as he scrambled to put some pants on.

He hit his knee as he made a run for the exit, hoping to catch you before you got back to your own dorm. The chill of the autumn night shocking his skin.

The sidewalk was empty, only the scuttle of dry leaves going across the pavement.

In the dark, stood this weeping man who felt like a boy, lost and heaving out, no hope in his heart.

divider by: kodaswrld + adornedwithlight 🩵

a/n: Trying to update and format this on my phone is so infuriating. And also it took a lot of planning to get here.

The taglist has reached the max number! If you want updates, check my blog, turn on post notifs, or subscribe to it on AO3! (Although, I’ll have to clean this one up because some blogs aren’t here anymore!)

taglist: @ghost-lantern @miguelhugger2099 @emelie-s-h @lake-lili

@obsessed-with-miguels-ass @scaleniusrm @superiorspiderass @lexluvswriting

@flordelalunas @froggygal @vmpz8sauceee @famouscattale @nixinluv02

@jada-of-arcadia @spideykid22 @what-the-jams @julia4today @tojishugetiddies

@samjinxx @sleeklyalisha @the-pan-liquid @prongs-lover @kikaaauu

@urlocallocachica @wanderlustingcastaway @peachey-pie @ch3rry-bl1ss @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@love-kha1 @manlikemilesmyguy @sillysillygoofygoose @monticellohoe @kodzuminx

@lauraolar14 @bruhhvv @m4dyy @farrowroyale @cl3stevu

@ohara-whore @muneca-lemon-steppa @alexa4040 @amelialysm @snails-doodles22

@questionable-behaviour @babygotl01292003 @calig0sto @tatatida @haveclayeveryday

@earth2fae @maiyart @darkstarlight82

@sonicbutbutter @relatednative @slowlyshycomputer @nuetralcolorsenthusiast

@beyondstarlight @leoeloo @just-simpins-blog

@poisamm @thequeenreaders @tinybirdhidedout @aly29a2001 @mimi-sanisanidiot

@snakelore @pigeonmama @darkstalight82 @prettygirleli @koikohib

@jayskookies @xo-zeze @planetxella @thedevax @stressed-cherry

[magni-draconum]

It’s because the moisture redistributes/equalizes based on the environment! So something with a lot of moisture will lose moisture to the environment and become hard, but something with low moisture like crackers will gain moisture and soften.

if you leave out soft bread, it gets hard, but if you leave out hard bread (crackers, etc), it gets soft. and you're telling me we can understand anything in this world

[pygmi-cygni]

give us some nathan please i think im having withdrawal

aha my circle of addicts is growing

cw: domestic nathan, married life, headcanons, fluff

Changes

Nathan didn't think he'd changed much since you married. You begged to differ, laughing at his confusion. Oh, honey, you snorted into a glass of wine, and begun listing his new habits.

For one thing, he'd gotten docile. Never a word you expected in company with Nathan, but he'd mellowed out considerably. The quips and barbs were fewer now, arguments ending in compromise rather than dispute. His face twisted into a pout as you went into detail.

See, that's what I mean, you teased, by now you'd have bitten my head off. You scruffed his beard affectionately and his irritation quelled, melting into contentment.

Secondly, the napping.

Nathan had become a prolific napper. He liked them well enough at the beginning of your relationship, just for a quick recharge, but now? He took it seriously. Nathan had a designated couch and several blankets he liked to wrap himself in. He had water and snacks available for in between, and would set all the thermostats and light fixtures to the perfect level for his liking.

It was a science. He sleep soundly, snoring quietly when you passed. Sometimes he'd snag you in for a cuddle, bear-hugging you into his nest. Then you were stuck for a few hours until he woke.

You joked that his napping had replaced his coding as a priority, to which he scoffed.

He'd also gotten snacky.

Nathan had a very clean diet and eating schedule. It kept him trim and fit and didn't take too much effort. You liked to cook and bake (not a gendered thing, but you both enjoyed making meals for each other.) and he liked the muffins and breads and cookies and whatnot.

It turned into a nightly thing, to have a snack. His face was softer, and he filled out his shirts a little more. Not in a bad way, not at all. You found him very attractive, you assured him, pecking a kiss atop his head, nothing to worry about there.

It means you feel happy, you explained, taking his hand in yours. it's not bad.

Nathan struggled to think about this for a while, trying to cut out these habits. He liked his routine originally, and the idea that it was changing disturbed him.

But you sat beside him in bed, inquiring worriedly after his health. are you okay? you seem distant-er than usual, mister genius.

You kept up that tone of kindness, but the pure concern in your gaze made him wilt. He decided to return to his new schedule tenfold, napping the day away with you tucked up on the couch next to him. Changes could be okay, too.

this was a little new format for me but here we are <3

tags:

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma

@iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world

@ael-xander @to-be-a-sunshine @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @silvernight-m @lonelyisamyw-0love @unear7hly

[nectardaddy]

wild youth

one | trash can

masterlist

track one . . . crystal

cw/notes : ignore timestamps, hurt/comfort (my bread and butter yum), anxiety attack, feelings of panic, feelings of nausea (no throwing up), someone get me a suga asap fuck I love him so bad, ignore any typos I tried my best

The swirling sensation in her stomach never stopped even after she had sent everyone on their way. In fact, it got worse as her eyes tracked over the calendar she had on her desk. Little boxes filled to the brim with colorful ink, each color holding a significance that was important to only her.

Red was urgent, meetings she couldn't miss, or she would never hear the end of it. Blue was content, what subject matter she should be on week by week - which she was behind on. Green was tasks listed out in bullet points for science and math - to make a study guide, to redo a failed worksheet, to get supplies together for an upcoming lab, to make calls regarding a field trip in the near future. 

Orange was personal. 

Orange ink littered every Friday - ‘after school w/ K.S.’ (Abbreviated in case anyone came up to her desk with prying eyes. Already learning the hard way - last month - when question upon question was asked of “oh my god what do you and Mr. Sugawara do after school?!?” And “is Mr. Suga your boyfriend?! Is that why you have that on your calendar?!”)

Orange ink that scrawled underneath every box labeled Friday made her heart squeeze but wrench all in the same breath. Holding onto the feeling so hard she felt it crush and shatter in between her fingers. She had the tendency to hold onto things too hard, and never did find it within herself to let go - fractured or not. Always finding herself picking up stray pieces that fell here and there, leaving a trail behind her wherever she went. 

The amount of colorful ink, some smeared and some barely legible, threw her into a spiral if she looked at it too long. Too many things to do, too many calls to make and meetings to attend, and simply not enough time in one school day to complete everything. The swirling feeling that started in her stomach began to move, forcing its way to her throat and she took a deep breath. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting the nausea and overwhelming need to spill her guts right then and there. 

