#hunches can be based on vibes

[utilitycaster]

not to be a buzzkill (genuinely - I think what I'm proposing is more fun, not less) but whenever I see a post that's like *tying my clownshoes* <absolutely baseless theory> I'm just like. You can just make a post that says "I'd really like to see XYZ happen." Like, you can stop pretending something self-indulgent that makes absolutely no fucking sense - and you know it makes no fucking sense, because you're referencing the clown makeup - is a valid theory, and trying to find the tiniest shreds of not-even-evidence to twist into a shaky house of cards. You can just be like "I want to see this thing, because it would make me happy," and no one can question or dispute that and you can stop digging into how unlikely it is and actually enjoy yourself.

[muniimyg]

i forgot if you mentioned what bed chem oc is majoring in, but it would be cute if she went on a whole tangent about that or whatever she’s passionate about to jungkook, or idk even a tour or demonstration similar to what he showed her in the lab one time, just so he can be the one learning about her interests for a change!

♡ 01: friday night

series m.list // taglist unavailable

note: welcome to the first of many <3 thank u for sending in ! this scenario doesn't fully answer ur ask but i think it gives good insight to their vibe :)

//

your coffee table is a mess. 

covered in energy drink cans, highlighters, and post-it notes—yet jungkook is the exact opposite of a mess. he’s calm as ever, leaning back against your couch. his legs are laid out, partly for comfort and partly to see if you’ll play footsies with him. as he taps his pencil on the coffee table, you’re hunched over your laptop, reaching your presentation notes over and over again. 

“you spelled neurological wrong again,” jungkook murmurs without looking up from your screen, the tip of his finger casually dragging across your trackpad to highlight it. “you know… if you’re tired, you can just go to sleep. your presentation isn’t until monday.”

“yeah? and?”

he rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “and... it’s friday night. shouldn’t we be doing something… i don’t know. less nerdy?”

you groan, flop dramatically onto the keyboard. 

“less nerdy? coming from you? mr. acid-base equilibrium? you literally watched a documentary on test tube glassware last night.”

“okay, that was cinematic.” he tilts his head, smirking. “besides, people are gonna think i’m a bad boyfriend. they’re gonna blame me for this sad little study date. my reputation as campus hot nerd boyfriend? destroyed.”

“and maintaining your reputation is important to you because…? are you trying to impress someone?”

he opens his mouth.

you lift a brow. “answer properly, chem boy.”

his grin widens—lazy, warm, and entirely unbothered. he leans forward until his knee knocks into yours under the table. the silence after is familiar, laced with quiet breaths and clacking keys and the soft humming of your brain still sorting through your script.

you’re practicing for your final psych presentation—“how attachment styles influence communication in emerging adult relationships.” you’d picked the topic because it felt personal, but lately it’s felt almost too personal. every example, every term—hypervigilance, emotional unavailability, rupture-and-repair cycles—sounds suspiciously familiar.

then he speaks again, quieter now.

“do you think i have an insecure attachment style?”

you pause mid-type. turn to squint at him.

“are you asking because you’re actually curious or because you’re bored?”

“yes,” he says. but this time, when you meet his eyes, he’s not teasing.

his hair’s messily pushed back from all the times he’s run his fingers through it. he’s in that hoodie—the one you always steal. the one that smells like detergent and warmth and him. he’s looking at you in that way he only does when something’s been sitting in his chest too long.

you soften. “you… avoid conflict until it explodes. you retreat instead of repair. but—”

his brow lifts.

“but you always circle back. even if it’s awkward. even if you don’t know what to say.”

he nods, barely.

“so yeah. maybe a little avoidant. maybe a little anxious.” then you add with a smirk, “but mostly just annoying.”

he breathes out a soft laugh, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly in his lap. something’s still tugging at him.

“i only asked because...” he shrugs. looks ahead. “i don’t wanna suck at loving you when things get real.”

you blink.

he doesn’t say it dramatically, doesn’t dress it up. just drops it in the air between you like a truth he’s been holding in his mouth all week.

you stare at him, heart thudding so hard it feels like a distraction. so you reach for his hand, slide your pinky over his, and anchor him there.

“you won’t,” you say quietly. then, “we’re both still learning.”

he swallows, turning to you again, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

and then—very softly, with just a hint of mischief:

 “...should i come to your presentation?”

you roll your eyes. “you have to. you’re in one of my case studies.”

“i what—”

[revelboo]

Just wanted to send the good vibes and motivation your way! Love your writings so much! I hope you're able to keep going 😊❤️ I'm loving your Starscream, Ratchet, and Jazz fics but seeing a notif from you makes my day regardless!! 🐸💕

I’m still kind of surprised you guys like my nonsense so much, since this was mostly just me reminding myself that I’m supposed to be writing for fun by having a place away from my serious projects to get my mojo back when I’m mentally drained.

Everything is Alright Pt 25

Starscream x Reader

• Rolling lazily through the clouds, his attention divided between Thundercracker and Skywarp following in his wake and you, he banks too sharply when Skywarp cuts near. “Where are we even going?” Skywarp demands, sullen and bored.

• “We’re on patrol,” he growls back, bristling at the question to his authority. And patrol is a broad term. One with some leeway. While they typically only monitored the airspace around the base, he wanted to range further today. His thoughts keep circling back to you.

• That look on your face when you’d thanked him. It’s been there in the back of his processor all rotation. That smile that was his alone. Distracting him from his duties. Because there are human houses everywhere. Full of strange human things that you might like. That might make you smile for him again.

• He drops from the skies, turbines screaming and after only a small hesitation, the rest of his trine follows. Swooping down on a small house out in the woods away from the towns and cities. Isolated.

• Fisting the hem of your ugly, granny dress, you almost wish you had a mirror just so you can see how bad it is. It’s shapeless, covered in floral print and covers you from the neck to your ankles. But it’s still better than being naked. Marginally better anyway. When the door opens, you turn around smiling. Because he likes it when you do, but also because you want to, you realize. You look forward to seeing him and when has that happened?

• Hands cupped together, his wings flick when he find you on his desk. Waiting for him. Happy to see him. Something eases inside him as he holds down his hands and waits. “You were gone longer today,” you say as you come to him, eyes shifting from his hands to his optics. Worried about him? He taps the side of his hands on the desk.

• “Not even a little curious?” He asks you, tone low and almost teasing. He obviously has something in his hands, but this is new. A game, maybe? You reach up, gripping one servo with both hands and trying to pry it loose so you can see what he has. Apparently that’s the reaction he wants, he chuckles and vents, the warm air stirring your hair. “Don’t want it?” He’s messing with you. Playing. It’s so out of character you’re momentarily surprised, your heart speeding because he’s smiling indulgently down at you and it’s so unlike him. Has he ever really smiled? Not a grin or a smirk, but something real?

• For a moment you hesitate, then you pout up at him and his resolve crumbles. Opening his hands, he spreads out the pile of human things he’s found for you. Waiting for that delighted smile. For the thank you. But you’re silent, reaching and pulling something from the pile. He’s brought you soft things, colorful things. It’s a plush little fake animal you choose, your little hands trembling as you smooth your fingertips over its head from its button nose to an ear. Your shoulders hunch, fingers tightening on the gift, but not smiling. Not happy and his wings begin to tremble, that tightly leashed anger building through him. “No one was home, right?” You ask, voice breaking.

Previous Next

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Furiosa thoughts

About 48 hours after watching, I think my take on Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is coalescing into: I enjoyed it as a Mad Max movie but found it disappointing as a Fury Road prequel.

Any Mad Max movie made after Fury Road was always going to suffer the fate of being compared to Fury Road, which is the best action movie ever made. So like, compared to any other action movie you can think of, Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (we'll call it FMMS going forward) is very very good! It just isn't Fury Road.

The rest is under the cut for spoilers:

The action sequences were compelling. (I was aware I was hunched forward in my seat in tension/anticipation almost the entire time.) Some of them were even brilliant. That long sequence where the Octoboss and the Mortiflyers (yes those are their names) are attacking the War Rig with all kinds of airborne contraptions? Phenomenal. I was like yes okay now we are in a Mad Max movie! Other than that one sequence, though, in which we see Furiosa and Praetorian Jack begin to trust each other, I thought they rarely achieved the kind of wordless advancement of character relationships through action beats that is the lifeblood of Fury Road. So the action was good, but it was just normal-good, not Fury Road transcendent.

