you have no fuckin idea how funny it was to scroll through everyone's confessions only to be met with. Him
"hear me out"s below the cut:
(anon unless specified otherwise)
Swerve Star from Kirby can kinda get it ngl
@ashysiashy: oh shit we're doing hear me outs? im putting myself on full blast no anon for this. the elden ring silver sphere balls. it has a playful and almost coyish attitude that enchants me
It's pretty early where I am and the only "hear me out" I can remember right now is pretty basic, but I'm surprised I don't see more of it: Mari Lwyd, the Welsh Christmas skull horse thing
hear me out on grand mother silk from silksong I guess / the other lovely perverts here make me feel too normal
@2kawaii4u-bishes: Okay idk if yours still doing the here me outs but the month of February 2026 just does it for me. It's so perfect. Exactly 4 weeks??? Starts on a Sunday ends on a Saturday??? gosh! It's rare to see such beauty.
So, like,,, Hear me out on Hell,,, From Ultrakill. Like. The place. I want to have sex with it. Specifically Gluttony, but there isn’t a single unhot room.
@salamileg: I'm not normally into monsters so I don't actually know how out there this by tumblr standards / But anyway, hear me out, Vorinclex
The giant fly enemies from the Ashes of Ariandel DLC for Dark Souls 3. / For the record they are disgusting and unsanitary but the way they forcefully impregnate the players throat snd stomach with their grab attack makes me feel a certain way im uncomfortable with admitting lol
Hear me out: the concept of the dark forest. Imagine a sentient mirkwood
@safetycgreen: Rather tame but fecto elfilis has become a fav of mine <3
I dont even like smiling friends all that much, its a funny silly show but I'm not obsessive about it, and yet something about Charlie makes me insane despite his odd voice and amorphous blob shape. I think its the dad bod and imagining how nice he'd be to hug and squeeze
Apologies if this isn't tumblr-grade enough, but toxapex is probably the highest level of hear me out I get
Saying the Moon Presence from Bloodborne feels kinda tame but I wanna be held captive in that ribcage and toyed with
@deerlydepart3d: Uhm… I mean if you still want hear me outs… Howl’s Moving Castle? Like the castle…
@gforceworks: my hear me out is still zenos yae galvus. hes a dude but also he's That Dude.
@strawberry-crocodile: ive been on and off obsessed with AM from I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream for about a year now sooo. thats my hear me out
@jasmine-the-bitch: hear me out…. / The Voltvyrm from Silksong
Hear me out: the Banshees from Mass Effect 3
I think its a pretty obvious hear me out but then again I cant find any fanart or content so maybe not 💀 brau 1589 from pluto 👉🏽👈🏽 nothing sexier than a mutilated killer robot right..? 😳
im the unicorn for miss spider and mr centipede but he's butch he/him lesbian
since you want hear me outs - i want karniss from BG3 to lay his eggs in me (ppl who say lore prevents it are cowards and dont understand the appeal of big sexy spider shibari time)
apple iie / tbf, as things go, it’s pretty normal i think
my hear me out is the stalkers from hzd. i have never considered myself a robo fucker but something about big metal cats with guns and tails that tackle you when youre out in the woods... you get the picture
@hybrid-and-legacy: Hear me out .. face huggers from alien. Its basically a gag and a collar in one whats not to love?
@the-very-gendered-queen: My hear me out is the Norn Emmisary from warhammer 40k. It big, it’s awesome, and it’s Weirdly Shapely
My hear me out is Lancet-2 from Arknights / She’s charming ok? And the medfet potential
Literally any silithid can get it
This isn't me, but some streamer I watched did one of those Hear Me Out competition things a while back. Freakiest answer wins. Somebody submitted the Salt Vampire from Star Trek (give it a google, trust me) and it pretty much swept the entire competition. / Frankly, if it were up to me, Ramiel Evangelion would have won that game. I've never seen a more attractive giant screaming prism.
i am legally required to ask, as a ohioian native.
