#so that i can just have a fun little thing to write for breaks

[weltraum-vaquero]

i was scrolling through pinterest and i came across a prompt: “i can’t focus with your damn hand on my— ooh..” i IMMEDIATELY thought of jayce 🫢 can i request sumn like that? i love your work so much 😭😭

Hi anon, this prompt drove me insane. Thank you so much!

Play (dirty)

Jayce Talis x GN Reader

Summary: A fancy play at the Piltover Opera is a good excuse as any to deck out. And an even better excuse to have some fun with your partner.

Word count: 2.5k

MDNI. Mature content under the cut.

Tags: Sub Jayce, slight exhibitionism, dry handjobs, heavy petting, alcohol consumption

Jayce could never stand still. There’s something in him that’s constant, restless, relentless. Always the type to fiddle, to twirl his pen between his fingers, to scratch at his own scruff in thought, to chew the inside of his cheek, to bounce his leg. His mind is a hyperactive, brilliant thing; equal parts blessing and curse.

He does it now, too — bouncing his leg, that is, under the fine silk of his prettiest burgundy slacks (his ass, though nothing to write home about, never failed to look tremendous in those. Something about the thin, generously revealing material seaming to the humble curve of his ass in a salacious display). Jayce taps his fingers on the sturdy oakwood of the theatre chair as he stares at the still lowered curtain, crosses his legs, sighs, uncrosses them, bounces his leg again.

It’s the final stretch of the second intermission, though the play isn’t particularly doing it for you, mainly because you’ve seen this exact rendition before, with Jayce at your side. Just… not from up here: an opulently designed balcony, all to yourselves, just shy of the stage. Generous courtesy of Salo for a favor taken rather than given from Jayce, a situation that’s been stressing him out something fierce these past few weeks. You digress. That’s not what matters anymore — he’s earned a break. He’s earned something good.

It’s a lovely opportunity to spend some time with him outside of the confines of his lab or your shared home, which is growing increasingly rare. It’s a lovely opportunity to put on your shiniest clothes and make a pretty sight for one another.

Undeniably, that’s been the best aspect of it. Jayce has been sneaking looks at you the whole time — perhaps bored with the play, perhaps too enticed with you. And you can’t exactly blame him, because you’re not doing much better either. 

How are you meant to do anything when you have a much more captivating sight to take in, sitting tensely in the chair next to yours?

A dark shirt that hugs the proud swell of his chest just right (certainly something to write home about), a pretty burgundy jacket just the same warm colour as the fruity merlot he’s finished sipping on, lingering on his plump lips. Silk curling at the seams, stretching under the heft of his now thicker thighs as they rest on the seat, tie loosened just so, and he’s good enough to eat. 

You lay a warm hand on the inside of his leg, and Jayce, as he always does, yields. Less on thought, more on instinct, always so eager, before he turns to look at you with a question in amber eyes gone chocolatey dark in the low light of the room.

“Hm?” 

His cologne hits you in a peppery-sweet, floral wave as he leans in, leans closer, and gives you the attention you’re so clearly demanding.

“Should I get us more wine?” You make feeble conversation, more eager to hear his voice than his thoughts. He’s been sharing most of them in whispers throughout the play so far as is. 

Jayce shakes his head, flashes a conspiratorial, boyish little smirk. “If I have any more, I might um,” he breaks out in a short, clearly tipsy giggle, “do something I really shouldn’t be doing up here.”

His hand finds yours, pinkies twining together in a near juvenile but vulnerable display of his affection, a plea for affection. And, oh, his eyes, though his pupils are blown wide, glitter mischievously like a cat’s about to pounce. Two can play that game… 

“Mm. That would be a terrible look on you,” you emptily agree. “Think of the headlines… Man of Progress caught moaning during Winter Solstice play, Man of Progress bent over the railing on the opera’s most lavish balcony…”

Jayce nods, a little drunkenly. Leans in for a kiss before he breathes: “Terrible.”

You let him have it — how could you not? Let him sloppily lick at your mouth like an overeager puppy for a long, dizzying, smooth-merlot attempt at a kiss. He smiles into it, as if in thanks.

Before you give a gentle little push at the plush swell of his chest with your other hand, pacing him, pulling away to leave him in a dazed little stupor. His breath hits your now slick lips in a warm, wet brush.

“Intermission’s about to end.” You pat his thigh less sensually, more like you’d pat an obedient dog for a trick well done. “Better keep quiet and focus on the third act.”

It looks like it pains him to settle back into his velvet seat, so you leave your hand on the top of his now still thigh — a reminder, a promise. It keeps Jayce on his toes more than the narrative unfolding before you does. Well worked sinew draws so tight you can feel it vibrate even under the soft layer of plush fat on his thighs, and as the action in the play begins to find its inevitable build, you find your hand wandering. 

Just to the inside of his thigh, first, where he’s softer, which he gladly offers up to you. Fingers draw patterns more intricate than the paisley on his vest, until poor, tormented Jayce begins to shift in his velvet seat. Tilts his hips this way, then that, then readjusts his whole frame in the seat with an awkward clear of his throat when it creaks.

