#whatever. explode 💥💥💥💥💥

[moe-broey]

I'm usually like. Overly cautious about how much I share online and like maybe I'll delete this later but I had a deeply unhinged experience today and I desperately need to get it out of my system LMFAOOOOOO so I'm sharing some messages I sent to my sisters (they're currently overseas so. Timezones. Ect. No one has heard my plea) (yet)

Also putting it under a readmore for my own sake tbh bc I think I'll take psychic damage if. It's just rhere. Looking at me wheneve r I check my blog

But like the jist of it and true takeaway is that, I, extremely queer autistic guy, ended up having a very in depth THOROUGH conversation with my very Christian dad about queer identity, attraction model, the whole nine yards and I think it broke both of us actually

Like girl. Girl. Where do I even start here. Like unpacking any of this.

I guess some notes/clarifications:

> Penis doesn't equal inherently masculine I just flubbed the wording/represented the flubbed wording as it was in my text. I love girldick girldick is so fuckinh cool

> Maybe didn't explain my demisexuality very well either but half of that is a consequence of not being able to navigate it very well in the first place. To the point where I've actually gone back and forth on IDing as demi for a long time. Like maybe I just have issues and autism. It could be any of those things it could be all of those things LMFAO

> Feels worth mentioning when I say Christian I don't mean all Christians are like this. I just happen to come from The Bad Place. The shitty side of it. Unfortunate, but it happens. My approach w any religion/faith nowadays is to be as understanding and empathetic as possible. It's a bit of a personal thing for me actually, even if spirituality isn't for me, I like to understand why it is for someone else. It helps me understand that person, As a person, better. It can be interesting too!

AUGH. I'M. Feeling burnt again. But. I guess final notes for peer review:

> Was This Ableism when it came to my dad's attitude towards me or Is It Just Cause He's My Dad???? The desexualization of autistic people is a huge thing but also I am literally his offspring. It's certainly a weird area for anyone to navigate.

> Was This Ableism, 2!!! Or Is It Some Amalgamation of. Man I don't even know. I'm his youngest I'm autistic I'm afab I have a lot of things going on that makes it so everyone looooooooves dismissing me and invalidating me and saying I've been misled or tricked or influenced as if I can't think for myself or know how I really feel. I'm gonna puke about it LMFAOOOOOOOOO

All this considered, though, it is worth mentioning (and really, truly, this can be the hardest part), that despite all this. I am very loved. I might rag on my dad have some grievances but he does love me. Hell he even makes accommodations for me, like he literally built a door between the living room and kitchen because I was overwhelmed by the lights being on when he's cooking and the sound of running water. That's one example, but there are more I just don't feel like sharing. And I say being loved is the hardest part because as an autistic guy the grey in things I wish were black and white and easy to understand is my greatest enemy LMFAO

Anyway post over now I feel sick LMFAO my tummy hurdts 😢 SO SAD SO SAD 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

[daughterthethird]

OKOK HALLOO!! <33 sry this is a bit late i had to go out

How do we think,, mango would look as,, a warrior cat,, 🐈

A lot of their info is in the ref sheet, and idk what else to say other than they’re a bit cuckoo tbh ☹️☹️ and they’re based on a Great Potoo! Mostly js with the smile tho </33 my other ask probs had more on it i just forgot what i put lmaoo mbmb but tysm for the offer!! Have a great day <33

WEIRD LITTLE FREAKS IN YOUR AREA‼️‼️‼️

Warrior-fication under the cut:

“Potoo” is a rogue “cat” that wanders the clan territories and sometimes make patrols really fucking scared when they catch a glimpse of them, considering how elusive they are. You could SWEAR someone was there but when you go back to check theres just. nothing. nothing but a faint unnatural, alien, scent that lingers. Spooky! They’re basically the local Clan Cryptid™ that queens would use to scare their kits into not leaving the camp LMAO. Wether or not they’re actually real is up for debate among the clan cats.