has cedar point made its own amusement park empire, hoping to one day rival disneylandia. or did it fall into lake eerie
maybe not an empire but definitely a city-state. Someone has to protect the rest of the world from Action Park, after all.
okay NOW you gotta share what media that tag is from (about being blind deaf and in a wheelchair)
Okay so context :
now SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT for some media
This is the twist of the 3rd videogame of the saga Zero Escape, called Zero Time Dilemma. It is a very good saga that I adore so much, but got the fucking twist of the 3rd game. The game is that you are trapped with saw traps that involve moral dilemmas and there is the mystery of "one of you are the one who put you in this situation". And I was like oh I wonder who it would be!!!
And they finally point at the culprit, and there is some guy I HAVE NEVER SEEN IN THE GAME being like "yeah it was me. I could walk and see and hear and talk all this time." And I was like. who the fuck is this guy?? While all the characters reacted like He Has Been There The Whole Time. Off Camera.
The most infuriating thing is that this in fact has foreshadow but somehow for me that makes it worse. Like. Cmon. What the fuck.
the first games also have twists but they are twist for the characters too, not just the player. Like this shit it's so ridiculous.,,,,
The baddie also says that he did the stuff because he has "Complex Motives" and complex motives has been a meme in the fandom since then.
24. superbat. this motherfucker JUST got to bed if any of u assholes wake him UP
24. Protecting your lover’s sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you.
thinking about.... jlas superbat. i may not have followed this prompt to the letter but its very long so you get what you get at this point
It was just one of those days- one of those nights- one of those weeks- where one problem shifted right into the next without break, and they all found themselves running more ragged than usual. In the tower, heroes everywhere seemed sluggish and exhausted, running low on sleep and worn out from the last battle. Diana had tipped onto a couch and hadn't gotten back up again, and Wally had nearly passed out in the cafeteria, starting awake and drifting off again in the middle of a burger. After being pried away from the monitors, J'onn had gone straight to his room to sleep, and there were countless others who had followed his example.
Bruce was too stubborn. Clark was reasonably sure he'd been awake longer than anyone, but Clark could still see him typing away, doing god even knew what.
"I'll sleep when I finish," he said, before Clark had even said anything.
"I wasn't going to tell you to sleep," Clark said, taking that as his cue to approach.
"Yes, you were."
"I know better." Clark set a hand on the back of Bruce's chair, glancing briefly over the monitors. Logs, security feed, news reports- all of it a huge mess of information to sort through. Someone had to do it, but that someone didn't need to be Bruce.
Bruce looked tired. His shoulders sagged and his fingers hesitated, slow on the keys. He'd been drooping all day, attacking everything with the energy of a man on his very last leg. He'd sustained too many injuries during the fight. He'd been slow, and sloppy. He needed to sleep, but he'd never let Clark talk him into it if Clark let on that that was what he was doing.
"Can you do all this from anywhere?" Clark asked.
Bruce blinked slowly. "Not from anywhere."
"But from another computer."
"Yes. I have others."
"A laptop?"
"Yes." Bruce was eyeing him with suspicion, now, leaning back in his chair.
"Then you're doing it from there," Clark decided. "You can burn your retinas to your heart's content- I won't stop you. But I need company."
For a long moment, Bruce looked at him. Clark could practically hear the gears turning as he thought it over, taking longer to consider it than he usually would in his exhaustion. Then, finally, his gaze softened. He sighed, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. "Just don't watch one of your stupid cooking shows while I work."
"They're not stupid," Clark protested.
"Whatever." Bruce waved a hand, pushing himself up out of the chair. He hit a few more buttons, and the monitors condensed into the smallest screen, allowing Bruce to pull it off of its docking station. "Lead the way."
The tower had grown quiet and still with sleeping heroes. With his hearing, Clark could hear Booster and Ted's laughter from the cafeteria, but everywhere else had turned muffled and heavy with the air of sleep. People murmured back and forth to avoid waking up sleeping heroes in the commons, and most of the sleeping quarters were occupied. Somewhere, Wally got ready to portal home, while somewhere else, Oliver snored loudly. No one passed them on their way to Clark's room.
