#and all their kids would have super cool powers

[tswwwit]

Widower part three! Containing syrup, Idaho, and other interesting facts.

Part One is here, and Part Two is here.

“Welp! With the chores outta the way,” Bill dusts his hands off, turning this way and that as he examines the empty field. He reels on Dipper, eye-smiling in his strange, triangular manner. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Dipper frowns, but doesn’t speak. He’s not dignifying that with a response.

Beside him, Mabel clears her throat, nudging him with an elbow. When he levels his glare at her, she returns it, in a clear ‘don’t piss off the super-powerful demon’ look.

He makes a face right back. What if he wants to piss off the super-powerful demon? Did she think about that? It’s not like they’re in danger. Mostly. The wide-eyed look of frustration he gets in return makes him roll his eyes.

Bill interrupts, clearing the throat he doesn’t have. “As touching as your fleshy blood-related bonding is - super gross, by the way -” He waves towards his terrible demonic base. “How ‘bout checking out the digs? Settle in!”

Mabel grimaces; Dipper merely rubs his temples. 

Cooler things than flipping his concept of magic and physics on the head, great. He totally wanted to have his brain explode, literally - 

Another elbow to the side; Mabel, pointing out the winged eyeballs flying distantly overhead - and honestly? Point. They should probably stick by the guy who can fend off laser-shooting demonic pests.

“Great.” Dipper says, waving Bill forward with a grandness he doesn’t feel. “Lead the way.”

Bill does as requested. with considerable aplomb. He even gives a little mocking bow, tipping his hat, before he brings his two human captives back to his lair. Super cool. Definitely not ominous.

Dipper slinks along in Bill’s path, half-listening to him talk as they wander back into the black halls of the Fearamid. The stone makes almost no sound against his sneakers, while Bill himself makes none at all with his floating bullshit.

“Don’t make that face, kid,” Bill says, rolling his eye at Dipper’s askance look. “You won’t find a more comfy pad to hang out than the ol’ Fearamid! Trust me!”

Dipper grunts instead of a response. It’s a point he would love to refute, except. It is kind of comfy, in a weird way. 

Bill’s lair has demonic air conditioning, or something, so the temperature’s neither too hot nor too cool. The halls are roomy, with no demons in sight for now, and though the non-euclidean construction is strange, it’s not too confusing. Almost like a puzzle he’s already solved.

Which is a good thing, really. Odds are they’re going to see a lot more of the place. 

Bill leads him and his sister on another merry trip through his incomprehensible fortress, heavy bass from the party pounding in the walls, and he talks constantly. The noise is terrible - and the amount of bragging one triangle manages to produce per second is way too high.

Though considering what Dipper’s just seen… the boasts aren’t entirely unwarranted. 

Sure, Bill’s shown off his magic before. He loves a good show, and tries to make his excursions exciting. He’s turned people into statues, blasted a few buildings into dust, mutated animals, controlled the weather -

But those were just advanced versions of typical demon powers. The logical assumption was that he was an extra-potent version of your standard demon grunt, and his bragging pure bluster. 

Turns out all the shit Bill talked? Actually comes with the insane, physics-defying reality manipulating chops to back it up. 

Dipper studies demons, it’s his job, and even he didn’t anticipate… that.

Bill Cipher is a bigger threat than anyone expected. Ever. A king not just in name, but in power. A monster among monsters. An immense, annoying, violent threat.

Dipper has to tell people. Spread the word. Let them what they’re really facing, the danger lurking latent inside this fortress - 

But he’s trapped here, guided along by a madman with delusions of matrimony, with absolutely no one to warn about it. Except Mabel, who already knows.

And hell, who’d believe him if he did get the word out? Dipper barely believes it, and he saw it all firsthand.

He shivers, though the Fearamid isn’t cold. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down and his thoughts to himself. 

The one relief is Mabel. In her continued, alive presence, in having another witness to the insanity - and in how she somehow keeps up with all Bill’s rambling bullshit.

“So, you just sent, like, a billion people flying.” Mabel says, thankfully breaking from the weird fashion tangent they’d been on. “Where did you send everyone?” 

“Eh. Places.” Bill says, with his usual specificity. He turns his eye on Dipper before the interruption can even start to form. “They’re fine, kid. Dropped ‘em off in the nearest big human city. Might not be where they were picked up, but your guys can take it from there!”

Well… That didn’t sound like a lie, so. Everyone’s safe. Probably. And it would be unreasonable for Bill to pick out each and every person and figure out where he figurined them. 

It’s still annoying. But complaining about how Bill released two thousand captives sounds petty even to Dipper, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

As far as deals go, he just pulled possibly the most one-sided one in history - and it wasn’t in Bill’s favor.

His palm still tingles. He rubs it against his jeans rapidly, until it feels hot enough to ignore.

“So…” Mabel continues, hesitant. She taps the tips of her index fingers together, not meeting Bill’s eye. “What about me and Dipper?”

She says it with a hint of hope and a cheerful smile. Dipper sighs again. Optimism. So like his sister - and so misguided.

“C’mon, wasn’t it obvious? You two are sticking with me.” Bill says, resoundingly smug. He slings an arm over Mabel’s shoulders. The other travels a good distance before capturing Dipper, but inevitably drags him in. “Gotta say, it’s been a while since I’ve had mortals hang out in the Fearamid! Kinda nostalgic.”

Yep. No shot they were leaving. Bill already said he was going to help them ‘settle in’, and that means they’re in for the long haul.

After all. He has a ‘wedding’ to plan. 

While Dipper’s unimpressed look doesn’t land, Bill takes in Mabel's wide-eyed stare - and rolls his eye again.

“Don’t gimme that look, Shooting Star! You should be flattered! Being a guest at my place is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well,” He turns to Dipper and winks, a surprising feat with one eye. “Twice, in some cases.”

Ah, yes. The delusion. Dipper hasn’t come up with a good argument against it yet, so he flips this asshole off. Bill beams at him, brightening up and squeezing his shoulder. 

Mabel tugs nervously at the hem of her sweater, though she keeps up a smile. The knitting pulls out in loops, and she weaves her fingers into them. “So are we, uh.”

“Safe? Ha! Safety’s a delusion to keep mortal minds safe from existential despair!” Bill says cheerfully. “But, eh, no one here’s gonna mess with you if I have anything to say about it. And I do! At length! With extreme violence if needed!” 

“Great.” Dipper says again. He stalks forward, nearly getting away from the arm around his shoulders - until Bill darts over to keep it up, leaving Mabel unmolested. “So we’re captives.”

“Ahem. Guests,” Bill chides, nudging angle against side.  “You and me got a wedding to think of, and your sister’s obviously gonna be your Best Man.” He points double finger-guns at Mabel, who’s already perked up at the prospect. “While you get to be the co-star of the show! An entire constellation, even!”

“I know,” Dipper snaps. “You’ve made your intentions pretty clear.”

Though he’s tempted to shrug Bill’s arm off, he holds back. Breathing in, then out again slowly. 

Less of a cold shoulder. That was their deal. A few annoyances are a fair price for two thousand lives. Dipper figures he can put up with it a little longer. 

That, and the consequences for breaking a deal are, almost universally, painful. He’d rather not find out how theirs works.

Actually getting married, though? That wasn’t part of their agreement, and Bill’s an idiot for not including it in his terms. There’s room to resist. To fight this asshole, in word and in deed.

If Bill thinks he’s gonna get everything he wants? He’s got another thing coming. 

“Jeez, you’re grumpy this time ‘round,” Bill says with a sigh. Patting Dipper’s shoulder, he slows to a stop. “Your sister already got her four hundred winks in - but I think you need a nap.”

“Or a sandwich,” Mabel chimes in, unhelpfully. She leans in, stage whispering into Bill’s side. “He gets really hangry.” 

“Ha! See, now that’s the kinda insight a guy can work with.” Bill points at her with both hands, then gives a double thumbs-up. “Your sister’s pretty decent again, sapling! I approve.”

Mabel, buoyed by the compliment, sticks her tongue out at her underestimating, ungrateful older brother - then blinks. “Wait. Again?”

God, right. She hasn’t heard the whole story yet. 

Dipper waves off her questioning look, with a hint of apology. “Later.” 

When they’re not in earshot of the insane demon. Explaining will be hard enough without Bill adding extra ‘details’.

“So! Since the wedding’s a ways off, you both need a place to crash. And we’re already here!” Bill releases Dipper - finally - and spreads his arms wide. “Ta-da!”

Dipper glances around. They’ve reached the middle of a black stone corridor, same as all the others. One single, human-sized door lies to their right, the dark wood inlaid with gold in triangular patterns - but that stuff’s everywhere. It’s elegant, yet not remarkable.

Strange. Dipper was expecting something… more dramatic? Showy? Something on fire, anyway, not woodwork that wouldn’t be out of place in a fancy manor. What’s so special here?

He tries to focus on their surroundings. To find out what’s really going on, even over the music from- then blinks at the near-silence, and reevaluates. 

Nevermind, he gets it now. From their position in the Fearamid, the party sounds are so distant he can barely hear them. The halls are clean and clear, without clawmarks on the floor or spilled drinks or blood, and come to think of it - they did go up a bunch of staircases. 

Special, then. In that nobody else is up in this section. Wherever Bill’s led them has a distinct vibe of privacy. 

“Now where am I gonna stash you, Shooting Star?” Bill rubs under his eye thoughtfully.. He drifts around Mabel in one full circle, examining her in 360 degrees - then stops right in front of her. “Ha! Y’know, I’ve got just the thing!” 

One solid clap later, a second door appears on the opposite wall, snapping into existence with a sound not unlike ‘poink’. The pale wood surface is plastered with glittery stars, and a pink plaque with cursive script reads, ‘The In-Law’.

“Oooh,” Mabel’s eyes widen, clapping her cheeks in delight. “Fancy.”

Dipper watches as she flings the door open - winces, briefly, from the eye-searing colors inside - then wonders how Bill got it exactly to her taste. 

“But as for you, sapling,” Bill says, eye glinting. He floats over to the ornate door and swings it open, gesturing forward. “You get to stay-”

Dipper gets a glimpse of a wide, dark, richly furnished room - with every surface covered in empty bottles. A brief whiff of stale liquor drifts out before Bill slams it shut, pupil narrowed to a line.

“Actually, y’know what? You two catch up and do sentimental human crap,” Bill says airily. He shoos them away, keeping a firm third arm on the doorknob to hold it closed. “I gotta couple things to take care of.” 

Dipper’s about to protest - why does Mabel get the bespoke room, and him the afterparty disaster pile - but his sister seizes him by the wrist and drags him in

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t follow. He simply waves, eye-smiling, and the door slams shut behind them. Dipper glances back, hoping that wasn’t as ominous as it sounded.

“Wow, Bill really knows how to decorate.” Mabel lets go, looking around her room with wide eyes. She spins in a circle, arms in the air. “Look at this place!” 

The colorful walls, the bed with strings of lights around it, the rainbow theming. All very Mabel - and all very suspicious. This is clearly some kind of trick.

As his sister starts bouncing on the big pink bed, Dipper nudges a pile of plush animals. No blood gushes out, and there’s no screaming, so he shrugs and says, “It’s okay.” 

Mabel stops jumping on the mattress when she catches the look on his face. The smile fades, and she sighs.  

“I guess it’s got its downsides.” She slides down to sit on the edge of the bed, kicking her feet. “Like… how I got here.”

Ah. The whole… statue thing  must have been lingering in her thoughts for her to come out with it so quickly. 

“Yeah.” Shrugging, Dipper stuffs his hands in his pockets. There’s not much else to say.

“How long was I…”

“About a year.” He tries to crack a smile, reassure her that everything’s okay. He thinks it works, too. Because for the first time in a year, things are okay - Or at least way, way better. “It really freaked everyone out.”

Mabel nods, only half-paying attention. She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t remember it. But it’s like. I kind of feel it, you know? That time’s passed.”

God, Dipper’s an asshole. Here he is, wallowing in self-pity because a super-powerful being has a crush on him, while Mabel’s dealing with all kinds of bullshit. He moves to put a hand on her shoulder -

“But enough about that!” Mabel rocks up her heels, looking up at the ceiling with her hands tucked behind her back - then reels on him, grinning wide. “I wanna know how long you’ve been dating-”

“Never.” Dipper says, before she can finish the sentence. It’s just so wrong. He returns her responding frown, only deeper and more serious. “I only met the guy today.” 

Mabel lets out a low whistle. “Well, when you meet a great guy,” She shrugs, starting to smile. “Gotta move fast!” 

“But not this fast.” Dipper cuts an arm through the air. “Bill’s insane. And he’s totally wrong about me being right for him. I’m not even the same person.” Catching Mabel’s confused look, he sighs. “Okay. It’s later, so. Let me fill you in.”

Explaining takes only a couple minutes. How she got enstatued - a fact she’s aware of and not thrilled about - and his efforts to take revenge. How fighting against demonic forces isn’t that hard, when you know what you’re doing. And really, he only made a little, tiny misstep anyone could have made when he ended up captured.

Then, Bill. Being offered as tribute. The culmination of their current situation, and where everything Dipper knows can be compacted into a few bulletpoints: 

Dead husband, supposed ‘reincarnation’, and Bill being the worst at making marriage proposals, ever. In that he didn’t even bother with one.

Mabel listens to his tale with unusual silence. No interruptions, only nodding and frowning at certain points. Dipper guesses she’s still processing… a lot of things, probably. He’s not feeling on solid ground himself. 

After he’s finished, she asks, “Do you think that’s why Bill invaded Earth?” 

“What?” Dipper blinks. He was expecting… he doesn’t know. Maybe agreement on how evil and bizarre Bill is. Anger at what had happened to her. Not - 

He sighs, again, and rubs at his eyes. “No, I don’t think Bill Cipher conquered the west coast just to date people.”

“Not to date people, Dipper,” Mabel insists. “To find his husband. Duh!”

“The dead one,” Dipper points out. “That guy. Who died.” He frowns. Maybe she’s not aware either… “Look, reincarnation-”

“Isn’t real. Everyone knows that.” Mabel rolls her eyes at his condescension, then beams as she delivers her retort. “But does Bill know that?”

Dipper starts to protest - but pauses. 

That’s the same thought he had earlier. At the time he’d only been thinking about the pile of weird bullshit suddenly heaped on him, not the mystery of Bill Cipher’s motivations.

But. That would explain a lot. Not just his kidnapping and Bill’s bizarre behavior, but the greater scheme. One nobody’s ever found a real answer for. 

“I… don’t think he does.” Dipper admits, after a brief hesitation. “He was really sure I was his husband when he saw me.” Which means rebirth is a thing somewhere. Maybe in his native dimension? 

“‘Cause he’s pretty crazy, yeah.” Mabel agrees, though now she frowns. “But dunno. I kinda get it?” She shrugs, lifting her hands. “Losing someone you care about sucks.”

Yeah. Yeah, it sucks. It’s the worst. 

Losing someone can drive you to desperate lengths, or send you on impossible journeys. Taking risks, inviting trouble. Hoping against hope. Dipper guesses he can’t point fingers, really.

The difference is Bill isn’t capable of caring about someone, ever. The closest emotion would be ‘possessiveness’ or ‘obsession’. Dipper might have argued even that was a stretch, if the paintings weren’t literally on the wall about it.

“Welp!” Mabel claps, bouncing over and sitting back on the bed. “Guess that explains that! One world-conquering mystery, solved.” She holds her hand up for a high five. 

“Nope.” Dipper says. He shakes his head when Mabel starts to pout. “Look, if Bill was looking for someone, he would have mentioned it. He could have threatened the whole world to find his guy, or - or bribed people, or run a contest for best lookalike.” Or even leave his goddamn house once in a while, instead of making ‘collectables’. “It just doesn’t track.”