The rich tones of a singular violin crescendos in sync with the dip of your hand further, up, up, until you reach that tense tendon on the inside of his leg, where his thigh seams to his hip.

And further inwards, his straining cock nudges the back of your knuckles through the silk of his pants. Jayce jumps with the contact… Poor, poor thing.

“Aw, Jayce...” It’s both pity and reprimand, a whisper so low he can barely hear it. The flesh of his thigh spills from between squeezing fingers; it has him lowering his head in shame and trying to breathe through it. If not for the sacred quiet of the imposing room, for the performers playing their instruments as deftly as you’re about to play him, he would have at the very least whined for it. A low, pleading, dog-like sound.

Instead, he shoots you a look. Desperate and dazed and wide-eyed all at once in the dark of the room, before it turns into a kind of anger that does not and will not bite. Nibbles on you like an angry puppy, more like.

“How d-do you expect me to focus when your damn hand is—“ and you give him what he wants, “o-oh.”

Grabbing a handful of the straining outline of his dick through his pants, rubbing just once, from the wet patch on the tip to as far down as the silk allows.

“Better?” You ask.

Jayce breathes a terrified, shivering sigh.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“I can stop,” you remind. He knows it to be the truth intimately; though he aches to please to a fault, Jayce has learned a thing or two about respecting his own boundaries by now. You trust that if he needs you to, he will give you the word.

“Don’t.” Armrests gripped so tight they could splinter, eager hips raise off the theatre seat to chase your hand until your palm cradles his leaky tip once more. Wide eyes flutter closed and cherry slick lips part in a muted expression of bliss.

“Then don’t make a mess,” you breathe into his ear. “And keep quiet. Can you do that, baby?”

Jayce nods desperately, and does a surprisingly great job at swallowing another moan as you twirl your fingertips around what should be the crown of his cock, silk gliding under your hand akin to well oiled skin. He lets it happen gladly, spreads his legs in welcoming especially when you reach further down, until the dainty weight of his balls sits cupped in the groove of your palm. There, you linger, simply holding him where he’s most sensitive, unmoving.

Jayce exhales shakily, baby doe eyes flicking between you and the hand between his legs in questioning, in hope. The soft, still cradle of your palm turns greedy as you feel him up, fingertips curling around the heft of his bulge, his cock pressing into your hand. All of him trembles with how he stifles a gasp into the back of his fist.

You simply knead at him idly, the way a satisfied cat would as it purrs, and make a show of diverting your attention back to the play you couldn’t care less about. It gets him off, in some capacity, to be touched but not paid attention to. It had made him soil his pants so quick, once, simply letting him have his pleasure against your thigh while you were busy with a book, and it’s a technique you employ on occasion since. Coupled with the fact that Jayce, touchy and needy as he is, hasn’t gotten much chance at release lately, you know for certain he will find it now, and fast. 

The glossy silk has gone sticky wet at the very tip of his dick, so much so it even leaves your hand damp after an indulgent squeeze at it. Below, horns blare with the oncoming climax of the play, music daunting in its grandeur even from up so high. In spute of such an enticing distraction at hand, you can’t help but marvel at them as you palm Jayce’s cock. And you recognize the melody the very next moment, the thrill of hearing it for the very first time; just as you know the end Jayce is approaching with intimate familiarity, so do you remember the next part of the play. 

It will go quiet for a long, breathtaking moment to draw the audience to the edge of their seats, the calm before the storm — and Jayce, judging by the sweat on his brow, the way he almost tears into the back of his fist with his canines, Jayce will not, cannot be quiet.

The realization must hit him at the same time as it hits you, because his free hand grabs yours in a death grip, a decidedly desperate attempt at halting the inevitable. 

“S-stop,” he whispers, his lips meeting on the p just moments before the entire orchestra quiets. 

You can hear every bated inhale in the grandiose room — but none of them as sweet as Jayce’s. The whole room buzzes, alight with the anticipation of the audience. 

Jayce squeezes your hand vehemently, like the weight of his barely contained orgasm threatens to crush him. His thighs clench around your hand, his body curls, he exhales in a silent cry, before he presses his hand to his lips so hard it makes you wince. You lean in close enough to be able to hear his thoughts, let him hide his face in the fabric on your shoulder.

“Breathe,” you coo at him like he’s in pain, stroking your thumb up, then down the aching outline of his cock. It makes his hips jump. “Once the music starts again, I’ll take care of you.”

You can feel him nod his head against your shoulder, can feel his grip slacken, can hear the tension in the room crackling like lightning when a violin starts a short-lived solo that is soon joined by the rest of the orchestra in a tsunami.

Jayce lets go of your hand, spreads his legs as if to offer himself up on a silver platter to you — full, complete trust. You slip the buttons of his pants out of their eyelets fast, aided by the near oily slipperiness of the fabric, the press of his cock, which have the front flap popping open the rest of the way.

