#borrowing emotions

[bastard-loki]

you can’t

out of this one, whore

[vaguely-concerned]

the way garak looks at bashir as he puts all the clues together at the end of cardassians. the sheer 'look at that little twink go (affectionate, sexual overtones)' energy he manages to convey in the background there as bashir passionately does the presentation of their group project that garak did 80% of the actual work on. immaculate

[rox-of-iu]

ayo guys guess what time it is again :)) 💜💜

spoiler warning for cultivate ch 41-46

hehe finally scrambled brain enough to be able to catch up and cultivate makes me go 🥰🥰😌🤗😊😊

cultivate of course by @neonghostcat beloved

[angstylittleguy]

Broken

The first time Dalton shrinks in front of Bennett. The experience leaves him injured and mistrusting of Bennett, who doesn't quite understand what he's done wrong.

tw: anxiety, uncomfortable touching

character context: Dalton is a size-shifter whose height is affected by his emotions. Bennett frequently gets stuck in time loops and the only way to get the loop to end is for him to survive the day.

word count: 2.1k

-> In Which Everything Goes Wonderfully Wrong masterpost link: Here

-> character introductions and moodboards: Here

Dalton felt an itch begin to spread across his skin. It started on his chest and it felt like his heart was being squeezed. He took in a sharp breath, gaining the attention of Bennett. His eyes snapped over to him.

“You okay?”

The itch was spreading, moving down his arms and his legs. Not now, not now, Dalton thought, his heartbeat spiking. He felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Bennett was staring at him with concern, briefly glancing around the library to see if anyone else had noticed his panic. Dalton’s hands were on both sides of his head and he was bent over the table. 

He had to focus. Swallow down the itch. This could not happen right now, not in a crowded place like this. Not in front of Bennett. 

Bennett reached a hand out to him. “Dude, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

The unexpected touch on Dalton’s arm pulled him out of his concentration, and he felt himself drop down a couple of inches. Once it started, there was no containing the shift in size. Without a word, Dalton stood from the table and rushed to the nearest aisle of bookshelves. 

It was just his luck, Dalton thought. The university library was a horrible place for him shrink down. What was worse, was that it was happening in front of Bennett. He had only just met the guy a couple days ago, and he was one of the only two people that knew about his abilities. Rory had left them alone for just a measly few minutes to go and find a book she needed, and now she wouldn’t be around while Dalton was small and unprotected.

He reached an isolated corner in the back of the library—just in time, too—and Dalton felt the world shift before his eyes as his stomach dropped. He fell to his knees in an attempt to lessen the temporary vertigo. With labored breaths, Dalton looked up, seeing the shelves tower high above his head. He was about half the height of a regular-sized novel right now, and he was out in the open for anyone to see. Anxiety gripped at his throat. 

Thundering footsteps caught his attention, and without a moment’s hesitation, he sprinted to the nearest bookshelf in an effort to conceal himself. 

Bennett slowly came down the aisle. “Dalton?” he called, “Where’d you go?”

Dalton shouldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t reveal his hiding space. He’d never been around Bennett small. He would be completely at his mercy. He had no idea how Bennett would react. 

Then again, Dalton was in the middle of a public library at his university. Anybody could find him, and when he was this vulnerable there would be nothing he could do if they decided to do anything to him.

His safest option would be with Bennett, no matter how unfamiliar that territory is.

Dalton peeked his head out from his hiding place. “I—I’m here,” he called. He hated how his voice trembled.

Bennett’s eyes shot down to the ground, and Dalton watched in anxiety-riddled silence as he waited for Bennett to spot him. 

He hated the fascination that took over Bennett’s features when their eyes locked. Dalton couldn’t help but to take a couple of steps back as Bennett lowered himself to the floor. 

“Holy shit!” A smile crept onto Bennett’s face. “You’re so little.”

Dalton flinched at the volume of his voice, stumbling back a couple more steps. He was nearly totally concealed by the shadows of the bookshelf, and frankly, he felt much safer in there. Even if Bennett hadn’t done anything, he couldn’t help that his flight instinct was screaming at him to run. 

“Keep your voice down,” Dalton told him, his own voice hushed. 

“What was that?” Bennett asked, leaning forwards. “I can hardly hear you.”

He was close. He was too close. “Step back,” Dalton said, voice brittle. He held out a hand as if that would do anything. 

Dalton couldn’t pinpoint the expression that painted Bennett’s face at his words, but he didn’t like the way his eyes softened. “Hey, man,” Bennett said, “it’s just me.”

Yeah, no shit. Dalton did not know Bennett. They had only just met. He had no idea how Bennett would act around him at this size. “I need you to go get Rory,” Dalton told him.

“Why? What’s she going to do that I can’t?”

She would know how Dalton was feeling. Her abilities made sure of that. And even though he would never wish this kind of anxiety on his worst enemy, having someone know exactly what was going through his mind would be better at handling him small compared to someone that Dalton only knew as… sporadic.

“No—nothing,” Dalton responded, too stressed to argue. “Just, we need to get out of here. Like, right now.”

“Okay,” Bennett nodded. “I can handle that.”

He reached out a hand and scooped Dalton into a fist. 

The claustrophobia was immediate. Dalton felt like he was being squeezed—no, he was being squeezed—and the air was quickly stolen from his lungs. His ribs felt like they were going to shatter. He was going to tell Bennett that he was holding him too tight, but his world was lurched forwards as they took a giant step forward. 

Dalton wanted to yell, wanted to demand that Bennett put him back down because he regretted his request to leave immediately, but the fear of being heard (or worse, seen) by others made him keep his mouth shut. 

