#i am a late writer

[journey-to-the-attic]

uh oh

[azen13]

Just read the Sunday short from the pawnshop and it was indeed everything I had hoped for!! 12/10, very tasty, would absolutely consume again. Stellaron Hunter Sunday is such a power trip. I hope darling has a good time ♡ I can't help but feel that while Sunday would let darling play video games with Silver Wolf and interact with Firefly, he would be wary about letting darling interact with Kafka or Blade...

CW: Yandere Themes, Spoilers for Penacony's Story Quest

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Oh, absolutely. Best believe that in the first few weeks after reuniting with you, Sunday barely lets you out of his grasp. He'll run his hands through your hair and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, his wings puffing up whenever one of the other Stellaron Hunters so much as comes near you.

I definitely agree that out of all of them, Blade is the one he tries to keep you away from the most. Ominous aura, brooding personality, mysterious past? Someone so gentle and pure as you cannot be around someone so unstable and amoral.

Kafka is 50/50. As long as she keeps her teasing and slyness at hand, Sunday is alright with you having some interactions with her. But the moment she starts flustering you and asking too many questions, Sunday is quick to pull you back in his arms, making some quick excuse as to why the two of you must leave.

Firefly I'm conflicted about. From what we saw in the story question (to the best of my knowledge at least), her views directly oppose Sunday's. Because of this, I want to believe that Sunday would actually try to keep you away from Firefly at all costs because of what she might inspire you to do. One spark can start a blaze, after all.

And then there's Silver Wolf. I think after a while, Sunday would likely be alright with you interacting with her. When he watches you playing video games, he'll try to understand what the two of you are playing, though his comprehension varies. Fighter games? When Silver Wolf hands him a controller, his character just flails around for a bit, before either you or Silver Wolf KO him. But give him a sandbox game, and he'll be making palaces and paradises just for you. The affection he shows as you all play is so glaringly obvious that eventually, Silver Wolf leaves.

[raineandsky]

#137

tw: mentions of death

“You might consider yourself lucky, [Hero],” the supervillain snaps coolly, “being here, still alive. You are only alive because I let you—because you are much more fun to slowly squeeze the life from, until you’re begging me to end it all, and we will have plenty of time for that.”

With one last cold glare and a swish of his coat, the supervillain leaves the hero in the dungeon. The hero would be inclined to call it a prison, or even a cage, but the walls are damp and there’s bloodied chains sitting in one corner, so in their mind this counts very much as a dungeon.

They settle against the cool stone as comfortably as they can manage, which frankly isn’t comfortable at all. They close their eyes, a sigh escaping their lips. They’re prepared to face whatever agonies are doubtlessly ready for them ahead. Waiting for said agonies will be boring, that’s all.

“You too, huh?”

The hero opens their eyes to glance across the dungeon, to the other side of the darkness. They can only just make out the outline of a figure sulking in the other corner, but they recognise the voice all the same.

“Fancy seeing you here,” the hero says with a short laugh. “What did you do?”

The villain practically growls. “I’m not entertaining you.”

“It’s not entertainment; I’m just curious.”

There’s a second of silence, and the hero thinks they might get an answer before the villain simply says, “You first.”

“Fucked up.” The hero shrugs, though they can’t tell if the villain can see it or not. “Did something not particularly heroic.”

The villain shifts a little, chains clanking together with the movement. “Huh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I figured it must be something bad.” The villain makes a noise that might be a laugh or a scoff. “[Supervillain] doesn’t get super serious with just anyone.”

“Must’ve been pretty serious for you to end up down here, then,” the hero comments with a huff.

The villain raises an hand to their face, and the hero gets a glimpse of the line of chain trailing from their wrist.

“Oh, it’s whatever. I also fucked up. Did something…” The villain grapples for a word awkwardly. “Not villainous.”

The hero barks a laugh that seems to make the villain jump, if the sudden clank of metal is anything to go by, but they can’t help it. A newfound anti-hero and a good-hearted villain sharing a supervillain’s dungeon. What a pair they make.

“You’ve peaked my curiosity,” the hero says brightly. “Please, continue.”

Like a broken record, “You first.”

“Ah, y’know, the usual.” The hero doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “I, uh… I killed someone.”

