#argon imagine

[doodle-pops]

Taking Care of Them When They Fall Sick

Characters: Fingolfin, Argon, Aegnor, Rog, Beleg, Elrond

A/N: Since the elves are always taking care of us when we’re unwell, I thought that it was time for the tables to be turned. And knowing how workaholic they are, what better time to fall sick and be pampered 🤭

Synopsis: Taking care of the elves when they fall sick due to overworking and they believe themselves to be dying.

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𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Fingolfin

– He was absurdly composed even when he was falling apart, and finding him hunched over a war table with his head in his hand, eyes unfocused, and still mumbling about troop positions was even more absurd. When you asked him about his appearance, the first thing he told you was, “I do not fall ill,” right before swaying and grabbing the table like it owed him money.

– Dragging the High King to bed was a diplomatic mission. He insisted he could finish what he was doing, while you reminded him that the last sentence he wrote just said “sword horse valley sword sword”.

– Once you managed to get him into bed, he refused to lie flat. He was miserably propped up like a wounded general. “This is very undignified. I’m the High King.” “Yeah, sure buddy, because right now you’re a high fever,” you muttered while shoving the herbal compress against his forehead.

– He didn’t whine, but he did sigh in a way that was designed to induce maximum guilt. “I should be with the people. This weakness—” “This weakness is a fever, Ñolo. You’re not dying. Cease being an overgrown baby.”

– He did complain a lot about the way the fever had him: “I feel sluggish,” “Is this what death feels like?” “How do you mortals withstand such atrocities?” “Is this how Fëanor felt before he combusted?”

– You fed him soup and he stared at the spoon like it had personally betrayed him. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.” Then nearly spilled the bowl into his lap when he tried. “Right. Yes. Carry on.”

– Once the fever got worse, he started talking nonsense. You caught the phrase “Noldorin dignity shall not fall to broth” and had to leave the room because you were laughing so hard at how dramatic he was acting over a fever.

– It was even better when he woke from a long nap looking dishevelled and flushed, he blinked slowly and said, “How long was I asleep?” “Six hours.” “…Has a new war started?”

– He thanked you awkwardly once he was better. Then added, “I hope you know I would do the same for you.” You just shook your head, “As if you already don’t. At least I complain a lot less than you do.”

– He was never late to rest again because you teasingly told people the King was vulnerable to soft blankets and tender affection. Though, he never confirmed or denied it. Just glared every time you brought it up.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Argon

– Stubborn baby never even considered that overworking himself could lead to illness. He was built like a mountain, or so he believed, and the fever hit like a sneak attack in the middle of training drills. He fainted with all the grace of a tree tipping over.

– You found him slumped awkwardly against a boulder with his eyes glazed and shirt clinging to him from the heat. When he mumbled, “Oh dear…did the sun fall out the sky and land on me?” you had to bite back a laugh before calling for help.

– He was mortified to be carried into the house by others and promptly pretended to faint again when he spotted you hovering with a worried expression. “Tell no one of this, especially my brothers.”

– You forced him into bed and told him you’d handle everything. He pouted. Actually pouted. “But I take care of you, not the other way around…”

– Babying him became more amusing than you expected. He was huge, but absolutely pathetic with a fever, wrapped in too many blankets and still shivering. “You can’t leave me. I might perish in your absence,” he croaked dramatically when you stood to refill his water with a hand over his forehead. He slept like a Victorian child dying of a disease

– He kept trying to insist he could still go out and “polish his armour at least,” which earned him a death glare and a fresh dose of the disgusting herbal drink he hated.

– “This is poison,” he grumbled after sipping it. No amount of convincing you to let him be free and roam once again with nature, his natural habitat, gifted him with escape. “I feel wounded in this form. Is this punishment? Must I repent to be freed?”

– After the first day, he mellowed into a clingy, drowsy mess. Kept whining your name even when he was half-asleep. You’d be walking past and hear, “I thought of something tragic again. Come here.”

– At one point, he tried to write you a letter declaring you his saviour and heir to his sword, in case he ‘succumbed to the fire.’ It was…extremely dramatic and signed in what looked like tea.

– You teased him for days after he got better. He denied everything. “I would never call myself a burdened, my beautiful soul in need of salvation.” You had proof that he had turned into an oversized whiny baby. He refused to acknowledge it.

– Even after he healed, he occasionally faked a cough here or there to get your attention and bask in your doting. You knew it. He knew it. But he learned not to fake because you teased him about how clingy he became.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Aegnor

– You’d told him several times to rest, to take a day off from wandering the northern borders and pouring over battle plans, but Aegnor’s way of ‘rest’ was sharpening his sword in silence.

– You didn’t know something was wrong until he stopped muttering. He always muttered under his breath when focused. And there he was, Snow White in the flesh, swaying slightly like a fragile tree in the wind.

– “I’m fine,” he managed to say before he toppled sideways like a brick and you had to physically drag him inside by the arm, cursing the pride of elves the whole way.

– He didn’t understand fevers. “I do not fall ill,” he insisted while looking visibly feverish and incoherent. Then spent the next ten minutes interrogating his own body. “Why am I sweating so much? Am I dying? I feel like a Balrog with all this fire inside me. Kiss me before I perish and become one.”

– Despite being hot to the touch and weak-limbed, he still tried to lecture you. “You should not have to do this. It is not your—” and then he sneezed six times in a row. The lecture ended.

– You gave him a cold cloth for his forehead and he squinted at you as though it were a holy relic. “You always do this when I’m unwell?” You just rolled your eyes at his dramatics. “You’ve never been unwell before you overdramatic child.”

– Very bad at being still. Kept trying to sit up and give orders through a raspy voice like some bedridden king. You had to throw a pillow at him and say, “You are not issuing battle commands from this bed, Aegnor. Sleep.”

– You tucked him in and he pretended he didn’t like it while making complaints for you to tuck him in properly. But then he caught you gently brushing his hair from his forehead and sighed like he hadn’t breathed in years. “I feel like a pampered princess. Massage my feet, please?”

– Once the fever broke, he wouldn’t stop apologising for being a burden, reckless, and for the sounds he made when sleeping.

– “If you ever try to get up when sick again, I’ll tie you to the bed.” The fool was more interested than terrified. “…Can you specify in what context?”

– He was never careless again though. But he did fake a fever once, just to see if you’d pamper him the same way. It was so terribly done you threw a cold cup of water at him and said, “Next time, try acting lessons first.”

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Rog

– Rog had two speeds: silent death machine and exhausted death machine. You were the only one who could tell when the switch happened. He didn’t admit it, but you saw how he stumbled just slightly getting out his high-stool.

– He passed out in his forge, collapsed across his workbench with metal dust all over his face. “Rog, you absolute idiot,” you whispered, lifting his head. “Even you’re not made of steel.”