In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

She remained like that a moment, focusing on her breathing and taking deep inhales of air only to let it back out again. But she gripped the orange pen she had in her hand tightly when she heard someone step through the threshold of her door; the sickly feeling returned to her throat immediately. She kept her eyes closed and took a shaky breath, determined to focus herself onto one thing rather than the person who came in.

She knew it was Sugawara. 

Knew the moment she heard long, relaxed strides and the soft squeak of chucks onto the horribly waxed floor. Knew as soon as she heard him walk through the door without a word - silent and all too ready to listen, to help. She knew he looked at her in worry, brown eyes swimming with an emotion she had yet to pinpoint. She knew he wouldn't dare leave until he knew she was alright.

Sugawara knew that she was losing her grip on remaining calm.

“Do you need the trash can?” 

A simple question, asked in a soft voice near her. She only screwed her eyes shut tighter and shook her head. “I'm ok.” Lying through gritted teeth, hoping he would turn to leave, but to no avail. 

“No you're not.” Another whisper of a reply. 

“I'm fine.” 

She heard him hum before the screech of a chair hit her ears, making her flinch and a ‘sorry’ followed quickly after. 

And that's when she felt him. 

His presence radiated next to her that she couldn't ignore - warm, caring, and selfless. Not a single off hand comment to say as he pulled a chair next to her and sat down without a word. She could feel his arm brush against her own, a simple accident as he got comfortable in the plastic chair. But a tingling feeling that made her heart stop; a proximity she couldn't tell was intentional or not. 

“Then I'll be here to make sure you stay fine.” 

She hated that answer. 

Loathed it even, for the sole fact it caused the sickly feeling to arrange itself into a lump in her throat. A lump that made her swallow hard, as to try and fight it, but only made it worsen as it became bigger. Growing until the feeling hit her chest painfully, overwhelming her with a sense of panic. One hand still held onto the orange pen for dear life, and the other death gripped her pants leg. 

“Suga,” the name spoken in a whisper, but voice cracking all the same. It dawned on her she had no control over how the situation went anymore, realizing she would ultimately drop her façade in front of the man only made the burning pain in her chest worse. The mask would reluctantly be long gone if she started to cry; and it hit her hard as she became acutely aware of the fact she couldn't stop herself if she did.

Her face felt hot and her heart pumped violently in her chest, hearing every thump within her ear drums so loudly it drowned out the rest of the world. She took one last deep breath - but that was the start of the complete collapse of her mind.

The inhale was labored, fighting back every instinct to let tears flow freely - she couldn't, she wouldn't, not in front of him, anyone but the man beside her. 

But she did.

The exhale was a choked back sob, one of which made her drop the orange pen completely and cover her mouth to muffle the sound. A cry for help that sounded too desperate to let anyone else hear, too pained to allow the man next to her bear witness too, too raw for even herself. Even with her eyes screwed shut, squeezing them so tight the corners of her eyes began to hurt, the tears fell anyway. It wasn't gradual, it wasn't a wave that pulled her down slowly but surely - it was the sudden, violent collapse of an, otherwise fine, structure. The chaos of watching a building fall, watching as brick by brick it all came tumbling down on itself. 

She couldn't register what happened, as the time from his statement and her crying was nothing but a brief pause. She only knew she was crying, her fingers sore from grabbing at the fabric of her pants, that her throat felt hoarse, and the hand that covered her mouth was now wet with tears. But a new sensation was thrown into the mix that made her jump in her skin and hold tight to the last thread of sanity she still had. A warmth on the back of her hand completely sent her to the deep end and lurched her off.

His hand atop her own. 

She couldn't explain why she flipped her palm over in that moment, couldn't place why exactly she interlocked her fingers with his without a second thought, and she surely didn't know why she removed her hand from her mouth only to open it. “What the fuck is wrong with me, Suga?” A wrenching question asked through broken cries and hot tears, “why can't I think, for just one goddamn second, that I'm not drowning? Why can't I think I'm good enough? Why can't I think I'm not a complete failure with everything I do?”

There was a long pause, one that only made her tears flow a bit harder. Because his silence felt cold to her, his silence felt like an answer all in itself. But he squeezed her hand in his own and looked over to her; if she had glanced, even briefly, to him she would've realized she took his heart right out of his chest. Held it in her hands unknowingly and dug her fingers into it, leaving marks that would linger for the rest of his days. 

“You’re the farthest thing from a failure,” he whispered. "And I’ll tell you every day that you’re good enough, because you are. You’re more than enough - you’re perfect.”

She wished she had said yes to the trash can.

“I am failing miserably,” she choked. “They won’t fucking listen, they won’t stop talking, they keep asking me the dumbest things imaginable after I tell them what they’re doing, and they look at me like I’m stupid constantly. And I have to pretend that everything is okay, and smile and laugh. Even when I just want to slam my fucking head into the wall and cry. I-” 

“Hey.” She felt him squeeze her hand once more as he cut her words short. “Breathe.” Another squeeze, this one tighter than that last, and he kept the tension. He held her hand like her life depended on it, interlocking fingers between his own and remained firm. He refused to watch her drown - or at least, they'd drown together. 

She took an uneasy breath in, and hopelessly failed at holding it as another sob wracked her chest again. To this, he didn't say a word; only watched as she tried to inhale and hold it. Brown eyes swirled with a concern she wouldn't even bear witness to, holding her hand as it was the only thing he could do. Failed attempt after failed attempt until she was finally able to the fifth time around - holding it and releasing a shaky exhale. 

“It's ok to not be ok,” he assured, to which he squeezed her hand once again. 

She finally found it in herself to open her eyes, and she looked over to him in sorrow. Blurry, tear stained eyes locked with his own and he felt his heart sink even farther in his stomach. How long has she felt like this? Thinking himself an idiot for letting it get to a peak such as this one; ridiculing himself within the chasms of his mind for not noticing sooner. On the contrary, she felt her stomach surge upward. A squeamish feeling that made her swallow harshly, and a bitter taste at the back of her throat that made her look away from him completely. 

She most definitely should have said yes to the trash can.

Her eyes had only met his own for a fraction of a second, but that was enough for her to feel embarrassment wash over her. So she kept her eyes glued to the orange ink that littered the calendar on her desk. Orange was consistent, never changing, caring - adoring. And she watched as, now slowed, tears dripped onto the paper. Drops created small, circular splotches that bled through to the pages underneath. Watched as the ink started to scatter and feather out from hot, salty tears; and for once, she didn’t care. Didn’t care that her handwriting began to be illegible, didn’t care that red ink started to blend with green. As long as the orange ink was still there, if it still remained intact - it was fine. As long as the orange ink would always remain there, it was ok.

