#it has been SHOULD he do the thing he does and can he do it without actually doing more harm than good

[luveline]

hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend who’s desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when he’s still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who he’s just completely gone for 

fem, 0.9k

You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaron’s private office, but you’re late coming in and there’s a ton of stuff to do and he’s supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note —your expertise is required. 

You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadn’t realised you’d gotten stuck until it was dark. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, “where have you been?” 

He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you can’t decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaron’s loving questioning continues, “I thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that you’re here?” 

There’s no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why he’s butter soft, but not his worry. 

“I was nearly late. I’m sorry.” 

He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. “Don’t be sorry, I just wanted to see you.” He holds you to him. “I missed you.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.” 

Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. He’s as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that you’ll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things you’re missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when he’s kissing you. “Prentiss has done well so far,” he says. “I’m not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?” 

“It was fine.” 

“I want to know. Breakfast?” 

“Yeah, oatmeal.” 

He grins. “Me too.” 

Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when he’s commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. It’s not like his affection makes much sense, but if he’s not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder. 

“No more late mornings,” he says decisively. 

“I wasn’t technically late. I wasn’t early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didn’t bring you your coffee?” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down. 

“I don’t know. You’re much too touchy. I’m trying to deduce why, but…” 

“Profile me,” Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. “You know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.” 

Aaron’s only ever this sweet on you when you’re in his bed. Well, ‘only ever’ is harsh, but he’s never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And that’s because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps he’s being sweet on you because you’ve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesn’t make much sense. You forgot his coffee.

Your stomach goes warm. “Oh. Oh,” you say, “I called you last night.” 

“You did.” 

“I was tired.” 

“But you were beautiful,” he says, and what does that mean? It’s not as though he could see your face. “I can’t remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.”

You can’t remember it clearly. Threads of what you’d said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know it’s late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet. 

Your face is on fire. 

“Sorry I couldn’t come over, honey,” he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. “I would’ve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.”

You go hot all over. “No, I know. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you–”

“Who says you can’t call me?” 

“Nobody, but I shouldn’t have.”

“You can call me anytime you want.” He tips your chin up. “Quick, Spencer’ll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?” 

“I forgot it was your day for Jack–”

He takes your face into his hand. “Doesn’t matter, honey. Kiss?” 

You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than you’re expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to. 

[tsunodaradio]

the perfect match¹ ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

lando norris is convinced he’s unlovable. it’s your literal job to prove otherwise.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x professional matchmaker!reader. ꔮ social media au. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. mentions of alcohol & food; cussing/profanity; suggestive jokes. lando nicknames reader ‘cupid’, intentional typos. sparked by a24's materialists. ꔮ commentary box: my love for @norrisradio knows no bounds :3 this will have a part two! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Liked by user1, user2, and others yourusername   wedding number nine. nothing brings me more joy than seeing people get the happy ending they deserve. 💐 congratulations, anyataylorjoy & malcolmmcrae.

user1 always at the crime scene omfg user2 That camera!! Can we know what model it is anyataylorjoy gracias 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨   ♥️ Liked by creator   ⤷ user3 wait so is it true yourusername matchmake’d them?   ⤷ user4 anya PLSSS notice me user5 I could really use yourusername’s skills but her consultation fee… Let’s run it back a bit, baby

Liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon, and others yourusername   thank you for the warm welcome, williamsracing. an enjoyable first grand prix in blue. 💙 content soon.

user1 OKAY I SEE YOU user2 aren’t carlos and alex both in relationships 😭 what they need a matchmaker for user3 Can we get a spoiler what the content was for pleek   ⤷ williamsracing Team Torque E04 🤫 But you didn’t hear it from us       ⤷ user4 ADMIN!?!?!       ⤷ user5 the crossover i didn’t know i needed. user6 oomf plz tell us about the other drivers u’ve met 

“How Do I Matchmake For My Friends?” | Team Torque Ep. 4 | Australian GP

Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others mclaren   Some scenes from Shanghai 🇨🇳 #McLaren #F1 

user1 carlando i’ve missed U user2 This after the Team Torque episode is comedic. 😂 user3 i want alex in a way that is detrimental to feminism. williamsracing Found a match? 😜   ⤷ mclaren 🤷   ⤷ user4 ??? does this mean something   ⤷ user5 Williams x McLaren collab LFG user6 i heard lando gave alex and carlos SO much shit for the torque ep screamsss user7 Lando if you need a girlfriend I’m right here,,

yourusername posted a story.

lando replied: pleased to make your acquaintance 🤝

Liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri, and others lando  lookin for love 

user1 that caption is diabolical   ⤷ user2 Why look for love!! I’m right here!! user3 The first pic. I’m dizzyy 😵‍💫 user4 okay but props to your photographer. hotness. user5 does this have something to do with yourusername ?   ⤷ user6 RIGHTTT because of her recent IG story   ⤷ user7 is Lando one of her new clients?   ⤷ user8 or maybe it’s a new mclaren content thing   ⤷ user9 They’re both being very quiet about this. Lmao. user10 lando’s loverboy era [[INCOMING]]?!

Liked by yourusername, user1, and others f1gossipgirl   lando enjoyed his winter break with british snowboard champ charlotte moioli! moioli is the reining record-holder of the women's snowboard cross. was our mclaren driver getting lessons or finding love on the slopes? 🏂

Liked by yourusername, user1, and others prixtea   Monaco's sweetheart finds her prince? 🎨 NOR spent his weekend with renown artiste, Sylvie Auguste, at Festival des Arts de Monaco. Sources say the two spent much of the evening giggling over champagne. Should we be expecting a new WAG on the paddock come Suzuka?

Liked by quadrant, lando.jpeg, and others yourusername   what’s up, bullet?

user1 have the loveliest vacation, darling 🥢 user2 that first pic? gorjjj user3 Last slide 👀 user4 bring back sushi pls ! user5 am i too f1-pilled or is that last slide literally lando ⤷ user6 Now that you mention it…

Liked by georgerussell63, yukitsunoda0511, and others lando   whassup su…zuka! mega day at liberty walk hq with quadrant to launch our helmet/car combo. seeing all this up close and working with the legend that is libertywalkkato to build the lb-kaido works r32 skyline has been an honour. always love coming out to japan, but this definitely made it even more special.

user1 ok so they’re dating yourusername   ⤷ user2 “what’s up, bullet?” x “whassup suki” not slick AT ALL… monsterenergy Sheeeesh 🔥 user3 The vibe is immaculate >>> maxfewtrell 🔥🇯🇵   ⤷ user4 max, was yourusername in attendance?? Blink twice if yes   ♥️ Liked by maxfewtrell       ⤷ user5 DID MAX JUST CONFIRM WHAT 

yourusername posted a story.

[darkbunnylove]

Task Force 141 finding out Reader has a crush on them

(mainly fluff but also angst because balance)

You thought you were playing it cool. Emphasis on thought. The glances that linger a little too long, the way your body seems to magically gravitate toward them. Barely noticeable, right? Yeah, maybe not so much. Because feelings like that? Oh, they have a way of showing, sweetheart. And once Task Force 141 catches on? Well, let’s just say you’ve got their full attention now.

Soap stays subtle about it for exactly one week. Conveniently, that’s also the same week he figures out you’ve got a soft spot for him. After that, subtlety goes right out the window. Not necessarily because he falls in love easily, but because he’s been working on catching your attention for months now. Laughing a bit too loud at your jokes? Check. Casual hand brushes? Yup. Memorizing the exact creak your boots make when you walk down the hallway? You bet!

So when he finds out you’re actually into him too? This man doubles down immediately. So much you even start finding little sketches of your face tucked into random notebooks. Oh, and of course, Gaz’s in on it too, sending him updates like: “Rec room. Alone. Go.” and “Laundry bay. Casual. Fold something, I don’t know.”

And sure enough, Soap just happens to bump into you. Constantly. Every day. Always asking if you’ve got time for a coffee. A walk. A chat. Already busy? No problem, how about tomorrow? Oh and while he’s at it, what about dinner this weekend? He’s definitely in too deep to pretend it’s casual now.

Gaz would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little smug about knowing you liked him. Not cocky, just very, very pleased. Well, maybe a little unbearable. But how could he not be? A dream like you, being all sweet on him? It’s taking everything in him not to grin like an idiot every time you look his way.

And the idea of you at his side? Of getting to introduce you like “Yeah, I pulled that. Can you believe it?” It makes his chest go so warm he doesn’t know how long he can take it. So he asks for your number through a friend and tries to play it casual. Then he spends too long staring at the message field, debating how many y’s to add to “hey,” or if he should just play it safe with “hi.”

But it’s alright, because soon you’re texting each other every day. Evenings turn into FaceTime calls. He lies on his back in bed, smiling like a fool while you talk about your day. Sometimes you fall asleep mid-call. But he never hangs up first. And during the day? Gaz always seems to show up right when you need a break. Leaning against your office door, telling some ridiculous story that makes you laugh until it hurts. You tell him he’s impossible. He tells you it’s your fault for laughing. Yeah. You’ve got him. Completely.

Ghost, unfortunately, is not so great about it. At least not at first. When he finds out you’ve got a crush on him, his stomach actually drops. Because there is just no fucking way, right? Not someone like you. Not for him. It has to be a mistake. And if he gives in? He’ll ruin it. He knows he will.

So instead of lingering near you, he does the opposite. He avoids you. For weeks. And every time you do bump into each other, he barely says a word. So you’ve already convinced yourself he’s just not interested. And Ghost? Ghost is convincing himself that staying away is the right thing. Until one night. Maybe it’s stupid but fuck, when he sees you on that hookup app, looking good, too good, and open for something casual, he can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t. But he sends a message anyway. You meet. And a single night slips into hours. Into heat. Into skin against skin...Perfect, right?

No. It eats him alive. Because now he’s sure you think that’s all he wants. That you’ll never know how deep this thing runs for him. He avoids you for another week. Can’t look you in the eye. Until one Saturday morning, he shows up at your door. Apologizing with flowers in hand and everything he can manage to say out loud.

Price doesn’t quite let himself believe you like him. A sweet thing like you? Surely you’ve got admirers. Someone better. Someone not so... worn down. And god, how old were you, anyway?

No, he doesn’t avoid you, but he overcorrects without meaning to. Careful with every word, every glance. Because he refuses to assume. Refuses to risk making you uncomfortable. So everything stays safe. Neutral. Professional. He says things like “Forecast says rain, tonight.” Meanwhile, he’s thinking about the way you laughed at his dumb joke four days ago. Later. Alone. While smoking. Definitely spiraling.

Then, one night at the pub, your people drift off until it’s just the two of you. Maybe you’re sitting a little too close now. Maybe you’ve both had a little too much to drink. He starts to pull away, because he thinks he should. That’s when another man says something. You laugh, just to be polite. Not into it. But still, it stings. So Price moves before he thinks. One step, then he’s there, hand at your lower back. “You alright, love?” he asks. “C’mon, time to go home.” And by home, he means his of course.

[zenoxonslibrary]

Entire Transcript of "This Anime is Offensive by Scamboli Reviews":

The internet is quite pissed by this. This anime was shot, scripted in AI, generated by Corridor Digital. You know those guys? They did real-life Minecraft, Dark Souls, Halo, Mario—they even showed a real live woman at some point. Corridor got their hands on Stable Diffusion, it's this AI that… I don't know, does AI? But it was sloppy, so they clashed heads, did research, and two months later, we got an eight-minute-long short film produced by people who never had to pick up a pen. Imagine RDC getting their hands on this—the kids that will run around doing crazy sketches. Never before has animation been more accessible to the average person. And never before has that extremely specific demographic of white dudes that are extremely active on Twitter, with thick-ribbed glasses and beards, been more angry. And that… that made me so mad on so many levels.

Here's the thing: on one hand, I think AI is terrifying, and I want it to go away. On the other, I know that it won't go away and that screaming at excited nerds will do absolutely nothing. I'm not an AI technician, nor am I extremely smart, but God put me on this Earth to talk about things I know nothing about. I would like to discuss why people are angry, who's angry, and share my perspective on this whole ordeal. And to do that, we're gonna have to watch a video made by Mother's Basement.

