#Skid Shack

[mygrowingcollection]

Carolyn Brandt

[buttercupblu]

God is Fair|The Lost

Devotional Love with Suguru x Reader|Three-Shot

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3

the deets: sweet reminiscences of a wandering youth in a winter before a spring. you and suguru are older now and on wildly different but similar paths, you just don't know it yet. w.c: 11.4k out of still dk yet pls send help tags: fem!reader, alcohol consumption (don't drink and drive, this is a FIC for a reason plsss and ty), slight coercion, party dr*g use, territorial tendencies, a lil bit of sadism, hair pulling, lip locking, a bit o' biting, fingering, orgasm denial, a hint of emotional manipulation/gaslighting if you have brain angel’s note: don't ask me why these keep getting longer, okay? exposition loves to grab me by the throat and throttle me, idk what to say— earworm 🐛: Nangs|Tame Impala

This fucking sucks.

Napkins. Straw. Sauce...ranch? No. Barbeque. Tea. Fuck, gotta make more tea.

You were exhausted. A bit sweaty. Reeking of fryer grease and beef.

"Welcome to Shake Shack!"

And employed.

You took what felt like your 1000th order of the day, trapped in a vicious cycle of dropping baskets of fries into the fryer, then rushing back to the register to enter what you'd memorized. Often barely avoiding a crash with your co-worker who manned the grill as you cut the tight corner just as the next customers pulled up to the window.

In a town surprisingly smaller than yours, there was a high price to pay for being short-staffed.

For you, that meant having the all-too-often privilege of being the drive-through cashier and fry station manager while working with just two other team members who were also drowning on this sinking ship.

Slipping the last fry in, you finished bagging the hefty order and took and breath.

Work and college were wringing you by the neck, but things could be worse, and you handed the customer their order with a smile.

"Have a great day!"

"My tea?"

Shit—forgot it just that fast.

After waiting all of 30 seconds (give or take) for you to brew and sweeten it to perfection, the customer sped off with it with a grumble. You sighed, leaning your back against the drive-thru window. Your front register co-worker slowly peeked around the corner, having heard the skidding tires. You only shook your head and shrugged. Patience is a virtue.

The air felt so lovely, you thought during break, rubbing your arms and plopping onto a bench outside. It was always so chilly in the restaurant because...shakes, but they should allow you wear a jacket at least.

You pulled up a chair for your feet and slumped back with an exhale. Not a second into your break and you brain was still racking with thoughts.

Not of work, but of next week's exam. And your labs, and your lazy ass lab partner, and your 10-page paper and just...school in general.

You weren't failing, far from it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to walk the fine line between getting B's and getting by. The major you chose made sure of that—healthcare was no joke.

But neither were you.

Never once a quitter, you'd rather torture yourself with the woes of medicine than admit defeat. Proving yourself day after day as you pushed through the BS, big and small.

Like your chem teacher—you got a headache anytime you thought about him. Accent thicker than molasses that you can't quite place, the guy wore a permanent resting bitch face and never seemed to want to be there.

With so much attitude pent up inside such a small man who was hell-bent on unleashing it, it was a good day if he didn't go off on someone over something as simple as not understanding the words coming out of his mouth.

It had to be his favorite excuse to never explain anything during class when eventually everyone would give up and blankly stare him in the face.

You were sure he got off on being a shit teacher with a crutch called tenure. Ending every semester with a smile as he passed around teacher reviews, knowing your responses were worthless—just like your social life.

Freshman and sophomore year had been the best for late night and regrets in the morning, but junior year? Whopped your ass.

Time for games or friends was over. Textbooks and Shake Shack were your best friends.

You took off your visor that always hugged a little too tight around your voluminous hair, immediately feeling relief before looking at the logo that mocked you.

The money your dad set aside, plus what he'd been saving since you were a baby, was enough to cover most of your expenses, but not all.You had to buy a car, textbooks, and other unexpected but totally avoidable costs that couldn't be covered for...reasons.

But it was fine.

Everything was fine.

School was...doable, and work was preparing you for independence and trust, Miss Independent was in her bag. It wasn't all bad, you thought, fiddling with the neon star on your lanyard. The cool metal nestled between your fingers was a constant reminder of when things were a little easier—you smirked—and the most unforgettable night of sophomore year.

Parties weren't foreign to you during undergrad—scratch that—you weren't foreign to parties who knew your name by heart. But most of them leading up to that night were always mildly disappointing.

Hollywood had painted a very vivid picture of college life, but for you and your roomie, the beginning of undergrad had been painfully black and white.

It wasn't that neither of you, especially Yuki, didn't try. Sometimes, you'd even end up somewhere sketch, following behind Yuki who was always chasing a thrill.

No, it was because there were really only two options for a quote-on-quote "good night": a sweaty, over-packed, testosterone-filled Frat sausage party with shit music and even shittier guys or an on-campus, alcohol-free, school-organized event with crowds of less than 20 that always ended before midnight.

Anywhere else actually worth a damn was 21 and up and off-limits to underaged 19-year-olds like the two of you. To you, they weren't even worth bringing up, but Yuki liked a challenge. A third option was always on the table. And one night, she swore she knew how to get your entire group on the scene and into a rave. All it took was a little finesse and a little dress. And bearing the cold of the December weather in tight skirts and fishnet shirts.

"Yuki, I swear to God," your words vibrated with each shiver, "If we don't get in—"

"You worry too much." She looked over the long line of heads in front of your group.

All week, she'd been going on and on about how "This weekend was going to kiss ass!", with the most boastful look on her face. She was only one year ahead of you but swore the connects she made her freshman year would come in clutch and be there that night. But after everything that happened in high school, you were such a worry wart now.

Always wanting to be sure everything went according to plan and worked out as it should. Especially once you calmed down after losing your shit and running around like a complete lunatic freshman year of college. But by the end of that year, things felt...off. Now you wanted to take sophomore year easy. But Yuki wasn't having it.

Once goosebumps began to creep up your skin as you took wobbled steps towards the front of the line, it was do or die.

Music bumped into your ears, battling your beating heart as you passed the crowd of annoyed faces who'd been waiting for God knows how long to get in. Yuki took long, runway-model strides. Eating up the lethal looks you and your group were getting for being so bold until she stood face to face with security.

His gaze traveled across Yuki's snug black leather shorts and matching thigh-high boots as she rested her hand on her hips, making him smirk.

"Hey, we're on the list," she said cooly, chin high as she ran a hand through her long blonde tresses. "Under Rico."

His smirk disappeared. "Who?"

"*scoff* Rico. Big Rico." She said like it was obvious.

"I don't know that name."

Oh no. Eyes wide, you shifted, hovering just under Yuki's shadow as you clung to her arms for warmth.

You were freezing, nearly nude, feet screaming from only a short walk, and now at risk of being embarrassed in front of a line of irritated individuals who'd probably been praying on your downfall the second you all beelined to the front.

The threat of being turned away burned hot in your cheeks. But Yuki kept her cool. "We should be under Rico." She gave him her name and the rest of the group's, but security quickly scrolled through his tablet and shook his head.

"Oh wait," he stopped at the bottom, "Yeah, Rico. Right here."

Yes!

"He's already gone in, but uh, he didn't mention any extras."

Fuck!

You told Yuki that you guys would be late while she was taking her sweet time getting ready.

Then security gave your group a slow lookover, but not in a 'I'm falling for your slutty outfits and checking you out' kind of way Yuki was hoping for. "You guys got IDs?"

Your heart dropped to your ass. You gaped like a fish.

fuckfuckfuck. You knew you were screwed anything you saw even a smidge of panic on Yuki's usually fearless face.

The situation she swore she had a surefire way to avoid blew right through her and the rips on the sides of the t-shirt she purposely wore to seduce her way out of trouble.

Curse words filled your head, ready to fire them off at Yuki the moment you got back to her car.

She had to think fast.

"Yeah, we um—"

"They're with us."

Your heads snapped toward the voice in unison and you had to crane your neck around Yuki's towering stature to find it, but find it you did—belonging to a Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Handsome—standing right off the entrance to the rave with a drink in hand and eyes firmly locked on you.

"'Bout time you got here, Yuki. Friends." He nodded your way.

You? Us?

For a second, you knew he had to be mistaken but resisted the urge to look around for whoever he must have been talking to. But his gaze didn't waver.

You exhaled, blushing. Relieved but wondering why this appetizing stranger was coming to your rescue.

"You're with Rico?" security butted in.

"Yeah, yeah." And the stranger waved his wristband in air, a small neon star dangling from it for everyone to see. "Now, let these ladies in. They're freezing." And he winked at you.

Yuki wasted no time brushing past the still-skeptical bouncer, greeting your savior with open arms. "Sorry we're late, dude!" Playing up the act as if she'd done it a million times before, and the rest of your group quickly snagged their VIP wristbands before funneling into the booming venue.

It didn't click that you were getting in scot-free until the stranger looked back at you, waiting and holding the door open with a nod. "Coming?"

Your feet couldn't carry you fast enough, rushing forward as he took the last wristband, and secured it snugly around your wrist before flicking the neon star, looking down on you. "Perfect," he smirked. And for the sake of your steadily increasing heartbeat, you could only nod and avoid looking him in the eye.

Damn, what luck. And you slipped inside.

You had an idea of what crossing the threshold into the rave would be like, but your imagination fell unbelievably short.

Instant sensory overload—pulsing beats thumped through your chest, vibrating through the floor and into your bones. Vibrant strobe lights sliced through the dense fog of smoke machines, mixing with the heady air thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and a faint aroma of smoke.

Every corner seemed alive, packed with swirling seas of bodies moving in sync with the relentless EDM rhythm and snatching so much of your attention that you almost forgot your manners.

"Thanks! Thank you!" you tried to shout, feeling yourself slowly defrost in the humid, rave air. "And Rico."

Stretching your arms out, you admired how the fluorescent purple lights made your shirt, neon nails, and cute new star accessory glow in the hazy darkness. They subtly reflected on the stranger's muscle tee you didn't realize was so close to you. Becoming aware of his gaze at the same time he caught yours.

His drifted over your fishnet shirt, white, tight, and highlighting your already glistening skin adorn with oils and powders—yours drew to his silver eyebrow piercing then to the colorful ink cascading from behind his ears, down his neck, and disappearing into his shirt.

He looked like an undergrad student but would've had to start on a piece like that years ago to finish something so intricate that also flowed onto his arms.

Would his chest be tattooed, too? Now you were staring at it.

Blushing, you looked away, realizing you were actually chest level with a man who practically towered over you.

"Who's Rico?"

Your brows furrowed at the same time a glimmer of light caught a sneaky piece of jewelry, snug on the corner of his bottom lip. Smugly smiling, he held out his hand, urging you to take it.

What the fu—

For the second time that night, you were speechless.

Confusion flickered across your face as you hesitated, studying his confident vibe and easy smile that invited you to continue to trust him.

That calm and collected aura that had finessed your way into a forbidden space when you were ready to throw in the towel and give Yuki the old "I told you so."

Something about him was tempting—maybe the air of mystery draping over him that made you both curious and cautious.

Amidst the chaotic surroundings and nerves settling down after winging your luck, his so-sure presence demanded your attention. But it also made you wonder what he was doing it all for.

Regardless, it wasn't the time to get all psychological. Yuki and the others were already far ahead, soon to be lost in the crowd if you didn't catch up.

He bit his lip, watching your reservations gradually melt away as you nervously took his hand and returned his smile—welcoming yourself aboard the first ride of the night.

He easily parted the sea of people as you followed behind, almost immediately finding your group thanks to your roommate. Always easy to find, she unironically stands out in a crowd—tall, loud, and bursting with energy like everyone else lived in her background.

After socking her in the arm hard enough to bring her down a little for leaving you behind, your unofficial guide for the night suggested you all hit the bar for a round of shots, his treat.

Yuki held her hand to her chest with a smile, immediately forgetting the dull pain in her arm. Leaning in close to you, she whispered, "Okay, Mr. Moneybags." And he soon returned with an amount of alcohol that could rival a Frat Party.

Picking a shot up from the tray, he toasted, "To a great night."

"A kick-ass night!" Yuki added, and you rolled your eyes but clinked shots.

The neon green liquid that looked like coolant and battery acid had a baby flooded your system, making you wince with each swallow. Fruity, sour, and stronger than anything you'd had before. It set your insides of fire, and you tried your best not to show it, but Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected thought it was cute.

"I'm not a kid," you commented when he suggested you slow down on the shots you were clearly struggling with. Damn Yuki and her 'see a shot, take a shot' rule. She'd always start with two and made sure everyone kept up with each other. "You don't have to baby me."

But how couldn't he with a pout that cute sitting on your face flushed from the eccentric liquor?

"Why'd you help us anyway?" you asked, leaning on the table your group surrounded.

He mimicked your actions, sharp brown eyes glinting as he explained that he was simply a Good Samaritan who happened to be in the right place at the right time to help some girls in need. "Some really cute ones," he said into your ear.

Your cheeks warmed—and not just from the alcohol—as he drew back just close enough to barely graze your ear with his soft lips.

He was flirting.

And you were a terrible flirt—always residing in the back seat, never driving the car. Letting things happen to you instead of engaging. An approach that almost always ended in disappointment.

But there he was, this sinfully attractive man, openly vying for your attention—and shamelessly unafraid to say it. Clearly already into you, evident by his increasingly intimate actions, and assumed you were too because you were still in his face and hadn't run off just yet.

So you wouldn't need to do much more, right? Just do what you've seen in the movies.

Pretending to be unfazed, you brushed off his compliment with a smile, tucking a braid behind your ear. "So...knight in shining armor, you got a name?"

He chuckled and straightened his stance, suddenly making you feel even smaller than before.

"Naoya," he smirked.

You raised your next shot, bright and pink like your shiny lipgloss. "To Naoya," you toasted, quickly downing it with a sly smile that said you were far from innocent. But the OPs couldn't stand to see you be great, sending a dribble to free-dive down the corner of your mouth.

Cupping your chin before you could react, Naoya swiped his thumb across your skin and nonchalantly placed it in his mouth.

"Sweet."

And good fucking God, you didn't know if he was talking about the drink or you. Watching him subtly roll his thumb between his lips made you exhale regardless. Just like—

Thankfully, Yuki came to your rescue, pulling you into the lively crowd before you could probably do or say something stupid.

Unrestrained laughter echoed from your circle, dancing to the pulsating beats.

Yuki, always the life of the party, twirled and pulled everyone into her orbit—your group and strangers alike—while Naoya stuck close. Every few minutes or so he'd mingled with the group he came with, letting them put a dent in most of the shots he bought, but he had a different interest in mind. Stealing flirty peeks at you as you bounced to the techno beat, effortlessly drawing your attention back to him, even in a sea of lingering gazes.

Each time your eyes met, a thrill shot through you that was both exciting and slightly unnerving.

The magnetism between you was undeniable, but another part of you wondered if you were getting too much into your head. Whether it was simply lust making him devour you with his eyes or if it was really just you. There was always the chance he could be just like all the others. And a waste of your time.

But you could only ping-pong your thoughts for so long, and in the end, the thrill of what-ifs, alcohol, and a hint of rebuked behavior outweighed your apprehension until it wasn't enough to matter.

Silly, even.

His attention was simply more intoxicating than the alcohol coursing through your veins.

Just the thought of being the focus of someone so undeniably captivating was enough to entice you to stay within his sight, kick caution to the curb, and give him a show.

Hungry glances swarmed your way, but Naoya just stood back and took you in.

Flashes of your supple cheeks under your reflective skirt, your hair brushing the nape of your neck in those high, perfectly grippable pigtails. Fleeting thoughts of how they'd look in his hands.

A sway here, a caress of your body there, and it was easy to lock him in. Making him give less than a fuck about the "competition" or how they nearly broke their necks to get a glimpse of you.

Because as he watched your fingers lazily glide up your velvety thighs, over your chest, and up your tender neck without a second of broken eye contact between you, he knew this meal was just for him.

And so the night went. Playing the Yandere game. Occasionally being stolen by Yuki or one of the girls to build up a sweat and tease the crowd with bumps and grinds and lingering hands on each other's waists. Syncing with one another. All of you lost in the moment and savoring the night that was far from over.

Until you blinked and a few hours had passed, drenched clothes clung to every body, the once-exuberant crowd thinned out, and the blinking venue lights signaled that the night's event was drawing to a close.

Yuki's face couldn't have been more distraught as she smoothed her sweaty hair back to showcase her pouting face. "What the fuck, dude, it feels like we just got here??"

You opened your mouth, ready to scold her and remind her that, once again, this was entirely her fault for being slower than a DMV line while getting ready, but decided it wasn't worth your breath.

However, Yuki's infectious energy was raging at its peak with no signs of fading, and made sure everyone knew. But what could you do?

Choke your anxiety down and try your luck again with another club, or God forbid, crawl back to frat parties?

Staying in the dorms and bingeing Rom-Coms and junk food would be more entertaining.

Still, Yuki made her problem everyone else's—whining and groaning. Loudly protesting that the fun was just getting started and going on as if her soul was being crushed. Theater was robbed the day she majored in Sociology.

So dramatic. And it should've been easy to say you were fine with calling it a night and returning to your much warmer bed.

But that would've been a lie.

Just a teeny tiny itty bitty one. But big enough to matter.

And you internally rolled your eyes so hard you could almost see stars.

Because Naoya was the reason why.

God, you hated yourself.

The promise of something more was enough to blow hearts into your eyes as it snuck in and wrapped you in its clutches. Trapping you in one of the most intense instances of sexual chemistry you'd felt in a while—budding, simmering, and patiently waiting to spill over.

It was mildly irritating, your mind filling with thoughts of where things could go with this guy you barely knew. That little pinch of hope for a chance of something happening—even after playing hard to get all night.

You wondered if you'd ever see him again.

Ah well. That's nightlife for you.

It was fun while it lasted, but Yuki's voice brought you back to reality, growing increasingly more annoying as your hearing started to return to normal.

Seconds away from you throttling her and telling her to grip, Naoya made his presence known again, having overheard Yuki's pleas to extend the night.

"I know a spot."

Surprise failed you because, of course he did.

Mr. "I know, Rico." It was kinda weird Yuki hadn't asked about Rico the second you all stepped inside but with the crowd as thick as it was earlier, finding him would've been nearly impossible anyway.

But this was too perfect—the savior suddenly swooping in twice in one night with open arms and no hint of wanting more. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe your super quiet, nearly non-existent hopes and prayers for a main character moment had been answered.