“But I have to be ok,” she whispered, negating his statement as she closed her eyes again. “If I’m not ok then everything will go to shit.”

“Says who?” 

“Says my brain.”

“Well,” he began, and she heard the faintest of a chuckle sound from beside her. “Don’t listen to your brain. You don’t have to be ok at all.” And in that moment, she became overly aware of the fact he was holding her hand, because he squeezed it again. Pale fingers locked with her own, holding tightly, and she felt a heat rise to her cheeks. Muddled with the already warm feeling of being overwhelmed, she felt herself thrown to the deep end all over again. “Honestly, we can not be ok together.”

Together. 

One singular word felt crushing, but relieving all in the same breath. While it took her by the ankles and yanked her downward, it also grabbed her by the wrists and surged her up. A head spinning feeling that didn’t help her nausea; it only made it worse as now she felt torn asunder. Friday after Friday of being together but so, god damn, far apart. Together felt like a curse. A god awful, caring, loveable curse she couldn't get enough of.

She kept her eyes closed and lips sealed shut at his words, humming them over in her mind as seconds passed. Burnt out, foolish, embarrassed, and hot, she still noticed the yearning feeling that pulled at the back of her mind. An ache that never went away, only nagged and pined as it only continued to grow as moments became minutes. And minutes became a crushing weight to finally say something - anything. 

Together. 

“Do you want to get hammered tonight?” An off kilter, frankly off color, question she blurted out to him as she reopened her eyes. Looking over to him in anticipation, but a deep rooted fear swimming in her eyes, and she finally squeezed his hand back in response. 

She saw the smile form on his lips the second the question was asked, watched as the smile turned to a chuckle, and the chuckle became a silly, joy bringing laugh. “What kind of question is that?” A rhetorical question asked between chuckles, “obviously I want to get hammered.” 

“I still don't want to go to the bar though,” tagging on the statement quieter than the last and she saw him shrug in response.

“My offer still stands. Do you like shitty, cranberry vodka?” 

“Yes?”

“My place it is then.”

taglist (open, send an ask)

@19calicos @yoshit-he-dinosaur @sandwhitches @bokutoko @wyrcan

@darling-eos @mitskicain @cherrypieyourface @eggyrocks

@yogurtkags @cupidsblonde @honeekyuu @s1ckntw1st3d @causenessus 

@maeflowers653 @crispchocolates @moucheslove @staygoldsquatchling02 @phoenix-eclipses 

@ji9sstar @zumicho @keeboismine @cloudybillows @kameyyy

@strawberryuri

[weenwrites]

Cooking A Meal: Part 2

Summary - You ask one of the cons to cook you a meal, but honestly it goes about as well as you'd expect. Characters - Megatron, Shockwave, Starscream, Soundwave, Dreadwing, Knockout, Breakdown, Airachnid, Predaking, Darksteel, Skylynx Content - Crack Category - Headcanons Trigger Warnings - None

✎ A/N: This is an un-revised shitpost, not something too serious.

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

Megatron

Don't even bother having him try to cook you something, he can't cook at all. More often than not he'll just send some vehicon off to fetch you a meal, but when he's actually put in a kitchen and told to cook a meal, he'll probably serve you a plate of charred... Stuff.

It reeks and honestly you can't even tell what it used to be. The most he knows about cooking is that humans always heat up their food. He doesn't know how cooked a piece of meat or a slice of bread has to be, and despite knowing how useful patience is, he can't bring himself to wait a couple minutes for a slice of bread to turn golden brown.

Even with some instructions he doesn't understand a single word on that page. What does "fold in the cheese" even mean?! All in all, the food tastes awful, the presentation is awful, and it's not even a nice experience, he somewhat cleans his mess, but still, it's an awful experience. Even your local fast food restaurant would serve something better than what he could make you.

Shockwave

He wouldn't be too bad at cooking... However the meal he's served you is most likely made from some artificial substitute... It's not bad, per say, and it has a higher nutritional value than everything in your kitchen combined, but... He didn't stand in a kitchen to make it, he stood in a lab and fabricated it. That aside, it's plain and has a bit of a weird taste, the presentation sucks, and it's not naturally made, it was fabricated in a laboratory. It counts as science. Not cooking. So nevermind, he'd be bad at cooking.

But if he were to cook, he'd get into the technicalities of all, and spout food science facts at you. He'd tell you all about how proteins in meat force out moisture through coagulation, and that's how meat cooks. Or how amino acids and simple sugars are rearranged to change the color of meat as it cooks. Unless you know about food science yourself, all it may sound like some scientific garble to you. Whether you implore him to continue or not is all up to you.

But just because he knows about the chemical composition of a cracker doesn't mean he knows how to make things taste good. He chooses things based on their nutritional value, not their taste. Everything from meal portions, to seasonings, to even the temperature it was cooked at is all carefully measured to ensure that you're getting your healthy fill of nutrients. He doesn't even allow you to season it afterwards, because any more seasoning would disturb the healthy balance.

Still, while it may be nutritious, it certainly isn't delicious, but at least it's 100% edible and extremely healthy.

Starscream

He didn't know humans cooked their food, he thought they just ate it as is. So you'll have to explain a lot of stuff to him before either of you actually get anywhere. But once he gets the basics down, he'll be off to a rough, yet good start!

He's very particular about the way things are organized in a kitchen, and he'll get real annoyed if you moved something like a spatula or a spoon he was using. He's sorta set up this organization system in the kitchen that works specifically for him and no one else. While it may look like a mess on the outside, it works really well for him.

He'd never touch raw meat, even if it were to cook for you. He just hates the feeling, so you'd basically have no luck at getting him to scrub a chicken down with salt and seasoning unless you gave him a pair of gloves or a brush. But even if he's a bit squeamish, he's very thorough with his work, and very patient too. But he does complain about how long it takes for things to prepare things and then cook.

Might be a bit burnt here, and a bit bland over there, but if you pick some parts out and sprinkle some salt, pepper, spice, or hot sauce on it, it makes for a solid-ish meal! Which is pretty impressive, given the fact he once knew nothing about cooking a few hours ago.

Soundwave

They're actually a really good chef, better than everyone else, that's for sure. Soundwave knows where and how to learn what he needs to know, so it wouldn't take long for him to research and grasp the bare bones of cooking. And after a couple of tries, they could definitely whip you up a 5 star meal that tastes like something the best chef in the world would make.

