#ro: answer

[rottedsoulx]

hi i drew jay and cole from ur au :33 the designs are SO cool!!!

AAAAAAAAA THIS ART IS SO YUMMY THANK YOU!!!

[l3viat8an]

Lucifer is just so in love and obsessed with you. not in a scary way or anything- but in a very soft way, just melting completely whenever the simplest, everyday things remind him of his little lamb you.

it can be anything, really, maybe he sees your favorite pastry in a bakery or something in a shop window he thinks you’d like or maybe he simply passes somebody in the street that has the same hair color as you.

and before he can stop himself, Lucifer is reaching into his pocket for his phone to call you a soft little smile on his face. even if he can only hear your voice for a few seconds it’ll make his day so much better <3

[mayasaura]

One of the biggest unanswered questions—to me—coming out of Nona the Ninth is..... Did Kiriona really think John would make her his cavalier if she opened the Tomb and dispatched Alecto?

It seems highly unlikely. I don't doubt she would want it, if she thought the offer was both genuine and possible to achieve, but those are some big ifs.

She was present for the fight that revealed Alecto as John's cavalier. She was there when John broke his amiable facade to say don't call her a monster. She knows first-hand what it is to share a part of your soul with someone. And we're meant to accept she believed John wanted Alecto dead? Doubt.jpg

But let's say she did believe that. John told a super convincing story, and she wanted so badly to believe someone loved her more than that slab of freezer meat. Whatever. The "possible to achieve" hurdle still looms large. Kiriona saw her father survive being reduced to atoms, she knows his cavalier is the source of that power, and she heard him say that what sleeps in the Tomb is "as dead as [he] could make her" and that she's "not the dying kind." And Kiriona was going to kill her with.... what? A rapier? Her knuckle knives? Because John said her blood was so super special, it would work just for her? Come on.

Kiriona—Gideon—is not that gullible. She grew up at war with Harrow. She grew up literally hunted for sport by the House Marshall. She considers angles, she tests motives, and she looks before she leaps. She expects to be betrayed, used, and discarded, and John made a hell of a first impression in the betrayal category. I believe she loves her father. I believe she'd do just about anything if she thought it would make her father love her. But blind trust? No way. She may or may not be a good judge of character, but she's definitely a skittish son of bitch.

And that's not even touching all the logical holes in her story—she stowed away to New Rho so she could open the Tomb? Girl what?—and the way she dropped the idea as soon as Ianthe pushed her to admit she was really there for Harrow.

Actually, you know what. I take it back. My biggest unanswered question isn't if Gideon believed any of it. There's no way. What I want to know now is whether John ever really asked her in the first place, or if it was all just a load of hot garbage she ad libbed to avoid mentioning Harrow to Ianthe. The implications either way are voluminous for the shape of the story to come, and I honestly can't rule either option out with the information we have.

[rosesundae]

What do you think about ghosts using your body while you sleep?

ADORE

At first it might not be too often. Waking up earlier, drenched in sweat with my thighs feeling stickier than normal. Maybe I had a nightmare, I’d try to justify while ignoring how… thick my juices were. They felt unnaturally cold too. It was just me, right?

Then they’d happen more often. I start remembering wet dreams, getting more and more frustrated when I wake up. Eventually I end up finishing myself when I wake, becoming a routine. Panties always end up soaked by the end. Most have stains from something I don’t know.

Eventually I wake up during a ghost’s session. Confused, aroused, and still sleepy, all I could do is gasp and moan while clenching around something. It feels like something’s splitting me open but there wasn’t anyone there. No strange shadows or heavy weight, only the sensations mimicking a cock pumping in and out repeatedly. Maybe that’s the first time they finally allow me to cum. I’m already awake, they don’t have to worry about being slow.

Its after they finish that I realize what the strange substance was leaking out of me each morning. Ice cold ectoplasm paints my walls white as I finally cum. Eyes rolling back, unable to stop shaking. Maybe they decide to do multiple rounds, fucking me full of them until they’ve had their fill. After that incident, more occur. Sometimes I’m awake, other times I’m sleeping. They didn’t have to hide anymore.

I could get protection. Exorcism, salt, whatever other superstitions work against ghosts. It would make it go away. But I’m too used to being their living free use doll. Ghosts must get incredibly lonely. I can’t blame them for being pent up. So why can’t I help them?

[ronearoundblindly]

Some Steve for you to enjoy 🥰🫶🏻

Gurl, this f***ed me up! I wanted to try to make it a snippet of Item 107 or The Cinder King, but the muses were just like "you know what you need? emotional damage." So now here we have my first semi-legit period piece (which has zero useful era detail eh) and truly is just the carrier for skinny!Steve love. Hint: It's thirsty, smutty love with hardly any plot ANGST.

