#project livewire

[floralmelancolie]

I really want Alhaitham and mind break but I’m not sure how to get there. Hmmmm maybe Alhaitham requesting his partner mind break him bc he’s too tired from his new sage duties and wanting a break? Or he’s been a brat talking down to his partner/get an attitude and needs to be taught a lesson?

Could be marathon sex, bondage, blindfold, ??? or whatever you have in mind I’m flexible

Thank you 💚

i've had this sitting in my inbox for a bit but haven't taken the time to answer >< i'm sorry to keep you waiting, anonnie. i hope you enjoy. i know alhaitham is going to !!

just a forewarning, i headcannon alhaitham as autistic. as someone who is diagnosed myself, i feel that when i write him, i tend to project those tendencies and experiences with sex as an autistic person onto him. !!! sorry if that takes you out of the smut.

i think that alhaitham would be open about his needs to feel out of control. that lovely, floaty, feeling that only comes from being dominated, the flutters in his chest when you play with his body so carefully. you know all his weak points, exactly where to touch him to get him riled up.

alhaitham's body is a livewire, sensitive and hot. hands tied behind his pin-straight back, flexing softly to test the tightness of the restraints. his torso is taught, chest rising and cheeks flushing in anticipation.

"no need to talk tonight, okay?" you whisper in his ear, fingers tracing gentle circles on his back. "just feel for me."

alhaitham nods slowly, swallowing down the cotton in his throat. he knows what he needs to do for you-- lay there and be a good boy. he likes it like this, when you pull his body apart, and put him back together. tightness coils in his tummy, and he mumbles a firm noise of assent.

it's vulnerable, he thinks, as you pull the blindfold down over his eyes, but that loss of sense makes it all the more powerful as your hands crawl from their spot on his shoulder blades down to his nipples, hardened from the cold air in your shared room. he can feel your weight pressed reassuringly against his back, warmth radiating from skin to skin.

alhaitham's breath hitches as you pinch down on his chest, rolling the nipples between your fingers. the sensation shoots straight to his cock, stiffened already. he presses his thighs tighter to alleviate the pressure, but it only serves to shoot sparks up his spine at the touch.

"needy tonight, huh? you want it that bad?" you mutter, giving a harsh tug at his nipples, puffy and swollen from your ministrations. alhaitham goes to reply, but you cut him off with a kiss and a nibble on his earlobe. "don't answer that. just sit and be pretty."

yeah, yeah. alhaitham thinks he likes that thought, head feeling foggy as he leans his weight back onto your chest. just sit dumb and cute and let your body be played with.

your hands leave his nipples, cold air perking them up further. the sensitivity makes him feel funny, but your hand is-- oh, it's warm and tight and stroking him so good. his thighs shoot tighter together, but with your free hand, you smack them apart.

"behave. let me use you."

alhaitham obliges fastly, legs spreading as far as he can stretch them. your hand tightens around the tip of his leaking cock, thumb pressing into the slit wetly. and it's so loud, it feels so good and wet, and alhaitham wishes he could see the way your hands are feeling him up.

"love, i have a surprise. it'll make you feel real good." you coo, kissing down the nape of his neck and feeling around for the small object you had hid from your lover. you grasp it in your hand, warming the toy slightly as your hand strokes down to hold the base of alhaitham's cock.

"you're gonna feel a little sensitive at first baby, so you remember what to do if you don't like it, right? you can answer this time."

"mmh," he says, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. but alhaitham knows. he knows you wouldn't do anything that won't make him feel good. that warmth and reassurance settles heavy next to the heat in his chest, and he cuddles back into your chest, a soft rumble in his throat.

"okay, in a few seconds i'll start it. you'll like it, love. trust me, and feel."

a soft buzzing rings in alhaitham's ears, and before he knows it, sparks are shooting from behind his eyes and his tummy is churning. you press the vibrator on the spot that makes him squirm like crazy, firm buzzing just under the head of his cock.

alhaitham's back stretches taut, and a loud squeak leaves his throat. it's so much, too much, his head is spinning, fingers tingling-- and his orgasm sweeps over him almost anti-climatically, ears ringing as cum spurts from his cock and ropes over his swollen chest. it's such a gentle, calm feeling, safety. warmth in your arms, tiredness sweeping over his body.

but you don't move the vibrator from his cock, and the cycle starts again. his chest burns with the heaves and gasps of his moans, and he can feel just a small bit of drool creeping from the corner of his mouth, but his tongue is too heavy for him to bother to lick it up. alhaitham's toes curl, and fuck, he's definitely pulled a muscle in his calf in his orgasm induced writhing, but the sensations.

faintly, he's reminded of the way his body feels when he removes his headphones. wrung out and thoroughly used. but that... that feeling is bad. this one, he thinks, as you press the vibrator against his slit where chubby drops of cum keep beading, is good.

he shoots another blank as you pull another orgasm out of him, free hand coming to squeeze at his chest absentmindedly. he can feel the heat radiating from where your pelvis is pressed against his ass, but selfishly (though you'd argue not), alhaitham wants you to just keep pleasing him.

soft whines leave his throat, and alhaitham buries his head back into your neck and honestly, without any sort of clarity, takes a big huff.

he's safe. he's in your arms, thrashing and moaning like a top dollar whore, but he's with you. he doesn't have to think, you'll do that for him. he doesn't have to use his body, you'll use it for him. and archons, use it you do.

"enough? keep going?" you ask, peppering kisses across his forehead, but he doesn't feel like making that choice. you'll do it for him. he'd let you take him apart-- you'll put him back together.

[the-nox-syndicate]

SysNotes devlog 1

Hiya! We're a web developer by trade and we wanted to build ourselves a web-app to manage our system and to get to know each other better. We thought it would be fun to make a sort of a devlog on this blog to show off the development! The working title of this project is SysNotes (but better ideas are welcome!)

What SysNotes is✅:

A place to store profiles of all of our parts

A tool to figure out who is in front

A way to explore our inner world

A private chat similar to PluralKit

A way to combine info about our system with info about our OCs etc as an all-encompassing "brain-world" management system

A personal and tailor-made tool made for our needs

What SysNotes is not❌:

A fronting tracker (we see no need for it in our system)

A social media where users can interact (but we're open to make it so if people are interested)

A public platform that can be used by others (we don't have much experience actually hosting web-apps, but will consider it if there is enough interest!)

An offline app

So if this sounds interesting to you, you can find the first devlog below the cut (it's a long one!):

(I have used word highlighting and emojis as it helps me read large chunks of text, I hope it's alright with y'all!)

Tech stack & setup (feel free to skip if you don't care!)

The project is set up using:

Database: MySQL 8.4.3

Language: PHP 8.3

Framework: Laravel 10 with Breeze (authentication and user accounts) and Livewire 3 (front end integration)

Styling: Tailwind v4

I tried to set up Laragon to easily run the backend, but I ran into issues so I'm just running "php artisan serve" for now and using Laragon to run the DB. Also I'm compiling styles in real time with "npm run dev". Speaking of the DB, I just migrated the default auth tables for now. I will be making app-related DB tables in the next devlog. The awesome thing about Laravel is its Breeze starter kit, which gives you fully functioning authentication and basic account management out of the box, as well as optional Livewire to integrate server-side processing into HTML in the sexiest way. This means that I could get all the boring stuff out of the way with one terminal command. Win!

Styling and layout (for the UI nerds - you can skip this too!)

I changed the default accent color from purple to orange (personal preference) and used an emoji as a placeholder for the logo. I actually kinda like the emoji AS a logo so I might keep it.

Laravel Breeze came with a basic dashboard page, which I expanded with a few containers for the different sections of the page. I made use of the components that come with Breeze to reuse code for buttons etc throughout the code, and made new components as the need arose. Man, I love clean code 😌

I liked the dotted default Laravel page background, so I added it to the dashboard to create the look of a bullet journal. I like the journal-type visuals for this project as it goes with the theme of a notebook/file. I found the code for it here.

I also added some placeholder menu items for the pages that I would like to have in the app - Profile, (Inner) World, Front Decider, and Chat.

i ran into an issue dynamically building Tailwind classes such as class="bg-{{$activeStatus['color']}}-400" - turns out dynamically-created classes aren't supported, even if they're constructed in the component rather than the blade file. You learn something new every day huh…

Also, coming from Tailwind v3, "ps-*" and "pe-*" were confusing to get used to since my muscle memory is "pl-*" and "pr-*" 😂

Feature 1: Profiles page - proof of concept

This is a page where each alter's profiles will be displayed. You can switch between the profiles by clicking on each person's name. The current profile is highlighted in the list using a pale orange colour.

The logic for the profiles functionality uses a Livewire component called Profiles, which loads profile data and passes it into the blade view to be displayed. It also handles logic such as switching between the profiles and formatting data. Currently, the data is hardcoded into the component using an associative array, but I will be converting it to use the database in the next devlog.

