#i know that's not precisely equivalent

[sparksandspears]

So I just had a mild realization. The context:

The Latin language lacks a simple word for "yes." There are a lot of words than can be used to express affirmation, but none that don't have a more complex meaning that's more common (maybe some forms of āiō, but that's almost always used as "to say," anyway).

So when modern Latin students ask how to say "yes," there isn't an exact answer. What I learned, and what I think is most common, is ita vērō, which expresses a strong positive. Ita means "thus," "in such a way," or "so," and vērō is the adverbial form of vērus, meaning "true." Taken together, ita vērō then means "it is so indeed" or "truly it is thus," which can certainly be read as a strong form of "yes."

In another manner of thinking about it, though, this means that all around the world Latin students are learning that the most correct way to say yes is "so true," and I think that's great.

[inchidentally]

okay prefacing that this is only referring to a small but loud part of the community... to follow up on the thing of supposed Lily Z fangirls turning around saying how she's "better than other wags" (????) bc she's "silent and has no public communications and doesn't take up space apart from looking beautiful" (???) (bc apparently we're not even internalizing the misogyny anymore it's just right out there saying a woman should be seen not heard, publicly beautiful but only serve her man and not want attention for herself) but then after praising that she clearly does not want a load of public attention, proceed to freak the fuck out IN. ALL. CAPS. in comments sections everywhere that she appears even in the background and draw attention to a woman who's clearly does not want be in the limelight....

so yea speaking in that vein can the other incredibly obvious fake fangirls of wags please stop using AI beauty filters on these women's pictures and posting them where they can see ?? that is not Lily Z's real jaw or mouth shape, that is not Alex's real nose and that is not Lily H's cheekbones or eye shape. guess what you aren't selling the whole I'm only here for the girls claim when you make it blatantly clear you don't think they're naturally pretty enough and have to run them through digital plastic surgery and yes we can all see how blurred and weirdly smooth it all looks when you do it so I guarantee the women themselves will go 'yikes that's me but... not me'

and reminder that a woman's college degree is not a Barbie accessory nor is it a "selling point" for her boyfriend that's rly disgusting to talk about it that way !!! pls just leave a like on the original photos of wags posted by official accounts if you're unable to inadvertently demean women whenever you post about them (and yes I know a lot of ppl aren't being weird but it's getting way too comfortable in very public spaces !) and also no she doesn't believe you when you claim you hate Oscar and think he's ugly and stupid and wish she'd just... randomly walk where he is but somehow not have him present when how would that work when you never even see her if she's not with Oscar like wtffff are ppl even doing anymore can we calm down and be normal and actually respect women and not treat them like commodities wow

[v1nsincl4ir]

I bet You weren't expecting pony Sinclair brothers on Your dash/tags today huh.

Well that's Your own fault because You should always be prepared for the mlpification of Your favourite characters it's just a part of life. Autism demands strange crossovers and mine chose this one

Yes I will consider other slasher ponyfication requests if You have any

[bogleech]

So I clapped back at a middle aged conservative weirdo, the kind who's on here screaming at people about politics but also trying to be a softcore pornblog or unsuccessfully use tumblr like a hookup app, and when he pulled their usual "come over and fight me" routine he also very willingly provided an address when asked, which was blurred on google street view, which is something home owners can request.

Now my obvious thought is that he sent me someone else's place, but the same google search had also provided perfectly clear images of it thanks to the real estate industry.

And when I sent him one of these, he suddenly never responded again despite sending lots of vigorous threats up to that precise second, and that suggests to me that not only did he readily give out his address when asked, but he MAY have believed, somehow, that it was safe to do so as long as the house itself wasn't visible on street view. I do not know how that could have made sense to anybody, but sometimes children think they're invisible when they close their eyes, so maybe this is the internet tough guy equivalent to that level of reasoning. Obviously I'm not gonna really doxx him or use it. I mean, if I did then at most I'd send him a cute funny greeting card?

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: deceptive solitude

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

SUMMARY: Caleb comes home from a mission and is not very happy that you would accept anyone else’s help besides his

NOTE: I hope this card is Caleb’s equivalent to the scratch off event secret times audios bc those were such a treat and I love them dearly and need Caleb’s more than I need water ♡

WARNING: smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, Caleb is wildly over protective, panty sniffer allegations are true

AO3 caleb masterlist

The sound of the front door creaks open, and a wave of anticipation surges through you. Caleb is home.

The thought alone floods your chest with warmth, it shifts in your ribs, so soft and certain. You listen as he moves through the entryway, the drop of his bag hitting the floor with practiced ease, a sound so familiar it should be comforting. Should feel like the final piece slipping into place. But something feels...off.

Seven days without him. The house has been too still in his absence, the silence stretching wide in all the spaces where he should be. Before he left, there was a rhythm—his assuring presence, his steady hands, the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed before you could even ask. Now, the absence of his touch, his voice, has hollowed something out inside you.

You smile to yourself, already picturing him stepping into the room, that half-smirk tugging at his lips, the one that always makes your breath hitch. He’ll be tired, sure, but he’ll be here. He’ll fold you into his arms, press his lips to your hair, let you trace the shape of his face like you’re learning him all over again.

The sound of shower door closing resonates through the bathroom. The quiet, deliberate click of the lock sliding into place.

You hesitate. A frown tugs at your brow. He hasn’t even come to see you.

Slowly, you rise, something uneasy curling in your blood as you step toward the bathroom. The door is cracked just enough for the light to spill through, soft and golden against the dark. You push it open.

Caleb stands at the mirror, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, drops of water trailing down his spine, but his gaze isn’t on his reflection. It’s on the gun in his hands.

He cleans it with careful, methodical precision, each movement slow, deliberate—more ritual than necessity. The Caleb you know, the one who meets you with warmth even when he’s exhausted, is absent. In his place is something quieter, heavier. The usual light in his violet eyes has dulled, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.

And that’s when you feel it—the sinking, the knowing, the truth pressing in like a storm on the horizon.

Something happened. And whatever it is, it followed him home.

Your eyes meet in the mirror—just for a second. But there’s no relief, no warmth in his gaze. Just a flicker, a glance over your form, and then he looks away. Back down to the gun. His hands move with practiced efficiency, steady, detached, as if you’re not even standing there. Why could he possibly need to clean it right now?

"Caleb?" Your voice is quiet. There is a distance that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t answer right away. The rhythmic slide of metal, the soft click of a piece locking into place—those are his only responses.

You step forward, bridging the gap just slightly. "Hey," you try again, softer now. "Are you tired?"

"Not really." Flat. Short. The words drop heavy with stones, meant to sink you down rather than reel you in.

Your frown deepens. That unshakable gravity that always pulls him toward you—it’s missing. And you don’t understand why.

"Did something happen?" The concern in your voice sharpens, threading through the air. "Something on the mission?"

He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on his hands. Still moving. Still working. “Not with the mission.” The words are clipped, cool. A dead end.

But you don’t stop. You step closer, your pulse picking up, something uneasy curling in your chest. "Oh? I—You seemed excited to come home before you left. And now… now you— What changed?"

Silence stretches. The air feels heavier now, spreading too wide in your lungs.

"You don’t have any clue?"

His voice is low and quiet, but laced with something sharp. Accusatory. Like you should already know.

Your stomach tightens. "Caleb…"

You step closer, close enough to touch him now, but he doesn’t move. His hands are still, finally, but his posture remains stiff, guarded.

"What’s wrong?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, soft and uncertain.

His eyes cold, unreadable. His jaw clenches, and there’s a flicker of something darker, behind those purple eyes. You’ve seen that look before, but it’s always been reserved for moments of danger, not moments like this—and especially not at you.

He sighs, his fingers tightening on the counter. “Did someone help you while I was gone?” His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Your heart stops for a moment, your eyes widening in shock. “What?” you ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

Caleb’s gaze hardens, his expression shifting. “You know exactly what I mean. Did someone step in for me while I was gone?”

The question hits you like a sudden punch to the gut. How does he know? And it wasn’t something you even asked for. You were being followed, or at least felt like it. He- whoever he was, stepped in to walk with you to and you didn’t want to be alone. You were pretty sure he was a hunter, he looked familiar at least. That was it though? You even stopped a few blocks from the house so he wouldn’t know where you live. It was a weird situation yeah, but you didn’t ask for any of it, you did the best that you could on your own.

You stammer for words. “I… How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts you off, his tone sharp, as if brushing it aside. “It’s taken care of.”