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

blows everything up w my mind i hate school i hate careers i just wanna draw pictures and play sudoku

[sloaaaa]

?

[intertexts]

ohhhhhh your top posts are making me feel things. the little guys + the newest regular designs...... I'm holding them all in my hands like baby birds. did u know i love ur art ros. ur so cool and ur my friend and ur SO GOOD AT ART. FUCK

[beantothemax]

ANTONBLAST RELEASE DATE I FUCKING WINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

[hyp3rfixation-h3ll]

OH COOL. NOW THAT I'M CONFIDENT ENOUGH TO POST HERE : IF YOU KNOW WHAT MY SOURCE IS , YOU DO AND YOU DON'T 💙💙 HOPE THIS HELPS CHAT - MAJIN 🐇 (TO CLARIFY, IM JOKING. YOU'RE ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT MY SOURCE WITH ME IF YOU KNOW, I MAKE REFERENCES TO IT ALL THE TIME)

[absentmoon]

I actually did the math and assuming you've made a thousand posts then each day you have posted about Benny at least 5.6 times. Hope this helps >:]

thanks!it doesn't 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

[theblankest123]

GIRL HELP I WANNA CHEW ON BARBED WIRE

[sharky-the-idiot]

Bro are you okay

I AM VERY NORMAL ACTUALLY!!!!!!

[bananafire11]

How the fuck did i miss this im exploding

Hey guys did you know I like Royalrabbit- /silly

[buttholeworm]

I want to own isopods and like millipedes but NOOOOOO my gay ass partner just had to get a bird and now I'll never live my true weirdboy life

[morbidmorbid]

Daryl finally reaching the point of the relationship where he can just surrender to the one he loves. Him, on his knees, face buried in your cunt just because he understands now just how much he loves you and can bare himself to you completely.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ADD TO THIS!!! THAT PERSON HAS SINGLE HANDEDLY LEFT ME FERAL OMG!!!! i need that man, I think we ALL need that man 💳💥💳💥

i got uuuuu and sorryyy i’m so late to this i’m a slow writer plus life but here u go !! um this wasn’t supposed to be.. all of this but i can’t help myself. explodes.

18+

⁀➷

it was challenging to get daryl to sleep sometimes.

eyes peel open, gradual, slow. sleep doesn’t weigh heavy on your lids, hadn’t deemed the chance to for prolonged rest was difficult to come by. still, finding idleness was an almost unfamiliar casual occurring and while slow to get comfortable with, it wasn’t completely unwanted. so when your muscles ache and the death in your face suffocates you, you take the chance of a bed and a falsified home even if it comes to be fleeting.

daryl sits perched on the windowsill, cigarette alight.

his dislike for new or change wasn’t the case now, perhaps it was that constant uneasiness that came with the ignorance of another world. daryl, in this state of the world, didn’t kneel to forged comfort—he’d told you that not with his words but with the emptiness in alexandria where his presence should be. he’s recruiting with aaron, he’s on a run, he’s not here. you understand his reservation and while you often touched convictions with him, this was a bit different, this one felt close enough to right.

you don’t bother maneuvering much, only turning a curious head over in his direction. the tidied sheets beneath you ruffle in contact.

“so that’s why i couldn’t sleep.” you say and it’s light, a quip that gently prods. it’s a joke at him forgoing the spot in bed beside you for hard wood beneath him and smoke in his lungs.

daryl takes a drag and pinches it between fingers. inhale, eyes you, exhale, turns away. “right, sorry.” he apologizes for it in his seriousness, watches your eyebrows scrunch in hilarious disbelief and tips in: “looked pretty damn sleep to me, though.”

he hadn’t bothered to crack a window amidst his smoke and it infiltrates the air. it fills your lungs and keeps you from biting back at him that, yeah, you might’ve been somewhere drowned in a dream—whatever those conjured up to be in this time—and it’s an odd thing. to sleep, to fall in deep enough to become unaware of the real around you, and you stick daryl on that development. perhaps things wouldn’t be that simple or easy, there wouldn’t be the opportunity, the comfortability in letting go for a breath.

if not for him perched right where he sits against the glass and looming around you in your vulnerability, likely ignorant to the umbrella of defense he creates.

the sun is long gone and doesn’t burn against the glass like before you’d dozed, only now the enveloping darkness.