There’s a thousand things Bill could have done, since he apparently has absurd powers to go with his entirely absurd existence. A thousand spells he could have cast, a billion thaums of magic to throw around. And he spent it sulking on his throne, bothering decent people, and filling a side room with empty bottles. Not the behavior of a being on a mission.

Dipper’s known the guy for less than a day, but he’s certain about one thing. 

Bill Cipher searching for someone? Would be obnoxious, violent and loud. 

“Okay, maybe it’s not the whole story. But he did marry a human one time, right?” Mabel flaps a sweater sleeve, then points at the ceiling, and through it the x-shaped rift over the Fearamid. “I don’t think they have many out there.”

True; there aren’t. And It’s entirely possible Bill’s got a weird thing for humans; he wouldn’t be the first monster with that proclivity. Or the first to kidnap their intended, for that matter. 

“Yeah, fair.” Dipper concedes. He plops down next to her, leaning over to rest his chin in his hands.  “I just don’t see why the human spouse is me.”

“Hey,” Mabel says, in a softer tone. She punches him lightly on the side. “You’re a cool guy, Dipper. You could bag any demon you wanted! I mean, Bill’s totally into you already, and he’s their king.”

Oh god. ‘King’ is only a loose description, demons don’t have a monarchy. But the image it conjures fits right into shitty romance novel tropes, which means - 

She’s got the wrong end of the stick.

“I don’t need a pep talk.” Dipper drags his hands down his face, praying for patience “Did you forget we’re talking about Bill Cipher?”

“Yeah, I guess he’s not the hottest. Big shape made of metal. All angles. Super flat.” Mabel says, counting the flaws on her fingers. She rubs her chin and frowns. “Hey, how’s your honeymoon supposed to work when he has no-”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“What? He doesn’t wear pants, Dipper!” She insists, thumping a fist on her knee. “It’s the kind of thing you notice!”

“I wasn’t thinking of the honeymoon,” Dipper says through gritted teeth. Little sisters should not know what sex is, ever. “I was thinking, ‘How do I get out of this?’”

“Uh…” Mabel pauses, hand lifted - then lets it drop back into her lap. “Hm.”

“Yeah,” Dipper agrees. It’s a pretty tough question. 

This was never going to be easy. They’re dealing with the biggest, most annoying, most powerful jackass on the planet - and he’s a particularly nitpicky flavor of supernatural to boot. They like their agreements in writing.

Without a deal, how does anyone convince a demon to do something?

Well, okay. Dipper’s done that. But only once or twice. Three times, max. 

Manipulating demons is risky business, with coinflip odds at best. The few times he’s pulled it were to get the hell out of dodge, or to get their victims the hell out of dodge, and it was still a close thing. Demons can be stupid, and Dipper was lucky.

Unfortunately, his instincts tell him Bill Cipher’s a much older, smarter beast. He won’t fall for the ‘oh my god, what’s that behind you?’ trick. Though he would probably laugh.

“Hmmmmm,” Mabel continues. Her eyes narrow, and she taps her foot. “Hm, hm, hm, hm, hm.”

Uh oh. Dipper has a bad feeling about this. “What are you doing?”

“So we’re probably not getting out of here anytime soon. Right?”

“No,” Dipper admits, with some chagrin. They could still escape. It’s possible. But he needs time to come up with something, and right now he’s emptyhanded. 

“And Bill’s probably not going to give up on marrying you, either.”

“No.” The word comes out like a tired sigh. Bill’s definitely, absolutely, 100% locked the hell in, with a certainty he’s rarely seen in demons. 

“Then honestly?” Mabel shrugs, lifting her hands and tucking her chin in. “I’d play along.”

Dipper stares at his sister for a long moment. 

She can’t be - oh, no, there’s that stubborn look, with the narrowed eyes and fists on her sides. She is serious.

He clears his throat. “Look, I know you read a lot of bad romance novels, but-”

“No, no, listen! Remember the field? The collection?” Mabel insists, waving at the window and the green view outside. “Dipper, he brought everyone back to life because you complained about it! They all got to go home!” 

Dipper glances out the window at the empty field, then away again. “What does that have to do with-”

“Hey.” She takes him by the shoulders and shakes him. Her gaze is so intent Dipper doesn’t resist, lettering her rock him back and forth. “You wanna stop Bill from taking over the rest of the world?” Shaking harder, Dipper tries not to let his head snap around. “Then think about what happens if you tell him ‘no’!”

“That’s-” 

Insane, Dipper was about to say. Impossible, too. 

Only Bill is insane, impossibly so - and everything Mabel just said was correct.

With any other demon, this would be a stupid, impossible plan. But with a stupid being who’s already has shown he can be argued with… and he did free those people. He can be convinced.

It’s a totally bonkers, off-the-wall idea based mainly on vibes, and she’s still got a goddamn point.

“I know, it’s crazy. But Bill’s crazy, and you’re the only thing that’s ever stopped him,” Mabel says, mirroring his thoughts as she so often does. Her elbow nudges him in the side. “I thought you were the practical one, Dippin’ Dots.”

Shit. He is.

Dipper lets out a long, low, complaining groan, and flops back on the bed. Mabel pats him sympathetically on the arm.

Almost nothing thwarts Bill Cipher. There are too many demons in his thrall to fight, and his magic’s too strong to overcome. Nobody’s made a dent on that shining surface, and no bribe in the world, assault by force, or diplomatic approach has ever convinced him to relinquish bits of his collection. Much less all of it.

Until Dipper came along. 

When you find the right angle of attack, you have to exploit it. You hit the big boss in his glowing weak point, or be defeated. This is the logical thing to do. The reasonable thing to do. 

God, he hates being the practical one sometimes.

“Shit.” Dipper says, with deep feeling. Logic. Reasonability. And yet - He throws an arm over his eyes, and admits, “I don’t know how far I can take this.”

Even if it’s for a greater good. Even if he knew there was a higher purpose behind it and the whole thing was bullshit - Marrying someone like that feels… wrong. Because he’d know it was bullshit.

And Dipper can’t marry a demon at all. The concept’s insane.They’re only abstractly cool as a concept, nowhere near as cool in person, and Mr. King Nightmare Asshole is the single most annoying bastard of them all.

“Hey, maybe it doesn’t go anywhere! Like, maybe you call it off after he’s already sent all his demons back to the other dimension. Or maybe his real husband shows up to shout ‘I object’ at the wedding!” She clenches fists, as if wrapping htem around something, then thrusts forward. “Or maybe you stab him on your wedding night. Right in the eye!”

“What the hell, Mabel?” Dipper sits up, scandalized. Which isn’t fair of him, he knows; it’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “Since when do you want to kill people?”

“He did turn me into a statue, Dipper,” She says, unimpressed. Along with an eyeroll, for older brothers being so uptight.  “I mean, it’d be one thing if you were actually dating. But since Bill’s being a creep…” She shrugs. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

There’s so much he’s gotta do. 

He breathes in slowly, sitting up. The path is crystal clear in his head, what he needs to do. What he’ll have to do - though hopefully there are fewer landmines than he’s imagining. 

And Mabel must catch the expression on his face, because she turns more serious. 

“Wait, wait. You don’t have to, it was just an idea.” She pats him on the shoulder rapidly, trying to reassure.

“Well, obviously I’m not going to marry the guy. But leading him on?” Dipper rises from the bed. “I think I can do that.”

There’s an invulnerable boss monster, never before defeated, and Dipper has the only chance at the big, glowing weak point. He’d be stupid not to try.

“We could find another way out, though! Tell Bill he can forget it, no triangles allowed.” She stands up after him, matching his determination. Then, after a beat of thought. “Speaking of, I’m gonna make a sign for my door.”

“You should,” He says. Not that Bill will respect it, but. He shrugs, then sterns his shoulders, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. “But if there’s a chance to save the world - then count me in.”

“Okay,” She says, sounding more skeptical than he’d like. Then she nods once, firmly.  “And if Bill really is a creep to you, I’ll punch him right in the eye.”

Dipper can’t help but smile. He has his sister back, and she has his back. Despite everything else going on, this feels pretty great. 

He pulls her in for a hug, and they pat each other’s backs while going ‘bwomp bwomp’. Classic. Man he missed this.

“It’s pretty gross, just so you know.” He says as he pulls away. At her confused look, he adds. “Punching Bill in the eye. It’s like a… warm, slimy stress ball.” Or a huge tapioca pearl, or - ugh, his knuckles still feel gross. Dipper wipes them on his shirt. 

Mabel’s eyes widen, like he’s said something insane. She starts to speak, then stops, looking oddly thoughtful. 

“You know what, Dipper?” She gives him a big thumbs up, and a smile. “I think you got this.”

With the Bill problem temporarily settled - or at least having a *plan* for it, that’s a huge relief - they spend the rest of the evening catching up. Not that Mabel has much to catch up with, having been frozen in stone. But chatting with her in general feels so novel, and fresh after so long without it.

He’s pacing the floor by the bed, trying to plot out the exact steps of convincing their demonic captor to do anything and wishing he had a whiteboard, when he stops. “Mabel?”

A soft snort is his response. Mabel’s fallen asleep. Half leaned on the headboard, one star-shaped plush clasped in her arms. 

Guess being de-statued must have taken a lot out of her. And it’s - Dipper glances out the window - dark already? They must have been talking longer than he thought. 

Well, it’s probably for the best. Mabel’s ‘slept’ for a year, but probably not slept. He hopes that’s normal, for being refleshified. That everyone else is okay, too. She seems fine, muttering in her sleep and rolling onto her side, so… he shrugs. 

Honestly, he’s getting pretty exhausted himself. The day’s stress hasn’t just affected her; Dipper just carries it better. 

And it’s not over yet. Not even a little.

He tosses the blanket with the least horrifying pattern on it over her, and goes to face his fate.

After shutting the door behind him, quietly as he can, Dipper pauses in the hallway. 

Technically he doesn’t have to go to the room Bill brought him to. There’s at least two other directions in this hallway alone, and dozens more turns along the way. He’s not about to make a break for it, not without Mabel, but he could find somewhere else to hole up for the night. Just to stick it to Bill, the bastard.

Deep below his feet, a low quick beat of bass keeps drumming. The party must still be going; how long is it going to last? 

Which means not only are there demons everywhere in the Fearamid. A lot of them are extremely drunk. 

So. Take his chances with a horde of plastered demons, who barely have restraint in the first place - or with the obsessive madman who keeps wanting to wrap extendable arms around him? What a goddamn choice.

With a heavy sigh, he opens the door to ‘his’ room. 

It swings open silently, the dark interior faintly lit on the opposite side by a flickering fireplace. The bottles have vanished, and the scent of recently sprayed air freshener lingers.

No sign of demonic activity, though. It’s eerily quiet. 

Dipper steps in, shutting the door behind him. Guiding himself with a palm flat on the nearby wall, he bumps against a lightswitch and flips it. 

The sudden light takes a second to adjust to. It takes a full three more to absorb the decor.

Wow. Okay. Mabel’s room might have been tailored for her, but those decorations are peanuts compared to the decadence of Dipper’s.

The dark walls, the gold inlay. The tapestries, the trinkets, the furniture made of heavy, expensive-looking wood. Dipper’s seen mansions online that would quaver at the subtle display of old, powerful wealth. Only the couch stands out as being not expensive as hell. It’s a slightly worn, cloth thing in dark blue that looks very soft. Near the feet, there are slight streaks in the carpet from where it looks like it was recently moved.

“Hello?” Dipper calls, checking the living room again. There are other doors, leading to other rooms in the suite, but they’re all closed. “Bill?”

Seconds pass. No response. He waits a little longer, but Bill doesn’t show. Even though he’s had plenty of time to pop up for a jumpscare.

And that’s good, really. Bill would probably give him a too-enthusiastic wave, saying something stupid and presumptuous like, ‘good to see ya!’ or ‘welcome home!’, or - just generally acting like Dipper’s not a stranger. An empty apartment is much more reasonable.

Stomping forward on the carpet, Dipper drops onto the couch with a ‘thump’, and crosses his arms. The soft cushions mold under him like it’s trying to absorb him. Which it better not, he’s already having a bad day. There would be repercussions.

Still… This isn’t the worst place to be trapped, He guesses. For all that it’s decadent, this place feels lived in. Cozy, almost. Unlike most mansions, there’s a sense that people actually went about their day-to-day lives here, once upon a time.

Dipper checks the room again - still empty. Very quiet. Almost too quiet, in a way that makes him fidget and keep glancing at the door. Waiting for someone to come through, almost upset that they don’t.

Funny. Just when Dipper thought he’d never be rid of that asshole, he vanished into thin air. 

But - wait. Bill Cipher, dream demon, Nightmare King. Master of the mind. Technically his powers do let him vanish, into -

He couldn’t be - 

Dipper’s hand flies to the side of his head, pressing the space between his temple and his ear. His gut twists in a rising wave of anxious nausea.

It feels like he’s the only one in his head. But how would he know? This is hardly his area of expertise, and nobody’s been in his brain before except himself. The only voice he can hear is his own, bouncing against the walls in increasing worry, but that’s hardly a sign when the monster could be in there with him and just keeping quiet, waiting to -

Wait a minute. Keeping quiet? 

Dipper does a quick gut check - it hasn’t failed him yet, it better not fail him now - and lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. He slumps down a few inches in his seat, suddenly boneless.

Oh thank fuck. Bill’s not in his mind. No way, no how.

Because if he did get into Dipper’s brain, there’s zero chance in the world - in any world, in the entire universe - that he’d be able to shut up about it.

That leaves Dipper well and truly alone in this demonic penthouse suite. Nice and calm and empty. 

So. Since Bill’s not going to make an appearance, Dipper should take advantage of it. It’s good. really. He doesn’t need his stupid hand held to figure out an apartment. 

The most obvious door is the bedroom. Dark inside, with a fireplace unlit and several doors leading off it. One might be a closet, another might be a bathroom - which is honestly tempting - but since Dipper’s not about to investigate the biggest potential trap just yet, he shuts it and moves on. 

Finding food ends up a little more fraught. The kitchen’s great, spotlessly clean with well-appointed cupboards - but scrounging in the fridge reveals something horrible and alive that Dipper has to kick back into its drawer, before slamming the door shut and holding it closed. He settles for a jar of peanut butter pretzels and makes a mental note to tell that asshole he missed part of the cleanup.

And there is another bathroom, not one off the master bedroom. Smaller and with only a shower, but enough to get himself sorted and wash off the fear-sweat in one of the briefest showers of his life.

Once that’s settled, there’s only one place left to explore. Perhaps the most dangerous place of all, considering the nature of his captor. 

Dipper takes a deep breath, and ventures into the bedroom. 

He stands in the doorway for a moment, then feels around until he switches on the light. Same as the rest of the place; opulent, indulgent, with a bed big enough to get lost in. The too-huge mattress is covered in smooth blue blankets that look soft and appealing, and that gives him the creeps.

All things considered, though. It’s oddly normal, for a bedroom in a nightmare realm. Sure, there’s an ominous tapestry woven with impossible patterns, too many trinkets with Bill himself emblazoned on them, and the fireplace lit up at the same time as the lights - but, like. It’s not riddled with blood or monster bile, and there’s only one portrait of Bill himself on the wall. It almost feels restrained. 

In fact, it’s so restrained that Dipper almost doesn’t notice the photo. 

Not because it’s not obvious. It’s in a frame on the bedside table, right there for anyone to see. He skims right over it at first glance.

Then realizes it’s not a photo of Bill, how weird that is, and does a double-take.

He picks up the photo, blowing dust off the frame. Frowning, he runs his thumb over the glass to wipe away old fingerprints. 

Seeing another picture of Bill’s husband isn’t surprising. There are only a billion of them about.

But it’s weird seeing him older.

