#um anyway. i love u

[mrmeepsmadmind]

bee's protective nature over anyone persists even as a ghost & i think he sometimes forgets or doesn't care that only star can see him (sadly no touch tho) & will start shouting & angrily try standing between people who are mad at starscream even tho he can't be seen, he just wants to try & help anyways bcs STOP IT >:(!! BE NICE !!!! cried the ghost no one can hear or see except for the poor guy getting yelled at & trying to overhear the conversation over bee's frantic rebuttals while trying to discreetly let bee know it's ok while ALSO trying not to look Insane .

continued attempt at a 4am drawn doodle comic below

i might draw detailed later but yeah i just wanted to give yall this headcanon bcs i love starbee so much... the nagging wives finally finding their true loves... another nagging wife.

' you .. do know only i can hear and see you, unfortunately, right? or are you starting to go loopy, because i don't need another insane figure haunting me. I have enough already, as you can try and fail to imagine, little bee . '

' trust me, im Well aware .. of everything you just said . .. but i just. i couldn't just Stand there and do Nothing while someone talked to you like You were Nothing . that's not the autobot way. that's not- my way . '

' . . . '

[harbingersglory]

Thoughts on transfem Ningguang with a fem!reader whose her bodyguard? Fem!reader whose like a loyal, protective dog out in the world when they're out and about together, but an utter submissive puppy behind closed doors for the Tianquan?

literally shaking like a chihuahua oh what i'd do to be the Tianquan's lap dog..mean femmes are so attractive its like putting my brain in a blender.

It's not surprising the Tianquan has a bodyguard. She's a key political figure in Liyue and anyone aiming to dismantle the carefully curated hierarchy has her at the top of the list. To the public, your just muscle to intimidate the lesser crooks from even thinking about it and deal with those who get too bold.

Behind closed doors, though? Your nothing but the Tianquan's lap dog at her beck and call.

She isn't fond of public displays, but she does like hiding it in public just for the thrill. Knowing you wear your collar under your uniform so you'll always remember who holds your leash is a thrill she can't beat.

She's a bit mean and sadistic, really, but she's the Tianquan. She has the money to spoil you like a good puppy afterwards..so long as you behave and exceed expectations. Whether you lean more dominant or submissive doesn't matter, since you'll probably be subbing whether your top or bottom. It's a different kind of thrill to make you sit on her lap, stuffed full of her cock, while she works. That or she has you under her desk, one hand fisted in your hair while she uses your mouth instead.

She has to be at the top of her game, after all, and her position is a stressful one. What better way to de-stress then to put her little puppy to good use? You're just so pliant when she orders you on your knees.

She keeps it tame if thats more your thing, but if you give her the go ahead she will buy you muzzles. Some just the standard muzzle, others with gags, plenty of collars and leashes for all sorts of occasions..she might even get you faux ears and a tail just for a little finishing touch.

She's just as big on aftercare, though. She puts her money to good use spoiling you, partially because she knows she can get a little rough with you. That and as much as she likes to call you her puppy, she won't have you smelling like a wet dog. Get in the bath.

You won't stay clean for long, especially because she absolutely goes all out on her tub so it's more then big enough for some extra activities, but it's better then nothing.

Sometimes, though, she just needs to be pampered herself. She adores body worship after a particularly stressful day. Just lounging in half tied silk while you worship every inch of her.

And if anyone notices you limping the morning after..they say nothing. They just chalk it up to a fight with some assassin or similar. And if they do know, they know better then to bring it up.

Bonus for being shared with Beidou when she drops by Liyue harbor. Nothing like a rowdy pirate to shake things up and make a mess of you on the Tianquan's bed while she watches.

[sideblogdotjpeg]

@purplecladmerchant hi hello happy naddtreat !!!!!!! heres some uncensored zirks for you!!!!!!

for @naddpodgifting (thank u for organizing!!!)