“when did you get back?” you ask. his crossbow leans dirty against the wall near the threshold, arrows bloodied. daryl hasn’t shaken the vest or his shoes, nor the dirt on his hands and wedged beneath his fingernails. you reckon thirty minutes, though daryl surprises you.

another drag. “sun was still shinin’ over ya.” he says. it’s been a long while, then. had he eaten? or had he’d smoked his few stale cigarettes and chewed on his thoughts in the stretch of time and that itself is an upsetting possibility.

you purse your lips and your locked fingers dance against eachother, thoughtful. while he seems as he always is, he isn’t. there’s a reason behind everything, the good and the bad, and this one fell between both. “can you come over here? i’m cold.” daryl was a cautious man with little trust and that was good in this world, but right here his hesitancy to pursue not only this false town but you as well was not as pretty as good reasons go.

but that was selfish thinking and unfair to daryl’s morals.

he watches you and years prior he’d been unreadable, but you’re accustomed and he looks like someone who doesn’t believe your words. “it’s sweatin’ balls in here.” he unnecessarily shoots back. daryl, always running behind with your jokes, or maybe he understands but shies away from what you’re asking. daryl was always someone who’d have to work back into accustoms if detached for a while, always slow to reciprocate—even though he so strongly did—lest you’re persistent.

“well, i’m shivering.” you’re saying as you make to rub two hands together to search for warmth. warmth you didn’t need for it already filled you, but a tactic is a tactic.

daryl scoffs a laugh that’s too quiet to catch, but it’s seen. he stubs out his cigarette then, marks the wood in an ugly manner. when he makes the small walk towards the bed, towards you, you’re meeting him halfway as you walk on knees to the edge.

he stops when you speak up. “you’re not getting in bed with all that shit on, are you?”

“was.” he confirms and shrugs and it’s humorous to see how serious he is, how he doesn’t grasp onto the issue.

“take it off, it seems uncomfortable.”

“i ain’t uncomfortable.”

“daryl.”

daryl could be good with orders—could be, a meticulous sort of arrangement—when he agreed with them. this was a mixed case whereas he seemed pulled between the two; the look in his eyes and the firm stance before you screaming i’m fine, i’m staying put. then the other end of the stick with what he eventually complied with in the form of slouched shoulders, guard down, capable of finding that same comfortability in your ways that strived for his growth that he does in his own ways.

still, he grumbles. “ya killin’ me.” and then his jacket goes, his vest, his worn stitched gloves.

you know that daryl prefers to be prepared no matter the situation, doesn’t like to be bared to the world for not even a breath and his heedfulness is commendable. though right here in the warm box that isn’t your inauthentic bedroom but your presence, you recognize his needs are a broad category and this is one of the many.

daryl needs his own relief to come back to despite the state of the world—everyone else has their own, whether in another or in themselves or in between, and daryl deserved just as much.

when he goes to indulge you, two hands coming down against the mattress, you dodge. “don’t forget your shoes, dar.” and he’s all eye contact before finally crouching down. “no shoes in bed, it’s barbaric.”

“guessin’ i oughta get my underwear off, right?” he smiles a small one, sarcastic. “beat ya to the punch.”

you shrug for the joke and he scoffs at it. he bends at the knees nevertheless, lightly hitting the floor and fingers reaching to shove themselves in the heel of his shoe. one goes and joins the pile, but before he can twin the other foot, you’re bringing a hand to his hair. he’s a bit sweaty there, strands darkened in consequence and instead of grimacing, your chest swells with pride, gratitude; daryl’s a fighter and it shows even in the smallest things.