Mother's Basement hates this. "I am insulted, and so should you." Jeff is an anime YouTuber that has been on the platform long before I have. He's part of a small group of creators who pioneered this niche to where it is today. In his video, Jeff makes some very valid points about the grim future that could lie ahead of AI… and zero good points about what Corridor has to do with that. Like, this dude for real said: "This video? It's not art. Not." Jeff will not call this video art. In fact, he doesn't consider anything AI-generated to be art. And I actually agree with that last part. Art is an expression of human creativity. As soon as a machine does the walking, you're already lost. Millions of photos—regardless of copyright or if the author likes it—are used to train these AI. They teach it to guess which colors and shapes go where on a grainy image. Not only is this overpowered as hell, but it, by itself, is devoid of creativity, which is derived from our personal experiences and biases. Jeff, I'm with you 100% when you say this… but you have to stop yourself from… from… ugh, talking.

If you're gonna be out—I know some dipstick will jump down to the comments to say—"The only difference between an AI reproducing an art style and a human artist doing it is the time it takes." Now, wait a minute, hold on. I just don't think this is a very well-coded comment. What you said is not funny enough to be that rude. If you're gonna be a dick, hide it with as much humor as possible, like what I'm doing.

There's a part of this video where he's like, "If they were interested in making something with even a shred of artistic legitimacy, they could have hired an artist or two to draw up the model sheets their AI would use. But instead, they just went and stole a bunch of frames from Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust and trained their computer." Someone better call the cops! This is where anime YouTubers do our job—we steal frames. We just take clips of anime and talk over them. But Jeff, you and I are artists. We transform the work we talk about; we reshape it with the aid of our personal experiences. I don't think you can be on the side of anime abridged and critique AMVs but flip as soon as someone uses software that digitally collages that same content.

To say that Corridor made something without a shred of artistic legitimacy is disingenuous. This team had a vision they wanted to achieve, so Corridor problem-solved. They combined the discoveries of multiple users to get this AI looking the way they wanted. They had to tune the hell out of it, write a short film, voice act, normal act, buy costumes, teach the AI what they look like, turn those photos into anime images, pop open Unreal Engine to set up a bajillion cameras with different angles so they could superimpose their animated bodies onto a new environment. And even then, they had to add so many things in post. Storytelling, acting, editing, videography—if you don't think the convergence of all these skills is art, then I don't value your opinion on this topic.

And then there's those sassy fingers. I don't like those sassy fingers. And B, how come every time you call this video an anime, you got to use air quotes? "Anime" looks like ass. You made a video called Avatar is an Anime. "Avatar is an anime?" Fight me. You of all people should not be doing the sassy fingers.

In that video, he made the point that anime is a movement—an artistic movement within the medium of animation, not unlike post-modernism or the French New Wave in film. Everything that makes anime anime—the big-eyed aesthetic, the over-the-top action, the mature themes, the overt sexuality—is a part of that movement. The line between anime and not anime is gray. It doesn't even have to be hand-drawn or made in Japan anymore. So if it looks like anime, sounds like anime, and is written like an anime, what's stopping it from being anime?

There's this video of Aaron Blaise, a dude who animates for Disney, reacting to Corridor's behind-the-scenes. Numerous times, he stops the video and points out, "Yo, that's just like how we made Snow White." "No, it's not too different than what we did on Beauty and the Beast." "We shot reference a lot." AI doesn't write the script, make a story, or rotoscope itself. This is an art form—an art form that is very distinct from all other animation we've seen. If you want to call it animation, it's constantly rotoscoped. It has some jank messed-up hands, and yeah, it's got the hands garbled, monster faces, and not to mention their six-fingered thumbnail. Okay, I don't think this will replace animators in the same way that CGI didn't replace animators. But who knows?

Tech is evil. Recently, I visited ChatGPT for the first time, and within 15 minutes, it had quoted Biggie Smalls saying, "I'm slamming like a dungeon dragon, coming around the corner with the gangster lean." Biggie Smalls has never said that. So then I asked it to write the description of a pickle but as a Dark Souls 3 item: "Era, this pickle has withstood the test of time. Once used as a means of preserving food, it now serves as a reminder of the fleeting nature of life. Consume it to restore a small amount of health, but beware the potential side effects of consuming a food item of unknown age and origin." Yeah, in about five years, these things are replacing me.

When I talk about AI, I don't want anyone to be under the impression that I don't sympathize with everyone whose jobs are in jeopardy. I'm scared as hell. But this situation constantly reminds me of the people that freaked out over the Industrial Revolution in 19th-century Britain. Weavers and textile workers were way more important. It could take years to cultivate the skills necessary to weave with the best of them, and it could take several hours to produce very little cloth using a loom. Then some guy is like, "Hey, why pay people when machine work free?" The world agreed. Automated loom factories started popping up around the 1800s. They continued to get more and more badass, and instead of using a single skilled worker on one machine, suddenly one guy could oversee a bunch at once. Now, every once in a while, the machines would eat a woman or small child, but that didn't stop anyone from using them. This is also how our politicians work.

But think back to those weavers—the people who worked for years doing this stuff by hand. They were sort of phased into obsolescence. Would they just take that? No. A group that would be known as the Luddites began burning down factories and destroying knitting frames in protest. This movement was quickly adopted all across England until, finally, the government heard the voices of the people, saw the pain they were in, and… chopped their heads off. (It just says "executed" here, so that's an artistic change by me. I was really proud to find this in the newspaper clipping.) By 1813, the Luddites had faded into history. That's pretty messed up, right?

On the flip side, look at how painters first responded to photography. Paul Delaroche was this hugely influential artist in the 19th century. He has this hard-ass quote after he was allegedly shown a photograph: "From today, painting is dead." We know that photography didn't kill art. There were even artists at the time who were excited by the idea: "We can use the strengths of both mediums to improve painting rather than replace it." But the feeling that technology will one day automate your job and push your skills into obsolescence existed nonetheless. We've seen it happen. It's very hard to tell who's going to be the weavers and who's going to be the painters in this situation. Only the future knows for sure.

I agree with Mother's Basement on a lot of fronts. A really good point he makes is that currently, this AI stuff can't be copyrighted. You can even take a frame from the Corridor video and sell merch with it. As long as the AI is trained on material you don't own, it's not yours. But what if a big studio hires technicians and artists to train AI with material they own? That gives studios a massive advantage over the little guys who can't afford that. And if it gets good enough, workers could even be phased out if they go on strike because, guess what? "We can make up your workload until you accept a lower wage." There are so many ways AI can benefit humanity—conversely, an equal amount of ways it can tear us apart.

Jeff, what the hell does this have to do with Corridor Digital? It seems like the internet has some misplaced aggression. This is a very emotive topic, so I can understand why people might get angry with Corridor at first glance. "Did we just change animation forever? Uh, I sure hope not." But Jeff is tripping when hearing anything Corridor says. He takes the most sinister, non-charitable interpretation every time.

Exhibit A: When I first watched the video, Jeff had me thinking, "Oh, Corridor maybe paid a subscription service for an AI and is charging people for tutorials on how to use it. That's kind of messed up if they're using copyrighted material, which is what will happen if the technology and processes Corridor are advertising—and apparently tutorializing behind the paywall on their website—do take off." This is false. First off, Corridor is using three open-source software to achieve this effect. They don't get money if you use it. Jeff never mentions that. So the "technology and processes Corridor are advertising"—stating it had me confused—but what Corridor did was push a new technique using the software. They got the animations to flicker less and got the AI to stop changing styles constantly. Then they recorded an hour-long tutorial that teaches you how to replicate that same effect.

"One thing I want to talk about is the democratization of this process. This is a situation here where we're looking at a piece of software that's free, that anyone has access to—a process here that we're sharing openly with everyone because everyone's openly shared knowledge with us." But how is it democratizing animation if the tutorial is behind a paywall? Well, I went and made an account. Oh my god, it's free! This long-ass tutorial is free. If you're only after their technique, you can plug in your card number, get 15 days of free usage on their website, and bail. Once we have the hour-long tutorial, it's not really an ad for that—more so the exclusive content on their site if you decide to stay. But Mother's Basement said—wasn't lying per se, but that's pretty scummy and dishonest in my opinion.

Dishonest is the perfect word. Exhibit B: Mother's Basement is being dishonest when he says, "They're clearly pitching this as a disruption to animation, not VFX." Not VFX? So you also say they're advertising how to cut animators out of animation? Let me just say, dog, that is your pitch. Their pitch is literally at the start of your video: "Wouldn't it be cool if you could film yourself and easily turn into anything you want, like a cartoon character?" Over and over and over, Corridor drives home the idea of giving the little guys—the creatives, groups like Corridor—the ability to make animated stuff. Regardless of what you speculate will happen in the future, this is what they're advertising. This is the pitch.

"And people can experiment and improve upon the process, helping all of us get better. That's great. I love that idea—sharing the knowledge. That's what it's all about." How can you, on one hand, claim they're trying to cut animators out of animation and, on the other, clown them for trying to make it more accessible—for them wanting to democratize animation? See, he's doing the fingers again. You can't have both.

Also, Jeff hates black babies. Maybe even Chinese ones too. That's what I took away from the video. That was a joke. Jeff loves all babies. But do you see how I can infer something, construct a straw man, and make that the thing people attack? Sure, you feel they're advertising how to replace animators and disrupt the world of animation, but what about their words and actions leads you to think that's their intent? Otherwise, you're just kind of… Exhibit C-minus.

From the one and a half million views in three days and tens of thousands of likes on that video, we can also see that the tech is already good enough to satisfy a sizable group of people with little to no taste. Weird statement, right? If you clicked like on this video, you have little to no taste. It's not like I don't know AI is cool and people just want to see it. I got a lot going on, okay? I don't need an anime YouTuber—the pinnacle of human performance—telling me I have no taste because I think a video is interesting.

Continuing on that track, Jeff goes on to say, "And knowing what… in terms of visual… Tokyo Revengers… it's entirely possible that studios will get away with it." And correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't this guy bought and paid for by Record of Ragnarok? No offense, but who gives a damn what you think about people's tastes? You endorsed an anime that isn't animated. In case you're not aware, Record of Ragnarok is an anime that was received terribly by fans for how poorly animated it was. One of the fights is a straight-up slideshow. Jeff was paid to do a reaction video to promote the anime.

"Freaking orbital laser-level attacks! I love it! Wow! Mid! I love mid! Mid! Yes! Whoa!" Jeff, in retrospect, realized the taste thing was a very stupid thing to say and had to issue a retraction in the comments.

My point is, if you're going to get so emotional over a topic that you're lashing out at people who don't deserve it, maybe it's time to take a step back. Jeff is mad—so mad—like a lot of people out there. And emotional investment is a great way to construct bad arguments to support your feelings. And they throw very valid speculations about what a future with this technology could look like, but when it comes to what the hell Corridor Digital has to do with it all, you see dishonest arguments, straw men, and this clip that he, for some reason, thought was a gotcha.

Because when it comes to these AI tools: "Hey, sure, it makes it easier to copy people's style. So somebody just rips out somebody's style—call them out and be like, 'You rip that person off! Screw you!'" So then we went and we took a bunch of frames from Vampire Hunter D. Of course. Am I the only one who had to rewatch that to see what point he was making? Nico says, "Let people know whose style you're using," and the next clip is Nico saying which style he's using for the AI. Doesn't this seem perfectly consistent with what he just said? Would shift your perception of things? And it's like, "Aha! Caught red-handed!" Somehow.

I don't think people are wrong to be scared or upset at someone, but I think the internet has a fat case of misplaced aggression. Some dudes tweaking software to make AI mildly more presentable aren't what we should be directing our attention at. I think exploring how we can work alongside and legislate this stuff is… I want a future where art coexists with AI in the same way photography did with painting. And I am positive that right here, right now, there is some way we can take that first step.

"We need an active, aggressive counterculture that pushes back against this nonsense wherever it rears its ugly head. AI anime needs to become as dirty a word as NFT." Your solution is to make it cringe? "We will stop AI from stealing our jobs by bitching about it." The sales volume of NFTs has gone up. How is this your solution?