In the photo, Bill’s husband rests with his chin in his palm, eyes drifting shut as if near the verge of sleep. He sits slumped at a desk scattered with papers, covered with odd, cryptic notes. He has a few lines on his face, some grey hair, and a pair of big-lensed glasses perched precariously on the tip of the nose. A quick guess places him in… roughly late fifties? Early sixties? 

Still the same guy, though. Age left its mark, but with a gentle touch that leaves the resemblance plain.

Dipper rubs at the bridge of his nose. At least he can count on aging gracefully. If any of that carries over; they’re still totally different people. 

So. Another picture. Weird, definitely. Uncomfortable to look at, in a way he can’t place? Also definitely. 

But Bill Cipher gets one - and only one - credit, and that’s for not being a creep. If he’s got a photo maybe thirty to forty years after those unsettling twink portraits, his weird attachment to his weirder husband lasted way longer than expected.  

Which proves nothing vis-a-vis him not being a total kidnapping psycho, roping normal people into - whatever this is. It’s not - Dipper’s not - what is Bill even up to, anyway? None of this makes sense.

He’s about to slam the damn thing back down on the table when something catches his eye. Hesitating, he tilts the picture for a better look.

It was hard to tell at first glance, but on the second it’s obvious. Behind the husband, not covered by the desk, a black-gold pattern is just visible. 

The carpet. 

Which is a perfect match for the one in this apartment.

But the Fearamid only appeared after Bill invaded. Before that, it was in another dimension, a whole reality away from Earth. There’s no way it could - but if it’s not - and. Wait.

How did Bill’s husband get into the Fearamid before it slammed into northern California? Someone would have seen it if it manifested before in reality. Which reminds him of a question he had earlier, never fully answered: How’d this guy meet Bill in the first place? 

Dipper sets the frame back down, carefully this time. Adjusts it to sit exactly the way he found it, in case Bill notices the difference - then he lets himself fall back on the bed and glares at the ceiling.

So many questions. Too few answers. It seems like that’s just how being around Bill operates. He might never know what’s going on, not truly. Hell, a whole lifetime isn’t enough to figure out that asshole’s secrets.

The thought makes Dipper feel like rolling himself up in these blankets and never coming out again. He tugs a corner of one over his lap in a huff. Then rolls onto the mattress, dragging the expanse of soft blanket around him..

For all the many, many faults of Bill Cipher, he made Dipper some excellent bedding. Mattress firm, but yielding. Blankets, comfy and warm. And Dipper himself is tired, having been put through enough mental and emotional wringers that he’s lost count of them.

He settles into the divot in the mattress, molded to his body like it was meant for him, and falls instantly asleep.

-----------------------

He isn’t sure what time he wakes, only that the morning light isn’t coming in through his window, and the rattling of his neighbor’s shitty air conditioner is thankfully absent.

His bed got an upgrade, though. 

Dipper rolls over, kicking his feet against the luxurious sheets. The pillow stays cool against his face as he nuzzles into it, and the blankets are just right. He could easily lie here for another hour or so - and hell, why not? 

Lazy morning is a go, then. He gropes around for his phone, before realizing it made its way under his arm during the night. Weird, he usually keeps it in his pocket or on the table.

Also, it’s really warm. Kind of like his forearm’s resting on a hot water bottle.  Dipper shifts against it, trying to feel for the edges, but the solid smooth screen stretches from his elbow to his wrist. He pats his palm against the surface, fingertips trying to find purchase -  and hears a chuckle.  

“Gah!” Dipper yelps, sitting bolt upright. He tugs the blankets up his chest, heart pounding as he stares at this… asshole. “What the fuck, Bill.”

“Good morning, sapling!” Bill chimes in, lacking both hat and tie but with his eye curved in his usual smile. He rolls onto his side, propping his top angle up with one hand and tracing coy circles on the sheets with the other. “Sleep well? How were your dreams? Tell me all the deets!”

Unwilling to dignify that with a response, Dipper simply glares. As usual, Bill brightens at the sight.

Stupid. His phone got taken when he was captured. He should have realized something was off, or noticed it was way too big, or -

And shit, he can’t believe he fell asleep last night. Like, at all. 

Dropping off that fast, in the fortress of a madman? Without staying up for hours, wracked with worry and insomnia? That’s a rare occasion even without all the bullshit going on, he must have been exhausted.

“Bill. What the hell are you doing in my bed?” He asks, instead of going on a tirade about ‘privacy’ or ‘personal space’. It wouldn’t have any effect. 

“Hey! This ain’t just any part of the Fearamid. It’s the penthouse suite!” Bill sits up, legs crossing. He wags a chiding finger at Dipper’s face. “You’re invading my bed.”

…Shit. Damn it. Dipper makes a face, but doesn’t comment. 

Welp, that explains that. This place was too good to be true, wasn’t it. 

Mabel got a new bedroom to suit her, with total privacy -  while Dipper got an invite to the ‘best’ accommodations available. And because from Bill’s perspective it’s a favor, he can’t even call it a dick move. Or at least, not an intentional one.

“It was the only bedroom,” Dipper points out. It’s stupid to be embarrassed, so he decides to be annoyed instead. “Or were you going to make your fiance sleep on the couch?”

“Fiance,” Bill says, with an odd, dreamy tone in his voice. His pupil widens as he stares off into the distance. “Now that’s a fun word.”

Fuck. Dipper slaps himself on the forehead. Why did he say that. Now he’s reinforced the damn delusion. 

Which… technically he’s supposed to be doing, right. To lead Bill on. In theory, encouraging him, leading him deeper and deeper into an inevitable trap, might even save the world.

That’s the goal. The shining endpoint, the final part of the game. Dipper can see the possibilities in his mind’s eye, distant but - again, in theory - reachable.

Problem is, he can also see how the process is going to suck.

With a groan, Dipper rolls out from under the sheets and stomps towards the bathroom. Bill stays frozen in glimmering delight for a second, then snaps to attention and drifts after him. 

“Hey, hey, don’t go! You're welcome in between my sheets anytime, kid! It's a real highlight of the day!”

“Yeah.” Dipper mumbles, “You would like that.” With the obsession and everything.

“Where you headed?” Bill’s voice comes from behind and to the left, a way-too-chatty shoulder devil. “A lazy morning lounging with your fiance would rule and you know it!” He adds, relishing the word he’s rediscovered.

“Nope.” Dipper states, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. He pulls open the bathroom door a bare fraction, trying to shimmy his way in without letting this guy follow. “Too busy.”

“Busy with what?” Bill’s arm wiggles in after him, and refuses to budge when Dipper tries to shut the door on it. God, shapeshifting is really annoying. “Stop running, idiot! Lemme in!” For crying out loud, why can’t this stupid demon take a hint - 

He opens the door just enough to glare and state, “I have to pee,” before slamming it shut again.  

Bill’s arm gets flattened between the door and the frame, waves once or twice, then slithers back out in a desultory manner. Dipper waits a full thirty seconds, listening for knocking or whining outside. When none comes, he finally lets himself relax. 

Good. A little privacy. Better yet, he’s learned Bill won’t barge in just anywhere. Or at least, not anywhere, anytime. 

Unfortunately, he can’t live in the bathroom. For one, he needs to eat and stuff, and for another he’s gotta check on Mabel and make sure she’s okay. Not to mention plan their escape, manipulate a monster and save the planet. There’s a lot on his list that can’t get done in the shower.

He pulls on his t-shirt after, distantly wondering if Bill can summon new clothes or something. This one’s seen a lot of wear over the last week - then pauses, cocking his head to one side. 

There’s… whistling? A distant tune. Accompanied by clattering and a horrific bang, then laughter.  

Great. Bill’s up to something. And there’s no way of knowing what unless…

Right. Dipper tugs his shirt the rest of the way down and sterns his shoulders. 

There’s a plan in place. He’s got half a dozen key debate points, five theoretical ways to manipulate a demon, and three different conversational flowcharts cross-linked for possible insane tangents. He’s about as prepared as any one man can be, so. Might as well face the literal music. 

And besides. He’s supposed to encourage the delusion, right? Bill’s… ‘Husband’ would probably want to find out what he was doing in the kitchen. 

Which is… Cooking. Apparently. 

“Heya,” Bill says, cheerfully waving with a third arm. The other flips something in a pan on the stovetop. “Thought I’d have to drag you out here! Way to spoil my fun, kid.”

His eye rolls back into its socket, and he sticks his tongue out. Dipper doesn’t flinch. He just shuts his own eyes, and tries to focus. 

Weird. Everything’s going to be weird. He has to adjust to the weird, bring it in as part of his viewpoint, and let it roll off his back. 

“What are you up to, Cipher.” Dipper asks, flat. He stays back from the table, and very far back from the flames on the stove and any extant knives. 

“Breakfast.” Bill turns around, gesturing with an empty plate in Dipper’s direction. “Duh.”

That sounds… normal. Too normal. 

Dipper narrows his eyes. “Because that’s not ominous at all.”

“Flatterer,” Bill says, smiling again. He drifts in, moving pans and dishes and food around with multiple arms, too fast for Dipper to track. “Ease up, sapling. You act like I’ve never had a human around my place before!”

The table’s set now. The food steams slightly, the dishes are way too fancy for the tiny kitchen table, and it’s… clearly an invitation to sit.

Dipper pulls the chair out. He steps in, sits down, and scoots in before Bill can get any funny ideas about pushing it for him. A good instinct, too; he’s pretty sure Bill almost darted in to do just that before he lost the chance.

That settled, he eyes the plate in front of him. The terrible, demonic concoction looks like… French toast. With powdered sugar. And slices of something identical to strawberry that might be a horrible trick. It smells sweet and buttery and - he makes a face as his traitorous stomach grows. 

“Eat up, sapling! Use your logic,” Bill adds, while Dipper’s still struggling between his stomach and not accepting demonic gifts - “If I was gonna poison ya, I’d’ve done it before ditching my statue collection.” 

Okay, that is a point. But - 

“It could be revenge poisoning,” Dipper argues. He waves the fork in Bill’s direction before spearing it down into his breakfast. “I’d never suspect it after winning the statue argument.”

“Nah, easier to not need revenge in the first place.” Bill shakes slightly from side to side, like his whole shape is his head. “And you suspected it anyway! Pretty poor plan if you ask me.”

“Mmh,” Dipper mumbles, not quite agreeing, not quite arguing around his mouthful. He shuts his eyes, making a soft sound. Damn it, it’s good french toast. Who knew Bill knew how to cook?

Bill beams, leaning back in the air and watching Dipper chew, then swallow. “You like it, sapling?” At the responding nod, his eye narrows in sadistic delight. “Good! Enjoy the last moments before your skin starts melting off.”

Dipper freezes in place, fork halfway to his mouth. Glancing down, then up again at Bill.

Then he stuffs more toast in his mouth, swallows again, and says, ”Your jokes suck.”

“HA! I totally had you for a second!” Bill prods the air in Dipper’s direction with his own fork. “That look on your face! All, ‘oh no! What does skin melting feel like? Is it happening right now?’” 

Dipper refuses to acknowledge that with a comment. It’d only encourage him. 

Besides, he has better things to do. Eat, for one. And for another, watch the most terrible demon in the universe have breakfast. 

Seeing Bill switch eye and mouth is hardly pleasant to watch, but also… kind of intriguing? What kind of biology situation does he have going on? Is there one? Can he see while he’s eating? Is this a subtle weakness? Dipper has so many questions. 

Not that he has much time to ask them. His breakfast companion’s taking up plenty of talking space. 

The topics Bill goes on about are both bizarre and somehow mundane; demonic gossip, gory stories, bad jokes. A distinct lack of threats or maiming. Their so-called ‘engagement’ doesn’t come up, other than Bill eyeing Dipper in a strange way. When Dipper responds, he always seems delighted, even when it’s needling him about some totally pedantic point. 

It’s strange, and disconcerting, and deeply, deeply weird. But overall? Not that bad. Or at least considerably better than Dipper thought conversation with this creature would go. Nobody’s even exploded yet. 

Dipper fiddles with another bite of french toast, gone slightly soggy from syrup. 

While it’s nice to pretend that this is normal - like having a meal with a horrible demon-conquerer is no big deal, happens every day - he can’t just sit here forever. He has a goal, and can’t put it off. No matter how daunting it seems. 

“Look,” He says, once there’s a gap long enough to break into the topic. “We need to talk.”

“Oooh, ominous.” Bill says, floating up out of the chair he wasn’t really sitting in to hover over the table. “I like it. Go on!”

“It’s about…  our wedding.” Dipper starts awkwardly, cringing back an inch as Bill visibly brightens. “There’s something I want you to do first. It’s, uh.” He swallows. “Important?”

Shit, this is going badly already. That’s not what he was supposed to say! It didn’t come out right, he should have practiced this, damn it.

Dipper mentally fumbles for his debate points. Where was he going to start again? And why aren’t there any index cards in this stupid apartment, he could have written this down. Maybe he can recover if Bill says -

“You got it, kid.” Bill’s eye glimmers and he floats closer, knocking over the syrup bottle in the process. “Anything you want.”

Dipper stares. 

Shit. That wasn’t in his flowcharts. 

He prods at the last third of the french toast, ducking his head. God, Bill sounds eerily sincere. Like if he asked for a pony to ride in on, he’d get it. One that breathes fire and has a mane made of knives? Even better! Like Bill would hand over whatever he wished in an instant, or faster if he asked.

Wait, is this good? Or very very bad? Dipper isn’t sure. Only now he’s glad he didn’t have notes, because he’d have had to toss all of them already. 

It’d be one thing if he was asking about, like. Changing the color scheme for the wedding. He’s certain he’d get it, possibly in the most over-the-top manner possible. Some minor detail before they dive into whatever hellish commitment Bill has in mind would be simple. 

But what he wants - truly wants - is another matter entirely.

This idea felt like it might work yesterday, when he was at the stage of exhaustion where maniac energy took over. But now he’s facing with how patently insane it is. How it might not work at all. 

But that sincere-sounding statement. The freed people, the empty field, and the way Bill’s looking at him right now, like - 

Shit, if Mabel was actually onto something, she’ll never let him forget it. 

Dipper sets down his fork with a deliberate clicking sound. He takes a deep breath, and plants his palms on the table. 

Here goes nothing. 

“Could you… not take over the planet.” He says, finally. “It kinda sucks.”

Bill blinks, several times. He looks away, then back again. 

“Ah,” He says, finally. Also, not quite meeting Dipper’s eye, with a look of… not guilt exactly. But like someone with their hand in the cookie jar, about to explain how he just had to grab the baked goods. For reasons!

“Okay, okay. I get it. Worried about your fellow mortals, huh?” Bill continues. He reaches out as if to pinch Dipper’s cheek, a gesture barely dodged by quick thinking. “Easy, sapling, they’re mostly fine! We can lower the casualty count by-”

“Not just that. The whole thing sucks.” Dipper interrupts. He scoots his chair back an inch as Bill floats closer. “Seriously.”

“Hm,” Bill taps under his eye as he hums. “Well, relationships do gotta have a little compromise. And you are pretty cute…” The sentence trails off as his eye roves over Dipper again. “Hmmmmmmm.”

Dipper frowns, and waits for the inevitable assholery. 

Bill’s not truly willing to give anything up. Sure he looks like he’s thinking about it, with the little tune and the rubbing under his eye - but the display is a show, and a condescending one at that.

The suspicion is proven right moments later as Bill pats his shoulder, eye-smiling again. 

“But since you so insist, and because I’m such a generous, handsome, and amazing partner - you can have Idaho back.” Bill spreads his arms wide. “See? Compromise!”

Oh, for - c’mon, really? 

Dipper scowls and drums his fingers on the table, trying to think.

He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But Bill deliberately misinterpreting a pretty obvious statement - that’s just annoying. Like he was gonna fall for that show, or accept a tiny pittance. He’s young, not stupid.

Dealing with demons, right. The mistake was leaving any wiggle room at all.