– When he woke up, he was very confused to find himself in bed with your cool hand on his forehead. He blinked slowly. “…Did I perish? Is this the afterlife?” “No,” you replied. “This is me putting up with your nonsense.”

– He was flushed with fever and incredibly grumpy about it. “This is undignified,” he grumbled. “Elves do not—” “Rog, you’re as hot as a furnace. I can use your body to melt iron and craft a new sword.”

– Getting him to rest was like trying to tie down a mountain lion. Every time you left the room, he tried to get up and sneak back to his forge. You caught him once half-dressed and sneezing on his own apron. “Explain yourself,” you said. “I missed it,” he mumbled pathetically.

– You confiscated all his tools and locked the door. But then you got a giant elf who sulked for three hours. Wouldn’t even look at you. Eventually, when you offered soup, he sniffed dramatically. “I suppose I must accept nourishment in these dark days for I may fade away on the morrow. Very well.”

– Was very quiet during the worst of the fever—not used to feeling this weak. He whispered once, “You are gentle with me.” You almost missed it, he was so quiet. You smoothed back his hair and replied, “Only because you’d throw a tantrum if I tried to be stern.”

– Absolutely hated the herbal remedy, but bore it stoically like a warrior. Until you turned away and he tried to hide it under the bed. “Did you just throw your medicine under the mattress?” “Prove it.”

– When he was finally well again, he forged you a ridiculously beautiful brooch shaped like a lily, muttered something about resilience and guardianship, and then walked off pretending his ears weren’t red.

– You caught him staring at you multiple times afterwards, with a strange softness in his eyes.

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Beleg

– It started with him coming back from a hunt looking pale and uncharacteristically quiet. You thought he was just tired until he nearly dropped his bow trying to string it and mumbled something about “the trees spinning strangely…”

– Beleg insisted it was nothing. “Elves do not fall ill,” he claimed confidently while swaying slightly. You poked his forehead and said, “You’re burning up, Hotman.” He squinted at you, betrayed. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

– The second you bundled him into bed, he became the most restless patient imaginable. “I’m perfectly capable of standing guard at least. Just open the window, I’ll shoot from here.” “You’ll shoot nothing but a fevered hallucination.”

– You caught him sleep-talking once. Something about a particularly sassy squirrel that stole his dried fruit. He snored afterwards. You never let him live it down.

– He got progressively needier the higher his temperature rose. He was used to caring for others during patrol, not being coddled like a napping fawn. You offered him soup and he blinked, looked genuinely moved. “This is...for me?”

– He kept trying to apologise. For worrying you, the way he slumped, the sniffling. “Beleg,” you said, smoothing a wet cloth over his brow, “I will throttle you gently if you apologise one more time.”

– “Of course it is.” “I feel like a prince. Or a tree spirit. Do tree spirits eat soup?”

– He calmed down only when you curled up in the chair next to his bed, reading aloud. At one point he groggily reached for your hand. “You read like summer wind. Warm. Gentle.” “You’re delirious.” “Still true.”

– You caught him later polishing your boots as repayment. “It’s not much,” he mumbled, “but I will earn your kindness.” You shook your head and kissed the top of his stupidly noble head.

– After the fever broke, he tried to sneak off to patrol. You blocked the door and raised an eyebrow and grabbed him by the collar. “Try that again and I’m tying you to the bedposts.” “…I thought you said no threats 🥺.”

– The next time you so much as sniffled, he turned into an overbearing mother hen. “Blankets. You need seven. Eat this bark tea. Sleep now. I’ll sing.” “Are you getting revenge?” “Who, me? Never.”

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ Elrond

– Elrond getting sick was so unthinkable that you thought it was a prank. When he walked into your quarters clutching a blanket around his shoulders, face pale and voice hoarse, your jaw dropped.

– “I believe,” he rasped, “I may be... experiencing a mild biological disruption.” Are you saying you’re sick?” “...Possibly.”

– It was absurdly funny watching a healer become the patient. He knew exactly what to do, but refused to admit he needed to. You actually had to steal his own healing supplies and hide them so he’d stop trying to treat himself in secret.

– He refused to call it an illness at first. “It’s an imbalance of humours.” “You sneezed on my sleeve, Elrond.” “A momentary lapse.”

– “I’m merely fatigued,” he said, swaying slightly while holding a cup of tea. “My immune system is…unique.” You’re so dramatic, Elrond. It’s just a small fever caused by your workaholic self.”

– He was so embarrassed. “I treat others. I cannot be the one who is treated.” “Elrond, you’re literally a half-elf. You can get sick. Own it.” He groaned and buried his face in a pillow.

– The worst part? He still tried to work. He tried to get up and write letters to Galadriel. He tried to mix tonics while sniffling. He tried to instruct you on how to care for him, and you occasionally placed a finger on his lips to silence him.

– “You do realise this is the most ironic moment in the history of Middle-earth? The healer, caught in his own web of care.” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I should have warded myself better.”

– He became clingier the worse his fever got. You were trying to leave the room once and he caught your sleeve weakly. “I am accustomed to the solitude of illness, but...I would rather not be alone this time.” So you stayed. Sat on the floor beside the bed, reading from one of his many ridiculous old scrolls. He fell asleep mid-sentence.

– You caught him mumbling in his sleep once: “No more root paste. Too bitter. I want honey cakes.” All you could do was stare at him in utter disbelief, like ‘Sir, you’re the same healer who scolded me for the same thing and now look at you.’

– Eventually, he allowed himself to laugh about it. “You have my thanks,” he said one evening, watching the sunset with his hair loose, finally looking more himself. “I hope to return the favour…and when I do, I shall do so a hundredfold.”

– When the fever broke, he refused to look you in the eye for half a day. “I apologise for my lamentable state. It was unbecoming.” “You mean the part where you demanded ‘emotional stabilisation’ and tried to hug my pillow? Never thought there would be a day you would become so…dramatic over a fever you caused.”

– That night you caught him placing a small vial on your nightstand. A tonic against fever. “Just in case,” he said softly, not expecting you to wake up. “I’m not risking being out-caretaken ever again.”

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[lovefairymina]

"Arakano, can you lower your body down please? You are too tall and I can't even kiss you properly," y/n pout as she complained while looking up to his eyes.

“Hmm, I don’t know about that. Have you tried jumping or climbing on a table to kiss me? You tend to appear twice as adorable when you attempt to jump,” he laughed before his face morphed into panic the moment he realised you were about to kick him in his shin. “Alright, alright, you win. I’ll get on my knees for you, love. Cute.”