“I’m gonna put you in my hoodie pocket,” Bennett said as they approached the table they had been working at. “So, I can grab our stuff.”

Without warning he was shoved into his front hoodie pocket. Dalton fought an unmanly yelp as he scrambled for purchase in the fabric.

It was hot, it was tight, it was moving, and there was nothing Dalton could do about it. Where was Bennett taking him? Was he going to tell Rory what was happening? Or would Dalton be stuck with Bennett alone until he was able to grow to his normal size?

The walk felt much too long, or much to short, Dalton couldn’t decide. Bennett’s calloused hands found their way around him again, and Dalton was forced back out into the open. His head spun as Bennett adjusted him right-side up, and Dalton was then—rather carelessly—dropped onto a hard surface. He hit hard, not prepared for the drop, and fell on his side, a hard ough! escaping his lips on impact. He propped himself up on one elbow as he took in his surroundings, afraid to find out where Bennett had taken him.

He was in a dorm room, and Dalton could only guess it was Bennett’s. It was messy—clothes scattered on the floor, loose papers sprawled across the surface of the desk—and as he looked around it seemed that Bennett caught on to what he was thinking.

“Uh, sorry about the mess.” He began to pick up his clothes and throw them into his wardrobe. “I wasn’t really expecting company.”

Dalton, finally free from his fabric prison, took this moment to catch his breath. Not being Bennett’s center of attention and being high off the floor was a lot better than what had happened to him so far.

He couldn’t bring himself to stand just yet. His stomach was still lurching from the jostling movements and his legs were weak with anxiety. Dalton watched Bennett shove his clothing into his wardrobe with enough force to snap Dalton in half at this size if Bennett felt like it. He needed to get up, needed to put himself somewhere he felt a little safer. 

Dalton sat up, the pain around his ribs almost immediate. They felt bruised—maybe worse—and Dalton knew instantly that coming here was a bad idea. He should have known that Bennett was just too curious about his abilities, and that nothing good could come from this little unwanted adventure. 

Bennett sat down at his desk, towering over Dalton’s pitiful form.

“So, now what?” Bennett asked, harshly propping his elbow up on the desk and cradling his chin in his hand. “How do we make you big again?”

Dalton swallowed thickly as he looked up at Bennett, unable to hold eye contact any longer before he forced his head to look back down. “Time,” he choked out. 

Bennett hummed, the fingers of his free hand appearing out of nowhere and grabbing hold of one of Dalton’s arms. His forearm was pinched between two fingers, squeezed just a little too tight. He was then forced to turn his arm over as Bennett examined his too-small limb. “What are you doing?” Dalton asked him, forcing his voice not to tremble.

“Just looking at you,” Bennett answered. “You’re just so small it’s actually insane.”

There was a lump in Dalton’s throat. “Please—please let go.”

“Relax, dude. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It was too late for that, Dalton wanted to say. But he kept his mouth shut and let Bennett continue to gawk at him. He just prayed that he got bored soon. 

“Your hands are so tiny,” Bennett said. “They’re like the size of my fingertip.” 

His fingers moved down the length of Dalton’s arm, pinching his hand as he marveled at Dalton’s size. Bennett chuckled. “I can’t help but to laugh,” Bennett told him, “this is just so crazy.”

He then yanked on his arm and Dalton lurched forward. His ribs screamed with pain and without a hand to catch himself with, Dalton rolled sideways onto his shoulder. He hit the surface of the desk with an oof.

“Sorry, man.” Bennett was still chuckling, oblivious to Dalton’s discomfort. “I just…” His voice trailed off. “Wow.” 

With each prod and poke and unintentional careless action, Dalton felt more and more broken. Tears began to well in his eyes—tears that Bennett didn’t notice due to his curiosity that overpowered his sensitivity—and a sob caught in his throat. 

Dalton bit his lip, struggling with the internal conflict of wanting Bennett to understand and fearing his own vulnerability. Fear left him frozen where he fell, head and shoulder pressed against the hard surface of the desk. Bennett’s touch never relinquished.

As Bennett’s finger lingered on his side, Dalton’s breath hitched, the ache in his ribs intensifying. He wanted to speak up, to tell Bennett to be more careful, but fear held his tongue. 

A finger ran down the length of Dalton’s side with the intention to forcefully lift him from his spot on the desk. Finally, a single tear rolled down Dalton’s cheek. A choked sob escaped through his lips, and Bennett’s touch froze in its place. 

Dalton swallowed hard, his whole-body tensing as Bennett’s finger pressed against his bruised ribs again. “Bennett, please,” Dalton managed to choke out, his voice trembling.

Bennett paused, noticing the fear in Dalton’s eyes. “Oh,” he said quickly, withdrawing his hand. “Did I hurt you?”

Dalton nodded silently, his chest tight with anxiety. 

“I—I’m sorry.” Bennett was cupping his hands together, holding them close to his chest. “I didn’t realize.”

Dalton didn’t move for a few long moments. He allowed himself to cry. To grieve for a loss of normalcy that he hadn’t realized he lost. He waited for the stinging sensation in his ribs to mellow out enough for him to sit up, to look at Bennett with red, tear-stained eyes and demand that he go and get Rory so this nightmare can come to an end. 

Bennett was already crying. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wasn’t thinking and—”

“That’s the problem,” Dalton replied bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t think.”

A silence settled between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words. 

“I’m so sorry, Dalton,” Bennett finally said softly, his voice tinged with regret. “I’ll try to do better. Next time—”

“There is no next time,” Dalton interrupted. “Please, just call Rory.”

Without a word, Bennett turned away from the desk. He dialed a number on his phone and put it to his ear. 

