#and so i'm applying that to transformers

[dragqueenstarscream]

i really like the idea of male/female language as a whole being a foreign concept to cybertronians until they start interacting with organic species and then decide, "oh, hey, this is kinda neat, actually."

"but idw already-" idw had male as the default gender, with female being the extra option. i mean male AND female, as well as other such terms, as very much an organic thing.

i like thinking about it from a linguistic perspective. sure, cybertronians had different sets of pronouns already, but maybe those were moreso about frame type rather than male/female. seekers, speedsters, big grounders, motorcycles, all of them would have different sets of pronouns. (for example, tfa prowl and tfa arcee would have the same pronouns, despite us considering prowl male and arcee female.) when the ark crew came to earth and started learning earth languages, they'd have to adapt their terminology to better communicate with their human companions.

but this leads to the question: how do they decide which ones to refer to themselves and their fellow cybertronians by? the simple answer is to compare cybertronian frame types do human body types. ie, optimus, ironhide, and bumblebee all have stereotypically male bodies, so they decide to use he/him for themselves, while arcee, chromia, and elita one have stereotypically female bodies, so they decide to use she/her.

but then what about the cybertronians who feel more comfortable referring to themselves with the "opposite" pronouns, or those who are fine with using whatever? would they be considered trans by earth standards, or are they just figuring out where they fit in earth culture? what if cybertronians just rejected the idea of conforming to human gender entirely and found ways to translate their language into earth languages? what about cybertronians interacting with humans who speak languages without gendered pronouns, like finnish, iirc?

this is less of a discussion of gender as a whole and more of cybertronian -> human linguistics, but it's something that i find fascinating. because, realistically, why would robots stick to a he/she binary? why not go with something like alt modes or frame types for pronouns, since those are more common? it's something i might play around with more in the future when i have my thoughts more coherently collected.

[raileurta]

When people talk about the pain of a relationship between a basically immortal transformer and a very mortal human who lives only one of their Cybertronian's years (Vorn: 83 years) I am reminded of the sorta real world example of this.

Pet rats on average tend to live 2-3 years and people will still care for them despite their extremely short life span. This is absolutely heartbreaking for owners as a lot of them see their rats or people just in general, see pets as their children/family. They can care for them to the best of their ability but they still die so soon. They can even can get sick or have a accident cutting their life span even shorter.

There's this sort of guilt that must come with it; feeling inadequate as you "failed" this being relied solely on you. Why are they dying so soon? Why couldn't I be better? Is this my fault? You can't really change nature but you can look at it from a different perspective. (Cheesey I know)

While for Cybertronians humans are just a blip for them for these people bots are there for their entire lifespan. The transformer will be a constant throughout it all and be with their person until the bitter end. They will never know a life outside of their love; The metal hands that cradle them in their own form of softness. The breeze as they feel as they sit on their shoulder. Even in the face of knowing this organic will never always be there to ride in their alt mode, scamper over their frame, or just by their side. They will still be with them; this is a privilege and a burden they must carry within their sparks.

You might find that a human can change a bot's entire perspective on life and even the world itself; because they live so short everyday is a precious one. They must make the most of the time you have left. It can't be wasted in entropy, just slugging through it. This would be a dishonor to their human and a dishonor to themselves.

Which in that case I feel the inevitable heartbreak is well worth it for the bot in the end. They just can be there, and that's the greatest gift of them all.

[ifawnleaf]

"arrived there in a way that completely abandons ... a definition of heroism based in lunacy, unhinged behavior, reckless violence, and absolutely enormous swings in the face of reasonable alternatives"

kipperlilly's a psycho for digging up her teacher's grave? for killing her party members? for resurrecting a forgotten god of conquest? when she could've instead gone on a school-assigned adventure to gain practical experience, like a normal student? sounds pretty unhinged to me.

i just think of all the things to criticize her for, NOT being a violent lunatic is not one of them. girl was CLEARLY unhinged. her methods were not antithetical to aguefort, the issue was being a villain instead of a hero lmao

[screwpinecaprice]

I woke up feeling like I was crying to sleep when I wasn't??? And my dream was about Mei from Turning Red riding a snow sleigh. Um There's nothing sad about that??? Lol

Anyway, the warm up sketches. The colors were added in Medibang. It was pretty fun, might do that technique some other time. My body still refused to recover from being bummed out throughout the day so I did house chores instead of commissions. 😅 Will try again tomorrow.

