#*aggressive intonation

[nistarot]

I can't help but to say your blog name the same way Vegeta says "Kakarot". My sincerest apologies

im immune to this bc i havent ever seen dragon ball and also i have other things to worry about a lot of the time than words sounding similar

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Urgent Call

"I need your phone."

Tim looks up from his laptop. The boy in front of him looks like he's been dragged to Hell a week ago and just made it back: smudges of soot on his face, his not-so-white t-shirt smelling of smoke, and a nasty looking burn on his hand that he somehow doesn't even pay attention to. Tim thinks back to his mental list of 'Rogues currently on the loose', but it's only Ivy and Harley (who don't even count anymore), and Penguin, who is not known for setting things on fire.

"I can call 911 for you, if you want?" He offers, because this is still Gotham. Despite the fact that a slightly scorched guy casually walking into a coffee shop is not something out of the ordinary here, he's not giving his phone to strangers.

The guy grimaces and starts aggressively rummaging through his pockets.

"No, thanks, ACAB and all that, and they won't do shit here anyway," he says, and then pulls a handful of tangled golden jewelry — rings, chains, necklaces with various gems in them — from his pocket and places it on the table in front of Tim. "I need your phone," he repeats.

Tim stares. First, at the gold — these things look antique, and his parents were archeologists, he knows what he's talking about — then, back at the guy. He looks... ordinary, sans the dirt and smell.

But the burn on his hand looks significantly more healed than it did just a minute ago.

Thankfully, Tim has already had his cup of morning coffee. Which means he is thinking very rationally when he does get his phone out of his pocket and hands it to the guy, just to see what he does next.

"Thanks," the guy grins at him, plucking the phone out of Tim's hand and unlocking it. Tim's eyebrows shoot up — there's a password there! — but the stranger is already dialing in a number and pressing the phone to his ear.

It takes less than a second before someone evidently picks up, and the guy starts talking.

"I have less than three minutes before the phone dies, so listen very carefully. Etrigan is fine, Jason is not, Klarion is still being a bitch. Dora won't help anymore, so you're on your own until Sam makes it there with the staff. I'm in Gotham because, apparently, mazes and I don't mix well together, so if you could summon me back, that'd be cool," he says, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

Tim is back to staring at him. He recognizes some of the names, and, well, one could have been an oddity, two a coincidence, but three is a pattern.

"The fuck you mean you can't, I gave you the incantation two months ago!" The guy raises his voice, his foot tapping on the floor in frustration. "Do you think I just go around giving my summons to people for shits and giggles? Like, yeah, have a spell that unleashes a cosmic being of immeasurable power, use it as a bookmark!"

This interaction, despite Tim only hearing one side of it, gets more and more alarming with every word.

But then, the boy suddenly straightens up and stills, his eyes flashing bright, unpleasantly familiar green.

"You what?" He asks, his voice slipping from just angry to quietly enraged hiss, "Sold it to whom?!" But, before he gets an answer, Tim's phone makes a thin, tiny buzzing sound, and the guy takes it off his ear, looking at the screen.

"No, no-no-no," he mutters, shaking it like that would make it work. To no avail, though: the phone screen flashes a few times and goes black. The guy curses. At least Tim thinks it's a curse because he doesn't understand a word, but the stranger's face and intonation are telling.

"Useless fucking moron of a human, I swear I'm going to drown you in cow shit once this is over," he switches to English, dropping the phone on the table right by the small pile of gold, "I'll bargain your pathetic soul from everyone you've ever dealt with and give it to the Observants, and maybe, after a few millenia of endless Council paperwork, I'll have mercy and sell it back to Lucifer and watch him fry you on a skillet."

...Whoever the boy is, Tim absolutely refuses to ever piss him off, okay. That's an impressive threat to even make, not to mention being able to go through with it.

"Do you need help?" He asks cautiously. If he is getting his context clues right, this is something that involves JLD, and maybe John Constantine specifically since Tim doesn't know any other man who is a magic user, sold his soul numerous times, would care about Etrigan's wellbeing, and could invoke this kind of murderous intent.

The boy looks back at him, his eyes back to normal blue.

"Huh? Oh, no, I doubt this can be helped," he waves Tim off and pinches the bridge of his nose, "Sorry about the phone, but, unless you have a way to yeet me across the globe so I end up in London in the next twenty minutes..." he shrugs, smiling in that helpless 'nothing you can do here' way.

Tim picks up his phone. It's dead, wholly and completely, won't even turn on when he tries.

He really, really shouldn't do that. This is definitely none of his business, and very much out of his capabilities and area of expertise.

But he thinks about the zeta-tube in the Cave.

"Actually," he says, and the guy's eyes snap back to him, a bewildered sort of surprise on his face.

[ozcarr]

talking to the alexa exactly how lego batman talks to his computer

[festus-eats-tabasco]

Let’s talk more about accents in the Riordanverse!

• Percy with rounded New York vowels and that quick run-together way of saying his sentences. Percy with an accent you can’t quite place until he orders some coffee or water.

• Annabeth with a Virginia drawl and long vowels that don’t quite go away, even after years on Long Island Sound. Annabeth, who will randomly spit out phrases like “nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs”, whose cup always fills with sweet tea in the mess hall/

• Carter with a fairly standard American accent until he pronounces a word so bizarrely it’s clear he must have learned it halfway across the globe. Carter, who gets slightly antsy in the same place for too long and goes to language classes at night just for an excuse to practice.

• Sadie with a London accent that’s begun to fade after years in Brooklyn House, who accidentally says “cheers” when people hold the door for her. Sadie, who skips over her t’s and who drops consonants and, like Carter, isn’t exactly sure where her home is.

• Magnus and Alex with strong Boston accents and nasally a’s that Hearth is glad he can’t hear. Magnus, whose accent gets stronger in battle, who intentionally leans into it when he’s on the West Coast. Alex, who makes people guess where she’s from and tells them something different every time, who argues with Magnus over whose accent is stronger.

• Jason Grace with languid California vowels, who drops the end of every word when he’s relaxed and over-enunciates when he’s in charge. Jason, whose accent is only present when he’s comfortable.

• Leo Valdez with a Texan accent to boot and quick clipping consonants, whose accent sounds nearly the same as Annabeth’s to the untrained ear, but insists that they’re completely different every time someone brings it up.

• Hazel Levesque with a thick New Orleans accent, whose vocabulary is peppered with French and old-fashioned phrases and the occasional Southern saying. Hazel, who sticks to Deep South manners (and passive-aggression, when necessary), who orders in French when she goes to a bakery and watched old black-and-white movies when she feels homesick.

• Frank, who sounds American except for when he says “sorry”, who speaks a bit of Canadian French (which Hazel hates, because she can’t understand it), and gets teased every time he says “about”.

• Piper with a slight valley-girl sound that she’s worked hard to get rid of, but tends to slip into when she’s tired or angry. Piper, whose voice becomes sweet and soothing in charmspeak, who understands every fluctuation and intonation and how to use them to her advantage.

• Nico di Angelo with a seemingly standard American accent, until you pick up on the odd transatlantic pronunciation or Italian rolled “r”. Nico with an arsenal of phrases so jumbled and eclectic that people do a double take when he talks.

Just. Yeah. Riordanverse accents.

[revelboo]

I've got brain worms again and I feel like bothering some earthspark darlings.

Perhaps a shared scenario with earthspark wavewave? I love how you write sounders. And watchinf earthspark I've noticed shockwave is..surprisingly well put together, for a shockwave.

(His alt mode had me laughing in stitches tho. Rolling table lookin dude)

🤣 I lost it when I saw his alt mode and how it moved in that one chase episode. There was no taking the rest of the episode seriously after that, I kept backing it up to watch him aggressively skate around. If he was chasing me, I’d just be history. Too busy laughing to run

🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Shared

ES Soundwave x Reader, Shockwave x Reader

• Skin prickling as you work, you risk a glance over your shoulder. And yep, Soundwave’s big, cyclops buddy is still just staring at you. As you watch, his antenna lift slightly. “I can see the utility in having small hands to get into tight places,” Shockwave says, head tipping. “The humans I’ve encountered haven’t been as docile,” he adds, reaching out to touch a servo to your hair. Petting you like a puppy while discussing you like you’re a brand new socket wrench as your jaw clenches. This guy’s at least marginally nicer than anger issues over there currently glaring a hole in you.

• Venting as he watches the scientist stare at you, Soundwave suppresses a growl. Needs Shockwave’s expertise and intellect, but the other mech isn’t committed to helping him. More interested in resuming his experiments and his intel to barter isn’t swaying him. Needs something better to bargain with and his attention slides to you, sees you stiffen like you can feel his stare. There’s a thought. “Humans have other, more visceral uses,” he growls and your face reddens as you turn to glower at him. ‘Such as?’ Shockwave asks.

• Amused when you reach up and push his servo away, your tiny hand is warm against him. Shockingly soft. Head tipping, Shockwave vents and hooks his thumb and servo around your waist and you frown up at him. Little face so easy to read, so expressive when it’s sometimes hard for him to understand what someone else is thinking or feeling. “Soundwave,” you mumble, tone annoyed as you push at his servos before trying to kneel to slip loose and he amuses himself by lowering his hand to keep you from crawling under and you shoot him an adorable, exasperated look. You’re almost as cute as the cow had been.

• Is he seriously about to tell this guy what the two of you have been doing in private? He wouldn’t dare. But scowling at him, you’re pretty sure the asshole would. “An outlet for physical stress,” Soundwave growls, his disgust coming across loud and clear. Like he’s not the one constantly reaching for you, dragging you under him and fucking you silly while snarling the whole time. ‘Interfacing?’ Shockwave asks, antenna lifting and you consider flinging yourself off the table to escape this embarrassment. ‘A trade then? Access to your human for stress relief, in exchange for my expertise in repairing and stabilizing the cassette’s damaged spark?’ And your mortified fury fizzles. He’s trying to pimp you out, but it’s for Rumble? Know these cassettes are all much older than you, ancient compared to you, but after being around them, they feel like your kids as stupid as it is. Want to help them get their brother back. Want to protect this dysfunctional little family that’s not really and never will be yours.

• “Not that either of you’ve bothered to ask,” you snap and Soundwave snarls a warning at you, because you’re not ruining this deal. “But I’ll fuck blinky for Rumble.” What? ‘Blinky,’ Shockwave intones, sounding unsure if he should be offended or not, but Soundwave’s focus is on you staring him down. “Are we doing this now?” You ask, fingers fisting in your top covering. Off balance watching you strip while glaring up at him and as Shockwave watches, there’s the unexpected urge to back out. Realizing he doesn’t want anyone else touching you. Releasing inside you and feeling you come apart in their arms. Jaw working, he turns away.

• “Now,” Shockwave agrees, reaching for you and carrying you to Soundwave’s berth tucked in a corner of the hidden lab. Putting a knee down on the berth as sets you down and mass shifts, he slides the end of his cannon against your hip. Curious. Because this is only research, archiving new data. New sensations. Watches you look him over, before dropping to your knees, hips tipped up and upper body lowered. The fact that you’re being mindful of the restrictions of his frame, a surprise as he kneels behind you. ‘Touch me first,’ you say, shying away when he frees his spike. And you change colors, face reddening as you turn your head away and slide a hand under yourself. “Self stimulation needed?” Reaching to cup you, he hears your breath catch when he touches you, servos sliding against you.

• Eyes closing as he awkwardly fumbles against you before figuring it out and slipping a servo inside you to stroke, you force yourself to relax. This is for Rumble, it’s your choice. Not Soundwave’s. And Shockwave rumbles, servo thrusting inside you carefully as your body heats and responds. This alien is at least nicer than yours. Gentler, his touch uncertain and hesitant, like he’s worried about breaking you. “Slick,” he growls sounding almost surprised as you lay your cheek on your arm and feel him slip his servo out to stare at it, venting softly before gripping your hips and his spike stretches you in a slow drive. “Tight,” he adds, word strained as he begins to move against you.

• Servos clenching and unclenching as you make a soft needy sound and Shockwave’s hips pump against you, Soundwave wants to seize the other Decepticon and drag him away from you. Hates watching the other mech drive deep and rock himself against you to make you moan, before finding a rhythm. Claiming you as his, when you belong to him. It’s necessary. Knows it, but hates it all the same. Those sounds are supposed to be for him, your slick heat meant for his spike. His to frag, claim, and fill. Aggression cranking higher when you move back against Shockwave, enjoying the feel of the other mech inside you and the betrayal strings him tight, makes his spark ache.

