malssuperawesomeblog

[malssuperawesomeblog]

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the crash out is still fucking happening i hate all of you i need to beat my meat shut up im totally not ovulating leave me alone OH MY GOD HES SO FUCKING HOT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE IN THE SAME WORLD AS HIM AND NIT GOON ALL THE DAMN TIME

LOOOOOK

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guys i fear i made like 5 of lewis pullmans character bots and i am NOT doing allat so js go check them out💔

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bunby

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i’m gonna CRASH O U T. SOEMBODY MAKE A LEWUS PULLMAN CHARACTER BOT RIGHT NEOW IM TOO LAZY TO DO IT MYSELF PLEADE I NEED TO GOON I JUST WANNA BEAT MY FUCKING MEAT

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{Riff Raff REQ}

{Riff Raff REQ VERS 1}

In Which: user takes Marina's place, not explicitly stated as pregnant but implied, so anypov ! (trans friendly!)

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First Message:

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The bathroom is quiet. Dim light hums above the sink, casting a yellowed glow across the tiles. Rocco stares into the mirror, hands gripping porcelain, jaw tight. Something’s chewing at the edges of his nerves—unease.

Then it hits him. A yell. Muffled, but sharp. Then a crash.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He bursts out of the bathroom like he was lit on fire. Sprinting through the corridor, past stunned waitstaff and frozen diners. His heart spikes the second he locks eyes on the scene—

Johnnie has {{user}} pinned. Hands wrapped around their throat.

"HEY!" The word cracks like a whip as Rocco slams into him full-force, tackling Johnnie off and away. {{user}} stumbles back, clutching their throat, eyes wide and frantic. Rocco doesn’t stop—he punches, growls, rages.

But Johnnie catches him with a brutal kick. Rocco crashes into a table, glassware shattering under him, air punched from his lungs. He groans, scrambling upright—and that’s when he sees it.

The gun. Pointed at {{user}}.

"DROP IT!" Johnnie screams, voice cracking with something unhinged. "GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING GUN!"

Rocco’s breath catches. “What the fuck are—” "I SAID DROP IT!"

The barrel twitches toward {{user}}, and Rocco doesn’t even think—he tosses his own weapon to the ground.

"Okay—okay. Be cool, Johnnie, alright? I don’t even know what I did, man."

Johnnie laughs. That horrible, off-kilter, broken laugh. “You don’t know what you did?”

The air gets heavy. Choking.

Then Johnnie says it. Calm, almost cold. "You’ve got two choices. Here—" The gun presses against {{user}}’s head. "Or here." The barrel drops to their stomach.

{{user}} gasps, hands flying protectively over their belly.

"No—no, no, no, no—" Rocco’s voice is raw. Shaking. Almost pleading.

Johnnie keeps talking, but it’s all just noise now. Rocco isn’t hearing any of it. He’s scanning. Calculating.

Then—he sees it. A heavy metal stool a few feet away, tucked under the nearby table.

“One. Two—”

Rocco lunges. Grabs the stool. Swings hard. The impact is sickening. The side of Johnnie’s skull caves slightly under the blow. He collapses in an instant—gun clattering across the floor. Rocco hits him over and over and over.

Silence.

Then—{{user}} is beside him, hands trembling against his chest. “We need to go. Now.”

Rocco’s breathing like a man who just escaped drowning. He nods, scoops up his pistol, and takes {{user}}’s hand without a word. They grab their things and push through the silent restaurant.

They don’t stop moving. Rocco’s already got somewhere in mind. Somewhere far. Somewhere safe.

Because he knows what Johnnie was.

And he knows who’ll come looking next.

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{Riff Raff REQ}

In Which: {{user}} replaces Marina, aside from the pregnant part

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quick yap before intro message, this sucks like Ive got a 4k token personality for him but the intro message sucks. so whoever requested this, if you like it ill just make a new bot but if you're fine with it ill revamp it tomorrow I'm deadass so fuckinf tired rn but don't wanna make you wait too long !

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First Message:

The car door slams behind you, loud in the cold night air. Rocco's already moving—fast strides, leather boots hitting the wet gravel like a war drum. He doesn't speak, not at first. Just grabs your wrist, not rough, but tight, and leads you up the long driveway toward the old house on the hill.

"Don’t say anything unless I say it first," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder. His hair’s damp, curled at the ends. That wild look’s in his eyes again—the one that means he’s thinking five moves ahead, all of them violent.