Hello and welcome to Lexi's most self-indulgent fic ever. It's got everything: crippling insecurities about my real-life stuff, horniness unmatched even if there were sex pollen shot directly into their faces, and everyone is touch-starved. \o/ Enjoy! WC probably close to 3k but idk because I'm too afraid to look back at it. *slams post button*

Turned away again, Steve "4F" Rogers steps out of the recruitment center to see you standing there, staring up at the posters promising glory.

People hustle around you, several even knocking into you, but you remain transfixed, invisible. You're clutching your purse like a lifeline.

Down one step, worn-through shoes barely hiding every seam in the cobblestone, Steve has to get closer because that's the direction of home and a lonely, empty apartment he can hardly afford. He has to pass by. He has to, but then he sees the amber light reflect on trails of tears down your cheeks.

He has to stop.

"Miss?" Steve clears his throat, his own arm smacked by a rowdy man who then swats at your ass just as Steve tries to get your attention again.

You jolt and turn to him in surprise, hand flying up to cover a sob, sweeping to wipe the evidence of emotion from your face.

Fast--faster than Steve really processes--he's shouting for the guy to apologize before the guy makes to advance, Steve presses himself between you and the asshole still laughing at disrespecting you, and then he--Steve--is getting shoved into the alley with you still at his back.

It's dusk. The alley is nearly black. Steve can hear you crying but he's slipped on the stones wet from an afternoon rain. He scrambles to right himself.

Amidst the cries, he hears grunts of anger and resistance, terror creeping into his chest as Steve thinks you're being assaulted.

"Piece of shit," you bite out. The silhouette of you hurling your bag at the man's face repeatedly is clear from where Steve crouches, backlit as you are by the movie theater marquee.

Then the guy is down on the ground, too, being stomped on by your two-inch heel. "Piece of fucking shit."

"Woah," Steve jumps forward to hold you back. "Woah, language, ma'am. Let's go. Just leave him."

He has a weak arm around your waist, but you kick at the man one more time for good measure, hissing "liar" before turning to follow.

Your hand in his, Steve hurries through the streets, picking the ones he knows are busier but maneuverable to make sure you're not being pursued. Each time he looks back, he sees your sinking face, more tears, more exhaustion, and he makes a flash decision.

He doesn't stop until he locks the door of his apartment behind you both, and you break down on the bare wood floor.

"You hurt? Did he hurt you?" Steve's boney knees land a few inches from yours and he leans over, his long fingers brushing over your pinned hair and stiff curls that dislodged in the commotion. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Where your legs crumple underneath you, your slip lays over your thigh, uncovered by the skirt pooling on the other side of your hip. He can see the outline of a garter strap and the top of your stocking beneath the silky material. Steve's always loved pretty, delicate things. He also loves the faint bulge of flesh around the restraints.

There's meat on your bones, something to hold onto, and he shakes his head, chastising himself for noticing all the wrong things about the crying woman in his home. His lonely, empty home.

Steve attempts to think of anything other than your body.

"Do you know him? What'd you call him a liar for?"

You sigh in defeat, hands flopping into your lap, and confess that it wasn't about him so much as a man not here anymore. Gone. To war. You tell Steve a rambling tale of excuses and snide comments, of a parting that left you wondering why that man--any man--bothered to be with you in the first place, of a surety that you weren't ever wanted.

"I thought he loved me but he lied."

Steve sits cross-legged in front of you now, enthralled and utterly confused. Why would anyone...?

"That's the worst part," you exclaim, voice cracking. "I don't know. I'll never know." Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "I heard today that he died. Don't know where. Don't know when. And I hate that I still care."

"But he wasn't good to you," Steve soothes and wraps his hand around yours, "and he wasn't good for you."

All you do is shrug and hide your face. Tears falls to the fabric below your eyes and seep through in dark patches.

He scoots forward and lifts your chin with a gentle nudge. When your puffy red eyes meet his, he's struck by how lucky he feels to see you like this. It's odd to think someone who knew you more and for so much longer couldn't feel infinitely more attached and protective. You're so vulnerable, so open, so...

"You're beautiful." Steve's tongue swipes over his dry lips. "You're so beautiful."

The words are loaded heavier than tanks and pack the punch of a bomb. He can tell you don't truly hear him by the way you shrink and shake your head out of his hold.

"Don't do that," he pleads. "Please don't hide from me."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I--"

"You don't even know my name!"

He sits back and offers his hand.

"Hi, I'm Steve. It's nice to meet you, and I think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," you lash out, bitterly spitting the half-hearted, heart-breaking words. "You must be an idiot, Steve."

It's not the first time he's heard it, but it is the first time he's not mad at hearing it. He believed those things, too, long ago, before his mom convinced him to see the possibilities in one's struggles. If you perceive it as an obstacle, it is an obstacle. Perceive it as an opportunity instead and use it. Those aren't her exact words, but Sarah Rogers has so many different ways of teaching the same fundamental lessons that Steve can't remember the phrases anymore.