It's almost scary how fast he learns, but hey at least you're getting like one of the best meals in the world using cheap ingredients from your fridge. Like who knew ketchup could taste so good in place of fancy marinara sauce!

And because of the amazing meal he made, it's without a doubt that he is the undisputed best chef aboard the Nemesis and everybody else's skills immediately pale in comparison. If it were a competition, it would've been over the moment they joined.

Dreadwing

Like almost everyone on this list, he has no idea what to do, and he has no idea what humans eat, so it ends up being a bit of a lecture before he actually starts cooking. It might take him a bit, and he'll stumble here and there, but he's always quick to ask good questions to ensure he has a solid grasp on what he needs to do.

He's quick to pick up anything you teach him, like about cutting vegetables, or seasoning meals, temperature, et cetera. And in a while, he's able to follow a recipe rather well, only occasionally coming to you to ask a question about what "folding" or "basting" or "al dente" means.

He'd serve you a pretty solid meal all in all. But on the off-chance that what he made for you had caused you to get sick, he'd immediately and sincerely apologize to you, and most likely never make you a meal ever again.

Knockout

He has some knowledge around human cooking thanks to the internet, and it helps the slightest bit, but for the most part he'll be bugging you with all his questions about human cuisine and cooking.

And all the while he's cooking, he'll ask you to fetch him things like that kitchen knife over there, or that measuring cup—no, not that one. That one was used for wet ingredients, he needs the other one that was used for dry ingredients, now chop chop. The clock's ticking. Or he'll holler at you to come and help hold the bowl as he scrapes the mixture into another pan.

Surprisingly, the kitchen actually remains rather nice and orderly throughout it all. He fills your sink with water and just leaves the dirty dishes in there to soak, and cleans messes the instant they're made, which greatly helps with clean-up afterward! But he won't touch the dishes. He just hates the feeling of scrubbing grimy food off, so you're on your own unless you give him a pair of gloves.

But as for the food itself? It's... Semi-decent! He may have burned it a little, or messed up one of the steps, but it still tastes good and it's still edible. He even decorates it nicely! He'd chop any vegetables into cute little shapes, and he has a good eye for presentation. So it's pretty nice.

Breakdown

He doesn't know anything about human cooking. He does question where the heck human food comes from though, and the most he knows is that humans consume other organisms, which he finds really weird. So in the beginning, the whole cooking session might be more of an educational session than anything, but only so he understands what humans can eat and what he should be doing.

He technically doesn't do any cooking since he just makes you things like instant noodles or instant mac n' cheese. But he'll need a bit of supervising because with the noodles, he'll put the seasoning packet in the water while the noodles are cooking, and then drain the noodles because he thought that the noodles would absorb the flavor (same goes for the mac n' cheese), but it turns out that the cheese water just goes down the drain. So it technically isn't completely his fault that the food may taste off (because instant food doesn't always taste that good...) but he does mess some of the steps up which contributes to that.

But with a little guidance here, and a little trial and error there, he'll actually be able to whip up something pretty decent using the instant stuff as a base! He'll add things like chopped up vegetables or spice for some flavor in some instant ramen, or cook the macaroni in milk and add some mustard for mac n' cheese, or perhaps crack an egg and add some garlic into some insta-soup.

All in all, it's a pretty solid meal for his first time cooking. But does it really technically count as cooking if he used an already pre-made thing to make it?

Airachnid

If she didn't care about you as much as she does, she would've fed you something poisonous if she didn't ignore your request first. She's... A questionable cook... To say the least, but one thing's for sure, all the meat she uses in her cooking is fresh. And I mean fresh as in "she dragged that animal into the kitchen and slaughtered it on the spot" kind of fresh, which is ideal if you're eating something that requires super fresh meat like oysters.

She doesn't burn the food, but she most likely under-cooks it. As for seasoning, well, she doesn't add any, so whatever you're eating will need a whole lot of salt, pepper, and spices either to taste like something, or to distract from the horrible taste the food already has.

But while the food may taste weird, the presentation's interesting. It's something of an art, made from something you don't even think you can call "food" anymore, but it's interesting to look at.

All in all, the food tastes horrible, the presentation's neat, and you're 100% guaranteed to get food poisoning if you scarf the entire meal down (which you won't, the stench is bad enough to kill even flies).

Predaking

He can't cook at all—actually, he doesn't even know what humans eat, so you'll have to explain to him quite a lot. Even then, he'll probably just bring you a dead animal and assume that's enough. You'll actually have to lecture him on cooking meat, preparing ingredients, and whatnot. So this whole thing turns into a cooking lesson as opposed to doing actual cooking.

He soaks all that knowledge up like a sponge, and with his newfound knowledge of cooking he's able to make something relatively decent for you, if not leaning more towards mediocre! The meal is something simple, probably from a cookbook you have at your house (or on the internet...)

All in all, while it's below average, it's probably above-par by your standards, given the fact you just taught him how to cook a hot second ago. The presentation is simple, the food actually tastes good, so all in all it's a pretty average meal.

Darksteel

Surprise, surprise! He is the worst cook out of them all. And here you might have thought that Predaking or Airachnid would've been the worst, but nope. It's him. He'd most likely burn your kitchen down, if not trash everything you have, and waste everything you have in your fridge. The best he does is bring you a dead animal that he "cooked" by spewing fire at it. Then again it's most likely either overcooked or undercooked and would definitely give you trichinellosis, E. coli, BSE, salmonella, or whatever other horrible disease you risk contracting by eating what he's served you.

But what about vegetables? He doesn't even know what a vegetable is, and unless you give him a really thorough description of what counts as a vegetable or not, he'd most likely just uproot a tree or pluck a bush out from the ground and give it to you, mildly scorched, because he remembered that you have to cook it.

If you were to ask him about presentation, he'd probably pose the scorched cattle or chicken he got his claws on, set the crisp "vegetables" upright, and think that's good enough "presentation".

Bottom line? Do not eat anything he gives you, it'll absolutely destroy your stomach.

Skylynx

Yeah he doesn't want to. He'd hate cooking so much because everything takes so long to do! He's sensible enough to do some research and learn, or ask you questions for clarification, but waiting for water to boil just drives him crazy.

He tries to work diligently and be patient, but you might catch him cutting corners a little bit. How so? Well, he'd raise the temperature of the stove to get something to cook faster, or if he needs to carefully ground something into a poultice, he'll just smush it into paste. If you're having something simple like mashed potatoes, then he has absolutely no problem preparing that.

He doesn't pay much attention to how it looks, so while the food he serves looks unappetizing as he straight up slaps it onto your plate, it actually tastes pretty decent... Ish... Decent-ish. Sure your food may have come out a bit burnt, or you might find some weird chunks in it, but it's better than what Darksteel has to offer, that's for sure.