I did miss John Seale's cinematography. While I thought the action choreography was great, the shot selection was just not as dynamic and interesting as in Fury Road. I also really did not vibe with so much of the musical themes being recycled from Fury Road. The Fury Road score is SO memorable and the music is such an integral part of the momentum and feeling of every scene in the movie; I can play that score and see every beat of the action unfolding in my brain now. I wanted new score that felt like it was a part of this new action that we were seeing.

I loved all the new worldbuilding details and finally getting to see inside Gastown and the Bullet Farm. Those locations and their unique features were utilized really well for the action that took place in them. Loved the new details we got about the Citadel. The grappling hooks just dipping down to yoink people's vehicles during battle? Fantastic. The hidden Citadel ledge with the little pool of water?? That was such a fanfic-ready location. Pretty sure I already wrote at least one fic set there back in like 2016.

The Green Place! Very different from what I imagined but so much worldbuilding in just a few shots.

In general I thought the new cast rose to the challenge. Alyla Browne who played little kid Furiosa I thought was phenomenal actually. That's a tough role, both emotionally and physically, for a child actor and she slayed it. Casting Indigenous model and actress Charlee Fraser to play Furiosa's mother certainly made the Stolen Generation parallels more obvious. I'll have a lot more to say about Dementus down below, but Chris Hemsworth brought a great combo of bonkers and menacing.

I never doubted that Anya Taylor-Joy could bring the emotional intensity needed to the role--she can do crazy eyes like nobody's business, and with the growl she put in her voice she really did sound like Charlize Theron a bit. I found her physicality convincing for a young Furiosa. But she is not Charlize, through no fault of her own. Charlize is tall and she has broad shoulders and she just takes up so much space when moving and fighting as Furiosa and I think it was always going to be hard to replicate that. As long as they didn't try too hard to bridge the gap between the characters I was fine with it. But that one scene at the end where she's bringing the Wives to the Rig I was very viscerally like that is NOT our Furiosa. (I almost wish they would've used Charlize's stunt double for that scene the way they popped Jacob Tomuri into Max's place.) They could have simply left a time gap--based on the "15 years" she says to Dementus and the 7,000+ days we hear about in Fury Road there should be at least a 4-year gap between the film timelines, although in terms of bridging the look of the two actors it feels like it should be more like 10 years.

If FMMS had been a self-contained movie about a character named Furiosa in the Mad Max universe, I think I would have found it very satisfying. But as a prequel to Fury Road there were a bunch of ways I thought it was lacking on a story level.

I think it's pretty clear that this is not the backstory, or at least not the complete backstory, that Charlize Theron was imagining while playing Furiosa. Which...there's nothing objectively wrong with that; word of God and what actors think about their characters doesn't supersede what's on film for determining what is canon. However, Fury Road positions Joe as Furiosa's main antagonist, and while we don't get the full story behind the incandescent rage she directs at him, we know that rage is there and is a big part of her motivation. In interviews at the time, Charlize talked about the idea that Furiosa had been stolen to be a Wife but then was discovered to be infertile and discarded, how she survived by hiding in the Citadel and eventually rose to a position of power, how she saw her actions not as saving the Wives but as stealing them, and that her motivation at least starts out as more about hurting Joe than helping these women.

We get only the tiniest suggestion of Furiosa's backstory in Fury Road ("I was taken as a child, stolen") and the rest we piece together by implication. She is a healthy full-life woman working for a man who keeps healthy full-life women as sex slaves, hoping one of them will produce a viable male heir for him. She is effectively a general in his army, projecting his power on the wasteland, a position no other woman seems to occupy. She tells Max she is seeking "redemption." Redemption for what? She doesn't say. But "whatever she has done to win a position of power within this misogynist death cult" seems like a pretty obvious answer.

And that's interesting! That's an interesting backstory that engages with some of the core themes and moral questions of the Mad Max universe. These movies deal a lot with the tension between self-preservation and human connection. Do you screw someone else over to protect yourself? Even if it means putting them in the terrible position that you yourself have clawed your way out of? Even if it means enforcing your own oppressor's power over them? Or do you take the risk of helping people and caring enough to connect with them, even though this carries an emotional and physical risk?

FMMS doesn't really engage with Furiosa's relationship to Joe like, at all. It's not like Joe comes off looking like a good guy. He's just hardly in the movie. I don't know if this would have been different if Hugh Keays-Byrne were still alive. I don't know if there was pressure from the studio to cast an A-list male lead actor alongside Anya Taylor-Joy (who's a hot commodity now but wasn't what I would call an A-lister when she was originally cast). I don't know if, once Chris Hemsworth was cast, that affected how central his character's role became, since he is certainly the biggest name attached to the film. I would have actually been fine with Chris Hemsworth or another actor of his ilk playing a younger Joe, and us getting to see some of the charisma that attracted followers to him.

But the end result is that we have Dementus, who is a perfectly fine Mad Max villain, and quite entertaining at times! But not the most compelling antagonist you could give Furiosa.

The four Mad Max movies that feature Max go through an interesting evolution. In the first two movies, the villains are people "outside" society--criminals and roving gangs--and the people Max is defending are "civilization." So we have Mad Max where Max is a very fucked-up cop, and Road Warrior where Max is the prototypical western gunslinger, riding in to town to protect the settlement from an outside threat, but ultimately unable to accept any of the comforts of civilization for himself.

Then in Thunderdome and Fury Road, the dynamic switches. Now the antagonists are warlords and dictators. They are civilization. And the people Max ends up helping are trying to escape them.

To me, Dementus feels much more like the earlier kind of Mad Max villain. If there's another Mad Max movie I can most compare FMMS to, it's the first one. Dementus is Furiosa's Toecutter. (Kills her family, gives her her signature disabling injury, movie ends with her seeking revenge on him but it doesn't feel heroic or triumphant.) The whole end of FMMS when Furiosa is implacably hunting down Dementus? Extremely Mad Max 1.

But violent revenge holds a different symbolic place in Furiosa's story than it does in Max's. The end of Mad Max is a tragedy because Max tells us it is. He explicitly states, early in the movie, that he needs to stop being a cop or he'll become no different than the violent criminals he's pursuing. So he leaves his job and goes on an extended weird vacation with his wife and child, trying to get away from the violence of a collapsing society. But that violence finds him anyway, and by the end of the movie, Max has become the exact thing he said he didn't want to be. It's a tragedy not because the people Max kills in revenge for killing his family don't deserve it, but because seeking violent sadistic revenge is damaging to Max. That is not what he needs in order to heal from the loss of his wife and child. What he needs is to take the risk of human connection again. This is what he starts groping toward in the following two movies and fully realizes in Fury Road.

But Furiosa doesn't have the same arc. Her story in Fury Road is about how a few people struggling against their oppressor can be the catalyst that brings down a whole regime. Furiosa getting to rip Joe's face off is fucking satisfying, and it's supposed to be! So it's a bit weird, then, to spend an entire movie giving her a backstory that not only is not about Joe at all, but implies that seeking and getting revenge against Dementus for killing her mother and Jack is what made her into the person we see in Fury Road.

Aside from questions of revenge, what I thought Furiosa's goal was going to be is set up in the beginning of the movie. "No matter what happens, find your way home." Very clear objective there. And then we see her try to get home like, 1.5 times. I thought we were well set up to follow the tried and true film story format of "simple goal, big obstacles, high stakes." I wanted to see her trying over and over again to get home, and being thwarted in different ways every time. I wanted to see grief and guilt over her mother's death turn her mother's last command into a mission for which she would sacrifice anything (and anyone) else. I wanted to see her justify working for Joe and accumulating power in the violent world of the Citadel as what she has to do in order to get home. I wanted to see "Have you done this before?" "Many times." But we didn't really get that either.

Ultimately, I think the least frustrating way to think about the film--which the film itself encourages--is as one of many possible Wasteland legends about a character called Furiosa. Maybe it happened this way. Maybe it didn't. Maybe this is the Furiosa we see in Fury Road. Maybe it isn't. It all depends on how much you believe of the History Man's tales.

[thekristen999]

Several Sentence Sunday

Hello! It's been along time, but I think I've coxed The Muse out of hiding. I'm working on something for The 9-1-1, What's Your Movie challenge.

