#also if one persons like but it’s from concentrate isn’t that bad DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. IT JUST MEANS IT WAS RECONSTITUTED WITH WATER

[stoned-ratpack]

Welche’s White Grape Peach Juice is a beautiful name for a baby girl

[sinofwriting]

Every Kiss Begins With Tabs - Max Verstappen

Words: 1,544 Summary: Max and her have a tradition that was born from their first kiss. Note(s): The idea for this fic popped into my head one night, didn’t know what driver to do with it, and then quickly realized Max is the only option with him driving for a literal energy drink company. Also, this features Max and Charles being best friends, because your honor, I love them. (and features a bit of Ferrari bashing, because of course)

Masterlist | Support Me!

At the end of their first date, Max had watched as she shyly reached into her purse, fishing for something, before pressing a small thing into his hand and instinctively he held it. He didn’t even get a second to figure out what it was, since she kissed him as soon as it was pressed into his hand. It was small, barely a second, just a peck. But it had made him flush, staring at her with wide eyes before he murmured a quiet again.

Her bottom lip had found its way between her teeth for a second, before she nodded at his hand, the one she had pressed something into. For the kiss. He remembers her mumble, making her all the more cute to him, how she was shy yet bold in the same breath.

It had been near painful to look away from her, but he forced his eyes down as he uncurled his hand and saw a generic soda tab sitting in his palm. Her words rang in his ears and memories of watching girls in school give them to boys run through his head and he’s pressing their hands together, keeping it between their palms as he kisses her.

—

Max’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he messes with the tab on his can of Red Bull. The sound of the press and his fellow drivers' voices washing over him. When it easily tears off, he pockets it, just as he’s asked a question.

“Over these last few months, you’ve been a lot happier. Many people thought it was you winning races making you so happy, but with Singapore happening, that has been disproven. Is there something other than winning that makes you so happy?” Max’s eyes darted over to his press officer, personal questions were on the no list for after races. She looks back at him with a raised eyebrow and he has to resist letting his brows press together. She clearly didn’t think this was personal and in nature he supposes it wasn’t, but it was leading. Raising the microphone to his lips, he speaks. “Well, I think I’d have a very boring, shit life if the only thing that made me happy was winning.” The reporter coughs, “Of course. But nothing new in your life?” “Not that I can think of.” There’s a frown on the reporter's face, but they don’t ask anything else, and the session is called to a close.

“I fucking hate reporters.” Max murmurs as he walks out the room. Charles snorts, hearing him and gently bumping their shoulders together. “I couldn’t tell.” “Haha. Was a good race for you today, though.” “I feel like I need a fucking bodyguard. I’ve been getting threats like crazy.” Max winces, having seen some for himself and also knowing from experience how bad they could get. “Ferrari hasn’t hired any for you?” He scoffs, “No, too much faith, I suppose.” “Stick close, come to Red Bull’s hotel with me, I’ve got an extra room and security.” “Ooh.” Charles teases, poking at his side as they exit the building. “Look at the golden boy with his security.” Max rolls his eyes, but feigns away as he reaches out again. “Are you coming or not?” He scoffs again. “Of course. I’m too pretty to be killed.” It’s Max’s turn to scoff, “You're something, alright.” he mutters.

Entering Red Bull’s garage with Charles would feel weird if it weren't for the fact that for nearly all of this season Bradley, Christian, Tom, GP, or himself had all been sneaking the Ferrari driver in. Max knows that Christian is hoping with them allowing Charles access to their garage and helping hide him away from Ferrari that he’ll join their team, and Max isn’t too proud to say that he’s started to wish that too.

“I’ve gotta get something from Christian first.” Max murmurs when Charles makes a confused hum when they don’t immediately go to his driver’s room. “Also, might want to text something to collect your stuff.” “Andrea will get it. I just need the hotel and room number so he can send some stuff over.” “Don’t want to sleep in Red Bull branded clothes?” Charles sniffs, sticking his chin in the air, perfectly making a haughty face. “Of course not. I have fashion sense.”

—

“You want room service or something delivered from somewhere?” Charles stares at him, “Mate.” Max grins at him before returning his gaze to his phone. “Had to ask. We do have Brazil next weekend after all.” “I want all the tacos in the world right now.” “Margaritas as well?” It’s silent for a second, “why not. Just one though.” Max rolls his eyes, typing out the number ten before hitting send.

“Food has been ordered.” “Thank god. I’m starving.” “Not going to offer to pay?” Max jokes, even though he’d refuse. “God no.” He scoffs before grinning at him. “Thank you, Max, honestly.” “It’s no problem.”

“When will the food get here?” Charles asks nearly thirty minutes later as Max unlocks the door. “Already here.” He tells him, opening the door up and stepping through.

Tossing his backpack to the armchair, he doesn’t see the confused look on Charles’ face or how it grows more confused when Max fishes something out of his pocket and holds it out, a grin on his face as he stands just beside the suite's sofa.

Charles nearly stumbles when a girl appears out of nowhere, words gathering on his tongue, only for them to die before they can form when she takes whatever it is out of Max’s hand and kisses him. He knows his mouth is open, jaw dropped, as he stares at the two.

“Hello.” Max murmurs, pulling away after pressing another kiss to her lips. Her head is tilted up a bit to look at him, nose scrunching a little as she smiles. “Hi. Well done on the race.” He grins and is unable to resist kissing her again before finally separating from her, only to wrap an arm around her and pull her into his side as he turns them both to face Charles. “Charles, this is Y/N, my girlfriend.” The other driver blinks at them for a few seconds before smiling. “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.” He tells her, stepping forward to greet her with a hug, giving Max a thumbs up when she easily goes along with it. Max snorts at the thumbs up.

“Congrats on your race as well, Charles. Always nice to see you on the podium.” “Oh.” He can feel his cheeks turn a little pink at the compliment. “Well, it is always nice to be there, even if he is always taking the top spot.” She laughs and then she’s ushering them both to sit down at the small table nearly overflowing with food. “Oh my god.” Charles breaths, staring at it all. “It’s beautiful.” “I think you're just hungry, mate.” Max remarks and Charles notices how she passes whatever Max handed her before they kissed back to the driver before giving him a peck on the lips. “Of course, I’m hungry.” His eyes wander over all the food, all the tacos, and he knows that Andrea will be pissed at their next session when Charles tells him what he ate, but he knows he won’t regret it. Even when Andrea makes the session a triple.

“Can I ask a question?” Charles asks, after they are done eating. The twelve tacos he ate and two margaritas he had in combination with pleasant company made him feel content. “Is it a stupid one?” “Max.” She playfully scolds, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Of course.” “What is with the thing? The small thing you pass back and forth.” “Oh,” her eyes are a little wide and she seems to have stiffened and it has Charles' eyes widened. “You do not have to answer. I was just curious. You can of course tell me to shut up.” “No, it’s okay.” She shares a look with Max. “It’s just a habit, I don’t even really think about it anymore.”

Charles watches as she carefully extends her hand and opens it so he can stare at the thing the couple has been exchanging. His eyebrows furrow when he sees it’s a tab to a Red Bull can.

“Before I kissed Max for the first time, I gave him a tab from a soda can. It’s become a tradition of sorts.” His face softens at the explanation, and this whole weekend he has missed Alex, but now more than ever he wishes that she was able to come with him. “That is very sweet.” His lips then curl into a smirk and he looks at Max. “Must make sex uncomfortable though.” “You mother,” Max cuts himself off as he hits Charles with a pillow, his fellow driver howling with laughter. Hitting him with a pillow again, Max looks at her to see her laughing as well, face bright with joy and his hand is ducking into his pocket pulling out a spare tab he always keeps on him, pressing it into her hand before kissing her, ignoring the fake sounds of throwing up from Charles as he does.

@gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @topguncultleader @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803 @cixrosie @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @quackquackhun @rewmuslupin @copper-boom @stopeatread @crashingwavesofeuphoria @jointhehunt67

[pink-tea]

cute genes

☆ pairing: choi soobin x afab! reader

☆ smut

☆ word count: 3.2k

☆ sub! soobin, dom! reader, slightly dark content !!!, dubcon technically bc baby trapping, toxic behaviors (baby trapping is not okay you guys!!), riding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, milking, use of the nicknames "angel" (extensive use) and "bunny", nipple play (like a lot)(both receiving), tit sucking, breeding kink

☆ soobin is worried that one day he'll have to choose between his relationship and his career. you make sure that he never has to

// heyyy...how's everybody doing? (´∀｀；)

you should be ashamed of what you’re about to do, for what you’ve been doing. throwing away the condoms and riling up your poor little boyfriend all day so that when you tell him not to cum, you know you’re setting him up for failure. his desperate cries of “please please please” doing nothing as you grind down on his pulsating cock. 

“come on, angel. you can do better than this, can’t you?” you ask softly, raking your nails over his chest and hard nipples. he writhes underneath you at the touch, letting out weak noises as he shuts his eyes in a desperate attempt to concentrate. it prevents him from seeing your smug expression at his struggle, sighing contentedly as you grind your clit down into his pelvis. 

“can’t,” he pants, bunny lips red and slick from all the foreplay and subconscious biting he does while trying to quiet himself down. “please, I really don’t think I can,” soobin whimpers, opening his glossy eyes to look up at you. you groan at the sight, the blonde so pretty and pathetic underneath you that it makes him cry out when you roughly grind your hips down again. 

“you’re gonna cum already?” you ask, watching as he quickly nods, lashes fluttering when you don’t even stop your pace to talk to him. “but I’m not gonna cum yet,” you sigh, rotating your hips in a slow circle. you reach a hand down to card through soobin’s hair, pushing the sweaty bangs on his forehead out of the way. “you have to get punished if you don’t do what I tell you, you know this,” you patronize, grabbing a fistful of the strands so that you can lightly shake his head side to side. 

he whines at both your words and the slightly disorienting feeling, desperate to please but so desperate for release after what you’ve already put him through. he recognizes the word punishment, and if he wasn’t crying already, he’s sure he would’ve teared up because he’s trying so hard to be good. it feels so unfair, and he doesn’t even know that it’s because you made sure it would be unfair for him. 

knowing that he’s being set up for failure makes something inside you bask at the control. it’s bad that you’re lying to him; it’s even worse that you’re making such a big decision without even considering what he wants, but isn’t it for the better? he’s been growing so much as an idol, more and more of your shared time spent on rescheduled dates and rushed intimacy. 

you know he’s been stressed; you can help with that. but you also know that lately he’s been growing less and less confident that he’ll be able to still be the love of your life, along with being a successful idol. 

you’d never make soobin choose between you and his dream. instead, you decided to make sure that he wouldn’t be able to choose. your sweet boyfriend, sweet soobin who would probably condemn himself to the furthest circle of hell before he abandoned his girlfriend and child. sweet soobin, who wouldn’t think of leaving you or your kid because he’s just too good of a person to do it. 

it just makes sense; it was the only other option besides forcing soobin to quit his true passion (which probably wouldn’t work in the first place), and you just didn’t have the heart to do it. besides, even if being pregnant would be a less than wonderful experience, you’d be able to do it if it were for soobin. you’d go through the weeks with only facetime calls and the texted ‘i love you’s for him and your future child. 

imagining your baby with soobin’s bright eyes and adorable dimples makes your heart fond. knowing that he'd be forced to forever come back home to you makes you determined. 

“don’t want a punishment, wanna be good,” soobin whimpers out from beneath you, causing you to sigh in mock pity. you let both your hands fall to hold his face, his cheeks wet with both dried and fresh tears. he’s always been a pretty crier. 

“bad boys have to get their punishment,” you explain softly, not being able to stop the small smile on your lips when soobin only responds with a high-pitched and needy whine. “even if they’re trying to be good,” you hum, letting your hands trail down his neck as you continue the moment of your hips. “surely you’re not trying to get out of your punishment,” you suggest, adding a tiny mocking gasp to your words. 

quickly, the blonde shakes his head. “n-no, would never!” he exclaims, eyes squeezed shut as your nails rake down his shoulders and slip to his collarbones. “wanna be good, wanna be really—” the words get caught in his throat the moment your hands trail down from the dip of his collarbones to his perky nipples. 

the reaction is immediate. a sob of anguish is ripped from his throat, his back unintentionally arching as his hips thrust up to meet yours. "no, no, no, please,” he tries to plead, head thrown back, and the hands that somehow found themselves on your waist leave a bruising grip. you ignore his cries, rolling his sensitive nipples under the pads of your thumbs. 

“if I didn’t know any better, i’d think you were about to cum, angel,” you say casually, only receiving a choked noise from soobin as he thrashes underneath you. it’s amusing, the way you bounce on top of him as a result of his desperate attempts to escape. he's so fucked-out that he doesn’t even realize that he’s working against his own interests, slamming harder and deeper into your warm cunt every time you come back down. 

“[your name], please, i can’t—i can’t!” he doesn’t even manage to finish forming his words before he’s shaking underneath you, the hands on your waist holding you down firmly as he thrusts up one last time. a chorus of moans and whimpers make their way to your ears as you watch Soobin’s face. his eyes are shut tight, a few stray tears making their way past his pretty lashes from the force. 

you feel him shoot warm ropes of cum inside you. it’s messy and gross, and it’s just the way you wanted it as you stop your ministrations on his nipples. tutting and shaking your head, you bring a hand up to tap his cheek. 

soobin opens his eyes at the cue, his pathetic gaze pleading and apologetic as he stares at your faux frown. your brows furrow as you look down at him, sighing dramatically as you pull back to sit down properly on his now-softening cock. “look what you did…” you scold, already feeling the way his cum is trickling out of you to form a disgusting mix of fluids at the base of where the two of you meet. 

“i’m sorry,” soobin chokes out, lips trembling as you smooth your fingers over adam’s apple. 

“i know,” you respond simply, placing your hands back on his tits. He shudders as you resume playing with his nipples, letting out a whimper when you start to ride him without warning. his hands fall from your waist, and soobin’s embarrassed to think about how the way you’re using him like your own personal fuck toy is making his sensitive dick harden all over again. 

“tell me what you’re thinking,” you breathe, soft pants leaving your lips as you adjust your pace to finally chase after your own orgasm rather than soobin’s. a strangled noise builds up in soobin’s throat at the sight of your tits bouncing, and the hand that you end up placing on his thigh for a better angle heats up his skin. 

“sensitive,” he manages to say after a few moments, struggling to process the pleasure that leaves his spine tingling. his dick is hard again, struggling to keep up with how your pussy swallows him, uncaring of what he’s feeling as you grind your clit onto him for the friction. “m’ not gonna last,” he tries to warn you, voice climbing into a higher pitch when you abandon the bouncing to roll your hips back and forth. 

“that’s okay, baby,” you reassure him, grabbing his hands and moving them so that his palms are full of your breasts. “you’re not supposed to,” you simper, groaning in satisfaction when Soobin obeys your silent demands and starts to play with your nipples. he swallows thickly, dick twitching inside of you as the flesh of your breast spills out between his fingers. 

“i don’t wanna get punished,” he insists, thumbing over your nipples despite his conviction. you smile at his words, cooing softly as you place your palms back on his toned stomach. your shadow looms over him, and like this you’re given a clear view as to how soobin’s gaze seems transfixed on your breasts, the pervert.

“baby, your punishment’s already begun,” you inform him, voice sweet despite your intentions of milking him dry. this information finally snaps soobin out of his daze, brown eyes catching yours with an almost comical look of shock and dismay. 

“but–”

“mm-mm, no buts,” you chastise, placing a hand over your boyfriend’s mouth to halt his complaints. “you get what you deserve, you take what I give you,” you remind him coldly. you can feel the way Soobin chokes on a tiny sob underneath your palm, his saliva slicking up your hand and no doubt making a mess out of his mouth as he struggles not to buck up into the overstimulating pleasure of your warm cunt. 

“that’s it,” you praise as he goes pliant and silent underneath you, minus the whines and groans that get muffled. “you’re gonna let me milk your pretty little cock, since apparently all you’re good for is cumming inside and making a mess,” you tell him, removing your hand from his mouth and wiping the mess of saliva on the bed sheets next to you. 

“not all I’m good for,” he whines in protest, making you hiss in pain when he accidentally squeezes your breasts too hard. 

“yeah? what else are you good for?” you ask tauntingly, raking your nails down the expanse of his stomach and enjoying the small mewl that slips past his lips at the pain. “good at looking pretty and fucked out? good at laying down and letting me have my way with you?” you list off, endeared by the small glare soobin manages to give you through his teary eyes. 

“all you have to be good at right now is taking your punishment and making me feel good. is that too much to ask for?” you huff, leaning down to brush your lips against his cute ones. 

“is that too much, angel?” You ask, hands reaching up to hold on to his shoulders. 

“no,” he groans in response, leaning up to capture your lips with his in a way that distracts you with fondness. normally a sweet kisser, soobin is messy. his saliva wets your lips as he barely manages to keep the two of you together, some of his own drool making its way down his chin. it’s adorably pathetic, the way it takes so much effort just to kiss you while you fuck him dumb. 

“i'm already close again,” he whines pitifully into your mouth. 

you don’t respond, sliding one of your hands back down to meanly grab one of his nipples and twist, and it’s all it takes before soobin cums with a cry. his hands fall off your chest, one grasping desperately at the pillow under his head while the other twists in your sheets. he’s hiccuping through each breath, and all you can think about is how you’d do anything to keep him all to yourself forever. 

you hum in appreciation as you watch him—the way his eyes screw close and his nose scrunches as his back arches off the bed. his cum is still warm inside of you, and you wait for his body to stop shuddering and drop back down before you grip his shoulders and start to chase your own release. 

soobin gasps in sensitivity at the movement, warm hands flying up to grab at your waist in a futile attempt to slow you down. 

“wait, ’m sensitive, [your name] please, it hurts,” he cries, and it's all in vain as you do your best to milk him for a third. 

you ride him with just a bit more desperation than usual. it’s already been too many weeks since you’ve been off birth control. you don’t even realize how hard you’re staring at soobin, as if you’re trying to memorize every detail of his face in the case that all your efforts go out the window and this is the last time you see him. that’s until another tear slips out of soobin’s eye, and you know that you’d never let that happen, idol career be damned. 

cooing, you lean down and lick the tear off his cheek, your pretty little boyfriend whining at the wet sensation. “i thought i put your hands somewhere,” you comment offhandedly, watching soobin’s eyes flutter in confusion before his brain catches up to your intentions. with a small groan, soobin’s hands are back on your tits, and you laugh at the way his cock twitches in your cunt. 

“think you can you give me one more?” you ask sweetly condescendingly, placing a wet kiss on the same cheek you’ve already defiled. soobin can only pout, giving you a quivering nod as his thumb covers your nipple, eyes fixated on it.

determinedly, you pick up your pace on soobin’s cock. he’s semi-hard, but he’s whimpering and whining and he’s twitching from overstimulation, despite the fact that he still makes a valiant effort to get hard again. his stamina was pretty decent, but you’re set on milking a third out of him. 

“just—just go a little slower, please,” he begs, limbs growing heavy and he’s struggling to keep a solid grip on your tit as you bounce. 

“if you have the mouth to complain, you might as well suck on them,” you scowl, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair just to hear soobin’s gasp when you yank his head up. 

“can’t be a good little breeding bitch when all you do is complain instead of cum,” you add on, soobin whimpering at the harsh words. his lips are in a wobbly frown, and with much effort he lifts himself high enough to sloppily take your nipple into his mouth. he desperately kneads the other with his hand, and you let yourself moan at the disgusting visual of soobin’s drool running down his chin and onto your chest. 

“so messy,” you comment, using both of your hands to keep soobin’s head up to your chest as you ride him. sometimes you pull the strands of his hair to see him jerk, guiding him to your other nipple as your thighs burn and your speed begins to slow. 

he’s hard inside of you, and there’s an embarrassing amount of cum frothing at the entrance of your cunt. there’s fluids all over soobin’s cock and pelvis, and you can’t help the way you drag your clit through the wet filth as you slow your hips into a grind. 

“angel,” you gasp, pulling Soobin off your nipple with a loud ‘pop’ so that he can look at you with his fucked-out gaze. he hums in acknowledgement, going pliant in your hold once your hands slide down to cup his face in both palms. 

"help me cum,” you demand, and soobin only needs a few seconds before he’s wordlessly dragging a thumb over your clit as you pick up your pace. you lean down to kiss him, taking a lip between your teeth and tugging as his eyes threaten to flutter shut once more. 

and it only takes a few more moments with the dizzying drag of soobin’s thumb over your puffy clit before you’re moaning into his mouth and riding through your orgasm. soobin answers you with his own soft moan, the noise breaking into a weak sob as your pussy clenches down on him. he cums inside of you for the third time with a weak pulse of his cock, giving you one more peck on the lips before he falls back onto the sheets tiredly. 

you huff in amusement as you straddle him, catching your breath before you roll over to drop down next to him and let him slip out of you. there’s a wet squelch that follows, but you’re too busy trying to catch your breath before a cuddly soobin quickly begins to latch onto your side. your heart aches at the affection, and you turn to face him so that he can bury his face under your chin. his hair tickles your nose.

“good job, baby. took your punishment so well,” you praise softly, running your fingers through his hair to try and soothe the way you kept tugging on it earlier. soobin hums in contentment, an arm wrapping over your waist to tug you closer. 

“you called me your breeding bitch,” he pouts into your shoulder, making you chuckle. 

“you like it. maybe you’ll even get me pregnant,” you joke, dead serious. soobin snorts at the implication, still unaware of the fact that you two are actually trying with every time you fuck him into the mattress.

“maybe. we’d have cute kids,” he shrugs, and you hold onto him just a bit tighter. 

“you think so?”

“'course,” Soobin yawns. “can’t go wrong with my genes,” he brags cheekily, and you give him a light smack on the shoulder that he whines about. 

when you actually tell him around 4 weeks later that you’re pregnant, soobin swears that the world around him goes completely quiet. then he’s a stuttering, disbelieved, and stressed-out mess over the phone. 

“what do you mean you're pregnant? i thought you were on birth control?” and you lie easily, telling him that this must’ve been one of those rare cases where the medication didn't work. 

then there’s a long pause, and you’re worried that soobin might actually make you march up to a clinic and correct this mess of a situation before you’re met with the telltale hiccup of soobin’s ugly cry. you immediately hush him and reassure him that it’s alright, that everything will be fine. 

soobin feels terrible; he feels so guilty that he hadn’t been mindful enough about cleaning up and showering after sex. he feels like he’s ruined your youth and that he’s burdened you with a child, even though the two of you aren’t even married yet. you tell him it’s ok, that you don’t blame him and that you’re willing to make this work. soobin promises to come see you as soon as he can and promises to faceTtme the moment he gets off work to properly talk about all that’s going to happen. he’s calmed down with your words and reassurance, but you can tell he’s still frazzled.

the last thing you say to him is “i love you,"  but before that, you can’t help but joke that, hey, at least our baby’s guaranteed to be cute with your genes.

[themattgirl]

could you please make one where Chris and reader are dating and reader feels sick and Chris just takes care of her and acts all sweet and stuff? 🫠

an: thank you for the request ily 🧡

this turned out so much longer than i intended

this isn’t my first one shot but it’s the first with one of the sturniolo triplets in it. 

obviously their characters have been altered by me a little to fit into the story but i tried to make it as realistic as possible by keeping their personality traits as they are in real life.

also comment or like this post if you want to be added to the taglist

pairing: chris x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: fluff, use of ‘babe’ and ‘ma’ as pet names for reader, intentional wrong spelling in text messages to make it more realistic, mentions of nsfw themes, swearing, lots of playful teasing between characters

y/n’s dialogue  

chris’ dialogue

matt’s dialogue

nick’s dialogue

mary lou’s dialogue

“it’s just a cold, nothing serious i promise. i don’t think i can come over today though, i don’t wanna infect any of you. i’m sorry for ruining movie night,” i say to chris on facetime before breaking into a cough. i turn the camera away from me, not wanting him to see me in a disgusting state like this. if i could, i would’ve muted myself so he doesn’t have to listen to it either. plus, i know how worried he gets with any type of sickness or unwell feeling really.

so, of course it wouldn’t be chris if he didn’t immediately furrow his brows.

“babe no, don’t apologize. you didn’t choose to get sick.”

he gets up from where he was sitting on the couch and goes downstairs to his bedroom. he puts the phone down so all i can see now is his ceiling. his voice sounds a little farther away when he speaks again, “it doesn’t really sound like nothing serious, does anything hurt?”

“to be honest, my whole body has been aching since i woke up this morning. it’s not too bad, just a dull ache, i can still move and all that, even if i’d prefer to just lay here and rot away,” i laugh and hold back the cough that wants to escape right after in hopes it would make him worry a little less. vainly.

“your voice sounds stuffy and kinda hoarse, does your throat hurt?”

“i forgot you turn into a doctor every time somebody doesn’t feel great,” i roll my eyes even though he can’t see it with his phone still down and him on the other side of the room from how distant his voice sounds.

“shut up, y/n. you feel worse than ‘not great’. you’re not fooling anyone with that act.”

he reappears on the screen. now i can see what he has been doing in the time i couldn’t see him. he put on a hoodie over the tank top he had been wearing before, the hair he had put up in a little ponytail - if you could even call it that - in the front has been untied and brushed. or maybe he just ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, that’d be more like it.

“anyways baby, imma call mom real quick. be right back,” he hangs up before i get the chance to respond.

i put the phone down next to me on the bed i’ve been in since i realized this morning how much it hurt to stand up and how i felt like i was gonna throw up every time i moved too hastily.

i took a deep breath - well, as deep as a breath can get when your nose is clogged - and closed my eyes to try and concentrate on something other than the throbbing pain in my head.

i feel so much worse than how i described it to chris and i feel bad for kind of lying to him, i do. but he has been dealing with so much of his own lately - new designs for his brand, fixing the shipping issues with some of the orders from his last drop, coming up with video ideas and prefilming those before him, nick and matt go on tour again, preparing everything for said tour - see, he really doesn’t need me to add to his things-to-worry-about-list, especially if he can’t do anything to fix it and it’ll go away on its own anyway.

i feel my phone’s vibration from somewhere in between the sheets and grab it. it's messages from nick.

hey y/n heard your not feeling so good (:/ smiley) i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

hope you feel better soon tho

matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday

I hey y/n heard your not feeling so good 😕 i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

word spreads faaast 😂 i’m so sad i gotta wait another week or so to see you again i only like sleepovers cuz of u but dont tell chris 🤫

I i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

seriously i hate that yk me so well 😐

I its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

at first i was like 🤨 but then i kept reading i LOVE YOUU SO MUCH OMG just so yk chris was the second option

I hope you feel better soon tho

me too now i’m excited for the pajamaaas 😫

I matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday 🤔

i’m gonna kill him like fr this time

hey where tf is chris??

talking to mom shes teaching him sth honestly don’t ask idk

ok 😂 i think im gonna take a nap talk later?

yess get some rest and lmk if you need anything ❤️

ly❤️❤️

after sending the last message i get a call from matt. i contemplate not picking up for a second but decide against it.

“what?”

“uff, what’s that attitude?”

“i’m sick because of you, shithead.”

“we don’t know that. what if you’re the one who passed it on to me, hm? besides, i was just calling to tell you to drink some water and to ask if you need anything. i was actually being nice but you clearly don’t deserve it,” his voice is just as bad as mine, if not worse which makes me feel a little bad, but matt wouldn’t be one of my best friends if i had to worry about him getting mad every time i’m not nice. that’s actually how we bonded after annoying each other every chance we got. we both have a bit of an attitude problem which caused a lot of irritation and aggravation. now we get along better than any pair of best friends. the teasing stayed in place, but now we both know there’s only endless love behind it. sometimes you just gotta let off a bit of steam and we both just get that.

“fine, i’m sorry. sickness really does turn you soft, huh?” i smirk.

“why’re you saying it like you just confirmed a theory?”

“mary lou told me once and i’ve been waiting ever since to see for myself, guess she was right.”

“you are actually the worst. i’m hanging up now. drink water, bye.”

he hangs up the phone and i laugh to myself. what a big baby.

i open chris’ chat and type in a message telling him i’m going to sleep and that i will call him once i wake up again. i don’t bother waiting for a reply and just put the phone on my nightstand. i turn on my side, close my eyes and after that i don’t notice anything anymore.

i jolt up from bed, breathing heavy, body sweaty and heart racing. my room is dark, lit up only by the moon shining through my window. i look around trying to remember where i am and shake the nightmare from my mind.

i reach for my phone and check the time.

11:43 pm

i turn on the flashlight and right when i notice a black jacket hung over the back of my desk chair i hear footsteps coming closer.

chris pushes the door open and steps in.

“oh shit, did i wake you?”

“no i had a nightmare. what are doing here?”

i sit upright in bed and turn the flashlight off when chris flips the switch to turn on the fairy lights around the edges of my ceiling.

he moves to sit on the bed next to me before he answers, “i had mom teach me how to make her get-well-quick-soup and brought you some. she also told me about the perfect remedy tea, i can make it for you,” he stands up again immediately, “i’ll heat up the soup for you first. shit ma, have you even eaten anything today?” he stands by the door, holding the handle but looking back over his shoulder at me.

“chris,” i honestly don’t know what to say to him. he is so sweet i have to fight the tears that build up on my waterline. i just look at him for a moment, a little smile ghosting on my lips.

i’m well aware of how caring, considerate and compassionate chris is as a person in general, but it still baffles me sometimes how much he goes out of his way to make others feel good. i guess i’m just not used to it, being loved like this, having someone do everything that lies in their hands - and beyond that - just for me. it’s astonishing to say the least. especially when i myself have had issues with showing how deeply i cherish somebody ever since i can remember. it’s probably rooted somewhere in my past and how my affection has been received and responded to, that’s what my therapist says anyway.

i shake myself out of my thoughts and move the blanket away from my body to finally get up. immediately chris is beside me, holding me in place, “what’re you doing, ma? stay here i’ll bring it up,” he talks quietly, trying to get me to take in my previous lying position but i stay put on the ground.

