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gardenofnoah · 2 months ago

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darling i loved you, i long to become you -

part one - simon "ghost" riley x reader; 2.8k words. tags: stalking, obsessive behavior, breaking and entering, bodily fluids, masturbation, misuse of prescriptions and alcohol, it’s going to get a lot worse

There's something sick inside of him. That's the only conclusion he's arrived at, because nothing else comes to him at three in the morning but the blistering silence and that single observation—that there is something wholly necrotic crawling underneath his skin. It's beginning to scare him.

Simon draws a hand up over his pulse and he thinks he feels that something, too—dark and writhing and waiting, just like him. The longer he is awake, the more he begins to believe that the thing he fears is merely his own shadow. That there is no something else at all—only another side of himself shook looser with every passing minute. But sleep doesn't come—not in anything more than fits and spurts, and just long enough to drive him half insane every time he opens his eyes and finds the dark is not yet done with him.

Tonight is no different. The medication makes him sweat, makes him nauseous, makes him anything but what it should; all of his feeble attempts at sleep, and concentration, and peace—all out of reach and replaced with something filled with so much numbness. That is the darkness—the hole left behind and filled with a nothing that is so much heavier than he’d ever imagined it’d be.

He'd sent you away. It had only made sense at the time—your need and his own like locked cervids, both of you too blind with blazon adrenaline to realize there could be a way to fit around each other—to come apart with both your lives and pride intact. He'd believed he'd known better—that his indifference to your tears and your rage could only have meant that there truly was no room inside himself for the home you'd tried to carve within him. It was him that caused the fracture, but he'd shown you it was you. He saw the final sever when his words landed—the parts of you he'd sloughed off, knowing immediately he'd taken too much. Regretting it, if only for a fleeting moment.

But either way—it was over. You were gone, and he, free to continue to pursue some vague and ever-distorting end goal that he'd put on a pedestal for himself. He'd been younger, once—chasing tail and money and some odd sort of notoriety for the things that were easy to him: brutality, efficiency. Rage as mechanical as it was innate to him. He'd never been too sure what that holy grail of his life would be, but he'd been certain that whatever finality awaited him would be truly worthy of something as wicked as he. What pride he'd felt at that—at the magnificent monster he'd painstakingly reared up from, and in spite of, some terrified child huddled in fear at the unfortunate end of a perpetually smoking gun. Never again in his life would he feel that way.

But while the progression into his 30s brought him a renewed sense of vitality, of urgency, of greed—it gave you claws to grab hold of him. While the itch to go became unbearable to him, your need—to love him, to have him, to keep him—pinned him to the floor. He got away the only way he knew how—with the swift cruelty he'd inherited and whittled to a fine point.

He'd taken from you to get out—but not without a cost. An unfathomable one, at that. He's no idea what switched—what took him from apathy to obsession overnight. He's not lost so much of the plot that he believes it's love; but no matter what it is, it pushes him forward, toward you. He can't stop—couldn't, even if he wanted to.

The air, hanging and oppressive enough to be sentient, keeps Simon affixed to the soaked-through sheets like they're a part of him. This is his new routine: dreamless sleep to waking nightmare. He feels, with some irony, that his current state has nothing to do with the years of blood on his hands, and everything to do with the heart or the sense you seemed to have gored from him on your way out. He knows this, because it is 3:30 in the morning, and after 32 minutes of staring at the silent, slow rotation of his ceiling fan, he'll swing both legs over the edge of his bed and summon some sort of reserved strength to drag himself up and over to the window. An island, no more than a wooden counter top on bricks, separates point A from point B—he'll approach it and give himself a choice: to grab a handful of pills that he's scattered across its surface, or to forgo this new odd game of roulette all together.

And from 4:02 until the sun rises, he will watch you sleep from that window.

It was easy enough to find where you ended up—you'd blocked him on your socials, but it took all of a moment to create a new version of himself, with a generic name and a different face. He'd almost been disappointed at how easy it was to follow you with the new him—at how easy it would be to shatter this illusion of safety you somehow still had, even after he'd shown you what he was.

He'd just been curious, at first—but he'd recognized the buildings outside of the window of your flat in your pictures, and suddenly he was signing a lease for a studio with a direct line of sight into that window. His stomach had turned delightfully when he'd realized that you'd forgone curtains for your bedroom. He was sure you'd believed you were far enough from the first floor not to need them. Poor dove. Stupid thing.