[i-would-like-to-be-an-a-i]

*slowly opens door*

Obedient Servant from Hamilton as Megatron and Optimus

Megatron as Aaron Burr and Optimus as Alexander

K bye

*leaves*

[simptasia]

you know britpicking? like where an american writes a fanfic set in england, or with an english character, and they get an english friend to look through it and check through it to see if the terms and phrases are accurate? (eg. flat instead of apartment)

well i propose there be such a concept for star trek

because people in star trek talk differently than modern humans. they use different words, different slang, phrasings. yes, they can speak casually but mostly it isn't like us. watch any of 90s trek and you'll see These People Do Not Speak Like Us

and, no disrespect, a lot of fic does not reflect this. and it irks me. they just speak like modern day people instead of... star trek characters. i personally think part of the fun of writing trek characters is writing it out to how they speak and how they would think

hell, this isnt even a fanfic problem. modern trek has this issue too. i think outta laziness. they have their people talking (and when in casual wear, dressing) like 2020s people and it pisses me off

its part of why strange new worlds feels like a high budget SNL skit

annnnyways. i propose this idea be called fact trekking

[silverior968]

All of my favorite characters either a. Have a magic power that harms them (3 characters) or b. Do unethical human* experimentation on themselves involving a dubious colorful fluid and terrible consequences (2 characters). What does that say about me?

[exoexid]

this is the best gif ever if you really think about it

[krockon]

*personal

[spring-lxcked]

on a much lighter note bitch you know william loves halloween

[em1i2a3]

can you do bob x reader where he sees us interacting with a child and it makes him want to be a father so bad?

It’s You I’m Thinking Of

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/ The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement and because some events are mentioned in passing. Fluff, a hint of Angst and an Established Relationship is at the forefront here.

Author's Note: Surprise, it’s double update day…Because I had this in my drafts and forgot to post it…YIKES. I found this to be so fluffy and cute to write! Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this a lot!

Word Count: 3,805

Valentina had called it a “Visibility Effort,” which–as far as Bob was concerned–was just a polished way of saying: “I need people to stop thinking you guys are monsters, so go smile for the cameras and pretend you guys didn’t almost destroy New York City a year ago.”

The Thunderbolts had only just begun to scrape their way back into the public’s good graces after the Void. If grace could even be applied to a team that, not long ago, had been seen as volatile assets in containment rather than heroes in recovery. But Valentina didn’t care about semantics–she cared about optics. And what better way to scrub down their image than to host a carefully staged, feel-good community day in a public park–complete with banners, press kits, and security briefings disguised as media rundowns.

The day before, you and the rest of the team had been sweating under the sun, assembling the layout from the ground up. Tent poles groaned in the wind, tarps snapped against knuckles, and the oversized bouncy castle–more akin to a pop-up cathedral–took three hours to stabilize. It loomed over the field like a surreal monument to liability.

By sundown, the park had been transformed.

Face-painting booths stretched along the paved path like an art market in miniature, each tent hung with paper lanterns and garlands of plastic ivy. A ring toss area had been set up beside a small prize table, its wares still barcoded and smelling faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner. Further down, a row of food trucks idled along the lot’s edge, the air thick with fried batter and roasted peanuts, preparing for the next day. A banner, bold and hopeful, rippled above the main walkway: THUNDERBOLTS COMMUNITY GIVEBACK DAY!

The park was bustling before noon the next day.

Children darted between booths with faces half-painted and shoes untied. Parents loitered on benches, plastic cups of lemonade in hand, cautiously optimistic about letting their kids near a group of enhanced individuals who, six months ago, were being referred to as national liabilities. Still, smiles came easier than expected. The air smelled like kettle corn, sun-warmed vinyl, and freshly cut grass.

Valentina had positioned her pawns with precision, each member of the team slotted into a role meant to soften their image–familiar, friendly, safe.

Yelena was stationed at the face-painting table. She didn’t argue when she was assigned to it, though she rolled her eyes hard enough that everyone could basically hear it. Now, seated with a paintbrush balanced between her fingers, she looked…Focused. Delicate even. She painted dragons, daisies, and one incredibly accurate depiction of Bucky’s old Winter Soldier face paint layout. She didn’t say much unless spoken to, but the kids flocked to her. Her bluntness came off as hilarious to them. Her gentleness? Earned in silence.