It was easy to get stuck on the fringes of his senses, listening to everything instead of whatever was closest. The need to keep an ear out for danger hadn't quite abided yet, and it left Clark feeling unmoored and anxious. Normally, it was a nuisance, but maybe this time it'd keep him awake long enough that Bruce would sleep first.
It was almost too easy to pile on his couch with Bruce. Normally, any attempt at getting Bruce to accept even a mediocrum of comfort resulted in a fight, but he sat without prompting, eyes never leaving his tablet. He didn't complain when Clark flopped down with a heap of blankets, even when Clark twisted to lean against the arm, swinging his legs across Bruce's lap. Somehow, they settled in like that; Bruce, on his tablet, and Clark, half-watching some nature show that was interesting enough, but not so interesting that it offended Bruce's sensibilities.
As the narrator droned on, Clark struggled to narrow in his focus. The lights from the TV flickered colors across the dark room, and it felt so quiet, surrounded by the suffocating vacuum of space. If he strained hard enough, he knew he could hear Earth, but he tried not to. He could feel each individual fiber of each blanket, and each snore in the building. The tap of Bruce's finger against the screen of his tablet felt obscenely loud. The constant shifting of his attention and the overwhelming amount of stimulus was exhausting, and he could feel himself sagging under it, so worn out that it was hard to hear the words coming from the TV. He rubbed his face, running through grounding exercises in his head to no avail. He wasn't sleeping, at least.
Bruce's hand came to rest on his knee. The pressure of it was enough to shock Clark out of his thoughts, but light, and gentle. Bruce hadn't looked up from his tablet, but his thumb tracked back and forth absently.
Slowly, Clark relaxed back into the couch again. His eyes fixed on the TV, but without really registering the pictures. He couldn't feel every fiber in the blankets, or hear every snore, but he was suddenly hyper-aware of that weight on his knee- a single point of focus that he locked on helplessly. It wasn't constant- every now and again, Bruce lifted his hand to tap the screen- but it always returned. Somehow, that caught Clark's attention more, leaving him waiting, expectant, caught on every detail of Bruce. The bracing warmth of Bruce's legs under his own, the vaguely ticklish stroke of his thumb, his breathing, steady and slow. Out of habit more than anything, he found Bruce's heartbeat, listening to the low thump of it until it felt like his own had slowed in turn. The familiarity of it was soothing, safe, protected, the reliability of the Batman unexpectedly grounding after so long.
His head slipped off his hand, and he started, eyes opening. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.
"Seems like I'm not the only one trying to stay up," Bruce commented.
"I'm not," Clark said. Although, maybe he was. He frowned through the haze of exhaustion, trying to focus on the TV.
"The life and death of a sea star are just that riveting," Bruce said, teasing under the deadpan.
"Shut up," Clark muttered, and shifted again, re-propping up his elbow on the arm of the couch.
It was difficult to understand how Bruce stayed awake. Without the cowl, the bags under his eyes were dark and deep, his expression something beyond exhausted. And yet, even now, wrapped up in blankets and secluded in the quiet comfort of Clark's room, listening to the soothing drone of a documentary, he tapped at that stupid tablet. Clark was beginning to doubt his ability to outlast him. The restless discomfort that had kept him awake earlier- his ace in the hole against Bruce's stubbornness- was fading into a sleepy warmth all too quickly.
And then, Bruce started to hum.
Clark could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he'd heard Bruce sing. Diana had once told him that Bruce had a voice so beautiful it could make a villain weep, but Clark had only ever heard it rarely, and never meant for him. It was a quiet lullaby, murmured to a baby that wouldn't stop crying as Clark searched for the mother, or a hum, pressed against Robin's hair in the aftermath of fear toxin. It had always felt like something he wasn't meant to hear. Now, through the ridiculous fog of exhaustion, Clark thought of sirens, calling soothingly to sailors from a distance.