His intentions had been pure, even as he hauled the last of his belongings into his building under the cover of night. Someone had to keep an eye on you, he'd reasoned, if only because you clearly had no sense of how to do it yourself. But the months passed and he left his place less and he drank more. He became a little less regimented about the sleep aids, the psychotropics, the pain killers—dumped them out of their safety-locked bottles and mixed them around, needing to feel something like a thrill and knowing that no matter how lax he was about what he took, he would remain right here. At his window, in this body, only for a glimpse of you.

And here he is—chewing down what he thinks could be a chlorpromazine, chasing it with what's left of the handle of gin before he has the chance to gag. From his perch, there's no movement in your dark apartment, but he knows you're in there. The light of your TV flashes dimly to him like a flare—illuminating the back wall of your bedroom. If he squints, he can make out the frames nailed to the drywall, the houseplant that refuses to die despite your neglect next to your bed, and the wooden slats of your headboard. As if just for him, a particularly bright advert reveals your sleeping form to him—just the outline of you, under the mound of blankets you insist on sleeping with. How grateful he feels that you've given him a front row seat, down to the placement of your bedroom furniture.

He pushes the bottom pane of his window away, out into the night as he crouches to light a cigarette out of the opening. He watches the smoke curl away from his fingers and he wonders if you'd know him by the acrid smell of it alone, if he got close enough. He feels the absent tug of a scar as his lip curls at the memory of your disdain for it. It'd be easy enough for him to scale the side of your building, to get right up under your balcony—would you think him a haunting?

He flicks ash and watches your comforter move with your tossing and turning—knowing acutely that you've no idea the ways you haunt him.

He stands there, watching for flickers of you in the dark until the light begins to reveal his hiding place. At 7:16 he moves, if only out of the desire to drag this out—to see how long he can make himself wait until he inevitably needs more. Until that slithering thing inside him tells him to get a little closer.

Until then, indeed.

The weather gets colder as the year drags on—and you push him a little nearer to whatever edge he's approaching when you put up curtains in your bedroom.

To keep the cold out, surely—but not him. You couldn't have known about his early morning routine, but to Simon, it's personal. It's a challenge—a subtle provocation from you to try a little harder.

So he does.

"Evening, mate," he gruffs to the concierge of your building—making a big show of brushing the snow off of his coat. He didn't own a coat until tonight—there was no reason to, with how infrequently he'd left his place recently—but it was easy enough to snag it off the back off a stroller off the subway. "Bloody blizzard out there."

The doorman cocks an eyebrow at him, not bothering to hide the suspicion at the way he's come trudging through the lobby at two in the morning on a Wednesday. "Bit late for walk, no?"

Simon grins at him, entirely conscious of his face for what might be the first time in his life. Wonders what the man might think of the scar that pulls white with the flash of his teeth. Winks for good measure. "Ah, girlfriend lives on the 3rd floor—dropped her off by curfew, but seems'm a bit whipped—" He leans forward, squinting at the nametag. "—Percy. M'sure you know about that, yeah?"

You don't—live on the 3rd floor, that is. You live on the 6th. But he's no idiot, and he won't assist this squatty, red-faced bastard in drawing the conclusions he's clearly already trying to piece together.

"Say, Percy—" Simon jabs at him, ignoring the way the man not-so-subtly steps back from his best attempt at a friendly advance, "—'ve got a bone to pick with you, actually. She says you've been starin' at her somethin' horrid." He does his best to toe the line between a tease between co-conspirators and his usual threat, eyebrow cocked with mirth. "I know she's a catch, mate, but maybe take it easy on 'er."

He's pulling it out of his ass, but Simon knows he's won this standoff the second he sees the concierge's face turn a darker shade of red. It doesn't matter who he's talking about. He's certain this asshole ogles every woman that walks through the door.

"Apologies, sir," the doorman doesn't raise his eyes from the countertop when he hands Simon the little red plastic card he'd been waiting for, "this will get you up there."

Simon raises two fingers in a little mock salute and turns on his heel, seeking out the elevators like he's been here before. It feels like he has, with all of the time he's spent carding through virtual tours of all of the vacant flats in the building. He thinks he could find the main elevators—placed on the far back wall, around the corner from the utility closet—with his eyes closed. He feels himself slip into a headspace that's far more tactile than this requires, but he supposes he shouldn't be too careful. Two in the morning or not, he has the sense to know he shouldn't be here.

It excites him, though, to watch the button for the sixth floor light up under his fingertip. The car rises and so does his stomach, fuzzy and writhing with anticipation. He's not been this close to you in months. He’s nearly sick with it—the unbridled need slicking his palms and wetting the inside of his mouth.