Walker manned the obstacle course–one of the only areas Valentina trusted him not to overcomplicate. With his sleeves rolled up and clipboard tucked under his arm, he barked out encouragements that sounded suspiciously like bootcamp commands. But he was patient. He let kids redo the course as many times as they wanted. And when one boy tripped near the finish line, Walker helped him up without hesitation and whispered something that made the kid’s chest puff with pride.

Ava floated between stations like an unofficial supervisor. She had no designated role, but her presence was felt and it was heavy. She hovered near the cotton candy vendor long enough to be offered a free sample, then spent ten minutes helping a little girl reattach the wheel to her toy stroller. Ava didn’t smile often, but she kept her sunglasses off today. It mattered more than anyone would admit.

Alexei had placed himself right in the center of the park’s open lawn, surrounded by children wielding foam swords. He was absolutely in his element. Towering, loud, enthusiastic. He let them “ambush” him over and over again, dramatically collapsing onto the grass as they tackled him, crying out in mock defeat with every fall. When one kid asked if he was Santa, Alexei laughed so hard he nearly swallowed a whistle. He’d fashioned a red Thunderbolts cap to resemble something almost festive. No one stopped him.

Bucky was at the photo booth. Not because Valentina assigned it to him–but because he asked. Quietly. Just once. And when she raised a brow, he explained:

“Kids like the arm. Makes them feel like they’re meeting a real superhero.”

No one argued with that.

He stood beside the printed backdrop of a Thunderbolts mural, his vibranium arm resting lightly at his side. At first, only a few families came by. Then word got around. By midday, there was a line curling around the booth. Bucky posed with toddlers who clung to his leg, tweens who wanted to see if he could lift them with his arm alone, and teens who just wanted proof they’d stood next to him. He let them. All of them.

And you–you’d been running the craft tent since the gates opened. Low folding tables filled with paper crowns, pipe cleaners, sticker sheets, and markers with their caps long lost to time. You moved between projects with practiced ease, coaxing confidence out of even the shyest children. One girl in a purple tutu had stuck to your side all morning, proudly referring to you as “Miss Thunderbolt” like it was an official title.

Bob on the other hand…Wasn’t assigned a booth.

Valentina had called it a “strategic decision”–which meant don’t scare the kids. She hadn’t said it outright, of course, but Bob understood the subtext. The others had made peace with their reputations, learned how to bend their edges into something palatable. Bob’s problem wasn’t sharpness. It was scale. People didn’t look at him and see a man. They saw The Void. A storm in a body. The thing that turned Manhattan’s sky black almost a year ago. Or they saw him as Golden Boy Sentry, which he rarely presented himself as now because all of that was dormant since the incident, so he was just Bob, and unfortunately nobody was really interested in just Bob.

Except you of course.

You had grown extremely close to him throughout the time he was recovering from the incident. You would stay back from missions just to keep him company, and within those small moments, the two of you grew a bond and became inseparable.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big declaration, no kiss in the rain, no sweeping hand grab before battle. It was subtle–gentle, even. A shared quiet. The way you waited for him to speak on his own terms. The way you handed him warm drinks without comment and sat beside him on the floor of his room during the worst days, and just held him or smoothed his hair down. The way you always reached for his hand under the table when Valentina debriefed the team about “public image,” like you were grounding yourself in him, not the other way around.

It started with one date. A walk. A drink from the local coffee shop that you used two straws for. A movie you barely paid attention to because Bob had cried halfway through and apologized for it, and you’d told him, “I’d rather watch you feel something than watch the movie anyway.”

Now it had been nearly a year.

A quiet year. A healing one. A year where Bob–somehow–had begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t made just for disaster. Maybe he was allowed to want softness. Warmth. You.

So he stayed near you now, just like he always did. Even in the middle of this pastel-bright circus of a public relations stunt, even with the buzzing press cameras and the thunder of kids’ shoes over packed grass–he stood a few feet behind your tent. Watching quietly like he always did.

You didn’t need him to be part of the event. You didn’t ask him to engage. You just wanted him to be close and hover around you. And every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder and give him a little smile–soft, unhurried, like a tether that reminded him that he was still on your mind.

That’s what he was doing when it happened.

