#imagine how is touch the body

[canisalbus]

I was thinking of Machete and his sheep toy 🐑

Also sorry I keep drawing him, I just love him so much ♡

.

[sukugo]

Do you think gojo makes those freaky ass feral expressions while getting dicked down?

YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSS RAAAAAAAAAHHHH THIS IS SOMETHIGN IM PASSIONATE ABOUT OKAY!!!!!!! YES HE DOES

like, pleasure looks such a specific way on satoru. we can see it in the tojigo fight, the hanami/jogo fight and the sukugo fight. they're the only moments where we truly get to see raw pleasure on him and it's that. eyes popping out and manic grin and laughter bubbling in his torso and body charged, and mannerisms especially crude.

there's something so animalistic about it, his "human" mask slipping from him and showing him in all his monstrous glory, unfiltered and raw and like the freak of nature he truly is

and it's exactly the same thing when it comes to sex. it's all pleasure after all.

[gojonanami]

thinking about what if you manage to save geto from kenjaku and bring him back to life — a binding vow that costs you part of your life and your jujutsu, but then you have to deal with the aftermath of helping geto put himself back together and what that really meant after everything he had done and everything kenjaku had done

[cosmicmakos]

imagine holding your f/os hand, in public or somewhere private. all that matters is that you're both enjoying the physical contact and being close to one another. if one of you aren't comfortable with it - causally having your hands brush against each other or touching in some way.

[quietwingsinthesky]

thinks about the master & the doctor cuddling thinks about them cuddling thinks about them cuddling thinks about them cuddlign thinks-

[go6jo]

childhood friend karasu who throughout the years you've witnessed jump from one relationship to another despite the obvious feelings that are left unaddressed between the two of you. there is this tangible tension, one that grows substantial with time, with each relationship you watch him get into. and you're somewhat aware of your feelings towards each other yet neither of you own up to it.

you will often show up to his front door on a short notice, to hang out on the occasions that you were coincidentally driving past his house after work. more often than not, however, he'll open the door with his shirt slung over his shoulder, and if you took a peak inside you'd notice some girl, one that looks nothing like you, whose features couldn't be more distinct from your own, sprawled on the couch of his living room, her hair a mess, lipstick smeared all over her lips down to her chest, smudges of red disappearing under the collar of her shirt that's riding dangerously up her stomach. more often than not, too, he'll smirk at the way you look away from the scene in front of you, trying to act unfazed, how you try, to no avail, to conceal the frustration that shows in the furrow of your brows. jealousy, it reads on your face - it's written all over it, even a blind man could see it. "wanna join?" but you've already started walking away and tabito thinks he knows the answer, anyways. (you've never been one for sharing, not ever since you were a child and as he watches you leave there’s a certain tenderness that settles in his chest, that softens the smirk on his face into a subtle smile, one of affection upon realising that, when it comes to him, you never really stopped behaving like the little girl he knew and grew up with, the little girl who had always wanted him all to herself.)

you watch as girls grind up against him at the club everytime go out together. he’s grown handsome, you reckon, (more handsome now at 20 than 14 year old you would ever thought he’d turn out to be.), drawing some attention, girls naturally flocking to him - something you’re still not used to. him being the object of other people’s affection. you having to share. your eyes meet across the room - you stare at him in silent revulsion, as an affront when he lets them cling onto him, smirking at you over the girl's shoulder as she starts kissing up his neck, feeling him up, her manicured nails grazing down his chest. what are you gonna do about it, he mouths at you in defiance. like clockwork, you pretend that you didn't take notice of his disappearance, that you didn't feel a knot in your stomach as you watched some girl drag him into the bathroom with her and when it's time to leave, you pretend you don't notice that the buttons at the top of his shirt are undone - that he's breathless and his pupils are blown wide. you get in his car and he drives you both home - to his place - then you get inside and you both pretend like there is nothing to be said. you slip out of your heels and you curse him quietly when he walks past you into the living room. "you're an asshole, tabito" but there isn't any malice to it, it's meek in a way. sad and hopeless. he just scoffs in fake amusement, discarding of his shirt and throwing it in the couch. all of his witty qualities, any energy he might've had to retort with a cheeky remark began to fade as soon as he had walked through the front door. he always found it harder to play pretend in the silence of his home, away from all the buzz, where the feelings you've both been negleting for way too long begin to weigh heavy in the athmosphere. there's a certain bitterness hanging in the air as he adjusts himself on the couch to settle for the night, as you walk into his room and lock the door behind you. neither of you have the energy to argue anymore. you used to fight on nights like these, “does it bother you that much?”, he'd ask once the dust begins to settle with his forehead touching yours, holding your chin so you couldn’t avert your gaze away from him. “could be you, you know?”. he tells you as he kisses your cheek, left then right, on each corner of your mouth, dangerously close to your lips then holds your head against his chest. he could be so sweet, so convincing. you used to fight but that was before, when you still thought it was worth a shot, that this was worth fighting for - whatever this was. "just say the word and i’m yours, baby.”