[valscigarette]

Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

-

By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing. 

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind. 

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away. 

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces. 

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it. 

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge. 

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself. 

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place. 

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth. 

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it. 

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course. 

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action. 

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances. 

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.” 

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him. 

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest. 

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge. 

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday. 

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her. 

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries. 

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more. 

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal. 

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds. 

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs. 

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob. 

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own. 

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him. 

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh. 

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need. 

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp. 

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm.. 

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks. 

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days. 

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs. 

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems. 

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat. 

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole. 

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks. 

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection. 

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body.  Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences. 

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one. 

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence. 

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours. 

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

[hagscribes]

🦇 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

═══════════════════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹═══════════════════

✦ Hello all! Very new to writeblr, though I've been writing on and off for years now. I go by Lamia. 27, they/she, black.

✦ I write mostly high/dark fantasy with romance themes. Expect a lot of (gothic) horror and (some) science-fiction every once in a while. Enemies to lovers is my bread and butter, angst my drink of choice. Throw in a little tragedy, a few metaphors about the terror of religion, blood, and it's a feast. My writing is explicitly queer and so am I.

✦ Fanfiction and personal works will both be housed here. I am currently drafting a novel with a magic system that uses dragon remains as its primary fuel. Heavily in the research process, might even dabble with conlangs.

✦ I consider my main writing influences to be Anne Rice and Angela Carter. I do an awful lot of reading as well, so feel free to talk to me about anything book related! Some of my other favorite authors are Mary Shelley, Brandon Sanderson, and Holly Black. Please give me all your horror recs 🖤

✦ Asks and requests are encouraged, especially if they're about my OCs. I'd also love to learn all about yours!

✦ Mature and erotic content will be very much present in my works, though I will always do my best to tag appropriately. Please read any tags/warnings thoroughly. 18+ only.

✦ main blog is @princeofhags. ao3 is bitterhags.

writing | wips

[art-of-mathematics]

Alien Cheesus Crust is living the best life in his rainbow hammock.

Look at this master chiller cuddling with his silly spoon:

[lyralit]

4.1.24 - the importance of learning new things

As much as I think academic & work focus is incredibly important going into the new year, one of my other goals is to practice doing more: to learn all of the things I want to do, in addition to work, in addition to writing. I want to know how to do thousands of little things, and I think the longer we wait, the less likely we are to do them.

Picking up a new hobby doesn't have to be buying a dozen textbooks and spending hundreds of dollars on lessons because you might have the slightest interest: it can be from whatever you have here, now, and you'll never learn if you don't get started.

Some of the things I've been getting into (as I've mentioned before) are baking & crocheting. it just feels so cozy and nice & I love the idea of comfort.

here is a list of things I want to / you should try that's new!

learning a new language. fifteen minutes a day, I kid you not. I'm learning latin on duolingo and I don't ever think about it, but when I do it (25 day streak 💪🏻), I'm starting to notice my improvements

consuming good media. and that's not scrolling for half an hour on tumblr. it's books—deep ones and silly ones and ones about romance and dragons and apocalypses. it's movies! I watched keira knightley's pride and prejudice twice in the last few months, and also three men and a baby which is something I never thought I would watch, but it was quite funny I think. and I learn from it: I cannot write humour or romance for the life of me, so it's basically studying to write (is the self-gaslighting too evident?)

learning to crochet. I made a silly little headband today, after scrolling through pinterest and desperately wanting one. I started crocheting in december to give as gifts (I completed none of my wips, much like when I write) and used the tools I had around me: an old rainbow loom hook and whatever string I could find. now I'm proud to say I can read somewhat fluently crochet acronyms.

baking. I keep saying this. I know. but when I tell you a two years ago I was exploding cupcakes in the oven and last month I made bakery-style cookies...I made bread! a loaf of bread! (in a bread machine, but it's so good and I instantly made another. there is one in the bread machine right now). honestly it just made me feel that much better about improvement, and trying new things, and that is the mindset I want for the new year.

learning to code. in all honesty, I never thought I was a compsci - engineer kind of person. then this year, out of sudden (masterminded) urges, I joined a bunch of tech and robotics initiatives, and maybe it's the sense of community (I can rejoice in finding another nerdy group) but now I am happily chauffeuring myself to these meetings 4h a week. I'm looking into pursuing more into the fields of eng and science. and I'm learning some code from one of the friends I've made!

starting a blog. ...I know most of the people who linger around my blog stay for the writing content (the last posts have turned this writerblr into a digital diary, and I'm only half sorry for that). but since I've joined tumblr (almost three years ago now!) I've got to meet so many wonderful people (including you!) and want to try so many things.

and I get it. it's overwhelming. so here are some starting goals that maybe I'll try also.

start doing art. -> make a card for someone as a gift.

learn a new sport & start exercising. (I'm trying out track & field in the spring, so stay tuned to figure out how that goes) -> see if someone will come play ball with you. do 1 or 2 youtube workout videos a week.

film videos of your daily life. it doesn't need to be for posting! -> edit together clips you've taken for a last year recape.

start a scrapbook. -> print out photos and dig up construction paper. decorate a page.

make a poetry journal. -> go on pinterest to read poetry! pin styles you like and set fifteen minutes to writing.

make a regular journal! -> write once a day. just try: goals for the day in the morning, or a recap at night.

try your hand at gardening. -> research plants that grow well in your region. see if any of the seeds you may have at home are useful. water your lawn. buy a plant and try to keep it alive (set reminders, leave it in front of your sink)

learn to make candles. -> watch a youtube tutorial. see if you can play around with candles you already have.

play chess. -> see if someone will play chess with you. no? chess.com is right there. go make an account. go find a stranger.

learn to play an instrument off youtube. -> maybe you have a piano sitting around, or a guitar you've never touched. you don't even need to master it. pick a song you like and google that. no instrument? maybe there's a way to play drums with home items.

go for a run. -> once a week. a set time. just shoes and the outdoors. too cold? go to a gym and use a treadmill. maybe that's not possible? skip rope.

start / join a book club. -> just you, or some close friends, or people online. a book a month. talk about it.

** on that note, would anyone like to join a tumblr book club? slide into my asks and maybe we can get a blog list!

thank you for reading again <3 until next time.

k.