• Hips rocking against you, Shockwave feels you somehow tighten on him when you’re already gripping his spike so tightly, like you’re trying to keep him inside you. And you cry out, fisting him in your wet heat. Coaxing him as his hips pump and he groans with his overload, driving deep to release inside you. Feeling a hungry satisfaction as he slips free of you, venting raggedly and you sprawl on your belly, breathing loudly when he bends to vent against you. Maybe Soundwave could be convinced to part with you? Wouldn’t mind keeping you as his own. To accumulate more data.

• Shoving the other mech or of his way, he’s snarling as he stares at you, thighs slick with Shockwave’s release. Knows this was his idea, but he can’t get over another mech inside you, claiming you. And you just shoot him a look, hair stuck to your cheek with sweat, not bothering to move as he hooks an arm under your hips and frees his spike. Bracing his other arm near your head as he buries himself inside you. Did you like Shockwave better? Want the other mech not him? Rutting urgently against you as you moan, his denta grit behind his mask. Wanting to lash out at Shockwave for touching what’s his. Soothing his fury with the feel of you under him, your wet heat welcoming his spike as he moves against you and you moan.

• Angry, hate fucking seems to be his only mode, but it feels so good. On the verge of being too rough as his hips snap against you, snarling like he’s pissed off when this was his idea in the first place. And you’re still wound up from Shockwave, your tired body surrounding you, coiling for another release as his spike drives deep. Crying out his name as you tremble and he keeps rutting against you, snarling in your ear before he’s overloading to fill you. ‘Will this be a long term arrangement?’ Shockwave asks and you swallow a snort as Soundwave stiffens at your back. And he starts moving again with a snarl, riled up and taking it out on you.

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

tl;dr hotboxing the v with stoner!suguru getou [prev] [nxt]

“You gotta stop fidgeting on my lap, you’re gonna make me lose.”

“I’m bored,” you whine.

Nestled snugly in Suguru’s lap, you cling to him like a koala, face buried in his neck. The rich, earthy scent of his cologne—sandalwood, your favorite—does little to distract from the fact that you’re getting zero attention.

You know who is? Gojo (derogatory).

After a long day at work, the thought of unwinding with Suguru was the only thing that kept you pushing through your exhausting shift. Now, thanks to the spare key Suguru gave you, showing up unannounced had become routine. You’d imagined finding him napping or lounging so you could snuggle, but instead, you were greeted by the thunderous sounds of Suguru and Gojo yelling over a video game.

Ever sweet, Suguru greeted you with a warm smile—but not an ounce of eye contact as he hunched over, aggressively mashing buttons. He’d invited you to sit on his lap, promising it was “one last round.”

That was four rounds ago.

At this point, you’ve resigned yourself to either falling asleep to the rhythmic sounds of button-mashing or waiting for Gojo to rage-quit. But a surprising third option presents itself in the form of Suguru’s phone ringing.

Suguru nudges you with his controller. “Mind answering that for me? It’s in my right pocket.”

Rolling your eyes, you reach into his pocket, fishing out the phone. The caller ID reads: 

Toji (Neighbor/Nuisance)

Suguru groans. “Ugh, who knows what crazy-ass shit Toji’s about to unload now.”

Eager for a change in pace, you accept the call and press the phone to Suguru’s ear. “Here, Sugu. I’ll hold it for you.”

Toji’s boisterous voice is loud enough to catch snippets like “no kid tonight,” “get wild,” “casino,” and “can’t say no.” Suguru exchanges a few exasperated grunts before sighing in defeat. “Okay, okay. Meet you down there in 30.”

Suguru signals for you to end the call, groaning as he explains, “So… here’s the deal. Toji’s kid is with his mom, and he just scored ten grand off some hustle. Now he wants to hit the casino. And since Gojo dumped his drug-dog onto him, we kinda owe him.” He grimaces. “We can’t exactly say no.”

Gojo clutches his chest dramatically. “Why does everything I do come back to bite me in the ass?! I need my chakras aligned.”

“You need your brain cells aligned,” you retort. “Let’s just get ready for whatever nonsense Toji has cooked up.”

You twist around, reaching for the zip on the table to “prepare” yourself for Toji’s rough personality. Just as your fingers brush the bag, Suguru puts his controller down, catching your arm in a smooth, practiced motion.

“Nah, we’re good,” he says, his voice calm but with a hint of amusement. “Toji’s gonna smoke us out. Said we could hotbox his car.”

Gojo pauses mid-stretch, eyebrows shooting up as he grabs his navy half-zip from the back of the couch. Tugging it on over his shirt, he lets out a dramatic scoff. His bright blue eyes are wide with disbelief.

“The Honda?!” he exclaims. “Only bad things happen in that Honda.”

You shrug, unfazed. “Tough shit, Mister ‘I Make Impulse Purchases When High,’ Satoru.”

He narrows his eyes at you, dramatically clasping his hands together as if summoning divine wisdom. “Chakra. Alignment,” he intones, deadpan, before zipping up his jacket with a flourish.

Thirty minutes later, you’re stepping out of Suguru’s apartment building to find Toji leaning against his black Honda Accord. He’s decked out in Amiri jeans and a smug grin, fanning a stack of cash.

Toji’s eyes flick to you, shamelessly sizing you up. “Didn’t know you were bringing your little friend along. Not that I’m complaining.”

Suguru steps in front of you, voice low and sharp. “Eyes up here, Toji. She’s not interested.”

Gojo saunters past them, LV messenger bag swinging as he slides into the passenger seat. “Like that’s gonna stop him. He's a menace to society,” he mutters.

Inside the Honda, the smell is… questionable. The seats bear faint stains, and there’s a musky undertone, despite Toji’s claim he “Febreezed it earlier.” Suguru rolls down his window before Toji even starts the car.

“Better enjoy that fresh air,” Toji warns with a grin. “Once we hotbox, no weaklings breaking the seal.”

Gojo scoffs, pulling down the visor to adjust his hair. “How’s Gojo Junior, by the way? You find him a loving home yet?”

“Funny you ask,” Toji smirks. “Sold him to a buddy who coordinates underground dog fights. You can catch him in the doggy ring on Tuesday.”

The car goes silent. Your jaw drops as Suguru sputters. Gojo’s tinted Ray-Bans slip down his nose, his face frozen in horror.

“WHAT?!” you and Suguru exclaim in unison.

“Relax,” Toji chuckles, taking a sharp turn that throws you into Suguru’s side. Suguru steadies you with an arm around your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck. You shudder instinctively, shaking your head as Toji continues. “You said you needed it gone. I did that, didn't I?”

You interrupt, “Let’s circle back to what the fuck that was later. Right now, I need to know where you copped the weed, Toji. Getting laced isn’t exactly on my bingo card.”

Toji chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry that pretty little head,” he says, reaching into the center console with his free hand. He retrieves a blue mylar bag and dangles it between two fingers. “Picked up some gas from the dispensary.”

The car swerves slightly, and Gojo snatches the bag out of Toji’s hand.

“Toji, dear God, focus on the road! I can get you whatever you need!”

Toji smirks, undeterred. “Ah, you don’t worry that pretty little head either,” he teases.

Gojo fake-gags, clutching his throat and miming an exaggerated retch before snatching up the bag.

“Oh shit!” he exclaims, holding it up triumphantly for you and Suguru to see, his bright blue eyes gleaming with playful mischief. “This strain? Mine.” He taps at the fine print on the back of the bag, where, sure enough, his name is inscribed as cannabis breeder.

Grinning like a kid showing off a gold star, Gojo shoves the bag back in Toji’s face. “Cultivated by yours truly.”

Toji playfully jerks the wheel, making Gojo lurch back into his seat, wheezing.

Despite the casino being thirty minutes away, it feels like you get there in ten, bumping into Suguru’s side more times than you can count as the car winds through the streets.

Toji parallel parks right in front of the strip, snugging the car into a tight spot. You cringe with every movement, bracing for the sound of metal scraping metal, but it never comes.

He leans his seat back, invading your already cramped space, and pulls out two rolling trays. One gets passed to Suguru while the other balances precariously on the center console.

“Gotchu doll,” Toji says, swatting away Gojo’s hands as he picks up the mylar bag and starts grinding the weed.

You lean your head on Suguru’s shoulder, watching as he expertly packs the blunt, his fingers flexing with practiced ease. His brows knit together in concentration, and you absentmindedly trace the slit in one of them with your fingertip. The flick of the lighter precedes the soft flare of a flame as Suguru seals the blunt with a lick and lights it with a calm efficiency.

He passes the blunt to you first, winking, his lashes low and dark against his cheekbones. “Ladies first.”

Toji smirks and rolls up the windows. “Get your last breath of fresh air, everyone.”

You comply, taking a deep inhale before the blunt meets your lips. The first drag is warm and sweet, the earthy blueberry flavor lingering on your tongue. By the third, Suguru’s lips press against yours, his tongue sneaking between them as he kisses you deeply, tasting the smoke still in your mouth.

Drawing back, he hums appreciatively. “Mmm, Gojo, your strain’s flavor is so distinct it’s kiss-transferable. Truly one of one.”

Gojo whoops. “No way! I need to start charging more for my work. I’m in the lab cooking like Professor Utonium.” He grabs the blunt from Suguru and hands him the second one that Toji just finished rolling.

By now, the car is heavy with smoke. The faint buzz in your limbs morphs into a warm tingle as Toji launches into a monologue about his latest scams.

“—And if you make a big purchase, I’ll get your money back—ten percent cut for me, of course,” he explains, passing the blunt.

Gojo, giggling uncontrollably, wheezes. “Panhandling in a hotbox is CRAZY work.”

Toji’s reclines in his seat, legs spread wide, “What can I say, I got kids to feed.”

Suguru taps your thigh, drawing you out of a daze. You pass him the blunt with a shaky hand, shooting him a lazy grin. His gaze lingers, warm and heavy, before he takes a long drag.

You take a deep breath, but your lungs only fill with thick smoke, leaving you coughing softly. 

Blinking through the haze, it dawns on you—each of you is now holding a blunt, four in rotation. The air is dense, swirling with the acrid sweetness of burning weed, and the car feels like a hotbox on steroids.

Toji shifts in his seat, the humidity inside making his dark hair cling to his neck. He fiddles with the radio, pausing on a 90s hip-hop station. The bass-heavy beat fills the car as he nods along, a small grin playing on his lips.

“This used to be my shit,” he mutters, lost in the music.

“Old head,” Gojo chimes in, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Without missing a beat, Toji fires back, “I prefer DILF, thank you.”

Your phone buzzes in your lap, the screen lighting up with a message. Suguru notices and leans over, smirking as you open the group chat:

last 3 braincells

sugu: so are we just gonna ignore how toji’s macking on gojo rn HARD

toru: mom pick me up im scared

You bite back a laugh, shoulders shaking as Suguru chuckles quietly against your neck, his breath tickling your skin.

you: am I the only 1 who heard him say kids? as in plural…

toru: YOOO WTF yr right he did!

sugu: aint no mf way

Meanwhile, Toji is oblivious, drumming his fingers on the console and humming along to the music. 

He casts a glance back at you all. “Whatchu kids know ‘bout this?”

toru: 3 minutes

sugu: huh?

toru: 3 min until I crack open my window I feel like I’m suffocating

sugu: nonononononono

you: omg toru me too I’ve choked down 9 coughs you: it hurts so bad

Gojo snakes his hand between the seats, holding up three fingers as he starts a silent countdown. 

You reach over, squeezing his hand in solidarity, your chest burning from suppressed coughs.

Suguru leans into you again, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m officially faded,” he whispers, voice light and hazy.

Finally, Gojo rolls down the window, and chaos erupts.

A dense cloud of smoke billows out, so thick it looks like the car’s on fire. Toji yells, “THE FUCK?!” scrambling to lock the windows, but it’s too late. The night swallows the smoke, leaving the car reeking and Toji fuming.

Outside, you stretch, your movements sluggish as your lungs finally catch some fresh air. The world feels surreal, every sensation heightened and slightly off-kilter. Smoke continues to waft out, curling into the night sky like some supernatural fog.

Toji glares at Gojo, shaking his head. “Y’all are lucky I’m feeling nice tonight,” he grumbles, popping the trunk with a sharp click. “Let’s head in now.”

He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as Gojo circles the car, unzipped bag in hand and a fistful of gummy bears in his mouth. “Welf,” Gojo mumbles, barely intelligible around the candy, “thas was… interessing.”

You swipe a couple of gummy bears from his bag, popping one into your mouth and offering another to Suguru. The sugary burst soothes your throat, and Suguru hums appreciatively as he takes the gummy from your fingers.