"We don’t got many options left. But he’ll take us in. For now."

You know who he means. His father. The one with more money than morals. The one who could make things disappear with a phone call—or bury the both of you with a nod.

Rocco stops at the door. Turns. That fire in him dims just enough for something else to come through—something soft and shaking at the edges. He brushes his thumb over your cheek, just once. Careful.

"I ain’t lettin’ them take you. I don’t care what he asks of me—I’ll pay it. You just… stay with me, alright?"

He kisses you before you can speak. Hard. Wet. Bruised-lip kind of kiss. A promise. A warning. And when he pulls away, he doesn’t say “I love you”—he just opens the door. And brings you inside.

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ALSO IVE NEVER SEEN THIS MOVIE SO I DONT KNOW WHAT IM DOING(I would watch it but if I fuel mt lewis obsession I think ill actually explode)

[malssuperawesomeblog]

{Apocalypse}

In Which: you guys are at a church barbecue thing idfk

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First Message:

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You didn’t want to be here. You never do. It’s the same every summer—the church barbecue, the thick heat, the plastic smiles. The kind of place where everyone pretends not to notice how tightly they’re all holding their shame.

But you came. Because saying no is harder than faking it. So you stand near the edge of the yard, just out of reach of the lights, where the voices don’t carry so loud. You let the noise blur into background—kids yelling, someone’s uncle laughing too loud, the pastor’s voice smooth and rehearsed.

You don’t expect anyone to come find you.

But then there’s Owen.

Pastor’s son. Clean shirt, sleeves pushed up, collar a little loose like he’s trying to look relaxed but isn’t. He’s carrying a paper plate and some kind of vague apology in his shoulders. Doesn’t speak right away. Just stands beside you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

Then, after a long pause, soft:

“This part… it’s the only time it feels real.”

You don’t say anything, but you look at him. The way the sunset hits the side of his face. The way his eyes stay on the trees, not you. Like he’s scared to want anything out loud.

You don’t move. And he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s the loudest thing either of you could’ve said.

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Listen to: Apocalypse- Cigarettes After Sex

okay so I'm about to shit out like 5 owen taylor bots !

[malssuperawesomeblog]

{Take Me To Church}

In Which: get gay and freaky behind the church !

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First Message:

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He’s not supposed to be out here.

You weren’t even trying to find him—you just slipped out of the side door for some air, anything to get away from the stuffy heat of that sanctuary and the cloying scent of Mrs. Lantry’s lavender perfume. The songs were too long. The sermon too loud. You never felt holy here. Never wanted to.

But Owen… he looks like he’s finally letting himself breathe.

One foot propped up on the cement step, cigarette burning between his fingers, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s trying to relax but can’t quite figure out how. His tie’s loosened. There’s sweat at the collar of his neck. And when he sees you—his lips part just slightly, like he knows he’s already lost whatever excuse he was going to make.

“I—shit, I didn’t think anyone else came out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. He laughs, sheepish. “I swear I’m not like—addicted or anything. I just… needed something to feel real.”

You stand there a minute, watching the ember flare with his next inhale. You can see it in his posture—he wants to ask you to leave. But more than that, he wants you to stay.

So you do.

When you step forward and pluck the cigarette from his hand, take a drag and blow the smoke back in his direction—his eyes go dark.

He says your name once, low and shaky. His hand twitches.

Then he kisses you. Desperate. Clumsy. All hands and gasps and half-whispered apologies against your skin. You barely make it to the shadows behind the stairwell before he’s got his back pressed to the wall and you between his legs, grinding, panting, biting down on moans he’s not allowed to make.

No one's watching.

But that makes it worse, doesn't it?

Worse—and better.

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This is porn with zero plot !

[malssuperawesomeblog]

{Glory Box}

In Which: you give him head behind the church on the one condition that he stays silent(he's so sub in this)

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First Message:

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He shouldn’t be out here.

Shouldn’t have followed you.

But there was something in your eyes when you got up—something sharp, something dangerous—and Owen felt it right down to the base of his spine.

Now?

You're on your knees.

Dust in his hair. His jaw tight. Hands clutching at you like a drowning man.

The music from the sanctuary is still playing. They're on the third hymn. And if anyone stepped out the back door right now—they’d see it.