“You’re only offering that because it’s boring. I meant the whole world, Bill.” He says, firmer this time. He meets that single, strange eye, glares, and sets his shoulders. “Get your stupid demons off my planet.” 

After a beat of silence, Bill groans. “Ugh.” Then, louder and longer, running his hands down his front, eye rolling back until only the white shows. “Uuuughhhhhh.”

He goes on. For a while. Longer than he should, really - Dipper taps his fork on the table a few times, then just throws it at this jerk so he’ll shut up. It bounces off his surface with a ‘ting’.

“Jeez, pretty broad interpretation of ‘anything’! And pretty bold to call it your planet.” Bill rubs over his eye, like the very idea is giving him an angle ache. “And they call me arrogant! Do you have any idea how long it took the ol’ minions to make this much of an impact?”

“Around twenty years.” The first incursion was tiny, really. The next, a little bigger. It didn’t truly ramp up until about ten years ago - but by then the damage was very thoroughly done. 

“Exactly!” Bill drops with a thump to stand on the table, fists on his sides. “That time investment’s nothing to sneeze at, sapling. You’re barely older than my conquest yourself!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not budging.” Dipper leans back in his seat, folding his arms. “You can either get the planet, or this stupid wedding. Not both.”

For the second time, Bill groans at an inhuman length, with inhuman annoyingness. The butter knife bouncing off him barely gets his attention. 

“Okay, but listen,” He says, tapping his index fingers together. 

“Hm.” Dipper narrows his eyes, and prepares himself to hear more absolute bullshit. 

“Technically speaking, I only took over Oregon.” Bill says, like he’s laying the winning card on the table. He rests a hand on his front, eye shut in smug triumph. “Everything outside of that was henchman work.” 

Dipper presses his face into his palms. Yep. Bullshit. 

On the one hand, this is arguably going better than anyone could have imagined. Bill hasn’t rejected it outright. He’s arguing, but not denying. The request hasn’t been tossed off the table to rot. 

On the other hand, Bill’s not giving up without a fight, and he’s old, and powerful, and stubborn as hell. Wresting any concessions from him is going to be like pulling teeth. 

“They did it on your orders.” He points out, once his bullshit meter has recovered. 

“What orders? I don’t have to tell ‘em how to rampage and ravage, they do that themselves!” Bill waves him off. “Look, your stupid planet got off easy. If you were really facing me in full world-consuming terms, there’d barely be one to stand on! Or maybe not at all!”

Dipper grimaces. The worst thing about that statement is it’s not wrong. 

Bill loves to brag, to show off, to talk himself up - but on this point at least, he’s not exaggerating. The amount of energy he commands and the precision he wields it with is literally unmatched on Earth. If he had brought all that to bear. Turned his horrible eye upon the planet with real intent…

Nothing would stand in his way.

A cold trickle trails down his spine. He grips the edge of the table, trying not to grit his teeth. 

Nothing, that is. Except Dipper. 

Who almost forgot the monster - the threat - he was dealing with. 

“I don’t care about the details.” He smacks the table before Bill can add another bullshit comment. “You know what I want. Stop trying to twist the subject.”

For a split second, Bill’s eye narrows. Then it returns to its jovial smile, rolling slightly as if Dipper’s being a petulant child. Like this is all nothing and stupid. 

“Sure, we can talk about cleaning up a few states, but the whole thing? Pffft. So tedious! Who wants to pluck up every individual imp outta their lairs? Not me!”

Oh. So it’s too boring, is it. Bill could clean up the entire coast and more, he’s powerful enough, but he won’t because it kind of sucks? Because he’d have to put in some effort for once? 

And yeah, he would think that, wouldn’t he. Because he only cares about himself. He only thinks about what he wants, takes what he wants, and what anyone else wants doesn’t matter. 

“Someone has to-” Dipper insists, louder now to talk over Bill’s obnoxious voice.

“Someone, shmumone.” In a contest of volume, Bill wins every time. He even laughs, setting fists on his sides. “What do you care, anyway? Most of these idiots mean nothing to y-”

“Billions of lives isn’t nothing! It’s a whole planet! My planet!” At some point Dipper stood up from his seat, and now he slams his palms on the table, sending the dishes rattling. “You can’t just wipe them all out.”

What’s strange about his outburst is that Bill actually draws back. Floating off the table now, blinking at Dipper rapidly with his pupil narrowed. Like he didn’t expect the anger, or like he caught a glancing blow. 

Fuck him, though. Dipper doesn’t give a shit. Heat is building in his chest, not just from the carelessness. Not just the callousness. But from how goddamn frustratingly, awfully stupid his - 

“And - seriously, that’s your excuse? Really?” He says, disgusted. “That the biggest bad this side of the multiverse can’t get some lowlifes to obey him?”

“Easy, easy, sapling! No need to get fussy.” Bill pats the air in a calming motion, seemingly unaware it’s causing the exact opposite reaction. “I said it’d be annoying, not impossible. And that’s not even counting that I haven’t agreed yet. I took over fair and square!”

Yet. He said - That’s an opening, Dipper lunges to follow up.

“No, you didn’t. Like you said, the minions did most of the work.” He points directly at Bill’s eye, slightly disappointed when he doesn’t budge. “Can you pull your troops out or not?”

“‘Troops’ is a strong word, y’know? Demons and orders go together like oil and water, kid! Who’s to say-”

“You should say!” For fuck’s sake, Dipper doesn’t add. The avoidance, the shrugging off, how Bill’s totally not taking responsibility -  He glares. “I already knew you couldn’t control yourself. Not controlling other demons is just pathetic.”

“Don’t talk to me about ‘control’. You don’t know what control is.” Oh, now he’s hit a nerve; Bill’s radiating heat, eye narrowed. His fists ball at his sides. “I’ve mastered control in ways you’d never believe! Your eyes’d pop right outta your skull!”

“Then your stupid conquest would look a lot less pathetic. You didn’t even get the whole continent? Really?” Dipper snaps. “All your power, all this time, and you’ve spent it on is frivolous bullshit. What the hell happened to you.”

“You wouldn’t say this crab if you knew what was good for you,” Bill hisses, low and furious. The quick return jab in Dipper’s direction has him cringing at his own flinch. “Sounds like someone forgot who he’s messing with! Oh, wait, you did! ‘cause you forgot everything!” Bill stomps hard, sending dishes clattering; a glass tumbles off and shatters on the floor. “You forgot me!”

“Good. I’d rather not know you at all.” Dipper snaps. Bill’s surface dims - weakness - and he rises to chase it. To hit this miserable asshole right where it hurts. “Maybe I’d rather die than put up with you.”

Sudden heat blasts through the air, hot as a furnace, as Bill’s surface turns a bright, furious red. Dipper flinches away, holding onto the table so he doesn’t fall.

…Okay. Turns out there’s a difference between making Bill angry, and making him angry. 

Smoke rises from the table where Bill’s standing, little flames spluttering up besides his feet. The sclera of his eye has switched to black, the slit pupil and limbs solid gold, and the furious glare he levels in Dipper’s direction might literally melt another guy. The heat in the air already has him sweating. With the ambient magic, it feels like he’s breathing in soup. 

Dipper eases back towards his seat, not wanting to make any sudden moves, and braces himself for impact. Or possibly, obliteration. 

But surprisingly, Bill shuts his eye tight. He vibrates for a moment, then flickers briefly back to yellow. Then red again, in a strange strobing light.

“Fine. Who cares. I don’t need you.” Bill says, voice deep and strange. He folds his arms as his surface shifts in kaleidoscopic patterns. “I’ll find a human husband who’s not you! A better one! One with all the bells and whistles, the fleshy aspects in vogue these days, and the right attitude to boot! No more arguing. No more bitchiness. And way better fashion sense.” With that said, he sets triumphant fists on his sides, as if presenting the winning card. “How ‘bout THAT?” 

Oh, he wouldn’t dare. Dipper seethes, ignoring the heat as he leans in to yell at Bill for saying such a stupid, awful -

Then he pauses, and shuts his own eyes for a moment. 

No, that’s bullshit. Bill only said it to get under his skin, like an asshole. He knows better than to take the bait. 

And there’s evidence otherwise. If he thinks that’s going to get a rise out of Dipper, he’s got another thing coming. 

“You won’t.” Dipper says simply, and sits down. Folding his arms over his chest for good measure, and glaring.

“Don’t test me, fleshbag!” Bill stomps a foot on the table, the lines between his red bricks glowing yellow with heat. “I’m Bill goddamn Cipher, and I’ll do whatever I want.”

Dipper snorts. Yeah, he always does - Which is why his stupid threat is as empty as his soul. 

“Then you would have done it already.” He says, and leaves it at that. 

Bill raises a finger as if to protest - then drops it, fuming again, as whatever retort he’d plotted fails. He taps a foot on the table as he tries to think of a response.

Dipper knew it. Again, his instincts were right on point.

Bill didn’t need to wait for Dipper to come along. With his power, he could have found a hundred willing mortals anywhere. Or picked one off the street, for that matter; messed up their minds, altered their bodies, changed their face to this face - and he’d have a perfect replica within the hour. 

Exactly what he claims he wanted, and precisely what he didn’t do.

“Don’t bullshit me, Bill. You don’t want anyone else,” Dipper says, calmer than he should be, certain that it’s right. He leans over the table, glaring. “Like, yeah. You could find or make another mortal, but that’s boring. You want the argument. You wanna win it. You want me to do this of my own free will, because you actually want this bullshit to be-”

Realization smacks Dipper in the forebrain before he can finish his sentence, and he shuts his mouth with a click. 

Bill watches him silently. Fists still balled at his sides, surface flickering between red and yellow and white. Burning holes in the table, but not moving; like he’s waiting for Dipper to either pounce or flee, and either way he’s got a followup.

Slowly, Dipper sits back down in his seat, thoughts racing a mile a minute. Great, he’s gotta do a full review of his flowcharts. And most of his priors.

So Mabel was right. Deep down under that impenetrable exoskeleton, somewhere in the shriveled black soul - Bill cared about his mortal husband, in his own alien way.

Because he wants this, desperately, to be real.

A replacement would never work. If it could, he’d have tried it already. But Bill knows lies, inside and out, and fooling him is no easy endeavor. Buying or making someone would only remind him they weren't who he was looking for - and exactly how much that sucks. 

They stare at each other over lukewarm syrup, shattered ceramic, and toeless scorchmarks seared into varnished wood.

Tapping his foot on the table, Bill glares, but doesn’t speak. The furious red still flashes on his surface, but it’s mostly gold again. And he’s not shouting anymore. Is he angry? Definitely. Plotting revenge? Possibly. But violence is, quite literally, not on the table, as he visibly wrangles his anger under control. 

Dipper ducks his head to poke at his breakfast in silence. Bill starts pacing back and forth, making the remaining plates and glassware clink. 

Looks like neither of them want to start up again. Dipper especially isn’t sure what to say. How could he say anything. How does anyone follow up on the most insane revelation of the last quarter-century? Asking about it is tempting, but he knows he’d never get an honest response.

That, and they only just stopped shouting at each other. Bringing that up would definitely kick things off.

This was almost a half-decent morning, too. Despite the kidnapping, and the company, and… well, everything about this awful situation.

But the worst part. The absolute worst part, of the entire situation Dipper’s wound up in, is that now he… kinda gets where Bill’s coming from. 

It’s all about that jerk bastard’s face. His stupid, awful doppelganger.

Dipper rubs at his eyes, but it doesn’t help. Not when he can see Bill’s train of thought, clear as day. He could plot it out on a pinboard with only one piece of string. 

Just like Mabel said: Losing someone you care about sucks. But seeing them again? In the flesh? When you never thought you’d get the chance, that they were gone forever? It totally rules. 

There’s a huge, bright burst of excitement. Sheer relief that they’re there. Feeling nearly weightless, as grief gets shucked off like a heavy coat and left behind. Anyone could get suckered in by the rush.

Hell, what if the person Bill revived hadn’t actually been Mabel, just a girl who looked exactly like her? Would Dipper have believed they were different? Or would he convince himself that it couldn’t be a coincidence, she’d only forgotten who she was? That he could fix it?

And as loath as he is to admit it, Dipper looks exactly like Bill’s goddamn dead husband. 

Thus proving he has the absolute worst luck in the universe. 

Of course Bill thinks what he thinks. Who wouldn’t? The thought’s too tempting. The evidence, compromising. It might even be the sanest conclusion he’s ever come to. 

There are many, many things Bill Cipher’s done wrong - but Dipper can’t blame him for wanting to hope.

He glances up from his plate, then back down again as Bill’s eye nearly meets his. Both of them avoiding the brief contact.

…Unlike the theoretical Mabel scenario, though, Dipper’s pretty sure he’d listen to reason. And he sure as hell wouldn’t kidnap anyone, much less make her sign, like, adoptive sibling papers or whatever. There are a million billion reasons to kick this demon’s ass. 

But he has to live with this guy for… who knows how long. They can’t be at each other’s throats all the time. Making progress on world-saving will be hard enough without ending up flesh-based salsa.

Silence still hovers in the kitchen, tense and weird. The quiet is starting to put Dipper’s teeth on edge, almost more than a threat would. 

The sheer level of awkward they have going on might kill an empathic entity. So why doesn’t Bill say something? Doesn’t he love the sound of his own voice? …Does Dipper have to -

Damn it. 

“Thank you. For breakfast.” He says, long, long after it made sense to do so. The food’s cold, but he doesn’t dare ask for it to be warmed up. “It’s pretty good.”

Bill slowly turns toward him. He blinks twice. 

Then he glows gold again, spreading his arms wide like the earlier conversation never even happened. 

“No duh it is! I know you, sapling, better than anyone!” He floats closer, hands clasped and held next to his eye. “And you’re usually less whiny once you’re fed.”

Dipper pokes at his toast with his recovered fork. Thankfully it didn’t land on the floor, or get melted under Bill’s feet. “...I still don’t like the conquering.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Bill heaves a long, tired sigh, eye rolling in a dramatic arc. “Always stubborn! Jeez, you’re even worse than last time.”

Last time? But that would mean - Dipper blinks.  “Wait, what?”

“You don’t like the invasion, and I don’t like giving up what I’ve rightfully conquered. Oldest dilemma in the book! Only one solution there, sapling,” Bill steeples his fingers, gazing over them at Dipper. “We’ll have to… negotiate.” 

He adds weight to the final word, like it’s somehow significant. 

Dipper, not about to look a gift triangle in the mouth, simply nods once. 

“Great!” Bill claps his hands together, rubbing them in ominous anticipation. “Plenty of time to get things sorted, then. Wedding planning’s gonna take a couple weeks at least! We’ll fit your stupid ‘protect the planet’ crap in the contract somewhere.”

“Sorry, contract?” Dipper sits up straighter. Nobody mentioned signing shit.

“Uh, hello? Bill Cipher here! You didn’t think ‘marriage’ was just gonna be rings and a kiss, didja?” He laughs, amused at Dipper ‘forgetting’ what was apparently obvious. “We gotta make a deal to seal the deal, duh.”

“Right,” Dipper says, after a moment. “I knew that.” 

He’s kind of hitting himself for not thinking of it sooner. Deals get complex if they’re long-term things - and what’s longer term than ‘til death do they part? Another addition to the long, long list of reasons this will be a pain in the ass. 

And no chance he’ll get everything he wants out of it. Not with the resistance Bill just put up. Even though Dipper knows better, the disappointment stings.

Guess the planet hasn’t seen the last of Bill Cipher. Maybe it never will. 

But honestly, what was he thinking? That Bill would fold before his demands like wet tissue paper? That he’d win back the world in one fell swoop? Bringing the Nightmare King to the negotiating table at all is a triumph worth celebrating. 

…friggin’ Idaho, though. Dipper can do way better than that. 

“Between your stubborn ass and the main event, we got a lot of discussion ahead, kid.” Bill clasps his hands together, holding them by his eye. “Lucky for you, I got a few ideas already!”