Bruce's humming was soft and low, just under his breath. The tune was impossible to place, but haunting, and mournful. The sound of it seemed to vibrate through Clark, blanketing his senses until all he could focus on was just Bruce. Bruce was warm. He was safe, and close, and so confusingly present, as reliable as the tide. Time seemed to turn fluid, listening to that soft song, and Clark's eyes closed without his permission, just listening.
When Clark next opened his eyes, it was dark. The TV was off, Bruce's tablet forgotten somewhere in the tangle of blankets. His neck should've ached from the arm of the couch, but his head was on the cushions, propped up by a pillow. How Bruce had pulled that off without waking him, he had no idea.
Bruce was a warm weight against his chest, breathing slow. Judging by the awkward positioning, Clark doubted he'd meant to fall asleep, knees still jammed under Clark's own and cape still on. One of his hands was tucked against Clark's side, his face hidden between his own shoulder and Clark's sternum. It was... sweet, really. To have Bruce feel comfortable enough to sleep was a unique privilege, and one rarely afforded.
Clark hadn't outlasted him, in the end. But Bruce was sleeping, and as Clark let his eyes drift shut again, he allowed himself to consider it a win.
mr skitty man, have you watched castlevania season 4? i know you said you werent the biggest fan because of how they handled issac and their depection of islam (which, yeah, understandable, wish they did reasearch) , but i woud def consider season 4 a improvement over season 3
Gonna wait until my wife arrives, then I’ll watch it with her. I’m overlooking their writing flaws
"If we get caught kissing in a small, dark, kind of shady alleyway, it's on you." twomatch. or whatever. i never remeber that ship name
ive done this prompt before with these exact same characters, but i really like it, and its been a while, so im going to give a rewrite a swing. maybe my writings improved
"If we get caught kissing in a small, dark, kind of shady alleyway, it's on you," Matches says, but there's a smirk on his lips as he pulls Two Face back against the brickwork.
"Well, maybe you shouldn't have sidetracked me," Two Face says, the same playfulness reflected back in how he lets the warmth of their bodies collide, lips almost touching, but not quite. It's a tease, knuckles brushing against Matches's cheek as his smile hovers close to the corner of his mouth, but doesn't close the distance- not yet.
Two Face loves the way Matches grins in moments like this, caught somewhere between that cocksure, sly amusement, and the more genuine fondness that burns underneath it. Calloused palms smooth across Two Face's chest, bold and burning, and then his fingers hook into Two Face's vest again, keeping him in close. He touches Two Face like he has ownership on it, always unfaltering and unapologetic in the way he draws him in. "Ain't it your job to keep me on track? You're the boss, aren't you?"
"Since when have you ever done what I've asked?"
"When you ask real pretty," he says, so smug and cocky that Two Face ought to shoot him, if he wasn't so fucking smitten. As it is, his fingers pull on Two Face's vest, and finally, Two Face gives, meeting him in a kiss.
It's the kiss that really betrays Two Face. It's so slow and filled with warmth, there's no mistaking the affection he hides so poorly, instantly marking him as one of those few villains stupid enough to allow himself love. He kisses Matches like he loves him, catching him in the little moments they manage to steal with the foolish, doting affection of a husband welcoming a partner home after some time away. It's one of the stupidest things he's ever done, especially with a henchman as difficult to tie down as Matches.
But Matches already knows. For his part, the way he touches Two Face is where all of his bluster falls apart, the hand that rises to cup the side of Two Face's neck too gentle for the careless attitude he puts on. He touches Two Face like something delicate, sometimes- like something he's already lost, and will spend the rest of his life putting back together. If Matches doesn't love Two Face, then it must be something like it, because he cares too much for anyone in their line of work.
When they part, Two Face can still feel Matches's smile, brushed into the corner of his mouth as their foreheads lean together. "Ask me something," Matches says. His thumb follows the divot of a thick patch of scarring on Two Face's neck, his shoulders against the brick, his back arched into Two Face just to press a little closer. The twist of his mouth is like a dare, sly and tempting, and Two Face has never been good at avoiding his traps.