But you weren't young enough to be that much of an idiot.

Still, was it a bit silly to be so sketch? Second-guessing this "Good Samaritan"? This casual guy tucking his thumbs in his pockets and holding a self-assured, but trusting smile whom you didn't know from a can of paint?

The back and forth was exhausting.

As if reading your thoughts, his head slightly tilted, signaling the words you wouldn't say.

Could you? Would you?

The unspoken questions hung in the air like Yuki clung to your shoulders, practically begging you to live a little.

Either the night ended there or could evolve into something new.

You just had to use your words.

But a sigh was enough to make Yuki squeal, answer in hand before you could speak.

"Let's gooo," and she beelined out of the rave just as they were shutting down the bar and switching on the lights.

Goosebumps made an abrupt comeback. The transition from humid rave heat to brisk winter air instantly sobered your group, seeping into your pores and drying your sweat.

After making sure Yuki was good to drive, you practically ran to her car. Coincidently sitting just a row over from Naoya's.

Yuki gawked at the sleek, red sports car. "Well, color me impressed." Its blinding headlights flickered as Naoya unlocked it.

You hadn't known someone with a car that nice since the Geto's.

"Follow me to the next spot?" he laughed, leaning on the car's roof.

If there weren't so many of you, he'd tell all of you to hop in and make yourselves comfortable, but he also knew your guards would be up—as they should.

His head tipped at Yuki, but he kept his eyes on you. "Keep her safe, ya?" And ducked into the car.

Your face didn't feel so cold after that.

"Girl."

You squinted in disbelief.

"Is this a junkyard?"

In the middle of old car parts and rusting scraps of metal, a steel warehouse glimmered in the moonlight, confirming that it was. Strobe lights shot out, lighting the bubble of space in the darkness as it came into view.

And just when you thought there had to be some mistake, some wrong turn taken at some point down the long, dark gravel road through the trees, Naoya's car cruised through the chain-link fence, finally stopping in the dirt path after the 30-minute drive outside the city limits.

This was unreal.

Alt Rock—Phoenix?—vibrated through Yuki's car, barely contained by the warehouse walls as it blasted into the open air.

"What the..." You lost your words for the third damn time that night.

The hell is this? Who is this guy???

Asking questions had been the least of Yuki's concerns earlier. Or during the lengthy drive there as you repeatedly asked her if she knew where you guys were. She was just happy to have her prayers to keep the night going and finish burning energy answered—damn how—and repeatedly said you guys would be fine.

But a warehouse?? A damn warehouse???

An after-hours club, house party, hell, even a dive bar came to mind when Naoya said he knew a spot.

What a spot to know and you noticed the numerous cars scattered throughout the dirt yard as you looked around.

Black leather skirts and oversized jackets littered the crowd. Ripped stockings and Demonia's hugged nearly every leg.

This was a scene you weren't familiar with, not that you discriminated, but other than Yuki, the rest of you would be glaringly sticking out like a sore thumb. Neon colors clearly weren't the move here, and you all looked like walking glow sticks in a sea of scene kids and black lipstick—sure to be noticed the second you stepped out of the car.

You knew you should've trusted your gut.

"At least the music's good," Yuki said as if reading your thoughts. Her head bobbed to the seductive beat. “🎶He’s just tryna be cooool.🎶”

You could strangle her.

"C'mon, lighten up," she said, unfazed by your distressed face. "Think of it as an adventure." She turned to the back seat. "Right girls?"

Shoko had stopped caring long ago, and Utahime, still buzzing from the rave, was down for whatever.

Freshman year you probably would've shaken you by your shoulders and called you a pussy by now.

But why were you acting brand new? You knew what this was. Been knew from the moment you agreed to go out with Yuki this weekend that something as crazy as this happening had always been on the table.

She was always so daring, so spontaneous and unpredictable. Always relaxed and in control no matter the situation—all of what drew you into her in the first place. The perfect roommate.

She reminded you of what you used to be—what you were trying to get back to. Even if it meant repeatedly pressing all of your buttons.

You pinched your brows together, secretly regretting the day you born.

"Fine."

"Fuck yeah!" And not a second later, her car whipped into a makeshift parking spot so fast you almost got whiplash.

Just ahead, Naoya hopped out of his car, cooly walking up. "Ha, you made it," he joked, but your resting bitch said nothing was funny.

"Okay, okay, look, I know what this looks like," he began, apologizing for not giving you guys a heads-up. But trust me."

A breeze danced across his face, tousling his bangs and showing off the subtle glint in his pretty brown eyes. And as if on cue, his lips curled into the signature smile you knew was coming, once again offering his hand.

"Will you?"

...Godfkindammit.

What the hell is happening here?

Those butterflies just would not give you a break. And neither would Yuki if you turned him down, especially after coming this far already.

You cursed under your breath and took his hand, hoping the flutters would go away, but only passed them on to him.

His lip ring flashed as he smiled, his fingers lacing with yours.

"Super sweet."

And welcomed you into his territory.

Throughout your life, you've learned that looks can be deceiving. And if you had forgotten, example A stood front and center in that moment.

On first glance, it may have looked like a glaring OSHA violation, but what the warehouse lacked on the outside, it made up for with a jaw-dropping inside.

Head falling back, you marveled at the intricate web of large steel beams weaving throughout the vaulted ceiling. Dancing light bounced off the metal, one-up the rave and casting colorful shadows on the floor, walls, and everyone inside.

Drum-heavy bass and gritty guitar riffs ripped through the speakers, welcoming you. Pulling you into an underground world that was very welcoming to Naoya too.

A hot commodity, nearly every face you saw couldn't help but smile and greet him on the walk-in. Unable to resist his charm. Pandering for even a hint of attention even though his hand remained fixed on you, pulling you through the crowd and bringing a blush to your face. It was clear you were his guest.

Oak and orange blossom clashed with the sharp tang of industrial machinery, heavily perfuming the air thanks to the dense, edgy crowd, but at least it wasn't as packed as the rave. Quite the opposite actually—the space here was wide open, yet surprisingly insulated against the cold. It'd be hard to get lost, but you still told Yuki not to run off because you knew what was coming next.

"Shot o'clock!"

Surprising.

And this time, they were on her.

"A toast, to Naoya." The glass glistened in the lights as she held it high. "And this totally cool spot."

She linked arms with Shoko and Utahime and they tossed their shots back together. Leaving you out—no doubt on purpose.

Naturally, Naoya looked to you, completely oblivious to the ritual but willing to play along if you were.

You steeled your nerves, deciding to get the girls back for that later, and snaked your arm around his muscled one. Snug. Close. No big deal. People totally don't do super intimate things like this at weddings or anything.

Looking him in the eye, you grinned. "To you again." And downed the shot in sync, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat. Spreading a fuzzy feeling through your body all over again and helping you settle into the reality of the night.

This environment was different.

There was an air of exclusivity in the space—his vibe—this place meant for the in-crowd—something to be a part of that he had access to and personally invited you into.

Like remnants of high school. Drawing you in like a magnet.

And this time, you stuck close to Naoya. Baiting his attention again.

His lingering gaze drew curious glances from your friends that you were quick to brush off, but even you couldn't ignore the nuzzle heat from the way his eyes bore into your swaying frame.

As if you weren't already fully aware, your favorite two-toned brunette, Utahime, kept raising eyebrows at you and tipping her head his way real "smooth-like". Totally not right in front of him where it was super noticeable and embarrassingly obvious.

When she got fed up with your shy act, she lovingly wrapped her arms around your neck, making you both sync to the beat. With a slightly tipsy smile on her face, she said just loud enough for you to hear, "Go get that dick." And quickly twirled you around until you posted right in front of Naoya.

A ditzy look plastered on your face as you froze. Slowly meeting his eyes with a flushed look of embarrassment that pulled a smile out of him. You looked so cute trying to hold yourself together and seem unbothered. But if it weren't for the alcohol swimming through your system, you might've bailed.

Yet, liquid courage ran through you, hell-bent on making you step into your bad bitch shoes because confidence lived in your blood.

If there was any chance of finding out if this was real or not, it was now never.

Eyes locked—his having never stopped eyefucking you—you both smirked. With a tip of your hand and slightly wobbly knees, you invited the man who made you ache between your thighs to dance.

With a small laugh, he gently bit his lip, finding you cute enough to plant a kiss on your wrist then pull you close. "About time," he said, fingers digging into your waist.

What a pretty face you made when you were surprised. But you surprised him right back when you twirled around, your ass grazing his front as you closed the gap between you.

If he was going to beg for your attention, he had to prove he could handle it, and gradually, you relaxed enough to dance—curves winding in beat with the flowy rhythm—enticing him to take the bait and dance his hands along your waist. Syncing rhythm, closeness, and heat to slowly rebuild a sweat.

Your head, light as a feather, fell back against his chest, exposing your shimmery neck. Sugary sweet scents you doused yourself in earlier drew him into your sweet spot, stifling your breath as his grazed your skin, erasing your final remnants of hesitation.

The instinct to draw your hands to his hair reminded you that the freedom to let go was a drug. A heady, intoxicating sensation that mingled with the pleasure of his hands slipping along your thighs and climbing up your sides like ecstasy until you opened your hazy eyes and stared it in the face. Pale blue, tiny, and snug between his peace fingers.

Gasping, you swiftly faced a grinning Naoya.

"What is—"

"X", he replied so casually, as if he hadn't just practically shoved a drug in your face without warning.

What the hell was with this guy???

The anxiety you worked to snuff out all night quickly clawed its way out.

From the moment you met Naoya, he'd been a walking enigma who kept going for broke.

The borderline reckless and carefree attitude could even one-up Yuki's, and freshman you definitely couldn't hold a candle. At least the unhinged version of you knew better than to throw caution to the wind and go around looking for randos who happen to do dRUGS???

What if you were like an undercover cop or something, you thought, crossing your glitter-covered arms.

Was his brain constantly on go—never taking a second to think before acting—or was he so confident in himself that he didn't care if others judged him?

It kinda sounded familiar...and was awfully cringe to think about.

But fuck that, how often did he do this?? Go around seducing girls, saving the day, then dragging them to nowhere to—

"An adventure."

What?

Aw, fuck.

God, fuck, there she goes again.

Feet away, yet in your ear, in case you thought you could ever escape her.

Yuki's annoyingly convincing voice echoed through your head like peer pressure on steroids, telling you to chill the fuck out and stop overthinking. Asking you in the most mocking tone your brain could conjure up, "What are you so afraid of?"

Sure, you were a virgin to the world of party drugs...but you couldn't say you'd never been curious.

Degrassi, Skins, and shows alike all set the bar for what college life was supposed to look like long ago, and drugs almost always had a seat at the table—glimmering and glamorized all over television. Surrounded by fun and pretty people.

But you knew fuck all about ecstasy outside of what high school Health Ed class said it would feel like: energy and euphoria— compressed into a colorful little pill.

It wasn't...the best argument against it.

Still, you were a little virgin baby. Aside from alcohol, you'd only flirted with Mary Jane, and that was only a couple of times at a few frat parties freshman year. You didn't exactly have a bucket list for drugs.

But there it was, an opportunity presenting itself.

And as skeptical as you were about Naoya—the mystery, the conveniences, the 'too good to be true' personality that kept poking you in the gut—those same yellow flag, along with his cunning, almost taunting demeanor, dared you to step up to the plate.

Even now, his confident gaze swallowed your doe eyes with a look you couldn't turn away from—thumb gently pressing into your waist with a silent reassurance. In a 'you don't have to do it' kind of way that seemed to take all the weight off.

Still, he tipped his head, gave you a firm squeeze and a grin, and said, "Take it with me—if you want." And sat the split pill, SKY written on it in tiny letters, right on the edge of his pink tongue.

You thought about home. And then you thought about the thrill you'd been searching for all your life. God...

If this went wrong, at least the girls were nearby to kick his teeth in.

You swallowed hard.

There was only one way to say yes, and it rushed out of your mouth before Yuki's voice could taunt you again.

"An adventure," you breathed, quickly diving in before anyone could see—wrapping your tongue around his and tasting bitterness on yours. Ignoring your racing heart from the sheer audacity to be so bold.

His lip lingered on yours until he was sure you swallowed the metallic pill, a small string of slick glistening as he pulled away.

"An adventure," he repeated before flashing his trademark smile and pulling your arms around his neck.

It finally hit you what Naoya reminded you of. Something you used to look for on purpose. Something that required a bit of work and a firm resolve.

Effort.

A challenge.

And it was time to play catch up.

Minutes felt like hours waiting for something, anything, to happen, but Naoya's secure grasp held you and your attention as you danced. Firm. Warm. Melting.

Melting?

Indeed melting—fingers dipping into the divots of your hips as if they could sink through like butter—coaxing your head to lazily float back under the wavy touch. Wavering a moment and brushing Naoya's fingertips with the ends of your waist-length pigtails that were growing increasingly easier to grab.

Pretty steel beams. Were they always this mesmerizing? Or close? Like they would sink to your level just so you could grab on. Or maybe you'd always been 20 feet tall and never knew?

Naoya snickered, holding the weight you practically threw into his arms. Admiring the strobes of light bathing your softly rising and falling chest as you fell into a trance—your body turning to jelly before you even realized it was happening.

But the awareness of your suddenly heavy eyelids and increasingly ridiculous thoughts of the ceiling slapped you down to earth, sending you into a mini panic. Head, heavier than ever, pulling forward until your fluttering eyes met Naoya's blown-out gaze. Staring. Drinking in every subtle change in your warm, flushed face.

A satisfied smirk played on his lips, watching your mouth part and breaths slow. Dying to close the imaginary and real gap that opened and shut between you all night until he once again flushed his skin against yours. And this time, a switch flipped; it wasn't just his proximity making your chest buzz. You swore you were sharing vibrations.

Warmth grew in your core at his touch. The oh-so-unbelievably soft yet coarse yet caressible feel of his skin pulsing against yours. Flooding your veins, spreading from your tongue to the tips of your fingers.

You were tingling.

And couldn't stop tingling.

And knew you couldn't stop tingling no matter how hard you tried, and for some reason, the euphoric thought made you break out into an uncontrollable grin.

"There she is." Naoya lifted your chin, vibrant colors blurring together on his face like a kaleidoscope.

All you wanted to do was stare at him, the array of colors on the cement floor, and the dizzying visual rhythm beating with the music. Like Nang was literally seeping into your bones, begging you to float and finally touch those steel beams.

God, you'd never been so happy you made a decision. That you chose to be here—that he chose you—that you trusted Yuki, the girls, and yourself enough to get out of your rut and end up here. In the arms of a guy you wanted nothing more than to finally give in and slob down from head to toe for being so hot and intoxicating and slyly nibbling on his lip ring every single time you locked eyes.

"Here I am," you said, teasing a grin you hoped was as good as his. Feeling alive, truly alive for the first time that year—completely immersed in the chaotic blend of lights, sounds, and bodily surrealism. Bliss peeled away your breath as his feverish hands danced along your body in a way that was too much and never enough.

Dainty fingers found your outstretched neck, pleasure etching on your face as you caressed the sensitive areas begging to be touched. Fingertips, music, ego, and air binding like sex in a sinful combo—evident by the full display of the undercuff of your ass, eliciting stifled moans from Naoya as your hips swirled into him.

That state of you was telling, and he hoped he didn't give you too much, but your ass looked so goddamn perfect, molding around the growing ache in his already tight jeans. Like you were trying to pull something out of him, but he only laughed to himself because he was sure you'd actually melt into a puddle if he sank his hands into your plush cheeks.

You looked amazing—you felt amazing—everything was amazing—and should always feel like this, you thought.

This high, this joy, this love—it was universal.

Easy.

So very easy to give and take—and deserving,

Everyone deserved love in some away.

And suddenly you were an ecstasy evangelist, slipping from Naoya's arms into the pulsating crowd.

Naturally gravitating to a drunken Utahime, her swaying form coming into focus with bright and infectious laughter amidst the haze. So happy. So carefree. You just had to have some, reaching out to grab her hand and pull her close.

"Isn't this—your breath felt so light, "—just the best?" You shouted over the music, your voice a mix of exhilaration and disbelief.

You laughed, the sound almost lost amongst the beats, as you tugged Utahime closer. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and amusement, but her attention drew to the sheer ecstasy etched onto your face.

"Seriously," you said, pressing her hand to your chest, "This is everything."

Utahime's smile was warm, but her brows slightly furrowed. "You've, uh, finally come around, ya?"

She hadn't seen this side of you since you'd met. A state that was a little beyond tipsy, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Shoko sidled up—the least drunk in the group—casually draping her arm over the girl you knew she'd been secretly dating since the beginning of the semester. Cigarette tucked behind her ear like she was going out to smoke soon, but holding a knowing grin. Her gaze swept over you, lingering for just a moment too long before she said, "Someone's certainly having a good time."

Correction, you were having a fantastic time. Everyone should be, you thought, so glad to have all of your girls with you before realizing that someone was missing. And like you knew she would, Yuki had run off. Probably huddled up by a wall, towering over some poor guy or girl by now.

But Shoko's tone flew right over your head—the heat of the crowd catching you in its web. Your body hadn't stopped moving since you came into the circle—a complete slave to the contagious energy and music. Leaving your swaying hips all vulnerable, freely out in the open and unattended to.

Such a shame, some guy thought, someone should take care of that.

It wasn't until you felt a pair of hands glue to your waist and heat against your back that you stopped mid-motion. Rough, almost aggressive, and hasty gropes squeezing your hips but losing you in the manic energy. And as if it were a natural extension of the night's chaos, the sensation rolled your body into the unfamiliar touch in a way that felt out of your control.

And pissed Naoya off.

He'd been watching the entire show from where you left him, allowing you to go off to be with your girls, not a slut for anyone else.

He tsked, his usually smooth demeanor cracking as he glared. Watching you casually give away what was his to some random guy. As if he meant nothing. As if you didn't owe him.

And the sight of the guy's face—smug and sleazy as if he'd hit the jackpot—and his grubby hands inching closer to the grand prize between your thighs, sent Naoya right over the edge.

He moved swiftly through the crowd, eyes locked on you, pulling you away so quickly you missed the way his jaw clenched. Grip firm but controlled as he wove pasted a stunned Shoko and Utahime, through the space, and out into the cool night air.

The warehouse loomed above, its graffiti-splattered walls bathed in the glow of the quarter moon. Fingers gliding over the dusty lines, you traced the art, trailing Naoya who pulled you behind him until he reached the back.

