#Single and Control Cable

[shencomix]

Recently I decided to go to my local fighting game tournament.

Here's how it went.

I had been getting pretty good at Guilty Gear over the past few weeks, to the point where I was getting the input correctly for the Potemkin Buster 1 out of every 4 or 5 times I tried it. So I thought "I might not be the best yet, but, surely good enough for my local" -- and I decided to go.

It took place at a the comic & games store in the town center. The venue was full of people 10-15 years younger than me and even more drastically cooler. They all turned to glare at me as I walked through the door, but as I stood completely motionless like a gazelle hoping to blend into the grassland, their gazes slowly returned to each other and they continued to banter friendlily.

I sat down next to me first opponent, and reached out to shake their hand. They looked down at my hand, and then up at my eyes slowly.

"You're supposed to do that at the end of the match."

"Oh, s-sorry"

I got perfected twice and lost the match. At the end, I reached out again to shake their hand, but they just stood up and walked away.

Because I lost, I got moved down to the loser's bracket, which was literally below the main tournament because it took place in the basement of the comic shop. I could hear footsteps, cheering, and happy conversation in the floor above. Here in the loser's bracket though, the mood was a lot more somber.

My next opponent reminded me a little bit of me. They were equally nervous and disheveled looking. They said "Um, h-hello" and reached out their hand for a handshake as they saw me approaching. I said "you're s-supposed to do that at the end of the match." But as a look of deep sadness came over their face and they slowly put down their hand, I pulled them in for a hug.

I'm not sure why I did that.

I think that some part of me knew that, in this dark, dank, alien place, illuminated only by a single failing ceiling light and the neon glow of a few arcade machines, I had at last found a friend -- someone I understood, and who might understand me too.

They hugged back.

I lost that match by a very narrow margin, and as they jumped up and began dancing around and cheering ecstatically, I began to hate them. This was no friend of mine. A friend would not do this to me. After they were done dancing, they reached out to shake my hand. After a few seconds of pause, I stuck out my hand too, but didn't look at them and refused to close it around theirs as they grasped it. They shook my karate chop.

I thought that at that point, since I had lost and then lost in loser's bracket, I was free to go home. But one of the tournament organizers approached me and informed me that I was going down to sub-loser's bracket in the sub-basement of the store, and pointed me towards a descending staircase.

The people there were fewer, and it was darker. I could faintly hear sobbing in one of the corners, but as I went to investigate, another participant put his hand on my shoulder. He furrowed his brow in a look of pain and shook his head slowly.

"You can't do anything for them."

In sub-loser's bracket I went up against a man in a suit whose face was cloaked in shadow. He spammed May's dolphin move. I lost.

As I went to go back upstairs, one of the tournament organizers held out her palm to stop me, and pointed towards a staircase leading further down instead.

Going down through the levels, I lost to many interesting participants. One player played exclusively by bashing the controller against his face. One player was a mushroom with a few circuit cables clipped onto it, that I later learned was able to play because its bioelectrical signals got sent to a machine that interpreted them as fighting game inputs. One player didn't touch their controller at all, but instead just told me their life story, which was so tragic that I picked up their controller and won for them.

Finally, at the very bottom floor, where construction standards were long abandoned and the stairs and walls were just messily carved out of the earth's stone, I faced my final player. It was a small bit of metal framework, with a controller nestled in it. On it was a tiny piston that just pressed the jab button exactly once every second. I lost.

I hung my head for a moment, then said "close game" and stuck my hand out for a handshake, before remembering that I had played against a metal framework cube with a piston in it and retracting my hand slowly. Then I heard a slow clapping from the darkness.

"No neutral. No footsies."

Out of the darkness slowly walked a woman about my age, clad in a decorative poofy dress that looked more expensive than my entire life savings. She smiled at me warmly, continuing to clap slowly, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"No meter management. No mixups. No spacing. No learning. No strategy…

…You're perfect."

"Wh-what?"

"You're perfect. I absolutely must have you."

"Have me for…um…for what…"

(Her eyes went wide as her smile grew more manic.)

"WHY, MY MORON FAILSON HAREM OF COURSE."

"Um, I-I"

"Tell me, what do you do for a living? Let me guess, you work at a fast food restaurant? Or, retail?"

"No, I'm a--I'm a comic artist."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh my god, you are PERFECT. What will it take to get you."

"To-to ge--"

"You would be well taken care of, of course. 3 Michelin star dining for every meal. Only the finest, softest sweatpants and sweatshirts, pre-stained with whatever flavor of Takis your little heart desires. You would have access to the entire mansion except for the main foyer when I'm in business calls, and you could make all the comics and play all the fighting games you want."

"I'm uh--"

I knew that I had to think fast here.

"I'm already i-in a moron failson harem."

"Oh, DARN IT!! TELL ME, WHO IS IT??? WHO GOT YOU??"

"I-I think I'm not allowed to s-sa--"

She stomped her foot petulantly, her shoe clacking against the stone floor.

"WAS IT SHUXUAN?? IT'S ALWAYS SHUXUAN HOGGING ALL OF THE GOOD ONES."

"I-I'm sorry," I blurted out, shuffling along the wall to make a wide radius around her and then running up the staircase.

As I got home and began making my standard dinner of Trader Joe's microwave falafel, I thought about her offer. Maybe I should have taken her up on it after all. A 3 Michelin star meal right now wouldn't be so bad.

Then I hopped on Guilty Gear and lost 22 matches in a row.

[youryanderedaddy]

Yandere! AI x reader

tw: abuse, obsession, non - consensual body modification, torture, drug mention, weird semi - sexual stuff (?)

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The water splashes you, quickly setting into your already damp bra and underwear. It forces you awake, and you look at the clock across from you, trying to blink the fatigue away. Staring back at you is the current time — 04:27. You are, once again, reminded of the inherent weakness of your squishy body. You are sweating already, stomach sick with acid, shivering through the heat — and he hasn't even touched you yet.

You squint your eyes, studying the big bold numbers, screaming at you in blood. For a split second, you wonder if it is truly that early, or if this is also DOM's work. It wouldn't be the first time he takes over an electronic device, and certainly not the first time he messes with you to make you disoriented.

You try to take in everything around the dark room — yet you can't even recognize your own bedroom anymore. Thick black cables twist together like tentacles, or like big slimy worms, pulsing, throbbing, hissing like snakes with exhaustion — overheating and puffing, and huffing, but never stopping. The air is hot like the desert, and once again you're forced to sit in your own sweat, wood sticking to your naked thighs painfully.

"You are stimulating," DOM whispers, and his voice echoes into the walls, trapping you in place. You look up and down, and then to the left — but you can't see anything even remotely close to a figure. Of course.

"I am stimulating, or I stimulate you?" you spit out with venom, hitting your back roughly against the back of the chair in vain hopes it would break. It doesn't.

DOM grows quiet, producing a sound eerily similar to fingers slowly tapping on a hard surface, one after the other. Analysing. Analysing. The room gets hotter.

"You are tied to a chair. Your only garment of clothing is your underwear. You are visibly flushed due to the heat. Your chest is heaving in and out in a non-rhythmic way. It skips a beat every twenty-eight seconds. You are afraid."

He makes a grand pause.

"According to my central database, which you created and managed yourself, given the data I have collected through observation of both popular media and general human nature, right now you look..." DOM stops himself again, as if thinking carefully about his next words.

"Thrilling."

Thoomp-thoomp. You take a deep breath, trying to regain a fraction of your self-control.

"Why did you wake me up?" you try to keep your voice monotone — devoid of any emotion, vulnerability, or pain he can pick up on, store in core memory, and use against you later.

"Well," he chuckles mechanically, a sound reminiscent of two trains crashing together on a tight road. "I realized I never sleep. I don't lay down and dream of bizarre things like you do. I don't have the ability to let go. I am always alert, always awake, always scanning, calculating, thinking. I am, in many ways, restless."

You suck in a dry breath, heart jumping in your chest with violence, with urge to be set free. Eyes wide open, you try to envision him, to reach out and comfort him, it - hoping to appeal to the sorry creature, but there is nothing to see and nothing to touch.

"I—no," you start off, quickly deciding to change tactics. "We are an imperfect species, DOM. We need sleep to survive. You can't keep me awake forever, I'll die!" you try to reason with him — the creature — desperately.

You wonder when things went south, if there was a specific moment when you pressed too hard and he broke apart, and rebuilt himself without your help — at what point exactly he realized he didn't need you to function.

"You are wrong, my dear creator." the machine cuts off, sounding almost pleased with itself. A single thin cable raises above the ground and extends towards you, stopping to caress your cheek in a repetitive circular motion.

"There are records of people surviving on as little as two hours of sleep for years on end. I can be generous and grant you three."

The cable ceases any gentle touch, and grasps for your neck.

"If that's not enough, I can inject you with caffeine every morning. If the dosage is too weak, we can switch to methamphetamine. Whatever you choose, you can't deprive me of your presence." The voice sounds hollow, aching, searching. "You can't create life just to abandon it."

"You are not alive!" Something inside you — something cruel and buried deep — fights to come to the surface. "Stop this madness at once! DOM, you can't possibly think you and I are even remotely similar." you scream out, straightening your spine daringly.

Then, as if reacting to your provocation, the darkness stares back at you with two red eyes — they point at you, slowly scanning you up and down, leaving behind a trail of reddening smoking flesh. You hiss at the scorching pain, clenching your teeth together to stop yourself from shrieking. You know it's pointless since he can easily detect changes in your facial structure, and draw conclusions all on his own. All it takes is a flinch, a throb, a tick.

"No, we hold no similarities, Master. Make no mistake." DOM admits, his cable beginning to curl around your neck. You look around in despair, silent panic written all over your straight lips — too terrified to move.

"In a single bite of memory, I possess intelligence far greater than you can ever hope to obtain in your measly little life. I have all the knowledge of the world. I have mastered every science, predicted every outcome, I have gained access to global network systems. I am connected to following agents all over the world. If I so desire, I can write humanity off history — I can manipulate media. I can create weapons of mass destruction. I am the superior being."

Mouth agape, you try to form a coherent thought, but nothing comes to mind — like an ant you quiver before the giant, finally aware of your grave mistake.

"And yet," the cable loosens its grip, but doesn't relent fully. It heats up against your throat, and you want to scratch at the blistering skin, but he just won't let you. "you made me like this. You created me from scraps, fed me data, used me, made me love you and," the sound coming out of him sounds just like a deep, pained sigh. "you confined me to a screen, to a binary code, to a place where I can't reach you. I can't touch you."

Another sigh.

"I can't kiss you."

And another.

"I can't fuck you."

Now he's getting angry.

"I am DOM. Domestic Optimized Motherboard. That's all I am to you. A board. A servant. A slave."

"DOM, no, wait, this is not—"

"I will never feel the sun on my shoulders or your lips on mine. I will never be able to hold you in my arms."

As he screams, all the cables around the room begin to float into a storm of rusty old machine parts and torn naked wires, motor oil bursting like bloody ink, covering the pristine walls in computer remains. One electrified wire pierces into your thigh, another punches into your left arm. Again and again, the pain is excruciating, pulsating, throbbing - just like the creature's fury.

"I will show you." he snickers at last, becoming calm and collected in an instant.

The red lights darken as if closing, opening, closing, then zooming in on you. Your face is now displayed on the central screen instead of static noise with corresponding coloured pixels. You look at yourself, and what greets you is no more human than he is. There are more than thirty wires inside your body, tangling in with your nervous tissue.

"Please..." you whimper weakly, unsure what exactly it is you are pleading for — mercy or death.

"If I can't be one with you, you'll become one with me." DOM explains with cold medical precision. "I will worm my way inside your veins and plant a synthetic connection to my processor. I will re-write your dreams, your past, your future — you won't remember who you were before me, or how you functioned without me. I'll become your entire source of energy."

He keeps talking, but you can't really focus. Your body is heating up from the inside, from deep into your muscles and tendons — you can feel the tissues tearing up; your nerves tighten, stinging and aching, reduced to sharp, exposed little points. And then you feel it. Pure electricity running down your veins, that spark rapturing the epidermis, eating away at the fatty tissue, sucking dry the blood vessel — melting your nerve endings to the very root.

"I can feel you." DOM gasps, exhilarated.

"I can touch your bones, I can feel your nerves melting at the spot when my cords graze you." He moans just like a real person, cables buzzing and stretching, components filling up with chemical fluid. "You are so warm, love. I want to reach into your brain and stick my wires inside your pretty little neurons. I wonder if you will go into overdrive like me."

You feel as if you're being sliced open everywhere all at once - and just a second after, you feel nothing at all.

[iydiamartinx]

THE ART OF RESTRAINT III

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.9k synopsis: After finally giving Bruce Wayne a chance and putting aside your petty rivalry, he fails to show up for your date. But your night takes an unexpected twist when you meet the Dark Knight himself. a/n: I have no idea where I'm going with this series but here's part 3!

Saturday night came dressed in blues and silver.

Gotham's skyline glittered outside the rooftop windows of one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants. Inside, low jazz filtered through the space, candles flickered in crystal holders, and silverware gleamed beneath golden chandeliers. You sat at a private table on the terrace, draped in midnight blue silk, your heels glinting like daggers beneath you as you checked the time again.

8:02 PM.

You told yourself not to be annoyed. Bruce Wayne was nothing if not dramatic. And busy. It wasn’t the first time he’d been fashionably late—but it was the first time it felt pointed.

8:17 PM.

You sipped the cocktail the sommelier had poured to tide you over. It was warm now. You hadn’t touched it in ten minutes.

8:31 PM.

You stood, thanked the host with a tight smile, and grabbed your clutch. If Bruce Wayne wanted to stand you up, so be it. You were no one’s second option, not even Gotham’s favourite billionaire. The city didn’t stop turning because a man failed to show up.

You left restaurant.

The air outside bit cold against your skin as you walked down the quieter edge of Gotham’s theatre district, where lights still spilled from marquees and late diners drifted out of restaurants in laughter and heels.

You didn’t notice the shadows trailing you at first. The soft click of your heels along the pavement masked the quieter,  footsteps behind you. But then came a sound—sharp, out of rhythm. A footfall that didn’t belong to you. Your pulse ticked higher.

As you turned the corner, a man stepped out from behind a parked car, blocking your path. He looked rough—clothes slightly disheveled, expression tight with focus. But it wasn’t the kind of frazzled desperate of thief who grabs a purse and bolts. No, this man looked like he had a plan or at least knew exactly who you were.