“babe, i have been in this bed almost all day. i need to get up. i’ll just come down with you, we can eat together in the kitchen,” i try to convince him.

he looks at me, an uncertain expression on his face for a few seconds, the gears in his head almost visibly turning while he thinks about it. at last he lets out a sigh and nods, “alright then, hop on my back,” he bends over in a piggy back position in front of me and i can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

“you do know i can walk, right?” i ask still chuckling.

“i know, come ooon, just do it,” he urges me on and wiggles his hips, making me laugh even harder when i climb on his back.

“you’re gonna be so sick tomorrow, chris,” i complain mournfully once he lets me down to sit on the kitchen counter while he gets to heating up the soup he brought.

chris insists he’s not prone to catch a cold or any sickness easily, no matter how contagious or how close to the source he might be, even though he has proven himself wrong multiple times on more occasions than he cares to admit.

“no i won’t. besides, i could use a few days off even if i have to be sick to get that,” he lets out a huff of air trying to make it sound humorous, but both of us - and everyone who knows chris for that matter - knows that he is exhausted and is in desperate need of a break.

i know he doesn’t want me to get serious about that topic right now though so i try to change routes, “oh my god,” he turns around from where he was stirring the soup on the stove and faces me, confused about my shocked exclamation. i point an accusatory finger at him, my jaw hanging low but a smile still creeping it’s way on my face.

“so that’s why you’re here. you came to try and get infected, that’s why you carried me down too even though you know damn well i coulda walked by myself. and i’m here thinking you were actually being the best boyfriend on earth. turns out my man is a piece of shit,” by the end i fail to stay serious and let out a giggle. well, it’s not like he actually believed that i meant what i was saying but still.

he lets go of everything he was holding, turns around to me fully and begins to stalk toward me slowly.

“oh yeah?” i don’t know if it’s just me or if he’s doing it on purpose but all of a sudden his voice sounds deeper, his face more stern and serious.

“is that what you think then? i’m just a piece of shit?” he makes me nervous at first but the second i see the smirk on his lips i know exactly what’s about to follow.

“chris. no.”

he is standing right in front of me, so close he has positioned himself in between my legs, his hands on the counter on either side of me, trapping me. the finger i was pointing at him long since taken back.

“am i a piece of shit when i make you cum with just my tongue?” his face is so close now.

“stop,” i say quieter than i mean to, almost whisper-like.

“or when i fuck you so good you can’t walk right for days, am i a piece of shit then?”

this asshole is doing it on purpose. he knows i would never have sex with him when i’m sick so he’s trying to rile me up the little fucker. have i mentioned that i actually hate him. like for real hate him. the type of hate that leads to an absolutely mindblowing fuck. shit.

“or yesterday when you told matt you needed a break and came downstairs to my room to suck me off and then you just wiped your mouth and went back up like nothing happened. did you do it because i’m a piece of shit?”

my jaw is on the floor.

“or when–”

“OKAY,” i practically scream, “you’re the best and i didn’t mean what i said, just please stop.”

i’m almost whining at this point.

i try to rub my legs together to ease some of the friction unnoticeably but chris is like a hawk, sees everything, notices everything. and then he smiles. just smiles and goes back to the soup.

later that night, after i was forced to eat almost all of the soup and drink two cups of magic tea while chris downed a cheese burger, fries and three of the last four pepsi cans i had in my fridge, we snuggled up on the couch with a heavy blanket that chris had also asked his mom for, thrown over both of our laps and a random movie playing on the tv. 

neither one of us actually felt like watching something but we threw it on as background noise anyway. chris and i have barely seen each other in almost two weeks so all we want right now is to enjoy each other's company. he has been so busy with all that’s coming up for him and his brothers, still is. and i've been studying like crazy because i always feel like i won’t pass if i don’t and when i wasn’t busy with that i’d be at work to earn my living and feel like i’m doing enough. so there wasn't really time for us to actually be together and get to enjoy it. i've missed it.

“you know you’re probably sick because you exhaust yourself all the time,” chris says when he turns to look at me.

“shh,” i shush him with my eyes closed and a smile on my lips, “i got it from matt, no discussion.”

he lets out a little laugh at that, “yes discussion. if you keep going like that, one day it’s gonna have more serious effects on your health than a cold. you don’t even need to do all that. how many times do i have to tell you your life is worth enough even if you don’t work yourself half to death and have a little fun every once in a while,” he rubs my thigh while talking. chris knows better than anyone that i don’t like being put on the spot and lectured about my not-so-healthy habits like that, especially when i know exactly that it’s in fact very unhealthy. but he also insists on having these talks with me because he knows i would shut out everyone else who’d dare to try immediately. he and his brothers are the only three people i have let come so close and they make use of that quite often, might i say. but it’s okay because these people are my best friends and i know i need to be put in check sometimes, i admit. nobody else would dare try but them so i just let them. 

i must say, it has helped me improve my life to an extent. they taught me that it’s okay to cut ties with people who are bad for my mental health and encourage bad habits, and that i don’t owe shit to them even if they want to make me believe that. they kept telling me “quality friends are worth so much more than a big amount of bad ones” until it finally clicked in my brain and i blocked half of my contact list.

“look who’s talkin’. mister i work twice as hard as the person i try to lecture,” i jab my finger in his side and he jerks.

“you know that’s different,” he holds my hands in his to stop me from doing it again.

i like feeling his hands on mine. i know he’s my boyfriend and it might be weird to say it like that. but i haven’t seen him in so long, which means i also haven’t felt him in so long. it’s crazy but it almost feels like in the beginning when we were scared to touch each other and would act like we accidentally brushed our hand on the other but we both knew it was fully on purpose.

chris pulls me out of my thoughts again when he speaks, “at least i have an end in sight and work’s gonna be way more relaxed once i’m done with everything. with you there’s always–”

the ringing of his phone cuts him off and he takes a look at the caller id, his mom. he narrows his eyes at me and gives me a look that says “we’re not done yet” but picks up the phone and holds it up so she can see the both of us on the screen.

“i was going to ask chris about you but since you’re with him please pinch him for me,” is the first thing mary lou says when she looks at us. and i gladly do as she says even though i don't know what he did to deserve it.

“oww, what was that for?” chris asks whining and i just shrug and chuckle.

“you told me you would bring y/n the soup and go back home. you lied to me.”

i turn to him with my mouth hanging open, “christopher owen, how dare you?”

it’s so fun to aggravate chris.

he furrows his brows at me and then looks back at the screen, “she literally begged me,” he straight up lies. “i was trying to tell her i didn’t wanna get sick so i could only drop off the soup and blanket and would have to leave again but then she started crying–”

i hit him for real this time, hard enough to make him suck air through his teeth.

“mary lou, don’t believe a word he says.”

“i know, darling, you wouldn’t do that. chris, that’s twice you’ve lied today.”

“sorry, mom,” he actually looks defeated now, “you know i can’t just leave her all alone when she’s like this. i lied because i didn’t wanna worry you. i won’t get sick though,” at that me and her give each other a knowing look but let him continue, “y/n’s weak and in pain, of course i’ll be by her side as much as i can, you probably knew i was here, that’s why you called me,” chris wiggles his finger at his mom with a cheeky smile while she’s trying to hide her own.

“alright, alright,” she gives in, “that’s how young love is, i guess. anyway, have you eaten the soup yet?”

“almost all of it,” i report proudly, rubbing my stomach.

“only forced,” chris side-eyes me and i roll my eyes at him.

“and the tea?” mary lou just keeps going. well, i definitely know where her son gets the caring from.

i grab the mug that’s been sitting on the table for two hours and could now be considered iced tea and hold it up for her to see, “this is my third,” i take a sip.

“very good. okay, well, i just wanted to check if chris is taking good care of you. it’s important for you to get enough rest, don’t go to sleep too late, alright darling? i have to go now but if you need something just give me a call. i’ll talk to you both in the morning. good night, i love you,” she blows two kisses as we tell her we love her and then she ends the call.

right when chris puts his phone down we hear the doorbell ring.

we both glance at the direction of the front door as if we could see through it and figure out who’s standing on the other side. then we turn and look at each other.

“expecting someone?” chris asks me and i just shake my head no and shrug unknowingly.

“open up!” the voice sounds muffled but it’s unmistakably matt.

chris rolls his eyes and sighs loudly and i just giggle.

he moves the blanket and gets up to go open the door but stops in his tracks suddenly, turns around again, bends down and kisses me.

“won’t be able to do that for a while if he’s here,” he explains before he goes.

matt and nick do complain every time we kiss in front of them, so we agreed on trying not to do it anymore. they act like little kids being forced to see their parents being all lovey-dovey with each other. at least one of them always yells “GET A ROOM!” as if they’re not invading our personal space. big babies, like i said.

“what’s up, bitches?” nick walks in wearing the pajamas we wanted to match, holding up his hands. one holding what i assume is my set of the exact same one and a pillow in his other hand.

i jump up from the couch immediately and squeal as i run toward him to hug him.

“what are you doing here?” i ask once we let go of each other, our smiles still as big as ever.

“since chris is here breathing in germs and this one,” he points his thumb over his shoulder where matt is giving chris a pajama pair, “is already sick i thought we might as well have our movie night here since i’m getting it from one of you either way.”

“i’m so happy,” i squeak, elongating the words.

“aren’t you happy to see me too?” matt acts sad and offended when he moves to stand next to nick.

i roll my eyes but give him a big hug, “i am actually.”

chris scoffs and we all laugh. he moves to stand closer to me and i wrap my arms around him, tilting my head to look at him.

“you guys can go in the kitchen, grab some snacks while me and chris put on our pajamas,” i say to nick and matt, my eyes still locked on my boyfriend.

they do as they’re told once the’ve put down their things and soon enough they’re out of sight.

“you good?” chris asks me quietly, stroking my hair gently

“yeah. i just realized our alone time is over,” i respond in a hushed tone.

he gives me a kiss on the forehead before he talks, “it’s okay, we’ll just go up to your room when they’re asleep. nothing’s keeping me away from you tonight.”

hearing it makes comfort spread in my chest in a way i didn’t know i needed right now.

“i love you so much, chris. thank you for everything,” i try to sound genuine, because i truly am.

he holds my chin between his thumb and forefinger and dips his head until his lips meet mine.

“i love you too, ma.”

taglist:

@strniolosworld @that-general-simp @sturniolosreads @whoreforchr1s

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The surprising truth about data-driven dictatorships

Here’s the “dictator’s dilemma”: they want to block their country’s frustrated elites from mobilizing against them, so they censor public communications; but they also want to know what their people truly believe, so they can head off simmering resentments before they boil over into regime-toppling revolutions.

These two strategies are in tension: the more you censor, the less you know about the true feelings of your citizens and the easier it will be to miss serious problems until they spill over into the streets (think: the fall of the Berlin Wall or Tunisia before the Arab Spring). Dictators try to square this circle with things like private opinion polling or petition systems, but these capture a small slice of the potentially destabiziling moods circulating in the body politic.

Enter AI: back in 2018, Yuval Harari proposed that AI would supercharge dictatorships by mining and summarizing the public mood — as captured on social media — allowing dictators to tack into serious discontent and diffuse it before it erupted into unequenchable wildfire:

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2018/10/yuval-noah-harari-technology-tyranny/568330/

Harari wrote that “the desire to concentrate all information and power in one place may become [dictators] decisive advantage in the 21st century.” But other political scientists sharply disagreed. Last year, Henry Farrell, Jeremy Wallace and Abraham Newman published a thoroughgoing rebuttal to Harari in Foreign Affairs:

https://www.foreignaffairs.com/world/spirals-delusion-artificial-intelligence-decision-making

They argued that — like everyone who gets excited about AI, only to have their hopes dashed — dictators seeking to use AI to understand the public mood would run into serious training data bias problems. After all, people living under dictatorships know that spouting off about their discontent and desire for change is a risky business, so they will self-censor on social media. That’s true even if a person isn’t afraid of retaliation: if you know that using certain words or phrases in a post will get it autoblocked by a censorbot, what’s the point of trying to use those words?

The phrase “Garbage In, Garbage Out” dates back to 1957. That’s how long we’ve known that a computer that operates on bad data will barf up bad conclusions. But this is a very inconvenient truth for AI weirdos: having given up on manually assembling training data based on careful human judgment with multiple review steps, the AI industry “pivoted” to mass ingestion of scraped data from the whole internet.

But adding more unreliable data to an unreliable dataset doesn’t improve its reliability. GIGO is the iron law of computing, and you can’t repeal it by shoveling more garbage into the top of the training funnel:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/05/29/garbage-in-garbage-out-machine-learning-has-not-repealed-the-iron-law-of-computer-science/

When it comes to “AI” that’s used for decision support — that is, when an algorithm tells humans what to do and they do it — then you get something worse than Garbage In, Garbage Out — you get Garbage In, Garbage Out, Garbage Back In Again. That’s when the AI spits out something wrong, and then another AI sucks up that wrong conclusion and uses it to generate more conclusions.

To see this in action, consider the deeply flawed predictive policing systems that cities around the world rely on. These systems suck up crime data from the cops, then predict where crime is going to be, and send cops to those “hotspots” to do things like throw Black kids up against a wall and make them turn out their pockets, or pull over drivers and search their cars after pretending to have smelled cannabis.

The problem here is that “crime the police detected” isn’t the same as “crime.” You only find crime where you look for it. For example, there are far more incidents of domestic abuse reported in apartment buildings than in fully detached homes. That’s not because apartment dwellers are more likely to be wife-beaters: it’s because domestic abuse is most often reported by a neighbor who hears it through the walls.

So if your cops practice racially biased policing (I know, this is hard to imagine, but stay with me /s), then the crime they detect will already be a function of bias. If you only ever throw Black kids up against a wall and turn out their pockets, then every knife and dime-bag you find in someone’s pockets will come from some Black kid the cops decided to harass.

That’s life without AI. But now let’s throw in predictive policing: feed your “knives found in pockets” data to an algorithm and ask it to predict where there are more knives in pockets, and it will send you back to that Black neighborhood and tell you do throw even more Black kids up against a wall and search their pockets. The more you do this, the more knives you’ll find, and the more you’ll go back and do it again.

This is what Patrick Ball from the Human Rights Data Analysis Group calls “empiricism washing”: take a biased procedure and feed it to an algorithm, and then you get to go and do more biased procedures, and whenever anyone accuses you of bias, you can insist that you’re just following an empirical conclusion of a neutral algorithm, because “math can’t be racist.”

HRDAG has done excellent work on this, finding a natural experiment that makes the problem of GIGOGBI crystal clear. The National Survey On Drug Use and Health produces the gold standard snapshot of drug use in America. Kristian Lum and William Isaac took Oakland’s drug arrest data from 2010 and asked Predpol, a leading predictive policing product, to predict where Oakland’s 2011 drug use would take place.

[Image ID: (a) Number of drug arrests made by Oakland police department, 2010. (1) West Oakland, (2) International Boulevard. (b) Estimated number of drug users, based on 2011 National Survey on Drug Use and Health]

Then, they compared those predictions to the outcomes of the 2011 survey, which shows where actual drug use took place. The two maps couldn’t be more different:

https://rss.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1740-9713.2016.00960.x

Predpol told cops to go and look for drug use in a predominantly Black, working class neighborhood. Meanwhile the NSDUH survey showed the actual drug use took place all over Oakland, with a higher concentration in the Berkeley-neighboring student neighborhood.

What’s even more vivid is what happens when you simulate running Predpol on the new arrest data that would be generated by cops following its recommendations. If the cops went to that Black neighborhood and found more drugs there and told Predpol about it, the recommendation gets stronger and more confident.

In other words, GIGOGBI is a system for concentrating bias. Even trace amounts of bias in the original training data get refined and magnified when they are output though a decision support system that directs humans to go an act on that output. Algorithms are to bias what centrifuges are to radioactive ore: a way to turn minute amounts of bias into pluripotent, indestructible toxic waste.

There’s a great name for an AI that’s trained on an AI’s output, courtesy of Jathan Sadowski: “Habsburg AI.”

And that brings me back to the Dictator’s Dilemma. If your citizens are self-censoring in order to avoid retaliation or algorithmic shadowbanning, then the AI you train on their posts in order to find out what they’re really thinking will steer you in the opposite direction, so you make bad policies that make people angrier and destabilize things more.

Or at least, that was Farrell(et al)’s theory. And for many years, that’s where the debate over AI and dictatorship has stalled: theory vs theory. But now, there’s some empirical data on this, thanks to the “The Digital Dictator’s Dilemma,” a new paper from UCSD PhD candidate Eddie Yang:

https://www.eddieyang.net/research/DDD.pdf

Yang figured out a way to test these dueling hypotheses. He got 10 million Chinese social media posts from the start of the pandemic, before companies like Weibo were required to censor certain pandemic-related posts as politically sensitive. Yang treats these posts as a robust snapshot of public opinion: because there was no censorship of pandemic-related chatter, Chinese users were free to post anything they wanted without having to self-censor for fear of retaliation or deletion.

Next, Yang acquired the censorship model used by a real Chinese social media company to decide which posts should be blocked. Using this, he was able to determine which of the posts in the original set would be censored today in China.

That means that Yang knows that the “real” sentiment in the Chinese social media snapshot is, and what Chinese authorities would believe it to be if Chinese users were self-censoring all the posts that would be flagged by censorware today.

From here, Yang was able to play with the knobs, and determine how “preference-falsification” (when users lie about their feelings) and self-censorship would give a dictatorship a misleading view of public sentiment. What he finds is that the more repressive a regime is — the more people are incentivized to falsify or censor their views — the worse the system gets at uncovering the true public mood.

What’s more, adding additional (bad) data to the system doesn’t fix this “missing data” problem. GIGO remains an iron law of computing in this context, too.

But it gets better (or worse, I guess): Yang models a “crisis” scenario in which users stop self-censoring and start articulating their true views (because they’ve run out of fucks to give). This is the most dangerous moment for a dictator, and depending on the dictatorship handles it, they either get another decade or rule, or they wake up with guillotines on their lawns.

But “crisis” is where AI performs the worst. Trained on the “status quo” data where users are continuously self-censoring and preference-falsifying, AI has no clue how to handle the unvarnished truth. Both its recommendations about what to censor and its summaries of public sentiment are the least accurate when crisis erupts.

But here’s an interesting wrinkle: Yang scraped a bunch of Chinese users’ posts from Twitter — which the Chinese government doesn’t get to censor (yet) or spy on (yet) — and fed them to the model. He hypothesized that when Chinese users post to American social media, they don’t self-censor or preference-falsify, so this data should help the model improve its accuracy.

He was right — the model got significantly better once it ingested data from Twitter than when it was working solely from Weibo posts. And Yang notes that dictatorships all over the world are widely understood to be scraping western/northern social media.

But even though Twitter data improved the model’s accuracy, it was still wildly inaccurate, compared to the same model trained on a full set of un-self-censored, un-falsified data. GIGO is not an option, it’s the law (of computing).

Writing about the study on Crooked Timber, Farrell notes that as the world fills up with “garbage and noise” (he invokes Philip K Dick’s delighted coinage “gubbish”), “approximately correct knowledge becomes the scarce and valuable resource.”

https://crookedtimber.org/2023/07/25/51610/

This “probably approximately correct knowledge” comes from humans, not LLMs or AI, and so “the social applications of machine learning in non-authoritarian societies are just as parasitic on these forms of human knowledge production as authoritarian governments.”

The Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop summer fundraiser is almost over! I am an alum, instructor and volunteer board member for this nonprofit workshop whose alums include Octavia Butler, Kim Stanley Robinson, Bruce Sterling, Nalo Hopkinson, Kameron Hurley, Nnedi Okorafor, Lucius Shepard, and Ted Chiang! Your donations will help us subsidize tuition for students, making Clarion — and sf/f — more accessible for all kinds of writers.

Libro.fm is the indie-bookstore-friendly, DRM-free audiobook alternative to Audible, the Amazon-owned monopolist that locks every book you buy to Amazon forever. When you buy a book on Libro, they share some of the purchase price with a local indie bookstore of your choosing (Libro is the best partner I have in selling my own DRM-free audiobooks!). As of today, Libro is even better, because it’s available in five new territories and currencies: Canada, the UK, the EU, Australia and New Zealand!

[Image ID: An altered image of the Nuremberg rally, with ranked lines of soldiers facing a towering figure in a many-ribboned soldier's coat. He wears a high-peaked cap with a microchip in place of insignia. His head has been replaced with the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.' The sky behind him is filled with a 'code waterfall' from 'The Matrix.']

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

 — 

Raimond Spekking (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Acer_Extensa_5220_-_Columbia_MB_06236-1N_-_Intel_Celeron_M_530_-_SLA2G_-_in_Socket_479-5029.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

 — 

Russian Airborne Troops (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vladislav_Achalov_at_the_Airborne_Troops_Day_in_Moscow_%E2%80%93_August_2,_2008.jpg

“Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Col._Leonid_Khabarov_in_an_everyday_service_uniform.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[tswwwit]

Cult Part Four, coming at ya! Here's parts One, Two, and Three for reference.

Bill’s patience is running out. 

Dipper can see the way his eye narrows from across the room. His tapping fingers hit a frustrated staccato, rather than an idle bored beat.

Any moment now he’s going to act. There’s no preventing it; only enduring. Dipper hunches down in his seat. 

Hopefully it won’t end up as bad as last time.

“Boring!” Bill shouts. He throws his arms in the air before slumping down dramatically on the couch. “Are you really gonna spend all your time reading?”

And there it is.

Dipper watches Bill for a deliberately long moment, then turns back to his book. 

Unfortunately, for Bill, yes, that is how Dipper’s going to spend his time. After the last debacle, he knows better than to ‘go with the flow’, as Bill so annoyingly put it. 

“I get that you’re quiet for respectable enough reasons, but do you gotta be a homebody while you’re at it?” Bill rolls onto his stomach, chin braced in his palm. “What about all the other entertainment around? Our little outing the other day was way more interesting.” Without looking up, Dipper gives him a thumbs down. And though Bill makes a derisive sound, he doesn’t argue. 

That’s as good as admitting Dipper was right. One more day without horrifying demonic escapades in the nightmare realm, and a personal win.

What’s good for the demon… isn’t nearly as good for squishier, more mortal beings. Annoying as it is for Bill, he knows that as well as Dipper does.

Which is likely why he’s not pushing it. 

Even he has to admit that the outing didn’t go great. Keeping his human captive alive must be worth a little boredom.

That ‘fun little tour of the Fearamid, to ‘show you around the place!’ was supposed to be easy. As if wandering around a physics-defying realm is a walk in the park. One filled with hundreds of overpowered monsters who think  ‘mortal’ is a synonym for ‘snack’. 

Even if Bill had advertised it as a trainwreck, it couldn’t possibly have gone more off the rails.

To Bill’s credit, his infinite power did keep the slavering hordes at bay. They were on their best behavior. It’s just that their ‘best’ behavior is barely human-adjacent.

The day ended with Dipper somewhat more informed, miraculously unharmed, and only shaking a little. Getting all the ash and viscera off took three rounds of laundry and two baths. 

Bill, of course, laughed nearly the whole time.

So yeah. Dipper’s not going out again anytime soon. Eventually he’ll have to, if he wants to go anywhere but the apartment - but he wants to get way better at magic first.

Unfortunately for Bill, that means waiting. And he hates waiting.

Another long, bored groan from the couch. A quick glance shows Bill practically melting off it onto the floor. Torso dangling, arm draped along the carpet.  

More dramatics. Typical Bill. It’s not serious and Dipper doesn’t need to placate him. He has to remember that.

Instead, he stares at the text in front of him. Concentrating on it is a lost cause, but it’s better than meeting Bill’s eye. That just makes him uncomfortable.

It’s just. 

Like, he can understand if having a guest sit around the house all the time is a bit boring. Bill’s used to higher stakes. More excitement, and explosions. 

But Bill’s also a hypocrite, because Dipper’s absolutely caught him with his nose stuck in a volume or six of dense magical literature. He just shoves them under the couch cushions and pretends he was doing something cooler. 

There’s a billion ways Bill could entertain himself, and ninety-nine point nine repeating percent of those options don’t require some random human to be involved. He could run off into any distant realm of reality. Pull some pranks in another galaxy, bamboozle some head of state on a random planet. And if he didn’t want to go out, he could stick around and torment some demons in the Fearamid.

Nothing is making him bring Dipper along for the ride. Hell, if he’s that desperate for this specific company, he could try out some peace and quiet. Sit on the couch, whip out a book, and spend time reading. All he has to do is stop putting up a front for like, five seconds.

Dipper watches as Bill slowly oozes onto the floor, about as liquid as a presumably flesh-and-bone demon shape can be. 

Yeah. No way Bill’s going for the last one. But that’s not Dipper’s fault. 

Seeing him sulk is kinda reassuring. Any time Bill spends complaining is time he’s not concocting a devious ploy, or taking up his hobbies of conquest or slaughter.

Best of all, it means this has nothing to do with Dipper. Aside from being convenient to complain at.

Because Dipper is special. He’s there for a reason. 

In the fullness of time, he’ll be tangled up in some complicated, demonic scheme. Designed for him by fate, and handled by a master of machinations. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a while - but apparently it’s not happening today.

Right now Bill’s just being obnoxious. Just like every other day that ends in ‘y��.

Judging by his slumped position, Bill also doesn’t look like he’s getting up anytime soon. Maybe…

‘What’s wrong?’ Dipper traces the letters with his finger. A thin glowing line left behind in its wake.

He’s still learning the hand gesture language, with a limited vocabulary, but he already knows how to write. Learning a little illusion magic has been useful, and Bill wasn’t even a jerk about it. Much.

The words hover in midair, alight with white-blue light. Dipper waits for a few seconds, then frowns.

The downside of writing to Bill is that he has to see it to respond. The big sulky demon god is too busy contemplating the pile on the carpet to pay attention.

Dipper’s frown turns into a glare. 

A snap of his fingers makes a bright burst of light, sharp as a flashbang. Bill jerks up from his liquid position like he was never out of shape.

“What’s up, sapling?” Bill rolls onto his side to lounge, head propped up on one raised arm. Likely aiming for suave, but with his legs still on the couch it just looks stupid. “Are you as bored as I am?”

“No,” Dipper writes, then again, “What’s wrong?”

“Pfft, nothing! Don't be ridiculous.” Bill says, letting his legs slide down to join him on the floor. “I got everything under control here.”

That’s ominous. Dipper didn’t even imply that something might be out of control.

“What-” Dipper continues. Then hesitates. “You seem antsy.”

Bill snorts. Though Dipper knows he doesn’t have any trouble reading backwards script, he doesn’t offer a reply.

Not helpful. Classic Bill. And he’s avoiding the question. Dipper slumps in his seat. 

Trying to make Bill admit there’s a problem won’t work. He could spend a million years on that quest and still get evaded.

With that in mind, Dipper taps his foot on the floor a few times. Redirection, then. He tries, “Who messed up?”

“Ha!” Bill claps once, grin resuming its rightful place. “Astutely observed, sapling. You wouldn’t believe the amount of incompetence I gotta deal with on the daily.”

Dipper nods in sympathy, rolling his eyes when Bill’s not looking. Then he sits back, an audience for the oncoming speech. 

“You’d think that one simple request wouldn’t be tough to pull off.” Rising to his feet, Bill tucks his arms behind his back and starts pacing. “But no! Apparently the losers for hire these days take over two weeks to manage one tiny,” He pinches his fingers together. “Itsy bitsy little request! Even with encouragement!”

Dipper raises an eyebrow.

The type of ‘encouragement’ Bill typically offers would light a fire under anyone’s ass. The fact that it hasn’t says a lot.

For a short while, Bill simply paces back and forth. He looks like he’s about to say something, glancing at Dipper - then he turns away, eye narrowed. “I hate waiting.”

Yeah, no kidding. All evidence points to Dipper getting the most patient version of this creature, when others barely get seconds to respond. He punched him in the face and he’s still around to tell the tale.

Other beings aren’t so lucky. Even for minor infractions, or just ‘looking funny’ at him. 

Dipper should know. He scraped plenty of their viscera off the other day.

Writing something to placate Bill would get him huffy. Asking a question… Dipper has a sense that he’d deflect. If Bill wanted to go into greater detail, nothing would stop him from spilling the beans.

So instead of any of that, Dipper smiles. 

Like always, Bill responds with one of his own. Everything about him brightens, like flipping a switch.

“Eh, whatever. It’s no big deal!” Sauntering over, Bill leans against the back of the chair. His arm dangles down to brush the back of Dipper’s head. “Word is they’re finally done with the job. Should be here any day now!”

Bill’s playing a bit with Dipper’s hair, but he doesn’t come any closer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because the high back of the chair prevents him. 

Tough luck for Bill. This seat is comfy and all, but Dipper really picked it because it made it hard for him to loom.

Disobeying his god’s will is, of course, blasphemous, insolent, and absolutely forbidden.

But Bill doesn’t care. And frankly - Dipper doesn’t care much anymore, either. 

Making Bill work for what he wants feels right. Appropriate. 

Every time Bill runs right into a roadblock, watching him grumble and scheme his way around it is honestly kinda fun. Giving Bill something to work around seems to entertain him, and for Dipper - it almost feels righteous to thwart him. He’s kind of getting the hang of it. aside from the occasional burst of guilt.