New profile (TBC)

You will be able to create new profiles on the same page (this is yet to be implemented). My vision is that the New Alter form will unfold under the button, and fold back up again once the form has been submitted.

Alter name, pronouns, status

The most interesting component here is the status, which is currently set to a hardcoded list of "active", "dormant", and "unknown". However, I envision this to be a customisable list where I can add new statuses to the list from a settings menu (yet to be implemented).

Alter image

I wanted the folder that contained alter images and other assets to be outside of my Laravel project, in the Pictures folder of my operating system. I wanted to do this so that I can back up the assets folder whenever I back up my Pictures folder lol (not for adding/deleting the files - this all happens through the app to maintain data integrity!). However, I learned that Laravel does not support that and it will not be able to see my files because they are external. I found a workaround by using symbolic links (symlinks) 🔗. Basically, they allow to have one folder of identical contents in more than one place. I ran "mklink /D [external path] [internal path]" to create the symlink between my Pictures folder and Laravel's internal assets folder, so that any files that I add to my Pictures folder automatically copy over to Laravel's folder. I changed a couple lines in filesystems.php to point to the symlinked folder:

And I was also getting a "404 file not found" error - I think the issue was because the port wasn't originally specified. I changed the base app URL to the localhost IP address in .env:

…And after all this messing around, it works!

(My Pictures folder)

(My Laravel storage)

(And here is Alice's photo displayed - dw I DO know Ibuki's actual name)

Alter description and history

The description and history fields support HTML, so I can format these fields however I like, and add custom features like tables and bullet point lists.

This is done by using blade's HTML preservation tags "{!! !!}" as opposed to the plain text tags "{{ }}".

(Here I define Alice's description contents)

(And here I insert them into the template)

Traits, likes, dislikes, front triggers

These are saved as separate lists and rendered as fun badges. These will be used in the Front Decider (anyone has a better name for it?? 🤔) tool to help me identify which alter "I" am as it's a big struggle for us. Front Decider will work similar to FlowCharty.

What next?

There's lots more things I want to do with SysNotes! But I will take it one step at a time - here is the plan for the next devlog:

Setting up database tables for the profile data

Adding the "New Profile" form so I can create alters from within the app

Adding ability to edit each field on the profile

I tried my best to explain my work process in a way that wold somewhat make sense to non-coders - if you have any feedback for the future format of these devlogs, let me know!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Disclaimers:

I have not used AI in the making of this app and I do NOT support the Vibe Coding mind virus that is currently on the loose. Programming is a form of art, and I will defend manual coding until the day I die.

Any alter data found in the screenshots is dummy data that does not represent our actual system.

I will not be making the code publicly available until it is a bit more fleshed out, this so far is just a trial for a concept I had bouncing around my head over the weekend.

We are SYSCOURSE NEUTRAL! Please don't start fights under this post

[newtslvt]

Summary: The moment that Newt tastes Thomas’s blood, the overwhelming relief and pleasure flood through him. He can’t stop drinking, savoring it like a lifeline.

(This is my first fic back in like a month break from writing so feedback is appreciated!!!)

Tags: @carminegoescrazy @victoriandrama @zymogenn @just-a-casual-newtasaur @griffinclawforlife @newtandmalfoy @michaelnotwheeler @promisesbutnevertokeep @kitkat-moon @little-firebug @kobrafangs @pho-pho @taximaximus

[tunastime]

A Gear of the Heart, Starting

just a little something I wrote for somebody's (@shepscapades) birthday back in November :3 after I asked what etho and bdubs would've been like shortly after etho's deviation. this is the few times before last life where bdubs realizes etho might be a good friend, and how their relationship changes. comes right before A Gear of the Heart, Turning! (4653 words)

Etho remembers quite a bit.

He remembers the ricochet of the explosion through his left side. He remembers a dozen errors across his vision, showing every unit damaged by the blast, the fractals of fracturing snaking up his arm, the shattered remains of his central programming lingering like a livewire. 

Over and over he can remember the pitch of Bdubs’ voice and had to wonder his own diagnosis at that moment. Bdubs watching his android die in his name—he remembers that, too. Bdubs didn’t even ask for that. It was something Etho gave to him. He’s not sure he could even say why, either. 

It remained a bitter flavor he couldn't identify, even as Xisuma assured him he was okay. Something had happened then, sitting on that floor, thirium in hand. Some movement in his chest he couldn’t place. It wasn’t anything physical, but it felt like some gear of his nonexistent heart had started, turned—rotated. And all he could do was ask himself why. What’s he supposed to do with that?

He doesn’t know. Fine. 

Etho goes back to work at someone’s request. Not even his own request, either, so he has to wonder if maybe Doc put him up to it. Him being Bdubs. Him being Bdubs who shifted back and forth on his feet at Etho’s door—a facade of a base in the process of being designed. If one could even call it a base, yet.

And even though he was increasingly certain that Bdubs had been told to ask—and Etho asked him if he’d been asked to help, and he was adamant about asking by himself, that’s what he said. He said: “You think I gotta be told to ask people for help? I can’t just be doin’ things on my own?” and it had felt so much like doublespeak that Etho didn’t even fight to differentiate his tone. 

But Bdubs had asked if he wanted to help with the horse course. Terraforming—it should be right up his alley, if he’s still into that kind of stuff. Figured he was the expert—or so it goes. Etho had nodded. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He supposes he could have easily said no. 

But every part of him yearned to say yes.

So he did.

The dust sifts through his fingers.

Etho perches in the grass, partially hunched as he leans over his line of redstone, shrouded by the hill half-built around him. He’d spent most of the week prior carving out the lines of the track, setting posts for buildings, laying out blueprints for Bdubs to finalize. Today, he lays his line meticulously, dust shifting in his hands. They still shake a bit—nothing a human would notice, nothing that disrupted the flow of his lines, but the overworked gears still shifted in protest as he worked. He could see the faded overlay of the project in his vision if he focused. It crackled, slightly blue-yellow, orange glowing indicators where action was needed, where there were mistakes to be corrected.

It isn’t his redstone to fix. The lines under his hands were—freshly laid by his near-expert technique—but the deeper lines, noteblock announcements, droppers, doorgates, the flourish of the house course, weren’t. Etho smooths out the line he was standing near with his thumb. 

There was nothing wrong with the laid redstone, really. It’s just. Well. It’s not even. It takes up so much space. It lacks the efficiency and tidiness he practiced to a precision. It radiated Bdubs in an overpowering way, one that might turn a gear of the heart—one he didn’t have, of course. Etho’s lines are neat, rigid, conforming to his perfect mental map. 

He lets down his section of dust, drifting over to the dispenser system. He pushes a line further into place, brushing dust back from the side. Further on, where the line crosses, he readjusts it, he smooths them from start to end of line. His hands work where his mind recalculates, looking for errors along the redstone already laid out by Bdubs. Programs bubble up to assist; he dismisses a message, and another as he works. The line straightens from source to sink. 

As he passes, searching for another correction, he hears someone above him. In the corner of his vision, another message notification pings: from Bdubs.

They’re all from Bdubs, actually, now that he notices in full. He blinks, mouth twisting into a frown. Whoops.

He hears someone—Bdubs, he realizes, as he notes the fall of his feet, and the sigh he hops down from his horse, the shuffle of said horse, hooves on grass—clear their throat. Bdubs shuffles around as Etho moves back over to his finished redstone, dusting his hands on the sides of his pants. He lifts the small bag of dust, twisting the tie shut around his fingers as he travels back up the line to recheck the connections. 

“Etho?” Bdubs calls. Etho straightens, just on instinct alone, glancing up at the stretch of sky he can see. It’s bright blue, barely dotted with clouds, and the grass looks warm with sun. He fixes where the dust starts as he sections off the end, tossing the rest of the redstone over to his sling bag.

“Under the hill!”

Bdubs leans over the edge, tilting his head at Etho as he peers into the dark. It takes him a moment to find Etho’s face, partially obscured by black fabric and the fluff of wool around his collar. Etho tilts his head, raising his eyebrows.

“Did you need something?” he asks, arm hanging loosely by his side. Bdubs frowns, too, watching Etho’s expression. As his eyes seem to adjust to the dark, his gaze falls on the lines of redstone. He pauses there for a long moment. In that moment, Etho feels something in his chest grind, almost to a noticeable ache. If he could pull in a breath to settle it, he might have, but the sensation and minute sound passes as soon as he moves his hand to press flat against his regulator. Bdubs is gone when he looks up, reappearing only as he drops into the cavern, catching himself on the wall. He readjusts his cloak around his shoulders, shuffling into the low-light.

“Etho,” he says, still frowning. Etho looks him over. He watches Bdubs set his hands on his hips, but his heart rate stays even and his temperature level. The only thing that changes is the tone of his voice, fluctuating with a pattern Etho recognizes as forcing something. Bdubs takes a long breath in and lets it out. Etho’s eyes find the twitch of his fingers as he folds his arms, rather than the sharp curve of his mouth.