Two Face steps into it: "Come home with me." He wants to put his hands in Matches's shirt and watch the way he unravels in his sheets. He can picture Matches with coffee in hand and the warm light of the kitchen on his face, and he wants it, wants to step away from the chaos and danger of being a villain for a night and fall into Matches for as long as he'll let him. Sometimes it makes him feel mad, the way he wants Matches- like a sailor following a siren call, irrational with a desire he didn't know he had. He never seems to get anything done with Matches around, and most maddening of all, he never really minds.
Matches's smile cracks into a grin. He kisses Two Face again, pushing away from the wall and into him this time, hands sliding into his jacket to his sides. "You gonna make that curry of yours?"
"Darling, I'll make you whatever you want, if you slow down enough to eat it," Two Face teases.
Matches hums, leaning into his hold as his arms go around him and nosing at his jaw. "Mm, I can think of something I wanna eat."
Two Face's laugh is rough and snorting. It's a terrible laugh, like a lifetime of smoking glass shards echoed in a harsh rasp, but Matches seems to adore it, pecking a kiss under his jawline. "Come on. Take me home."
"Now I'm just doing what you want," Two Face says, amused. Still, he steps back out of their embrace, his hand slipping to catch on Matches's. When they walk, they walk together, calloused fingers tangled tight in his own.
22. While someone demeans your lover, standing up for them. Either in word, or by physically placing yourself right in front of them as a protective barrier.
im thinking about emotional dysregulation and a strong sense of justice and how bruce is the reason alfred lost all his hair. in the words of karkat vants: anger can be a love language. alksdjnfsldjknfs i am NOT editing this
You get in fights for him. You've been getting in fights since no one gave your parents a chance to, something in you quick to snap and your fists faster than anyone could stop. You don't know how many strings Alfred had to pull to keep you from being suspended in middle school, but you know it was a lot, because he used to pick you up with a sigh written in the lines of his face, white gloves hiding the tension in his hands on the steering wheel. Sometimes he tried to argue with you about it. You never folded, because you were certain you were right.
Your school records are a mud-stained mess of arguing with teachers, getting in between a bigot and a victim, and the crack of your fist against someone else's jaw. You grew up stocky and angry, and you never had a problem taking things outside so someone else didn't have to. You think a part of you still feels like if you take on every fight yourself, no one else will ever have to get hurt. Regardless, it means that the college you get into isn't near as prestigious as everyone expects of you, and you know Alfred had to grease a lot of palms to do it. You think he's hoping maybe you'll keep your head down for a few years, and the intellectual challenge will be enough to keep your fists steady.
But then you meet Harvey, and he's simultaneously everything Alfred wants for you and everything Alfred doesn't.
He's optimistic in a way you aren't, level-headed and determined, but filled with the same drive for justice you are. Unlike you, he got in with scholarships and smarts, and he tells you stories about the kind of lawyer he's going to be one day, and the way Gotham will change. He flips some kind of switch in your brain, and your plan for the future starts to take a slightly different shift, accommodating for a world where you're not the only one who cares. He motivates you. He challenges you. He makes you better, and you think Alfred would like the person you become when you're around him.
At the same time, Harvey's a brown kid struggling with some kind of disability you'd never heard of before you met him, and the privileged fucks around you can smell it. So you get in fights. You're so quick to snap to his defense, putting yourself between them and him because you've never done anything else in your life, and Harvey tells you he's sick of patching you up, because you're bleeding again and he thinks it's his fault and he's trying to make you laugh.
It works. It always works when it's Harvey.
In later years, they'll call him Apollo. He's the handsome white knight who brings light back to Gotham, and he'll find it embarrassing and flattering all at once. You'll tell him you think it's apt, and he'll shove you, laughing like you told him a joke. But in college, he's the sun you orbit your world around, warming you when nothing else will.