Overall, Dipper’s really, really glad he read all those books.

The mini-library in the guest room has been an amazing resource. Not only for magic, but for the Fearamid, and monsters. It’s helped him brush up on his Latin and learn a bunch of spells.

He also learned that Bill probably didn’t stock these for him. No, these were there well before Dipper ever showed up. 

Though Bill tries to hide it, he likes books. The guest room ones wouldn’t be of much interest; the magical material’s too basic for him to care. Of course Bill would have flipped through them anyway, but if anything truly bothered him, he’d have pruned the collection, merely for his pride.

But Bill either didn’t notice - or didn’t care - about the anecdotes.

Sprinkled in those studious texts are dozens of tiny notes. Between every monster examination, or explanation of a complicated magical theory, there are mentions of Bill himself. A sentence scribbled in the margins, or a short paragraph explaining how Bill ‘thought it was stupid’ or ‘helped with this part’. All written with a steady, studious hand.

There’s nothing about Bill’s powers, or his domains. No sense of any weaknesses or strengths. Some anecdotes are a little funny, some a little strange, but for any academic or enemy purposes they’d barely be worth reading.

To Dipper, they’ve been absolutely invaluable. 

They speak volumes about Bill’s personality. 

That’s totally critical information if you have to deal with the demon himself. Reading between the lines revealed traits Dipper never learned in sermons. 

How Bill loves a good joke. How he’s temperamental, but easygoing as long as he thinks he’s in charge. The kinds of things one can get away with, if they’re clever. All of it written with absolute confidence, oozing a type of exasperated affection that leaps off the page.

Someone lived in that room before. A human. A guy who knew Bill, who did tons of fascinating stuff - and that guy got away with way more defiance than is rational or reasonable. 

Though that must have been centuries ago. The books are really old. 

There’s a low hum behind him. Dipper can feel the chair rock a bit, as Bill either tests its balance - or whether he can rip the back off, in service of more efficient human-bothering.

Another one of Bill’s personality traits. One Dipper could have guessed by himself.

He loves being the center of attention.

“Hmmm,” Bill hums again, stalking around Dipper with a contemplative look. Circling much like sharks are said to, though thankfully without the testing bites. Treating this more like a puzzle than an act of defiance.

Looks like the chair is giving him some trouble. Even though he offered to create the seat since Dipper wouldn’t join him on the couch. If anything he’s at fault for making it an option. 

With a huff, Dipper shifts until his back is pressed against the cushion. Bill pauses in his circling to inspect the new position, tilting his head. 

Once Dipper saw a video of a tiger in its cage, rolling a pumpkin filled with raw meat. It seemed like it was having a lot of fun, batting it around and biting into the flesh. 

Bill might not mind some defiance, if it serves a similar purpose. 

Before Dipper can wonder what amount of it fits the - well, bill - he’s interrupted by a foot stomping on the seat.

Dipper claps the book shut. Leaning away, he stares at the leg beside him. 

Bill’s taken his shoe off and stepped right onto his chair. His three-eyed monkey-patterned sock, toes wiggling, trying to nudge itself under Dipper’s thigh. 

What the hell is this supposed to accomplish? Dipper glares upwards at a bright, bold grin. 

“What’s the big deal? It’s my chair, technically speaking!” Bill winks with his single eye, tenuously balanced as he barges into Dipper’s personal space. His foot finds a weak place and slips between Dipper’s thigh and the cushion. “Scoot your cute butt and make some space.” 

It’s a big deal because it’s rude, for one. And second, Dipper’s not scooting anywhere. 

Drawing his legs up in an attempt to kick Bill’s out fails spectacularly. A whole calf gets wedged underneath him. Bill’s straddling the arm of the chair, his idiot bulky leg nearly shoving Dipper out of it. 

Shoving him back just makes him laugh. And work harder.

It’s a tense ten, maybe twenty seconds of squirming struggle. No matter how Dipper tries to use balance or leverage, he ends up with more inches of Bill underneath him. 

This is ridiculous. Bill has an entire couch to himself. He can make furniture appear and disappear out of nowhere. If he wants a damn chair, he could just create one.

But. That’s not the point, is it?

He wants Dipper’s seat because he’s not allowed to have it. The desirability is directly tied to the difficulty of obtaining it, with a side of annoying a human to boot. Dipper could be lying on a bed of nails and Bill would still tip him out, just to get his kicks.

He’s not even sitting in the chair at this point, merely hovering while using the arm for balance. Trying to plop back down would land him more on Bill than on cushion. 

Screw it. Dipper cedes his position with as much dignity as possible. Standing up tugging the rolled-up flannel sleeves down his arms. 

The newest conquest of Bill Cipher: One seat in the living room. Dipper hopes he’s real happy about it.

Funny thing though. In the process, he left his own throne unguarded. 

Dipper stalks towards the couch - he doesn’t like the material it’s made of, but it’s either make a point or start huffing off to his own room - 

Only to be hauled right back in. 

The grip on his hips is firm and fast enough that Dipper doesn’t have time to resist. Butt hits thigh, then gets tugged further back until he’s fully, unquestionably, in Bill’s lap.

He just got out of the chair. Bill had won. What the hell. 

Dipper gives him an incredulous look, and Bill responds with a big, self-satisfied smile.

“Well, well, well,” Bill says, dripping smugness so thick that Dipper could wipe it off in globs. “Look what we have here.”

The only reply he’s getting for that is a grunt. While this isn’t the first dumb stunt Bill’s pulled, Dipper knows better than to react. It only eggs him on.

Of all the people Dipper’s met, Bill Cipher is by far the most touchy. The closest runnerup is a few lightyears away. 

Even now, his arms loop loosely around Dipper’s waist, patting him on the side. He’s warm and close, in an alive way, not like a warm bed or a shower, or even a seat that was sat in before. 

It’s… not unpleasant. Not exactly. Dipper shifts around, trying to settle into his new ‘seat’ on Bill’s thighs. It’s just - 

Damn it, he doesn’t know what it is. Touching someone else isn’t bad, Dipper has to admit that - but it makes him too aware of himself. Feeling every way he positions his arms, or moves his weight. Like remembering he can breathe manually, with an extra uneasy sense that someone might catch him in the act.

Bill’s unbothered. But basically nothing bothers him. He’s chummy and touchy and weird, the concept of ‘guilt’ might not even fit in his head.

Something about Bill just... Makes Dipper think too much. Makes him weirdly restless.  Like he’s doing something wrong - but also like he’s totally going to get away with it. A tense energy that builds slowly over time, until he either has to escape, or like. Explode or something.

It’s probably Bill’s magic. He should rein that in better. It’s far too strong to dunk an entire human in all the time. 

“Ah, ease up already.” Bill says, clapping Dipper’s thigh with a startling motion, squeezing him just above the knee. “You still got a seat, only it’s better.” His voice grows quieter, close to Dipper’s ear. “Don’tcha like it?”

His breath is warm. It tickles. Dipper barely avoids slapping him in the rush to cover his neck. 

Which doesn’t bother Bill. In fact, he laughs. Dipper has a sneaking suspicion that even if he had smacked him, he’d be outright cackling, because again, total weirdo.

Across the room, there’s a wordless, agonized scream. 

Dipper nearly leaps upright, kept in place only by an instantly tightened grip. Bill snaps towards the sound, looking surprised.

Ah, right. The doorbell. 

That goddamn sound. Even when Dipper knows what it is, the temptation to run for cover is as strong as the first time.

“Oh for - “ Bill draws a hand down his face. “Had to be right now, didn’t it.” His leg jogs in place as Dipper tries to get up. “Hey, hey, hold up! Where do you think you’re going?”

Off his lap, duh. With someone at the door, Bill has to get up anyway. Not that he’s making it easy. 

Dipper takes the initiative to pry himself away - or attempts to, until Bill clamps back down without even looking at him. 

This is getting ridiculous. He can’t hang on to one human forever.

When the doorbell screams again, Bill looks downright sour. 

“Ughhh.” Bill groans, standing without warning. It nearly topples Dipper over. “Yeah, yeah, hang on, will ya?”

Giving Dipper a brief pat on the small of his back, Bill stomps over to the door. Another scream rings through the penthouse, then again, the sounds overlapping.

Freedom. Finally. Out of sheer pettiness, Dipper drops down to reclaim his rightful seat. 

Still, he’s curious. 

From this position he can’t quite see the doorway. Only the sight of Bill’s back, storming towards it.

There haven’t been many visitors. When Bill wants demon interaction, he heads outside the apartment. The only other time someone rang the doorbell, they brought some big weird box Bill grabbed before kicking the delivery guy to the curb. 

Yet another interesting fact, filed away in his personal Bill folder. That he gets deliveries. He doesn’t make everything out of nothing. Maybe he can’t.

Which means even in his own personal realm, Bill Cipher isn’t totally omnipotent. Another knock to his all-powerful status. Not a big one. Bill’s still so close to a god that it might as well not make a difference.

But it does. To Dipper, it does. Knowing that not everything bends to Bill’s will feels…

He’s just glad he’s not alone in that, he guesses.

Off in the distance, Bill opens the door. His frown flips right into a smirk - then he steps outside, and shuts it. 

Probably another package. He looked extra smug about the last one, like he’d been waiting for it for a while. This follows the last one.

Dipper leans over, staying seated. With the door closed he can’t see anything, and if they’re having a conversation, he can’t hear it. 

Secrets. Smugness. The mentions of ‘errands’ earlier, and the waiting - 

Bill’s up to something.

The Grand Plans of Bill Cipher are invisible to those outside his circle. His divine machinations are how he leads his followers and manipulates the masses. All eventually leading together into the Grand Goal: the subjugation of Earth, illuminated eternally under his golden image. 

Though if conquering a world involves internet delivery, it’s a lot less dramatic than it was made out to be.

Dipper lets his head thump back against the seat cushion. 

Not that, then. Something else.

Pretending Bill isn’t up to something would be dumb at best, and Dipper’s not the type to ignore evidence right in front of him. Getting strange deliveries. Rubbing his hands together and cackling to himself, the fact that he’s Bill Cipher - all of it points towards a plan. A poorly hidden, minor one, but still.

None of the scriptures he learned are accurate, according to the god himself -  and Bill’s kept mum about any new escapades. Without clues to go on, all Dipper can do is speculate.

Eventually, Bill will show his hand. An offhand comment, or an extra-bizarre set of actions. Until then, he’ll have to keep an eye out for Bill acting weird. 

Well. Weirder. 

And hope, rather nervously, that he’s not too deeply involved.

Dipper sets the book aside, folding his hands in his lap. He looks back at the door, then over the living room. 

The fireplace in front of him crackles with warmth, typical fire-colored flames lapping up into the nonexistent chimney. The flannel shirt he’s wearing is almost too warm, but he keeps it tucked around him anyway. Under his weight, the chair’s cushions sink around him, sturdy yet soft. Rich and opulent and comfortable.

Despite how strange it is here. How confusing, weird, and occasionally frustrating…

Living with Bill doesn’t suck. 

The other shoe is going to fall at some point. That unpreventable, oncoming disaster. Dipper’s always worried about it, he never won’t be. 

But right here, and right now, he’s…

Not safe. Never safe, not around a god and demon. But maybe close enough to feel that way, sometimes. 

Despite the fact that it’s impossible - if things could stay like this, then -

His thoughts are interrupted by a sudden loud slam. Which is. The door. Right. 

Dipper pries his nails out of the arms of the chair. He shuts his eyes, and lets out a slow, careful breath. He needs to stop flinching, damn it. 

He hears Bill’s cackling laughter rings through the room, loud and bright. Dipper rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat.

Alright. Time to make some mental notes. 

What’s Bill up to now?

If it’s anything like the last package, he’s going to act all mysterious about it, while also implying Dipper should be very curious and intrigued. Then never answer literally any question and giggle before running away. Both stupid and annoying. 

“Finally! I’ve waited way too long for this,” Bill says. There’s a package wrapped in brown paper, tucked under his arm. He rubs his hands together, looking Dipper over with anticipation. “Paid a pretty penny for it, too.” 

Dipper runs over a slew of options - subtle, hinting. Maybe if he throws in a smile, that’ll sway Bill into spilling a secret….

Fuck it, he’s in a good mood. Dipper just asks. Writing out, “What is that?”

“Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.” Bill tosses the package aside - it floats in midair - then seizes Dipper by the shoulders. “Get yourself ready, sapling! Cause we’re doing this tonight.” 

What. 

Dipper tries for a smile. He tries to gesture out ‘My what’, and is immediately thwarted as Bill hauls him up from his seat; he grabs onto Bill’s arms so he’ll stop with the shaking. 

Enthusiasm is nice and all, but seriously, what the hell?

The way Bill talks makes it sound like he was in on this. A co-conspirator, who should share his excitement about getting this delivery -  Which wouldn’t be too bad, except he has no idea what’s going on. 

“Aw, don’t make that face,” Bill tuts, chucking him gently under the chin. “Getting all the junk required was a pain to subcontract, lemme tell ya - but wait’ll you see the results! Your surprise is almost ready!”

A surprise. Just for him. How fantastic.

So much for not being involved.

Dragging his feet doesn’t help; Bill’s arm comes around his waist and pushes him along. If he dawdled any harder he might just be picked up.

Getting Bill’s attention fails, because he’s not looking. Gesturing words, writing them - nothing turns his head. He’s laser focused on dragging Dipper up and towards his fate.

No, not ‘fate’. Surprise. 

That could be bad. Really, really bad, or it… could be good. Some surprises are good. That’s within the realm of possibility. 

Who the hell is he kidding. It’s never a good surprise, not even once. 

Bill hums to himself, bright with energy and - now Dipper’s certain - deliberately ignoring the struggling human in his arms. He’s too busy pulling Dipper towards a doorway. One that wasn’t there a minute ago. 

Dipper’s seen this happen before; it’s another part of the penthouse. Leading to a different, unknown part of the Fearamid.

He casts a longing glance back at his chair. Can’t they just do whatever it is in the living room.

“Now, to set the scene-” Bill says, opening the door wide.

Into a dark room, candle-lit. Sconces flicker with fire on the walls, draped red fabric over seats, and at the end - a large, flat mass of stone. Dipper goes very, very still.

“Whoops! Wrong setup.” Bill slams the door shut, flashing a grin at Dipper that entirely fails to be reassuring. He taps the doorknob a couple times. After a moment, he opens it again “Here we go!”

Clutching Bill’s arm tight, nails nearly cutting the fabric - Dipper gets a glimpse of white and black and gold, a bunch of tile - then shuts his eyes and digs in his heels into the carpet. Useless. Pointless. But a small, deliberate act of defiance.

“Not the most dramatic scenery, but eh, whatever.” Bill keeps talking, as casual as if he’d flipped to the wrong photo on his phone. Dipper’s socks skip on the carpet, then slide against the tile as Bill drags him forward. “There’s something to be said for easier clean up!”

Cleanup. 

Dipper clenches his mouth shut, ducking his head and refusing to look. He can’t watch this again. Not ever. He’ll-

“Now stay here, sapling.” Bill pats his back twice, and Dipper hears his shoes clacking on tile as he walks away. “Gotta do some quick concocting, be about five minutes - and then we’re gonna have a great evening!”

Great for who, Dipper wants to ask. He wisely doesn’t. He doesn’t move an inch. 

This is going to be bad.

Bill leaves, still cackling. Dipper stands where he is, eyes shut. Tucking his arms around himself, even though it isn’t cold. 

This entire time, he’s known he was here for a purpose. That living here wasn’t some grand generous gesture, that Bill’s ulterior motive would rear its ugly head. He should have spent more time figuring it out. Learning how to escape it. He has a whole huge list of things and none of them are any goddamn help. 

Bill said he was special. Gods don't grant that adjective without implications. 

What little information he has gleaned isn’t useful. The last time Dipper asked, Bill just looked amused. Closing the distance between them with a slow, dangerous smile, repeating exactly what he said again, low and pleased.

Dipper had to go and sit in his nice quiet room after that. It made him really nervous. Not knowing what’s coming makes him nervous. 

Okay, a lot of things make him nervous, but this time he has very good reasons to feel that way.

Time to think. Get ahead of whatever’s going on, and find a way out. What does Bill want?

It could be he was kidnapped from that particular sect because of… something something magic reasons. Anything could cause it. Maybe something in the ritual. What if whatever it did didn’t just summon Bill, but affected Dipper, now he’s roiling with sacrifice potential, he could -

He grips his wrist, tracing a thumb over the scar.

With the bandages gone and the stitches out, it’s nothing more than a line. Slightly raised from the rest of the skin, pink with healing. 

No. Blood’s not the answer. That’s all staying inside. 

But it is a major magical component, both literally and symbolically. If something else made Dipper weird, it’d show up like antibodies after an infection.

And Bill brought him into a special place for easy cleanup. If anything’s more ominous, Dipper sure as hell can’t think of it. This place with the shining tiles, and the cold floor, full of - 

He hasn’t checked what it’s full of.

Swallowing dryly, Dipper takes in the clean surfaces, the shining tile, and all of the…

Bathtubs?

The one set in the floor is big enough for three people. Two are stuck into the walls, another bent ninety degrees to fit in the corner, and one on the ceiling, of all places. There’s a big, semi-transparent curtain around an alcove containing over eight showerheads. There’s a rubber duckie that has six wings and too many teeth. 

This looks like a bathroom. One weird, physics defying, nonsensical - wait a minute -

On impulse, Dipper scoots over and picks up one of the bottles near the multi-headed shower. He sniffs at the cap.

Yeah. He knows this smell. It’s close enough to put a finger on. In that it’s put finger and palm and annoying arm around Dipper, all the freaking time.

He sets the bottle back down, setting fists on his hips. Glaring at his surroundings doesn’t make them change, but it does make him feel better.

This is Bill’s bathroom.

What kind of evil plan takes place in a bathroom.

Freaking out seems less reasonable and more a waste of time. Easy cleanup - was that literal, or another bad joke? Bill would think that crap was funny.

He breathes in, and then lets it out, slow and careful.

Obviously there’s still a purpose. Probably it’s not great. 

Terror’s just hard to sustain when he’s wondering why Bill needs four different loofahs. His list of awful fates never involved shower gel.

Dipper shuffles back over to the sink - wishing he’d had shoes on, he nearly slips twice - and checks himself in the mirror. 

He looks small and oddly colorful, out of place among the black-white tiling. Standing out like an awkward, human thumb.

Pulling some big, important move here doesn’t seem likely. The aesthetic’s terrible, Bill’d pick somewhere way cooler.

Overall the bathroom is kinda normal - by Bill standards - both fairly humid and warm. The air smells like shampoo and soap, instead of blood and magic. 

Now, the altar room would have made sense. Human sacrifice, demonic soul-devouring, messy blood ritual - it’s a multipurpose setup. Getting dragged in there would have shortened Dipper’s list by a ton. Only to the goriest and most awful fates, but at least it would narrow it down.

Unless… this doesn’t have to do with why he was kidnapped. 

Dipper frowns at his reflection.

Thinking about it, didn’t Bill suggest getting in the tub with him a few days ago? At the time Dipper thought that was a joke. Unless it wasn’t?

All this happened because Bill got a delivery. Something Bill couldn’t make for himself. He’s been planning this for a while, and he was really, really excited about it.

…Bath bombs better not be literal in this place. That’d be a stupid way to die. 

As he stares in the mirror, his reflection looks back. Dipper looks tired, but mostly, kind of exasperated. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of both hands. 

Yeah. Bill’s being Bill again.

And honestly? Could be worse. Dipper knows how to deal with a few random deific impulses by now. He can ride this one out, too.

Since Bill isn’t back though…

After that first panicked flight into Bill’s bedroom, Dipper hasn’t seen much of his private stuff. Staying clear of another incident took priority. Now, there’s an opportunity to investigate.

A close sweep reveals zero secrets, other than Bill using like, ten different skin products and a stupid amount of hair ones. The sharpest object in the entire place is a bunch of toothpicks and nail products. There isn’t even a razor in here. 

In the middle of wondering how to bathe in the Rube Goldberg machine that passes for a shower, he hears the door open again.

“Here we are!” Bill says brightly. “Didja miss me? Admit it, you missed me.”

Dipper spins around with a start, socks skidding, and meets one of the biggest grins he’s ever seen. Which is saying something. 

“No time to waste! I’ve got a whole evening laid out for us.” Bill says. He gestures in the air with a thin glass syringe. “And it all starts with this.”

Light glints off an absurdly large needle, thinned to an impossibly sharp point. The glass underneath swirls in a sickening cloud of grey-green fluid, dotted with tiny rainbow sparkles. Actually, the shower might not be good for bathing, but could be a good place to hide. There’s a lot of things to grab onto when someone tries to drag you back out.

“Hey hey hey!” Bill snags him by the waistband before he moves more than an inch. Almost like he anticipated the retreat. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, kid. This is gonna be great! You’ll love it!”

Dipper shakes his head rapidly. He makes an X with his arms. Neither of which stop Bill from pulling him in with relentless strength and terrible amusement.

Running’s off the table. Squirming away from Bill hasn’t worked literally any time he’s tried it, either - but that’s no reason to quit now. Even with Bill grunting and swearing as limbs flail and sorta-maybe accidentally on purpose get him in the gut, if Dipper can get to a faucet and make everything wet that’ll make it harder to hold-

“Calm down, Pine Tree.” Bill says, then sighs as Dipper’s elbow collides with his chest. “Don’t you want your tongue back?”

He’s got to -

What?

It’s surprising enough that Dipper stops. A little too fast, maybe; he should have toed his socks off earlier. If Bill weren’t holding onto him, his face might have hit the floor.

“Ha! Knew that’d get you listening.” Bill says smugly. With a quick tug, he gets Dipper back on his feet - primps his collar for him, in an annoying way - and winks. “You, me, your tongue - we’ll all get along famously, guaranteed.”

That’s not possible. That’s - 

Dipper glares at this asshole for playing yet another game, and not a funny one at that. Bill beams back at him, and doesn’t elaborate. 

“What, still a skeptic?” Bill raises an eyebrow. “Hello! I’m Bill friggin’ Cipher. You think a little body horror’s outta my purview?”

Okay, fine, but. But Dipper just figured out that Bill isn’t as much of a bigshot as he claims. 

This is - has to be - another big fat stinking lie.

Before he can argue, Bill starts talking again. “See, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.” Tilting his head back, he looks up at the ceiling like he’s being thoughtful, instead of frustrating. He taps the terrifying syringe against his cheek. “And I figured - Hey! I don’t like fixing other people’s mistakes - but this screwup was too bad to ignore!”

A mistake, he says. A screwup.

Dipper bites his lip. Sure, Bill’s said those things before. But. He’s never even breathed the word ‘fix’. 

This is something that he wants Dipper to believe. There’s no basis in reality. To bring this up now, out of absolute nowhere, is cruel and insane. There has to be a complication, it won’t be easy, or -

Possible. It’s not possible. 

Dipper wants to slap himself; he grabs his shirt instead, holding it tight in balled fists. 

This has been over with for a long, long time now. He screwed up, he got caught, and even if he didn’t deserve it then, well. What’s done is done. He’s learned to live with that. Been there, done all the steps of grief, despair and rage, bought the t-shirt.

Nobody could have stopped it. Nobody would do anything about it then, and won't now. Nobody was ever going to save him, or make things right. 

Maybe Bill didn’t order this. Or condone it. It doesn’t matter. 

None of that changed how things turned out.  

Bill has been watching Dipper for a while. Not in an upset way, just curious. Like he’s reading Dipper’s mind - which he probably is - but hasn’t bothered to correct him. He catches Dipper’s gaze in the mirror and flashes a smile, before his face returns to semi-neutral.

Guess he isn’t going to fess up. That’s fine. 

If this is Bill’s idiotic plan, getting Dipper worked up, he might as well know what the cruel, senseless motivation is. Or make it look as dumb as it clearly is.

Time to pick this ploy apart.

Unfortunately, that brief moment of hesitation bought Bill enough time to get behind him. His stupid face is so smug in the mirror’s reflection, and his palm is warm on Dipper’s waist.

Dipper grimaces, hunching his shoulders. He can’t let himself be swayed. Not to this insanity.

Some things just have to be cut off.

“It won’t work.” He writes. 

“Bullshit.” Bill says flatly. He taps Dipper’s shoulder, slight irritation in his voice. “I didn’t put in this much effort and that much cash to make a friggin’ placebo.” A quick, semi-gentle shake. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? That I’m some run-of-the-mill sucker? I deserve more credit than that!”

And - yes, hard to argue with. For all of Bill’s many flaws, he’s not truly stupid. 

Still a liar, though. A fact proven over and over again. That he’s persisting with this one shows real commitment to the bit. This awful, prank that he’s - 

…pretty damn excited about it. Practically bursting with enthusiasm, bright and eager to move on with things. Like regrowing a body part is like running a quick, exciting errand. Like it’d be simple. Dipper wonders if it is, before glaring in the mirror again.

It’s the confidence. Bill always acts like could stride forward into any situation, and no matter what, the forces of his magic and his ego will come out on top. He’s so certain of himself it’s downright convincing.

Damn it. Dipper rubs at his eyes.

Overthinking, again. Leading him to the train of thought Bill wanted him to take. Now he’s finding it hard to derail.

And - and besides, even if Bill could do it, he would have earlier, wouldn’t he? Would have fixed things as soon as he knew. He waited with bated breath to hear Dipper speak, that expectant look started from day one. Spoken at length about how much he hates the tongue situation, too. It’s like it bothers him more than Dipper at this point, which is so weird that it almost loops back around to make sense. He would have used anything he had on hand -

Dipper looks up. His own face in the mirror stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Unless he didn’t have it on hand. 

The packages.

Another glance at Bill’s face shows the same expression, maybe a little more intrigued. It might even pass for reassuring, if he wasn’t holding a needle sized more for puncturing cat-sized butterflies than any medical procedure.

Bill can’t do everything. Only mostly everything. Dipper’s seen that firsthand. 

And when he does have everything he needs for a plan, he snatches the first possible opportunity to pull it off. 

It’s - 

Dipper can’t. He needs more information.

‘What’s in that’, He writes the words in the air. Legible, if shaky.

“Eh, you got your hydra plasma, some troll platelets, unicorn spit,” Bill casually lists off the ingredients with practiced ease, flicking the side of the syringe. “Some stuff of my own design - and a few drops of your blood.”

His - Dipper pats himself, checking his arms, his torso. Nothing hurts, and he hasn’t noticed new scabs. Surely he would have seen Bill coming over to - 

Another snort. “Uh, hello? You left plenty around the place when I stitched you up, kid. It was hardly in short supply.”

Another bit of truth; it did kinda go everywhere. And Bill would save some, like a creep.

Dipper rubs at his wrist, reminding himself that it’s absurd to be embarrassed about getting an arm slashed open. 

“I get why you’re not jazzed, kid. Not a fan of mouth stuff after your last big show, am I right?” Bill moves to sling an arm around his shoulders, missing as Dipper ducks and slides closer to the sink. He holds his arm out wide instead. “But think about the benefits! Don’tcha wanna talk again? Taste again? All the other stuff?”

Yeah, of course Dipper does. He’s thought about it over and over and over.

He remembers what it was like. Moving around. Talking. How food tasted better, in that he could taste something without it nearly being in the back of his throat. All those aching nights feeling a deep literal emptiness, clamping his teeth shut as if it’d make the yawning gape feel more complete.

Staying awake, with a burn he couldn’t swallow and a pain that wouldn’t stop. 

He was up night after night after night, hanging with those thoughts. Hoping for something entirely out of reach.

Eventually it was easier to stop thinking about it. 

When he dreams, he still has his tongue. 

“After all this time, you got the solution right here! In a solution, conveniently invented by yours truly.” Bill claps a hand to his chest, grinning from behind Dipper in the mirror. “Give it a shot! Literally!”

The ceramic of the sink is cold. Dipper’s holding onto it too hard, his knuckles are starting to hurt. 

He’s so tired of hurting. 

“Or, y’know. Stick with the super happy situation you have going on right now.” Bill makes a face, sticking out his own tongue before blowing a raspberry. He lowers the syringe. “Your choice.”

 Before Bill’s arm can fully fall, Dipper seizes him by the wrist. He doesn’t know when he moved, fast enough that even Bill looks surprised. 

Gotta calm down. Think about this rationally.

There's an all-powerful demon. A smart, conniving asshole, who spent time and effort on a completely crazy plan in this unearthly, magical realm. Carrying an evil implement of unknown origins, wanting to stick it right into his face. 

Because he’s been planning this. He played the long game. Bill’s been wanting to hear from him for ages, and he’s anything but stupid.

If there was ever a place this could work, it would be here. 

Despite everything. The position he’s in, the man standing behind him, and his own internal swearing at himself -

Dipper feels a flutter of long-extinguished hope.

A million things could go wrong with this. As far as he knows, he might have like, his head exploded instead of a good result. He could grow five tongues instead of one, or maybe it’ll come out rainbow colored or everything will taste like blood forever. He shouldn’t go along with this. It’s going to suck and be dumb and there’s no real guarantees.

Also, that needle is fucking terrifying. Another reason not to let Bill do whatever he wants.

Dipper shuts his eyes briefly, then writes, ‘Will it hurt?’

“Yep!” 

The expression on Dipper’s face must alert him to how bad that answer was, because for a brief moment Bill looks chagrined. He glances away, clearing his throat.

“Look. We’re talking about a piece of flesh smaller than a pack of playing cards.” Pinching his fingers together, Bill squints through the gap. “So what if it’s not a great time? It’ll take like twenty seconds! A minute, tops.”