“thank you, by the way. really.” you say when you notice he’s halted his movements. he doesn’t budge even when you move from strand to strand, fixing him, watching his forehead come into view. his brows and shoulders remain lax which is good, encourages you. had it been before he would’ve been a quick hand on your forearm with alarm, unfamiliar in the intimacy, hesitant.

he doesn’t look up yet. “thankin’ me for?” and against your palm he leans.

“i don’t know, everything—for fighting.” you elaborate and it’s then that he’s lifting his head, squinted eyes sharp.

daryl was always shy eyes when commended. he holds your gaze in increments now and you take the moment to let your hands travel. they’re slow and deliberate where they land along the expanse of his jaw and against the hairs on his face. daryl moves with you in whichever direction you think to turn him, and while it’s cute and certainly heavy intimate development on his part, you don’t call him out on it for he embarrasses easily and having him shy away now was not a good call.

“ain’t just me.” he finally says and since he doesn’t like spotlight, “it’s you, michonne, rick—“

“i know.” you cut in. daryl reads into your simple response almost immediately if the expression he holds is telling; a bit taken aback, slightly flustered, understanding. there’s something in your chest that screams pride when daryl comes to realize when you’re making things about him, when you’re specifically singling him out, when you’re picking out all of his goods and positives and displaying them before himself.

daryl preens under your touch. the touch of yours that continues to travel, dancing in his hair, brushing against the skin of his face, running knuckles over cheekbones and forehead wrinkles. every crevice, every bump different. it’s distracting for daryl, you learned prior, lures his mind to a standstill, tugs the words back down his throat. he’s typically left with little to say to you when you’re on him like this, instead speaks with his eyes of a solace he finds between the both of you.

“your hands.” he eventually comments.

“my hands?” although now under scrutiny, they don’t pause their exploration.

“warm. said you were freezin’.”

your lips purse then at his delayed reckoning, laughter at the tip of your tongue. it slips despite your efforts, low and loose, makes daryl squint in situational ignorance. at the prison, daryl had once complimented your laugh under and against the metal of the cell beds, had thrown a ‘nevermind’ in quickly after you’d cooed at him for it.

“well, of course they’re warm now.” you bring them to his neck now, tip of your thumbs caressing his ears. “still cold all over, though.”

and instead of questioning you further, instead of coming up to engulf you in a hug, daryl brings his face into your abdomen. it’s not a punch of air that you lose, but your ability to form coherent thoughts. it’s him not exactly nuzzling, but breathing steadily into the cloth of your shirt, soft inhale, soft exhale. this means something because it always means something.

daryl hides the sudden salacious fervor on his face in the shield that your body creates. it’s obvious, so obvious, because he’s strong and unmoving where you attempt to lift his head.

while it is sudden, the dots seem to connect—daryl, with his lack of space to ever position himself to submit, does so openly right now because there is an opening for it. while he so genuinely kneeled for his shoes, you picked up on the way his pupils dilated when he did find your eyes—ever so brief during those three second variables. it was then that you knew.

“everything okay?” you ask lightly. everything is okay, daryl is so evidently okay which is why he pursues this. you ask anyway, though. daryl says he likes verbal confirmation and reassurance from you and he’d be a hypocrite to not like for you to reciprocate.

“mhm.” it’s muffled against your body which begins to gradually curl around him, between your legs which have swamped him in. “just ain’t comfortable down here.”

“really? you aching already?” you retort with a low laugh.

daryl doesn’t say anything else, nor does he make to stand.

“dick’s hard.” is what he comes up with and it’s so sudden and not at all vague.

you’ve thought it to be the case, so it doesn’t surprise you much. it was apparent the moment he hide himself in what you’d call shame. shame that looked to only follow him in the structure of built up carnal strain that’d been canned inside of him. daryl behaved like he didn’t have a clue that he had it or how to exactly deal with it. when the relationship had sprouted into a much more personal manner, it was always you who’d ‘handle’ daryl even when he struggled finding it in himself to.

he’s bringing hands up and they’re situating themselves on your waist. his hold isn’t suffocating, but it’s tight, fidgeting where he tries to keep his energy levels even.