Suguru holds up the gummy bear. “Here’s to playing bystander while Toji speedruns going broke.”

Gojo cackles, tossing a gummy into his mouth. “And thus, the world restores its natural order.”

The inside of the casino hits you like a sensory overload in your inebriated state. Flashing lights blur and disorient, leaving you dumbstruck until Suguru’s firm pull steadies you. The air buzzes with energy, a cacophony of laughter, shouts, and the constant chime of slot machines. The sharp scent of liquor mixes with the faint aroma of stale cigarettes. High ceilings and regal gold detailing loom above, exuding opulence, but you can’t shake the feeling of being out of place. Self-consciousness creeps in, tightening around your chest.

Suguru’s hand threads through yours, warm and grounding. You follow him as he trails behind Gojo, weaving through the sea of patrons toward the slot machines. The upturned glances from passersby sting—a mix of judgment and amusement no doubt drawn by the pungent scent of weed clinging to your clothes. You square your shoulders and decide to own it.

Settling next to Gojo, you watch him whip out a wad of cash with zero hesitation. He gleefully feeds the glowing red slot machine, his movements full of fervor. You and Suguru exchange a knowing glance, both having agreed earlier to sit out on gambling. The likelihood of loss was too high for your liking.

But Gojo? Gojo thrives on chaos.

He strikes out again and again, spinning and losing sixty consecutive bets. The grating whirl of the slots feels louder than ever in your ears.

Then, miraculously, he hits a match. Gojo’s eyes light up with disbelief and excitement, his grin infectious. Without missing a beat, he stuffs another ten bills into the machine.

Suguru groans, rubbing his temple. “I want the record to show that when Satoru complains about losing hundreds tomorrow, I’m absolutely saying, ‘I told you s—’’”

“COOME ON, SEVEN! C’MON! COME TO DADDY!”

The booming voice is unmistakable. Toji.

You and Suguru whip your heads around, craning to see where the commotion is coming from. A large crowd clusters near the craps table, and you catch a glimpse of Toji gesturing wildly. You nudge Gojo’s shoulder, but he waves you off without looking up.

“Can’t stop. I’m on a roll.”

Rolling your eyes, you follow Suguru as he pushes through the crowd. People mutter complaints, but you’re too curious to care. Finally, you reach the front.

Toji is at the center of it all, shooting dice with the swagger of someone who owns the place. A hefty stack of cash rests on the table, and the crowd cheers as he rolls another seven. Chips clatter as side bets are placed, the table a kaleidoscope of frantic energy.

“Blow for me, sweetheart,” Toji purrs to a blushing young woman beside him. She complies with a shy smile, and Toji winks before tossing the dice with practiced ease. They land with precision—a perfect seven.

“FUCK YEAH!”

Cheers erupt again, only to be cut short by a voice crackling over the speakers:

“Good evening, patrons. Could the owner of a black Honda Accord parked out front please make their way to the front desk? You are wrongfully parked in VIP. Thank you.”

Toji curses under his breath, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on you. “AYEE, Suguru! Be a dear and handle that for me, huh? I’ll give you a cut of this sweet cash.”

Suguru sighs, extending his arms. Toji tosses the keys, which Suguru catches effortlessly.

You make your way back through the crowd, calling out over the commotion, “At least we’ve got an excuse to leave now! This is insane!”

Outside, the cool night air hits your face, bringing instant relief from the chaos inside. You slide into the passenger seat, sighing as you pull Suguru’s arm toward you and snuggle into his warmth. He hums softly, the blinker ticking as he maneuvers the car toward the parking lot down the street.

The headlights flicker, casting dim light on the uneven pavement. Suguru squints, searching for an open spot. After a few minutes of frustration, he backs into a secluded space far from the casino.

“It’s even farther than I thought,” you mutter, not looking forward to the walk back.

Suguru reclines his seat with a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You nuzzle into his bicep, stroking his fingers.

“What’s wrong, Suguru?”

“This just isn’t how I pictured tonight going,” he admits, tilting his head back with a wry smile.

You kiss along his arm, teasing, “Oh, come on. You’d just be playing video games all night anyway. Don’t act like I didn’t save you from yourself.”

He chuckles, his eyes softening as he glances down at you. “Neglecting you, was I? My apologies, baby.”

He juts his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and the mischievous glint in his eye makes your heart flutter. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you onto his lap.

You crawl over to the driver’s seat eagerly, letting Suguru’s hands guide your legs until you’re firmly settled on his lap. His palms trace the curve of your thighs, warm and deliberate, as he pouts dramatically, his expression expectant.

Turning your face away, you catch a lock of his long, black hair between your fingers, twirling it absently. He reaches up, cupping your cheeks and squeezing gently, forcing your lips into an exaggerated pout.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss you, firm and unyielding.

You refuse to meet his kiss, turning your face further away in defiance. He exhales a quiet laugh, releasing your face to pepper soft kisses on each cheek before cradling your jaw with both hands. His dark eyes lock onto yours, half-lidded with a mixture of fondness and heat. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, his touch languid as it draws teasing circles along your thigh.

The resolve for your bratty act falters under his touch, and your resistance melts. You lean in, capturing his lips roughly, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Teeth graze, tongues intertwine, and the kiss grows hungrier, his low groans resonating between you.

Your fingers trail to the sensitive shell of his ear, stroking lightly. His breath catches, and he grinds against you in response, lips trailing down to the curve of your neck.

“You gonna finally take care of me, Sugu?” you whisper breathlessly. “Right here, in Toji’s car?”

He groans against your skin, biting gently before pulling back to look at you. “Yeah? So needy you need me right here?”

His hands slide under your shirt, palms splaying against your bare skin as he presses a kiss to the base of your throat. His hips buck upward, grinding into you, and a soft moan escapes your lips.

“Want you, Sugu. Need you now,” you murmur, tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

Suguru chuckles low, kissing you again as he helps slide your leggings down, lips never straying far from your skin. You tug at his zipper, freeing him from his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and glistening at the tip, the deep tan of his skin contrasting sharply with the flushed pink of his head, already leaking.

“God,” you whisper, staring at him through your lashes as you lean down, kissing the velvety head. 

Your tongue flicks over the slit, savoring the salty taste of him as he groans, head falling back.

“Pretty girl,” he rasps, “don’t make me wait.”

You smirk, letting your spit drip down his shaft, spreading it in slow strokes before positioning yourself over him. His hands grip your hips as you sink onto him, inch by inch, the stretch stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he groans, holding you steady. “That’s it, baby. So tight, so perfect.”

You bottom out with a gasp, the fullness almost overwhelming, and he grinds you against him, his hips rolling to drive him deeper. The sensation sends a shiver through you, and you bite into his neck to muffle a moan.

He responds with a sharp slap to your ass, the sting making you squeak. “Move, baby. Need to feel you.”

You begin bouncing on him, your pace faltering as pleasure wracks your body. Suguru takes over, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly, his movements deep and relentless. You’re reduced to broken moans, your nails clawing at his chest beneath his shirt.

“F-fuck, Sugu—ah touch me,” you whimper.

He obliges, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing in tight circles. You cry out his name, trembling as the coil in your stomach snaps, leaving you gushing around him.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his heated gaze as he thrusts up into you, chasing his own release. 

His grip tightens, and with a low groan, he spills inside you, warmth flooding your core.

You collapse against his chest, his lips brushing your temple as you both catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair, and you hum contentedly, savoring the intimacy of the moment.

Then his phone vibrates, breaking the quiet. You retrieve it, holding it up as Suguru unlocks it.

Satoru: SOS Toji is down $5k in the hole, and I gambled away all my cash. Satoru: Please come get us. /srs Satoru: Pull up to the front ASAP. Satoru: Now he’s down $6k. Hurry!!!

Suguru reads the messages aloud, his voice tinged with amusement. You both glance at the mess you’ve left on Toji’s seat and exchange a sheepish look.

“Well,” you say, smirking, “he can’t be that mad. Not when he’s already lost sixteen grand.”

Suguru laughs, shaking his head as he pulls you close again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

[taglist: @inthedarkshadows000 @saltyhansen @m0rgui <33]

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (8/?)

WARNING: Graphic violence

A mission goes wrong - instead of punishing Starscream as expected, Megatron finds a different way to get under his skin - making Starscream watch as he beats you up instead.

Haha I lied I guess drunk shenanigans was what I needed to turn the writing tap back on... so here is some angst (!!)

WARNING: Graphic violence

---

The mission was an abject failure.

Gritting his denta, Starscream knows he'll be punished as he stiffly delivers the report to Megatron. At least you're safe in his habsuite - as horrible as it is, you know the drill by now. Not that he likes subjecting you to constant emergency first aid, but at least he can be the one to tank Megatron's wrath.

Helm bowed, on his knees, he braces for the blows to his frame - or would it be Megatron's cannon this time? No pain comes, though - what he doesn't expect is Megatron's silky laughter, which is somehow even worse.

"Oh no, Starscream. You think that you can offer your frame up for punishment and it'll be enough to atone? I think not."

Starscream's optics narrow as he works through what Megatron means. Surely - surely not.

But the cruel smile that warps Megatron's faceplate only grows wider as the increasingly cacophonous sounds of a struggle approach the bridge. Place forgotten, Starscream shoots to his pedes in horror as you are shoved through the doorway, furiously trying to break free from the grip of several low-ranking lackeys.

"Lord Megatron," Starscream says, fighting to keep the tremble of rage from distorting his vocaliser. "you can't. They're barely more than a youngling - "

"It doesn't matter to me what they are," Megatron snarls. His blood red optics flash, a cruel grin splitting his faceplate as he rises from his throne. "All I need to know is that you care."

Starscream lunges forward at the same time you're shoved aggressively before Megatron. However, he's immediately restrained by a flash of blue and purple - Soundwave and Shockwave.

"Starscream: Necessary to the Decepticon cause," Soundwave intones. "Recently: Has been distracted. Reason: Young charge. Conclusion: Going soft."

"I'll show your cassettes soft!" Starscream screeches, thrashing in their grip.

"Cassettes: Aid Soundwave."

Optics wide, you force yourself to face the looming shadow above you.

"Tell me, little one," Megatron purrs, silky smooth. "What have you contributed to the Decepticon cause?"

The fear you feel comes from the knowledge that there's no right answer. Megatron doesn't want to hear that you've been in every battle since Starscream joined the Decepticons, doesn't want to hear that you were the one to patch up his SIC - even if he's probably figured it out. He just wants to hurt Starscream. You steal a quick glance at your commander, unable to maintain his facade with you in imminent danger - wild-eyed and feral in his desperation to reach you because he hadn't anticipated that Megatron's cruelty could reach such lengths, and now you were going to pay the price.

"Nothing?"

His voice slithers into your audials like venomous snakes, infecting your processor with doubt. It's a terrible time to be reminded of your guilt for being unable to help Starscream more - but the slump of your shoulders is what Megatron was gunning for. His optics harden, cold as ice and sharp as flint. You wonder how Orion Pax felt seeing the shift of his optics into something unrecognizable, something monstrous.

"Then, for the good of our cause, I have no reason to withhold from eliminating a drain on our resources," Megatron snarls.

The first blow sends you reeling back, the ringing in your audials reverberating with Starscream's cry. You have no time to recover - another strike to your chassis, a vicious swipe aimed at soft mesh. You stand no chance against the former feared gladiator of Kaon, and everybody knows it. The searing pain has you gasping, servos pressed to the gash in your side - energon, hot and sticky, flows freely over your plates. Megatron circles you lazily, looking vaguely bored.

"Pathetic. Where's the fight in you? It seems that Starscream's training leaves much to be desired."

Okay. Now that you won't accept. Not after everything Starscream has risked for you. You grit your denta and glare at Megatron. If you're destined to meet Primus today, you're not going down without a fight. This, however, seems to please him, because his disgusted expression shifts into one of malicious glee, optics glinting with barely contained bloodlust. "That's more like it," He growls, laughing as you lunge at him with a cry - he easily swats you aside. Scrambling off the floor, you take stock of your enemy - Megatron is twice your size and fully armoured - built, quite literally, like a tank. The only advantage you have over him is flight, and now is not the time to think about fighting fair.

Gathering your energy, you shoot upwards, towards him. He definitely wasn't expecting that - miraculously, you manage to land a kick to his helm. Your efforts barely put a dent in his armour, but in a crazed way, Megatron seems pleased.

His grin is feral as he stalks towards you. "Commendable, little seeker," He says, leering at you. "If you survive this, I will spare you."