In the mirror, Dipper watches his reflection’s shoulders drop just a bit. He breathes out through his nose, and rolls his eyes.

That… really shouldn’t be reassuring. 

Only it is, because Bill didn’t sugarcoat it.

He could have claimed it was a totally painless process, or tried to deflect and change the subject. Which would set off Dipper’s bullshit alarm pretty much instantly. Leaving him to wonder exactly how bad this would be.

As it stands, Dipper’s betting that ‘not a great time’ actually means ‘will horribly, horribly suck’. And it’s still better than being lied to. 

Another question. “And then what?”

“Then the fun starts, kid! I got a lot of ideas for activities, once you got the ol’ wiggler back in your yap.”

Not what he was asking; Dipper elbows him none-too-gently in the stomach.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bill grumbles a bit, then sighs. “Yes, it’s gonna hurt, you’re gotta shed some scar tissue,” He lifts a few fingers with each point, “Lotta bleeding and liquids and whatever. But super simple! Don’t chicken out now!”

A minute of agony. That’s it. Straightforward. Temporary. Super easy.

Dipper’s palm slips on the sink; he wipes his sweating hands on his pants. He’s standing on the floor but he has to grab the sink again to stave off a swelling sense of vertigo. 

If it’s as quick as Bill says, he can handle that, maybe. If it works. 

It better work.

“Remember, Pine Tree! All the benefits! Like talking! Midnight snacks!” Bill chimes in, sounding too much like a used car salesman to be truly convincing. “Attempting to stick it up your nose, getting it stuck to a lamppost in winter, making out with handsome immortals! Everything you’ve been missing out on.”

Dipper knows all of those, or - most of them. Bill doesn’t need to tempt him, he gets it already.

He just. Needs a minute. To think some more about the implications and all the details and such. A little more time and he’ll have his head on straight.

“We might even take a trip to your old cult.” The thump of a hand on Dipper’s shoulder has him tense, briefly, before relaxing again. “Dontcha wanna let ‘em know exactly how dumb that move was?” His voice lowers, quieter but closer. “Imagine the looks on their faces when you tell ‘em - out loud! - that they could never hold you back.“

Dipper looks up. 

Of all the scenarios he’d dreamed about, that had never entered the picture. Too impossible even for a daydream. Stupid and self-indulgent and insane. Only a madman would think of it. 

In the mirror, Bill’s eye has gone very bright. Leaning over Dipper, and muttering right into his ear.

Dipper writes, “Do it.”

“Finally!” Bill lets out a breath, a tension dropping that Dipper didn’t notice until it was gone. He beckons him in. “Alright. Show me the ol’ lingual stump there, sapling.”

In the second Dipper needs to parse that, Bill’s already turned him around. With a bright grin, he makes an odd gesture at his chin; it takes a second to get.

Right. For Bill to stick that huge thing in there, Dipper has to open his mouth. 

A simple motion. Dipper can manage. The first thing to do is stop clenching his teeth together. 

With effort, and a bit of struggle, Dipper lowers his jaw and tilts his head back. Bill takes hold of it, and Dipper deliberately doesn’t go tense. Watching the syringe lift into his vision, as shining bright as the grin on Bill’s face. 

He shuts his eyes tight. He might have to feel it, but Bill can’t make him watch.

As Bill gets into position, he keeps up a tuneless cheerful hum. Dipper tries his best not to picture it. The way Bill’s probably loving the entire situation, even when this is gonna suck. 

“You’re gonna feel a little pinch here.” Bill says, peppy as ever, and something stabs into the stump of his tongue.

On instinct Dipper tries to jerk his head away, but struggling against the grip Bill has on him - fuck, moving only makes it hurt more. And that awful groaning sound, he realizes, is him. Strangled and inhuman, ringing against the tile and in his own ears. 

Fighting - not this time. He has to let this happen, let it - 

A moment later his teeth clink on thin metal, and he realizes with a start that the needle was probably that long so he wouldn’t bite Bill’s fingers off. 

“There we go!” Bill sounds delighted. The needle slips back out, almost nonchalantly, as he hums a little tune to himself. “Great job, sapling. Not much left now!”

Dipper blinks rapidly; his vision’s gone blurry and he tries to clear his throat.Thank fuck, the first part’s over with. 

The rest better not be too long. Better not hurt much more. The back of his mouth feels like he’s been stung by a bee, a hot and growing ache. Touching the underside of his jaw with cool fingers helps for a brief moment, but it’s only cool on the outside. 

And it spreads. Fast. Down his neck. Up into his jaw. A stinging heat, rising and expanding.

Dipper clamps his jaw shut, teeth grinding, but the pressure’s barely a distraction. This - he grabs onto Bill’s arm, shaking it hard.

“What?” Bill looks nonplussed. He tilts his head to the side. “I toldja it would hurt!”

Yeah, but he could have been more descriptive.

More pressure helps; a hand on his throat, one over his mouth. The burn builds, like bile rising in his throat, like acid. Like he swallowed fire, spreading down his throat and up into his face and nose; his eyes start watering. 

Throat bobbing, trying to swallow, Dipper wants to make a sound, but doesn’t dare. Not when things are moving in his mouth with increasing wetness, thick and metallic, just like - god, he’s such an idiot. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted him, never should have let him touch him, ever or at all, not if this was the result. 

“Don’t hold it in, kid!” Bill says brightly, adding a light smack on the back of his head that sends him leaning over the sink. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

It’s so, so bad. Like his head is going to explode, like his throat will shut; it’s hard to breathe. The throb redoubles, then triples, mouth so full his cheeks are going to split open, why does Bill sound so calm. 

Leaning over was a good idea though.

Dipper opens up over the clean white porcelain, blood pouring out of his mouth. More than he thought could come out, even after the last time. A sick flood partly mingled with clear fluid, spiraling into a pink swirl in the basin.

Which. Does help with the pain. The disgusting torrent washes away the ache, even as it makes a miniature murder scene in the sink. Dipper’s whole head feels like it’s bursting, his nose is running, he spits and gags, and a thick chunk of grey-red fleshy gunk splats into the basin. 

He spits again - his jaw throbs with pain, but there’s less liquid this time. A couple more times and it’s dry. His head feels clearer, more headache than fire - and says “What the fuck.”

Then he jerks his head up, staring at his reflection. 

What he just heard. That wasn’t Bill. 

The Dipper in the mirror stares back at him, wide-eyed and pale in the face. Chin wet with blood and unknowable fluids, some dripping on his shirt. 

Behind him Bill stares in starry-eyed, open-mouthed delight. 

“What the fuck,” Dipper repeats, watching his mouth move in the mirror - and claps his hands over it. Bill claps his hands rapidly, like a huge, yellow, demonic seal. 

Dipper said that. 

His voice. Strangely deeper than he remembers, resonating in his own head. 

The pain is fading, fairly quickly. A thin sweat is cooling on his skin. Pulling his sleeve over his chin only gets about half the mess off. As the pain fades he’s aware that his whole face feels gross. 

In the first actually helpful move of the evening, Bill turns the sink on for him. 

Splashing his face with warm water feels good. Refreshing. Especially scrubbing away the slick mucus and sticky blood. He has to spit again a couple of times; the inside of his mouth feels so thick.

Then he feels a heavy clap on his back, one that drifts up to tousle his hair. Bill starts laughing. “Ha! Toldja it wouldn’t be so bad, kid. How ya feeling?”

What a question. How to answer.

There’s simply too much feeling. His mouth is full. Like he put too much food in there, but it’s not - not bad? Weirdly wet and taking up so much space. Like… a really new big finger he can wiggle around. Touching it to every single tooth in his mouth, and tapping it against the roof, and feeling - no, tasting - a strange, metallic tang that makes him want to spit again. 

Was Dipper’s mouth always this wet? He thinks he needs to brush his teeth. There’s ridges and bumps and - he winces as he bites down a little too hard. 

Strange yet familiar sensations. Feeling and touching and tasting. Not a distant memory that he focused on too hard. Not a dream.

In disbelief, Dipper sticks his tongue out. 

The air is cool and tastes like nothing, aside from the bizarre feeling of his tongue drying out. There’s no extra tentacles, no visible scars. He only sprouted one rather than seven, and it’s not forked or some bizarre color. Just pink and damp and round. 

Hell, there’s even the birthmark, just like before. Like it was never missing. 

Tentatively, he presses a finger against the surface - yep, that’s real. Also, he can taste himself touching it. Which isn’t bad, but is super weird. 

“Huh.” Bill says. Soft, almost surprised.

Dipper glances up in the mirror. There’s a weirdly contemplative look on Bill’s face, which blossoms moments later into a grin. 

“So that’s where that was!” Bill says. A second finger joins Dipper’s, touching the mark. “Pretty cute!”

Dipper’s tongue zips back inside at the first tap. He claps a hand over his mouth, glaring back at Bill.

Welp, now he knows what ‘god’ tastes like. It’s skin, with a hint of soap. At least Bill washed his hands first. 

The move was also annoying enough that he almost forgot that truly out-of-nowhere comment. Almost.

Dipper narrows his eyes, and asks, “Where what was?” 

Okay. Just kinda blurted that one out.

He touches his throat, rubbing his palm against the soft flesh. Then his mouth, pressing fingers on his lips.

Three more words. He’s speaking words. 

Flexing a muscle he hasn’t had in ages comes with fewer issues than he’d imagined. His voice is a little creaky, but his tongue moves just fine. One relief there; he’d worried he’d need to learn everything again.

“Eh, it’s nothing.” Bill lies. With a flourish, he pulls Dipper around so they’re face to face. “Now, what about you?”

Dipper opens his mouth again. Then he catches Bill’s expression, and shuts it. 

Of all the smiles he’s seen on Bill’s face - angry, smug, arrogant, amused, excited - none of the others compare. 

This one seems genuine. 

“Ahem.” Bill clears his throat. “So! Any first words for your very handsome host and healer, here?” His single eye flutters, like he’s trying a coquettish bat. “Maybe a thank you? A ‘you’re so great’?”

There’s the expectant look again. 

One of the first things Dipper learned about Bill Cipher - he wanted Dipper to talk to him. An insane request for an unknowable reason, from an equally insane and unknowable being. So far they’ve made due with other methods, communication has improved, but at the end of the day - 

Bill really wanted this. A lot. 

Now what the hell should Dipper say?

He rolls his tongue around, trying out silent syllables without opening his mouth. The words came so easily when he wasn’t thinking; now they’re all scrambled around in his head. 

The first thing he says should mean something. Be important. They should be - not devoted, Bill hates that. It should - 

No, wait. He knows the answer. 

Dipper turns around, bracing himself on the sink.  

When he smiles, it’s not because Bill expects it, or because he thinks he should. Just because he wants to.

“Hi, Bill.”

And Bill bursts out laughing, high and delighted. 

“Ha ha ha!” With startling swiftness he scoops Dipper up, raising high and swinging him in a circle. Dipper grabs at his arms, his heel clips the sink as they twirl. “Finally!”

Two disorienting turns later, Dipper hits the floor again, only for Bill pulls him into a tight, unmistakable hug. 

Dipper goes still for a moment, squished by strong arms - then fumbles, awkwardly, to pat Bill’s back in return. That’s what people in hugs do, right.

Normal people probably don’t get squeezed like someone’s trying to pop them, though. A few seconds in he thumps Bill on the back, until the jerk finally remembers mortals aren’t so durable.

“Nice to hear from you again, kid! Not much flair to your intro, but we can work on style later.” Bill holds him out at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “So! Now that you’ve got your tongue back, whaddya say we give that thing a workout?”

For a split second, Dipper wonders how tiny a barbell that would take, and how it would even work, before remembering that’s insane. Those aren’t a real thing.

Then he remembers that he’s hanging out with Bill Cipher, so. Hopefully it’s a very small barbell. 

Before he can ask or write the question, though, Bill seizes his wrist again. Dipper shakes his arm - no good, as always. Still worth doing.

Surprisingly, Bill snorts - then lowers his grip, taking Dipper’s hand instead. He squeezes that once, because everything’s a stress ball to him, then goes right back to dragging Dipper around like a toy wagon.

Matching his pace this time, Dipper follows in his wake. They leave the bathroom quickly, fading into a long, elegant hallway. 

Glancing around the place - opulent, check, grandiose, obviously - Dipper looks down at their joined hands and frowns.

So much for getting any context. Bill’s just. Going to do the physically impossible, celebrate it, then move right onto the next thing. Without looping Dipper in on any part.

As Bill reaches his target - another door, big and fancy and frankly tiring in how much Bill’s clearly showing off - Dipper grips his hand tighter.

No, wait. If he remembers right, this time there was a clue. 

Earlier, Bill said there was a surprise for him. The tongue had to be that, but then… there was an entire evening he wanted to get to. A series of events, perhaps. Knowing Bill, each one’s more bizarre and frightening than the last. 

“Hey!” Bill snaps his fingers, and tugs Dipper’s hand. He’s backing into the new room, grin alight as he spreads his arm wide. “Get outta your head and in here already.”

Shrugging, Dipper follows him in. After the last ‘surprise’, nothing’s going to catch him off guard. He doubts it’ll be as out of nowhere, or as bloody. Bill’s set a pretty high bar. 

This time, the room is… Dipper pauses. 

Dining room. Big table, the super long kind from medieval times, fancy tablecloth and chairs and heaped upon it, so much food.  

Taking his tongue out didn’t ruin his other senses; it smells fantastic in here. The spread is lavish and vast, piled way too high for any two people to possibly finish. Like everything Bill has, it’s over-the-top and way too grand. 

Dipper feels a sharp pang in his chest as he remembers he won’t be able to - 

Wait, no. Not anymore. 

He rolls his tongue around in his mouth - still weird - and swallows. He rubs at his throat, and glances, carefully, at Bill. 

That gets a smile, and a fairly smug wink. Bill clicks his tongue twice, gesturing him over to the table.

Things click into place. Exercise. An evening plan.  

Bill set this up for the express purpose of using his tongue on stuff, which is, mostly, duh, eating. 

As Dipper hesitates, Bill rolls his eye. “What’s with the holdup? You’ve got a major sensory organ back!” He nudges Dipper forward to the table. Pulling out a chair, he gestures with a flourish for him to sit. “Why not enjoy it?

Refusing would be rude, Dipper guesses. He takes the offered seat, then braces himself on the table as Bill pushes the chair in, patting his shoulders. 

A moment later Bill’s taken his own seat right next to him, looking pleased. “Whatd’ya think of the spread? ” He waves over the table, nearly knocking over a candlestick in the process. “Anything catch your eye?”

It’d be easier to list what doesn’t. There’s too much. 

Dipper’s only read about half of these dishes, and there’s a solid quarter he’s never even heard about. Bowls of noodles and a whole roast something that he can’t identify; platters of pasta and fried tidbits, a whole board full of cheeses, green vegetables piled high -

His mouth is watering. Like, a lot. A strange sensation, though not unpleasant. 

“Go on! All yours, sapling.” Bill scoots his chair a little closer, grinning wide. “Have anything you want.”

How does he manage to make an invitation sound ominous? Dipper side-eyes him as he slowly picks up a fork.  

What to choose. What will Bill let him have. To start with he’ll go for something simple; nothing that would be funny to yank out of his hand. 

Now to just… narrow down the dozens of dishes into ones he can identify and probably aren’t poisoned.

Bill watches him fret for about thirty seconds, heaving a huge sigh. He plucks something up with his fork - some kind of noodle in green sauce - and tries to shove it right in Dipper’s mouth.

His jab takes out an eye instead of hitting the target as Dipper flinches. Some sauce smears on his cheek, Bill makes another stab at it. Before he can do any damage, Dipper seizes the fork out of his hand. 

Alright, jeez, he gets the hint already. Being cautious is the smart thing to do here.

And what is this.

Pasta, obviously, though it’s a weird noodle shape. A green sauce when it should be red. It was handed to him by a crazy demon. Multiple reasons not to put it in his mouth.

But it looks pretty good, and it smells pretty great. Kind of herbal and rich, and - actually, Dipper’s really hungry, now that he’s thinking about it.

Fuck it. If he was going to get in trouble, it’d probably be that one time he punched Bill in the face, not for eating food he was nearly forcefed.

Here goes nothing. 

Dipper opens his mouth, trying to ignore Bill staring. Carefully guiding the food past his lips.

And with a thump, he sets the fork down. Shutting his eyes, and letting out a closed-mouth groan. 

Oh fuck. 

It’s great. 

The flavor alone has him reeling back like he’s been punched, filling his whole head with taste and smell. The sauce is creamy and rich, both herbal and slightly sweet, while the pasta tastes bready and not at all like sad cardboard. He can even taste the cheese on top, savory and sharp. Nothing like a microwaved plastic plate of mush. Something real, and filling, hot and fresh. Something substantial.

And chewing. He’d almost forgotten chewing like this. The simple sensation of a noodle, firm but yielding between his teeth, makes him have to blink rapidly to clear his eyes. 

No more tilting his head, no dry mouth. He can swallow with absolutely zero effort. At no point does he have to struggle to get it down, it just happens, without ever feeling like he’s going to choke. 

Dipper takes another forkful. Then another, pulling the bowl towards himself without bothering to put it on his plate. Bill looks on, with that same eternal smile, but whatever. He’s not the most important thing in the room.

Eating, so painlessly, effortlessly simple. He’d almost forgotten what this was like.

Forget everything else Bill has done, for a moment. Ignore the way he’s staring like a creep. Right now, Dipper could kiss the ground Bill walks on. Maybe even his cheek. 

Giving Dipper this back is the only thing Bill’s ever done worth worshiping. 

Eventually Bill drags the pasta away, tutting about Dipper being ‘unadventurous’ and ‘boring’. Whatever, there’s a lot more to try. More to investigate.

“How’s the grub, kid? Good?” 

Dipper glances at his plate - piled high with nearly a dozen things - then raises an eyebrow. Bill raises one right back. 

Oh right. Words. 

Swallowing, Dipper says, “It’s. Really good.” Then, uh, he should probably add. “Thanks.”

“No problem at all. In fact, my pleasure!.” Bill leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand. He pokes him in the ribs; it tickles a little. “You gotta put more meat on those bones, anyway.”

With a shrug, Dipper tentatively takes another serving of the green pasta. Currently it sits at number one on his list, but the rankings have been changing rapidly with each taste test. 

Bill’s also making odd comments, as is his wont. Sure, Dipper guesses he could stand to be a little less scrawny, though it’s not like he’s meatless. All humans are made of - 

Now there’s an unpleasant thought. 

“Wait, is, uh.” Dipper carefully sets his fork down, bracing his palms against the table. If he has to make a quick escape, it’ll give him leverage to shove off. “Is any of this. People?”

“Nah! Human flesh is really more for show than for taste, unless you’re an obligate anthropophage.” Bill snorts, waving off that thought. “You guys’re kinda stringy and bitter. That’s novelty food.”

Then he pauses. His eye narrows, he starts looking thoughtful. 

Before he can open his mouth, Dipper interrupts. “No, that’s fine. I really don’t want any. Thanks.” 

“Eh, suit yourself.” Shrugging, Bill settles back in his seat. He plucks a couple of mozzarella sticks off a platter and pops them into his mouth. “Like I shaid, y’re not mishing muh.” Wow, he has terrible table manners.

Another ‘horrible fate’ crossed out on the list: Bill isn’t fattening him up to eat him. 

Dipper didn’t think it was a likely option, but it never hurts to be sure. And with that out of the way…

Eating is so much better now. He has a lot of things to taste.

During his search, Bill’s eager to offer suggestions. A slice of rich dark meat, a sampling of something sticky but savory that goes well on it. A smattering of vegetables, a mozzarella stick or three. He even insists Dipper take a bite of some white meat pried out of the shell of a huge red bug. Deflecting his offer fails miserably, so thankfully it does end up tasting good. Though Dipper thinks that the dipping butter’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting.

Between the spread on the table, and Bill’s infinite creativity, there are infinite possibilities - and only one limit. His stomach.

When Bill tries to push another crepe on his plate, he waves it off. He leans back in his chair, breathing slowly. 

Good news is, he learned a lot about a variety of foods. He’s full and content. Bad news is, he really, really can’t take another bite or he might be sick. 

As far as Bill Plans go, this one’s hardly the worst. Even Dipper has to admit this was a good idea.

“Wait wait wait. One last thing,” Bill interrupts. He holds up a few fingers, turning away as he rifles through a small box.  through something with a bunch of frilly paper. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he turns around with a flourish. “Can’t have dinner without dessert.”

Dipper nearly waves him off again- then does a double-take. Is that - 

The small circle in Bill’s fingers is definitely chocolate, and Dipper’s only had that like, twice. Ever. Full or not, he can make room for this.

His first grab at it misses; Bill dodges easily and wags the treat with a mocking smile. “Ah ah ah, not so fast! Lemme do the honors.” He brings it close to Dipper’s mouth, eyebrows wiggling. “Open up.”

Dipper tightens his lips, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Then looking from the chocolate, back to Bill. The smugness of his grin does not waver. 

Normally Dipper would skip this entirely, rather than let Bill go ahead with this shady-seeming move. Unfortunately, the box is behind Bill’s elbow; he can’t just make a grab for the others.

So with a sigh, and a bit of a shrug, Dipper opens his mouth and lets Bill push the treat in. Reminding himself that Bill literally just fixed it, he won’t ruin it now. 

The moment the chocolate hits Dipper’s tongue he knows he made exactly the right choice.

Reach and sweet, just as good as he remembered. No, better. Smooth and not too cloying, as it warms and melts it fills his whole mouth. An involuntary groan comes out of his throat as it vanishes, gone all too soon - but some of it has melted on Bill’s fingers too. Dipper flicks his tongue out to catch the last of it, warm and sweet.

A sharp intake of breath. Dipper blinks his eyes open. 

Bill’s staring at him, very close. He must have scooted his chair over, they’re almost touching.

“Pretty great, right?” Bill says. His thumb brushing Dipper’s chin, tongue flickering out over his own lips. “How ‘bout you let me have a little taste.”

“Uh.” Dipper licks at his teeth, nose scrunching up  as he frowns. “I already ate it?” He glances over at the box, tilting his head to get Bill’s face out of his vision. “But, uh. There are more over there.”

Bill blinks twice. His lips tuck in, mouth in a flat line. The box on the dinner table must have slipped his notice somehow, because he turns to stare at it with a narrowed eye. 

“Hm. Mhmh.” A grunt, his eye twitches - then the grin slides back into its rightful place. “So there are!” 

With one snake-fast motion, Bill snatches a ball from the crinkly paper. He jams it into his mouth and bites down hard with too-sharp teeth. Chocolate splinters from the force, scattering on the table.

Ignoring the atrocious table manners beside him - Dipper leans back in his seat. He’s never had a meal like this before; Bill really went all out this time.

A second later, he yawns. It takes a few shakes and some blinking to clear his head.

Eating too much has side effects, he guesses. Part of him wonders - but no, if Bill wanted to drug him, he’d be passed out at the table. “Looks like you’ve had enough kid. Now up you get,” Bill says out of nowhere. An instantly later he’s pulling Dipper up  hands under his arms. “Can’t just pass out at the dinner table when the night’s hardly started!”

Wait, this wasn’t it? He’s got more planned? What the hell else could there be?

As Bill surges forward, Dipper just manages to step away before he’s bodily picked up.  He brushes off his shirt as Bill blows a disappointed raspberry behind him.

“Fine, fine. Use your legs if you gotta!” Bill scoffs, as he slides a guiding arm around his waist. “Get ‘em moving, then, ‘cause we’ve got at least one other stop tonight.”

He’s always fast. Always rushing. Always dragging Dipper out of one situation and towards another door. This could be his whole life, it seems; always another mysterious room, another terrifying situation, all with a jerk who doesn’t explain anything. 

Keeping up with Bill is easy once Dipper’s expecting it, but he casts a worried glance back at the dining room.

Leaving all that food there seems like such a waste. Then again, it is god-demon realm and all. For all he knows it could remain there in stasis, awaiting the next visit. Or just evaporate into nothing now that they’re done, which is even more of a waste.

Rethinking it, though - Bill did say he could have all he wanted. Encouraged him to indulge himself.

Maybe his full stomach is making him too optimistic, but he thinks some might ‘magically’ end up in his kitchen later. 

Or it’ll vanish completely because Bill and conserving go together like oil and water. Better not get his hopes up.

Whatever their next step is, Bill seems pretty cheerful about it. He’s even humming a tune to himself, one that Dipper can’t place. Refraining from giving Dipper any helpful information, per usual. 

Bill loves secrets. Mysteries. Keeping the events of the evening must amuse the hell out of him what with making it all seem intimidating, and ominous. 

Unfortunately for Bill, his secrecy has some holes in it. A pattern has been building in their night. Two data points, both leading to… 

Not a certainly positive third. Nothing’s certain. But it is trending in that direction.

Besides, if Dipper had to guess, the next one’s not the bad one. The theoretical fourth event is where Bill will pull the rug out from under him. Breaking a fully established pattern, right when he has his human lulled into complacence, is much more dramatic.

Before that happens, Dipper will cut things short. 

The guiding arm steers him around a corner, through a series of doors, leading into…

The living room again. 

Dipper gives it a quick once-over. Same furniture, same lighting, same obnoxious company. He’s been steered around a mobius strip leading back to the original spot.

“Pfft, what’s with the look? Relax!” Bill says, and shoves him onto the couch.

Dipper nearly jumps off of it; this not his favorite furniture material.  Bill pushes him down again, grinning like it’s a game of ping-pong rather than a guy not wanting to sit on furniture that’s slightly cannibalistic and could lick him at any time. Another attempt fails; Dipper’s palms sink into soft fabric, there’s not enough leverage to - 

He stops. Patting once, then twice. Looking down at his seat with mild surprise.

Okay, there’s one difference. This couch isn’t made of human skin.

A weird, but rather welcome change. Getting up at this point feels like too much effort, so he slumps into the seat.

The new couch, fabric and all, sinks easily under his weight. Soft enough to mold around his body, like it’s eager to absorb him. For a moment he worries it might, until Bill flops down right beside him.

“There’s only one way to follow up dinner with company. The classic human scene for this kinda thing, one might say!” says Bill, clapping his hands together. “First - setting the mood.”

A quick snap of his fingers, and the firelight dims. So do all the lights in the room.

“And second -” Bill grins, like he’s being very clever, and says, “Pick your poison, Pine Tree.”

Wait - they already ate, what is - 

At Dipper’s startled face, Bill rolls his eye, and holds up a finger. His face scrunches up as he leans forward, fishing around in the couch cushions.

A second later, Dipper gets a remote chucked into his lap. 

“You didn’t get a lot of shows back in the ol’ cult digs, am I right?” Bill jabs his thumb at the opposite wall - and the TV that’s appeared in the last five seconds. “No time like the present to start getting caught up!”

Secular media causes degradation of the spirit. Outside influences are absolutely forbidden. The only way to get access would be by sneaking around, or sticking one’s nose where they shouldn’t.

Dipper’s seen several shows, and he got them by himself, not through the cult’s terrible black market selection. Calling himself an expert would be an exaggeration, but he’s been around the block before. 

And honestly, getting back into that sounds great. Ten or so TV shows can’t compare to the likely hundreds that are out there; people must never run out of stuff to watch.

Plus, Bill will have demon media, too. Finding out what that’s like could be downright fun. 

Two minutes into channel surfing, Dipper has to admit he’s out of his depth. How much of it is missing out on a normal person’s experience and how much is Nightmare Realm stuff is hard to tell. Except for the obviously demonic shows, none of these seem familiar.

There’s literally a million freaking channels. Picking any one is impossible.

Meanwhile, Bill offers quick, one-word comments about how one’s ‘boring!’ another ‘meh’, a third ‘wow, that one?’, and a fourth ‘ooh, body horror!’ - Dipper flips quickly through the next twenty channels, hoping he won’t decide for them. 

At one point Bill tries hitting the opposite channel button so they flip back through the same two things for over a minute, until Dipper finally wrestles the damn remote away. If he ‘accidentally’ kicks Bill in the leg, either Bill doesn’t notice, or does a good job of pretending he didn’t. Either way, he’s laughing the whole time.

Eventually they settle on a demonic movie, something that Bill casually mentioned was ‘alright’, with an askance look at Dipper. Applying Bill-knowledge to that look - Dipper interprets it as him, wanting to watch it. With a side of ‘can’t show interest and still Be Cool’, and a half-serving of  ‘maybe the human shouldn’t see it’. 

Dipper sets the remote down. They’re sticking with this one. Anything Bill doesn’t want him to see probably has very juicy information. 

And if he notices that eternal grin widen, a bare fraction of an inch - he doesn’t comment on it.

About ten minutes in, Dipper realizes he should have asked if this would be all in English. This one has some, sure, but seventy percent or so is in Bill’s demonic language. Subtitles aren’t a thing; he poked at the remote for them but it just made the channels jump around, until Bill very casually flipped it right on back. 

Between the lack of language knowledge and demon knowledge, following the plot is hard. Dipper squints at the screen, as if that’ll make things easier. 

What little of it he follows shows a long, complicated drama. A lot of power plays, interpersonal violence. Mild-for-demons gore interspersed with over-dramatic arguments. The two main characters seem to be at each other’s throats all the time, while also being metaphorically attached at the hip. 

Nearly an hour passes before Dipper gives up on fully tracking the plot. A valiant attempt was made, but the language gap’s too large, even though the actors are basically chewing the scenery. Sometimes literally. Changing the channel’s out of the question, too; Bill too enraptured, Dipper too tired. 

It’s strange, really. Sitting here, with his ‘god’. Something he’d never thought he’d do, ever. Because Bill wasn’t real, then because Bill was up to something, and now….