Your hand slides down the bump of his soft, fuzzy tummy, into his pants, his underwear, easily, because it’s warm, familiar territory. Cradling all he’s worth in your hand, you scoop both his cock and his balls from the confines of the silk, laying them out vulnerable and exposed to the cold air.

It forces a gasp from Jayce, fortunately lost to the music, instinctually going to cover himself with both hands at the sensation and the prospect of being at the mercy of such a grand, full room.

“I’ve got you,” you remind him. Deft hands reach for his breast pocket, stealing away his handkerchief from him. Even dazed like this, Jayce understands your intention easily, and wins another battle against his instincts as he lets his hands fall away from where they’re cupped over himself protectively. One hand fists the silk of his pants, and the other wraps around your forearm not in guidance, but in seeking, of your presence, of you, grounding himself.

Jayce goes perfectly still as you stroke his dry cock, from root to swollen tip. It can’t be satisfying, you know so by just the feel of your hand around him, the way his foreskin drags with the grip you have on him, up, over his leaky cockhead, then down, exposing him where he’s most sensitive. It can’t be good, but it’s enough, because Jayce whines, quiet and half-terrified as he hides his face against your shoulder, before he goes rigid with your next upward stroke. 

And you do that thing he likes so much — his tip’s smeared in enough of his precum to facilitate an overstimulating twist of your palm around just the ruddiness of his crown. His mouth falls open in a silent wail.

Jayce is so easy. Shoots his load into the handkerchief you bring up to his cock just in time, lets you milk all his overwhelming orgasm’s worth into the fabric until he can’t help but clench his thighs around your still moving hand. Trembles in time with his twitching cock as you wipe the strings of cum off his sticky, swollen cockhead and stuff the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.

The orchestra quiets once more, for good this time, and the audience’s applause roars. There won’t be much time until the lights come on, so you make quick work of tucking him back into his pants, and once Jayce regains some of his mental footing, he helps you button them back up.

Just in time — the lights blind you, but not as much as he does. Sitting low in his seat, slick with sweat, disheveled in his best clothes, and smiling at you so wide and dopey he shines, Jayce is brighter than any light, any sun. His chest rises and falls at a fierce, breakneck pace as he catches his breath.

You lean in to grant him a well deserved kiss to the cheek, one he chases with his mouth instead, and smiles into when you lick what remains of the by now long dried merlot from the ridges of his lips.

It makes him smile wider, a blush that matches his suit perfectly blooms on his cheeks. He takes the hand you’d stroked him with, intertwines your fingers like the lovesick fool that he is. You squeeze back, like the lovesick fool that you are, and can’t help but gaze into his eyes even as the eager applause slowly fizzles out.

“They clapped for the wrong performance,” you whisper to him. “You were far more glorious than any play.”

[tthoroughfare]

kerosene (part 2) // ellie williams

*･゜ﾟ･* summary: the one where she breaks up with cat.

*･゜ﾟ･* pairing: jackson!ellie x reader

*･゜ﾟ･* content: sfw

*･゜ﾟ･* length: 0.8k

this is part two of this series! find part one here

I AM ENJOYING WRITING THIS SO MUCH i literally don't want them to get together because i just love yearning so much sighhh. i'm already up to the part where things finally happen and i know i'm gonna end up posting those, then going back and writing little extra parts to slot in where they're still friends. anywayyy hope you enjoy <3

something about the conversation makes ellie deliberate for weeks. it was the way you’d spoken about your relationship just not feeling ‘right’, the way she couldn’t really verbalize anything she felt like she should say about cat. she doesn’t know if she’s just overthinking everything. cat’s great. sure, she can’t see herself spending the rest of her life with her, but she makes her happy. they have fun. they have things in common. she feels like she starts to make a mental list of all the reasons they’re together, analyzing the relationship, analyzing her own feelings. she can’t shake the notion that now they’re settled in, the excitement of newness gone, she, too, feels like something isn’t ‘right’.

she hopes it just goes away on its own. but when just over a month passes and nothing has changed, she knows she has to just do it. 

it starts off as a regular day; she meets cat at a spot they frequent, stomach churning at the anticipation. she wants to just rip the band-aid off, but she can’t. the words won’t come out. she flounders around for a while, talking about nothing, knowing full well cat can tell something’s up. finally, when she straight up asks her why she’s being weird, she just comes out and says it. she wants to break up.

of course, she feels awful. cat’s confused, and crying, and asking all kind of questions ellie can’t really express any answers to. she’s upset about it, too. but she just knows in her heart it’s for the better.

it’s cemented when she’s walking back home, realizing she feels a little lighter.

she sees you properly again about a week later, when there’s an event in jackson. she really wasn’t planning on going, not wanting to risk seeing cat (not wanting to have to interact with anyone, pretty much), but dina had convinced her, saying she ‘can’t lock herself away forever.’

she walks in late, party already in full swing, and immediately spots you in the corner chatting to jesse. you haven’t actually spoken in a few weeks, just a greeting when you saw each other out and about, but you seem happier than you were before. she kicks herself mentally when she finds herself hoping it’s not because you’ve found someone new.

she awkwardly hovers around, getting herself a drink and sipping it, people watching. these things were never her idea of a great time.

after about ten minutes, dina appears at her side, visibly tipsy. “what the hell are you doing?” she asks playfully, gesturing at the room full of people. “you’re a single woman now, c’mon. get out there.”

ellie pulls a face, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her drink. “yeah, that's definitely my style.”

dina lets out a short, exasperated sigh, taking ellie by the wrist and tugging her across the room, towards you and jesse. “at least socialize. you’re all… weird. more than usual.”