“Yes?” Etho asks. He feels his pump work a little harder. It kind of hurts still, whatever’s stopped working in his chest. He flicks his eyes, recalling a diagnostic, setting it to run in the background as he closes out of the overlays and the world returns to yellowish-grey. Bdubs is still frowning.

“You mind tellin’ me what’s wrong with this redstone?”

Etho blinks. The diagnostic comes up clear.

“What do you mean?” he says, his expression shifting into something copying amusement. He’s trying. He’s at least trying to mimic the emotions he sees. Soon enough it’ll feel natural, he’s certain. “What’s wrong with it?”

Bdubs snorts, which turns into a laugh, which turns into Etho smiling a bit wider, a bit more confusion lingering in his expression as he leans around Bdubs to check his meticulously placed line. Bdubs turns away from him, facing the system, the clock that linked the start gates to the timer below.

“What’s—” Bdubs scoffs, shaking his head. “What’s wrong with it? Etho—” he holds out his hand, waving Etho over. Etho lingers at his shoulder as he steps forward, peering over the curve of it and the moss and small leaves and flowers draped over his neck. “It’s too perfect.”

Etho makes a sound like a scoff now, a caught sound in his vocal unit, a stuttering start to his sentence that doesn’t form right away. He’s trying for surprise, the pitch of his voice rising unexpectedly.

“It’s too perfect?” he asks. 

Bdubs nods. After a moment, Etho thinks he sees his expression shift, the high of his cheek rising. When Bdubs turns his head to look at him, just for a second, Bdubs is smiling.

“Bdubs,” Etho says, sighing, turning away from him, to his bag on the far side of the room. He shakes his head. That something-nothing in his chest flutters and fades and disappears all at once, instead replaced with the urge to smile back. Bdubs laughs, and Etho can imagine him tipping his head back, mouth curved up as he giggles to himself. Etho shakes his head. As he starts to pull away from Bdubs, he feels him catch his sleeve, holding fast to his elbow.

“Etho, wait—” Bdubs giggles. “It looks really good.”

Etho raises his eyebrows. Caught in Bdubs grasp, all he can do is look at him, head tilted, trying not to let the amusement show on his face. Bdubs giggles, face breaking again as he does.

“Etho…” he tries again, fighting back a smile. Etho tilts his head the other way, as if to prompt him further, looking for anything. He stays silent. Bdubs hand lowers slowly, that smile faltering just a fraction. Maybe he thinks Etho’s upset with him. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You gonna say anythin’? Or you just gonna stand there?”

Etho smiles, finally. He shrugs a little, glancing over at the fixed lines of redstone.

“I fixed your redstone,” he says cooly, sticking his free hand in his pocket. Bdubs blinks. He jerks away as Etho’s smile grows, shoving him hard in his shoulder. Etho wobbles for a moment, smiling to himself, scrunching up his face as Bdubs’ expression morphs. He does laugh, after a beat, poking Etho in the shoulder as he does. Etho hopes he can see the smile in his eyes. He saves, logs, keeps this moment. He’s sure in the low light that his LED spins yellow for a moment. It feels right. If there’s any feeling to catalog.

Bdubs huffs. Etho thinks he hears him say something under his breath. It sounds a lot like thank you.

It’s out of habit, rather than obligation, that Etho finds himself back at the horse course. Of course he ends up here, his feet moving him about as if his brain-not-brain had no thoughts of its own. Man. Some days, it really felt human.

He wanders across the plain, eyes lingering on fully-built buildings, knowing the schematics and plans, watching as those plans-now-buildings stretched higher above his head, where they nearly threatened to pop the sky wide open. 

Bdubs had sat down with him earlier that week, papers spread out between them. He’d stopped by, actually—worked his way up the mountain to the base Etho had finally finished, papers in hand, looking like he was on the verge of collapse. He’d dropped the blueprints on the largest table Etho had managed to clear, spreading out the designs for huge, complex buildings. Etho watched him explain, listened for the inflection of when to offer suggestions, heard the way Bdubs’ voice grew quieter, almost conspiratorial, as he explained his palette. There was something methodical in the way Bdubs spoke, not only in the approach to his colors, but to his style. As much as it seemed eclectic and strange, he watched the pieces fall together as Bdubs spoke of his gradients. There was something deeper there, a precision that Etho, all of a sudden, in that room, craved to emulate. To write to disk. To save. To do more than just copy. 

He’d built the horse stable first—all to his own specifications. It was Bdubs later who came in to detail, tilling up the dirt around to plant grass and flowers, sectioning off parts of the empty stable. It was almost difficult to compartmentalize that Bdubs was finished with it now. That they’d worked each line of the redstone and Etho had supervised the first steps of building, and now he could look up and see the very top, or almost, if he were to strain, of the spikes above the buildings. 

And in just a few weeks, Bdubs was onto another project. Etho smiles to himself. He can’t help it. There was something rather comforting about that. Something about Bdubs dragging him along to help, pointing him toward the thing he was good at, and asking for help. Bdubs showing up at his door with plans. Bdubs cracking jokes with him, and looking for a laugh Etho couldn’t replicate yet. It’s like something clicked. Or was just on the breach of it. And Etho liked it.

Etho clears his field of view, taking in, instead, the stretch of sky where it met the ocean, along the line of hills and grass and flowers, and further still, to the smudge that looked like Bdubs. He blends in too well—the green of his coat barely noticeable against the field of grass that splayed out from the side of his build. There were still materials strewn about—chests half opened, shulkers stacked waist high. 

Bdubs stands to the side of a dark grey and white horse, one hand placed on its nose, the other digging through his bag. Etho watches for a moment. Bdubs fishes around for that entire second that he lingers, searching for something, until he pulls out an apple. Another falls to the ground, rolling away from him. He holds out the fruit for the horse as Etho clears his throat. 

“Hiya, Bdubs—” he says as Bdubs startles, twisting around to see him. He huffs, an immediate frown coming to his face. Bdubs turns to fetch the dropped apple, holding it high above his head as the grey horse nudges its nose into his empty hand. He pats it instead.

“Etho,” he says, tone thin. He sighs, shaking his head. “Scared the life outta me, you know that? You gotta make some noise when you’re walkin’ around.”

Etho smiles, a nice and easy reaction to the annoyance in Bdubs’ voice. It’s getting easier. At least a bit. The smiling part, that is. The inflection that comes with being happy.

“I’ll try next time,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. His hands find his pockets as he looks around, eyes following the path around the buildings. He’s sure the pollen and moss will be stuck to his clothes for days before he gets them out.

“Mm,” Bdubs hums, unconvinced. “I’m sure you will. Now, what’re you doin’ here? You don’t have anything better to do?”

“That’s a good question,” Etho says.

Bdubs turns back to him for a second, just a glance over his shoulder as he cocks his head to the side. He raises his eyebrows before he turns back to the horse, who’s started to nose at his bag. He drags his hand down its nose.

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have an objective right now?”

“I never have an objective, Bdubs.”

Bdubs snorts again . Etho steps over, slow, minding the horse. It sniffs as Etho holds out his hand, nosing his gloved palm. He pats the horse's nose, somewhat stilted, smoothing over the soft bridge of his nose.

“Right,” Bdubs hums. When Etho glances over to him, Bdubs glances away, as if he’d lingered as Etho stepped over. He’s not moved from Etho’s side, which. Makes something fit into Etho’s chest in a way he isn’t expecting. He rests his hand on the horse's head, looking over at Bdubs in full.

“I can’t come see how the horse course is looking, now that you’re done?” he asks. Bdubs makes an embarrassed sounding noise, watching the rise of the buildings to their left. The horse sniffs, and Etho lifts his hand away, letting it fall to his side.

“I—I got excited about it,” Bdubs mutters. If Etho leans enough, he can see the beginnings of a flush creep over his cheeks, up the shell of his ear. Something about that, too. Etho looks beyond him, though, studying the rise of the buildings as Bdubs does. He nods to himself.

“I can tell,” he says, amusement slipping into his voice, almost naturally. Immediately, Bdubs whips around again, face twisted in offense.

“Hey!” he snaps. “You makin’ fun of me?”

Etho shakes his head, spreading his hands out in front of him as he does.

“No, no. Not at all,” he says, hoping the smile he’s giving is reaching his eyes. “I’m saying we make a pretty good team.”

Bdubs makes a little huff of a sound, but his posture and expression softens. Etho studies it from the moment it appears, trying to place the emotion behind it. He seems upset—but not from anything Etho said. He almost looks guilty.

“We’ve always made a good team,” Bdubs mumbles. Etho blinks.

“Since when have we been a team?”

“Since—s…” Bdubs blurts, then backtracks, folding his arms over his chest. “Well we’re a team now!”

Etho raises his eyebrows, stepping away from the horse and more around Bdubs’ side. He leans in a bit as he stands by his side, bumping their shoulders together. Bdubs doesn’t recoil. Instead, he pushes back, just for a moment, and they jostle. Bdubs hums, sighing through his nose.

“Are we?” Etho asks. Bdubs nods, short and firm.