There's a misconception on the internet that bitching about things somehow either changes people's minds or makes the problem disappear. Let me give you an example. When Nike put out an ad endorsing Colin Kaepernick's activism, people felt the type of way. All across the U.S., men and women thought to themselves, "I'm gonna burn every damn Kaepernick jersey I got!" These were our intellectuals, our leaders. Many joined the cause to be just like them and burned their Nike products to send a message. Nike sales changed dramatically, and the company's value went… up by six billion dollars. The movement, which aimed to be as flashy as possible, actually ended up being a phenomenal advertisement. And a lot of people were just like, "Yep… I wish I had my Nike stuff back."

More recently, there's the Hogwarts Legacy boycott. Hogwarts Legacy is this game set in the Harry Potter universe. Now, the author of Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, had nothing to do with the production, but she does receive royalties. And J.K. Rowling is guilty of transphobia, so she's dead in the eyes of the public. People repulsed by her words decide to boycott the video game as to not support her even a little bit. Fair enough. But boycotting the game wasn't enough. It was these people's responsibility to boycott for you. Tweets rained down upon any streamer caught showing interest in the game. A VTuber was bullied to tears for playing. Hell, people were harassed and picked on by rabid activists. It didn't matter if you were famous; it didn't matter if you weren't. The internet decided that buying this game was an act of hate, and it was their job to stop it. The game just outsold Elden Ring. Turns out, bitching online is a great advertisement for the thing you hate.

I can't be the only one who didn't know or care about this game until the activism. Relax and take notes: "Get the aggressive counterculture to curb the sales of Hogwarts Legacy." No. It did, however, make people feel like they're part of a movement. It was a quick, free placebo for change. It's easy to get behind a movement without thinking of how you're perceived by outside groups because I promise, in both of these cases, people who didn't immediately agree looked at the stuff being posted and thought to themselves, "Okay…" and kept it pushing.

This is exactly what I think when I see someone post a picture of themselves having fun with AI and see those tweets that are like, "This is just you stealing from artists. It's lazy. Stolen from artists that deserve to get paid. Disappointed in you." Do you think anyone has ever read one of these types of tweets and thought, "You know what? You guys are right"? No. "I just want to see how I would look as an anime character. I'm not making merch. It's cool." AI is cool to play with, so people are going to play with it—just as being a wizard is kind of cool. I'll just do it in private if you're gonna yell at me.

Statements like these are great for people who already agree with you, but outsiders are the ones you want. And picking odd fights like these is a terrible way to recruit outsiders. Attacking Corridor is not the way. The march of technology lies not in the hands of YouTubers but in the audience that consumes that media and the laws that govern it. If there's a market for it, it will exist. Simple as that. There's nothing we can do to stop people from refining AI. Right now, thousands of people are tinkering away, trying to find the next foothold towards making the stuff look good. Corridor's video was only possible because of the thousands before them.

So the aim isn't to stigmatize innovating with AI. The cat's out of the bag. The aim isn't to pray people have high enough standards to not like the stuff. I'm sorry, Jeff. The aim is to create a world that coexists with AI. What laws can we enact that will protect animators? What are some general practices that the average person can agree on? I don't have all the answers. I don't even have a good amount of answers, but here's a start:

Corridor should have credited Vampire Hunter D on the main video. I don't think they made an attempt to obfuscate where they got the style. In fact, the behind-the-scenes video credits Vampire Hunter D for the style multiple times. It has damn near the same amount of views as the original. But a good practice to always have is saying, "This AI was trained on images from X." It gives the average person a better idea of what they're looking at, and a quick disclaimer like that on the start would help promote the original works even more.

Here's another one: Jeff was very, very doomer about that copyright stuff. If big studios hire people to train AI on content they own, and indie studios can't afford to do so, that's unfair. True. But since we're in the land of make-believe, let me put something out there: What if someone trains an AI on all the public domain stuff out there? I use public domain stuff for my videos all the time. This way, artists could even opt in instead of having their works taken. I have a friend who knows artists who would like to do something like that. Indie studios can then use this AI and feed it images that they created to replicate that style. And boom—ethical and legal. I don't know if the law would allow you to retain copyright, and I'm not going to learn, but that's kind of how sampling public domain music works, so I figured it'd be fine.

That brings us to the end. I'm not an animator nor a lawyer, so I don't have anything groundbreaking to bring to the table. But if you want to know my opinion, I think a lot of people are freaking themselves out for no reason. The whole "I oppose this thing, so I must attack anything related to it" mentality is silly. If that's how things worked, the vegans running around throwing period blood at butcher trucks and getting run over would have the meat industry on the ropes. That's how I see Jeff saying, "We need an active and aggressive counterculture that opposes AI anime wherever it rears its head." He thinks he's Rosa, but like… Jeff, I love animation, and I respect artists. They should be getting paid more and don't deserve to have their jobs threatened. I just don't see Corridor getting in the way of either of those two things, and there are actual animators that share that feeling.

Jeff deserves respect. He's an OG. If you're interested, check out his original video. I could chop and skew the stuff he's saying—you wouldn't know. But more importantly, subscribe to me. I don't make stuff like this often. I'm gonna be honest—I probably never will again. But anime, manga—hey, uh, where are you going? Don't leave me yet. Please subscribe. Subscribe.

ai generated images make me increasingly sad and tired the more i see them in more and more casual contexts. i dont know how to explain, but it just fills the world with a bunch of nothing. no matter how visually stunning the pictures might be, there's nothing behind it for me. no dedication, no emotions, no feelings, no hard work or creativity, nothing i can truly think about, admire or enjoy. i dont think thats how art is supposed to be

[steddieasitgoes]

Eggs

written for @steddiebingo hop into spring mini event prompt: eggs | rating: g | wc: 1.8K tags: pre-relationship, humor, post-Season 2, Eddie POV

this is really dumb, but I’ve been in a terrible writing rutt because 2025 is being incredibly cruel to me and this idea made me laugh and I needed to write it so here we are

“This is bullshit!” Eddie swears, throwing his arms up and nearly knocking over the display of cheap gum and candy behind him at the register. 

“We have a strict policy,” the clerk says, tapping a worn Post-it note stuck to the small counter separating him from Eddie. 

Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You mean to tell me that big man Bradley himself has requested his minimum wage employees police the amount of eggs that paying customers can buy?”

“Yes,” the clerk says. “One dozen per person under the age of 21.” 

“It’s not alcohol, James. It’s eggs.”

“Eggs, you and your freak friends use to damage property.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going egging?” 

“That’s what they all say.”

Eddie wants to scream.

Sure, shitty kids in this town have been known to buy dozens of eggs just to hurl them at homes and people, but he’s not one of them. At least, not the one that’s doing the throwing; he has had his fair share of being on the receiving end, though, which is why he wouldn’t stoop to such low activities. 

Egging is beneath him. It’s not creative enough of a punishment for the assholes in this town — and yeah, okay, maybe it’s also because he can’t throw an egg to save his life much less hit the right target but that’s beside the point. 

Eddie fingers through his wallet, plucking out a handful of bills. He slams them down over the worn Post-it note and shoves them towards James. “Just take the money and give me my eggs.” 

He reaches over, yanking one of the cartons into his hands. He moves to grab the second, but James’s faster, swatting it out of Eddie’s grasp. It hits the edge of the counter on the way down, opening and sending a dozen of eggs to the ground. A few crack at Eddie’s feet, covering his boots in fresh yolks, while a handful roll down towards the exit.

“Damn it,” James swears, flicking raw egg from his own hands. “That’s the dozen you’re payin’ for.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eddie growls. The entire store is looking at him now, including a bruised and battered Steve Harrington, who's clearly seen better days. At least someone is having a worse day than he is. “I’m not paying for those! I’m paying for three cartons of uncracked eggs.” 

“You’re not paying for a damn thing,” James says, yanking the phone free from it’s base beside the register. “I’m calling the police.” 

Eddie can’t help himself; he laughs this time. “For eggs?” 

“No, for assaulting an employee.” 

“I didn’t even touch you! You touched me!” 

“We’ll see about that,” James says, dialing the number to the Hawkins Police Department. 

Eddie does scream this time, letting out a primal groan of frustration. “You’re a piece of shit James. I hope you get a raise for being the patron saint of fucking eggs!” He snatches the money from the counter, shoving it into the pockets of his jacket before stalking out of the store with both middle fingers raised. 

Fucking James. Eddie knew he should have waited in Mable's long line. She may take twice as long, but at least she would have let Eddie make his totally reasonable purchase. Hell, she probably would have offered him a quiche or egg salad recipe because that’s the kind of person Mable is. She’s considerate -- something James is not. 

But no. He just had to pick stupid James’s line because it was the shortest. He should have known better. It’s always the same with his type — lame ass jocks who peaked in high school and are now stuck in their hometown making life miserable for everyone else. 

Eddie’s too fired up to get behind the wheel right now, so he pulls out a cigarette instead. The nicotine does little to curb the frustration coursing through him, but at least it gives him something to do besides marching back into the store and starting something with James, he knows he’ll lose. 

After taking a long drag, he glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s five to eight; far too late to get in the car and drive the twenty miles to the next down over and pick up three dozen eggs. Gertrude is going to be mad. And then Wayne is going to be pissed when she and her gang retailiate against their trash. 

Fucking James. 

Eddie finishes his cigarette, snubbing out the end with the boot of his foot. He’s about to climb into his van when he’s accosted by none other than Steve Harrington. Great. Just what Eddie needs. Another lame, has-been jock giving him shit for simply existing. 

Steve’s eye is a deep shade of purple. There’s dried blood caked into the corner of his cracked lip, and there are remnants of some cheap band-aid adhesive around a gash above his eyebrow that probably needs stitches. And that’s just his face. He’s walking smaller, curled in like every step he takes closer to Eddie physically pains him. He probably shouldn’t be lugging around two paper bags full of groceries either, but what does Eddie know? He’s not a doctor. 

“You look like shit, Harrington.” 

“A plate to the side of the head will do that to you.” 

Eddie winces. He’s been hit in the head by a fair share of objects, but never a plate which leads him to wonder who Harrington pissed off. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he deflects. “Bet the other guy looks even worse.” 

Steve snorts, immediately grimacing. “Sure, let’s go with that.” 

Eddie fidgets, feet shuffling. This is the longest he’s ever been in Steve’s presence outside of mandated classes, and he doesn’t know what to say to him. Especially not when his face looks like that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to because Steve moves, holding out one of the brown paper bags for Eddie to take. 

“Does the liege need an assistant to his chariot?” Eddie asks, staring at the heavy brown bag Steve’s struggling to keep hold of. “I’m sure one of the fair maidens inside would have assisted you.” 

Eddie waits for Steve to scoff and give him shit for speaking like some medieval idiot; but the judgment doesn’t come. At least, not in the form of harsh words. He does get a front row seat to Steve Harrington’s bitchy eye roll though so it’s not a total loss. 

“These are for you.” 

“For me?” Eddie asks, reluctantly taking the bag from Steve’s hand. He glances inside, almost afraid that something is going to pop out of him. Instead, he finds not one, not two, not even three, but four dozen eggs carefully stacked in the bag. “What the hell?” 

“I heard you arguing with James inside,” Steve says. “He’s a jerk. I mean, the guy is working a minimum wage cashier job and he’s still finding ways to be a total douchebag.” 

“So what? You just went to a different cashier and bought four dozen eggs?” 

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I went back to James with three dozen eggs, and he threw in the fourth for free so I could ‘teach whatever freak that rearranged my face a lesson’.” 

“Fuckin’ hypocrite.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

Eddie blinks, the reality of the situation hitting him all at once. Ten minutes ago he was nearly arrested for trying to buy eggs and now he’s standing out here holding four dozen bought and paid for by Steve “the hair” Harrington who took a plate to the head less than 48 hours ago if his bruises are anything to go by. 

What the hell is going on in this town? 

“I uh,” Eddie starts, then stops, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.” 

“It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, they’re just eggs, right?” 

“Just eggs to you and me maybe,” Eddie says.  “But these things are gold to Gertrude. You saved my ass from her wrath. 

“Gertrude?”