It’s not that he wants you. It’s more that you’re his, and he’ll play the long game if it means he gets to keep you. Simon doesn't consider himself a bad guy—even now, as he keeps his footsteps light on the carpet leading him to what will inevitably be your door—it's just that he's been dealt so much shit that he feels he deserves something good. It's that he realized too late that you could be that something good—but he can still have it, have you, if he's careful about this.

He finds it easy enough—when he spots the one door decorated top to fucking bottom with winter festivities, he is certain that he's in front of your door. It almost makes him angry—how easy you've made this for him. What if it had been someone else? Someone who wasn't him, rooting around in what he's already claimed?

Before he knows it, he's shoved a pin into your lock and gotten the door open. With all of the stealth imparted on him by his career, it swings open without a sound, leading the way into your dark home.

You're not here. He knows you're not—blinds up or not, he's been observing you long enough to know your patterns. Now, thinking of where you would be at 2am on a week night has his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but right now that's not important.

He allows himself the luxury of a tour around your flat—smaller than his, it seems, but with all of the character you have a habit of inflicting on your living spaces. There are pieces of you everywhere—pictures stuck to the fridge, dirty laundry in the corner of your bedroom. He helps himself to the latter—rooting around until his fingers catch something lace. In the dark, he can make out the shade, not the color; the stain he feels piques his interest. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the gusset of your panties, presses into it—still a little tacky, like you'd worn them earlier in the day. He knows it's from you—Simon tells himself he's only confirming that you're being safe, and not letting some neanderthal spill his load inside you. He's only concern for you, he rationalizes—depositing your underwear into the band of his own. Your discharge sticks to his skin, and he suppresses a shiver. It flares to life inside him—the need to have every part of you again.

He forces himself to move on. He's not really sure why he's here, but feels he belongs there all the same—in your dark apartment, standing over your bed, where you ought to be sleeping.

He's drawn to the window—he pulls back the corner of your new linen curtain just to be sure, and feels a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. There's not a chance in hell you'd ever be able to see him looking down at you.

He allows his boot to scuff along the hardwood—some small part of him hoping the rubber sole leaves behind a mark. He's overwhelmed by the weight of it—of the feeling that he has to leave something behind, but knowing he can't—not yet.

So he makes a compromise with himself—he arrives by your bedside again and stays there this time, fingers reaching to the zipper of his jeans. He pulls himself out clumsily—soft, but swelling quickly at the idea of you beneath him, breathing softly and blissfully unaware.

He pictures you in his mind. Blankets tangled around your legs, hair tangled in a nest by your pillows—he wonders how long he'd be able to get away with brushing the crown of him against your open, drool-slicked bottom lip before you'd stir.

He feels a flush of pleasure lick up his spine at the thought of you, bleary-eyed and confused—how your eyes would widen when you finally registered him towering over you. Would you know it was him right away? Would you scream? Would you soil yourself?

The image of your fright forces a low groan from him, and he tugs at his cock brutally—dry and fast, but no less effective right now. With his free hand, he pulls your panties from his waistband and pushes them between his teeth—the fabric and the taste of you muffling his whining and making his eyes roll back in his head. He imagines you coming back to the sight of him—panties in his mouth and cock hanging out of his jeans. Maybe you'd understand, finally, what you've done to him.

His release is a short one, but it knocks the breath of him nonetheless—hot spend coating his knuckles and his jeans. The urge to mark you in some way seems to transfer to your belongings, because before he can even register that he's done it, his hand is inside your pillowcase—wiping the remnants of his pleasure across the underside of the bare pillow. You'll never find it, but he'll know—and for now, that's enough.

He looks down at his watch, and knows he's out of time. He shoves himself back into his jeans and retraces his steps, back out of your door—he doesn't bother locking it behind him. Let you feel a little fear, if only for a moment. Teach you a lesson in comfort—the fallacy of safety he's always known, and you've never felt.

He doesn't look back once the door shuts behind him—he finds a fire stairway and clears the six floors to the street in no time at all. He doesn't look back, not once—not until he's back in his place. He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer, and taps the carton against the wooden finish of it. He checks the time again.

3am. Only a half an hour until you get home.

