#and little self control

[jesamjdbutfurry]

i have. potentially 7 commissions being worked on rn. i may have gone overboard on this batch, will slow down afterwards.

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | CH I | CH 3 | CH 4

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[royal-they]

chatting about dnd probably

[st-hedge]

Dark link and phantom Ganon but they are weird Pokémon trainers. Haunter and runerigus for dark link. Rookidee, lampent, and zorua (only the tiniest guys) for phantom Ganon. Don’t question my Pokémon vibe check, it simply fits. Also shiny Pokémon for shiny ganlink

[batfamhyperfixation]

Tim had his spleen removed, right. This means he would not be able to withstand bacterial infection as well (a.k.a. getting sick, which happens a lot when people get injured or sleep deprived cause their immune system weakens), so for his own safety, he would likely take care of himself more than the other bats would care for themselves. He probably wouldn't get in a fight he knows he would badly lose, or win but get very injured during. Tim would be the calm and calculating one. He already is deemed as smart and a great detective, so that makes him even scarier.

He gets a reputation as a vigilant far more dangerous from his siblings, cause he perches like a bird above the fight, but if he gets involved, then the villains know they're goners. If it's Dick, Jason, Steph, Cass, even Damian and Batman himself, people don't get as intimidated, but should Tim come in, they back off so fast. In this essay I will...

[wildguarneres]

not the Logan documentary making me cry 😭

[officialmiintee]

did a little warmup challenge in twt <33

[marswritesstuff]

piercings & polyamory

a/n: i know this is totally out of my usual niche but when inspiration hits after literal months you gotta take advantage of it yk yk

content: nico di angelo x will solace x reader, they/them reader, reader is a hermes kid

warnings: vague description of a home done piercing, piercer knows what they’re doing but is not licensed

- nico di angelo is as close to a professional piercer that camp has.

- nico himself is covered in piercings- it seems every body part of his that can be is covered in black and silver, and tiny accents of gold.

- you are, by far, nico’s favorite “customer.”

- he always loves piercing will, but there’s something about the way you wring your hands while he marks out the piercing, something about the way his sheets bunch up in your fists when he pushes the needle through.

- nico gives you five piercings over the course of two years.

- will sits in for number four- it’s not uncommon for him to hang around the hades cabin.

- after it’s done, after nico carefully slides the jewelry into your lip and you grab his hands and thank him profusely, after you press a few drachmas into his hands despite his insistence that he doesn’t charge and close the door behind you, will rounds on nico immediately.

- “you like them!”

- nico knew that, of course, he wasn’t that emotionally unaware.

- however, whenever he imagined his boyfriend finding out about the secret he thought he’d hid so well, he’d never imagined the joy currently in will’s voice.

- nico met his boyfriend’s eyes slowly.

- “is that… okay?”

- will looked surprised for a second before sitting down next to nico.

- “neeks- did we- did we never have this conversation? wait, ok- nico,” will grabbed both of nico’s hands in his. “hi. i’m your boyfriend. i’m polyamorous. do you have something to tell me?”

———

- while you were showing off your new nico-piercing to your cabinmates, the door to the hermes cabin banged open.

- will solace entered, calling your name, and your cabinmates (the traitors) laughed and pushed you towards him.

- your heart sped up- you’d been nervous about will sitting in on the piercing, because you always felt like your suppressed crush on the son of hades was so much clearer when you were sat in his bed, pliable underneath his hands.

- it was in the same way that your feelings for will felt like they were being dragged out of your chest and right onto your face when he softly sings to you in the infirmary after you’re injured.

- will led you to an abandoned corner of the yard, where nico stood waiting for both of you.

- nico started talking as soon as you came to a standstill, not giving you a chance to get a word in.

- “ok, i don’t wanna give you the wrong impression. you don’t have to answer right now, and if you say no, it doesn’t change anything, i’ll keep piercing you just like anyone else, but-” nico gently grabbed will’s hand. “i like you. like, romantically. and will likes you too, also romantically. and we wanna know if… you’d go out with us?”

- will just nodded along, letting nico dominate the conversation.

- that… hadn’t been what you were expecting.

- it wasn’t like the possibility of polyamory with the two had never crossed your mind - it had crossed your mind a lot - but only ever as a fantasy! you had never expected it to become an actual possibility.

- but you weren’t gonna let such a good opportunity pass you by- “yeah! of- of course i’d want that!”

- will’s face broke into a grin, and nico had a small smile.

- “cool,” nico muttered, pink slowly creeping up his cheeks.

- will chuckled and grabbed your hand with his free one. “yeah, cool! now, how about dinner? the three of us?”

[novasintheroom]

oh nothing, just thinking about the first time you hold Vash while you two sleep.

he's so so hesitant when you curl up next to him. wrapping your arms around him has him going stiff as a board, but you knew that would happen. you tell him to just relax, go to sleep. he doesn't for hours.

he tries to relax, like you say. but every little movement has him going still. his thoughts are awash with worry - what if you don't actually want to hold him? what if he wakes you? what if your arm goes numb? his fight or flight kicks in, and he thinks about leaving every other second, believing he's the worst cuddle partner and that you deserve better. this was the worst idea ever.

when you roll away in your sleep, however, it has Vash longing for your touch again. without really even thinking about it, he pulls you close again. this time he's the one wrapped around you, not the other way. and it feels good. it feels so good. he doesn't mind when your head puts his flesh arm to sleep, and he finds out he loves feeling your breath fan across his collar bone. when you burrow your head into his chest with a sleepy grumble, he melts. Vash manages to brush his lips on your forehead while you sleep, giving in to temptation. he brushes his hand through your hair carefully, and finally, finally, is able to sleep. this was the best idea ever.