“My pet. She loves eggs.” 

“I didn’t know dogs could eat eggs.” Something washes over Steve in an instant — a look of panic if Eddie’s not mistaken. His eyes grow wide and then narrow into slits as they scan the permiter of the parking lot. His grip on the bag tightens as his entire body goes stiff. And then he’s leaning closer, lips practically touching Eddie’s ear as he drops his voice. “It is a dog, right? Like a furry, wagging tail dog with a full face kind of dog?” 

“Are there dogs without faces?” Eddie asks, suddenly very concerned for Steve’s well-being. If he didn’t get stitches for the gash over his eyebrow, there’s no way he got looked at for a concussion. Maybe he’s hallucinating right now. That would explain why he willingly bought four dozen eggs for Eddie of all people. “Are you concussed still, Harrington? Do you need a ride home or something?”

“I need to know who is eating all these eggs,” Steve says, deathly serious. He takes a step closer, backing Eddie up against the van. “It’s not a dog, is it?” 

Eddie shakes his head. 

“Does it have a face?” 

“Man, what are you—“ 

“Does it have a face, Eddie?” Steve shouts, startling a few shoppers headed to and from their cars. 

Eddie’s never been more grateful for ease droppers than right now because Steve takes a few steps back, giving Eddie enough space to take a deep breath and try to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

“Eddie, I swear to—” 

“Gertrude is a raccoon!” Eddie says in a rush. “She’s a mother racoon who lives in Forest Hills and thinks she owns the damn place. She had babies this year, and I’ve been feeding them so they stay out of our trash. 

Apparently, Gertrude is a gossip and told other raccoons, and now we have a whole horde of them. If I don’t leave scrambled eggs out on the porch, they wreak havoc on the entire park.” 

“Oh.” Steve takes several steps back now, clearly satisfied by Eddie’s answer. “Are they cute?” 

Eddie’s not a hundred percent sure it’s possible to get whiplash from a conversation, but if it is, he’s experiencing a pretty severe case of it right now. “Are you sure you’re not concussed?” 

Steve waves him off. “Hop gave me the all clear last night. Told me to ice it with some peas, which is why I came here.” 

“Okay…” 

“So is she cute? This Gertrude raccoon?” 

“I mean, she’s a raccoon, so yes, obviously.”

“Right,” Steve nods, then glances at the bag in Eddie’s hand. “Four dozen eggs is a lot for one person to make. Do you want some help?” 

Jesus H. Christ, what is going on right now? 

“You, Steve Harrington, want to help me make scrambled eggs for a family of raccoons?” 

Steve shrugs. “Beats sitting at home alone with a bag of peas on my head.” 

“What the hell,” Eddie mutters to himself, before turning to Steve. “Alright, Harrington. You can come help, but no distractions. If we don’t have eggs out on the porch by 9:30, Gertrude will make us pay.” 

“Nothing’s scarier than a hungry woman,” Steve jokes. “Lead the way.” 

[homemadesterekpie]

im still such an og Hale pack enjoyer for real. i think about them all the time these days. Derek, Boyd, Erica, Isaac and Stiles just chilling together.

it starts awkwardly because they’re not used to eachother yet but the sheer instincts they all have to bond together is so strong the awkwardness feels just like background noise.

Scott having chosen the Argents while Stiles chose the wolves there’s this inevitable rift that forms between them. Stiles having been devoted to Scott for so long it’s obviously painful for him for a while and the wolves senses it.

especially Derek with his new Alpha powers, he can smell it on Stiles, his grief at losing his best friend. but he can also smell resignation and insistent determination.

Stiles does nothing in halves, when he’s in, he’s all in.

they start hanging out almost every day. not doing anything special most days. The betas train, Derek guides them, Stiles watches, he reads. Derek started going through the burnt out shell of his home and found some books and other things to salvage and let Stiles read through them.

and somehow that small thing almost moves Stiles to tears. Derek trusting him with the painful remains of his past life. Stiles is barely just starting to understand just how painful it’s all been for Derek up until now. and how it still tortures him. so having Derek casually show him the smoke smelling books and telling him he can read them if he wants to makes Stiles want to do something stupid like kiss Derek on the cheek and hug him. instead he fights tears and he thanks Derek sincerely as Derek just watches him intently.

It feels weird for Derek to have a pack now. It had been him and Laura for so long that his wolf had been content with that fact. but becoming an Alpha changed everything and he doesn’t know how Laura had been able to keep from changing people to add to their pack for all those years in New York because the drive to do so was almost impossible to resist. but Laura had always been the strong one, she had been raised to be the Alpha while Derek had been raised to become her beta. but he hopes he can make her proud. he hopes he can be half the Alpha she was.

its a relief to have numbers though. it feels safer and it’s easier to breath. he has people to take care of now. he has people to protect and provide for. he has people to patrol his territory with. he can secure his territory’s borders. he can start parley with the hunters occupying his territory.

it’s Stiles who brings it up. they’ve been a pack for a while now. almost a year. summer vacation is around the corner. the betas are strong now, they know how to fight, they know how to kill. meanwhile, Stiles has been going through Derek’s books obsessively. He started taking notes on loose paper but then started transcribing them more neatly into notebooks.

one late afternoon, when the pack is spending the day at the small lake deep in the preserve, Stiles sitting on the bank and reading, he asks Derek if they should consider dealing with the hunters.

ever since the pack has started growing stronger and more confident: patrolling the borders every night, contacting neighbouring packs to tekindle old alliances, Derek finally having his burnt out house torn down. the hunters have been making themselves known more insistently.

Chris Argent has been showing up with his daughter in the preserve hiking, more than once, both of them armed to the teeth. Strangers smelling of gunpowder and wolfsbane have been spotted in town a lot more often. actually, Stiles is pretty sure they’re being followed.

even Stiles who doesn’t have enhanced senses, spotted them all over town. once when out with his dad for dinner, a duo of them had come into the diner and sat at a booth not far from them. Stiles was certain he had seen them before. yes, he could swear he had seen them when he drove back home a few days ago after spending the day with the betas.

Stiles had watched as his dad had tensed when he also noticed the hunters sitting at their booth, ordering food. it was only after, when they were leaving the diner that his dad had asked Stiles if everything was good.

Stiles has told his father about werewolves a few months prior. he hadn’t gone into too much details but the sheriff knew about the pack and that Stiles was part of it. so Stiles shared to his dad his suspicions about the hunters. the next day, the sheriff gave Stiles a gun and took him to the gun range a few towns over. Stiles already knew how to use a gun but it had been a while since handling one so he made sure Stiles reacquainted himself. he also told Stiles that he would start keeping an eye on the Argents and waved away Stiles’ protests about not being worth endangering his job.

so this is why Stiles had to let Derek know they should definitely consider making a move. Derek just says yeah they should. he also confesses having been following the hunters’ movements for a while now. Stiles is taken aback because he had no idea of this??? and the betas hadn’t either from their reactions. they all stopped their swimming to look at Derek with various looks of surprise and betrayal. especially Boyd, whom had naturally worked his way to the second in command spot at Derek’s side.

so they decide to have an impromptu pack meeting right there on the bank of the small lake. they have a picnic and they talk things through as a pack, together. it feels so right to do so. this is what things are all about, Stiles distantly thinks as he watches and listens to Derek explain the hunters’ patterns of movement. a wolf pack, deep in the wilderness of their territory, ensuring the survival of their own.

they decide that Stiles will be sent with Boyd to the main Argent house and deliver the date and time and place for a parley meeting. Stiles recites the words he prepared beforehand , making sure to use the terms he learned from all the books he read.

there will be no violence. but if the hunters were to break that rule, the pack would be forced to take measures to protect themselves.

Chris’ face stays hard and impassive as he listens to Stiles but Allison isn’t as good at hiding her emotions, her face betraying her disdain and hatred. Stiles can’t help thinking those emotions don’t suit her, it makes her look a lot like her mother. the entire time Stiles speaks, she keeps her eyes on Boyd but the imposing beta doesn’t even bat an eyelash. It’s only when Allison’s eyes move to Stiles with the same animosity, that Boyd takes a step closer to Stiles, almost moving in front on him. a soft rumble growing louder the longer Allison looks at Stiles.

Chris’ eyes snap to Boyd for a second before falling to Allison and he stares her down until she has no choice but to lower her eyes, whole body shaking in anger. Boyd stops growling but he doesn’t step down or away from Stiles.

when they finally leave, Boyd walks with Stiles at his back and keeps his eyes the two hunters until they’re both back inside the house and Stiles is safe in the jeep.

Boyd and Stiles share a look when they’re both sat in the jeep. words aren’t necessary here. Boyd has done more than words could ever express so Stiles just pats Boyd’s shoulder, smiling and then he grips it for a few seconds. he’d prefer to hug him but in the jeep it would be too awkward so this would have to do for now.

not long after, the meeting happens. Derek, Boyd and Stiles arrive early. it’s happening at the outskirts of town, almost at the border of the territory. Erica and Isaac are stationed close by and they howl in warning when the hunters approach.

when Scott gets out of the SUV along with Chris, Allison and two other unfamiliar hunters, he’s the only one who reacts. he gasps and his jaw falls open in indignation but he immediately shuts it and rage courses through his veins. he never thought he would ever be feeling like this when it came to Scott but here he is. the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his back burns as his hand itches with the urge to take it out. he could shoot Scott, just to show him a lesson, he doesn’t even have wolfsbane bullets, he’d recover. but this meeting is more important than his ex best friend’s idiotic decisions.

he’s seething in it when Derek’s big hand falls to his shoulder and squeezes for a moment. Stiles calms down almost instantly. his breathing calms and he touches Derek’s hand softly with his fingers in acknowledgment, in thanks and Derek lets go. Scott’s eyes follows the movements and vague disgust blooms on his face.

Derek openly stares at Scott as he walks up along with Chris and his daughter. his stare is hard and unforgiving and he stares until Scott lowers his own gaze to the ground, fidgeting.

Derek leads the meeting and he’s surprised when Chris is the one to lead his own party. he was certain Allison was the one in charge now. She turned 18 and had finished her training months prior. that meant Chris and his men didn’t consider her ready for some reason. it must be because of the way she can’t seem to be able to keep her feelings in check. her hatred and discomfort at being in their presence is so palpable, Derek couldn’t avoid the smell even if he wanted to.

the terms of the Hale pack are brought forward. Hunters have a month to leave Hale territory or face repercussions. if they want to parley in the future, after leaving the territory, they will reach out to the pack for a meeting, the proper way. any other manner of ways used to reach out to the pack, will be considered a breach of the terms and the pack will be forced to take action.

Derek is implacable, his word is law. Stiles feels it in his bones, the skin at the back of his neck prickles with goosebumps. the wind picks up, the trees trashing with it and it becomes undeniable just how powerful Derek truly is at this moment.

the nematon is alive. Stiles has been working tirelessly for months with Deaton to purify it and then secure it’s connection to the Hale bloodline. tonight was the first test in checking the connection and the result is more than promising and Stiles can’t help giving a little smirk.

Chris looks around them furtively, feigning calm but there’s beads of sweat forming at his forehead. he watches Derek for a long time as the trees trash and creak under the force of the wind around them. the ground starts to shake slightly, pebbles and gravel rattling about.

it goes on until Chris finally extends a hand toward Derek and accepts the terms. Derek simply grips Chris’ hand in his own and they shake on it. the ground stops shaking and the the wind slowly die down to a gentle breeze.

Erica and Isaac show up at that moment, making themselves known and the entire pack watch as Chris, Allison, Scott and the two other hunters walk back to the SUV and drive away.

Stiles knows they’re out of earshot once the betas’ tense postures finally relaxes. Derek stays tense for much longer but that’s only before his senses are sharper than the betas.