[couch-house]

knuckles and his dinosaur friends :)

[crescentfool]

super excited for the p3 remake, can’t wait to re-experience minato’s journey in HD! 💙

[borealing]

i was going a little off about how well the squid game 2 narrative is put together as an act 2 of your classic act 1: establish, act 2: deconstruct, act 3: destroy (either the system or the players) dystopia narrative (in this case the act is a season but e.g. in the hunger games it was books) but unfortunately i was with my parents and cheering when thanos got chin stabbed and to defend (?) myself i said "i promise im not enjoying this as much as it seems like i am. im actually enjoying it more"

[esmes]

You sliced me loose and said it was creation. I could feel the knife. Now you would like to heal that chasm in your side. But I recede. I prowl. I will not come when you call.

― Speeches for Dr Frankenstein, Margaret Atwood

[heavenlyyshecomes]

Never understood people who are like 'oh I hate making small talk we shouldn't be expected to" like trust me your inability to carry a basic conversation is more exhausting to the other person than it is to you

[niightfiend]

Arcade Gannon and my Courier for today ☢️💚

[takami-takami]

A Dog Unfed.

includes— hawks x reader. angst. hurt/comfort.

warnings— animal abuse analogy. discussion of drugs and cravings. be warned and avoid this if you need. sorry for spoiling the subtext lol, but it needs a tw. though, i encourage you to apply this however you feel it apply.

perhaps we all have a dog.

Did you ever tell him?

The fullest extent of it all, the thorny vines that adorn your past— more bondage than decoration, a dragging weight against your throat and up your nasal cavity. A growth, an infestation, a plague on your subconscious.

It is a dog you unwittingly adopted— a drooling rottweiler that smacks its jaws and begs and paws at your thighs, pleading to you each night: "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Please feed me, I'm hungry."

Everyone who has ever seen your dog has mistaken you for it.

Everyone who has seen your dog has peered down their pudgy little noses, muttered "mutt", spit it and clinked their heels away; or perhaps they simply looked on in sneers of smiling horror, down past their clutching pearls.

"This is you? By god, my goodness! An animal, an animal!"

You used to hate your dog.

You used to lock it in chains outside, let its fleshy paws burn and blister against the cement in the heat of the blaring sun. You grew tired of feeding it, of crushing up its kibble, of leaving it out to dry then quenching its bottomless thirst.

Now you just sit with it.

You sit by its side with your knees to your chest, listening to the cicadas chirp their prayers. Some days, you even let your back burn against the molten floor, a grounding heat while you lie down flat; but every day, every position, your eyes always remain locked on it.

You stare as it rests on its side, fusing to the glistening cement. You listen to its keening whines and dying breaths with a familiar pity and an unbearable disgust.

You blink, unfeeling again now.

You're sure it will never die, no matter how many hours it spends dying.

You never wanted to show Keigo your dog; even though a part of you is screaming and begging to present it to him. A gift from your innards, dirty in the palms of your blistering hands.

Keigo is just like everyone else, you assume. He is kind, he is gentle, he is an angel among men and he is the exact same as everyone else.

You've come to realize a person's good qualities— openmindedness, kindness, empathy— mean nothing in the face of what one is taught. No one is immune to propaganda, and there is no shortage of that nowadays against people with dogs.

The part that makes you doubt your assumptions is this: Keigo has honey in his eyes. Flicks of gold specks dust along the amber of his irises, a sticky kind of love swimming in them that drips down to his lopsided and infuriatingly safe smile.

You could never fathom his nose upturned, as he has been on the ground too many times to do that to another; nor could you picture a sneer from a mouth as sweet as his, honeysuckle and gentle, bright yellow.

So one night, you allow it to spill, hoping for him to soak up your blue one last time.

It's not uncommon for you to spend the dim of your nights at Keigo's home— his real home, the one the commission has never barged themselves in, the one he keeps hidden from every soul in this world but one.

It is uncommon for him to listen to the water of his shower run for several hours.

If you had feathers as sharply perceptive as his, you'd detect the nervous pacing of his leather boots against the carpet of his bedroom floor, even through the sheetrock that separates the two of you. The patter of the showerhead is far too consistent for his liking, very little movement being detected at all and his mind is bouncing off countless possibilities while sticking to none.

Those worries overflow from the cup of his bleating heart, bleeding when he turns sharply toward the bathoom door, resolute.

With a barely audible thud, his forehead traps golden strands between it and the wooden door it rests against.