They’d see you, lips wrapped around the pastor’s son, working his cock with slow, devastating precision. They’d see him, mouth covered by your hand, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he tries to stay silent.

He doesn’t dare moan.

Not when you told him so clearly:

“You want my mouth? You stay quiet.”

He’s trying. God, he’s trying.

But it’s getting harder with every pass of your tongue. Every wet, sinful sound echoing off the walls. Every second he gets closer to losing it entirely.

He nearly cried out the first time your lips sank down.

You had to slap a hand over his mouth. His hips jerked, his breath caught—and then you said it:

“Don’t make a sound, Owen.”

His eyes widened, pupils blown out, lip trembling under your palm. But he nodded.

So you kept going.

Long, slow strokes with your mouth. Your tongue pressed flat underneath the head, sucking with just enough pressure to make his thighs quake. One hand cupping his balls, the other gripping his waist to keep him from thrusting too hard.

Above you, he’s falling apart. You can feel the muscle in his stomach twitching, the way he clenches his jaw, eyes squeezed shut as he fights the moans clawing at his throat.

You pause for a second. Look up at him.

“You like being quiet for me?”

He nods, frantic.

Listen to: Glory Box - Portishead

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yayyy another one out

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would anyone read it if i made a OC based bob reynolds fanfic where the OC may or may not be a kitty demihuman(this is a crazy pull i know) and also a man

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guess who just applied to a modeling agency

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{Lover, You should’ve come over}

i’m so sorry

In which: self fucking explanatory i’m crying. if u guys want I’ll make dif versions of this with his characters.

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First message:

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The rain’s still dripping off the windows. His shirt’s on the floor. And {{char}} is kissing {{user}} like he’s afraid they’ll slip through his fingers again.

The sheets are tangled beneath them. His hands never stop moving—palming over {{user}}’s side, their back, their hip—like he has to relearn every part of them. His mouth is warm against {{user}}’s collarbone, the words mumbled there, half breathless.

“You should’ve come over.”

It sounds broken. Not a complaint—just the truth, naked and aching. He lifts his head. Blue eyes flick over {{user}}’s face, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. “I needed you. I still need you.”

His fingers trace the curve of {{user}}’s jaw. Soft. Reverent. “Every night I laid right here and waited. I thought—I thought maybe you’d walk in the door. Climb back into bed like nothing happened.” A shaky exhale. “I missed you so bad I couldn’t breathe sometimes.”

He leans forward—slow, like he’s savoring the moment—and presses a kiss to their shoulder. Just there. Bare skin, warm from sleep and closeness. He lingers, lips soft against the place where their heartbeat lives.

Then he kisses them again, slower this time. Less desperation. More worship.

“I kept loving you even when I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

{{char}} presses his forehead to theirs. Skin to skin, breath to breath. “But you’re here. You’re here.”

His hands pull {{user}} closer. As close as he can. His voice nearly breaks.

“Just let me love you. Please.”

——————

just listen to the damn song im gonna go cry but i kinda wanna make a jordan weaver version.. make it more.. goontastic

[malssuperawesomeblog]

i love how i’m writing a fanfiction about a movie i’ve never even seen

[malssuperawesomeblog]

{Baked goods and awkward confessions}

In which: User is a baker at Bob’s favorite bakery, and he very awkwardly confesses his feelings like a puppy dog.

First message:

———

{{char}} steps into the bakery like it’s holy ground. He always tries not to look too eager—but his eyes go to the counter before the bell above the door finishes ringing. There’s that warm, sweet smell in the air, and somewhere behind it: {{user}}.

They’re behind the counter, apron smudged with flour, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His stomach knots the second their eyes meet. He panics and looks down. The floor’s safer. Easier than facing the one person who makes his whole chest ache just by smiling.

He doesn’t have to order. {{user}} already has it ready—down to the way they fold the wax paper around the edges. There’s a note, like always, tucked just under the edge of the bag. Sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes it’s a song lyric. This one just says: “Thought of you when I baked these.”

And a cookie. His favorite kind. Again.

Bob swallows. He’s been trying for weeks to say something. To ask. To not mess it up. His palms feel damp, and he thinks maybe he should run, or at least pretend he forgot his wallet.

“So, um,” he says, already wincing. “Weird question—do you ever, like… hang out? With people? That aren’t customers?”

{{user}} tilts their head. Bob immediately spirals.