[live-laugh-legolas]

heyyy me again

i would like to request legolas content? I don't really have anything in mind so maybe just general stuff, and i find the headcanons really easy to read

I want to preface this by saying a few of these headcanons are based from this post by @mushroomates so please check them out. Their blog is hilarious and so fun to read

I will add a little 🍄 by headcanons that I am stealing borrowing highlighting because when I read them I was like ✨yes✨ and felt inspired

Legolas headcanons

-As a kid he always brought animals inside

-He wanted to help them if they were orphaned or injured

-Thranduil has had to tell him that bunnies are not allowed on the dinner table

-Speaking of Thranduil, he kept his son very sheltered so Legolas as a result is not the best at communicating

-Kind of the weird neighbors kid that you are told it really nice but they sorta of freak you out

-Isn’t the best a comforting people; stays silent and kinda just hangs around in case you ask anything of him, maybe brings you some water

-He stares at people and does the slow cat blink that is a “kiss” to show he’s friendly 🍄

-I like the characterization of elves being cat like

-He absolutely suns himself and will lay in a sort of half asleep trance for long periods of time

-Like a cat, he can be elusive

-Seriously he will just disappear for a few hours or days and just show up again with no explanation

-He cannot cook 🍄

-Despite being ancient, he never really had a reason to learn because he is a prince and meals were just made for him

-If he’s on his own he will strictly eat lembas bread and fruit

-Stuff that requires no prep

-But I also think he has absolute grave mouth

-I’ve talked about his favorite candy being sour stuff and that he probably snorts tartaric acid (that’s a joke, he would never snort anything) (probably) (maybe once for science)

-I think he will eat anything and think it’s good

-Probably wasn’t bothered by Eowyn’s soup and that’s really saying something

-Food is food, he doesn’t really get excited about eating and it’s more just a necessity

-No one has ever seen him go to relieve himself 🍄 (I died at this and I want you to check the post linked in the intro to read this headcanon specifically)

-Actually has a pretty bad sense of direction

-Mostly because he will just wander and not pay attention to where he is actually going

-But he always finds his way back somehow; maybe the trees tell him or something idk

-Often chose to sleep in a tree outside as a child

-He was absolutely feral despite his father trying to reign him in

-After the war of the ring he wears some piece of jewelry, maybe a hair charm or a ring, made by dwarves to show his friendship

-✨Gimli and Legolas friendship bracelets✨

-If he was in modern day he would wear those stupid pun shirts

-Probably a math one and no one knows if it’s ironic or not

-He can ballroom dance and he enjoys a cheeky foxtrot

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

RATED M

Photo via Rangmang's website

One could equate the ambiance and feel of a Japanese shokudō between a New York street bar and an izakaya. Family friendly and cheap, these quaint-looking nooks and crannies tended to be independently run, smaller, and prioritized their menu on fully prepared entrees, rather than finger food and saké.  

With its retro red and white signage, Rangmang was a cozy little shokudō, located an easy three minute walk from Ebisu station in Roppongi. The establishment was best known for their lightly breaded fried chicken (karaage) and Lemon Sours, where exclusively on Fridays and Saturdays you, and your party, could enjoy a 90 minute all-you-can-eat special, alongside rounds of bottomless beer. 

The air was warm and thick for October. Looking out, Satoru thought this Wednesday night felt a tad busier than most, then again, this part of Roppongi was almost always busy; Tokyoites partaking in a few hours of freedom before work the next day (and the flood of tourists). Jujutsu sorcerers weren’t given such luxuries. There was no such thing as “time off,” evident by the quarter-Dane’s insistence they get together for another debrief. As usual, Utahime and Shoko were invited. Judging from Nanami’s stalwart expression, his intel was not encouraging. 

“The streets are starting to talk,” he began, once they were settled at their table and placed their orders. “They know about Hannah.”

“Not surprising,” Satoru said with a shrug. “We knew they’d catch on eventually.”

“Doesn’t negate the fact she could be at greater risk, doofus,” Utahime bristled. “You should be taking this seriously.”

Satoru turned to issue her a cold stare. “Who said I wasn’t?” 

Uh oh. Best to knock on a stone bridge before crossing it. 

While they were friends, that didn’t make Utahime untouchable in any way, and it was no wonder as to why. She wasn’t blind. Any person with a pair of eyes and an average-sized brain could see he and Hannah had gotten physical. Afterall, no couple made “bedroom” eyes like that unless they were fucking the ever-loving tartersauce out of each other. There was also the fact he genuinely cared for her, and talked about her nonstop. Utahime found Satoru boorish and immature and too powerful for his own good, but Hannah was undoubtedly a central figure in his life. Accost her, cross that stone bridge before knocking, and there’d be hell to pay.

Speaking of which, she should ask Hannah to get tested.

A waitress shortly came with their fried chicken and beer (Satoru substituted for Pepsi). Shoko quietly sipped her IPA, watching her blue-eyed friend with shrewd prudence. She wasn’t much for joining the conversation, merely reading the room, guessing what card he had played. Despite knowing him longer than most, Shoko always found it tricky to gauge which Satoru they were dealing with; the Joker or the Ace. He switched hands on a dime. Made her nervous. 

Kento hadn’t finished.

“That’s not all,” he added. “There’s been some development in the Time Vessel Association’s reemergence. We’ve finally confirmed its new leader. My hunch was correct.” He paused. “It’s him.”

They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. At this point, the evidence could drown an entire village; The manipulated curse that attacked Hannah back in April; The two armed thugs Nanami detained at the opera (and brutally interrogated); The weird disappearances and murders. 

Obscure religious groups were not strange to Japan. The country was plagued by NRMs (New Religious Movements). Most were quirky and innocuous. Others were downright dangerous and at times posed a sizable threat to the public. Happy Science, a more modern group, had its own political party and proclaimed fervently, without evidence, that China and North Korea were plotting Japan’s nuclear demise and the country should prepare for invasion. Kaeda Juku did not believe in modern medicine and taught that only special prayers recited by their leader could heal an ailing person. This came asunder when two mummified children were found in their headquarters, having died of medical negligence. Then there was Aum Shinri Kyo, a terrorist organization most infamous for the Subway Sarin Attacks, killing fourteen people and injuring over a  thousand. 

Like deadly viruses, these movements preyed on the vulnerable and oftentimes disbanded, before circumventing and reforming into something far worse. The Toki no Utsuwa no Kai, or Time Vessel Association, had slipped off the police’s radar for years, only to rise back from the grave like a dark twisted phoenix, this time with a new Messianic figurehead, a new “vision.”

For months now, jujutsu’s leading investigators had worked around the clock to uncover the new leader’s name. The residuals, disappearances, and suspicious murders pointed to just one.

“So, the rumors are true,” Shoko drawled, setting her beer on the table. “The crazy dude got himself a cult. What’s the prize for joining, I wonder, a lollipop?”

“Shoko,” The Six Eyes wielder sighed, uninterested in her sarcasm. “Stop.”