[cam-stopped-eating-candles]

Apologies, this image overtook my brain and possessed my hands

[so-very-small]

Borrower One, in the walls: I dunno. The Human seems awful sad. Should we talk to them?

Borrower Two: No, listen, it’s just a Lana moment. It’s October, they’re fine-

*the humans playlist switches from Lana Del Ray to Hozier*

Borrower Two: oh god yeah no we gotta get in there

[jh-sketches]

inside out if it was filmed inside of my head-

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

I think the theme of "home", while not always in the forefront, is something that interests me about the Sonic Movie Universe (in a similar way it interested me during Prime)

For Movie!Sonic, home is where you make it first and where your family is second. After his guardian died, he presumably jumped from place to place, and it was a while before he had a stable home. He made himself a home on earth and fell in love with the land and the culture. But you get the sense that as long as he's in hiding and ostracized all the time, it never fully feels like home. So it's important that he got to really experience earth and living in Movie 1 with Tom. It's important that he made earth his home, and then made the Wachowski household his base. No matter where he goes on earth and beyond, he has a family he chose and who chose him he can come back to and be himself around. "Home" for Movie!Sonic began with necessity, progressed due to his growing attachment to earth and what it offers, and fully settled in with him having a more permanent place in this world and support.

For Movie Tails, I surmise that "home" to him is where Sonic is. He was ostracized (possibly even bullied/picked on) back home for his two tails. After listening to some of his lines in movie 2, Tails read to me like a character who'd been treated as weird or an outcast and ended up isolating himself as a result. I got the impression that when he wasn't indulging in his love of technology/mechanics (or perhaps even at the same time) he was holed up in his base, watching a live stream of Sonic and his adventures, even after the conclusion of the first movie's events. He knows everything about Sonic, down to knowing that he doesn’t take showers, before even meeting him properly. Tails is not at home on earth nor particularly entranced by earth itself (in opposition to Sonic, who became entranced with it). He only even goes there to warn Sonic and to help him out. But Sonic's place—Sonic's home—is on Earth, in Green Hills, with Tom and Maddie, and Tails has formed an actual bond of friendship with the hedgehog he formed a possibly parasocial relationship with used to watch on a screen. Before, I think Tails was just content with watching or being helpful. But now? Now that he's spent time with Sonic, Sonic makes him feel normal. Sonic makes him feel like even "weirdos" can do great things. Sonic makes him feel valued. He's no longer content just watching because Sonic is more his home than the place he grew up in ever was. Home to him is with the people you choose, the people who make you feel at home, the people you want to be around. The Wachowski household is Sonic's home because he loves earth, green hills, and because he has mutually taken Tom and Maddie as his parents. Earth and the Wachowski household are only Tails' home as long as Sonic is there.

And for Knuckles... He has the set up to fall in love with earth in a similar way Sonic did. He grew up/was born in a similar place to him. And yet, all of the beautiful nature on earth doesn't matter to him. Knuckles, as of the beginning of the Knuckles series, had adopted a different approach to Sonic. Sonic tried to make home for himself wherever he could, no matter how many worlds he'd jumped to. In contrast, Knuckles never bothered to do this. He only pursued the mission, never bothering to make a home when he'd be off to the next world soon enough (especially if it seemed trivial in the face of his life's mission). And it's pointed that although he's able to participate in what earth offers the same way Sonic is in movie 1 (Knuckles learning how to bowl or Sonic going to a bar), he is not at home because of those things. He's able to slow down and appreciate what earth offers, the same things he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge before, and yet he's not at home on earth because it's beautiful or because it has food he likes or whatever. He very pointedly makes a connection with Wade and his family. The Whipple family is home. Not the earth, not even the house itself. He feels comfortable when with them, he enjoys the time on earth he spends with them, and he is able to appreciate Earth better when he experiences it with them (in contrast to Tails, who never had any sort of arc of appreciating what one can experience on earth to me). Home to Knuckles isn't easily quantifiable (more of a feeling really), but it’s about the people who make you feel at home. It's about the people who helped him relax and feel more comfortable not always putting his focus into the mission.

Sonic, who can make home anywhere, who always appreciated what was great about living on earth, and whose "home" was finally made permanent when he spent time with Tom and Maddie.

Tails, who never truly felt home until he spent time with Sonic, who doesn't particularly care for what earth has to offer, whose home is wherever Sonic is.

Knuckles, who never allowed himself to feel at home or tried to make a home until he began to travel with Wade and open up to new experiences, who began to enjoy earth and yet considers his home with the Whipple family specifically.

Sonic would protect the earth he lives on even if everyone he cared about was gone. Tails would protect the earth he lives on so long as it's Sonic's home. Knuckles would protect the world he lives on not just to keep the master emerald secured, but so long as this place is home to the Whipple family, with whom he enjoys experiencing Earth with.

Do you... Do you get me?

[goldiipond]

ohhh my friend came over and we somehow ended up watching the entirety of tpn season one and ray still makes me so fucking sick. im goig to tear apart steel beams with my teeth

[finderseeker]

Here’s that thing I spontaneously started writing for some reason. I go where my whims and capricious focus take me. I got sick of editing and rereading so I’m just posting it. This is set in the DDAU. It’s not long after things got worked out between the two sets of Dingsasters. Maybe a couple months. Windy is struggling.

————

“You know, in my world, you are a bartender as well.”

Grillby eyed the human man sitting as his bar. He was flushed, a sure sign that he was officially buzzed. Grillby knew this instantly, despite the man never having drank here before. After all, Gaster— his Gaster— was the same way: his face flushed when he drank. Of course this man was the same; The two were the same person, after all.