You barely manage to dodge his servo as it comes down, but that's where your luck runs out. Already anticipating your move, Megatron grabs your leg as you jet upwards and slams you into the ground. Warnings explode on your HUD - your mechanisms are going haywire, and the impact had shaken something out of place. Your frame radiates pain, pain, pain, but still, you try to drag yourself away - and cry out as Megatron grabs you by a wing.

The snap of plates is an awful, awful sound. That's all you can think of before agonizing pain explodes in your wing, arcing like lightning down your spinal strut. Mechanisms creak, wires snap a little too easily under Megatron's unforgiving servos - you thrash under his pede, frame completely overtaken by agony. Distantly, you hear Starscream's roar of rage, but it's not enough to drown out the screaming spit of static that overtakes your voice.

Heavy blows rain down on your frame, unceasing. Your plates may as well be made from aluminum under Megatron's fists, denting at immediate contact. There's no escape - you flinch away from a punch only to meet claws that shred your plates open like paper. At this point, you can barely see through the energon that stains your frame and drips into your optics. The growing pool of energon beneath your pedes and the sluggishness of your processor tells you that you're losing power fast. Any way you move, there's no escaping the agony the wracks your frame, searing, burning - rushing like liquid fire through your lines, rushing from torn wires to hotly sear over your plates. Worst is the pain in your wing - you're distantly aware that it's broken, hanging by a few remaining wires whose only purpose seems to be ferrying pain to your frame. Horror wracks your frame as you consider that you may never fly again and suddenly, survival seems to be the worst punishment of all.

Your sob for Starscream is the last straw. Baring his denta in a snarl, he activates his thrusters to wrench himself away from Soundwave and Shockwave, throwing himself in front of your broken frame just as Megatron pulls his fist back for the final blow.

"Enough," Starscream hisses, savagely.

For a nanoklik, all is still.

Unexpectedly, Megatron steps back. "Interesting," He drawls, and turns away as if disinterested by the entire affair, completely undisturbed by the explosion of energon that now covers the bridge. "A promise is a promise. Take them to Knockout."

Starscream looks down at your broken frame, snapped wing and shattered cockpit, and for a nanoklik has absolutely no idea how to lift you up without increasing your agony. There's no avoiding it, but you are not granted the mercy of passing out when he does lift you up, a screech of static garbling your vocaliser when you sob at the pain in your wing. "Shhh," Starscream murmurs, his steps frantic as he storms off the bridge. "It's all right now, we'll get you fixed up - "

You know he's desperately trying to rein in his EM field so as not to scare you further, but you can dimly feel the abject panic that vibrates through his plates where he's holding you close. You make the mistake of looking into his optics - Starscream is just as terrified. You've never seen him this panicked, not even when you cracked your faceplate open. Dread wracks your frame at the realization of how bad it must be.

"What if I never fly again?" You sob.

"You will," Starscream says fiercely. "You will fly - I will not accept any other outcome."

By some small mercy, you've slipped into stasis by the time he bursts into Knockout's med bay. Knockout looks uncharacteristically grim - all his tools are laid out, clearly having been warned of your arrival.

His intake flattens into a hard line when he sees the state of your wing. Starscream must have seen it, because his EM field immediately spikes.

"I don't care what you do," Starscream growls. "But that wing must be restored."

"I can rejoin it," Knockout says, sombre. "But I cannot guarantee full use of the wing afterwards, because there's no telling whether the severed sensory nets will reactivate."

Starscream snarls in disgust, his own wings trembling. Before his white-knuckled grip can dent the medical berth, Knockout speaks again, thoughtful but hesitant.

"The other option would be a wing replacement. The success rate is high, but I'm sure you know what the major obstacle to that is."

It barely takes a nanoklik for Starscream to come to a decision. "I will see to it," He says curtly. "I expect you not to question my methods."

Knockout ex-vents. "I'd better get started before they come online," is all he says. "You'd better go."

Starscream nods, expression stony as he pivots to depart the med bay. Rage crackles through his lines, propelling him upwards as he takes to the air. He'd grievously misjudged Megatron, and you had paid the price. Something had changed - the look in the warlord's eyes had been crazed, blinded by bloodlust. Gone was logic and reason. Mindless cruelty had taken its place.

"Megatron is not fit to lead," Starscream whispered grimly to himself. Something had to give.

Megatron is not fit to lead.

And if he had to be the one to incite change... then so be it.

Previous / Next

Edit 1: “If you feel nothing, then why are you shaking?” Cry with me over @xarologys art <3 all the feels :,)

Edit 2: And a bonus snippet inspired by art :D

[bluemantics]

Keith, as a son of Ares, always felt conflicted. When he, Shiro, and Matt first ran through Camp Half-Blood's borders, he was devastated as he watched Shiro turn into a fucking pine tree. Here was his adoptive brother, the only role model he’d ever had, and Shiro's all-powerful father could only "save" his life by turning him into a plant. He deserved better.

It made Keith a spiteful camper for the first few weeks he stayed in the Hermes cabin. So spiteful, in fact, that he took out five Apollo kids in the first half hour of capture the flag. As he stood there in that godsdamned forest and panted over the groaning forms of his fellow campers, a fiery boar appeared above his head.

Matt congratulated him, while Ares cabin immediately staked their claim with aggressive back thumps. Matt had already been claimed the day after they’d entered camp as a son of Athena.

“War bros!” Matt cheered, forcibly fist bumping Keith, who wasn’t nearly as excited about that association.

Despite all the distractions that camp had to offer, Keith could never truly leave behind that orphanage he and Shiro had grown up in. He couldn’t forget the firm, guiding hand on his shoulder or the warm grey eyes that crackled uniquely in certain lights when he did something good. Shiro had made him want to be a better person, even after all the hardships they'd endured.

Keith didn’t care about being good anymore, though. He just wanted his brother back. And to do that, he’d need the attention of Zeus himself.

From what Keith heard, that could only be obtained by true heroes who were worthy of the gods’ blessing. Heroes completed quests.

Keith needed a quest.

Allura, however, had other plans. The graceful centaur explained that the oracle informed her of a special demigod who would be chosen to lead Keith’s quest.

Unfortunately, Keith Kogane was known for being a loner at camp. Even his cabinmates discovered that it was practically impossible to work as a team with Keith, who despite being powerful, often charged recklessly into exercises without much care for those around him (or himself).

To say Keith wasn’t thrilled at his quest being dependent on another person was… well, an understatement. It only got worse when he first laid eyes on the gangly, injured demigod who had allegedly defeated a Minotaur before even setting foot in Camp. Keith stared down at the sleeping boy with an expression of pure disdain, unemotional. The boy stirred and blinked his eyes half open.

“You drool when you sleep,” Keith flatly intoned. The boy just smiled, still barely conscious.

“You have a mullet.”

And with that rousing statement, he passed out again and started to snore. Keith wrinkled his nose. If this guy was actually who his hopes were riding on, he was incredibly fucked.

Shoutout to @tamaytsuki whose PJO AU reminded me of this ficlet I had stored in the depths of my old writing! Their PJO AU has such good vibes

I alsooooo have a part 2 to this

[kaiserposting]

Michael Kaiser — BETRAYAL

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 1.2k TYPE: Humor, Established Relationship WARNING: Kaiser 😰

You wake up to someone shaking your shoulders. This is immediately alarming, but what’s even worse is that once your eyes flutter open, the obnoxious lights blind you. Your eyes shut close again, but you’re confused — for one you did not see the perpetrator, which means there might be an intruder in your house or something, and the other thing is, you recall turning off the lights before going to bed. So maybe it’s a poltergeist or something.

No need to fret for long. Soon enough you hear a familiar voice speak, his tone demanding and intonation annoying (as usual). “What have you done?”

You rub at your eyes some more and try to blink them open. It still hurts, but finally your brain processes that Kaiser has come back. Though the last time you spoke to him about his arrangements after the away game, he claimed he’d come back on Monday in the morning. Instead he’s already home two days earlier at an odd hour.

Did he lie to you? Well, you don’t have enough time to mull on this matter because Kaiser continues.

“How could you do this to me?!”

“Wha… What did I do?”

Nothing noteworthy you could’ve done comes to mind. There is a large amount of drool in the corner of your mouth, so you wipe it with the back of your hand as your awareness stirs more, warding off your drowsiness. While you’re glad it’s no longer painful to merely look at things, it also means you’ll have trouble falling asleep again because of Kaiser’s histrionics rousing you too much.

He’s very much still in his airport clothes and his suitcase seems to have been dumped in front of your side of the bed, placed in such a position which has been undoubtedly calculated with a high chance of your tripping on it in the morning in mind. You open your mouth to scold him about it and to order him to put his shit someplace else, but instead Kaiser keeps making a scene,

“I go out of my way to surprise you by returning at such an inhumane part of the day-”

You roll your eyes while Kaiser gesticulates. Your lack of amusement isn’t a deterrent to him at all, this fact made clear by the way he ignores what you did to go on with his charade.

“-and what greets me when I first step into our bedroom? YOU. Lying in OUR bed. With ANOTHER MAN.”

…

…

…?

“What?” you ask. “What man?”

“He’s right there. Do you think I’m stupid? You think you can gaslight your way out of this one?” Kaiser is still yelling. In fact he’s yelling so much, you’re really considering maybe some man materialized under your sheets because otherwise it makes no sense why Kaiser would be so convincingly angry. And yet you know there is no one else besides you inside of the property, so you can’t muster a response more appropriate than a scratch of your head. “How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through together. Answer me!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the man in your arms!”

“You’re driving me crazy,” you say, both bewildered and stunned by your own perplexity. “There’s no man in my arms!” You’re not even sure why you’re treating this as if you’re giving it any sort of weight when Kaiser is clearly making stuff up for attention and a grand entrance.

“Yes there is. He’s right here.” With unnecessary aggression, Kaiser wrenches something out of your grip and then holds it up in the air, eyebrows furrowed like he just dug in trash instead of take a belonging of yours. With that belonging being the forty centimeter Michael Kaiser plushie you sleep with when he’s gone (its usual residence being the side of the closet he doesn’t use), filling the void on his side of the bed.

Yes, you’re crazy like that, but it’s besides the point. Not to mention you kind of forgot you were cuddling with it, since you were so preoccupied with Kaiser’s strange behavior and unexpected appearance back in the house.

After a moment your stupor wears off. “Are you serious?! You woke me up in the middle of the night to play some stupid joke on me?”

Kaiser smirks at you and lets out an evil and, might you add, effeminate giggle. Then he moves the plush back and forth in front of your face with an expression so smug, you feel a compulsive urge to punch him. “Look at him. His face is so smarmy and he’s just disgusting. Not to mention the way he stares at people is fucking creepy and perverted with that soulless smile. Even his eyes don’t sparkle. Unlike mine, of course.”

You let out a sound of frustration, you can’t hold it in. Why is Kaiser tormenting you with his merch design critiques at a time that can be considered both morning and late at night simultaneously? “Wh- he’s not sentient, how are his eyes supposed to sparkle? And why are you acting like he’s alive?”

Kaiser continues to smile at you. His expression remains smug and serene. It’s obvious he’s not guilty about waking you up at all. If anything he seems refreshed — maybe causing drama with such swiftness has a rejuvenating effect on him.

“Well, he’s modeled after you, anyway,” you say, bringing his attention to where the faults in the form may originate from.

“Honestly I don’t know how you can feel fine sleeping at night next to that thing and not scream in terror when you wake up to it staring at you in the morning,” snarks Kaiser, disregarding everything you brought up.

“Ugh, whatever.” You pluck Michael Kaiser the Stuffed… — animal? Human? No, stuffed human sounds unsettling. You need more rest. — back into your hold and roll over, pulling the blanket over yourself. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t interrupt me with any more of your bullshit.”

Taking satisfaction in making you unhappy, Kaiser snickers at your grumbling. You hear some rustling as he presumably changes, then he turns the light off and pads out of the room to wash his face and brush his teeth. You pray you’ll be able to doze off again.

Another weight joins you and the mattress dips under it while it moves behind you in an ominous manner. Kaiser settles down behind you and pulls you closer. You try to hold off, but end up giving in and turning around to reciprocate his embrace while he tucks you into his chest, Michael Kaiser the Stuffed Animal going forgotten and abandoned once you turn your back on him.

Normally, you would’ve ignored Kaiser and favored the plushie he detests so much over him just to spite him for his stunt, but you’re tired and his body is warm and inviting (not his personality though).

Kaiser moves his arm to reach behind you while you drift in and out of consciousness. There is some movement and then you hear a soft thump as if he smacked something off the bed and it landed on the floor after.