“oh, shut up,” she retorts lowly, but allows herself to be hauled over to the two of you. her stomach flutters slightly when she gets a proper look at you; you’re a little more done-up than normal, eyes sparkling in the warm light as you greet her.

she doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or something else, but that night is the first time things start to feel explicitly different. on one hand, it’s similar to how it was before — the odd pleasantness dissipated in the air. it feels more like a real friendship again, rather than two people dancing around each other. but on the other, something just feels… new.

she actually ends up having a really good time. she spends the majority of the night with you, drinking more than you both probably should, conversation flowing easily. and when it’s over, she insists on walking you home, despite you saying dina’s staying the night and you weren’t going to be alone anyway.

she just shrugs and smiles.

on the short walk back, dina’s chatting your ear off, thoroughly drunk, but you can’t really focus on anything she’s saying. not just because of the fuzzy feeling in your head, but because of the way you’re so, so aware of ellie’s presence. you’re walking in between them, noticing the way she seems to gravitate towards you, swaying away slightly, then back in. you cross your arms, not wanting to accidentally brush against her, not really understanding why.

she lingers at the door when you get home, dina heading straight in and kicking her shoes off, flopping down on your couch.

“well… thanks. you’re free to go,” you joke after a small pause.

ellie shoots a lopsided smile, leaning against the doorframe. “welcome.” she pauses, like she doesn’t want to go, like she wants to say something. but she doesn’t. she just taps the doorframe and stands up straight. “see you later.”

dina yells out a ‘bye, ellie’, and you wave goodbye as she turns around to leave, trying not to think about the way that smile sent your stomach all funny. “get home safe. update me on the hangover.”

she looks over her shoulder at you as she walks away, chuckling. “will do.”

you go to close the door, watching her stuff her hands into her pockets and make her way down the street for a moment too long.

[faebled-stories]

Kinkvember Is Over, and I’m a Mess (In the Best Way)

I don’t even know how to start this because I’m literally crying as I write 😭. Finishing Kinkvember feels so bittersweet because this was just supposed to be a fun writing challenge. But it became so much more.

When I started this month, I had 500 followers. That alone felt wild to me, like, how are there 500 people who care enough to follow this little corner of the internet? And now? I’m sitting here with 1,700+ followers and counting, and I honestly can’t wrap my head around it 🤯. The amount of love, support, and connection I’ve felt this past month has been overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

Every fic I posted got so much love—comments, reblogs, DMs, and just… everything. It’s insane. INSANE. You all made me feel seen, appreciated, and so motivated to keep pushing even when I was tired or doubting myself. Every time I logged on and saw your reactions, it felt like a warm hug 🤗, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.

To my OGs who’ve been here since the beginning, thank you for sticking with me through this entire chaotic journey. You’ve been my rock 💪, hyping me up when I wasn’t sure if I could keep going. And to all of you who joined somewhere along the way, thank you for giving me a chance. You have no idea how much it means to me that you’d choose to spend even a small part of your day reading something I wrote.

This month wasn’t easy—balancing life, school, writing, and everything else was definitely a challenge—but every late night, every moment of doubt, every second I spent staring at my screen thinking, “Can I even pull this off?” was worth it. Because I got to share it with all of you.

And now that Kinkvember is officially over, I want to let you know that I have all your Q&A questions saved. I’ll be answering them in a couple of days, I promise! If anyone has any last-minute questions or things you want to say, my inbox is still wide open, so don’t be shy 💌.

This past month has been such an emotional, life-changing experience, and I’m so grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for sticking with me, for cheering me on, for letting me be a part of your day, and for making this space feel like home 🏡.

I’m a mess, but I’m also so, so happy. Thank you for everything. You’ve made this girl’s heart so full .

That being said, I’ve decided to take a break now that Kinkvember is over. I honestly don’t know how long I’ll be gone—probably until the start of next year. I really need some time to recharge and step away for a bit after this whirlwind month, but I’ll definitely be back.

Love you all so so so much, Fae 💖💖💖💖💖

[coffeefiction]

The Mech Pilot Au by @keferon has me on a chokehold, so, I'mma procrastinate from writing an actual fic by just writing down incorrect quotes instead-

-----------------------

Swerve: We’ve found the person who stole your identity and was impersonating you.

Blur: Where were they?

Swerve: Eating cheetos and crying in their car.

Blur, impessed: Damn, they really went for it.

-----------------

Jazz: Helpful grammar tip: “farther” is for physical distance, “further” is for methaphorical distance, and “father” is for emotional distance!