I have zero idea why I gravitated toward this film, mainly becasue I think it would be fun. This is all based on the vibes and not the plot. Lol.

So, have the opening scene while I try to keep the Muse engaged over the next month.

Cookies to those who can guess the film..lol

..

The sun beat down on the back of Buck’s neck as he unlocked the bar’s rear entrance. The stale scent of spilled beer and old pretzels hit him like a wall, a familiar, unchanging aroma of long shifts and late nights. He exhaled through his nose and stepped inside.

The hallway was dim, the scuffed floors bearing the weight of countless footsteps. He flicked on the overhead lights. As he mentally cataloged the day’s priorities—mopping the floors, cleaning the walk-in cooler, maybe even changing the draft lines before the next delivery. Not that he could help with any of it.

He rolled his neck, vertebrae cracking in a sequence that sent a satisfying hum down his spine. His wrist no longer throbbed, but the stupid cast kept him clumsy, weighed down in a way he hated. Another six weeks. Six weeks of fumbled grip, six weeks of side-eye from customers. And his limp—slight but persistent—reminded him that healing wasn’t just a waiting game. Still, he’d be damned if he let any of it slow him down.

When he reached the bar, Buck froze. Chim sat hunched over his laptop at the far end, a lone figure in the midday quiet. A ribbon of smoke curled above his head, twisting in the dim light.

Buck narrowed his eyes. “I thought you quit smoking.”

Chim glanced up, his eyes shadowed. “I did. Then I looked at our finances and started again.”

Guilt flared inside Buck’s chest. “I’m sorry, I should have—”

“Stop. You have nothing to apologize for.” Chim’s voice was steady but raw. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you. I can’t even afford to help pay for your medical bills.”

Buck straightened, jaw tightening. “It’s just a few scrapes.”

Chim snorted, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate stream.

“Besides,” Buck said, “you’re not the one who owes me a dime.”

Chim took another drag off his cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming in defeat.

Buck clenched his teeth. He hated seeing Chim like this—the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on his shoulders. This wasn’t just business. This was their livelihood. Maddie’s livelihood. And he was standing in the middle of it, powerless.

He’d failed them.

Sighing, Chim reached for another cigarette.

Buck’s stomach churned. Yeah, no. This wasn’t happening.

He had to fix this.

Somehow.

...

I know I've been MIA. *hands head down in shame*.

tagging a few peeps.

@mellaithwen @dangerpronebuddie @spotsandsocks

@thelikesofus @exhuastedpigeon @tizniz @dangerpronebuddie

@thebestbooksaround @diazsdimples @andavs

[itzploy]

I've seen to many designs based on Mumbo's greying skin and I had to share my take on it :DD So he's a gothic vampire but I wanted to add in some steampunk-y vibes to tie into this seasons pollute, poison and plants (industrial power plants ofc) motto. Hence he gets jetpack wings that spray out redstone dust as he flies but folds back into a cape so he can strut around with ✨Dramatic effect✨

(ankle length so our tumb-shifting, one finger walking mustachio won't trip on it too much)

And since Mumbo isn't the greatest in PVP, I decided to give him a redstone staff / scythe as an accessory. I'd like to imagine that it has some sort of magic that allows him to conjure up any redstone build, but when it is swung it creates a scythe-like blade from the activated redstone dust that blows off the block. Alternatively it could just be a fancy walking stick since he is canonically getting OLD :,D

I imagine him hunched over on top of his factory, batman style, watching over the townspeople as he's hidden in the fog caused by the smokestacks before taking off, leaving a trail of redstone dust in the wind.

... maybe I'll draw that next ˙ᴗ˙

[lilhiroo]

Expanded on my Oppy design cause he is (unfortunately) my favorite voice

Design notes and general (spoilery) rambles about him below

x points his face downward, maybe even hunch at times, as he's trying to appear small and non-theatening to whoever is in charge. 

x always smiling, eyes closed, to seem as relaxed and approacheable as possible.

x upper back wings never open. They shield the majority of his back, and hide scars of previous betrayal. Lower back wings however he uses as he pleases 

x tail tuft for parallels with Witch

Complete henchman vibes

I've only been in this fandom for like a month or so but I can already see the general fanon of his is like some sadistic backstabber who is methodically planning everyone's downfall which I like... Heavily disagree with. All the voices aren't inherently good or bad, all can help or harm. With Oppy though, since a lot of themes with him involve betrayal and power, it's easy to paint him in more black and white views. In reality though he is extremely in the gray. 

He operates like this- side with whoever has the most power, take any advantages presented, (it's in his name, Opportunist) even if it means betraying someone whom you never even planned to betray. You have learned it's Everyman for himself, because you have been taken advantaged of yourself. You'll build and/or burn any bridge if it means you are safe and in control. It's a fear and survival based system which has some interesting parallels with Paranoid. Paranoid however is irrational and tries to predict situations while Oppy makes decisions/predictions in the midst of what he already knows about a situation. Both can be right or wrong!

Honestly I think he's like one of those experienced but mischievous henchman who's constantly trying to advise their lord on what advantage to take. But in situations like PatD, where the seat of power is suddenly vacant, they just fuck around and experiment with the power available, being an absolute shithead cause, hey! The opportunity presented itself! He doesnt care if it's "right" or "wrong" to take it. Once your back tho it's like "oh hey boss!! I wasn't doing anything :3". Guilty wet dog /affectionate

One last interesting thing is how the chapter 2 he spawns in is mainly one that is achieved by the narrator forcing your hand (and shifty if you already did damsel route). By that point you have committed to rescuing the princess, only then for the narrator to turn on you and force his will. Whether or not you wanted to betray the princess, she perceives your own lack of will in resisting as a betrayal, and thus she turns on you as well so she can survive. Oppy will suck up to the narrator at times cause even if he betrayed you, both you and him are now aware of the power narrator holds. and Oppy knows what the witch will do because he feels and thinks the same as she does. 

Anyway autism ramble over aUagahaehah I have so many damn thoughts and feelings about Oppy. He's not evil, just a pathetic ass henchman. I need to hit him with a rolled up newspaper /silly

[mariamakeslemons]

Kinktober 2024: Day 30 Sex Pollen/Object Insertion

Warning: Reader is Gender Neutral, König is implied under the influence of something so mild Dub/non-con vibes retroactively

König pants heavily, his cock pulsing in his pants as he trudges through KorTac’s base. He needs to find you, his sweet little nurse. You can cure him, he knows you can. Only, when he arrives at the nursing station, he’s told you aren’t there. He huffs and leaves, not willing to let out the whine he wants to in public. Stomping through the halls, he hunts you down. König knows he’s being childish, he’s being the caveman you occasionally joke that he is. But he doesn’t care. He needs you, he needs you, heneeds you, heneedsyou,heneedsyouheneedsyouheneedsyouhenee-

“Oh fuck.” He stops, listening carefully. He’s rewarded by hearing you gasp, “Fuck, need more.” It takes him only a few seconds to figure out which room you’re in and he batters the door down.

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

“Holy shit!” you yelp, covering yourself and sitting on the dildo you were using. It presses in your ass deliciously, but you can’t focus on it. Not with how König is panting in your room, his eyes wild under his hood as he prowls toward you.

“Need you, little nurse,” he rumbles, grabbing your leg and flipping you onto your back. You yelp again, only to moan when he fucks you open with the dildo still in your ass. He wiggles it around, opening you up and coaxing you into an orgasm. You cum, jerking and twitching as König drags the faux-cock from your abused hole. He thoughtlessly drops it on the floor before clamoring on your bed.

“Remember to breathe,” he orders, pulling out his terrifyingly proportionate cock from his pants. You pant and blink before screeching when he presses into your oversensitive body. König groans, dropping enough to hunch over you as hazy eyes stare blankly ahead.

“Fuuuuuuck,” you moan as König rambles in quick German, far too fast for you to really know what he’s saying. Something about ‘perfect’, ‘good tight’ and ‘wife shape’, your brain blurs it all together as just sensations that overload you.

“Take me,” König orders with a growl, one you only heard on the occasion you ended up on the field. This is no longer awkward wallflower König, this is Colonel König who knows exactly what to do. You whimper and pray that you’ll survive.