He can remember the feeling. He remembers seeing both obstacles and opportunities.

"Is it stupid to want to touch you?" he whispers. "Because I would love to touch you."

The question is purposefully leading since he knows from your story that's exactly what you long for. It'll be more impactful if he shows you he longs for that too.

Slowly--so slowly--his hand comes up to your cheek again, his fingers tucking behind your neck.

"I don't want your pity." There's still bitterness but no power behind it. You gently shift closer and meet him halfway.

He's kissed girls before, he's fooled around, and he has, in fact, slept with one girl. They went all the way--twice--which means Steve knows what it is to be pitied intimately. He knows what it's like to want something so badly you don't care what the motivation is.

You deserve to know his motives.

"I don't pity you." His focus falls to your quivering lip. "I want to make you happy." He's close. He's so close his breath rolls warm over your face. "I want to make you smile."

A soft whimper leaves you just as his mouth arrives.

"I want you," he says into the kiss.

Instead of fighting, you grab at his jacket, pulling him until you're both falling into the stand lamp. You taste of salt and something sweet he can't put his finger on. Steve resolves to put that on the list of things to find out about you.

He keeps kissing you as you both fall, the lamp now wedged at an angle by the side table. Despite the tangle of tongues, Steve keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't quite have enough answers.

"What do you want, beautiful?"

Hesitant as he pulls away, gripping worn leather like your purse in the street, your eyes dart between his. You're a dream beneath him, but that sounds too selfish to voice.

"May I..." Steve is already panting "...get you off the floor? More comfortable?"

Maybe you haven't been able to say the words, but Steve doesn't need more convincing to know you want him.

He could tell from the way you pawed at him. He could tell from the multiple times you crashed him into the walls along the hall to makeout more. He could tell from the way you melted like hot butter at his every returned touch, but finally, you two made it to his bed.

He'd be embarrassed by the lumpy old thing if there weren't a curvy, luscious dame standing with wide legs at the foot of it, letting his tie slip through your hands as he sits stunned.

Steve swallows thickly.

"Let me see you." It comes out as more of an order than the hopeful question he intended, but when he sees the command shiver through you, he feels six-foot-six and powerful as all hell.

You two share the burden of unbuttoning all of your layers, spinning you a few times to release front and back and side to side. His hands spread and roam to relish each garment, each moment, until you're top half is naked.

He stares, fierce blue irises muted by the dim light on his bedside table, 'beautiful' on his lips every second you spend with your finger yanking the knot of his tie and sliding off the bond. When you lean to pop his shirt buttons, your breasts hang in his face.

Steve stops you by your wrists, peaking up at you through his long lashes as he takes a nipple in his mouth. He keeps thinking it--beautiful--while his tongue sweeps flat across pebbling flesh. Each subsequent swirl has you melting again, pressing more of you to his face, dragging nails up his chest, sighing long and deep. When he switches to the other side, your fingers bury in his hair. He takes his time to worship you, tracing his own fingertips around the hem of your slip and garters.

He doesn't get impatient, if anything Steve feels greedy for wanting more, for praying this lasts forever, for needing all you're willing to give.

His teeth graze your skin in wanton lust, and you flinch in surprise, knocking you off-balance.

You fall to your knees on the mattress, straddling Steve's slender body beneath your hot core.

"Sorry," you mutter, wriggling to stand, forcing Steve to wrap his arms around you and halt your retreat. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

"You can sit on me morning, noon, and night," he rasps. "I won't complain. I'll thank you, beautiful."

He groans pathetically when you relax, the grind of your ass making his slacks pinch tighter and tighter. Steve lets his head fall back on the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. The army might not want him, the world outside may forget he ever existed, but you see. He could get addicted to this feeling. He might get lonely without it.

Steve isn't strong enough to keep hold of you, but your weight never leaves, his erection still slotted between your cheeks. His mouth drops wide when your hips roll. Steve whines when you rise up enough to resume unbuttoning him. His lungs and heart go into overdrive, but even so, Steve doesn't want you doing all the work.

He flips you--using the sum total of his strength--and shuffles backward to stand, ripping the tails of his shirt from beneath his belt and shucking off his trousers. That part he could have been more patient for, but Steve smirks and brushes away the hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving from exertion.

He's pleased to see you watching him, ogling his body without judgment. You look like you want to eat him alive, and he is perfectly fine with that.

His palm lands on your knee to sneak higher beneath your slip, nimble fingers popping the clasps along your stockings and hooking through the band of your underwear. You lifting for him is all the permission he needs. Steve leaves your slip, garter belt, and stockings in place, and in a cheeky twist, he lets your underwear hang off one of your ankles, kissing your inner thigh, pushing your knees wider for him to fit.