Damn it all.

Though he’d been craving some decent fried chicken, Satoru found he wasn’t hungry anymore. He knew he was supposed to do his job, that a number of people were counting on him. He was the Six Eyes wielder, the strongest sorcerer on earth, however the truth of the whole prospect made him sick to his stomach, and there was nothing he could do. The higher-ups had made their choice.

It wasn’t an accident he’d chosen Suguru’s favorite restaurant tonight. Rangmang used to be their hang out. They had stumbled upon it one evening after a grueling mission. It was just the two of them then, laughing at something stupid a curse user had said, ordering karaage, talking the proverbial shit. Teenage boys were good at that sort of thing; causing a ruckus. A lot of fond memories here.

There are few friends you make in life, even fewer worthy enough to be your equal; The whole “he’s got your back, you’ve got his” dynamic. Someone who knows you better than you dare know yourself, someone you might open up to. The first person who made you feel like you weren’t alone in the universe, like you weren’t the only one born different. Born crazy. 

A best friend. A partner. A soulmate.

And then they leave you, crush your heart into a million shattered pieces until it’s only a fragment of what it once was, knowing it’ll never be made whole again, that it’ll never trust.  

You’ll just get left behind.

Satoru stifled down a breath. Suguru’s memory was like an oil stain he couldn’t wash out. Fate seemed insistent on stringing them together - and damn - did it piss him off. He just wanted this pernicious cycle to end. His heart had endured enough beatings, his upbringing notwithstanding. How much more would it take? How many more times must he go through this long, tortured dance? He hadn’t told Hannah the full story yet either. He perished the thought.

“You could do it, Satoru…The impossible…”

“Satoru,” Kento said emphatically, as though reading his brooding mind. “You can’t take any - and I mean any chances now. If you see him, he’s to be killed on sight. No more fooling around. That goes for the rest of you.”

“Got it,” Utahime chimed.

“Mmhm,” grunted Shoko.

Satoru remained silent, peering down at his Pepsi. 

“And another thing, Satoru.”

The Six Eyes wielder looked up at his blond colleague.

Nanami’s steel grey eyes were piercing. “When in public, Hannah is to stay with you at all times. Given what we know, we already suspect there’s a bounty on her head.” He gave his friend a rare, pitying look. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you twice.”

Satoru closed his fists. He could still feel his wife’s blood bleeding on his fingers, her horrid screams, scenes of the last time he’d failed to keep her safe.

“No,” he answered stoically. “You don’t.”

His eyes returned to his half-empty can. A part of him wished his old man hadn’t abused alcohol. Maybe then he could go home and muster the wherewithal to drink away his sorrows. 

What an absolute, shit-tastic day.

Hannah was home at her library desk, lost in the sentences of a thickly paged book, writing carefully curated notes as she left stickered tabs on the page numbers. The more she read, the more aggravated she became. She hadn’t known what secrets she’d discover upon opening the book, but this? This was unforgivable, a crime to all things sacred. How had it gone on like this without anyone knowing?

The Gojo library was no Wiblingen Monastery. It was no bigger than her bedroom and the architecture was far more quaint in design, walled with elegantly painted shoji and illuminated solely by sun or lamplight. It conserved a few manuscripts believed to be early writings of Lady Murasaki (though this couldn’t be verified), as well as Buddhist sutras, poems, and diary entries written by Gojo ancestors long before. There also existed ancient incantations handed down from progeny to progeny, but those were kept under strict spell and key. However, none of those fascinations mattered to Hannan. The part she loved most about the Gojo library was its serene solitude, a place one could think alone in peace and quiet. 

“What-cha got there?”

Or not.

Hannah peered up to see the most vivid pair of turquoise blue beaming down at her, the look of complete adoration. She recently noticed he had dimples the other day - but nevermind that. She could admire them later, preferably when they were tangled in his (their) bed with no clothes on.

“You said you tested out of high school English, correct?” she asked candidly.

“Sure did.” Satoru quirked a snowy brow. “Why do you ask?”

Hannah closed her notebook and flipped the bigger book to an earlier page, holding it up to him.

“Read this for me; the first paragraph. Anything look off to you?”

Satoru was reticent in taking the book, but  nonetheless followed her instructions. He found her reasoning almost immediately. The book was laden with spelling and grammar mistakes. “Suzie was exciting to go to the parke.”…“Thomas wants to glow up to be a polizman.”…“English is like a magic.” He couldn’t help laughing. There were so many. But that wasn’t all. 

“What the heck?! Even the Japanese segments have errors.” He was outright cackling.

“This,” Hannah pointed to the book, forcing herself not to smile, “is the English textbook Jujutsu High gives their first years. Shoko found me hers. I guess it explains why the school’s English scores have stayed below average for so long.”

“Unreal.” Satoru flipped another page in total bemusement. “Nobody said anything, so I never thought to... “ He gave the subject more thought and felt his grin widen. “This is kinda sad.” The sheer irony. 

Although, he had to correct himself. Satoru quickly recalled the many times he stood listening to Shoko complain about her English classes. “Adachi-sensei can go jump off a bridge,” she would whine. The future physician wasn’t the greatest at explaining things. Looking back, he simply assumed she was being dramatic - that “time of the month” and what not - but nope. Turns out he’d been wrong.  

“Seems Mr. Adachi was rather inept,” Hannah went on. “Must’ve been exaggerating when he said he graduated from Brown.”

Hannah was still sitting in the chair. Satoru came awfully close, bending low to her ear, “Soooooo, does this mean you’re taking his place? Cause if yes, that would make me very,” and looped his arms around her, “very happy.”

She warmly accepted his embrace, resting her head along his chest. “Oh, would it now?”

Having changed from her dress earlier, she felt his hands snake behind and tug on her obi, loosening the ornate drum knot; a pretty burgundy and pomegranate combination. The kimono parted to unveil milk smooth skin, allowing him the satisfaction of trailing butter-soft kisses down her neck.

“Definitely,” he lavished between kisses. “You’d be…a great…teacher.”

Hannah wished she shared even a fraction of his confidence.

“There’s still a lot I don’t know.”

Satoru halted his kisses, voice tender. “You can’t know everything, sweetheart.” He squeezed her tight. “No one does.”

Hannah closed her eyes as he continued peppering her neck, slightly moving her head a fraction to give him access of the other side. “How was Rangmang?”

Satoru went still, a subtle yet prevalent tension in his hold. 

“It was…okay,” he said, breath tickling her skin. “We talked about work.” 

“Just work?” she prompted, hearing a somber tone to his voice. 