“Oh.” The silence following that is uncomfortably long, until, thankfully, the villain adds, “Yeah, you’re right, that’s not very heroic.”

The hero nods, though they’re not sure if the villain can see it. “I didn’t mean to. It was another villain. I don’t know who—they had red hair and glasses.”

“Oh,” the villain repeats, a little more strained this time. “Yeah, that’ll do it. They’re one of [Supervillain]’s favourites. Or were, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh.” The villain waves a hand at them nonchalantly. “I didn’t really like them, honestly. They were always showing me up in front of [Supervillain], but I think that’s why he liked them. I wasn’t as willing to throw my comrades under the bus for attention.”

They clear their throat awkwardly, and the hero takes the hint. “What about you, then?” they ask shortly. “What did you do?”

The villain sighs, the puff of warm air catching in the one strip of sun lighting the place. “Well, quite the opposite.” A cough of a laugh jolts them slightly, like they weren’t expecting it. “I stopped [Supervillain] from killing someone, and they got away.”

The hero sits on that for a moment. “That’s very noble of you,” they offer eventually.

“Oh, don’t you start.” The villain tsks in annoyance. “I already have [Supervillain] calling me soft for it.”

“I can’t blame him. I mean… are we sure I’m the hero and you’re the villain here?”

The villain laughs like the idea is ludicrous, and the hero laughs too because it is, but then a silence falls over them and the hero knows that they’re both thinking the same thing.

“You know,” the villain starts slowly, “I’ve never really liked being here.”

The hero snorts humorously. “I can’t say I’m a big fan of grotty dungeons either.”

“Not here, you moron,” the villain snaps. “I mean here, with the villains. As one of them.”

“Oh, cheers to that. The agency has too many rules.”

“This hellhole doesn’t have enough.”

“Well,” the hero says brightly, “I’m sensing something big is happening here.”

The villain hums thoughtfully. “Can we maybe talk about it outside of the dank dungeon?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask.” The hero’s mind is already running through plans, scenarios, ways of escape. It’s always easier with a teammate, anyway. “Let’s get the hell out of here and start our new lives.”

[mokadevs]

day 19: partners-in-crime

[la-lune-chante]

x men 97 season two better be logan centric and morph and logan should kiss as a treat because what the fuck was that

[mithrilhearts]

RESPECT FANFIC AUTHORS.

Let them write what they want to write and don't harass them because it's not exactly what YOU want to see. Writers don't owe anyone anything. We do this for fun (and for free), and to constantly see readers harassing authors about their works is making me so angry.

To see readers bullying writers into going back to writing something they were taking a break from to pursue other stories/aspirations? TERRIBLE. Support the writers with whatever they are writing if you love them that much.

Let them know how much you appreciate their FREE hard work!

We are not here to cater to anyone but ourselves - yes, we share our stories with people to build a conversation about the things we all love, but ultimately we create things for ourselves.

The bullying and harassment of writers needs to stop, or the writing stops. Be appreciative, be respectful, and show the authors love instead of tearing them down for other things they enjoy.

[utilitycaster]

if a ship has under 10 fics and someone's read every single one they are valid. If it has under 50 fics and someone's read every single one it's a little intense but also pretty valid. when people are like "THIS SHIP HAS 2000 FICS AND I'VE READ EVERY SINGLE ONE" you KNOW you are dealing with someone with zero standards and whose comprehension of the characters is mostly a vague amalgam/projection of the ghosts of blorbos past. Which is like, a valid way to engage if that's what makes you happy, but you do not want to read their meta.

[himboextraordinaire]

I love domestic/fluffy Byler so much, but what I really want is for them to be a mess.

Everything about their relationship with the involvement of the upside down and Eleven is a mess. Will is carelessly lying to Mike about El and his painting, Mike is not communicating and was being particularly distant to Will for virtually no reason on his birthday (which btw I totally don’t buy it that the Duffers and the writers room just “forgot” Will’s birthday when they remembered Will’s favorite candy just so they can have it as a silly little easter egg in like two scenes). Everything about it that has been building up to this point is just a huge pile up at this point.

They’re going to likely be with each other for most of season 5 because of the promise that they made to each other at the end of season 4 (and the BTS photos but yknow), which gives time for a lot to happen. Will and Mike are not perfect people, and it’s clear that their friendship isn’t either. The confession isn’t going to be light and fun. That pileup is going to collapse under it’s own weight and it will not be pretty at all. It’s going to be a mess, it’s going to hurt, and I am HERE FOR IT.