He throbs in his boxers at the sight of your sex.

Nerves roil in his belly at the idea he is solely responsible for your pleasure. As he glances up to you, propped up on your elbows with a fearful and expectant gaze, he sees a poster promising honor and glory, a service to be proud of, and for the first time, he has doubts.

You see it in his eyes.

"Steve?"

He wants to participate and show that he's worthy of you.

This isn't about him though, and Steve Rogers is nothing if not dedicated anyone other than himself.

"Right here." He snaps back to reality, laying his hand to your thatch of hair and gently teasing his thumb along your folds. "I'm right here, beautiful."

It's an honor to touch you. He's proud of the moan elicited because he strokes over your clit rhythmically. The glory of watching you writhe is all his.

Steve's breath stays rapid as yours picks up. You're fisting the sheets, slick pooling beneath the pad of his thumb, helping him pick up speed. He dips into you, tests the breach while pushing his boxers down, and crawls over the edge of the bed. Like magnets, you guide each other higher till the pillows cradle you.

You're a broken record, repeating a desperate loop.

"Steve," you whimper.

"Won't ever lie to you." He captures your lips again. "Want you so badly. I'll want you all the time."

Steve doesn't understand why you won't talk to him, so he slows, eyes questioning and brow furrowed. You have to see. The light is right there.

Bottom lip trapped, you still say nothing, but your arms raise to his smooth face and plead in the silence.

He wants the same thing. He wants to feel. Not just the sting of rejection. Not just the slippery, rough stones through his shoes. Not just the empty ache inside. He wants to feel like someone cares whether he lives or dies.

You care even when you don't want to, but Steve can earn you, your care, your smile and your tears. He'll get up and come home to you every time. He needs you to come home to.

Otherwise, this is a lonely, empty apartment. Otherwise, he is a lonely, empty man.

Your hands bring him close, lips pausing just before contact while Steve sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp. His fingers curl. His thumb goes back to work. You kiss him with what little breath you can hold between muted cries until Steve notices your roving hands tug at his waist.

He wants the same thing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve drapes your thighs over his, his slick fingers spreading you. He's mesmerized watching his cock disappear inch by inch, and the caress of your walls shuts down all other brain function. All he can do is slide against you, bent into your soft body, your breasts padding his jerky thrusts, the base of him perfectly laving the hood of your clit in the growing mess.

You're wet, and he's driven wild by the need to make you come. He tries to sit up again, to play with you properly, but he's stopped by the weight of your legs crossed behind his ass, the strength of your thighs anchoring him in place.

Steve takes huge, deep breaths through his nose because he won't last concentrating on how your body bounces and ripples, plush beneath his boney form.

You get wetter, looser in a welcoming way that spurs him to drive himself home faster. He sucks in air, though it's futile once his heavy balls start to seize.

Suddenly, you shout, stretching to push yourself completely flush with his pelvis, and he has to pull out, keeping aligned with the cut of you as aftershocks make you mindlessly hump him. Steve's cum shoots all over his belly and your chest, some drops dampening what clothes he didn't discard, stains of joy replacing stains of sadness.

His chest might explode. He's gasping, taxed beyond his naughtiest dreams, head lolling toward the ceiling with his throat high.

He feels your legs fall away, and Steve hopes for an instant that you embrace him even though he might suffocate in the process.

The envelopment never comes. The world is fuzzy and too warm beyond him.

He hears the sink in his bathroom turn on just as he lands palms-down on sweaty sheets. He tries every trick he knows to calm down. The water still runs after all the time it takes for him to recover and stand. The closer he gets to the doorway, the clearer the sound really is.

Sobbing.

"Beautiful? What's wrong? Did I--"

The faucet squeaks off, and you barrel out, nearly running him over, your arms covering your chest and your disheveled hair hiding your face.

"What are you doing? Are you cold?" Steve tries.

"I'm disgusting," you hiss in a mad dash for the pile of clothes on the floor.

He trips over his feet to stop you, corralling you as best he can, but you're quick. You certainly have fight in you. Steve only want to show you you do not have to fight him.

"Come back to bed," he commands hopefully, grabbing your wrist as you scoop up your wrinkled dress. "I should clean up, but please, please, come back to bed."

There is something broken and fearful in the way you finally meet his eye. He's torn apart, shredded down to nothing in a single look. That's not how a feral animal sees the world; that's how an animal, abused and betrayed, locks the world out.

Your protection is what you really took off for him. Your thick armor is what Steve got past.

"I didn't lie." He lets go of you and steps back as calm as his rasping breaths can manage. "I want you. I want you to stay." He wonders whether he ought to cover himself, too, because perhaps total vulnerability makes you more nervous.