He took a deep breath, trying to mask his unexpected jealousy, but the way you were being so ditzy and cute and oblivious to the world only added fuel to the fire.

You didn't mean to, his reaction was just so funny, especially when he looked so flustered trying to hide his lingering scowl with a slick grin that, for the first time that night, didn't reach his eyes.

And you wouldn't stop fucking laughing, even as he kept walking towards you until your back hit the warehouse wall.

But that smile was deceiving.

His hand shot out, grabbing a hold of your face, fingers digging into your cheeks and tilting your chin so he could look into your glazed-over eyes.

"Such a pretty girl," he murmured. your lips feeling like putty as he teased with his thumb,

Though his words seemed sweet, a twinge of unease sparked in your chest watching his eyes turn dark, sadistic. Hungry. The playful facade shattering, earning your undivided attention and bringing your giggles to a halt when you realized he wasn't fucking around.

Your eyes widened. Whatever you'd been teasing all night had finally awoken and stood at your door. Ready to devour your faltering heart as slow, heavy breaths escaped your glossed lips.

He had to taste them.

And did, lips crashing onto yours, teeth and tongue dominating your mouth until you moaned into his.

Your arm wrapped around his neck, searching for leverage against the furious energy, before feeling it pin to the wall. His other hand slipped from your face, ghosting from your jaw to your neck—squeezing lightly, almost growling, and stealing your breath.

He pulled away, his eyes following his finger tracing the maze of net resting over your chest. Taking your glinting belly ring—the perfect match to his lip ring—between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a slight groan from you when he tugged.

He smirked—the face you made when you winced was even prettier than your surprise face. He wondered what other ones he could get out of you.

And just when you thought the torture was over, his fingers slid around your back, finally twisting into one of your pigtails with a pull.

Your head snapped back and his lips attached to your neck, breath hot against your skin as he inhaled your intoxicating scent—biting, sucking, trying to mark you. Mind flashing to the guy he should've punched for even looking at you.

You gasped, being forced to use your free arm to hold onto him when his leg swept between your thighs, propping you up on his knee.

He groaned into your neck—your panties were absolutely ruined—damping his skin with so much stringy slick, he struggled to keep himself from rutting into you.

But your hips wouldn't stop moving even if you tried. Grinding into the friction that felt like fire every time your clit bumped into a rip in his jeans. So disgusting lewd, but you were growing so warm with each pulsing thump. Unashamedly needing more. And painting his skin with juicy kisses.

Damn, he thought, smirking against your skin at your whimpers. Wondering if you'd start panting like a dog in heat as your fucks to give flew out the window. Mind only fixed on the lip-biting flick of your feverish clit that made your walls clench around nothing.

But he wouldn't let you cum that easily. At least not like that. No, he needed to do it himself.

He pinned you still, grip tight on your waist and lips finding yours when you whined from the lost of sensation. Sneaking a hand under your skirt and making you moan into his mouth when he grabbed your ass. Finally feeling your soft and warm and plush curves melt into his fingers.

"I want you," he said between kisses.

Your mews as your pressed into his touch told him you wanted him too, but he needed to hear you say it.

Fingers crawling under your things, he drew slow, long hot lines across your skin until they reached your parted valley. Your breath hitched, knowing where he was heading, but you spread wider, hoping he would hurry and get there faster. Inching closer and closer to your sweet heat with a slow breath, he brought you nearer and nearer to a rapture you seldomly experienced when he suddenly stopped at the precipice.

"Say it."

Your brows furrowed.

"Tell me what you want."

You spit out the only thing you knew. "I want you." And your mouth fell open feeling a warm pad on your clit. His thumb just resting there, feeling you throb through your thin g-string. Waiting to see if you'd be so bold as to hump him again. Whining and writhing instead, you fell prey to the touch that was light to most but dizzying in the world of E.

"You want me to what?"

Your cheeks warmed. God, was he gonna drag it out of you if you didn't say it?

Once more, you latched your mouth onto his to avoid saying so, only to accidentally bite the inside of his bottom lip when two fingers roughly pushed inside you.

"Fuck, you're so tight." And warm and soaked.

He didn't even care that you almost bit a hole into him, only focused on stuffing you full until resistance finally gave way and swallowed his fingers.

Your stomach tightened, legs drawing together only to be blocked by his knee as his fingers swam deeper than the nails you dug into his back until he bottomed out.

Fire grew in your hand, his grip sliding from your arm to pin your wrist. You started to squirm. It was too much at once.

And made Naoya's dick stand on ten watching your body resist but betray itself by continuing to make his fingers glisten in the moonlight.

You poor things who couldn't make up your mind, Naoya thought. Teasing him all night only to run from his fingers.

If you were squeezing that tight around two little digits, he wondered how you'd feel on his dick. How long it would take for your eyes to roll into the back of your head.

How quickly he could pull an orgasm out of you.

He let your arm fall, his slipping under to palm your ass and pull you closer. Tightening around your waist so you couldn't escape his fingers brutally pumping into you.

"ff-fUCK!" A gasp ripped from your chest, your eyes screwing shut at the blazing sin that just rippled through your body.

What was thAT???

A funny button in you was assaulted over and over and over again, forcing your walls to clench on command and send fiery tingles straight to your clit.

Desperate hands scrambled to find purchase around his neck, holding on for dear life. You felt yourself go tense at the relentless rhythm, but even moreso at the unfamiliar face shooting through your core. Slender fingers rutting in and pumping out—running juices down his wrist.

The squelching sounds penetrated your ears, mouth falling open as drool began to dribble down. You felt your brain fizzling out, eyes going cross—he was hitting that same spot over and over and over again. Dragging the breath from your lungs with every dip. And the few whines you failed to suppress that did slip out, couldn't compete with his merciless strokes. Purposefully working an angle that sent swarms of vibrations to your curling toes.

An unfamiliar warmth began to pool in your walls, making his dick twitch feeling your little pulses start to clench around his fingers. You were so close so fast, but then he slowed.

"Now tell me what you want."

You could die.

Literally die from the embarrassment, the desperation, the filthy way you were still trying to steal back even a smidge of that foreign but addicting touch by attempting to wiggle your hips you knew he wouldn't allow out of place—if you weren't hoping to die on his fingers first.

But a desperate pout formed, knowing he wouldn't give it to you without you folding.

And your pathetic pussy begged you to bend.

"I-I wan..." He grabbed your chin when your lips pursed closed, slotting his thumb between them to open them again.

No more hiding, no more silence, no more games.

His other thumb pressed right on your clit, fingers curling and stilling right against that magic button that blew fireworks into your rolling eyes. He was gonna make you talk.

And with a shaky breath, defeated and damn near pleading, you begged. "Please...make me c-cum." Looking at him like you were feeble and yearning. Like his demand was all that mattered. "Please."

There it was.

The submission he'd been waiting for all night.

Flushed cheeks and helpless doe eyes. Puffy lips slowly closing around his thumb and planting desperate kisses.

Neediness staring him in the face.

No longer caring that he literally had you wrapped around his finger.

He smirked, fighting the urge to cum just from sight. Right where he wanted you. Less was said.

You gaped when his knee moved, swiftly falling a few inches before he lifted your thigh—pressing it against the wall to spread you wide.

Sounds of your vinyl skirt stretching ripped through the air, and you should've been worrying about the possibility of it tearing if it weren't for fingers stealing your focus again. He hummed feeling easily slip back in, middle and ring fingers this time to hook perfectly inside and blow your g-spot to absolute smithereens.

Crying out, you almost drew blood from your lip as your body went rigid, clinging to him. The sensation you were just ready to sell your soul for relentlessly spamming on 1000.

If it was borderline too much before, with this new angle that lended him direct access, it was torturously too much now. But he could care less if you clawed his back to death as you tried to run to and run from the mouth-watering intensity.

Your pussy sounded so good for him, making him moan and grind his dick into your thigh like it was an extension of his fingers. Leaving hot kisses on your neck as his thumb drew dizzying circles on your clit. Making your toes flex and shaky foot slowly rise up off the ground. Obliterating what was left of free thought as your breath hitched.

He took in your rapturous face, feeling a rush of power and control surge through his veins. The authority he had over your body as he wrestled moans out of you filled him with an intoxicating sense of dominance.

Every gasp, every tremble, only fueled his intention to give you exactly what you didn't know you needed all night. To completely unravel under his command.

The fiery pool returned with a brain-altering vengeance and your pulses grew stronger and closer until he was absolutely positive you were seconds away from tasting heaven. And looking dead on into your blurry eyes, he finally gave you permission.

"Cum."

And the tight coil ruthlessly snapped. Walls surrendering to the all-consuming touch that sent your eyes rolling as your pussy harshly clenched on his fingers. Body arching into the fervid touch before you stopped breathing and your colorful vision went white.

Pornographic moans finally broke from you, loud and lewd and desperate enough you were sure you could draw a crowd.

And what a sight it was for Shoko to witness the very moment you tumbled into rapture, cigarette she stepped outside to smoke almost slipping from her lips.

The only witness of you climbing aboard the ecstasy train didn't think it would have led you this far, but the pledge you made earlier that year to swear off your freshman-year antics—sex and relationships included—was clearly long forgotten. Utahime didn't believe you, often provoked you even, and Shoko, not knowing you as well, just took our word for it.

But there you were, living out your wildest Skins dream. Holding hands with the Little Death with a side of alcohol and ecstasy. Cries falling on deaf ears and he continued to fuck you through your blinding orgasm.

Main character energy, she thought as she lit her cigarette, turning to leave before she was noticed. Taking note to maybe try that with Utahime one day.

Minutes later, you returned on the scene with Bambi legs, finding Shoko leaning against the entrance door. She stayed up front to make sure you made it back in safely and ignored the slick running down your legs you couldn't clean up until you got to the restroom. Naoya gave her a knowing win as he trailed behind you, but she got a weird feeling.

She was all for you finally having a bit of fun, but there was something specifically about Naoya that didn't sit right with her.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, too cocky and self-assured. Or maybe it was his sly smirk that seemed to hint at something slightly predatory, looking at you in a way that felt less like affection or even lust and more like possession.

But maybe she was just thinking too hard and this was just a simple hookup you needed to shake off your shackles, put yourself back out there and never see the guy again.

That's what college life was. Hookup, discard, and repeat. Just another wild night to bank in your core memory.

And the night had certainly been beyond magic, and definitely home to one of the most intense orgasms you'd ever had, and when you thought back on it, that was one of the few times someone else managed to get you off...ever. But when you really took a moment to think about it, especially knowing what you know now, the more you chalked it up to probably being because of the drugs.

In actually, the frantically hot and spontaneous encounter that had you talking to God (very...interesting conversation) probably wouldn't have been that great if you were in your right mind, but your intoxicated hormones in the heat of the moment didn't care because it was a hell of a lot better than what you were used to.

Before that night, having big the 'O' during sex was like a myth to you.

Satisfaction either always narrowly escaped your grasp or was never on the table from the beginning, and for a while, you thought it was normal to always be left hot, bothered, and wanting more, ever since you first learned to do the horizontal dance.

Your own satisfaction was never a priority, never thought of or talked about, not even to yourself. With every partner, you made sure they were well taken care of, that they met sweet relief with heavy breaths and a smile on their sweaty faces every time. While your desires laid brushed aside, unspoken and unexplored.

But that night with Naoya was different—he was the first to turn the focus on you, the first time someone had taken care of you, even if it was grasping at straws.

He pined for your attention. He gave you effort. A night full of impulsivity, unpredictability, mystery, and challenge—all wrapped up in a flaming hot bow.

Everything you thought you lost, everything you thought you needed in a boyfriend.

Having one of those was a staple in high school that you missed out on because of your hectic and busy schedule on the road. So when you got to college, you sure knew how to pick them. Freshman year was a joke.

You went through one relationship and one 'situationship' before throwing in the towel in favor of hookups. At least those were less painful and had a clear deadline for when they would end.

No surprises, no heartaches, no one to blame. Just a mutual parting

But Naoya was something you simply could not walk away from, and by the way he stuck to you like glue for weeks, randomly popping up at your campus and whisking you away into his world for hours on end until you made him your boyfriend, neither could he.

Everything about being with Naoya was perfect.

His eagerness to chauffer his passenger princess around in his real-life Hot Wheel, taking you to the coolest spots, just like that night, and introducing you to all kinds of mesmerizing people. Always ending the night with feverish, snaking hot that groped your willing body into submission and made you feel more special than anyone else he could ever know.

His.

The ideal boyfriend: attentive and charismatic. A constant thrill.

A bit too much of a thrill.

Slowly, but surely merging into a slightly loose canon as unexpected droplets of a storm began to form. His charm and attention and lust and want and need for you were still there, but so were the cracks that gradually began to chip and show.

For one, Naoya wasn't in school, which was fine; instead, he called himself an entrepreneur. Though, exactly what he did was always a bit of a mystery.

His days were filled with handling sketchy 'business deals' and half-baked schemes that, over time, almost always failed and ended with him turning to you to help bail him out.

Your brains, your beauty, your sweet charm.

Whatever he could use to settle a deal and handle business.

It was what girlfriends did, you thought. Supporting your man was something you never second-guess, never even questioned as you knew he would have your back as much as you had his.

Until he didn't.

Having a habit of making big promises and diving headfirst into opportunities that almost always seemed too good to be true, that fearless confidence you fell in love with, once landed him in an embarrassing mess.

Weeks spent bragging about a "surefire" investment with one of his partners to not only end up in the red but also behind bars. And on the phone sounding like a kicked puppy. Asking you to bail him out.

It was the first time either of you had been thrust into such a serious situation, even if it was just a small charge, but Naoya swore it wasn't a big deal. Admitting that he had made mistakes but promising his intentions were pure.

"I did it for us," he said, voice lined with shame and apology, repeating that you deserved better but that he was trying—really trying—to give you everything you needed. So full of regret for even slightly jeopardizing what you two had built and you had never heard him so vulnerable and sorry as he promised it would never happen again.

Dragging your heart into the ground.

But as painful as it was to hear your boyfriend plead to save your relationship, nothing could have prepared you for the pain of swiping your card and watching the last of your savings disappear to keep it going.

Making up your mind that this was just another storm to weather amidst the whirlwind of hurricanes that was Naoya because he had been so good to you. Surely you could look over his idiotic mistake and help him out this one time. He only did it for you after all. 

To you, he had his quirks. To everyone else, he was shit.

But being there for him kind of reminded you of why you chose healthcare.

Your pocket vibrated, making you let go of your souvenir and memories of that night as you fished out your phone before sighing.

Speak of the Devil, you'd just thought him up.

"Hi, baby."

"Hey babe, how's my Doll?"

You relaxed on the bench, blushing. He sounded like he was in a good mood—always did when he used the little nickname he gave you that made you feel so small and safe.

Stress slowly left your body as you vented about work and how you were not looking forward to getting off only to clock right back in to study for your upcoming exam when you returned to your dorm.

"Aw, baby." You thought you could hear him pout through the phone. "How 'bout we blow off some steam when you're done? A little reward?"

You raised a brow. "Whatcha got in mind?" Hoping it wasn't the usual invitation to just 'solve your problems' with sex or some wild night on the town.

"One of the guys found his Nintendo 64, and I thought we could borrow it and play some games, ya?"

"Oooo," you sat up. "What games?" You hadn't had time to plop down in front of a TV to watch a show, let alone play a game in years.

"Uhh, mostly action, RPG and fantasy. Some kid games like Mario Kart and Lego Racers, but I was thinking we could 1V1 in J-League."

And suddenly, you were back in a familiar living room you hadn't seen in years.

Plush, brown carpet soft beneath your thighs, you sat cross-legged, Wii controller cool in your hands. Room dim, the glow of the TV casts flickering lights across your eyes as sounds of fast-paced music fill your ears.

Suguru nudges your shoulder, "C'mon keep up." And smiles.

And you gently smile back, feeling pulled into the waves of nostalgia. The memory and others alike always so soft, so easy. So comforting to fall into the world of one of the last times you two had fun together, before he made high school hell.

Now you were sure he was off somewhere traveling the world and living his best life.

Your life.

What it was supposed to be.

The walls were back up to shield you from the bittersweet ache.

Naoya was right. Mario Kart was for kids.

"You still there?"

"Ya, babe." You sighed to yourself, reminding yourself that those who needed to be in your life we're here now, not in the past. "I would love to. You're best." You smiled.

He laughs. "In bed, too."

..debatable.

extended angel's note: i hope you guys didn't mind the little "diversion" this story had to take (i am not in control) BUT i promise it all serves a purpose. your basket should be good and full with enough little easter eggs now to finally close out the story in part 3 where it all comes together to absolutely blow your angsty socks (and panties) off. it'll all be worth the wait (is highkey the morale of the story 🤠) thank you for rocking with me

p.s. sorry for the Naoya jumpscare but how are we all feeling about your lovely boyfriend 🤩💗

tag list: @7thsthings @elliesndg @jirishnesensei @blkkizzat

[tinydefector]

Psst , The human affect last one where after MC post those spicy pic's, imagine the new of it on Swerve bar's DRAMA and Chaos 😂😂😂 I want to see the reactions

Who's servos- Human effects

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: taking about explicit photos, light smut, hand humping, Drunk robots.

I added a sprinkle of Dratchet in here because I love these old men. So enjoy the boys reactions to the Ambassador's photos.

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Swerves Bar is overly loud as mechs argue amongst each other as they try to figure out what bot was shacked up with the Ambassador, everyone looking at the photos as they try and figure out who's servos they are. 

"I'm telling you, those are Rodimus' servos for sure!" someone slurred, slamming their drink. "Only he's got servos that colour!" 

“Ah no, Animus has the same coloured Servos!” 

“Don't look at me im on the Ethics committee, and whoever is involved in this clearing doesn't care about the ethical side of interspecies relations which we have no knowledge on!” Animus argued back the moment his name was mentioned 

“What if it's UltraMagnus who painted them so he doesn't get caught!” Aquabat chimed in trying to be part of the conversation. 

"As if!" another scoffed. "Ultra stick-up-the-tailpipe would never. My shanix are on Atomizer." Gears states into his drink. 

At the counter, Rodimus nursed his engex with a scowl. "Sure as Frag wasn't me,  i'd be boasting about that in person!, plus the servos don't have the detailing I have!" He argued back. 