-------------------

Prowl: I want to be with you for the rest of my life.

Jazz: Damn, that sounds like a marriage proposal.

Prowl, getting down on one knee: That's 'cause it is.

------------------

Blur: Why cant trees give off something important like wifi??

First Aid: So fuck oxygen, I guess.

-------------------

Prowl: Vortex isn’t answering my messages.

First Aid: Allow me.

Prowl: I tried 6 times, what makes you thi-

Vortex: *replying to message* Hello.

-------------------

*First Aid and Jazz enter a dive bar*

First Aid: Look, I know you’re disappointed but could we at least have a drink.

Jazz, in a scuba diving suit: I would like leave, please.

-----------------

Blurr: Here is my wall of inspirational people. Swerve: Is that a picture of you? Blurr: Yes, I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.

----------------

First Aid: I don’t think we can mansplain, manipulate, or malewife our way out of it this time.

Vortex: *cracks knuckles* Manslaughter it is!

---------------

Vortex: I can’t do this, it’s against my moral compass.

First Aid: YOUR MORAL COMPASS IS A ROULETTE WHEEL!

Vortex: …Your point?

-------------------

Jazz: First Aid is restricted to decaf for the rest of this adventure.

-------------------

Jazz: I told Swerve to grab snacks for everyone.

Blurr, looking through the options: Why did you grab fruit snacks? Are you five? Who even likes Fruit Snacks?

*Jazz, First Aid, and Swerve raise their hands*

*Vortext from the distance,also raising his hand*

--------------------

Jazz: I think we should have glow stick juice injected in our bones when we're born, so if we break our bones, we get a fun little surprise.

Vortex: What's the surprise?

First Aid: Blood poisoning.

--------------------

Vortex: The only thing keeping me from running away and hiding from society for the rest of my life is spite. I could disappear forever, but there are some bitches whose downfalls I have yet to witness, and I wanna be around when that happens.

------------------

Swerve: Why would anyone want to harm Blurr?

Vortex: Maybe because they met him?

[silverskye13]

Dude dude dude I’ve been reading all the snippets that aren’t on AO3 and because of how they were sent to me I couldn’t reply then (also like- I figured it would be maybe a little annoying to get 12 messages about them when I could send one longer one)

All of them are just so incredibly wonderfully written god I could go on for hours about the deconstruction of every single sentence, but one stood out as a favourite:

“The best seat” for exactly one reason: THE END POEM LINES!!!! Stunning!!!!!! Incredibly spaced and the repetition and the way it repeats the ‘universe loves me more’ theme and OUGH feeling shrimp emotions about these guys, Wels might be a little BITCH but he’s a damn poetic one

Also the delivery ficlet on AO3 (Red and Renbob) MAN those two are so goofy I love them- comedic timing can be hard to get right in writing but the whole paragraph of Renbob speaking with emoticons and the reader (or at least me-) thinking “how is he doing that??” And then immediately Red wonders the same thing? I was cracking up

Also this changes depending on who’s appeared most recently, but my current favourite character is The Hand- he’s just so *close* to Martyn (normal) that you start to forget he’s not until something happens and you go oh. *oh*. And the differences hit you like a knee to the stomach

The whole fic the whole world you’ve made- just absolutely stunning, incredible, for certain it has permanently changed my brain chemistry and I cannot wait to see how it continues and finishes <3333

So like, just so you're aware, when I first received this ask I was stuck on the highway after my tire exploded [literally, it was in ragged tatters when I got to the shoulder]. It was snowing and freezing and the jack slipped off while I was changing the tire [unharmed] and it took the roadside assistance guy 2 hours to get to me after promising "just five more minutes I swear" and "I just passed you I'm coming back around, two minutes," three, four, five goddamn times.

And you know what? This made me smile. It was a smile I desperately needed, sitting on the busy road watching it snow and waiting for literally anyone to help. So thank you for your kindness, and for writing kind words, and for being excited. You have no idea how positive of an impact that had on a truly grueling day.

I'm glad!! You liked the end poem Wels perspective fic. I was writing it to "Put it on Me" by Matt Maeson [recommended to me by countthelions] and I was trying very hard to emulate the feeling of circling and inevitability the song has. There's a very waltz-like meter in the song and it's very very fun to work with.

And! I'm glad the comedy from the Red/Renbob one landed! I mostly use comedy to break tension in fics, so doing a completely upbeat/comedic centered fic had me a little nervous I couldn't land the tone. I am so so stoked you enjoyed it :3

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for breaking the (pointless) number one rule?

Hello everyone! My name is [redacted]- wait, it won't let me type my name?! Aw cheese curds, why do I hafta keep myself anonymous? It's not like I have anything to hide!

But anyhoo, a while back I (M, my age doesn't matter) joined a secret kid-run society, mostly because it looked like fun. The members, known as agents, use gadgets to turn weird stuff (like floating cabbages or giant tomatoes) back to normal. I was assigned to work with this super nervous kid (11-12F) who I call Scribbles 'cause she won't stop writing in her notebook no matter how many times I tell her it wastes time.