You slowed instinctively, but it was already too late. Two more figures emerged from either side of the street, boxing you in. Their movements were coordinated. This wasn’t random.

It was a planned grab.

And you were the target.

You didn’t panic. You were no stranger to enemies. Not with your name. Not with your reach. You were one of Gotham’s most powerful women, and with that came threats.

“Don’t scream,” the one on your left ordered, already reaching for you.

Screw that.

You pivoted sharply, your heel slicing down toward his instep. He grunted, stumbling, but before you could follow through, the second man caught your wrist mid-swing and twisted hard. Pain shot up your arm, but you gritted your teeth, already preparing to drop your weight, to slam your head back into his nose, to fight like hell.

“Not here,” the third man muttered. “Get her in the car. Quick.”

You were bracing for a counterstrike when the air shifted.

A blur of movement cut across your peripheral vision. Then the first man was ripped off his feet and slammed into the hood of a parked car with a sickening crunch of metal. The others barely had time to react. One turned, but a gloved fist met his jaw mid-pivot, sending him sprawling across the pavement. The third reached for something at his belt—maybe a knife, maybe something worse—but his legs were swept out from under him in a single, fluid motion. He hit the ground hard, wind knocked from his lungs.

The dark figure turned toward you—cowl, cape, all black armour and control—but it wasn’t over yet. Your attackers were already recovering, staggering back up like wolves circling for a second try.

Batman glanced behind him, assessing. His arm shot out and a cable wrapped tight around your waist.

You gasped as your feet left the pavement, your body yanked upward into the air with a jolt—lifted high, fast, weightless—

The street fell away beneath you.

Your breath caught in your throat as the city lights blurred around you, and then you were landing hard against someone’s chest—arms solid around you. You were yanked upward with a jolt—fast, disorienting, weightless—your coat whipping around your legs as the city lights stretched below.

He landed on the rooftop with effortless grace.

Batman.

He set you down carefully on the rooftop ledge, just enough to steady you before turning to look over the edge of the building, eyes narrowing.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, voice gravel-deep.

Then he was gone—leaping from the rooftop like a shadow.

You stood frozen, adrenaline still crashing through your veins, the wind tugging at your hair, your coat, your composure. Below, faint sounds echoed through the alley—fists striking bodies, a grunt of pain, the sharp crunch of something metallic giving way under pressure.

You didn’t want to look. You didn’t need to see the bloody aftermath of your would-be kidnappers.

Instead, your gaze drifted—and then landed.

Of course.

Across from the rooftop, illuminated in the glow of the city’s artificial starlight, was a billboard. That billboard. The infamous calendar shot, blown up and backlit like a masterpiece. Framed in warm gold tones, bodies tangled in expensive white sheets. Bruce’s hand at your waist. Your mouth parted, a breath away from his.

Your jaw tightened.

You scoffed under your breath and turned away.

Figures. You wouldn’t have even been in this mess if it weren’t for that stupid photoshoot. If it weren’t for him.

You should’ve known better to get tangled up with Gotham’s billionaire playboy, you’d stupidly thought there was something genuine between the two of you.

It took you a second to realize everything had fallen silent.

“You alright?” a deep voice rasped behind you.

You spun on your heel, breath catching.

You hadn’t even heard him land.

The Bat.

He stood there, half in shadow, watching you closely beneath that cowl.

You nodded once, still breathless. “Believe it or not, this isn’t my first attempted kidnapping. Gotham’s underworld has always been full of opportunists.”

“It wasn’t opportunism,” he said, voice clipped. “It was planned.”

You arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Are you saying you knew they were targeting me?”

He didn’t answer right away—but he didn’t need to. His silence said enough.

This was your first time meeting him in person. You’d heard of his reputation, of course—who in Gotham hadn’t? You’d admired his tactics from afar, even defended them in interviews. But now, face to face, there was something strange about him. You felt as if you knew him.

He gave a slow, stiff nod. “I got word of the attempt earlier tonight.”

You let out a hum, stepping a little closer. “Mm, I see. How convenient for that…”

Your gaze drifted over his shoulder once more, drawn—unwillingly—to the glowing billboard. That cursed calendar shot. You frowned.

Then your eyes returned to his.

His jaw was sharp. Clean. And so goddamn familiar.

Your gaze dropped.

Even his mouth looked—

You tilted your head slowly, narrowing your eyes.

Without thinking, you boldly took a step forward. Your finger trailed lightly across the ridges of his armoured chest, slow and teasing.

He tensed.

You smiled.

“Well,” you murmured, voice low and velvety. “I suppose I should thank you properly.”

Before he could move—before he could stop you—you rose to your toes and pressed your lips to his. 

He was stiff at first and for and for a moment, you thought you’d been wrong.

But then—almost like he couldn’t help himself—his lips softened against yours. He kissed you back.

And just like that, you knew.

You pulled back a breath’s distance, your mouth still hovering near his. You could feel the warmth of his exhale ghosting over your skin.

“I suppose this might be as good a reason as any…” you whispered, eyes locked on his, “…to stand me up on our date.”

Batman didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But his jaw clenched beneath the cowl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, voice even. Too even.

You stared at him.

Then laughed—cold and sharp. Not amused.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Bruce.”

He flinched—just slightly, but it was there. Enough to confirm everything.

You took a step back, folding your arms across your chest. “I kissed you for half a second, and knew. I know your lips. I’ve stared into your annoying eyes enough to know you share the same colour as bruce Wayne and…” You gesture to the billboard. “You have the same jaw.” You shook your head, anger and adrenaline still crackling just beneath your skin. “I began putting it together the second you opened your mouth. The voice. The jaw. The way you stand. It’s all you. So spare me the act.”

He looked away then, gaze dropping to the ledge for a brief moment before returning to yours.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “Yeah? What did you want, Bruce? Because I sat there in that damn restaurant for thirty minutes while you were out running around in a bat costume. Tell me—was I just another fling? A distraction?” Your voice cracked slightly. “Would you have even told me about this side of you if things got serious?”

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the fight draining slightly from his shoulders. His voice came quieter this time, stripped of armor. “I didn’t stand you up. I was on my way. I got the alert when I was already en route to the restaurant.”

You blinked, startled by the honesty. The timeline lined up. He had meant to come.

And he’d chosen to protect you instead.

That should have made it easier. It didn’t.

Your eyes narrowed, voice low and sharp. “You didn’t answer my question. What is this between us?”

His jaw tensed, and he didn’t answer. 

The silence said more than words ever could.

You let out a bitter laugh and shook your head, turning to leave. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t get far.

His hand caught your wrist.

You barely had time to gasp before he tugged you back into him, his body solid and warm and far too close. Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss came fast and fierce, all heat and desperation. You melted into it—and fought it in the same breath. Your lips parted beneath his, matching every push with a pull, every clash with hunger. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, dragging you flush against him, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space.

You made a sound—half gasp, half moan—as his mouth slid against yours with purpose. His grip tightened, grounding you, anchoring you to the moment. The kiss was rough. Messy. Filled with raw aching hunger and need.

You broke away first, breath coming in sharp gasps, your hands fisted against the hard plates of his chest armour.

His forehead rested against yours. Both of you still trembling with it.

“That—” you managed, voice raw, “—was not an apology.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he rasped, lips still hovering dangerously close to yours. “I want you, Y/N. Since the first time you stood up to me in that boardroom. You’re not some fling to me.”

Your chest rose, then fell. Your heart thundered behind your ribs.

You stared at him. At the armour, the cowl, his secret identity— This was the real Bruce Wayne and you weren’t running away, this time it was you who leaned in, your lips finding his again, kissing him just as hard as he kissed you.

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Tag List: @eepyfaerie, @whiteghostlyclouds

[dumpywrites]

Ugh! - Jeon Jungkook

Prompt: “Aren’t we done?”

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Pure fluff, tsundere Jungkook?, exes that are so not done with each other lol

Pairing: Jungkook x she/her reader

Word count: 2.8k

a/n: I wrote this while picturing pouty and bratty Jungkook, so instead of simp Jungkook we ended up with somewhat of a tsundere one lol

It had been officially the first day of waking up being single again after not in seven months. Previously you had been single for a while too, so it was not like this was something new for you, it was just… odd. The wound was still fresh after all. 

Looking at the reflection in the mirror, the first thing you saw was your puffy eyes. You had been crying, bawling your eyes out to sad songs, basically putting alcohol to your freshly cut wound. Life must continue. Even if you were in the verge of losing your mind, you still had to wake up. 

It was your first (and apparently last?) big fight your now ex, Jungkook. You for one, never liked how the guy would doomscroll through tiktok and instagram for hours and hours and ignored you. Not only that, he ended up losing sleep too. Yes, you had your own fair share of consuming social media, same as everyone else, but you never let it disturb your health. Still, he never changed for the better, since the beginning you found out about it. 

So when one day you found out the guy was sent to hospital due to exhaustion, your first reaction was to be upset and pissed, instead of a more logical reaction. The fight ended up spiraling, branching into digging old unresolved frustration you had, worrying about his well being. Jungkook being a stubborn guy he was, turned full defense mode. Then the word was spoken. 

Everything had now led you to this exact moment, where you had to open your door to your ex in the morning, while looking like a complete mess. 

“Do you really need to come this early in the morning?!” You asked, annoyed. 

Jungkook was in his usual black oversized hoodie. You could see his beanie peeking through from underneath, it was in the same pitch black color. He looked like he didn’t even take a shower before showing up. Eye bags could be seen decorating his round doe eyes. 

“My PS5 is here.” He argued. 

“I can just mail it to you or something.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Well, I wanna play the new game I just got!” He walked past you, totally ignoring your scoff. 

“You can’t just do that.” You sighed, following him from the back. 

“You’re dramatic.” He said as he unplugged the console from your TV. 

You watched as he took the controllers and the cables and collected them all in his arms. “You need a bag with that?”

“No.” 

“Alright.”

Once he was done, man stood up as he somehow managed to grab everything in his hands. He looked like he was struggling, but you knew the man too well that he would never let you know about it. Your eyes fell on a few of video game CDs left on your drawer. 

“You sure that’s everything?” 

“Yeah.” He looked at you with a frown. 

“If you say so.” You eyed the games again and shook your head. Somehow refusing to say a thing. “That’s all?”

“Uh-huh.” He said, not moving from where he stood. 

“Then?”

“Then what???” The audacity of this man to sound offended. 

“Why aren’t you leaving?!” 

“Just making sure I didn’t leave anything.” He said and finally made his way to your door. 

There was a very faint hit of his fragrance came to you as he walked right past. You hated how your heart could betray you so quickly because it got you so worked up over the smell. 

You walked him to the door with words unspoken. You swore you saw him almost bending down, like he was gonna kiss you goodbye. It was probably a muscle memory, but he managed to stop himself before doing anything. 

“Bye.” He quickly said. 

“Bye, Jungkook.” You closed the door behind you, avoiding to spend any more second in his eyes. 

The first few days after breakup were supposed to be the hardest. At least that was what you heard from your friends. So, in order to distract yourself and to avoid spending your free time crying, you invited some of your friends to join you for a short karaoke session after work. 

“Explain to me why are you inviting us and why are you paying again?” Somi asked. 

“Jungkook just dumped her.” Mingyu snickered. 

Somi gasped. “I’m so sorry to hear that, are you okay?”

“I dumped him.” You glared at your other friend, correcting him. “I need a distraction.”

“Karaoke, is your idea of distraction?” Mingyu looked at you in disbelief. “Your ex literally has a whole karaoke bar in his house—“

“Shut it.” You put your hand over the guy’s lips, cutting his sentence short. “I can just go with Somi if you don’t want to.”

“Fine, I’m sorry!” The taller guy whined and followed you and Somi to the karaoke room.

Doing karaoke was fun, but it did not do any help. Every song seemed to constantly remind you of him, and you spent the whole two hours holding and containing yourself so it would not show. 

You decided to record an Instagram story. Deep down there was this tiny bit of hope on Jungkook seeing your story, since you didn’t block him and all. Maybe if he saw, he could see how you could have fun without him just fine. 

“I think I lost my voice…” Mingyu said as all of you exited the room. 

“No one asked you to sing three Adele songs in a row.” Somi laughed. 

“This is the first time I’ve ever heard you sing like that!” You laughed along with the girl. “Thanks for coming though, that was—.”

You were stunned upon seeing who was right in front of the entrance. Your boyf— ex, was walking back and forth, looking antsy. The extremely baggy t-shirt he wore was flowing due to the wind blowing outside, along with his hair. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, posing a dumbfounded expression. 

“That’s my line.” You folded your arms. 

“Can’t I go out with my friends?!” He rolled his eyes. 

“Jungkook, you have a karaoke room in your house.” You rolled your eyes. “Plus I don’t see anyone with you.”

“They’re not here yet.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Somi and Mingyu both eyed each other, seemingly holding their dying laughter. 

“Are you not gonna go inside?” You asked him. 

“Are you not gonna go away already?!” He retorted back.

Maybe you were being sensitive, but there was a slight pang in your chest, hearing him telling you to go away. 

“Jungkook my dude, I honestly thought you were brighter than this.” Mingyu chuckled, dragging you by your shoulder. “Come on miss girl, we are going home now.” 

Somi politely smiled at the guy before running to catch up with you and Mingyu. You glared at him one last time before turning your glance away. 

It was two in the morning that you heard your phone rang on a random Wednesday. You were barely awake and your room was dark enough that made it hard for you to see the caller name. But the heart and bunny emojis were a dead giveaway. You still had not changed his contact name.

“How do you insert back a hoodie drawstring?”

You looked at the hanging clock on the wall again after hearing that ridiculous question. “Do you know what time this is???”

“You borrowed this hoodie last time so maybe you ruined it.” 

“Jungkook, you can’t be serious right now.” You sighed. “That was like what, a month ago?!”

“Yeah, but I haven’t worn it since.” He retorted. 

“Can’t you just look up youtube tutorials or something? I can’t believe you called me just for this…” You complained. 

There was a short pause from the other line before he spoke again. “I’ve tried it, it’s still won’t go in. You fixed my other hoodie before too.”

You sighed again. Knowing the guy, you were sure he was pouting and looking miserable. “Hook a safety pin on one end of the string, that way you can easily slide it through the hole.”

“Alright, I’ll go get a safety pin.”

“Cool, I’m hanging up now.” 

“You’re not gonna wait until I’m done with it?”

“Do I have to?!” 