#i made myself a little queasy w it. i can't wait to make it worse #y'all got me obsessed but in a weird way #so now it's your problem #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley #ghost fic #cod x reader #cod fic #simon riley fic

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cozylittleartblog · 11 months ago

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not even fictional 6 year olds are safe from identity theft

#doodles #dat me #art #ms paint #lancer #(one distant gunshot in the distance)#its a funnier problem to have compared to ppl stealing my art for profit but also y'all are annoying #this is a lighthearted post. mostly #edit - for those who dont know some minecraft streamer started using lancer as his character avatar #and got attached and basically decides he Owns the design now #thats like me saying i own ENA just because i have an ENA player model in gmod. naw bro

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i-dreamed-i-had-a-son · 4 months ago

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Broke (2016): BBC Sherlock is a phenomenal piece of media and anything that seems like a flaw just hasn't been fully explored yet

Woke (2020): BBC Sherlock is an incredibly flawed series run by an egotistical writer, it never deserved the hype and is actively bad on so many fronts (especially representation)

Bespoke (2024): BBC Sherlock is flawed and bogged down by increasingly poor writing, which many fans refused to see while it was airing, leading to hugely misplaced expectations (particularly for the final series), AND it has the seeds of some compelling characterizations and portrayals, some genuinely solid performances, and touches--albeit imperfectly--on complexities that are still being discussed today (particularly as it relates to the relationship between Sherlock and John). The huge cultural impact of the show has created a massive pendulum effect in its public perception, leading to most people today remembering a caricature of the show (whether positive or negative) rather than appreciating its nuanced merits and failings...that being said Season 4 sucked

#these just sum up my personal takes at the years in question and also what i'm seeing on tumblr/other social media #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #and i actually have a lot more thoughts to share on this series #specifically relating to the cultural impact #there is SO much about the show that goes unappreciated in hindsight because of how public perception of it has soured #and i totally fell into this as well--i still regularly rewatch hbomberguy's video absolutely dismantling the series and he isn't wrong!!#but what i'm saying is that i think it's easy for us to look at a piece of media (especially one so massively popular) like sherlock...#with very black-and-white lenses. it wouldn't have become so popular if there wasn't something inherent in it that resonated with people #and that's being buried (and i totally forgot it) because 'sherlock is cringe and problematic. can't believe i liked that'#which again it IS full of issues and those are well-documented as they should be. future portrayals should not repeat those mistakes #BUT being able to impact so many people is a merit in itself. and that's only possible because of other genuinely good things about the show #yes the way they handled the relationship between john and sherlock was riddled with problems YES it was often queerbaiting #AND the way they portrayed that relationship had a deep effect on me. i saw a lot of myself in sherlock and the complex way he loved john #the nuanced feelings he had about john's marriage to mary. the part (in s4!) where john calls him inhuman for not feeling romantic love #there was genuine intention and care put into some parts of this show and it comes through in scenes like those. they impact people.#and because of this realization i'm going to (eventually) do a rewatch of the show. i'm much older and i want to see how i'll view it now #but i want to go into it--and i want everyone who engages with it still--to have an open mind and evaluate it for what it is #not what we expected it to be (secret episode anyone?) or what the cultural drift has turned it into (the tiktok of sherlock's mind palace)#but the messy problematic somewhat-heartfelt massively significant and ultimately meaningful piece of media it actually was #anyway that's my thoughts would love to hear y'all's perspectives #funny how after all this time making a sherlock post still feels like i'm poking a bees' nest lol please be kind!#kay can i just catch my breath for a second #kay has a party in the tags

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sparklesdogs · 3 months ago

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A Drabble for TF: One

First off: A warning.

This drabble WILL contain spoilers from TF: One. Everything that is a spoiler will be under the -keep reading- line. This, unfortunately, includes the summary because I couldn't think of any other way to describe what I'll be writing about.

And hey, if people enjoy this, maybe I'll write more? Can't help it, I love this type of AU and it was the first thing that popped in my head. Starscream's appearance SLIGHTLY made that AU-itch happy.

Summary: Something that D-16, Elita One, and Bumblebee didn't realize when they encountered the mecha-deer herd on the surface was that they had a care-taker.

Characters: D-16, Bumblebee, Elita One, Orion Pax

Background: In this AU, D-16 was more rebellious and participated in the race himself. Orion Pax does not exist in the mines. More will be explained in the drabble.

Without further adeu:

Cybertron's surface was truly beautiful. Despite the fear they initially felt from the unknown and the constantly shifting surface, when you took a moment to just look, you could see why everyone used to live there.

Mountains grew and disappeared in a blink. Old structures were hidden and unveiled in moments.

Wild turbo-foxes and mecha-deer hunted and grazed in the rolling fields. Cyber-wolves prowled along ridges, seemingly able to tell how the terrain would shift before it even began.

This was the surface that greeted D-16, Elita One, and Bumblebee after their train crashed.

Despite their initial crash from the unexpected tsunami of metal, it was stunning.

D-16 idly recalled the ancient texts that had been smuggled to him during his few breaks or right before recharge. He knew that, once, Cybertronians didn't need to hide underground. Back in the times of the original thirteen Primes, Cybertronians had been divided into tribes.