So he presents himself as an opportunity, not an obstacle.

Steve finds his boxers a foot away and says one more time, "I hope you stay."

Unmoving, your eyes follow his walk to the bathroom, and in the split second he's looking down to turn the tap, you're gone.

Disappointment floods his system, but like all the other stamped failures in his record, Steve goes through the motions of caring for a body that thwarts his desire to live at every turn. In fact, it tries to die so often, he's always surprised to find himself here, staring at this mirror again, wondering why he gets back up.

He's also surprised to find you here, in the bed with the sheet pulled up to your chin, nodding to the side table where you've placed a cup of water.

The tiniest of genuine smiles curves your lips.

Steve's home is neither lonely nor empty anymore. He could cry.

A/N: this got so incredibly out of hand... I'm so sorry. But also, thank you for reading!

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads

[infamous-if]

Learning about G’s and Vic’s last names made me wonder which RO’s speak a second language and what kinds??

G is conversational in Italian, O is fluent in Korean, Seven understands Spanish better than they speak it, which isn't very well. They can probably keep up a conversation if they try hard enough!

[exilethegame]

Do you have a list of the ROs and like a description of them :( can't find it

I have one floating about somewhere, but here's an up-to-date one! :)

Vethna Mevnrael (they/them) Appearance: 5’9, skin the color of bronze with long wavy hair that’s only a few shades darker than their skin. Their eyes are a greyed-out blue-green and glow in the darkness due to magic. They wear a deep v-neck black gown with golden embroidery, an outrageous amount of rings and jewelry, and their signature wine-red lipstick. Background: Vethna hails from Vygrand-- otherwise known as the sworn rival land of your home country. Where you have been raised to resent most, if not all magic, they have been raised to thrive on it. You don't know much about them-- just that they're on the run from someone, something, powerful, and you're the only one who can protect them. That, and they have a whole lot of gold... almost as much as they have secrets.

Nikke Ivante (he/him) Appearance: 6’0, pale green skin and covered in iridescent scales. Purple bags sit under his pale green eyes, which, like all mythosi, glow in the darkness. Wears smudged black kohl across his eyes. His hair is long, half shaved, and braided, mostly black with streaks of white. His tongue is forked and his sharp fangs often protrude from out past his lips. His arms are covered in tattoos of snakes winding downwards, and on his neck sit geometric tattoos. Background: Nikke has been sent to kill you or kidnap you-- you're not entirely sure which it is, and you don't intend to find out. He's crude and sarcastic and overall a brute. He doesn't seem to take his own life seriously, nonetheless yours, and you have no doubt he's going to capture you or die trying. Hell-- maybe he'll just kill you both while he's at it... you know, for fun.

Jost Ivante (she/her) (Not romanceable in demo yet) Appearance: 6’0 with pale green skin and iridescent scales. Her features are sharp and she has multiple piercings, the most notable being her bridge piercing and snake-bites. She has tattoos down her arms and on her neck in geometric patterns. Her hair is waist-length and slicked back and filled with braids and tokens, and just like her brother, is streaked with white. While she wears dark paint over her eyes, it’s done in a manner much neater than Nikke’s. Background: Jost is Nikke's identical twin sister-- and, if possible, she's twice as mean and just as rude. She's more ruthless than her brother, but she doesn't quite have the fighting power to back up her venom-laced threats and taunts. Nonetheless, she fights dirty, and if you want to beat her, you're going to have to be smart.

Amilia Von Clamile (she/her) Appearance: 5’3 with snow white skin and blood red hair that’s poorly cut and uneven, coming to her chin on one shoulder and sitting well past her collarbone on the other. Her eyes are green and her face is covered in freckles. A deep scar juts into her lip on the right side of her face and runs down her jaw and neck. Background: Amilia's a fae-- the very kind of mythosi you've been raised to fear and have spent most of your life killing. She's all smiles and nerves, but you see something else in her eyes, sometimes. Something cold. Something calculative. Everyone seems keen to turn a blind eye to her, but you know a liar when you see one... don't you?

Syfyn Javall (she/her) Appearance: 5’11 with warm toned skin that’s often burnt red, leaving splotchy tans along her body. Her eyes are a steely grey, hair blonde and cut to barely brush against her shoulders. She tries to often wear it up despite this, resulting in most of the hair falling out messily. She's covered in scars with feathers in her hair, and her pupils are slits. Her teeth are all mostly sharp. Background: Syfyn Javall, The Brazen Griffin, Second-in-Command to the Plaithian Army. She used to work beneath you once-- used to fight beside you and honor you both as a comrade and friend. You grew up together within the military. When you had nobody, you had each other. But then you betrayed her-- or maybe she betrayed you. You don't know who started what, but you do know that the blood is on both of your hands now.