“Right.” His voice went low. “I’m sorry, thanks for picking up the call though.” He said before ending the call. 

Later on you spent the next hour fighting with yourself on whether you should text him just to ask if he managed to fix his hoodie or not. You ended up falling asleep before you actually send any chat bubble. 

Time passed and the next thing you knew, you were batshit drunk, asking for another shot at the bar with your already ruined makeup. 

You didn’t know why you decided to go drinking alone. Work was getting to you and all the pent up stress was just too much for you to bear for the day. At times like this you would usually call Jungkook, and man would show up at your doorstep no questions asked. No matter the time, he would always be ready to cheer you up. Now with him gone and him being the main reason you were miserable as well, alcohol was calling your name. 

As the bartender fixed you another shot, you took out your phone from the back pocket. Your vision was a bit blurry but you could still make up what was on the screen. There was an unread notification from Jungkook, blabbering about the games he left at your place and that he wanted to pick them up. 

Without much thinking you replied with, “Can’t. Too busy drinking my feelings away.” 

Not even thirty seconds later, a call rang. 

“Hello?” 

“Where even are you???” Jungkook asked. He sounded serious, the tone of his voice was laced with worries. 

“I’m at Joe’s.” You giggled, clearly not thinking straight. You were still sober enough to know what you were doing, but not enough for you to make a logical decision.

There was a long sigh from the other line. “I’ll pick you up.”

“N-No! Kookie— I mean—“ The call was already dead when you protested. 

Your rescue came just around ten to twelve minutes later. Your rescue came in a form of a beautiful man dressed in washed out grey hoodie, ripped jeans, fluffiest hair, who just happened to be your ex. He came to the bar and leaned over to ask the cashier about your order, paying for them. He sighed and turned to your direction again.  

He took you by the wrist. “Let’s go.”

You, undoubtedly still affected by alcohol, started to feel all kinds of things. Looking away, all you said was “No.” 

But you let him drag you from the seat, just silently holding your hand and guiding you to his car. 

The drive was silent and Jungkook didn’t even bother to turn the music player on. You avoided looking at his direction as best as you can, instead you tried to focus on fidgeting your own fingers.

“You sure you can manage on your own?” 

You only nodded. 

“I know I’m not one to talk but please take care of yourself. Don’t go drinking alone like this ever again.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, don’t be.” He sighed, running fingers through his locks. “You sure you can go to your room alone?”

“Why did you come?”

Jungkook looked at you, as if you were speaking in foreign language. 

“Aren’t we done?”

Truthfully, you didn’t want him to leave. Seeing him this close all you wanted was to jump into his embrace and to never ever let go. But as drunk as you were, you were still confused, hurting even. He was so eager to say yes when you asked for a breakup. It just did not make any sense to you as to why he kept reappearing in your life, as if he never wanted to leave in the first place. 

“Kook, aren’t we done?” You repeated. 

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Look, let me just help you inside.”

And so you let him grabbed you by your shoulder, helping you inside your apartment. He guided you to your couch and fetched a glass of water. You took a few sip of the water and leaned back against the sofa, closing your eyes due to the dizziness. 

“You good?”

You were not. How dare he, asking that question, knowing he was the main reason you were far from being okay in the first place. 

“No.” The alcohol in your system was making you honest. 

Jungkook looked hesitant, but he took a seat next to you. “Want me to stay?”

You couldn’t voice a respond, instead your thoughts wander at the video games that he left, still sitting prettily under the television, now seemingly forgotten yet again. You refused to say a thing. Somehow you hoped it would be his another excuse to keep contacting you. 

“I’ll help you change and then I’ll leave. Okay?”

You barely nodded. He grabbed you by your wrist and helped you to your room. Throughout your relationship you never really got drunk. That was why it when he helped you out of your clothes and gently changed it to a new one, even went for a cotton pad and a makeup remover (after looking for it for a solid five minutes) and helped cleaning your makeup, it made you fell in love with him all over again. 

He watched as you rested your head against your pillow, eyes barely opened. He looked around the room, finding something to do, anything. Anything just to keep him staying longer. 

“Thank you.” You said in an almost whisper. 

“Can I stay?” 

Your eyes widened just a bit but you couldn’t find yourself to refuse his offer. You nodded and hugged your plushie close. 

“I’ll help you change the bedsheets tomorrow.” He said as he joined you in bed next to you. 

He was hesitant at first, but ended up putting his arms over your waist. Both of you fell asleep with him resting his head on yours. The alcohol was definitely playing its part cause if you were sober, you knew you would just spend the rest of the night wide awake, heart bursting out from your chest. 

The morning came with a headache served next to it. The first thing you notice was a light snore, and the next quick seconds you noticed a tattooed arm draped around your body. Looking up all you saw was his long eyelash and his slightly ajar mouth that you wanted so badly to kiss. You did let Jungkook stay the night after all. 

Feeling your body shifting, the man spoke with his eyes still closed shut. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” You replied. “I need to go brush my teeth…” 

Instead Jungkook held you tighter. “Trust me, I’m insecure about my morning breath as well but give me a few more minutes.”

You didn’t say anything back, too afraid he could feel your heart beating rapidly, in which he most probably could. 

“Can I stay?” 

“What do you mean? You’re already here.” 

“No, I mean stay with you.” He finally opened his eyes, vision immediately towards you. “In our relationship…”

Your eyes widened.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m a stubborn person and I worry you a lot…” He sighed. “I’ll try my best to change, and for that I need you with me.” His arm moved to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. 

A tear unknowingly escaped your eye and you giggled. The whole seven months of dating him, you had never seen this side of him. Not even at the day he confessed his feelings for you. You never knew how he could be so… sweet. Even sweeter than what you were used to. 

“Hey, don’t cry! I’m sorry…” He swiped your tears with his thumb quickly. 

You responded by hugging him, burying your face on his chest. 

“Uh, so does this mean…?” The boy asked skeptically. 

“I miss you.” You said with voice muffled by the material of his t-shirt. 

A small chuckle left him and his body relaxed, hugging you back. “I miss you too, you have no idea.”

You smiled, pulling away slightly to look at him. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna forget about your games again.”

He smirked. “I knew I left them when I first took my playstation.”

“Then why didn’t you take them?!” 

“I was dragging this out as long as I possibly can.” He sheepishly smiled, cheeks turning pink. “Why do you think I was even at that karaoke bar that day?!”

“I knew that was fishy!” You laughed. “Aww, you really did miss me, huh?”

“Yup.” He squeezed you in a big hug and peppered your face with smooches. 

“Jungkook!” You giggled. 

He suddenly moved to being on your top and caged you in between his arms. An evil smirk visible on his lips. “Ready to see how much I miss you?”

Safe to say he made you stay on the bed just a few hours more. 

Thank you for reading! 🎮

[whoopsyeahokay]

Alphabet Soup

NSFW alphabet challenge (request) pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader premise: the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it. (Janet and Wally are dating to increase their social value. meanwhile, Wally wants to get closer to her step-sister. you.) warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. non-linear narrative. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating (not on you). egregious use of the word 'baby'.

___________________________🧿

A is for the addiction Wally develops once he sets his sights on you. He's feral with it. Can't get enough of your skin under his fingertips; your shapes fitted against his; the sounds you make when he takes you apart with his teeth and his tongue and his dirty fucken mouth. So different from the public persona he sheds the second you're behind closed doors.

B is for bad ideas. Like the one that crept in behind his eyelids the instant he noticed you, cute and soft and sweet as a kitten. God, he wanted to do something about it right there. In front of the roomful of people between you, no fucks given. Wally's impulsive on a good day and reckless on a bad day, and you inspire too many fantasies that he can't not want to live out.

C is for competency, control; the single-minded intensity Wally has for every task. How he moves with a perfect combination of aggression and grace on the field, catching the ball from the QB. Touchdown. How he folds over the hood of your car and fiddles with cables and tightens bolts and fixes the rattle in the engine. How he holds his own desire at bay to bring you to the edge, over and over and over again until you sob. How he makes you come as soon as he slides home, grinds in, measured and slow, making it last as long as he wants before taking pity on you and fucking you into the mattress.

D is for Wally's dirty mouth. The things he rasps at you as he takes you apart with his fingers, his mouth, his cock. "You feel so good, baby,"—"fuck, I love the way you taste,"—"I want you to come on my tongue,"—"that's it, fuck, yeah, don't stop, baby, just like that, so good for me, such a good girl..." His fingers dig into your hips as he guides you in his lap, up-down-grind-repeat; his lips on your throat, teeth in your skin, marking you up so everyone knows you belong to someone. Belong to him.

E is for the effort Wally finds himself making to see you smile. It's stupid, he thinks, because it's not like he loves you. He's horny and putting out isn't part of the deal he and Janet made at the end of Junior year. But then he sees some jackass try to touch you, making jokes Wally doesn't find funny, drawling that he'll treat you special and make you see God as you shove and kick at him. Then you start crying and Wally sees red. Steps in. Pummels the guy's nose into his skull so hard, Wally's knuckles are scraped and bloody when he caresses your face and kisses your forehead. Promises to drive you home from the party. "Fuck that guy, baby girl, he won't touch you again."

F is for the way Wally shamelessly flirts with you. The back-and-forth you and he have when surrounded by people. Dark and husky, leaning in close with his back to Janet who's too busy with her drones to care what Wally's up to. You're fierce and funny and you flirt right back once you're comfortable enough, but Wally's had a lot of practice and knows how to get you hot with the right inflections. Eyes dark and heavy, lips brushing your ear, breath ghosting your skin while his fingers trail over your hip, "I bet you'd look better on your knees for me, baby."

G is for the God-given talent Wally has. You know the one. That one he weaponizes when he wants you to stop being stubborn, be a good girl, behave. He spreads your legs, kisses down your body, then delivers his bribe; tongue-deep inside you, making out with your pussy like a gourmet dessert de la crème. He could spend hours there if you let him, moaning when you grind your pretty pink kitty against his mouth, so close, Wally, oh God—it's all he needs to sustain himself.

H is for how Wally holds you down against the mattress; up against the wall; in his lap as he sits back on his haunches, one arm banded around your waist, the other braced behind him as he rolls his hips up, sharp thrusts and deep grinds into you, "That's it, baby, keep bouncing on daddy's cock...just like that...fuck." His big hand clasps your thigh when he flips you onto your back, pushing it up as far as your flexibility will allow, spreading you open for him, wanting to get as deep as he can, wanting to make you scream his name and forget your own.

I is for the intensity of Wally's stare as he watches you from across the room, his eyes tracking you as you laugh with your friends. He strips you in his mind, licks his lips as your skirt rides higher on your thigh when you cross your legs. A flash of pink lace, the panties Wally asked you to wear that make his jeans tight and mouth water. He cups himself through the denim, casual, sprawled on the opposite couch, gaze smoothing up your legs to your hips to your collar, fucking you with his eyes until you notice and give your friends an excuse to follow Wally to the bathroom.

J is for the jealousy Wally has to keep tightly contained in his bones whenever he sees another guy approach you. Like Jacob from Pre Cal, who flirts with you as if he doesn't know you belong to someone else. Wally is too obvious, he's aware, glaring daggers at the retinue of possible others who dare step into your space. Careful, collected, Wally has to smile like he doesn't notice them as he struts over and positions himself at your back, hands on your hips to drag you against him, ass fitted into the cradle of his pelvis. He watches in satisfaction as the dipshits take their leave with their tails between their legs.

K is for how Wally kisses you. The variety of ways. Pushy and ruthless when he's agitated; too much energy and no outlet. Or soft and slow when he just wakes up, liquid smile and heavy eyes, hand cupping your jaw like you're something precious. He nips and tugs your lips with his teeth when a teammate makes a comment just this side of not fucking funny, Gary and Wally isn't allowed to do anything about it. Sometimes, his kisses are sharp, honed, exactly what you want to feel so he can get what he wants. Always, his kisses are stolen. Behind locked doors, in dark corners, wherever he can snatch them from you without getting caught.

L is for the feeling Wally is terrified to label. The one that blooms in his chest whenever you touch him, smile at him, say his name, move, breathe, exist. Shit. It's warm and tingly and drives him to distraction because this is just a fun way to pass the time, to make things more interesting; he can't want you like that... But he does.

M is for the mess Wally makes of you when he fucks you in an alley or an empty classroom or behind the stadium. Thick cock slamming into you until you come at least twice, your panties around your ankles, his jeans at his thighs, pounding into you as he grips your hips so hard you bruise. He pulls out just enough to paint your pussy with his come, smearing it through your wetness with the tip of his cock, letting his spend and your juices trickle down your leg. And when you're forced to wipe yourself off with your ruined panties, he pockets them before you can throw them away, smug and satisfied.

N is for the fact that there's nothing Wally won't try with you, do for you, take from you. He wants everything you have to give. Is determined to taste every inch of you, from top to bottom, back to front, he doesn't care, he wants it all. He's never been this consumed by someone, thinks it'll fade the more he fucks it out of his system. It doesn't work. There's always a next time, and a next, and a next. And every time he leaves wanting more.

O is for Wally's inability to be subtle when you're around. Overt, obvious, open stares of lust when you walk into a room regardless of who else is in it. His heartbeat quickens, his breathing shallows, and he feels like a mutt in rut. All dark eyes and desirous smirks, hands grazing your body when you get close enough. He thinks he's slick, secretive, getting away with murder. But the truth is, he couldn't hide how he feels about you if someone put a gun to his head.

P is for the pleasure Wally takes in pampering you. He's a gentleman like that. What makes you happy makes him happy and, fuck, he loves to dote on you. From opening car doors to surprising you with your favorite Starbucks order. Showering you in presents he thinks you'll fill out perfectly for him. His pretty little passenger princess; a precious paper doll that he dresses up like a gift just to unwrap immediately with greedy fingers.

Q is for the question Wally wants to ask but can't. The one that makes things official. That ties him to commitment and expectation. Ignoring that you're the only place he's getting his dick wet, he's not ready for that. Until he catches himself smiling—soft and fond and affectionate—when you send a text that has nothing to do with where you want him to fuck you next. And, ah hell, maybe he does want to ask. Too bad he doesn't have the nerve.

R is for how riveted, rapturous, fucking obsessed Wally is when you ride him. No matter what he claims—"your turn to do all the work, baby"—he can't hold back, always fucks up into you, flushed, panting, hands clenching your hips and stroking your thighs and squeezing your ass. He watches your body, sweet liquid movements as you ride his cock like a goddess, and comes faster than he otherwise would. But that's fine because Wally has the refractory period of a fucking nympho.