That was what Gaster— Wingdings— said, anyway. And, truth be told, Grillby could see it. This human had the same mannerisms, the same gestures, the same posture, the same expressions, the same name signs. If that alone weren’t enough, there was another monster with a human counterpart: Asteri. He hadn’t know the woman well, really, before all this. If he had stopped to think, perhaps he might have recalled seeing her as a little girl with her parents, half a century ago, but the family didn’t visit Snowdin often, and visited his restaurant even less. Besides, shapeshifters were easy to mistake.

The main reason he could use her and her human counterpart as evidence that this whole “alternate universe” business was real was that he had re-met her, now as an adult studying dog language in Snowdin, right around the same time that his best friend of over 400 years nervously introduced him to a human he was sheltering, who had the same name. Not only the same name, but the same voice, the same hair, the same style of dress, the same mannerisms, and the same alcohol preferences. The reasonable conclusion was that it was simply a particularly strange coincidence, but no, things with Gaster were never that simple these days. Of course it was something absurd like an alternate universe. The skeleton had always been a little too trusting— even of humans, even after everything— so Grillby initially took the story with a grain of salt. But as time went on, and Gaster spent more time with her, apparently details that reinforced the factuality of it came to light.

Not that Grillby saw either of them often. That was simply the nature of his friendship with Gaster, after so many years: long stretches of silence, occasional visits that picked up as if no time had passed, and, every once in a while, periods of frequent and excited contact. Those tended to happen during high stress situations, intense lows, or major breakthroughs. He would have assumed that sheltering a human would have been a large enough event to merit frequent contact, but no, nothing much came of it. And he, like always, never pushed. So when the next time the two visited, months later, and they held hands, well… that was Gaster’s business. But he believed his friend’s explanation about different universes, and just like when they asked him the first time, he agreed to keep an eye out for another human.

Except he didn’t see one. Not until nearly a year after his initial introduction to the human Asteri, when Gaster introduced a lanky, disheveled human man. Grillby had heard the announcement, of course, just like everyone else: that there were two humans living in the underground, and they were not to be harmed. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time besides being relieved Gaster would no longer need to hide the woman he obviously had feelings for, that she had apparently found her friend, and that both of them were so peaceful in comparison to the last time a human had fallen, decades ago.

Meeting this second human, all things considered, Grillby should not have been surprised when his oldest friend introduced him as his own alternate self. Despite this, he immediately felt an odd sort of defensiveness well up on Gaster’s behalf. Grillby and the human man had stared at each other for a few moments, both processing this meeting. Then, something had clicked for the human, and the precise way he lit up with that dumb idiot grin was so familiar, so immediately recognizable, Grillby barely needed any more evidence to be convinced.

Oh, sure, he had about a million questions about the whole situation between the four of them— two Asteris, and two Gasters, all of whom had now met each other, apparently— but they would tell him what they needed to, when they felt ready. He didn’t ask questions. This many years of bartending and people-watching had given him both the ability to read people and the patience to mind his own business and wait for an explanation. People loved to talk, and there were far more ways to say something than with words. He was the silent companion, always there to listen but never to pry. A keeper of secrets, and a staunch minder of his own business.

Nothing about today had seemed especially different, except that the human Gaster had wandered in all on his own a while ago, hesitant but trying not to seem uneasy. (Trying to hide it was futile though; Grillby had known his counterpart for centuries and could read his body language like a book.) But he said nothing as was his custom, simply nodded in greeting and acknowledgement, and let the man sit where he liked and order if he wished.

It had been nearly a 40 minutes by now, with naught a word but to order something Grillby wasn’t familiar with, then brandy as a reluctant compromise, and two refills. Only now, nursing that second refill, had the man finally lifted his head and signed anything beyond that.

“You know, in my world, you are a bartender as well.”

Grillby eyed him. That was certainly one way to start a conversation. It was indeed tempting to take the bait and tug the line, but he had many years of patience. He waited silently, as always.

The man sighed inaudibly and studied Grillby with a sort of look he had seen before. Asteri— the human one— always treated him with an odd sort of familiarity when she visited (which was more often than he expected, frankly), as if she already knew him. Sometimes he caught her looking at him with what he had long since learned to recognize in patrons as nostalgia. Bittersweetness. Except hers was a little different in a way he could never put a finger on. She never said anything though, and as a bartender he never asked. Now it made a little more sense: he had a counterpart too, and the two humans knew him.

That look was different on this face, though. Where Asteri looked a little sad, but mostly fond, this human version of Gaster looked far more stricken.

“You are quiet there, too.”

Human Gaster smiled a little, but it slipped almost immediately.

“Not quite this quiet, though.”

He swirled his drink around and stared at it for a moment before taking another sip.

“You used to be quite reactive, when we first met.” He chuckled, just once. “You are still learning to keep your expression neutral when customers say outrageous things. You were getting much better at it.” A bright, genuine smile split the gloom he was projecting, for a moment. “You opened your own restaurant, much like this one! It was just taking off… when Asteri and I fell.”

The smile was gone just as quickly, replaced by an even more despondent expression.

“I was supposed to visit. We moved away, after university. I had to cancel my trip…” He sighed. “No. I did not need to. You were coming to visit us the following month, and so I reasoned…”

The human blinked watery eyes and laid against his arm on the bar, hands falling still.

“I wonder what you thought,” he signed after a few moments, small like a whisper, and a few tears rolled onto his arm. “When we disappeared.” He blinked slowly, looking somewhere that wasn’t here. “I wish I could tell you I am safe. That I am sorry. I wish…” His eyes watered anew and his jaw quivered. “…I could tell you that I miss you.”

He rolled his head so his face was pressed into his sleeve, and sniffled softly.

Grillby stared at him, genuinely surprised for the first time in a while.