“if you want something, daryl..” you begin slowly, anticipating where this will take you both. where your hands still sit in daryl’s hair, you pull again and he finally gives way and holy shit.

“ask ya for it.” he finishes, and before you can ponder too long why he already looks so fucking out of it, he’s already beating you to it. “think i busted.” he grunts around the words, fingers twitching against you and he forgoes his hold to wipe the back of his hand against his lips. it looks to be a habit that has budded from his nerves which he strives to conceal.

“did you?..”

daryl curls his lips inwards, another habit, adjusts his knees on the floor. “well, it ain’t piss.“

“oh. you wanna clean up and come up here? we can just—“ daryl was weird with embarrassment, and while it was fun to poke and prod, he’d probably string himself dry thinking back on this, so you try to move it along—not mention it for a moment longer.

“nah.” i’ll stay here is what he says with his actions, bringing his face back to your abdomen, kisses through the shirt. despite his own interference daryl is still there; he shows that he still feels the sensual crave all within himself with the way he simply picks back up regardless of the mess in his pants.

admittedly, it brings a slight tremble down into the pit of your stomach.

you’re whispering out a light okay as he proceeds, hands at your waist shifting and bringing your shirt upwards, tidbits of flesh now exposed. it seems purposeful because he’s then all dry lips and scratchy facial hair against your skin, drinking you in, dirty hands squeezing where they can.

you’re calling out his name to which he responds to with a stronger aggression in action; oddly firm presses of his lips evolving into these tiny nips of teeth, pushing against you enough to send you back onto your palms.

rare were the moments that daryl’s usually subdued needs make such a sudden head. when he’s functioning one moment, high off plenty cigarettes in his normal, and the next he’s chasing you lewdly like he’s just always been without fornication—and he has.

daryl advances south, hands still at your waist, breath fanning over your pants. they’re of comfort with no zipper or buttons to act as a task to undo, so daryl gets to you easily. his hands shake a little as he hooks fingers in the waistband of your pants, not all nervousness but moreso an eagerness that it seems he struggles keeping at bay.

though despite this, he handles you with a certain gentleness and allows himself this moment of vulnerability, of exploration in a way that leaves you both bare in every sense.

your bottoms pull down and you help to kick them off and away.

“gentle.” you say when he stuffs a sweaty face directly into you, hands cupping your legs from beneath, spreading them enough to fit himself comfortably between. “i’m not as flexible as i used to be.”

“can’t tell.” he shoots back in his playfulness that is typically delivered dryly.

he shifts on his knees again, but doesn’t seem entirely too bothered, instead doesn’t spend another second without a tongue pressed wetly against you through the fabric of your garment. he laps at the cloth, grunts incoherencies, presses thumbs into your under thigh, tries to hide the not so subtle clenching in his abdomen. he’s hard again, straining and obvious, at the mercy of his body’s natural instinct to relieve the pressure by humping, rutting, fucking up into anything, searching for something.

“daryl, daryl.” you hiss when he tries to get his mouth on you whole down there, not stalling for anything. “shit, you—let’s take it slow.”

and you know in his current state it’s absurd to ask, he’s already gone.

but still, he hears you because he’s reluctantly pulling away, obedient.

“alright, now take them off, please.” you order, bringing a hand to his hair again. it creates a sort of stability for yourself, whilst for daryl it only tips him more towards the edge.

and since daryl runs on orders, he’s quick to move again with hands sliding you out of the underwear and down your legs. you assist with kicking them off and away, and daryl doesn’t give you a breath in between because he’s a wet tongue on you in an instant.

it’s like something shifts in him—like something breaks, gives way to a heavily chased after relief—seeing the way his shoulders slack. you gasp, feeling the pleasure ripple up your spine, sit hotly in your gut.