liar. he’s pretending to care when he squeezes your hand a little tighter in his as soon as he begins to feel you grow restless as you struggle to engage in conversation with his friends, too afraid to intrude yet too scared of looking bored as they talk football tactics (you had just wanted to spend some time with him after a whole week of being too busy to hang out). faking the kindness in his smile, too, as he tries his best to put you at ease. they like, you know, he tells you once you leave, eita’s told me to you should give him a call if you’re ever done being friends with me. he’s only feigning sympathy when he offers to rub your feet after a long day, when he kneads your calves as your legs rest over his on the couch. he’s pretending to be attentive when he rubs up and down your arms as you stand in line together to keep you cosy on a particular chilly day, lwhen he tells cashier your coffee order that he has memorized by heart, when he brings your hands up to his lips and blows some warmth into them, sharing some of his heat after your coffees run cold in your grasp, definitely only acting suave when he presses his lips ever so softly against the skin of your forehead to check your temperature when, on the following day, you tell him you might be getting sick.

so you refused to yield. you've loved him for as long as you can remember yet still you never wavered in your decision to refuse to surrender to him. he's all you've ever known, for the longest time you watched him jump from one relationship to another thinking that someday when he grew older, more mature, he'd stop playing these games with you. so you waited, you waited until you realised that maybe you'd never see the end of it, that maybe he just enjoyed being chased, enjoyed how suscetible you were to his provocations, thrived on your silent jealosy — he must have thought it was flattering. he's always loved to pick on those weaker than him, to feel like he has the upper hand while picking on their weaknesses and yours just so happens to be him. you don't think he ever means it when he says he'd be yours, that he'll drop his current girlfriend if you ask him to, if only you tell him you want him. to admit such a thing, however, you think, would be to akin to handing him the gun with which you he’ll make you meet your demise. it is a scary thing to have someone hold that power over you, the power to destroy you if they so desire. so you won't surrender, it hurts enough already as it is.

but he has needs, he tells you, (teases you), and if you won’t indulge him he will have someone else tend to them. and karasu does try to enjoy their company to a certain extent - pretends to make love to you through them. pretends it's your tongue he's sucking on, your whines, your scent, your touch. and even though he purposefully chooses girls that look nothing like you, he manages to get into it so long as he keeps his eyes shut. his relationships never go past the three month mark, though. Karasu does just enough to keep the entertained, kisses them nice and slow so they feel cared for, feels and gropes them over their clothes while whispering all kinds of dirty things into their ears, all the things he will do to them (all the things he’d like to do to you) and for a while those empty promises are enough to keep them around. he knows what women want and knows how to keep them on their toes. it never goes past that, though. it never lasts much longer once he begins rejecting their every advance because as soon as they start kissing down his chest, their fingers sneaking past the waistband of his underwear, he is grabbing their wrists while glancing down at them with a dangerous look on his face. it’s not long before they start whining at him, telling him he’s no fun and leave through the front door, never to be seen again. then he’s left to think of you. it was fun for a while, to introduce you to all of these different girls and watch you act friendly with them only for you to let your frustrations out on him as soon as the two of you were alone. it sort of amused him, really. for quite some time, your jealousy had been enough for Tabito, it'd been enough reassurance of the feelings you still harboured for him after all these years. it was proof that you desired him and maybe if your desire was strong enough, maybe you wouldn’t notice that he’s not that special after all. that there is nothing exceptional about him, not a secret quirk or any hidden talent or passion besides football - not much to give, not much to love. he had relied on all these girls who blindly craved him so hopefully you, too, would find him worthy of love, your love. but it's been too long now and you’re both adults and he's tired of playing this game of cat and mouse and you might probably think he's the worst person alive by now so it's no use trying to convince you of his feelings for you either. and how could he blame you for it, really? for not trusting him when all he has done for the past years is deceive you.