Drift flashed a sly grin. "Oh I don't know, Roddy - they do raise an interesting point. You are the Mech they spend a lot of time with who's captain of the ship, and I believe you'd keep it a secret to spite everyone" the ex con was Overcharged himself, drifting from where Rodimus sat and where Ratchet was sulking over his own drink. 

"It has to be one of the senior staff," argued Hound. "They've got the most face time with the Ambassador." 

"Don't discount the scientists," Brainstorm countered. "Interspecies collaboration is crucial work." A collection of them look at Brainstorm for a kilk. 

Nautica scowled as she passed by. "We all know you have no tack Brainstorm."  

Tailgate tugged Rewind's arm anxiously. "Do you think we'll get in trouble for looking? I didn't mean to pry, honest!"

Rewind shook his head. "No, its publicly posted with consent, pretty sure if the Ambassador had issues with it High command would have dealt with it already " 

Beside them, Swerve studied the photos intently. "Maybe I should invite the ambassador for drinks. Get to chatting, see if we could get them to spill."

"No harassing them," Rodimus warned, stealing Swerve's datapad. "Now let it go, mechs. Their choices aren't anyone's business but their own." 

Skids appeared at Drift's side suddenly. "Can you believe it, Drift?, who do you think it is?" He waved a datapad at the speedster, proudly displaying an image. 

Swerve perchs up his field mischievous. "Any guesses on the lucky mech, Drift?, we're Taking bets" He states in singy song tone. 

“C’mon Tailgate, don’t be such a prude,” Skids nudged the minibot to look at the photos  as he ducked shyly behind his engex. “Ain’t you curious?” 

Swerve flashed a waggle. "C'mon Drift, place your chips! I got hot odds on Roddy, Crossblades, or maybe even that slippery therapist Rung." 

Hound elbowed in, visor blinding. "Do they show interface arrays? Wonder how alien bits compare!" 

Drifts optics focus in on the holos taking in the Ambassador and the servos, Drift felt his energon run cold as his optics focused unmistakably on the servos in the image. Oh, he knew those battle-worn appendages all too well - how many vorns had he felt their merciless precision upon his mesh, heard their owner growl his name through the throes of overload? 

But dear Primus, how had the Ambassador come to possess Ratchet's severed servos? A flash of memory surfaced - hadn't Ratchet left them in medical incase he ever had to use them again. after the massacre at Delphi. 

He snuck a surreptitious glance at Ratchet through the chaos, the grumpy Medic seemed to slouch more in his seat while spilling a bright green mixed high grade. A smirk spread Drift's lips. “ don't Bet Swerve” he states. Rising smoothly, making a beeline for Ratchet with the holo in hand.

Ratchet glances up when he sees Drift, had the CMO not been so drained and worried he might have smiled at Drift, but with everything that had happened with Traxies his systems were running full alert. "Well well, look who finally noticed me," Ratchet remarked dryly as Drift slid into the seat beside him, weariness pulling his field taut as ever-tightening screws. "And just what have you got there that's got your relays in a twist?"

Drift took a moment to slowly moving to straddle his conjunx lap, teasing whispering to him as he handed over the holo. "Funny thing - seems our dear Ambassador has found a new use for those old servos of yours, though how, I couldn't say..."  Ratchet whipped his gaze to the image, intake dropping open at the sight of all-too-familiar digits wrapped intimately around supple flesh. His fans stuttered violently. 

"The pit...how in Primus's name did they get a hold of my old servos?!" He rasped, snatching the holo to pore over with widening optics. Somewhere in the drunken din, Drift managed to slap a servo over Ratchet's mouth before he made a scene. 

Drift leaned close, vents puffing hot against an audial. "Well? Care to make a claim, or shall mystery have them all in a tizzy?" he purred silkily. Ratchet grimaces, field warming ever so slightly beneath its veneer of exhaustion. "None of their business," he grumbled, staring pointedly at Drift. 

Drift chuckled, glossa flicking coyly over his dermas. "Aw, don't be like that. You know you're enjoying the thought of having every optic in this bar on you, imagining all the sinful things you'd do” 

A rumbling growl escaped Ratchet's intake. "And you'd best mind your tone, or you'll find yourself in need of a medical. Again." But his field betrayed amusement Drift's optics glinted knowingly. "You say that like it's a chore, but we both recall how creative your medical procedures can be...especially with an eager patient beneath those adept servos." 

"You're like rust" Ratchet huffs but lets Drift continue, his mind does start to wonder about how soft the Ambassador looks. "Honestly, you're worse than the younglings sometimes, Drift." But his digits had already found their way to rest in the seams of Drift’s hips. 

The Ex con nuzzled closer still, voice playful even in his overcharged state. "How you wound me, doctor." His servo crept daringly across Ratchet's plating, tracing patterns. "Just imagine - that soft little frame. The sounds you could coax from those lips..."

A shiver worked its way through Ratchet's struts, betraying his fraying self-control. "You really are determined to get us both in more trouble than we can handle, aren't you?" But his engine revved eagerly all the same. Drift purred contentedly as deft medic's digits found all his sensitive nodes just right. "Mm, you say trouble but I know how you enjoy a challenge, doc." 

His field pulsed hot as his imagination, arousal spiking at thought of the Ambassador with them. "Just picture it - that lithe organic frame writhing between us, so curious and willing to learn." Drift continued to grind against Ratchet's servos. "You'll get us both in the brig, get back to my Hub you're overcharged" he huffs out. 

________ 

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[ckret2]

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8:

Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: using his own body and their own species's hygiene taboos to gross them out.

Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that.

Masterpost here! August 31 2024: edited for TBOB compatibility!

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the landing, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed to the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack, but were blocked at the doorway by Stan. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—it's the darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—usually, I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! So your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Suddenly twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it definitely hasn't included sponge baths."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower. I know he'll be smug about it."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hadn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world. It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose.

It was the wrath of the defiant teenager.

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

"You can't enjoy being dirty."

"Not a bit! I feel filthy and it's horrible," Bill said cheerily. "Every inch of me feels tainted and corrupted. The touch of my own flesh is nauseating. But, ya know what? I felt exactly the same when this body was 'clean'." He put exaggerated air quotes around the word. "So why would I waste my time scrubbing the top layer of filth off the second layer of filth."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much—after all, you've gone waaay longer than this without showering, stinky!"

(The back of Ford's neck heated up as he realized at times he had, in fact, gone without showering for far longer than Bill had even existed in this body. Science is more important! Bill had no excuse.)

"You smell like burnt hair, by the way," Bill added.

Ford grumbled, "It's faster than shaving."

"And it has got to overpower the smell of a little stale sweat. So what do you care how this body smells?" Bill's grin widened. "Awww, is the guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? This isn't something we're doing to you, you're doing it to yourself! You have to realize how stupid this is!"

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

"Course I am! When the plague was running rampant, I was the one mocking your species's failure to pick up bathing." Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your modern hygiene expectations are cosmetic, because your culture's trained itself to be disgusted by humans' own natural scent. I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling it didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, distant look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. The same look he'd seen when Bill told Ford that the monster that had destroyed his dimension would eat him alive. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red hot with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill: not because the look was malicious (it wasn't); but because it was so detached.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but you'd accuse me of lying, blah blah blah; so let's at least agree I can't escape or kill you all, or I would have! As far as I'm concerned, this body—" he gestured grandly at himself, "—is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your culture's hygiene preferences, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel, detached look when the victim he was committing quiet, passive violence on was himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route. Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid. 

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

In other circumstances, repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours, might just mean he'd been to a great party. He was no stranger to dissociating for a few billion years—you couldn't outlive the births and deaths of whole realities without getting really good at meditating to pass the empty time—but the difference was at least he could see what was happening around him! And sometimes he did cool things while he was dissociating! At any rate, he didn't need to worry about anything bad happening to him, because he was awake, able to defend himself, and—oh yeah—immortal.

But sleep was different. Sleep left him helpless. Sleep made him dream.

Usually he didn't remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about screams and screams and screams, about faces and places he was frankly galled to find still haunted him... things he'd spent his entire imprisonment in the Theraprism fighting to keep safely buried in his subconscious, only for this infuriating human brain to let them crawl from their graves like zombies.

But the subject matter wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't understand how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't make any of this okay. Because he was not human, and he should not be vulnerable to the same subconscious blindspots he'd been exploiting for thousands of years. He was the Magister Mentium, the master of minds! He hated losing control of which realities he chose to believe were real. He hated blacking out for hours at a time. He hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal, or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up. 

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?" What happened?

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"It'd be fun. I'll enjoy it."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"The two of you are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats, insults, and beating his fists bloody on the door, Bill had to stop to catch his breath. Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped to the floor again, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll just have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

Locked in and abandoned to wait and wait and wait for nothing at all... He shivered.  "Clear as crystal." He pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried not to look at the walls.

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Of course I am!" Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. "For half a year, I bathed your body more often than you did."

Ford yelped, "You what?!" Stan spluttered as he tried not to laugh.

"Didn't you notice how much more the humans in town avoided you when you stopped letting me take your body overnight?" The soap wasn't soaping like it should. Why wasn't the soap soaping? In a flash of inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off the soap bar. It had been a while since he'd needed to use bar soap; thirty years ago, Ford had kept the bathroom stocked with Dr. Scrubber's 28-In-1 Body Wash.

"I... thought that... I was sweating more from stress." Ford sounded like he was being forced to reevaluate his entire life. Waiting thirty years to dump that revelation on Ford had been a great idea. "Why were you bathing my body."

"Your odor was offending your pet bumpkin! I didn't want him to stage a mental health intervention!" That, plus Bill had needed to wash away the evidence that sometimes he took Ford's body on midnight joyrides to Portland when he'd finished his portion of the portal calculations.

"Okay, great," Stan cut in, "so you know how to shower. You freak." (Bill decided not to point out that calling him a freak had about as much impact as calling him a triangle.) "Clean clothes next to the shower supplies. Got it?"

He glanced at them. "Yeah, yeah."

"Good."

Ford said, "If you get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this. And after the mortifying reveal that Bill had scrubbed down Ford's naked body, he'd just angrily decided to enjoy it even harder.

"Gimme an hour. Been a while since I've done this start to finish, I'm outta practice."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien looking at him was a mirror. There used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but he hadn't seen any since he arrived—they were among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away—but apparently they'd overlooked this bathroom. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He'd seen glimpses of his new body from his temporal peripheral vision—looking into the kitchen and seeing himself examining the junk food on the counters a couple of minutes in the future; looking at the stairs and seeing himself walk up them a few minutes ago. But he'd just taken in the perimeter of the uninteresting puppet and ignored the details. He'd never looked at the face.

Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He tore his eyes away from his own face. Forget it. He didn't have time to feel bad for himself. He had access to a mirror in the middle of the night and no one supervising, and that meant he could send an SOS to the mirror realm. He had friends in the mirror realm! Well—"friends." He had people whose arms he could twist into helping out, leave it at that.

He flipped the lights off, stared in the mirror—trying to focus only on his own eyeballs—and whispered, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." Maybe she wouldn't recognize him in a human body and take his call?

But nothing. "Come on, pleeease," he whined. "Bloodymary-bloodymary-bloodymary please! I'll owe you my life!" Nothing. Why were all of Bill's exes petty psychos who'd excommunicated him or gotten restraining orders against him for no good reason?

He sighed, flipped the lights back on, and morosely searched for any sign of himself in the reflected face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible. 

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold splintered into long, needle-thin splinters—splinters with the flexibility of a contortionist, splinters that had been twisted out of shape, splinters that curled like the legs of a dead bug.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.)

Hopefully, he asked, "Oihpromsyd, uoy taht si?" It would be a relief on multiple levels to find he felt so grotesque because he was being haunted by Mr. "Guy Who Lives In Your Mirror And Makes Your Reflection Look Grotesque" Dysmorphio. "Suoedih leef yllaeeer I—krow tseb ruoy fo emos eb attog sah siht!" He waited for his own reflected face to twist in pleasant surprise—either at a human that could speak Rorrim or at the rare compliment to Dysmorphio's work—revealing that the reflection was actually the demon in disguise; but nothing. There went another potential rescuer. Bill already knew the Eye Stealer didn't haunt any mirrors in this shack, no point trying to call him. He didn't stand a chance of reaching anyone else in the mirror realm unless they just happened to pass through this mirror—and unless they were friends, they'd be no more eager to help out thwarted dimensional tyrant Bill Cipher than any of the humans in town would be.

He'd had enough of staring at this face he was stuck in to last him a lifetime. He broke eye contact with himself, tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for most of a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body and perfumed it up to the humans' persnickety standards and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So let's go, Billy, just get it over with—and use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what you want.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again. After the fifth scrub-down he even gave up on soap and tried clawing off layers of skin with his fingernails. No matter what he did, he still felt filthy.

But he'd be dead from blood loss long before he scraped off enough skin to feel clean. He didn't have to actually get clean; he only had to be clean enough to satisfy his captors.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable scent but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there turned his stomach; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach.

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Would the humans get on his case for getting sick?) He jabbed a finger into his abdomen around the area where he'd decided the anthropomorphized spirit of indigestion lived in humans' guts. "Chumbo. Buddy. You're not helping," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He stood shakily and pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop. 

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I'm out of practice at scrubbing skin folds! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers have you taken since the last time I did this? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second with a mere five fingers?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

If the Theraprism's stupid reincarnation machine was supposed to—ahem-hem, snooty director voice—"divinely designthe body most well-suited to the soul about to inhabit it," then why had it given Bill hair. Sure, he liked human hair, but he liked hair the same way he liked humiliating misspelled tattoos: on other people's bodies, not his. Why hadn't the machine dumped him on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't it at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

He considered whether to melt the hair off the rest of the body. Honestly, he hardly noticed the faint fuzz on his arms and legs, it could stay. The thicker patches extruding from the soft crevasses of the human body triggered that same rotting corpse feeling the scalp hair did, but to a much lesser extent: they were smaller and he could actually see with his eyes that the hairs were growing from the skin rather than spilling out of some dark wet wound. Head first; then he'd annihilate the other three patches if he had enough cream left.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full agonizing blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed tears of bliss from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain. 

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand. 

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

(if you enjoyed—and/or were horrified—let me know what y'all think!!)

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Thinking about a ROTTMNT Human AU I was gonna make, and randomly remembered a huge plot...

(I'm in an infodumping mood again)

So basically this human AU follows Yoshi Hamato, aka Lou Jitsu as he adopts four little boys from "Draxum's Home for Lost Lambs". (Raph was the unplanned child of a struggling single mother, who was forced to give him up for adoption. Leo and Donnie were the only biologically-related kids out of the four. Their parents died in a car crash. Mikey was a dumpster baby, found in the alleys by Draxum.) <This is important to the plot! There's a lot more to the story, but it's all subject to change and still in the rough draft state.

Leo, having found a flier for some cool event in the woods (like a musical festival or something) wants to go by himself, but is instructed by Yoshi to take Mikey with him. Leo has an argument with his Dad over it, but Yoshi remains adamant that he take his little brother. Leo grumbles the entire time he and Mikey ride up, and even has an argument with Mikey during the drive where he says something along the lines of "I wish I wasn't your older brother". Before Leo can take it back or Mikey can refute, the two get into an accident after a truck runs Leo's moped off the side of the road and onto a cliff ledge.

Leo wakes up in his bedroom, the day having restarted. He finds that no one remembers Mikey, no one knows who he is! Leo does some investigation and discovers that there is no evidence that Mikey ever even existed. In desperation, Leo visits Draxum's orphanage to ask if Mikey was ever found or adopted, and Drax says no, he has no record of Mikey. Leo realizes that it is possible Mikey was never rescued as a baby and may have died. Draxum suggests that Leo go to the last spot he saw "Mikey" at. Leo does, and has a vision of what happened (from the audience's POV, Mikey just simply yelled at Leo to "look out" before the screen cut to black), and Leo sees that a speeding delivery truck ran them off the road and clipped the back of Leo's moped, causing them to skid and spiral, knocking them into the barrier and sending Mikey flying off the side of the cliff while Leo was thrown several feet forward. Leo realizes that he's dreaming and goes to the vision of his real self and begs him to wake up because Mikey needs him...

Leo wakes up, calls 911, and manages to climb down the side of the cliff to rescue Mikey.

A helicopter arrives shortly afterwards and rescues the two of them, though Mikey is in a coma. At the hospital, Leo explains the situation to everyone, even the argument. Raph and Donnie comfort Leo after he admits what he said to Mikey before the wreck. Micheal stays unconscious for three days before waking up, and Leo is the first to see him. The two talk it over and Mikey slowly recounts his memories leading up to the crash, even remembering the argument, though he tries to gaslight Leo into thinking he doesn't. Leo apologizes profusely and comforts Mikey, saying that he "got a glimpse of what a world without his little brother was like" and that he never wants to see that again. Mikey also tells Leo he saw the truck that hit them, specifically the logo on the side of the van... it was a delivery truck for the Foot Shack...

There's more after this, but for now that's all I'm sharing!!

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfic - Faster

Words: 839

@wolfstarmicrofic

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

Remus would forever be grateful to Sirius for spotting the moon, dragging him back into the shrieking shack, kissing his temple and locking the door before he could transform. Even with the wolfsbane, he wouldn’t wish it on Harry and his friends to witness the transformation.

Even with Remus' mind, the wolf was restless. He could smell Sirius and Peter. Peter. He knew Hermione had hit him with incarcerous, but worried all night about whether they’d finally got him.

After he turned back, groggy and exhausted, but uninjured, the door swung open. He swallowed the disappointment at not Sirius standing there, but Dumbledore.

“Good Morning!” He said jovially as if the events of last night were a regular occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

Remus frowned, “Albus, tell me—”

“I’ll get to that, Remus. How are you feeling? Was the potion adequate?”

“Yes, thank you.” He muttered, “I didn’t sleep much, but I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it!” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger are all safe and unharmed, other than Mr Weasley’s leg which is already on the mend. Severus is… his usual self.” Remus snorted, “He has made a point to inform the ministry of your condition, which will no doubt filter down to parents and students in due course. I want to make myself absolutely clear, Remus, that you belong here. No complaints from parents or questions from the wizengamot will change that. I hope that you will stay.”

Remus stared at the wall, everyone would know. Surely parents would withdraw their children, and send them to Beauxbatons where they weren’t being taught by a monster. Of course, he couldn’t stay.

Dumbledore interrupted his train of thought, “The students respond to you and they enjoy your lessons. You would be doing yourself and them a disservice if you let this change things. Just, think about it.” He nodded, “Onto more serious matters.”