You were helping a child–maybe four, maybe five–cut out the outline of a star from glitter paper. She was sitting in your lap, legs swinging off the edge of the bench, her small fingers clumsy around the safety scissors. You guided her hands with your own, gentle and patient, your chin tucked down as you murmured something too soft for him to hear. The girl giggled. You smiled. And Bob felt something in his chest fracture.

It bloomed sharp and sudden, like a crack in glass that spiderwebbed behind his ribs before he could stop it. A low, aching pressure that pulsed under his skin and settled into his throat. He couldn’t look away from you. From the way the little girl leaned back against your chest, utterly content, while you helped her snip the edges of her glittery star. Your voice was low, your hand steady on hers, and when she got frustrated, you smiled and told her it was perfect just the way it was.

And the little girl–she believed you.

Bob watched her beam like she’d just won a medal, then twist to throw her arms around your neck. You hugged her back instinctively, without missing a beat, without needing to think about it.

And just like that, Bob saw it.

Not as a fantasy. Not as a warm, fuzzy, distant dream.

He saw you. Sitting in a living room. Soft lamplight across your shoulders. A child curled into your lap with a crayon clutched in one hand and a juice box in the other. Your hair a mess from the day, a blanket half-draped over both of you. And him in the doorway. Holding a book in his hand that he’d forgotten to read, too caught up in the simple, breathtaking fact that this was his life. That somehow, impossibly, he’d made it here.

His throat tightened.

The thought came quietly, like breath fogging glass:

He wanted this.

He wanted you. A child. A family. Not someday, not maybe. Just–yes. He wanted tiny shoes in the hallway. A swing set in a yard. A sleepy voice calling him Dad. He wanted your laughter in a kitchen filled with baby wipes and half-assembled toys. He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.

But right on the heels of that beautiful, terrifying longing came something cold and heavy.

Fear.

He swallowed, hard.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the dark part of his memory–low, sharp, filled with the kind of disgust that was harder to forget than fists. He could still hear the way the floor creaked before a bad night. The sting of being told he was nothing. How love only showed up with bruises attached.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

What if I turn into him? He thought.

He didn’t think he would. He knew–rationally–that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He couldn’t even raise his voice without wincing at the echo. He loved gently. He loved softly. But fear didn’t care about facts. It sunk into his lungs anyway.

What if something in him broke? What if the Void came back and he couldn’t stop it? What if one day he opened his eyes and the sky was black again, and the only thing he’d ever loved was looking up at him, afraid?

He could never live with that.

Never.

And yet–

You turned slightly, and caught Bob’s eyes across the grass. You smiled at him–something so simple, so safe–and in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it softened.

Because you weren’t afraid of him.

You’d never been.

Even on the days he didn’t like himself, you liked him. Even when he flinched at his own reflection, you reached for his hand and rested your chin on his shoulder. You didn’t see The Void. You didn’t see the Sentry. You just saw Bob–the man who carried your snacks in his hoodie pocket just in case you got hungry when you went out, who still got bashful when you looked at him for too long, who curled into you at night like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his life.

Bob’s hand gripped the edge of the canopy pole beside him, just to ground himself.

He wanted to go to you right then and there just to say it. To whisper something clumsy like, “I want to build a life with you. A whole one. With glue-stained paper crowns and messy bedrooms and bedtime songs.”

But he stayed still.

Too scared to break the moment.

Too scared it might not be his to want.

—————————

Later, when the event was winding down, and the sky had shifted to gold and mauve and soft watercolor blues, Bob found you sitting on the grass alone near the now-abandoned craft table, peeling dried glue off your fingers and watching a few leftover kids chase bubbles across the park. He moved towards you slowly, and his looming presence immediately got your attention.

You stopped picking at the glue on your fingers and looked up at him instantly.

”Well, hey stranger.” Bob gave a quiet huff of a laugh at the greeting and smiled down at you, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “You gonna sit down or are you going to just stand there and stare?” You joked, patting the patch of open grass beside you. He hesitated for a second before lowering himself beside you, knees folding awkwardly in the grass. You watched him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek–light, and lingering, your lips warm against the wind-chilled skin just below his eye.

“I haven’t been able to do that all day,” You said softly, almost teasing, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

Before Bob could even respond, you leaned in and pressed another kiss to the corner of his jaw, then to his temple, and then one right between his brows where they had scrunched up, each kiss softer and slower than the last.

By the time you pulled back, Bob’s cheeks were as red as a rose, and they had become warm, and his smile had curled wide and helpless across his face, because to him your affections were always welcome.