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

Waking to the sunlight entering the room, König furrows his brows in confusion. His room is internal, with no window and a dingy lightbulb that swings if he bumps against one of the walls even slightly. Opening his eyes, he realizes that he is not in his room. Especially when he looks down to see you cuddling against his chest.

“A-Ah! Little nurse!” he yelps, only to flinch when you smack his bare chest sleepily.

“You fucked me all last night, the least you can do is let me sleep in,” you grumble, cuddling even closer. König flushes, his brain running as he tries to figure out what exactly he did to you last night. All he really recalls is getting sprayed with something while on the field, stumbling on to the heli to leave, then a blurry flashing of color and thought. ‘Pretty’ among them, followed by ‘mine’. König crushes you against him with another whine, barely acknowledging your hand smacking at him for air.

[theswarmsarchives]

i hear your heart beating under the floorboards.

@jontimjune - fieldwork (day 2)

(tw for mold, bugs, vomit/emetophobia and other gross imagery. this is a corruption based fic so keep that in mind. most warnings featured in those forms of episodes should apply here.)

Right, so, can Tim get a raincheck on this whole situation? Is that possible?

Because God knows he doesn’t want to be here, exploring a spooky flat with his irritable coworker. Fieldwork.

This field could work his ass.

For starters, the lights in the damned place didn’t even turn on. Just contributing to the overall ‘you will not be leaving unharmed’ vibe he had picked up since first stepping in.

Second, it stunk.

A rancid smell seeped into his nostrils and set up camp in his lungs everytime he so much as thought about breathing.

And he couldn’t pin the source. Not that he wanted too, but damn him for being curious.

“Tim?” Ah. The aforementioned irritable coworker. Right on time to interrupt his inner monologue.

“Mmmmyeah?” He snapped back to studying the place like he actually wanted to be here.

Yep, quite the interesting torn wallpaper they have. He should really ask the ghosts where they got it. Maybe it was custom ordered.

“Do you have an extra torch? Mine is, ahm— Well, it’s dead already.” Oh, silly Jon, don’t you know that’s the first thing that happens in horror movies? Always keep a few spares.

“Yeah, I do. Do you need me to, like, come to you? Or do I get the honor of listening to you flail around in the dark trying to find me like I’m the light at the end of your tunnel?”

“The first one, please.” And try as the stiff might, Tim knew he had made him smile at most. Maybe even a contained laugh.

Ah, well. He can tease him over that when he gets there. For now?

He aims his torch down the way he had entered, the floorboards bowing under his weight. A steady rhythm of creak, step, drip.

Creak, step, drip.

Creak.

Step.

Drip.

He— He had no idea where the dripping was coming from. It was distant, but audible all the same. Background noise.

Whatever.

Jon’s silhouette came into view soon enough, the man standing hunched in a corner of the room with his arms around himself.

He looked like he had been shaking before the torchlight filled the room. Tim chose to ignore how his heart clenched at the thought. He did not need to feel protective over Jon.

Because Jon was Jon. The man was abrasive, harsh, commanding. He used his words like a whip, wielding them in a similar fashion.

When he wasn’t paired with Tim, that is.

Stick him in Tim’s presence and those walls crumbled at record pace. And of course he was proud of himself for being the cause of that.

What used to be scripted interactions between coworkers had turned to jokes and jests in the span of a few months. They weren’t friends, but they also weren’t not friends. Get it?

“Did one Jonathan Sims order a torch to-go?” He teased, fishing the light out of his bag. He did struggle to get it solely because of how much he’d packed. Why’d you ask?

And obviously he had to hold it far over the other’s head. Obviously.

Jon frowned, unfurling from his little ball in the corner like a flower bud in the morning light. Okay, Tim, leave the poetry to Martin.

He was really starting to sound like—

Nevermind.

Compartmentalize. Pack it away for— Forever, preferably. Never unpack it.

“Tim, it would do you good to listen for once.”

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

His favorite. His favorite tone of Jon’s.

He loves when the other gets all huffy and haughty on him, annoyed by his stupid jokes and pranks. It’s all in good fun, of course.

He knew the difference by now, having accidentally prompted a panic attack once. Yeah, he still felt awful about that.

Horrible, really.

He grew more cautious as a result, adapting to any shifts in Jon’s mood that read as ‘I don’t like this anymore, Tim, please stop.’ And it should be concerning how easily he picked up on those slight differences.

Packing that away too.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” He smirked, dangling the torch just over Jon’s head.

A sharp puff of breath out of his nose, his face scrunching as he tried in vain to reach the thing. Adorable.

Wait— No. No, Tim, not adorable.

In his distracted state, Jon was almost able to grasp the flashlight. By jumping off of his tippy toes. Until Tim spun with his leap.

Until he missed and went falling down as he failed to stick the landing.

A loud thud was all that followed. Oh, and, hello loud ringing in his ears! Nice to hear you again! It’s been a while.

The beam of his torch shifted to where Jon had landed and— Oh.

Oh shit.

“Jon.”

“Yes, I know, haha laugh at the guy who fucking fell. You prick.” His voice was gruff, tinged with embarrassment. Tim did feel bad, but—

“Jon, you broke through the wall.”

“I wh— Oh. Oh, good lord.”

Torn wallpaper peeled back around the edges of the hole Jon had made, the chalky rubble from the drywall collapsed in a pile on the inside. And, well—

He didn’t have to describe it. Surely they’d seen enough. Surely this was more than enough horror for one venture.

“Jesus christ.” Jon continued to ramble beside him, eyes transfixed on the scene with pupils blown out of proportion.

Mold. It was mold. He knew that much. It covered whatever this weird room inside the wall was, the floor, the walls, even the fucking ceiling.

It looked as though the flat itself had developed a bad case of acne, bulbous growths and all.

At least they found the source of the smell. And the dripping noise from earlier. Does that even count as a small victory?

Tim decided against that.

Especially when he saw that the dripping was a result of an awful, yellow substance the growths excreted. It seemed viscous and he didn’t plan on testing to see if he was right.

Oh, and the maggots.

How could he forget the maggots?

They writhed and squirmed all throughout the room, squishing and stretching and making a disgusting, slimy click sound as they did.

A fresh wave of nausea crashed over him, barreling into him like a semi-truck. So, he keeled over.

He turned to the side, as any gentleman would to avoid puking on whoever they were with, and emptied his lunch onto the floor. The bile was bitter, coming up in chunks that left his throat burning, but better out than in.

In this case, at least.

Jon wasn’t doing so hot either. His limbs swayed, woozy, and he was trying to keep from gagging, but Tim could see the occasional shudder his body gave when he did.

He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, the acrid taste of vomit clinging to his tongue. Gross.

“We should—”

“We should get our pictures and leave.” He finished. Surely Jon shared that sentiment.

“Agreed.” Thank God. He was stubborn, but definitely not an idiot. Good to know.

Scounging around for the camera whilst trying to hold his breath was a debacle in and of itself. One which involved him sucking in air through his mouth, realizing he could taste the rot, gagging, and then finally retrieving the device.

And its safe to say they did as they said.

A few snapshots here, a few there, then boom. They darted out of that flat as fast as they were able, not allowing themselves to process what exactly they’d uncovered, just moving right on.

Tim paid for their taxi. And chose their destination. And what did he pick?

A pub, of course.

It was, what, roughly 7 o’ clock? They deserved a treat. Even if Jon wasn’t all too grateful for it.

“I’d much prefer to go home.” He grumbled, tapping his fingers against the cab door all too anxiously for a man who was about to get hammered with his coworker.

Hopefully.

“C’mon, Jon! Lighten up! I mean, we just left a spooky flat and you just want to go home and let that simmer? Want to commit that all to memory or something?”

“Well, ahm— No. No, not really. Of, of course I don’t, but—” Can anyone blame him for clasping a hand over the stuttering man’s shoulder? Force of habit, honestly.

“Then come with me. My treat. Promise I’ll pay for whatever you order. Scout’s honor.” He let his free hand rise to cover his heart, promising.

And, oh, that was— Jon laughed.

Not just the barely there huffs he usually got in reply to his jokes, it was— Warm. Light. It lifted a weight from Tim’s shoulders that he was unaware he’d been carrying.

No, not now. Please, God, not now of all the fucking times. Of all the fucking people.

But, alas, his cheeks flushed and his heart fluttered. And Tim was suddenly very aware of his feelings towards this man he sat with.