Stiles and the betas celebrate by sharing hugs and a few nuzzles to cheeks. then Stiles walks over to his Alpha and just has to wait him out a few more seconds before Derek’s posture also relaxes.

he reaches out to place a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him into his personal space. he pushes his forehead to Stiles’ own and they breath the same air for a few moments. Stiles lets his eyes fall shut and he grips Derek’s henley at his side.

eventually, they separate and Derek’s hand shifts to lay to the side of his neck, thumb brushing back forth. Stiles can’t look away from Derek’s gorgeous face, his heart pounding in his chest. emotions surge up inside of him and the next thing you know Stiles is kissing Derek on the lips, arms around those broad, strong shoulders.

his uncontrollable emotions seem to burst inside of him and tears prickle at his eyes behind his tightly shut eyelids. he wants to give Derek everything. everything he has, everything he is. he wants Derek to own it all.

the Alpha must feel it all because when he puts his arms around Stiles he squeezes him so tight it borders on painful but Stiles doesn’t even notice it.

when they finally let go of eachother, the betas are gone. they probably left pretty quickly, giving them privacy. they probably went ahead to wait for them at the diner where they said they would regroup after the meeting.

Derek entwines his fingers with Stiles’ before pulling him gently towards the waiting camaro. Stiles steps up quickly and lets go of his fingers to instead hug Derek’s entire arm, smiling brightly. he may let out a few giggles, he’s so giddy he can’t help it.

after the diner, Stiles invites Derek over and they end up watching a movie in the living room since his dad is out pulling a double shift but Stiles can’t seem to concentrate on any of it. after the movie, Stiles asks Derek if he wants to sleep over. he can’t look at Derek in the eyes when he asks because it’s actually the first time Stiles does and there’s arousal thrumming in his veins that he knows for a fact Derek can smell.

he slowly makes his way up the stairs, knowing Derek will follow. at the landing he takes off his t-shirt and drops it to the floor. his jeans, underwear and socks are next, then he hears the creaking of the stairs and he knows Derek is almost at the landing.

he enters his bedroom, still keeping it slow but he chances a look back from under his lashes to watch Derek enter his bedroom with all the grace of the apex predator he truly is.

a shiver runs up Stiles’ spine and goosebumps spreads over his entire body. Derek’s eyes are glowing blood red and he’s fixated on Stiles so intently, it’s like he can feel the gaze on his skin like a physical touch.

heart pounding in his chest, he breaks eye contact to climb into his bed and settle comfortably onto his back. their eyes meet again and he watches as the Alpha stalks stalks deeper into his bedroom. their eye contact break again when Derek pulls off his henley and then Stiles’ eyes are naturally pulled down to watch Derek undo his belt.

he’s panting as Derek pushes down his jeans and underwear at the same time and he spreads his legs almost on instincts. slowly oh so slowly, Derek climbs into bed to settle onto top of Stiles and in between his spread thighs.

Stiles rummage under his pillow until his hand finds the bottle of lube he left there earlier in the day exactly for this. he presses it to Derek’s hand. he doesn’t want to wait anymore. he needs it, he needs it so bad.

Derek doesn’t use the lube right away though, instead he folds Stiles almost in half and opens him up with his mouth and tongue for a long time. Stiles squirms and moans, his dick so hard it hurts but he won’t come. he knows he won’t and he doesn’t want to, he wants to come on Derek’s dick, like he should but he’s already close so fucking close.

when Derek finally pushes two fingers into him Stiles is whinny and he’s panting hard. he knows he’s babbling but he’s not sure what he’s saying. when the third finger goes in his ass it starts making an obscene squelching sound as Derek’s fingers thrusts in and out of him. there’s no discomfort at all and he knows he’s ready, he’s so ready. he tells Derek as much and Derek who’s also panting at this point, takes out his fingers and strokes the lube onto his dick before moving his knees up a little for better leverage and lines himself up.

he kisses Stiles as he breaches him and continues to kiss him as he slowly pushes until he’s balls deep. Stiles can only moan and grip Derek’s shoulders hard as the stretch borders on painful for a moment until his body adjusts.

he doesn’t even have to say anything for Derek to know exactly when the discomfort of the stretch abates because the second it does Derek starts moving. slow steady thrusts that leaves Stiles whining into Derek’s kisses.

slowly but steadily, Derek picks up the pace and then they’re both panting too hard to kiss so they pant into eachother’s mouth for a while, Stiles sometimes babbling unintelligibly. Derek then moves his kisses to Stiles’ cheek, down his throat and settling there. he lavishes Stiles’s throat in open mouthed kisses and starts making a constant rumbling sound in his chest that Stiles can feel under his own skin.

with a hand in Derek’s hair holding him in place at his throat, he slides his other hand down to Derek’s ass to edge him on and he starts begging his Alpha to go harder. Derek doesn’t need to be told twice, on the next thrust he slams back in so hard Stiles screams.

after that, Derek fucks him so hard it’s hard to make any sound. the wolf is growling on top of him, leaving bite marks at his throat and Stiles arches into the thrusts, pleasure climbing until he’s on the edge.

then Derek’s thrusts go erratic and he’s growling louder before he pierces the soft skin of Stiles’ neck at his shoulder with his sharp teeth and Stiles is coming. spurts after spurts of come painting the length of his stomach and torso while Derek spills deep inside of him.

there’s a moment of stillness, Stiles breathing really hard and Derek twitching with aftershocks. the moment passes and Derek lowers himself gently to rest his weight completely on top of Stiles. Stiles lets out a small contented sigh. he’s so happy. he’s so sated. he’s done it. he gave Derek everything. he’s Derek’s now. he’s so happy.

when they’ve both regained their breathing and Stiles starts to doze off, Derek nuzzles his cheek and whispers “you’re mine, i love you so much.” in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles’ heart flutters and warmth spreads in his chest.

“yes, God yes, i love you too.” Stiles whispers back.

[xoxochb]

“okay, first is— percy.”

“I’m listening. watching. actively participating in this fashion show, go on.”

you huff. “so rate this first dress. and give me your honest opinion, don’t just say it looks good because I’m wearing it.”

percy scans his green eyes over the first article of clothing from your shopping spree. it’s a simple dress, strapless and white littered with tiny pink flowers, ruffling to flow around your ankles.

“I’d like it a hell of a lot more on the floor.”

your expression is unamused. you rest your hands on your hips. “the dress, perseus. not me in the dress.”

he slides to the edge of the bed, pulling you into him by your waist. “I think it’s nice, sweet girl. very ruffl-y, it’s fun to play with.” his hand begins to toy with the said ruffles.

“rate it out of ten.” you peck his forehead quickly.

“a ten. for the ruffles.”

“great! thank you for your feedback. next dress now.”

you walk back to your dresser and strip of the one you currently wear and slip on the next. this one is multicolored, thin straps and similar ruffles on the skirt like before.

you turn back to a smiling percy. “opinions?”

“very colorful. like a crayon box.”

you furrow your brows. “what…?”

“in a good way!” percy stands and walks over to you, backing you against the dresser. “this one’s my favorite.”

“rate it.”

“five out of ten.”

“five? that’s it?”

he shakes his head, fingers looping around the straps. “I like when there’s none of these. easier access.”

“percy.”

he smirks and kisses you quickly. “next one.”

you push him off of you and discard of the second dress, putting on the next outfit— which is a separate shirt and fairly long skirt.

the shirt had been a maybe to buy because at first glance you thought it to be too low cut. then again, it was cute so it had to have been worth it. the skirt was white and nothing else, but nonetheless stylish and worth the money for its comfort.

“rate.” you turn back around again.

“I lied.” percy’s eyes fall obviously to your cleavage. “this one is my favorite.”

“pervert. tell the truth.”

you hold your hands over the exposed skin in hopes he’ll fess up.

“I’m not lying! this one looks great.” he puts his hands on your waist where your shirt rides upwards. “they all look great. very stylish. you should go into the fashion industry, sweet girl.”

“and your favorite?”

“uhmmm…” he taps his fingers against your skin. “the first one. the white one.”

“really? why?”

percy throws his hands up dramatically. “can I not just like things because I like them?”

“no. tell me what you liked about it.”

“it has ruffles? and it was white?”

“what the hell does the color have to do with anything?”

“it’s just your color.”

you roll your eyes. “you say every color is ‘my color’.”

“because you look good in ever color.”

you run your fingers lightly over your face. you should’ve known better than asking your boyfriend of all people for opinions. he’d say anything looked good.

“this is the last time I’m putting on clothes for you to judge. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

first dress -> second dress -> third dress

[with-my-calamitous-love]

for you, i would ruin myself / a million little times

o. dazai x reader

dazai reads poetry to you after sex ・❥・mentions of sex / physical intimacy (nothing specified) and aftercare

✎ headcanon i’ve had for a while and wanted to write on it <3 here you go.

special tag for: @osamucide because i love you (im sorry this took 86 years)

song: illicit affairs

dazai, obviously, loves to fuck you. feeling your skin pressed against his, lips embedded against yours lazily while he finds different ways to draw pleasure on your body. for him, its a point of distraction. you’re too busy feeling good to feel empty, even if its for a moment.

but its that moment after the high, the returning back to earth, he especially loves. almost reluctantly, he removes himself from you, slowly easing with gentleness you’d expect from him. he was never one for brash, brawny movements. just quiet intimacy with quiet thoughts that speak volumes. he catches his breath with you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you sink into the pillows beneath him. he tentatively lifts his head from your shoulder as he collapses next to you.

he waits a few minutes. if you fall asleep, he’ll fall asleep next to you. if you’re still awake, he’ll throw some sweatpants on and grab you some water and take a shower. if you haven’t had enough, he’ll invite you to join him.

but it seems unlikely, since right now, you’re still reeling from it. stars and clouds swirl around in your eyes as he stares, lips curved with content. while he waits, he grabs a book from the nightstand.

the pages are browned and worn out. corners of pages have been folded as crude bookmarks, and the last few pages are wrinkled from the time atsushi knocked over a cup of water on his desk. though he offered to replace it, dazai never seemed to mind the way it aged, like the book itself mattered more. almost as if it were a gift from an old friend.

he sees you shift over to face him in his peripheral vision. instinctively, he extends an arm to you so you can sit up next to him against the headboard.

you don’t normally look through his things. though he wouldn’t mind- he doesn’t have much to hide, anyway. the things dazai does keep hidden are things he doesn’t have to worry about you stumbling across. he has quite a large collection of books, and seemingly, he’ll read or has read, anything. biographies, manuals, tales of clandestine meetings or stolen stares. surely, there should be something in that pile you would enjoy. some titles have peaked your interest, but you’ve never picked one up for yourself.

perhaps its because nothing could match the way dazai reads to you.

so you prompt him, though you both already know the answer: “what are you reading?”

he smiles as your voice, scratched from your previous activities hits his ear. the blankets pool around his waist, gaining all the warmth he needs simply by being next to you. “what do you want to hear?”

he gives you the choice because, to him, all poems, with even a small hint of love, in some way, shape, or form, were about you.

which is why he loves your answer so much: “anything, ‘samu.”

his fingers flip to a random page. 113.

brown eyes skim over the words, softening in recognition once he reaches the final verse. he clears his throat, his adam’s apple sitting beneath the skin you’ve kissed and touched many times before.

Leave the perfume on the shelf

That you picked only for him

Leave no trace behind

Because you don't even exist

A dwindling, mercurial high

illicit affairs

clandestine meetings, stolen stares

They show their truth one single time

But they lie, and lie, and lie

A million little times.

his voice is soft, sanguine. he’s never putting on a grandiose performance but never flattening out the words into boredom. he delivers each syllable with justice, with poised pronunciation but a witty flare that is uniquely his.

you can see in his eyes the words resonate with something he’d like to believe he buried. something about betrayal. about feeling betrayed when you have no reason to feel that way, or simply because they left. or about remembering someone for longer than you’ve known them.

but he shoves it down with a question. “do you like that one?”

his cologne has worn off. his hair, though it was never exactly neat, is feathering over his shoulders in coffee-brown tangles. you can see that flushed hint of red on his lips, beginning to swell from kissing too hard. his sleek clothes are somewhere on the floor, and you can feel- from his arm wrapped around you- residual sweat.

still, he notices how you look at him like he’s the entire world, even after reading the poem that brought up so many pushed-down things for him. you see colours in him you can’t see with anyone else.

he gazes at that colour in you, while he awaits your answer.

“i liked it.” you smile, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“thats all?”