“Mhm! ‘Cause I said so.”

Etho nods with him. There’s that thing again, a turning, jostling, in some part of his chest that really shouldn’t turn or jostle. He can feel his temperature tick up just a few degrees, a fan kicking on to settle the temperature, thirium sludging warm to cold through his limbs. A team, huh? He couldn’t beat Bdubs’ conviction, that’s for sure. Maybe it was a bit of guilt, then. Maybe something in Bdubs had realized Etho was much more of a help than a hindrance. Maybe Bdubs wanted a friend. Maybe he just felt bad and the feeling bad got to a point where he had to just do something about it. Etho didn’t know. He didn’t live inside Bdubs’ brain. And picking at Bdubs’ every emotion was a task enough to drive his processor into the ground. He could already feel another spike in temperature, LED glowing yellow-blue. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Etho sticks his hands in his pockets.

“I’d like that,” he says, finally pushing out the words as his programming jumps into gear, “What’s our next project then?”

Bdubs goes back to jostling him before he turns away, moving from Etho’s side to collect his horse. Gathering the horse's reins in his hands, Bdubs pauses.

“Ooh…” he says, frowning a little. Etho watches the little furrow of his eyebrows—thinking. Bdubs is turning the idea over in his head. Bdubs steps back over with the horse in tow, already walking in the direction of the horse stable. Etho jolts forward, taking several big steps to match Bdubs’ pace. “Well why don’t you come back to the clock and we can talk about it, huh?”

“That sounds nice.”

Bdubs makes an affirmative sound, leading the horse around and into the stable. Etho watches him unlatch the gate, ushering the horse into the pen.

“I can put the kettle on and everything,” Bdubs says. He lifts the bridle out of the horse’s mouth, running his hand along the length of the horse’s nose. Etho doesn’t mean to watch him as he does, but the action is so purposeful. There’s a moment where Bdubs’ expression is unreadable—unreadable as in Etho simply can’t place anything on it. Unreadable in the amount it changes—something softer than he’s seen, something far away. Bdubs’ whole demeanor seems to shift as he stands still for a moment. Etho isn’t sure what to do with himself. He’s just standing in straw and dirt and stones, all of which he can feel under his shoes. He shuffles a bit, back and forth, to make his presence known, before he says:

“You know I can’t drink anything, Bdubs.”

And Bdubs rolls his eyes, squinting over at him, stepping away from the horse to hop the gate.

“Well you can at least fake it,” he grumbles. He folds his arms again, wrinkling his nose at Bdubs as Bdubs leads him out of the pen and into the open field around the horse course. The shadow of the buildings above them hasn’t changed, yet. The sun is still high and warm in the sky.

Etho laughs. At least, he makes a sound that he thinks passes as a laugh. Bdubs laughs too, though, so it must sound pretty convincing. He nods, the smile on his face feeling much more natural than he ever could have expected. 

“I could fake it,” he laughs. “Sure.”

Bdubs grins at him. It’s nice. It makes the walk back to his base a little more bearable.

By the time Etho gets his invitation to the life game, he’s grown accustomed to being at Bdubs’ side again. He wanders around Bdubs’ base like he knows it, makes it a spot he chooses to map, to memorize. Bdubs checks in on him when he isn’t around as much—asks him how his builds are going, wonders if he needs help. Bdubs lingers in his spaces too, like a plant trying to root, gives himself reasons to stand in doorways just a bit longer, just enough to extend their goodbyes. It feels right—in a way that almost gives reason to Etho’s deviation. Maybe, deep down, from their first introduction, Etho had decided to glue himself to Bdubs’ side and not become unstuck. Maybe he’d simply put that decision, his first ever decision, into motion that day. It didn’t matter much as to why anymore.

When Etho gets his letter, he doesn’t open it. He holds it between two fingers, turning it over and over. He doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. There’s a dark red seal on the back, shaped like a heart. He makes a little sound, some sort of click in the back of his mouth, before he stuffs the letter in his pocket, half-folded.

He finds Bdubs exactly where he expects. Bdubs is sitting cross-legged in his garden, hands in the dirt, when Etho arrives at the crescent moon base. If he looks closely enough, Etho can still tell that Bdubs’ own letter sits on his window sill in the kitchen, unopened. But he’s really squinting to notice, so he writes it off for now as a flaw in his own sight. 

Bdubs turns to him as he walks up. His hair is pushed back away from his face with his bandana, and his hands are covered in dirt, and he’s got a streak of black soil across his forehead that Etho tries not to look at for too long. Bdubs shoots him a toothy grin, going back to his bright orange tulips. If Etho looks long enough, he could probably guess the soil mixture, and tell him if it's good enough to be planting orange tulips in, but he doesn’t. Instead, he comes to stand behind him and Bdubs hums in greeting.

“Etho,” he says, looking up again, wiping the dirt from his forehead. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Etho says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He forgets who he picked the gesture up from, but it’s become part of his natural body language patterns now, so he won’t be stopping it anytime soon. “I just came to see how you were doing.”

“How I was doin’, huh?” Bdubs asks, amusement trickling into his voice. Etho smiles, feeling his face pull.

“Mhm,” he says. “That’s right. I can’t come and check up on a friend?”

Bdubs laughs, sticking his spade in the dirt.

“Oh, we’re friends now?” he says, still giggling as he turns around. “I thought we were just a team.”

Etho watches him lean back on his hands, legs coming out from under him. He tries to read Bdubs’ expression and voice for any note of insincerity, or play, or teasing, but doesn’t find anything he normally associates with Bdubs. This just feels true.

“I mean, I figured with how much we’ve been working together…” Etho starts, to which Bdubs startles, waving his hands.

“No, no!” Bdubs yelps. “Etho, I thought the same thing! I just wasn’t expectin’ it from you.”

Etho blinks. It feels owlish, small, almost a wrong reaction to hearing Bdubs say something like that. But it’s what immediately happens, before he tries to open his mouth, and no sound comes out. He waits for a moment. He assumes his LED spins, maybe even red, as Bdubs watches him, face paling.

“Oh,” Etho says quietly.

“We’re friends,” Bdubs says, voice much smaller than Etho’s ever heard it. “‘S that alright with you?”

Etho feels like the proper response would be to laugh, if he could really feel anything at all besides every gear in his chest halting and restarting themselves. He makes a noise that sounds almost like a cough.

“Mhm,” he says. He watches Bdubs’ shoulders relax and finds that his own posture sinks with it. 

“Good,” Bdubs says, nodding along. “Was there anything else you wanted to scare me with?”

Etho knows this tone—playful. Teasing. He works up a smile and fishes the letter from his pocket, slightly bent. Bdubs’ eyes flick right to it, right to the red seal pressed into the paper. Immediately, he scrambles up, reaching for the note in Etho’s hands. Etho lets him grab it in his dirt-covered fingers, even as Bdubs tries frantically to dust off his hands as he notices. Bdubs turns it over itself, glancing up at Etho.

“It’s for you?”

Etho nods.

“It was on my doorstep this morning,” he says. “I can see you’ve got one in your window?”

Bdubs snorts, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I haven’t opened the damn thing. I’m excited up until the point I’m not, ‘cause I know I’m gonna lose again.”

Etho hums. As Bdubs hands him back the letter, Etho rests his hand on his shoulder, giving it a hesitant, light squeeze. Bdubs looks quickly down at it, before he’s back to staring at Etho’s face.

“Don’t worry, Bdubs,” he says, hoping his voice is full of amusement and affection like he feels like it is. “You’ll have me there this time!”

And Bdubs laughs, full and warm in his chest, and Etho jostles him around as he does, until Bdubs is smacking his shoulder and wiggling free. He picks up his fallen hat and his tools, and Etho follows him around the side of the house as he puts things away. As he shuts one of the chest, Bdubs says:

“You mean that, though? You wanna be on a team?”

Etho smiles, feeling his eyes squint, forces every ounce of new feeling into his words when he says:

“I don’t think I wanna team with anyone else, Bdubs.”

And Bdubs’ grin in excitement is more than enough to convince him he’s made the right choice.

It’ll be a long two weeks until the death game starts. When he returns home later that night, Bdubs’ plans for success turning over in his brain, recording for later, Etho reads over the letter enough to commit the page to memory. He keeps it safe internally as the letter finds its way to his bookshelf, half-sealed. Through him, like it’s just under the skin, runs an emotion he’s not yet familiar with. He hopes it's a good one, at the very least. He hopes so, as much as an android, a machine, someone just now familiar with the idea of free will, can hope. 

It feels good, though. And something makes him think that everything will turn out just fine.

[haveyoureadthismcytfic]

Summary:

So Doc has been quiet. Doc is quiet, sometimes, yes, wrapped up in his own projects; but never for this long. Never under these circumstances. Doc has been quiet, and Ren, pride be damned, thinks it surely must have something to do with him.