Oh.

This man— they called him “Windy” —was undeniably Gaster, but Grillby had only acknowledged that fact on its own. But it didn’t exist in a vacuum. This wasn’t just “now there’s a human Gaster too.” This was also “Gaster thrown into a strange new place,” “Gaster grieving something enormous,” and right now, most of all, “Gaster without his best friend.”

He knew how his Gaster— Wingdings— was. He knew how bad things were when they were young, how much he needed support. After so many years, he knew it wasn’t self-absorbed or presumptuous to say that Wingdings needed him. It was mutual. Of course it was. No longer needing to constantly be around each other didn’t change the fact that once upon a time, they only had each other. It didn’t change how integral they were to each other’s lives, even to each other’s development as people.

So what if Wingdings just disappeared?

What if the last time he visited really was the last time?

What would he do if his best friend and only anchor throughout the centuries were suddenly gone? No explanation, no clues, nothing.

Sparks, he’d be devastated. Heartbroken would be an understatement.

And if it had happened back then, when they were both still settling into who they were? Grillby wouldn’t even be the same person. Wingdings just another monster erased after the war, but the only one he’d been side-by-side with through it all; the reason he hadn’t allowed himself to succumb to the numbness that came with killing; the person who had kept him kind, kept him compassionate. The only friend he’d allowed himself to have in a world where caring had always, inevitably gotten him hurt.

He would have been utterly inconsolable.

But Wingdings, Wingdings was far more tender-hearted. He took every loss so hard, every time, even after more than four centuries. Grillby couldn’t imagine Wingdings would ever be alright if anything happened to him. Not now, not back then. No partner could ever fill the space they took up in each other’s lives. No happiness could replace each other’s friendship. It wasn’t a romantic thing; They had just known each other longer than anyone else.

Grillby blinked, mentally shaking himself out of his thoughts, and glanced around his restaurant. It was sparser than usual, being a weeknight. His attention turned back to the human in front of him. He may not know Windy, but he knew Gaster. He may have a policy of silence, but he always made an exception for his friend.

He scooped a glass of ice and nudged Windy’s arm with it. Windy lifted his head just enough to look up with bleary, red eyes. The ice in the glass was half melted when he reluctantly took it.

“If Gaster disappeared, I’d be pissed," Grillby signed flatly as the glass was taken. Windy wilted again. Grillby's expression didn't change, but a crimson shimmer of worry and guilt flickered through his flames. "Wouldn't think bad of him though."

Windy searched his face, probably struggling to read it, as most people did. Fire elementals didn’t tend to have a lot of facial expressions; it had more to do with brightness, intensity, and color. Most monsters didn’t know that. A human from a world without monsters certainly wouldn’t. Indeed, Windy didn’t seem to find whatever he was searching for, and his eyes fell once more as he sipped his ice water.

“I’m sorry for unloading this on you.”

His signs ran together and stayed close to his body, like he was muttering.

“This must be so uncomfortable for you. I- I apologize for being so selfish. I should not have come and said all this.”

He made to get up, shoving his hand in his pocket to fish for his wallet. Grillby reached out to grasp his shoulder, stopping him. He looked up. Grillby paused, not entirely sure what he had intended by this gesture. Seeing Windy sad like this was like seeing Wingdings from long, long ago. It made his heart ache.

“Not selfish,” he said. Another moment of hesitation, then, “It’s good you came. Stay.”

Windy’s jaw trembled again, and once more Grillby was struck by how uncannily similar his expressions were to Wingdings’, somehow, despite having skin and muscle. Windy hesitated, torn. “I should get home…”

It was a weak protest, and Grillby knew Gaster well enough to know when he needed to be pushed and when he needed to be left to it.

“Sober up first.” A reasonable excuse.

Windy hesitated once again, but then nodded and got back on his barstool.

He took another sip of ice water.

Grillby wiped out a cup.

It must be strange, he thought, to meet someone who you know, but who doesn’t know you. If he were in Windy’s position…

He set the cup aside and eyed the other man once more. “How do I look?”

Windy looked up, confused.

Grillby nodded toward him with his head. “Human.”

“A-Ah! Well…” The other man cracked a smile. Success. “You are shorter, but otherwise have the same build. You have pale skin, and freckles. You keep your hair long, except in summer. It is usually tied in a high ponytail. It is wavy, and—” He chuckled softly— “fiery orange.”

A sliver of violet wove its way up through Grillby’s flames, and he crackled pleasantly. After a moment of consideration, he leaned forward closer and dimmed, just a little, pointing to his face. Windy squinted in the heat, but after a second his eyes widened and he grinned.

“Freckles! I did not realize you could—” He caught himself and waved his hands sheepishly. “Ah! That is to say, I know so little still, I find that my reasoning frequently returns to the principles of my own universe. I was not aware that a being made of fire could… could have freckles.” His smile split his face despite himself.

There was a flicker of violet in Grillby’s flames. “What else?”

Windy lit up even more. “We are the same age, but while I am often mistaken as being older, you have a “baby face.”” He giggled a little. “You cannot grow facial hair save for patches of stubble, either, and we have had more than one silly argument about it. In university, you would come home and complain about how many customers asked if you were old enough to be tending a bar to begin with.”

Grillby raised nonexistent eyebrows. “We lived together?”

“Yes, for a few years. You see, the living arrangements on campus…”

⁂

By the time Windy left, it was late. He was smiling though, and that made Grillby feel better. By then, Grillby had learned many things about his human counterpart and the world this other Gaster had once lived in. He learned that human Grillby liked the cold weather too, preferring snow over sun; that his name there was a nickname (his real name was Gilbert); and that there was no war they’d ever had to fight, only academic and social struggles. It sounded like a much nicer past.