“osamu, you could read a grocery list and i’d listen.”

you get a soft laugh out of him.

he presses his lips against your forehead, coaxing you to sleep as he lays you down. he only reads a few more poems in his head, though he may as well have the letters memorized.

a grocery list. he thinks to himself. there was a time in his life grocery lists were the furthest from his head. death and destruction seem to take up a majority of your mind, and groceries are left on the back burner.

oh, but with you? he can spend every sunday morning unpacking expensive, store bought ingredients with you, and momentarily forget about everything else in the world.

for as long as his heart remains beating, he’ll savour all of it. a million little times.

[revelboo]

Your stories of TF x human remind me of this

🤣 I love this.

Everything this Megs does just backfires completely on him

Broken Arrow Pt 20

TFP Megatron x Reader

• “Do you know what you just did?” He growls, a big hand over his face, his other hand fisted in your harness and you tense. Consider elbowing him in the face and running for it even though you know there’s no where to go. What’s he going to do to you now that he has what he wanted? Now that you’re no longer amusing to him? You were just so tired of resisting him, trying to keep him at arm’s length when you actually kind of like him, maybe even love him as awful as he is. And you freeze.

• “Fuck,” you breathe and he lifts his arm to stare at you. Registering your wide eyes. Figured it out then? Laughing bitterly, he tugs on your harness to send you sprawling on him. Had wanted everything, all of you to fill in those jagged gaps into himself. To not be alone and when you finally submit, you do this to him? Spark him? And you immediately shove at him, hand splayed against his face. Trying to get away.

• You don’t really love this asshole, do you? Struggling as he refuses to let you get away, he’s laughing again. Completely unbothered. He’s a jerk. He’s mean for no reason sometimes. He freaking bites you like a dog. Stuck you in this stupid, glittery harness. And he’s also touched you so gently like you’re made of glass. Clung to you like you’re all that keeps him afloat, keeping him in check. You saw his truth when you bonded with him, the injustices and hurt. Theybetrayals that forged him. And anger had resonated through you at how he’d been treated. Groaning, now you’re covering your face with your hands. What the heck is wrong with you? Cause you do love him.

• “Feeling guilty about sparking me?” He growls and you stare at him through your fingers, expression utterly blank. Like you have no idea. Going still, he stares back. But. You’d accepted his bond fully. Accepted when he’d coaxed you to let him spark you. ‘I what now?’ You ask and he bares his denta, features twisting in fury. Hope backwards are humans to not even understand something so simple? To have no clue what he’s been asking? Because if you didn’t understand, you hadn’t really accepted him.

• Love or not, you know that look. That’s the expression he had when he smashed that poor Vehicon face first into a console. Smacking him in the face, you roll off of him and shriek when he rolls and drags you back by your stupid harness, biting your arm when you try to shove his head away and he’s not breaking your skin, but he’s snarling like a rabid dog the entire time. And he’s trying to drag you to him for a kiss when you bite his lip as hard as you can.

• Mouth crashing against yours, tasting energon, he shifts to straddle you, head lifting, he swipes his lip with a servo. Sees his energon smeared on your own lip. “You’re going to a terrifying carrier,” he growls, trying to ignore the fact that technically he’s the carrier as impossible as it should be. “Our sparklings are going to be feral, vicious things.” And you’re just breathing heavily, eyes narrowing as he lazily straightens your harness. Defeated for now. Do you have any idea how much he loves that fire and resistance? How much he adores you and the challenge of winning you over? Cupping your cheek, he slides a servo against your bottom lip. Not at all surprised when you bite him again without hesitation.

Previous

[hellsslibrary]

I have a request for you!! How about a Sae being fucked after he lost a match and frustrated he fights with the reader, one thing leads to another and he ends up crying while the reader penetrates him.

CAN YOU DO IT PLEASE, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT VERY MUCH, I DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH, I SPEAK SPANISH, BUT I LOVE WHAT YOU WRITE.

Thanks!

MASTERLIST is here.

#a.n. : hey, bitches. Don't ask where I've been, you can assume that life has been too good and I've been in heaven for the last... A couple months(?) and I have 89 requests. I'll do them, yeah. I'll try, really hard. I'll do a couple today. ,

!!Warnings: top!male!reader, bottom!Sae, Sae is slightly more dominant but there's no dom/sub, crying (obviously), by the way, it's mostly hurt/comfort, not sexual contact, but a little later in the beginning and at the very end it's still there (I was drawn to something more tragic, and I also just can't imagine Sae crying during sex, so I did it emotionally), pretty wholesome overall!!

"You... regret giving that ball away, huh?" The question escapes your lips as Sae rewinds the footage of his match for the thirty-seventh time, probably trying to get something across to you, himself, or both of you.

"No regrets. I'm annoyed. If I knew that striker was that bad..." Sae sighs, running a hand through his hair, and then turns his gaze to you.

And his eyes are surprisingly thoughtful as he pokes your chest lightly and then just pushes you, causing your figure to fall onto the couch, and he is hovering over you, stroking the curve of your chin.

"You're going to fuck me... Now," Sae says it a little hesitantly, not wanting to force you to do anything, especially just out of spite, but his eyes immediately widen when you switch him and you, instead pressing him to the couch.

And here we are...

"You're always so tight after matches, you know?" a rhetorical question escapes your lips and you feel Sae's palm on your ass squeeze.

"All my muscles are tense... It's normal," Sae mutters, looking down, watching how your cock disappears and reappears inside him.

And this time, for some reason, it really fascinates him. The older Itoshi exhales sharply, looking up at your face, which immediately becomes slightly worried when you see his clouded gaze... Which shouldn't have appeared in the first round.

"Is it okay? We can stop or..." you stop your movements, but squeak when you feel his heel kicking your thigh, and you resume the pace, and he just shakes his head and whispers: "It's okay, really. Don't be an idiot, you haven't fucked me properly yet."

Sae's voice twitched slightly at the end, when the head of your dick rested exactly where it should. And his hands instinctively grabbed your shoulders, pressing your body into his own and his breath caught when he felt your warm, rapid breath on the skin of his neck.

That fucking moment with the ball continues to spin in his head. That cocky smile of that brunette when he said he would score. His own perfect, beautiful pass... And that one-celled bastard sends the ball fifteen meters beyond the net.

Why does he really care so much? He shouldn't care, it's not his fault he trusted that idiot. He would have stuck with Sae anyway, but there was still a feeling of anxiety in his heart back then, a feeling of fucking insecurity that he least wanted to feel now. Right now, he should feel amazing when you penetrate him, hug you, kiss you, listen to your stupid compliments and let you know how good he feels.

But he couldn't.

He thought it would make him get rid of everything. Of course it feels good. Who wouldn't feel good when their man holds them so carefully and does all this to their body? But this... It's just not like usual.

Sae feels an unpleasant lump in his throat, which he can't swallow, and a traitorous sob escapes his lips. His shoulders are shaking. The legs wrapped around your hips fall. And his cold hands immediately cover his face.

You stop immediately, not expecting him to cry. Well, not during sex, obviously. Does it hurt? Or maybe he doesn't like it? Are you overdoing it? You...

"Get out of me."

Four quiet words break you out of your thoughts and you immediately pull out your dick and Sae removes one hand from his face, which was already tear-stained, his eyes and nose turned bright red and he looked into your eyes.

"What happened? Did I do something wrong, Sae?" you ask hesitantly, and he just shakes his head and kisses the corner of your lips so that you don't worry too much, and then buries his face in your chest, just shaking and soaking your T-shirt with tears.

"I don't know why I'm crying," the Japanese mumbles, clinging to you like a cat clinging to a radiator in winter. He seeks comfort in you, such a rare, but such a necessary consolation for the shaky balance in his soul.

You just hug him and kiss the top of his head, burying his face in the midfielder's disheveled hair, starting to rock him in your arms and humming some melody. Even if it was stupid or you couldn't sing and it sounded out of tune. Just to let Sae know he wasn't alone, to affect almost all of his senses.

"... Do you want me to beat him up?" You ask as the shaking in his shoulders subsides slightly, though the crying continues judging by the liquid seeping through the fabric onto your chest.

"Seriously? If I tell you to kill him, you will?" He asks, wiping his face, exhaling shakily, trying to catch his breath and then looking up at you.

"Only if you visit me in prison."

Sae snorts at this, but says nothing, because words are unnecessary here. Completely unnecessary, his hands fall on your shoulders and he climbs into your lap, looking into your eyes, and then kisses the tip of your nose.

"I will."

You blush slightly at this, which makes Sae smile a little, almost imperceptibly. Just a slight upturn of the corners of her lips, and then it turns into something more sly.

"I owe you, don't I?"

He asks and you twitch as he takes your now semi-hard cock and lifts his hips, rubbing the rim of it right against the head.

"What? Sae— Fuck!" You breathe out, grabbing his hips as he sits down on your cock in one easy motion... Well, at least you comforted the man you love, right?

"Relax. It's your turn to cry, love," Sae mumbles, leaning down to your neck, kissing the crook of your shoulder and neck, starting to move his hips in a figure eight, and your cock immediately begins to harden again, causing Sae to only moan in pleasure.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: angst, emotional distress, breakup, implied sex, unspoken goodbyes, unresolved tension, heartbreak, depiction of a deteriorating relationship, quiet suffering, post-intimacy grief, crying, intense emotional vulnerability

⍣ ೋ notes: haven't written angst in a while so this was a very healing experience lmao. lmk if u guys like it or i should just stick to smut

He doesn’t knock anymore.

The door opens with a soft click and closes even softer, as if he’s afraid even the sound of his arrival might break whatever delicate thread is still holding this together. You don’t get up to meet him. You don’t need to. His footsteps are familiar now—measured, heavy in a way they never used to be.

He smells like the studio. That particular mix of metal, sweat, and burnt-out hours. The air shifts when he walks in, not because anything changes, but because he has.

So have you.

Chan doesn't say anything when he finds you curled on the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs, TV casting flickering shadows across the room that neither of you are watching. His eyes are already on you—tired, rimmed red, soaked with the kind of fatigue that sleep doesn't fix.

He drops his bag by the door and shrugs off his jacket like he's shedding a second skin. His hoodie underneath is crumpled, sleeves bunched around his elbows, faint coffee stains on the cuff. He runs a hand through his hair, the curls flattened by a beanie he must've left in the car.

You don't say anything.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You used to run into his arms like gravity. You used to ask how his day was, what he ate, if he was okay. Now you just stare, waiting for something you can’t name—something you’re afraid won’t come.

He stands there for a second too long. Like he wants to say something but doesn't have the strength to lift the words to his lips. And then, without permission, he’s crawling onto the couch beside you, tucking himself into your side like he still belongs there.

You let him.

His head drops to your chest. He exhales hard. Like being near you is the only place he can breathe—but not for long.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur, your voice quiet.

“I didn’t know if I should.”

The words sit in the space between you like wet cement.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s always not sure. Not sure if he should stay. Not sure if he should go. Not sure if he can be both Bang Chan and yours without losing himself in the split.

Your fingers brush through his hair automatically. Habit. He shudders like it’s the first gentle thing he’s felt in days.

“You could’ve called,” you say.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up.”

You close your eyes. Because that one stings.

He shifts, turning into your touch, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks at you like he used to. Like you’re the safest place he’s ever known. Then his gaze drops to your lips, your throat, your hands. His expression changes. Cracks.

“Can I stay?” he asks, voice breaking around the edges.

He’s never asked before. That’s the worst part.

You nod anyway.

He kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough. It’s frantic. Like he’s trying to outrun something. Like if he presses hard enough, you’ll forget how long it’s been since he last said I love you without guilt in his eyes.

You kiss him back. Because he still tastes like home, even if you know it’s a house being torn down brick by brick.

His hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt like he’s trying to feel your heartbeat, like he needs proof you’re still letting him do this. Still letting him stay. Your body arches toward him like it always does, but your chest is caving in around the space where the truth lives.

This is ending.

Not today, maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

And both of you know it.

He pulls away, gasping like he’s surfaced from deep water. His forehead presses to yours.

“I’m trying,” he whispers, like a confession. “I swear, I’m trying.”

You nod again, but your eyes sting.

Because so are you.

And it’s still not enough.