Author: @potionofinstantdamage

Note from Submitter:

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

By tacit agreement, they’d shelved the more sensitive subjects their thirty minute journey from Roma Termini; postponing grim reality with a wide array of desultory chitchat. The magazines he’ll read on the plane, for example. The meals he’ll be obliged to eat. The inescapable jet lag that’s bound to knock him for six. Denial is grief’s distractor - or so his beloved bubbe used to say - yet such advice itself proves futile as Fiumicino’s glass façade renders him breathless; the gaping wound in Oliver’s torso bleeding ribbons atop the sun-baked parking lot.

“Are you sure you have your passport?”

Elio’s voice is unnervingly blank as he stares out the window of their idling shuttle bus; the lean muscles of his jaw bunched in solemn contrast to the quick-bitten nails tap-tap-tapping his star of David. It’s not the first time he’s asked - nor, Oliver suspects, is he truly heeding his response - but forcing a smile to his frozen features he pats his leather holdall regardless; acutely aware of his livewire knee jerking in the narrow space between them. 

By tacit agreement, they’d shelved the more sensitive subjects their thirty minute journey from Roma Termini; postponing grim reality with a wide array of desultory chitchat. The magazines he’ll read on the plane, for example. The meals he’ll be obliged to eat. The inescapable jet lag that’s bound to knock him for six. Denial is grief’s distractor - or so his beloved bubbe used to say - yet such advice itself proves futile as Fiumicino’s glass façade renders him breathless; the gaping wound in Oliver’s torso bleeding ribbons atop the sun-baked parking lot. 

It’s all a bit of a blur after that, with Elio offering sporadic translations as they navigate the bustling concourse; both fists jammed in the pockets of his jeans ‘til they’re done checking his bags. Oliver yearns to soothe his pain. To gather him close and never let go. But like a fool, he’s allowed a physical gulf to fester, also. There's no comfort in this phoney shield - no healing from something not properly expressed - and crushed by the weight of their self-imposed exile he’s suddenly struck by the macabre notion their last, frantic kiss at the Pensione Barrett could indeed be just that.

Their last.

And the standard by which all others fall short.

“You’re staring,” Elio mutters, mouth flattened to a hard line, and Oliver’s plagued by indecision as his tell-tale heart beats for the want of another. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, half-embarrassed and completely unmoored. “I shouldn’t -”

“Anch’io...” Shuffling his feet, Elio tugs at Billowy’s sleeves where he’s rucked them up to his elbows. “Does it bother you?” A pause. “That I’m wearing it?”

No.

And yes. 

Though not in the way he might expect.

The possessive thrill of seeing Elio in his clothes triggers something primal, but given the circumstances, Oliver swallows thickly, a vicious ache rising in his chest as he curses the cards they’ve been dealt. 

“What’s mine is yours,” he says eventually, earning a brittle scoff, and the next thing he knows he’s grasping Elio’s wrist like a goddamn lifeline: towing him through the airport pandemonia to the nearest restroom because fuck what anyone else thinks of them.

By some small miracle the long row of cubicles are empty, so Oliver makes a beeline for the furthest stall; throwing the lock then kissing him fiercely, crowding him into the graffiti-covered partition. It comes across too confident when he’s teetering on the brink, but Elio’s body is warm and familiar as he commits each frenzied movement to memory; piecing them back together as Plato envisioned, headless of the one p.m direct flight still waiting to rip them apart.

“I keep telling myself you’re going to change your mind,” Elio whispers, pressing his forehead to the crook of Oliver’s neck. “I keep thinking you’re going to stay.” He doesn’t sound angry. Or even accusatory. Yet the abject resignation in his slumped demeanour strikes a harrowing chord. “Only you’re not, are you,” he continues roughly: less a question than a statement. “When that gate opens -”

“Elio…”

“- you’re just going.”

Unhunching slightly, he clutches the dark-green material of Oliver’s Oxford: a weary Atlas braving the eternal struggle. His palm kneads his shoulder the exact same manner Oliver’s did that afternoon on the tennis court, and the churning of his stomach increases exponentially as Elio lets slip the occasional sniffle over the ancient ceiling fan. 

Is it better to speak or die, echoes from the recent past.

You’re hurting me, follows right after.

Scenes from their San Clemente summer play like an old home movie, and the truth is irrefutable as Oliver takes him in his arms; his lover, his soulmate, the sun he’s orbited from the very start.

“Hey…” he murmurs, rocking him gently. “Hey... it’s okay. This isn’t over, yeah? You won’t lose me. Not if I can help it.” There’s a promise beneath his words - an outlandish certainty, likewise - and Oliver hopes with everything he has that Elio hears it also. “I’ll phone. We’ll write. There’s the book tour in the spring…”

Mere crumbs, he’ll admit, to the banquet on which they’re versed, and Elio’s eyes hide nothing as he chews his bottom lip, hands dropping limply to settle at his sides. “Do you have any idea?” he asks then, sans the raw urgency of before. “How glad I am we found each other? How happy I am you came?”

Oliver inhales sharply - allowing himself a choked-up sob - and as a broad, Italian accent booms from the overhead speaker it’s all he can do to hold on tighter: the salty sting of mingled tears bitter upon his tongue.

[nijigasakilove]

I’ve been sat here with tears in my eyes for the last 10 minutes just screaming at my Twitter mutuals in all caps about how great this episode was, didn’t even know it was the finale I’d have woken up way earlier if I did.. but whatever who cares, this was the greatest superman adaptation I’ve ever seen. Very long write up coming. TLDR: best western animation I’ve ever seen.

Thank you so much to all the staff and voice actors and writers and just everyone who poured their hearts and souls into this. It’s palpable. You can feel how much every single person involved in this loves and understands the characters. You combine that intimate knowledge with a spice of anime and knowing the types of things modern audiences want to see and you have a very special series.

Idek where to start with the finale, it feels like every character got a really nice wrap to their character arc from the season. Livewire and the others showing up to help Clark and Kara get to brainiac’s ship, I loved their redemption arc so much. But that 10 minute or so climax with Kara getting taken over by brainiac and then breaking free of his control thanks to the love of her friends and cousin.. just beautiful.

Brainiac projected all his own insecurities and feelings of uselessness onto Kara. He knew the kryptonian empire would no longer have a need for him if they were in peacetime and so he destroyed his own people. The audacity of this bitch to call Clark and Kara traitors of house El when he destroyed the house and planet lmao.

THEY COOKED for all the action scenes. Playing the OP when Kara broke free of the mind control and firmly rejected Brainiac. “I SAID NO”, Clark and Kara pushed Brainiac ship into space, Brainiac’s last ditch effort to take Clark and Kara out with him.. Clark and Kara’s power up and new suit.. just bra fucking o. I had goosebumps the entirety of the last 12 minutes.

Kara finally being hailed as a hero and cheered for after being manipulated and used to destroy worlds for brainiac. God I am so happy for her. She deserves nothing but happiness. She fits in so well at the Kent home!

Lois deciding to be her own person rather than follow in Vale’s footsteps showed a ton of character growth for her too. She’s def not the annoying girl we knew from season 1 anymore. Both she and Jimmy got themselves a kryptonian now 😂 loved the scene of them all flying off together, this show has perfectly nailed the team aspect. Saving the day isn’t something Clark can just do by himself. It truly takes a village. The biggest issue superman as a character has always had, and DC to a larger extent, is that the characters dont feel relatable. They completely remedied that in this series. It truly feels like Clark and Kara are just normal people like us and that’s perhaps the biggest praise.

Can’t wait for s3!

[harleychick91]

Loss Of My Life

Summary: After calling Lena a villain, Kara has a plan to keep Lena from working on whatever project she has in the works. Little did she realize, two can play at that game.

Rated M

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63423409

Yes, it’s a Taylor Swift song fic lol

Loss Of My Life

Kara’s POV

Searching the city, I knew where Livewire hung out most often. If I waited long enough, she’d show up. I had to give Lena the tough love she needed. She needed to think that I had given up on her by calling her a villian. I know I had to do it, but I have other ways to stop her from working with Lex. We know everything about each other which means I know exactly which buttons to press to annoy her. If she’s annoyed, she can’t focus, and if she can’t focus, she can’t work with Lex.

“What are you doing here, Barbie?” Livewire sighed.

“I need your help,” I said, pushing off the wall.

“With?”

Following Leslie, I continued, “I need your old radio station to hack Lena Luthor’s computers to annoy the hell out of her before she does something extremely stupid.”

Halting, the woman turned on her heel. “What is with the two of you?” She scoffed. “Have you not fucked yet? Is that why you’re so pissy? If the two strongest women, who are full of sexual tension, go to war this planet is going to crack in half. Go fuck her already! Or her fuck you. I don’t know if you’re a top, bottom, or switch and I don’t care to know.”

Heat tinted my cheeks at the thought. “Will you do it or not?”

Studying me, Leslie rolled her eyes. “Fine. Only because I love drama. And I ship the two of you. Psi does too,’ she chuckled. “We call you SuperCorp.”

A ship name? Really? “Thank you,” I smiled.