“look at you, oh my god.” you begin to taunt and it’s s bit broken off, but still holds its weight. “you look so right down there.”

daryl gives a groan in return, fingers squeezing in protest, but you know he believes it, too.

your chest fills with a breath when he pops off, and it’s beautiful how concentrated he seems with the task. for once, his cheeks tint an airbrush of pink, featherlight and detailing to you just how aroused he is.

to use emphasis, in his still state, you use the opportunity to reel him back in at the hair. it elicits something loud and ruined out of him—a moan, a whine almost. he breathes through his nose when he’s tongue and teeth and cheeks all over you again, and it makes your back arch. the sounds he produces alongside the wetness that you are has you bringing ankles to his backside, locking him in and daryl’s moans are muffled and slightly garbled in reaction.

“you’re gonna—“ cracked. “you’re so good for me, you’re gonna make me cum.”

at that, he pursues you heavier now. like he’s eager to taste you, like he wouldn’t miss it for the world, daryl brings a hand up to rub what he can’t get. it’s wet and nasty and lewdly noisy, and your moans alike. with him using two times the pleasure, it sends you over just as fast.

your eyes squeeze tight as your body racks with the aftershocks, and daryl is ragged breaths somewhere in the void and you’re not sure if it’s him coming as well or the hand deep in his strands has him that strung out.

the wound up muscles in your body release as does your hold on him, and you’re falling to your back against the mattress.

it’s a while before your eyes are peeling open again, head lulled a bit. daryl stands to his feet again at the foot of the bed, cracked bones and all.

“hey.” he starts quietly, haphazardly wipes his mouth. he hovers over you laid out on the bed, arms encasing your head and body heat transferring. “we alrigh’?” his concern etches outside of his tone and into his hot hand that now covers your cheek and ear. his thumb runs over your moist cheekbones and his eyes stick to yours like syrup.

you nod. “yeah.” you assure and watch his expression ease up. “i’m definitely alright. are you?”

he mimics your nod. “mhm.”

“don’t.” you say when he attempts to embrace you entirely. “shower. both of us.” and when he doesn’t respond—“shower. you came twice in your pants.”

daryl shoves his face in the crook of your neck then, ears red.

when the water eventually does come down on you both, it’s shameless in its lack of purity. daryl, despite the night, used a handjob from you underneath the stream before he’d grown shaky in the shoulders and grumpy in the tone, apprehensive in his age. (“ain’t built for another, you’re killin’ me.”)

and he would know himself best because he’s droopy eyes and clean hair against the pillows afterwards, sleep weighing him down. he’s still like he doesn’t feel your gaze, but squints open an eye when you speak.

“i lied about being cold. wanted you in bed.” you smile to contain laughter.

daryl scoffs. “mhm, well .. shit worked.”

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

HiHIHI HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A GOOD DAY JUST WANTED TO SAY I LOVE YOUR WORKS

I just binge read every single one of your Boothill fics and they all got me kicking my feet and everything!! I love how you write him and Ore is so cute I could actually explode 💥💥💥

Take your time or you can choose to ignore but can I have a request of Ore going missing (it's very small if I recall, so I kinda imagine it getting stuck under the couch or something) and just Boothill helping to look for it? TYSM IF YOU DO!

thank you so much for reading and enjoying my content!! I honestly dont know if i'll ever be able to write a boothill fic without making the reader some sort of mechanic. i may just stop breathing if i try- you can pry mechanic reader out of my cold dead hands

[1k w.count]

but just imagine, boothill isn't even on planet. he's off somewhere else when his phone starts pinging like nuts. back to back messages and before his text-to-voice can kick in, it starts blaring with phone calls.

"dadgummit..! who in the-" boothill huffs and puff as he fishes his phone from the space beside him where he had left it charging. his irritation all but simmered down when he saw your contact name flash across his screen.

...sugar is calling...

one his brows quirk up and he almost frowns at the incoming call. the hell is this? you never call him. like ever. you dont really call anyone really- more of a messaging kindof person. not to say he wasn't thrilled to hear from you though.