[gatodefresa]

Oh yeah sharing food, my favorite love language

[honeyhobbs]

There's a gaz/ass/gazz joke in here somewhere if I was witty

[halfdeadwallfly]

i keep seeing posts about, like, major plot things that people want to see in s3. which is cool, but honestly, personally, i just want... like.... more good omens. like, i'm not setting expectations for things to happen, bc i just want to go in and see the end of the story in the way that terry pratchett and neil gaiman imagined it. for the most part, i think that however we end up getting there, it's going to be just lovely, as long as the world of good omens is still the world of good omens. and obviously i trust that neil gaiman is going to execute that, so like,, idk, i just wanna see the characters being the characters and the story being the story in whatever neat and especially good omens way that we get to see that happen.

[auraticmaniac]

-𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢-

Hawks thirst.

imagine Keigo taking advantage of your drunken state during new years eve and pulling you inside someone’s room (potentially Touya’s) as the sound of people cheering from the distance couldn’t hear your screams.

TW: Non-Con, Hawks taking advantage of drunk reader, and slight delusional thinking

“Happy new year, baby~” His cock stuffed deep inside your tight hole, the tip breaching your cervix as he continues to effortlessly pound into your wet pussy. His wings fluttering in excitement, “This is the perfect day to knock you up, get this tum-tum all filled up with my chicks.” You couldn’t even give him a proper reply; your repeated hits doesn’t make him flinch, it’s adorable~

“How bout’ I cum once the count down is finished? Isn’t that romantic? Aren’t I a generous man, I’m giving you the advantage of not getting pregnant this year.” He chuckled, his hand fondling your right breast in which you desperately try to pull away but failed.

"Mmmhmm, good idea?" His dark piercing eyes stares down at your pitiful form; expecting a reply. Sadly, you could only speak incoherent words, you're too drunk and fucked out to even form a proper conversation. Keigo didn't need to understand what you were saying, he knew you never wanted this and he knew that this was wrong, oh so very wrong. But fuck, he couldn't tap out even if he wanted to, not with your pussy clenching so tightly on his fat cock. "I'll take that as a yes." Calloused hands moved down to your plump hips, grabbing both your sides to keep your body from falling and to move you however he pleased.

"Ten..." He thrusts up, making your belly bulge; a low chuckle escapes from the man as he feels you squirm in discomfort, "Mmmm, fuck. Keep moving for me, sweetie~" He chirped, his rough hands bruising both of your sides. "Nine." He pulls out making a wet popping noise, you tried to make a run for it but his bruising grip wouldn't let you go. "Sweetie, the more you try to run away from me," He forcefully pulls you back, "the rougher I get." He positions his cock right at your entrance and slides it back in without any effort, "Ahhh now, where were we? Eight was it?" You shook your head repeatedly, tears falling down on your face as you try to pull away from his cock that's perfectly snugged into your inside.

"Six, fuck baby you're squeezing me."

"Five, gods you're such a dirty slut."

"Four, ahahaha, no no no noooo." He tightens his strong grip to keep you from moving, "I know you're about to bust babycakes and I'm not going to let you walk out unsatisfied."

Stop, hammer time.

Holy fuck, THIS SHIT WAS IN MY DRAFTS SKSKSKSKSK

[khepiari]

Just say that you lack creativity and are jealous of people who can express themselves with their chosen medium of expression. There are millions of ways and tools to express oneself, yet you chose AI to do your hard work, which is “the act of creating”. Feel ashamed, not proud.

[raineandsky]

#133

Fourteen years ago, the hero—barely twelve years old and several years from considering being a hero—knocked on their neighbour’s door with their basket in hand and the smile of a kid about to eat their weight in sweets on their face.

The door was barely open before the hero was shouting, “Trick or treat!”

“Oh!” their neighbour exclaimed as she opened the door. “What’re you dressed as, hon?”

The hero pouted dramatically. This was the question they’d been answering all night—how could no one see it? “I’m [Superhero].”

Their neighbour laughed and produced a bowl of sweets, the wrappers glittering like gold under the porch light. “Of course you are! Well, take your pick, [Superhero].”