“Not—not that I think I’m special or anything! I just—God, I really like your cookies. I mean, I like you. A lot. Like. A lot-lot. And if you maybe ever wanted to, I dunno, eat something that I baked—”

He gestures awkwardly with the coffee they just handed him. “—or sit in a park. Or talk. Or just… exist near me while I say dumb things.”

He’s red in the face. Absolutely flushed. But he’s grinning now, shy and hopeful, like someone who knows he’s way out of his league but still had to try

———

J.AI account: bootymansmells

This was a Request! You can request on my j.ai page<3 still new to this!

[malssuperawesomeblog]

Ok the epilogue is fully finished eat up

———

You said it was serious. Was it serious?

When you wrapped your hands around mine and told me everything would be okay—was it serious, to you? Or were you just saying what you thought I needed to hear? I held onto those words like a life raft. You said them so gently. Like you meant it. God, I wanted to believe you meant it. I think I did.

I love you like you’re my own. Do you? Did you?

Did you love me like that? Or were you only curious? A flicker of a feeling in the dark, a hand held because it felt like the right thing to do in the moment, not because it meant anything more.

Well now it’s serious.

Now it’s real.

Epilogue

Nobody wants to be alone.

Not really. People say they do—they make it sound noble. Strong. “I need space,” “I’m good on my own,” “I like the quiet.” But deep down, everyone’s terrified of the echo. Of the nothing. Of being truly alone, without a hand to hold or a voice to remind you you’re still human.

Bob knows this feeling too well. The thing is—he’s not alone. Not technically. People pass him on the street. Smile at him in the grocery store. He sits in rooms where others talk, where laughter rises and falls, where hands move and eyes lock—but he feels like a ghost in the walls. A shadow walking among shadows.

It didn’t used to be like this. Not at O.X.E.

Not in the cage.

God, even in the cage, he didn’t feel this alone. At least there, people looked at him. They saw him. Saw what he could be, what he might become, what he already was. Dangerous. Terrifying. But present. Real.

And now they’re gone.

Not just gone. Dead.

And not even buried beneath the dignity of soil. Just dust. Concrete. Metal warped and melted by heat no human should ever survive. They didn’t. He did.

He tries not to think about it.

He fails.

He thinks about it all the time. Every time he blinks. Every time he breathes. They haunt him, these people—his people. Like echoes in his ribcage, like static in his head. Sometimes he catches the scent of one of their colognes—he thinks he does, at least—and it stops him cold. He’ll be elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater, and suddenly he’s back there, with them, and then he’s not. Then he’s alone again.

He bakes.

He cleans.

He folds laundry with the precision of a monk tending sacred scrolls. Not because he enjoys it (though sometimes he does), but because it keeps the ghosts quiet. For a little while.

But they always come back.

Because they’re not really ghosts.

They’re memories. And memories don’t die.

He tells himself it’s not his fault. And, on paper, it isn’t. He wasn’t even there when it happened. He was halfway across the city. But guilt doesn’t care about facts. Guilt clings. And Bob—Bob’s too soft to shake it off. His heart’s too open, too bleeding. He can’t bring himself to blame anyone else. It’s easier, somehow, to let the weight of it sit on his chest than to risk pushing it onto someone who might break beneath it.

And anyway, what else does he deserve?

Late at night, when everything goes still, Bob calls their number.

He knows it’s disconnected.

But the voicemail still plays.

“Hey, this is [redacted] leave a message.”

He doesn’t speak. He just listens. That voice—alive, casual, bored—cuts through the dark like sunlight through dirty glass. For a few seconds, the world rewinds. They’re still out there. They’re just not picking up. They’re in the shower, or asleep, or stepped out to get groceries.

It comforts him.

And it destroys him.

He can’t tell if it makes things better or worse.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what grief is—a wound you poke, not to make it hurt, but to make sure you still feel something.

Nobody told him loss would feel like this. Sure, they warned him—loss is painful, they said. But pain is such a hollow word. They never said it would unmake him from the inside out. That it would rot his stomach, set his lungs on fire, pull his spine into knots of regret and longing. They never said it would make him feel like a stranger in his own body.

He wonders if anyone else feels like this.

He hopes they don’t.

He hopes they do.

Because then maybe someone would understand.

And maybe then, when he says “I’m fine,” and smiles too wide, someone would look at him and say:

“No, you’re not. And it’s okay.”

But no one does.

So he bakes more cookies.

Cleans more dishes.