______________________________________________________________

You end up in bed, but not to sleep.

Clothes long forgotten on the floor. Skin slick, lips swollen, breath still uneven in your chest. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, your body still buzzing from him—too warm, too close. Like the heat is trying to make up for everything you didn’t say.

He lies beside you, propped on an elbow, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not hunger, not even longing. Just a kind of quiet desperation. Like he’s trying to memorize this—you—before he has to let go.

Not like he used to, when he looked at you like you were the future.

Now he looks like he’s already mourning it.

You watch him back.

His eyes are so bloodshot you wonder if he’s cried recently. Or if he just hasn’t blinked in a while. Either way, he looks wrecked.

And he’s never been more beautiful.

“What are we doing, Chris?” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t shake. It’s steady in that numb way, like you’ve accepted you won’t like the answer.

He exhales slowly, eyes falling to your lips. Not to kiss. Just to look.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

That makes his jaw clench. His hand twitches against the blanket, fingers curling into the sheets like he wants to hold something but can’t.

“You’re the only thing that still feels real,” he says.

You blink, hard. But it’s not enough to stop the ache building in your throat.

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. Because the truth is, he is already gone. Not entirely. Not on purpose. But his body is torn in ten different directions every hour of the day, and his heart never quite comes home anymore.

Bang Chan isn’t just a name anymore. It’s a weight. A crown. A prison.

And there’s no room in it for you.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Your voice comes out softer this time.

“I keep thinking if we can just make it to the next comeback. The next tour. The next break. That eventually, we’ll be okay again.”

Silence.

“But I don’t think we’re going to make it to anything, Chris.”

You hear him shift beside you. Feel the mattress dip as he leans closer, his breath ghosting across your cheek.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You’re thinking it too.”

His hand finds yours in the dark, fingers curling against your bare waist like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll get to.

And then he says it.

So quietly you almost miss it.

“In another life…”

Your eyes snap shut.

“…I wouldn’t be Bang Chan.”

His voice trembles.

“I would just be yours.”

It feels like a knife. Not because it’s a lie. But because it’s so true.

You turn your face to him, tears slipping free even as you try to hold it all in. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and reverent like he’s never touched you before. Or maybe like he’s already mourning it.

“Then why can’t you be mine in this one?”

It breaks something in him. You can see it in the way his face contorts, in the way his chest shudders with a breath he can’t hold in.

“Because I had to choose.”

His voice cracks. He squeezes your hand tighter.

“I had to choose.”

______________________________________________________________

You don’t sleep.

Neither does he.

You just lie there, skin to skin, heart to heart, pretending this night will stretch forever. That morning won’t come. That goodbye won’t have to be spoken out loud to be real.

Because it already is.

And when he slips out of bed just before sunrise, quietly gathering his things in the darkest hour, you pretend to still be asleep.

Even though you’re not.

Because pretending is all you have left.

You hear the zipper of his bag.

It’s the quietest sound in the room, and still—it drowns everything else out. It’s not loud. It’s not rushed. It’s careful. Like he’s trying not to wake you. Like he doesn’t know you’ve been lying there, staring at the closet door for hours.

You don’t move.

You don’t give him the closure of open eyes.

The sound of him dressing feels too familiar. Hoodie sliding over bare skin. Belt buckling. Keys placed gently on the kitchen counter so they don’t jingle. He moves through your home like a ghost, weightless in all the ways that matter, heavy only where it hurts.

Your throat burns, but you don’t cry.

Not until he’s gone.

Not until the door clicks shut again—softly, always softly, like he’s still trying to protect something you both already lost.

Then your face twists and breaks and folds into your pillow. The sob that escapes is quiet and sharp, the kind that comes from a wound too deep to scream.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Eventually, the sun rises.

Eventually, the light touches the room in pale golds and soft grays, the way it used to when you’d wake up tangled together, when you still felt like you were building something instead of bracing for the fall.

Eventually, you get up.

Not because you want to. Just because you have to. Because the sheets are cold now, and the silence is louder still.

You pad into the kitchen, eyes gritty, heart hollow. His coffee mug is still on the counter. Washed. Dried. Turned upside down.

He always does that.

You don’t touch it.

You don’t touch anything.

There’s a post-it on the fridge. Not from today—maybe from weeks ago, maybe months. His handwriting, loopy and rushed.

 “Get more oat milk – love you ♡”

You don’t throw it away.

Instead, you sit down on the floor.

Right there, in front of the fridge, knees pulled to your chest like a child hiding from thunder.

And it’s there, in the stillness, that the truth finally settles into your bones:

This love is ending.

Not because you didn’t fight. Not because it wasn’t real. But because even the realest things can die in the wrong life.

You press your forehead to your knees.

Whisper to the space between your ribs.

“I would’ve loved you forever.”

And the silence answers back.

[acracana]

I was thinking about a post about how Malleus Tsum stayed and kept watch over Silver Tsum while it slept. I was just thinking about what if Malleus actually does that and Silver just doesn’t know.

I imagine it would have started when Silver was young, and Malleus would occasionally stop by the cottage. Silver would be playing outside with the forest creatures and then suddenly be asleep. Malleus, not exactly knowing what to do, figured that leaving a weak human child unattended in the woods was probably not great, so he just silently watched close by.

And Malleus keeps doing it even after Silver grows up because he knows Silver is strong and can defend himself. But when Silver sleeps, he can’t defend himself; he’s totally vulnerable (not that the forest creatures would ever harm him, but still). There have been a couple of instances where a bear wanders close, and Malleus thinks he has to intervene, but it just ends up cuddling next to Silver, and Malleus is left there, wondering, “Is this normal? This doesn’t feel normal.”

Silver never sees this because Malleus always keeps his distance and leaves as soon as Silver wakes up because Lilia says that Silver is at that age where he should be “independent” or whatever that means. He’ll at least keep it a secret because he doesn’t want to embarrass the boy when Silver is technically supposed to be protecting him.

Things get interesting when Silver enrolls in NRC because the woodland creatures would never harm Silver. The students at NRC? Harm physically? Meh, maybe if Silver was sleeping in someone’s path to class. Trick, prank, and steal stuff? Most definitely.

Silver doesn’t seem to understand that other people may not have the best intentions, and falling asleep on campus with all his school stuff next to him is not the best idea. Especially in a school where the students are known to have less-than-stellar moral compasses. Not that he can help it, of course. Once he feels sleepy, he’s down.

During the first couple weeks of his first year, some students try to prank Silver or take his stuff when he is asleep. However, when they try, they feel a shiver of dread when Malleus fucking Draconia appears right behind them, asking them what they think they’re doing.

Malleus wasn’t planning on harming any of said students. Intentionally. He knows better than that, at least. But his reputation precedes him, and he scares the would-be perpetrators shitless, so it becomes common knowledge around the school not to mess with a sleeping Silver unless you want to be at the receiving end of Malleus’s glare.

Silver doesn’t know this is happening and thinks NRC is safe and filled with kind students. Malleus swears he will never say a word about this to Silver, and Lilia knows and thinks it’s hilarious.

Sebek does not know this occurs at all and will run around looking for Malleus until he finds Silver. He demands that Silver wake up to help look for him and Malleus decides that he can stay hidden for a couple of minutes more as his retainers now run around looking for him.

Tldr: NRC students know better than to mess with Silver when he’s asleep because there is a non-zero chance that an unamused Malleus will show up and make you piss yourself

[dntaed]

❛ HOW HE LOVES & BOYFRIEND HCS ❜ ; D. WAYNE—AL GHUL.

SYNOPSIS: how does Damian Wayne show his love and what is it like when he’s your partner?

A/N: on my old account this was my first part of the “how he loves” series for the bat-boys. So, again this is a repost of my old writing.

⤷ main directory ; detective comics directory.

REDAMANCY: The endless labyrinth of your minds has been unlocked and explored by both of you. Words are unnecessary for Damian to understand what you want and need. Your presence has left an indelible mark on his heart.

It’s the way the two of you gradually reshape your speech, crafting a language of your own—how a glance across a crowded room signals that you want to leave, and he’s at your side in an instant. Your hand finds his. Together, you’re out the door. He knows your routine by heart. He knows you’ll come home tired, so he’s already queued up your favorite show on the DVR, snacks spread out on the table.

UNSPOKEN ACTIONS: Damian doesn’t express his love through words or elaborate phrases woven with sophistication. His love shows in his actions—the subtle ways he tries to brighten your everyday life. It’s the way he washes your hair when you’re too exhausted, how he wakes up early to prepare you something to eat, how he ties your shoelaces when they come undone, how he straightens your outfit with care.

💬: I’ll do it. Only because you asked me to.

ONLY YOU: Damian only sees you. The crowd fades to a dull blur, while you stand out like the sun. You’re his choice, the one he wants to share every moment with.

Waking up, getting ready, cooking, strolling to the grocery store, wandering through the park at dusk—all of it is with you. He can’t imagine it any other way.

💬: You—you are the exception.

THE DETAILS: Nothing escapes his notice. It’s the way he brews two cups of coffee for you both, the way he listens to every word you say as though it’s etched in his mind, even if it’s as simple as how your day went. After particularly hard days, he stays close. He peels a piece of fruit, splitting it in half to share, because everything tastes better when it’s with you. Damian cares for the small things.

💬: You’re definitely the only person I’d do this for.

A LOOK IN:

Initially uncomfortable with casual touches and public displays of affection, but gradually becomes more comfortable with you.

Despite his prickly exterior, he might research and perform elaborate traditional romantic gestures, believing relationships should be conducted “properly”, (he’s trying, give him a chance).

He believes himself to get a proper gentleman, so expect flowers every time you meet eachother, opening the door for you, carrying your things for you and so on.

I can imagine Damian quietly using Arabic terms of endearment for you without ever explaining their meaning, (I apologise if this is the wrong translation).

Referring to you as "حبيبي" (habibi/habibti - my love) under his breath ; Whispering "قلبي" (qalbi - my heart) when you’re not paying attention.

He loves sparring with you if you’re into it. Even if you're not a fighter, he’ll teach you little self-defense moves — mostly so he can say he’s “protecting you,” but really, it’s an excuse to spend more time with you.

He won’t smother you, but you’ll notice little things — walking on the outside of the sidewalk, casually steering you away from crowds, giving you his jacket without saying anything if it’s cold.

In public, he’s proud and composed. In private? He will practically lay on top of you like a cat, insisting he’s “simply resting” while he traps you under his weight.

The first time he introduces you to Titus, he watches like a hawk for your reaction. If Titus likes you, it’s practically a marriage proposal in Damian's mind.

Damian doesn’t date casually. If he’s with you, it’s serious. He thinks about the future with you — marriage, building a life, what he wants to protect with you by his side.

© dntaed | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[halfway-happyyy]

lowkey in a weird funk depressive episode and i need boyfriend!frank to take care of me out of desire and not consolation (shoutout jeff buckley) like i want him to want to take care of me because it makes him feel better

I'm sorry you're going through this, I know how rough it can be. sending love & holding space for you.

right so, it's safe to say that frank knows his way around a depressive episode or two. knows what it's like to be at the mercy of thoughts that swirl around his brain like a virus, infecting every good feeling he's ever had. so when your sleep becomes shoddy, when you start to disappear mid-conversation, he knows something's up.

"where'd you go just now?" his voice lacks the accusatory tone you think should be there, and in its place, is genuine worry. his concerned gaze on yours, searching for a solution, or a clue, as to what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours.