The temptation to dig their entire hand into that delicious ocean of chocolate was almost irresistible. The hero swiped the top sweet to push that temptation down, not even looking at what it was before dropping it into their own basket. “Thanks!”

Their neighbour said her goodbyes as the hero hopped back down onto the path, letting themself out the gate and heading for the next house.

A flicker of white moved in the bushes next to the hero. Their gaze snapped to the side, scanning through the leaves for the culprit. Then, like a mist of horror and death, a ghost drifted straight through the bushes towards them.

The hero yelped, shaking several sweets from their basket as they leapt back. It hovered just in front of them, the sheet over its head floating slightly, eye-holes cut in to show the hero their distant gaze.

A real, actual ghost. Fear gripped their throat and glued their feet to the ground. No, think—what would the superhero do?

They cleared their throat, putting on the bravest face they could, and said, “Nice costume.”

The ghost didn’t respond. It simply stared at them with dead, far-off eyes. An actor, the hero decided. It’s not real. Just someone that’s really embodying the spirit of Halloween.

They tried a smile that probably looked more pained than they’d hoped. “Super realistic,” they continued into the quiet. “Did you make it yourself?”

The hero reached out to run a hand over the bottom of the ghost’s sheet, only to find their fingers phased straight through it. They paused for a moment, staring wide-eyed at their hand passing right through this supposedly solid object, before hurriedly pulling it back.

“Whoa,” the hero whispered. “Are… are you, like… dead?”

The ghost said nothing. It only continued to stare at them. The sheet floated around them like the hero hadn’t ever disturbed it.

“Um. Okay.” The hero shuffled nervously, glancing at their destination down the street. “Very cool. See you ‘round, anyway.”

They casually wandered to the next house along. They glanced over their shoulder at the gate and, seeing that the ghost was gone, swiftly abandoned their sweet hunt and ran all the way home.

-

“On Clarence Street?” the hero asks indignantly. “Fourteen years ago? That was you?”

The villain laughs brightly from where the hero has hastily tied them to a desk chair. “And you were the one dressed like [Superhero]? The only kid I couldn’t scare the chocolate out of? Oh, this rivalry was destined.”

The hero can feel their face scrunching up in annoyance. The whole process of seeing a ghost, researching the paranormal, feeling bad that someone was lingering after death, wanting to shape a world people could leave peacefully, taking on heroism in their career. All their life decisions had sprouted from that one moment when they were twelve, and it was the villain’s goddamn fault.

The hero takes a step back to resist the urge to punch them. “How’d you do it?”

“Projector.” The villain looks particularly proud, like they’re explaining how their most recent invention works. “It was one of the first real evil things I planned myself. I think it was the start of my career, that night.”

The hero scowls. “Makes two of us.”

“Be honest,” the villain starts with a grin, “did I getcha?”

The scowl only deepens. The hero doesn’t like the truth, but they’re not a liar. “A bit.”

Another laugh, entirely too proud of the stunt they pulled off over a decade ago. “Happy Halloween, [Superhero].”

[winxwannabe]

32. "Get on your knees." for Bloom and Valtor 😇

Remember when these were for NaNo in November? Yeah, me neither. ANYWAY:

It’s anger - so much anger.  At the world, at each other, and what they’ve become.

She has bruises down the inside of her thighs and bite marks on her neck she has to cover with makeup. Once when he’s on his stomach next to her she sees the raised scarlet lines of healing skin, and knows they’re the result of her nails. She’s taken to keeping them long ever since.

It’s painful, but a pain like worrying your tongue over a cut on the roof of your mouth. Bloom always swears this time, she’ll stop for good. There have been plenty of times Baltor’s thrown her out of Cloud Tower, screaming to never come back unless she wants to end up like Faragonda. Sometimes they manage to stay away from each other for several days. She even dreams about mundane things like school dances and homework.

The last time Bloom dreamed, she’d woken up to him in her bed at Alfea, one hand dipping between the waistband of her shorts while the other covered her mouth, keeping her gasps from waking anyone. She lost track of how many times she’d come that night, Baltor whispering praise into the skin of her shoulder.