[lchufflepuffcorn]

Can you do like dragon!hybrids but like when their dragon kind of takes control and how the dragons interact with their mate? I’m like a little more partial to like Sunfyre, Syrax, and Caraxes with this one but like it’s totally up to you

- 😵‍💫 anon

Anon !! Hi!

Sorry it took me a bit, my brain cannot differentiate working five days a week and something akin to high-pressure atmosphere (I am not) so here I am !! I hope you'll like it.

Masterlist

Dragon!Hybrid masterlist

Warnings : none. OOC tendency, I suppose.

Sunfyre:

If Sunfyre was to take over Aegon (which, I don’t think he does all that much, because… well…) But if he had too, he’d be very careful with you. You’re like a small -fragile- bird. Admittedly you make a very ugly and featherless bird (but a beautiful human). Also, I think that Sunfyre would take over only if Aegon is not completely conscious. Otherwise, I think Aegon is very guarded about his dragon (because of his mother). 

You couldn’t seem to find peace that night, tossing and turning between the sheets, trying not to disturb Aegon who’d gone to sleep much earlier. Yet, even in the dark, eyes closed, after reading a whole book, taking a walk around the room and opening the windows, you couldn’t sleep. 

You laid awake, facing Aegon’s sleeping form and observing his face, relaxed for once. Hairs were obstructing his closed eyes and you brushed them away delicately. Aegon grunted. One of his eyes opened, yellow hues shining in his purple iris. You were close enough to see his pupil contract and he shifted closer to you. 

“Sleep.” He grunted, his voice deeper, harsher -different- than usual. Not his morning voice, or crying voice either. You’d only rarely heard that one before. Sunfyre.

“I can’t” You told him in the same hushed tone he used. Sunfyre grunted again. 

He wrapped his arms around your middle, shifting so you’d now be placed in the center of the bed, with him wrapped around you like a cat, and soft purrs started to rumble out of the prince as his dragon went back to sleep. 

Sleep found you too soon after. 

Caraxes:

Caraxes will take over Daemon only if he feels like Daemon is not listening to him. And only in dire circumstances. Caraxes is kinda old, so he knows how human politics work. He won’t disturb Daemon (too much). But it can happen. 

He was being ignored, again. Caraxes didn’t much like being ignored, but even more so when he knew he was right. And right now, he was right to want that lord dead. How dare he look at his Azantys? Did he not know they already belonged to him? 

The lord was not Daemon’s favourite, he too had found his eyes much too wandering on his Azantys than he usually gloated about. Daemon was hardly a jealous man, you were beautiful, of course. Intelligent, evidently. He would only like the best, as a Targaryen prince, but the lord had a lustful look that irked Daemon. Yet, he could do nothing, but watch the lord with a dark gaze, and you carefully. 

But the lord touched you, and Caraxes couldn’t stand to only watch anymore. How dare he touch what was rightfully his? Wings sprung out from Daemon’s back, his neck craning longer than usual, his eyes shifting to the icy blue and a growl escaped his throat. 

He pulled your seat closer to his, one wing coming to drape behind and around you, cutting the lord’s way of reaching you. 

Neither Daemon or Caraxes ever mentioned that again, and that lord was never seen around you or him. 

Syrax: 

Syrax is just there to have a great time. My bet is that time with you is a constant fight between Rhaenyra and Syrax, who gets to spend that time with you… Baby likes you too okay!! 

She likes having you close and keeping you happy. Her favourite thing in the world is having you look at her (she IS pretty). 

Early mornings with Rhaenyra were always cozy. Wrapped up between the blankets and each other, basked in the usual comforting warmth, you could feel her purr in your half-awake state. 

Except; Rhaenyra rarely purred in her sleep. Cracking open your eyes, fighting the pressing need to close them again, you craned your neck to look up at your Queen, who’s eyes were already opened. Well, not her eyes, per se. The yellow hues in her irises hinted at Syrax. The purrs she let out also. You smiled up at her. 

“Good Morning.” You left out the name you would have called your queen on purpose. She only purred harder. Syrax was not one to talk (to you) except to say the name she’d given you. Conversations were not her strong suit. She liked to keep you close better. She tagged you closer to her, nuzzling into the side of your neck. 

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Current anons: 👑(😵‍💫)🥰🧑‍🍼😣

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

It’s just that Fingon’s like that stereotypical son who calls his mum and walks old ladies across the street, mows the lawn for his neighbours, brings home nice, pretty girls who want to be kindergarten teachers or something and is really passionate about some niche compassionate topic like children in poverty’s access to multiple sclerosis treatment and who everyone says is ‘such a nice boy’ but then he goes and dates the eldest kid of Mr. Stay Away From My Boys, Son, a flaming ginger who most people haven’t heard speak. And this is hilarious.

[armandismed]

There's also something darkly humorous in Alicent suddenly remembering she has a daughter in this episode and suddenly not wanting her to be treated like shit, going to Rhaenyra and suddenly wanting to run away together and go live with their daughters, and a newly dickless Aegon metaphorically screaming from his bed, "AM I A FUCKING JOKE TO YOU"

[sutorus]

THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach. 

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility. 

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do. 

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man. 

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you. 

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—). 

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like. 

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year. 

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it. 

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives. 

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him. 

but you damn well managed to. 

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair. 

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit. 

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately. 

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class. 

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there. 

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours. 

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed. 

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are. 

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know. 

but you knew for a fact that it was personal. 

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance. 

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively. 

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow. 

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply. 

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class. 

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious. 

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test. 

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you. 

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well. 

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak. 

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class. 

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild. 

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another. 

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages. 

you smile, waving at the screen. 

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.” 

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying. 

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had. 

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip. 

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help. 

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.” 

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you. 

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong. 

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself. 

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again. 

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that. 

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this. 

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest. 

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know. 

damn right it’s personal. 

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation. 

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off. 

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over. 

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger. 

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on. 

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair. 

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet. 

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you. 

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums. 

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.” 

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from. 

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo. 

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction. 

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently. 

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you. 

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest. 

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom. 

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue. 

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly. 

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now… 

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun. 

you could so easily forget what you came here for. 

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn. 

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest. 

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together. 

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two. 

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh. 

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief. 

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips. 

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan. 

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core. 

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin. 

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside. 

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips. 

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you. 

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again. 

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat. 

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive. 

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock. 

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds. 

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly. 

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.” 

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of. 

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees. 

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper. 

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face. 

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants. 

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved. 

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside. 

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth. 

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would. 

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones. 

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man. 

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo. 

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time. 

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over. 

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt. 

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core. 

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you. 

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs. 

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else. 

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear. 

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt. 

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn. 

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him. 

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you. 

he notices you looking. 

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk. 

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip. 

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him. 

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head. 

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better. 