Grillby had told him to come back soon— they needed to settle on a different name sign for him after all, so it wasn’t the same as Wingdings’. Windy eagerly agreed; both of them being “Dr. Gaster” to everyone at work was difficult enough.

“You can pick me a new one,” Grillby had offered as well. “If you want.” He shrugged. “Don’t have to.”

It seemed that Windy liked the idea. He had launched into over-explaining himself immediately upon agreeing though, as if Grillby would be offended by it when he was the one who brought it up. He held a hand up to stop him. “I already know.”

He was Grillby, but wasn’t Windy’s Grillby. It was as simple as that. That fact wouldn’t change. They knew different versions of each other who had lived very different lives. At the heart of it all, though, they were the same, and that was what mattered. There was nothing he could do about this other Grillby, no replacing him, just like Windy could never replace Wingdings. They didn’t have the same history. They weren’t each other’s oldest and dearest companions. No. But they could still be friends. It was a start.

[soupnoodle]

my friend who went to see the new master and margarita movie, not familiar with the book: what the fuck is going on

me, watching the new master and margarita movie, familiar with the book: what the fuck is going on

[pantoute]

i need to hear something back from the job i applied to today otherwise i might fall apart from nerves, i cannot spend the rest of the week feeling like i've been feeling for the past two hours

[chiropteracupola]

sing me silence, my soldier / sing us gently into death...

[mocksart]

for your borrower au! how is Stanley treated in general before the narrator realizes he is sentient? what's the worst thing the narrator might do to Stanley in this time period? what is the softest moment?

sorry for all the questions, I just love this idea a LOT. g/t stuff is SOOO compelling to me :3

Hey, no worries, I love questions! If you can't tell, I also love this idea a lot lol

It is important to me to make it clear that the narrator is not intentionally cruel. He still sees Stanley as a living being with needs and wants.

Stanley is fed well - mostly seeds and grains due to his mouse-like appearance. This isn't wrong, as mice are also omnivores, though it does get a little boring. So basics like food and water are always available.

Of course, he is kept in a cage.

In my head, it's more akin to the ones rabbits are kept in, rather than mice or rats, but that's mostly due to me being more familiar with rabbits. Also the mental image of metal bars is more compelling to me than the plastic tubs that mice are usually kept in.

Standard bedding situation. It's less comfortable than his pile of fabric scraps at home, but it's not unbearable by any means.

The Narrator has a habit of talking to himself, and this turns into a sort of half-talking to Stanley as well. When he does directly address stanley, though, it's usually because he's frustrated with something Stanley is or is not doing. Plus, as in the game, the man is not above petty insults.

I've thought a bit more on it and I think it might be more fair to say that, rather than not realizing, the narrator can't admit that Stanley is sentient.

Subconsciously, he knows. He can see how smart Stanley is. How Stanley responds to his words. But he can't bring that thought into his conscious mind. Because the man has already done some terribly dehumanizing things to this creature. And admitting that this thing is a person would mean that he's an absolute monster. And he's not! Haha really, guys, he wouldnt do that!

The worst thing he does, especially early on, is leave Stanley alone. At one time, the borrower would have jumped at the opportunity to have some time to himself, just not like this. The basement lab is dark and lonely. Being in this environment for long stretches of time takes a toll on the borrower's mental health.

As time goes on, the Narrator does realize something is wrong. Subject 427 used to have so much more energy. It hardly tries to escape and barely protests when handled. He semi-correctly guesses that 427 needs some kind of enrichment.

He has Stanley for a few months before the borrower manages to escape. Toward the end of that time, he starts bringing Stanley up out of the basement (always in a container of some kind) to show the borrower around and talk to him about his old escapades. (This is where we learn that the narrator is quite well-traveled, and that he no longer leaves the relative safety of his own home.) And there are some genuine moments of connection that happen.

---

Much later on the narrator absolutely mortified by his own past behavior. The man never thought he was capable of causing harm like that, much less unthinkingly.

(He doesn't like to talk about it, a fact that Stanley uses to his advantage sometimes to get what he wants.)

The Narrator works hard to redeem himself as best as he can. He knows there's no way to fully make up for what he's done, but he tries anyway. Because underneath all his issues and traumas and poor coping mechanisms is a person who strives to be better. He wants it so badly. But for a long time it seemed like every time he tried, he just made it worse. So he stopped trying.

Being around another person, especially one who was absolutely not taking his bullshit, reawakened that part of himself that had been buried for so long.

[angstylittleguy]

Dalton's Drawings

An important bonding opportunity for Bennett and Dalton, though neither leave feeling any better.

tw: mentions of suicide

character context: Dalton is a size-shifter whose height is affected by his emotions. Bennett frequently gets stuck in time loops and the only way to get the loop to end is for him to survive the day.

word count: 2.5k

-> In Which Everything Goes Wonderfully Wrong masterpost link: Here

-> character introductions and moodboards: Here

Bennett stalked down the hallway, humming lightly to himself as he pulled his Air Pods from his ears and shoved them in his hoodie pocket, the music ceasing suddenly. He knocked on Dalton's closed door. "Yo, Dalton. You ready to go, man?"

When no response came, Bennett creaked open the door, peeking his head in. "Hey man, are you in here?"

The silence lingered as Bennett scanned the room. Dalton's bed was unmade, something that he never allowed to happen. The guy was a neat freak, never wanting anything in his space to be out of place. It made Bennett quirk a brow for sure. The second red flag was that Dalton's phone was laying on the floor, screen faced up and still playing music from the earbuds that were attached by a thin white cord. Next to it, a fancy crayon that had been snapped in half from the impact of it hitting the hardwood floor.