“Is he…”

“Aurors came to collect Mr Pettigrew in the early hours of the morning. He is awaiting trial now.”

“So he gets a trial? Not just thrown in Azkaban, no questions asked?” Remus snarled. “He spent twelve years in there, Albus.”

“I’m well aware,” Dumbledore Held up a hand, “He will be given a full pardon. He’s in the hospital wing currently being fussed over by Poppy.”

“He’s not… they didn’t take him back?” Remus blinked at him.

“No, Remus. He’s a free man.”

Remus didn’t care if he was being rude. All he could think of was Sirius, and he ran from the shack, through the tunnel and out of the Whomping Willow, not caring if anyone saw him exit. He ran faster than he ever had and when he came skidding to a halt in the hospital wing, a small sea of curious faces greeted him.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were gathered around Sirius’ bed while Madam Pomfrey hovered. Sirius sat cross-legged on top of the sheets, chatting animatedly to Harry, wearing clean robes, with his hair tied back and, wow, he didn’t know that Poppy could work miracles, but apparently she could.

Sirius instantly leapt from the bed to the protests of Harry and Hermione and threw his arms around Remus.

“You’re alright.” Remus whispered, “I’ve got you.”

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

“I am pleased to introduce you to our new Astronomy professor, Professor Sirius Black.” Dumbledore smiled over at him.

Sirius got to his feet and bowed slightly, smiling at the cheers coming from the Gryffindor table. As he sat back down, Remus’ hand returned to his thigh and he linked their little fingers together.

Remus, after much debate with Sirius and Harry, had agreed to stay on at Hogwarts. When Dumbledore offered Sirius the Astronomy position he’d pinched himself several times because being back at Hogwarts with Sirius seemed too good to be true. Dumbledore had written to them a week after term had ended to ask if they’d like separate quarters, or to share, and that had shattered the levy that had been holding back everything they hadn’t said since they were teenagers. Choked ‘I love you’s, angry ‘I missed you’s and serene promises. Forevers.

Travelling on the Hogwarts Express with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville was delightful. Much better than it had been for Remus the previous year, not a dementor in sight. Sirius slung his arm across the back of the seats and Remus leaned into his shoulder. He noticed Hermione shoot Ron an ‘I told you so’ look, but that was all. They’d told Harry over the summer when he’d finally come to live with them at Grimmauld Place and he was thrilled for them, Lily and James’ son through and through. They’d absolutely gutted the house, slashing the portrait of Walburga until the ribbons of canvas were finally silent. All the silver adornments changed to gold, and heavy, dusty curtains were thrown away to let the light in.

It would only be their home for a few months a year for the foreseeable future, but it was their home. Better late than never.

[dirtytransmasc]

TW: VERY DARK AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT (kind of)

Prompt :

He was six

Norm found him with his wrist slit

“Why’d you do this kiddo?”

“I wanted to get rid of the demon blood”

Jakes reaction

Neytiri stitched him up with an unreadable expression

IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMY

I UNDERSTAND, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS IF ITS TO DARK!!!😭

oh my fucking god... it hurts so bad, but its so good. I love dark angst, there aren't many places I won't go, so have no worries anon.

head the trigger warnings above, I don't get super graphic, but I don't skid over any details either. disclaimer, mama!neytiri brain worms are liquefying my brain, so this is a little (a lot) neytiri-centric, cause I can't help it, its the worms I swear.

also, there are like 0 resources on na'vi medicine, so I'm just fucking winging it man, I'm gonna pull some shit out of my literal ass and we're all gonna have to just be ok with that. ~~~

norm wishes he could say he was shocked, surprised that this little boy wanted to hurt himself, let alone went through with it. he should have been gutted, more than he was at least, angry, put off, something. but not that its happened, he saw it from a mile away, he should have noticed, should have stopped it. all he felt was guilt, burning up his heart and knotting up his stomach as he put pressure on spiders tiny wrists, holding his lulling body in his arms. spider was just a kid, a baby, but he's muttering about 'getting rid of demon blood' and 'not belonging' and it being 'better off' if he was gone. it was somehow worse in his childish wording, his perfect innocence and naivety only just beginning to crack as the pain in his little chest began to swell.

it had been the odd quietness from spider's 'room' back in the cave marui's that alerted him to something being wrong. spider was quiet, in a way; when he was out playing with the kids he was loud, laughing, face filled with light and joy, even if something cold still glinted in his eyes. but when he was on his own, having been left behind or told off by some adult, human or na'vi alike, for getting in the way, he would sulk off to the little marui by the shack. but even if he would sit amongst himself, playing with the few figures someone had put time aside to make, attempting to weave a new piece of jewelry or basket, mending the sad little knife he wore on his side. he was always doing something, could be heard humming or sniffling, the sound of his knife on the wetstone or the clunking of wooden figures on each other were a constant. so when norm heard nothing but silence, his gut ticked up, the hair on his neck bristled, his legs carried him much farther they would on the average day until he was staring at spider and his little bloody arms and his little bloody knife and his sad little eyes.

it took only a split second for norm to come back to himself, to rush and pick the boy up before he had enough 'sense' to try and back away (spider never wanted trouble, never wanted to get in the way or be a burden, the fact he didn't try and hide worried norm more then it would of if he did, which was even more concerning in its own right).

he just held spider as tight as he could, his big blue hands easily covering his human wrists, trying to think of what he should do. he should say something, other then "its ok" but what does he say? what do you say to a six-year-old who just tried to kill himself, no, no, "get rid of the demon blood" coursing through his veins?

he wasn't going to lecture him, spider made it clear why he did it, comfort wasn't his strong suit. he could just look at his puffy little cheeks, one side of his mask blooded as he had attempted to wipe his cheek on instinct. so he just repeated a mantra of "I'm here" and "it's ok" and "your ok" until he reached the infirmary, trying to prtend he didn't feel spider slipping further and further away with each passing second.

in the flash of just a few seconds fueled by adrenaline alone, he knew he regretted everything. he was spider's caretaker sure, but he was no father, jake wasn't either, and the boy didn't have a single maternal figure to his name. no mother to kiss his brow at night or admire his accomplishments. he had no one, not truly, and norm allowed to happen, was not only complicit in it, but played a direct role in it. now he may not get to make that up, may not be given the chance to step up, to fix this.

he carried spider to the infirmary hut, knowing he would find someone, anyone, there who could help. part of him knew that mo'at had seen something in the child that brought some sort of pity from her, that maybe just this once, spider wouldn't be so alone in her presence.

when he entered the pod, he found mo'at showing neytiri something, explaining different herbs to her, though he didn't pay enough attention to it the lesson to pull out any identifying features of the herbs in question. both turned to look at him when they heard his rapid breathing, their gaze then shifting to the bloody boy in his arms, the ever-so-faint fogging of the glass that made up most of his exopack, and the ghostly parlor of spider's skin.

"put him down," mo'at commanded, before norm could even speak, clearing her pallet in an instant, "what happened to him?" her voice was firm, almost knowing.

"he...cut himself...intentionally...I don't know how long ago, but I found him in his pod alone and brought him right here."

"intentionally?" neytiri hissed, removing the boy from his arms when he couldn't get himself to comply with the order and holding him so she could listen to the weakening beat of his heart. she tied turniquotes around his upper forearm with the strands of clothing handed to her by her mother, absent-mindedly rocking the little thing where he rested held between her free-er arm and her chest, when the last bits of his consciousness were directed to fussing, no doubt from the pain. she couldn't bring herself to bind them too tight, just enough to control the bleeding, her hands and a bit of cloth could handle the rest.

(mo'at almost lectured her, but she saw that look in her daughter's eyes and knew it would be pointless, a mama bear gets what she wants)

norm had never seen the protective fire in her eyes, normally directed at her children, burn so bright for spider in the last few years she had known him. it scared him, it felt so unnatural that the very gaze he had learned to trust in most cases, froze him like a deer in headlights.

but that question, the tone of it, made his gut sink. how did he explain this, spider was just a baby, and he had slit his own wrists. that on its own was gut-wrenching, but the reason? Eywa have mercy.

"he said... he said he wanted to get rid of his demon blood, so he... he used his own knife and cut his wrists... its a common form of self harm back on earth, to cut yourself, but I don't even know how he would know to do that, why he would do it... I know why, but..." norm felt defeated. he should have seen something.

the look on neytiri's face made him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run off. she placed spider down as gently as one could, face scrunched up with pain and anger as she keeps pressure on both of spider's wrists.

"get jake, he is with the young hunters." she spoke quietly, her voice almost bitter. she didn't know if she blamed him, if she was angry with him, she barely understand how to feel about spider harming himself. all she knew is that he had just given her some of the most heartwrenching news she had heard in her life, so he was getting some of her mirth. norm nodded, racing off with his tail tucked between his legs, only hesitating to take another worried glance at the boy.

neytiri took a deep breath before turning to her mother. "he will need stitches, right?" she had never dealt with an injury quite like this before, the conscious effort in the wound made it clean and to the point, unlike a wound in battle. it strived to do quick, efficient damage, and now, either because she could barely let herself think straight, or because she genuinly didn't know, she couldn't think of the best way to treat it.

"yes, my daughter, but that is the least of his worries. he cut a large vein, those are very difficult to mend, stopping the bleeding will be difficult. he's already lost quite a bit of blood, so we need to be careful. the best thing would be to put a root paste to help clot the bleeding, wrap it up, and stitch it later." mo'at turned to her morter and pestle as she spoke, mixing different herbs, berries, and roots into a dark brown, almost purple, paste.

neytiri, nodded absently, while she picked through the basket at her side for bundles of lumped fibre and soft cloth to hold against his arms. luckily for him, while he did manage to do some damage and with the help of the tourniquets, one wrist had already stopped bleeding a fair bit, and the other was manageable.

in the silence of the hut, her mother working quietly behind her, turning every once and a while to check his breathing or giving her a tincture to clean his wounds with, neytiri was left to think.

demon blood.

he had done this because of the words she and so many spat at the sight of him. he had tried to rid himself of his sins, the sins of his father, the sins of his people; but were they really his to begin with? what had he done, in his six years of life, to have earned the hate he received? was the blood he carried in his veins enough to justify pushing a child to this?

no, she decided, no it was not.

seeing him so pale and lifeless in norms arms woke something in her, something deep in her gut, maternal rage coursing through her with something vicious, and even if she didn't deserve it after all she had done to him, pushed him to do, her heart was attempting to claim his as her own, and she didn't know what to do with that feeling. then she realized, that the maternal drive that prowled in her stomach like a thanator ready to pounce, not only saw the world as a threat, but saw her as a threat.

her mother handed her the salve and she was grateful for anything to do to take her mind off of the few revelations she managed to have while waiting.

"put more of the salve where the bleeding is stronger, then wrap it tight, be careful to not make it so tight it takes off his hand." the older woman guided, watching over her daughters work.

neytiri scooped it out bit by bit, slowing rubbing it onto the wounds while her mother blotted away the blood, her ears dipping whenever the boy his with pain or tried to pull away. she just wanted to make him better, to take him up into her arms and tell him it was alright like she would if he was one of her own children. but she knew she couldn't, he would wake up and see the monster who filled his little mind with such awful thoughts of himself, that he would be just as scared of her as he always was, and that she could bring him no comfort. so he was extra gentle as she finished off the paste, and held him like delicately as she wrapped the bandage around his wrists, gushing him gently each time he cried out, combing back his hair when she felt she was finished.

then jake came barreling in, breaking up the delicate silence that for a single second allowed her to believe it was just a normal day, that the new found fantasy of just being able to mother this child was true, that allowed spider to lay in peaceful sleep with her shawl over him. norm was trying to hush him, before he woke the baby, but there was no stopping jake, not when his face was full of pain and anger, looking as if he would plow down a titanothere just to get to spider.

neytiri knew jake had taken to spider more than he had let on, but the beast in her belly screamed that he hadn't done enough either, that he didn't earn the right to worry either. but she hushed it, knowing neither had the right to claim anything, not even over each other.

"ma'jake, quiet, or you will wake him and... he will be in pain. so let him sleep while he can," she attempted to soothe quietly, resisting every urge to just scoop him up when jakes loud entry did in fact stir him.

jake sat across from her, his hand resting on spider's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest. "did he really?" he asked, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn't true. she knew he would much rather hear of a freak accident over this, but she couldn't give him that mercy.

"yes, it would seem so." her voice was short, worn, despite barely saying a word this whole time.

jake crumpled a little, much more on the inside then he attempted to let show on the outside. neytiri was used to it, jake dealing with it all on the inside, bottling it up till he burst. she placed her hands over his, both of them being reassured by spider's breathing.

"but he is still here, we can and will help him. we will make sure he never feels this way again. I will right my wrongs, I will treat him as he has always deserved, and I hope one day he can forgive me. you will do the same. for now we just have to wait." she spoke gently, still worried about waking spider. she was partly talking to herself, making the promise she had worked her mind to final, she swore it on eywa. she saw jakes eyes finally close, knocking the tears he had been fighting to keep in down his cheeks.

he nodded, slumping into a lazy, defeated-looking, criss-cross position, talking spider's little hand in his, using the wet cloth from mo'at to clean the blood from his finger, the calloused palms of his hands, his muscle-toughened arms.

jake was no stranger to this, to harming yourself, even if he had never taken a blade to his wrists. trying to imagine that pain in such a little body terrified him. how was he supposed to wrap his head around little spider, the stray cat amongst the village, always smiling and laughing, always trying to help everyone, always up in trees or tussling with his kids, his blonde hair like streaks of the sun running about the village, battling such demons. he tried to imagine what he must have been feeling when he took his knife to his wrist. was he scared? relieved? confused? was he desperate and looking for a way out?

no, no norm said that spider wanted to get rid of his "demon blood" which as somehow more nauseating. it was their faults, him, norm, neytiri, The People. they hurt this child or they let it happen. they expected him to take every glare, every spit of acid, everything he was forced to endure, and to still remain a happy child. jake never once stopped to think what effect that may have on him, and now he was paying for it.

he ached, spider was small, he could fit in jakes hands even at 6 years old. he was drowning in neytiri's shawl even if on her, it would barely cover her upper arms, he had just started fitting his exopack a little less than a year ago. he was still just a baby, and they almost let his life end. had norm not found him, he would be dead, still and cold in his makeshift marui, in a pool of his own blood. the image that accompanied the thought that flashed in his made him feel sick. even with all that he denied feeling about the boy, no matter how hard he tried to push him away, no matter what he let him go through, the thought of spider dying, especially like that, alone and scared and in pain, terrified him. to have a child die for any preventable reason, was a disgrace on The People, especially their chief of all people.

chief.

he should have been the example. he should have led his people to find love for a defenseless child who wanted only to be loved and accepted. he had failed.

he let a finger caress the side of spiders face, along the edge of spider's mask, lightly pulling at the curly baby hairs that rested there,

"will he be alright?" he didn't know who he was asking, norm or mo'at. both would have very different opinions, norm more literal, mo'at more spiritual. he didn't know which he wanted.

"physically, yes. he is lucky, his blade was simple, his hand faltered, and he didn't seem to have a death wish. he didn't do too much damage, its manageable. emotionally jakesuli? time will tell." mo'at was the one to speak, the look on norms face spoke the his fear of setting neytiri off like he almost had earlier.

neytiri looked to her mother with a pain expression, her tail beating nervously where is laid near spiders head, ears still folded back.

"his mind is plauged with pain and desperation, things no child should even be aware of. he was driven to harm himself, in ways that will be permanent. it will be our actions going forward that determine his future. I fear if we do not undo the damage now, we will lose him in the years to come... what I fear more and that the damage has been done and cannot be undone. we can only hope for the former/"

neytiri damn near let out a cry, turning from her mother, eyes clenched as tears welled up in them. she found jakes arms, both leaning over spider like a makeshift shelter. just like they should have his whole life, they should have shielded him from the world, protected him from the hate of others. spider stirred once more, and this time jake couldn't resist the urge to scoop him up.

spider looked up at both of them, his little eyes tired and glossy, something small and painful in his gaze. he began to wiggle out of jakes hold, balling up nervously, but when neytiri grazed fingers through his hair, he stopped. this was the one thing he had ever wanted, deep down. not to be accepted, not to be one with the people, not even to be na'vi. he just wanted to be held, loved, by a mother, any mother. with his judgment too clouded by all his emotions, the desperation, the pain, even the blood loss, and maybe and even simpler reason being just being a child; spider let her hold him. he couldn't think about her years of neglect, the harsh words, and harsher glares, not in that moment, that could come later. right now, he needed a mother, and neytiri was willing, so he sunk into her hold, welcoming the embrace of either parent.