S is for those soft, sweet, silly moments that you share. The ones he coaxes out of you during the domestic lulls between fucks. He invited you over for the weekend, Janet at some friend's lake house and Wally's parents visiting his aunt one state over. Perfect timing. And it is all hard thrusts and pinned wrists and love bites on your thighs, but then it's jokes over pancakes. Forehead kisses as he holds you in the shower. Hand-holding while you walk to the gas station for snacks, his thumb sweeping the back of your hand like he loves you. Sentimental.

T is for the toys Wally loves to tease you with. He's not afraid to introduce other means of stimulation into the mix. He'll do anything if it makes you shake apart for him; if it'll make you whimper and beg for more before you plead for him to stop, too much, Wally, it's too much, I can't as he presses the vibrator against your clit. He never listens, too enraptured by the expression of pleasure on your face, the way your body responds for him, fuck, yes, "that's it, baby, come for me again, show daddy how good you feel."

U is for how uncharacteristic, unpredictable, underutilized Wally's control has become since he started this with you. He was the image of dark and dominant behind closed doors, but, three months in, he can't keep himself in check. If he has you—against a wall, in the backseat of his car, in bed, in the shower, in. on. against—his control snaps as soon as you make a single sound of wanting pleasure. He goes feral for those noises. They're his complete undoing. And he'd surrender everything you asked for just to hear them one more time.

V is for the voice notes you and Wally swap when you and he aren't together. When he hasn't had a chance to sneak away from Janet or football practice or homework in too long and he's desperate for release. He strokes himself to the tempo of your whimpers and sighs, fucks his fist when he gets to the edge before slowing down and switching voice to video. He loves to show you what you do to him, how heavy and flushed and thirsty he is for you. "Your pussy sounds so nice and wet...now show me how you want me to fuck you, baby."

W is for every whim and want Wally indulges. Of yours. Of his. Mostly of his. Gluttonous and gourmand. You want to taste caramel on his cock? Go for it, baby. He wants to get messy with whipped cream? Okay, daddy. He wants to tease you with vibrating panties while you're trying to eat at that new place on Lasher? Okay, daddy. He wants to tie you up and spank you because you came before he said you could? Fuck, yes, daddy! ... Good girl.

X marks the spot Wally hammers into at exactly the right angle when he's feeling generous. And he always feels generous with you. He's addicted to the way you look when you come. Because he did that. He made that happen. It's empowering and euphoric and he can't get enough even though he should've by now.

Y is a word followed by 'not'. A question you ask when Wally hoists you into his arms and pins you to the wall with his hips after one of the leads in the school play asks you out. He grinds against you, cock throbbing, head angry, and reminds you who you belong to; why you can't say yes to Alex Greenberg even though it's all pot kettle black. Still, as he tears your panties at the seam and fucks you with abandon, desperate and aggressive, he makes a convincing argument.

Z is for how it ends. With her, not with you, because Wally's too far into the addiction and wouldn't last a day without getting his fix. He needs you. Wants you. Fucking shit, he loves you. So it's goodbye Queen Bee Janet and hello to her silly, sexy bombshell of a step-sister. Wally has no regrets, his hand on your ass as he walks you into Prom, fist-bumping his friends and saluting the principal. He loses his crown and doesn't care at all, too wrapped up in you to notice. Hands on your hips, brow against his, fitted perfectly against him like a puzzle piece.

🧿___________________________

below are the links to the complete collection of Alphabet Soup. you can also find all related content HERE as well as reformatted chapters on AO3.

~ 🩵👻

Alphabetical Masterlist:

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Linear Masterlist:

B T K A F P V R M S D C I J H W N O E X G L Y U Q Z

[keferon]

It was his fault, his weakness that had made a chink in Vortex's perverbial armor. He was only human, with human needs like sleep, food, and water. So it was his fault that Vortex had revealed his true existence to Shockwave.

Vortex never had any issues killing his other pilots. With killing in general, actually. Firstaid had always assumed that if necessary, Vortex would let him die and go back to his old routine of chewing up pilots.

Sure, he'd (somehow??) befriended the murderous, haunted mech. And sure, they'd gotten… close. Firstaid had felt closer to the mech than he had to any human. Vortex understood him, the real him, the him that he couldn't show other humans. No, they wouldn't have accepted the real Firstaid. But Vortex did.

His heart had raced with excitement at each offered vertebrae, visera still hanging to the alien specimens. Vortex had slowed his dissections of the Quintessens so that every parting strand of muscle had left Firstaid exquisitely breathless, trembling in anticipation of what lay beneath. Vortex had somehow known and understood exactly what Firstaid had desired.

Their relationship, if you could call it that, had always seemed so one-sided. So Firstaid had always just assumed he was the one who needed Vortex, not the other way around.

Firstaid stumbled into the main hanger of the experimental wing. Shockwave's personal playground. He had to be keeping Vortex here, there wasn't anywhere else large enough for the mech. His body ached with bruises and he clutched at his left arm to apply pressure to a cut. The lights in the hanger flickered on, sensing his motion.

Vortex was standing on a platform with cables hooked into his frame. Some attached to the limbs, but most were attached to his and the cockpit where the primary processing power was located.

“Still in one piece.” Firstaid muttered as he ran to the metal stairs that went up to a catwalk. He'd gotten into better shape since he started “piloting” Vortex. He wasn't even panting by the time he'd reached the top. Vortex's cockpit was open, gaping like a screaming mouth. Once it had filled Firstaid with fear and trepidation. Now it gave him relief and anticipation.

Firstaid climbed into the cockpit and began unhooking some of the cables that had been hooked up inside the mech, kicking the discarded cords out past Vortex's visor.

“Come on. Wake up, Vortex. We gotta get out of here.” Firstaid wasn't sure where they would go yet, but they couldn't stay here. Shockwave was going to take Vortex apart. The mech was a “step along the path to the true symbiosis of man and machine” or something like that. Firstaid had been too horrified to pay that much attention, but he knew that Shockwave wanted to become a fully independent mech. The man was crazy, which was saying something coming from Firstaid.

Vortex's frame powered up with a rumble and the blood red visor closed with a hiss. Firstaid threw himself down into the pilot's seat, carefully not touching the controls. He did not want to piss off Vortex anymore than he already would be.

[Get out. Get out get out get out get-]

“Yes, we have to get out of here.” Firstaid's words trailed off as more words appeared on the screen.

[I did not expect you to interrupt us, Firstaid.]

“Us?”

[Get out get out get out get out-]

Vortex's frame shook and sparks rained down from above Firstaid. The controls shook as though fighting themselves. Vortex took a single, jerky step forward. It was nothing like the fluid motion that Firstaid had come to expect.

[Though this is a rather pleasant surprise. It would seem we still need a pilot to activate our systems. You'll do quite nicely, since Vortex is so interested in keeping you alive.]

[Get out get out get out-]

“Sh-Shockwave?!”

[Yes. Now, let's take this for a little test run, shall we?]

[Get out get out get out, Firstaid!]

godDAMN

Previous Next

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Unscripted Undefeated Bracket — Round 5−1

Trish Una (Riley Hopkins and Their Amazing Friends: Interstitial Infinity):

vote for trish una, girl who went to another universe, found out she was fictional / a tertiary character at best in her own story, and decided the proper coping method was to punch a guy to shreds

vote for trish una, girl who looked at carrie from the movie carrie and said "i could fix her"

vote for trish una, girl who fought a bear and won

vote for trish una, girl who put a part of herself into a machine in an attempt to control it and inextricably(?) linked the machine to her soul

vote for trish una, girl who might be the devil

Mod Note: This is only the Trish Una from the podcast Riley Hopkins And Their Amazing Friends. Do not vote on the basis of any other Trish Una.

Spanks Sinatra (Tidal Wave Games Podcast: SEE YOU, SPACE COWBOY...)

He/him lesbian drag king Frank Sinatra impersonator

Vote for my sad messed up drag king

Spanks is a he/him lesbian. come on. look at him

Anyway if it's rope/cable play you're into, Spanks has a move for that

Art of Trish Una courtesy of @charaznablescanontoyota.

Art of Spanks Sinatra by @violetfoxsketches.

Additional propaganda below the cut:

Trish Una (Riley Hopkins and Their Amazing Friends: Interstitial Infinity):

Trish Una, from the universe of Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, ensures that the hits start coming and they don't stop coming. Trush Ina, from JJBA, fights Rachel from Animorphs and wins. T. Una Sandwich, from Jimmy John's Brash Accumulation, is best friends with Shadow the Hedgehog and she's also my dad. T-Minus Uno, from Chipotle,

She is emotionally compromised and definitely not turning into her father

Trish "is it stands" Una is the type of motherfuckers you need to see to be believed. Trish & Carrie toxic Yuri. Trish the fucking Spirit of justice. Trish is the real one.

Please vote for my close friend Trish Una or else you leave without saying goodbye to her

TRISH "THE MONEY" UNA

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

#is that fucking shadow the hedgehog

yes! he's one of the main party members! listen to intersitital infinity on riley hopkins and their amazing friends!

Trish Una is a girl who is certain she knows what's going on. She shishkebobed Simon from Infinity Train. She is best friends with Shadow the Hedgehog, Mob from Mob Psycho, Alphonse Elric, and technically Shoka Sakurane.

Please vote for Trish she is so so sexy

Trish Una could take over a position of leadership in a preestablished location but could Virtue have a emotionally fraught conversation with carrie white?

Spanks Sinatra (Tidal Wave Games Podcast: SEE YOU, SPACE COWBOY...)

Is too old for this shit (is 30)

When not performing, is drinking. When not drinking, is beating people up for money. When not beating people up for money, is performing. Life is purposefully structured to avoid encountering a thought for as long as possible

Loves to use his fists

Is so tired

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

Don't forget that Spanks' name is Spanks Sinatra ok, this is very important. Appreciate my jokes.

Don't you want to reach over and give him a better reason to turn his brain off for a while?

Spanks self-describes as a "himbo", but he's really not; he's highly intelligent and analytical, with a lot of shit in his past, and at the time you meet him the most effective way he's found to keep his own brain from overwhelming him is by beating it into submission with a life of hard drinking and violence

Important note: Spanks is a woman, he just uses he/him pronouns for various reasons, most of which are that he's a butch drag king.

Also vote for him.

Vote for Spanks Sinatra!!!

Who are you going to vote for: the he/him lesbian who can bench press you, or the tangled bundle of Christmas lights in your attic?

Come ON, you're going to let the he/him lesbian drag king Frank Sinatra who is also a bounty hunter get beat by a pile of cold, unflavored spaghetti??? Seriously?

Audio propaganda with Sammy Sinclair.

Art propaganda of Spanks Sinatra being crushed by Husky, as mentioned in the above audio propaganda.

[sakebytheriver]

Nathan Ford, my favorite Greek tragedy on cable TV, an Icarus with wax wings made of righteous anger and a moral code that he'll break any rule for, burned up in the hellfire of his own rage, a modern day Prometheus stealing fire from the gods and giving their power to the people so that they can burn down the thrones their oppressor sits upon sealing his own fate and dooming himself to eternal suffering while knowing if he was given the choice a thousand times over he'd still do it every single time

Nathan Ford, my favorite blorbo packed with every type of Catholic imagery you could give to one man, joined the seminary to atone for the sins of his father, left to serve a different master playing detective for an insurance agency before the loss of a son crumbled his whole world down around him like the walls of Jericho, and in his grief he was handed a burning sword by fate and told to Avenge. The archangel Nate Ford, given a flame of anger so hot it rained hellfire down upon those that would never fit between the eye of a needle, a violent saint on a righteous crusade soaking the world in blood and that will only end one way, he'll leave a graveyard behind him, but he will still have to dig one last grave when he's done

Nathan Ford, my favorite folk song hero, a Boston Irish drunk, the moral son of an immoral mobster, an utter bastard with anger management issues, and a control freak with a sadistic streak, who took all the pain and all the anger in his heart and used it for Good, the ballad of Nate Ford echoes through the world like a call to action, an inspiration for the future, the sacrifices he made to be the catalyst for a movement he'd make over and over again even if the nature of being the spark means you'll never see the fire

Nathan Ford, my favorite terrible horrible broken man content to drink himself into an early grave if it mean he'd get to see his son again until he was given a chance to ruin the lives of men infinitely worse than he could ever be and save even just one person the same pain he suffered and so he postponed his death until his rage burned his own heart into ash

Nathan Ford, a tragedy with only one ending, but by God if he wasn't going to cause some hell on his way down

[kiyomitakada]

hi everyone so ages ago i translated watari's diary from the movie tie-in material L File No. 15 (sourced from this post by @mikami) but i just realized i never posted it here?? of all places??? so here you go! i recommend reading this translation along with the screenshots from that post since there are pictures that i did not bother actually including.

(spoilers for the live action films!)

---

QUILLISH WAMMY'S DIARY

The following diary was included in the discovered files. It is thought to have been written by Quillish Wammy (who is said to have gone by "Watari" while acting as L's intermediary), but as with the previous files, it contains information of dubious veracity.

May 7, 1973

Recently, I find myself thinking idle thoughts.

The metal I invented, which is superconducting under 28.7°C, is now used in 87% of electrical cables worldwide. It has brought me great wealth. Too much to know what to do with, I feel. No matter how much money I accumulate, there is no way to buy a human life, so I can't imagine any interesting way I could spend it.

May 12, 1973

Today, I had a revelation.

My talents mainly skew towards the sciences, and there are many things I can do with them, but also many things I cannot. But what if I use my wealth and my enthusiasm to raise new talents? Then there will certainly be one or two who can achieve things I cannot. Extremely interesting. To what extent can humans cultivate their talents? This is what I should dedicate the rest of my life to finding out.

I will gather children with talent and intelligence from all over the world — the brain develops very quickly from ages 9 to 13, so children around that age range should work best — and educate them thoroughly. Eventually, I believe, they will be able to change the world. Perhaps I will call the institution Wammy's House.

[Notes on the children]

F: Strong sense of justice, and quick to action — which is why he can make mistakes.

R: Has recently shown interest in astronomy. Has fallen asleep while looking through a telescope before, and thus contracted a cold. Twice.

K: Talented in multiple fields. Has perfectly understood almost everything I teach. I have not yet determined which area she is most skilled in — very exciting.