Nothing more repressing can’t fix, right?

[ultrakill-confessions]

Homestuck Ultrakill classpects go!!!

Gabriel - Maid of Rage, Prospit dreamer

Minos - Sylph of Blood, Derse dreamer

Sisyphus - LORD of Time, Prospit dreamer

(These are my short-ish explanations loosely based on optimisticDuelist and @/ homestuckexamination's classpects analysis + the official homestuck personality test btw, I haven't studied classpect stuff in years tho so I might be very off lmao I'd love to hear opinions)

Gabriel: Maids tend to have a character arc where they realize they aren't meant to serve someone else, but themselves (Like how Gabriel freed himself from the Council), Rage because one of it's main traits is hating a system built on lies and willing to tear it all down preferring anarchy over such lies (Literally Gabriel), Prospit dreamer is uhh mostly just a hunch, it jus feels right, for reference Prospit dreamers tend to live more in the moment and just be themselves and also tend to tidy up their bedroom, while Derse dreamers tend to live in the past, putting up a mask to hide their true self, and having a messy bedroom. So yeah idk Gabriel has Prospit vibes

Minos: Sylphs are selfless creators/makers. Blood is the aspect for someone who is an inspirational leader, whose strength comes from close friends and allies. Derse dreamer... is also a hunch lmao, he'd just look better in the Derse's purple clothes don't you think? He also seems like the type that constantly thinks about the past.

Sisyphus: Lords are Commanders, and it's also one of the most powerful classes (along with it's selfless counterpart, the Muse), the Time aspect is for people who constantly fight agaisnt what fate has in store for them. Prospit dreamer because he lives in the moment being himself, no need to think too much about past failures. Also he'd look terrible in purple clothes lmao.

This probably sounds like a bunch of nonsense to non-homestucks but I hope those who read everything enjoyed it lol, I'd also love to hear other classpects headcanons, I'll try to make more if I can think of it, I tried thinking of one for V1 but I don't think his personality and story arc is all that clear to make one for him.

-

[vanillablankcanvas]

"I'll try my best to explain how I do stuff" 💖

1. Strike a pose

How you pose them adds to the look. - Back straight or hunched? - Chin up high or low and shy? - Hands on hips with an attitude or spread out ready for a hug?

2. Pick a vibe!

Mermaid? Cottagecore? Sun and Moon? Science Nerd? Find a bunch of pics that remind you of the character and it should help with the colour scheme and the shapes. E.g. Sonnet is very artsy but also a very private person, so Dark Academia and Autumn Vibes suit her heaps.

3. RAINBOW!

With your chosen vibe, you now have an idea for their colour palette! If you're still having trouble, search "Wedding Colour Palette" or 'Colour Aesthetic' for ideas.

The Pop Royal Family seems to be paired with blue-green colours that contrasts with their warm toned skin.

4. The Shapes!

Endless shapes! Try all the shapes! You can go off real life or the already existing designs for clothing shapes.

5. Le Details

Stitching, buttons, zippers, jewellery? Tattoos and piercings? Rips and tears? A busy and adventurous character might have a lot of pockets. An older characters hair may not be as straight and upright! The little details tell a story: - Did they make it themselves? - Is it old clothing? - Are they rich? What materials and stuff do they have access to? A Techno Troll would have a hard time sourcing leather. A Funk Troll's style is more eccentric with big shapes. Pop Trolls tend to have a simpler, nature based style depending on the Troll.

6. Final Notes

- If something isn't working, think bigger! - Try another colour, another shape - The crazy idea you had? Do it! - Have fun!

"Hope this helps even a little. Let me know if you have any questions"

💖

[mlqueen89]

Six Sentence Sunday

since i'm still slaving away over the next chapter of my jake seresin x ofc fic, here's some more glen!

i can do it with a broken heart - glen powell x ofc (wip)

Aimee was hunched over her laptop in her trailer, a half-eaten granola bar abandoned next to her as she furiously typed out revisions.

Isla had sent her no less than 9.5 texts (.5 being an emoji with its head exploding) in the span of three hours and Aimee was determined to finish up before she collapsed, exhaustion and starvation winning out over the hyperfocus that kept her fingers flying over the keys. A stack of crumpled notes littered the small table beside her, casualties of her frustrated scribbles, notes and to-dos alike.

The crumpled to-do sticky note that reminded her to change her phone number and not give it to Isla was somewhere in that pile. She'd just have to write another note to remind herself of that reminder.

Isla had asked, no, begged, Aimee to take another shot at the scene on the writing end. It was a rewrite of the kiss, or writing out an Ivy death scene.

I swear to-- Isla had whisper yelled, evening out her tone as her assistant mad scribbled notes, I'll replace her if I have to. We'll get another Ivy or just another love interest. We'll just say based on the book, instead of screen adaptation.

For confirmation on this, Isla had looked up as her assistant, Missy, who was already shaking her head, the mop of red, curly hair pinned into a high, swishing ponytail, flopping around her face as she drew her hand across her throat. No budget, Missy had rasped with a grimace, an attempt to match the conspiratorial theme.

Aimee, Isla had grasped Aimee by the shoulders by now, please. Work your magic, fix this.

The Ivy and Ben kiss scene needed more depth, more weight—Isla had tutted Aimee after they'd had to call it a day without the pivotal shot because Lila just wasn’t getting it--the subtle undertones, the spark, even after Aimee had nailed it with Glen in just one reference run-through. Aimee worked past the sudden lump in her throat, her heart suddenly racing with the memory, her stomach dropping as the feelings played through her body, even now. That had been weeks ago. Weeks when they'd cycled through other shots and had finally come back to this one with no luck.

When the knock at the door a few feet away shook her out of her head, Aimee answered too quickly, her voice pitched as if she'd been caught red-handed. As if her feelings were painted across her forehead in neon lettering. "Yup. Yeah, come in."

A sharp stab of light immediately had her squinting as the door swung open.

"Jesus, Wright--" Glen took the two short stairs into the trailer in one long-legged step. There was a rustle of a takeout bag balanced in his one hand and the two coffee cups in the other and suddenly, the small space was filled with the smell of fresh caffeine and MSG.

Aimee groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over her face. “I hiss at the daylight, intruder,” she intoned. “I am one with the darkness. The light, it burns.”

Even as she said it, there was a small part of her that chased after the words as they left her mouth. Why was she so weird sometimes?

She expected a comment from Glen in his usual tone, about how it tracked, what with her pale skin and her near Victorian era orphan on their deathbed vibe. She even had the response lined up, Nope, just Canadian. Born of snow, ice and apologies and all that.

Instead, Aimee could almost hear the eyeroll, sense the smirk as he spoke. “It’s literally six p.m. and you’ve been in here all day, haven’t you?” She could hear him move toward the small kitchenette to her right and the rustle of the bag told her he'd set the food down. “Have you eaten anything?"

“Maybe,” she said, peeking out from under her arm. Her stomach growled, as if on cue.

"I meant other than a stale granola bar.”

"I've absorbed the essence of Isla's anxiety and I've eaten my words, with an in-season side of healthy superstition," Aimee struggled to keep a straight face, "I didn't knock on wood last week when I said this can't get any worse. Very avant-garde, it only costs an ounce of my sanity and about 90 seconds off my life, per serving."

Glen tsked, shaking his head as he unpacked the food.

Taking a moment to scan him, standing in her trailer, shuffling things around on the counter feet away from her like it was a normal, every day thing he did, Aimee processed. She could peg his outfit (blue dress shirt, rolled up on his forearm and a dark pair of jeans) as the costume from the third scene in the second act, the one where Ben takes Ivy dancing. 6 p.m. he'd said -- this was his break from set. Here he was talking to her about taking breaks and he hadn't even had a minute to relax himself. Nevermind the time it had taken him to wrangle food.

It took Aimee a moment to stop staring when he spoke again, his eyes (thankfully) not turned back to her yet--how was it that he managed to look this good in anything? “C’mon, take a break.”

Aimee sighed, carefully saving her document before swiveling toward him. “Actually, I was about to run the rewrite by you. Since you’re here, feeding me and saving me from running around looking for you, I figure I can exploit you for your opinion.”

Glen handed her a takeout container as she approached and leaned against the counter. “Hit me.”