He doesn't ask you if you're okay. Keigo never bothers with questions he already knows the answer to.

"Baby, open the door. Please," he begs. "I promise, it's okay— just need to be with you. Please."

The song of your sobs muffled through the door causes his feathers to sting an unbearable itch.

How his heart is just as red as those wings. It begins to drip, the string connecting him to you pulled too far for him to take. It— he needs to be with you right now.

A palm slides up the plane, resting firm by his cheek. The air of his breath hits the wood, fogging back against his lips.

"Please, let me in?"

His hopes blossom in the heavy pause that follows.

"...The door's unlocked," you answer.

Keigo knows. He could have pried it open in a heartbeat with a single feather even if it was locked, but trust and respect are precious commodities. They are irreplaceable, yet entirely and easily breakable.

Slowly, the knob creaks open, the careful movement still startling your spine stiff. The heels of your feet gently propel you backwards, firmer against the icy wall at the furthermost corner of the shower. The expanse is wide enough to accomodate fierce wings, wide enough to swallow your comparitively puny body in its open jaws.

Curled in on yourself, soaked, and trembling; this is what Keigo sees when he enters the room. This is what he sees when he dashes over, mumbling words you don't quite catch— some are familiar. "Dove", "sweetheart", "oh, my baby."

Down, he kneels by your side under the pour of the synthetic rain. The fabric of his shirt clings to his skin now, hair soaked just like yours; a wet dog all the same.

And with your tears plopping down against the flat tile, scratched knees held to your chest, you allow it to spill.

It spills through the hiccups, it spills through the wet of your cheeks; and above all, it finally spills through your confession, nose upturned to look up at his shaky gaze.

"Oh, angel..."

You can hear the palpable crack of his beating heart in that voice; but even if you didn't, the rustle of scarlet feathers that puff out in protection give his wounds away.

Keigo busies himself with a racing thought: how could he not notice the signs? He knew there were secrets nestled in the cavity of your ribcage, tandrils of some sort of ivy even he couldn't quite recognize.

You have a weight. Shackles chaining you to be left out in the midday sun.

He could tell. It's not the same as his— it's another flavor, another disease, another beast of its own— but in the most abstract of ways, Keigo could see it: you're just like him.

"Why didn't you tell me," he rasps, cupping your cheeks with shaky palms. They tap and squish like they're searching for signs— distress, hurt, anything.

You smile a mimicry of his, pulled from your most precious memories, and silently beg for that wobbly smile back; but it does not come. Instead, his eyes begin to shine, glassy and wet.

You've never seen him cry before.

You've never felt as desperate for his yellow as you do now, but you have felt this pathetic and small, once. You have felt like an animal, desperate to be domesticated— a synonym for loved.

"Y-You don't need to worry! I'm good, I'm still clean, see? See?"

As if that's the only thing that matters, you tip your chin towards him to offer your pupils as proof.

Such a gesture may shatter hearts, and Keigo is but a man. Despite it all, he is but a man.

He declines the offer, your words more than enough for him— his body opts to tackle you in an embrace instead, clutching your skull close to his hammering chest.

With each wide-eyed blink, the droplets resting on your lashes flick onto his chest. The soaked strands of your hair cling to him, both bodies drenched now by the roaring downpour above.

Water cascades in heaps onto the floor below. It never stops.

With your cheek pressed against his sternum, his scent invades your senses. He smells like cedarwood cologne and thickets of the forest, a warm signature. It matches his labored breaths: sturdy and weighty and masculine.

"I thought you wouldn't see me as a person anymore," you confess.

He hushes your worries as your eyes flutter shut, kissing the crown of your head with unwavering pride.

"Dove... You're my person."

Keigo thumbs away your tears and pulls back to offer you a wobbly smile.

You offer your own in return— a real one, too, this time.

---

The greatest advice you've ever been told was "don't start".

The words felt feeble at the time, like a joke passed down through unproductive seminars in high school out the mouths of stuffy men in suits, men who spoke of the boogeyman and jumped out behind chairs.

It meant nothing at the time.

It means everything now.

It helps you explain a little better to people who've never had a dog.

The words "don't start" are a language they do not speak; and yet, it helps to say it to their mirrored face, to imagine the breadth of your world could be pressed compact into those two tidy little words.