You freeze, something in his words sending a shiver down your spine. Taken care of? Was that his way of saying he’d done something to them? You back away a step, the weight of uncertainty making you dizzy. You can’t tell if you’re scared because of the vague threat in his tone, or if you’re terrified of the possibility that he has hurt someone.

You take another step back, your heart hammering in your chest. You can’t breathe, the anxiety swelling, and before you even realize what’s happening, you’ve backed out of the bathroom entirely. You feel the suffocating nature of cool air on your skin.

The dull clink of the gun as it hits the bathroom counter rings in your ears, but you can't bring yourself to look. You keep your gaze fixed on the tiles. Your pulse hammers in your throat, too loud to ignore, too frantic to quiet. What did he do to that person? What has he been doing, all this time?

“Wait,” Caleb’s voice, softer now, cuts through your panic. “Wait, look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually turn, too shaken to stay in place. Caleb is standing a few feet infront you, a calculating look on his face.

He walks toward you, his eyes softened now, his posture less rigid. The tension in his body is still there, but now it’s buried beneath something gentler, almost apologetic.

“Come here,” he urges, his voice low, as he gently guides you to the bench in front of the bed.

You hesitate for a moment before sitting down, your mind still caught in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. You don’t want to be scared of him, but the way he’s reacted—it doesn’t feel like the Caleb you know. You’re not sure who you’re facing now.

Caleb kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he searches your face, his eyes searching for something. His gaze softens even more, and you can see the weight of something in his expression. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his movements slow and deliberate.

You flinch instinctively, pulling away from his touch. His eyes flicker with what almost looks like regret.

“You look so scared” he murmurs, his voice low.

"I... I just didn’t want to be alone," you admit quietly. "It was dark, and I was nervous... he walked me home.” You swallow hard, your pulse racing. “Caleb, what did you mean when you said it was ‘taken care of’? Did you—” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, the fear still clawing at your throat.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath before speaking. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” He shakes his head, his voice rougher now. “I’m pissed that someone thought they could take advantage of you.”

You feel a flicker of relief, though your heart still feels uneasy, heavy with the words you want to say. “But—”

He cuts you off, his hands cupping your face, the gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, the touch meant to calm—but there’s something about it, something too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you. Like he’s afraid of losing you.

"I understand. But it kills me that you had to be in that position in the first place, especially when I’m not around. I hate that I have to expose you to that." His eyes darken, the guilt thick in his gaze. "It feels like it’s my fault."

A strange warmth spreads through your chest, but it’s tangled with something else. A thread of unease you can’t untangle. This should feel like comfort. But instead, it feels like a weight pressing down, shifting the shape of your thoughts before you can even hold onto them.

"But you…" You hesitate, searching his face for something solid, something familiar. "You’re so different right now, Caleb."

His sigh is long, weary, as if your words ache in his chest. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and the world narrows. "My emotions go a little haywire when I think about you," he admits, his voice barely above a breath. "It’s hard to control them sometimes."

You sink to the floor with him, your knees pressing into the carpet as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is warm against yours, his scent—faint traces of soap and something uniquely him—filling your senses. You straddle his torso, feeling the solid rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

“You didn’t really seem like you missed me,” there’s an ache beneath your words that makes his heart clench.

He exhales, brushing his fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry, Pip. I wasn’t thinkin straight.”

Caleb tilts his head, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks so tired—his lashes heavy, his body worn—but still, he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“I think you’re exhausted,” you say softly, letting your forehead rest against his.

“Yeah,” he admits, his fingers grazing the small of your back, grounding you. “To say the least.”

His heart pounds beneath your fingertips, a steady, rhythmic drum against your palm as you trail your hand through his hair.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with yours.

A shudder rolls through him, his hands tightening around your waist as he kisses you back, the hunger in his touch pulling a gasp from your lungs. His lips are warm, insistent, an intensity in every movement—reverent, desperate, all at once.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and thick with desire, but there’s something else too—something deeper, a yearning that stays unspoken but presses heavy along you both.

The heat builds, an undercurrent of something hidden deep within. His voice, soft but full of something raw, and the warmth in your chest blooms. You press closer, every movement feeling like an answer to a question neither of you have dared to ask aloud. Your bodies align, fitting together with an ease that only comes from a connection that runs deeper than touch.

His hands, gentle but insistent, trace the curve of your back, as though memorizing the feel of you, each brush of his fingers igniting something inside you that feels both familiar and new. The weight of him beneath you, the way he hardens at your touch, sends a pulse of heat through you, and you can’t help but roll your hips toward him.

He groans—low, guttural, a sound that twists your stomach. You break the kiss, trailing your lips along the column of his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth. It’s a rhythm that matches your own, frantic and yearning. The air around you feels charged, shrinking until there’s nothing left but the electricity of your touch.

You tug at the towel that separates you, the tension thick as you reach for him, the feel of him so hard in your hand sending shivers down your spine. His breath hitches, eyes closing in the quiet surrender to the moment. You watch him—his jaw slack, eyes fluttering closed—aware of how every breath he takes seems to echo through you. You move slowly, savoring the intimacy, your own breath ragged, unsteady.

“God,” he groans, head tipping back as you lower yourself, your lips replacing your hand.

His fingers thread through your hair as you take him in, his grip tightening when you hollow your cheeks, drawing him deeper. The sounds he makes—the soft curses, the way he moans your name—make your skin flush with heat.

“darling” His voice is dripping slow and warm with honey “please”

You hum your approval and his hips jolt in response at the vibration.

Slowing your pace, you let your lips linger as they trail back up his stomach, the heat of his skin beneath your mouth causing your chest to tighten with something more than desire— with a tenderness you were so ready for.

His fingers twitch against your back as you take your time, pressing soft kisses along his ribs, over the curve of his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady beneath your lips, grounding you, pulling you in deeper.

You pause at his chest, resting your cheek against him, just listening to his heart beat so quickly—feeling. His hands find your waist, his touch reverent, but he doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, letting you take what you need.

The moment you notice his heart beat start to slow, you straddle him once more, your hands bracketing his face as you meet his gaze. His dark eyes are heavy with something tender and raw. it makes you exhale a trembling breath.

“I missed you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Caleb swallows hard, his hands sliding up your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I can tell,” he teases

And when you kiss him this time, it’s not hurried—it’s devotional.

“Did you sleep in my shirts every night?” he asks, his voice thick, his fingers playing with the hem of your tee.

You nod, letting him pull it over your head. “And I wore your hoodie when it got cold one day.”

Caleb groans, his hands skimming up your bare sides. “I’m so jealous they got to touch you.”

A laugh bubbles past your lips. “Now you’re jealous of fabric?”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them onto his nightstand—where they’ll probably never be found again. His eyes flicker up to yours, so possessive and aching.

“Incredibly jealous of fabric,” his hands gripping your hips as you reach down between you, guiding him to your entrance.

The moment you sink down onto him, a soft, trembling gasp escapes your lips, your body stretching to take him in, molding around him in a way that feels both overwhelming and deeply right—like returning home from an exhausting work trip.

Caleb exhales a shuddering groan, his head tipping back as his fingers tighten on your hips, anchoring you to him. “Fuck, you’re a dream,” you breathe, voice thick with emotion, with relief. His hands slide up your back, tracing the curve of your spine.

You brace your palms against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Slowly, you start to move, grinding down against him as he meets you with deep, unhurried thrusts—each one deliberate, savoring, worshiping. The way he fills you, the way his body moves against yours, it steals the breath from your lungs, sends warmth unfurling through every nerve in your body.

“Say it again,” he rasps, his voice a desperate plea, his hands guiding your hips as he thrusts up with more pressure, his need for you tangible in every movement.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against his, letting him feel your breath, your presence. “I missed you, Caleb,” you whisper against his lips, your nails digging into his skin as you let yourself fall completely into him.

His eyes darken, but it’s not just desire—it’s raw and aching. There’s desperation in the way he looks at you, like he needs to feel you, to prove that you’re here, real and his.

He sits up suddenly, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath, that makes your heart stutter. His hand cradles the back of your head, holding you close as if letting go would mean losing you all over again. Then, with a quiet, reverent sigh, he rolls you beneath him, his body covering yours, pressing into you with a warmth that feels all-consuming.

His movements are slow but purposeful now, every thrust measured, intentional— he’s savoring every inch of you, making up for the time apart in the only way he can in this moment. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate to keep him there, to make this moment stretch forever. The friction, the heat, the way he fits against you—it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and it pulls a trembling cry from your lips.

His forehead presses to yours, his breath fanning across your skin. “You know you’re mine,” his voice a rough whisper, but there’s no demand in it—only longing, only a plea wrapped in certainty.