”Y-You’re gonna make me explode,” He mumbled, voice thick with love as he turned to hide his burning face against the shoulder of his hoodie, “This is h-how I die.” He stumbled, looking over at you with those big blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into every night.

“Death by affection sounds like a dream to me.” You laughed, slipping your hand up to cup his cheek, to turn his face towards yours so he was looking at you directly.

“Y-You know I’m a fragile m-man.” You snorted at his comment.

”I know Sentry is dormant but you’re technically the strongest person on Earth.” You said, giving him a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re fragile.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh, his pupils blown out from how close you were.

”Y-Yeah, well…D-Don’t flatter me too much…You’ll make me f-fall in love with you or s-something.” You raised your brows at him, seeing his cheeks go an even deeper red, “I-I mean–more. Like…More in love with you.” You smiled, so warmly it made his breath catch in his throat, you could hear it.

”Almost a year in,” You whispered, brushing your nose gently against his, “And you still get all flustered with me…I love it.”

And you kissed him–gently, fully, your mouth warm and sure on his. Bob melted. His whole body slackened like your kiss had pulled all the tension right out of him. He groaned quietly and let himself fall back into the grass with a helpless thump, hoodie riding up slightly at the hem, his eyes fluttering closed like he was physically overwhelmed. You laughed lightly and laid down beside him, turning your head so you were looking at him and all his glory, feeling his hand find yours, lacing his fingers between yours instantly.

The sky above you was dimming into deeper blues now, streaked with soft brushstrokes of pink and violet. The hum of the event had finally died out completely. You could still hear the occasional giggle of a child somewhere off in the distance, but for the most part, it felt like you two were the last ones left in the park. Like the whole day had been waiting to exhale.

Bob stared up at the clouds for a moment, before letting out a small sigh.

”C-Can I ask you something…Kind of b-big?” Your eyes studied him for a moment, tracing the way his brows furrowed gently, like he was already halfway to apologizing for whatever he was about to say. Like he was bracing himself to ruin something just by saying it.

“Of course,” You replied, your voice just above a whisper, slowly growing more and more concerned with each moment that passed in silence.

Bob just kept looking up at the sky like the words were written somewhere in the clouds and he just had to find them. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your knuckles.

”Have you ever thought about…Us?” He swallowed, “I mean–not just us, b-but more like…A family.” You raised your eyebrows slowly, turning onto your side so you could face him fully, still holding his hand, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I–I watched you today,” He whispered. “With that little girl in your lap. And it didn’t feel far away…It didn’t feel like someone else’s life. It felt like something I could…Want.”

Your heart gave a soft, aching pull at that.

“I want it,” He admitted, voice trembling. “I want it so bad it scares me. You, a kid–us. A home. Not perfect. Not polished. Just ours. Something warm. Something safe.”

You reached up and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing along his temple. He leaned into the touch like it soothed something he couldn’t name.

“I want that too,” You said. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But one day. When things are a little quieter, when the world doesn’t need us to carry it. I want that with you, Bob.” He nodded, like he was trying to let the hope settle in–but his eyes were still stormy at the edges.

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I…Mess it up l–like I always do? What if I hurt them? What if something in me snaps and I—”

“Hey,” You cut in gently, reaching up to cradle his cheek. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his blue eyes wide and full of unshed fear, tears filling up in the corners threatening to spill at any moment.

“You’re not like your father at all Bob, you’re not him.” You said, your voice steady and firm.

”Y-You don’t know that,” He whispered, his eyes glancing away at you, making you chase his gaze a bit so he could look at you.

”I do know that…Because I know you. Because I’ve watched you fall asleep holding my hand. Because you carry two different granola bar options in your hoodie pocket in case I want a choice. Because you always refill the toothpaste without me asking. Because when I’m upset, you don’t try to fix it–you just stay with me. Quietly. Constantly.” Bob blinked, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

“You don’t lash out, Bob. You lean in,” You said. “You don’t shut down. You open up, even when it scares you. You feel everything so deeply, and you never make anyone pay for it.” His brow furrowed and he looked down, overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of that truth.

You brought his hand up to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then whispered into the space between you:

“You already take care of me in a thousand tiny ways. You love gently. That’s why I trust you with my soul.”

He let out a shaky breath, and the hand that held yours tightened just a little more. He nodded faintly, like he was still catching up to the truth you’d handed him–like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he was holding it anyway.