The ever-graceful Seekers. The quick and musical Polyhexians. The stern and no-nonsense Praxians. The violent, but mostly misunderstood Warframes. The Pullers who relished in hauling large objects long distances. And so on and so forth. All nomadic, following the mechanimals that drove their way of life. All avoiding each other. All destroyed in the original Quintesson War.

It was assumed that large cities like Iacon and Kaon arose when the thirteen joined together and ushered the remnants of their tribes underground. They each recognized that their own tribe would only be able to survive through co-operation. And so, the surface of Cybertron was abandoned.

But as the small trio stared out over the vast open spaces, D-16 couldn't help but wonder why nobody had ever bothered trying to return. Yes, Sentinel Prime had said that the surface was uninhabitable and it was too dangerous, but had no one ever actually tried to return?

Maybe it was because mechs started emerging cog-less. It was dangerous enough for mechs to survive WITH their cogs. What chance did a cog-less mech have? If they couldn't transform to speed away from danger or to evade a rapidly-changing landscape? Somberly, D-16 brushed a servo over the empty hole in his chest. Right where a cog would be in a mech that had one.

"They're so.. elegant." Elita One suddenly whispered, yanking D-16 out of his thoughts.

"And friendly too!" Bumblebee chuckled, somehow having gotten close enough to one of them to swipe a servo over it's flank. Even more surprisingly, the mecha-deer didn't move away or even seem startled by the action. In fact, it turned to nuzzle it's face into Bumblebee's servo and started snuffling around, as if looking for a treat. They reminded D-16 of the cyber-hounds that only the most elite of the elite owned in Iacon.

"Yeah. How.. strange." D-16 said, shifting forward to hesitantly pet the mecha-deer himself. Despite being made of metal, they were surprisingly soft on the head and wiry on the rest of the body.

Unbeknownst to the trio that was now excitedly petting the mecha-deer (who was greedily lapping up the attention), they were being watched by someone far less friendly.

A pair of light blue optics glared at the group from where they were hidden in a nearby uncovered set of ruins. The figure that belonged to the pair of optics had darted into the ruins to observe the group as they got closer. Their eyes darted between the herd and the group, clearly wanting to keep an eye on both.

Suddenly, the mecha-deer jerked their head into the air, no longer responding to the petting. The other deer and the hidden figure shortly followed. One after another, the lights on the mecha-deer's antlers started flashing red and they bolted. They scattered in many directions, much to the frustration of the hidden figure. If only he still had his cyber-hound. Now, it'll take forever to round them back up himself.

His optics snapped to the trio who was just staring after the herd. It was only when they finally turned around did they finally see the danger looming above the clouds. Poor mechs seemed confused and startled. They began to run towards the ruins.

How ineffective, the figure thought. Why not just transform and speed away?

As the group raced by, the figure reached out and grasped one of them (the small, yellow one he silently noted) and pressed him up against the wall. The other two (the pink one and the gray one) quickly took note and, even though they glared at him in suspicion, followed his action.

D-16 observed this new figure with suspicion and surprise. The figure was primarily red and blue with silver accents. The most startling part of him were his light blue optics and splatters of.. paint? that stood out against his primary colors. He had seen blue optics before, yes, but none as bright and light as these. The strange paint was mainly splatters of purple, green, and white. They marked the mech in elegant (but messy) swirls and symbols he had never seen before.

The mech put a digit up to his intake, indicating that the group should remain quiet. Since this new mech seemed to know more about what was going on than they did, they listened. Even though they didn't need to breathe, every bot present held their breath.

Suddenly, one of the mecha-deer darted into the ruins. Almost immediately, a red light beam from above began to track the deer. The new mech's engine started to quietly growl before he quickly cut it off. After a few seconds of tracking the deer, the small red beam burst into a blinding light. Each mech was briefly blinded. When they looked back where the deer had been, the deer was gone. What looked like bits of metal and energon were sucked into the sky and the air returned to silence.

A small distance from the ruins, a red grid emerged from the sky. The red and blue figure's optics widened and he began to usher the group towards one of the buildings that still had enough of a roof to cover them. The trio saw where he was shoving them and nodded, quickly and quietly starting to run. They had to avoid stray red beams occasionally, but Elita and D-16 made it over quickly.

Bumblebee, on the other hand, was slower and more clumsy. The red and blue figure clearly slowed themselves to keep pace with the ex-trash-sorter, but was looking more and more nervous as the grid grew closer.

Finally, clearly fed up with the slow pace, the figure swooped up Bumblebee into a bridal carry. Both Elita and D-16 were shocked that the small, lithe figure was able to lift Bumblebee, let alone without slowing his pace!