Once the enemy has been pushed out of the premises, Kaiser’s fingers find their way back to you.

___

Who up watching dandruff videos

[dxrlingluv]

I will come back, always

A/N : Reposted because I forgot to put tags, so for that, I will be posting another one-shot later! This was requested, but I forgot to take a screenshot of the ask, so I apologize. Hermes art is from Zieru.

WARNING : Slight angst if you squint really really really hard. GN!reader, protective!hermes.

Word Count : 1.8k

The air in the hidden meadow always tasted of sunlight and wild honey. It was a place tucked away from the world, a forgotten fold in the fabric of the Earth that mortals had long since erased from their maps and their memories. But you remembered. It was your sanctuary, your studio, your quiet kingdom. And, for the past few blissful months, it had become a secret shared with a god.

A blur of motion, a zip of displaced air that rustled the bluebells, and he was there. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, herald of Olympus, and patron of thieves, landed before you with the grace of a feather and the harried energy of a hornet trapped in a jar.

"I'm late, I'm sorry, I know," he said all in one breath, his winged sandals, the Talaria, giving a final, impatient flutter before settling. He ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, his eyes, the color of a stormy sky, scanning your face with a mixture of adoration and anxiety. "Zeus had a sudden craving for ambrosia tarts from Hebe's personal kitchen and decided it was a matter of cosmic importance. Then Hera needed a message delivered to Iris that was so passive-aggressively coded it took me ten minutes just to decipher the proper intonation."

You couldn't help but smile, setting aside the charcoal pencil and sketchbook you'd been using to capture the dance of light on a spider's web. "Trouble in paradise?" you asked, your voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to his divine flurry.

"You have no idea," he sighed, but the tension in his shoulders instantly melted away as he sat down beside you on the picnic blanket you'd laid out. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your temple in a greeting that was both fleeting and electric. "The only paradise I'm interested in is right here." He looked at your sketchbook. "What masterpiece were you creating today?"

"Just trying to draw the impossible," you said, gesturing to the intricate, dew-kissed web.

"The impossible is my specialty," Hermes grinned, his charm as bright and effortless as the sun. He reached into a small, unassuming leather pouch at his hip—a bag that defied mortal physics—and pulled out a nectarine. It wasn't an ordinary fruit; it glowed with a faint, golden light, and its skin was so perfect it looked spun from sunset. "For you. Picked it myself from a tree on the sun-facing slopes of Mount Pelion. The nymphs there guard them jealously, but I'm very persuasive."

You took the offered fruit, its warmth seeping into your palm. This was your life now: quiet moments of art and solitude, punctuated by the sudden, dazzling arrival of a being who moved faster than thought and stole fruit from mythical guardians just to see you smile.

"Thank you," you said softly, taking a bite. The flavor was explosive, a cascade of sweetness and warmth that tasted of summer days and ancient magic. It was nothing like the pale, earthly fruits you were used to.

Hermes watched you, a genuine, unguarded softness in his gaze, as he whispered, "Anything for you." He leaned back on his elbows, the very picture of leisure, but you could see the way his eyes kept flicking towards the sky, the way one foot tapped a restless rhythm against the ground. He was meant to be somewhere else. A hundred somewhere elses. Delivering decrees, guiding souls, overseeing the endless, chaotic commerce of gods and men. Yet, he was here, with you. The weight of that choice was a constant, shimmering presence between you.

"Tell me about your day," he prompted, eager to anchor himself in your world. "Tell me something slow."

And so you did. You spoke of the stubborn goat you'd seen on the path to the meadow, of the melody a finch had been singing, of the way the clouds were shaped like a great, lumbering beast. He listened with an intensity that made you feel like your small, mortal stories were the most important messages in the entire cosmos. For him, in these stolen moments, they were. He would laugh, his voice a rich and melodic sound, and tell you a story in return—of a squabble between Ares and Aphrodite, or a prank he'd played on a pompous minor river god.

He was in the middle of describing how he'd convinced Demeter's disciples that turnips were the new fashionable accessory when he suddenly went rigid. His head snapped up, his playful expression vanishing, replaced by the sharp, focused alertness of a wild animal.

"What is it?" you whispered, your own heart beginning to beat faster.

"Shh," he commanded, his voice low and urgent. He placed a finger on your lips, his eyes locked on the northern horizon.

You heard it a moment later. A faint, impossibly beautiful sound drifting on the wind. It was music, the clear, resonant plucking of a lyre, a melody so perfect and pure it made the leaves on the trees tremble in reverence.

"Apollo," Hermes breathed, his name a curse. He was on his feet in an instant, pulling you up with him. "My ever-so-righteous, all-seeing, golden-boy of a brother. He's looking for me. Zeus must have sent him."

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to grip you, but Hermes's hand was firm in yours. His usual breezy confidence was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency. This was the other side of him—not just the charming god of wit and speed, but the cunning god of thieves, the one who knew how to hide in the shadows.

"He can't find you here," Hermes said, more to himself than to you. "He can't know about you. They wouldn't understand." He scanned the meadow, his mind working at divine speeds. "The waterfall. Come on!"

He tugged you towards the far end of the meadow, where a small, brisk stream tumbled over a rocky ledge into a deep, clear pool. Behind the curtain of cascading water was a shallow cave, slick with moss and smelling of damp earth and stone. He pushed you gently inside, the roar of the water instantly muting the world. He followed, pressing you back against the cool rock wall.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered, his body shielding yours. Through the shimmering sheet of water, the meadow was a distorted, wavering painting of green and gold. The lyre music grew louder, closer. It was so achingly beautiful it felt like a physical pressure, a demand for truth and revelation.

Apollo's voice, as golden as his music, echoed across the meadow. "Hermes! Brother! The All-Father grows impatient! Your duties await. Cease your aimless wandering and show yourself!"

You held your breath, your cheek pressed against the rough fabric of Hermes's chiton. You could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own. He was a god, powerful and immortal, but here, hiding in a damp cave, he seemed terrifyingly vulnerable.

"I know you delight in your games of concealment," Apollo's voice continued, closer now. He sounded amused, as if this were just another one of Hermes's childish pranks. "But a message of great import must be carried to the Underworld. A king has died. The shades grow restless at the banks of the Styx. It is no time for truancy."

A king had died. Souls were waiting. And Hermes was here, with you, hiding from his sacred duty behind a waterfall. The reality of it settled in your stomach like a cold stone.

Through the water, you saw a flash of brilliant gold as Apollo stepped into the meadow. Even distorted, his radiance was undeniable. He surveyed the clearing, his head tilted. "A peaceful place. Quaint. Not your usual style, brother. I expected to find you haggling in a mortal market or dicing with satyrs."

He took a few steps, his gaze sweeping the area. For a terrifying second, his eyes seemed to linger on the waterfall. You squeezed your eyes shut, certain you were discovered. Hermes's arm tightened around you, a silent promise of protection.

Then, with a sigh of divine boredom, Apollo turned away. "Very well. Have your fun. But the wrath of Zeus is not so easily placated as I. I shall tell him I could not find you."

The lyre music began again, slowly fading as he departed. For a long time, neither of you moved. You just stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, listening to the roar of the water and the fading echo of divine power.

Finally, Hermes let out a shaky breath and sagged against you. "That was... too close."

He pulled back, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His eyes were dark with the aftermath of fear and a raw, fierce emotion that stole your breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

You could only nod, your throat tight.

"I'm sorry," he said, his forehead resting against yours. "I never wanted to bring this danger to you. For them, a mortal..." He trailed off, but you understood. To the eternal, unchanging gods, your fleeting, fragile life was a curiosity, a plaything. They wouldn't understand why Hermes would risk so much for it.

"You're worth it," he whispered, as if reading your thoughts. "Risking Apollo's search, Zeus's anger... all of it. This time with you is the only thing that feels real anymore. The only thing that's truly mine."

The setting sun cast long shadows across the meadow, painting the water in front of you in hues of orange and deep purple. The danger had passed, but it had left something new in its wake: a profound understanding of what you meant to each other. This wasn't just a dalliance, a god's whim. It was a rebellion.

"You have to go," you said softly, your hand covering his on your cheek. "The king. The souls."

He closed his eyes, a flicker of his burden returning. "I know."

He didn't leave immediately. He leaned in and kissed you, a kiss that was nothing like his earlier, playful greeting. It was deep and desperate and full of the day's stolen joy and terror. It tasted of sun-warmed nectarines and cool, ancient stone. It was a promise and a goodbye, all at once.

When he pulled away, he reached down and plucked a single, impossibly small feather from the wing on his ankle. It shimmered with an iridescent light, catching the last rays of the sun.

"So you know I'll come back," he said, pressing it into your palm. "Always."

And then, with another whisper of displaced air, he was gone.

You were alone again in your quiet kingdom, the roar of the waterfall a constant companion. You stood there for a long time, the cool, magical feather a tangible weight in your hand. The meadow was silent, save for the crickets beginning their evening song. It was peaceful once more, but it was a different kind of peace now—one filled with the lingering warmth of his presence, the echo of his heart against yours, and the aching, hopeful certainty of his return.

[heartofbusan]

What’s all the excitement in the Jikook tag about? Please help a non-TwiX user understand 🧎‍♀️‍➡️🙏

Oh, hiiii

It's a picture of JM and JK together somewhere, they say, an airport. I saw a drawing of it, and it's honestly so funny 😂😂

The excitement is because the picture implies they went to the U.S. together.

Well... they've been together all this time, so this is just the icing on the cake with an extra large cake topper with both of your initials on it. Like a wedding cake, lmao

I still say Hobi gifted them this Dadaism cake.

Seriously, what was the idea behind this wonderful monstrosity? It's like a child's drawing of a cake came to life.

Beautiful. Horrible? Delicious.

I'm currently on hour 3 of watching their discharge live (which in reality only lasts an hour), but I keep replaying little bits of it. Like when they do saatoori as they are scolding each other. It reminded me of when they were bickering over spam vs. sausage during AYS?! They used the same tone, intonation, the pouty beaks, and veiled aggression.

They say, 'shall I reveal the real you?' shall I tell them how you really are? in such a teasing tone and it's such an interesting peek at their 'real face'. During the live, they say 'we're rough', 'out of practice', so they're having trouble putting on their celebrity face: polite and easily digestible for audience.

They're basically admitting to being much rougher and admit to having fewer boundaries when they're in private.

Their restraint, keeping 'It' in during lives/in public, should be studied. Real diplomats. They can show you one thing and be totally loose and relaxed in private. That's honestly why I believe their privacy is of the utmost importance. How exhausting to constantly have to put on a face, to feel inadequate because you can't be yourself entirely. For them to have those pockets of freedom, should be of all our concern.

I love seeing those real faces 🥺 like I'm genuinely honored to witness that. 💗

Ooof.. this little detail kind of broke me.

Yes, It's slo-mo, and jikook do not need slow-motion, BUT I felt that little extra squeeze needs its moment in the sun. To take center stage. That squeeze is just for them. Jimin thanking Jungkook for the compliment he gave him regarding his performance. Jungkook called him an 'Ace', and we know how Jimin thrives on Jungkook honest compliments. It's like that line from Pride and Prejudice.

"But your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning."

Jungkook is a 'I might not talk a lot, but when I do, it's from the heart' kinda dude.

So, whomever initiated it, that handshake squeeze, is a little extra reassurance and, more importantly, a silent and 'easily digestible for audience' moment of connection.

For jikook, the handshake = kiss

💜

[earthlybeam]

Hi, I just recently started rewatching and getting back into the Hobbit and LOTR and I found your blood and I’m in love with it. I love the way you write and how you portray the characters so well. If you’re still writing for LOTR and are accepting requests then could I ask how you think the elves (Legolas, Thranduil, and Elrond plus whoever else you like) would react to an aggressively affectionate reader? Like for example, with cuteness aggression, randomly when the reader sees Legolas and thinks he’s cute, they end up jumping on him and tackling him, possibly squeezing him extremely hard in a hug. The reader’s acts of aggression affection are random and happen whenever and wherever. The reader just loves their elf so much that they cannot control themselves. Please and thank you

Welcome back to the wonderful world of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings! It’s always exciting to revisit Middle-earth, and I’m so glad you’re enjoying it all over again. 🎉 And wow—thank you so much for your kind words! That truly means the world to me. Writing for these characters is such a joy, and knowing that you love how I portray them makes it even more special. 🫶 I absolutely love your idea! The contrast between the elves’ usual grace and composure and a reader who just cannot contain their love is hilarious and adorable. 🤣🤌

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas and I added Gil-galad all versions below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand halls of Thranduil’s palace shimmered with the golden light of lanterns, their glow casting long, elegant shadows across the polished stone floor. Delicate carvings of twisting vines and woodland creatures adorned the archways, the very walls seeming to hum with ancient whispers of the forest. It was a place of quiet grandeur, of timeless elegance.