You hum softly, a sound of agreement, of surrender, your body trembling beneath him.

His hand slides in your hair, but there’s nothing forceful in the touch—only need. “Tell me you understand,” he’s barely holding together.

You open your eyes, meeting his, letting him see everything you feel. “I understand.” you breathe, and the way he exhales—like you just gave him the one thing he needed most—makes your chest tighten with something impossibly tender.

His lips brush against your temple. “Thank you, love.”

The room is warm with the scent of sweat and lingering traces of his shower. You can feel a bead of moisture slide down your chin—his, yours, both of yours together—as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

Each thrust sends you spiraling closer, your fingers clawing at his back as your body tightens around him. The pleasure builds, hot and all-consuming, and then—blinding, shattering—you break into millions of pieces and float through space.

Caleb follows, his grip on you tightening almost desperately, the pressure of his hands grounding you as his body shudders with the force of his release. A strangled groan slips from his lips, raw and heavy, the sound carrying a mix of pleasure and something deeper—something more vulnerable. The way his chest rises and falls, the way his breath catches, it’s not just the culmination of desire, but the release of a weight that’s been pressing on him for far longer than either of you had realized.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s only the sound of your breathing, your bodies pressed together, hearts hammering in sync. His weight settles against you, grounding you both in the reality of this moment—of each other.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers, which had held you so firmly before, now trace slow, absentminded patterns along your ribs.

“I should have come to you first,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Instead of being angry. I—” He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your skin. “You make me feel better. I should have just gone to you.”

You reach up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s savoring it, like it soothes something deep inside him. A warmth spreads through you, wrapping around your heart. You tilt his chin up slightly, guiding his gaze to yours, wanting him to see what he means to you.

“I’m so thankful to have you back.” and you truly mean it.

Caleb’s mind churns with thoughts he can’t voice. The truth sits heavy on his chest, yet he can't bring himself to share it. The fear of you hating him, of you seeing him for what he truly is, gnaws at him. You don't deserve the darkness he carries, especially when it's something he's supposed to shield you from. It’s his way of protecting you, even if you can’t see the lengths he goes to, how far he’s willing to stretch himself just to make sure you never feel the cold of it.

He will always do whatever it takes, to keep you safe and by his side.

[renthony]

I have once again seen an aggressive do-not-interact banner with a long list of super-niche terms (some of which I genuinely have never seen before--I don't know what all your damn discourse acronyms mean, tumblr), followed by "and other basic DNI criteria."

"Basic DNI criteria" is a meaningless statement. What is "basic DNI" criteria to one subgroup on tumblr is complete nonsense to others. Define what the hell you actually mean by it or don't bother with a DNI at all. Be specific and precise in your language instead of relying on vague euphemism.

"Basic DNI criteria" is just about the emptiest form of virtue signalling you could engage in, because it doesn't mean anything. It stands for nothing. It's the equivalent of a sign that says, "Warning: Do Not." It's completely hollow.

If you put "basic DNI" in your posts/bio, I'm pretty much guaranteed to block you on sight, lest I get accused of violating a boundary that was never clearly expressed in the first place.

I find the efficacy and utility of DNIs to be nebulous at best, but if you are going to use them, at least make them actually communicate something. "Basic DNI" will literally never, ever mean the same thing to any two people, no matter how obvious you think it should be.

[muletia]

𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ✧˖°

that actually catches boobies

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader 18 + valveplug, mdi!!

summary: optimus discovers boobs

cw: valveplug, breast play, nipple play, oral fixation (optimus) coming untouched, kinda stiff writing (the words weren't wording)

word count: 1300

is this good enough for valentines?

didn't go into the breast feeding kink territory but maybe someday??? who knows

You sit right in front of him, free of clothing but still wearing a bra. With a relaxed, gentle smile, you unhook it, freeing your breasts, baring yourself before him, and Optimus realizes that this must be the human equivalent of showing one’s spark in its beauty and rawness, but also the fragile trust with which you have gifted him. Wants to look you directly in the eyes, to wait for a signal that he can glance downward, but the curiosity of his former self wins out. His optics lower, studying this unfamiliar part of your body. Tries to be chivalrous in this exploration, not wanting you to suddenly change your mind, become scared, and break the trust you’ve extended to him by hiding yourself from his adoration. Optimus wants your comfort. Above all else. Even above his own.

“You are beautiful,” he says, this time looking directly into your eyes. Complimenting your body, but speaking to your soul.

“Oh, thank you,” you reply, suddenly bashful at his deep baritone, proximity, and intimacy. “You are too.” But Optimus lets you take your time, process his words in your mind, and accept them. Only then does he ask:

“May I?”

“Yes.” Because the calm and composure have returned, because there was no other answer.

Gently, with precise care to avoid your apprehensions, he takes your breast in his servo. Soft.

You feel his hesitation on your skin, his fear of squeezing too hard and causing pain. You understand it, but now is not the time for that. You desired his touch; you wanted to feel the pressure of his masculine servos in places reserved only for him, and you wanted to feel it now. To encourage him to explore further, you place your hand on his servo and gently pull it toward yourself.

“You can squeeze them lightly,” you encourage, and only then does he allow himself to press his digits into the plush flesh.

Incomparable softness. Plush, fluffy. Extraordinary. He squeezes again, just to confirm he isn’t dreaming this sensation while awake. Velvety.

“Wondrous,” he whispers, this time caressing your breast out of reverence rather than hesitation. Digits glide over your sensitive skin, occasionally kneading the flesh, still not fully satisfied with the softness it offers. He must have truly been a good mech his entire life if all his decisions had led him to this moment.

“Feels nice, huh? They say this kind of squeezing is relaxing,” you say, trying not to make the experience too strange for him, even though every touch, every stroke teases your warmth, which begs for more stimulation. Optimus squeezes again, and you bite your tongue to stifle a moan. It’s his first time. Don’t be a pervert, you tell yourself, though your body sabotages your good intentions. Your nipples have unknowingly hardened from the exquisite stimulation, brushing against the equally firm but still sensitive servo, which partially pulls away from your breast to explore the previously hidden nub with his thumb. Optimus gently encircles your nipple with his thumb, stroking its base before moving to the tip, where he repeats the same motion, hungrily observing as it stiffens even further, as if demanding something from him.

Feels an unexpected yet irresistible urge to envelop the nipple with his glossa, shocking even himself. “It is,” he admits. Because indeed, it is a pleasant feeling. Unparalleled by any tactile sensation on Cybertron. New, but beautiful. It’s also addictive, because Optimus desires more, as he always does when it comes to you and what you can offer him. “Is this a desired reaction?” he asks, gently kneading your nipple. He wants to conceal it in his intake. To feel it closer, deeper. To find a way to possess you within himself without the connotations of spike buried in valve but equally blissful for you.

Can’t help himself. His processor floods with musings about this unfamiliar sensation, which quickly reaches his glossa, teasing his Cybertronian tongue, and reminding him of its existence. It makes every position in his intake suddenly uncomfortable, begging for movement, pleading for stimuli.

But he must be patient; doesn’t want to pounce on you like a beast, ruining the chance to fulfill his fantasies.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Very.”

He directs his gaze to your face, wanting to ensure you’ll allow him a moment of selfishness, noticing your blush and bitten lip, already understanding that this exquisite pleasure isn’t one-sided. And that makes him even happier than he already is — if that’s even possible. “I am honored that this is equally enjoyable for you. May I?” he asks. And even though you’re not entirely sure what he means or what his intentions are, you allow him, knowing he would never hurt you.

He brings his faceplate closer to your torso and opens his intake, soon enveloping your breast with the warmth of glossa. Wraps it around your nipple, slowly gliding along its entire length, exploring every bump, unevenness, and perfect imperfection.

“Oh God!” you moan, and it affects him like a red rag to a bull.

He discovers the unknown, with every lick realizing that if only you’d let him, he could spend his entire life attached to your breast. He knows that desire is currently driving his primitive thought process, but, Primus, it’s incredible. Shouldn’t be selfish, but can’t stop himself, especially when the symphony of your delicate moans and satisfied murmurs spurs him on.

He circles your areola, each round becoming faster. Wants more. Glossa again runs along the entire length of your nipple, pausing at the tip, which he nudges a few times. And apparently, it’s a bullseye, as he feels your encouraging touch on the top of his helm, just behind the crest. With such encouragement, he repeats the movement, working his glossa continuously to draw even more pleasure from you.