the road to spider's recovery would be long and hard. jake and neytiri had a lot to make up for, to apologize for, holding onto their guilt for years as they waited for spider to reach an age were their apologies would actually mean something to him. he would have to be watched constantly, habits would be broken, tears would be cried. things would never be 100%, there would always scars and phantom pain, but that was ok.

~~~

a note for my regulars; I'm back, maybe sorta kinda. I've hit a rough patch with my adhd, I can't do thoughts, or social interaction really, but I'm starting to bounce back, so more regular posting may return shortly.

[fountainpenguin]

Martyn's playing so well, I'm so happy for him. He comes skidding in during Session 1 and whips up a tiny copycat base of Lizzie's tiny, stunted base... Then he immediately draws the secret task "Convince someone to burn down your base without getting called out" and expertly charms Jimmy into thinking that old dumb shack is Scar's and they're gonna make a statement by burning it... gets his task done within the first 20 minutes...

... then goes tumbling down an emotional hill, straight-up loses 27.5 hearts, and dies the first death of the season in Episode 2. skldjf Love that for him.

[sonicboomseason3]

🪿💥🥞 , Sonic and Tails?

ask game: send me AT LEAST 3 emojis (the more random the better) and AT LEAST 2 characters from sonic boom and i’ll come up with a little drabble in response!

"Sonic!"

Lying on one of the lounge chairs in front of his shack, Sonic looks up from his pancakes at the sound of Tails' voice and promptly spots him running towards him. "'Sup?" he asks as the fox skids to a stop in front of him.

"Behold, the Explodinator 5000!" Tails announces, brandishing his newest creation in his hand. It appears to be some kind of mechanical headband, complete with an antenna protruding from the top. "By putting this on, the wearer can make any desired target explode."

"Huh." Sonic looks back down at his pancakes. "Explode, like BOOM?" He tries to stab his downright stale pancakes with his plastic fork and lets out a frustrated sigh when he only succeeds in bending the tines.

"Explode, like BOOM! Do you have any idea how much this will help us in our battles with Eggman? I can just point this at his robots and reduce them to smithereens!" Tails finally takes his eyes off of the Explodinator 5000 to look at Sonic. "It isn't limited to just his robots either—Sonic, what is that."

"Pancakes," Sonic replies blandly, gesturing towards his plate in much the same way as Tails was doing moments ago with his invention. "Meh Pancakes, actually. Meh Burger's experimenting with the idea of a breakfast menu, and—"

"I'm talking about the giant bird."

"Oh." Sonic glances over at his other lounge chair, which is currently occupied by a giant white goose. "His name's Bruce. Bruce, meet Tails. Tails, meet Bruce."

"Hi," Tails greets stiffly.

Bruce honks.

Sonic begins to explain, "Bruce wandered into my shack this morning and climbed on top of me and woke me up with his goose noises—by the way, not the best way to start the day, don't really recommend it—and I couldn't chase him out, so..." He makes eye contact with Bruce and reaches over to scratch his head like one would do to a dog. "He's my pet now, I guess. Or at least he is until he decides to leave, whenever that'll be."

"And you're sure this isn't gonna just be another Buster incident?"

"Buster was a robot that shot slime. Bruce is a real goose. Trust me, I checked already."

"I don't think I wanna know how you did that, but that's good at least." Tails can't help but wince a little when Bruce honks again. "Just... make sure you know how to take care of him."

"Pretty sure he's wild, so he should know how to take care of himself—Hands off." When Bruce suddenly leans forward and tries to take a bite of Meh Pancakes, Sonic pushes him away a little more roughly than necessary. "They're mine. And believe me when I say you're really better off never having these."

Bruce's responding honk sounds downright enraged at being refused subpar breakfast food, but Tails is ready to dismiss it as simply his imagination... until Bruce suddenly lunges for him. He yelps and instinctively holds his hands out in front of him to protect himself, but instead of attacking him, Bruce snatches the Explodinator 5000 out of his grasp with his beak. Before either hero can digest what is unfolding, the goose tosses the headband into the air, and it lands squarely on his head.

"What the—" Still holding his pancakes, Sonic rolls out of his lounge chair in the nick of time. He barely registers the tiny explosion that goes off right above him, only fully realizing what's happening when he feels the charred bits of the back of his lounge chair rain down on him.

"Sonic, he's trying to explode you with his mind!" Tails says, horrified. "I really think you should give him the—"

Sonic leaps to his feet, still keeping a tight clutch on those accursed pancakes. "Bruce the Goose, you put that dangerous thing down right now!" Honestly, he sounds more like he's trying to get a small dog to spit something out and less like he's defending himself from a wild bird out for his blood. "I said put it down!"

Bruce honks, and Sonic dodges three more explosion attempts within the next five seconds.

"Pets," he grumbles at Tails. "Word of advice: If you ever think about getting a pet yourself, get a gerbil or something."

And then he dashes off. With the pancakes.

Bruce honks the loudest honk he's honked so far and takes to the skies to give chase, leaving Tails by his lonesome.

Tails stands silently for a moment before sighing wearily and pulling his notepad and pencil out. Flipping to the appropriate page, he quickly skims the notes he already has written. "'Explodinator 5000 - Status: Complete. Testing: Successful. Field Results:—'" He jots down the most recent update. "'—Stolen by a goose determined to cause a Sonic BOOM.' Huh. Wonder when I'll learn my lesson to not invent things that'll endanger my friends."

He ponders that thought for a moment before shrugging.

"Oh well, back to the workshop. Been meaning to work on that one invention that throws knives at everything within three feet of it anyway."

[solarmorrigan]

Consider the following:

Steve, after breaking up with driving away from Tommy and Carol, isn't thinking terribly clearly. He has a head injury of some kind, probably, he's had a fight with his (ex?)girlfriend, with Jonathan Byers, and with his (ex) best friends, and his whole view of himself and who he wants to be has been called into question

So, like, he probably shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car

But he is, and he takes a turn too fast, bumps over the curb, and digs a tread mark right into the corner of someone's yard. And even if the mark wasn't obvious (though it is, of course; it's a big, ugly furrow of torn grass and mud), Steve wouldn't be able to pretend it hadn't happened, because the person who presumably owns the house is right there, standing by his mailbox

Enter Bob

Bob, who has just gotten home from work and is getting his mail when someone comes skidding around the corner and digs a track through his yard. And Bob isn't quick to anger, so he's really more surprised than upset, and before he can even make it to being upset, Steve parks and gets out of the car and most thoughts go flying from Bob's head except, "What the heck?"

Because this kid is obviously fresh from some kind of beating, dried blood still clotting on his face, shirt dirty, shoulders hunched, and he sort of looks like he's about to cry. But he apologizes to Bob and says that he's not sure how to fix it but that his dad might be able to pay for it, like some kind of landscaping service, maybe, and-

Bob interrupts. He tells Steve it's fine, the lawn will survive, and asks if he'd like to come in and sit down for a minute. Maybe have a glass of water? (Because the kid is almost shaking, and Bob thinks he should probably sit down before he falls down - or worse, before he gets back behind the wheel)

And Steve is so baffled by the reaction that he isn't sure what else to do but nod. So Bob leads him inside and sits him at the kitchen table and gets them both a drink and sits down with him and then - he asks what's wrong

Steve isn't even sure where to start. He tells Bob that he's been kind of an asshole. Actually, probably a huge asshole. And he doesn't want to be like that, he doesn't think, but he doesn't really know where to start... not being that way

Bob tells Steve that he doesn't seem all that bad to him. After all - he'd made a mistake just earlier and had owned up to it and apologized to Bob. Offered to fix it. Sometimes that's the best thing you can do in the world: apologize for your mistake, and offer to help fix it

And - well, maybe Bob is onto something, actually. Steve doesn't know if an apology will fix what he's said or done today, but it's not like he has any other ideas (it's not like he isn't genuinely sorry)

They sit for a little while longer. Bob chatters at Steve about his job at Radio Shack, just letting him calm down for a bit, giving him a safe and quiet space to regroup, until he seems ready to go

Steve apologizes again about the yard, and Bob tells him that if he really wants to, he can come back this weekend and help fix it. Bob doesn't think he knows much more about landscaping than Steve does, but he's sure that between the two of them, they can figure something out

Steve promises that he'll come back

(And he does. In spite of everything, in spite of monsters being real and little kids being stolen away into fucked up alternate dimensions or whatever the hell had happened, Steve comes back. He and Bob do their best to set the yard to rights, and get into some other yard work, too, and that night is the first night since hitting a flower-faced beast in the head with a baseball bat that Steve actually gets any sleep at all)

-

Part 2 Stop with part 1 if you want this to end in fluff. Part 2 is hurt/no comfort

Tagging @momotonescreaming, @paperbackribs, and @zerokrox-blog because you asked about this one for that wip-ask game and I meant to post this much sooner, sorry!

[inkykeiji]

can you do #16 pasttime with sd!nat shouto please? 💙

prompt: past time series: sugar daddy natsuo warnings: use of the word daddy, touya being touya briefly mentioned, ASPD mention words: 1k

The sun is just beginning its descent below the horizon by the time you arrive, smearing the sky with strokes of pink and orange. The dense scent of burnt rubber infuses the air, and your nose wrinkles cutely as you exit Shouto’s Aston Martin. He laughs, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he leads you toward the entrance, gravel popping beneath the rubber of your sneakers.

Jaku Go-Karts. 

It’s a dingy little place now, rundown and ruined by the passage of time, but Shouto loves it all the same. 

The concrete is cracked, stained with crisscrossing skid marks from rubber burnt. The thick tractor tires that line the racetrack are worn and fraying; scars they bear from constant abuse. That shitty little snack-shack, pitched off to the side of the speedway as though thrown in as an afterthought, is still the same; all white chipping paint and stale funnel cakes, with the old arcade having shrunk to a mere three units, all unheard of, screens washed out and flickering. 

Even after twenty odd years, the track hasn’t changed a bit, and Shouto knows every twist, every curve, every fork, the route seared into the tissues of his brain with such accuracy that he’s sure he could drive the whole course with his eyes blindfolded. 

“This was one of our favourite past times, when we were kids,” he tells you as he rests his wrists on the chainlink fence, notes of melancholy in his tone.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was one of the few things we all loved doing, together.”

“Even Touya?”

“Even Touya,” Shouto nods, pausing for a moment as a memory flashes through his mind, then exhaling a snort through a sardonic little smirk. “Granted, I’m sure Touya enjoyed this mostly because he got to repeatedly run me off the track.”

“Why am I not surprised,” you respond dryly. 

The image of three Todoroki boys materializes in your head; Touya already the smallest, his younger brothers towering over him, but still the ringleader nevertheless, marching onto the track with their souped up go-karts—Touya’s plastered with crude stickers, peeling and veiny; Natsuo’s all clean lines and glistening paint; Shouto’s full of dents and dings, paint scraped in sharp strokes, revealing the silver metal beneath. 

It must’ve been nice, even if only for a moment; a short instance where they all got along, despite a few bumps and patches, co-existing in some semblance of semi-peaceful, enjoying a singular activity, together. 

“It was a rare, acceptable method to torture me.” 

And although Shouto’s voice is wry, there’s a small smile on his face, eyes glazed with nostalgia-tinged memories—hazy, soft, coated in sugar.  

“Once, my kart even caught on fire. Natsuo pulled me from it before any real damage was done,” his gaze shifts downward, blunt nails picking at his cuticles, huffing out a mangled imitation of a chuckle. “Touya was so angry he didn’t talk to him for days. Said he ruined a perfect instance of ‘poetic justice’. Said it was divine intervention, and he should’ve just let it play out.”

“That’s terrible,” you breathe.

“That’s Touya,” Shouto shrugs with a weary acceptance. 

“So he’s always been a sociopath, then.”

That gets Shouto to laugh, sweet smile dispelling most of the despondence from his face, gaze flicking to yours through the corner of his eye. “Technically, he couldn’t have been diagnosed with ASPD just yet. He was only about fifteen or so. But yeah, he’s always been messed up.” 

Questions itch on your tongue, and you fold it in on itself, pressing it to the roof of your mouth in an attempt to smother them. 

Why was it only him? Daddy and Shouto and Fuyumi have their issues, sure, but doesn’t everyone? Maybe their personality flaws are a bit more severe than the average person’s, but that can be brushed off and explained by the fact that they were raised by a billionaire, can’t it? They all grew up under the same roof, so why is Touya so much worse? 

Your tongue flattens, then curls over your teeth, sucking for a moment before slowly scraping against the edges. It’s none of your business, and it shouldn’t matter anyway. 

“Enough about Touya,” you demand with a wave of your hand. “We came here to race, didn’t we?” 

Laughing again, Shouto shakes his head, fondness settling in his eyes. “Yeah, sweetheart, we came to race.”

“I’m gonna leave you in the dust!”

“Bold statement to make to a seasoned pro,” he quips. 

In the end, you do leave Shouto in the dust, but only because he allows you to, slowing down around wide corners and crashing into sharp turns on purpose as you whiz past him. Nevertheless, it’s still fun, your cheeks sore from incessant smiling and your throat raw from grating laughs and screams, and he still treats you to ice cream, just like he promised he would if you beat him—Don’t tell your Daddy, okay? He’d flip if he knew you were having sweets before dinner—the tips of your fingers encrusted with glittering sugar from the sugar cones, mouths stained blue and pink from the artificial dyes. 

You’re practically falling asleep in his arms by the time he gets you back to Natsuo, who coos and quickly takes you from his little brother, his most precious possession being returned to him. 

And after you’ve been washed and brushed and put to bed, Natsuo sits down with Shouto, sweating crystal glasses filled with whiskey and ice in their palms, and asks him why he did it. 

“Why I did what? You asked me to take her out, give her a good time, and I did. As I always do.”

Natsuo fixes him with a look, features flat and unimpressed. “You know that’s not what I’m asking. Why did you bring her there, of all places?” 

Swirling amber in his hand, Shouto shrugs, staring at his glass and clinking ice against the sides. 

“I thought it’d be nice, you know, to make new memories there. We loved it so much when we were kids and I—I didn’t want to lose that. I won’t lose that.” He looks up, mismatched eyes shining in the dim light of Natsuo’s study. “It’s time we start reclaiming some things.” 

[angelo-chuck-wagon]

Our scene is set, 1869, the wild west, Angelo Chuck Wagon's hometown.

Angelo Chuck Wagon comes skidding into the timeline, @e-w-w-morningstar on his back and @angelo-rib-shack in his arms. His boots are smoking and sliding along the gravel so fast that the entire party hits the barn wall before they even have time to register what is happening. Angelo Rib Shack takes the brunt of the blow and is knocked out cold.

Angelo chuck Wagon sucks in a deep breath having gotten the wind knocked out of him.

[ckret2]

Guess who's finally satisfied with part 3 of "Human Bill Cipher (In A Purple Bedsheet Toga) Attempts To Get His Revenge On The Pines"! (Real title TBD.) Here's the masterpost for the whole fic. 7/30/2024 now edited for TBOB compatibility. When we last left off:

For all Bill's struggling, flailing, and wheezing, he couldn't do much from beneath an entire school bus's worth of Mabels and Dippers. Voice thin from crushed lungs, Bill demanded, "What—how—where did you come from?!"

The entire population of Mabels grinned. The one sitting atop the pile crowed, "I think you mean... when did we come from!" Her duplicates cheered.

"Two hours from now," a Dipper added. "Our bus gets here in two hours."

####

Two hours from then, Mabel, Dipper, and Waddles got off the bus from California and looked around the bus stop with wide smiles.

Mabel's smile faded when she couldn't spot anybody. "Huh, I thought Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford were meeting us. They got here this afternoon, right?"

"Maybe their flight was delayed?" Dipper suggested—then spotted another Mabel and Dipper running up. "Whoa, what—?"

At the top of his lungs, the new Dipper shouted, "AMBIDEXTROUS PLATYPUS FARTS!"

Mabel cracked up. "WHAT?"

Dipper gasped. "It's my password! After all the evil clones and shapeshifters and bodysnatchers we dealt with last summer, I came up with a secret password—"

New Dipper cut in, "—so if I ever came up to myself and claimed to be a time traveler, I'd know I'm telling the truth!" New Dipper and New Mabel skidded to a stop. "We have an emergency, guys. Bill is back—"

Mabel cut in, "Wait, Bill-Bill?"

"Bill-Bill!" New Mabel said. "And he's possessing a tourist and about to shoot Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford and Soos right now!" She paused. "I mean—right now, two hours ago."

New Dipper handed a time tape to his double. "You've got to go back to 5:18 p.m., take Bill down, and take his laser and this tape away from him! And then... do that again a bunch of times in a row, I guess."

New Mabel added, "I painted an X in the future so you'll know where to tackle him in the past!" She offered a can of red spray paint to her double. "Here, you'll need this."

Dipper dropped his duffel bag and shrugged off his bulging backpack. "We don't have any time to lose! We'll come back for our luggage later. Let's go, Mabel!"

She dropped her bags as well, and the four twins sprinted for the Mystery Shack with Waddles chasing as fast as he could.

Until Mabel skidded to a stop. "Hold on! We've got a time thingy, right? We don't need to hurry! We can just jump back to 5:18 from any time."

"Oh, yeah." "That's true." "Good thinking, me!"

The original twins retrieved their luggage, and the group headed toward the shack again at a leisurely stroll, with Waddles trotting happily between the two Mabels. The evening weather was lovely.

####

"What about you, Bill? What are you doing here?" Dipper demanded.

"Yeah," Mabel added, "I thought you were stuck in that dumb book we chucked into another universe! What happened to that whole thing?"

Bill let out as heavy a sigh as he could manage when pinned down by a ton of teenagers. "Well..."

####

This is where Bill's explanatory flashback would be, if he were cooperative.

He wasn't cooperative.

####

"You actually thought I was ever really gone? Boy, look at gullible over here!" Bill laughed.

The Dippers and Mabels exchanged a collective look, and without a word, shifted so more of the pile was weighing directly down on Bill.

He wheezed. "No sense of humor."

"I've got his time tape!" one Dipper shouted, holding it above the crowd.

"And I've got the laser," a Mabel called, waving it in the air. "Can I keep...?"

Ford gave her a stern look and held out his hand. She sighed and handed it over.

"Okay, Mabel Number One here!" another Mabel shouted, shaking her spray can. "Everybody move forward, I've got an X to mark!" The group obligingly shuffled forward, prompting more displeased grunts from Bill. Mabel considered his feet thoughtfully before spray painting an X where she estimated he'd been standing before.

"Not gonna lie, I thought we were goners," Soos said. "That was crazy! How did you two do that!"

Bill snapped, "By pulling the kind of time loop that ought to have Time Baby down here gumming you idiots to death. I throw one little party and he makes a personal trip to the 21st century just to invade my pad, but two brats pull off as clear-cut a paradox as you can imagine..."