Talking to yourself helps you pretend you're understood.

Even though it is not necessary to be understood before you can be loved:

Don't start.

[causenessus]

feeling like tumblr is a job BUT IN A GOOD WAY like i sign on after my actual job onto my work (tumblr haikyuu smau writer hobby) computer (my home computer on it's last dying breath) to answer emails (reblog all of my moot's wonderful works) and write up reports (my own chapters LMAO)

[deus-ex-mona]

scrolled a little too far back on mogetwt and found pure gold:

[ronkeyroo]

Falls on my KNEES/// I've been so busy the past days all my silly hands got to doodle is some UH................... Pretty Tasteful Team Galactic stuff sO hiding under the cut; I know i got some friends to enjoy these for so.,,,, sharing for u my fellow gamerz ;;_;;

[willyhoos]

she was made just for me.

[fruityumbrella]

i want to WRIIIIIITE. can my fuckass parents go overseas again i cant dissect internalised homophobia while youre sitting in the same open plan room

[puckpocketed]

inspired by yesterday’s ovechkin-posting and the stick story, because. i had as much fun as anyone with the idea that riding a camel over all-star break is what jostled the goal-scoring back out of him, but at the same time... i am frothing at the fucking mouth about ovi × The League × national hockey media. where is his respect? where is his hype? where are his roses???? please !!!! understand !!!! that i find sidney endearing as a guy and he is undeniably incredible as a player and he deserves the love that he gets. but from day one, ovi has only existed to them in relation to sid and that makes me lose my fucking mind. 

and general hockey fans through the years loved ovi, and then they hated him, and then they said he was an overhyped washed-up old man who doesn't care anymore (starting in like 2013 lmfao). like, I'M sorry, back in the late '00s and early '10s he was being hounded for days about his cellies, and being booed every time he came out on the ice—and you're mad? that he looks like he's lost his love and enthusiasm for the game???? (i cannot for the LIFE of me find the podcast ep where i heard this, so. grain of salt. but a former teammate talked about how startling and upsetting ovi found the booing, bc it was such a sudden change, and meanwhile, ovi was just the same guy he’d always been 😭).

and then, idk, we went through hate again, and then indifference, and now in the 2020s we're back to "oh, his production has dropped so therefore he's overhyped, can’t wait ‘til he’s gone"?? the season ovi was 36 he had more points per game than sid did last year at 36 (90 in 77 vs 94 in 82). or how about. please remind me how many goals gretz scored the season he was 36 (25 goals compared to ovi's 50). or what about when gretz was 38 (9 goals compared to ovi's 31)? i am NOT trying to say that ovi is "better" than either of them—this is just me saying that people are completely irrational about him. like back when he was drafted and people were saying "oh, he's not actually as good as he looks, because he's lying about his age" bc he looked 25 instead of 18. like. okay lmao. and then what? his NINE rocket richards count less bc he started later? he's actually older now and scoring more per game than gordie howe was the first time he retired? like what are we doing here??? i'm not an empty-netters-pod guy, but they talked about it in the first few minutes of this ep; like... yeah, why was everyone so fucking excited to dance on his grave at the start of last season? and then again in the playoffs? he’s NOT DONE YET, and even if he were, i would hope to see a modicum of respect for the player he’s been and the career he’s had! 

the point is. ovi has scored 30+ goals per season every single year since his debut except the pandemic-shortened season. his teammates, current and former, love him and say what an awesome, generous, team-focused guy he is. he has literally dozens of nhl records already, some of them previously belonging to gretzky. and yet! general hockey fans and the league and national hockey media all refuse to take him seriously. and caps fans (mostly) and dc hockey media (mostly) (barry svrlugas i do not forgive you... dan holmi i would just like to have a fucking word with you....) are all just standing here like hello? alexander ovechkin is RIGHT HERE and he is very good at hockey. hello he is GOOD at HOCKEY, can you hear me????? is anyone seeing this, HELLO???? 

i don’t get it. i simply and entirely don’t get it. there are so many excellent players on teams that i hate! there are players i dislike and i can still point to many impressive things about their game!!! WHAT is the mental block that happens for everyone when it comes to ovi, and how tf has it been going strong for nineteen fucking years? 