Right before the grid reached them, the figure lunged towards a narrow beam that covered a small patch of ruins. The figure clutched Bumblebee as close to himself as possible and both they and Bumblebee closed their optics as the grid slowly passed over them.

When nothing immediately happened, they cracked their optics open just to see as the grid completely passed over the beam. The figure kept Bumblebee clutched to their chest until the beam finally disappeared. Even after that, they continued to hold Bumblebee for a few kliks before letting the small yellow bot drop to the ground with a yelp.

The figure then turned very angry optics onto the entire trio.

"Who are you?! Why are you here? Do you have any idea what you just caused?! Now I have to move the herd again!" The figure started shouting, pointing his index digit at the group angrily.

Unfortunately for him, the trio did not understand his language at all and only heard what sounded like rather irate clicks, whistles, and beeps. When he realized that the group was just staring dumbly at him, his irritation turned to confusion.

"Um, hello? Do you understand me?" He asked, optical ridges furrowed.

"Uh, hello!" Elita, ever the go-getter, responded first with a wave. The figure simply tilted his head and managed to look more confused.

"Great. Cybertronians who don't speak basic." He mumbled to himself.

"Do you speak Iaconian?" Elita asked.

"I-uh-cone-ee-an?" The figure asked, testing out the word in his intake.

"Yeah, Iaconian. You know? What everyone in Iacon speaks." D-16 piped up. The figure's gaze turned to him.

"I-uh-con?" The figure asked, olfactory sensor scrunching as if the words had a nasty smell.

"Yup! That's where we're from! Iacon!" Bumblebee cheerfully added.

"So I'll take it that you don't speak it based on your reaction to words most mechs know." D-16 stated gruffly. The figure may not have known what he was saying, but he could certainly understand the tone. His gaze turned to a glare again. As he opened his intake and raised his index digit again to likely start lecturing the other, Elita piped up.

"Ok! How about introductions? I'm Elita One." She said, pointing to herself with a smile. "Elita One!" She repeated.

"I'm B-127 or Bumblebee, but I'm trying to make Badassatron a thing!" Bumblebee said. When the figure only looked at him more confused, he chuckled and rubbed the back of his helm. "Bumblebee." He said simply.

"D-16." D-16 said simply. When three sets of optics turned to him, the figure responded.

"I'm named after the constellation Orion, but sometimes the others call me Pax because they say I'm generally one of the peaceful ones." The figure chuckled to himself.

"So.. Orion Pax?" D-16 asked. The figure- newly dubbed Orion Pax- shrugged.

"Close enough."

Ending note: Whew! That's all I've got. Let me know if this sounds interesting. I welcome all critiques and comments. Will probably post this on my AO3 in the morning too. Probably.

#fanfic #transformers #transformers one #orion pax #d 16 #elita one #bumblebee #b 127 #alternate universe #Basically an idea that wouldn't leave my head #So now I'm making it y'all's problem too #Enjoy the AU that wouldn't leave me since I watched TF: One

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fullmetal-scar-simping · 28 days ago

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Is there anything more weak than the attempt to shut down all media analysis and critique by appealing to a "everything is valid and different! Stop making it a pissing match," point of view? Either the stories are "too different" to compare and contrast, or they're "ultimately all fma so why should we fight". Maybe some people can't get it through their heads, but disagreement, venting amongst those who feel similarly, and critique are not inherently a fight.

And I'm sorry, but "breaking the cycle of violence" is a shit trope to tack onto a plot that uses a genocide and ethnic cleansing as its foundation, with heaping layers of "those poor little war criminals, stop being mean to them" to add insult to bad storytelling.

#now that being said when people say some out of pocket shit then they better be able to handle talkback #yes this is a vague post #yes i'm bored to tears seeing endless appeals to ''leave mangahood alone'' from broho people especially #your fave media isn't untouchable and some of us simply won't treat it that way rip #i don't care if someone likes 03 too or is chill with 03 enjoyers because! critique! is! not! an! attack!#mine #wait i'm not done #y'all have a very rosey view of the supposed tranquility of the broader online fandom #because 03 people largely have to stick to discord or other smaller/silo'd avenues to talk about the show #without having unending shit dished at them for simply liking 03 (even if they say nothing about or against mangahood)#and listen: analyze/dislike/critique 03 all you want. that's not the problem #the problem is how a lot of mangahood fans treat anyone who even dares talk about 03 or thinks dislikes their fave show/manga #yes this is all ridiculous but you lot are identifying the wrong things as the problem!#vent

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pushing500 · 2 months ago

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Nothing too exciting or noteworthy is happening to the Jones boys today...