Satoru hummed in affirmation. “Yeah. I won’t bore you on the subject. It’s nothing you have to deal with.” He inhaled her scent and sighed deeply, relaxing his shoulders. “Mmm, feels good to be home.”

That seemed to be the only answer she’d get. Hannah too gave a sigh as he held her close. It had been a productive yet tiring evening. 

“Suppose I’ll have to find a proper textbook now, won’t I?” she said.

Satoru hummed his agreement again, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. He glanced back down at the page she had opened.

“Polizzzzzman.”

They both laughed.

Chapter Contents

[rubypasha1]

I’m going to be honest and say I had some bad experiences in the Transformers fandom. I wrote fics for it, admittedly very bad but they were my first. Had to learn somewhere. Thing is I enjoyed the writing, actually I loved it and it made me realize my passion for writing fiction.

But that didn’t stop the bad experiences. Mostly people. I won’t go into detail but for the love of god please don’t ask or encourage a 12 year old, who has clearly stated they are one, to write smut. And don’t send them very explicit, dead dove do not eat fics without at least staying “hey, there’s some messed up stuff in here so just be warned” instead of “Here’s some inspiration!” And constantly asking when smut will be written.

I swear Ao3 saved my creativity. I pretty completely left Wattpad after that, didn’t touch transformers content again till recently this year.

And I’ve made a decision. I’m going to write a transformers fic. Not now, only next year it’s my last year of school and stuff is hectic. But I’m going to write it. To prove to myself I can write a good transformers fic with good characterization. And a reader or oc that has a bit more depth.

Anywho, @ss-shitstorm fic “Breaking Bread” heavily inspired me and actually was the reason I got back into the Ttansforemrs fandom. I highly recommend it it’s one of my new top favorites and has a terrifying attention to detail. Great characterization, hilarious reader insert that’s basically a very stressed out certain magical princess who’s got a knack for science and baking. And a crazy dog. And sassy bird. Who likes Fluttershy. It’s amazing.

Did I mention there’s actual science stuff in it? Stochiometry my nemesis.

And it’s got me thinking about making my own. Maybe more of an oc fic but still written like ny other reader ones.

I’m thinking of doing one where a human is put in a cybertronian body, TFP universe. They have basic knowledge of TFP, watched it but couldn’t remember everything. But they knew enough. Definitely enough o know that cybertron being alive was before the war.

They’re placed in a cybertronian body before the deception uprising. Still around the time where Functionisin ruled and they were in a kind of ‘presenter’/‘video camera’ alt mode.

Except they have anxiety, often freeze up with a panic enduring lack of social skills driven from their natural personality and the fact they’re a human soul shoved into a metal body. Completely alone and forced to adapt to a society that bases value on an alt mode.

The were an artist while human and over time through constant stress and a lack of familiarity with materials on cybertronian, they loose their love of painting and creating art.

But it’s reignited. They find a underground club where mecs and Femmas of many alt modes come together to anonymously submit art ranging from poetry to music and more. And that’s when they find it, a piece of writing that captures their soul. Something so deep and beautiful they feel their own spark reigniting, and they try their hand at creating again. Even if small.

They keep going to the club, building up courage to place art pieces on view. They don’t get much attention, except for a mech who seems curious and stands beside them as they pick apart every little detail.

They talk for a bit. Share a few critics, nothing too crazy. Turns out he’s the one who wrote that lovely piece of writing that inspired them. They turn around, gasping and thanking him for creating something so inspiring-

Megatron stands before them.

Or rather, Megatronus.

The gladiator had just begun his days of battle in the arena but the end was inevitable, the reader knew who he was and fled in terror leaving a confused (and proud, it felt good to know his words inspired at least one person) Megatronus behind.

Readers in a panic, but it doesn’t end there. Their ‘job’ forces them to begin recording the gladiator fights, particularly the rising star Megatronus leading to the eventual meet up of the two again.

But it doesn’t stop there. Soundwave came soon after and, shockingly enough, Ratchet after some unfortunate events (who is far flirtier and leaves the reader thinking “Oh my god he’s so smooth but whyyyyy”)

And it gets worse. Megatronus clearly wishes to se ether atrworks, one of the few along with Soundwave who sees something more than just a waste of time or hobby.

A relationship is formed, tentive on the readers side. They see him and Soundwave less and less like the terrifying deceptions they would become but rather who stood before them. Mechs bashed by a cruel system, they’re creativity forced to writher in their sparks painfully, smothered by a need to fight for the entertainment of others or die by the claws of the system.

They care about them, they eventually realise in horror. And on an unfortunate night they broke down and revealed to Soundwave a horrible truth. War was coming, and they knew what he would become. What All of them would. They beg him, plead to not take things too far. Life was precious, organic or not and taking those of innocents . . .

Soundwave was an outlier himself, but he remained somewhat skeptical. It wa shard to not belive them, the raw emotions they displayed showcased fear and he was good at reading others frames.

The little cybertronian was odd, but intriguing. A friend he had grown to care for, to wish to protect as his closest companion Megatronus insisted, over time. But if there was truth to their words they must know things that could endanger all of cybertron. Soundwave didn’t see himself as a activist nor rebellious but even he couldn’t deny the waters were churning.

Things happen, yada yada yada, reader gets kidnapped and put into stasis just as the war starts and wakes up many years later to the face of a human child se knew very well from a certain TV series.

All out panic ensures

OR, the other fic idea:

Human wakes up as a vehicon . Says “nope”, tries to get away and accidentally becomes the leader of a vehicon rights movement.

The autobots it’s are confused, the decepticons are angry and the reader just wants to get some dogs or cats dammit.

Of course, a dog does gain interest in them. And by that I mean a terrifying metal dragon who decides this trembling little con would be the perfect way to help him attain details on how to resurrect his kin.

He is very mistaken. Reader can’t even be in the same room as one of the deception lieutenants without rattling like a tin can.

Honestly don’t know if it would be a Soundwave or Megatron x reader. Definitely will be friendship developing there. Maybe both? I’m a sucker for tall dark and creepy guys who have a soft spot for tiny

Second idea is just all the vehicons lining up to get names form reader. All very human ones. . “Bill” “John” Matthew” Thomas” “My names already Steve” “Jenny” “Bucket”

And Reader is just stressing cause they’re not running a rebellion or anything. They’re running a daycare for a bunch of guys who do not care about their own safety and lives at all and she constantly has to tell them, no you cannot go to the Autobits the will shoot you on site. No, wanting to sacrifice yourself isn’t a good idea- CANDICE GET AWAY FROM THE FRAGGING WRECKER GOD DAMMIT DO NONE OF YOH UAVE ANY WILL TO LIVE?

Chaos ensures