Aimee cleared her throat and read through the scene, pacing slightly, laptop balanced in one hand as she spoke, getting lost in the rhythm of the dialogue. She moved her hands, animated, not allowing herself to imagine that the words she wrote would be words Glen spoke, actions he took. Seeing his face when she wrote for Ben was becoming distracting. She'd caught herself once or twice in the last week writing as if Ben and Glen were one and the same, her heart racing and her mind wandering before she realized her mistake. As she erased four pages, her index finger jamming the 'delete' button, she had silently vowed she would stop listening to his voice messages to her (while she wrote) about the importance of cilantro on tacos and how, through personal experience, koalas were really actually menaces hiding behind cute fluffy exteriors. This train of casual conversation on his part had sent her mind off on a trajectory that had her crash landing into thoughts about Anybody But You and blushing furiously. She would have to keep reminding herself to keep on task because she was beginning to realize she didn't hate the way he filled her head like sand between the cracks in her already fragile being, her already unbalanced life.

She'd write a sticky note for that.

To-Do: keep Glen and Ben separate.

On the reverse she'd write: Reminder: Don't fall for him, with a qualifying doodle of a broken heart and a sad face.

Was this what her therapist had meant about using humour to deflect real feelings? Possibly.

When she finished, cursor blinking at the end of the last sentence on her screen, she looked up at Glen expectantly.

He nodded thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s good. Better than what the scripting people got... But you know that already. Can I give you a note?”

She gestured for him to continue, taking the moment to step toward the takeout container, cracking it open and grabbing a forkful of food from the place she'd told him she loved exactly once as he waited by her while the crew reset a scene.

“Alright,” he said, setting his drink down. “So, you know about the 90/10 rule, right?”

Aimee frowned, shaking her head after a moment of flipping through the back of her mind and finding nothing there. “What, is that a baseball thing?”

Glen chuckled. “No, it’s a kind of unspoken rule for first kisses. You go 90% of the way, and you let the other person come the last 10%. It’s about reading the moment, giving the other person the choice. Anticipation, patience.”

Aimee snorted before she could stop herself. “That is not a thing.”

“It is absolutely a thing,” Glen countered, eyes dancing with amusement. Aimee hated the way he made her stomach do weird squiggly things and he obviously had no idea. “You’ve definitely experienced it.”

“Hard no. Usually, guys just," Aimee shrugged, her eyes drawn down to the food in front of her, stabbing aimlessly at a broccoli floret, "I dunno, lean in and hope for the best?”

“Then they’re doing it wrong.” Glen dropped his fork into the takeout container, rolling his shoulders as he straightened and took a step closer to where she stood. Not close enough to crowd her, but enough that she noticed. Enough that he was in her orbit. Enough that she could smell his cologne and sun warmed skin.

Aimee narrowed her eyes, but she still had to tilt her chin to look up at him from where she stood. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

His voice was smooth, calm. He leaned in just slightly, his gaze holding hers. He reached out, his fingers brushing the short strand of hair dangling over her ear and tucking it away. His eyes dropped down to her lips, just a flicker, and then… he stopped. Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, but not close enough to touch.

Aimee’s breath caught, the realization slow to register in her hazy mind. He’s doing it.

Her stomach flipped, that not unfamiliar pull tightening in her chest. The silence stretched, the space between them humming with something unspoken. Without thinking, she tilted forward—just slightly.

And then Glen pulled back, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. “See?” he murmured. “The 90/10 rule. It’s a thing.”

Aimee blinked, heat creeping up her neck. She scrambled for something—anything—to say, scoffing as she turned back toward her laptop. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t.” Glen grabbed his drink again, grinning as he took a sip. "Just add it anyway."

i can do it with a broken heart - glen powell x ofc

a/n: sorry guys, i've teased a kiss... twice in three parts. imagine what i'm not showing you. i'm like a dragon, hoarding the gold. i will reveal that there's a fake dating trope in here somewhere.

tags for this wip: @readingislife @marrianena @dizzybee03 @lunatygerqueen @mrsevans90

@avengersfan25 @obsessed-fan-alert @khouse712 @yuckosworld @marvelouslyme96

@writergirl28 @tgmreader @qutequeersstuff @cardi-bre91 @queenslandlover-93

@stoneyggirl2

[fricc-darn]

HEEYYAAA it's me again with the cross-over asks 😋😋😋 Soo lately I've been getting a little (A LOT) into the linked universe AU, and along side with that, I found out about the self aware au! (Which is basically where Link from any game realizes that he's in a game and there's someone controlling them, which mostly results to them messing completely with the game to communicate and then breaking the screen to be able to be with the player/reader) What would be B. E. N's reaction to that?? Would they get some flashbacks from the cartridge (or even from themselves)???

Hii! To be quite honest, I don't know much about the Linked Universe or the self-aware au, but I definitely get the gist of the latter!

If Link became conscious in the ARG, it would be during the early stages of when the Eternity Project was experimenting with digitization! All of that messing around with the code must've clicked something in his brain. Slowly, Link realizes things are getting weirder. The NPCs aren't acting by their usual programming, and the Elegy of Emptiness is following him around.

However, because of how the game resets, Link doesn't remember everything, only bits and pieces. The only thing he can remember is a heart-sinking dread that something bad is happening. During the time frame of when Link becomes self-aware, there's only a handful of people in the cartridge. It is also before Jad gets his hands on the game. Meaning it is just Kelbris (The Father), Ben, and BEN in the world.

Link isn't one to judge, but he does not get good vibes from certain characters, the Moon Children especially. They're off-putting. Link says/does nothing for two reasons.

One: He won't go antagonizing people based on a hunch. Besides, many of the characters he feels this way about are very cordial! He feels bad for feeling such a way.

Two: He hasn't seen them do anything bad. Only weird behavior, like being in the wrong area or talking freely. To his knowledge, these characters discuss nothing questionable.

Another thing to note is that, at this time, BEN has limited sentience (similar to Link). The members of the hive mind are aware and angry even if they tend to fall in line with their programming. They also know Link isn't supposed to be free-roaming, since there's no one who ascended that got his body.

The group keeps an eye on Link. Be nice; he may be of good use. A key to escape. They also have to play it safe; they're weak at this stage, and who knows what would happen if they died again?

The rage and malicious tendencies eventually boil over. We know once BEN gains full consciousness, everything goes from bad to worse.

When Jad gets the game, Link is at the point where he realizes the statue that's been following him around isn't a threat. That the statue is trying to talk to him. Link and Ben's attempts at communicating with Jad don't go too well. Link can only communicate when he isn't being controlled, and no one can understand what Ben is saying.

Now there's a new issue: BEN is tampering with their attempts at communication and stealing Ben's identity. I feel like BEN would try to get rid of Link indirectly!

[dismas-n-dismay]

Azmidi/Caller Boi headcanons for the soul 😫😫 (based slightly off of my animal traits d(a)emons hcs)

- Cannot, for the life of himself, stand the texture of clothes. They always itch against his scales, though most often he can be seen wearing a large, thinly knitted murky cyan/turquoise sweater Sweetie made him!

He also has a penchant for gathering clothes he likes the feel/vibe of but not actually wearing them and has a little nest made out of them! He mostly gathers ripped jeans and baggy jeans

- Would wear hoodies if his kelp like hair wasn’t so consistently wet that his hoods were always soaked, it sucks

- Cuddle monster with literal autism who NEEDS to be overstimulated with physical touch (like being hugged tightly, or squeeze til his non existent bones crack) or he’ll die and go crazy

His ass would love a weighted blanket

- With a weighted blanket he ends up sleeping like all day and only manages to send Sweetie occasional barely intelligible texts, they’re happy he’s sleeping

- Can also levitate similar to empathy and serenity demons due to his amphibious traits (Magic explaination for this is it’s just his body’s natural state of mimicking floating through water and this it’s Actually harder for him to pretend to be bound to gravity and walk on the floor. So if anything his levitation is the natural state and walking and following the laws of gravity is the hard part so technically he’s in a whole different class from empathy and serenity demons)

- Will chew on his tail or his hair or the trail of hair on his tail 9/10 times you aren’t talking to him and if called out on it he’ll just let it drop out of his mouth plainly to gross you out as punishment

- Honestly this man could use a chew toy he’s Always biting himself out of boredom

- Will make ur bed into a nest with no permission asked and will pout if you ask him to undo it

- Has to be reminded of the amount of space he takes up relative to everything else, he acts like he’s a little guy but he’s like 1.5x the size of a grown ass man (nearly 8 feet when not hunched over)

- Pretty princess and likes to sit on ur lap for fun ! Most people are scared of him and that’s cool but he likes to be treated nicely and sit and be held, Sweetie always indulges him

- Passenger princess as all daemons are. He’s eating in ur car, playing his music in the aux, feeding you Cheetos when ur at a stop light- making eye contact w kids in other cars and scaring them by licking his own eyeball purposely before y’all drive away- he’s a menace but he’s so bbg

- His nickname from Sweetie is Boo, because he’s their boo and also cause he’s cute and spooky. Def has a hoodie/sweater w a ghost on it knitted by sweetie because of it

- Fav cereal would be booberry and he Would be made they don’t make it year round so he hoards all of it from the store for months until it’s out again. One box per month for a whole year 😭

[velvees-archive]

Tags: Seven Year Gap, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Emotionally Unavailable Phoenix, Miles POV

and angst! so much angst, because i can never get enough of it!