Feels his throbbing spike demanding attention, pressing painfully against the interface panel. A few drops of transfluid have already dripped from the tip, but Optimus prefers to use his free servo to cup your other breast, which he begins to knead gently, repeating the same motions as before. Doesn’t need direct touch on his spike, feeding instead on your pleasure and the sensation of the hardened nipple being worked over by his glossa. That will be enough for him to reach overload; he knows it, because he doesn’t dare ask for your help. This is your time for bliss. And while he always tries to show his adoration for you, this is also your time to be worshipped. Your satisfaction is more than enough — this time, he’s sure of it. Besides, he’s already so, so close to reaching his own climax.

“Optimus!” you gasp, and your voice reaches straight to his spike, which twitches shyly.

He caresses and kneads your breast while his glossa circles your nipple again, soon switching to licking it like a thirsty dog; messy and ravenous. Wants to bring you to overload, wants you to feel good, because only then will he free himself from the growing tension behind his interface panel. So he tries one more tactic. Hungrily sucking on your nipple, occasionally pausing to play with it using his glossa.

“Ah, Optimus!” you cry out.

You climax, and overload rolls through him, still latched onto your nipple. Raises his optics to meet your face and is greeted by a flushed but blissful expression adorned with a serene smile. When your eyes meet his, you gently stroke his helm.

“You did great,” you praise. Only then does his intake release your thoroughly ravished and coolant-slicked breast with a quiet ‘pop.’ The lower part of his faceplate shares the same fate, smeared with Cybertronian saliva, but Optimus doesn’t seem to mind. Nor does he take any action to clean himself, still fixated on your hardened nipples and your entire breast, as he doesn’t release the other one. He gives it one last squeeze and strokes the nipple with his thumb. “Oh? A second round?”

“Please.”

[solxamber]

Going to get my driver's licence and now I'm curious. How bad do you think the twst characters would be behind a car?? Cause idk if they have cars in that world or some magic equivalent, but I'm 90% sure almost none of them now how. Like imagine Lillia behind the wheel. He would either crash the car or get you yo your destination with mild injuries. And I KNOW leona sucks at driving that sonnova gun probs doesn't even have his permit.

good luck soldier, hope you pass first try 🫡

leona is canonically good at driving! his liongarb vignette part 2 has him driving everyone and they say it's a surprisingly smooth ride, he's had his license since before he enrolled in nrc!

ooo let's see (these are my hcs)

How I think the twst boys drive:

Riddle

“If you don’t use your blinker, you deserve a revoked license and public humiliation.”

has a laminated printout of the dmv manual in his glove compartment. refers to it. frequently.

stress-mumbles the rules of the road like it’s a ritual to keep the car from crashing

WILL tailgate someone going under the speed limit while also ranting about how dangerous tailgating is

6/10 driving skills. you’ll get there. your spine might not survive the journey, but you’ll get there.

Trey

drives like a dad and acts like one too. snacks in the glovebox. tunes to an “easy listening” radio station no one asked for

makes full eye contact with you while backing into a parking space like it’s nothing. terrifying.

won’t yell at other drivers but will mutter very passive-aggressive things like “oh, nice turn signal, champ”

actually a good driver, but if you’re in a rush he suddenly forgets where the gas pedal is

9/10. safe, boring, you will arrive calmly unless you say something that triggers “dad lecture mode”

Cater

treats every red light like a selfie opportunity. traffic jam? story time.

“oops lol i forgot i was driving”—said as he casually swerves back into the lane with one hand and no shame

will absolutely blast hyperpop or sad girl music at full volume and sing along

uses gps and still misses every turn. rerouting? he’s rerouting his soul

4/10. looks good while driving but he’s taking you straight to the afterlife

Ace

somehow thinks he’s in mario kart. will try to drift. is bad at drifting.

screams “WE’RE FINEEEE” after hitting the curb for the third time

brakes too late, accelerates too fast, thinks honking is just “assertive communication”

if there’s a speed bump he’s treating it like a ramp. bonus points if he makes you hit your head on the ceiling

2/10. he’s the reason riddle has ulcers. do NOT get in the car if you value your life or bones.

Deuce

follows every rule with military precision. 10 and 2. full stops. checks mirrors like he’s solving a crime

“Yes ma’am, no ma’am, I mean—uh, officer! No officer! I wasn’t speeding I swear—” (he wasn’t. he was 5 under.)

will cry if you scream while he’s merging. please don’t scare the boy.

starts off driving like your grandma, then randomly hits you with a tokyo drift moment and doesn’t explain

7/10. either safest driver alive or full menace. depends on how much sleep he got.

Leona

the infuriatingly competent kind of driver who looks like he’s not paying attention, but then parallel parks in one smooth move without even checking the mirrors

arm out the window, seat leaned back, one hand on the wheel, vibes immaculate

doesn’t drive fast, but drives scarily efficient. like you blink and you’re at the destination

will not turn down the music. you are listening to the same remix loop for 45 minutes and you WILL like it.

9/10 driver. good under pressure, hates driving in the rain, will refuse to pick you up unless you bribe him with snacks or flattery.

Ruggie

terrifyingly resourceful behind the wheel. the kind of guy who’ll be like “oh yeah there’s a shortcut” and you end up on a goat trail with no guardrails

speed demon. not by choice. he just doesn’t believe in arriving late. or braking.

eats while driving. talks while driving. does parkour with the car while driving. you pray while riding.

every time he drives you somewhere, you owe him one. including emotional damage fees.

5/10. you will survive. but spiritually? you left your body three potholes ago.

Jack

rule follower. actual golden retriever on the road. if you litter out the window he will make a U-turn to go back and make you pick it up

will not speed, will not honk unless someone is literally on fire, will not change the radio station unless everyone agrees

but if someone cuts him off? feral instincts engaged.

quietly competitive. if someone passes him, he WILL accelerate. you may hear growling. don’t question it.

8.5/10. safe, solid, dependable. would drive you home from a party and make sure you drank water first.

Azul

thinks driving is a power move. like. he paid extra for that quiet engine start just to flex

fully uses driving time to monologue about business deals, plans, or subtle threats. you’re not sure if you’re carpooling or in a hostage negotiation

signals three miles ahead. checks mirrors like he’s being tailed by the fbi. he might be

very good at navigating. if gps reroutes, he reroutes it back. he wins against the algorithm.

9/10, but unnerving. you’re safe, but at what cost.

Jade

why does he have a license. who allowed this.

drives like he’s setting up a prank for someone ten miles ahead

never speeds, but takes the creepiest, emptiest backroads imaginable. says it’s “more scenic”

always smiling while driving. concerningly calm if something explodes. probably listening to classical music or nature documentaries

6/10. legally fine. emotionally? you’re not coming back the same.

Floyd

no one is shocked he passed the test. everyone is shocked he was legally allowed to take it

drives according to mood. if he’s bored, the car drifts. if he’s happy, he’s swerving in rhythm to the beat. if he’s angry? start writing your will.

makes driving sounds while driving. “vroom vroom~ screeeee~” for no reason

WILL throw fries at other cars. WILL try to high-five a biker at a stoplight. WILL unbuckle his seatbelt to “stretch” mid-drive

3/10. you either have the best day of your life or a near-death experience. possibly both.

Kalim

loudest driver alive. music blaring, windows down, shouting "WHEEEE~!" every time he accelerates

constantly turns around to talk to people in the backseat. like fully turns around. while driving.

forgets he’s not in a flying carpet. every stop sign is an opportunity to launch forward like it’s a joyride

someone told him roundabouts are fun so he goes around twice. just for the vibes.

4/10. he loves driving. driving does not love him back. you’re clutching the oh-shit handle the whole time.

Jamil

the only reason scarabia hasn’t been sued for vehicular crimes

drives like a tired single parent with 4 kids in the back screaming about McDonald's

SPEEDS when no one’s watching. you blink, he’s five miles ahead. shadow clone jutsu behind the wheel.

has memorized every traffic light timer in the city. never hits red. it’s… weird.

9/10. efficient, smooth, and will absolutely sigh dramatically the whole time you’re in the car.

Vil

drives a clean car. spotless. smells like luxury perfume and judgment

interior is curated. no trash. no crumbs. one water bottle and it’s aesthetically pleasing.

signals aggressively. like he flips that blinker with intent

will slow down to give you a Look if you’re in the wrong outfit to be seen with him

8/10. elegant and competent, but if you scuff his interior with your shoes, you’re walking.

Rook

who gave him a license. seriously. who looked at this man and went “yes. let him command a machine.”

sings full operas while driving. makes direct eye contact through the rearview mirror. unsettling.

has taken you on backroads even you didn’t know existed. somehow it was scenic.

talks like he’s narrating a wildlife documentary about the local traffic patterns

???/10. is he a good driver? no one knows. he’s just... driving.