“Fly us there and I’ll do what I can.”

Landing, Livewire puked on the side of the building. “Why? Why did I not just travel like I normally do?” Wiping her mouth, she groaned. “This better work.”

Entering the building, we uncovered all of the equipment. “You’re secretly smart, right?” She asked, turning on the ancient equipment. “CatCo was one thing. L-Corp is a whole other beast.”

“I should be able to hack into her system from here. Especially since it’s older.” Sitting before the panel, I looked over all the buttons.

“Go for it. What are you going to do?” Leslie asked, peering over my shoulder.

Finish reading this chaos on AO3!

[gainaxvel3o]

Observations watching My Adventures with Superman Episode 1

- Jack Quaid may be one of my favorite Superman voice actors?! Like so far?!? He embues Clark with a lot of awkward nerd energy I really like, he comes across as very sincere and kind in a way that fits this version. I’ll need to see Clark wear the suit but he has my hopes up. Who knew the way to make Superman appeal to audiences was to make him a kissable nerd?

-Him working at a donut shop and eating three large packages of donuts is friggin’ hilarious. Why be embarrassed, Clark? Lois seems into it.

- I like Lois and Jimmy in this too. Lois’ a go-getter and fun, we’re starting her off as an intern so we can see she eagerly wants to prove herself but also has room to grow. I like that she learns a lesson on keeping her “team” on the know when she risks their careers chasing a story Perry told her not to do. Same things to be said with Jimmy, who’s turn as a conspiracy nut adds plenty of personality to him- that being said, I hope he gets more depths later. Glad to see that him and Clark are roommates in this continuity!

- The animation is pretty nice for the most part. Colorful, flows well, definitely appreciate the anime aesthetic they’re going with. Only thing i don’t like was the CGI robots.

- Did not expect Livewire to be a mercenary so divorced from her origins like this. She plays her role well, but I do find it a peculiar change. Then again, given the previews they’re aiming to have more high tech villains to start with so maybe they felt this was the best way of putting her in there.

- Perry’s fun, but I hope the NEWSKID LEGION stick around. Those kids are such scamps and it’s fun to see Lois try to argue with Flip for the news source.

- While it’s nice to see Clark and Lois have chemistry this early on, I do think maybe the ship tease was a bit much to start with. They just met, just because they’re destined to be together doesn’t mean you should skip out on developing it a bit.

- Superman’s symbol appeared over Clark as he was pushing himself. I think the suit is going to be some sort of hard light projection Clark has to concentrate on making in this version, which I’m okay with.

-The episode is super delightful. I had a smile on my face watching it the whole time, I can’t wait to see more!

Def worth the recommendation, it’s the beginning of a fun series!

[pilindiel]

Pairing: KyoKao

Rating: E

Word Count: 5177

Excerpt:

Eager fingers delve further, seeking that precious entrance Kyoya knows so well, but Kyoya is stunned to find something blocking his path. His index finger brushes against hard, tapered metal nestled perfectly in the cleft of Kaoru’s ass, and he lets out a slow, steadying breath. He rolls it between his fingers experimentally and it’s like Kaoru’s body is a livewire, arching and shuddering against him. He moans embarrassingly loud. They both still and Kyoya swears he can hear the flush that crawls up Kaoru’s neck, tinting his ears red before Kaoru hides his face in the crook of Kyoya’s neck. Not that such a coquettish act will stop Kyoya from knowing exactly what he is currently circling with his thumb and forefinger. A mixture between a growl and a question rumbles through Kyoya’s chest, his voice low and raspy like gravel. “Kaoru - “ Kaoru grinds back down on Kyoya’s knee, rolling his hips into Kyoya’s warm palms. “You - ” Kaoru hisses, breathless, “You were supposed to be home hours ago.”

[juiceicicles]

Mean and Scary | Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Pool

Pts: 1, 2, 3

=======

He had never really intended to tell anyone about the nightmares. The sleepless nights, the tossing and turning interrupted by the absolute worst headaches and the bloodstained pillows thanks to the newly developed nose bleed problem. It made him feel weak. Nobody else was having these problems. Maybe it was karma from his attempt to just forget Barb this first go-around, maybe the numerous head injuries had aligned to create a new way of making him miserable. But Max just looked so tired, and if anyone could relate in their little Party, maybe Steve could.

And apparently, Steve understood almost perfectly. Max had opened up to him too, and confessed that she only really felt sane when she was listening to music. She’d given him her old walkman, the one she used before she realized she needed an upgrade if it was going to become a constant in her life. It was bulky, and the headphones were small and uncomfortable, but the reprieve from his own thoughts was better than any drug.

Well, any drug Steve had tried. Hence the standing in the Munson trailer, waiting to expand his horrisions. It still felt weird to be here. Not the trailer park, or even the trailer itself, he’d seen it from the outside countless times to pick and drop Max off. But here, in Eddie Munson’s living room. Waiting for drugs. After the russians Steve was almost entirely sure he’d never be able to even get drunk again. It felt too similar, felt like he was back in that cold room surrounded by needles and bone-saws. But he needed something or else he’d never fall asleep again, and the two days he’d gone without were already kicking his ass.

Was it smart to go to Dustins newest brother figure in search of illicit substances? No. Was he going to do it anyways? Yes. He just needed some fucking sleep, just this once. (He knew that he couldn’t guarantee that. That if this worked, he’d probably be coming back time and time again. But he was never the sharpest bulb in the shed, and he’s choosing to blame his remarkable lack of decision making on the sleep deprivation.)

There were dozens of baseball caps and mugs covering the walls around him. From sports teams, to shitty diners, to T.V. memorobila, there was everything. He idly wondered if any of the items were ever used, considering they were high enough on the wall that he would need a ladder to access them, and Eddie was about his height.

“Sorry for the mess, maid took the week off.” Eddie was digging around the trailer, looking for whatever it was Steve had agreed to purchase and later on actually take (was he really doing this? Should he be doing this? God, Robin was gonna be so pissed if she ever found out)

“You um,” Steve swallowed, he honestly couldn’t tell you why he was so nervous. He felt like there were livewires where his blood vessels should be, “you live here alone?”

“With my uncle. But, uh, he works nights at the plant. Bringing home the big bucks.” There were various clunking and clicking sounds from where Eddie was opening up what was presumably any container he found in his junk drawer mixed in with the sounds of singing softly crooning from the tinny speakers in Steve’s headphones. His favorite song was playing, and he turned the volume up a little more.

“How long does it take?”

“Sorry?”

Steve took a deep breath to calm his nerves, seriously why was he so anxious? “The- the, uh, Special K? How long to kick in?”

“Oh, uh, well, it depends on if you snort it or not.” Christ, this was so dumb, “Uh, if you do, then, yeah. It'll kick in pretty quick.” This was so, so, dumb. “Ohhh…shit.”

“You’re sure you have it?” the part of Steve that had been desperately begging him to just go the fuck home was silently hoping that Munson just didn’t have any. The other part, the part that hadn’t slept in two days and had been getting pretty shit sleep for the last week and a half, was desperately begging that he did.

“No, no, I got it. Um, somewhere.” Eddie turned around and went into his room, most likely to continue his part in the hide and seek game he was playing with this illegal drug. Seriously, why wouldn’t you keep that somewhere safe?

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Steve whipped around to stare at the window, as the music played in the background to the sound of a clock chiming in the distance.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Steve really hoped he wasn’t going crazy. That some total whackjob decided to put a grandfather clock in the backyard of their trailer for some reason. But he knew he was kidding himself, it was so clear. Like it was coming from down a long hallway. Except the only hallway in the trailer was to Eddie’s room, and the sound was coming from the opposite direction. All those knocks to the head were finally getting to him. He was officially going insane.

As he scanned the darkness outside the window, the ticking and the chiming just got louder, and louder, and louder, until it felt like it was coming from inside his head. He frantically closed the curtains.

“Eddie?” Steve called over his shoulder, “Did you find it? Eddie?”

Silence. Gone were the sounds of hollow metal opening and closing, or Eddie’s weird ramblings to nobody, or the sounds of another person’s footsteps on the carpet. Steve slowly started to walk down the hallway. Eddie probably wouldn’t want him to see his room, but after years of monsters and possession and all things Upside-Down, Steve would rather take the chance of upsetting him over the chance of anything else. Granted the Upside-Down and the beasts that came with it were not usually quiet, at least from this end of things, but Steve was paranoid. He thinks he’s earned that much for all the brain trauma he’s most definitely had over time.

“Eddie?” He entered the room, only to find that Eddie wasn’t there. In fact, this wasn’t even Eddie’s room. It couldn’t be. This was Steve’s porch. The pool shone a light-blue glow over the surroundings, steam misting off the surface of the water in lazy swirls. The air felt cool, but not cold. Like it always did right before it became too cold to swim even in heated water, right before the Harringtons had to close the pool up. There were empty beer cans littered in a small pile, each with a small jagged hole punched into the bottom, next to some pool chairs with an ashtray situated between them on a small table.