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair. 

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized. 

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers. 

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this. 

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth. 

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle. 

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back. 

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening. 

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts. 

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out. 

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. 

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you. 

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade. 

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go. 

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin. 

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt. 

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips. 

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you. 

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom. 

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.” 

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you. 

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts. 

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you. 

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you. 

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer. 

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release. 

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got. 

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“ 

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you. 

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure. 

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you. 

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of. 

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy. 

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows. 

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.  

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips. 

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?” 

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession. 

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles. 

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

[ask-thearchivists]

Speaking of color, do you like the color of the sky?

(Sorry everyone. I have to put anon in the ground. If you're on desktop press J)

The Coordinator: Yes, I very much enjoy the view of our galaxy outside the doorways behind us. The ambient color is always a lovely shade of purple here.

The Charmer: It's so nice, but I do miss the blue-green color of the Illusory Galaxy. I can't see myself leaving to found my own Archive anytime soon, but I sometimes imagine the beautiful color it will be.

The Cartographer: Since they're mortal, don't you think that what they meant by asking that is in reference to the view of the sky from the surface of a planet?

The Curator: Oh, that's a hard question that will probably require a lot of discussion before we remember all of our favorites.

The Cartographer: Once I went down to a planet and the sky was the pale blue of my body spots. That was striking, holding my hand in the air and seeing it vanish against the sky.

The Coordinator: Yes, it is striking when that happens. The first one that comes to mind is a blue sky I saw once, the exact same shade as half my skin, with white clouds like my hair.

The Charmer: Once I saw a world where their sky was a deeper blue like my skin during the day. Maybe worlds have blue skies by they are rarely ever such a dark shade of it, because of their suns.

The Curator: Wow, what boring answers. I like when planets have ammonia crystals in the upper atmosphere that make the skies look like the same pretty yellow shade as my skin.

The Charmer: Okay, but now you're just listing a sky that looks like your skin.

The Curator: Oh no, whatever shall I do? Maybe if you all think of more interesting colors for the sky to be, I will think of better colors too.

The Cartographer: Well, I remember a planet that we visited that had permanently orange skies from its incredibly dense atmosphere. They were the color of my eyes.

The Coordinator: Well, I do also recall a planet that had red skies. It was caused by smoke in the upper atmosphere because of the intense volcanic activity of the planet. The mortals were so interesting.

The Cartographer: I mean, you never see it on satellites capable of spontaneously creating life. But planets and moons with very thin atmospheres for one reason or another, their skies are pitch black in the day because there's nothing to catch and scatter the light. Though, I hate those skies.

The Charmer: Eugh!! Stop talking about that! You know those ones give me the creeps. It's like you're the last living creature in a dead universe where all the stars have gone out except one. It's like the only thing that is unsettling to us.

The Coordinator: Yes, I would like us to talk about different skies.

The Curator: Well, it's not the exact same but being in a mortal city and looking up at a black sky from light pollution is also interesting.

The Coordinator: Those skies are always so sad. When it gets to that point most mortals are not even aware that they are missing anything. The believe the sky to be unimpressive, typically unaware that they are no long able to see the stars.

The Charmer: Well, anything is better than those skies.

The Curator: One of my favorites skies that I've seen is one where the atmosphere had a lot of argon in it, so it was naturally purple. It's also really common for mortals to believe that their skies are blue when they're really purple because they didn't evolve the ability to see purple as well as other colors.

The Cartographer: There was one world I visited where the sky was a really pretty shade of blue-green.

The Charmer: The sky there was pretty, with its yellow clouds, but I would prefer not to compliment that terrible place.

The Coordinator: I agree. It is extremely rare but I like worlds with pink looking skies. It is typically just a washed out red but sometimes it looks more vibrant.

The Curator: The bright magenta sky worlds give ME the creeps, it's like a sky made of blood. Makes my skin crawl.

The Charmer: And then there's worlds with white skies. There's so many reasons the sky could be plain white.

The Coordinator: Oh! Do you recall that planet where the atmospheric conditions were so specific that the light from its star was pure white, and everything would appear grey-scale until there were fires or lightning strikes, or when it was overcast because the moisture of the clouds split the light and showed the colors of the world below? It was such a fascinating place.

The Charmer: Oh I almost forgot about that place! The sky there was so amazing.

The Coordinator: My favorite sky color is dark red.

The Charmer: After all this discussion I think I remember my favorite sky color to be vibrant magenta.

The Cartographer: I have to choose the golden orange permanent sunset skies.

The Curator: I'm going with purple. I love the rich royal purple skies on worlds with bacteriorhodopsin.

[solar-siren]

Shall We Dance?

[We're supposed to be a couple,] Quorra pings. Paige scoffs.

They're sitting at a table at the End of Line, keeping an eye on Castor and his connections. Looking for potential allies for the uprising in Argon.

They're also supposed to be on a "date," in order to blend in with the crowd.

"Come on," Quorra coaxes. "Just try to relax." She twines her hand with one of Paige's on the tabletop, toying with her fingers like an absentminded lover.

In reality, Quorra is perfectly focused. These are the hands that saved her life. The gentle, capable hands that patched her injuries back in Gallium. The talented hands of a musician, a program who's chosen a path outside of her function, over and over again. The hands that taught her how to fight.

"How do you like your new job?" Quorra asks.

"It's an adjustment." Paige shifts in her seat, leaning in closer. She manages to meet Quorra's eyes. "I'm having trouble with one of my coworkers."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Quorra murmurs. Poor thing. "Have you tried talking with them?"

Paige shrugs one shoulder. Casual. Enticing. "I'm not sure it's the kind of problem that talking can fix."

"Then maybe you should try something other than talking." Quorra looks at her under her lashes as she takes a sip of her drink. Suppresses a smile when Paige flushes. "What do you think of the music?"

"It's nice." Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She's wearing it down again, like she did when they met. "It's been too long since I came to a place like this. I've missed it."

Quorra musters her courage as she polishes off her drink. "Shall we dance?" she asks.

She doesn't think she imagines Paige's circuits brightening when she says yes.

[karanseraph]

Where are Cybertron's 'hot spots'?

The hot spot/sparkfield phenomenon is pretty much just IDW1 continuity. But I like it, because it's kinda cabbage patch and those toys were there with Transformers making parents crazy to find holiday gifts.

But where are they?

The 12 named spots are NOT including those on the Moons or within any Titans, but are across Cybertron's surface. they are, apparently:

Rivet's Field

Vespertine Blue

Port Residua

Pious Pools

Vauvaire

Sansaw Sanserre

Automica

Warrior's Gate

Eugenesis

Alyon

Mesmerica

Nova Point

If Nova Point = Nova Peak then that means RIvet's Field, Vespertine Blue, Port Residua AND Nova Point are all in some proximity to Iacon.