Epel

lives for off-roading. doesn’t matter if he’s in a prius, he’s driving that baby like it’s a monster truck

drives like a 90-year-old when vil’s in the car. drives like he’s in a nascar trial when vil’s not

says “it’s fine, I’ve done this before” and proceeds to take a left turn at 70 mph

threatens to do donuts in the parking lot and then does them.

5/10. he’s trying his best. unfortunately, his best involves sick tricks and zero concern for tire life.

Idia

doesn’t.

has a license “for legal reasons,” but he treats driving like going outside is the final boss battle

owns a tricked-out car he never drives. it has led lights, anime decals, and a built-in gaming console. he uses it as a portable man cave

the one (1) time he did drive, he wore fingerless gloves, anime osts were blasting, and he whispered “initial D style” before forgetting which pedal was the brake

2/10. technically can drive. emotionally should not. you’re safer ubering with floyd.

Ortho

doesn't technically need a license but downloaded the entire dmv handbook into his memory for fun

his “car” is less “vehicle” and more “sentient ai-controlled hovercraft with wifi and snacks”

offers in-flight entertainment. like you’re not even on a plane. he just projects movies on the dashboard

drives at optimal efficiency.

11/10. the future of driving. terrifying and amazing. please stop letting him hack traffic lights though.

Malleus

he has a license. he studied for it. memorized the entire rulebook. aced the written.

the problem is: he drives like he's never seen another car before

goes 25 in a 60 because “it is the safest way to protect my precious cargo” (YOU)

stares at traffic lights like they personally offended him

car is some luxury vintage thing that makes no sense. you have to open the door with a key made of bone or something

3/10. you are deeply loved. and deeply late.

Lilia

drives like he’s lived through every era of vehicular invention. he owned a horse-drawn carriage and a tank

owns a beat-up, pink minivan with a custom wrap and dice in the mirror

speeds. aggressively. will swerve into the drive-thru and order fifty mcnuggets “for the road”

talks with both hands while driving. both. hands.

4/10. unpredictable. fun. chaos incarnate. your insurance company hates him.

Silver

good driver. responsible driver.

...except for the part where he falls asleep at stop signs

you’ll be halfway through a deep conversation and he’ll just nod off with his foot on the brake

car is clean, smells like lavender, and has one (1) emergency granola bar in every compartment

very gentle driver. almost too gentle. like “you didn’t feel the turn because he was spiritually aligned with the wheel” kind of gentle

6.5/10. smooth ride, but someone needs to keep him awake with snacks and playlist bangers.

Sebek

shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.

drives like he’s been assigned to escort the royal heir through enemy territory

yells at everyone on the road. pedestrians, squirrels, YOU—no one is safe from his critiques of your seatbelt position

insists on narrating everything. “SIGNALING LEFT. NOW SWITCHING LANES. REMAIN ALERT!”

the gps is set to his own voice. and you can’t turn it off

2/10. the only thing louder than the engine is his righteous fury.

Grim

that’s a cat.

(he tries to drive. he sits on the wheel. honks the horn with his butt. chews the seatbelt. it's a warzone in there.)

this was so fun to do lmao

[unforth]

As I deepen my study with Chinese, the more I'm struck by how word meanings work. The monolingual USAdians I know or encounter online, who studied only as much as needed to get through school, really do seem to think languages are plug and play: know the word in both languages, and swap.

But that couldn't be further from the truth. There's on Chinese word, 稳当 (wĕn dang), that's really struck me for that. Because my flashcards give three translations for 稳当: reliable, secure, and stable. And in English these words are all fairly different! Clearly related but very much do not mean the same thing. How can one Chinese word mean these three different concepts? Well, of course, it doesn't. 稳当 means 稳当, some fusion of those three concepts we have words for in English but not quite any of them, that makes it appropriate to use in places where English would use any of those three. There are surely shades of meaning, and which interpretation of the meaning is most appropriate to a given context will be understood upon reading.

Now, expand this understanding - that a word doesn't mean (exact direct swap in English) but rather the word means the word, and we approximate it to the closest English equivalent we can - to *every single word in every single sentence in an entire book.*

Then translate that book.

Translation is an art, not a science, requiring tremendous verisimilitude in *both* languages, and an understanding of the story, and a deep familiarity with the culture (social, historical, linguistic, etc.) of the original work, and often knowledge of the authors intent (if possible to ascertain), and a range of other skills. Translation will always be interpretive and transformative, because (word in one language) doesn't precisely mean (word in another language). They're not "the same." If I present you a sentence with 稳当 in it, does it mean stable, reliable, or secure? Well that depends. On what? How it's being used, the surrounding context, other factors, and of course... the reader or translators interpretation.

It drives me insane when I see people present alternate translations as some kind of "gotcha" that one translator got things wrong. And don't get me wrong - of course some translations ARE just wrong, obviously if I translate 稳当 to mean "goldfish" I'm not interpreting I'm just incorrect. But beyond obvious mistakes, a world of nuance exists, and different translators can in good faith reach different conclusions on the most appropriate translation. This is WHY famous books not in English get translated repeatedly by different people, and why a reader would want to read multiple translations of the same work - to see, in different translations, some shadow of the wonderful nuance embodied by the original words that do not, and cannot, simply be swapped 1 to 1 for a perfect English translation. And this is *especially* true of a language like Chinese, which is ancient and beautiful and deeply steeped in understandings of Chinese history and literature.

Why do you think I and many others are studying Chinese for years? For me, it's all so I can read the actual books myself and get that much closer to the story, that much closer to my own interpretation. I'll never have the skills of a knowledgeable translator - this isn't my profession, it's my hobby - but I'll gleen things nonetheless and it's important to me to try.

Too many of yall disrespect those skills so much that you'll throw a sentence of a language you know nothing about into Google translate and then declare the translator Wrong (and sometimes Bad and Malicious) based on that.

稳当 means 稳当. It doesn't mean "reliable." It doesn't mean "the exact translation of 稳" plus "the exact translation of 当". It's a Chinese word with a Chinese definition that we retrofit English on to.

And the hardest part? Look, I'm still a Chinese novice. For all I fucking know, 稳当 actually MIGHT have three distinct definitions. Everything I said about it above might be wrong. I don't know enough Chinese yet to know for sure, and that's a level of nuance and understanding I'll only reach by reading more.

Multiply that by *every single word in both the original language and the language it's being translated into.*

That's what translation is.

Good luck.

[jesterkoops]

It’s really funny to me to see people suddenly going all SHOCKED PIKACHU after this episode with the realisation that the show will have to address how Helena being complicit in Gemma’s.. whatever it is is going on down there has repercussion for Mark and Helly's (and Helena's) relationship. And saying this suddenly changes how they see Mark and Helly’s relationship and HELLY BAD! NO MORE HELLY FOR MARK! NO!

Really?? It took THIS episode for you to realise this was literally going to be THE major point of conflict for them?? I remember finishing the rewatch before this season began and saying this very thing to my friends. Why else would they even make MarkHelly a thing and reveal she was Helena in the very next episode, if that’s not precisely where this was going to go? This episode hasn’t really changed how I see Mark and Helly/Helena’s relationship at all, because for me it was a given all along this was bound to come up. It was literally THE thing that shot my interest in their dynamic through the roof, when before I was like "meh, another workplace romance between leads". There was literally nothing in this latest episode that changed how I see any of these dynamics. The specifics of whether Gemma was braindead, or alive, or cryogenically frozen, or what have you has no impact on the fact that Helena is to some degree complicit in all this (to what degree, and just how much she actually knows, is still TBD; she's still such a mystery - I have another post about this in the works).

And what baffles me is that some seem to think that the people who came up with THIS show couldn’t possibly find a way to develop this that hasn’t yet occurred to us. "Well, I can't see any other way this ends if not with Mark getting Gemma back, and Helena evil/sacrificing herself for Mark and Gemma/dead" (or something along those lines). Like, sure, that's the most logical conclusion and THAT is what intrigues me: what am I missing that these writers have up their sleeves? It baffles me that it took ONE episode for some to be willing to strip away the entire complexity of the show and the innies/outies dichotomy and the moral and empathy dilemma it is supposed to force upon us through Mark acting as a 'conduit' for the audience.

Pitting up the two relationships against each other as one being superior to the other trivialises innies and their feelings the same way Lumon does. You can't on one hand feel empathy for Gemma's multiple innies and consider their feelings as valid and the impact they have on Gemma and in the same breath dismiss innie Mark's and Helly's feelings as childish and unimportant.