A glance at Bill fails to clarify anything, as always. 

He knows Bill had a plan for the evening. He said as much. And it hasn’t gone off the rails, or Dipper would have noticed; this ‘god’ never misses a chance to complain.

The only conclusion is that things are going how Bill wanted. What that might mean is more of a mystery than the demon himself.

So far, they’ve only done a few things. Terrifying bathroom regeneration, dinner, and sitting here watching TV. A list too short to be helpful. None of them have much in common.

Dipper nestles down further into the couch, blinking slowly. Nearby, Bill pours himself another drink by snapping his fingers and summoning it.

What, exactly, is Bill’s goal with this? There has to be a purpose.

Giving Dipper his tongue back is obvious. It’s for talking. 

Bill’s been bored more than once waiting for a written reply - and while Dipper’s pretty sharp, he’s still a beginner at sign language. Add on Bill being a good but very impatient teacher, and things weren't going great. Hearing him make twenty guesses at Dipper’s next word while he was trying to remember the damn thing left both of them frustrated and annoyed. 

So the first part makes sense, even as a standalone. Regrowing an organ is way faster than learning an entire language, and Bill gets exactly what he wanted, right from the first time they met.

The food, well. Dipper’s still running that over in his mind, but he thinks it’s not much more complicated. Mostly a followup to the tongue thing. Possibly to show Dipper how great going along with Bill’s absolutely insane ideas is. Plus, Bill gets company, and to show off his power and all his ‘cool stuff’. He’s never hesitated to prove how quote, ‘awesome’, and ‘swimming in money, kid’, he is. 

If that’s right, it could be very useful. A little finesse, maybe a smile or two, and Dipper might get a repeat performance.

Both of those events fit with what he knows of Bill. Dipper can see how they work together, one leading into the other. 

That brings them to now. 

Sitting on the couch. Watching some way overextended drama thing with a language Dipper maybe catches one word out of ten in, while this ‘god’ lounges next to him with zero signs of ill intent.

This one… doesn’t fit.

Hell, he’s not sure how any of this fits. Not into a greater purpose. There’s no benefit. No grand plan, no conquering. No motive beyond ‘convenience’ and ‘entertainment’. No real gain for Bill himself, which more than anything makes zero sense, and these days Dipper can find a little bit of that in Bill’s actions, even if it’s backwards from the human kind.

But. 

If there isn’t a greater plan in mind. No scheme to empower himself, no urge to torment or conquer - 

Then this entire day was simply a series of selfish, bizarre whims from a guy who can do anything.

Which… is like most of the days Dipper’s spent around the guy. 

Beside him, Bill swirls his drink, snorting at something onscreen before taking another sip. Looking pleased with himself - typical - and wearing the common domestic smirk. No sign of any ulterior motive.

Okay. Say that there was a plan, of sorts. Just one that Bill thought would make his life more fun, and convenient. Hell knows just does whatever, whenever he wants. 

Then…

…Maybe it’s just movie night?

There’s a low groan next to him. With a huge, almost theatrical yawn, Bill stretches his arms wide, raising them in the air Once he's done, they thump onto the back of the couch; the closest one lands around Dipper’s shoulders.

Wow, even Bill’s tired. A big meal must have that effect on demons, too.

Dipper holds back his own yawn. For about five seconds. It happens anyway, leaving him slumping down, eyelids heavy.

He still can’t put the pieces together. None of the respective tabs and slots seem like they line up. 

But fuck it, it’s late. He’s tired. Trying to think through Bill’s convoluted mind is a task for a more life threatening scenario. 

Sitting here with Bill, sinking into the soft fabric of the couch, in a dimly lit but very warm room -

As far as plans go, Dipper can imagine far worse fates than this. 

In a way. A small one. He could almost get used to this.

Underneath the strange dialogue, he can hear the gentle flickering of the fireplace. Between the full stomach and the dim light, there’s a warm lassitude filling his limbs. Dipper stretches his arms, then his legs, before shuffling further into the enveloping embrace of the couch. 

Clearing his throat, Bill adjusts his position. The motion bumps his side up against Dipper’s, a solid, surprisingly not-unnerving presence.

Dipper grunts. After a moment, he tilts his head to look at Bill. He doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the drama playing out onscreen.

It’s strange - everything about Bill is strange - but in this relevant quiet and calm, Dipper can get a good look at him. Most of the time they’re close because his personal space is being invaded, and that doesn’t leave any space to think.

For a magical shape inhabited by an interdimensional entity, Dipper has to admit - the human form is very well designed. 

The body next to him isn’t full of sharp edges. Much softer than metal. It feels like a real person, somewhere underneath that permanent suit. The angles of Bill’s face and the shape of his body fit easily within the human spectrum, he could pass easily for one on the street. Anyone taking a second glance would notice the positives before the oddities. Even those weirder bits kind of fit Bill; they come together a strangely compelling way. 

Hell, Dipper knows it’s an artificial body, and he’s still fooled sometimes. It’s a truly excellent facsimile.

Given the chance, there could be more to figure out. Stuff to prod at, or examine. But Bill probably wouldn’t like that, and anyway it’s late. 

Dipper feels the weight over his shoulders shift. He hums a brief sound of apology; he didn’t mean to jostle Bill’s arm too much. It’s not bad, having it there. A warm, solid thing that holds him close, silk shirt soft under his cheek.

Too warm. Soft shirt. 

Slowly, Dipper lets his heavy eyelids shut.

A scream cuts through the air. Kinda tinny sound. Must be the doorbell again.

Then Dipper’s pillow shifts under his cheek, and he startles slightly. Not very far, maybe an inch. 

Wait. This is - not his room. The living room.

Orienting takes a second. The scream was - from the tv, right. Onscreen a demon gets murdered in a grisly fashion, swearing as it’s carved open. For some reason Dipper’s view of it is sideways. 

Wait, where is he? 

Dipper  leans up slightly to get a better look, and hears a muffled snicker. A firm hand presses his head back down, fingers carding through his hair. His face gets smooshed against silken fabric. 

Not couch fabric. Clothing fabric. And underneath it, a body. 

Which is the person next to him, who is sitting next to him, who can only possibly be Bill. 

Dipper nearly drifted off right next to the guy. That’s no good. 

How did this happen? One moment he was vaguely watching TV, the next he was out like a light, it’s weird. It hasn’t been a long day. He hasn’t exerted himself, he’s not sick or hurting, he hasn’t even lost any - 

Alright, he did lose some blood. The wound just healed over too fast for it to be a problem. 

And now that he’s concentrating on it - physically, he’s fucking exhausted. His arms and legs have a faint familiar ache, like he’s been running and hiding for hours.

Maybe regrowing an organ took more out of him than he thought. 

Trying to open his eyes is more difficult than anticipated. Dipper has to open them. Just gotta get up the will to move. Shove himself off the couch and escape. 

Forcing his eyes open, Dipper catches the movie just as a dramatic confession scene starts playing out. There’s a lot of arguing. And some kissing?  He can’t tell if it’s eternal rivalry or love, but either way Bill seems deeply intrigued.

Dipper could get up. There’s no compulsion on him. No curse, or any kind of spell.

But between the exhaustion, his full stomach, and sitting in a dark warm room, watching the fire flicker - Bill’s fingers, running in slow circles on the back of his neck and through his hair - it’s hard to think why he would.

Moving’s effort. Nobody’s making him do it. Even Bill’s distracted, watching his ridiculous drama; Dipper could drift off again, right here and now, and be totally, probably fine. 

He’s gotta get up anyway. 

Falling asleep on a literal Lord of Nightmares is a bad idea. Time to go to bed. In a real bed. Even if Bill doesn’t mind getting Dipper-drool on his fancy shirts, at best it’s rude as hell.

Eventually Dipper gets his heavy arms to move. He tries lifting his head. It’s briefly stopped by the pressure of Bill’s own cheek, before it disappears like… okay, maybe Dipper imagined that part. From there - standing’s effort, but surprisingly easy without demonic interference.

Not that Bill doesn’t look a little like he wants to grab Dipper again. His eye narrows, but he doesn’t move when he asks, “Hey! Where’re you going?”

“Sorry,” Dipper starts, then pauses. Bill’s got a weirdly pinched expression; he must not have liked that - The words start stumbling out, unbidden. “It’s not - Sorry. I mean, I just. Uh, I’m really tired. I should go to bed-”

“Why do you gotta leave for that?” Bill leans back further, onto the arm of the couch. He pats his shoulder, then runs his open hand under it like a showcase display. “You were plenty cozy here! Stick around!”

“You’re not a pillow though,” Dipper tries to argue, but Bill keeps talking. “Says who? I can be anything I want, whenever I wanna.” Bill sniffs, lifting his chin. “You should see me shapeshift, sapling, it’s a hell of a sight!”

Dipper shrugs. He looks down, digging his toes into the carpet. 

By all rights Bill should be offended that Dipper touched him at all, except for how he’s pretty touchy himself. It can’t add to any plan or conquer any planet, at best it would….

Does Bill… want human drool on his shirt? Is that a thing? Collecting blood is one thing, what do other fluids do?

“Ahem,” Bill pats his shoulder again, then his lap. “Get back here, already. You know you wanna!”

A command, though one that’s not harsh. And Dipper doesn’t have to follow Bill’s orders. He knows that. Bill hates that, he prefers to make a solid, convincing argument rather than watch Dipper fold like paper. Dipper could leave, right now, and it’d be fun for him, it’d be fine.

There’s an argument to be made that this order wouldn’t be too awful. He was pretty comfy. 

Unfortunately for Bill, it's also a bad idea.

Leaning up against a literal Nightmare Lord and taking a nap is bound to have terrible effects on the human psyche. Between the way Bill radiates magic like heat - like a goddamn furnace - feeling his chest through the thin shirt, the arms coming around him -

Dipper covers his mouth, looking away. He can already feel the flames of Bill’s magic licking through him, and they’re not even touching.

Definitely a pass. He prefers his brain unfried, thank you. 

He almost speaks up to say so before Bill snaps his fingers. An idea has struck him, apparently. By the look, he thinks it’s a great one.

“Not where you wanna rest your head? No problem! You got options.” Bill says, casually waving off any concerns like errant spiderwebs. “How bout this?”

In one quick motion, Bill undoes his tie, letting it drape loose around his neck. Another flick opens the first button of his shirt. He continues down, in a line of quick movement. One, then two; three and another. Dropping down, step after step, fabric parting until it reveals a wide expanse of skin.

What is he- Dipper turns his head away - then back when there’s no horrible explosion of fire or blood or, or - 

He doesn’t know what he expected. It’s just an open shirt.

With his work done, Bill kicks his legs up on the couch and lounges back, arms tucked behind his head. “So? Whatdya’ think?”

There’s probably a good response to that. Thinking of one is hard, though. Dipper’s never, ever seen the suit come off. Wasn’t sure it could.

He’d kind of wondered if there was skin under his clothes, and, yeah, turns out there is. A lot of it. 

“Hey!” Bill snaps his fingers, then grins at Dipper’s slight startle. “Now, if a shoulder doesn’t appeal to ya, this might suit your fancy.” He motions over the half-opened shirt. The body’s so human looking under the clothing; all warm-looking skin and the curves of muscle. “Mortals love nestling up against flesh, am I right?”

“Um,” Dipper says. Reaching for a word, or a phrase, to tell Bill that this is.

Not wrong, exactly. Sleepovers exist, not that Dipper’s had one. But he’s sure they don’t work this way. Neither of them are in their pajamas, there isn’t a pillow for or a bed around - and demon gods with dubious motives are never part of the equation.

Cultural clash, maybe. Bill could have misunderstood how this works. A brief moment of confusion, or insanity -

Billgiving Dipper a look that makes his stomach do a flip. Both dark and a little playful, a strange mix.

So much for misunderstanding. Bill seems like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Dipper wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants. His newly-grown tongue feels thick in his mouth. He tries to look at the carpet instead of at- anything else, and fails miserably. 

Each time he looks up, he’s confronted with Bill having a body and a chest, looking at him with a half-lidded gaze in the dim, flickering light of the fire.

The fireplace should have been turned off fully, come to think of it. It’s way too warm in the room right now, making Dipper lightheaded and slightly damp in his own shirt. Along with building energy. A weird tremulous feeling, like he shouldn’t just stand there. He should take action. Move.

“I gotta go,” Dipper blurts, and heads for his room.

He keeps a respectable pace while he’s at it. Not too slow, not too fast. This way it feels - and looks - less like fleeing.

“Whoa, wait wait wait,” Bill says. The thump behind Dipper tells him he’s gotten up from the couch.  “C’mon, kid, no need to rush off back to your bed! What, is it the mini-me you’re after? Cause the real deal’s a million times better than that bite-sized scrap of fabric.”

The door’s nearly there. Though Dipper hears Bill storming up behind him, he only picks up his own pace. A brush of air ghosts over his arm as Bill makes a grab at his wrist.

The heat, the energy, the weird, light feeling in his stomach - Dipper can put a pin in the core feeling now. 

Nervousness. 

All the more reason to leave. Feeling scared means something’s coming. Ignoring the danger only lets it catch up. 

Time to leave.

He gets his hand on the doorknob just in time for Bill’s palms to slam into the wood on either side of his head. 

Too fast, damn it, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that - and the low chuckle behind him sends a warm shiver down his spine. 

“What’s the matter kid?” Dipper’s stomach does an awkward somersault as he feels Bill’s breath ghost over the back of his neck. “You didn’t think you were gonna get away that easy, did you?”

The doorknob isn’t turning. Dipper grabs it with both hands now, but no matter which way he moves it, it’s stuck or something- Bill’s laughter rises into a high, delighted cackle, fingernails scraping down the wood.

“Not a chance,” Bill says. His voice is low as he presses Dipper closer to the door. “I’ve got big plans for you, Pine Tree.”

Oh.

The flushing warmth drains from Dipper’s face; his blood runs cold. The way Bill crowds him in feels less like his normal bullyish habit and more like being in a trap.

There was an ulterior motive; something dangerous and demonic. Stupid. Idiot. He should have known better before this happened. He shouldn’t have gotten so close, shouldn’t have agreed to anything tonight. Everything was leading up to a part of Bill’s grandmaster plan and running away ruined it, now he’s in trouble, he should have listened to his gut and gotten out of there first thing. 

Bill keeps saying that he’s special. How stupid was it to hope it was in a good way.

“No running off, kid!” Strong hands turn Dipper around and push him back. He hits the door with a thump. “You-”

Bill might be quick, but in this, Dipper’s quicker. He already has his arms up, covering his head, his face. His mouth works without permission as he says, “Please don’t-” 

Then clamps his teeth shut before the next word. Maybe Bill won’t - he probably wouldn’t, or not start now, he hopes. He thinks. Saying it could put the idea in Bill’s head if it’s not there already and protesting wouldn’t stop him if it was, it’d just make Dipper sound weaker than he already is now.

A hand reaches out. Dipper flinches away so sharply it hits the door behind him.

Nothing touches him. No punishment lands. 

Each moment that it doesn’t makes Dipper think that maybe, just maybe, nothing’s going to happen. Hopes it won’t. Bill hasn’t harmed him so far and he wants things to stay that way. 

But he’s so, so close.

In the silence, Dipper hears only his own harsh breathing.

“To start with,” Bill says, slow, though not as loud - Dipper realizes he’s drawn back a bit, one hand is lifted. “You’ll need this.”

He’s not going to look. He’s not - 

Okay, he does peek, because he’s curious. Since he’s already in trouble, he might as well know why.

Held between Bill’s fingers is an elaborate golden key. 

“Your door’s locked, kid.” Bill wiggles the key back and forth between index finger and thumb. “Might wanna do something about that before going beddy-bye.”

“Oh.” All of Dipper’s held breath escapes him in a rush. He lifts his head slightly, checking - but Bill’s standing a good two feet away now. Not. Doing anything. “Oh, yeah, um. Right.” 

That’s all it was. The knob wasn’t working because he locked it. That’s all. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

He doesn’t remember doing that, though- Wait, did his door even have one.

“Seemed like the sorta addition you’d been waiting for. No skin off my nose to make a quick renovation.” Bill purses his lips in a pout, like he’s about to sulk again. “I was gonna tell ya, but then you ran off! Ya gotta hear me out before fleeing, sapling.”

Oh. That’s - yeah, he did kind of want that, he just thought. Bill controls this place, he owns everything here. Asking felt wrong, could have got him in trouble, and anyway he hasn’t barged in in weeks, so really, Dipper hadn’t minded. But now….

Though the key’s right in front of him, it’s hard to get his limbs to cooperate. Dipper takes a slow breath, brushing off his shirt, smoothing back his hair. 

He just. Needs a second.

“Lemme just get that for you,” Bill says, with a brightness that doesn’t quite ring like his usual. He winks, stepping to one side and unlocking the door with practiced ease. 

The instant it’s open, Dipper rushes into his room.

Bracing himself on the footboard, he takes stock of the situation. The light is on, and everything’s in place. His bed is halfway made and his book is on the table where he left it, there’s no ominous presence chasing him into this miniature sanctuary.

He’s fine.

He’s back in his room. Back where there’s a soft bed, with cozy blankets, all of his stuff. Everything’s in place, nobody’s messed with it, even the plushie is still  next to his pillow. Nothing’s hurt him in here before and it won’t start now.

A few moments helps him compose himself. Dipper runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath.

 Plus. There’s a door that locks. Not much protection against the creature he’s cohabiting with, but that’s okay. If Bill does burst in, he won’t be able to lie and say he didn’t know he shouldn’t. 

…Bill hasn’t burst in now, either. 

A quick check over his shoulder shows him still standing in the doorway.

For a man who doesn’t like being ignored, he’s gone unusually quiet. Dipper waits. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt. 

Any moment now Bill’s going to fill up the silence. Babble something inane or intimidating. 

He doesn’t.

In fact, he hasn’t moved an inch. 

Bill stands just outside the threshold, hands by his sides. Watching Dipper like he’s a million miles away instead just a few meters, looking like - Dipper can’t place it. An expression that, on another face, would make more sense. On Bill it’s more like something’s gone wrong. 

More seconds pass in silence. Too awkward, and too quiet, Dipper should - Bill shouldn’t look like that.

“Um. Thank you,” Dipper says, stilted and awkward, but sincere. “For, uh,” He gestures, even more furtively, to his mouth

The corner of Bill’s mouth quirks up. “Eh, no biggie.” He flicks his fingers in a dismissive manner, then polishes them on his still-opened shirt. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love the sound of my own voice - but a guy can use a little variety around the place, y’know?”

“And, uh. Dinner was nice too,” Dipper continues, a rush of words, whatever comes to mind. Knowing that any moment Bill could leave gives him a weird burst of energy to keep rambling. If he’s talking, Bill will listen. He just said as much. “I really liked that. Did you always have a dining room that big? Does it always exist? I mean, yeah, you can just make stuff, but making entire architecture’s a big ask. Do you just move stuff around, or make it from scratch every time? I know you have a lot of magic, but don’t you need to, like, save it up for stuff, or does it-”

The questions keep coming, awkward over his new tongue. All the ones he’d been wondering about, and now that he can just say them, they pour out in an almost involuntary flood. So much faster than writing. 

Getting all the thoughts out of his head is kind of a relief. Bill’s eye widens briefly; he must not have expected that.

At some point Dipper realizes he’s been rambling at Bill levels of length, and shuts his mouth with a click. 

“So, uh.” Dipper clears his throat, feeling awkward. “Yeah.” That was way, way too many questions. Stupid. Intrusive.

Bill leans casually against the doorway now, raising an eyebrow. Again, amazingly, he hasn’t minded a bit of it.

In fact - while Dipper was speaking, every word added an incremental increase to his grin. Now it’s bright on his face again, full-force.

“Dinner, huh?” Bill says, electing to skip over any kind of answers, like a jerk. Looking amused now instead of - whatever that was. He claps his hands together, rubbing them with anticipation. “We should do that again sometime! Tomorrow, even!” 

“Sure,” Dipper agrees in a rush. Damn, maybe that was too fast. He sounds too eager, Bill could use it as leverage, dangle it in front of him then pull it away. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “That. Sounds okay.”

Bill chuckles. He takes a half-step, stopping just before he enters the room. “What, no followup questions?” His smile is teasing now. “Here I thought I was gonna get the whole spiel!”

“No I- It’s cool.” Turning away, Dipper rubs his face. He clears his throat. 

No more distractions. He was going to bed. He was getting away. Conversation over, he shouldn’t drag it out. 

“Forgetting something?” Bill speaks up. Dipper glances back at him, where Bill, again, raises an eyebrow. Again, he waggles the key in Dipper’s vision. 

Damn, he did forget; he’ll need that. Dipper takes a step closer. Then another. 

His own hesitance annoys him; Fuck it, it’s not like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. With a huff, he draws himself up and stomps over to Bill. Holding out his hand, palm up. 

The slow smile that spreads across Bill’s face is downright wicked. Another bit of showmanship; he’s clearly covering for something. 

Dipper narrows his eyes, and stands firm. 

One of Bill’s hands comes up underneath Dipper’s, cupping the back. The other sets the key into his palm, a motion that comes off as almost too casual. It might have worked, too, if he didn’t slowly trace his fingers over it, tickling the skin. “Here ya go, kid.” 

The touch leaves a tingling feeling in its wake. Probably magic, something with the key - Dipper pulls his hand back a second too late, clutching it to his chest. 

“Nighty-night, sapling.” Bill winks, and annoyingly, gives double finger-guns at him. As he backs away, the door slowly closes in his wake. “Don’t forget about tomorrow! Mark the date!”

Dipper raises an eyebrow. He’s not going to forget the literal next day. Bill’s an idiot. 

“‘Cause I’ll be seeing you real soon,” Bill continues. His face leans into the slowly closing crack of the door. Aiming for ominous, probably. Pity his timing’s off. “Sooner than you think! In fact, I could-”

Dipper steps forward and shuts the door with a ‘thunk’. The muffled ‘Hey!’ from behind it has him forcing down a grin of his own. 

Defying Bill shouldn’t be good. It should scare him. It should feel more wrong.

Instead it gives Dipper a bit of a spring in his step, and a faint burst of pride. The weirdness of this place must be catching. 

He makes a quick change into pyjamas, shutting off most of the lights. Flopping back into the comfy bed, with the lamp on the bedside table letting out a dim glow. 

Mini-Bill, keeping vigil on his pillow, stares at Dipper with the same focused intensity as the real version. Dipper scoops it up in his arms, and rolls onto his back, holding it above his head.

“At least you’re not scary,” Dipper says, and smiles. Because he can speak now, god, it’s going to take a while to get used to that. He pulls mini-Bill down and into his face, nuzzling the soft, worn fabric. 

Then sits up, suddenly alert. Somewhere Bill just swore really loud; it’s since faded into a long, complaining groan. He stubbed his toe again, didn’t he. 

A minor annoyance, considering. As exhaustion looms. Dipper flicks the bedside light off, and pulls up the blankets. 

This is probably the… not the longest day he can remember, but certainly up there. So much has happened. He’s learned some stuff - not enough yet, but some - and he’s going to get to do even more tomorrow. Because Bill’s a lot of things, but he’s never boring, and the whole time Dipper will be full and fixed and whole.

Thanking Bill earlier was sincere. But it didn’t cover everything, or how much it meant. It’s too vast; a mind-reader like Bill can’t know how he feels when even he’s still working it out.

One day, Dipper might find the words to describe it. How important this was. And, well. Special. 

Maybe he’ll even say them out loud.

He squeezes the plush tighter, and almost doesn’t feel dumb for doing it. Bill’s never judged him having mini-Bill and if it could be made fun of, he would, so. Keeping this, holding this, is okay. Curling up around it in the cozy bed, and holding it close.

Sleeping with it in his bed. In his room. He has a key to the place and everything.

…Dipper could live like this, he thinks. In this place of danger, extreme weirdness, and relative peace.

He also knows better than to think it can last.

But hey, screw it. Until then, he might as well enjoy himself. 

Back in the cult he never had a tenth of the creature comforts, and the company was definitely subpar. Here in the Fearamid, he’ll learn new things, all the time. Doing magic, having his own place, living and eating well. Finding secrets. 

And occasionally getting a bout of sheer terror, but, well. Bill is a Nightmare Lord and all. Complaining about that would be like bitching about water being wet, and here it happens less often than back on Earth.  

For now, he’s doing okay. Comfortable, warm, well-fed. Mostly, temporarily, safe. 

When Bill finally makes his move, Dipper hopes it’ll be obvious. Most of what he does is too weird to find a pattern. There may not be any clues until Bill’s already kicked off the events that will seal Dipper’s eventual fate. 

All because he’s special. And he only has one clue as to what that means.

Dipper wedges mini-Bill further between his chin and his shoulder. Running his tongue over his teeth, curling it in over the birthmark - then letting it lay still, heavy in his mouth.

As far as he knows, the plan could have already started.

[zo3mess]

Laundry girl

Summary: Laundromat is usually empty so late at night except for Adrian, until it isn’t. But there is no reason for him to get nervous around his new laundry buddy, right?

Warnings: mentions of violence, mention of death, mention of period blood, foul language and that’s all? If you notice something that might be triggering, just let me know. Also female reader and no use Y/N as far as I remember.

Word count: 3.8K

Extra songs for this fic

Masterlist of my works

Note: My ongoing brain rot with Vigilante, inspiration from the song Laundry Girl from Ludo (I politely stole a lot from their lyrics) and need to practice my English before test somehow escalated into this. This is a mess, nothing makes sense idk. Honestly, I have no idea why I decided to make it public, but hey, bad content is still content right? English is not my first language, so if you see any grammar mistakes or weird words, just ignore them. However every criticism is welcomed and appreciated.

Oh, the sweet contrast of late spring. Days warm enough to let bare skin be caressed by heating sun, yet cold nights leave shivers down the spine, a fleeting reminder that the carelessness of summer is not entirely there yet. Exactly on one of those nights, Adrian found himself in a 24-hour laundromat down the street from his small apartment. Neon lights from the sign were illuminating dark streets as well as the faint lights from inside. He didn’t like that smell that lingered in the air. Fragrances from detergents that are far too strong and mix in an unpleasant whiff, plus the disinfection and the smell from forgotten socks that got stuck somewhere between a wall and washing machine. No, thanks. He could buy his own washing machine, which would be much more practical, but why make anything easy when you can make it difficult.

When Adrian entered the familiar environment, he sighed at the strong smell hitting his nose. Temperature in the laundromat was slightly warmer than the one outside, but not enough for him to take off his hoodie. Adrian settled his bag with dirty clothes on a scraped metal table in the middle of the cramped room. There was one thing he liked about this laundromat, even though it was open almost nonstop, no one was ever there late at night like he was. Usually. Sometimes few drunks were sleeping peacefully in the corner, desperately seeking just a tad bit of warmth, but as long they didn’t do anything, Adrian had no reason to pay any attention to them. Tonight was different, his regular loneliness and peace was disturbed by another person entering the room. However screeching of old doors, quick gust of cold air and heavy tired footsteps did not alert him at all.

His mind was too focused on a single task before him, getting rid of dried blood that was plastered on his black undershirt. The one he wears under his chest plate, one that was stitched up too many times from all the slashing and tearing. Will he ever buy a new one? Of course not. Not until he finds a shirt that looks and feels the same as this one. Adrian cursed the guy that got his suit in such disheveled state. That bastard deserved a bullet to his head even before he managed to get Vigilante’s suit all messy and sticky with blood.

,,Do you need help with that?” you ask with a soft voice, a smile on your face while you look at the stranger in front of you expectantly ,,I don’t want to call myself a professional, but I can pretty much clean every stain. Or at least I haven’t been defeated so far,’’

Your question caught him off guard, his hands wincing a little. Green eyes glancing up at you with startled expression. When did you get here? Were you watching him the whole time? Crouched up above his shirt, scrubbing away with bile soap, tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration. You leaned across the table, examining his work. ,,Ketchup?’’

,,Blood actually,’’ Why would it be ketchup? He doesn’t even like ketchup. It does not taste like tomatoes at all! Goddamn lying sauce. ,,I got a really bad nosebleed. I get that a lot, that’s why my clothes are always bloody.’’ No other reason of course.

,,If your clothes are always bloody you should have no problem with cleaning them right? But I gotta admit blood is a hell of an enemy when it dries and sits on the fabric for a while. Just put it in cold water to soak off, that should do it.’’

,,Why do you know so much about cleaning blood?’’ Adrian asks with suspicion in his voice. Eyebrows furrow under his glasses and his eyes stare at you intently. Paranoia creeping up on him again.

,,Well I don’t know if you noticed but I’m a woman. Periods teach you a lot. I’m not some blood-stained killer I swear.’’ You say the last sentence with a wide smile, shaking your head before returning to your own work. Throwing dirty laundry into the washing machine without even glancing back at Adrian. He was standing there with fingers tapping on the metal table, burning a hole in the back of your skull with his stare. Yeah, you better not be. He thinks to himself.

He forced a smile and went back to scrubbing, he did not have the time to soak it off, he needed it ready for tomorrow, preferably without blood. You paid him no mind and pushed the button to start the cycle. With a sigh you took out a small book from the laundry basket you brought with you and sat down on a screeching chair nestled between other washing machines. If you have to sit it out here you might as well do something productive.

,,Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” his voice made you flinch and you glanced at him absentmindedly ,,I love that movie!”

,,Book’s even better.” You acknowledged his giddiness with simple words. The truth is you enjoyed reading books after you watched movies that were based on them. Sometimes they were better, sometimes worse, but they always expanded the story and the universe.

,,Reading is for nerds plus it can’t be that much better.” Doubting Thomas, of course. Adrian quickly waved off the idea that books can be better than movies.