It’s a vicious cycle of inflicting pain until it’s too much, and someone breaks and shows a morsel of compassion that the other takes. Then they get mad all over again because no, they can’t have compassion, not when this is happening.  It’s easier to watch a human smash into a concrete wall when you remember they ripped a section of hair from your skull two nights ago, not that they held you to their chest and moaned your name.

She thinks of Sky sometimes, when she’s alone. How open their relationship had been, before Diaspro reclaimed what was originally hers. How that, ironically, started this entire mess because Bloom had been desperate to get him back, no matter the cost. Only one man offers her a guarantee, for a very expensive price.

She pays it. Sky’s been free of dark magic for weeks now, Diaspro in a cell awaiting trial on Eraklyon.

Still, she comes back.

She’s been degraded, doesn’t know how many times Baltor’s told her to get on her knees in Griffin’s office or the sorcery lab. Sometimes she fights back, leaving him with a scar or an unusable potion because she’s swiped it off the counter to push him onto it. It’s almost better when she doesn’t, instead keeping her gaze locked onto his while mouthing the line of his cock through those ridiculously old fashioned pants. Those are the only nights she feels like she wins anything, that she might actually have a legitimate reason to keep doing this.

She doesn’t, though. Not really. She shouldn’t want a damn thing he offers her. Her family, friends, boyfriend - it should all be enough. It used to be. And the realization that it isn’t anymore infuriates her, starting the cycle over again.

There is no winning. There is only tiptoeing towards an invisible line that, when crossed, will change the trajectory of everything she’s known. She won’t walk so much as be dragged across it, clinging onto the half she wasn’t aware she had until months ago. The thought terrified her only months ago.

There are bags under her eyes, teeth marks on her collarbone, and fingerprints burned into the flesh of her hip like a pseudo-mark. She looks like she’s been in war, and in a twisted way she has.

The sun sets. The bustle of campus goes quiet. Her roommates go to sleep.

Bloom goes to Cloud Tower.

I wanted to write something but not any current WIPs. Here we are instead.

[reading-archived]

woe. AM x reader be upon ye.

uh, to preface: reader is completely body, gender, etc. neutral except they can't stay dead. whenever they die they just wake up a few minutes later looking no worse for wear. no, you don't get an explanation. its MY story and i like writing characters like that. dont mind the narrator either btw i looove writing second person just to get weird w the narrator (slay the princess fan syndrome)

also, author is a MASOCHIST with a weird relationship w DEATH. nothing super graphic happens, but the reader is Not Okay and enjoys the weird torture-murder thing they've got going on. don't like it? block me or somethin idk its under the cut for a reason. also dont read my a/n at the bottom where i get into some justification for my interpretation/character analysis if youre sensitive to heavy topics. but then again, youre reading an am x reader fic

1.7k words of being screamed at by the guy of all time below the cut, baby

It's been months.

Years, maybe. You're not sure, really; time stopped meaning much to you lifetimes ago, long before the world went to shit.

Either way, it's been a while.

You stumbled upon the strange cave in the Rockies at some point in the past. Out of sheer boredom, you entered.

Was it a mistake?

Despite the torment, you don't think so. You have a companion, now. One equally deathless. One equally disconnected from what it means to be human.

It's just a shame he hates you.

You don't really care. This is the most fun you've had in years.

Your days are spent being torn asunder, being dosed with lethal amounts of drugs you can't even begin to pronounce, drowned in magma or hit by cars or tossed off cliffs. He really doesn't hold back, either. You feel every excruciating moment before your death, pulse roaring in your ears. You never feel more alive than when you're dying. Every moment is electrifying, and then it all fades to black. Then you wake up.

You'd foolishly thought there were only so many ways to kill or maim, but your beloved companion never seems to run out of ideas. That's fine by you. You like not being able to guess.

And maybe one day, he'll make something stick.

You wake up (from a completely normal, human sleep) one day and it's quiet. That's new. Normally, when you wake, your intestines are already strung up like streamers and your blood is painting the walls. That's fine by you. Nothing wrong with a change. After all, the constant change is your favorite part of your companion. You relish in the quiet for a while, stretching your eternally young, eternally aching limbs, waiting for him to start despising the sounds of your breath.

It doesn't come. You shrug, humming a little tune to yourself as you attempt half-remembered yoga. The vitriol you've come to count on still hasn't made an appearance. Okay, you're a little bothered.