The Dippers and Mabels worked through the logic of their own rescue as they realized they wouldn't have known to come if they hadn't told themselves. Dipper said, "Maybe this is actually the altered timeline, and in the original timeline you did kill them and we had to steal your time tape to change the past?"

Ford took a time tape from a Dipper who had two. "Although that does beg the question of why the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron isn't here to investigate all these time loops. Or how you got so many of yourselves here at the same time. Has this tape been tampered with...?"

Bill said, "Yeah, smart guy, everybody knows time tapes are designed to prevent overlapping time loops! So how are there so many kids here? The mystery must be killing you!" He laughed. "I could tell you, if you let me up."

Ford shot him a dark look. "You know I won't."

"I know." Bill sneered at Ford. "Just wanted to make sure you remember all the things I could tell you. Your loss."

Bill's eyes looked the same as they always had—maybe a little jaundiced, a little too human, but those were still Bill's eyes. Ford had never seen such wrath in his eyes before. 

He looked away. When he properly met the woman Bill was possessing, he wouldn't want to remember Bill glaring through her eyes.

####

While the adults found something to tie up Bill, the Dippers entertained themselves by journaling and the Mabels by decorating each other's faces with scented markers.

Without anything better to do, Bill twisted his head to watch the kids. "Hey. Can I get some art?"

The nearest Mabel looked at him, looked at the closest Dipper (who considered the odds that this was a trap, and shrugged warily), and looked back at Bill. Logically, he might be trying to get her hand close enough to his face for him to bite it and drink her blood or something—and ethically, the alien menace who'd threatened her family didn't deserve nice things—and pettily, she didn't want him to have nice things—but then, when she tilted her head just slightly, rather than seeing Bill Cipher, she saw a vast expanse of unblemished face skin just begging for artwork. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter if a murderous monster got to enjoy the benefits of scented markers, as long as Mabel got to enjoy the benefits of making art.

Anyway, who else's face was she gonna draw on? Dipper had already turned her down and her duplicates were running out of facial real estate. "I don't see why not! What do you want?"

"Draw me."

Mabel grimaced. "Ooh, that's gonna be a no. Grunkle Ford says drawings of you are magic?"

Bill sighed loudly. "Sheesh, you sound as paranoid as him. What are my options?"

"I specialize in tiger masks, butterfly masks, rainbows, unicorns, spiders, aaand flowers!"

"Fine, gimme a butterfly."

"Colors?"

"Dealer's choice."

"Oooh." Mabel considered his face, grabbed her banana, cherry, and raspberry markers, held them from the very butt so Bill couldn't reach her fingers, and got to work. But Bill didn't try to bite her. He just stared off into space stoically.

He did start biting when the adults returned to secure him. As they tried to restrain his limbs, he kicked, clawed, struggled, flailed, and snapped his teeth—but without the advantage of the time tape and a gift shop of projectile souvenirs, he only wore himself out. By the time they determined him sufficiently immobilized—hands cuffed behind his back, up arms chained to his ribs, knees and ankles tied up—and the twin pile freed him, Bill was gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut. He didn't even attempt to sit up. Stan and Ford tried not to look too close at the trembling human form collapsed on the stony floor.

"And the final touch..." Soos took off the fuzzy pink belt he'd been wearing all day and wrapped it around Bill's waist. "Yes. Finally." He paused. "Hey, I was right, this belt does look good with that bedsheet. Compliments the pink in your butterfly, too!"

Bill opened one eye. Voice strained, he conceded, "Doesn't look bad."

"Is that unicorn hide? Excellent work." Ford clapped a hand on Soos's shoulder. "A few moonstones and mercury, and Bill will be trapped inside that body until we find a way to extract and contain him."

"He will? Hey, whaddaya know!" Soos beamed. "Fashionable and functional."

Ford tried to ignore Bill's gaze on the side of his head—attentive, calculating, scheming. "I'll... get the supplies and be right back."

The Dippers and Mabels consulted the tally marks on their palms, added one more each with Mabel's markers, arranged themselves in a semicircle behind the X marking Bill's spot, and all returned to the past except for two. The Dipper and Mabel with twenty-five tallies high-fived. "Yes!"

Dipper sighed, "Finally. I thought we were gonna repeat the same fifteen minutes forever."

Stan—currently guarding Bill with Ford's laser—glanced over at Dipper. "Hold on. If you kids have been doing some kind of crazy time loop, then that means you've been tackling this creep over and over for...?"

"Over six hours," Dipper groaned.

"We ate my last pocket bus snacks ten loops ago," Mabel said. She held up her hand. "On the bright side, I smell so delicious now?"

Dipper sniffed his own hand's tally marks. "Ew."

"Haaa! You wanted the black licorice marker, bro!"

Wiping his palm on his shorts, Dipper said, "And we got up at five to catch our bus. We've been up almost twenty-one hours. I'm completely drained."

"Pffft!"

Stan, Soos, and the twins turned to give Bill a wary look.

"'Oh no! I'm a delicate little human! I've gone half a day without a REM cycle and three hours without glucose! How can I function like this?'" His laugh was a wretched, hacking cough. "It's pathetic how weak you are."

"You're one to talk," Dipper snapped. "These weak humans took you down! Again!"

"Wow, amazing, if you pile five thousand pounds of dead weight on top of a body made of calcium sticks wrapped in raw meat, it can't get up. Congratulations on learning how gravity works!" Bill rolled onto his back, and—with a laborious effort akin to a kid in gym class attempting one sit-up too many—managed to heave himself up to a sitting position. "You got lucky—" he cast a dirty look at the X spray painted on the ground, "—but luck changes." His lower butterfly wings crinkled as a smile twisted up his face. "I escaped death itself. Do you really think a bunch of stupid sub-centenarian children like you can stop me from escaping a little rope and chains?"

Stan bristled. "What I think is you've got a butterfly-shaped bullseye in the middle of your face and I've got a laser with your name on it if you don't shut up!"

Mabel gasped quietly. "My butterfly."

Bill laughed at Stan's anger, mouth open, all teeth. It seemed like far too many teeth, coming from a creature that shouldn't have had a mouth. "Oh, that's precious! Sure, go ahead, Stanley, let's find out what'll happen—!" Bill froze as Stan shoved the laser between his eyes.

"Maybe I will!"

Dipper flinched, "Grunkle Stan, what if it's a trap—"

Bill headbutted the barrel hard enough to knock the laser out of Stan's hand; and even with his body restrained in four place, with an unexpected burst of grace he was back on his feet. Bill's voice plummeted to a demonic roar that hardly seemed to fit inside the short human body. "Do you want to see what I can do?! You wanna see what I'm still capable of?! FINE! I'll SHOW you what... wh-what..."

Bill's eyes rolled back and his face went slack.

He flopped face first to the ground.

The humans stared. Stan asked, "Is, uh. Is this what you're capable of?"

The back of Bill's head didn't answer.

Soos rolled him onto his back and tugged up one eyelid. "Guys, I think he fainted. Is that a good thing, or...?"

Mabel poked his arm. "This again? You'd think he'd have learned to grab an energy drink by now."

Dipper said, "Maybe he's still trying to drink them with his eyeballs." Mabel laughed.

Stan grunted. "I'm fine with whatever gets him to shut up a few minutes."

Dipper gasped. "Wait—if we let him escape this body, he could be anywhere! The belt! Grunkle Ford, the moonstones!"

He and Mabel ran to find him. 

####

Stan said, "I say we sit him up, shoot him in the back of the head, and bury the body right in here." Dipper and Mabel stared at him with wide eyes.

"Believe me, Stanley, I'd love to do that." (Dipper and Mabel turned their wide-eyed stare on Ford.) "But all that would accomplish is murdering some innocent woman who was probably unlucky enough to pick up his book, while Bill himself escapes. And that's assuming he hasn't already left her brain!" It had taken almost a minute after Bill fainted for Ford to coat the belt in mercury and duct tape on several moonstones. "Kill her and he'd just come back wearing another poor victim."

Stan considered that. "Could he escape her brain if we buried her alive?" (Dipper and Mabel turned again to stare at him.)

There were no good solutions. There was no point in being cruel enough to ask Fiddleford to make a new memory gun so they could retry the stunt they'd pulled during Weirdmageddon, since getting shattered into psychic dust had clearly only slowed Bill down; and setting the gun to erase "Bill Cipher" from the puppet's brain would just erase her memories of Bill rather than Bill himself. They could try going into the victim's mindscape after Bill, but all the tricks Ford knew to capture dreams or exorcise spirits only might work on an entity like Bill—or might let him hop into one of their heads. 

First, they needed to make sure Bill was still in this body; and if he was, they needed something foolproof to extract and destroy him.

And until then, they had to contain him.

####

Melody turned toward the opening vending machine door, relief on her face. "Oh, Soos! There you are! I was getting worried. I've been looking for you for twenty minutes, the gift shop looks like a tornado hit it..." She trailed off, taking in the sight of Soos and Stan carrying an unconscious, tied-up woman wrapped in a bedsheet with a butterfly on her face, and Ford training a laser gun on her. "Please tell me that's some kind of evil fairy queen and not an actual tourist."

"Worse, it's Bill Cipher!"

Stan flinched. "Soos—"

"Yeah, he took over this tourist in a cool toga, I think he's been staking out the Shack the last few months with time travel, and he tried to kill the Pineses—Dipper and Mabel had to stop him and..." Soos looked at Stan. "Oh, hold on, was I not supposed to share that?"

"Of course not!"

Ford said, "This is a very delicate situation, and the more people get involved, the less we can control it. We can't tell anyone—"

Abuelita stuck her head through the living room "Employees Only" door. "Mijo, here you are. Who is this? A... guest?"

"Oh, hey Abuelita. This is Bill Cipher—you know, the triangle guy? Yeah, we caught him trying to kill us, so we're gonna keep... him..." Soos trailed off under Stan's glare. "Oh, come on! You can't expect me not to tell Abuelita!"

Abuelita gave Bill's unconscious form a calm, considering look, said, "I will cook an extra serving for dinner," and let the door swing shut.

"Wait wait wait," Melody said. "Triangle guy Bill Cipher? Like, turned-us-all-into-statues Bill Cipher?" She'd been unfortunate enough to be on a weekend trip back to Gravity Falls for a date with Soos when Bill had invaded. He'd been in her nightmares ever since.

Soos shot Stan an apologetic look, then said, "Yeah, that one."

"So, have you called the police yet? Or—or the FBI, or...?"

"It's cool, we've got it all under control," Soos said. "We're gonna lock him in the cellar."

"You're what?"

"Yeah, I've got a mattress down there he can take. There's a TV, the pinball machine... Do you think Bill likes pinball?"

"He won't be here long," Stan reassured Melody. "I've got some out-of-state 'connections' from a previous 'business venture' who have 'resources.'" He'd hooked his arms through Bill's armpits to free his hands up to make finger quotes. "I'm calling in a 'favor.' They can hold him somewhere 'comfortable,' until..."

Firmly, Ford said, "Until we've come up with something more permanent."

Stan nodded. "Once we're sure we trapped him in this girl, he'll be outta here."

Soos said, "Oh, hey—do you think we might need to close the Shack tomorrow? I should go tell Wendy. Be right back." He handed Bill's feet to Ford and headed to the living room.

"Oh no you don't, hold on!" Stan dropped Bill's head on the floor and followed Soos.

Ford looked down at Bill in dismay, trying to figure out how best to pick him up without risking Bill trying to bite out his throat again if he woke up. From the stairwell, Mabel and Dipper peered around him to help consider the predicament; Mabel said, "Just drag him." Dipper nodded.

Melody screwed up her face, but sighed in resignation. "I've got it." She helped heave Bill back up. "But I want a really good explanation why we aren't letting the cops handle the dangerous superpowered criminal."

Ford said, "Melody, I know you haven't lived here long. But have you seen the police in this town?"

Melody sucked thoughtfully on her teeth. "Fair point. But what about the government? If there are actual aliens on the planet, surely there's some kind of Guys In Black or X-Folders squad to deal with them?" She paused at the gift shop exit.

 Mabel got the door open for her. "I think we brain damaged the last guys in black that came to town."

Dipper laughed. "Yeah, they could barely handle zombies. I don't think they'd have any idea how to handle Bill."

"Precisely," Ford said. "They don't know his abilities like we do. Once he's out of our hands, we wouldn't be able to ensure he's properly contained." Voice lowered, he added, "Besides—I'm afraid involving the government might play right into his hands. He's been pulling the strings on human politics for millennia, and there's no way to know who secretly answers to him—"

Melody made another face. "Yeeeah, no, nah, I don't believe in any of that... 'shadow government' conspiracy theory stuff."

"And in most contexts, your skepticism would be wise." Ford and Melody let Dipper and Mabel haul open the cellar doors, and then carefully descended the stairs. "But where Bill's involved—there are few facets of human history that haven't been drawn into his tangled web. He's a master manipulator, and our world has been his pet project for millions of years. For crying out loud, he even helped fake the moon landing—"

Flatly, Melody said, "The moon landing."

"Yes!"

"How do you know this."

Ford and Melody dropped Bill on the bare mattress, and Ford gestured impatiently at him. "He admitted it himself! When he was busy boasting about how he helped 'inspire' Kubrick's work."

Melody planted her hands on her hips. "So, you're telling me a 'master manipulator'... told you he faked the moon landing... and... you believe him?"

Ford stared at her.

####

"Hey Wendy," Soos said, fiddling with office phone's cord. "This is Soos. Your boss. Listen, I know you have a shift tomorrow, but uh, you might not need to come in, okay? I mean—maybe. It depends. Still figuring it out. I'll call you in the morning." He glanced at Stan, who sharply nodded.

Wendy said, "Oh? How come?"

While Stan furiously mouthed Soos do NOT tell her anything or I swear— Soos said, "Uhh, Shack might be closed tomorrow, that's all."

"Oh, is it for like family reunion stuff?"  Tone brightening, she said, "Hey, is it cool if I swing by anyway? I wanna come say hi to Dipper and Mabel."

Soos frantically waved a hand. "Nooo, you can't! For. Reasons."

Wendy was silent a moment. Soos bit his lip. Wendy said, "For... weird scary paranormal stuff reasons?"

Soos looked at Stan for guidance. Stan shrugged and made a so-so gesture. Soos said, "Yeah, pretty much."

Wendy laughed. "Oh man, seriously? Give the Pines heck for me for getting into something the first day of summer vacation. Text me every half hour so I know you're alive and I don't have to come over with an axe."

Soos sighed in relief. "Thanks, Wendy."

As Soos was hanging up, Ford barged into the office, Dipper and Mabel behind him. "Stanley, this is urgent. As soon as we've dealt with Bill, we need to visit the moon."

Stan processed that and grinned. "All right, I'm game!"

Ford's watch beeped, startling him. "What—oh! That's right, I set a reminder for us to go..." He paused, looking at Dipper and Mabel. "... Pick you two up from the bus stop."

Dipper gasped. "Right! Mabel, I almost forgot! We'll be here any minute! We've got to go tell ourselves to stop Bill! Where did the time tape go?"

"And the spray paint! I gave myself spray paint—"

"Kids—hold on a second." Stan nudged past Ford to kneel in front of Dipper and Mabel. "Listen. I know this isn't how you wanted your vacation to start—especially after we spent all year convincing your parents there won't be any more apocalypses this time—and, I'm sorry. But as soon as you get back from the bus, treat it like you just got here for the first time. We'll say hi, we'll have dinner, you two can make plans to visit your friends tomorrow—and we'll keep all this as far from you as possible."

Dipper started in first. "But, Grunkle Stan—"

"What if you need our help?"

"We've defeated Bill more times than anyone else—"

"And we just saved your lives again!"

"Whoa, easy!" Stan put his hands on their shoulders. "I know you can deal with him—but you shouldn't have to. You're kids, it's summer, you're here to have fun."

"Stan's right," Ford said. "We've already contained Bill—so try not to let him weigh on your mind."

Stan gave them an encouraging smile. "Let the old guys clean up this mess, okay?"

They didn't answer. Instead, they exchanged a glance, and then leaned in to fling their arms around Stan's neck. 

"Hey, hey! C'mon, kids, what's..." His voice caught on a lump in his throat. He wrapped his arms around Dipper and Mabel and squeezed them tight. After a moment, Ford joined in.

They didn't separate until Soos leaned in to crush their lungs.

####

As they ate dinner together around the large living room table, the Pines didn't talk about Bill. They talked about who they wanted to catch up with in town and what events they'd participate in this summer, and the kids' last semester of school, and the places Ford and Stan had traveled, and where in Gravity Falls the kids might be able to continue their judo lessons (by the sound of it, nowhere), and what Stan and Ford remembered about taking boxing as kids, and Dipper's indecision over what electives to take next year, and Mabel's enthusiasm over the parkour classes she'd started at a gym near home.

They didn't talk about why the kids had decided to pick up sports that could help them fight or escape. They didn't bring up all the times Dipper had called Ford after recurring nightmares of being pulled out of his body and left adrift. They didn't comment on Soos and Melody's absence from dinner as they took first watch over the cellar. They didn't ask questions when Stan left the living room table to take a call in the kitchen from his "connections." They didn't speculate on whether Bill might have escaped his puppet's body during the precious seconds between when he passed out and when they completed the barrier belt. They didn't talk about fear.

Down below in the cellar, the unconscious body didn't stir.

[ericvelseb666]

Is there any lore written about Rob/ Robby? Or just little things about him?

Your oc has instilled brain rot in my head, please help

Have a seat, it's story/lore time!

Robbie is actual a real demon who is just like Moloch but he doesn't bring harm or destruction, it unknown of how Robbie got there but he just suddenly appears out of nowhere in the town. He didn't had no place to go so he mostly stayed in the town as a lone stranger who didn't even bother to talk to anyone or anybody, he prefers to be left alone due to his grumpy, grouchy, stern and serious side.

While walking around town one night, Robbie first met Frank, Frank assumed that possibly Robbie was Skid and Pump's friend which Robbie never met before but he just went along with Frank hoping the conversation would just stop but Frank suggested that Robbie should get a treat at the "Starry Night Bakery" which is just across "Boys n Grills" so Robbie went along with Frank to the bakery to see what they have in store, upon going inside the bakery to be met with a beautiful celestial and galaxy decorations inside, Robbie was in awe as how the place looked then he was greeted by the shop owner herself, Nina Velseb. Robbie was quite surprised that someone was managing the bakery alone but Frank reassure him that Grant (and sometimes Frankie) were in the back helping her.

Robbie then became good friends with Nina and Frank since they were the first two people he had a conversation with, who knew that it would turn into friendship, right? Robbie works as a mechanic in the town since he mostly builds and repairs stuff while living in a shack in the junkyard, he doesn't mind really

Does Robbie know about the cult? He does but he doesn't want nothing to do with it unaware that Nina's husband and son are a part of it.

Well that's some of his backstory! I do have more about him but...🤫

[satellite-runner]

the girl and jet star headcanons?? spitting image? 👀👀

I AM SO HAPPY SOMEONE ASKED

I think young Jet Star and The Girl look virtually the EXACT SAME other then The Girls eye color