VERY MUCH based on @nortsauce’s tiktok—and by extension, tumblr—art. thank you for letting me work some magic on your art! :) i am (clearly) a big, big fan.

“So that’s it.” His tone is even—neutral, almost unbearably so. Residual heat from the coffee container bleeds into Miles’ open palms. Thinking it better to feign calm, he brings the cup to his lips and sips. “You’re in love with somebody, huh?” What little of the steaming liquid had flooded in veers sharply from his windpipe and into his esophagus; eyes wide with mortification, he whips his head in Wright’s direction. “Must you always jump to conclusions?” he sputters. “It’s nothing of the sort!” Wright, for his part, is deathly blank in the face of Miles’ objection. Save for the way he slowly hunches over, shoulders curling in to hide his eyes, he shows no signs of having been affected by his outburst. “It’s alright”—he brings a hand to his nose bridge, pinching lightly—“don’t worry.” Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix Wright, and a cup of coffee to mask unnecessary feelings.

i am a 7-year-gap angst fiend. i eat it up and pump it out like a madman. wish i could say more but the fact is i have two more similarly-themed fics incoming, and i can’t bring myself to be sorry about it

fic screenshot:

no misc musings under the cut this time, just (somber) vibes :)

[raccoonfallsharder]

Hi!! I adore your blog and everything you write, cause it's so wholesome and giving comfort!! I was wondering about your take on this kind of trope between Rocket and the reader (because I can't see anything similar on the internet and I'm biting my walls). But I was thinking about friendly convo with Rocket as a semi new crew member, who's young and maybe more outgoing. Still sarcastic and brave, yet empathetic. And they started to get along, eventually became friends. In my mind it was a late night vibe, maybe something like talking about trauma or just simply comforting. I'm a sucker for anything involving petting him so (👀). Maybe they have something in common, maybe something happened. But some friendly fluff never hurts. I'd love to see your take on this scenario!! I just love your work I'm hoping to see something like that ksjdksjx 🤍🤍

wholesome? are we looking at the same blog lol

dear little sugar cookie sunbeam. you're so sweet and i'm so grateful for this kindness, truly. thank you for your sweet words! i’m so sorry it’s taken so long for me to get around to this. between you and @whitedragoncoranth (who always so kindly sends me adorable raccoon-related videos and little fictions) the two of you have been spinning lovely little thoughts in my head. so this is for the both of you ♡

like, imagine that pete wakes up in the middle of the sleep-shift. there’s something happening in the benetar’s ventilation system, and it doesn’t sound good. a strange sort of pitchy rattle, like something’s come loose. normally pete wouldn’t be the one to notice something like that — rocket’s sensitive hearing would pick up any deviation in the benetar’s normal low murmur long before pete’s “inferior baldbody ears.” but here it is — far too late in the so-called night — and star-lord has noticed something wrong with the ship. and not just any part of the ship — one of the parts most integral to survival in the inhospitable void of space.

so he rises, half-frantic, and goes to find the benetar’s genius creator and resident mechanic.

"goddammit," you mutter, scowling down at the carton of milky-fizz in your hand. normally, you'd be staring out at the stars as they spiraled past: gorgeous glimmering clouds of glitter-dust and refracted light, swirls of color and soft-edged flakes of illumination, haloes and radiant pinpoints — all bright and pulsing against the black jeweler's velvet of an endless sky. tonight, though, you're just pissed, and not even the shimmering specks of a thousand distant suns can ease the cringing ripple of shame prickling up the base of your spine and between your shoulderblades. you hunch your back, trying to shiver it right off your skin.

"hey, kid. what the hell are you doin' out here?"

you pause, shoulders still high under your ears — but when you breathe out, some of your tension goes with it. rocket's an ornery bastard, but he's also your best friend here on the benetar, and if anyone can make you feel better, it's probably him.

not that it had always been that way. your friendship is more or less a recent development. you wouldn’t call yourself new to the crew anymore, but you're definitely the freshest of the guardians family. you'd run into them when they'd stopped back on knowhere after defeating some kind of — god? planet? — and the pilot had clearly not been a fan of further expanding their little crew beyond the recent addition of mantis and, to a lesser extent, kraglin and nebula.

why d'you wanna even do this? he'd sneered. it ain't all fame and fortune.

you'd snorted. fame and fortune? at best, it had seemed the so-called guardians of the galaxy had only earned the suspicious and sometimes-entertained watchfulness of any given band of locals — as if they'd been some troublesome trickster-folkheroes brought to life.

plus, this stupid galaxy's always needing to be saved, rocket had snarked, half-resentfully.

you'd grinned and shrugged. as a matter of fact, i'm here for the job security, you'd only replied, and it had tugged a startled smirk into the corner of his mouth.

"you all right?" he asks now, nearly thirty cycles later.

you sigh. "oh, you know." you wave your carton at the stars behind the armored glass.

rocket snorts. "yeah, i do know," he drawls, one brow winging up. you're not looking at him, so you can't see it — but you can hear it in his voice. "i know exactly what you're doing."

it's your turn to raise an eyebrow. "what am i doing?" you take a swig of your milky-fizz, but rocket doesn't miss a beat.

"beating yourself up for stupid shit."

"ahhhh," you breathe softly into the chill, recycled air. "you would know, then."

"i would," he agrees. "now, c'mon." his hand reaches out and shoves gently at your hip. "you can whine about it while we eat some zargnuts."

you can't help but laugh. after you'd first come aboard, it had only taken a few rotations for the two of you to begin gravitating toward each other. if asked, rocket would have muttered he’d just given you a shot because you’d been the only one who groot seemed to tolerate: mature enough to hold your own with the other guardians, but young enough that rocket's adolescent son somehow — miraculously — hadn’t despised you. luckily for rocket, he'd also quickly learned that you'd been willing to engage in the stupid multi-front prank-wars that he’d had going with almost every other member of the crew. hell, that thing with the frickin’ zargnuts had been your idea — he’d just come up with the tech. the two of you had crept into food storage one rotation, and you’d emptied every bag into jars, then passed each one to rocket. he’d puffed them with air and neatly closed them with the heat-resealing gun he’d crafted as soon as you’d made the suggestion.

drax had been sulky for cycles, and you'd stayed strong, not 'fessing up until mantis had burst into tears after opening her fifteenth empty bag.

still, the majority of the jars of zargnuts are currently residing in the corner of rocket's bunk.

you follow him across the catwalks and down the hatch, passing arched armored-glass windows separating the two of you from the cold void of space. outside the benetar, the galaxy is lit up with spilt-glitter-stars and moons like twinkle-lights. inside, guages and buttons pin the shadows like velvet stage-curtains to the wall, and security orbs stitch them to the edge of the grated floors. most of the other guardians are in bed already, and the narrow corridors are quiet, with only the low hum of the benetar's life support systems echoing a low lullaby. rocket leaps up to tap the sensor that slides open his bunk door, and you throw yourself easily into the pile of cushions in the corner under his hammock. he's one of the lucky bastards with a starboard-side porthole in his bunk, which means the whole little room is softly aglow with the dim blue and mauve haze of stardust. he taps a plasma orb, adding a sheen of gold to the edges of the shadows so that he can dig through his locker more easily, producing a giant, half-eaten jar of zargnuts and sliding it across the thin, faded rug toward you.