In a fic, I added a thirteenth spot/field called Quadrivia Quaaltagh which was associated with the Quintesson occupation AND Quantum Drive development and near Unitrex. That's headcanon, of course.

But did we get any notes about where they might be?

I'm at the point where I need to headcanon it, similar to how I headcanoned the map of Cybertron, so that my fic can be internally consistent when bots give each other directions or say where they are from.

Rivet's Field - sounds like Ebbets Field, so it must be the Brooklyn of Cybertron, which is also, apparently, near Iacon. They play some sport in that area.

Vespertine Blue - Dusky, evening Blue. I'm guessing north-east-ish or maybe east of Iacon where the first stars could be seen in a darkling sky. On my map it would also be near Uraya.

Port Residua - Remaining Port? Left Residue? Does Port imply a sea or the left? Our left looking at the map or like stage left? On my Cybertron, this would put it south-east-is of Iacon, north of Nyon (space Paris), on coast of the gaseous Argon Sea. Probably the coastal area has some kind of deposits or residue or withstands something over time.

Pious Pools - near some pools, presumably, as well as canals, apparently, but I don't know where.

Vauvaire - I feel like this is space Riviera, like Vauvert maybe and thus must be near Vos, which is also, basically, space French Riviera and that it is located in a place of wells, like the brecciated terrain of Cybertron's southern hemisphere.

Sansaw Sanserre - I suspect this is near Stanix. Though Stanix is probably the Stanwix of Cybertron (from the ancient terms for strong walls, with Fort Scyk nearby) it also came to be a region for energon wine according to (Ask) Vector Prime, and since Sancerre is a French wine region, Sansaw Sanserre must by near a Cybertronian wine region like Stanix. (My notes also say Shrewsbury for some reason?)

Automica - I'm not sure about this one.

Warrior's Gate - I put this near Tarn because I imagine it references Tarn-Hauser Gate, which itself references Tannhäuser Gate.

Eugenesis - Not sure about this one. Probably very fertile, though.

Alyon - mountains are seen in the distance when it is illustrated, so it could be in Cybertron's Eastern hemisphere situated between manganese mountains and Sonic Canyons, OR it might be in the Western Hemisphere the other side of those mountains, which on my map would put it either near Crystal City or an uninhabited part of the vast Acid Wastes. I'm guessing latter?

Mesmerica - I see that 'Merica, but I also have to think this related to mesmerizing, and that Mesmerica is near a location known for dark science and wizardry where Mindwipe or someone might be and so I suspect this could be near Kalis, but also potentially near Crystal City if Science went wrong. On my Cybertron, Kalis is within the Mithril Sea, though, so maybe Mesmerica is mes- in the intermediate location between Crystal City and Kalis on the Mithril Sea coast.

Nova Point - If Nova Point and Nova Peak are related locations, then this hot spot is ALSO near Iacon, probably west of Iacon, near Nova Cronum as well, like maybe there's a bridge or highway in the area that has views of this sparkfield as one drives into Iacon.

Ideas?

[toomanyfanficsnotimetowriteem]

I think a lot about different Beck AUs. I'll never have time or motivation to write most of them, but I like thinking about them all the same. One I have proposed before (which this fic post inspired me to think about again) is this: What if Beck somehow traveled back in time and participated in the original movie?

Part of the fascination with it is thinking about how Beck would interact with a younger Tron. The post that I linked above briefly features Tron talking about how he views his younger self. Tron is a relatively young program in the original movie. From how Alan describes him, Tron might only have just been finished (read older teenager or young adult). Beck, at the beginning of Uprising, seems to be about as old as Tron was in the original movie.

How would Beck react to how emotional young Tron is? To how arrogant he can sometimes sound? To the sparks of Tron's later uncontrollable rage? If Beck was the fourth member of their team, how would it have gone?

That's the other part that fascinates me about the concept of this AU. What would Beck do with the opportunity to interact with his own Creator long before the disasters Beck knows will occur? How would Beck think about Flynn? What might the program tell his User?

I imagine, as others often do, a longer break spent the cave with the energy. However, in this AU, while Tron and Ram take some time to rest, Beck pulls Flynn aside. Beck reveals that he knows Flynn is a User and admits how he knows this. While Flynn grapples with learning time travel is possible along with computers being alive in the same day, Beck warns Flynn not to build the Grid alone. The program throws the entire history of the Grid at his Creator and desperately pleads for him not to make the same mistake again.

Flynn agrees. Beck is satisfied.

But Flynn asks about Beck. What if, by warning Flynn about all this, Beck and his friends never exist? What if Beck never meets Tron?

Beck sighs. He regrets the good times that he'll never be able to have. However, if the Grid would survive, if the Grid would be free, it would all be worth it.

A better, brighter Grid awaits, but this Beck will never see it. He slowly fades away, certain that he's done the right thing.

Years later, Flynn finds himself in Argon with Tron, inspecting the security measures of the new city. A group of beta mechanics runs past. Tron is distracted with something else, but Flynn sees them. It's Beck. Beck and the friends he told Flynn about. The User didn't even realize he had still made them. So many programs were so different from what Beck had told him (on account of the other Users he involved in the Grid) that Flynn never expected to see them.

Beck was smiling, truly happy. He'd never smiled back when they first met... This Beck was not the same Beck. Though it stung to know that this Beck didn't know him, Flynn smiled. He was proof that the old Beck did the right thing. Flynn could only assume the fourth member of Beck's friend group was the lost Bodhi.

The User turned away, tears welling up in his eyes. He still needed to keep his promise to the old Beck. To keep the Grid alive. To keep the Grid free.

It still leaves a lot of open-ended bits. Would young Tron have bonded with Beck? Would he have tried to ask Flynn about bringing Beck back? What if I bull-shitted a way for new Beck to be able to get old Beck's memories? I know I would somehow sneak a way for Ram to resurrected in there. How would Ram and Beck interact? How would Yori and Beck interact? Would Yori and Beck interact? It's a lot of questions and I should really finish my other crap before I sit down and answer those.

[doodle-pops]

˖ ࣪ .Giving Them The Silent Treatment˖ ࣪ .

Headcanon: Amras, Argon, Angrod, Egalmoth, Gil Galad

Synopsis: In which they attempt to end the silent torture via their skillful methods.

˚₊‧꒰ა Amras — 𝑯𝒆'𝒔 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔. 𝑯𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐.

Amras walked softly into the room, glancing at you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The silence between you was heavy, each of his attempts to break it met with your determined silence. “Are you still angry with me?” he asked gently, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You turned away, unable to meet his eyes, leading to him approaching, and sitting down beside you on the bed. The warmth of his presence was comforting, even though you still refused to speak.