Bennett stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "Dalton?" He called, his voice much lower now. He picked up the phone and paused the music, placing it on Dalton's desk. 

"Are you...?" Bennett got on his knees and peered under the bed. "Ah."

In the far corner of the room, pressed against the wall and almost totally concealed by the shadows of the bed, was Dalton, about the size of Bennett's hand. 

Dalton glanced up miserably at Bennett, his heart pounding in his chest because of the massive eyes watching his pitiful form. He buried his head in his knees. 

"Hey," Bennett murmured, trying to keep his voice low because he knew how much loud sounds affected him at this size. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, you know." The brunette dryly laughed, his voice betraying the humor he was attempting. "The usual."

Dalton tried to make a joke to lighten the mood, to make the fact that his friend found him sulking under his bed the size of a bug less pathetic, but it didn't help any. 

"You're pretty small, did something happen?"

Bennett was aware of Dalton's abilities, they all were. But they didn't see it often— not the extremes, anyway— Dalton would always hide away in his room until the size-changing spell ended. They all knew he hated his abilities, just as much as Bennett hated his. Dalton found it humiliating, and they all agreed to give him privacy when things like this happened. It always felt wrong to Bennett to leave him be when he was going through one of his spells, however. They occurred because of how he was feeling, and to leave him alone felt like Bennett was abandoning him. Maybe when he needed them most.

When Dalton was this small, it meant he had a lot on his mind. 

"Just thinking," Dalton said, his voice so small that Bennett had to strain to hear him. 

Bennett laid down on his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms as to not tower over Dalton as much as he could. It had to be frightening to just see a giant head watching him from a crack under the bed. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

He already knew the answer, but he figured he might as well ask anyway. 

Dalton shook his head. "Not really."

Bennett extended a careful hand, outstretching his arm across the length of the bed so that it almost brushed against Dalton's tiny form that seemed to shift deeper into the shadows. "Do you wanna come out? We can watch a movie or something until you're feeling better?" 

He looked at Bennett's hand, it larger than life itself and he so impossibly small. Dalton was on high alert, worried that with one twitch of Bennett’s fingers he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from scurrying down the length of the wall and disappearing into the darkness. 

"Listen, dude." Bennett interrupted his inner monologue with a frown. "It's totally okay to be scared right now. Hell, I would be freaking the fuck out if I were you. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can stay in here and hang out, or I can go, you just say the word."

Dalton wiped frustratingly at his eyes, tearing his gaze away from Bennett's hand to look at him. "You don't have to go," he said numbly. "Can we just... stay like this?"

"Of course, man. I don't wanna do anything to make you uncomfortable."

He pulled his hand back to rest under his chin, causing Dalton to flinch with the unexpected movement. Bennett tilted his head to the side with a sad smile, watching his tiny friend wipe at his eyes as his ears flushed red.

"Ugh, this is so embarrassing." Dalton pulled down the beanie he wore so it covered his ears and nearly his eyes. "I hate this so much."

Bennett chose not to speak, and so Dalton continued. "I'm not scared of you, for the record. Just... uneasy, is all."

"That's totally fair, bro. It would we weird if you weren't." 

Bennett tried to shift again, adjusting his position on the floor as Dalton watched him with a careful gaze. Finally, he pressed himself up into a sitting position with his hands, Dalton's vision no longer filled with Bennett's face, but rather his legs. He felt his heartbeat increase as the wooden floor creaked beneath the shift in weight. 

"Sorry," Bennett chuckled, his voice now coming from high up and out of sight. "Uncomfortable on your hard ass floor." 

He sat with his back against the bed now, his legs outstretched on the floor and facing the closed door. Dalton swallowed the lump in his throat as he forced himself to a stand, his entire body trembling as he walked out of the shadows on shaky legs. 

(It’s fine. This is Bennett. You trust Bennett. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.)

Dalton bit the inside of his cheek. 

(Not on purpose, at least.)

He paused just at the edge of Bennett's line of vision, staring up at his friend's mop of messy blond hair from his position on the floor. He was fidgeting with his hands, opening his mouth to say something but being unable to find the words. 

From Dalton's perspective, Bennett was colossal. He was a massive force that could do with him as he pleased and there would be nothing Dalton could do until he managed to shift back to his normal size. And even with this major power imbalance, Bennett was patient and trying his best to look out for Dalton, never doing something that he wouldn't want him to. 

Dalton walked out from under the bed, doing his best to mask his uneasiness. "Tell me about it," he said, voice slightly wavering. "I've been stuck down here for the past two hours." 

Bennett's eyes widened and he quickly snapped his gaze down to Dalton, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin from the movement. "You've been like this for two hours?" 

Dalton nodded sheepishly, craning his neck to meet his eyes.

"Dude, I'm so sorry. If I had known I would have come to check on you sooner."

"Ah, no it's okay." Dalton waved his hands in front of him awkwardly as if he were swatting away the idea. "It's better this way, anyway." 

Bennett's frown never shifted from his expression, but his eyes softened just enough for Dalton to notice. 

Dalton looked down at his feet.

"So," Bennett said, but his voice trailed off and he never finished his thought aloud. His gaze shifted to Dalton's desk, and he was able to see whatever he was working on from his spot on the floor. 

"May I?" He asked Dalton, finger pointed at the desk. 

Dalton shrugged, and Bennett shifted a little to grab the unfinished drawing. 

It was of Meiling, her smiling complexion colored with oil pastels that showed off her warm skin tone. Half of her shoulder-length black hair was colored as well, but the color abruptly ends and a single black line trails to the edge of the paper, even staining the desk as it was dragged towards the floor. 