then he goes off to paris and he begins to take his relationships more seriously, as a way to actively work towards getting over you. he’s sparking all kind of dating rumours when he’s seen leaving practice with a french model under his arm. you haven’t heard of him for over a year and you see the pictures all over social media. on the first picture of the sequence you can tell he’s just left practice because his skin is covered in a wet sheen of sweat. he's smiling and his jersey is clinging to his torso almost a bit too provocatively (you're sure he'd bask in the praise of the people on the comment section complimenting his physique) and you can’t help but notice the way the sleeves are a little too tight around his arms, he has put on some muscle since the last time you saw him - he looks so handsome and hes a lot stronger and you miss him so much. you smile fondly at your screen but your smile begins to falter as you scroll through the pictures and theres an image of a blonde handing him a bottle of water while he noses at her cheek affectionately, in gratitude you think, another picture capturing a more intimate moment where he’s holding her head to his chest as he drinks from the bottle and you don't think you've ever seen him be this genuinely gentle towards anyone before, anyone but you. there is an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, you feel sick — it’s the first time you’re truly scared of losing him. you call him almost instantly - instinctively. you don’t know what to say if he picks up, you don’t even know if you want him to pick up, you don't even know why you’re calling him but you feel nauseous and your vision is blurry from all the tears that are threating to spill and its taking him way too long to pick up. you have half a mind to hang up when you hear his voice on the other end and you start sobbing, unable to form any cohesive sentences, apologizing to him instead, over and over again.

“hi, bab-“ it should've felt comforting to know that even after all this time his voice is still gentle when talking to you, that he'll never stop calling you baby - that you're still his baby.

“sorry.” you say in between hiccups “im sorry. please, tabito. im so sorry. dont do this, please.”

he wants to say he has no idea what you're talking about, that he's happy now, happy with her that he never once wondered how you'd react once the news reached you on the other side of the globe. he pretends he can't feel his heart aching in his chest at your crying fit because he'd dreamed of a moment like this - where you'd call him crying, begging for him. you'd always been so tough that he thought it'd be somewhat sweet to watch you finally break - he didn't foresee this though. feeling this gutted, this miserable at the weak sound of your voice, hating himself this much. he never thought things would reach such dimensions, could never imagine the depths of your feelings for him, that you'd hurt so much for him. its breaks his heart. he aches for you yet he finds you ache for him just as much.

"hey." he hushes. “i won’t, baby. i won’t, okay?”

his words seem to soothe you and he lets you cry for a little longer until your sobs gradually begin to fade on the other side of the line until it's mostly quiet. he runs a hand through his hair, unsure of what to tell you, of what to do.

“you have got to give me something here, pretty.” he can feel you grow agitated again as he listens to your quivering breath. “i need to know what you want.”

it's silent again until you begin to sob quietly, trying to get the words out. “i need you, please. don’t do this.”

“you’re hurting me, tabito.”

you sound so small, childish almost and he loathes it. he loves you and he doesn't want to see you hurt anymore, not for him. he loves you so much, so much, but he’d been so worried you’d see through him, that you'd deem him insignificant - so focused on making you love him. all this time he forgot about making you feel loved in return, cared for.

"your address still the same?" he wants to hold you, he thinks. to kiss your face while whispering sweet nothings onto your ear, again, again and again until you believe it when he tells you he loves you. he hears a sound of confirmation coming from you and he adjusts himself on the couch, a arm folding behind his neck for support, waiting for your breaths to even out and he tells you he’ll stay with you until you fall asleep. he stays and he completely forgets about the blonde sleeping in his bed next door.