Being able to dismiss innie Mark's feelings as unimportant or inferior to outie Mark's feelings is an easy solution to the struggle reintegration is supposed to present. Take away that struggle, and you remove what's narratively interesting about reintegration.

Along these lines, the last few days I realised that Gemma HAD to be alive for this to be interesting because her being actually dead gives Mark (and consequently the audience) an easy way out. If the whole point of reintegration involves Mark dealing with the fact that he merged a part of him that loves Gemma with a part of him that never did and loves someone else instead... well, if Gemma is actually gone, that doesn't pose much of a challenge for Mark, does it? If Gemma were gone, his predicament would be the same as any other widower who falls in love again. But if she's alive, he has to actually wrestle with the two parts of himself that pull him in two different directions and want two different lives.

And we circle back to point 2: the only way point 3 is narratively interesting is if innie Mark's feelings are just as strong and important and valid as outie Mark's feelings.

And, to a lesser extent, for his feelings to be as strong and important and valid, Helena CANNOT just be a straight up villain because then we would circle back to point 3; it would be the equivalent of Gemma being dead. It would strip the dilemma from Mark because it would be easy for him to dismiss his feelings for her/Helly.

I admit, this is a very very tricky situation to navigate for the writers to avoid falling into cliches and to wrap it up in a way that's original and satisfying. But it's ridiculous to be definitive about an endgame at this stage when there is still so much story to go through. You are literally jumping the gun and reaching conclusions while missing a ton of information and development still.

[hrrtshape]

Biggest ick in the community for u GO

let's talk about people who've shifted and the pressure that comes from it

i think the thing that icks me the most, besides the general, gnawing sensation of being perceived in any online space (which is its own private horror, like having a live audience while you try to untangle a necklace chain)....is that there’s this… tension???? unspoken but so there.

ok. so. i shift a lot. because i can, and i do. but there’s this peculiar pressure, no, surveillance, really, where you feel like if you don’t lace every word with airtight precision, someone, somewhere, is going to "clock" you for it. maybe it's because at least 4 people have tried that with me, so i just have this tiny fear at the back of my mind. because god forbid you say something in a way that isn’t exactly how it’s been dictated in the sacred texts (aka whatever social media dogma has amassed over the years, curated by people who have a lot of thoughts about it). it’s the equivalent of walking through a minefield in heels. you fumble a detail, you misspeak, you let one thing slip in the wrong order, and suddenly there’s this weird, lingering energy in the air, like you’re on trial for perjury.

and listen. i get it. we live in an age of doubt. but, people will hear you say “i shift,” and instead of “oh, cool!!” it’s “hmm… but what if you’re lying? why do you shift twice a week...that's not normal” which is a fascinating impulse, when you think about it. obviously not so much anymore, but, still there. it's a philosophical crisis disguised as a callout post. like everyone has collectively decided they’re playing some kind of metaphysical border control officer. and for what? like, what’s the reward here? congratulations, you’ve successfully scrutinised someone’s subjective experience? you’ve won…what, exactly? a badge? a cookie? a firm handshake and a pat on the back from plato himself just for someone to come out of their shell with, honestly, something very very cool yet vulnerable and then to crawl back into it.

i don’t know. i just think there’s something very… unseemly about the whole thing. and maybe that’s just the way of things. maybe suspicion is our default setting now. or maybe sometimes a thing can just be.

[nhtmcat]

Benedict Cumberbatch talks about Sherlock and Martin Freeman

Interviewer: Sherlock, anyone knows Sherlock? Obviously, it has been wonderful, but you had said that being in Sherlock that was magic. Why do you think that?

BC: Um… It was a lot of things. It was Martin. It was a modern era take on it. It was Steven… first of all, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss took something they were obsessive fanboys over with total respect, and they crafted a modern version of it with huge (amount) details, hugely rewarding loyalty towards the original stories, but with a very witty plot twist. And I think it was also, you know, it was the dawn of Twitter, and this guy was on the internet, and John Watson was blogging. And I think there was a synchronicity where television became, you know, it was pre streaming. It was sort of a water-cooler moment made digital. And I think that's why it went global. And I, I don't know, maybe it was the part that had just been waiting for me at the right time as well. I just loved it. It was just a heck of a thing. And again, the mental geek a bit. He had to be in the digital space the equivalent of the computers. He had to have an AI speed so that he was speaking as fast as most people think, but very quickly. And that was an acting challenge, and also to some extent having him work on this character, how that fits in society now, where you have asexuals, autists, whatever those, you know, you know, whatever theories of those kinds of wonderful superpowers are, you know. And I think that spoke to a lot of people, that he had a superpower. And socially incredible also such a lot of people take pleasure of other people being vicariously rude or straight, or direct.

Interviewer: No filters for him.

BC: Yeah, no filters for Sherlock. And I think that is a part of his appealing. He's brilliant. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, brilliant mind.

Interviewer: What was the first time you walk around the street without being unnoticed?

BC: Oh, you know, it was a particular type of hair, which I don't normally have. You know, I have dark hair and I don't usually have it that long. When I just stepped out of some, you know, pre-production, it literally was that I'd go to the hairdressers and come out, dyed and with the shade, and people literally crack it and sort of, oh, Sherlock! It’s him. It was the first time. And I remember when we were making it, Martin was already very famous from the Office. And when we kind of spent time with each other, started all sorts of, you know, people would sort of go, oh, this is Tim Canterbury! ‘Yeah, yeah, I mean, he's being younger than me, doesn't he? Yeah, yeah…’ He just joked about it.

Interviewer: He's such a fun and nice guy.

BC: Yeah, he's great. He's very funny. One of the funniest human beings I've ever met. And just so inventive and brilliant. And he filled that role with so much nuances and care. He's a precision artist, he's technically brilliant, but he's also a musician I mean, he's got jazz in there as well as every other kind of music. He's wonderful to work with, and like I said, I think that was very early in my answer, that was a huge part of it - that chemistry - that I liked to be there really well.

Red Sea International Film Festival, Q&A, 10 December 2024

[ds0408]

Freckles- Fred Weasley

Tags: [mlw] [established relationship] [lazy morning] [mild teasing] [flirty] [drabble]

Word count: 1,064

Having a boyfriend is the human equivalent of having a particularly mischievous cat.

He steals your food, claims your bed as his own, gets into places he shouldn’t, and—on occasion—demands attention at the most inconvenient hours.

The nice thing about having Fred Weasley, however, is that he’s just as good at receiving attention as he is at demanding it.

Which is precisely why you’re currently shifting beneath the sheets, warm morning light streaming in through the Burrow’s curtains, illuminating the freckles that map his bare shoulders like constellations.

Fred sleeps on his stomach, arms folded beneath the pillow, ginger hair a mess of tousled strands, his mouth slightly parted. His back rises and falls with each steady breath, broad shoulders relaxed, and one leg kicked out, knee bent lazily like he owns the bed (which, to be fair, he mostly does).

Your fingers twitch.

It’s a terrible idea.

But then again, Fred Weasley has never shied away from terrible ideas.

You trail a slow fingertip down his spine, featherlight, tracing along each dip and ridge until you reach the small of his back. He stirs, shifting slightly, but doesn’t wake.

Emboldened, you press a soft kiss to his shoulder, then another, trailing warmth along his freckled skin. He hums in his sleep, one arm flexing briefly before relaxing again.

It’s the kind of morning where everything is slow and golden, where the air is thick with warmth, and the only sound is the rustling of the sheets as you move closer, pressing against his side.

You let your lips ghost along his jawline now, feeling the faintest prickle of stubble, and he exhales deeply, shifting onto his back, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling.

A smirk tugs at his lips before his eyes even open.

"Thought I was dreaming for a moment," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, accent rough around the edges.

You grin against his skin, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “Dreaming about what?”

He finally turns his head, gaze still heavy with sleep but wickedly amused.

“Dunno,” he muses, stretching lazily, muscles flexing beneath freckled skin. “Something about a very lovely, very distracting person who likes to wake me up in the best ways.”

You roll your eyes, resting your chin on his chest. “And here I thought you liked your beauty sleep.”

Fred huffs a laugh, eyes slipping shut again. “Oh, I do. But I like you more.”

A warm silence settles between you, his fingers finding your waist beneath the blankets, tracing mindless patterns against your skin.

After a beat, he cracks one eye open. “You’re staring.”

You hum, fingers drumming lightly against his chest. “Just admiring my work.”