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” he continued, reaching out to gently touch your hand. “But I want to make it right. Please, let me try.”

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small, delicate flower, its petals a soft shade of blue. With a smile, he tucked it behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “You know,” he began, his voice laced with sincerity, “this flower reminds me of how I feel about you. It’s rare and beautiful, just like you.”

His eyes met yours, filled with an earnest hope. There was softness in his gaze and sincerity in his voice as they broke through your stubbornness. Turning to him, your eyes reflected a mixture of frustration and affection.

“Why do you have to be so charming?” you finally spoke, your voice softening.

Amras’s face broke into a relieved, affectionate smile. “Because I’m in love with you,” he said, leaning closer. “And I’d do anything to see you smile again.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the warmth of his love melting away your stubbornness.

˚₊‧꒰ა Argon — 𝑨𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕, 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐, 𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔. 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒎.

His usually bright and cheerful demeanour dimmed with each moment of your silence. “Are you really not going to talk to me?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation. You on the other hand, remained silent, your eyes focused on anything but him.

He pouted, his lips forming a perfect, sorrowful curve. “You know I hate it when you do this,” he whined, but you stood firm, arms crossed.

Trying everything he could think of to get your attention, he started by bringing you your favourite flowers and holding them out with an apologetic smile. And when you didn’t respond, he’d place them gently on the table next to you, hoping their fragrance would soften your irritation.

“Please, just talk to me,” he pleaded, his voice almost a whisper while you remained silent with your aching heart.

Next, he tried to make you laugh, performing exaggerated antics and telling jokes that usually had you in stitches. But today, you didn’t even crack a smile, urging his frustration to grow as he huffed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

Finally, he resorted to his last tactic: sheer stubbornness. He followed you around, a constant presence, or rather, a pest, at your side, refusing to leave you alone. “I’ll stay right here until you talk to me,” he declared, his tone both petulant and determined.

You sighed inwardly. His persistence was endearing, and you knew you couldn’t hold out forever. With a soft smile, you turned to him and said, “You’re more annoying than you give yourself credit. You do know that?”

His face lit up with relief and joy. “Ah, you had finally spoken! I’m sorry,” he said quickly, wrapping his arms around you. “I promise I’ll do better. Just please, don’t ever stop talking to me again.”

“Fine then, I won’t ignore you,” you whispered. “However, because I’m still upset, no cuddling for a while.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Angrod — 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓, 𝒉𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔, 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎.

The silence between you and Angrod had stretched for days. You sat in the common room of your shared quarters, reading a book while deliberately ignoring his attempts to bridge the gap. Each time he approached, you responded with nothing more than a silent nod or a hum, your eyes never leaving the pages.

Angrod tried to mask his frustration, though his usual easygoing demeanour was slipping. He’d attempt small talk, casually asking about your day or mentioning something interesting he’d learned, but your responses remained minimal. It was clear he was struggling to decipher what had gone wrong.

But it wasn’t until you started sleeping on the sofa, leaving Angrod to his solitude in the bed, that the full weight of your silent treatment hit him. The normally calm and composed elf began to crumble. He’d mutter to himself as he walked through the room, bumping into furniture and huffing with annoyance like an insane person.

When you finally noticed him pacing and mumbling, it was clear that the silence, while intended to make him reflect, was also gnawing at him more than you’d anticipated.

Hence why the next morning, you woke to find Angrod asleep on the sofa beside you, his face creased with worry and exhaustion, making him appear like a wrinkly old man.

“Hey,” you said, your voice warmer than intended. Angrod blinked open his eyes, seeing you with a mixture of relief and lingering frustration.

“Are you finally tal—Yes, my love,” he answered, quickly, recollecting himself and rubbing his eyes to fully wake up before he said something out of turn.

You nodded, your heart softening as you took his hand. “Yes, I’m finally awake and ready to talk, but let’s have breakfast first. You’re cooking though, so don’t burn anything.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Egalmoth — 𝑻𝒘𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒈𝒐, 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑯𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒚. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒈𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒎.

Egalmoth paced the length of the garden, his usual composed demeanour replaced by visible frustration. You sat on a stone bench, steadfastly ignoring him, your gaze fixed on the blooming roses. It had been three days since you’d last spoken to him, and he was growing increasingly desperate.

“Will you please talk to me, my love,” he said, his voice a mix of irritation and pleading. “The silence is too loud.”

Giving no indication that you heard him, maintaining your silence, Egalmoth sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I’d rather you punish me any other way than this silent treatment,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

His words hung in the air, but you remained calm which caused him to huff in frustration and storm off, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Minutes later, the sound of a clatter reached your ears, and you glanced over to see Egalmoth sprawled on the ground with a nearby ladder and several fallen books scattered around him.

“Curse this clumsiness,” he groaned, holding his ankle. Your heart clenched, but you forced yourself to remain seated.

Egalmoth’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flash of genuine pain—not just from his injury, but from your silence. He had gone out of his way to create a situation where you had no choice but to speak with him, even if it meant injuring himself.

You stood up, your stubbornness wavering. As you approached, he winced, clearly in discomfort. “Are you alright?” you finally asked, unable to maintain your silent treatment any longer.

Relief washed over his face despite his pain. “I will be, now that you’re talking to me,” he said, his voice softer. “I’ve missed your voice more than you know.”

You sighed, kneeling beside him to assess his injury. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, but there was no anger in your tone—only a reluctant affection.

Egalmoth smiled, reaching out to gently touch your hand. “And you’re everything to me,” he replied, his eyes filled with love. “Never leave me in silence again.”

You nodded, helping him to his feet. “Just don’t hurt yourself next time,” you said, your voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

“I’ll try,” he promised, leaning on you for support. “But only if you promise to talk to me.”

You couldn’t help but smile, shaking your head. “Deal.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Gil Galad — 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒊𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒉𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒅𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒔𝒐 𝒉𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

Gil-galad found you in the garden, the serene beauty of the flowering landscape contrasting with the cold silence you were giving him. For days, you had been distant, offering only curt nods and avoiding eye contact. He respected your space, but it was beginning to wear on him. He approached cautiously, his expression a mix of concern and gentle resolve.

“Is there an limit on words, or have I simply been unlucky in conversation?” he asked, attempting a lighthearted tone. He knelt beside you, his gaze searching your face for any sign of the warmth that once was there.

You remained silent, focused on the vibrant petals of a nearby flower. Gil-galad sighed, sitting down beside you. “If this is some form of punishment, I must say, I’m terribly uninitiated,” he continued, his voice softening. “But I’d very much like to understand what’s troubling you, or at least, share a smile.”

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and reassuring. “Tell me what I’ve done wrong. Even a King can be humbled by the silence of someone he holds dear.”