,,There is extremely many things that did not make it in the movie, not gonna mention directive changes. But go on, live your life without all the great details.” You returned to your reading, barely registering quiet mumbling coming from Adrian’s direction.

,,What are you doing here anyway? I come here almost every Saturday and I am alone here.” He won’t drop it, curiosity gets the better of him most of the time, why would this be any different? It is suspicious that another girl is washing her laundry in the middle of the night. The fact he is currently getting rid of blood from the undershirt he wears out to kill criminals is an entirely different story.

,,My washing machine broke and I don’t have spare money to buy a new one. I’ll be coming here until my next salary.” The other option is attempting to fix it yourself, that would be a death sentence for the washing machine and you too.

,,But why so late? It’s way past midnight.”

,,Couldn’t sleep.” You just shrugged. You did not care if he believed you or not, it was true. Your new neighbors were blasting music practically all evening, it was better to wait it out elsewhere. ,,It seems we will be meeting each other more often. I didn’t catch your name.”

,,It’s Adrian.” His voice was hesitant, suspicion rising and falling with each word you said. He’s not sure if you are a poor soul with dirty laundry or a spy hired to watch the infamous Vigilante. How would you even know his secret identity? He had no idea, but sometimes it is better to account for all possibilities. You nodded at his answer and told him your name in return. Little something he burned into the back of his mind.

The more time you spent together in the chilly room, words drowned out by buzzing washing machines, the more you got along. Starting off with awkward small talk, through petty debate whenever books are better than movies, all the way to wishing each other goodnight as well as Adrian wishing you had a monster under your bed and parting ways. Only if he knew monster wasn’t the one creeping up on you in your sleep. Thoughts of tonight busying your mind.  

------------

The second time he met you was two weeks from the last encounter, just the way he mentioned previously. This time you were there first, already occupying one machine with white clothes while the other part of your laundry sat in a basket nearby. You quickly shot him a smile and he greeted you in return.

,,You’re here early.’’ Adrian commented almost under his breath as he put full duffel bag on the table and began sorting his clothes by colors.

,,Yeah well, no reason for it really. Maybe curiosity got the best of me and I got here earlier just to see if you would came like you said you would.’’ It seems that old habits die hard. Unknown to you, Adrian was always on time in his routines. Even if he wanted to do his laundry on a different day or at a different time, his body would urge him to do things in the exact same way.

The conversation went on quite smoothly, like good old friends meeting. Usual chatter about their days, unnecessary details of “total baller” breakfast from Adrian’s side, gossip about migraine-inducing coworkers from yours. Adrian attention was glued to every word you said, piece by piece putting together a bigger picture. He can’t even remember the last time someone actually wanted to talk with him and not just wave him off with dismissive answers.

,,- And then she put a fucking poster on our shared fridge. That stupid one with cat on a tree with “Hang in there” under it. And I thought our office could not get any more stereotypical,” you were throwing your hands around, visibly stating your annoyance at your coworker Debbie. ,,I don’t want to “Hang in there” I would much rather hang myself and I swear to God I will hang her in janitor’s closet if she puts another poster on the fridge or tells me a cheesy joke about how much she hates her husband, it’s not funny.”

She’s joking, Adrian, don’t sweat it out. There is no way she could kill anyone. His inner thoughts creep up to him again. From time to time, he would appreciate if his Vigilante mind left Adrian alone. ,,So uhhh… You don’t like cheesy jokes?” Yeah, great save, do not mention hanging Debbie.

,,I like jokes, just not stupid ones. To be honest I can’t remember the last time someone told me a funny joke. I guess it is a curse of modern times, humor changed.” You shrugged your shoulders and walk around the crumpled room, looking around and taking in details you missed on your first visit.

,,I could tell you a funny joke. I know plenty of them!” Adrian’s enthusiasm made you stop in your tracks. He’s just standing there, a wide smile forming on his face, fingers fidgeting with hem of dirty shirt that laid in mountain of laundry on the table in front of him.

Even if you told him no, Adrian has decided to recite every joke he knew. Some of them were horrible, some of them were… better. Yet it did not made you laugh. It was a fun game to pass the time, he told you lousy jokes and after each one he patiently waited for your reaction with puppy eyes. You, on the other hand, had tried so hard to not even let a corner of your mouth turn upwards. The bigger satisfaction it brought the more he stammered as he tried to remember another joke. Adrian could not let himself be a loser in this situation. He will not give up.

Not laughing at his jokes should be illegal. And that would make you a criminal. In that case, he would not feel bad if he had to take you out as Vigilante. And maybe if he got rid of you, he wouldn’t feel that irritating need late at night, body itching to go to the laundromat near his apartment to see if you couldn’t sleep either. If you’re scrubbing spilled wine from your shirt with cheap detergent before throwing it in a washing machine with the rest of your clothes. If you’re waiting patiently not only for your clothes to dry but also for that funny stranger with curly hair and a dorky smile to show up. Maybe then his mind would calm down again. He doesn’t need any more distractions in his head.

,,Knock knock,’’ he starts again, determined to win this imaginary joke war.

,,Come in,’’ you retort while chuckle is threatening to slip from your lips. Adrian’s arms slouch down his body, enthusiasm transforming into… Annoyance? He so desperately wants to see you smile, why can’t you comply? People usually laugh at his jokes, or more like they laugh at him. No matter the reason, people occasionally laugh in his presence alongside constant eye rolls. You haven’t done either and it is messing with him.

,,Knock knock,’’ a firmer repetition. He’s not going to get discouraged.

Determination is admirable in certain situations, in others it just leads to doom.  Like that one time when Adrian was chasing a thief down the street, low on bullets, ringing in his ears, lungs burning, but he could not forgive himself if that rat got away. All his attention was set on the dark figure way ahead of him that he did not notice a car when he sprinted across a badly lit street, ultimately knocking him down. Heavens were on his side that night, nothing serious happened except for a few nasty bruises and unrelenting remorse that haunted him following weeks. But the good kind of determination? That’s gonna win him a smile from a pretty girl in the laundromat.

,,Who’s there?’’ this time you decided to go along with his joke. These types of jokes are… foul, but you just want to see where he will land with it.

,,Honey bee,’’

,,Honey bee who?’’

,,Honey bee a dear and get that for me please?’’ Adrian says it with a wide smile and excitement in his voice. He points at your laundry beads that boost the scent. ,,It smells so good when you open it, can I try it?’’

You laugh just a bit. Fucking finally. Now Adrian felt like at the top of the world. He made you laugh, no matter if it was just a pitying laugh to get him to shut up, he decided to believe you actually found him funny and no one could take that from him. You noticed the dreamy look that plastered his face, especially when you let him borrow scented beads. Part of you cherished the fact he liked the ones you washed your clothes with every time and part of Adrian cherished the fact that now his clothes will smell like you before it wears out. That his sleeping shirt will carry part of you on those nights that he doesn’t see you here.

Wait, when did that happen? Smell of another person on his clothes should weird him out, it should give him goosebumps all over his pale skin. Why does it sound so comforting this time? Why does he want to keep part of you close? The last time he felt something similar was when his brother Gut died. They weren’t super close, but his death hit him like a train and he quite literally became a trainwreck. Adrian sat in his brother’s childhood room for hours, taking notes of all the small details, remembering the exact position of each and every piece of furniture. And at times when he felt close to breaking into tears, he took out his brother’s shirts. The familiarity and memories brought comfort. Comfort that disappeared as fast as it came.

This time he was not mourning death of someone close to him, this time he did not miss the feeling of adrenaline that he felt with Peacemaker when they shot appliances in forest or when they killed criminals together before he got locked up. This time Adrian felt a need to be close to someone he met just a few weeks ago, someone who barely knew him and had not gotten the chance to be taken back by his weirdness.

These thoughts and confusion followed him home that night. Not even the cold air could not break him out of trance. The way you laughed, the way you softly wished him goodnight when you parted ways, skin illuminated by purple neon light hanging above laundromat, and the way his now clean laundry smells like you since he begged for your scented beads. Pull yourself together Adrian.

------------------

,,I don’t understand how you might think Fargo is better than the Office or Better Call Saul for example. Saying it is the best show ever made is crazy.” Friendly banter about TV series was accompanied by clicking of your flip-flops as you made your way towards your apartment complex just a couple blocks away from the laundromat. Adrian had insisted that he walks you home this time, apparently he was afraid you might “fall asleep on your way home” since you two spent almost the whole night in the laundromat.

Not just doing laundry, you also brought your book, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and read out loud for him to hear the difference between book and movie. While you waited for your clothes to dry you two sat on uncomfortable chairs, you with book wide open, pages visible for Adrian to peek from behind your shoulder whenever he wanted. Though most of the time he spent with his eyes closed, face leaning on a stock of washing machines next to him, listening to your reading like a bedtime story. Even after your laundry was done you decided to stick around, competing who flicks quarters farthest, catching peanuts in your mouth and testing echo in every washing machine. Until you finally decided to head home and get at least few hours of sleep, by that time it was past 5 a.m.

Sun was lazily rising, yellow painted the sky but few dark clouds were spoiling the otherwise beautiful picture. The smell of rain was in the air, you both knew there was a storm coming on a calm Sunday morning. Few joggers passed you in a hurry. Early birds. Psychopaths. Not like Adrian wasn’t psychotic at least a bit, but he wasn’t that mad to get up so early to run in still-cold weather.

,,What do you think is the best show then?” he calmly asked and nudged your shoulder with his own, encouraging you to answer.

,,Well… I think the best show is The Kids in the Hall, undying classic.” You knew your walk slowly but surely reached its end. You could see your main entrance, the fact you were reaching your home was setting you aflame in the worst way possible. Nonetheless, your eyelids grew heavy and you could not stop yourself from yawning every few seconds, an unavoidable need to fall into your bed and surrender to sweet slumber.

,,That show is like 100 years old! Dinosaurs watched it!” Adrian shook his head with laughter. You didn’t find his jokes funny but you loved this out of all the shows. Unbelievable.

,,Hey! If you call that show old, it is like you’re calling yourself old! Should I call nursing to pick you up?” You stopped in front of your apartment complex, not entirely sure Adrian realizes this is where your hangout ends. You spin around to face him and quickly jab him in the chest with your finger.

,,Ha ha, very funny. But really? So many good shows and you pick this one? And call me out for liking Fargo? You have horrible taste.” He couldn’t let this go now he saw how adorable you looked when you were angry. What is the worst that can happen if he teases you more, right?

,,Shut it, Adrian. I’m serious.” You said that so calmly it almost took him aback, however he could see the fire burning behind your eyes. It only riled him up more.

,,You can’t make me-“ You grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him down swiftly. The best solution to shut him up was to press your lips against his. A firm, simple kiss that sent electricity through your body. You felt a muffled yelp that escaped Adrian’s mouth when you surprised him in such an affectionate manner. And at that moment, when your lips touched his, for the first time in a while his mind was quiet, yet his soul was singing. Time stopped, eyes were tightly shut, heart hammering inside, begging to jump out of his chest, one of his hands found its place on your forearm in uncertainty and took a step closer to get his body closer to you.

You, on the other hand, were fully aware of what was happening. The feeling of gratification that you “won” an argument was the last thing on your mind. The only thing you could think of was acting up on your secret wishes that swam through your head every time you went to the laundromat to see him.  Suddenly aware of everything, you felt the heat that radiated from Adrian’s body, warming you up in cold air, a few raindrops making you shiver as they fell on your skin. Or were you shivering from the closeness of this intimate act? If anyone asked you would not be able to answer. It did not matter anyway, the only thing that mattered was you kissing him.

The kiss lasted only for a few seconds, but you would both swear it was an eternity. When you pulled away, slowly and delicately, Adrian still had eyes closed, hand hanging in the air where your arm used to be. You realized his mind was completely shut off. A smile formed on your lips at the thought of shutting Adrian up this way every time he brings up some stupid nonsensical squabble. You left him standing there as rain started to fall on his hair, diamonds in those dark brown curls. And when he finally came to his senses and decided to open his eyes… You were gone. Coldness on his body where you were pressed together, sparks lingering on lips, sweet perfume filling his nose, those should be indicators that it was very much real, but his mind was not certain. How could it be, when the stupid brain ceased the second his dreams came true.

You quickly ran upstairs to your apartment, running up to the window in your kitchen and from behind a curtain you watched confused Adrian, who was walking in the opposite direction. What other choice did you leave him than to head home and wonder. Wonder about what you were doing when raindrops splattered on the sidewalk, sounding like your flip-flops. Wonder if you’re already sleeping safe and sound in your bedroom like he will when he reaches his home. Wonder if you kiss him again once you see each other next week in the laundromat. Wonder if the laundry girl was real or just a dream.

[moonrisecoeur]

pls expand on the daddy kink thing i’m begging you

YES OF COURSE BBY!!

fem reader. this isn’t technically afab but was written from that perspective.

leon is beyond embarrassed. try mortified. when you’d said you had a daddy kink, he thought you meant the other way around. like, the normal way. which didn’t really make sense given the track record of other things you like, but he didn’t really think that far. he was expecting to try this once, to cringe just a little bit internally when you call him that and then say it just ‘wasn’t for him’.

and then you tell him, “it’s not me who’s gonna be calling someone daddy.”

and of course you buffer that with things like ‘but only if you’re comfortable with it!’ and ‘you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do!’ but it all goes in one ear and out the other and all leon can think about is you want him to call you daddy. he’s distraught.

you want to humiliate him, clearly. clearly you’re not asking for this because you want to assume some sort of paternal role in your relationship, you’re asking this because you know it hurts his ego to call his girlfriend something so powerful, so masculine. and he knows you like it.

he would have thought you’d want to be called mommy, which is something he could more easily get behind. not that he wants to think of you as his mother, but that’s more appropriate, isn’t it? why would you want to be called a name so manly? he can’t make sense of it.

he agrees to try it once, once, because he can’t not give you what you want when you look at him with those pleading puppy eyes. evil.

after making out for a little bit, kissing and biting his lips, enjoying the low groans that escape him when your bites get a little too aggressive, you decide it’s time. he already seems a little dazed, when would be more perfect?

“can you say it?” you ask softly, knowing you’ll have to be patient with him, coax it out of him.

he looks away, shyly, and you catch the way his heartbeat picks up. he’s nervous, clearly. you’re not sure if that’s a bad thing yet.

“…daddy,” he whispers. he does in fact, cringe at the sound of his voice like he thought he would. his face is red, his heart is pounding. god he’s pretty when he’s embarrassed. he wishes he could take it back for just a moment, he wishes he could find a way out of this experience so he could die peacefully. he knows he realistically could, that you could stop at any time, but something prevents him from doing so.

it’s the shift in your demeanor that catches his attention. he finally makes eye contact with you after a painful could seconds of silence.

the soft, loving girlfriend he adores and treasures is locked away right now, and he’s left with a side of you he hasn’t experienced yet. you feel like a different person.

“god, leon, if you- if you keep saying it like that…”you groan, more than satisfied. can’t even bother to finish your thoughts, “say it again.”

he shivers at the tone in your command, “daddy… wait i- uhm-”

you stop. you’re waiting for the words that are going to crush your soul. can we stop? this is weird and i don’t want to do this anymore. you’re weird for liking this. you know leon’s too kind to say it like that, but you worry that’s what he thinks.

but he’s always full of surprises.

“please, daddy… please,” he whimpers, eyes closed in his embarrassment, and your concentration breaks for a moment. it’s confusing, but it’s also invigorating, intoxicating.

“oh, fuck, leon,” you groan, “you can’t beg me like that…”

“what..? why not?”

you take a moment to appreciate how pretty he looks under you, that word escaping his pretty lips as he begs, “because i will ruin you, until that’s all you can do: beg for daddy to fuck you.”

he swallows dryly, his heart pounding in his chest. he’s still far beyond embarrassed, and he would be horrified if anyone heard or saw what was happening. he would rather die than face the world that knows he’s getting off on calling his girlfriend daddy when it theoretically should be the other way around. but you’re not theoretical. far from it.

[shini--chan]

hiya!! hope you’re having a good day, could i request 1p! and 2p! canada’s reaction to when their s/o finally gains enough of their trust to cook for them— only for them to try to poison their food? i know its oddly specific my bad lol

Don’t worry, it isn’t bad, or too specific. I wrote it gladly. 

Trigger warnings: poisoning, body horror, temporary character death, descriptions of corpses

Yandere 1p! & 2p! Canada - Sweet Lilly-of-the-Valley

Native to woodland areas, Sweet Lilly-of-the-Valley blooms in spring. The sprays of white bell-like flowers are sweet smelling and the resulting fruit take the shape of bright red berries. In the language of flowers, it symbolises happiness. It is often used in wedding bouquets and to make perfumes. Due to the high concentration of cardenolides, it is highly toxic. 

1p Canada

Sweat made your shirt stick to your torso in an uncomfortable manner, yet you were too tired to take it off, not to mention putting on a new one. You leaned back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall and closed your eyes. Now, you just wanted to curl up where you were and fall asleep. You were so exhausted, both in body and in soul, that you thought you could sleep for a few days straight, damn the corpse that was in the other room.

Matthew's death had been surprisingly violent, something that you hadn't expected from a poisoning. Poison - you had just murdered somebody. It felt surreal, and the mere thought of it made your stomach twist and your limbs feel heavier than they were. It wasn't like it was a cold blooded crime that you had just committed, so why were you feeling so guilty?

Had you developed Stockholm Syndrome, between all the restrictions and isolation and coercion? Perhaps you had started to believe your captor again, when he explained that he was ruining your life because he loved you? It was twisted and fitted all too well into the mess that your life had become as of late. 

Talking of mess, you'd have to deal with the dead body at the other side of the bathroom door sooner or later. The vomit and blood that littered the living room floor would also have to be cleaned up, as well as the ash that he had tried to eat before he had become too weak to move. 

"I didn't think you had it in you."

Your eyes snapped open and you lazily turned your head in the direction of the voice. Matthew was standing in front of you, looking exactly as he had just minutes after his death. Since you hadn't heard footsteps or the door opening, this was probably just a hallucination conjured up by your overworked brain. 

"You always underestimated me, so the joke is on you", you shot back. If you were going to have a chat with the deceased, best play along and let off some steam. "For somebody that always complained of being seen as weak, you had the surprising tendency to underestimate those around you."

The corpse tilted its head in an eerie mockery of a living person. With his unearthly pallor, it looked like somebody was manipulating the head of a porcelain marionette. 

"So many spiteful words. Why couldn't you tell me about your problems before?"

At that, you snorted. Such a statement was rich coming from him. 

"I tried to tell you often enough, but you never listened. You always just brushed it off as me being childish. But now that you are dead, I don't have to worry about such things anymore."

Matthew grinned at that, exposing white teeth covered in blood. In death, his appearance suited his hidden vileness.

"Are you really sure that I'm dead?"

Since Canada would want nothing more than a "decent" relationship with you, the poisoning would actually catch him unawares, granted that you're not extremely sloppy. So he would die. Before that, he would put up a fight and do his best to get an antidote or some other countermeasure, as soon as he realises what is going on. Should he still be capable of speech, then he'll try to guilt trip or manipulate you into saving him. 

As a nation, he wouldn't stay dead for long. Once he revives, he'll scare the living daylights out of you. He wouldn't have wanted to reveal his innate nature this way, but since you would have left him with no other choice, he'd elect to use the opportunity to his advantage. The ensuing punishment would be harsher than any proceeding one.

2p Canada

The moment he disappeared to go to the toilet was the moment you chose to act. Quickly, you removed the flowers from the vase and poured some of the water into his half-empty beer. To cover your tracks, you poured some of the beer that was still in the bottle into the glass and the rest went down the drain. The Lily-of-the-valleys were returned to the vase, just in time as well.

 A few seconds later, James strode over the threshold and plonked down at the dining table. You had your back turned to him, and busied yourself with the food on the stove. Or tried to, because your hands were trembling and your heart was in your throat. 

You watched his reflection in the window and took deep breaths. James had picked the magazine he had been reading and resumed where he had left off. After a few minutes, he reached for his beer. Upon seeing that you had refilled it for him, he let out an appreciative grunt and a curt "Thanks." and placed the glass on his lips. A usual interaction - you didn't bother replying. 

The feeling of fear soared when you noted his frown, and how he looked at the glass in his hand with suspicion. He spat the beer out and fixed an angry glare at you. Before he could go on a triade, you took the initiative:

"You are darn rude, spitting stuff like that out. How old are you again? Four?"

Now, you turned around to face him. The best defence is offence, after all. 

"Hello pot, I'm kettle", he snarked. "What the blazes did you put in my beer?"

Unlike his 1p counterpart, James would be very cautious when it comes to you. While he would gladly embrace a more loving relationship, he wouldn't let his guard down. To him, it would just be the quiet before the storm. Additionally, he would be quick to taste most poisons you'd manage to get your hands on, being a trained nature conservationist. 

As such, he wouldn't feel betrayed when you finally do show your colours. Though, on top of your punishment for trying to kill him, you'd get a punishment for being cunning. If there is one trait he hates above all else, then it is cunning. 

[save-the-villainous-cat]

could u do a villain having a crush on hero, but not admitting it, and the other villains/henchmen teasing them for it bc they’re all “i am the epitome of darkness and all things evil” but when hero shows up they’re a blushing mess 😭 love ur writing <3

The henchman looked down at their victim. Slowly, they kicked them with their boot over, so that they were lying on their back. Blood was dripping down a wound on their forehead and their eyes seemed to be glassy already. What they hated the most about this job was the cleaning. A crime scene was truly hard to make look like before.

They wrinkled their nose.

“Looking pretty dead, if you ask me.” They turned towards their boss and tilted their head, hopefully signalling them that this meant they could wrap things up.

“We haven’t checked all of the perimeter,” the villain noted. The henchman knew quite well the villain wasn’t the best at concentrating on one thing. However, when it came to the hero, they were easily determined. They let their bloody knuckles crack, one after the other and the henchman wasn’t even sure why they had agreed to help the villain in the first place. This seemed a little too private. Even for them. “I’m curious about the basement.”

“Believe me, no one survived. And even if they did, they’re long gone. No one’s here anymore.” The henchman looked around and their eyes went over the warm bodies. They had to admit, these were quite drastic measures but the villain was…a special person.

“Hm.” Their boss was clearly not satisfied with that answer, so they started fidgeting. For as long as the henchman had known them, they weren’t one to be still. They walked up and down like a panther in a cage, searching through files and for cameras, taking in heavy breaths when they were frustrated, frowning when they got distracted. All of that was pretty much normal but the henchman also knew that they were nervous and moving more than usually.

It was an open secret now that people tried to assassinate the city’s saviour and the villain had tried everything in their power to prevent it.

It had been a long, incredibly and frustratingly long journey to watch the villain fall in love. They were stubborn and apparently not capable of allowing themselves to feel anything besides…rage. So, when the henchman had to watch them flirt with the hero awkwardly, they felt like a kid watching their parents.

Strangely sweet and totally embarrassing. God, what a mess.

So, it didn’t surprise the henchman that the villain tried to eliminate every possible threat.

“Your little hero will surely survive if one or two people attack them,” they said eventually. “They’re pretty tough.”

“This isn’t about the hero.” That made the henchman roll their eyes.

“No, you obviously just like killing random people.” The villain looked up from the papers they were looking through and frowned. It was like dealing with a teenager who was too embarrassed to ask out their crush and the henchman was so unbelievably sick of it.

“How about you look through this old bad boy—” they slapped the PC on the table next to them “—instead of being such a nuisance?”

The henchman grinned.

“I don’t think the hero likes people who insult their friends,” they said as they (reluctantly) sat down and turned on the computer. The desktop was illuminated by a strange blue light, dipping the already dark room into a weird atmosphere.

“Oh, what would you know about what they like…” The henchman could see the villain’s ears turn red and it would have been impressive what kind of power the hero had over them if it wasn’t so pathetic.

“Well, what would you know? You can’t even look them in the eyes when they talk to you.” That one team-up a few months ago had been really strange. An undeniable chemistry had been looming around the hero and the villain. Both got excited about the other’s tech, both technically read each other’s minds when they were creating plans and both were too oblivious to notice the people around them and their ugh-get-a-room-looks. Everyone on the team referred to it as The Incident. At least the villain had been in a good mood for the whole week after that.

“That’s, hey, that’s not true.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s like the whole city is thirsting after them. People definitely have too much time on their hands,” the henchman mumbled as they tried all kinds of password combinations to get into the computer. They looked over to the villain who seemed…determined? To be thinking a little too much?

“But the hero wouldn’t sleep with a fan…right?”

“If it’s too hot in summer, they probably will,” the henchman answered as the computer announced for the third time that their access got denied.

“Ah, forget it.” The villain showed absolutely no appreciation for their joke and somehow that was what did it for the henchman.

“Okay, listen.” The henchman pushed themselves away from the desk and rolled over to the villain with their chair. “You both are incredibly pathetic people and I truly believe that I will throw myself out of a window if I have to watch you flirt with them one more time.”

“…I’m not that bad, am I?”

The henchman sighed.

“They like you. They like you a lot. You obviously care for each other.”

“Debatable,” the villain said and the henchman wanted to pull out their hair.

“Okay,” the henchman said. “I’ll ask them out then.”

The look the villain gave them was indescribable.

[pensat-i-fet]

From one wedding... (Rúben Dias x Reader)

**Naturally, after seeing Rúben at Bernardo's wedding, I got some requests to do a wedding related imagine. The person who requested here on Tumblr was @mountsgirl​ and I think I managed to do the request as close to what was requested as possible. I already had another wedding imagine from a couple of months ago and my aim was to make them different enough that you wouldn't feel you're just reading the same thing twice. Also, the title is explained in the imagine. Enjoy!! ❤️**

Word count: 1866

Masterlist

Wattpad

“Tomorrow is the big day”.

“You say it as if it was us getting married and not your friends”, you laughed, falling on the bed and wincing.

“What’s wrong?”

“My back still hurts. I knew we should have taken the sunscreen bottle to that cave expedition you wanted us to do”.

“Let me see”.

You took your shirt off so Rúben could see your back and flinched a little when he touched the still sensitive area.

“It looks much better. You can barely tell it’s red anymore”.

“Really?”

“Want me to put some more cream on it?”

You nodded, thankful for his help. Your dress for the wedding showed half of your back and the last thing you wanted was for everyone to see a big ugly sunburn.

“That feels nice”, you said, closing your eyes and enjoying the cooling effect of the cream and the way Rúben’s hand massaged your skin.

“Done”, he said, kissing the back of your neck.

“Thank you! Let’s go to bed now. Long day tomorrow but I can’t wait to see you wearing a suit”.

“I was wearing one the day we met”.

“And that’s how you tricked me into dating you”, you joked, pecking his lips and going to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Rúben stared at you and then kept staring at the closed door. He had been feeling some type of way lately, and the wedding you were about to attend only made that feeling bigger. But he shook his head and got those ideas out of his head. It was too soon.

                                          **

Between the slight jet lag you had from your time in America and how early you had to wake up, you began the day already exhausted. Your eyes kept closing and you tried your hardest to stay awake.

“That coffee isn’t helping”.

“Don’t mock me, Rúben. I’m so tired”.

“Yeah, me too. Maybe we could sleep a little. I think we have another hour until we get there”.

“Can’t”, you groaned.

“Why?”

You and Rúben had never been on a long car trip together so he didn’t know. “I get travel sick when I’m on long drives like this one. But it’s better if I don’t sleep. Don’t ask me why”, you shrugged. “It’s how it works”.

“Well, we can’t have that. Is there anything that helps?”

“Funnily enough, looking outside of the car. Apparently, I get sick because I’m moving but I’m also not moving so my brain doesn’t understand what’s going on. And so seeing the outside moving helps. I don’t know, I read that in an article once”.

“You and your I read that in an article once”, he laughed and you hit him in the chest, making him laugh harder.

Once he was done laughing, Rúben moved to sit in the middle of the back seat to be closer to you. He turned you slightly so you could still look outside of the window and he could bring you closer to him to hug you.

“Let’s talk about what we see. Concentrate on that”.

Smiling, you did just that and started to describe the mountains and the little houses you saw sometimes. Not only did it help you not feel bad, but it also made the whole trip go by so much quicker.

“We are here. Let’s find our room”.

Rúben took your hand and a couple of minutes later, you were in your room. You placed your dress on the bed, carefully, and started to unpack all the things you needed to get ready.

“I’m going to need your help, Dias. Don’t get too comfortable”.

“With what? I can’t do your make-up. I mean, I can. But you don’t want me to”.

“Just with little things in general. Please”.

“No need to use puppy eyes. I was going to help you anyways”.

While he was helping you get ready, Rúben couldn’t help but go back to those thoughts he had been having lately. You looked so adorable wearing one of his old shirts and moving around the room getting all the things you needed.

“Last one, please”, you said and he gave you another roller to put on your head. “Rate how sexy I look from 1 to 10”.

“80”.

“Wait until I put the black face mask on. It’ll be a 100!”

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You leaned down to kiss Rúben before running to the bathroom again to put on your mask. The smile on your face couldn’t be bigger and his was matching yours.

"So you had the rollers on but now have to curl the hair anyways. It doesn’t make sense”.

“It actually does, hence why I did it like this”.

“If you say so…what else can I do?”

“Why don’t you start getting ready?”

“I don’t take as long as you. I’m fine”.

You moved the curling iron away from your face to laugh properly. “You don’t take long to get ready…right”.

“So funny! But I mean today. I just have to put the suit on and brush my hair”.

“Can I brush your hair? Please!!”

“Sure”, now it was his turn to laugh.