With that said, he goes on. And on. And on. About freakin’ wedding planning. 

About how finding contractors is already being a pain in the angles, a smattering about the decorations. Along with the guest list, and which interdimensional beings are disinvited forever, for reasons. 

Dipper only half pays attention, nodding at the appropriate points. Now that they’re not arguing, he can actually finish his food. 

So, he’s stuck here. Living with Bill Cipher. Listening to him bitch about finding the appropriate tailor for getting hitched to a human. Not exactly where he thought he’d be at this point in his life, or ever. But he thinks he can work with it.

Arguing with this creature about the world is going to be a struggle. It never won’t be. But it’s one he’ll survive, since Bill’s sort-of cooperating. 

Let Bill shoulder the wedding stuff. He’s the only one enthusiastic about it anyway. Dipper has his  own to work on - and with any luck, they’ll mean he’s far, far away before any of Bill’s come to fruition. 

Now that the mood has lightened, Dipper even finds himself perking up a bit. Saving parts of the world is better than none of it. Plus the food’s pretty good. And best of all, his sister’s alive and staying right next door, a goal he’d never thought he’d achieve - and she’s ready to help him through the worst of this. Even Bill Cipher standing right in front of him can’t ruin-

Dipper pauses with his fork in mid-air. A chunk of french toast, soaked with syrup, lies directly in his view of Bill. 

He looks up at the top point - no hat - scans down to the toeless feet. The toast on his fork hovers right below where the tie usually is, and slightly above the bottom side where Bill’s legs are. A drop of syrup slowly drips onto the plate.

“Bill.” He says, quick and clipped. “Question.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Are you naked?” Dipper asks, then leans forward, pointing his fork-toast at this asshole accusingly.  “Have you been naked this entire time?”

“Maybe! Who’s asking?” Bill’s eye-smile somehow looks incredibly smug. “And for that matter, what’s the definition of ‘naked’ and ‘this entire time’? See-”

“Go put some clothes on.” Dipper states. Seeing Bill not moving, he reluctantly adds, “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got my own stuff to do anyway.” Bill floats up and off the table, drifting towards the doorway - then pauses, pointing both thumbs at himself. “Enjoy the sight, kid! I know you love to see me leave, but you really love to watch me go!” 

And he drifts out of the room, shimmying his bottom side like - Dipper’s going to pretend he never saw that.

At least he’s gone. For the moment. Leaving Dipper to chew on his french toast and a bunch of new information. 

One especially intriguing secret sticks in his head. Forget the demons for a second; Bill’s going to do the heavy lifting on that end. Forget the single bed issue, or the dire problem of upcoming matrimony.

The last guy argued with Bill about the world too. 

Dipper didn’t expect that. 

He’d kind of assumed anyone involved with Bill would be after what he could do for them. Power, money, fame. Those are all common human aphrodisiacs. With Bill, there’s also taking over countries, revenge on their enemies, and gleeful, gory slaughter. 

But Bill said it himself, didn’t he? His dead husband was against conquering the world. That it was something they argued about, almost as bad as the nearly-deadly conversation minutes before.

Which… makes sense, doesn’t it. This is the first time Bill Cipher’s ever invaded this planet. 

If his human husband had been into that, and helped him, it definitely would have happened when he was alive. Another mark on the ‘truth’ column for ‘not-evil husband’.

Hell, as far as Dipper can tell, Bill only started his conquest sometime after the guy passed away, when nobody was around to stop him. Which is also when he started moping around his Fearamid and spending too much time on collectables. 

…If Dead Husband wasn’t into the conquering, Dipper doubts he would approve of the statue ‘collection’. And if he wasn’t into the ‘collection’, he’d be against the more showy forms of violence. Did they have anything in common? 

Like, Dipper kinda gets why a human would marry a demon, even with the rest. Power’s still a thing. Money, too. Bill’s got knowledge in spades, an oddball sort of an indulgent streak, and despite being yelled at he never lashed out. Weird, definitely, but Dipper’s seen worse in ‘normal’ relationships.

… but what does Bill get out of this?

Dipper turns his hand over, staring at his palm. It doesn’t look or feel any different than before; Bill high-fiving it stung for an instant, but that was it. The ‘deal’, such as it was, was done, marking him magically in a strange, invisible way.

So he’s supposed to stop giving that creature the ‘cold shoulder’, whatever that means. Behave in a way more befitting a fiance, he supposes.

But despite their argument. The shouting, the swearing, the defiance he showed -

His palm hasn’t hurt even once.

[animalsalvationassociation]

does Tweak glow-in-the-dark like in the books in your AU?

my idea is the reason why her dad, Ranger Marsh didn't like technology in his introduction is he spent like the first twelve years of his life in a lab with a bunch of technology before escaping with one of the scientists kid, Tweaks mom who I'm calling Katy for now. so Marsh(or Mason when he was young) was a jellyfish rabbit experiment where he has jellyfish DNA that makes him green and glow-in-the-dark. that's a real thing, search up jellyfish rabbits. so Tweak inherited the jellyfish DNA and subconsciously hides it from the others because her parents always told her never to tell anyone about the glow-in-the-dark thing.

“Does Tweak Glow in the Dark?”

[ DO NOT REPOST, ALL ART & CONCEPTS WERE MADE BY ME ]

Digital Illustration Time: 14hrs 10min

I have two answers for you, it's kind of like a choose your own adventure in a way. There's the "haha silly way", and then there's the serious way (this one I actually lean more towards, because it gives something to write about, but I love them both).

(Tweak’s headcanons/backstory will be linked at the bottom! I totally recommend reading it because it gives a little bit of light on Marsh and her lovely mama, Terry)

Silly Answer:

When Tweak was a kid she drank a bunch of glow sticks, thinking she'd get superpowers, and instead poisoned herself. Only to find out later that she did somehow gain "super powers", but the only super power she has is glowing in the dark. 🤣 Leading to a running joke that she still believes she could get super powers but it based only on the color of glowstick. (A Superhero Au idea anyone?~ lol)

Serious Answer:

I can only think of one other solution to this question . . . Radiation poisoning.

She was a teenager at the time and it was summer vacation. The heat got to them fast, so Tweak and her friends would go off to swim every day seeing as it was the best way to cool off. They'd stay out until sunset exploring the Everglades like it was their backyard, and let's be honest it basically was.

But little did they know even dipping your toes would end in disaster. Over the course of the summer people would start getting sick, really sick, including themselves. One day Tweak fainted, and when she woke up, her dad had driven her all the way to the clinic to get checked out.

It took them a while to figure out what was wrong, but by the end of the summer almost the entire town was locked up in the hospital with radiation poisoning. Thankfully her dad wasn't too badly effected, a few dizzy spells here and there, headaches, and nausea. Unfortunately Tweak herself got the worst of it.

They would find out later that a nearby factory had begun leaking radiation into the water and surrounding areas. The factory had already been known for it's harmful ways on the Everglades and the creatures that lived there. The people in charge didn't really care for the environment, so they didn't mind sending their men out to dump waste into the rivers and surrounding forests. The factory was shut down but the damage had already been done.

One of the side effects, depending on how exposed you were, was glowing fur/skin. Now yes, radiation and even Radium (if you've ever heard of the Radium Girls) aren't actually supposed to make you glow unless you are exposed to high levels, and even when you're exposed it's not always prominent to the naked eye.

However, as you might've guessed, Tweak was HEAVILY exposed and it was bad. She was one of the few who began developing ARS (Acute Radiation Syndrome). (Sadly some of her friends also developed this as well)

Symptoms:

Weakness/Fatigue.

Nausea and Vomiting

Vomiting blood

Rectal bleeding (bloody stools)

Diarrhea

Fever

Confusion

Hair loss

(Pretty unsavory stuff, huh?)

I think once she and her dad realized what it was, she immediately started getting treatment for it. But by that time is was already affecting her. Some days it's so bad that she can’t even walk without using a cane or crutches. Low and behold that's actually one of the reasons why Tweak doesn't do very many missions at the beginning of the series.

I think for a good long while she actually doesn't tell anyone except probably the captain. She trusts him more than the others at first. Overtime she does let her team in on her little secret, but I can confidently say, the very next person she told was Kwazii.

She's doing better now, like I said some days are better than others. Over the few years that the team has been together, there have only been a small handful of close calls. On difficult days she has fainted before, those are specifically her rest days. As soon as she's on the floor, everyone's main priority is getting her into a bed, and it doesn't always have to be her's. Sometimes it's just the one that's closest.

The team has been more than supportive, I would say especially Kwazii and Shellington. Kwazii being her go to when she needs help walking around or doing tasks, while Shellington is more of a vent buddy. He has his own disabilities so he knows how hard it is to function sometimes. It's really been something they've been able to bond over.

That being said, Kwazii does tease her a lot, but it's out of love. He knows that it sucks to feel stuck in one place and he doesn't ever want her to feel like she can't do things. Especially because her ARS has basically morphed into several other conditions, some of which she's still learning about. So most of the ARS is gone, but because she was exposed for so long she began to develop other issues.

(Peso must be so worried over her omg)

Honesty at the end of the day . . . I claim both ideas for her. I think it would be funny if she consumed glow sticks as a kid (because that just sounds like something she'd do) and then got radiation poisoning as a teen. So in my head, she knows she could get super powers (so she claims) but doesn't try it because she doesn't want to experience the after effects of the chemicals, because of the crap the radiation has put her through.

It's both hilarious and sad to me lol – Anyways let me know your thoughts. I wanted to give this an actual answer, because this comic took me so long to accomplish. Most of those 14hrs came from just the first panel, and that's the main reason I put this off for so long, because I was so frustrated with it. But that's what art's about right? It's trail and error, and boy was there a lot of error!

Thank you again @hannahstales ! I really do appreciate your ask! I've been looking for an excuse to do another "documentary" styled "ask "answer" for the Octonauts! Heaven knows I spend way too much time on lore that I forget to make my asks seem like they actually take place within the universe.

[ Tweak: References Old / New — Headcanons ]

[ This is a Octonauts AU, in no way is this canon to the OG storyline. ]

[panlight]

A post i saw recently had me thinking:

i do wonder, how much of the story would have happened if the Cullens *actually* did a good coverup back in the baseball field with james's coven? if Laurent asked about them bringing a "snack" ie. Bella, would things have played differently if they cullens actually played along with it? (ex: "You brought a snack?" "Yeah, we'll be having her after the game :)" ) after all, they were just passing by, and were about to leave anyway, so it's not like they (the cullens) are obligated to "eat their snack" right away. sure, edward probably could've still acted defensively, but given what midnight sun explained away jasper's powers in that scene, he couldve either made james not pay attention to him, or calmed edward tf down in some vampire version of a drowse pill if needed

like i'm pretty sure (if your polls and some of your posts indicate) that the cullens kinda do a shit job at their coverups LOL that most of it is just the writing (the author) relying on the reader to suspend their disbelief so high through the roof just to avoid the glaring issues

the cullen "kids" attend high school but never socialize with anyone but themselves, "never wear the same clothes twice", don't at least participate in any sort of afterschool activity, show up in ridiculous expensive cars (in bella's case, gift cars that are far too exclusive ie. ""missile proof"" cars meant for diplomats). iirc i think the graduation party they threw for the school in eclipse was at least some semblance of socialization they got (yeah i know edward and alice later share a table with bella's human friends but it just feels more like they're really only there for bella)

They are really so bad at blending in! And you're right, if they have been able to roll with "you brought a snack" they might have been able to salvage the situation. If Bella had been like, "omg, what?!" and freaked out and the Cullens were like "look what you did, you made Edward's lunch upset" or whatever and played it off as a vampire faux pas . . .

The Cullens need to take some improv classes I guess!

And then there's Edward recycling the same story for Renesmee that they used for Rosalie and Jasper. In the public story, Rose and Jasper are twins and Esme is their aunt who took them in. In the public story, Renesmee is the daughter of Edward's bio brother and he took her in after her parents died. Really. Happened twice. In the same family.

(Of course there IS no good explanation for Renesmee and I guess I should just be happy that they didn't do 'found her on the doorstep' or whatever. But surely the PUBLIC STORY being that Esme and Carlisle adopted this kid, maybe Edward's bio half-sister or whatever, makes a ton more sense than social services giving a baby to a teenager who just graduated high school and has been married for a month.)

The vampires are supposed to be super geniuses but they can't be any more clever than their author is. It's like how Alice is supposed to be a fashion icon but her fashion taste is limited by SM's own. Carlisle's supposed to be a brilliant doctor and uber compassionate, but his medical knowledge and compassion are constrained by SM's understanding of both. The Cullens are supposed to be geniuses, but they come up with half-assed cover stories because SM doesn't like, care about that much. She's here for the love story and Bella's power fantasy and that's her right. It's more important that Bella is acknowledged by everyone as Nessie's mom, even in the public cover story, than giving a plausible explanation. The Cullens have to be in high school for the story to happen, but it's more important they are rich and mysterious and cool than them actually putting effort into blending in. And the James chase thing needs to happen, so instead of fighting him right then, or playing along with the snack idea, they get this convoluted 'plan.'

And look, sometimes that's fun! There's a lot about the James thing that's fun. He's a menacing delight in the ballet studio, the bit with using the old video/audio of her mom . . . fun! Creepy! I enjoyed it! But sometimes it feels like there's a Point B the story needs to get to from Point A and SM just . . . doesn't super care to do it in a plausible way. The tent scene, too; it's just so glaringly obvious to me at some point she realized that with Jacob being hot and Edward being cold there was potential for Jacob having to snuggle with Bella to warm her up and so she comes up with this weird plan where they are camping on a mountain and a random snow storm shows up in June that Alice apparently didn't see and Edward didn't prepare for, all so the snuggle for warmth scenario can happen. And like, fine I guess?! But feels contrived and there had to be a better way to get there.

[captainmaxatx]

Omega! Logan who was born in the 1800s when secondary gender roles were very prevalent but it actually really suited him and he wanted to be a home maker and have a bunch of pups but he was always too big and hairy and and not seen as a good Omega. Alphas would sleep with him but never treat him the way they would a “proper” omega and they didn’t ever want anything serious because it’s like almost shameful to have a big hairy omega.

Then times change and Omegas start breaking out of the cookie cutter roles and they go into the work force and what not (feminism but it’s omegas) and Logan is very happy for them he thinks they all deserve the right to choose, but still no one wants him. And everyone expects him being an omega with the way he looks to be at the forefront of the movement to want the change for himself, but he doesn’t.

And over the years he toughened up and stops looking to start a family and put his dreams on the back burner to become what everyone expected of him.

And then everything happens and all the sudden Logan finds himself in a universe without secondary genders, where he isn’t a too big and hairy omega, he’s just some guy.

And unintentionally he finds his way into the role he’s always craved, where he takes care of the home and the dog while Wade makes the money, and it’s the closest he’s ever been to the life he wanted. He mostly retires from fighting and heroing, but now he’s ready for a new challenge. And being near Laura has only served to dig up that old desire and instinct he tried to bury so long ago

And I mean, even if the mutant hate wasn’t as bad as it is in Logan’s old world there was still a time here not to long ago when mutants were ran out and scattered around the world. And now with the people at Xavier’s working on getting the Mutants back into the city trying to re group with their still dwindling numbers. I mean Logan and Wade should help with the mutant re population efforts, who better to do that then two very eager immortals who can heal from anything and with a whole gang of friends around them for free child care.

[spotaus]

Late Night quick thing (New Age Sillies)

Bad news: That joke post about including Reset + Orchid is definitely not canon. (I legit got sad thinking about Reset being in a universe where Orchid isn't- because their stories are so so intertwined- but Nightmare 100% would NOT risk the whole twins exploding Error's soul thing.)