The dean calls Alfred after you land a kid in the hospital. He doesn't need hospital treatment, but his friends don't know medicine like you do, and they panicked. He'll be fine. Alfred still calls you, cold, clipped anger in his voice, and you feel like you're eight again, angry and muddy and past the point of reason, the crushing feeling of a meltdown spiraling past what you can handle. Alfred tries hard to be a parent, and he tries to be a butler, and you're his kid and his spoiled charge, and this isn't the first time the two of you haven't nailed the impression of a functional family unit. You fight.
Med students aren't supposed to hurt people. Med students aren't supposed to snap and beat the shit out of other students. Med students aren't supposed to have meltdowns, no matter how crazy the workload is, no matter how much injustice happens in the medical field alone, no matter how much injustice your best friend faces at the hands of people you're supposed to view as mentors. Med students aren't supposed to recognize themselves in the textbooks. The dean is threatening you, and you're supposed to shape up.
In a few days, you still haven't gotten over it. Alfred isn't talking to you, you're not talking to Alfred, and a call from Leslie only makes things worse. You don't go out of your way to pick fights, but you don't need to, because people seem a little afraid to say anything after you sent that kid to the hospital. Harvey tells you it'll blow over with a grim confidence that you take seriously. It sounds too much like he's speaking from experience.
Then, someone makes a comment about your parents. It's not a particularly interesting comment- you've heard much, much worse over the years, and they've lost a lot of their effect. It stings- it's cruel- but you brush it off. You're in enough trouble already, and you've never cared about standing up for yourself the way you do about standing up for others.
Harvey's fist snaps out before you know what's happening.
The kid is flat on his ass, gaping up at you both, and Harvey is brimming with rage. "Shut the fuck up," he says, thick and growling. "You'd be fucking lucky if your parents loved you half as much. They probably only sent you here to get rid of you."
"Harv!" You grab his arm, tugging his attention back to you. You're torn between shock and worry, but worried for him, and what this will mean for him once the stupid kid reports him to the dean. You think for a terrifying moment that he could get expelled, and selfishly, you don't know what you'd do here without him.
You can tell he's furious, but he lets you drag him away, ushering the both of you away from the scene before things can escalate further. You stand in an abandoned stairwell and Harvey's fingers clench and unclench in your sweater as you hold his arms, giving him time to breathe.
"You didn't have to do that," you tell him quietly.
"Shut the fuck up, Bruce," he scoffs. His gaze flickers up to your face, thumb grazing the bottom of a bruise that's purpled in the past few days. You didn't get out of that fight scot-free, but no one ever cares about that. Except Harvey, who always cares. "You don't get to talk to me about when I should or shouldn't stick up for someone."
You don't have anything to say to that. The words all dry up in your throat as you stare at him, caught on the heat of his touch, the soft brown of his lips, and the determination in his face, like he'd do it all over again. You've never met anyone who understood you the way Harvey does, who matched your drive for justice and inspired you so completely. You look at him the way an astronomer looks at the stars, struck by their beauty and complexity- understanding, and yet endlessly wanting to know more, to know everything, to hold something you don't think you ever can. "Okay."
Something pricks embarrassed in his face, eyes shifting away suddenly. You think his cheeks are a little darker, but it's hard to tell.
You'll think about that moment for years. For years, when you hold his face and try to figure out how to tell him all the ways you love him, and when you watch him become the hero you always knew he could be, and when you watch him fall, holding his hand in the hospital and meeting his eyes across a rooftop, you'll think about what it was like to be so young, trying to put words to the way you wanted to press your lips to his. You tell him, once, that you think you're always going to see that little college kid in him, and he laughs at you. His laugh has turned raspy after years of smoking, and the shake of his shoulders makes the chains rattle, but it's the same laugh. "Maybe it's better that way," he says, grinning. "We were two of a kind, back then."
"Three," you correct.
His grin turns a little more sincere, a little more embarrassed. He says his words like a tease, but it's only to lighten the truth. "We thought the sun shined out of your ass."
"That's just the light reflecting off of it," you say, and he laughs again. You still love his laugh.
These days, you fight each other. You don't think it'll ever stop you from loving them both every bit as much as you did then.