And standing near the entrance, draped in robes of deep forest green, was Thranduil—King of the Woodland Realm, ruler of the elves of Mirkwood, a figure of both awe and intimidation. His silver circlet rested regally upon his head, catching the flickering light with an almost ethereal glow. His expression was composed, unreadable, though there was a certain tightness at the corners of his mouth—an unspoken exasperation that only those who truly knew him might recognize.

He should have already been on his way, attending to whatever pressing matter awaited him beyond these halls. He had responsibilities, duties, obligations that demanded his attention. And yet… He could not move.

Because there you were—wrapped around his leg like an overgrown, determined koala, clinging as if your very life depended on it. The long, elegant lines of his robes pooled around you as you anchored yourself to him, arms and legs locked in a vice-like grip. Your cheek was pressed against the fine embroidery of his outer cloak, and from the way you stubbornly tightened your hold, it was clear you had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Thranduil’s sharp, ice-blue gaze flicked downward, his expression a mask of pure disbelief. “…What,” he intoned, his voice as smooth as polished glass, “do you think you are doing?” You barely lifted your head, merely nuzzling further into the warmth of his robes. “No.” A single, elegant brow arched. “No?” You buried your face fully against the intricate designs woven into his attire, voice muffled but determined. “You’re leaving.”

“I am the King,” he reminded you coolly, the words carrying the weight of centuries of command. “I have responsibilities.”

“I don’t care,” you mumbled. Your grip tightened like a vice. “You’re too pretty to leave.” A long, heavy pause. Somewhere in the vast expanse of the hall, a nearby guard shifted awkwardly, very pointedly averting his gaze, as if pretending he wasn’t witnessing this absurd display. The soft rustle of banners and the faint flickering of candlelight were the only sounds that filled the air.

Thranduil exhaled a slow, suffering breath. By the stars, why were you like this? He could handle many things. He had led his people through war and shadow, navigated the treacherous politics of Middle-earth, survived centuries of rule in a realm beset by growing darkness. He had faced down dragons, battled the forces of Sauron, endured loss and grief that could break lesser beings. But this? This unrelenting, absurd display of affection that completely ignored all notions of decorum, personal space, and reason? He did not know what to do with you. “You will release me at once,” he commanded, his voice edged with warning.

You shook your head. “No.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. Thranduil’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was a king. A ruler of elves. A warrior who had seen battle. And yet he was currently being held hostage by a stubborn, overaffectionate mortal who refused to let go of his leg. “Do you truly intend to remain attached to me like this all day?”

“Yes.” Silence. The faintest flicker of something almost imperceptible crossed his features—something caught between frustration and bewilderment. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if considering his next move. Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. And yet, despite the exasperation curling in his chest, there was something else, something he could not quite name. A warmth. A quiet amusement, buried so deep beneath layers of centuries-old restraint that it barely made itself known. No one had ever dared to cling to him like this. Not as a king. Not as a warrior. Not as Thranduil.

He was Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm. His presence alone was enough to command both awe and fear. Yet you clung to him like he was just… yours. He sighed heavily, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if summoning patience he did not have. And then, without another word, he moved. In one fluid, effortless motion, he bent down, wrapped an arm around your waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. The world tilted. You let out a small yelp as you were suddenly airborne. “Hey—!”

He adjusted you in his arms with practiced ease, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all. His grip was firm but careful, one arm secured around your lower back while the other supported you effortlessly. “If you insist on behaving like a child,” he murmured, his tone smooth and unimpressed, “then I shall carry you as one.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. The sheer ease with which he had lifted you left you momentarily speechless. He didn’t even seem strained. The scent of his robes—fresh pine, autumn leaves, and something distinctly Elven—wrapped around you, grounding you in his presence. For a moment, all you could do was stare. And though his expression remained regal, unreadable, you did not miss the way his grip subtly lingered.

Without another word, he began walking. Through the grand halls, past the ever-watchful eyes of his guards, Thranduil carried you as though you were nothing more than an inconvenient parcel he had been forced to bring along. His posture remained flawless, his pace even, utterly unaffected by your weight. You, however, grinned up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. “See?” you hummed, tilting your head in his arms. “This is nice.” Thranduil did not dignify you with a response. Instead, he merely muttered something in Elvish under his breath—something you suspected was not particularly flattering. But he did not let go.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The Council of Elrond was meant to be a place of solemn discussion, a gathering of minds to determine the fate of Middle-earth. It was a time for wisdom, for deliberation, for diplomacy. It was not meant for this. At the head of the long table, Elrond stood with effortless grace, a pillar of composure and dignity. His robes, flowing and regal, caught the light of the midday sun filtering through the high arched windows of Rivendell’s great hall, the silken fabric shifting with the movement of his breath. His hands, long and elegant, rested lightly upon the polished wood as he spoke, his voice measured, calm, and steady—each word imbued with the weight of centuries.

The gathered council members—elves, dwarves, and men alike—listened intently, their expressions ranging from grave contemplation to hesitant agreement. Some nodded in silent accord, others furrowed their brows as they pondered his wisdom, but all remained enraptured by the Lord of Rivendell’s presence.

His back was turned to you. And you, seated among the others, were watching him—watching the way he carried himself, poised yet powerful, a figure carved from both wisdom and war. He was too graceful, too composed, too breathtaking for his own good. And you loved him. You loved him so much it made something in your chest ache. Which was why, in an act of pure, unfiltered instinct, you launched yourself from your seat and sprinted toward him at full speed.

The world blurred at the edges. There was no room for thought, no space for hesitation—only the singular, all-encompassing need to be close to him. The air rushed past you, the murmuring voices of the council fading into the distance, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the sudden intake of breath from those around you. Elrond, for all his centuries of wisdom and foresight, had precisely half a second to sense the shift in atmosphere before it was too late.

The impact was swift and merciless. Your weight collided into him with full force, your arms locking around his shoulders just as your momentum propelled him forward. A startled inhale—sharp, indignant, and vaguely resembling a half-formed Elvish curse—escaped him as he pitched forward, his long fingers shooting out to brace himself against the council table. The polished wood groaned under the sudden weight of an Elf-lord and his very enthusiastic assailant.

Scrolls tumbled to the floor in an unceremonious cascade of parchment. A goblet tipped onto its side, spilling deep red wine dangerously close to a very alarmed dwarf, who yelped and jerked his legs away just in time. A quill snapped in half beneath an abandoned tome. Someone audibly gasped.

And you? You clung to him like your life depended on it. Elrond exhaled, slowly and deliberately, his forehead lowering to meet the table in what could only be described as the ultimate gesture of long-suffering patience. His back remained straight despite the additional weight, his arms still outstretched in a bracing position, his chest rising and falling in a manner that suggested he was counting to ten in Quenya before deciding how best to proceed.

The council chamber had fallen into absolute silence. Elrond did not move. Neither did you. The only sound was the faint rustling of fabric as you nestled against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. A long, long sigh escaped him. “Mellon nín,” he said at last, his voice as even as ever, though beneath it lay a complex weave of emotions—resignation, exasperation, and, buried so deep it was nearly imperceptible, the tiniest sliver of amusement. “Was this absolutely necessary?”

Without lifting your head, you nuzzled into his shoulder, entirely unrepentant. “Yes.” His fingers twitched where they lay upon the table—whether from the urge to pry you off or pull you closer, even he wasn’t entirely sure. A chair scraped against the stone floor as one of the men leaned forward, brow deeply furrowed. “…Is this… normal?” From his seat, Gandalf let out a quiet chuckle, stroking his beard with twinkling amusement. “Ah, young love,” he mused. “Quite… enthusiastic, in this case.”

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, as if beseeching the Valar for strength. He was a Lord of Rivendell. He had led armies into battle, forged alliances with kings, stood against the darkness of Sauron himself. And yet, here he was—bent over a council table, carrying the full weight of someone who had, quite literally, thrown themselves at him in the middle of one of the most important meetings in the history of Middle-earth.

Still pinned beneath you, still braced against the table, Elrond finally turned his head just enough for you to see his face. His expression was unreadable at first—his brows slightly drawn, his lips pressed into a firm line, the very image of composed dignity fraying at the edges. But there, in the smallest crease at the corner of his mouth, was something else.

A smirk. A very small, very restrained smirk. “Are you quite finished?” he murmured, voice pitched just low enough for only you to hear. You grinned against his shoulder, squeezing him just a little tighter. “Not even close.” Elrond inhaled deeply through his nose. He did not move. He did not protest. He simply accepted his fate.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The moonlight bathed the clearing in silver, casting an ethereal glow upon Legolas as he stood at the edge of the trees. The gentle night breeze stirred his golden hair, making him look like something out of a dream—untouchable, otherworldly, perfect. His sharp gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, lost in thought, the weight of centuries pressing upon his immortal soul. And then—A blur. A rush of footsteps. A sudden, breathless surge of movement cutting through the quiet of the night.

Before Legolas could fully register what was happening, an impact slammed into him with startling force. Strong arms wrapped around his torso, squeezing with unrelenting affection. His body staggered back under the sheer intensity of it, boots skidding against the soft earth, his normally impeccable balance momentarily thrown off. His hands instinctively caught hold of the figure assaulting him, fingers gripping tightly to steady both of them.

His first thought? An ambush? No—there was no malice, no danger. Only warmth. Only the frantic beating of a heart pressed against his chest, the breathless laughter of the one person in Middle-earth who would dare launch themselves at an Elven warrior in such a reckless manner.

“Mellon nîn—” he exhaled, his voice a mix of bemusement and disbelief. Youonly clung tighter, your face buried against his shoulder, arms locked around his waist in an unbreakable grip. “You’re too pretty,” you mumbled into his tunic, your voice muffled but no less desperate in its declaration. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Legolas blinked, his mind catching up with the absurdity of the situation. Was this… an attack of love? A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, still breathless from the unexpected tackle. “And for this, you choose to strike me down?” he asked, amusement laced in his tone, though his arms had unconsciously wrapped around you in return.

You lifted your head slightly, your eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered adoration. “Yes.” Your answer was simple, as if there was no other possible explanation. “You were standing there looking all beautiful and tragic under the moonlight, and I just—” You squeezed him tighter. “—I just had to do something about it.”

Legolas sighed, though the corners of his lips betrayed him by curving into a small, helpless smile. He was not used to this—this overwhelming, impulsive affection. Elves did not love in such a chaotic manner. Their passion was deep, but it was slow-burning, controlled, and tempered with time. But you… you loved as fiercely as a firestorm, with all the grace of a hurricane, and he—he was powerless against it.

“You are relentless,” he murmured, but there was no reprimand in his voice. Only quiet wonder. “Yes, I am.” You lifted your head fully now, eyes locked onto his, still latched onto him as though you had no intention of ever letting go. “And you’re stuck with me, so get used to it.”

Legolas simply looked at you, his arms still securely wrapped around your waist, his heart doing something strange and unfamiliar in his chest. He had faced countless battles, had stared down creatures of shadow and flame, had fought against the tides of darkness for centuries without flinching— And yet, here, held within your grasp, he felt utterly and completely conquered. “Then I shall endure it,” he murmured at last, his voice soft, reverent. “For as long as you wish it.”

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad sat in his study, his sharp blue eyes scanning the delicate script of an ancient elven manuscript. The flickering candlelight cast golden shadows across his regal features, highlighting the quiet intensity in his expression. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, his long fingers resting on the table as he contemplated the wisdom of ages past. His posture was perfect, dignified as always, radiating an air of calm authority.

But none of that mattered to you at this moment. Because as you sat across from him, watching his impossibly noble face, something inside you snapped. He was just too beautiful. Too serious. Too composed. And suddenly, an overwhelming need overtook you—a need so strong it nearly made you dizzy.

You had to squish his face. Before your rational mind could intervene, your hands shot forward, cupping his cheeks in your palms. His skin was smooth and cool beneath your touch, his cheekbones sharp yet softened by your fingers as you squeezed ever so slightly. His lips pursed slightly from the pressure, and his already strong jaw tensed in mild surprise.

Gil-galad froze. His piercing gaze, once lost in deep thought, now locked onto you with quiet disbelief. He did not pull away, did not even attempt to stop you—no, he simply blinked, utterly bewildered by what was happening to his very dignified royal face. “… What is this?” he finally asked, his voice calm but undeniably puzzled.