Good news: This means I COULD include Kane (Reset's older brother who usually dies in timelines where Reset is born) and use it to develope his character a bit more! Also! Perhaps a Blue × Dream kiddo is finally in the stars for me to design?

[mallahanmoxie]

i do think the pitt should get a superhero au simply because trinity and frank would simply have so much fun

[mostofthingsmostofthetime]

Just finished the show a few days ago, so that's why I'm only just posting this now.

[allegoryofthebeast]

I haven’t read enough comics w the established father daughter dynamic to know if this is true but it’s important to me in my soul any iteration of Peter Parker with his daughter she has to be much much cooler than him. I so badly need nerdy loser shoved in lockers Peter to be the father of a top clique popular girl. Like not even mean girl I just need her to be so popular and infinitely cooler than Peter himself I need it so bad

[inseobts]

Kidd, luffy and law x reader (love triangle) please 😽😻

Run wild and free

luffy x reader + law x reader + kid x reader

a/n: bestie that’s not a love triangle, that’s a love quadrangle lmao. jokes apart, I ended up making it a bit too platonic and about you joining their crew, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.

reader’s powers: inspired by solo leveling

tags: gn!reader, post-wano, strong!reader, slow burn, tension

words count: 3.5k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The war for Wano is over.

Kaido has fallen. Orochi is dead. The Beasts Pirates have been crushed.

And yet, despite the celebrations, the laughter, and the cries of victory in the Flower Capital, you stand apart alone, as you’re used to.

The battlefield still writhes with shadows. Black, eerie figures kneel at your feet, remnants of those you’ve slain, now bound to your will.

Your power grants you dominion over the dead. Every opponent you cut down becomes yours, their shadows shackled to you in eternal servitude.

Some call you a monster. Others call you a deity of war. Either way, they fear you.

And that’s why the three most dangerous men alive are now fighting over you.

“Oi! There you are!”

Luffy’s voice rings across the ruined battlefield, his footsteps loud as he runs up to you. His grin is as bright as ever, completely unaffected by the haunting army of shadows still lurking behind you.

“That was so cool!” he says, eyes practically sparkling “You should totally join my crew!”

You blink “What?”

“You’re strong! And awesome! And you’d love the Sunny!” Luffy laughs “I bet you and Zoro would get along!”

You tilt your head. He’s serious.

Before you can answer...

“Tch. Move it, Straw Hat.”

Boots stomp onto the cracked ground. Kid.

His crimson eyes burn with something like admiration but it’s buried beneath his usual arrogance.

“You’re not actually considering that dumbass, are you?” He folds his arms, metal arm gleaming under the moonlight “You belong with a real crew… mine.”

You smirk “You mean a ship full of lunatics?”

Kid’s grin widens “Exactly, you’re obviously one of us.”

Before you can respond—

“You two never shut up.”

The voice is calm, sharp. Surgical.

Law steps forward, hands in his coat pockets, golden eyes locked onto you. Unlike the others, he doesn’t demand or taunt.

He simply says “You’re not looking for chaos. You’re not looking for a crew of idiots fighting over scraps. You’re looking for something bigger.” His gaze sharpens “Join me, and I’ll give you exactly that.”

The air tightens. The unspoken challenge crackles like thunder.

Luffy’s grin never fades “I’m not losing to either of you.”

Kid scoffs “Like hell you aren’t.”

Law just smirks “We’ll see.”

You exhale. They’re serious.

Three captains. Three paths.

You sigh, crossing your arms as you watch Luffy, Kid, and Law glare at each other, their presence crackling like lightning in the air.

“You guys do realize,” you deadpan, “that I never said I was joining any of you? You all know I’m a lonely pirate and somehow I already have my crew…”

Luffy ignores you “They’re all shadows… Join my crew, Y/N!” he says, grinning ear to ear “We’re all super strong! And we have a cook who makes the best food ever!”

Kid scoffs “You think food is what’s gonna convince them, Straw Hat?” He turns to you, crimson eyes gleaming “You’re wasted with these idiots. With me, you’d have the strongest crew on the seas. No one could touch us. And admit it, your powers fit us.”

Law sighs, rubbing his temple like he’s already exhausted by both of them “You two are insufferable.” He looks at you, his golden eyes sharp and calculating “You don’t need chaos. You don’t need a circus act. You need something real. Join me, and I’ll give you exactly that.”

You blink at them. They’re serious.

You already knew that Luffy was stubborn as hell, Kid was relentless, and Law was dangerous in the quietest ways, but you didn’t think they’d actually fight over you.

Your silence seems to fuel the fire.

“What can you even offer them, Trafalgar?” Kid sneers, cracking his knuckles “A crew full of weaklings?”

“I have a submarine” Law says coolly.

Luffy pauses “…That’s actually kind of cool. But the Sunny is way cooler! And we have the best musician ever! Do you guys even have music on your ships?”

You exhale through your nose “You guys do realize you’re treating me like a damn prize, right?”

Luffy blinks “Huh?”

Law sighs “That’s not what this is.”

Kid smirks “I mean, it kinda is.”

The ground shakes as your shadows shift, the weight of your power pressing down on the air “You’re acting like I’m just gonna follow one of you like a lost puppy.”

Kid grins “Wouldn’t say no to that.”

Before you can reply, a new voice cuts in.

“Oi! What the hell is going on here? We thought you were killing each other.”

You glance over to see Zoro, Killer, and Bepo approaching, the rest of their respective crews trailing behind them. Nami, Sanji, and Usopp are already watching from a distance, curiosity burning in their eyes. Heat and Wire stand near Killer, arms crossed. Shachi and Penguin exchange glances, whispering to each other.

It’s clear that the entire alliance has noticed the brewing tension.

“What is this, some kind of territory dispute?” Zoro grumbles, adjusting his swords.

“Oh, it’s worse,” Sanji says, lighting a cigarette “They’re fighting over y/n.”

Zoro pauses “Wait, seriously?”

“Seems like” Nami confirms.

Bepo looks at Law, confused “Captain, what’s happening?”

“Nothing” Law says flatly.

Killer sighs “Eustass-ya, this is ridiculous.”

Kid waves him off “Shut up, Killer. I’m working.”

“Working?” You narrow your eyes.

Kid shrugs, smirking “I like collecting powerful things.”

Luffy snorts “Well, I like collecting friends!”

Law rubs his temples again, clearly regretting everything.

Sanji exhales a plume of smoke “Well, well. What an interesting little mess.” as he eyes you with a smirk.

Your shadows ripple violently.

“Absolutely not.”

The temperature seems to drop as your aura expands. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

The crews tense. They’ve seen you fight. They’ve seen the horrors your power can unleash.

Kid whistles, impressed “Damn. I like that.”

Luffy grins, unfazed “Your powers are so cool!”

Law watches you closely. Too closely. His golden eyes see more than you want him to.

You exhale “I don’t take orders from anyone. Not you. Not the World Government. Not anyone.”

Kid smirks “Then what do you want?”

You hesitate.

Because the truth is that you don’t know.

Luffy steps closer, eyes bright with something honest “You wanna see the world with us?”

Kid leans in, voice dropping into something dangerous “Or do you wanna rule it?”

Law, ever the strategist, doesn’t ask. He just looks at you and says “You’re searching for something. I can help you find it.”

The weight of their offers settles over you like a storm.

And for the first time in a long time you feel something real.

Luffy’s grin softens “You’d be awesome on the Sunny!”

Kid scoffs “Or you could actually be on a ship worthy of your strength.”

Law sighs, tilting his head slightly “You’re both exhausting.” But his eyes flick back to you, and for a second you see something intense.

They’re not letting this go.

“Yeesh, are they flirting or fighting?” Nami mutters.

Usopp stares “I… honestly can’t tell.”

Killer just sighs “Both.”

Heat nudges Wire “Should we start taking bets?”

Sanji exhales, watching you closely “Lucky bastards.”

You ignore them all, looking at the three captains in front of you. You’re not stupid, you know this isn’t just about power anymore.

It’s about you.

Kid steps closer, voice dropping just for you “You’re different.” His crimson eyes glint with something hungry “You’re not scared of me. You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

You smirk “Should I be?”

His grin stretches wider “I’d like to see you try.”

Luffy, still smiling, grabs your wrist. His fingers are warm, rough from battle and adventure, but there’s nothing forceful in the way he holds you. It’s just excited, unfiltered emotion.

“You’d have so much fun with us, y/n!” He leans in, voice almost giddy “I wanna show you the whole world!”

Your heart skips. Just a little.

Then a hand grabs Luffy’s wrist, yanking it off of you.

Law.

His touch is cool, precise, almost possessive. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Luffy, then at you. There’s something undeniably sharp in his gaze now.

Something dangerous.

“Don’t touch them so casually” he says. His voice is low.

Luffy just tilts his head “Huh? Why not?”

Law doesn’t answer.

Kid watches, then laughs “Holy shit. You’re jealous.”

Law ignores him, eyes still locked on you “This isn’t a game.” His voice is quieter now “Not for me.”

And for once, you don’t know what to say.

The air feels heavier now, not from battle, but from something far more dangerous.

This isn’t just about alliances anymore.

This is a chase.

The weight of their gazes presses in. Too much.

You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders back. The shadows one by one sink into the ground, vanishing like ink in water, back to where they belong.

The battlefield is quiet.

Kid watches with sharp interest “Tch. Even your Devil Fruit is showy.”

Luffy tilts his head, blinking “Huh? Where’d they go?”

Law doesn’t speak, just watches you with that calculating gaze, as if he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

But you don’t give them the chance.

You turn on your heel and walk away.

Not a word.

Not an explanation.

Just silence.

The festival in the Flower Capital is alive with laughter, music, and sake. People are celebrating, embracing their long-awaited freedom.

The people of Wano don’t know you like they know the others. You’re not a Straw Hat, not a Heart Pirate, not part of Kid’s crew. You’re just a shadow passing through their victory.

It should be freeing.

It isn’t.

You settle against a wooden post near a quieter part of the town, eyes drifting up to the lanterns lighting up the sky. The night is warm, the air thick with the scent of grilled food and spilled alcohol. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear Brook playing music, the faint sound of Luffy laughing, the chaotic voices of pirates and samurai alike.

And yet, you’re alone.

Just how you like it.

…Right?

“You’re hard to find.”

The voice is low, familiar.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Trafalgar Law.

He steps beside you, hands tucked in his coat pockets, golden eyes flicking toward yours. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you. Something unspoken.

You don’t acknowledge him right away. Just sip from the drink you swiped earlier.

“You followed me?”

Law doesn’t deny it “You left without saying anything.”

“You guys were annoying me.”

He exhales through his nose, amused “I figured.”

Silence stretches between you, comfortable but heavy. The festival noise hums in the background, but this moment feels separate from all of it.

After a beat, Law speaks again.

“You’re not staying, are you?”

“Would that disappoint you?”

Law’s gaze sharpens, but not with irritation, but something deeper.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” he murmurs “And I don’t chase things I can’t keep.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

A challenge. A warning. A confession. Maybe all three.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t know what to say, and Law notices.

Your grip tightens around your cup, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral “That so?”

Law doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, too closely, as if he’s already mapping out every possible move you could make. Then he tilts his head slightly.

“You don’t run from battles.” His voice is smooth, steady “But you walked away from us.”

You scoff “Don’t tell me you took that personally.”

He exhales through his nose “I don’t take things personally. I just like to understand what I’m dealing with.” His golden eyes flick to yours, sharp, unreadable “And you? You’re an enigma.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips “Flattery, Trafalgar?”

“Observation.”

The weight of his gaze lingers. Heavy. And something about it, about him, unsettles you in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. Because he’s right.

You don’t walk away from fights. You don’t back down from challenges. But something about them, about this whole mess, made you leave.

Before you can respond, a loud, familiar voice cuts through the air.

“There you are!”

Footsteps. Heavy boots against wood.

Kid.

He stomps over, crimson eyes flicking between you and Law, his lip curling “The hell is this?”

You raise a brow “A conversation?”

Kid huffs, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off some irritation “Didn’t think you were the type to have quiet conversations.”

Law clicks his tongue “And I didn’t think you were the type to go looking for someone who left without a word.”

Kid’s eyes darken “Tch. You think I give a damn if they left? I just don’t like loose ends.”

But the way his gaze lingers on you says otherwise.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid “Why are you two even here?”

Kid folds his arms “Maybe I don’t like being ignored.”

Law hums “Needy.”

“Shut the hell up, Trafalgar.”

You sigh “You’re both ridiculous.”

Kid leans against the post next to you, his smirk sharp “Maybe. But you didn’t answer the question.”

You glance at him “What question?”

He tilts his head, watching you like a predator watching its prey “Are you staying?”

The air between you tightens.

You could lie and tell them exactly what they want to hear, but you don’t answer at all. And this silence is what gets them.

Kid’s smirk twitches, like he doesn’t like not knowing. Law’s fingers flex at his sides, like he wants to dissect every inch of your thoughts.

And just when you think you might finally get some peace a familiar laugh echoes.

Luffy.

He lands in front of you, grinning like he hasn’t just dropped into the middle of something tense.

“Oi, y/n!” His grin stretches wide, his eyes shining “I’ve been looking for you!”

Of course he has. Of course they all have.

Luffy's wide eyes flick between you, Law, and Kid and he doesn’t miss a thing.

“Eh? You guys are here too?”

Kid rolls his eyes “No shit.”

Law sighs, rubbing his temple “Straw Hat-ya, this really isn’t—”

But Luffy’s already stepping into your space. Closer than the others. Closer than anyone should be.

His warm fingers brush against your wrist, tugging lightly but not pulling, not forcing.

“You left before the party started,” he says, pouting “I wanted to drink with you.”

His voice isn’t demanding. It’s something worse... soft.

Unfiltered. Real.

Your pulse skips just for a second. And from the way Law tenses and Kid narrows his eyes, you know they notice.

You don’t pull away, but you don’t answer either.

Luffy tilts his head “Are you mad?”

You blink “Why would I be mad?”

He shrugs “Dunno. Maybe ‘cause we wouldn’t stop arguing in front of you.”

Kid scoffs “You mean because you wouldn’t shut up?”

Luffy grins “Well, yeah.”

Law exhales, voice flat “Straw Hat-ya, you’re not helping.”

But Luffy doesn’t care. He never does. He just looks at you, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist.

“You didn’t answer Kid’s question” he says.

You freeze. Of course he noticed.

Kid shifts beside you, arms crossed, eyes burning “Yeah, y/n. You staying or not?”

Law watches you, calculating, unreadable.

The festival noise fades. It’s just them. Just this. And you still don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because they all want different things.

Kid wants power. A challenge. Someone who doesn’t bend to him but still stands beside him. And you can give him that.

Law wants strategy. Precision. Someone he can trust, someone who understands things without needing to say them. And, angain, you can give him that.

Luffy just...

Luffy just wants you as you.

Not for your strength. Not for your Devil Fruit.

Just because you’re you.

And that’s the scariest thing of them all to you.

So instead of answering, you finally pull your hand back.

“I’m going to get a drink” you say simply.

Then you walk away, again. And this time none of them stop you.

Your boots move over the worn wooden planks of the street, but your mind lingers on the moment you pulled away. On the way they looked at you. You grip the sake bottle you swiped from a distracted vendor, your fingers pressing just a little too tightly around it. You shouldn’t care and yet... Footsteps. You don’t turn. You don’t have to. “I thought I told you I was getting a drink” you murmur. A low chuckle. Rough, amused. “Didn’t say I wasn’t getting one too.” Kid. Of course. You glance over your shoulder. He’s close.

Crimson eyes gleaming, coat still torn from battle, his usual sneer replaced with something slower, something that lingers. He’s looking at you like you’re his favorite fight.

You sigh, raising the bottle to your lips “What, afraid I’ll disappear?”

Kid’s smirk sharpens “I don’t get afraid.”

You swallow, letting the warmth of the sake burn down your throat “Could’ve fooled me.”