And there, sitting on the diving board of the pool, was Barbara Holland. Her back was facing Steve, but he would have to be blind not to recognize her. Her curly red hair made a dark brown in the low light but discernible all the same, the dark blue denim jacket she had been wearing that night, color swallowed up by the black night around her. Resting her hands on her legs, one cradling the other with blood running down her fingers. Dripping slowly into the water below, the dark red quickly fading into the surrounding blue with each new droplet.

“B-Barb?”

This couldn’t possibly be real. Barb was dead. Barb had died here, on this night, in his pool. She was the ghost over his shoulder, never remembered quite right, and not always at the forefront of his mind, but never really forgotten. She was a scar that would never heal, a guilt that would never fade. Even if he hadn’t ever really admitted it, he agreed with Nancy. What she had said that halloween. He killed Barb, he just didn’t really let himself think about it.

“Still pretending, Steve?” She said, still not looking back. Still swaying her legs casually, sitting at the foot of her grave.

“Still bullshit?” The word reverberated through the air. And even though there were no walls, it felt like it was closing in on him. She finally turned around, and where her brown eyes had once been were milky white pupils, surrounded by black. Water dribbled from her mouth as she spoke. Her face was rotting, water logged and bloated. She didn’t look like a ghost, she looked like a corpse. Slugs crawled out of holes in her skin, and vines wrapped around her legs and propelled her forwards, her muscles too decayed to stand without assistance

Steve turned around and booked it. He slammed the door to the pool closed, drawing the blinds over the panes of glass. Holding his back to the door, he turned around to see that where the Munson trailer had once been, the viney Upside-Down tunnels had replaced it.

The vines slithered over eachother, covering the door to the pool and creating a solid wall of plant matter. Chittering and screeching echoed down pathways, the smell of kerosine and the distinct iron-copper of blood filled the air and choked Steve’s lungs.

“You killed me!” The distorted voice of Barbara Holland filled his head, so loud it was deafening. Steve covered his ears. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be alive! My parents wouldn’t had to bury an empty casket! It’s your fault Steve!”

Steve ran, trying desperately to get away from the voice, but it wasn’t coming from behind him. It was coming from around him, like a bubble of loathing and blame.

“Nancy lied to you Steve! There was no ‘we’. It was all you!” Barb laughed, empty and hollow, “you’ll never make up for it, murderer! One day, they’ll realize! One day, they’ll all know! And when that day comes, nobody will want to see your pathetic face ever. Again.”

There in the diverging pathways of the tunnels stood Dustin, and then Robin, then Max, and Lucas, and Mike, and Joyce, and it just went on, and on, and on. Their sneers, their disgust, their backs turned as they walked away from him.

“If you had just focused on someone other than yourself for one fucking second, I’d be alive. Nancy would be happy! Thank god Jonathan was there for her, to be what she really needed.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Barb kept going. She’d finally gotten her chance to say everything she didn’t when she was alive, and she seemed to be making the most of it. “Needed to win over perfect prissy Nancy Wheeler? Needed to prove to your douchebag friends that you could conquer any woman? That nobody could say no to King Steve!”

Steve would protest if he could breathe at all. He felt like he’d been running for days, and he was panting heavily from the strain.

“You’ll never be enough to make up for what the world lost when you took me from it.” Barb's voice sounded farther away, until finally it faded entirely.

Steve slumped down the wall, creepy vines and shit be damned. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he just needed a second to get his bearings together and then he’d start looking for a way out.

“Steve”

==

@bowl-o-queerios is me, I just can’t comment on this blog

[nitewrighter]

Superman game bosses

Steel- metallo and Bruno Mannheim

Kara- parasite and livewire

Kon- bizarro and toyman

Clark- bizarro rematch, but it’s picking the right dialogue to talk him down, and lex and brainiac but they’re more puzzles

Plus side quests for Lois investigating intergang and lexcorp

And looking through the metropolis overworld for anomalies created by mxyzptlk

Jimmy's levels are all completely bonkers. They're either the most stressful 'Last of Us' sneak missions with Lois, or they're extended hallucinogenic fantasy sequences with rhythm game elements, or it's a balls-to-the-wall vehicle mission blazing through the tunnels of Project Cadmus in the Whiz Wagon (Thank you, Jack Kirby).

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

The brush of Oliver’s sun-bleached fringe tickles his midsection, and the livewire tremor that shoots up Elio’s thighs makes his own mouth fall slack; the lump in his tinder-dry throat so pronounced it’s a chore to overcome it. There are so many things he wants to say. Promises and declarations he’s wholly unqualified to voice; especially when all he has to offer is himself. If not later, when, yes, but Oliver’s intense focus sees him oscillating between god and tribute: worshipped and worshipper.

Mounted on the wall in Elio’s summer bedroom is a framed, antique postcard of Monet’s berm. A six by four, run-of-the-mill keepsake that Maynard - his father’s post-grad intern of two years prior - fished out of a Parisian flea market before mailing on a whim. The tranquil scene dates back to 1905 - near as they can tell from the perforated postage stamp - and while the sepia-toned inscription has faded with time, the image on the front remains an accurate depiction of his secret spot. 

The place he used to come to immerse himself in the daring, comic book adventures of Diabolik, or the universal themes of love, loss, and mortality selected from his parents’ library.

The place he’s all but convinced he magicked Oliver to life.

Like sentinels, tall, marine pines surround the hidden copse, their branches providing crucial shelter for the finches and sparrows that flit among the crimson poppies. The sky above is equally divine - azure and cloudless where it skirts the mountain pass - while to the east, a twin-hulled fishing boat trawls the secluded cove; its lone pescatore the sole exception to their blessed illusion of privacy.

In short, it’s exquisite, and as slightly-chapped lips form a decadent seal around the head of his leaking cock, Elio can’t help envisioning this raw, pornographic snapshot in all its Impressionist glory, also. Hung on proud display beside the great man’s Water Lilies, perhaps? A study of light and shadow to rival La Femme à la Robe Verte, herself.

The luckiest kid in the world, Oliver called him once, and indeed, the toe-curling decadence of being taken to the root does something to his crowded ribcage.

Finds him longing to remain in this halcyon afternoon forever. 

The brush of Oliver’s sun-bleached fringe tickles his midsection, and the livewire tremor that shoots up Elio’s thighs makes his own mouth fall slack; the lump in his tinder-dry throat so pronounced it’s a chore to overcome it. There are so many things he wants to say. Promises and declarations he’s wholly unqualified to voice; especially when all he has to offer is himself. If not later, when, yes, but Oliver’s intense focus sees him oscillating between god and tribute: worshipped and worshipper.

Schmaltzy, perhaps, but no less true. This isn’t just lust. Some animal desire for completion. It lingers between them: that unspoken understanding. Soothing the nerves that twist his butterfly stomach. Oliver’s devotion - his care - his everything, really, flows through him like the cresting waves below, so Elio can be forgiven for hoarding his confessions as a dragon would gold: utterly distracted by the coaxing pattern of flicks and half-circles that unravel him entirely. 

For melting into the dual sensations of too-much and not enough. 

For gasping and moaning and honest to God whimpering as the other man plays his body like a magnum opus on the Bösendorfer’s ivory keys.

Oliver’s eyes are closed, he realises. Dark lashes skimming the rosy hue of his cheeks; though be it from exertion or arousal he can’t quite determine. Damp with sweat, blond hair sticks to his temple as he bobs his head methodically, and when Elio cranks up on his elbows to get a better angle, the slow-burn in his abdomen has his knuckles blanching white; an unequivocal harbinger of his barrelling orgasm.

As if on cue, the familiar warmth of Oliver’s palm cradles his drawn-tight scrotum; the pad of a questing finger sliding further to his saliva-slick rim. Elio shivers - biting his star of David when it nudges inside - and with a muffled cry he digs his heels into the grassy bank; electrified limbs seeking purchase when Oliver doubles his expert machinations. Darting his tongue out to trace the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. Gathering the pearls of excitement as he drives him exorbitantly to the edge.

Taking him apart like he was born for it.

Like they were born for each other.

“Sono vicino," Elio warns, spine arching as that cornflower gaze leaves him feeling seen - recognised - like never before.

His hips buck amidst the swirling strokes: a steady pressure applied perfectly.  Lungs heaving, he writhes beneath Oliver’s munificence. Or maybe Oliver writhes with him? Either way, it’s instinctive - a blatant challenge - and Elio comes like it’s being torn out of him. Staring blindly. Garbling out a collection of sounds barely ascribable to any specific language, then begging under his feverish breaths that you’ll kill me if you stop. 

Unsurprisingly - yet most deservedly - Oliver’s smirking when he floats back down to earth: Elio can feel it in the graze of teeth against his thigh.

Knows he’s smirking, too, even as he sucks in deep gulps of air; replaying the moment on repeat like a scratched vinyl record. 