thank you for listening!! i swear to you that the vast majority of the time i am simply having a fun time with whatever my terrible children decide to do, admiring ovi’s fashion choices, cheering on my number one babygirl dylan strome, and enjoying whatever horny, incomprehensible nonsense they get up to. it’s just that sometimes i gotta go guard dog mode about alex ovechkin 😅

Hello!!! First of all, thanks for going to all the trouble of typing all that out and including links. I have loved sifting through your citations, and felt very much like a floor dwelling sea creature eating nutrients from the silt <3

I believe you all when you say Ovechkin's not done yet. Shaking my entire clenched fin at everyone calling him a washed up old man!! Fascinated by the Caps' attempt to pivot into being competitive long enough for him to break the record, because what of the After? The Rebuild of Damocles beckons!! Except, having paid some attention to prospects I see they've got a pretty interesting crop of talent coming through. And there are those big contracts they just acquired (hello Dubie and Roy). I just feel like have to be on this train so I can say I was there to see how it all shakes out. History Witnessing type beat <3

and I'm SO endeared to Caps rituals. What little I've seen of them is so fun, so silly. Exactly my vibe. MUST a team "Play Hockey Well"?? can't they just be obsessed with each other . can't they torture and embarrass each other . being stressed about strange concepts such as ""Winning"" is so., passé .

Thank you again for dropping by and for the essay! and I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you, it was such a meal I was digesting it for days :>

extended thoughts/discussion under the cut.

From the outside looking in, I think can speak to how compelling it is to pit Crosby and Ovechkin against each other. As your ESPN article puts it: "Crosby was careful, corporate. Ovechkin was unpredictable, borderline dangerous. The key word was passion, and even though Crosby had it inside, Ovechkin oozed it. He was the anti-Sid, possibly the better player, and soon a cult hero." (x, y) I know you're frustrated by this, but they do sort of exist in relation to each other. Maybe I've fallen for the propaganda, but it's very literary <3 You could write their story down and present it to a novel studies class, and the easiest thread to pull on would be all the ways in which they're each other's narrative foils.

IF you held a gun to my head and made me guess at the 'why' of it, I'd probably agree with Eric Adelson! It really does feel like Crosby's image is who hockey wants to be seen as. A Good Canadian Boy; humble, no conspicuous expressions of his wealth, no partying, and of course no on-ice flash! I think I can understand the backlash somewhat; in such a team-oriented game, one with all these arcane honour codes and the emphasis on humility and respect and not rocking the boat, I could see why the spectacle of Ovechkin's personality would've grated. Crosby's an easier pill to swallow for the conservatism of hockey culture. (And I specified 'image' because there's the reality of what it is to be famous, deified, and torn apart each time you don't quite measure up. I hate to be the guy who says there's another side to this but, like, I'm sure plenty of people who are more familiar with Crosby's story could come out and tell me about the unique challenges that come with being considered The Next One.)

And obviously, your specific frustration is coming from the fact that Ovechkin is, somehow, seen as the inferior superstar, and that his achievements - which either equal or surpass Crosby's - go uncelebrated by mainstream media. and ough. man. I'm not as invested in this as you given I just got here, but your emotion is palpable!! I have... complicated feelings about his whole deal wrt geopolitics I won't lie, but I am serious about the whole "Is it the Russian thing?" I wouldn't, like, submit this as a legal document or anything, and I doubt I'd be the first to point it out, but there has to be a level of Othering that comes from his nationality, right?

So there's my thesis: he's not like them, he's not from there, and his image is not who they want for a star. Being so undeniably good for so long probably bought him some time in their good books, but the moment he looked a little bit mortal any grace they had to give was dispensed with. It sucks for you as a fan of course </3 I don't mean to sound so morbidly curious about it all,,, like i get that a real wrong was done to Ovechkin by the establishment that refused to recognise him!! But . well. I'm looking at this through a nonfiction writer's lens. I do hope someone who was there for the whole thing writes a book or two about this, because it would make for a really interesting story. I get the feeling people will look back on this stretch of time and think the world went a bit crazy for believing Alex Ovechkin was done.