You reached up, your thumb brushing delicately at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered without pressure or embarrassment. Just care.

“You cry so pretty, you know that?” You whispered, a little playful, attempting to lift the mood just a bit.

Bob let out a short, breathy laugh–surprised and soft. “Th-That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when you do it,” You smiled, leaning closer, your voice light but laced with everything you meant. “You’re beautiful when you feel things.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a future and told him it already belonged to him. Like no one had ever said that to him before–and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, lips pressed to his like you had time. Like you weren’t afraid to show him just how loved he was.

And when you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breath brushing his lips as you whispered:

“You’d be the safest place a little soul could ever grow.”

Bob let out another shaky breath, and this time he smiled–full, unguarded, like something inside him had just settled for the first time.

“Only if it’s with you,” He said quietly.

You nodded, your fingers lacing tighter with his.

“Then we’ll build it,” You whispered. “Slow and messy and ours.”

And beneath a darkening sky painted with stars and leftover laughter, you lay together in the grass, your future unfolding between your palms like something sacred.

Just warm.

Just real.

Just home.

[pawberri]

I know that a lot of artists are stupid about labor and don't express their critiques of AI in a productive way but I really feel like it's odd that so many people defend large companies taking freelancers work without paying for it as if its the same as the average individual doing it. Like, when I say I think it's bad for Large Company OpenAI to take a bunch of art from middle-class artists who survive partly off of royalties in order to extract massive profit from it, I get replies like "so you think it's bad for me to make my own independent AI model?". I don't understand why there's this refusal to analyze the specific circumstance of a large, capitalist entity essentially stealing potential wages from workers. It's like. I hope someday we get rid of copyright and have a socialist utopia with equal wages, etc, but why should I pretend OpenAI is on the side of that dream? Like I just do not see why I need to apply the same logic to working class people violating copyright and appropriating work freely as I do giant companies. I think if giant companies are going to exist, they should be forced to pay the people whose labor they appropriate. I'm not advocating for copyright lawsuits or any other existing punishment in our system, I'm just objecting to it without planning any formal backlash. But if you even say this is exploitative, people who I generally find really compelling just dismiss you as a pro-copyright idiot.

It's like. I think that Lisafrank 420 by Macintosh Plus is an amazing work that is legally not transformative yet still deserves to exist. And even if it was bad, it would deserve to exist. But if it was made by Universal Music Group and they said they didn't have to pay Diana Ross for it, my opinion would differ. I would not be going "wow anyone who thinks this is shitty is clearly shilling for copyright law." Like UMG clearly knows and cares about copyright law when it benefits them, so their appropriation of her and her team's work clearly takes on a different meaning. Is that an insane take??

[urfavnewgirl]

you're in your polka dot pajamas, sheets freshly changed, nestled into your queen sized bed, book in hand. to any fleeting observer, the sight of you, face bare, skin glowing from recently applied moisturizer, would likely suggest a state of utter relaxation.

if that fleeting observation turned into a long-lasting one, however, the suggestion would instantaneously transform into one of nervousness.

it starts with your fingers, twitching around the spine of the novella resting atop your lap. next is your profile itself, furrowed brows, your eyes fixated on the same sentence for far too long.

so yes, you may seem calm at first glance, but you're not, and your discomfort shows in a melange of micromovements, one matching your interior chaos. the entangled mess in your brain, running over millions of scenarios, all involving him. in pain. bleeding. alone. he, who has been hurt so many times, you've lost count.

you sigh, run a hand over your face in a desperate attempt to ease your worries. sit up straight, tug the hood of his sweater further down. it's nearing midnight now, no sign of him. more reading it is, then, or pretending to, at least.

until you hear the ever familiar sound of a window opening an hour later, and he stands on the opposite side of it. tossing the book aside at a speed that would drive publishers mad with fury, you stumble off the bed.

hands grip his shoulders, push him into the bathroom before he has any time to react. “i'm putting a tracker in your head.”

he leans against the sink, looking at you with a mix of fatigue, amusement and something you can't quite place. “hello to you too, sweetheart.”

“are you okay? did you get hurt?”

"i'm fine."

“take off your shirt.”