His grin widens “Tch. You wish.”

You should tell him to leave but you don’t. Because despite the way Kid is all sharp edges, all arrogance, all chaos, he’s also the one who followed. The one who didn’t let you slip into the night alone.

“Where the hell do you think you’re running off to, anyway?” he asks.

You tilt your head, watching him “Who says I’m running?”

Kid scoffs “Please. You didn’t just walk away. You walked the hell out.”

You hum, taking another slow sip “And yet, here you are.”

His smirk doesn’t fade “Damn right.”

“You’re different from them” he mutters.

You raise a brow “Them?”

His eyes flick back to where Law and Luffy were.

“They don’t get you like I do.” His voice drops just slightly, lower, rougher “You don’t play nice. You don’t follow. And you sure as hell don’t belong on a crew that treats life like a damn adventure story.”

You exhale, tapping the bottle against your thigh “That why you’re here?”

Kid takes another step closer, his voice a challenge and a promise all at once.

“I’m here ‘cause you don’t belong to anyone, y/n...”

His grin turns sharp.

“...but you could stand beside me. And you know that.”

A challenge. A temptation. And a mistake.

Because before you can answer, another voice cuts in.

“You don’t decide that for them.”

Kid turns, scowling, just as Law steps into the light.

You exhale through your nose “Figures you’d show up next. You all won't give up until I make a choice, will you?”

Law doesn’t deny it “Because you keep walking away” His voice is level “But you didn’t leave.”

Kid scoffs “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

But Law ignores him. He steps closer, close enough that the air between you shifts. His voice is quieter now, meant only for you.

“If you were really leaving, you would’ve been gone by now.”

You grip the bottle tighter “And what if I just wanted a damn drink in peace?”

“Then you wouldn’t have let him follow.”

Your pulse stumbles. Kid’s jaw clenches, but before he can snap back, a familiar warmth crashes into you.

Luffy.

Arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his laugh bright, unbothered by the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.

“There you are!” He pulls back just enough to grin up at you “I knew you weren’t really leaving yet!”

You blink “What makes you so sure?”

Luffy tilts his head, confused by the question itself “Because you didn’t say goodbye.”

The simplicity of it hits harder than it should, because he’s right. You didn’t.

Law’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t look away from you “You’re still deciding.”

Kid’s jaw ticks “Tch. Just say it already.”

Luffy just waits, still smiling. Because he already knows.

And suddenly, you realize that so do you.

You inhale. Exhale. And then you turn.

Not to Kid.

Not to Law.

But to Luffy.

His eyes widen slightly, his fingers twitching against your sleeve “Eh?”

Your lips curl into a smirk “Took you long enough to find me, though”

Then he jumps with joy, hugs you tightly and kiss you on the cheek, which shocks you.

Luffy’s arms still wrapping tight around you like he never wants to let go.

Kid curses loudly, wheeling around to storm off, shoving a stunned passerby out of his way “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Law sighs heavily, running a hand down his face “Honestly.” But there’s no real bitterness in his voice, just understanding. Because they both saw it before you did.

You were never meant to follow. Never meant to stand beside them.

You were meant to run wild and free, with the only captain who never wanted to tame you in the first place.

Luffy pulls back, beaming, his hands still tight around you “So that means you’re coming with me, right?”

“As if you’d let me go.”

He grins.

“Never.”

[evilminji]

Okay but? We of the DPxDC? Are COMPLETELY Sleeping on DPXBNHA?

And not even for the Main Plot Shenanigans!

Just?? It has ALL of DC's super powers? But MORE OF THEM. And like 80% of the population has um! Danny can?? Finally achieve his DREAM of being???

JUST SOME DUDE™!

Yeah, he's in Japan. That's a bit of a learning curve. And YEAH, there was a cataclysmic war like a few centuries back that sorta... fucked everybody up. No one wants to talk about it. There may be mass graves and Never Forget memorials. But?

On the SURFACE!

This place seems utopian!

No ghost hunters! Advanced technology! Robust social services*!

Wait... what was that asterisk? What do you mean "corrupt shadowy government organizations"? What do you MEAN "Immortal Supervillians"? NO SPACE PROGRAM!?!? AaaaaAAAAAAAAAAH?!?!? I'M IN HELL!!! This is ACTUALLY THE BAD PLACE, THIS IS HELL, OH GOD NOOOOOOO-!!!!!!

Cause see?

There are SO MANY REASONS he'd end up there?

Think about it! Wish that he lived somewhere his weird biology wouldn't exclude him from becoming an astronaut? In Quirks having Bnha Japan EVERYBODY has weird biology! Y'ain't special! You could TOTALLY be an astronaut!..... if we HAD those! We do not. Shut down that program during the Quirk Wars and never really started it again. (And somewhere, Desiree LAUGHS)

Or MAYBE? Things are getting a little hot on the ground? Bit TOO spicy. The Family Fenton and Friends have fallen back, behind the barely holding shields. Not even the Mansons considerable political maneuvering could stop the inevitably of human fear and blind unthinking hatred. Money can't buy everything, in the end. There is only ONE(1) way out.

Through the Zone.

Plan: Strangers In A Strange World is a go.

They're all Limnal enough to fake it. Sam with her plants. Tucker with his technology and persuasion. Jazz with her limited empathy. Their parents with their... well, weirdness. And with a touch of ghostly assisted meddling? Well, they've always BEEN there! Haven't they?

And that's not to MENTION the random 4 year olds with no control! JUST coming into their powers! With all those big emotions in tiny bodies? Startling events and tantrums? Villian attacks? What could THEY possibly hope to do to control or guide that fresh new power? It does what it does and the rest of us are just along for the ride!

If Danny happens to be minding his business and gets accidentally kidnapped by a VERY distraught 4 year old? Well, that's hardly the KIDS fault, now is it? They're FOUR! That is basically a toddler! Tiny child! They are upset, confused, and didn't mean to do ANYTHING. He's a hero. And Heros don't blame little kids from accidents, no matter HOW stressed it makes them.

No, the curse like a sailor INSIDE their head. Like an ADULT.

Just? Imagine~☆

The slow transition from *starry eyed shoujo sparkles* "This is SO COOL~!" to "huh, that's... kinda weird. And Sus. Weird Sus. Maybe nothing... oh! A distraction!" To "okay, this KEEPS happening, that was shady. You all saw that right? You realize that's not NORMAL, right? That that's fucked up? Not cool?" To "oh god, oh God, OH GOD! I'm in HELL! This is actually HELL! I'm trapped in HELL!!! WHAT THE FUC-"

Like? This kid LOVES space. LOVES the stars. And this is one of the few Superhero Cannon that SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS that IN CANNON? Thanks to Quirks? As in Superpowers? That VERY THING got fuckin SCRAPPED. Gutted. Consigned to be a relic of the past so they could all focus on punching each other Real Good.

He would weep BLOOD. Chew the WALLS. The LEVEL of unhinged this child would unleash? Not as Danny Phantom... but as DANNY J. FENTON? Beautiful. Vaguely psychotic. Definitely doing the Fenton Name proud. God, the NOISE HE WOULD MAKE would be inhuman and yet somehow? Come entirely from his human half.

They👏 Would👏 Hear👏 BOSS👏 MUSIC👏

I don't even know if he'd CARE about the main characters. They'd be tangential at best. The man would be in a one man war with I-Island over their lack of space program and hoarding of scientific progress. Probably living out of an abandoned building or forgotten subway station. Just? The MOST bedraggled, feral genius to ever haunt Japan.

As opposed to the REFINED feral genius. Who is Nedzu.

I bet Danny stands outside his school at one AM waving his scientific papers at a camera and YELLS. Like a deranged lunatic. Mismatched slippers and a "haven't slept in a week" crazed glint in his eyes.

He's Nedzu's new best friend. They GET each other.

And, yes, Nedzu COULD let him in... but it's faster to just let him yell and read the papers through the camera. Who CARES if they both seem insane! Let's shout about advanced physics and engineering at 1 am! Over the speakers!!! Oh? You need to physically SHOW me the notes? Well I COULD unlock the gates... OR just wait for you to finish scrambling up the walls like a feral Racoon, to then throw yourself OVER them.

Either, Or.

I'm just SAYING! We are SLEEPING on this! There is so, SO much fun to be had! Danny breaks rules and minds! His outrage over injustice and the complete lack of SPACE! His protection instincts going BUCK FUCKIN WILD. The INDESCRIBABLE hate boner he would have for Mr. "Lemme just rip parts of your soul out so I can collect your powers like pokemon cards" AfO.

There? Is SO MUCH, guys. SO MUCH!

@hdgnj @the-witchhunter @babbling-babull @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d… know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?”

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece. 

[no-144444]

telling- o.piastri

summary: your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.

pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader

warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve more to come...

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

“You alright?” he mused, his hand squeezing yours. You nodded softly, smiling at him. 

“Fine,” you nodded. “I’m just… worried, I guess.” 

He shook his head. “Nothing to be worried about, they love you already.” 

You followed just a step behind him as he led you to the dining room. You’d been dating Oscar Piastri for 2 whole days. The sun set over Melbourne and the wonderful colours poured in from their large windows, as everyone sat down to dinner. Oscar had ‘stolen’ you away from Mae and Nicole for the day, opting to take you to meet some of his old friends and show you around his home town a bit, and you’d really enjoyed yourself. Australia was beautiful, the kind of place you’d like to live once F1 was over. The weather was warm, the sea was blue, and the people were kind. And Oscar was there. You liked it a lot. 

“What did you two get up to today?” Nicole asked over dinner. 

Oscar shrugged. “Not much, just took her to meet some of my old mates and showed her around a bit. She’s never been to Australia.” 

“She can speak y’know,” Mae sassed at her older brother, who rolled his eyes and shut up. 

You chuckled. “It was cool. Melbourne’s really nice. I usually only see it from the cockpit of the car.”

“What’s it like driving so fast?” Tim asked, still fascinated by it. 

“It’s kind of… unnoticeable unless something has gone really wrong,” you chuckled. “It’s cool though, everything just kind of whips past you.” 

“Fascinating,” he nodded. “Different from my line of work anyway,” he laughed. 

“Oh yeah, what about your parents? What do they do?” Nicole asked. Oscar stiffened beside you, watching carefully at how the question would play out. He knew about you and your parents' estranged relationship. He knew it was a sensitive subject. 

“They’re doctors, I think,” you shrugged. “One of them was a psychologist, and the other was a general practitioner.” 

Nicole’s face fell, a pit growing in her stomach as she feared the worst. “Are they passed?” She placed a comforting hand on your forearm. 

“No,” you shook your head. It was awkward to explain, but who cared? They’d probably find out anyway, just like everyone else did. It got leaked to the press in the middle of your 2nd season in F3 that you were estranged from your very famous, very powerful folks, and moreover, that they had a new family. It used to bother you. Sometimes, it still did. But Nicole wasn’t a nosy reporter, and you weren’t 17 anymore. “They just kind of… shipped me off to boarding school when I was 8 and cut me off when I was 17. We just weren’t close and it was clear they didn’t want kids at that time.”

“I’m sorry,” she squeezed your arm and you offered a soft smile. 

“Thank you,” you nodded. “Sorry for bringing the mood down.”

Hattie shook her head. “You didn’t, and anyway, their loss is our gain.” 

You smiled appreciatively at them. “Well, I did want to thank you all again for having me.”

“Any time,” Nicole smiled. “Always.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Oscar smiled as he pulled off your top and pressed your head against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his middle, relaxing into his touch. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low. 

You hummed against his skin. The both of you were lit by only candles (Oscar’s favourite thing ever), his bedroom looking increasingly cosy under the light. The soft breeze coming in from the window gave you goosebumps, but he was warm enough for the both of you. “Yeah, you?”

“I’m good,” he nodded, his hands wrapping around your legs and hoisting you up so that your legs were around his waist, and your arms were around his neck. You squealed and he dropped you onto his bed with a chuckle, pressed a kiss to your cheek, then walked to his bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. He loved kissing you. It was addicting, you were addicting. He had never pinned himself as a physical touch sort of guy, but there basically hadn't been a moment where he hadn't been touching you since you'd made it official, and you didn't seem to mind.

You cuddled up in bed, enjoying the soft pillows and lingering scent of Oscar. As you heard the shower turn on, your eyes fixated on the view outside the window. The ocean flowing gently just outside, the beach in front of you, the moon reflecting off small shells embedded in the sand, it was so beautiful. 

You heard the shower stop, and your attention turned back to you and Oscar. You two were official and it felt insane to be able to say he was your boyfriend, but you enjoyed it all the same. “Osc?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, the sound warped by the toothbrush in his mouth. 

“Do you want to tell your family about us?” you questioned, playing with the hem of one of the pillows. “No pressure, of course.” 

He poked his head out from the bathroom, the towel around his bottom half dangerously low. You let your eyes wander all over him, his wet hair, his build physique, his goofy smile. “You mean it?” 

You nodded. “I mean… yeah? I feel weird being here and them not knowing,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to keep it from them, or really anyone, but especially them, right?” 

He nodded. “I agree,” he grinned. “We’ll tell them this week.” 

You smiled. “Cool,” then turned to your side and grabbed your book. 

“Are you going to act like that wasn’t a milestone?” he mused, joining you in bed, shorts on and towel-dried hair. 

“What?” you questioned, not looking up from your book. 

“You want to tell my parents about us,” he smiled. “That’s big.” 

You shrugged, unconvinced. “Is it though?” 

He nodded and pressed a kiss to your neck. “Yeah, it is,” he lay there for a moment, just watching you read. “You look beautiful,” he smiled. 

You turned to him and laughed. “You’re such a sop.” 

He rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. “Uh-huh,” he nodded and kissed you again. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

“Do you want to come with us to Sydney?” Hattie offered as you two ate breakfast together. “We’re just going for like a few days, but we’d love to have you.” 

“Plus Mae will be like, miserable without you,” Eddie chuckled. You smiled. 

You shrugged. “I’d love to come.” 

“Where are we going?” Oscar asked as he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. 

“Y/n, Eddie, Mae, Mom, and I are all going to go on a trip to Sydney,” Hattie explained. 

Oscar nodded. “Can I come?” 

“Sure-” Eddie shrugged. 

“Mum wants it to be a girls trip,” Mae reminded them. 

“Come on, Y/n is my-”

“She’s our friend too,” Mae argued. 

“Yeah, and arguably, you could let Y/n out of your sight for more than three seconds,” Hattie chuckled. “She doesn’t constantly need you looking out for her. She can have a week away with her mates if she wants.” 

They were both quiet. 

“Hattie, what the fuck?” he scoffed. “If you’d let me finish, I could tell you that Y/n is my girlfriend, and I’d very much like to spend my break with her.” 

Hattie, Eddie, Mae, Nicole, and Tim’s eyes all looked to you for confirmation. You swallowed the bite of food in your mouth and turned to Oscar. 

“It’s only like 4 days,” you shrugged, and he stared back at you. “And then I’ll be back. Or I don’t have to go.” 

“Oh, I thought it was the month trip mum had planned-”

“You’re dating?!” Nicole cheered, rushing over to hug the both of you. “That’s great news!” 

“How’s he done that?” Eddie whispered to Hattie, who just laughed. 

You graciously accepted the hug, then turned back to the conversation. “I don’t mind.” 

“You go, I thought it was the month-long thing my mum wanted to do,” he explained, and kissed the top of your head. “When are you leaving?” 

“Tomorrow,” Hattie interjected. 

“Cool,” he smiled. 

“Cool,” you mirrored. 

It wasn’t exactly how either of you were planning on telling them, but it worked all the same.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

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[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Dead on main. No trick only treat.