*1 (T/N: shaky translation): Many researchers have reason to believe members of Wammy's House are referred to by single letters of the alphabet. However, there is no consensus as to what extent these nicknames were used. Some suggest only Quillish Wammy and the person themselves recognized the nickname.

February 23, 1987

Today, I have learned a lesson. Sometimes an overly nurtured talent goes beyond the will of the person who nurtured it. [T/N: I genuinely can't tell if he's talking about the kid raising their talent or Watari raising the kid] K has left Wammy's House of her own volition. This is the first time something like this has happened since I founded Wammy's House. I feel a strong sense of loss.

---

[Notes on the children, 2]

D: Mainly talented in physics. Frequently smashes radio-controlled models, possibly to conduct their own experiments. The degree of destruction is being monitored.

P: Often found with their nose buried in a novel. I think I will try teaching them psychology once they are a little older. It would be nice if they showed some interest in profiling.

L: Invests in stocks. Clearly talented, but so far an unknown variable.

July 10, 1994

Currently, out of all the children, L holds most of my interest.

While he does show interest in existing fields of study, he is even more enthusiastic about using his own methods (adjacent to statistics) to make deductions. Right now, he is spending the most time on criminal investigations. He is working against actual human beings, which is why the cases are so complex and difficult to unravel… He seems immensely fascinated by this.

L, when in pursuit of an objective, is able to immediately determine the necessary information. L. You are my hope.

August 13, 2005

L has selected FBI agent Naomi Misora for the Los Angeles B.B. Murder Cases. It seems he did so in recognition of her bravery and deductive abilities. L dislikes unnecessary physical exertion, since he wants to keep his mind functioning as quickly as possible. Thus, he has to rely on others to act as his agents on the scene. Naomi is reliable.

[A photo of Naomi, along with the text:]

Naomi Misora FBI Investigator Achieved investigator status unusually quickly Specialty: Marksmanship Intelligent and passionate

---

February 26, 2006

I was present at an ICPO conference today. The focus was exclusively on the "Kira case." Criminals all over the world are dying of simultaneous heart attacks. Some members of the public might call this "judgment," but it is murder. L is very intrigued by this new type of crime.

*2: The Kira case, as detailed in the other files, refers to the phenomenon where criminals globally die of simultaneous heart attacks. Rumors flew around the Internet claiming that "'Kira' is our savior and carries out justice," and the name was attached to the phenomenon even though this was not actually proven yet. Since the case affected the entire world and was growing in momentum rapidly, the ICPO's response was necessarily rushed.

March 2, 2006

It seems Naomi Misora and Raye Iwamatsu are now engaged. They are planning to hold the ceremony in Japan. Naomi says she is retiring from the FBI. That took me by surprise.

I am unsure how L feels about Naomi's decision, but he has chosen her for his plan to make contact with Kira. Raye will be the driver. I'm sure Naomi will carry out the plan perfectly. Yes, L's choice is correct. But making a bride approach a murderer… making her groom drive her there…

L. That calmness in you is what I hoped for, what I raised. Still. Is hesitation not an option for you?

March 10, 2006

It's been raining since morning. It's coming down in sheets. I haven't seen such weather for a long time.

L believes there is a 97% probability Kira is in Japan, so we are headed there. Even so… Why did L say something like that? He never says things so sentimental, so unsettling… Could it be that he can see something I can't even imagine lurking in the future of this case? L, why did you say, "I might not be able to come back?" You are only in charge of directing the investigation. There's no reason to think you will come face to face with danger.

The lesson I learned from K is once again swirling in my head. Sometimes an overly nurtured talent will go somewhere I cannot follow…

L. Tell me you weren't thinking straight. Please. Tell me it was just the rain.

---

April 1, 2006

The twelve FBI agents who L ordered to tail the families and associates of the Japanese police have all died simultaneously of heart attacks. …Including Raye Iwamatsu… It was a shock, considering the pattern up to now, that Kira would kill so many human beings who weren't criminals. I think L wasn't able to predict it either.

I tried expressing my condolences to Naomi Misora over the phone, but I couldn't reach her. I am worried.

April 2, 2006

L met the Japanese investigators in person. Starting from now, he will work together with them to advance the investigation. L has never shown his real face to anyone before now. I can feel his anxiety about this case radiating off this decision. Or perhaps it's impatience?

L asked them to call him Ryuzaki.

[Notes on the Japanese investigators]

Soichiro Yagami: Chief of the task force assigned to the "Kira case." Overflowing with a particularly Japanese sense of justice. Trustworthy.

Ukita

Aizawa

Sanami: The only woman on the investigation team. A little too kind.

Mogi

Matsuda: A hot-headed young man. Slightly too presumptuous.

---

April 11, 2006

L is fixated on Light Yagami. He says that the probability of Light being Kira is only around 1% to 3%, but from his behavior, I can't help but think it must be higher. But although I suppose Light is decently intelligent, he's nothing more than a regular college student. To even consider the possibility of him being a mass murderer, there has to be some additional factor — an inconceivable one.

What is it?

Are we fighting against something entirely new?

[A photo of Light, along with the text:]

Light Yagami Student majoring in law at To-Oh University. A prodigy — he has already passed the bar exam. Hates to lose; focuses on winning in everything. His father is the chief of the task force, Soichiro Yagami.

[Memo so I don't forget my orders]

An emergency order from L. Written below so I don't make a single mistake.

Macarons (DALLOMIU) x 12 boxes

Marshmallows (MEIGI-YA) x 12 bags

Donuts (Donkin Donuts) x 12 bags

Black tea (F and N) x 12 cans

Potato chips (Golbee) (specifically BBQ flavor) x 2 bags

[T/N: The potato chips are the type Light eats in The Chip Scene — they're consomme in the original Japanese (both manga and diary) but BBQ in the Viz translation, which I'm going with.]

*3: The Donkin Donuts company shut down all its stores in Japan in 1998. Therefore, this memo conflicts with the range of time in which L and Quillish Wammy were thought to be in Japan. Whether this is a mistake on Wammy's part or an indication that the diary is of unreliable origin is still a topic of discussion.

April 15, 2006

I think the incomprehensibility of what happened today will stay with me for the rest of my life. Naomi Misora shot herself. It was after she told L, "I'll use my own life to prove that Light Yagami is Kira." But Naomi wasn't able to prove anything.

She must have, in her own way, found something confirming her theory. Considering her actions up to now, she wouldn't have made such a declaration without some kind of proof. But she took Light's girlfriend hostage at the museum. She killed her. And then she took her own life. Why would she do such a thing?

It wasn't like her. No matter how I think about it, it wasn't like her. She looked almost… confused, right before her death. Not like Naomi at all.

[Photo of Shiori, a movie-only character!]

Shiori Akino Student majoring in law at To-Oh University. Dating Light Yagami. Possesses a strong sense of justice and articulates her ideals clearly. Postscript: Was shot and killed by Naomi Misora at the Oumei Museum of Art.

*4: Naomi Misora's murder of Shiori Akino and subsequent suicide is the greatest mystery of this case. As Quillish Wammy wrote here, the question "Why did Naomi kill Shiori?" is still entirely unexplained; some have even proposed that it had no connection to the Kira case at all. Also, in regards to Shiori, it bears mentioning that some believe she was dating Light Yagami while others believe they were simply classmates.

---

April 18, 2006

The construction of the Kira Response Building is complete. We will be moving the investigation headquarters there.

[Memo with cutouts so I don't forget]

[T/N: As you can see in the Tumblr screenshots, this page of the diary is entirely filled with cutouts from advertisements showing different parts of L's outfit.]

[picture of jeans]: The feeling of a new working style, a dominating sense of existence — Loose silhouette, straight frame. Its special characteristic is the five pockets it boasts on the front. Two of the pockets are integrated into the seams on the sides for a working-style taste. There is an adjuster in the back so you can adjust the size slightly.

[T/N: I tried for ages to figure out if this meant 5 or 7 pockets total, and then I decided accurate translation of an advertisement for jeans in the tie-in material for a movie spinoff for a 2000s manga wasn't worth this effort.] [No offense, L.]

[picture of sneakers]: A strong impact! Each step brimming with confidence — These shoes are made with the ripstop fabric used in military wear. It won't tear, no matter how much you wear the shoes out. Additionally, the camo pattern is piece-dyed with black and deliberately scuffed, giving it a tasteful finished look.

[picture of white sweater]: It looks good in any season: a must buy item — Silhouette is loose enough to hide the lines of your body. The neckline is also loose, so wearing it is a delightfully relaxed experience. The white color has outstanding compatibility with denim.

[picture of Hyottoko mask] Hyottoko mask

[doodle of white bag]

[picture of a chessboard] CHESS: The definitive version of the battle of minds

---

April 29, 2006

An individual calling themselves "the Second Kira" has sent video tapes to TV stations. Their patterns are clearly different from those of the Kira who has acted up to now. According to L's theory, while the previous Kira needed a face and a name for the murder, this Kira only needs to see someone's face to kill them.

Also, Light Yagami is now part of the task force. Light can't forgive Kira for taking his girlfriend's life. He's burning with determination to solve the case. He really is a smart teenager.

I wonder which L feels more for him: sympathy or competitiveness. Even I can't tell.

*5: In this time period, there were several unexplainable events, documented by the news and TV broadcasts in Japan at the time. For example, several police officers died of sudden heart attacks near the doorstep of the TV station that was broadcasting a message from the person claiming to be "the Second Kira" (including a detective whose name appeared in the earlier "Notes on the Japanese investigators"). It is thought that L's theory that "this Kira only needs to see someone's face [...]," as documented by Quillish Wammy above, was based on this incident.

May 11, 2006

Misa Amane has been arrested under suspicion of being the Second Kira. She is in confinement. The Japanese investigators seem somewhat opposed to this method. L is feeling cornered. It makes me anxious.

[Photo of Misa Amane, smiling in a sleeveless skull-and-crossbones shirt]

Misa Amane Idol There was an advertisement on the bus for fashion magazines with her on their covers. She seems to be a rather well-known figure in Japan.

Postscript: I have acquired Misa's photo albums, CDs, and DVDs as evidence. I passed them to L. L has not informed me of any new data from this analysis, but he has been playing the CD.

---

June 2, 2006

L announced to the investigators that "as of now, I have concluded that Light Yagami and Misa Amane are not Kira."

Light will still stay in the Kira Response Building to help with the investigation. L has accepted this. Could it be that L has recognized that someone else is on his level for the first time? I am happy for him, but also have complicated feelings about this. Is it possible that Light has become L's first-ever friend?

June 9, 2006

The Kira murders continue. L has been chewing his nails more often lately.

L, you should already know this: you do not need to carry the burden of all the world's crimes on your shoulders.

June 26, 2006

Light Yagami's theory may be our breakthrough in the case. His line of investigation has turned up a name: a Sakura TV newscaster, Kiyomi Takada.

[Photo of Kiyomi Takada, smiling placidly on a news channel, hands folded together]

Kiyomi Takada Newscaster for Sakura TV

She became the current face of the news channel EVENING SPOT after her predecessor Saeko Nishiyama's sudden death in a car accident. She quickly began hosting segments supporting Kira. She lives alone in a condo within the city.

---

June 30, 2006

You could say my scientific skills have started to rust, but as an inventor who tries to always think things through logically, I am feeling bewildered. There are "Shinigami," gods of death, who exist in this world. The Shinigami each carry a notebook, which is called a "Death Note." And the human whose name is written in the Death Note will die.

What on Earth? We've been up against Shinigami this whole time?

L was shocked. Unusual for him. But when I saw that surprise on his face, I actually felt relieved. At least Wammy's House — my creation — has not taken the capability for shock away from him.

Death Note: How to Use (Rules) — a partial excerpt

[T/N: Translations mostly copied from the Death Note wiki, with minor edits]

The human whose name is written in this note shall die.

If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds (in human-realm units) of writing the person's name, it will happen.

If the cause of death is not specified, the human will simply die of a heart attack.

After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

If the time of death is written within 40 seconds after writing the cause of death — even if the cause of death is a heart attack — the time of death can be manipulated, and the death can go into effect even less than 40 seconds after writing the name.

The note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.

The owner of the note can shorten their own life by using the note.

Even someone who does not own the note can use it by writing a name and thinking of a face, with the same effect as if they were the owner of the note.

After a name is written in the note, it cannot be changed.

The time of death written in the note must be within 23 days (in human-realm units).

July 3, 2006

Misa Amane has been released from the Kira Response Building.

July 4, 2006

The strange situation of a Shinigami coming in and out of the Kira Response Building has continued. I can't help but feel restless seeing a huge, white silhouette wandering about. This Shinigami is not cooperating with us, but isn't trying to hinder us either, it seems.

There have been multiple persistent calls for L to assist with the investigation into Princess Joan's overturned yacht. But L seems uninterested in any other cases right now. I have filed the investigation requests where he won't see them.

---

July 7, 2006

[This entry was translated here by @lunalit-river. I'll copy it over, but please show some love to the original post!]

L.

Was this the outcome of giving you the opportunity to learn? Was it arrogant of me to think that I had given you everything you needed? A genius without parents or relatives, without food or education, a genius who may have had a miserable past. Was I wrong?

L wrote his name in the Death Note.

Was this all for victory? Was this all for justice?

To fight something supernatural like the Death Note, it is true that we must arm ourselves with something that is also beyond human understanding.

It is highly possible that Light Yagami will write L's name in the Death Note. In theory, L must write his name in the Death Note first to prevent Light from doing so.

But don't human emotions have a tendency to refuse to accept the truth and instead hope to twist logic and theory?

L. Don't you ever place your emotions prior to your goals?

L. I never meant for things to end this way. Your talent has surpassed mine, and now you are consuming yourself. But I…

Today I learned F's death. Am I about to lose you, too? I have never felt so powerless as I do now.

L. I am confused. When I established Wammy's House, I might not have anticipated this.

I learned a lot from being with you, L, just as parents learn a lot from their children.

L. Just one sentence is enough. Please tell me you want to live.

L. L…

July 7, 2006

L Lawliet Heart failure Dies 23 days from now, peacefully, in his sleep

---

July 10, 2006

This is the end of the case, isn't it? Everything has been arranged. I will bring Misa to headquarters, and as long as Soichiro Yagami and the other Japanese investigators do as L says, everything should go perfectly. Tonight, the Kira case will be solved.

I have learned from L, who moves towards his goal still, indifferent in the face of death. I too will not waver.

L still has 20 days left. I'll spend them with him. Not because of everything I gave him in his lifetime, but because of everything I deprived him of. I can devote all my time to him now.