His brows lift in amusement. “Your work?”

You tap your lips against his collarbone. “Mhm. Someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

Fred grins, quick and lopsided. “Love, if you wanted to keep me humble, you wouldn’t be in my bed, looking at me like that.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he moves faster—flipping you onto your back with an effortless shift, caging you beneath him, his weight warm and solid.

“See, now you’ve gone and made it unfair,” you complain, laughing breathlessly as his lips hover just over yours.

“Unfair?” Fred echoes, tilting his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m a firm believer in equal opportunity.”

And then he kisses you, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

And maybe he does.

[maggotinadollhouse]

y'know what since you've all been good christmas is coming early, you get ANOTHER buttonblossom post! this time they are in bed because they are eepy and sleepy and so am i ('cos it's nighttime where i'm at but i'm forcing myself to be conscious enough to watch the gaslight district pilot ehehe)

also bc you've been good, gather round the maggot mound (hey that rhymes), dear kids...BC IT'S SHORT FIC TIME (under the cut)

———————

"Pomni, I think it's time we hit the hay."

Ragatha gently ran one bast-stitched hand through the dark tresses of the little jester's hair, her precise movements prompting a tiny "hm" from Pomni as she nuzzled further into the warm safety that her favourite rag-doll's bosom provided – much to the doll's amusement. A little giggle passed through her cloth lips as she rubbed her thumb against the smaller woman's scalp.

"I know you're attached," she spoke light-heartedly with a smile, "but we can't stay like this all night. We'll have to move sooner or later. I can camp out on the futon."

Pomni's nose scrunched with disapproval of that idea, as she shrank further into her partner's arms, sniffing softly to further stress her negative opinion towards the concept.

"...'s your room," she muttered, "you sleep in your own bed, I can sleep on the futon...'n I don't see why we have to move anyway. It's not like Caine has some hidden vendetta against gay people."

"Right, right," Ragatha mused, soothing the jester by pressing a tiny peck to her temple, "but it's not him I'm worried about finding us like this, he'd let it slide. It's more folks like Jax. Remember what happened last time he walked in on us hugging?"

They both shuddered a little, Ragatha jokingly, Pomni quaking authentically; the memory of having beetles slipped into their morning tea and coffee wasn't one that either of them liked to reminisce upon. The thought of it alone drove Pomni's cheek further against her beloved's chest, as she quietly rubbed her face against the padded surface of her skin, like a rather affectionate cat.

She liked cuddling with Ragatha. Scratch that; she loved it. Being nestled in the comfortable, muscular arms of a cushy, sentient rag-doll that was taller than she was and packed full of the highest-quality stuffing there was (or perhaps that was an opinionated take, as she hadn't hugged any other sentient rag-dollies in her time) felt like absolute heaven – and the fact that this doll was her romantic partner only made the affection feel even better. Of all the people who Ragatha could have fallen in love with, she had chosen Pomni. The tiny, anxious jester, personality - and size - equivalent to a wet cat, and about as interesting as a shred of soggy cardboard (in her opinion).

...Putting all these thoughts into consideration, she slowly dug her chin against the doll's breasts once more - inhaling her soft scent of freshly-dried linen and incense - and let out a singular, soft murmur, the best thank you that she could manage.

"...I love you..."

"Awww..." a smile played upon Ragatha's lips, and she momentarily tightened her arms around Pomni's comparably-smaller body. "...I love you too." She then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her jester's head, right upon her scalp, an area usually covered by her jester's cap - an area usually unloved. This kiss prompted another "hm" from the jester, who burrowed into her even more - so close, in fact, that they could be rooted that way together and no one would even notice. Eternally bound.

Continuing to gently rub her head, Ragatha eventually spoke up again, "...If you really want to, we could lie here for a few more minutes. I don't mind spending a bit more time together. It means I get to hold you all the more."

Pomni immediately nodded with a confirming hum, clinging onto the doll's shoulder almost pleadingly, looking up at her with those signature big ol' eyes. "Please."

Ragatha nodded, and wound her thick arms around the jester's midriff once more, settling down against the surrounding pillows supporting her back with a relaxed sigh. Her features almost illuminated by the glow of the fairy lights strung up along the curtained canopy so as to allow her to see better, she examined Pomni's sleepy features; a face of soft rubber and little blushy cheeks, contorted into a relaxed expression akin to a slumbering animal's. A precious little face that only she could see - and, as she laid back and allowed her own working eye to sink shut, deduced that that made her feel like the luckiest doll in the world.

...Neither of them separated at all that night. They fell asleep before they could even try to.

———————

yeah hope you enjoyed that (part of this definitely wasn't inspired by a midnight hug i had with my own romantic partner no sirree)

[@doctor-doodleman it was a very nice hug thank you]

[tinyowlthoughts]

The EC-Theobromine: Bluffing

There were many risks to exploring uncharted space. Unknown blackholes, near-invisible debris fields, hostile civilizations that had achieved space travel but had not yet been contacted by the Intergalactic Governing Body, pirates.

So. Many. Pirates.

Taurvin wasn't a big fan of pirates. Sure, he understood some of their motives - there were those who stole from the rich to give to the poor, or who attacked species intent on slavery and sapient experimentation to rescue the victims. But the majority were just, well.

To use a phrase from his new navigator, they were straight-up assholes.

And unfortunately, his ship was currently taken over by said assholes.

Five of them, to be precise. Normally his crew of nine could handle themself, especially with Lenzoill handling their security, but the bastards had taken them by surprise and used a blaster to Elaana's head to get them to cooperate. So there they were, eight of the best deep-space explorers the Intergalactic Exploration Committee had, kneeling (or the equivalent) before the pirates, limbs pinned behind them with cuffs, completely disarmed. 

Wait.

Ignoring the monologuing pirate captain, Taurvin glanced at his crewmates on either side and counted. Eight. Gorvan and Elaana to his left, Epitak and Dhaca to his right, Lenzoill and Quals slightly behind them, the former knocked out and leaning against the couch, while Ir'ith (who had mouthed off when they yanked out a handful of his feathers) glared daggers from the other side of the room. He'd been trussed up like a zagtul and was gagged, though that was doing little to stymie his attempts at cursing the pirates out. The one guarding him looked more amused than anything, which was likely the only reason the zad was still conscious. 

Still, that only came up to eight. Where was Max?

☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️

Az was having an absolutely stellar day. His crew was meeting expectations, his first mate was being competent for once (even if he hadn't knocked that huffing, cursing zad out yet), and the IEC ship was theirs to plunder. Not that there would be much beyond rations - these types of ships weren't the goldmines the Elite Star Cruises were, but they always had some type of laboratory equipment on board that would fetch a good price on the blackmarket. All in all, a good catch, and not a drop of bodily fluid spilt!

"Uh, did I miss an email?" 

Every head in the room swiveled towards the large doors that led to the halls, revealing a ninth crewmember they had missed. It was upright, bipedal, with two legs and two arms, and a head with fluffy hair. It was wearing standard-issue IEC sleeping garments, down to the slippers, though there was a belt loosely thrown around its waist, a blaster in the holster at its side. As they watched, it opened its mouth wide. At first Az thought it was some kind of threat display, until it stretched its arms over its head and arched its back. A yawn - had the simpleton been sleeping while they captured its crewmates? Pitiful. 

"You," Az motioned to one of his crewmates - he couldn't remember her name - "Tie it up with the others."

"Yes sir." Crewmate nodded, reaching for the extra cuffs hanging from her belt. 

The newcomer scratched at its head as she approached. "What, not going to ask me to dinner first?" It pressed its hands to its hips and leaned back, creating a horrible cracking noise that shot through the room like thunder. The pirates winced, as did some of the hostages. "I keep telling them not to do that," muttered the captured Lepidae, her antennae curling tight in annoyance. 

Crewmate hesitated, glancing back at Az. Surely a motion that produced a noise like that should have broken its back? But the creature seemed fine, now swinging one arm across their chest, caught in the bend of the other, apparently - stretching? They switched arms, seeming to bounce a bit as they moved, and Az gave her an impatient glare. He didn't know what creature this was, nor did he care - it was an obstacle, and needed to be dealt with.

In the second they had taken their gaze off it, the interloper had drawn their blaster. It was unlike anything Az had seen before, made of some kind of blue metal - perhaps cobalt? Vanadium? - with brighter markings painted along the sides. The barrel was blocked by some kind of disc - he couldn't see down it for a projectile, nor could he see any kind of energy-concentrating device for a laser. A type of deterrent ammo, perhaps? One not made to kill, but instead drive away? Little good that would do - they had already captured the ship.