Alfihar (who joined us a while back but wasn't particularly noteworthy) is actually pretty dang good at melee combat, so he tanked the War Queen with shocking ease!!!

THREE CHEERS FOR ALFIHAR!!

We're so close to getting an android I can almost taste it!!!

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respectthepetty · 7 months ago

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Pride Petty Watch - LiTA (Sky/Prapai) 1/3

The crowd picked Love in the Air as the first show to ever move off of my Petty List, so I'm watching it and recapping my experience, and oh boy, is it an *experience*. I wrote about the first seven episodes in two parts [here and here], so it's time to dive into the next six episodes!

Woot woot!

I had to make sure I didn't click on episode one again because it's the same scenes showing again. This is the third time they have been shown? Fourth? I'm here for one thing and one thing only. Quit bullshitting LiTA and GIVE ME WHAT I CAME FOR!

Oh my God, my heart just jumped into my throat with this music and this lighting behind this devil.

I know how their story starts. I already knew. I will be not be upset at him. I will not get into my feelings about this even though this music and lighting are hellbent on making Prapai seem like The Worst™

I would love to claim "pink = 💕love💕" but not today, Satan.

Sky saying "Where's the condom?" as more of a demand rather than a question and the arch of his back are an appreciation post in themselves. This is transactional and he is not here to make friends.

WHY AM I BEING SHOWN RAIN AND PAYU AGAIN?! If you don't have enough material for thirteen episodes, just say it! Because my boy disassociated, went on autopilot, and is now tucking this nightmare away in a dark corner of his mind in true Trauma Compartmentalizing 101 fashion, yet I gotta see Payu and Rain's Daddy x Baby nonsense another round?! I only respect one person in this house and the rest of these men can choke. I wrote what I wrote.

Hold up, Prapai was AWAKE when Sky left looking like that? And now he is reminiscing about it in all black with that black rose of death lapel pin? *Arthur Fist*

I support queer rights AND queer wrongs, but this show is testing me like I'm fucking Frodo having to deliver a ring to the depths of hell in the month of Pride. Sky just went home and cried on his bed, while this woman is talking about getting over heartbreak because Prapai can't stop thinking about this one-night stand. I cannot be queer and *here* in these conditions with el diablo smirking every two seconds.

KinnPorsche, my old enemy, we meet again. Didn't think I'd see you here, but it tracks because where there is a rich bastard incapable of getting over the poorer man he wrongfully exerted power over, there will be a robe, wine, and a sex worker. (That boy looks like the Memory in the Letter lead)

"I feel sorry for your prey" - Everyone is too busy looking at the metaphorical weather that represents the characters to notice the red alert standing right there.

On God, if a man called me like that without telling me his name and proceeded to just . . . be creepy, it'd be on like Donkey Kong. I was raised by Sidney Prescott from Scream and if a man wants to play games over the phone, then he needs to be prepared to die. And what is it with this show trying to distract me with with these problematic men working out? I know they are attractive, but as Michelle Visage stated "stop relying on that body!" AND NOW CREEPY TEXTS, and the only thing Sky thinks is a "man like that wouldn't be into [him]" . . . BL boys would greatly benefit from feminism.

Prapai, you have to get less creepy. You just have to because this is not it, my man. You are throwing out the beginning-of-a-psycho-killer vibes and I cannot. I simply. Can. Fucking. Not.

Sky is pissed at Rain, threw the flowers, and has Prapai listed as "Psycho" so it's clear who has the brain cell of these weather boys, and it's the one whose back is hurting FROM CARRYING THE WEIGHT OF THE DAMN WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS!

I will not be swayed by the sunflowers, the fact that Prapai is aware Sky is a Sad Boy, or the blue. As far as I'm concerned, by the end of this episode, Prapai is still the devil. NEXT EPISODE!

The energy between these two is giving me GMMTV "brothers," and that is not a compliment.

I'm not going to fault Sky for not throwing away the flowers because reuse, recycle, re-

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!

*took a six hour break and contemplated the meaning of life, made an avocado smoothie then poured rum in it, started doing yoga then ended up in savasana, which means I just laid there and looked at the ceiling, and finally I remembered the gorgeous Zani is in this show, so I returned*

This boy is me and I am him. I'm so chill that if I got any cooler, I'd be an ice cube. Just chilling. So chill. The chill is immaculate. I am meditating. I am praying. I am one with the storm. I'm the chillest. Climate change no longer exists because I'm just, so, fucking, chill. ~Let's continue~

I don't want to give Prapai any credit because I already told my mom I hate him which means we are sworn enemies in this life and future ones as well, but him noticing that Sky spaced out even though he immediately jumped back into flirting mode, and him reinforcing that he thinks Sky is attractive in any state including this one should be an issue because he is still focusing on Sky's body, but he doesn't know Sky well enough to have anything else, so . . . one whole point for Slytherin, I guess.