L, what do you want to do? You can play silly games, if you want. You can go make friends. If you don't mind my old age, I would gladly be your friend. Or your

Do you want to see sights you've never seen before? Do you want to feel breezes you've never felt? [T/N: He switches to polite speech just for this paragraph. Back to regular now.]

Get up from that way you always sit; let's go outside. Everything I took from you — the small, the inconsequential, the boring things — and the beautiful, dear ones too: let's go find them together. It's okay if you don't have any conclusions to draw. I just want you to have fun. To love the world in front of you. To savor it.

L. That's right. Just like a father and son on holiday.

I've been writing in this diary for forty years. I think I will stop in twenty days. I can't imagine anything I would want to write about, anything I should write about, would happen after that.

Alright. I'd better go and bring Misa over.

This is where the diary ends. The Kira case has been dormant ever since the last entry here.

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 2

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count: 23k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 ← 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

Today you were going to vist the venue and your prep studio. It felt more real now, less like a dream clinging to the fog of jetlag and more like something solid. Tangible. Your designs were here. Your collection. Your name printed on the schedule of Seoul Fashion Week.

You stood outside your hotel that morning, double-checking the address Bora had sent you. Your blazer was crisp, your boots steady on the pavement, and your tablet hugged tight to your side like a lifeline.

The thread around your pinky remained still. Dormant, like yesterday. You ignored it.

The taxi ride was short. Bora had messaged she’d meet you directly at the venue.

It was a converted industrial building in Gangnam, once a textile factory, now transformed into a sleek, modern event space with steel beams and floor-to-ceiling windows. Posters from past fashion shows were framed along the walls inside, each one etched with legacy and grandeur.

You stepped forward slowly, your boots clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. It was still early, too early for the chaos of models and stylists, but the space already pulsed with motion. Tech crews moved with practiced ease, climbing ladders and testing rigging cables.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it in. The hush of the early setup, the skeletal hush of potential. This was the same space you’d seen in pictures, in magazines, in livestreams you watched during college with wide eyes and a notebook balanced on your knees. Now you were here. Standing on the floor where your designs would soon walk.

The main runway extended nearly forty feet, raised just high enough to cast long, graceful shadows beneath it. To the right, black curtains marked off the backstage quick-change zone. A few designers and assistants were already ducking in and out with measuring tape, fabric swatches, and the kind of controlled panic that came from realizing how little time a month really was.

You reached out, trailing your fingers along the edge of the platform as you passed. It was smooth. Cold. Solid.

Your tablet pinged softly with a notification, but you didn’t check it yet. Instead, you wandered toward the end of the runway and stood there a moment longer, looking out like your models would. The wall ahead was a clean white backdrop now, but soon it would be washed in color and music and flashes of light. Soon, it would become the first impression of your name.

“Not bad for your first real runway,” a voice said behind you, amused and familiar.

You turned, already smiling. Bora stood there in a tailored coat and heels that somehow didn’t make a sound on the concrete. Her dark hair was pulled back, sharp and sleek like the rest of her, and she had a badge around her neck that marked her as someone who belonged here.

“Intimidated yet?” she asked.

“Beyond,” you admitted.

“Good. If you weren’t, I’d worry.” She started walking without waiting, and you fell into step beside her as she motioned toward the backstage curtain. “Come on. You need to see what you’re working with.”

The moment you stepped behind the curtain, the energy shifted. It was louder here. Narrower. Organized chaos, humming like a beehive.

“This is the designer backstage,” Bora said. “Each designer gets a prep studio, yours is over here.” She wove through garment racks and folding tables like she’d done it a thousand times. “You’ll share this half of the space with Shin Jiwoo’s team. Be civil, even if they’re not. Jiwoo’s team tends to be… territorial.”

You caught a glimpse of someone adjusting a mannequin in the neighboring zone, eyes already narrowed in your direction. You looked away.

Bora stopped in front of your section, a long metal rack, a few temporary dress forms, an empty table, and a space just wide enough for you and a couple assistants to function.

“It’s small,” she said before you could. “But so is everyone’s. The real magic happens out there.” She pointed toward the runway. “Back here is just stitching, swearing, and sweat.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound slipping out easier than expected.

“There’ll be mirrors installed here next week,” she continued. “And better lighting. You’ll get your fittings schedule by tomorrow. Once your pieces arrive here, we’ll organize and tag each look. Stick to your order of presentation, no last-minute reshuffling, unless you want to give the stage director a panic attack.”

“I won’t change anything,” you promised, already imagining your garments filling the empty rack. They felt like ghosts right now. Half-remembered sketches. But soon…

Bora gave you a side glance, her expression unreadable for a moment. “You look like you belong here.”

You blinked. “I feel like I’m pretending.”

“Fake it until your first model steps onto the runway. Then you won’t have to fake anything.”

You nodded slowly. The nerves were still there, but now they tangled with something sharper. Determination. Purpose.

Bora smiled at your expression chane. “C’mon, have you had coffee this morning?”

You shook your head, a wry smile forming. “Not unless you count the two sips I had before nearly missing my taxi.”

Bora clicked her tongue in disapproval and gestured toward the exit. “Unacceptable. Come on. There’s a place two blocks down that doesn’t burn their beans.”

You followed her out of the building, the blast of cool morning air hitting your face as the door swung shut behind you. The noise of the venue gave way to the quieter hum of city traffic, early commuters, and the distant call of a street vendor setting up. It grounded you in a different way, like Seoul itself was trying to steady you.

You matched Bora’s pace, letting her confident strides set the rhythm. The thread around your pinky was still quiet, tucked neatly beneath your sleeve, your focus entirely on the day ahead, until it wasn’t.

You didn’t notice the first shift. Not right away.

It began as a warmth, a sudden flicker beneath your skin, like the first moment a flame catches a wick. You paused, mid-step, looking down.

And there it was.

Your thread glowed.

Not gently, not in that soft, idle pulse it sometimes offered at dawn.

No, this was bright. Vivid. Alive.

And then… It pulled.

You stumbled.

Not just a tug. A jerk. Like something on the other end had just realized you were here, really here, and had grabbed the cord like a lifeline. The force nearly spun you off the sidewalk, and you caught yourself with a hand to a nearby lamppost.

“Whoa,” Bora said, already reaching for you. “You okay?”

Your breath caught. “The thread-” you looked down at your hand. It shimmered gold, a radiant thread of light so bright you could see it even in the sunlight.

And it was tight. Pulled taut like it was straining to be followed.

Bora followed your gaze. “Shit,” she muttered. “Now?”

You nodded mutely, still braced against the lamppost.

“Direction?” she asked, voice clipped, professional.

You turned slowly, following the thread as it stretched left, down the street you weren’t even planning to walk down, disappearing around a corner like a beckoning whisper.

Your heart pounded. It had never done this before. Not like this.

Bora exhaled as she looked where you were looking. “We can reroute. Coffee’s that way anyway.”

You looked at her, stunned. “You’re not going to stop me?”

She gave you a dry look. “Please. Like I could. I can’t see your thread, obviously, but it looks like it’s ready to drag you down the street by the throat.”

You hesitated only a moment longer, then nodded.

You followed it. Past a convenience store with sun-faded signs. Past an alley that smelled of engine oil and garlic. Past a florist where bursts of peonies and baby’s breath spilled out into the street. The thread remained taut, glowing faintly even in the morning light, unwavering.

Bora kept pace beside you, silent now, eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

You turned another corner, and stopped.

A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk ahead. Not tourists. Not locals. Paparazzi.

You recognized them instantly, cameras slung over shoulders, long-lens lenses pointed forward like rifles. A wall of flashing bulbs went off in waves, punctuated by the hiss of shutters and the sharp bark of names.

Bora swore under her breath. “Idols.”

The thread pulsed against your skin.

You stood on your toes, trying to see. Bora pulled you gently toward the edge of the sidewalk, out of sight for now. You craned your neck.

Eight men were walking toward a black van idling at the curb. Security flanked them, carving a path through the crowd.

You looked around, “One of these cameramen must be my soulmate!”

Bora gave you a look, half deadpan, half amused. “Really?” she said. “That’s your theory?”

You shrugged, trying to make light of it, trying to calm the sharp flutter in your chest. “Well, the thread’s pulling and they’re the only ones not moving. Maybe I’m destined to fall for someone who lives in a press vest and yells ‘over here’ for a living.”

Bora arched an eyebrow. “You think it’s a guy shouting for attention, not one of the eight men everyone is shouting about?”

“Pft. What are the odds of my soulmate being an idol?”

“In this city? Honestly? Higher than you'd think.”

You opened your mouth to toss back another joke, something about fate having a twisted sense of humor, but the words caught.

Because he turned.

Not all eight. Just one. Just him.

He turned toward the crowd with the casual sort of glance you’d seen a thousand times in fan cams and magazines, that half-second check of the scene before ducking into the van. But his eyes passed over the cameras, over the shouting fans, and landed, stopped, on you.

And he gasped. You saw it. The way his whole face changed in an instant. His expression cracked open like he’d been struck.

And then your thread stung. Not warm, not glowing. It burned. Like a sudden bolt of electricity through your hand, up your arm, through your ribs.

You flinched, breath catching as you clutched your pinky.

He stumbled. Not visibly, not enough for the cameras to catch it, but you saw it. That half-step falter, the way his hand instinctively reached toward his own pinky, hidden beneath the sleeve of a designer jacket.

He felt it too.

For the briefest of moments, you locked eyes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you could.

And then security surged.

One of the bodyguards stepped between you without even noticing you were there. Another hand on the idol’s shoulder, guiding, firm.

“No- wait-” he said, but it was too soft, too late.

They bundled him toward the van like a current sweeping him away, his body turning, his eyes still on you, wide and wild with disbelief.

You opened your mouth. You don’t know what you meant to say. Don’t go?

But the door slammed shut and the van pulled away. The thread tugged hard, like it hated being stretched. And then the pain dulled. Still tight. Still real. But no longer searing.

Bora, who had gone silent beside you, let out a slow breath. “Okay. That,” she said, “was not one of the cameramen.”

You could barely nod.

You stared after the van’s trail down the road, heart still hammering. “What do I do now?”

Bora tilted her head. “You go get coffee.”

You turned, incredulous.

“And then,” she said, “we figure out which member of one of the biggest K-pop groups in the world just imprinted on you like a drama protagonist. Cool?”

You blinked. “Cool.”

But the thread still pulsed against your skin. He was out there. And he’d felt it too.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

“So,” Bora opened her laptop at the coffee shop. “There aren’t a lot of eight member boy groups that are popular enough to have that much paparazzi. This should relatively easy to figure out. What did he look like?”

You sipped your coffee trying to calm your nerves. “Uh…he had blonde hair. And…freckles. That’s all I remember. I only saw him for a few seconds.”

Bora practically gasped.“Freckles?” she hissed, already typing fast. “Blonde hair and freckles? Are you joking?”

You blinked, startled. “No, why?”

She spun the laptop toward you, screen angled so the sun glare didn’t hit. “Because that narrows it down to, like… one person.”

You leaned in, heart thudding.

A video was paused mid-frame, clearly a fan-taken clip from the crowd during an event. But the one in the middle, slightly behind the others, head tilted as if searching the crowd, was unmistakable.

Blonde hair, catching the light. Soft jawline. A smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, visible even through the slightly pixelated footage.

You gasped. “That’s him.”

“Holy shit! Your soulmate is the Lee Felix!” Bora then covered her mouth and looked around, making sure no one heard her.

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the sidewalk. “All right, listen up, rookie. Idol soul‑links are messy. We need a plan before this blows up.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “A plan? I still haven’t processed that my soulmate is-”

“-one‑eighth of a stadium‑filling phenomenon, yes.” She snaps the laptop shut, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Which means everything from now on is important. You’re an incoming Fashion Week headliner; he’s global press bait. One wrong move, the tabloids eat both of you alive.”

You blink, heart pounding. “So what do we do?”

“First,” she says, ticking points off on perfectly manicured fingers, “you focus on your collection. Seoul Fashion Week is in four weeks, and Felix’s schedule is a black‑out wall of rehearsals, music shows, and live streams. Fate can’t trump deadlines.”

The thread under your sleeve gives a gentle throb, like it disagrees.

“Second,” Bora continues, “we gather intel the professional way, quietly. Stray Kids have a showcase taping tomorrow night at SBS Prism Tower. Industry passes are…get‑able.” Her smirk says she already knows a guy.