a few days go by and you feel stupid for thinking that maybe he’d come to visit you, that he'd come to kiss away your tears and tell you that he wants to be with you, he’ll stay in japan just to be with you (you'd innocently dreamed of it. that his love for you would make him stay, your councious mind tells you that you'd never overcome that guilt, though. you'd never want to stall him, to ruin the bright future he has ahead of him. so instead, you choose to dream of a love that's enough to bind you two together despite however many miles might stand between the two of you.) you watch him on television and he shines on the field and you engrave that same image into the back of your mind because you think that’s the last you’ll ever see of him. but one day, two weeks after the call, when you’ve come to terms with the fact that maybe he’s not coming, he shows up at your doorstep and all you can do is drop your head onto his chest — surrendering, to him, in the sweetest submission. something so docile, so earnest it has his chest aching in adoration. there are no ulterior motives to your touches as you run your hands down the expanse of his arms only to finally link your fingers with his when you reach his hands. no other reason besides the fact that you want to touch him, feel him. he’s here and that’s enough. he’d been gone for so long that, for now, you won’t demand anything more of him except for his touch. it feels innocent again, mellow like when you were kids — uncomplicated. it feels overly sweet when you look up at him with honeyed eyes and hold his face in the palms of your hands getting on the tip of your toes to place a lingering kiss in the corner of his mouth, both of you with your eyes softly closed. then you move with uncertainty to brush your lips against his. it’s only then that he reacts, that he snaps out oh his reverie and grabs your face in his hands to put some distance between you. just enough so that he can look you in the eye, just enough to gain back his composure.

“no.” he locks eyes with you, holding you firmly in place. he kisses the furrow of your brows in a soothing manner, in reassurance at the look of betrayal on your face. “say it, baby.”

he looks down to traces a finger over the collar of your night dress and there a certain eagerness to his words, to the way he leans his forehead against yours and his chest is heaving in antecipation. he wanted to kiss you, too. and it fills you with courage.

“just make me your girlfriend, tabito,” you sigh “please.”

and it feels good to surrender. to be held in his arms as he kisses you slow, longingly. i have very little to offer you. the hands that roam your body and slide up your thighs under the fabric of your dress want to say. it’s enough, the hands that hold him closer to you whisper. you’re enough.

“you say it, now.” you pull away from him, breathless. “say it’s only ever been me.”

“yeah, baby. yeah.” he closes his eyes as he chuckles lovingly at the determination in your eyes and holds your head to his chest, close to his heart. (still not quite close enough.) “you’re my girl. you’ve always been my girl.”

[stupid-and-cute-are-enough]

for the past 4 days, i've descended into madness over the anon getting turned into an animatronic. behold. 2.6k words @get-rammed i've gone insane

as always, i spew BTS lore in the tags

“Alright, that’s everything,” his Handler announces, finishing the paint on his last claw. They give his hand a satisfied pat. Monty watches as they turn away and begin packing up their things, making idle chatter as they do, offhandedly mentioning that they hope it isn’t too late by the time they actually get to head home. They told him earlier that they’ve got a meeting with the higher-ups once they’re done tonight, and it’s been weighing on him all day.

“I don’t think you should go to that meeting,” he says because he can’t take it any longer.

They pause. “What do you mean?”

“I just… I don’t think you should go.” Monty clenches his fists in his lap. It doesn’t feel right. If it was any other lame meeting announced in a staff email, sure, but this isn’t one of those. They were approached in person. No documents, nothing written; just pulled them aside this morning and told them something about enhancing the Handler experience. All of the other Handlers have gone home already, too, and there’s nothing that they could want just his for that meant anything good.

They huff fondly. “I don’t really have a choice, Monty.”

They keep getting ready, a sinking feeling forming in Monty. He tries again to explain that it’s a bad idea again but is gently shut down. His Handler hugs his head on their way out, an act he’d usually eat up and crave more of, but tonight, he feels like rejecting it. It just feels so wrong.

“Sweets, please, don’t go.” He grabs onto their sleeve. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

Their face softens. “I hear you, Monty, but I have to. I’ll probably get fired if I don’t.” They laugh a little. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Worst-case scenario, they dump a mountain of work on me. Everything’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, big guy.”

—

They announced a new animatronic the very next day.

The announcement made Monty raise a brow because even with his debut as a Glamrock, as rushed as it was, Fazzbear Entertainment still took their time to milk it for all its worth. Surely, with a brand-new animatronic, they’d pull out all of the theatrics. But, no, management had just called everyone backstage (Monty was grabbed by Chica’s Handler because his still wasn’t here, and it worried him. They always tell him if they’re going to be late) and spilled the news.

It’s another gator, which, geez, thanks, corporate. It’s dressed in actual clothes, unlike the rest of them. It’s a little smaller than Monty, with a sleeker design. Monty eyes the new thing up and down. There’s something… wrong with it. Monty feels it. So does the rest of the band. It stands across from them, eyes too wide, taking in too much yet too little information at the same time. Its hands are clutched together, held tightly to its chest. It’s a shambling mess, really. Barely finished and definitely not ready for crowds. The thing really needs a Handler, which only reminds Monty of the empty space by his side.