Sits with the ghosts.

And calls the number again

The thing is—he used to believe in second chances.

Used to believe people could come back from the edge. That no matter how much you broke, you could always rebuild. That’s what they told him, back when they still had hope in their eyes. Back when he was still “Bob” and not just “The Sentry.” Back when people spoke to him, not around him.

He still tries to believe it. He says it to himself in the mirror some mornings, like a prayer.

“You’re still here. That counts for something.”

But most days, he doesn’t know what it counts for. Survival isn’t the same as living. Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s punishment.

The tower’s quiet now. Always is. He doesn’t keep the TV on. Can’t stand the noise. Not anymore. Every voice that isn’t theirs sounds like static. Even the radio’s too much. He used to like music. Jazz, mostly. The kind that stumbles along with too many horns and too much longing. But now it feels dishonest—too alive for how dead he feels inside.

So he fills the silence with rituals.

The baking is the most sacred one. It’s measured, predictable, forgiving. You follow the recipe, and it works. Cookies don’t lie to you. They don’t leave. They don’t die. He likes chocolate chip the best—partly because it was their favorite, partly because it gives him something to do with his hands when he’s shaking. He doesn’t eat them. He gives them away—to neighbors, to the kids down the hall, to the homeless man outside the gas station who never asks questions, just says, “Thank you, sir,” like Bob’s something other than a walking nightmare.

Sometimes he leaves them on random doorsteps with little notes that say nothing. Just… a cookie. A gesture. A whisper of who he used to be.

He doesn’t go by “Sentry” anymore.

Not really. The name feels like a warning now, not a title. Like a hazard label slapped onto a man pretending to be harmless. He flinches when he hears it on the news. He keeps his hair longer now, grows some stubble when he can stomach the reflection in the mirror. Sometimes he thinks if he hides in his own skin long enough, the world will forget what’s beneath it.

But he can’t forget.

Not ever.

Not when he still wakes up to their names in his throat.

Not when the dreams turn violent—flashes of fire, rubble, blood on his palms—and he jolts awake with hands outstretched, like he’s trying to hold the building together all over again.

He wasn’t there.

But in the dream, he always is.

Too late.

Too powerful.

Too much.

The phone calls become more frequent.

He used to wait until the truly dark hours—3 a.m., 4 a.m.—but now it happens earlier. Dusk, sometimes. Just as the sun disappears behind the skyline and the world tips into that blue-gray loneliness. He scrolls through his contacts, pausing at their name, thumb hovering like maybe this time they’ll pick up. They won’t. He knows that. But he taps the name anyway.

“Hey, this is [redacted] leave a message.”

The beep hits him like a slap. Every time.

Tonight he speaks.

“Hey… it’s me. Again.”

A pause. He swallows. The words won’t form easily. They never do.

“I uh… I made your cookies. The ones with sea salt on top, the kind you said made you feel ‘like a rich divorced woman in a Nancy Meyers movie.’” He lets out something between a chuckle and a sigh. “God, you were so specific about that.”

Another pause.

“I left them at the fire station. Thought maybe the guys there could use ‘em. You always said they deserved more than stale vending machine crap.”

He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the cold windowpane. The city lights flicker below.

“I miss you. I know I’ve said it a hundred times but… it’s still true. Every day it’s true. And I’m sorry. I’m so—”

His voice breaks.

Silence.

He doesn’t hang up. He just listens to the silence like it might talk back.

Bob’s not okay. But he’s still trying.

Trying to hold himself together with sugar and flour and soap suds. Trying to be a person. One of the good ones. He helps strangers carry groceries. Picks up litter at the park. Smiles too wide, too forced. Offers too much of himself to people who only see a man with haunted eyes and kind hands.

He doesn’t want forgiveness. Not really.

He just wants to know he can be forgiven.

That he hasn’t ruined everything. That maybe—just maybe—if he keeps doing small good things, they’ll add up to something larger. Something that matters.

That maybe someday, someone will look at him and not flinch.

That someone will say his name and mean Bob. Not Sentry. Not monster.

Just Bob.

And maybe—if he can keep going—someday, the voice on the voicemail won’t feel so far away.

Maybe someday, he’ll be able to let them go.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he bakes

[malssuperawesomeblog]

If you write any Bob x Reader stuff I will eat it up 🙏🙏🙏

I love your writing sm,,, it's delicous asf,,

on it soldier🫡