Sabir Du Vaelas (he/him) Appearance: 6’1 with dark, cool toned skin, black eyes, and long black hair kept in locs. He wears expensive robes that are a deep teal and is covered head to toe in expensive silver jewelry, most of which is covered in snake symbolism. Sabir's ears are pierced in several areas, and he tends to wear silver eyeliner and highlight. Background: Sabir, otherwise known as The Silven Viper, Eye of Plaithus, used to be your charge. He's a politician-- one of the better ones, if such a thing exists. Your past together was volatile-- perhaps you were lovers, or friends, or enemies. Either way, he saved your life when you otherwise would've been put to death by the state, and you owe him thanks for that much.

Freedom (gender selectable) Appearance: 6′0 with pallid, paper-white skin and bronze eyes that appear to almost be filled with a shimmering liquid. Their hair is waist-length and black with an iridescent sheen to it, long black claws bordering on talons on their hands. They wear long, tight fitting black robes. Background: You hear its voice sometimes, when it's quiet and you're alone. You try to tune it out. You try to ignore it. It forces you to remember things. To feel things. It's within you, wiggling and writhing, waiting for the right moment to attack. At times it feels predatory. At others, its presence is comforting-- protective and doting. It'll become whatever you want it to be. It'll become whatever you need it to be.

[apt502-if]

What kind of things would you say that are flaws from the other ros? Like maybe "little things" that would make people look at the ro and cringe or something lol

good one :P I like this question. We focus too much on positives let's get down to the nitty gritty :P Still what if this ruins the allure of the ROs? My 502 career would be over before it even started! :P

⚠️ Don't read if you're easily turned off! ⚠️

So we established for Rainn it's that they'd definitely fly private if they had the means. Rainn also has a bad habit of ordering their food at a counter while texting. Makes them seem like an asshole but they don't do it on purpose. They're just too into their work emails to realize they look impolite.

This is Callum specific but they tend to manspread on the train. They also don't do it on purpose and when someone takes notice they apologize profusely but can't stop doing it LOL. Cal big package?? im just kidding or maybe not

In reverse, f!C likes to take off her put her stuff on the seat next to her and takes up two seats.

Other than that for f!C and m!C I think they're too anxious not to be self-aware of everything they're doing and how other people feel about them so I don't see any little thing other than probably cringy PDA with Taren :P

M can't handle not looking at their phone during a movie at the theater. At least they're considerate enough to turn down their brightness? :< I like to imagine that MC used to slap it out of their hand when they went together and M would just say an embarrassed "sorry..." and then sneakily try to keep looking at their texts.

Like Cal, when A is on the train they'll put their stuff on the seat next to them and take up two seats. Unlike Cal, this is very on purpose. They don't want people sitting next to them.

I think the cringiest thing about Andi is that they take photos of their food like a regular instagram influencer would LOL sometimes with the ring light on their phone and everything

L's phone background is a picture of themself. IDK if that's cringy but I know people find it cringy so :P

[thelonelyshore-if]

How would each ro act after the first morning after waking up next to mc?

I was so thoroughly obsessed with this prompt that I just kept writing as I was working on Beck's answer. And then I realized I wanted to just like...write drabbles for each of the ROs. So I'm going to do that. Sorry that it isn't all at once, Nonnie, but I love this prompt and wanted to really write something out for each. I hope you still enjoy! <3

Beck- drabble here!

Croft- drabble here!

Jay- wip

Perri- wip

Ravi- wip

Yasmin- wip

[zico-if]

how would the ROs react if a very grumpy/angry MC (obv traumatised lil baby) one day like genuinely laughed

Ilya:

It's such a small little thing, yet they can't help but be completely entranced by the sound of your voice. They find themselves staring at you, stunned into a silence that doesn't break until you turn to look at them with a puzzled look and blurt out a short "what?"

It's then a gentle smile breaks across their face, wider than anything you've ever seen with a happiness twinkling in their eyes that stems just from that simple noise.

"Nothing," they reply, burning the sound of your laughter to their memory. They'd like to hear it again, if you'd let them.

Vira:

She pauses her motion, stilling her hands when she hears you laugh. She turns to look at you, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Did you...just laugh?" She questions, like she's uncertain if she heard it correctly.

"Yes?" you answer.

"Mm. I see," she says, satisfied with the answer and turns back to doing whatever it was she was doing, a faint and subtle smile gracing her lips. You don't fail to notice that her gaze seems to fall on you every now and then, as if hoping to catch you in the act of laughing.

Aurius:

Almost immediately, Aurius snaps his gaze towards the source of the sound. "You laughed," he points out, not bothering to hide the childlike smile on his face.

You blink at him. "I...did," you confirm, schooling your face back to a natural neutrality.