It’s different from them. It doesn’t fill its body like it’s supposed to. A feeling of uneasiness washes over the room. Even the other Handlers look a little disturbed.

After the incredibly lackluster introduction, dampened by the uneasiness of everyone in the room, management gives up on pleasantries and snaps at everyone to prepare for opening time. They leave without further explanation, not even telling everyone what the newcomer is supposed to be doing. Everyone takes the chance to leave as fast as possible, abandoning the barely functional animatronic where it stands.

Something in Monty tells him to linger, as disturbed as he is. The sinking feeling he had last night returns tenfold.

It looks too familiar. Cautiously, Monty approaches the thing, eyeing the uniform it wears. He dares not to peek at the nametag displayed proudly on its chest. The animatronic tilts its head up at him slightly, or at least it tries. Monty can hear the inner mechanics going, but it remains frozen. He stands uncomfortably in front of it, unsure of what to do. Everything about it feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

He peeks at the nametag, and his world comes crashing down. Surely not. They couldn’t have shoved a whole person, a full consciousness, inside of an animatronic, could they? That technology doesn’t exist, right? Right?

Monty reaches out a shaking hand, staring into the bot’s blank, red eyes. It can’t be. Fazzbear has done some fucked up, shady stuff, but they wouldn’t do this, would they? This has to be too far. It has to. His hand touches their forearm, feeling the all-too-familiar fabric of the Handler uniforms under his finger pads. He meets their eyes, registering the terror behind their blank stare.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, it’s... I, uh-”

“M-” Their voice fries out, and their jaw moves unnaturally. But it’s enough for Monty. That’s their voice. That’s their voice. Monty feels something vile fester inside of him. If he could get sick, he would. That’s them. That’s them in there. They’re in there. That’s his Handler, who he saw just last night, in there.

Their stare is so blank. Their hands are clutched together so tightly. That’s them.

“Oh, sweets…”

His hands slide down their arms to take their hands, snagging his thumb on the cuff of their uniform as he goes. Something there catches his eyes, though, something a human eye would miss, but something he’s been trained to notice. A tiny speckle of blood stained into the fabric. Their blood.

Monty sucks in a breath, his grip on their hands tightening. They were hurt when this was done to them. They bled.

“Let’s go to my green room,” he says. He keeps his voice gentle, but there’s also no room to argue. He doesn’t think they could, anyway. They don’t respond to him or make any kind of movement, so Monty moves for them. Slowly, painfully, he guides them up to his green room, keeping a gentle set of hands on them the entire way. They stumble and would’ve fallen without Monty to catch them. Their tail drags limply behind them. They probably don’t know how to use it for balance yet. The word yet makes Monty’s heart hurt.

He ensures the door stays open as they shuffle into his room, hovering over them until they’ve been cautiously guided to sit on the couch. They don’t need to struggle to stand anymore. Monty doesn’t think he could handle seeing it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. It’s a lie. It’s an awful, horrible lie, but what else is he supposed to say?

They try to speak again, but their voice fries into something that sounds like a quiet cry. Their body begins to tremble, their hands clenching around each other even harder. All tell-tale signs that they’re crying, but they don’t have tears anymore. Instead, their eyes just stare into the wall, unresponsive.

“I’m so sorry, sweets,” he says as they weep. He sits beside them on the couch, cautiously wrapping his body around theirs. He doesn’t know if the different sensations will upset them even further, but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

“H-” A billow of steam rolls out of their jaw, rattling their whole system. The sudden movement startles Monty, making him pull away.

“Hey, sweets, you-” Monty glances into their eyes, wide, sightless, terrified, with a slack jaw pouring steam, “you need to calm down. I know it seems like I’m askin’ the impossible of ya, but you’ll overheat yourself, and I dunno how to fix that.”

Their body shudders, unresponsive to their mind. Monty doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. He remembers what they did when he first came online and when he was given his new body. They surrounded him with familiar, comforting things, but his Handler doesn’t live here like he does. At least they didn’t. Their greatest comforts are probably far out of Monty’s reach. He searches around his green room, trying to find anything he knows helps them relax.