You barely heard him, too consumed by your own chaotic affection. His skin felt so soft. His cheekbones were so regal. He was like the world’s most serious, most elegant cat, and you could not help but give another gentle squeeze, watching as his expression remained caught between confusion and resigned amusement. “You’re too handsome for your own good,” you declared, your thumbs pressing lightly into the hollows of his cheeks. “It’s unfair. I had to do something about it.”

Gil-galad exhaled slowly, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, the High King of the Noldor, a warrior, a strategist, a ruler of Elves—and yet, here you were, treating him like a mischievous house pet in need of affectionate punishment. And the strangest part? He let you.

He did not remove your hands, did not chide you for your impulsiveness. He merely regarded you in silence, his face still gently smushed between your fingers, as if attempting to decipher how he had found himself in such a position. “If you are finished treating my face as though I were some—some petulant kitten…” he murmured, one brow lifting ever so slightly. You grinned, tilting his head slightly from side to side as if testing the optimal level of squish.

“… Not yet,” you admitted cheerfully. Another slow, measured blink. A pause. And then, ever so softly, the barest hint of a sigh—one that, if you listened closely enough, might have concealed a tiny trace of amusement. “Very well,” he relented, his deep voice tinged with something you almost mistook for indulgence. “Do as you must.” And so you did

[iyoonjh]

Beyond Plus Ultra! – The anatomy of falling in love

Chapter 16: From Dungeon to Deck Chair: The Fellowship of the Beach

wc: 2082 words

The apartment smelled like pizza, bad decisions, and the faint threat of Monster Mango Punch.

Soobin sat cross-legged on the carpet, pencil tucked behind one ear, a character sheet half-filled beside him, and a bowl of pretzel sticks within reach. Beomgyu had a bandana tied around his forehead for “battle energy,” Hueningkai was double-fisting Capri Suns like a sugar-fueled druid, and Taehyun—eternal Dungeon Master and occasional monk—sat at the head of the table with a mini fog machine and actual laminated maps.

“I cast Charm on the goblin guard,” Beomgyu declared, holding up a sparkly d20. “And then I ask him if he’s emotionally fulfilled in his job.”

“I’m going to scream,” Taehyun said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re trying to seduce the goblin again?”

“I’m trying to connect with him,” Beomgyu shot back. “Consentually. And with vibes.”

Sunghoon was perched on the edge of the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowed his hands completely, giving him the appearance of a moody High Elf who’d been hexed into eternal comfort. He held a spell card up in front of him with the seriousness of a Shakespearean lead about to deliver a monologue in Act III of a drama no one else had read.

“By the celestial light of the twin moons,” he intoned, squinting dramatically, “I summon the sacred winds of Elarion—wait, wait, do I add my modifier to this?”

“Yes, but only if you’re not holding a cursed item,” Taehyun said without looking up.

“I’m literally holding a cursed item,” Sunghoon sighed. 

Beside him, Heeseung sat cross-legged with perfect posture, playing a kazoo version of The Lord of the Rings theme song like it was his druid-bardic duty. He was wearing a DIY cloak made from an old blanket and had penciled a tiny mustache onto his upper lip with eyeliner.

“I’m adding ambiance,” he said cheerfully, ignoring Yeonjun’s fourth aggressive glance.

“I will snap that kazoo in half like a breadstick,” Yeonjun hissed, glaring at him from across the table.

Yeonjun himself was the most overdressed person in the room—tight black jeans, silver rings on every finger, and a velvet choker that absolutely did not match his wizard robe but somehow still worked. He had two sets of dice laid out on a silk cloth like a tarot reading and a single tealight candle flickering dramatically beside his character sheet.

“You don't understand the mood,” he said when Taehyun asked if the candle was really necessary. “Besides, my dice roll better when they feel respected.”

Hueningkai was lying on his stomach across a bean bag, sketching an anatomically incorrect dragon with sunglasses on the back of a pizza box. He kept muttering things like “do goblins wear shoes?” and “how much emotional trauma can one elf carry before he becomes a bard?” Every few minutes, he’d gasp, snap his fingers, and write down notes for his future webcomic.

“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?” he said suddenly, looking up. “Imagine breaking all three. That’s so dramatic. I want to play a sea creature who just got ghosted by a mermaid and now he haunts tide pools.”

Leehan sat cross-legged by the window, furiously scribbling in a weathered field journal labeled Tidal Lore: Volume II. He wore a “Support Your Local Fish” T-shirt under a faded zip-up and had five different highlighters spread around him like a ritual circle. Occasionally, he’d whisper something to himself and nod solemnly, as if communing with the spirit of Poseidon.

It was chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

Soobin had barely spoken in the last ten minutes. Not because he wasn’t having fun—he was, truly—but because his phone kept lighting up with new messages. From Y/N.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

That, of course, was his first mistake.

“Okay.” Yeonjun narrowed his eyes across the room like a hawk with better fashion sense. “Why is Soobin smiling like he just got kissed under a rainbow?”

Soobin blinked, thumb still hovering over his screen. “What?”

“Bro’s been checking his phone every six seconds,” Hueningkai said through a mouthful of gummy worms. “You’re glowing. Like, that glow people get when they are pregnant. It’s alarming.”

“I am not—” Soobin started.

“HE’S SOFT-LEANING,” Beomgyu gasped, pointing. “That’s the ‘I’m flirting with my crush and pretending I’m not panicking’ posture. Boobie, know your worth my boy.”

Sunghoon leaned forward. “Did Y/N text you?”

Soobin hesitated. And in that half-second of hesitation, the room exploded.

“Oh my GOD,” Heeseung howled. “She did!”

“Okay spill” Taehyun demanded, slamming his dice bag on the table with the weight of a federal agent.

Soobin sighed, but he couldn’t fight the grin crawling up his face. “Okay, fine. She invited me. Well, us.”

A beat. A pause so sharp you could hear the dramatic swell of nerdy destiny approaching.

“To…?” Hueningkai asked.

“Jake’s beach house,” Soobin said. “This weekend.”

The room erupted.

“WE’VE BEEN CHOSEN!” Beomgyu shouted, throwing his arms into the air like he was being knighted.

“We beat the social game,” Yeonjun said in awe. “We’re getting a beach episode.”

“I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life,” Heeseung whispered, dramatically clutching his character sheet to his chest.

Sunghoon rolled off the couch entirely.

“I can’t go to a beach,” he groaned from the floor. “I’ll burn. I’ll melt. I’m pale and emotionally fragile.”

“I don’t own a swimsuit that’s not from middle school,” Hueningkai added. “It has Charizard on it.”

“BRING IT,” said Beomgyu immediately. “I’m wearing my sailor moon rash guard. We go down together.”

Leehan looked up from his sketchpad, completely serene. “Do you think I’ll be able to identify local tidepool species from the balcony?”

“Leehan,” Yeonjun said gently, “please do not give the crabs names again.”

“I only named five.”

“They followed him back to the Airbnb,” Taehyun muttered.

“THEY UNDERSTOOD ME.”

“Can we focus?” Soobin said, cheeks warm, eyes wide. “She invited us. That means we have to—like—be normal like we were at the party.”

Beomgyu laughed so hard he choked. “Yeah, right. Bro, you summoned a ghost in the last campaign by accident and apologized to it for interrupting her grave nap.”

“I’m just saying,” Soobin said, flustered, “this trip is kind of a big deal.”

“Because of Y/N,” Taehyun smirked.

“Because of—shut up. SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY.”

Yeonjun tossed a chip at him. “Just admit you’re already imagining a slow-motion beach kiss while a ukulele plays in the distance.”

“I—”

“And then you trip on seaweed and try to play it cool but she has to help you up,” Hueningkai added.

“And then you say something like ‘You’re prettier than the moonlight on the tide’ and we all die,” Beomgyu finished.

Soobin covered his face with both hands. “I hate all of you.”

“No, no,” Yeonjun said, leaning forward with a sparkle in his eye that could only mean chaos. “Important question. Who’s going?”

Soobin peeked out between his fingers. “I don’t know. Y/N said her whole group. Probably Jake, Jungwon, Yunjin, Sunoo, Jay—”

Yeonjun’s head snapped toward him. “Jay?”

“Oh god,” Soobin mumbled.

“JAY,” Yeonjun repeated, gripping the back of the chair. “My nemesis. My forever enemy. My beige counterpart. I must prepare.”

“Your what now?” Taehyun asked flatly.

“Listen,” Yeonjun said, standing up as if that would make his next sentence make sense. “We’ve spoken, like, three times ever. But every time he says something, I feel personally attacked. At the party he called my necklace ‘dramatic.’ Dramatic! It was a minimalist silver dagger!”

“He said in a fun way, he was trying to be social with you’” Beomgyu added helpfully.

“And yet,” Yeonjun said with a finger in the air, “Yunjin laughed.”

“Ah,” Heeseung said. “There it is.”

Yeonjun flopped dramatically back onto the couch. “If she’s there, I have to look good.”

“I saw a guy on instagram selling a cologne he promised to be aphrodisiac” Sunghoon offered from the floor. 

“And that's a pyramid scheme” Leehan told him.

“I’ll bring backup necklaces,” Yeonjun muttered to himself. “Statement pieces. Ones that scream ‘I'm in a band and also collect knives.’”

“You're in a band with Hueningkai” Heeseung mocked.

“Why do your accessories have backstories?” Soobin asked.

“They’re part of my lore.”

Meanwhile, Hueningkai, who had been very quiet until now, looked up with wide eyes. “What if we see dolphins?”

Everyone paused.

“I mean, yeah,” Soobin said slowly. “That could happen.”

“No. Like, what if they’re watching us?” Hueningkai whispered. “From just below the surface. Judging our land-walking rituals. Like, ‘look at these fools and their SPF 30.’”

Beomgyu gasped. “Kai. Have you been reading dolphin conspiracy blogs again?”

“I haven’t stopped,” he replied solemnly. “Also, fun fact: dolphins are one of the few non-human species that can recognize themselves in a mirror. So I’m gonna bring one to the beach. Just in case.”

“So what?” Heeseung asked, grinning. “You’re gonna walk up to the water, hold up a mirror, and wait to vibe-check the ocean?”

“Yes,” Hueningkai said without hesitation. “And if they wink at me, we’ll know. We’ll know.”

“You know what?” Taehyun muttered. “I’m not even gonna stop you. I want to see how that plays out.”

“Can I help?” Leehan asked, folding his crab journal closed with reverence. “I can chart dolphin reactions based on lunar phase and water clarity.”

“You’re all unhinged,” Soobin said, somehow fondly.

“Wait,” Yeonjun interjected, suddenly serious. “What are you wearing?”

Soobin blinked. “What?”

“To the beach. You’re the romantic lead now, remember?” Yeonjun leaned forward again, eyes gleaming, Heeseung shook his head. “You need to serve something soft. Boyfriend at golden hour. Wind in your hair, gaze full of longing.”

“He can wear that light blue hoodie,” Sunghoon offered. “It's very boyfriendable”

“Oh my god, I’m not—” Soobin buried his face again, this time in the nearest pillow.

“We are styling you for your beach romance,” Yeonjun said proudly. “This is our Clueless montage. I will not be denied.”

“Just don’t let him wear that one shirt,” Beomgyu said. “You know. The cursed one.”

Soobin looked up. “What cursed shirt?”

“The minions one.”

“I like that shirt.”

“We know,” everyone said in unison.

And then—

A beat of silence.

Soft. Happy. The kind of pause that felt like a smile exhaled into the air, filling up all the little spaces between them. Outside, the hum of late-night traffic drifted past Taehyun’s apartment windows. Inside, the glow from the string lights made everything look golden, like this wasn’t just another weekend but the beginning of something else entirely.

The map on the table was still spread open. The dice lay scattered, untouched for once. And around the room—this warm, weird, chaotic room—sat seven boys who had started this campaign as just friends and had somehow become their own little universe.

Taehyun looked around, his gaze quiet but steady, a knowing softness in his eyes. “You know…” he said, voice low, like anything louder might scare the feeling away, “I think we’re gonna have a good time.”

He wasn’t talking about D&D anymore. And everyone knew it.

Because this wasn’t just a trip. It was them, getting to be part of something. Getting invited. Getting chosen.

It was walking into a party and not standing in the corner.

It was laughing too loud and being laughed with, not at.

It was the quiet victory of being seen—the kind that doesn’t need a trophy or a big speech, just a look across the couch and a shared bag of snacks and someone saying, “You’re coming too.”

Soobin hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. He didn’t say anything right away. Just let the feeling sink in—the one that made his chest ache in the nicest way. The one that said this was all real.