"is blowin' up my phone a new hobby of yours or somethin'?" boothill doesn't bother with a hello when he answers. neither do you.

"i can't find it!" you screech into the receiver. the feedback from the call's inital pick up and your yelling has the cowboy pulling his phone from his ear with a wince. beside the feedback shot into his eardrum, the sound of something metal being... knocked over...? also enters his head.

"sugar, you know i aint got a clue what you're talkin' about. i'm not in your star system right now," boothill tries to reason. you sound pretty distressed all things considered. so, he should at least hear you out. if all else, he can turn this ship around and speed it back to you.

he hears you whine; a whine that soon escalates into a full-on frustrated groan. oh. you were definitely upset about something. the only other times he's heard you like this is when a project isn't working out at any angle at all and you're one step away from throwing it out the window.

"it's ore." your voice is muffled behind your hand as you speak. "i lost it." you sound so pitiful as you confess your shame in losing the small robot companion boothill had brought back for you a while ago now. "i took my eyes off it for two seconds- and it was just... gone!" ore was so small; it should be common knowledge that the robot can hide just about anywhere it can squeeze itself into- but it usually trails around after you like a lost puppy! so, you've gotten sloppy at keeping an eye on it.

"you're blowin' up my phone because you lost track of your lil' assistant robot?" on one hand, boothill feels a little flattered that you feel like you can call him for stuff like this. the stuff that isn't really life threatening or to only deliver horribly, dire news. just something that's more or less inconvenient. on the other? he's almost annoyed because what if he was in the middle of a bounty? he isn't... but what if.

eh, whatever, he wouldn't be mad even if that were the case.

"look," boothill swallows back a chuckle and forces out a sigh, "i'm sure it ain't far. lil' guy never wanders off too far from you. just sit tight and it'll right back come to you."

"but what if it doesn't? what if ore's like lost-lost. like super lost? i can't just-"

"sugar," boothill interrupts you. "remind me again who programmed it?"

theres a beat of silence. "me."

"uh-huh, that's right. and didn't that very same you also program him with the maps of locations you frequent, like your shop?"

"i did."

"and why's that, sugar?" boothill has taken to plopping himself down in one of the chairs in his ship. luckily the spacecraft has an auto-pilot function as well as a cruise function when he was preoccupied- like now- or when he wasn't on an active job. there's a smirk on his face. he wonders if you can hear it through your slight panic.

"so that if it got lost... it'd know the way back."

"bingo," boothill snaps his free fingers together. "so, just calm down."

the phone call lasts not too much longer. a few more worried words from you, as well as a slight pout that you had lost what he had given you which almost made his systems overheat. with a few more reassurances that ore would make its way back to your loving palms sooner than you'd think, the call ends.

the galaxy ranger laughs when he finally see's just how many messages you spammed him with before deciding to just call him. there was wayyy too many. he wishes he was more tech-smart so he could screenshot the damage and send it to you as a tease.

still, despite the absurdity of it all, boothill was glad you called. even though you were frantic, he was happy to hear your voice. then he huffs and deflates in his chair, knees spread apart and back slouched low against the back. if he still had human bones, his spine would surley disapprove of such a position.

now he just misses you. dammit.

two system hours later, his phone pings. another message from you with a picture attatched.

[sugar]: he crawled up under the workshop sofa and got stuck in a spring. i finally heard him beeping after i stopped tossing things around [image attached] [sugar]: might install a tracking program

boothill chuckles softly as he looks at the photo of you. soot and oil splotch on your nose and cheeks from whatever you were tinkering with that day. your googles were around your neck and he was glad to see you were still using them as you should be. on your shoulder was ore. hooked into its safety carabiner and using its little, metal arms to hug to your cheek. its digital expression was scrunched up with fake, pixeled tears.

damn. boothill really wishes he was more tech-savvy now. i mean come one! what kind of cyborg can be nearly all robot, know how to steer and command a spaceship and still not know how to change a phone's background!

next time he's by the express, he'll have to ask dan heng.