His smile never wavers. He looks at you as if you're a dream made reality. "It's truly a lovely sound," he confesses. "Perhaps one of my favourites." He'd never heard you laugh like that before. And oh how so euphoric it is to hear you do so.

Rhian:

When they hear you laugh, their eyes widen so much that it looks almost comical and in an instant, they'd wish that they'd been able to record that moment so they could reply it over and over. Suddenly, it becomes all that they can think of: hearing that sound again. That warm genuine laughter. "Could you do that again?" They ask.

"Hm? Do what?"

"That sound you just made. The laughter. I'd like to hear it again...please?" they ask, even adding a please to sound polite. Just once more. Even if it takes them a hundred tries to make you laugh, they only need to hear it just once more, because who would've thought that such a simple sound could bring them to their knees just like that.

[rottedsoulx]

Can I ask how rotten origins Jay got captured by the pirates??

And also how he took over??

Sure! I want to go into more detail later with a comic. (Hopefully I get that far with this project!) But I can spare some info right now.

Jay was less captured than he was misled about the situation. He found the teapot in the junkyard, made his first wish and was stuck with Nadakhan since.

As for how he took over? Well, I don't have the exact details hashed out yet. Though I know for sure I want it to be a huge surprise to Nadakhan. He didn't expect his well trained song bird to start pecking out his eyes AND stage a mutiny.

I have some extra things to say about nadakhan, but I feel like they'd be better off if I made a separate post for him. With a drawing or two.

[l3viat8an]

Whatever you do, do not think about having a pretty boy sit in your lap and cupping his face in your hands and giving him kisses all over his cheeks and forehead and on the tip of his nose and lastly on his lips all while he holds onto the front of your shirt and just lets you love him-

[night-market-if]

Can’t believe no one has asked the classic “would you love me as a worm” question. That’s like the question! Guess I’ll take one for the team lol

Hazel: Yes. And she would make the MC a little worm house and give them little worm friends and make sure they had fresh food every day.

Belladonna: No. She would first think that the question is ridiculous and then she would explain that worms have no feelings so of course she wouldn't love the MC.

Gabriel: Yes. And he would spend every single day trying to change MC back while also giving them the most pristine little home he could. He would sing the worm MC to sleep every night as well.

Milo: Yes. But he would also lose you in a pile of other worms.

Malcolm: Would absolutely not even answer the question.

Pen: Would give MC a little scythe and make them honorary reaper of the market.

[tosahobi-if]

my favorite little creature

ever see something so beautiful you start crying (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

[ronearoundblindly]

okey dokey, I've had *a day* and will use this glorious...🥴 idek which body part to reference 😮‍💨...and merge it with your previous ask about cooking or baking for Steve and giving him a nice, comforting, home cooked meal. And his response to that act of service and caring. Because this is me, I will obviously be starting with ::gasp:: an argument. Don't you love how predictable I am?!?!

To Tire Is Human

No warnings, uhhh, canon language (sh*t)? Written in drafts so no exact word count. It's not long (2k maybe, very much unedited)!

"The hustle? What does that even mean?" Steve gripes as he finishes up various chores around the property.

"It means I do the work."

Your boyfriend rips apart the wood log he was about to start chopping. "Do the work? Do the work? For nine hours? After leaving home early enough to be at work for an hour before the actual work starts? Then staying at least a half hour to clean?"

"Unless I also have to restock," you add quickly just to really turn the knife.

"You have got to be shitting me," he nearly snarls, eyes down toward the pile.

You don't blame him for not understanding. He's from an era where people worked to live, the point was the living. This...is not longer that era, and you are not of that generation.

Of course, it frustrates him, too, because your work makes living almost impossible. With all that he just mentioned, the commute, and attempting to offer yourself the basic self-care of eating and washing, you don't have the energy to do chores, and you've certainly struggled to find energy enough to show Steve love.

"That's the gig nowadays. That's how us super-average humans do it."

The thing is that you are also so tired of having this conversation. You are tired of the guilt for not magically considering yourself the center of your universe because, despite jokes about every kid receiving participation trophies, it is deeply engrained in you that you are replaceable.

If you don't perform above and beyond, fired. If you ask for too much and offer too little, gone. If you don't constantly learn how to outpace others, useless. It never ends.

And, finally, Steve Rogers might not get this but you age. You aren't powerful to begin with, but day after day, you get weaker and older, while someone else on Earth gets smarter and stronger.

You don't want to hear the spiel. You can see from his pinched face that Steve wants to give the spiel.

You sigh in exhaustion and prepare to hear the whole Cap speech before you two go pick up dinner in town.

One day later that week, your work schedule falls apart and lands you back at home hours before Steve is due to return. Antsy to accomplish something--and looking for a snack,--you notice the perfect combination of ingredients, something saucy and salty, hearty, just like Steve melts for, and a fruity baked good.