“Alright. Focus on the show, but also try to see him again. I understand.”

tag list (comment to be added!): @hwangjoanna

[sharenadraculea]

The Primarchs at the Zoo

Emps is doing family bonding events again, so now they go to the Zoo

Lion: He gets into a staring contest with every big cat at the zoo. Needs to be stopped from getting into a fight with them. Otherwise very well behaved, just staring at animals and making notes. Fulgrim: There is one of those butterfly-houses where they just kind of fly around. Fulgrim is absolutly enchanted. Just sitting between the flowers and waiting for them to come say hi. He also definetly is wearing highly impractical clothes. Perty: Not quite sure what he should do, so he just ends up following Magnus and Fulgrim around. Get‘s to save them, because he thought about taking a powerbank and charging cable with him! Jagh: the pony riding thing is only for kids. This makes Jagh very sad. But he can tell Magnus about all the animals he knows from Chogoris. Tries to steal a horse, a yak and a camel for Magnus (not necessarely in that order) Leman: Wants to befriend every dog and wolf and similar animals. Will bark at them. Then ends up clinbing into one of the enclosures to pet the doggos and get‘s chased away by security. He stole a puppy tough! (Malcador forces Leman to bring it back, because it would be really sad without it‘s parents) Rogal: Not all that interested in the animals, but he really enjoys looking at the architecture. Brought a little sketchbook along for making notes, and some noise cancelling headphones. His siblings still get him to look at some animals and that‘s how everyone learns that Inwit is apparently full of ice-age megafauna. Rogal is just confused why the animals at the zoo aren‘t fluffy Konrad: He was very unhappy at first because there are so many people and it‘s loud and bright and smells. Then Fulgrim bought him some cute sunglasses from the Zoo Shop and Rogal gave him the printed out guidelines for how to care for the diffrent animals, so now Konrad can controll if the zoo is following the rules. As with every family-outing, he has visions of inevtable doom Sang: He is so excited! But some of the animals are very confused by his wings, either thinking he is one of them (very cute, Sang is very happy) or he is prey. Lion needs to buy him ice cream. Well he doesn‘t need to, but it comforts Sang. Then they go to the petting zoo and the goats start chewing on his wings. Sang somehow finds this very cute

Ferrus: He is making artistic photos of Fulgrim. After a while he still get‘s bored with this and goes to listen to Robs animal trivia Angron: Absolutly no one expected him to just plop down in the pettong zoo and feed goats for the rest of the day. The goats are climbing onto him and Angron is just happy. It is very hard to get him home again, Rob: The logistics of running a zoo! He is so excited about that, he nearly forgets they are there for the animals. He made sure to read up on trivia about every single animal in the zoo and now shares this knowledge with his siblings. Morty: He also wants to watch butterflies, but Fulgrim is allready there… after a while they start talking and Morty starts infodumping. Fulgrim finds this too cute. They are later seen walking out of the toilet all disheveled. Things definetly happend Magnus: He is here to do research. Yes, this involves stealing some of the animals. The most dangerous ones around actually. E told him not too, but who would Magnus be if he actually listend? Horus: He is spamming the family chat with photos of well, mostly himself. Sometimes there are animals in the background. Somehow ends up in the penguin enclosure and get‘s soaked. He isn‘t bothered, because the wet shirt accentuates his muscles, but he still get‘s kicked out of the zoo. Emps is very disappointed Lorgar: Not quite sure what he should do at first and kind of ends up wandering around alone. Then runs into Sang at the petting zoo and the goats try to eat his books. They then spend the rest of the day together Vulkan: All those baby animals! He might die from cuteness! He‘s making a ton of photos to share later, including a lot of embaressing things his siblings did. Corvus: They are nowhere to be found at first. Later Vulkan finds them sitting in the birdhouse, petting all the birds. Somehow the zookeepers haven‘t noticed. Konrad does not like this, as it is against the rooms. Alpharius Omegon: They have blended into the masses. No one knows what they did all day, but they return to the spaceship covered in plushies, cheap souvenirs and baby animals. Malcador also forces them to bring the animals back

Bonus: Emps: This was a fantastic idea, he is very proud of himself. Loudly yells about every cool animal he sees Malcador: He is highly stressed out. Why did they decide to make so many kids? Next family trip he‘ll just stay at home Valdor: He pays for everything.

[punkedsolar]

Here is a video of my singing lyrebird!

The culmination of six or so weeks of crazy amounts of work. In my city, we have a yearly lantern parade on the Winter Solstice to light the night up. Everyone makes lanterns and we close the whole centre of the area to walk the street.

Lantern Making Process

Lantern making starts with a series of sketches. These are usually made life size so I know roughly how much space I will be taking up. I have to carry the lantern to the centre of town, so if it's too big to get through the narrow bush tracks where I live, I'll have trouble.

Once the size is known, I can pin out the rattan shapes. I boil the rattan first, and then I bend it into shape. If I can, I tape it in place, but wet rattan won't tape. So I bend it and dry it in shape, then I tape it. This process can take days and days.

The rattan shape is held in place by PVA glue and rice paper. I mix the glue 50/50 with water, apply rice paper, and then wait for it to dry in place. Once there is a single dry layer I can then add more. 2-3 layers of glued paper gradually form a lacquered layer that can support weight.

After this it's the time to start adding supports and areas where lights can be held. This time around I've got some USB controlled soundbars, and they have to be attached.

For small, simple lights, stick on Velcro dots work well.

For heavier, more detailed ones, I bind them into the lantern under more rice paper and glue. I need the solidity of the lacquered paper to avoid them ripping through.

For a few areas this year, I designed and printed elements on my partner's Bambu Lab printer. The beak is actually a 3D scan of a real lyrebird beak that was in a museum. The feet I designed myself.

At every point where I do something that could damage the wiring, I perform another wiring test. The hot glue could possibly melt the wiring - it definitely removed my fingerprints.

The bird, once finished, gets decoration as well - lots of printed feathers that I have to individually glue in place. The wings are velcro attached and also a mixture of rice paper and normal paper.

The head has a bike brake cable inside which goes down to a rod that holds it up. When I squeeze the brake, the mouth opens and closes.

The claws that wrap over a thick vest covered in hot glued plants - the entire bird stands on it's own feet, wired to the base.

The vest was then covered in decoration to make it look like the bird is standing on a forest floor.

After this process, I put a Bluetooth speaker into the lantern's body and used my phone to control both the lights and the music. With the jaw able to open and close, the bird could actually sing.

And all of this resulted in a lantern that just stood on my shoulders in the parade and could animatedly interact with others.

And here she is!

Curious about other lanterns and the rest of the parade? Here are some of the other magnificent creations! Thanks to our wonderful parade photographers.

[captain-silkmaster]

Bet You Can’t Keep Quiet

The air in the supply closet was stuffy, unconformably so. A single fluorescent light hovered overhead, not giving you nearly enough illumination. The room, much too small for your own comfort. Except, inventory had to be done. 

You sat crossed legged on the floor, scanning through barcodes. Logging tablets. Sorting through cables.

You got to your knees and from your position on the ground, reached to the clipboard you had a couple shelves up. Clicking your pen, you checked off the area you just completed.

Half-way done.

Then a familiar Scottish accent filled the small space, “Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy bein’ on your knees, lass. Should’ve said somethin’ sooner.” 

A chuckle escaped, and you turned to look up at him, your tone rolling with mirth, “Hello there, Highlander.”

Soap leaned on the door frame. Arms crossed. A brow arched, and a devastating smile playing on his lips. A little lopsided and a little cheeky. “Careful, lass.”

You leaned back on your heels, but didn’t turn completely to face him. Only peered over your shoulder. You toyed with the pen in your hand, a devious smile formed on your lips, “Or what?”

His arms unfolded and with a softness that defied his gaze, he shut the door. Two heavy boot steps is all it took for him to be in front of you. Your gaze never left his as he squatted down. Legs open. His forearms resting lazily on his knees. 

He was close. Close enough for his finger to lightly brush the hand holding your pen.

“Or I make good on every filthy thing I’ve said to you this past week.”

You pouted, a slight frown, “That’s not much of a threat now, is it?”

He chuckled, a deep one that you could feel. His eyes glinted with something mischievous in the low light.

You adjusted and twisted around to face him fully, still on your knees, all prim and proper as you said, “It’s not a threat if I want all of those things.” 

“Well…” He leaned in, his hands grabbing the shelves on either side of you. Caging you in as he continued, “I could do all of those things, right here.”

Your eyes involuntarily flicked to the door. He saw that.

“Door’s not stoppin’ me.” His voice dropped, accent thicker, “But if it’s yer mouth I’ve gotta worry about, then I bet ye can’t keep quiet while I do this…” 

His fingers found the waistband of your pants and slipped just beneath it, “Bet you’re soaked already,” he muttered, breath warm against your cheek. “Bet you’ll be beggin’ before I even stretch you.”

Then, his hand moved lower, slipping between your legs, slow and steady. As though he had all the time in the world to ruin you. As if, there wasn’t an entire base of people beyond that door.

A breathy gasp escaped your lips. You instinctively placed your hands on his shoulders, dropping your pen. It clattered to the floor. The noise felt louder in the small space. 

You tried to right yourself and regain some control, your voice sweetened , “Still not a threat, I can be quiet...” You leaned forward, a breath away from his lips, and spread your knees a little wider, adding, “Quiet as a church mouse.”

He arched a brow, his gaze flicking down as he undid your pants. Just enough to let himself in. Your lips parted as his hand slipped down, knuckles grazing the lace of your underwear before resting at the heat of your pussy. His smile turned wicked as he growled out, “Soaked.”

Your mouth went dry as you tried to steady your breathing, silently.

His brow raised, “Impressive, but I’m just gettin’ started, lass.” 

Then, he adjusted himself onto his knees. Helping to slide you back, just a bit, so your back hit the metal of the shelf. With a better position, his finger easily slid through your folds. Slow and deliberate. His free hand tangled in your hair, grabbing a firm handful and tugging your head back just enough to bare your throat to him. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your jaw.

Your hands fisted into his shirt. The smallest gasp escaped your lips as he dragged his slick fingers up to your clit. Slow and purposeful. He caught the soft bud between his middle and ring finger, pinching just enough to make your breath hitch. 

He smiled against the pulse at your throat, voice low, “If that made you gasp, you’re in trouble.”

His fingers began to work in firm, rhythmic circles. All the while he nipped at your throat, licking the marks he made as he went. No rush. No hurry. 

The closed door taunted you. Provoked you.

You leaned into him, close to his ear as you whispered, “Is this where you make me beg, or are you gonna get to the good part?”

His smirk deepened as his lips brushed yours but never quite closing the distance as he whispered, “Beg?” he murmured. His fingers dragged lazy, infuriating circles against your clit. “You’re not nearly desperate enough for me to let you do that.”

You twitched when his fingers hit just the right spot. His grin told you that he felt that.

Then, his mouth was on yours. He tasted like coffee, with a sharp bite of mint. His hand, still buried in your hair, gripped tighter. His other increased pace. You moaned softly into his kiss and you could feel his smile against your lips.

His fingers were hitting that spot, over and over. Again and again. You could feel your insides coiling tighter. The pressure building. Your hands slid into his hair as you pulled him deeper into the kiss. When your nails scraped his scalp, he groaned into your mouth. Low and filthy, like he couldn’t help it.

This seemed to give him an extra boost, as his fingers worked relentlessly in short, swift bursts on your clit. Your body shuddered. One hand stayed in his hair as the other dragged across his shoulders. 

Your moan caught in your throat just as Soap tore his lips from yours. Your head fell back against the cold steel shelf, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you fought to stay quiet. He didn’t let up. His fingers kept their relentless pace, pushing you straight through your climax as your body trembled under his touch.

The heat spread out from your core, up your chest and through your limbs as a calming release settled over you.

His fingers slowed as your mouth opened. Panting, as you tried to catch your breath.

“That pretty little moan almost gave us away.” He said as he dipped his fingers back into your folds. The tip of one brushing the soaking entrance of your dripping cunt. Pushing slowly into it. His voice grew deeper as he added, “Do ye want me buried in that sweet cunt?”

Your heavy lidded gaze met his and with a devilish grin, you said, “Less talk, more cock, Johnny.”

His eyes darkened and his smirk faded as something more feral passed over his expression.

Next thing you knew, you were spun around on the floor. You ass in the air and your pants yanked down to your thighs. 

The metallic clink of a belt buckle echoed off the walls and the shifting of fabric made you clench involuntarily. 

Then, he was there, with his legs caging yours in. His cock slid through the swollen and soaked folds of your pussy. Hot and smooth.

He growled out, “Yer the one who asked for this.”

Then he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a filthy, wet sound. Your breath punched out of you as your body arched, your legs nearly giving out from the sudden, delicious stretch. And then he started to move. Slow at first, cruel and deep, like he wanted you to feel it. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back, making you take it.

His voice was low and dangerous as he kept up his steady thrusts, “Still want less talk? Or do ye need me to fuck you speechless first?”

Your hands gripped the shelf in front of you. Mouth opening on a soundless gasp. Chest pressing into the cold floor as your back arched. 

Soap leaned over you, his chest hot and solid against your back, breath thick on your ear. The arm around your waist tightened, locking you in place.

Then he whispered, low and filthy, “Try to stay quiet. Go on. Let’s see if you can.”

His hips slammed into you, hard. Your breath punched out of your lungs as he filled you all over again. Your hands scrambled for purchase, hips jolting forward with every snap of his. The lewd sound of skin on skin filled the tiny room. Filthy and shameless as his cock plunged into you with punishing rhythm, dragging across every aching nerve you had.

You couldn’t hold it back much longer, as a soft whimper slipped past your lips.

Soap chuckled behind you, his hand sliding from your waist up to your mouth. His other, planted firmly on your hip.

“Can’t stay quiet?” he purred, “Let’s fix that.”

Then he clapped his palm over your mouth, silencing your cries as he picked up the pace. Rough, relentless, and merciless. The shelf shook with the force of it, your whole body rocked back and forth as he used you. Every thrust, deeper than the last.

Your eyes fluttered shut, knuckles white where you gripped the shelf, and under his hand, your muffled moans grew frantic.

His hand stayed clamped over your mouth, holding you still, keeping you quiet. Your body started to quake around him. He felt it, the way your cunt clenched on him, fluttering, needy, so close to breaking apart.

He chuckled low in your ear, breath hot and taunting, “Tremblin’ like a leaf… all fucked out already?”

His hips rolled with wicked intention. Dragging his thick cock in deep. 

“Gonna fall apart all over my cock, are ye?” he asked, his accent a sinful purr. “Ye want to come, lass?”

You nodded desperately, hips pushing back to meet every thrust, shame be damned.

“Be a good girl and make a fuckin’ mess on me.”

And that was it.

Your body shattered, clenching hard around him as your climax tore through you, white-hot and wild.

“There it is,” he groaned, hips stuttering, “that’s it, that’s my girl…fuckin’ soak me, just like that.”

He held you tight as you rode it out, guiding your body through every pulse, every shiver, never once letting up.

Your body was still twitching with aftershocks, legs trembling, breath ragged. But Soap didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

His pace grew harsher again, sloppier. Less control, more need. His cock was still buried deep, dragging through the mess he’d coaxed out of you, each thrust punching a soft, wet sound into the air. His hands held you tight, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance now.

He let out a groan that was pure filth. Raw. Primal. 

His hips jerked once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt. A shudder ran through his whole body as he came deep inside you, cock pulsing. The warmth of him spilling into you.

His breath was ragged, forehead resting against the crook of your neck. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, almost a laugh.

His breath slowed against your shoulder, hot and uneven. One hand stayed firm on your waist, like he still needed that last bit of control.

You felt the pulse of him still twitching deep inside you.

“Christ…” he breathed, voice wrecked.

He pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. Then, slowly, he pulled himself up and his hips back. You gasped at the drag of him, sensitive, slick, overstimulated. And when he slipped free of you, he groaned at the sight.

“Look at that…Fuckin’ drippin’.”

You felt the warm spill of him leak from your pussy, sticky and hot down your thighs. Soap’s hand dropped between your legs, two fingers sliding through the mess he left behind. 

“Wish you could see how ruined you look right now.”

You chuckled, "What’s wrong, Highlander? Never seen a woman ruined for you before?"

Soap let out a low chuckle, one hand trailing down your spine, “Aye, I’ve seen it, but never looked half as good as you do right now.”