"I'm right here, frank." your smile is laughably fraudulent, but it's all you can manage at the moment, and fortunately for you, he sees right through it.

he reaches for your hand, as if mere touch could scare away the ugly feelings, and murmurs, "you don't gotta do that, kid. not with me."

and in your mind - this episode could not have come at a worse time. what often feels like a series of blissful years, has only been about six months. that's how long frank's been a permanent fixture in your life. and while you guys haven't made the jump to housemates yet, he's over almost every night any way.

he clears his throat, pulling you from your reverie. "how about this, huh? you tell me what percentage you're operating at, and I'll carry the rest. I promise."

taking a deep breath, you murmur - "I'm sitting at about a solid twenty percent."

he nods, keeping his low voice even and measured. "alright kid, we can work with that. I've got the other eighty percent."

he starts by preparing you your go-to survival meal, and while he doesn't expect you to finish all of it, he encourages you to have as much of it as you can. next up is a shower; he offers to get in there with you, but you're content just to have him in the room with you.

and the thing about frank, is that he's doing right by himself when he's taking care of you. in the six months you two have been together, you've pretty much become an extension of him. so when you're off - when your world feels like it's caving in on itself, his does as well. and the old man is nothing, if not a fixer.

it's only when you're curled up against the solid warmth of his naked chest later on, that you're able to utter, "I'm sorry you feel obligated to take care of me, frank."

he doesn't say anything for a long while but the breath that hitches in his throat gives him away. his hand resumes the reassuring circles against your shoulder blade.

"I don't feel obligated at all, kid."

he understands the complexities of chemical imbalances, well. it's a road he's traveled down many times, though it's mostly been a lonely one.

silence settles between you before he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

"all I'll say, is that you could do your worst, and at the end of every day, I'll still choose you every single time." another kiss. "that's how this thing works, kid."

the measured rise and fall of his chest tells you he's drifted off, until he clears his throat and gruffs, "we don't have to figure everything out today. we just gotta take it one step at a time, and I'll be right behind you for all of it."

and for now, that's enough.

[project-sekai-facts]

What grinds my gears is what when people say that the reason Kana5 is bad due to it trying to make Mafumon sympathetic.

A couple have even gone as far as saying that Kana5 is as bad as Toya5 for the same reason and I-

Look. I deeply understand the idea of abusers being more complicated than simply “evil trash” is hard to comprehend. And I may sound insensitive but,

They need to grow up. They should not let their biases cloud their judgement and assume something is bad just because a piece of media has something they personally don’t like

the difference between harumichi and mafuyumum is their awareness.

harumichi - fully aware of what he is doing, fully aware his son is his own person and does not stop him despite heavy disapproval

mafumum - completely oblivious to what she is doing to mafuyu, projecting an idealised version of mafuyu onto her (and possibly an idealised version of herself)

harumichi working toya to the bone is him applying how he learnt to toya. the intent was not to physically/emotionally harm toya but that is what ended up happening (physical exhaustion is to be expected, he should not have forced toya to keep working but he deals with the same so he probably doesn't think it's a big deal). that said, he is fully aware of the fact he is taking away from toya's childhood, and admits this in concerto that toya's life was not "normal".

mafumum is entirely unaware of her abuse to mafuyu. this is repeatedly made clear in events post sayonara persona. mafudad relays to her what mafuyu tells him and she's incredibly distressed to learn that she'd been hurting mafuyu and she doesn't know what she did wrong. she can be manipulative, but she's not aware that she's being malicious, she thinks she's genuinely doing what's best for her child who she loves. there's also some context clues such as her young age compared to other parents, the fact she doesn't have a job and the fact she's at a lower social standing to her husband that suggest she may also be projecting the life she didn't get onto mafuyu.

harumichi being given the attempted sympathetic backstory doesn't work. he is neglectful towards his son, but is slowly easing out of these ways a little bit. toya has already begun to make ammends without the need for making harumichi sympathetic. he's a bad parent who did a bad thing knowingly.

with mafumum it is justified. in her first appearance, we see her from the biased viewpoint of kanade, who sees her as a cold and neglectful parent towards mafuyu. however from mafuyu's pov, she is a loving mother who is misguided in how she shows this love. this is what unreliable notes is about. mafumum is a bad parent who did a bad thing unknowingly. she is sympathetic because she is a troubled mother coming to terms with the fact she ruined her child's life.

both characters are loved by their children by virtue of them being their parents. the story is going to convey that no matter how bad they are as people. yes, forgiving abusers in fiction is overdone and to some degree unrealistic, however we do not yet know if that is where the story will go. all we know is that there will be a reconciliation. but even if mafumum specifically gets forgiven, it would not be unjustified. i feel like the first impression we get of mafumum from Kanade POV left a strong impact on a lot of people that they can't let go of. the whole point of the current arc is to let that go. the game builds her up as this malicious antagonistic force so that it can deconstruct that when we get to see her from an unbiased POV. she's not a villain like many people make her out to be, she's a human who made a mistake. a very bad and very big mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. she is a loving mother who fucked up really badly because she was too obsessed over perfection to actually see her daughter for who she is.

if the writers try and make us forgive harumichi though fuck them he fucking sucks. like i feel like toya will because he's like that yknow but i don't think the audience should feel sympathetic towards him.

[ghoulangerlee]

Dew's wearing a boot and he's so brave about it!!!

spreading the copiamountaindew agenda again w/ this one. not proofread so if you spot anything pls lemme know I'll be back after I sleep pls forgive me my brain has been fuzzy since my car accident last week!!

----

There's very little time on the road between shows for comfort, but Dew makes the most of it, sprawled out on the couch with his injured foot propped up in Mountain's lap—stabilized between several pillows, one of them being a memory foam one that someone on the crew had picked up shortly after the incident.

Mountain, to his credit, doesn't move all that much, easily keeping the ice pack held over the worst of the injury while the bus continues to putter down the road to their next destination.

Every so often, one of the girls or Rain will bring him a new ice pack when his has gone warm and melty, and Aeon's been pretty great about keeping him held to his medication schedule—nothing too heavy, just ibuprofen and Tylenol on their show days, but there's a promise of something more to help him sleep when they're not stuck on a cramped bus and they can rest in a hotel after tonight's show.

It's not exactly how he'd expected to spend a new tour but well—he's here now, and there's no take backsies.

"Phone's been buzzing," Mountain murmurs, pulling him from his light doze, his hand warm against Dew's bare shin, "Probably Copia calling to check on you again. Might wanna get that." He squeezes gently, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he speaks.

Dew snorts softly, but picks his phone up from where he'd dropped it on the table by the couch, face down and out of the way after his last dose of medication, "Definitely C," he says with a shake of his head as the screen goes dark at the tail end of a call, "Should I call him back or just—"

His phone lights up again, Copia's name splashed across the front, and with a fond shake of his head, he swipes across the screen and answers it, "You're on speaker, C," he says, mostly as a warning, he doesn't really care, neither does Copia—everyone with the exception of V's ghoulette have shared Copia's bed in some capacity, so there's no secrets between them, but he likes warning him anyway.

"Dewdrop," Copia says over a burst of static, "How are you feeling?"

Dew hums, glancing down at his foot propped up on Mountain's lap, "Like shit," he says, "But ready to be off of this bus and at the next venue at least. We have at least thirty more minutes before we're there."

"Ahhh yes the long travel," Copia says, there's something in his voice, a wistfulness that Dew can pick out that sounds almost like longing, "Tonight you'll have a break, yes? It's only a couple of days before you need to get on the road again but I made the schedule for the tour and I remember giving you at least two full nights to sleep in a bed so I expect you to do that."

Dew snorts, "Well I'm definitely not going sight seeing," he says, "Strict bed rest orders when I'm not working. According to the doctor at least."

The line goes quiet for a moment, and then, "How bad is it really?" Copia asks, his voice soft and careful.

"I'm probably doing myself no favors by being on it," Dew says finally, glancing at his foot, there had been some bruising at first, but now he knows it's gone, most of the superficial stuff cleared up by Aeon's magic—the fractured bone however, still present despite everything else. "But the boot will help, people continue to do things with fractures all the time. I'm icing it and wearing the boot. Elevating it when I'm not wearing the boot. I've got people around me taking care of me..." He trails off, bites his lower lip, "I'm probably going to talk to V about shoes with more ankle support though."

Copia huffs on the other line, "Fucking V," he mumbles, "I'm really glad you're alright Dewdrop." He says softly. "When I'd heard you were injured...I was so worried."

"Gonna take more than shitty shoes to take me out, babe," Dew teases, and then, softer, "I miss you. Not having you on stage kind of sucks."

That makes Copia laugh a little, "I'll pretend like I haven't seen photo and video evidence of you having the time of your life on stage and accept that for the romantic declaration that it is," he says teasingly.

Dew goes to open his mouth, to say something, but there's a sound in the background, something he can't quite make out, and Copia's voice coming back over the line.

"Duty calls," he says dryly, with a sigh, "I'll talk to you later, you rest some more. I love you."

Dew hums, presses his head back into his pillow and closes his eyes, feeling a rush of longing and want all of a sudden, "I love you too," he says, "Call me tonight after the show?"

Copia laughs, low and warm, "Of course I will. You and Mountain both."

The call disconnects shortly after and Mountain squeezes his shin again as the two of them settle for the rest of the ride to the venue.

-

They're about forty minutes late to arrive due to several factors that Dew's not aware of, but his foot aches when he finally fits the Velcro straps of the boot back around his leg and foot properly and he leans most of his weight on Mountain when he stands.

They don't necessarily have to get off the bus here, but he's going a bit stir crazy and needs to move around now before he bites someone's head off. Besides, he needs to talk to his guitar tech about a few things anyway, so he lets Mountain loop an arm around him as they take the steps off the bus one at a time, the bottom of the boot thunking heavily against the metal with each step he takes.

He's only a little out of breath when he gets to the bottom, taking a moment to lean against Mountain with his eyes closed to just breathe before they begin the trek towards the inside when he hears a stutter in Mountain's breathing.

"Big guy?" He asks, frowning, blinking his eyes open and looking up at the earth ghoul who's staring straight ahead with a look on his face that Dew can't quite place.

Mountain blinks several times until his eyes go a bit red rimmed, glamored face screwing up into something unreadable before he's wrapping his arm tighter around Dew and using his strength to all but haul the shorter ghoul forward, half lifting him from the ground as he does and when Dew finally looks in the direction that Mountain's looking it all falls into place because—

Oh.

Oh.

Copia's standing there.

He's wearing his stupid red tracksuit, looking rumpled and tired and like he just got off of an airplane flight, duffle bag sitting at his feet, but he's there.

Mountain's barely placed Dew firmly back on his feet before he finds himself sandwiched between ghoul and not-quite-human, wrapped in a tangle of arms as he feels Mountain curl protectively around the two of them, Copia's face nudging the underside of his jaw where he's trying his best to bury himself in his embrace.

"What are you doing here?"

Dew asks that, it's his voice that says it, something choked and not at all normal sounding as he worms his arms under Copia's jacket so he can get as close as he can without being indecent.

Copia doesn't answer at first, just breathes in a few times and then, "I needed to see that you were okay."

And oh.

Oh.

Dew squeezes him tighter, presses his face into Copia's hair, "I missed you so fucking much." He whispers.

Mountain makes a wounded noise around them, "How long are you here for?"

"A few days. Officially, I'm checking in on a few things. Making sure everything is going smoothly. Unofficially, I'm here for you two. To see you, to spend time with you." Copia finally pulls back enough so he can look at the two of them, there are tired lines around his eyes, a redness to them, "I missed you both so much, I was planning to come out later on, but..." He trails off sheepishly, "I've never been good at not being impulsive when it comes to matters of the heart."

Dew laughs then, cups his hands around Copia's cheeks and pulls him into a solid kiss, revels in the feel of his mouth for a moment—a long moment as everything melts away, just the feeling of being surrounded by the two people he loves the most.

When he pulls away, Mountain swoops in too, kisses Copia as well, shorter and less intense, and Dew watches as the two of them trade soft pecks over his shoulder for a few moments, everything almost perfect except for the pain making itself know in his ankle.

He lets it come to a natural end though, leans most of his weight off of his injured foot and onto Mountain until they pull apart, twin flushes on their cheeks, "As cute as you two are, we should probably head into the venue."

Copia leans in and kisses Dew once more, a fleeting and soft thing before he's untangling himself and picking up his duffle bag, "Let's go then," he says and then together, Copia and Mountain move to support Dew's weight more evenly.

The walk into the venue isn't too terrible between the three of them, Dew feels lighter, having Copia there, close again, he feels more complete, as cliche as it sounds, and when Copia drops him off with his guitar tech with a promise to be back once he's properly dressed, pressing a fleeting kiss to his glamored forehead—right between where his horns would be, he feels like tonight's going to be a good night, despite everything.