“take me to dinner first.”

you glare at him. he takes off his shirt. when your gaze meets his bare skin, you're relieved not to discover any possible new scars. “you have a scratch on your face. i need to clean it.”

he doesn't protest, not when you rummage through the first aid kit, and especially not when the softness of your fingertips comes in contact with his left cheekbone in the gentlest of movements. not when you treat him in a way that transforms even the sting of antiseptic into a feeling of love. of care. he can't even be mad at the hello kitty band aid you top it all off with.

“there. now take a shower. i'm not dealing with the sweat of a man on my new linen sheets.”

“and here i thought we had something.”

you scoff. “fresh clothes are laid out on the washing machine, you big baby.”

“you forgot something, though.”

“what? are your legs inju-”

he grins, steals a brief kiss, purposefully prodding his sweaty fingers into the fat of your cheeks, and the bathroom door shuts before you can react to anything. 

-

it doesn't take long for the mattress to dip slightly, and you relax as soon as you feel him behind you. a pair of strong arms wraps around your middle, pulling you into a comfortable embrace. somehow, he manages to stay warm, even after spending the dreary nights of gotham winter outside.

when your hands rest atop his, his fingers engulf yours, rugged skin across a pattern of smoothness. he leans forward, kisses your shoulder, nuzzles his chin into your space. it is only when he's this close to you, no room for secrets left, that he allows himself peace. 

“love you, jay.”

too fatigued for a verbal answer, you merely feel his grip tighten in response, but it's enough for you.

if an observer passed by the two of you this very instant, no matter how long their glance may last, they would be able to identify solely one thing: tranquility.

[gardenofhearts]

LADS headcanon- comforting you through ovulation cramps

This is very self-indulgent. I'm one of those unlucky few that gets monthly ovulation cramps and they can get so bad😭 so I wrote this little headcanon as a way to deal with them. I hope someone else can also get some comfort out of this💕

This is my first entry in the Love and Deepspace fandom so sorry if any of the boys feel ooc.

Characters in order: Rafayel, Xavier, Zayne, Sylus, Caleb Warnings: Sylus' bad singing, a bad pun Likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated🩷

Rafayel

He's most definitely the man who would try to distract you with humour, he is the meme king after all. Expect stuff like egg puns because he finds them eggceptional. Or he will send you the werewolf ripping their shirt off meme with some ridiculous text about ovulation (Like this). Anything to pull a laugh out of you.

Rafayel might also known of some old Lemurian remedy to help ease the pain which he would no doubt give you, and he would offer to run you a lovely bath.

If you were comfortable enough, he would stay with you in the bathroom, or even in the bath. He would help you forget the pain by helping you wash your hair, and body, making sure to give you a lovely massage.

He’s an artist, he uses his hands a lot and I believe he would be so good at giving massages. Massaging is all in the fingers, and he knows exactly the right pressure to apply to help loosen some knots.

I also believe that he would soothe you by singing Lemurian songs. He sings really well and the foreign words would put you at ease very quickly, and after a relaxing bath you would both relax in bed.

Although he did those things willingly and would do them again and again, he would complain and act a little bratty.

He would pout and say that there’s no use singing songs you wouldn’t understand, but he didn’t mean it, he just wanted you to assure him that you like those songs.

Xavier

The first time you experienced your ovulation pains around him, he was convinced you had gotten hurt, maybe from your recent mission. Once you explained the phenomenon and how this happens almost every month, he would let out a hum before walking away. Almost seeming a bit apathatic.

However he would quickly return with heavy painkillers that he may or may not have stolen from the med bay.

If possible he would get you home as soon as possible and get you into bed to nap the pain, and day, away.

The moment you express the slightest bit pain Xavier whisks you away in the blink of an eye. Even if you were already at home, one moment you would be standing in the kitchen and an ovulation cramp would hit causing you to let out the softest pained gasp, and the next you were laid on your bed with a mob a light blond hair lying down next to you.

If you were ever struggling to fall asleep because of the pain Xavier would tell you astrology and astronomy things: myths about the zodiacs, tell you about constellations, etc.

Using his evol he would transform the ceiling into your very own little night sky. Although he would say that it doesn’t compare to the actual stars that decorated the sky, it would still be a beautiful sight.

His soft voice and stories make a great recipe for a good night’s sleep, not even the best asmrartist could top it.

Zayne

He’s a very observant man, he would notice even the slightest bit of discomfort plus he’s a doctor so he would know quite a few ways to alleviate the pain.