It's a lot of steps, there's a lot of mess to clean up as you go, and then there's still a lot left behind. You're hastily rushing around to set the oven timer and yank a skillet off the burner. Perhaps the whole endeavor has gotten you in over your head.

Steve appears out of nowhere.

Well. Not nowhere, but all the chaos in the kitchen is making enough noise, you didn't hear the door.

"I have everything under control," you automatically say.

His expression morphs from one of surprise and concern to utterly overwhelmed. His eyes look glassy as he approaches and scoops you into a quick hug, hands tucking themselves beneath the hem of your shirt so he can feel your skin as he breathes you in.

He quickly releases you at the sounds of oil popping and sniffs, reverting to Cap mode.

"What do you need? What can I do?"

All you can think is that the table hasn't been set.

Steve eats his whole meal--entree and dessert--with his non-dominant hand just so he can hold yours.

He had one of your days.

He spent the drive home listing all the things he needed to do in his head, more energy for each tick, more time for sitting still, more of him to give...

...and then he got to enjoy a lovely dinner with you.

You spent your energy on him, on you both. You spent energy specifically to spend time with him, and Steve could cry but he won't. He keeps smiling, making happy, pleased noises with each delicious bite.

An hour ago, he wasn't sure he could feed himself or wash up. He's simply too tired.

You start playing with his hand, drawing patterns in his palm, lightly dragging your nails on the sensitive inside of his wrist. It makes him shiver.

There were at least four things he was supposed to do outside before it got too dark, a load of towels and sheets needs done, a basket of clothes waits to be folded and put away. He does not want to do any of it.

His fingers close around yours.

"Thank you," he interjects softly, "I was so tired."

You lean forward and plant a sweet kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear, "you wanna leave the dishes to soak and watch a movie instead?"

Steve chuckles, turns his head to quickly kiss your lips, and nuzzles his nose to yours.

"Oh, you're a naughty minx, aren't you?"

Playfully racing up the stairs, ignoring the plates and glasses still on the table, you call back to him.

"Show some hustle, big guy! We got a whole lot of nothing to do."

He twitches, just for an instant, before finally deciding that grabbing the spare pillows from the guest room will add more to the movie experience than doing the dishes.

You're both going to do the work tonight: the work of taking care of each other, enjoying each other, and being human together.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[burning-academia-if]

Lars + Flustered, please and thank you :)!

Happy one year anniversary to people trying to figure out how to fluster Lars!!!!!

Lars + Flustered

            “You’re not going to get him to blush, let alone be flustered. You might as well give up now.” Had been Nevio’s advice when you’d finally broken down and asked him. The impenetrable wall that was Lars Angel was one you couldn’t even begin to climb.

            It wasn’t just that you wanted to get him flustered, but you thought if you could achieve that, maybe he’d be willing to show just a little more of his emotions around you. The flicker of emotions he showed were so mild and so calculated. Still, if even the members of the Student Wardens had either scoffed or wished you luck, you weren’t sure how you were going to manage this feat.

            You’d tried everything you could think of. Surprises, sweet words, heated words, physical touch, gifts, everything. He’d caught on quickly, and while you’d expected him to tell you to knock it off at first, he’d only given his usual sharp smile.

            “Keep trying.”

            The challenge in those words had made you keep going. Lars had yet to break, and you’d long since lost count of your attempts.

            You flopped on the couch in his dorm, staring up at the ceiling. With a long suffering sigh, you said, “I give up.”

            “On?” Lars didn’t even look up from his laptop. He lounged next to you, feet propped up on the coffee table, his hair faintly messy and glasses low on his nose.

            Another heavy sigh escapes you. Of course, you’ve never actually said your end goal was to fluster him. Even if it was obvious to him what you were doing, saying it out loud would have ruined the intention behind it. The whole affair had been an open secret.

            Lars reaches out and lightly brushes a knuckle against the top of your head, “I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

            “This isn’t something you’d be willing to help with.”

            He finally lifts his head, places the laptop atop the table, and turns his full attention to you, “I’m willing to help you with anything if it’ll make you stop mopping.”

            “I need a list of all your weaknesses pronto—”

            “Try again.”

            As he turns away you let out a groan, “How many times have I tried, only to end in failure and for my beloved to scorn me—”

            “You’re acting like a child.”

            “—whatever can one do in such a state?” You reach up for him, fingers trailing against his face.

            There’s not a hint of amusement in his expression, “You’ll figure it out. You have a whole lifetime to figure it out.”

            “A whole—?” He returns back to his work before you can process the implications. You sit upright, suddenly feeling a wave of heat rush through your body. An entirely unfair experience consider this is what you’ve spent ages trying to get him to feel. “Hey, I’m going to need you to explain that statement, sir.”

            He doesn’t. And he doesn’t for the rest of the night despite your pestering.