[diodellet]

drawing a summoning circle with my blood, i neeeed himh sooo baddd

cw: dubious consent by virtue of hypnotism in the first bullet point, writing is more suggestive than outright smutting but im keeping it under a readmore to be safe minors do not interact

Incubus Jamil Viper who takes no chances whenever he feeds. Always making sure to keep his prey completely subdued, unable to resist. It only takes a single moment of your gazes meeting for his magic to take hold. The initial alarm in your eyes glazing over, tension melting from your frame.

Incubus Jamil Viper mapping your body and lavishing it with the attention that your previous partners could never muster. Of course, he brushes it off as you being sensitive and touchstarved. You're easy to tease and willing to vocalize your pleasure, maybe he'll keep you around for a bit longer.

Incubus Jamil Viper taking his time, driving you to the point of complete frustration. He doesn't have to use his magic at this point, it's better that you're lucid. He wants you needy and pliant, he wants you crying and begging for him. He wants to hear his name spilling from your lips as he grants you sweet release.

Incubus Jamil Viper being a possessive glutton for your sexual energy. Every other human he feeds from pales in comparison after getting a taste from you. He tries not to show his attachment, but he can barely spend more than a night away from you(r bed). On the rare occasion, you'll find homecooked meals in your fridge after he leaves. He doesn't need to leave a note for you to piece together who it's from. Some days, he thinks of draining you completely dry and moving on. Other days, he can't seem to stomach the thought of not being able to visit you again.

Incubus Jamil Viper trying (and failing) to avoid his growing feelings every time you take charge of aftercare. It's easier to constrain this relationship as a transactional one, but you seem to value him outside of your nightly trysts. He doesn't let you touch his wings or tail, not even his hair or his horns. But, as he grows more fond of you, maybe that could change.

For your consideration: incubus Jamil Viper.

[nart-is-a-monster]

Ok so.... I've been drawing but none of the shots I've been drawing are satisfying me and also I have to work again sksbdkekfmf

So whatever!!!

💥💥💥💥

This one is from an au I was thinking of by varian being like a temporary mortal till he is able to know his soulmate or something and when he knows it's soulmate

Or maybe is just varian being the moon and Hugo loving the moon

Or maybe they just want to f-

I just had in mind doing something on theme with waves and moon bc.... Yeah

Moon and water duh

Teehee

And the silent opera strikes again bc I'm sooooooo normal, if someone does a silent opera reference in another fanfic I literally could just stop reading for a while to cry in a corner and explode.

This one is based in a design done by a friend of Anna who's name I forgot rn LISTEN IS 3:40 AM WHEN IM WRITING THIS SO DONT PERCEIVE ME

(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

In this one Varian is like a prince or something like that in the dark kingdom and he just goes batshit crazy mode and he probably likes to keep Hugo in a basement or whatever

Idk PSYCHOPATH OR SOMETHING

✧✧⁠◝⁠(⁠���⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧✧

Not rendering this :3

(⁠づ⁠｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡⁠)⁠づ⊂⁠(⁠・⁠﹏⁠・⁠⊂⁠)

This is from THIS FIC that I just read and I love and I- 💥

(⁠^⁠.⁠_⁠.⁠^⁠)⁠ﾉ(⁠^⁠.⁠_⁠.⁠^⁠)⁠ﾉ(⁠^⁠.⁠_⁠.⁠^⁠)⁠ﾉ(⁠^⁠.⁠_⁠.⁠^⁠)⁠ﾉ(⁠^⁠.⁠_⁠.⁠^⁠)⁠ﾉ

This one is just varian living on a maze with a "treasure" inside, and that maze was somewhere where no one was able to get in or deep inside since like a .... Idk 10 years?💠

This is just me practicing lines akjdksjfkdjfk

CW BLOOD(?

And this is the last one

And now I'm done

Byeeeeeeee