Once your hair and make-up were done, you and Rúben started to get dressed. You kept trying to look in the mirror to see how red your back looked and Rúben noticed.

“It’s fine. Not red at all. Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Can you take a photo so I see how it looks? I could always wear a jacket to cover the area, even if it would look terrible with this dress”.

He took the photo and showed it to you. And you were so relieved to see the skin was back to a normal colour. It still hurt a bit but no one would know.

“Do you like the dress?”, you asked, spinning around the room.

“I love it. And the colour looks great on you”.

“Thank you. I liked it better in white but obviously had to go for this shade instead”.

“White?”, now Rúben’s mind went back to those feelings that wouldn’t leave. “I wanted to see you wearing the white dress”, he said, almost to himself.

“I can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding”, you laughed, not understanding his comments.

“Of course”.

“Give me the brush now. I want to play with that gorgeous fluffy hair you have”.

Sitting down on the bed, you positioned yourself in between his legs and started to brush his hair gently.

"Ready!", you winked. And you both made your way to the ceremony.

                                       **

The wedding venue was so stunning you had to remind yourself that you should be looking at the ceremony and not at your surroundings. Rúben noticed and he put his arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him so he could whisper.

“We’ll come back here another time so you can see the area better, ok?”

You nodded, smiling. You were having the same idea at the moment. And even if Rúben didn’t know, other ideas he had were also reciprocated by you. But you weren't going to tell him.

Everyone gathered around the newlyweds to congratulate them and take photos. And when it was your turn, Rúben gave Bernardo a little “friendly” push. Bernardo looked as shocked as he always did when Rúben hit him, even if he should be used to it by now, and moved to hide behind his now wife.

"You can't be violent near a pregnant woman".

"Rúben, I told you your wedding gift was not hitting poor Bernardo", you said, slapping his arm.

"But it's fun".

"Psycho", said you and Bernardo at the same time, making Ines laugh.

More photos were taken, some with you in them but most of them with just Rúben and his teammates. You didn’t mind, not really enjoying being seen much on social media. But you did check the photos other people were taking and noticed one of Rúben’s friends added an interesting caption.

“Look”, you said to him, showing him the photo.

“What is it?”

“The caption”.

He read it and when he got to the end, he looked at you quickly. Why were you showing him that?

“Who’s next? Well, Ines didn’t throw her bouquet to the guests so we don’t know”, he laughed uncomfortably.

“You know? There is a saying in Spanish that says “de una boda sale otra”, which is like from one wedding we get another one. The caption reminded me of that”.

“Would you like it if there was another wedding soon?”

You looked up at him, trying to understand the meaning behind that question but he looked away. “I guess. It’s fun to attend them. And I get to see you wearing a suit”.

“It’s fun, yeah”, you wanted to say something to him but he spoke first. “They look so in love”.

You nodded and hugged Rúben’s arm before putting your head on his shoulder. “I like to think that’s how we look when people look at us”.

He kissed your head and kept looking at the band that was playing music, enjoying the moment. And also hoping that you both looked like that when people looked at you.

After a few hours of dancing and chatting with all the other guests, it was time to go back to the room.

“The gifts they got for the guests are so adorable. I even got pyjamas to wear while we’re here with my initials on them. You know how I love those silly details”.

“I didn’t get any pyjamas”.

“You’ll have to sleep naked then, Rúben. Terrible news but what else can we do?”

Rúben slapped your bum when you walked towards the bathroom but there were no more playful looks when you got out, wearing the white pyjamas Ines had picked for the female guests. They looked like something the bride would wear. It was a little inside joke she found funny and so did you. For Rúben…it only made those feelings harder to contain.

“Have you seen a ghost?”, you asked, walking to stand in between his legs while he just stared at you. “Or are you going to be super corny and say you saw an angel?”, you laughed.

“Marry me”.

“What?”

“I’m stupid”, he said, standing and moving away from you.

“Why would you be stupid?”

“I’ve been thinking about proposing for months now. And thinking about all the big gestures I could do because you deserve that. And now I just let these feelings I’ve had all weekend take over and just ask you like that…and I shouldn’t even ask you. We haven’t been dating for that long. I don’t want to scare you away. But…”.

“Stop talking”, you said, standing now in front of him and placing your index finger on his lips. “I’ve been having the same feelings, or thoughts, whatever you want to call them. But I didn’t want to scare you”.

“Really?”

You nodded. “And I don’t need gestures or you getting down on one knee or whatever. I just need you to really mean it when you say you want to marry me. So…do you really mean it?”

“I do”.

“Then let’s do it!”

[weemssapphic]

I desire. And I crave.

part one

Jane Murdstone x fem!reader

series page

summary: Jane Murdstone suffers from Hanahaki Disease. The object of her affections? Her lady’s maid. Too bad she would rather feel the cold embrace of death than confess her feelings. ~ For those unfamiliar with the Hanahaki Disease trope: HD is a (fictional, lol) disease where someone begins coughing up flower petals because they have unrequited feelings for someone. If not treated, the disease is fatal. Treatment is either a. the feelings become requited, or b. surgery (the caveat here is that the feelings for that person disappear entirely).

words: ~5k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings: slight angst/angst with a happy ending, Hanahaki Disease, blood, mentions of death/near-death experience, fear of death, unrequited love (or is it), hints of soft!Jane but also angry!Jane

That man to me seems equal to the gods,             the man who sits opposite you             and close by listens             to your sweet voice

            and your enticing laughter—             that indeed has stirred up the heart in my breast.             For whenever I look at you even briefly             I can no longer say a single thing,

            but my tongue is frozen in silence;             instantly a delicate flame runs beneath my skin;             with my eyes I see nothing;             my ears make a whirring noise.

            A cold sweat covers me,             trembling seizes my body,             and I am greener than grass.             Lacking but little of death do I seem.

Sappho 31

Jane Murdstone doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. She prides herself on her calculating, cunning manner, takes joy in inciting just a little bit of fear in those she comes in contact with. A little healthy intimidation keeps people on their toes - and, in Jane’s mind, there is nothing worse than a person who is lazy or slow-witted.

No, Jane doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. Except perhaps her lady’s maid. And only a little bit, really. It’s just that Jane has rarely met anyone who is able to keep with her like you are. 

What had first endeared her to you had been how quickly you’d caught on to your duties when you’d been hired, and how extremely meticulous you are - outshining any other maid or servant she’d ever employed with your eye for detail. 

What has her swooning (if, of course, she were even the type to swoon, which she isn’t, thank you very much), is realizing how your intelligence and quick-wit rival her own. 

She has often even caught you smiling slightly when she’s made a cutting, sarcastic remark towards another servant. Others cower in fear (which has an appeal all of its own), but you are unphased, seeming to appreciate her wit like no one else - it makes Jane’s heart flutter in a most unfamiliar way.

Today, Jane sits at her vanity, allowing you to pin up her hair for the day. She watches you in the mirror - you avoid her gaze, focusing intently on ensuring not a single hair is out of place, which gives her the freedom to stare. Her eyes track your movements, the painstaking way in which you push each pin into place, the concentrated way in which your pink tongue darts out ever so slightly and your brow furrows as you work.

Her gaze lingers on that tongue of yours, between full, soft lips, and Jane feels a warmth spread through her core. Her entire body tingles as your fingers brush against the nape of her neck, the gentle touch sending a shiver down her spine. She curses internally at herself - she should not be having such sinful feelings or thoughts about a maid. But you aren’t just a maid, are you?

She knows that her feelings aren’t professional. But you don’t seem interested in her anyway, only engaging in conversation when spoken to (although, really, that is what Jane had initially requested) - and you’re young, anyway, much younger than she is. She realizes she hasn’t had many personal conversations with you - she certainly doesn’t know where your interests lie. Men, women? Perhaps both? She allows herself to get lost in her musings, to indulge in the thoughts of lustful fantasies that will never come to fruition.

You push the final pin into place and look up, catching Jane’s eye in the mirror. Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, and Jane quickly averts her gaze.

“Is it to your liking, milady?” comes your voice, slightly timid and perhaps a bit breathless.

“It’ll do,” Jane replies airily, regarding herself in the mirror. Of course it is to her liking - she has never felt more beautiful since you’ve come into her service - her previous lady’s maid had never been able to do her hair just right (her work, in general, had been so sloppy compared to yours).

As Jane rises to her feet, her thoughts, regrettably, lingering on you, she feels a tickle in the back of her throat. She begins to cough. It takes several seconds for the cough to ease up, and when it does there is a strange burning in her lungs that has her pressing her hand to her chest.

She turns to find your hesitant gaze upon her.

“Are you feeling ill, milady? Shall I make you a mustard plaster?”

Jane scoffs. She doesn’t feel ill. “Don’t be absurd, girl. It will pass. Fetch me some pepper tea and begin the rest of your duties, before you fall behind.”

“Yes, of course, milady. Right away.” You nod curtly, your gaze still curious and uncertain, before turning on your heel and hurrying down to the kitchens. Jane scolds herself for the longing she feels for your presence as soon as you vacate the room, shaking her head lightly and perching at her vanity to await your return, her throat beginning to tickle with another cough.

~~~

You’ve been working as a lady’s maid for Jane Murdstone for close to two years now - and they have been, for the most part, the most comfortable years of your life. After a bit of a rocky start (it had taken you quite a bit of time to be able to properly decipher Jane’s moods and get used to her cold demeanor and cutting, sometimes even cruel remarks) you’d settled into your routine and even gotten to like the abrasive woman.

She isn’t exactly kind to you - you aren’t sure if she’s ever been kind to anyone in her life - but she doesn’t seem to show quite as much disdain towards you as she does towards the other servants. She seems to recognize your diligence and intelligence, traits that she appears to value, and though she’s never openly thanked you for anything, she sometimes gives you a look of approval when you manage to anticipate her needs without her having to speak them aloud. That look alone always makes your heart beat just a little faster.

In turn, you admire her quick wit and sharp tongue, her ability to use words as a weapon and find a smart response to anything within a matter of seconds - you wish you possessed these traits, although you sometimes wish she would go a bit easier on others, particularly the other servants. 

You adore her intelligence and share her love for poetry (sometimes, she asks you to read to her and, recently, she has occasionally started to ask your opinion on certain lines - it makes you nervous, but you would do anything to please her). 

And she is beautiful. Her silky raven hair accentuates the icy blue of her eyes and her fair skin, while her unusual height and soft curves never fail to bring a flush to your cheeks. You often wonder how she hasn’t found a husband yet - if you were a man, you’d have already asked her hand in marriage long ago. There must have been suitors in her youth - you imagine a young Jane Murdstone, fresh-faced and innocent, and you shiver. She likely thinks herself too good for the likes of some foolish man, you think. Which she is, of course…

Pinning up her long, dark tresses always brings you more joy than you care to admit. Sometimes, if your mistress appears to be in a particularly pleasant mood, you allow your fingers to linger in the lush locks, taking your time with each and every wave. It is almost a sensual experience for you, though you would never admit it out loud. Definitely not to Jane herself.

When you finish with her hair and look up to find her regarding you in the mirror, you worry she has sensed your dawdling and is gearing up to reprimand you. Her response, however, indicates she is pleased with your work (you’ve learned that “it’ll do” is often the highest praise you’ll receive from your mistress, and, for that, it makes your heart swell).

A brief coughing fit causes you concern, and, of course, Jane refuses to allow you to properly care for her. It is not your place to argue, though, so you do as you’re told and scamper down to the kitchens. You leave the cup of tea on Jane’s vanity, then dismiss yourself to begin patching up a dress that Jane had requested you fix.

~~~

Jane’s cough appears to worsen over time, though she doesn’t necessarily appear ill. It puzzles you as much as it troubles you - she refuses every attempt from your side at finding a cure, be it a home remedy or allowing the doctor to stop by.

You decide to do something kind for her to ease her worries - you can sense the cough is beginning to perplex her as well, though she doesn’t say anything. Rising early, well before you are to assist Jane with dressing, you sneak into the gardens, intending to pick some flowers for your mistress.

Your eyes immediately land on the white phlox decorating the garden path. You are painfully aware that Jane is well-versed in the language of flowers, as ladies of her status often are, and would likely assign a meaning to whatever bloom you gift her, so you must be cautious. White phlox seem safe enough - pure intentions, honest commitment, faithfulness - all sentiments that can easily be written off as your devotion as a servant, with little room for misinterpretation.

Methodically snipping off a fistful of flowers near the edge of the flowerbed, where they won’t be missed, you find a small, ornate vase for the blooms and carry the bouquet carefully up to Jane’s bedroom.

You knock, as you do every morning, waiting for Jane’s smooth voice to call out “you may enter” before slipping in through the door.

“Good morning, milady.” You curtsey as best you can with the vase held firmly in your hands. “I brought you a small gift.”

Icy blue eyes fall to the bouquet, widening ever so slightly. You think you see a blush creep up her cheeks, though you quickly write it off as a trick of the light - you’ve never seen your mistress blush before.

“What’s the occasion?” Her eyes don’t leave the bouquet as she speaks, and she takes a step towards you as if transfixed.

“None, milady. I wanted to give you a token of my appreciation, is all. You have been very good to me in my time here - I hope the flowers can brighten your day.” You try not to blush or stutter as you speak, though Jane’s impenetrable gaze (that has begun to track every inch of your face) makes this difficult for you.

She is silent for a moment, as if allowing your words to sink in, her face an impassive mask. Finally, she speaks.

“They are very pretty.” She clears her throat. “Please place them on my nightstand.”

Her lips curve upward, stretching timidly towards her ears as she watches you follow her orders, and your heart races. When you turn back to face her again you can sense a hint of admiration shining through in those piercing eyes of hers, and it makes you giddy.

~~~

Jane’s cough is persistent. It doesn’t ease up as the days and weeks go on, and Jane wonders if maybe she should see a doctor, or allow you to try some other form of home remedy - even though she appears not to have any other symptoms of illness. These worries are always brief in nature, however, and she manages to push the thoughts of illness far from her mind. Until one morning just after you’ve left her bedroom, having brought her a small bouquet of white phlox from the garden.

As she admires the flowers, her thoughts drifting to the faint blush that had colored your cheeks as you’d gifted them to her, Jane feels a weight on her chest, accompanied by a light tickle at the back of her throat. The tickle quickly turns into a scratch and before she knows it, she begins to cough again. She covers her mouth and when she pulls her hand away, there is a single tiny, white petal nestled in her palm. She recognizes the petal immediately - it looks just like the petals of the phlox that decorate her nightstand. 

She furrows her brow. It can’t be… She shakes the thought from her head as quickly as it comes, tucking the petal into the drawer of her nightstand - she knows no one would dare open it - and clears her throat, the scratchy feeling already fading.

~~~

You are lacing up Jane’s corset as usual, trying to tamp down the blush that dusts your cheeks when your fingertips occasionally brush against Jane’s back. Unable to help yourself, you allow your fingers to linger just a moment longer - too long. Jane stiffens under your touch and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, but then she begins to cough and sputter and you drop the laces of the corset as if burned. 

“Milady… are you alright?” you ask apprehensively, concerned by the exaggerated heaving of Jane’s chest. 

“Leave,” she rasps out, raising her hand to cover her mouth. You stand rooted to the spot, too worried to heed Jane’s warning - and you are sure it was a warning. 

“You insolent girl, I said leave!” she croaks, not sparing you a glance. The venom in her voice between coughs surprises you and spurs you into action - you rush out of the room, not daring to linger long enough to curtsey, shutting the door behind you. Jane’s coughs can be heard just a moment longer, before they begin to subside.

You return to your own chambers, pacing nervously as you wait for further instruction - the rest of your morning duties would involve tidying your lady’s chambers, but you are almost certain you aren’t currently welcome there. 

A knock shortly thereafter causes you to bolt to the door, smoothing your skirt before opening it just a crack. You feel a weight on your chest when you see the younger chambermaid, Emily, standing before you. 

“Hello, Miss. I am to inform you that Miss Murdstone is not feeling well today. She does not require your presence and requests you do not attend to her chambers,” Emily says timidly. 

You stare at her in shock. “O-okay.”

Emily digs around in her apron and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I am to give you this as well, so you’ll have alternative duties to perform.”

Numbly, you take the paper, thanking Emily who nods in sympathy and turns to leave. You unfold the paper and scan the list - they are tedious duties, busy-work, and you are sure you will be finished quickly; things like replacing the water in the flower vases, dusting the books in the library, fixing up a loose thread in the sleeve of your mistresses overcoat.

You carry out these duties with a heavy heart, trying to keep your mind from wandering to Jane, from wondering what is wrong with her and why she won’t allow you to attend to her. The last time she was ill, you’d been asked to wait on her hand and foot, bringing her medicine and water and reading to her at her bedside. You wonder if you’ve done something to offend her - the thought alone makes you sick with worry.

~~~

Days turn into weeks and Jane withdraws more and more. You have come to expect a list of daily duties waiting for you by Jane’s door - you are no longer given permission to enter her bedroom, a room which Jane now seldom exits. 

Rumors about Jane’s illness spread amongst the servants - you, being her lady’s maid, are eyed curiously by the others at mealtimes, though no one dares to question you about the mysterious cough that has Jane retreating from society, not showing up to supper and refusing any form of sustenance that is brought up to her bedroom.

One morning, you see Emily exit Jane’s chambers. At first, your blood boils - why is Emily given permission to enter Jane’s chambers, and you aren’t? What’s so special about Emily? What have you done to displease Jane?

Then your eyes drop to the bedsheets that Emily carries. Brilliant white, dotted with specks of deep red. You feel as though your heart drops all the way down to your feet - you are certain it would drop even further if that were at all possible. Your mind races - that can’t be blood? If it is… then Jane is more ill than you’d thought. 

Your stomach churns and you make eye contact with Emily, who doesn’t bother to hide the worry on her face as she rushes past you, attempting to shield the sheets from view. You consider pestering Emily about Jane’s condition, however your pride is too great - you would have to admit that Jane no longer trusts you enough to speak with you, let alone see you. You are sure everyone knows by now anyway, but you refuse to admit it aloud.

You perform your duties half-heartedly and with a hollow pit in your stomach, often lingering outside Jane’s bedroom door when no one else is around. Occasionally you hear fits of coughing, and they often sound strangled, as if she is choking on something.

The first few times, you call out to her, asking if she is alright. At first, she asks you to leave, in a harsh yet utterly spent tone. After a while, she stops responding at all - and then, even later, you stop asking, choosing to simply lurk for a moment before carrying on with your day. 

It is a random Tuesday when you decide to try again - you bring a cup of her favorite tea, clinging to a tiny tendril of hope that she will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. You knock on Jane’s bedroom door, receiving no answer. 

“Milady, I have brought you some tea. May I come in?”

Still, no answer.

“I’ll just come in for a moment to leave the tea with you, milady.”

You push open the door as you’re speaking and walk up to Jane’s bedside, determined. If Emily can, then so can you, you think. 

Jane is livid.

You barely have a moment to appraise her, to assess the state of her illness, before rage settles over her features. She pushes herself up from the bed with great effort, closing the short distance between the two of you and ripping the porcelain cup out of your hands. The dark liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup and stains the rug underneath your feet - Jane either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Get. Out.” Jane grits out, her voice scratchy like sandpaper, and you shrink back, taking slow, tentative steps backwards towards the door. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat - you have rarely seen Jane in such a blind rage, and it has never been directed at you before. 

“Please, milady, I only wish to help! If you could just-”

“NOW!” Jane bellows, lifting the hand that holds the teacup. You know she is about to throw it - you rush out the door, closing it behind you as the cup smashes against the wood, shattering instantly. 

That night, you have trouble sleeping. The shattering of the porcelain still rings in your ears, the fury on Jane’s face at the mere sight of you is imprinted on the back of your eyelids when you close your eyes. Your heart aches, grieving for Jane’s health - and for the loss of Jane’s presence in your life.

A few weeks after the incident, you overhear a conversation in hushed tones behind the closed door of Mr. Murdstone’s office that brings tears to your eyes:

“-sister. Is she still ill?” It is the voice of Mr. Browning, a business associate of Mr. Murdstone.

“Gravely, I’m afraid.” The usually impassive Mr. Murdstone, who has never sounded anything less than harsh and confident, clears his throat - his voice has wavered and this alone alarms you greatly.

“Is there a prognosis?”

“She refuses to allow anyone to see her, even her lady’s maid. I am unsure of the nature of the illness but it seems-” he clears his throat again. “-it seems she won’t make it past the turn of the season.”

You turn away from the door - you’ve heard enough. Bile rises in your throat, and your knees buckle as your legs threaten to give away underneath you - you take unsteady steps to your room, allowing yourself a moment to break down in the solace of your bed as the tears you’ve managed to keep at bay begin to fall, staining the pillow beneath your head like a patchwork of droplets.

~~~

Jane knows what’s wrong. No one else may know it, but Jane knows it, and it fills her with a sense of dread she’s never felt before.

At first she’d thought nothing of her cough. But once the petals began expelling themselves from her throat, she knew. Hanahaki Disease was rare, but she’d seen it in action before. She always thought herself above it all - she wasn’t one to give her heart out so easily, she wasn’t foolish enough to feel something for someone who didn’t want her. And, since no one wanted her, it was quite easy not to want in return.

But she’d overestimated herself. And she’d allowed herself to show softness, to show weakness. She’d allowed herself to fall in love. 

It had slipped through her grasp, that pesky feeling, trickling smoothly through the hairline cracks in her metaphorical armor like a tiny stream, going entirely unnoticed until it was too late.

And now, she is paying the price. Of course, Jane thinks bitterly as she sits at the edge of her bed, recovering from a particularly harsh coughing fit, glowering down at the petals in her hand as if they’d personally aggrieved her. Of course she would fall for the one person she can’t have. Someone who holds no love for her in their heart. 

A fitting end for cruel, cold Jane Murdstone. Dying unwanted and unloved, just as she’d always been. In her weakest moments she allows herself to succumb to her longing for you, imaginary scenarios running through her head of the two of you, happy - of a world where you love her and where she isn’t faced with her impending demise.

As she thinks of you, she begins to cough again. It hurts, as if thick, thorny vines are encircling her lungs, tightening in a vice-like grip with each passing day. The petals come out in a steady stream - they feel like shards of glass, cutting at her throat from the inside. A metallic taste fills her mouth and, as she looks down at the heap of tiny, snowy petals, she sees droplets of blood staining them red.

Jane hides the petals in the drawer of her nightstand, each new petal accompanying the last. She feels silly doing so - shameful even - and it places a heavy burden on her heart that weighs her down like lead. But if no one finds the petals - at least not while she is still alive - then she doesn’t have to bare her shame, her cowardice, for the world to see - for you to see.

And she vows never to let you see her like this - you must never find out. She cannot bear to witness the concern in your eyes when she feels unwell - it causes her great guilt, to think she may be a source of worry or pain in your life. She also cannot bear the thought of your disgust at her unrequited and entirely unwanted feelings towards you. Even if it means she must be cruel to you. Even if it means she must ignore your attempts to reach out, or channel her fear into rage. Even if it means she may never see you again.

There is a surgical procedure, she recalls, to rid oneself of Hanahaki Disease - with the price of ridding oneself entirely of the feelings causing the disease. Jane considers it, but she knows that in order to get treatment, she would have to admit to her unrequited feelings, in front of her brother, no less. The thought is humiliating. And there is a weight on her chest when she thinks of forgetting her love for you - something that, despite being the reason for her dismal state, has brought her a joyful reprieve from the dull ache of her general contempt for everyday life.