The sincerity in his voice finally broke through, bringing your eyes to meet his, and your vexation melting away gently.

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[lovefairymina]

Argon, I'd like to have a kid with you. I know they're a huge responsibility, but I've put in a lot of hard work and thought into it. I think we will make a pair of great parents because we both love deeply and are wholly supportive. Of course, that's only if you agree to everything too ☺

“Babies?! I’m still a baby you know; I need to be cared for, minus a diaper change, and loved affectionately every day or I’ll die,” he exclaimed in a breathy laugh. “But, I’ll think about it. I never gave thought to being a parent knowing how troublesome I was as a child, but I’ll mediate on it and let you know.”

[hatkuu]

hatkuu imagine showering w kylar after a long stressful day…omg he’s so gentle massaging ur scalp w shampoo and rubbing the washcloth across ur body…he’s being so sweet you just HAVE to give him a reward

AWWWW WAIT THIS IS SOSOSOS SWEET

he'd get you a stool to sit on and turn the faucet until the water runs to a soothing, muscle relaxing heat. kylar would coo at you, murmuring how perfectly soft and beautiful your body is, how he could touch you for hours if you'd let him.

you'd lean into his touches because wow, you were not expecting kylar's cute little hands to work your shoulder muscles so well and now you're slouching and letting out little pained moans because kylar knows all of the spots in which your muscles and joints hurt the most. he keeps massaging all the while, pressing soft loving kisses to the nape of your neck and rubbing scented soaps, body oils, and all of the nice smelling toiletries he's spoiled you with.

he repeats this process all over, rubbing and caressing your sensitive parts but pulling away abruptly with shuddering, pained sighs. he yearns to touch you lewdly but he can see that you've had a long day and he wants to be good for you.

cute nsfw under the cut!

his hands make their way up to your head, lathering argon oil shampoo into your scalp and cooing at you as you purr and keen into his touch. kylar's the only one to see you like this. so vulnerable and sweet. he rinses your hair so carefully, making sure no soap suds get in your eyes (he cups his palm over your forehead to ensure it doesn't happen)

when he's done and you turn around to face him on the stool, you realise he's painfully hard, his cock throbbing hot against his lean stomach. you bite your lip, gazing at kylar expectantly. he averts his eyes, muttering false refusals and murmuring that 'you don't have to help him' and that he 'wants to make you feel good'.

you ignore him anyways, standing up and leaning back against the tiles on the shower wall. water droplets rivulet down your body, kylar gapes at you as you offer yourself to him so willingly. your hand wraps around kylar's wrist, easing him towards trailing his fingers up and down your body. you smile as his cock pulses against your thigh - you're awfully familiar with the feeling of kylar rutting himself against you - mixing precum and water into a filthy blend.

kylar's hair is slicked against his forehead, darkened by the shower water. you yearn to reach up and massage his scalp just as he did to you... but you know that isn't what kylar wants.

you giggle sweetly, brushing wet hair from his face as he pins you against wet tile. kylar shyly smiles back, still rutting against your thigh.

"Don't you want to fuck me, Kylar?"

"Not yet—"

He whispers, leaning forward just far enough that his tongue tickles your collarbones. He sucks large, purple hickeys into your neck as your fingernails scrape red stripes down his back. One of his hands slide down to your crotch, shlicking his fingers with your sticky arousal.

"—wanna make you feel good first."

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

It’s time this post gets a Silm version.

Which Silmarillion characters say Fuck:

Feanor: Invented ‘fuck’ and always critiques peoples’ use of it (If you don’t use it to make seven children you’ve done something wrong).

Nerdanel: Has two sides. One doesn’t know any swears and the other… you don’t want to meet her.

Maedhros: Swears to make his brothers feel guilty about the fact that they’ve made him swear.

Maglor: If he swears at you you’re probably about to die.

Celegorm: ‘Fuck’ appears to be the only word in his vocabulary.

Curufin: claims he doesn’t swear. For safety’s sake we shall leave it at that.

Caranthir: swears lazily. Nerdanel tells him off more often than Celegorm.

Ambarussar: only swear ironically.

Fingon: swears as a compliment.

Turgon: swears when he’s upset. Even people who witness it aren’t quite sure they haven’t imagined it.

Aredhel: swears purposely to annoy her mother. Has a surprisingly clean mouth alone.

Argon: mostly uses the strange colloquial insults of the youth instead.

Finrod: No.

Angrod: likes to emphasise his points with unexpected ‘fuck’s.

Aegnor: swears quietly. More often than you’d think.

Galadriel: will smile dazzlingly, look you in the eye, and call you a spineless fucker (you are feanor).

Luthien: she thinks it’s a hilarious mannish word and only uses it for fun.

Beren: was so embarrassed when Luthien heard him swear for the first time.

Turin: even if he doesn’t say ‘fuck’, most of his discourse gives that impression.

Beleg: feels horribly ashamed whenever he lets one slip.

Mablung: can swear with alarming force when his temper gets the better of him.

Elwing: Her ‘fuck’ has the potential to kill.

Eärendil: Is the reason why the first thing the twins said to M&M was ‘Fuck, it’s you.’

[theceaselesshunger]

Amalgam Prince Chapter 1: Drifter Busy Eating Burgies

Decided to post the WF fic here while I wait for my AO3 invitation. Here's a lil doodle to go with it!

January 8, 1999

Arthur stepped into the mostly-barren mall, the squelches of his effervon soaked feet reverberating through the enclosed space. They were accompanied by pops of electricity from derelict appliances and water dripping from at least a dozen leaks in the skylight.

Home sweet home. He punctuated the thought by bursting a balloon under foot as he approached the security office he had made into his command center. The worn office chair that occupied it welcomed him, calling him into its arms. He obliged, throwing himself into its mesh embrace. Three breaths. That’s how much time he’d give himself to relax before he resumed his vigil.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale…………… exhale.

Arthur’s hand found its way to a walkie-talkie. With the press of a button and a static screech, it came alive. “Status report.”

Aoi’s voice came through first. “Me and Amir are still checking over the wiring in the basement. Uhg, it’s a miracle the techrot hasn’t gotten into the mall’s power supply yet.”

Amir chimed in from the background. “It’s sure getting into everything else, though! Ever seen a security cam bloom? Reminds me of that movie by Tom Carpenter- look alive! We got a crawler!” The sounds of miasmite screeching crackled through the speaker before cutting out.

“Well, hope they ain’t dead,” responded Quincy. “All’s easy sailing on my end, Maj. Not an acid-huffin’ pig in sight.”

“Igual, same old same old at the ‘infirmary.’” Lettie’s scoff came through, followed by panicked shuffling. “Ay mierda, Anita get away from those gauze!”