He spots a fidget they used to love playing with during his noon charging sessions. It should be simple enough; it just needs a pushing and pulling motion. Nothing complicated. But his Handler’s hands don’t react, even as he pries them apart and presses the fidget into their palm. Their fingers remain tense, not even twitching.

“Okay, something easier. I got it. I’ve got you.”

Monty reaches and grabs one of the oversized plushies lying beside the two of them on the couch. It’s big enough for him to comfortably interact with, so it should be good enough for them, too, right? He places the weighted plush in their lap, tucking its arms in so his Handler doesn’t have to do it themself. It looks like they try to wrap their arms around the plush, but the thing just ends up getting knocked to the floor. The failure to get their arms to work only serves to upset his Handler more as their hands begin trembling, the metal of the digits clinking together. 

Monty looks up at them, scared for them. Scared with them. If they can’t function, they’re going to be decommissioned– not fired, not still alive, decommissioned and dead. Gone forever. Their head has turned slightly, staring intensely at something, so Monty follows their line of sight. His gaze lands on their jacket that they accidentally left last night, draped across a chair. Now a little shaky himself, Monty gets up and retrieves it for them.

He realizes once he gets back that it doesn’t fit them anymore. It used to be so big on them, but it doesn’t fit now. Their favorite jacket, the one they wore every day, doesn’t fit anymore. He drapes it over their shoulders, bringing it around them tightly. Their shoulders are bigger under his hands. Wider. Their body is like his own now and so very, very different from what it used to be.

He retakes their hands, kneeling in front of them. He meets their eyes, which stare deep into whatever kind of soul he has.

“Look at me, Chere,” he says, squeezing their hands, trying to ground them. He’d tell them to breathe with him, but they can’t anymore, and he doesn’t know if that’ll help or upset them. “I’ve got you. I promise. I won’t ever, ever let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

Their hands squeeze his own, and Monty lets out his own version of a sigh of relief. The shaking in their limbs begins to die down, the steam eventually coming to an end. He smiles at them, keeping his hold on their hands solid. He praises them softly, rubbing their knuckles.

Their eyes meet his properly, and Monty can see the hurt and the fear in their eyes. They shift, jaw moving experimentally.

“I… can’t breathe,” they say.

Monty’s heart breaks for them. They try to shift, try to grab onto their jacket and pull it tighter around them, but their limbs won’t cooperate, and the metal of their fingers slips against the satin material.

“Here, you gotta… you gotta grip with the pads of your fingers. Like this,” Monty says, taking hold of their hands and guiding their fingers to do so. A shudder runs through their system, getting their hands to tighten and pull, if only slightly.

Monty steps back to take another look at the design of their new body. A gator, like him. Their hair is soft and synthetic, with a little product to keep it sleek, so at least that wasn’t taken from them. In a bitter-sweet kind of way, Monty can imagine helping them style their hair in the morning when the dust settles. But Monty still has trouble adjusting to his mohawk, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for them right now. How long it’ll take for that dust to settle. They’re smaller than him. Sleeker. A little more compact and able to fit into tighter spaces. Probably equipped with the same processing power Monty has, and he prays to whatever is out there, none of the guardrails. Overall, they’re… built to work. They were hurt, maybe even killed, their body broken, disposed of, and shoved into this body to work. To work! They never get to go home again; they never get to have a life outside of the Pizzaplex ever again, all so Fazzbear Entertainment could have another obedient little worker.

Monty shoves down his anger. They don’t need that right now. Instead, he turns his energy to muster up the best smile he can, affirming the correct motions with their hands.

“There you go, you’ve got it.” His smile wavers a little at their silence. 

They stare at their hands, their new, robotic, alien hands. Hands that don’t listen when they tell them to move. A body that doesn’t listen. They grip around the fabric of their jacket, feeling, in a way, the mechanics whirr in their arms. But they don’t feel the silky fabric anywhere but their finger pads. They feel the warmth of Monty in front of them, holding onto them, but only in broad strokes. It’s not like skin. It’ll never be like skin. There’s no more blood, only coolant (they feel so cold), no nerves, no organs. No lungs. Those things are still there, in a way, in a robotic sense.

All of the essential bits keeping their body moving are still there. But it’s not their body. Flashes of blood and mutilation streak across their vision the longer they stare. They have claws now. And a snout. And a tail. They always thought it’d be kind of cool to have a tail, who doesn’t, but not like this. They don’t want this. They want to go home and lay in bed and fall asleep and hope that this is some god-awful dream. They want to fight with their ID at the stupid maintenance tunnel exit, and drive home tired, and wake up five hours later to come to work and do it all over again. 