"dig in," he orders, and you do — unscrewing the lid and reaching in to pull out a couple of the bite-sized snacks. "you wanna tell me what's got you all knotted up?" he adds casually, tapping the datapad he's got docked on his workbench. some song he's cloned from pete's zune drifts out, melancholy and mellow, across darkness.

"is that california dreamin'?" you ask incredulously.

he listens for a beat, till the chorus hits. "sounds like it," he replies with a shrug, "but you're not gettin' outta answering me, kid."

you sigh and take another sip of your milky-fizz . it goes surprisingly well with the zargnuts. "i almost got pete killed today."

rocket snorts. "what?"

"when that symbiote attacked him, i should've switched over to the disresonator blaster you made, and instead i just sh-shot at it with the rotary cannon and i almost—"

"kid," rocket interrupts, sounding exasperated. "you been in how many fights like this? m'not talking about threatening some jerk with your quadblaster, i mean actually fighting a dozen corrupted klyntar, or some high-powered alien despot, or whatever."

"i dunno," you say dismally. "however many there've been since i started with you guys."

"and this is your first mistake," he reminds you. "and it wasn't even that stupid."

you roll your eyes. "thanks ever so."

"seriously," he says, grabbing another handful of zargnuts. "you know, our second fight was because drax decided to call up the kree accuser we were running from and give 'im our coordinates."

you pause with your milky-fizz halfway to your mouth. "what?"

rocket snickers. "and that jackass is like, old enough to be your dad. at least. he's supposably been fighting way longer." he pauses. "though he did get caught and thrown in the kyln so maybe he was always an idiot about it. what i'm saying is, you don't gotta beat yourself up for doing one stupid thing."

you look at him solemnly, taking in the way the plasma orb gilds the strands of gunmetal and brass in his fur, and the halo of mint-green and rose and purple as you drift past a rainbow-hued nebula.

"what about you?" you ask. the quiet shadows pool around the two of you, cool and just heavy enough to press any anxiety out of your lungs. that's how it always is on these nights with rocket, you think. usually the two of you are on the flightdeck, drinking some of drax's kylosian coffee while rocket flies till you fall asleep — but sometimes you hole up in his bunk or yours, listening to music and telling stories and cracking jokes until one or both of you passed out.

"what about me?"

you wrap the shadows and the starlight around yourself and finish off the milky fizz, setting the plastic carton carefully to one side. "you beat yourself up all the time."

he sighs. "that's different."

"howso?" you challenge, but he slants you a look that glints like red spinels and rubies in the stray starlight, and you know you're not gonna get an answer. you hum a faintly disgruntled, half-playful note. "you know what would make me feel better?"

"no."

you grin, and reach out toward him with both hands, palm-down, rubbing your fingers and thumbs together.

"absolutely frickin' not."

"please?"

"you're annoying."

your fingers don't stop. "you don't have to pretend like you don't like it," you tease him. "i had a friend back on terra—"

he snorts. "you had a friend?"

you pout. "don't be a jackass." you flex your fingers in a grabby motion. "i had a friend on terra and she use to tell me — you know, you are allowed to let yourself enjoy nice things."

he snorts. "oh yeah? and what’d you say to that?"

your grin splits wide. "probably the same thing you’re gonna say to me," you admit with a dip of your head. another gold galaxy swirls slowly past, limning everything: platinum and bronze and sunset edges, melting against the dark violet-blue.

he wings one brow upward. "what’s that?"

you can’t stop the chuckle riding under your ribs. "sounds fake, but okay."

he snickers. "well, you're not wrong."

"c'mon," you wheedle, not letting him out of it that easily. you flex your fingers again, and rub the tips together like you're testing the velvet quality of the shadows, or the fading strains of california dreamin' as they melt into time after time. "please? for me, rocket?"

he raises his brow again, rolling his eyes. they're deep amethysts in the darkness, but every time he moves them, they throw back glimmers of almandine and garnet.

"sounds fake," he mocks, "but okay." he slides across the cushions. "and watch the tail this time. don't need your frickin' elbow leaning on it again."

you fake-scowl. "that was one time," you sulk, winding your arms around him and pulling him in close so you can burrow your fingers into the thick velvet pile of his ears. he immediately cocks his head like he's been secretly waiting for it all night, leaning into the little massage at the base of the twitching appendages. his head his heavy and weighted against your hands, alternating side to side as he tries to push into the pressure of your touch. you'd never point it out to him, of course; he'd stop immediately, you're sure. and you weren't lying — it does make you feel better. millennia of evolution have contributed to this one perfect element of the terran human condition, you suppose: the release of endorphins whenever you get a cuddly animal's fur under your fingertips and palms.

you ease your hands down, stroking long lines over the back of his head, burying your fingers in the fur at the base of his skull and around his shoulders, weaving them into his lush, soft undercoat. it becomes mindless, meditative: his fur gleaming thread by soft thread in the starlight, the hypnotic lullaby of the moons and suns and planets rolling by like round, loose beryls and pearls, the sparkling haze of cosmic dust spilling past the porthole. the music shifting through the dark shadows and puddling in the little pools of light, weaving in between each strand of rocket's fur and the soft valleys between your fingers: fleetwood mac and bowie and kate bush and joy division, all layered into the darkness and the sprinkle of lights — the spray of glitter, the haloed glow; the quiet of your breath and rocket's; the pulse of your shared heartbeats; the sleepy tug of your eyelids. the knowledge that he knows you well enough to recognize when you're ragged at the edges, and the eagerness to help patch you up with zargnuts and music and stories about drax; the knowledge that you'd do the same no matter what. the warmth of him under your hands, his body going relaxed and heavy under your arms, the soft brush of his fur under your chin.

the knowledge that in all of the wide universe, you always have a home with each other.

something rumbles against your belly, where his chest is leaned up against you, and your hands stroke over his back. it's rare that he purrs, and usually brief: but this time he lets it happen, and it grows. the rapid, deep-rooted clicking, like a dark-velvet chirp that never ends, rolls up from his body and into your hands like a gift passed from him to you. it shivers out into the air, tumbling and rippling through the silk shadows, blending with the music, flickering against everything in the tiny room and echoing softly, rebounding, shimmering. you lose yourself in the pattern of it, matched to his inhalations and exhalations. matched to yours. you're drifting into it like an incoming tide, moonlit and starstruck, little waves that lap and tap against your heart and your brain until you begin to doze off while your fingers trace deep little forest-paths into his fur, taking and offering comfort as easily as breathing, as easily as the gentle thump of your hearts against each other. you lose time like that: lost in the sounds of him and the music, lost in the deep blue, the aubergine, the glimmering in and out. you don't so much as stir until there's a thump in the corridor, and then against the frame of the door—

you jolt awake, blinking blearily, and rocket's already torn himself out of your arms and off the cushions as the door slides open.

"what the fuck, quill? i coulda been — i dunno, doing something—"

"there's a problem with the vent system," pete rushes out, sounding nervous and frantic. "i don't know how long it's been going on but there's like a — a rattling, rumbling noise—"

"shut up," rocket snaps, one dark hand extended toward pete in a halting motion, and you freeze as the three of you go still and quiet.

the vents cycle on, hushed and gentle as a breeze in a field of wheat.

you wait.

"i don't frickin' hear anything," rocket growls.

"i don't—" pete starts, looking baffled and almost betrayed by the functioning ventilation system. "it was—"

"what'd it sound like?" you pipe up from the corner, and pete's brows furrow when they focus on you.

"like a kind of a... brrrrrrrrrh," he mimicks, rolling his tongue off the rough of his mouth in a guttural purr.

your eyes go wide, and then shoot over to rocket's. your friend's face is a picture in absolute horror.

"uh," you start, the corners of your mouth twitching as you try to hold back a sudden cackle.

"it's nothing, pete," rocket snaps. "you're imagining shit."

"but—"

"go back to bed!" rocket half-roars, and pete takes one last bewildered glance at the air vents before slinking out the door.

rocket slaps the sensor panel and whirls on you, one claw extended.

"not a fuckin' word," he snarls.

you say nothing. you only smile — eyes sparkling — and reach for him with both hands: palms down, fingertips rubbing against thumbs in a silent demand for more pets.

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