~~Сhildhood friends and deals~~

The Justice League has to summon a ghost from another dimension to address the threat. They don’t know what price the Ghost King will take but there’s little time to bargain. Another spirit threatening them has already seized all the computers on their base. John doesn’t know what else to offer. A summoned ghost starts to look bored. Gold, jewelry? A favor from a member of the League? Like the Ruler of All Dead needs it. No one dares to make another offer, and the King is in no hurry to set out his demands. Maybe try to pull off a soul sale scam?

Suddenly, Red Hood breaks into the hall, walks up to Phantom and shakes his shoulder vigorously. Red Hood: You, get Technus out of here right now. I need access to the files and fast. Phantom: That’s rude, dude. Where did you grow up? in the cave? No "hello, no how are you, Danny", really? Red Hood: I’ll pay the usual price. Phantom: Deal.

What is the price? John sees Batman and gets in his way. The usual price, his guy said. Means Jay was already out of the deal alive and well. This hyperprotective bat would only piss off the ruler if he interfered.

The King quickly deals with his subordinate using a thermos and remains to watch working Hood. Red Hood: What do you want? I’m busy. Danny: You and I have a contract~ Red Hood: All right, all right. Jay throws M&Ms right in the face of the ghost. But king doesn’t look angry. He opens the package and starts sorting the candies by color. Phantom quickly eats up all the green ones and passes the red ones to Hood. Jason takes them without any questions.

Strange. John has never seen a summoned creature share its reward with a human. And the son of a bat looks too comfortable with it. Wait, since when do super-powered beings think that candy is a decent wage?John makes one of the most likely deductions using his experience. Constantine: Batsy, how long has your son been sleeping with the King of Ghosts? Batman: He…what?!

~~~~~~~

Dick *knocking at the door*: Little Wing, you hate ectoplasm and everything what is neon green, so why? He’s dangerous! Jason who turned on the music to not listen to his crazy family: ~He’s poison but tasty~

Dick: NoOOoo

~~~~~~

Jason: And now everyone thinks that I sold my virginity to you for a bargain or something, because interdimensional creatures like you aren’t supposed to help for nothing. Like you’re playing favorites. I’m gonna fucking kill John. Danny: Well, I wouldn’t say no to that. Jason: What? Danny: I mean, to k-kill John, yeah. How dare he.. Jason: Omg, you’re still so terrible liar, Fenton.

Danny: Sorry :(

Jason: No. Say it again.

~~~~Twelve years ago~~~~ Maddie wasn’t thrilled to learn that Danny was trying to make friends with Todd’s son. Their neighbor was terrible. And his son was definitely a street rat and probably a juvenile delinquent. Maddie: Danny, honey, there’s got to be a reason this boy is talking to you. Even kids from the crime alley are always looking for a bargain they can make or a fool they can fool. Danny: But Jason is so cool! He knows so much about books and alleys and.. Maddie: But you don’t want to be a fool, do you? Danny: Okay, Mom, I get it.

So, if Danny wants a cool friend, he’s got to offer a bargain.

He didn’t have a lot of pocket money for every month but Jason needed it more anyway. And his lunch that Jack was picking for him was big enough for two and only bitten on Tuesdays. Nice. Jason: Do I understand correctly? You will pay me and give me food, and I, what? Protect you from bullies? Danny: No! I’m not weak, I don’t need to be protected. Just..maybe we could sit together at lunch and walk each other home sometimes? Jason: Nay Danny: But why? You want something else? Jason: Money’s fine but your homemade food is…strange. Danny: I can bring sweets if you want. Jason: Deal. 3 pop tarts for a joint lunch, a party size bag of M&Ms if you waste my time out of school.

~~~~

Sometimes they share sweets when they hang out but more often Jayson takes them home to save in case his parents have money problems. Sweets have a long shelf life stored and he may not be afraid to poison himself. Over time, candy becomes their currency and a secret language for all occasions. Need help without unnecessary questions? M&Ms. Problems with learning? Skittles. The question is about family? Snickers. There will be a serious conversation? Pop Tarts.

Jason: One snickers and a pack of gum. Danny: Yeah, Jason? What do you want? Jason: My mom wants to meet my friend. Come to lunch on Sunday. Danny: Okay, you managed to pay for my expensive services. Jason:…and you just lost the gum from the deal.

~~~~~~

Jason threw a package at Danny: Three pop tarts. We need to talk. Danny: All right? Jason: Why are you avoiding me all week?! Danny: Well, it’s just..you’re Wayne now. Jason. Still Todd. And what about that? Danny: You can hang out with the cooler guys now, I didn’t want to embarrass you. Jason: Bullshit! I’m still the street rat, and you’re trying to avoid our contract. me. And I don’t even need money from you anymore. What the hell? I thought you are my friend. Danny: And I am!

~~~~~~

Robin: What’s a schoolboy doing in an alley at night? Danny: Um, I…nothing? Don’t tell my parents, Mr. Robin sir. Robin: It will cost you so many Chunky Bars, you have no idea. Danny:...Jason? Jason: N-no. Danny: Damn yes. What are you doing in green shorts on the street at night?! Jason: Cosplay. Danny: Oh yeah? Then I’m just your hallucination. Don’t hesitate to ghost me. I’m going home, Disgrace In Pixie Boots, bye. Jason: fu%&c$#u

[ponett]

I went digging and couldn't turn up anything, substantial or otherwise, about Matt Moylan. I need to know how low to place my expectations for my second favorite mega men, because it sounds like "pretty damn low"

Matt Moylan is the Director of Publishing over at Udon. He's been there for ages. He's also a total reactionary.

To give full context, this is gonna get a little long.

Moylan is perhaps best known for the Transformers fancomic Lil Formers, which was popular in the '00s. This isn't super important here, but allow me to go on a tangent because it's where a lot of people know the guy from, and it's mildly more entertaining than just screencapping his tweets. The comic was basically just an excuse for him to draw a bunch of chibi Transformers that people would then use in forum signatures and whatnot. Sometimes he would attach his cranky old geewunner opinions and complain about art style changes or new female characters in the dialogue, if he wasn't just making a generic joke about Wheelie being annoying or Seaspray having a silly voice or whatever.

Comedy gold, I know.

Lil Formers was well known within the fandom. Geewunners and kids who didn't know any better and just liked the chibi Transformers (guilty) loved it. Other fans grew more annoyed by Moylan's schtick. As far back as 2009 TFWiki contributor David Willis mocked it in a strip from his own webcomic, Shortpacked:

His wiki page on TFWiki also recounts a bizarre old bit of fandom drama. Moylan had previously worked for the defunct comic publisher Dreamwave, who published the Transformers comics in the early '00s, and in 2006 he went on popular Transformers forum TFW2005 to make several claims about behind the scenes conflicts and unfulfilled story plans. Most bizarre was a claim that Autobot Sunstreaker was supposed to be gay in the Dreamwave comics, which was written off as a childish attempt to rile up the fandom. His claims were all vehemently disputed by the Dreamwave writers he was shit talking, who would also accuse Moylan of anonymously slandering them and sending them threatening emails. Swell guy!

Anyway, hopefully this isn't surprising to literally anyone who's been on a forum in the last decade, but this nerd who won't shut up about the Good Ol' Days of the '80s is now a reactionary conservative who complains about how they're making everything "woke." And unfortunately he's no longer just some guy drawing dumb little one-panel comics about Transformers, he's now overseeing all of the output at Capcom's go-to comic and art book publisher in North America.

Here's some of his tweets to illustrate what he's like these days.

Yes, that's a reply to Mark "Grummz" Kern. He's also chatted up accounts like Libs of Tiktok and Comicsgate ringleader Ethan Van Sciver. Also note the reply in which he tries to tell Greg Weisman himself that Gargoyles had "not an ounce of woke." This guy's brain is fucking cooked.

Here's a take he posted about The Boys, too, just because it's really fucking funny to me:

After I and several other people posted about his behavior over on Bluesky and expressed disinterest in buying anything from Udon (such as the new Mega Man comics), he deleted his Twitter for like a week. He's since restored it, the tweets in question now long gone. Clearly it wasn't a good look for him to be making statements about his employer's values like this, sometimes in the same breath as announcements about new comics. That being said, he's issued no actual apology for his statements, and Udon hasn't acknowledged it at all. There's no reason to believe he's had a change of heart. They're just gonna pretend he never said any of this. And as of a few days ago, he's been announced as the writer for the one-shot Mega Man ZX comic that Udon is putting out later this year. Yaaaayyyy

I know there are a lot of cool people working on stuff for Udon, but Moylan being in a position of power there means I have zero interest in giving that company money. When your Director of Publishing is over on Twitter trying to court an audience of reactionary nerds and proudly proclaiming that Udon is "anti-woke, anti-DEI," and then you go to their website and the first image you see is this...

...Look, I love huge boobs as much as the next bisexual furry pervert, but this particular image in conjunction with his tweets paints a pretty clear picture of what sort of values Moylan is pushing at Udon. He wants to cater to nerds who will buy softcore Street Fighter hentai thinking it'll own the libs.

So hey, if he doesn't want my dirty woke money, fine by me. I'm not touching anything Udon publishes as long as Matt Moylan still works there.

[bbyobbyo]

seventeen as dads headcanons

content: reader is married to svt, normative(?) family structure, literally just unhinged thoughts, not proofread lol

note: was trying to write an actual fic but then got distracted sorry, dadventeen brainrot is so real

Seungcheol

Super protective “don’t touch my family” dad outwardly

All of his kids’ friends are straight up SCARED of him

But within the household he's the one sneaking ice cream when you say no, albeit guiltily

Shopping trips with him will always result in buying something for them and he is very willing to be taken advantage of

“Babe if I can’t spoil them now, they’re gonna grow up and move out before we know it!”

Tries his best to be handy around the house, but probably makes it worse, ends up calling Mingyu to come fix it

Jeonghan

DEFINITELY a “go ask your mom” dad

This man not only powerless, he doesn't even want the power, he's just here to have a good time and if you say they can't, then sorry kiddo

You can’t tell me that he doesn’t bring up becoming a family prank channel at least once a week

LOVES bragging to everyone else about his kid’s achievements, cannot shut up about them to anyone in a 5 foot radius tbh

His kids definitely talk to him about everything, which is great because he is SO nosy.

Has a list of all their best friends, enemies, and crushes at school somewhere on his notes app for future reference when they come to him for advice

Joshua

The REAL practical joke dad, admittedly made them cry a few times when they were younger and felt really bad about it

Perfect sweet husband and father in image, all of his kids know he’s actually lame af

Dominates the summer barbeques, UNDISPUTED GRILLMASTER

Super dependable, will drop everything if his family needs him and never goes back on his word

Gives surprisingly good fashion advice

Jun

Definitely walks around the neighborhood with his baby in a sling carrier strapped to his front, POINTS AT EVERYTHING OF INTEREST

When they start learning how to speak he adopts all his baby’s weird mannerisms (it started off as a cute joke but then realized he couldn’t stop)

Cries at every baby milestone until they’re like 10

Will not stop bringing up embarrassing childhood moments, especially in front of their kids’ friends/significant others

Cuts fruit for them instead of apologizing

Hoshi

Will fully ally himself with his kids

Like legit would do anything for them. ANYTHING.

I’m talking borderline go to his kid's school to beat up their hypothetical bullies himself sort of dad

The kids can always count on him to say yes if you say no

Absolutely DEVASTATED when they grow out of the tiger stuff he buys for them and become angsty teens

“What do you mean tigers aren’t cool? Do you not love your old man anymore?”

Wonwoo

Quiet doting dad

Definitely more affectionate when the kids are younger but gets into the awkward advice-giving stage when they grow up

LAME DAD JOKES GALORE, groaning is a regular activity in this household

Tries to google basic algebra every time his kids ask for help on math homework because he doesn’t want to admit he forgot everything

Chaotic af unsupervised. “Guess we’re having pizza again tonight kiddos” kinda dad because he cannot and should not cook

Jihoon

Another quiet dad, but make it savage

I feel like he would just love roasting his kids (affectionately of course)

And always overwhelmingly acts of service so his kids know they are loved

Allowance randomly appearing under their pillow, their favorite foods magically stocked in the fridge, always relenting to one last bedtime story no matter how tired he is

Would let you have final say but he makes it really clear he’s on their side and empathizes with them but its out of his hands

“Next time just don’t get caught, okay?” *winks*

Minghao

Loves loves loves just spending time with his babies

Doesn’t matter what he’s doing he just wants to be in the same room as them or cuddling and holding them

Emphasizes equality in your relationship so his kids can grow up with those values and learn to respect others

TURNS EVERYTHING INTO A LIFE LESSON OH MY GOD

Doesn’t believe in allowances but will cave and literally buy them anything they want if they ask

Would rather die than miss any important event (competition, speech, recital, talent show, graduation, etc.)

Mingyu

Absolute super dad, what can’t he do? Nonstop home improvement projects, cooks anything his kids are craving, offers to drive everyone everywhere

But also the whiniest dad ever lol constantly complains about people “ruining his system”

Absolutely FUCKS at the school bake sales, earns them twice the target fundraiser amounts because he's dilf material and knows how to get the moms to spill their pockets

Likes to have the final say, but you’re both usually on the same page in regards to discipline so his kids aren’t getting away with anything

Just the most supportive dad in the universe, the kids learn to never take him for granted

Seokmin

You already know his kids are gonna be spoiled rotten. He will be the favorite parent by default sorry I don't make the rules!!

His arms are the very definition of a safe space

Leaves all the discipline to you because he cannot keep a straight face when delivering a lecture (one time he made them cry and also ended up crying because he felt so bad)

Does so much embarrassing shit just to cheer his kids up when they have a bad day, acts surprised when they tell him he's cringe

Such a pushover that they are probably gonna make fun of him when they're older, but that's okay because they know there's no universe in which their dad will stop loving them

Seungkwan

As long as he can pick them up still, his kids are never on the ground for too long

Two words: SPORTS. DAD.

He could practically captain the cheerleading teams at their school with how many events he's been to

Knows all of his kids’ friends parents, they all get together and have coffee once a month actually

Nags nonstop and complains about everything he has to do for them, but is always diligent and does it without question

Gets so pouty when they start getting embarrassed to show affection, he WILL get his cheek kisses if it's the last thing he does!!

Vernon

Chillest dad in existence?!?

Literally as long as his kids are safe he doesn't give a single fuuuuckkk

“Sleepover? Yeah, call me when you're done and I'll pick you up.”

He WILL argue with you if he doesn't think there's a good reason to say no to them

So cute and encouraging to all their weird hobbies and phases throughout the years. “Lemme see” and “Really? Show me” are regular phrases in his vocabulary

His kids are definitely gonna inherit his legendary facial expressions afnngjdg

Chan

Super affectionate and doting, but also quite strict with them at times

“I just want the best for you, I want to see you succeed”

HAS A PHOTO OF THEM READY AT ANY TIME, lockscreen is a different shot of his kids every day and is eager to show it off even if no one asked

Not so subtly signs his kid up for dance lessons

Just the most encouraging dad ever, makes sure that they know making mistakes are a part of life and that he will always love them no matter what

[squydworm]

I think it’d be really funny if the rat grinders like do whatever they do and their plan and get a quest or whatever and then when faced with an actual battle at their level they just… suck. Like sure they have powerful spells or attacks but like their action economy must be absolute garbage. They aren’t stocking useful spells cause why would they need to use shield against rats. The BBEG has a breath weapon and they all stand in the same place. Cleric in front who has no healing spells because they haven’t needed healing since they were freshmen. No creative use of spells or terrain.

Cause rn I feel like to me it’s kinda obvious they’re gonna take over the party and all that and totally show up the bad kids and be super cool, and a part of me just wants to watch them absolutely get themselves in too deep because they thought killing rats was how to be an adventurer.

And then the bad kids could help them and it could be fun and interesting. Or they could watch them burn idk. Just my personal fanfic I want to see the rat grinders fall they really grind my gears haha jokes anyway fuck kepperpity lillyfetal