“... sweets?”

They look up to Monty, sight still a little unclear. He looks worried. He looks scared. They don’t think they’ve ever seen him scared. He tentatively takes their hands, prying the fabric away before they rip something.

They stay there, Monty kneeling, Handler sitting, staring at each other. Lost, scared, confused. Neither quite sure what to say.

“I wanna go home,” they eventually settle on. They can see the resolve in Monty crack.

“I know, sweets.” He rubs their knuckles again. They’re disturbed by how little they can feel of it. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

They want to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he has nothing to be sorry for, but the words don’t come to them. So, instead, they sit in silence. Awful, dreadful silence.

Eventually, Monty stands, still holding their hands in his. “You’ve gotta be getting… tired,” he murmurs. “Here, I’ll show you how to get charged.”

His Handler know how. They’ve helped Monty settle in to get charged a million times. But it’s different now. They need to charge. Their battery isn’t running low, they don’t think anyway, but the emotional drain is enough for them to take the carefully offered out. Monty gets them set up, gently explaining things as he goes, like what it’s going to feel like at first and how entering standby will kind of feel like sleeping (at least, what he’s pretty sure sleeping feels like). When everything is said and done, and Monty is sure they’ll be out for a while, he turns to eye the big door that separates his room from the rest of the Pizzaplex.

His curtains are closed, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. For a long time.

[lunarharp]

wip thing...

of my bg3 avatar hellebore. i also did some casual nude studies of my 3 characters which i'll put under a cut... rather unlike me after all. (so WARNING for abrupt non-sexual full Artistic nudity lol...,,,,) (< won't be making a habit of this)

they mean the world to me

[laniidae-passerine]

decided that in my own personal canon, Santiago’s maker looked similar to Louis, simply because Ben Daniels stated that Santiago was very likely in love with his maker. and wouldn’t it be some kind of torture to fall in love with the man who murdered your first vampiric love? to then watch him fall in love with another, who bears an eerie resemblance to that first love? to be witness to something tender and affectionate blooming, every moment a memory of how none of those you’ve adored have ever wanted you back? it would be agony. it would be torture. god, you would just hate them to pieces, loathing even as you loved them. and you wouldn’t know peace - not until the whole pack of them learnt the horror of love, just as you have.

[rosicheeks]

Sometimes what I'm jacking off to just doesn't cut it, so I imagine it's you in the video or audio instead and it always makes me cum harder. Like yes that is Rosie I'm fucking against the window where anyone can look up and see. Yes indeed I'm covering Rosie in cum so I can have an excuse to fuck her in the shower.

THIS ENERGY ONLY!!!!!!

[doomordestiny]

thinking about how cold chip probably is now that he’s (un)dead and the juxtaposition of that to how he was the warmth and the glowing energy of the crew

but especially in the fnc way of how those warm brown eyes are now just a shell of what they were and he is no longer the same warm hand that reached out and grabbed gillions cold triton hand

[fitzselfships]

I doodled this real quick since I somehow managed to burn my stomach while putting pasta in a strainer. I'm inflicting this onto my self insert now >:] (Zooble is helping them take care of it <3)

Proshippers/adjacent dni. 100000 shark attack 🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈 also Zooble self ship doubles dni

[quietwingsinthesky]

little amelia pond with her missing tooth and mels with at least one band-aid always stuck on her somewhere and rory following them both around with his first aid kit, the one the doctor gave him after seeing the child one that he had before that was more toy than anything

[reginrokkr]

𝐕𝐈𝐈. Among the things that are open for the bearer's creativity that can be done with the Temporal Mandate is to heal wounds by turning back the time of the individual's body to the chosen point of time, in this case to when their body was completely healthy. This is something Jinhsi would intend to do with Jué, having already known about this and performed it herself to others before. But not until she masters a much greater access to the Temporal Mandate she has in comparison to before, only relying on the Temporal Program that Jué lost when it brought her back to life and whatever permission she had from Jué until the aftermath of their prophesied clash. Suffice to say, other individuals of importance to her are subject to be her target of healing so long as she counts with their permission, too.

[g0thsoojin]

📓🖊

[maskyartist]

add this to the list of goofy ass personal aus for me and me alone

au where everythings the same but Ozpin's blind thats all