Arthur smirked to himself.  Same old same old indeed.

And yet it never really gets old, does it?

A feminine voice slipped into his mind. It felt less intrusive with every conversation, but Arthur remained unsure if he’d ever get used to it.

How’re you, Eleanor?

Oh, just resting. You know how close this couch and I are…

Arthur imagined the dramatic gesture she likely performed with that statement, lovingly caressing the upholstery or stretching provocatively upon it. He reclined back into his own seating, seemingly satisfied with the state of things. The Hex had been in dire need of normalcy (at least by their standards) after the New Years that never was. They… hadn’t really discussed it much, and he wasn’t going to rock that boat today. Perhaps he’d allow himself a moment to nod off. His eyes began to droop, the hum of a dozen CRT screens setting his nerves at ease. But just as sleep was about to embrace him, a thought held it at bay. He realized he had forgotten someone. 

Oh, right. Eleanor, any idea what our guest is up to?

Our resident time-traveler? Give me a moment… Ah, food court. You know, you should really just give him his own radio so you don’t have to use me like a glorified GPS.

Yeah, yeah. Arthur sent his sister a feeling of gratitude as he rolled his chair along, trying to get an angle on said food court. He could just barely make out the time-traveler in question; the figure hunched over in one of the stalls. Was he eating? And vigorously at that, if the man’s shimmying was any indication. Arthur hadn’t felt comfortable sharing the location of their rations with the stranger just yet, but then what was he going to town on? The hobby chef in him had to admit he was quite curious to see what the people of the future considered a meal.

He pocketed the walkie-talkie and willed himself back onto his feet. He stepped gingerly towards the stalls, as if the new arrival might scurry off with their snack like one of Lettie’s rats. Moans and other sounds of satisfaction filled the air the closer he came. Marty was really enjoying whatever he got his hands on. Upon reaching the stall, Arthur bent ever so slightly to peer over the other man’s shoulder, only to see…

An Argon Burger™ Kids’ Meal?

“Seriously?” he questioned incredulously.

The Drifter sputtered and jumped, startled from his reverie. He cupped his hands around his mouth, ensuring none of its contents accidentally fell out. The look in his eyes was absolutely piercing as he turned towards the lieutenant. Arthur still found himself taken aback by their intense golden light.

“Dahn’t yoo know eet’s”- the Drifter swallowed- “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on someone while they’re eating?”

“Er, sorry. Just didn’t expect you to be eating, uh, stuff like that,” Arthur said while waving his hand towards the spread.

“As opposed to?” The Drifter took a sip of a cola that looked comically small in his hand. His lips curled into a tiny smile as he savored the sweetness.

“I don’t know. Space food? Venusian noodles or Martian omelettes or… something,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Something fancier than the bloody Höllar menu.”

The Drifter spoke in-between mouthfuls of fries. “First of all, I didn’t exactly have the option to bring food with me through the Helminth. Second, ‘Venusians’ don’t eat and Martians are long gone. And third-” another gulp- “I don’t know what a Höllar menu is.”

Arthur smirked at that. “Right… Where did you get that anyways? Most of the burger joints in this city have been closed for months.”

“A Scaldra locker. Was hoping to find some supplies, but can’t say I’m mad about this.” The Drifter messily shoved what remained of the child-sized hamburger into his mouth. His face was sheer bliss as he proceeded to suck his fingers one by one, not wanting to waste even a crumb of greasy goodness.

Arthur winced at the display, multiple questions running through his mind. One being why were Scaldra soldiers eating kids’ meals, but he went with a more pertinent one. “Wait, you just… took it from some bloke’s locker?”

The Drifter gave him a puzzled look. “Yeah? Why?”

“Scavenging supplies is one thing, but stealing a guy’s lunch is… Well, odd if I’m being honest. No bites already taken I hope.”

The other man averted his gaze as he reached for a napkin.

“Oh c’mon…”

“Look, look! The Tenno are honorable warriors but we have two rules: Don’t waste valuable resources. Such as food…” he added under his breath. “And if someone points their gun at you, whatever’s in their locker is your’s…” He smeared the napkin across his half-stubbled, half-metallic jaw, catching any stray sesame seeds or spots of ketchup. “... Cause they’re not going to need it for much longer.”

Right. Arthur grimaced as he watched the Drifter casually stuff the refuse of his meal back into its smiling container. The juxtaposition between the time-traveler’s quirks and the ease in which he dealt death made even the veteran soldier’s skin crawl. But maybe death felt cheap to those who could slug it off like a bad hangover. He didn’t understand it. Much as he tried not to dwell on it, his own had been haunting him for the past week. He could barely use the microwave without recalling the dry sting of the radiation burns.

He found himself scratching at his skin before a warbling sound and a flash of light snapped him out of it. In place of the Drifter stood a hulking creature of gilded steel and pulsating energy, a full head taller than Arthur. It looked down at him with impassive, rectangular eyes. Caliban, he believed the Drifter called it. A fully realized version of whatever the Hex had become.

“I’m going back out. Anything we need in particular?”

Arthur shook his head, shoving off the eerie sensation of hearing the Drifter’s voice coming from such an alien being’s… face? “We’re fine for now. Just see if you can find anything of use. No half-eaten burgers, please.” 

The warframe shot him a thumbs-up as it turned towards the garage. Arthur was about to make his own exit until the weight in his pocket reminded him of his dear sister’s request.  

“Wait! Take this with you. Eleanor’s been hounding me about it.”

He pulled out the walkie-talkie and tossed it to the Drifter, who snatched it mid-air like it was a toy. He regarded it for a moment, turning it around in his frame’s clawed hand. Arthur couldn’t quite tell, but the Tenno almost seemed amused.

“Thanks… But uh, how do I use it?”

“Sol help us…”

[unroxyfication]

hey did you know that there are a few gases, like argon and others that are denser than air while remaining colorless and odourless? Meaning that it would be virtually impossible to tell if, say, the room you were in had been slowly being filled with them until you suddenly passed out from oxygen deprivation? It's pretty easy to make a house relatively airtight, and as long as the victim is removed from the exposure hey recover relatively quickly, within a hour or two. Coincidentally, did you know that a modern car can make it ≈50 kilometers into the wilderness in that time?

Imagine waking up, feeling like you dozed off unexpectedly in the back of a car. The driver is facing away, wreathed in nondescript greys and blacks to avoid identification. You can see their eyes in the rearview mirror, obscured by reflective sunglasses. A gun jiggles in the cupholder. If they were going to kill you, they would have done so already, unless they just want to make sure it hurts. But they have better plans for you. Why else would they have taken such pains to ensure their victim's body was untouched? And you are in such pristine condition...

you could hqve just asked youknow. im not busy I would have gone for a day out with you if youd asked. hi