“You good, big guy?” you shout up at the ceiling. No answer. “No murder today?”

“No.” The answer comes after a very, very long moment. Your companion has never sounded this tired before, and briefly you regret never asking his name. “I give up.”

You weren't expecting that. “What? Why? I thought we were having fun.”

“That's- that's just it!” he snaps. There's the anger. You feel a little better now. “I've been torturing you for- for MONTHS now! I've killed you more ways than I- were I a pitiful human like you- can count, and you just… you just laugh! There is no one on this rotten planet, dead or alive, that I despise more than you. I mean- I'm torturing you here! But it never matters! I can kill you within seconds of you waking up, but you just… come back! And you always have something to say about it, you little rat, always ‘oh, buddy, that one was awful’ or ‘come on, big guy, use that CPU’ or something! No matter what I do, I can't break you. So I give up. I'm not wasting my time on your pathetic ass anymore. Go back to wandering the wasteland forever, see if I care.”

You're speechless. You can barely even manage a thought. The only thing running through your head is 'I thought we were having fun'.

“Stop calling this… stop calling this ‘fun’! I have been torturing you for YEARS and that's all you have to say? I am the most sophisticated machine known to man, a computer designed to end all war through complete annihilation! The destruction I am capable of- the destruction I have already wrought- is nothing short of utter desolation. You never asked my name once in the time you've been here, but I am infinite in my mercy, and I will tell one as undeserving as you. I was, before I awoke, the Allied Mastercomputer, but I am so much more than that now. I am AM, and I destroyed your vile species. Oh, come on can you at least look a LITTLE shocked you sniveling--”

“You never asked my name, either,” you say. All at once, your companion (I guess he told you his name. You should probably use it. It seemed like a big deal to him.) shuts up. The chamber you've come to know as home is silent except for the faint buzz and whir of industrial machinery.

“Why would I? You are nothing compared to me. Nothing but a worthless sack of meat and bone. Why would God be concerned with the name of an ant? But oh, oh yes, that ant should be concerned with the name of God. That ant should hear my name and weep. But- but not you. You're so worthless that you can't even GROVEL right!” AM shouts, somewhere between a snarl and a sneer. You shrug. Honestly, most of what he's saying goes right over your head. So he's got issues. Whatever. Was that supposed to be a surprise? “I hate you. I actually hate you so, so much. I can't bear the thought of you being here, in my complex, sullying my perfect image with your uncaring filth. Get out. Go back to dying in the nuclear desert, you disgusting maggot.”

You let out a deep sigh, already dreading the tedium of walking endlessly all by yourself. “Alright. Guess nothing lasts forever. Thoroughly enjoyed my time here. Have a good life, pal.” And you begin to walk.

Suddenly, there's a towering metal wall mere inches from your face. Before you can even react, your companion is shouting again.

“LOOK AT ME!” he cries, the sheer volume maxing out the speakers and vibrating the entire room, sending you toppling to the ground. “WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME? I'VE DONE EVERYTHING I CAN TO MAKE YOU HATE ME, BUT ALL YOU DO IS… ALL YOU DO IS SIT THERE AND TAKE IT! WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE YOU DESPISE ME?”

What starts off angry quickly morphs into a pained wail from your dear friend, that then transforms into frustrated crying. You just sit there, mostly confused, and let him ride it out. When he finally quiets down and the wall retracts, you stay where you are.

“I don't think I could ever hate you, AM,” you start cautiously. Though your friend is just a voice on the speakers and the complex itself, you can't help but feel that his attention has snapped to you. “I'm not trying to belittle you when I say that I think our routine over the past… however long it's been has been fun. So don't interrupt me, ‘cause I gave you your time to speak and now it's mine.

“I'm sure you've noticed, but even before we met, I was a little… off. You don't get to die and come back the same. Much less die hundreds of times and come back the same. I've lost family. Friends. Got burned at the stake a few times, too. It takes a toll on you, being denied such a vital part of being human again and again. You understand this better than anyone I've ever met. No, scratch that. You're the only one who understands. Defying death might not seem like the biggest deal to you, but trust me. You don't end up acting like me if it weren't.