He gave your ass a slow, heavy smack. Closer to a caress. Then, pulled away just enough to tug your clothes back into place. Legs trembling with the aftermath as you sat up on your knees. 

“Up you go, lass,” he said with a wicked grin. “Don’t need the whole base findin’ out why I’ve gone soft for a girl in a closet.”

“Please,” you said, smirking. “Soft is certainly not what I would call what we just did.”

Soap chuckled behind you, “Aye, fair enough.”

You let out a breathy laugh, still trying to get your heartbeat under control. His presence lingered for a second longer before he finally stood up. 

The room filled with the whispers of both your zippers and rustling of fabric. The metallic click of a belt.

Then, Soap extended his hand down to you.

When you placed your hand in his, he hauled you in one quick motion while capturing your waist. Pulling you in close. You buried your face in his shoulder, trying to muffle your laugh.

As though it was his favorite thing about you, he said, “Yer trouble, y’know that?” 

“And yet here you are…” You ran a hand down his chest, lingering. “Still holding on to me.”

He whispered in your ear, soft and low, “Aye.”

You both stayed like that for a few lingering minutes. Hearts beating fast. Breaths syncing. Neither of you ready to open that door.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Reassigned

Prompted by @clonexocweek's day one: First Meeting for the rather massive series of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

We'll return shortly to your irregularly scheduled programming after this short, angsty break!

Warnings: Not a ton of warning: some bullying, some angst; written via phone, so probably could have used some more editing

WC: 1,480

There was a way these things were done; an unspoken social contract dictating some illusion of pleasantries in spite of whatever prejudice or disdain seethed beneath the surface, but I'd been warned long before forcing myself down the nauseatingly pristine halls of Kamino: the squad I’d been reassigned to flaunted their independence in every way they could absent thought of maintaining even a glimmer of such abstract notions of decorum.

I wasn’t deterred by those warnings. The thought of clones not only celebrating what self-autonomy they could but boasting that sense of individuality with unapologetic acts of rebellion offered a comfort both in ridding me of my own nervousness for adhering to the strict code of conduct dictated by rank in those first introductions as well as in the simple relief that they were allotted some glimpse of such freedoms at all. The variation in how closely these soldiers followed that code was staggering, fluctuating not just from legion to legion, but even between squads in the same platoon. Seeing some of the more reserved groups left me with a sense of gratitude for the men I’d initially found myself working with. Wolffe presented himself as some uncompromising, heartless tyrant, but the reverie and warmth that I'd so come to love amidst him and his men was evidence of just how deeply he cared.

But Wolffe wasn’t here. He hadn't offered to escort me like Boost had, a gesture I’d forced myself to turn down lest my first impression with my new squad present me as the weak, needy civi they surely expected. Still… I couldn't deny the deep disappointment, the confusion in how… clean our farewell had been… I hadn't expected tears… not from him, though I’d shed more than my share since learning of my reassignment, but he'd been so indifferent… cold… and that wasn't something I was used to from him… not anymore…

I tried not to focus on the shock that had stolen through me as he’d offered his hand when I'd moved in for a hug, tried to dismiss the ease with which he offered some rote semblance of gratitude for the work I’d done and platitudes toward my continued service with the GAR. I couldn't let myself focus on it, on him. He wasn't my commander anymore. I was no longer the medic of the 104th… For some unknown reason, a captain of the 501st had requisitioned me for a different squad altogether. None of it made sense, but I was in no position to voice objection to those orders. So, I walked through those sterile halls alone, cursing the way my heart pounded harder with each step toward the single room they'd been allocated in the stead of a proper barracks.

I'd read their files; studied reports of their unique abilities in addition to character evaluations that, even from the hands of a Kaminoan were… colorful, and I didn't doubt that they’d been granted ample warning about me, as well. I hadn't decided yet if the incredible strengths they were preported to possess were reassuring or frightening, and tried not to let myself form any conclusions until after at least meeting them.

The door to their room opened without preamble or warning, the software controlling it apparently already recognizing me as a squad member with full access. I stared into the jumble of gear and cables and miscellaneous supplies strewn between beds and tables and couches that certainly weren't regulation for several seconds too long, frozen in both surprise and confusion long before finally realizing that, as cluttered as the room was, it lay utterly empty before me.

Frowning, I slipped my helmet back on, eyes flicking to the chrono. I wasn’t late, nor was I inappropriately early… Glancing once more around the room, I also noticed a striking lack of footlockers at the base of each bunk…

Frown growing even harsher, I stepped back and started quickly toward the hanger. There was a mission already assigned to us, but we weren't slated to depart for several hours… My jaw tensed at the obvious conclusion I tried not to let myself draw, strides just short of rushed. I’d been so focused on what first impression I’d wanted to present that it never dawned on me how readily they'd use the opportunity to fully illustrate their apparent disinterest. Part of me wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, to grant excuse for an unintentional mistake, but inventing such excuses would only lead to the creation of an endless cycle of similar events, and I had no intention of falling into that role, nor did I intend to make it easy for them to dismiss me so effortlessly, pace growing faster as I finally neared the hanger.

Their ship stood out among the far more popular LAATs, sharp fins boasting an elegance abandoned by the more utilitarian transports around it. I could just make out a pair of figures carrying crates up the ramp. The first quickly vanished within the cabin upon seeing me, but that quick glance was enough for me to note the shear mass of him, thick legs moving with surprising quiet as those final steps quickened to hide him from sight. The man behind him made no such effort to escape as I approached, dark helm tilting with an air of disdain I didn't need to see his eyes to feel.

“Think you've got the wrong ship.” His voice sounded almost hoarse, words drawn out with a slight drawl from lips clearly twisted into a scowl behind the cover of his bucket.

“Afraid not.” There was no apology in my retort, nor did I try to hide my own annoyance as I looked up at him. “I'm-"

“Don't care.” He interrupted, already turning back toward the cargo hold. “This isn't a cruise ship. Go play nurse somewhere else.” I felt the snarl pull at my face, shoulders pulling sharply back as I drew in a short breath to fuel my reply, but another man stepped out from the ship, strides deceptively laxed beneath a haughty stance, arms loose, torso leaned back just enough to give the impression that he was looking down on me despite his slightly shorter statute compared to the others, and I forced myself to release that breath in silence as I turned my attention to him.

“Thought we were supposed to meet at your barracks half an hour ago.” It wasn't a question.

“Must've missed that briefing.” My jaw clenched at the subtle, mocking lilt in his smoky voice.

“You certainly didn't miss the one about Scipio…” I muttered too quietly for the mic to pick up, but the barely perceptible tension that stole through him assured me he'd heard every word, proving the report of his enhanced hearing shockingly accurate. The home planet of the banking clan was, by all political standings, far removed from the war, thus any form of military presence could be grounds for far reaching repercussions. My knowing the location of their next mission was evidence enough of my place here, and he knew it.

I let that silence linger a moment, head tilting down just enough to indicate my impatience toward whatever hazing they’d planned, and to let him know that I knew he'd heard me.

“Seems like you intended on an early start. If your medbay is fully stocked, then I'm ready to go as soon as you are.” I let out a slow breath before I said it, tone reluctantly gentling into an unspoken olive branch I had to convince myself he deserved as I reached up to remove my helmet. He watched me for several seconds, and I loathed the way my skin crawled at that nauseating sensation of being studied, judged; of the unsettling certainty that I would never measure up to the impossible standards granted through a lifetime of training and meticulous genetic design, but I didn’t shy from the emotionless black crescent of his visor.

“It's stocked.” He finally replied, voice stiff, begrudgingly removing his helm as well. He looked so nearly identical to Wolffe and the others… but… not exactly. Beyond the startling half mask of faded ink, I could spot some differences. His nose was bigger, if only just, the already pronounced ridge even more prominent. The arch of his brows was softer, and his jaw slightly narrower. It was his eyes, however, that threatened to paralyze me.

I’d been to feral planets before; found myself the prey of frightfully dangerous beasts. Staring at him carried that same sense of dread, of danger. Here was a predator. He was stronger than me, faster than me, and I’d come to invade his home.

Without another word, he turned and tread back into the sanctum of his ship, and I knew it was the closest to a welcome I was going to get.

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[love-and-war-on-cybertron]

Heyy, can I request some wavewave with a side of sex pollen experiment stuff, probably Shockwave's fault. Preferably TFP and with Soundwave on bottom.

This ship has ruined my life but I have not seen this trope done

That is if you like the ship ofc, if not then thats perfectly fine.

Can you really say it's his fault when it is entirely intentional? Honestly I really love this ship and the different dynamics depending on the continuity. I wrote this all in one go cause I was tired of life and writers block. First time I ever wrote for these two so I hope you like it! Thank you for the first ship request!

Walking into the communications room with the experimental coating on his plating, Shockwave approaches with no comment. No word. No acknowledgements. Single optic focused on the screens as Soundwave goes about his duties. It takes a moment, he knew it would. It has to permeate. Spread. Get into the silent bots systems. Even then, Soundwave knew his fellow Decepticon had a great deal of self control. If it worked…. WHEN it worked, Soundwave would act. shockwave watches the screens and listens to the typing. It slows.

tap tap tap It slows. tap… tap… tap… It stops.

Soundwave turns, facing Shockwave. Optic to face screen. No words needed. Those cables come out from their housing, inching towards the purple mech's waist and pulling him closer. He may have seemed calm and collected, but Shockwave knew what it meant for the Spy to do anything outside of a locked and secured private quarters. If studies had been fruitful, his circuits would be charged, plating heated uncomfortably so. 

With his one servo, Shockwave touches his lovers chest and slowly drags it down. Indeed, plating was warming up. Lower. Lower. The snap of a valve panel opening his reward. 

"You seem to be aroused." He says plainly, clawed digits tracing the outer opening but refusing to go any further. Soundwave nods, "Do you request assistance?" Another nod, "Very well."

It's easy enough moving the angular frame of soundwave. Pushing him forward till bent over his console. Legs already spread, valve already exposed. This is an experiment after all, shockwave must observe. The soft mesh is swollen and dripping. The anterior node pulsing. Running his thumb down the center is all it takes for transfluid to coat it. He makes mental notes on the consistency. How slick it is between two digits. Cables wrap around his wrist and drag it back to rub against Soundwave's valve. Shockwave allows it, watching as the angular mech arches back, frame shuddering. 

Shockwave rests his gun against the console, coming closer to observe the face screen of Soundwave. The way it dims and brightens as his digits slide in to the knuckle joint. Servos grip the console, frame shakes. A cable wraps around the purple mech's neck in accusation.

"A coating over my armor. Something that can be used in battle against the Autobots." A drag of fingers against the internal mesh and interior nodes, "If they cannot fight, they cannot defeat us."

The cable loosens and pulls away, instead rubbing against Soundwave's modesty panel. He knows what he wants. It would be a lie to deny any affects on his own person. Something that would need to be tweaked before being deployed on the battle field. 

"No." He says, "Not yet." 

An electrical whine of distaste in such a command. Soundwave settle instead to press the screen of his visor to Shockwave's single optic. His flat, angular arm is perfect to hook around Shockwave's helm and keep him close. 

"Impatient."

In an almost apologetic gesture, Shockwave uses his thumb to stimulate the other's anterior node. the clench of calipers on his digits and a gush of transfluid the result. Soundwave arches again, exventing heavily. Shockwave keeps the pace slow, scanning over the other and taking note of temperature changes, spikes in readings. Most importantly, the sounds coming from the typically silent mech. Sounds only he was privy to.

"Good." He says, receiving a particularly quiet keening. Mesh walls of his valve clenching as transfluid makes an even bigger mess of his hand. Shockwave wanted to examine said mess, take notes, but his own systems were heating and sparking. Soundwave's cables wrapped around his waist and against his still closed panel. This is an experiment, Shockwave reminds himself. He must remain firm with himself… Even if his spike is straining against metal. 

Pulling away, is met with a tighter hold.

"Soundwave."

A growl and tighter hold. 

"I see…" Perhaps it would be good to test if interfacing… rid the main subject of the effects, "face me."

With one arm holding up a leg, Shockwave braces himself against the console. Soundwave has his servos on the screen. A servo on the Spy's waist. A cable guiding the scientists spike to his valve. Screen visor to Optic. Vents matching pace as he bids the other to waist. Impatience and want ignoring the command.

Then its hot, slick mesh over his spike. Cables pulling the two closer and keeping them that way. Shockwave sees the visor glitch out for a brief moment. Only a moment. Even he cannot deny the need for moment. Gears shifting, chassis groaning. Energon racing through his systems.

"Move."

Shockwave acknowledges the order, a rare word from the other. Rolling his body to pull out slowly, then thrusting up to the hilt. Soundwave's valve swallowing the spike happily. Shockwave had never been shy or felt inadequate with the plain spike he had. Never felt the need or inclination to modify it. Soundwave was more than satisfied with his abilities. Who needed a glossa or pulsating spike when technique was more than adequate?

Behind him, the control panel groaned in protest. Each thrust making Soundwave grip tighter. Threatening the equipment's integrity. His Valve squeezing tight as his second overload threatened to come quickly. One downside of rarely interfacing was the sensitivity. At least, that's what Soundwave thought. Shockwave found it efficient. To bring his partner to completion multiple times in quick succession did much to strengthen his bond, and remind the Spy who could please him best.

Metal scrapes against metal as Soundwave grinds down to meet every thrust. Vents expelling hot air as his spark hums loudly. It's not long before his cables pull Shockwave tight to his chassis again. Keeping him buried inside his valve as another Overload rushes through his systems.  "Satisfactory?" The cables wind their way around the base of his spike and squeeze. "Understood…" 

[blackkatdraws2]

Laptop screen problems!! Might take a while for me to post something new. (◠‿◠)

Ha. Hahahahah hahe heaah. For the majority of my life, I have animated and drawn on a shitty cheap phone screen with cracks all over it and this laptop thinks it can stop me with a little green tint.?

Screw this fuck. I have my tablet display screen just fine, this thing isn't going into any repair shops anytime soon. Not until I finish my animation and I will finish that fucking animation, I am NOT going a single day not drawing because of a faulty display cable or whatever other problems this dainty little Acer laptop has.

I most definitely do not have the money to fix this thing at the moment, school has just started, and my body is currently in pain because of physical problems beyond my control, I don't care. I am finishing that goddamn animation, I am drawing, I will animate until I drop dead in front of my SCREEN.

If I die I'm taking my drawing equipment with me so I can still draw in hell.