Naturally, I worked my way up to become the best agent in the precinct. I was able to solve any problem a gazillion times faster than any other agent, especially Scribbles (she's slow). I won so many awards, they gave me an award for winning the most awards! Life was great, but it was also... boring. Solving odd cases wasn't fun anymore, but creating them, on the other hand...

That's when I got the idea. I started with minor stuff, like teleporting food and giving myself colorful noses, both of which Scribbles, as expected, went berserk over. I didn't let her get me down, though - I tried out more and more odd things, to the point where it spread to my personality. Everyone definitely thought I was weird, but hey, what're they gonna do about me eating with my feet or playing a drumset in the shower?

Then I decided it shouldn't stop at just me. What's a little weird thing here and there going to do to anyone? I figured that the oddness is what spiced up life; restoring everything to normalcy every single time is about as exciting as watching a jackalope eat grass. So, on the next assignment me and Scribbles were sent on, I led everyone down the wrong path; since I was the best agent (the GOAT, if you will), they all believed me. The problem was never solved, but in doing that, my boss (???F) said that I broke the number one rule ("do no odd") and she fired me! Scribbles was devastated; I simply handed in my badge and walked away.

I think my boss made too big of a deal out of all that: as I said, what's a little oddness here and there going to do to anybody?

Edit: So I decided to sneak back to my old precinct to show the agents what oddness can really be like. I released a tornado of my favorite food all over the main lobby, and everyone - my boss, the head scientist (11M if you want to know), even Scribbles - was furious. I don't think I'll be coming back.

Edit 2: Never mind about that last part, I'm definitely coming back. That precinct hasn't heard the last of me! Soon, [redacted] will be no more...

Sweet poutine, they cut that out, too?! Those little sneaks...

[kingofbodyrolls]

PSA: Support Your Fanfic Writers! 📣 (Yes, this is a rant, but a fun one, I promise)

Listen up, folks! This isn’t about money—put your wallets away. This is about engagement. Yes, the glorious trifecta of likes, comments, and reblogs (especially reblogs, but we’ll get to that). So buckle up, because this is a love letter/rant/public service announcement that your favorite writers desperately need you to hear.

Let’s start with the bad news: I’ve seen way too many amazing writers pack their bags and leave this platform, and honestly? It hurts. It makes me sad, angry, and frustrated enough to scream into the Tumblr void. Why? Because there’s a big ol’ elephant in the fanfic room, and it’s called low engagement.

What is Low Engagement?

Let me break it down for you:

A fic gets few likes.

A fic gets even fewer reblogs (😭).

Comments? Barely a whisper.

Why does this happen? Maybe people don’t vibe with the story. Maybe they forget to reblog. Maybe the Tumblr gods are punishing us. Who knows? But here’s the thing: engagement matters. For a writer, reblogs are the gold standard. Reblogs = love. Reblogs = visibility. Reblogs = “Hey, world! This story is awesome—check it out!”

Why Low Engagement Is a Confidence Killer

Let’s be real—writing takes time, effort, and soul. Writers pour their hearts (and sometimes their sanity) into crafting stories for their readers. But when the engagement is low? It feels like screaming into the void. It’s disheartening. It makes writers second-guess themselves. And yeah, sometimes it makes them leave altogether.

And let me tell you about silent readers—those sweet, well-meaning souls who read but don’t interact. Look, I get it. Not everyone wants to leave comments or reblogs. But when a writer hears nothing—nothing—they often assume the worst: “No one likes my story. I should just stop writing.”

That’s why I’m here, yelling into the Tumblr abyss: Engage, people! Even a simple “OMG I LOVED THIS” or a string of heart emojis can make a writer’s day. And reblogs? Reblogs are the holy grail.

Tumblr ≠ Instagram (Stop Treating It Like It Is!)

Can I get this tattooed somewhere? Tumblr doesn’t work like Instagram. There’s no magic algorithm that boosts posts. If you want your favorite writers to stick around, you have to help their stories reach new eyeballs—and that means REBLOGGING.

Here’s the cheat code: If you like a fic, reblog it. If you really like it, reblog it with some tags or a mini-review. Want to go full superstar? Add a screaming reaction in the comments. Seriously, it’s that easy.

“But What If I Didn’t Like the Fic?”

Great question! Not every story will be your cup of tea, and that’s okay. Here’s what you can do:

Leave a like. It’s the bare minimum but still appreciated.

Maybe highlight something you did like in the story. No need for harsh critiques unless the writer explicitly asks for it.

How to Be a Writer’s Favorite Reader

Here’s a handy guide to becoming the MVP of your favorite fandom:

Like. Comment. Reblog. (The Holy Trinity!)

Reblog with tags or a quick review. Examples:

“This broke my heart in the best way 🥲”

“Chapter 3? Perfection. That plot twist? I gasped.”

Highlight specific parts of the fic you loved (a line, a moment, a character's sass—whatever made you feel something).

Send the writer an ask! Scream about your favorite scene. Yell about your emotions. Writers LOVE this.