"This is really good, dude," Bennett told Dalton, looking down at his small form that watched him examine the drawing with cautious eyes.

"But," Bennett said, "I don't think she's into guys."

Dalton flushed red. "Ah! No! That's not why I was drawing her!"

"Dude, it's okay. I'm not judging. I just wanted to tell you you probably don't have a chance with her before you get your hopes up."

Dalton buried his face in his hands and threw his head back. "Noooooo, it's not like that! I just— inspiration struck, okay?"

"Yeah, man. I get it, she's pretty—"

"Oh my god, Bennett. No. Okay, look in my sketchbook at one of the last few pages."

Bennett stood, his height making Dalton dizzy. He stepped closer to the desk, running a finger along the rows of sketchbooks that lined the shelf. "Which one is it?" 

"The black one."

"Like, ninety percent of them are black."

Dalton groaned. "Just— put me on the desk."

Bennett's head whipped downwards to stare at Dalton who stood uncomfortably close to his socked feet. "What?"

"Put me on the desk."

"You want me to put you...?"

"On the desk, yes."

"You want me to pick you up and—?"

"And put me on the desk."

"You want me to—?"

"OhmygodBennettjustdoitalready."

Bennett awkwardly squatted, laying his hand flat on the floor next to where Dalton stood. The brunette stared at it for a moment, before glancing up at Bennett's lingering gaze, and climbing on. 

The moment Bennett's hand was in motion, Dalton fell to his knees, the uncomfortable feeling of skin surrounding him. He held on to Bennett's thumb for balance, knowing that a fall from this height would surely kill him. 

Dalton was deposited on the desk in a matter of seconds, but his legs were weak as he struggled to force himself to a stand. 

He trekked across the wooden surface, stopping when he reached the markings from the oil pastel that he was using when he shrunk. He rubbed at it, staining his hands black as he tried to wipe away the marking. Dalton pointed up at the shelf with a newly black finger. "It's that one." 

Bennett grabbed the sketchbook, laying it down next to Dalton as he wiped his hands on his pants. 

He flipped through the pages, finally landing on a self-portrait in the same oil pastels. 

"What do you notice about mine compared to hers?"

Bennett hummed as he stared at the two drawings. "Well, one is obviously of you…" 

"Yes, that's true. But what about our faces?"

"You have pale, pasty skin?"

Dalton pressed a hand to his cheek. "No, dumbass. She's smiling."

Bennett looked back to the drawings, seeing the one of Dalton expressing a deep frown, with the most defeated eyes Bennett had ever seen on a person. His face was somewhat red, especially around the eyes and the tip of his nose as if he had been crying just moments before. Compared to the drawing of Meiling, whose eyes were bright and full of life, her smile brighter than lightning, Dalton's self-portrait was depressing. 

"Why... why did you draw them like this?"

The brunette blew air out of his nose, glancing down at his feet before looking back up at Bennett's massive form. "I'm sure you've noticed it too," he said, peeking over his shoulder to the drawing of Meiling that laid idly on the desk. Her smile seemed just as big as he was right now. "She's always so... happy."

Bennett cocked his head sideways. "And you're not?"

"How can I be?" 

Dalton threw his hands up miserably, gesturing to himself. "I mean, just look at me. I am four inches tall right now. And for what? Because I'm a little sad? I'm a little sad all the time, so this is just my life now! And Meiling? She didn't get stuck with some shitty superpower that affects her everyday life. She's never been happier, and I'm—"

"Jealous?" Bennett finished for him. 

"Yeah. I'm jealous."

Dalton sat down on the desk, propping his chin up in his hand. "I used to draw as a way to express how I'm feeling. It normally helps— or it used to— didn't matter if I was sad or angry or happy or whatever. But I can't do that anymore, because, well..." 

He gestured half-heartedly to himself again, frown coating his lips. "I guess you wouldn't get it, though. You got pretty lucky—”

"Lucky?" Bennett almost laughed, shifting his position so he stood on his knees and rested his folded arms on top of the desk next to Dalton. "I would not describe my situation as lucky."

Dalton's expression seemed to say, 'then what?' so Bennett continued. "I would describe it as 'The Fucking Worst.' Do you understand how many times I've died? Like, actually, physically died? More than I would have wanted, which means more than once."

Bennett talked with his hands, and with each wild gesture thrown in Dalton's direction, he flinched, debating standing up and moving back further on the desk. If Bennett noticed, he didn't do anything to show it. 

"And yeah, it could be useful if I needed a do-over or something, but like, to get that do-over I'd literally have to die. And that's so scary, dude. Like, I can't—"

His words fell short as he wasn't sure what to say next. He glanced down at Dalton who stared at him with big eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Dalton said. "That does suck." 

"I feel like it happens to me more often than others. Like, normal people only die once." Bennett paused for a moment. "Well, yes, duh, of course people only die once. That's not what I meant. I'm saying, if a guy somehow survives a terrible accident, what are the odds he's going to get into another one a week later? And then in another one two weeks later? Probably not likely, you know?”

Dalton nodded silently. 

"But for me, it is likely. I'm like… cursed to die. I think it's the universe's way of forcing me to use my ability. I mean, Rory uses hers all the time. Josiah ends up invisible almost once a week. You use yours pretty often. When do I have a chance to use mine? Dying doesn't happen to someone that often, but the universe needs me to use my ability. So, things happen that force me to use it." 

Dalton wasn't quite sure what to say, and Bennett dryly chuckled. "Didn't mean to ramble," he said. "Can we just agree that both of our abilities suck?" 

"Yeah," Dalton nodded. "Our abilities suck."

[neathbound-fiends]

sorry for quiet lol. dealing with a lot