"I've gotta say, I'm not really a fan of how you're treating my friends." It bounced a bit on its heels. "Then again, this gives me an opportunity to use the latest in human technology!" It waved the blaster a bit, and Az felt his internal organs shudder. Human technology? He'd never met a human himself, but he'd heard of them. Great, hulking beasts woven of dense muscle, with teeth able to tear through flesh and bone and a penchant for destroying first and never asking questions. How did this scrawny thing get its hands on a human weapon?

Before Az could demand the crewmate take care of the bipedal thing, it fired. The projectile was not particularly fast, but it was silent - no hum of energy or blast of the more primitive explosive some species favored. A near-silent click, and then Crewmate screamed and ducked away. They hadn't been shot, however - the projectile had hit Az. Right in the chest. The disc had attached to his armor, and there was a long, thin rod sticking out of it. He reached up to snatch it off, but a 'tut' sound from the interloper had him freezing.

"Don't touch it," the bipedal advised, still holding the blaster as it gesticulated. "Skin contact with the probe will make it work faster."

"Work?" His first mate asked with a strangled sound. The zad at his feet had gone silent, and was looking between Az's face and the probe attached to his chestplate with wide eyes. With so much of his beak and face covered by the gag the captain couldn't make out his expression, but he assumed it was terror - identical to his first mates. 

"Mmhmm." The interloper beamed, looking proud of itself. "The disc - the part attached to your armor there? - is reading and calculating the material makeup of your form. Then, when it's settled on what will be most painful, the foam will be atomically altered into the most effective acid for destroying you and then be injected into your torso - or whatever fleshy part is closest - and eat you from the inside." It was still bouncing on its heels, looking excited. "I've never seen it happen in person, do you mind if I take notes?"

Az didn't respond - he was frozen, staring down at the probe sticking out of his chest, terror curling in his chest. This was what the humans were up to? Creating biological acid weapons? No wonder they were so widely feared! "Crewmate, remove it!" He turned to the woman, only to find her with her backing up, hands raised, cuffs clattering to the floor.

"N-no way! I don't wanna be digested!" She gasped. Az turned to his first mate, who had lost the usual green flush to his face and backed away as well. 

"If you really want to get it off, you'll need some really strong pliers. And probably some anesthetic. It'll be painful - you can't feel it, but the probe's wires have already drilled through your chest plate and into your skin. They're made to be sneaky," it waved the blaster. Az glanced back down at the probe and grimaced. The thing sounded outlandish, but the interloper spoke with such conviction that he couldn't doubt it. And there were more of the probes - he could see them in a clip attached to the blaster.

The interloper tapped his chin with the blaster. "We don't have anything strong enough on board, but-"

"Fall back to the ship." Az snapped, all seven hearts racing in his chest. His crew didn't argue, falling in line at his side. They stared at the interloper, who took a step to the side, leaving the door open. It didn't point the blaster at them, but kept it in hand, watching them carefully as they rushed out, heading towards the docking port. 

When Az glanced behind them, he saw it following at a leisurely pace, blaster still in hand. Not wanting to get a second probe to his back, he practically threw his crewmates into their ship and set about undocking and getting as far from the cursed ship as possible. 

It was not a good day. 

☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️🏴‍☠️☠️

Ir'ith was losing his gods damned mind. He fell onto his side, cackling and wheezing, fighting against the gag to get enough air to keep up the laughter. The ship shuddered as the pirates undocked, then Max was standing in the doorway, looking exhausted. 

"Max! Are you unharmed?" Taurvin demanded, using Gorvan to lever himself to his feet. It was a bit awkward with his hands cuffed behind his back, but he managed to stumble to the human. 

"I'm fine." The navigator waved him off with the hand still holding the blaster. Taurvin flinched back, not wanting to come into contact with one of the probes, which set Ir'ith off into another gale of muffled laughter. Max rolled their eyes and, before Taurvin could stop them, pointed the blaster at the zad and fired several rounds. The probe's bright-orange discs hit and stuck to Ir'ith's uniform, and one hit the bit of his beak that wasn't covered, giving him a blue growth in the middle of his face.

"No! Max, how could you?" Elaana cried, struggling frantically against her cuffs. "Don't worry Ir, I'll be right there! We can save you." 

"Wait, did he get hurt?" Max stuck the blaster in its holster and hurried over to Ir'ith before Taurvin could stop him. The human dropped to their knees and helped the still wheezing zad sit up before pulling off the gag. 

"I'm fine!" Ir'ith reassured the others. "The darts don't do shit, stop worrying." He turned slightly so Max could fiddle with the cuffs around his wrists. They were an older model, nice and rusty the way pirates liked it, and only required two buttons being pressed at the same time to release. It took a bit of effort, but then the zad was freely rubbing his wrists. 

"But Max said it was a new human weapon!" Epitak accused, wings fluffing up and hitting Dhaca in the face. The snallygaster, being only three feet tall, was knocked over on his tail. 

"Oh, the probe stuff?" Max reached out and plucked one of said probes from Ir'ith's chest. "This is just plastic and foam - no technology at all." They wiggled the probe in their fingers, then stuck it to Ir'ith's beak, giving him two blue horns now. Elaana made a worried squeak, but didn't protest when the cook didn't show any ill signs. 

Max moved to help Taurvin with his cuffs. Once the captain had his two arms free, he had to ask, "Max, what exactly is that weapon?"

The human grinned, pulling the blaster from their belt and wiggling it. "This? It's Nerf, or nothin'." 

EC Theobromine Character & World Building Notes

EC Theobromine: Chocolate

[beneathashadytree]

HI GUYS! LONG POST, MAKING A BIG ANNOUNCEMENT OVER HERE! I WILL BE ACCEPTING WRITING COMMISSIONS FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS, DUE TO THE FACT THAT I LIVE IN EXTREME POVERTY… PLEASE REBLOG!!

Here are my commision prices:

1$-2$ —> an SMAU (depends on length)

5$ —> a drabble (around 500 words)

10$ —> a oneshot (around 1000 words)

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What fandoms I’m willing to write for (the ones in bold are the ones I’m best at and hyperfixating on):

Attack on Titan

Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice

My Hero Academia

Haikyuu!!

Jujutsu Kaisen

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure

Moriarty the Patriot

Tokyo Revengers

One Piece

Bungou Stray Dogs

Kuroko no Basket

Ikemen Sengoku

Ikemen Vampire

Ikemen Revolution

Ikemen Prince

Love and Deepspace (my current fav)

How do I request a commission?

Either contact me via my DMs here, or on my Ko-Fi! I’ll be linking my account at the bottom of this post.

What’s the commission format?

Tell me your name or your OC’s name, their gender & pronouns, describe them to me both physically and in terms of personality, then tell me which character you want me to write them with. I’ll be writing “character x reader” or “character x OC” fics, so I need to know what I’m working with! Any extra details will help a lot. Of course, we will discuss everything concerning your commission privately.

If you want to check out my previous works to have a rough idea of how things will look like, be sure to check out my masterlist, which is my pinned post! Of course, my writing improves over time, so it may not be precisely as it is there.

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Please consider helping me out, whether by requesting a commission, or by sharing this post and my links as much as possible!! I’m trying my best to do all I can now that I haven’t got many options left.

As some of you might already know, I’m a dentist, but still at uni. Sadly, studying dentistry is extremely expensive, and I can’t rely on my parents to pay my fees for me for a few reasons.

The first being that my dad is a heart patient, and can’t work anymore. The pension he receives is literally less than the equivalent of 90 dollars. Of course, that doesn’t provide anything in terms of food and living (we usually can only afford a meal or two a day) except for some of his meds—not even all of them. His health is steadily declining.

My mother is extremely narcissistic and very, very abusive. I’ve gone through hell living with her because I have to, but even she can’t even afford to take care of us because no one wants to hire her at her old age, and she’s used up all her savings on my dad.

I’m also physically disabled, and can’t move around often. I also have to have surgeries every now and then because of the chronic illness I have.

I am in serious, dire need of money, both for my tuition fees, and hopefully to be able to live. I have to keep us afloat until I can get married in a couple of years, since I can’t live alone. Besides, my dad doesn’t deserve to suffer with his heart problems.

I tried working with dentistry last year, and that worked for a while, but this year no one’s hiring due to the terrible state of our economy. I have no skills aside from my writing, so that’s what I’ll have to work with. I’m getting seriously desperate, so I hope you guys understand why I’m doing this, and hopefully feel inclined to offer any support you can—even if not financial, but just by reblogging this post!