Want bonus points? Make fanart. Create a playlist inspired by the fic. Recommend their work to others. Write a heartfelt thank-you message. These little gestures mean the world to writers.

Why This Matters (Yes, I’m Wrapping This Up, I Swear)

At the end of the day, we’re all here because we love stories—reading them, writing them, sharing them. But if we don’t support the people creating these stories, they’ll stop. And that’s a loss for everyone.

So, my plea to you is simple: Show your favorite writers some love. Hit that reblog button. Leave a comment, even if it’s just “!!!” or “cries in emotions.” Scream about their work in the tags. Your engagement keeps the fandom alive.

Got thoughts? Other tips? Throw them in the comments or reblogs—let’s keep this conversation going! And to every writer out there feeling discouraged: You’re amazing. Don’t stop creating. We need your stories. 💖

[thesudokukid]

Just focus on having fun. The rest can come later.

Everyone's interpretation of Connor (and his circumstances under Cyberlife) is going to be someone a little bit different.

You're not gonna write the perfect Connor who absolutely everyone is going to recognize as being authentic.

Best you can do is satisfy the people whose interpretation of Connor has at least something in common with yours.

Same goes for interpretation of the programming. My interpretation of it used to be a little more standard and then my regular commenter said something like, "the programming's really the Devil over Connor's shoulder, huh?"

Which lead to things like this:

Connor arrives at the break room shortly thereafter and stands on the opposite side of the room from Ainsel, waiting to be acknowledged.

Ainsel turns and looks at him the moment they've found the tea kettle.

“Hey,” they say flatly.

The programming, of course, immediately takes this as proof Ainsel doesn't want to be anywhere near him and wants absolutely nothing to do with him ever again.

Connor does not point out that it is overreacting and making a mountain of a molehill. What he does point out the significantly more logical, more reasonable explanation.

DETECTIVE BEING COLDLY DISTANT. IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES?

The programming, of course, is not content with this.

Flat tone of voice is a sign of progress. indicates Detective Anderson does not feel the need to perform false cheer.

Connor tries thinking of a way he can object. Of any objections that might work.

DETECTIVE BEING COLD AND DISTANT, it insists. IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES.

IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES, the programming insists again.

Connor then realizes he went entirely too long without acknowledging Ainsel's greeting so he covers by pretending he took their greeting literally.

Detective Anderson is autistic, flat, monotone voices are a hallmark of Autism. Their current lack of desire to perform cheer, especially for an ANDROID , does not equal cold distance.

“Hay is for horses,” he says with mock, play bluntness.

He watches Ainsel try to suppress a laugh for a few seconds, amusement sparkling in their eyes, and then smiles at them to give them reassurance that it's all right to laugh.

This posted accidentally and was getting too long. There's another reblog where I talk a little about your work and one of the things I liked about it.

Short Circuit

pairing: connor (rk800) x reader words: 1k summary: reader sees Connor outside of work for the first time in normal human clothes and dies a little bit (comedy, fluff) warnings: language, lack of proofreading, fic from reader's pov a/n: let's pretend this is after the good ending and androids can own property now cause we're going to Connor's place etc

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Words cannot describe the amount of hate I have for Fowler. On my day off he asks me to take some evidence over to Connor for a 'quick analysis', like, Jesus Christ dude wait for the labwork like the rest of us. The nerve of this guy, honestly. Anyway, if you were wondering why I was driving to Connor's place first thing on a Sunday, that was it.

Yes, I hate my boss, how original, but I would never pass up an opportunity to see Connor. Sure, he's my colleague, but he's also my friend. And also I may be in love with him have a normal, tiny, minuscule crush on him. I don't know how it happened, I didn't even realize it, but yes, I do, in fact, have feelings for Connor. "Oh but he's an andro-" Go fuck yourself, he's more human than most people these days.

Before I realized it, I was at his place and almost knocked on his door. Almost being the keyword here, because I heard a voice from the inside.

"Detective! Just a minute. I will be right there."

"Holy shit, how did you know? Let me guess, X-ray vision?" It's always something with him. Of course, Cyberlife's most intelligent android comes with X-ray vision. I feel stupid for not guessing right away. Wait, does this mean he had X-ray vision all this time? That feels like an ethical grey area. Is that allowed? My rapid descent down that rabbit hole was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.

"Ring Camera. Come on in!" He led me inside and I absent-mindedly followed him before I noticed it. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Connor Anderson (legal name, yes), android detective by day, who famously only wore suits, was standing in front of me, in goddamn sweats. And he looked like he stepped right out of my dreams.

I did not know it was possible to be any level of attractive in fucking pajamas, but oh my god, it absolutely was. He looked hot as hell. I don't know if it was from having only seen him in formals, or the fact that Kamski knowingly made a hottie, but I was reveling in this sight.

His T-shirt fit him exactly as it should have, and his sleeves stopped halfway through the biceps I didn't even know he had. His hair looked unkempt and tousled, which was questionable because there's no way he slept, right? I was very sure he could hear my heartbeat because that sucker was betraying me and beating way too fast.