So she shuts you out. She shuts everyone out. She will die alone, and spare herself the inevitable heartbreak and humiliation. It is the only way. 

~~~

You are woken early in the morning - earlier than usual - by a persistent knocking at the door to your chambers. For a moment you think you’ve overslept, but you quickly realize that isn’t the case. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and comb through your hair with your fingers to make yourself more presentable, then pad over to the door and open it. There’s Emily again, a grave expression on her face that makes your stomach twist and causes you to lose any sense of formality.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Miss Murdstone, she’s not well. Mr. Murdstone has requested your company at her bedside immediately.”

Your heart sinks and it feels as though ice is sluicing through your veins.

“T-thank you. I will be right there.”

Emily nods and bids you farewell, and you rush about your chambers to get dressed for the day - you doubt Jane would appreciate you giving up all sense of propriety and turning up in your night clothes. You pull your hair back, pinning it haphazardly in place before starting off towards Jane’s chambers, your walk turning into a jog turning into a run. You catch your breath at her door before knocking. 

Once.

Twice.

There’s no answer.

“Milady? I’m coming in,” you call, trying (and failing) to control the tremble in your voice.

Entering her chambers, your eyes fall to the bed and you realize why you hadn’t received an answer. Jane lies on her back, eyes closed, cheeks sunken in. She looks like she has lost quite a bit of weight, surely a product of her missing meals for the past weeks. She is deathly pale and as you approach her with caution, you see the sheen of sweat on her brow. Her dark, matted locks spill over the pillow and stick to the perspiration on her neck.

“Milady? How are you feeling?” You drag the stool from her vanity to the bedside and settle down timidly, eyes raking over her weak form.

Her pale eyelashes flutter against her cheeks - you can tell she’s trying to open her eyes. Even in this state, gaunt and sickly, she looks hauntingly beautiful to you, so much so that it claws at your heart.

A cough racks her body, her shoulders shaking violently, her chest heaving. Her head lolls to the side and her mouth falls open as she coughs up a steady stream of small, white phlox petals.

You freeze when you see the petals. At first, horror washes over you at the sight of her gagging, at the deep red blood accompanying the petals. A slow understanding spreads throughout your entire body. Hanahaki Disease. 

You’d had a cousin die from the disease when you were a child - you curse yourself for not recognizing the signs. There’s a pit forming in your stomach.

So Jane Murdstone has fallen in love. 

Tears well up in your eyes and your heart clenches painfully. Jane has fallen in love - and she will die because of it.

She will die, leaving you alone and in search of new employment. She will die, not knowing the affection you hold for her in your heart. She will die, and you will have to go on without the sparkle of her eyes holding you captive whenever you catch her gaze, without the soft, melodic lilt of her voice brightening your dullest days.

You’ll miss her terribly (you already do). You like her, you really do… no, that isn’t quite right - you love her. The realization hits you like a train. You love Jane Murdstone, and it doesn’t matter.

You reach out tentatively and place your hand on top of Jane’s, squeezing gently. It’s the least you can do, to reassure her that you’ll be there for her when no one else seems to be. You shiver at the contact with her skin - it is quite cold in contrast to the warmth of your own, and this is more than you’ve ever dared touch her.

With your other hand you brush away some stray petals that stick to the blood on Jane’s cheek. There’s blood trickling out of her mouth and you swipe your thumb firmly down to her jaw, wiping it away as best you can. She should go out with dignity, you think. 

“Milady, can you hear me?” you ask quietly. You don’t receive a response. 

“Who is it?” You ask the question more for yourself than for her, you know she’s too weak to speak and you aren’t even sure she can hear you anyway. A single tear rolls down your cheek - you wipe it away with your sleeve. Your throat constricts, but there is something you want to say - you clear it roughly. When you speak, your voice has a pleading edge to it, desperation oozing out of your every pore.

“I love you, Jane. Please don’t leave me.” Any other day, you’d be afraid of being fired on the spot - for speaking out of turn, for voicing forbidden affections towards your employer, for addressing her by her first name. Today, you suppose, it doesn’t matter anymore. You feel lighter having said it - and heavier knowing it may be the last thing you ever say to her. Now that it doesn’t matter any longer, you lean over Jane’s face and press your lips firmly to her forehead. Perhaps this way she can feel she is loved, even if it’s not in the way - not by whom - she needs.

x

shout-out to @dianneking for being the catalyst to me writing this hehe <3 plus, gonna just tag everyone who has had the (dis)pleasure of me pestering them about this for the past month haha (love u): @yourlocaldisneyvillain @anti-bright-places @eveymay @scream-queenlover @orchidsshine @sapphicsbeloved @mrs-hilmarson 

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

love hurts - john wick/plus size fem reader, nsfw

TW: dubcon, choking, angst, dom/sub undertones, author attempt at russian language, I think that’s it

Summary: you are in love with john wick.

You suppose you should feel bad about letting him take the lead on this. He’s always taking control of everything with such swift efficiency, no breaks in between. And this too. Even this. Making your cunt pulse around nothing while he rolls his nice dress sleeves up. It’s the forearms, really, all decorated with sinew and tendon and bulging vein. The way his huge fingers work like they’re dainty. You keep getting off track.

Take some semblance of control back.

The kitchen counter is icy compared to his warm hands; you know because your dress is riding up above your thighs. He’s pushing it up- nicely … softly … this time - like he’s afraid to spook you, like he’s apologizing for something. It seems he doesn’t really know how to be soft, though, because his touch is still rough, the measured pull of his palms and calloused knuckles on your jiggly flesh leaving red indents in their wake.

“krasivaya devushka,” he hums, just for you, kisses below your right ear, turning you into a throbbing beacon of light and warmth. Your toes curl up and you grunt. Maybe it’s not just the forearms, then, but his voice, too, consuming baritone that commands the room, the air, the band no matter how quiet he uses it.

Your underwear are an inconvenience to him. He slaps the band against your hips and receives a jerk of surprise, tsking at you as if you’re not supposed to be wearing any clothes.

Your punishment is him rubbing teasing, loose circles over your clothed clit.

His smile is against the pulse in your neck, expert fingers purposefully find no rhythm or meaning, keep the orchestra quiet and the audience on edge. The air is thick and wet like you’re in an auditorium with a 100 other people.

Your moan is muffled by saliva, instead coming out as a gurgle like a person who is dying and filling with fluid. The irony isn’t lost on you that he’s killing you in a much different way than he usually kills people. However, the same lethal precision is still being utilized. The gaze of the hunter, the controlled and harsh movement, the concentration. You try to swallow but your body wants the fluid in your throat.

The next few moans from you are just thick sounds of trying to clear your voice.

He kisses your pulse, your jaw, your cheek, swallows your mouth, licks out the generous pool of liquid inside. Your hands seek his silk hair clumsily, grabbing his ears and his cheeks, and he presses you back into the cupboard, the wood carvings denting your back.

Your thighs twitch to shut when his knuckles dig into the fat of your bloated cunt and find your pleasure, but he’s got his other hand holding the meat of your left one and his broad frame stands imposingly between your legs.

He swallows, greedily, the noises you make as he focuses on your clit. Fast learner that he is, he picks up the rhythm and the pressure and even finds the spot that you like the most.

This man is dangerous, not just because you watched him kill 10 men with his bare hands, not just because he knows how to get you off from just reading your reactions, but also because you can’t think or breathe anything except for him and not just when he’s crowding you like he is right now.

You push back into him but he is solid force and maybe you can get him to budge a centimeter before he realizes what you’re doing and takes leader back again. No, he can’t take it back because he never lost it.

“Look at me,” he says, and your eyes snap to his, coffee brown and heady. His mouth is pink and wet, slightly parted, and you can’t tell if he’s blinking or not while he watches every twitch and change in your expression. He keeps his thumb steady on your clit after he pushes down to grab some cum and slather it generously and presses a finger into your cunt to rub your g spot.

You hang onto his shoulders, sweaty palms slipping off of the fabric and down to his elbows. He chases your pleasure up the mountain, never stumbling, closer every second, and you have no hope of escaping him while he’s in pursuit so you freeze and let him catch up, heart thrumming with the beat of anticipation while he gets closer.

“Oh fuck,” you hiss, your voice catching on a high note and singing quietly for the conductor while your body tenses and spasms.

His arms catch and hold you through your trembling defeat, and your eyes are closed when he slips his hand out of your underwear and places it up on your cheek, the smell of your own cum heavy and damp. He rubs your lips with the thumb that just had your clit, and you open for him and suck just the tip in your mouth, licking the rough, slimy pad of it and trying, bravely, to look into his eyes.

Bravery comes with the price of a blush so hot it burns your already fiery skin.

“So you liked the spaghetti?” You ask him, your throat and goofy grin sharp.

He does something that reminds you of a laugh, chest and stomach rumbling. He is already smiling but it gets bigger and infects your mouth, too, making you grin wider.

“It was delicious,” he concedes, opening your mouth up with his thumb on your bottom lip. He looks from your eyes to your mouth, kisses you softly.

“I-“ you start when he stops -“what are we doing?”

He tickles your temple with his fingers, musses the baby hairs. “Kissing,” he says, his face full of teasing adoration.

It confuses your brain but your chest must know just what that look means because an invasive hole opens up in it and aches for him. Your eyes get wet. He wipes them off with both thumbs then cradles your face.

“Shhh, honey,” he tells you. “I know.” He comforts you but his expression turns hard again, unreadable.

Tiny tears drip onto his wrists and run down his forearms while you cry. He lets you ride it out, the consuming want for him that overtakes everything you are and shatters it, leaving only him, left whole and unharmed among the sharp pieces.

John revels in the silent shower of salt water from your eyes, cock hardening painfully at the knowledge that this display is all for him. He kisses your cheeks to taste your tears, because feeling and seeing and hearing is not enough.

You try to push him away but he catches your hands and places them on your sides, holds them there. You don’t know why you try to squirm, it gets you nowhere except more immobilized and trapped, bullied into a corner.

You can scream and cry and thrash, fight this man until all that’s left of you is blood and bone. You can run, hide, avoid, dodge, beg for mercy or try and find a breath of hope in the constricting bag placed over your head and smothering you that is John. None of that would be useful. Because your heart beats strong and fast and is much braver than you, and he is what it wants.

“Please,” you ask, not knowing what you’re begging for.

He complies with demanding palms pulling your hips forward. Your hands are on his chest, still unable to grasp and slipping on the silk of his white shirt. He makes a noise with his tongue against his teeth while he bunches your dress up off your thighs. Your upper back grinds painfully against the cabinets while he handles you into the angle that he prefers.

The sound of distress from you commands his attention. He looks from your hips to your face, understands, puts his arm around your upper back and hooks his other hand under your knee. He pulls and guides, grip assuring that there’s nothing you can or have to do to assist him. Maybe that’s the another thing, when you’re with him all you need to focus on is heat and want and pleasure because he handles the rest; like the standing and the keeping upright and the motion of both your bodies. You can touch and taste and feel at leisure, the thought of where your feet are planted unimportant and irrelevant.

Your upper body is on the counter while he holds your lower. The bulge of his cock presses against your underwear and suddenly you remember how big he is. You squirm, pupils dilate, breath quickens, fear feels like fire. Your brain is sending signals to pull your body away from the heat.

He stills you, not with force this time but with his timbre voice, his soothing pet on your tummy. “It’s okay, honey,” he tells you, holds you up with his hips while his hands cradle and caress. Thumbs work delicately over the fabric of your dress where your nipples are protruding.

“Look at you, beautiful,” he hums, “fucking irresistible, how can I help myself?” Holds your neck and palms your breast with a half open hand.

“ty zdes' v bezopasnosti, malyshka, v bezopasnosti ot vsekh, krome menya.”

He wets his lips, gently tilts your head so your tear-peppered eyes look at his face.

“ty nebesnyy, moy angel, sent from god, hm?” He flicks his chin up to emphasize his words.

His cock twitches, complaining, angry, needing to feel, reacting violently to your wide, wet, dilated eyes, the way your face can hide no emotion. Fear melting into lust, lips parting. He ignores the ache, body completely still except for his hands which mimic a softness that they’re not quite capable of.

He douses the flame of fear with the wet emotion and arousal of your body.

You are grinding against him before you notice the motion of your hips, friction minimal even with 3 layers of clothing in the way because of how soaked you are.

“There we go,” he praises, releasing your face in favor of leaving a trail of goosebumps down your neck, across your collar, between your breasts. You giggle when he gets to your tummy, too ticklish there for his touch now that he’s got your dress hiked up under your breasts and that you’re mostly bare.

A grin flashes on his face. You look away, blushing.

“Did I tell you to look away?” He muses, pushing his thumb into your panties and past your slippery lips to rest on your clit.

“Sorry,” you say, looking back into his eyes, burning with embarrassment and need.

You grind against his hand, heavy rapture spreading into you from the touch.

He chuckles, presses hard, to the side, the pad of his thumb rough and scratchy on delicate nerves but still good.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he assures, helping you rub yourself off by adjusting the position of his hand every so often. He switches his thumb for three fingers and broader pressure. You whine from the millisecond of lost contact.

“Which feels better?” He asks. He switches again, focused circles of the thumb, or dispersed pressure of multiple digits.

“That one,” you say when he uses many instead of one. An afterthought tells you that you’re giving him more ammunition to ruin you, but you don’t have time to think for long. Not when he’s assisting another slow orgasm. This one is long and heavy, sweat drips down your thighs and your toes curl and expand. Tension floods from you into his palm, staining your underwear and his nice pants.

He lays a heavy hand on your pubic mound while you twitch down from the high. The low is where your bones turn to rubber and you feel like an inflatable Christmas decoration in strong wind.

You are relaxed but aware, now, of your lower back digging into the jagged lip of the counter, the hard surface on the back of your soft head. It’s uncomfortable.

“Sorry but can we move to somewhere more comfortable?” You ask.

He holds out his hand and you take it, allowing him to help you sit up on the counter. Your dress pools back around your hips.

“Hold on to me,” he says, hands under your knees, pulling your legs around his hips.

It takes you a minute to realize that he wants to carry you, long arms wrap around your thighs and support your weight

“John, I am heavy,” you try and protest, but he’s already picking you up, boosting your body so that you can wrap your arms around his neck. He laughs at your warning while carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

His lips quell your worry with a kiss, and while he presses into your mouth with his tongue you realize that you can’t remember a time when someone has picked you up and carried you.

It’s that, too, then.

He deposits you into the bouncy cushion, pushes your hair out of your face and your dress up over it. You lift your arms to assist in taking it off, and when he pulls it from your wrists, the fabric bunched in his fist, he looks at it for a moment, smirks. Looks back at you as if he’s just realized something.

“This is for me,” he affirms, sounding amused.

You bite the inside of your lip and nod, unable to look into his eyes. Instead, you look to the food and wine on the dining table. “It all was.”

“Oh.” His face drops back to blunt, dark, heavy, all eyes for you now, dress slipping out of his fingers, forgotten, onto the floor.

He sits beside you and wastes no time, tits in his hands and mouth open for your own. He presses and folds you into the position he prefers.

“Let me fuck you, sweet girl.” He sucks below your chin and rolls your nipple into a pinch.

Your head and hips perform the same nodding motion and he pulls away to unbutton his shirt, acknowledging your consent. The shiny scars littered over every inch of his skin takes you by surprise again - you reach out and feel them, his heart, the thick muscle of his chest, the lean meat of his stomach. Your arousal ebbs and flows, the occasional harsh clench of your pussy melting into soft, easy pulsing. You try and memorize the dark trail of hair from his belly button to the seam of his pants.

He tosses his shirt onto your dress and starts on the buttons and buckle of his slacks. You could take your underwear off but you’re much too enraptured by his lithe body, your lips and tongue reddening his skin, your plump fingers so soft and light they tickle him.

Hard, lean, big man presses against small, soft, chubby girl. Cock head forces your lips wide as it runs through the slippery mess he’s made of them. Your clit is sensitive but it still loves the feeling of him sliding against it. Your mouth laves at his chest and collar, rough and clumsy. You bite him, earning a grunt, then feeling bad about it. It’s all too much, though, and the emotion leaks out of your mouth onto his skin, nibbling, licking, sucking, desperate.

He kisses your sweat-dampened hair stuck to your temples, murmuring your name, and presses against the entrance of your cunt.

It’s strange, how you feel empty and gaping and ready before he is pressing in and making you feel tight and unyielding and unprepared.

Pleasure at the price of pain. Your legs lifted up to rest across his body vertically. He kisses your heal and pushes his cock into you by centimeters, one hand on the base of it to help ease in. The angle opens you up a bit, but the way he stretches you still hurts, and now your mouth is empty of him so your teeth gnash at the air.

“Rub your nipples for me,” he tells you. Your hands scramble onto your breasts, grateful for the suggestion, pinching and grabbing roughly, displacing some of the pain from your pussy.

He rubs rough, broad circles into your calves, ignoring the prominent beast inside of him who wants to pound into you without a care for how you take it. He knows that rough and uncaring, though, comes with a price of tearing your insides and possible infection, and that would be fine if he only planned to fuck you once.

“tugoy, how do you feel?” There is concern in his voice and you wish there wasn’t, because it turns your heart rabid.

“Full.” It’s what you can manage to groan while he sinks deeper, your cunt betraying itself, sucking him in. So fucking full and stretched.

He hums. “Good or bad?”

“Both.”

He stops the inching of his pelvis in favor of focusing on your right foot, licking under your toes and holding your ankle because you’re giggling and trying to scrunch up so he can’t get to the sensitive skin. It tickles but also makes your clit throb. Broad licks makes lightning shoot in your lower belly. He wraps his mouth around your big toe and sucks and you are the one moving, now, pressing your ass down into his thighs to urge his cock deeper.

“Oh fuck,” you say, grinding down on him, desperate to have him put pressure on and quell the feeling of tiny shocks deep inside you from the feeling of his mouth on your sensitive feet.

Yes, give him more ammunition to use on you. Let him know just how to make you desperate and feral. Something speaks sense at the very back of your thoughts, and he doesn’t allow that rational voice to linger for long.

He switches when you’re getting too comfortable with one foot, abruptly swallowing and licking the other. You laugh and moan and squeal, wriggling down onto his cock so that he’s bent against your cervix. Heavy pain settles in your lower belly, your giggles turning into strangled groans.

He stalls, stiffens. You look at his face and feel terrible for the pain you see there. His cock spasms inside of you, begging to move, pleading for friction. He sucks his teeth, wins control over basic instinct and doesn’t move a single muscle while you adjust to the massive intrusion.

“I’m going to move,” he tells you, and you nod, eager to please.

The wet, slow suck of your bodies mashed together flows into loud squelching. He rumbles baritone while you keen soprano.

The fat of your cunt gives for the thrust of his stony pelvis, and his fingers trap your clit again.

You try and fail not to wail on your third orgasm. It increases your sensitivity and makes your g spot swell up. His cock slips against it, faster. The spasms entrap him in sensation and help build his orgasm. He stops rubbing your clit and just gives it pressure, looks at your face to see your eyes closed.

“No, eyes on mine,” he says, flicking a nail over the hood of your ultra sensitive clitoris.

Your mouth growls protest, tiny abused bud shrinking back from his mean fingers, but your eyes open and you stare at him as best as you can while you feel like you’re about to explode and scream from all the feelings inside of you.

He wants to hear what you hold back, so he fucks harder and faster and wins the prize of your loud expletives, his name, the dig of your heals into his collar. Your own hands tear at your breasts and you do scream for him, much to your own dismay. To you, it is anything but an attractive sound. His jaw ticks, eyes slice heavy with pride. He obviously has a different opinion. “There we go,” he praises.

His hand aches to grab your pretty throat, so he does, and you’re not small there but his hand is large enough to wrap around the giving skin and press down on the sides. You grab his wrist, the instinct to live guiding the motion of your hand. Your eyes cloud with stinging water as you struggle for full breaths under his heavy hold.

If he feels bad for you, it does not show in his face; in fact, his expression is quite the opposite of empathetic as he abuses your guts and steals your air.

You aren’t keeping track of time, how could you possibly, but it seems both too soon and too late that his hips falter and slow and he buries warm, plentiful fluid deep inside your cunt. He kisses your heal again, and you notice him in the afterglow; sweat shimmers on his forehead and chest, the drowning and drooping gaze of his black eyes, the satiated relaxing of his mouth. He looks beautiful like this, worn and satisfied and tucking his cum up into you, refusing to let it spill just yet.

His hand relaxes from your neck to your cheek, smoothing out the fluid from your eyes into your burning skin. He shakes his head when he notices that you’re trying not to cry so, so hard. “No, no fighting it,” he scolds, “give me what’s mine.”

You obey, easily sliding into a small, fragile, sobbing and whimpering human for him.

“Tchk.” It’s a praise from him to you for being so brave, so good for him. His cock eases out of you, but his cum floods from the hole he leaves open. It soaks your thighs and the couch and instantly cools your overworked flesh, but the loss of him is too much, and you grab for him, pulling him down, his mouth to yours.

He allows your forceful handling but does not assist with any part of it except for the kiss. His mouth is lazier, now, kinder. You push your thighs together to relieve some feeling of the void at the center and push his soft hair off his face because it tickles your cheeks and neck.

You fill the desperate hole inside yourself with the crushing weight of John against you, and cry into the fine hair on his chest. He flips you both sideways so that you can breathe easier with his full weight off your lungs.

He holds your hip while his fingers skim down and up your spine and lets you press your body into his as hard as you can and want to.

It’s this, this overwhelming feeling to sink into his body, to slice him open and climb into him and steal his warmth to keep warm in the freezing snowstorm that is your life.

It takes a while to stop sobbing, but you do eventually. Your mind steps gingerly from murky, predator filled swamp into clear spring water. The clarity allows you to focus on why all you’ve been capable of is tears for the past however many hours it’s been, and it’s not hard to realize that its because you’re in love with him.

And that’s the final effect of all the tallied John-related reasons that you’ve been counting and scoring in your mind. The nail in the coffin, for lack of better reference.

You know he doesn’t feel the same way, not because of the way he gently untangles you from around him and stands up, not because he’s putting his clothes back on and smoothing his tie, not because of the chaste kiss goodbye on your forehead before he ties his shoes, not because of the lack of words he says to you as he walks out your door, not because he leaves you lying there, numb and cold and naked. No. Not because of any of that. He can’t feel the same way because it’s you, and you are not someone that people feel that way about. And that’s okay, as long as you never have to see him or think about him again.

At this rate, though, it’s becoming a problem liken to that of your own personal forest fire, and you’re not sure what you’re going to do once everything stops burning and turns to ash.

[days-until-burnout]

Hello it’s me I’m in your inbox

What if 🤏 tango and joel :3

my requests suddenly got 120% cuter<3 and i know you meant litol tango and joel, but yknow i had to 😌 _____

📧 Day 56 -

Characters - Tango/Joel ft. Cleo (and Scott) Words - 1,214 Time - 45 mins Content - College AU

“Would you stop moving?” Cleo huffed, pinching Joel’s cheek between her fingers and thumb, forcing him to face her. It was only for a second before he shook her hand away, and they were back to square one. “Don’t smudge it!”

“Let me poke your eye, see how you like it!” Joel swatted her hand away, turning his head to the side as he closed his eyes tight then opened them. 

She sighed, “And this is why Scott isn’t doing your make-up. You would’ve bitten him long ago.”

“I can still bite you,” he muttered, carefully running the side of his finger under his eyes. He blinked a couple times until the sting wore off. He could feel the powder pressed on his eyelids, and if he concentrated enough, he could hear the glitter shimmering. But Cleo was right, better them than Scott. 

“Oh, do try. I bite back.” 

Cleo stepped back a moment, checking the eyeshadow palette as Joel composed himself. There was a mirror just on his left, and he was tempted to check, even though he felt like he looked stupid. His only grace was that this whole thing was partially for Cleo’s photography project, so at least he was reassured they wouldn’t make him look too bad. Still, he didn’t want to see. 

“Can’t you just think of the money?” She said, almost scoffing but didn’t, though they did bring the cup of water with a straw to his lips. “A hundred for today from me, another from Scott, and even more depending on our grade.”

After taking a sip, he waved her away, then sighed. The money, right. He looked down, a white gown with green undertone, like a shade or shimmer, almost pearlescent, and he still couldn’t believe he was doing all this. Of all things to get money, this is what he chose? The only serving grace was that he wasn’t the only idiot, and tango had been roped into it too. That was something to look forward to, at least, seeing how silly Tango would look. 

Cleo was back with the brush, and Joel only sucked a breath in as she did the other eye. 

“Am I a pretty prostitute?” 

They snorted, “Cheap?”

“I’m selling my body. I think prostitution applies.”

“Oh, is that what you call your part-time job too?”

“No, that’s my personal hell.” 

Cleo tapped the brush on the palette, which sounded very loud with his eyes closed. He was nearly hyper-aware of sounds, keeping track of them mostly, but it was driving him insane all the same. They should’ve played some music, to drown the occasional silence. Not that he was very close to Cleo, much less Scott, at least he had Tango, which still didn’t explain how he got roped into doing all this. Those two, Cleo and Scott, were sneaky and cunning, approaching him when he was tipsy, possibly drunk, and made an offer they pushed even after he refused when hungover. Clever, also annoying. Very annoying. 

All things considered, he didn’t have to deal with customers at least. Just sit and look pretty, as Scott had said earlier. 

“And done. See how fast that was? We would’ve been done earlier had you sat and stayed still.”

“You’re just a slow worker who is not very flexible.”

“I’m strangling you after the photoshoot, just so you know,” Cleo said nonchalantly as she stepped back, rummaging through the bag. “Saves me the money.”

Joel held off from turning, still not wanting to see himself in the mirror. “You know all my possessions and future pay is going straight to Tango. I’m getting your blummin’ money one way or another.”

“Right, right, your bride, how could I forget.” 

He could hear her roll their eyes, before he didn’t reply as Cleo was back in front of him. She held a wand with something clear in it, their free hand tilting him from his chin. It was cool and slightly sticky on his lips, taking a couple swipes on his bottom lip then his top lip. 

“Okay, yeah, done now. Figured it’d be better with lipgloss than lipstick,” she said, mostly to herself as she capped the tube, placing it on the table beside them. 

“Wasn’t I the bride?” He asked as he took her hand, standing up carefully. It was odd moving with something so heavy yet light, though it did provide some personal space which was fine. 

“Everyone’s a bride. Two ladies can get married these days, you know.”

“Back in your days, not.”

Cleo scoffed, and he grinned. With no further words, they walked out of the room, and it seemed like the other two had the same timing. Cleo and Scott first, surprise in their faces, then smiles before stepping aside. 

Joel didn’t even spare time to glare at Scott, his eyes focusing on Tango first and foremost. In a white dress too with red undertones, all dolled up and pink in his pale face. Tango stared right back, lips parting slightly, both speechless so their respective make-up artists had to drag them to the center room. The dress moved nicely, and Tango looked so elegant, so perfect. He couldn’t help grinning, a momentary wide-eyed Tango then a grinning Tango matched him. 

“You look stupid,” he mouthed when they were standing in front of each other, and they burst into dumb giggles. 

“Thanks, I tried to look like you.” Tango said once their giggles settled, only managing to make them burst into another round of giggles. “Can’t believe I was given such a mid bride. I want a refund.”

“You wish you could afford me.”

Joel reached a hand and pinched Tango’s gown, eyes lowering to admire Scott’s craftsmanship. He would give him this, Tango looked good. Plenty good. 

“Now, now, don’t get too agitated, the sweat will ruin the make-up.” Scott sighed, defeatedly walking towards them beside Cleo. They fixed the veils behind them. Tango’s one was longer and flowy-er, while Joel’s was shorter with two antennas on the clip. “Oh! That’s cute.”

“Last minute addition,” Cleo hummed. “Now you can look in the mirror.”

There was a second of panic as the other two stepped back, very far back, and it was like they were the only ones in the world. A sudden bubble formed around them, and Joel startled Tango by grabbing his hand suddenly. He squeezed his hand, glad that he was wearing gloves while Tango wasn’t. 

“You look fine,” Tango mumbled as soon as his eyes found Joel’s. He didn’t believe the words, but he had to believe Tango, what else was there to do?

Tango squeezed his hand back, and slowly, they both turned to the mirrors. 

There was an immediate wave of white, then slowly the reds and greens appeared, washes of color against the white canvas. It was beautiful, matching. A set of two, Joel and Tango. Tango and Joel. Everything was fine, then, because he was standing with Tango.

“I take it back, you look better than fine,” Tango whispered with a wild, warm grin as he leaned over, tapping their temples. “Good. You look good.”

“Thanks,” Joel relaxed enough to smile, looking at him through their reflection, finding bright eyes staring at him, “I try to be like you.”

_____

:3c cleo & joel. just them. them. also, not tagging scott because he's contribution didn't warrant tagging. sue me 🧍‍♂️

[serenpedac]

OC in 15 - Yael Greene

rules: share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you @aztarion, @topaz-carbuncle and @serially-wayhaven for tagging me, I loved reading the ones for your OCs so much! I'm stealing Lucille's idea for adding a link to the fic (if posted) where the quotes are from ^^

“I understand,” she whispers. She turns around before he can see her break down completely. (x) 

“In case you haven’t guessed, and I know you have, you were distracting me. I was thinking that you look very beautiful when you’re concentrating. Very beautiful and very distracting and I would like to—” She shakes her head. “No, one thought.” (x) 

“You know I’ve always wanted a sister?” “Would be fun, yeah? Good thing you have—” Farah falls silent, realisation spreading over her face. “Me. Oh, that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

“But don’t you see, we shouldn’t have to find them. No one should have been taken in the first place. All they want is me.” (x) 

“Or you could… demonstrate?” She bites her lip, his gaze flickering to her mouth at the movement. “Right now?” (x) 

“Hmm, yes. Yes, you did. But it’s part of what makes it romantic, don’t you think? Being lost in the throes of passion, forgetting about anything else. No thinking, only feeling, feeling…”  (x) 

“I don’t think I need to make any wishes tonight, you know. Not when you’re already here with me.” (x)

“Are you sure there’s still space for me between all the bubbles?” (x) 

“Just like me. And each mark tells a story, some are good and some are bad and some might be sad or funny, but they are all part of its history, you know? In trying to remove that it felt like, like they were telling me everything was fine. That Murphy never. That I wasn’t changed.” (x) 

Do you, can you maybe understand? Just a little? (x)

After a few deep breaths, Yael places her hand on top of Morgan’s. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” With a wavering smile, she adds, “I appreciate you.” (x)

“My car didn’t die, it’s just… ill. Yes, it’s ill.”

“You should go help them. I’ll,” she swallows, “I’ll be fine.”

He breaks the kiss when she shivers against him. “You’re getting cold, darling.” “Are you going to follow that one up with a proposal to warm me up?” (x) 

“You could have escaped,” Nate says, vehemently. “You should have escaped.” Tears of anger and frustration burn hot in Yael’s eyes. “I couldn’t. How was I supposed to just leave you? You were— I thought—”

(Yes, nr 10 is me cheating, but letters are a kind of dialogue, right?) Tagging anyone who wants to do this really, but also: @evilbunnyking, @nat-seal-well, @agentnatesewell, @wayhavenots, @ellstersmash, @fauville, @nsewell, @sustainably-du-mortain, @lykegenia, @lukas-du-mortain

[ganxiously]

I was really trying to keep it to myself because it does give away the plot a little bit and also perhaps misleads it a bit but apparently 'if it hurts you, make it everyone else's problem' is the mindset that I now have.

The entire street is ensconced in thick, black smoke when they arrive, pouring out like sludge from the ventilation holes they have cut on the roof for pressure release. The fire isn’t visible from the outside but from what they had been told by dispatch, Buck knows that the entire interior of the one-storey commercial building is up in flames. Given that most of the storefronts he can see are for fabrics and furniture, it is apparent why there was a need for eight teams to get the fire under control. The IC that meets them at the command tent looks calm but harried, letting out a gusty sigh when he sees that a fresh new team has arrived to lend them a hand.  They had been halfway through dinner when the call had come in so Buck’s still a bit hungry but he’s also thankful. Not that there’s anything to be thankful about so much damage and so many livelihoods lost but Chimney had looked like he was finally losing the ability to keep his questions to himself and Buck will be eternally grateful that the call had come in before Chimney could through the proverbial first stone into the glass walls of Buck’s carefully taped together life.  The IC explains to Bobby where the fire is concentrated and how they plan on getting to it by launching a double-pronged attack through the roof and through the stores. Buck exchanges a look with Eddie to make sure they are on the same page here. After all, climbing onto the roof and using ladder pipes to fight the fire from above? Cool. He’s just about to open his mouth to volunteer for the work when someone else enters the tent. “We managed to control the fire leaking out onto the roof but the structure was too unstable for any of us to go down there.”

Tommy is using his outside people voice again, he thinks before he even registers whose voice he is hearing and then slams his eyes shut because he knows what is going to happen the moment he sees Tommy again. But the temptation is too strong, has always been too strong since that very first moment Tommy stepped out of the shadows of his chopper to introduce himself. And Buck had been doing good, he had been doing great. He even had a second date coming up this weekend, though it was the bowling alley he was looking forward to more than seeing Jack again. And now he knows he will go back and make up excuses to cancel the meetup, probably even block his number to ensure he doesn’t have to think about it again because one sight of him, ash-streaked, curls flying every which way and eyes, blue, blue, blue because they are really sensitive to smoke (he must have forgotten his eye drops again), is enough to wash away everything else —  every experience he has had so far, the touch he has felt and the conversations he has had, the good and the bad and the fucking mediocre, until all that is left is the Buck of that night, sitting in his kitchen, alone again because the man he thought would be forever, decided he wasn’t worth the risk after all. Tommy’s eyes fall on him and Buck should look away, pretend he wasn’t staring, pretend it doesn’t matter but he’s missed him. The ache in him throbs, the delicate tissue of his heart exposed to anyone who wants to take a hit and yet he can’t help but drink in the sight of him, can’t help but luxuriate in the feel of those eyes on him in return. Yes, look at me and no one else, he wants to tell him. He wants to take hold of Tommy’s turnouts, tuck himself up against his neck and complain about how hard everything has been, even though Tommy is the person who is directly responsible for making it hard in the first place. He wants to tell him how hard it is to be one when he just got used to planning for two, how driving his car every day feels weird, how Eddie’s quips fall stale without anyone to back them up and the last time he told someone about his research binge, they just hemmed and hawed in a way that made it clear that they were not even listening in the first place. He wants Tommy to make his appropriately angry on his behalf noises even as Buck can feel the amusement come off him in waves. He wants to pinch Tommy’s waist in retaliation and watch him flinch away because that is his most ticklish spot. He wants to ask Tommy about his life. Did he find the problem in Lucy’s car? Make it to the anniversary party of the old friend he was considering going to? Did the cat that he feeds sometimes finally deliver her babies? Did he move on? Did he find someone who can make him believe in forever, at least better than Buck had? Tommy’s lips part like he’s about to say something and Buck turns away. He doesn’t want to hear Tommy’s voice give shape to whatever stilted, awkward or mean thing that’s about to come out of his mouth. And he definitely doesn’t want to hear him say Buck.  “Bobby? I’ll go help Hen with triage.” Bobby’s eyebrows make a valiant climb towards his hairline before remembering they are supposed to be pretending that nothing’s wrong. Buck knows he’s giving himself away, to his team and god knows, however many firefighters are there cramped in that little tent and Tommy, who knows exactly how much Buck likes being in the thick of things. Tommy who knows that were it any other day, any other time with any other team than the 217, Buck would be up on that ladder or ploughing through rolls of half-burnt fabric in search of flames. “Yes, you do that, Firefighter Buckley. We’ve got it covered here and I’m sure they could use an extra pair of hands over there.”

sorry if it sounds a bit rough. i haven't had the opportunity to edit it yet