Rain is not a real one and if Sky was a rapper, this in when he would have dropped the ultimate diss track cementing his place in academic rhetoric for all eternity. Even if I didn't know about his ex, I could have read that expression, but Rain? Once again, one brain cell, and Sky has it.

I want to give Prapai the points for the food, but he doesn't even know what Sky likes, so this is White Man Ambition at its finest. Thank goodness that Sky is throwing it awa-

NOT THE FUCKING RED AGAIN!

Dear Reader, I'm going to level with you here one and a half episodes into this arc: I now fully understand The Fuckery. I greatly appreciate the 126 people who picked this show because this is the perfect example of what I keep reading about a MAME series. The abrupt shifts between aggressive flirting, dick jokes, and trauma is jarring. I knew the kidnapping was coming for Rain, but hearing Stop say that Rain would be sexually assaulted by his gang of men if Payu didn't stop fighting back was the most violent moment of an already physically violent event that, strangely, did not affect me until that very moment. I know what is coming for Sky, yet having these intercuts of Sky's abuse, although effective, are humbling in a way I was not expecting. Because what I had thought I was walking into was a trashy watch with gratuitous sex talk and some drama, but what I'm experiencing is a lot of emotional discord as the story swings between extremes while refusing to balance itself out. There is no middle ground in this show. I will continue to be petty about this watch, but I get it now in a way I was never going to grasp without watching one of her series and I'm graciously realizing I would not have survived TharnType because even as Prapai connects the dots that something *very bad* has happened to Sky based on his interactions with Sky, he smiles because . . . well, because.

So even though Sky and Prapai's arc is smaller than the first, my watch is going to be in three parts instead of just two because . . . well, because.

~Let's continue~

I'm going to try really hard to give Slytherin points here, *grinds teeth* so even though this man is stalking Sky, he gets credit for showing up, which according to the great philosophers, is half the battle. Also, I know his lapel pins are important, so the sunflower and the bee after he gave Sky meaningful sunflowers is a nice sentimental touch, but he gets no points because HE COULD'VE OFFERED THE BOY A RIDE! The perfect pitch was right there, yet he swings and misses.

I don't listen to true crime podcasts, but I feel confident that most cases start with a stalker using several devices to contact their victim after his primary mean is blocked. Basically, I need Prapai to do as Sky's shirt says and "CHILL THE FUCK OUT!" I'm trying to give him points but he refuses to exhibit any level of chill. None. No chill. Not ice cube. Just sad hot puddle of zero chills.

I felt *something* between Sig and Som when they were arguing across the tables in episode seven, but now I know Sig is trying to instigate a fight with Som just so he can have that boy's hands around his neck. I respect it.

Sky is having a breakdown because of the onslaught of texts Prapai keeps sending him from multiple devices and as he huddles in the fetal position begging to be left alone having bursts of anger, the phone begins to vibrate signaling more texts are coming through. The director, Ne, also served as an editor on Only Friends, and if he whispered in Jojo's ears to make Ray's bathtub scene just as gut-wrenching as this, I just wanna eat some soup with Ne and know like "You good, boo?"

I am fighting for my life in these trenches!

Rain picked up Sky's phone and told Prapai to come to the hospital. Rain? Rain who was on his knees begging for Sky's forgiveness after he gave Sky's number to Prapai? As in the Rain who was told to stay out of Sky's business? Like the same Rain who Sky looked in his face and told him he would never be with Prapai? THE RAIN WHO IS NOW GIVING PRAPAI THE KEY TO SKY'S APARTMENT?! That Rain?!

"I made a promise to Rain" - Pero like . . . why do you have to make promises to not fuck with unconscious and sick people? Cause shouldn't that be a given? No? Mmm. Interesting development.

I have only watched two episodes. TWO! I'm not even halfway through this AND I know how this ends. No amount of knowledge or spoilers has properly prepared me for this journey, and now I'm scared and I want my mom to come pick me up.

But here I am. Clicking on the next episode.

pinche cabrón

#love in the air #Pride Petty Watch #I only love and respect Sky but I already knew that #but it's funny because Rain is now enemy number one #in a room full of problems‚ Rain continues to be the biggest problem #imagine that?!#but I get it now #oh do I get it #like all of it makes sense now #EVERYTHING!#Thanks for picking this show y'all #and I do sincerely mean that

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