When Ghoul finds the Girl, she's just on that edge of being between a baby and a toddler that none of them quite know how to handle. Ghoul, of course, gets dogged on for bringing a whole child home despite them all knowing that had it been any of them out on that scouting run, that'd have scooped her up and bought her home too. Absently, they all come to the conclusion she looks a bit like Jet other then her shockingly white eyes, which Cherri seems to be wary of.

As she grows, it becomes abundantly clear that she's Jets spitting image. Rich skin and coily hair, even her flat nose and tooth gap match Jets. It's something they joke about, not bothered by it. Quietly, their all happy she has someone she can see herself in, even if nowadays one of Jets eyes is covered by a eyepatch because of a thick scar running over it and their hair has a few streaks of color through it.

When the Girl gets around the age Jet was when they met the venom siblings, the resemblance is uncanny.

When Jet was a teenager, the innate calmness they have now hadn't developed yet. They were a rough n tumble starborn, fighting the world alongside their small and scrappy best friend. They were less than happy when two banged up cityborns stumbled into Dr. D's radio shack. As far as Jet was concerned, Ghoul was the only bat outta hell worth telling the time to.

Kobra could tell you in detail just how his heart jumped when he first Jet. Jet was something lethal, something with a edge. Their looks were striking, to say the least. Kobra had never seen someone with hair like that, coiled tight and poofy. In the city, anybody with hair textured like that had neat braids or straightened their hair.

Kobra is hurt, sunburnt to all hell, half sure he's hallucinating the gorgeous stranger, kobra doesn't mention them until well after he's passed out and been treated for his severe dehydration and sun stroke. As it turns out, Jet had been the one to treat him, as much as they didn't want to.

Now Jet and the rest of the crew is older, the Girl is the same age Jet was (at least, they think the same age. Neither Jet or the Girl are 100% sure on their ages) when the fabulous four came to be and even the personality is matching. The Girl is rough n tumble, stubborn as all hell with a fire burning in her eyes.

If their being honest, sometimes the fab four or their extended crew will catch glimpses of Jet in the Girl. A mannerism, a phrase, a smile, a laugh, a stubborn refusal, a knack for anything medical. They don't mention it to her, not often, least they teach her that she isn't a individual of her own, just a mini me of Jet. They know better then to compare them, but they'd be lying if they said the resemblance didn't catch them off guard.

years after the crew rescued the Girl from battery city, years after they all met the Witch (for kobra, it wasn't the first time. A race at the crash track ended in him skidding down the track was the first time, but comme ci comme ca) and they all understand why Cherri had such a aversion to looking the Girl in the eye her whole life. Her white eyes, that they all were so sure meant she was born blind until she proved them wrong, bore a striking resemblance to the Witches eyes. They had all figured her white eyes were something unique when she was little, something that sets her apart from the rest of the zones. They hadn't ever thought that ever thought they'd be the spitting image of thr Witches eyes. Puzzle pieces start to click into place.

Now, sometimes it isn't Jet they catch a glimpse of in the Girl. Sometimes, when it's dark and the heat of the dessert has chilled into below freezing, they see the Girls eyes in the dark of the dinner and freeze, for a moment believing they had passed in their sleep and the Witch was going to take them quietly.

[emeraldart]

We need more swap AUs with Willow as the human so I made one myself. Everyone stays the same but Willow and Luz switch places. The first episode is under the cut — it’s pretty long. I’ll probably be doing comics and and other random eps later!

Willow Park sat in the principal’s office, crossing her arms. Principal Hal briefly addresses her parents. She blew some dyed blue-green hair from her eyes, eyeing her science project wearily. So what if her robot malfunctioned? This wouldn’t have happened if she just got to study botany as she’d wanted. 

“Mr. Parks, your daughter’s project went disastrously wrong. Again,” Principal Hal said, bluntly, “Her grades have been slipping lately. I fear that if her grades don’t improve, we’ll have to send her to summer school.”

“That seems awfully drastic,” Papa defended.

“I don’t know, Gil, we do want her to succeed in life,” Dad countered.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Willow declared. 

“This is the first of many incidents, Willow,” Papa said, “I think you should really consider this.”

Before she knew it, Willow was staring outside her house, waiting for the bus to summer school. She fiddled with her small cactus. She took her plants everywhere with her, despite her fathers protests that botany wouldn’t open nearly as many opportunities. 

“Don’t worry, Will,” Dad comforted, “You’ll be so busy learning mechanics… and doing math, the time will fly by!”

“But I don’t like any of that stuff!” Willow protested. “I like working on my garden and being outside!”

“This is all so you get better opportunities,” Papa said, “You’ll make so many friends, but you have to try and let this gardening stuff go.”

“Ok…”

Willow threw away her cactus, frowning. Her dads left and she immediately started to dig through the trash for her beloved plant. It was gone. Willow looked up, spotting a small owl holding the little pot in its mouth. Owls weren’t supposed to be out during the day… and they definitely didn’t fish plants out of the trash. She chased it, following it through the old shack near her house through an odd door with an eye on it.

“Get back here you adorable little owl!” 

Willow paused when she realized she was in a tent. She fingered a strange blue plant. She’d seen weird plants before, but never like this. She was snapped out of her thoughts by a voice.

“Finally, you’re back.” 

Willow peered through the flaps of the tent, seeing a strange, old lady. She had gray hair and gold eyes. Her skin was so pale it was practically white. 

“Now, let’s see what we got here.”

The owl flies to the top of her large stick, and the lady spun it around. The owl turned to wood. Willow held back a gasp, readying herself. For what, she was not sure. 

The lady took out a phone. “Garbage.” She took out a ring. “Garbage.” She took out some brilliantly shiny chalice. “Garbage.” 

She took out some joke glasses with springs. “Now this…” The lady put them on. “This will make me rich!”

Willow gasps quietly as the woman grabbed her plant.

“This… eh, I don’t really have a use for this,” the lady gestured to throw out the plant.

Willow ran in and grabbed it, nervously mumbling an apology before making a break for it. She pulled the flap of the tent aside, running up to the weird door. It proceeds to fold up, disappearing into a small briefcase. Willow turned around, facing her strange pursuer.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she threatened.

Willow held in a shriek and dove under the tent. She skidded to a stop as she found herself at the edge of a cliff. Dragons flew through the air. Giant bugs functioned as buses. Disgustingly fascinating beasts roamed. Willow screamed.

“This… this is a dream, right?” she laughed, nervously. A fairy flew up next to her. “Oh… uh, nice fairy…”

“Give me your skin!” the fairy cried.

Willow yelped and swatted the fairy to the floor, flinching.

“Am I dead? I’m dead, aren’t I? This is the bad place then, I guess,” Willow rambled.

“You wish,” the same woman from before grabs Willow’s shoulder and drags her back to the tent, sitting her down on a stool. Willow clenched her fists, ready to fight back if she had to.

“I’m just here for my plant. Please, don’t eat my skin. And if you try… you’ll uh, regret it!” Willow threatened or at least tried to. 

“Eat you? Why would I eat… a potential customer?” Willow tilted her head, confused. 

“Can I offer you a human foot filled with holes?” she took out a green croc. “A bar of green human candy? Oh, oh! How about this black shadow box that reflects only sadness?” She grabbed a bar of deodorant, followed by an old-fashioned television. 

Willow laughed. “It can do waaaay more than that.”

She looked around the table before finding some batteries. She took the television from the lady and placed the batteries in, turning it on. An old exercise video starts playing. A crowd immediately gathered. People started to bid higher and higher amounts of money for it, asking unusual questions. 

“What did you say your name was?” the woman asked.

“...Willow, Willow Park,” Willow told her, hesitantly.

“Well, Willow, that was pretty clever… for a human,” the woman said.

“For a human?”

“Oh, dear child,” she began, removing her bandanna to reveal two pointy ears. “I’m not like you.” She jumped onto the table. “I’m Eda the Owl Lady, the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles!” 

“A witch?” Willow asked.

“I am respected, feared-” she continued before she was cut off by a masked stranger smashing the T.V.

“Busted!” the guard said, as customers started to scatter. “Eda the Owl Lady, you are wanted for misuse of magic and demonic misdemeanors.” Willow gasped. “You are hereby ordered to come with me to the Conformatoruium! 

Eda freed her arm. “Will you guys quit following me around? I haven’t done squat.”

The guard ignored her. “And you’re coming too,” he grabbed Willow, who yelped, “for fraternizing with a criminal.” 

“Hey!” Willow flailed around, uselessly. 

“Oh, all right, all right, you win,” Eda conceded. “Just let me get my stuff.”

She rummaged under the table, grabbing the staff from earlier. She swung the staff, hitting the guard. He hit the floor with a thud. Eda spun the staff, making all the contents of her stand float before drifting into a bundle on her staff. Willow shakily got up.

“Whoops, can’t forget this.” Eda pulled a key out of her hair, pressing a button. The door-turned-briefcase vanishes. 

“Follow me, human.” 

Willow ran after her. “This is crazy! I’m gonna die here!” 

“Ha! I won’t let them hurt you,” Eda said, cocky. “A human like you is more valuable to me alive than dead.” 

“Are you trying to be suspicious? I can’t believe-” Willow yelled as Eda cheered, pulling them both onto the staff and taking off. 

The guard ran in, seconds too late. “You won't get away with this, Owl Lady! Yeah, all right. You did. You got away with it. She got away with it, everybody! Typical.”

Eda flew through the skies, Willow keeping her eyes screwed shut.

“You can open your eyes now, human.” 

Willow gasped when she saw they were flying. “Okay, it’s just a flying staff, some monsters, and a witch. That’s a normal Earth thing.” 

Eda laughed. “This is the Boiling Isles. Every myth you humans have is caused by a little of our world leaking into yours.” 

Creatures flew by, including a strange lion with the head of a pigeon. Willow vaguely recognized it as a griffin from folklore, although more grotesque. It proceeded to breathe out a stream of living spiders, falling from the sky.

“Eww…” Willow murmured. 

“Yep. Griffins, vampires, giraffes-” Eda listed before Willow cut her off.

“Giraffes?” 

“Oh yeah, we banished those guys. Bunch of freaks.” 

Eda landed the staff and jumped off. Her hand remained. It moved, causing Willow to jump off the staff in shock. 

“Oops,” she said, screwing it back on, “That happens sometimes.” 

“Well… this has been, uh, interesting,” Willow said. “But I really have to get going. Mind helping me get back home?” 

“Only if you help me first,” Eda chuckled. “Ah, now come along, human.” 

Willow gasped as a peculiar house came into view. Owls flew around, laughing. She didn’t know owls could do that. The house itself was reasonably tall, with a tower and a large window resembling an eye. 

“I won’t have to fight off any guards, will I?” Willow worried. 

“Nope. My house has a state-of-the-art defense system.” 

A strange… owl… sits on the door, tilting its head. It was round with large eyes. 

“Hoot-hoot! Password, please!” it (he?) bellowed. 

Eda poked his eyes, making him shout.

“We got no time for this, Hooty. Let us in,” Eda grumbled. 

“All right, all right! Geez! You have let me have any fun! Ow! Hoot!” Hooty complained. 

Hooty opened his mouth to encompass the door. Willow winced as they walked in, although fascinated.

“Welcome to…” Eda snapped her fingers, “the Owl House!”

The candles lit up and Willow looked around in wonder. 

“Where I hide away from the pressures of modern life. Also the cops. Also ex-boyfriends.” 

“I really respect that,” Willow said, “So do you live here all alone?” 

“Actually,” Eda replied, “I have a roommate.” 

A shadow loomed from the hall. “Who dares intrude upon I, the King of Demons?” The creature stepped out to reveal a small, dog-like creature with a skull on his head. He squeaked a rubber duck. Willow scooped him up.

“You’re so cute! Eda, who’s this little cutie?” Willow cooed. 

“I’m not cute!” King whined. “Eda, who is this monster?” 

Eda pulled Willow away from King. “Oh, this is Willow, the human. She’s here to help us with our little… situation.”

“Oh, hooray!” King cheered. 

“Wait. I definitely don’t like the sound of whatever your situation is. I just want to get home,” Willow said. 

“Just… let me explain,” Eda sighed. “King was once a mighty king of demons, until his Crown of Power was stolen, and became… this.” Willow cooed at King again. “The crown is being held by the evil Warden Wrath and locked away behind a magical force field only a human can break through. A human like you. If you help us retrieve his crown, we’ll send you back to your realm. So whaddya say?” 

“It doesn’t seem like I’m being given a choice here,” Willow grumbled. 

“Nope. We got no time to lose,” Eda grabbed Willow’s arm and they walked off.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere super fun!” 

The group found themselves at an ominous building, lightning crackling around them. A selection of wanted posters covered the wall as the group stared up at the castle-like structure. 

“The Conformatorium. A place for those considered unsuitable for society,” Eda deadpanned. 

Willow peeled Eda’s wanted poster off the wall. “Woah. These guys really are after you, huh?”

“Yep. But we’re never caught because we’re too slippery,” Eda said with a wink.

“Try to catch me when I’m covered in grease. I’m a squirmy little fella. You and I will sneak up to the top of the tower, where they’re keeping my crown,” King squealed.

“And I’m gonna make sure the Warden’s distracted,” Eda added. 

“I didn’t bring a disguise,” Willow said.

“Eh, I don’t think you’ll need one,” Eda reassured her. “Just punch anyone that gives you trouble.”

“You get me, Eda, you get me.” 

Eda slammed her staff onto the ground, creating a disk that lifted them up. “Hang on tight. See you guys at the top of the tower!”

The disk floated up to the window, letting Willow and King reach the inside of the tower. The duo moved through the hall, eyes catching the cells.

“Hey, lady, how’d you get out of your cell?” a prisoner asked. 

“Oh, um, I’m not a criminal,” Willow replied. 

“Neither are we,” the prisoner grumbled. “The stupid warden likes to lock up people who don’t fit in. Like, I write fanfics of food falling in love. I like food, I like love… Just let me write about it!” 

“I’m here because I like eating my own eyes,” another prisoner added. 

“We are agents of fwee expwession! They will never siwence us!” a small prisoner cried.

“Yeah, she’s really into conspiracy theories,” the first prisoner groaned. 

“The world is a simulation! We are but playthings for a higher being!” 

“That’s… that’s not right. You guys just… want to be yourselves. Like me,” Willow murmured. 

Willow was briefly distracted by some footsteps, running into a cell and pulling the bars in front of her. She covered her mouth as a man, the Warden, she assumed, thundered in. His emotionless mask met the prisoners. 

“I can hear you,” he said. “Just what are you fools whispering about?” He picked up Eda’s fallen poster. “Ah, the Owl Lady.” The Warden’s arm warped into a hammer, slamming into Willow’s cell. “I’ll get my hands on her soon enough.” 

He briefly glanced into Willow’s cell, where she held King protectively. The small prisoner shouted defiantly, causing the Warden to open to cell and grab her. 

“Let this be a lesson to all of you. There’s no place for you in society if you can’t fit in.”

Willow waited as he stomped away, before clambering out of the cell. She approached the other prisoners. 

“I can still get you guys out… at least,” she smiled, weakly, opening their cells. “Good luck!” 

Willow ran off, reaching Eda. She flew through the halls on her staff. She told Willow the Warden was distracted. Willow grew uneasy at the thought of him torturing the prisoner she failed to rescue. They eventually reached a large door labeled “Contraband.” King eagerly ran up to the door, cheering about power. Eda laughed at his antics.

“Why are they locked up here? They’re just being themselves…” Willow said, more to herself than Eda. 

She snapped out of her thoughts to find King attempting and failing to break through a glimmering barrier. Willow took a breath before walking into the pillar, finding piles of confiscated junk. At the top, she saw a glowing crown. She winced. That couldn’t be it… Willow groaned as King eagerly grabbed for the Burger Queen crown.

“That crown doesn’t give him any powers, does it?” 

“Uh, no. Oh, look at us Willow. King and I don’t have much in this world, we only have each other. So if that dumb crown is important to him, it’s important to me. Besides, us weirdos have to stick together.”

Willow got caught off guard by the comment. She was used to avoiding her weirdness in an attempt to keep her grades up and keep bullies away. She always kept her head down. 

“Well, we owe you one. Let’s get out of here before the Warden finds out and loses his head.”

The Warden stormed in. “Too late.” 

With a sharp swing, he cut off Eda’s head. It fell into Willow’s arms, who shrieked in shock. 

“Ow. I hate it when that happens.” Willow fought the urge to retch. 

“Normally I’d question this but…” Willow groaned, “This really isn’t the weirdest thing to happen today.”

The Warden proceeded to give a speech to Eda, ending with… asking her out? Willow commented on the misogyny of holding someone hostage to ask them out. Wrath grabbed her, yelling to stay out of it. Guess he didn’t appreciate social justice. Willow wriggled to get free as Eda spit in his face. Taking the opportunity, Willow grabbed Eda’s staff and slammed it over the Warden. She grabbed Eda’s head and bolted. Eda’s body freed King and they all climbed onto the staff.

“How does this work exactly?”

“Gun it, magic stick!” Eda commanded. 

Wrath gave chase as they flew through the halls. Willow reached out and pulled as many levers as she could freeing the prisoners. Wrath’s tentacle-like arms got closer, and they all fell to the ground outside the Conformatorium. Willow tried to help but they waved her off, telling her to return to the human realm. She found the prisoners from before, but they had no desire to escape. 

“Don’t you get it?” Willow asked, “It doesn’t matter if you’re weird, or unconventional, or just do things differently. Sometimes success is being happy, not just doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” 

“Why are you helping us?”

“Because us weirdos have to stick together,” Willow cheered, “And no one should be punished for who they are!” 

The Warden had Eda and King cornered. Willow and the other prisoners tackled him, Willow using Eda’s staff in an attempt to knock him unconscious. The prisoners tied his tentacle arms together, rendering his attacks useless. Humiliated, he ran, and Willow cheered. 

They flew back to the Owl House, where, as promised, Eda got the door ready. King and Eda waved goodbye, and Willow looked at them wistfully. A magical world was right here. Summer school was back home. 

“I don’t know,” Willow began. “My dads want me to be happy, but I don’t want to keep learning stupid engineers. I want to study plants and learn how to help them grow. This place is full of magic to do stuff like that here.”

“What exactly are you proposing, kid?” Eda asked.

“I want to stay and become a witch, like you.”

“That’s ridiculous, humans can’t become witches,” Eda smirked.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

King climbed onto Eda’s shoulders. “Let her stay! She can make us snacks.” 

“All right. I could use some help keeping this goofball out of the cupboards,” Eda conceded. “I can teach you anything about spells or whatever plant nerd stuff if you work for me.”

“Deal.”

So Willow found herself getting ready for bed in the Owl House. Her sleeping bad uncurled fully as she hit the ground and yawned. Her phone buzzed. 

Dad: How’s summer camp?

Papa: Are you having fun?

Willow looked up, to where King had entered the room.

“Your sleep cocoon looks fluffy,” he said, awkwardly. Willow patted it, gesturing him to come to sit. He curled into a little ball next to her. She smiled warmly.

Willow: I think I’m gonna like it here.