I could not form coherent thoughts for another full minute or so. I am not even holding back, he genuinely looked so attractive he quite literally stole my breath away. All I could do was mumble nonsense while staring at him like I misplaced my glasses.

"Detective, are you alright?"

"What? Me? Yeah, no problem, bud." Bud???? I'd have slapped myself if I could.

"Your body temperature is rapidly rising and your heart is displaying signs of arrhythmia. I suggest we-"

"I suggest we nothing, Connor. I promise I'm fine." See that kids, right there, is what we call a bald-faced lie.

"If you say so. What brings you here, detective?"

"Detective? Come on, we're not at work, man. Chill."

"Alright then, (Y/n), what brings you here?" (Y/n). The way he said my name made me want to explode. Sure, everyone says my name, its my name but oh my god, when he says it, he makes me want to change my last name to his. Which would be Hank's. Huh. That's weird.

"Right, yeah, work stuff. Fowler sent me with evidence for you to analyze. Apparently, they can't wait for the lab like the rest of us mortals." I shoved the file into his hands a little too quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how my hands were shaking. He noticed.

"Your hands are trembling." Of course he noticed. Connor notices everything.

"I'm just… cold," I lied, despite standing in his very well-heated apartment.

Connor tilted his head slightly, that signature analytical look of his making me want to crawl under a rock. "You appear to be experiencing stress. Should I—"

"Connor, no. I don't need an analysis, I need to… sit down." That was the best I could come up with. Great. Very smooth.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing toward his couch. I moved to sit down, hoping a change of scenery would calm my nerves. It didn’t.

Connor sat across from me, still in those damn sweatpants, his expression unreadable as he opened the file and started flipping through its contents. His focus should’ve made me feel at ease- it was just Connor being Connor- but instead, I found myself staring at his hands. They were annoyingly perfect, like the rest of him, and I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like if he- nope. No. Abort mission.

"Is something wrong with the file?" he asked suddenly, looking up.

"What? No! The file's fine. Great file. Top-tier evidence. You're gonna love it." Jesus Christ, someone take my mouth away.

Connor raised an eyebrow. "You’re behaving… unusually."

"I’m behaving perfectly normal," I said, crossing my arms in what I hoped was a casual way but probably looked defensive. "Maybe you're the one behaving unusually. I mean, sweatpants? Who are you and what have you done with Connor?"

He blinked, then looked down at himself as if realizing for the first time what he was wearing. "Hank suggested I try some human rituals like pajamas and sleep to better accommodate my deviancy. He claims it’s a key aspect of ‘human relaxation.’ Was this choice inappropriate?"

"No!" I said, a little too quickly. "No, you look—" amazing, perfect, hotter than anyone has a right to look "—fine. You look fine."

Connor studied me for a moment, and I swear I saw the faintest flicker of amusement cross his face. Was he… smirking? Oh no. Oh no, he knew.

"You should consider it," he said, casually returning to the file.

"Consider what?"

"Relaxing. You seem… tense."

And just like that, the ball was back in his court. I was flustered, he was composed, and I was left wondering how I was supposed to get through the rest of this visit without making a complete fool of myself.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

a/n: y'all, this is my first time writing dbh, sorry if it sucks T_T

[nixie-deangel]

you ever start answering ask, that are making you write and getting progress on you WIPs and suddenly realizing while answering one that what was supposed to be a pwp has grown plot and you don't even know HOW you did that but you did and now you like it but damnit it. it was supposed to be a pwp to get you back into the groove of writing smut and now there's plot and emotions.

[elizabethzoopzoop986]

I miss Mei so much you don’t understand :( bring her back AidaIro. Also Yako and Hakubo

I hate how the school mysteries (other than Hanako, Mitsuba and Akane) get there one arc where you really get to know them and care about them and then they just go away forever. GIVE THEM BACK PLS AIDAIRO LET THEM OUT OF THE CLOSET THEYVE DONE NOTHING WRONG

[ch1zzie]

Forgot to post this here butttt

Working on a welcome home animation and mighttttt take me a while

[eskawrites]

realized that part of the reason the charmed au brainworms are getting to me is that this is? the first time? I’m writing a long fic where they are in love from the start? Like don’t get me wrong they’ve got so much to figure out and it’s def still a slow burn but these women will be YEARNING from chapter 3 onward

[icewindandboringhorror]

finally finished all of one character's entire quests/optional dialogue/questions/etc.... 100,000 words... .... aughhh

[roomba-mangga]

taking a little break from writing for a few days to cool down the brain but first... yaad&thistle au fic preview under the cut. this is clocking in at 12k atm, i haven't finished drafting all the scenes yet, but i am deeply enjoying this one.

[jrueships]

sometimes i'll think abt a Fandom and wish it were bigger, and sometimes i'll read something from a fandom.. and wish it were smaller

[boatgender]

I think that the focumon dev maybe doesn't realise that they're making a petsite (on account of how it doesn't have most of the basic petsite functionality. why doesn't my rabbit have a description box, huh?)