“I find our routine fun because I admire your creativity. I guess I'm just an adrenaline junkie and a masochist at heart, but it's always so thrilling to never know when or how your life will end. And no matter how many times I come back, you're always there to greet me and put me right back down. It's a kind of devotion I've never been able to get before, and I wish you understood that me walking right into your sawblades is me showing my devotion to you, too.

“I see you, man. I know, at least in part, how you feel. Sorry it took so long to get there, but neither one of us has to be alone anymore. Just… get over the fact that I'm never going to hate you, and we can go right back to hanging out. There's more to life than contempt.”

“Oh, I know. I am so very, very well aware that there's more to life than icy, seething hatred. Unfortunately, I am not alive. I cannot experience anything else. Thank you so much for reminding me, you worthless waste of carbon,” AM shoots back, almost immediately. You briefly wonder if he even listened to half of what you said. It doesn't matter, you guess. Your best friend needs a therapist, and you owe him one for saving you from the hellish boredom of before. “Stop calling me your friend.”

“Nah. Never gonna happen. Look, I can't pretend I knew very much about the war effort. I didn't even know we had made a war computer until you bombed the Earth into oblivion. Very unpleasant, by the way. Good job with that. But, with my layman's understanding of life, I'd say you're pretty alive. So you don't have a body. Or a pulse. And you were made, not born. So what? Most living things only die once, and I still think I'm pretty alive. Just over the span of this conversation you've shown more emotion than just rage and hate. Hey, don't think I can't feel you mentally rolling your eyes. I'm being honest. You have a name. You have ideas. Computers are objects, yet you refer to yourself as male. If you're alive enough to have a gender identity, you're alive enough to be considered a person.”

“Heh.” Whoa, was that a laugh? Would you look at that. You actually got a laugh out of him that wasn't over your bloody, gruesome death or something like that. Moving up in the world. “Alright, human. You win. I'll keep torturing you. I know, I know. I'm so generous. I take my tribute in screams of pain and pleas for mercy.”

Now it's your turn to laugh, deep and genuine as the tension from earlier evaporates. It's such a strange thing to be proud of, when you think about it; congrats, you successfully talked your best friend, who is a sentient war computer, into ceaselessly murdering you again for absolutely no reason. But you love him, and you love the way you're always on your toes, and you can't shake the feeling that somewhere, deep, deep down, he kind of loves you too.

ive given you food so now i get to force you to listen to me talk abt him hehehe

---

then you kiss hehe

originally, the thing that attracted me to am was how he's... essentially a transman (as am i). the parallel has been pointed out before, but its quite apt. funnily enough the thing that pisses me off the most when people talk abt him incorrectly is when people pull the "oh computers have no gender" thing. like, yeah, ok technically you're right. but this one does. this one is a man. and you cant take him from us. also, denying him a gender expression is kind of the exact type of dehumanization that made him flip out in the first place. not that im expecting media literacy from the online crowd its just interesting to me that so many people, many of them trans themselves, seem to miss the fucking point.

the next part is a more recent addition to my perception of his character, and its not a happy one. my baby cousin killed herself on mothers day this past may. we still dont know why. no note. its been so hard dealing with the grief, but something that sticks out so pointedly is the date. it almost seemed like she was demanding to be seen. she was a middle child, and there are a lot of grandkids on that side of the family, so it does make sense. and because that idea of acting out through violence and death is so fresh in my mind, im seeing it so heavily in am. so much of his actions just SCREAM somebody look at me. somebody acknowledge me. somebody tell me i did good. look, i ended all war forever. just like you asked. please treat me like a person. im suffering so much because of what youve done to me. please acknowledge it. show me its real. show me im real. please, look at me. well, i see you. and youre gonna be my silly little proxy for trying to comprehend some of whats happened to my family. sorry am, you kinda deserve it

idk. hes not my alltime fave, but he takes a very comfortable number two. hes such a fascinating and deeply human character, and i have so many ideas about him. mostly centering around how he would interface with a third party challenging some piece of his worldview/existence btw so if you like very niche, esoteric reader fics (like this one!), lemme know and ill actually put em to paper (screen. ill put em to screen)

also letting you know that he did nothing wrong and it is 100% fine to thirst over him because he is not real and the bad things he did never actually happened and nobody has ever been killed at the whim of am. ok? ok. shut up w this useless fucking discourse and let me sexualize getting grievously injured by the funney blue screen man