[muzzleroars]

two unauthorized bugs in the lust layer!!!! get them now!!!!!!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

something i've been thinking about:

Wally is set up as a sort of "main character" by the whrp. he's said in the site's description of the show to have introduced the main theme/lesson of the day's episode, and then the rest of the neighbors join him on his escapades. but then we have our first glimpses of everyone's actual dynamics and characters through the audios and you look at Wally and its like

first of all, thats an npc. second, nearly everybody else has severe main character syndrome

but its fascinating how Wally is just kind of... There. he doesnt talk much. he doesnt contribute beyond a couple of lines. its more like he joins the others on their shenanigans. he fades into the background. he's off to the side while everyone else holds conversations & leads the moment

Wally, despite being described as Thee character, is borderline background.

& whats even more interesting, within his individual secret audio files and interactions - he's almost chatty. not only that but the way he talks is more confident and faster paced. he's taking initiative. he can be kinda pushy. when talking to the qa/whrp/Us, he acts more like the character his descriptions portray. he acts more like a person instead of a puppet waiting for his next cue

I cant tell if - when around the neighbors - his tepid milk behavior is a purposeful act or if he's masking. and if he's masking, is it deliberate or involuntary? and in regards to both, why is he acting so different? It could be tied to what he's trying to accomplish. if he's trying to "restore" Welcome Home, it would make sense for him to act as he does around the neighbors - he wouldnt want to clue them in that he knows so much more than he's letting on, would he?

but then that begs another train of thought - what if he isn't acting or masking? if there is a time discrepancy between Wally's interactions with the qa/whrp/Us & the more 'official' audios, that could explain the difference in behavior. we could be getting glimpses into "future" (read: current) Wally, who's had much more time to figure himself out since we can safely assume he started out as a blank slate. we could be seeing a more experienced Wally than the one seen with his friends.

of course that line of thinking loses some merit when considering the 14 "bug" audios. or it could lend to it... if we're seeing a more experienced Wally but his friends are only seeing what he allows them to. it's still him, just... a carefully curated version.

in general it could really tie into the themes of identity and change and being other, to me. when you're so different - or you feel so different - that you can't bring yourself to be your most authentic you around your friends. when you feel like you have to hold back and be who you think they expect you to be, or what would be most palatable. most normal. will they accept you as you really are? there's always the fear and terror that the people you consider closest to you won't. or when you're so scared of change that you'll shove down & lock away parts of yourself so that you can keep things as you are. because once they know you've changed, so will they. and really, do you want to even accept that you've changed? what if that's what scares you most of all - that you're different, you've metamorphosized, you can't go back to the way things were because you yourself are no longer the person you were before. there is no reversing this no matter how much you try or pretend

[verydeadaten]

Jaune: Hey Pyr! I made you some chocolate cake!

Pyrrha: *looking at the cake*

Pyrrha: …are you trying to seduce me?

Jaune: Wha?

Pyrrha: *taking off clothes* Because it’s working.

Jaune: WHAT

[carnivorousyandeere]

having the yans just... do things for you with a vibe stuffed in them and no cumming until you say so. squirming while making your food and trying not to hump your leg during a massage...

This would be so fun to do to any of the subby yans, but especially Cam~! Making them give you a whole head-to-toe spa treatment while they’re stuffed full, vibrator pressing against their prostate with a matching vibrating cock ring around them… making fun of them for how sweaty and shaky their hands are as they try to massage you, to scrub your skin… switching up the settings just to hear the way they gasp and watch the way they chew their lip raw trying to be good and hold in their noises…

Don’t let your guard down too much, though— if Cam gets worked up enough, they’ll try slipping the remote control from your hand and pinning you down to fuck, pathetic little “sorry”s leaving their mouth as they rut against or into you, tears and sweat mixing and dripping onto you.

[dilfsonic]

I never posted this guy, but I just remembered him. Royalty au Jet with my take on Mobian avian design 💚💫

[autisticlee]

"just be yourself" has always been one of my most hated things to hear from someone. it may sound simple and easy to you, but when you grew up never able formed a single solid personality (because you grew up autistic or for some other reason) and/or have always felt more like 20 different personalities in a trench coat who fight over who is supposed to be in charge, that "simple" advice is so much less simple.....it can even seem impossible.

[jamiethebeeart]

Me starting the background: I'm going to be completely normal about it, ready, set - oops. (lineart by) @moonfoxgazer everytime I see the cowboy au i get a little bit more feral over it btw// @green-with-envy-phandom-event

Challenge be normal about adding backgrounds to lineart has, once again, failed (Though I can manage to rein myself in at least a little and not highlight/shade it)