And in his head, looping like a secret, was the image of Y/N’s smile.

That look she gave him whenever she teased him.

He hadn’t even told her how he felt yet.

But he would.

God, he would.

And maybe, when he got there, and the sun was setting, and she was looking at him like that again—

Maybe he’d finally kiss her without a dog interrupting.

And if not?

Well.

At least he’d have his friends. His party. His chaos.

And a beach full of crabs, apparently.

Not bad, for a bunch of kids who used to watch from the sidelines.

Not bad at all.

prev | masterlist | next

profiles: d&d saturday mass group | bling bling losers

author's note: SURPRISE! updating twice this week! hope you guys like it and look foward to the next chapter! as always, let's chat, please tell me what do you guys think in the comments ( i do not think aquarius are dumb, i'm an aquarius moon and we are elite). ALSO what do you guys think it's gonna happen at this beach trip? hehe thank you so much again <3

taglist: @heejamas @mingyustar @wintereals @mimimiloomeelomi @wonderstrucktae @delirioastral @gomdoleemyson @i03jae @irishspringing @bunniwords @kirbrary @sirenla @saladgirl @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @uvyuri @imlonelydontsendhelp @haechology @sanriwoozzz @stormy1408 @soobinieswife @ijustwannareadstuff20 @soobskz @jkeydiary @imnotsureokay @nyanzzn @lostgirlysstuff @lilbrorufr @beomgyusluver@lveegsoi@pagesoobinie @catpjimin @t-102 @sh0dor1 @i-am-not-dal @bbeomgyucafe @damn-u-min-yoongi @https-yeonjun @booksxandxlace @kookssecret

[dyeher]

Warnings: mutual masturbation, phone sex, dirty talk, praise, see notes for the eavesdropping warning [it is non consensual, you don’t know they’re listening].

Notes: aggressively horny mikey who lets his friends get off to you touching yourself idk if that counts as non con voyeurism or not. unedited: read at your own risk.

“Are you naked?”

Your brain hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that you’ve answered the phone and so you chalk up that question to a simple auditory hallucination.

“Manjiro? What time is it?” you ask groggily.

“Fuck the time. Are you naked?”

You blink up at your ceiling, once, twice, on the third blink things begin to focus. You pull the phone away from your ear to check the time.

2:46am.

“What?” you reply absently. “Why are you calling me this late?”

“It’s early. Stop ignoring the question? You naked or not?”

You swallow, your brain finally registering the rasp in his voice. You can hear the shower running in the background and the soft, sticky schick, schick of him obviously stroking his cock.

“I’m not,” you answer, thighs immediately pressing together. “Is everything okay?”

“I need you to get naked,” he demands. “Right now.”

“No,” you scoff. “It’s like three am, I’m already awake just come over.”

Manjiro makes a pained sound at your denial. “No?”

It’s almost like he hasn’t heard you. “I mean no. Just come over Mikey.”

“I can’t- I can’t wait baby,” his groan is breathless. “Need you to touch that little pussy for me.”

You frown. “But—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Clothes off and start touching that pretty pussy,” the growl echoes through the speakers. It has you scrambling to pull your oversized shirt off. When you’re finally naked you prop your pillows up against your headboard and put the phone on speaker.

“Naked now, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you nod even though he can’t see you. “‘m naked.”

“Good,” he grunts. There’s shuffling and then the water turns off and you realize you’re on speaker. It makes sense because he would probably need both hands. “Need you nice and wet, can you touch yourself for me? Play with that pretty pussy for me, I wanna hear how wet you get.”

The words have you keening, a shiver running down your spine, goosebumps erupting across your exposed flesh. Your nipples pucker at the command in his voice. You whimper, your legs parting as you brush your fingers through your folds.

“How do you feel baby? How’s that little cunt feel? Tell me.”

“It’s soft,” you whisper, distantly you hear a muffled curse but Mikey’s groan distracts you.

“Yeah? Nice and soft and wet?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers rubbing a lazy circle around your clit. Your slick has coated your fingers as you drag them to dip gingerly into your opening. You spread it along your lips and up to the hood of your pussy before repeating the action. “Nice ‘n wet Mikey, just how you like it.”

“Fuck.” The loud slap of his palm on the tile in his shower makes you jump, your fingers slipping clumsily through your flesh. “Good girl. You rubbing your clit the way I showed you? Slow and steady?”

You pout. You can’t do slow and steady right now. Your fingers rub frantically at your clit, the sound of him fisting his cock, his heavy breaths and rough demands.

“Can’t-” you whine, “-go slow.”

“Gorgeous.”

Only Manjiro Sano can make a nickname like gorgeous sound like a threat, or maybe you’re just very well conditioned.

“Whose pussy is it?”

“Mik-”

“Whose?”

“‘s yours,” you pout.

“Exactly, and I gave you permission to touch it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you pull your fingers away from your pussy, flexing them as he continues.

“Good girl,” the sounds of him stroking his cock have stopped. “And you know how I like when you touch your pussy nice ‘nd slow for me? Yeah, gorgeous?”

“Mhm,” your heart is pounding, a flashback of the one time you’d made Mikey mad enough to punish you fueling the violent ratcheting of the organ.

“Nice ‘nd slow only,” he intones. “Okay?”

“Yes, Mikey,” you reply.

The sound resumes on Mikey’s end, and for a moment you swear you hear grunts in the background.

“Make yourself cum for me,” he suddenly instructs and your fingers fly to your clit almost of their own accord. You do as he asks and rub slow, steady circles around the engorged nub. Whimpering and whining at how sensitive it is, at the delicious friction created by the pads of your fingers.

“‘s not enough,” you complain. “Can I- can I please put one in?”

Perhaps if you weren’t almost drunk on lust, near deaf from the frantic staccato of your heart and the roaring of your blood. Maybe if you weren’t balancing on the knifes edge of an orgasm you’d have heard the chorus of curses that followed your question.

“Shit, yeah gorgeous,” Mikey chuckles, breathlessly. “Such a good girl,” he grunts, “so polite for me.”

Any other time you might have been embarrassed by the sloppy sound your pussy makes when you slip your finger inside. But at Mikey’s loud curse you feel only satisfaction as you work the finger deeper. You can’t quite reach that spot that Mikey can. The one that makes you scream for him, and your single finger can’t fill you the way his cock can but, Mikey’s whispered encouragement is enough.

“Wanna fill you up, gorgeous,” he grunts, the stroking has sped up, you can almost see him. Naked and damp, his hair sticking to his neck and forehead, one hand braced against the far wall in his shower, his eyes dark and unfocused as he fucks his fist. “Wanna feel you cum all over my cock and then fill that little pussy. My little pussy.”

The possessiveness in the final statement shoves you over the edge. You come with a breathless squeal, your walls clamping violently around your finger. You babble Mikey’s name, encouraging him to cum.

When you recover and Mikey talks you back into the land of the fully functional you try to ask him if everything was okay again. He brushes you off. Tells you it’s just a little left over tension from something that happened earlier.

You know better than to ask what happened.

“Back to sleep gorgeous,” he says. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

—————————

Mikey takes a long look at Draken’s relaxed face.

“We’re never doing that again,” he decides.

“But—”

“Why not?!”

“C’mon, Mikey!”

He ignores the protests as he stalks out of his bathroom. He barely deserves you, he can’t afford to share you with anyone else.

He can’t, because he’d hate to have to kill one of his own for crossing one of his invisible boundaries. Though, any boundaries where you were concerned should be in some variation of neon something.

He closes his eyes and takes a centering breath. He can’t do that ever again. Share you, even if it’s through the phone.

He can’t.

[revelboo]

(Shockwave voice) My observations of the recent behavior among our faction's ranks have led me to a logical conclusion on the biology of our species... this planet seems to have ideal conditions to activate a dormant protocol in the processor, among other things. All of this centers around the native sophont life forms, which are not only capable of spark-bonding to our own species... this bond can kindle new sparks with a nearly 100% success rate, their anatomy is optimal for tactile interfacing, and roughly 50% of their population is capable of carrying a physically developing protoform to term in a specialized organ... I have exchanged notes with Tarantulas on the subject.

So far these organisms, humans, seem to be unique among other alien life forms in their high compatibility, but I have extrapolated a theory from the interactions between captured specimens and their caretakers. A coordinated program to pair compatible humans and mechs will not only create a boom in our dwindling population, the operation to cyberform Earth may accelerate exponentially. Any cross-species bondmates are removed from the human gene pool as they devote their energy to their Cybertronian partners and hybrid sparklings; within generations, depending on the aggression of the operation, fewer and fewer humans will reproduce with their own kind... their lifespans are short without our direct intervention, we would not be waiting long before Earth is entirely within our control.

With your permission, Lord Megatron, I can begin drafting plans for a long-term study... passive observation has sufficed until now, but my research would benefit from volunteers. Perhaps even mandatory participation.

🤣 He would. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Research

Shockwave

• “Harder,” you groan, a leg sliding against his hip as Thundercracker moves against you, hips snapping as you cling to him. Back arching at the feel of his spike stretching you and driving deep again and again. ‘Your position isn’t optimal. Try elevating your human’s hips,’ intones a voice and you scream spotting Shockwave just standing there watching you two go at it. How had he got into the habsuite and how long has he been just watching? Mood ruined, you stare at the purple lunatic as his head tips.

• “Get out, you son of a glitch!” Thundercracker snarls, wings flared aggressively as he tries to hide as much of you from view as possible from Shockwave. How had the Pit spawned scientist even gotten into his habsuite? And you’re naked under him, his spike buried in you as you hide your face against his neck. ‘Are you currently bonded to your human?’ Shockwave asks, awkwardly cradling a datapad against himself with his cannon so he can make notes. ‘Is this an attempt to establish nanites prior to sparking or simply recreational?’

• “Get out!” Optic dimming when Thundercracker lifts an arm, his weapons system humming to life in threat, Shockwave’s antenna flatten back. That’s the third one that’s become irrationally resistant to answering simple questions or letting him assist them. Showing them the most efficient ways to interface with their humans can only facilitate his end goals. So why are they all so angry about his help? Except Vortex, that one had invited him to join him and his human and had laughed when he’d declined.

• Leaving Thundercracker’s habsuite before the seeker can decide to fire upon him, he makes a notation on his datapad. And while several Decepticons are making use of the research material data files he’d distributed with videos showing humans coupling in optimal positions, he’d been disappointed to realize it was being utilized by Decepticons without humans for recreational masturbation. Though, he does plan on sending out another data file composition in the hopes it might encourage more Decepticons to go find humans of their own. If they’re getting off to the videos, it stands to reason they’re interested in humans.

• Using his override to enter another habsuite, he vents in exasperation. ‘Interfacing in that manner accomplishes nothing useful,’ he growls and Skywarp’s head lifts from between his human’s thighs, optics bright. And the purple seeker does fire at him, face twisting in outrage. ‘The human sucking your spike at least introduces nanites,’ he snarls in parting as he ducks into the hall. Why are they all so resistant to saving the Cybertronian race? Making a note, he heads for the Constructicons’s habsuite. Hook is a medic, surely he’ll listen to logic.

[lilacthebooklover]

yes, the lords in black are very silly. but can we just take a moment to appreciate how freaking terrifying they can be?? the interaction between hannah and the wiggly doll in black friday still creeps me out, the childish intonation and unsettling laugh and jolty pauses between wiggly's words are very effective. he says that he wants to eat hannah, he plans on ripping the president open and taking out his guts, he causes hundreds of deaths through the aggression caused by his toys. tinky controls time and uses it to play with people like they're toys, all the art of his goat form is so disturbing, his obsession with the spankoffskis is a big thing. "i'm gonna have the whole set in my toy box", anyone? nibby has an insatiable hunger, uses the melted flesh of pig corpses to go around hatchetfield swallowing people (like linda). he cares about nothing but his all-consuming need to eat. pokey succeeded in starting the apocolypse, using hatchetfield like a set in which to perform a musical of his own design, possessing people and using them as his stars. he wants everyone to be dead but him, controlling a hivemind of human puppets that tear each other apart and spread his infection further. blinky sees everything, refusing to let his workers blink and knowing what anyone and everyone is doing. he's the watcher with a thousand eyes, and takes enjoyment in watching bill and alice nearly kill each other.

they're honestly so unnerving, from their lack of care for human lives and bloodlust to their playful manner and habit of getting a little too invested in people. they see the citizens of hatchetfield as toys, and aren't afraid to break them. they're sadistic, violent, powerful gods.

and that's partly why i find it so funny that they choose to dress up in bright neon looking like an unhinged version of a kids' show's cast.