“Your turn,” he chokes out hoarsely when his heart regains a healthy rhythm, and Oliver’s giddy laughter is lost to a groan when Elio kisses a thousand sonnets over the flushed bronze skin of his torso; green bathing suit tossed who-knows-where as he stokes the embers of need into a towering inferno: white-hot and consuming. 

[livewiretabletop]

Time to make a better pinned post

Hi! My name is Liv

My pronouns are she/her

I am a writer and game developer based in the United States

My favorite color is yellow

All of my creative work is currently going through a massive overhaul as all of my projects got to be too much and it was easier to just compartmentalize them into 3 big projects.

Here on Tumblr my friends and I are running an unfiction roleplay under the tag Amityre that takes place in Terminus, a modern horror setting where hidden worlds only function to hide deeper secrets and worlds upon worlds in the shadows of a growing world.

I am also working on a massive fantasy project and a third thing that will remain under wraps for now.

If you want to consume my work or keep up with my stuff you can follow me here, my pinterest, or my spotify

[ghostbbunny]

regarding Livewire ship chart and the question of “who cooks?” I think it would be cute if generally Nat cooks for herself but forgets to eat properly whenever she’s focusing on a project so she eats cereal and such, meaning she doesn’t get her daily needs of energy which affects her energy and mood during the day. That’s when Revenant uses his cooking skills. It’s hard to cook with no taste buds but he can rely on his memory and the meal turns out fine. so Rev’s thing is to cook for her when she’s too busy. I wonder what’s Wattson’s thing when it comes to looking out for Rev. besides fixing his creaky joints lmao

i never actually considered this ship before. You kinda opened my eyes here lol

WAAAAAAAA YES! When I was making the chart I wasn't really thinking about it since Rev doesn't eat but I do think it's the type of gesture of care he would feel more comfortable with

[theweirdestroller]

Sunny's Debut, Pt 1

Okay, so, not all of my followers have ao3, but some do have interest in Down to Earth. I've decided to post the chapters here as well! I'm also making a master post, which you can find here. The tumblr posts will be missing the summaries and notes the ao3 chapters have, and the first three chapters will also be lacking in my normal tags as those are the ones I've already finished.

If you can and want to read it on ao3, you can find it here!

Cybertron. A planet starting to mend itself after centuries upon centuries of ceaseless war. Given the chance to start anew after Optimus's noble sacrifice. A place where-

An engine roared as a carmine blur sped past Sunstreaker. He bristled. Sideswipe was an annoyance on the best of days, when Sunstreaker was more tolerant, but he had a project due in a week and was very much not in a good mood. It was tempting to just throw a brush or palette at the racing nuisance, but Sunstreaker thought better of it. These were new, high quality paints, and his school would likely not cover them if he wasted them on his brother. Instead of simply punching Sideswipe so he'd pass out, Sunstreaker opted to move closer to the walls of the museum, so if Sideswipe wanted to bother him so badly, he'd either have to transform or risk crashing into the building. And if Sideswipe was in his bi-pedal form, only then Sunstreaker would punch him.

The view was lovely. The sun was just at its midpoint, casting the least amount of shadows on the ground, but making the statues of the memorial look like they were disappointed in whoever was beneath. Sunstreaker allowed himself to note that it was Sideswipe who was currently under the statues and let out a small laugh. With that, Sunstreaker got to work. He estimated maybe three days for this painting in particular, assuming he was uninterrupted and didn't run out of supplies. Or move. Sunstreaker winced at his own thought. Luckily, thinking and painting were a marvelous multitasking combo. So Sunstreaker entertained the idea. It had been maybe a year since the twins had been moved off to a new home. Which, it was coming up on the longest on they'd had. Sideswipe thought that maybe this was it, that they'd actually get to stay with this one until they were adults. Sunstreaker did not. He didn't tell Sides, of course, but he'd seen the signs. Livewire was getting a shorter temper with them, more upset when Sunstreaker had his quieter days, and more annoyed at Sideswipe's jokes. Iacon was lovely, but Sunstreaker was counting the days until he couldn't wake up and see it. They'd moved from Kaon when they were fifteen, having been kicked out of Toxictrail's house when Sideswipe had accidently knocked over a bucket of paint. To be fair, it had been open, the same color as the floor, and nobody had pointed it out. They lasted 3 months with Toxi. She was... Well, she probably wouldn't have lasted long either way. Sideswipe liked challenging her authority and she took the bait every time. Sunstreaker did not miss the screaming matches.

At least Toxi wasn't as bad as Blitz and Thunderrunner. They were a nice couple, and one of the first five families the twins ended up with. However, they had... Less than nice views on twins. When they had heard that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe couldn't be separated, they'd incorrectly assumed Sunstreaker was older and Sides was younger. Learning they were twins...

Sunstreaker sighed and looked at his canvas. He had started painting the sky, his digits smudged with blues. The sky had gotten darker from when Sunstreaker had started paining, the majority of the sky now a deep blue instead of the baby blue it had been earlier. The inklings of stars had started to show, doting the sky in an innumerous array. Sideswipe was racing around, whooping about one thing or another. Sunstreaker shook his head. His brother was an idiot.

A bit of purple found its way onto the brush as Sunstreaker tried to skim past his memories of Thunderrunner and his sparkmate. Blitz had been hospitable to them when they first moved in. She prepared rooms and made a whole feast. They were only three or so, and she thought they could use the comfort. And they flourished in it. For the first week. The twins had been naïve to the fact that they were deformed. A spark is meant to be one whole, singular entity. It shouldn't be split. It was only a matter of time before the couple figured out what Sides and Sunstreaker were. And that's when Thunderrunner took Sideswipe away. He just grabbed the sparkling, despite all his protests, and walked out the door. Sideswipe didn't come back. He felt so far away... Sunstreaker immediately started acting out, throwing fits, refusing to talk to his foster family, anything so they would leave him to, so he could go find Sideswipe. They gave him back to the system instead. The next six months had Sunstreaker in eight different homes. All alone. Even if there were other sparklings, there was no Sideswipe. After Bulletcharger gave Sunstreaker back, Sideswipe was miraculously there, waiting for him. He talked a lot less, didn't talk at all about what happened when they were separated. And Sunstreaker stopped asking after a while. But they hadn't been in separate homes since, so it wasn't all bad. Eventually, both twins were back to their normal selves, or, as normal as they got.

An echoing crash pulled Sunstreaker from his thoughts. In front of him was the fallen statue of Optimus Prime. He didn't want to assume anything, but Sideswipe had gone suspiciously quiet. Maybe they'd have to start packing sooner than Sunstreaker thought. He sighed and started putting away his paints. Iacon had been nice while it lasted.

It didn't take long before all Sunstreaker's supplies was safely tucked away in a bag slung over his shoulder. Now that that was done, it was time to see what trouble his twin had gotten into this time. Sunny followed his twin's spark into the museum, which was probably a smart place to hide. The golden bot wandered the halls a bit aimlessly, not sure exactly where his impish twin was taking shelter.

There was a small commotion down one of the longer halls, which was probably a safe bet. Sunstreaker started heading to the noise when the sounds got louder, more violent. He stumbled for a moment, unsure whether or not he should get closer. The blaster fire made Sunstreaker sure he wanted to stay put. He backed up to a corner, hiding behind it so he could still listen, but wouldn't be spotted. Sideswipe was oozing annoyance through their bond, which was really getting under Sunstreaker's plates, but until he found the nuisance, there wasn't anything he could do.

Sunstreaker hardly noticed when the sound had finally died down, as moments before it did, an overwhelming pain shot straight at his spark. He fell to his knees, hands hovering over his spark chamber. Something had happened to Sideswipe. He felt... Almost like he was gone, but not quite. Just on the edge of their twin bond, like he was suddenly too far for Sunstreaker to even feel.

The canary twin pulled himself back to his feet and slowly made his way to where the noise had been earlier. There was a singular open door, two guards rushing out, talking about backup. Sunstreaker transformed into his alt-mode before speeding into the door and straight through the spacebridge he suspected might be in there.

On the other side, there wasn't any painful distance between the twins. Sunstreaker's spark calmed down, a dull throb the only remainder of the pain from earlier. He transformed back, finally taking in his surroundings. The world on the other side of the bridge was... colorful. The dirt he was standing on was a rusty brown, with the sunlight making it look slightly ochre in color. Green trees and bushes framed the dirt, the sky a brilliant shade of blue. Sunstreaker secured the strap of his bag, ensuring that it was still there. He would paint this as soon as he got Sideswipe home. He turned back to the vortex of neon greens, blues, and purples, only to see it close. Or. Perhaps he'd paint it wherever he found his rogue twin.

And so Sunstreaker set off, his paint glinting in the sun, art supplies slung over his shoulder, and the barely contained urge to murder his twin.

If he had been paying more attention to his twin bond, the artist would have noticed the fear and adrenaline coursing through his brother's systems. At the moment, he was too caught up in making sure his frame didn't get too dirty. After all, this was an organic planet, one that Sunstreaker was far from familiar with. Finding out where in the galaxies he was could wait until he found Sideswipe.