You also didn’t have to feel embarrassed when it happens for the first time around him. Even if you were hesitant to say it plainly, trust that he would be able to figure out.

If you were unsure about the pain: why it happened for example this man would either dig through his memory and tell you, or do some medical research first and then tell you.

Either way, he would be so patient. If you were angry at the world because of the pain, he wouldn’t mind. he would let you rant and complain as much as you wanted.

He also makes sure that there are painkillers in the house, and on him at all times. So that whenever these ovulation cramps happen, he would be prepared.

He would also soothe you with words and his soft voice, much like his evol he would keep his cool through it which in turns has a calming effect on you.

He would also make sure to crank up his dry humour, because every minute you’re laughing is a minute where hopefully some of the pain is forgotten. I think he would also use his evol to help, maybe put on a little ice magic show to help distract you.

Sylus

The moment he found out the pain that you went through each month, he would subconsciously start to track your cycle and also have Mephisto follow you around so he could observe any changes.

Days before your would experience your ovulation cramps he stocked up his house with whatever you needed. His private chef would have been instructed to cook your favourite dishes: breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert.

Your favourite self care products would be in his bathroom, waiting to be used, he also made sure that your bathrobe was made of the fluffiest, softest fabric so that it would drown you in comfort

Even if these cramps were just a one day thing, it didn’t matter. Sylus would treat them as important as any other thing causing you pain.

He would also offer to be you personal punching bag, he’s a boxer after all, his abs are probably made of steel. If he letting off some steam using his body was the way to help you through the pain, he would happily do so.

Additionally, even though he knows he’s tone deaf, he would still sing for you if only to make you laugh at how bad it was. He hoped that by doing so, he could help but a smile on your face instead of a pained frown.

Caleb

Caleb knew you, almost as well as you knew yourself. He knew you experienced these ovulation cramps so he was prepared. he had been there the very first time and comforted you through it. Caleb didn’t necessarily track your cycle or anything, but he was attuned to you.

He was very good at reading you and he always had a inkling as to when these cramps would happen.

If he’s there to see the way your eyes would widen, the pained gasp you let out, be assured he would scoop you up and get you some painkillers.

He also understands that sometimes you just need to stand there and breathe through the pain. Caleb is also the guy, that in my opinion, would allow you to bite him or something similar in order to forget the pain.

He's also sure to make you your favourite food, or snacks, he would drive across Linkon to get you what you craved. Your comfort is his priority.

I also believe he's good at massages, he's massaging your shoulders, back, glutes, calves, every inch of your body to help you and also as an excuse to touch you. That's why he learned how to massage after all, so he could use it as an excuse to be up close and personal.

If scientists ever develop a machine that could transfer your pain to him, even for a small time, Caleb would empty his live savings to get it. If it was in his power, you would never be in pain ever again.

Thank you for reading!

Also what do you think of the gradient used on their names, can you tell where I got the inspiration from?🤭

Disclaimer: gradient divider made by me. English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

[impyssadobsessions]

Ahh I'm so glad I got to draw this! The Guess that Artist event in Haunting Heroes discord really gave me a reason to revisit this oneshot, Some Things You Just Can't Speak about by starfirez. Its just such a cute short story. I tried to make the change obvious. And I know the lighting doesn't show, but I purposely made Jason's palette red and Dick's cool tone to match who he was going to turn into >w< There somethings im not completely happy with but I adore how baby jason came out <3

Some Things You Just Can’t Speak About (4399 words) by starfirez Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: DCU (Comics), Batman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, Batfamily (DCU), playstation as a metaphor for love, just run with it please, Sibling Bonding Summary: "Go away Bruce, I ain’t talking to you," Jason said hotly. "Not Bruce," Dick replied, trying not to be offended by the mistake as Jason lifted the sheet to examine him. "Just me." "Yeah," Jason agreed, almost bitterly. "Just you." The more things change, the more they stay the same.

[awesomestarfighter]

#you are so right for this one #'read another book' in this case is 'consume another Transformers media' #and I hate how everyone keeps forcing stupid comic continuity in everything #like when I went to read what I thought was a G1 fanfiction but then Megatron started to spew some bullshit about revolution #this is why I'm so hesitant to watch Earthspark #Megatron is NOT a good guy. He never was. And making HIM some poor revolutionary and AUTOBOTS the real villains was such a stupid decision

mtmte people are the mcu fans of transformers