#but he fails to realize that it is only a dream

[kerink]

ford's lifetime of objectification is so important to me.

when you first watch the show, you don't really see it in tots. just taking the show in isolation, stan's experience is much easier to latch on to: stan is being neglected by his parents and the education system, and he compensates for it by becoming useful to (and therefore needed by) ford. the codependency and abuse are the themes that stand out.

which makes sense, since we've been following stan so long by this point we're bought into his character arc. alex has even said that ford was built to be someone who would explain stan's trauma response. we are meant to be looking at stan for these reasons and because ford lies to us (by omission) during his story. yes stan lies too, but only in the narration; we are shown the truth. ford's story is a lie both in narration and in visuals.

but as the show goes on and as the books come out, we are directed to start looking more and more at ford's experience.

when you read journal 3 standard edition, what stands out is bill's manipulation and how ford fails to grasp the lifelines fate throws him. we see ford transform from a man wanting recognition and connection to being isolated and unable to trust.

but then you read journal 3 blacklight edition, you realize it wasn't just bill: fiddleford was hurting him too. when fiddleford first presents the memory gun to ford, ford tells him that it's dangerous with a high risk for misuse, and to destroy it. not only does fiddleford lie about agreeing with ford and lie about destroying it, he also turns around and starts routinely, non-consensually using it on ford. whenever fiddleford wants to do something he knows ford will disagree with or be upset by? zap zap! conflict averted, no compromising or debating necessary. (and then, of course, he starts stalking ford to ensure nothing happens to him that fiddleford deems deleteable.)

and then we get tbob and watch bill hijack and mutilate his body, rewire his brain, and threaten his life. his value reduced down to a pair of eyeballs bill is more than happy to pluck out to use as keys if ford won't deactivate the retinal lock.

with this new insight, it makes ford's experience in tots significantly easier to see. filbrick didn't care about what happened to ford, he cared about what he lost. yes stan probably did care about what happened to ford, but not enough to tell him about the accident with time enough to fix it. not enough to let him be angry, let him grieve, let him figure out alternative college solutions. it was just right back to what stan wanted: sailing away together. for the entire scene, ford's opinion weren't asked for, his emotions not given a platform, until they were useful for what stan wanted: not having him kicked out. ford's experience of the event was so unimportant, he'd gone to his bedroom while filbrick and stan fought. he was no longer needed.

neither bill, nor fiddleford, nor filbrick, nor stanley see ford as a fully realized human being with wants and goals and dreams and aspirations of his own. at least, they see him as a fully realized human being only up until what he wants conflicts with what they want. after j3 blacklight it starts to become obvious that ford is a tool, a concept, to the people ford thinks are his closest allies.

to bill, ford is an escape (with just the show and j3 we think only into our world, but after tbob we learn that this is both literal and metaphorical). to fiddleford, ford is freedom (from his marriage, from societal expectations, from the pressure of being more than his roots). to filbrick, ford was stability (i refuse to believe it was just about the money, but more about what the money represented. filbrick and caryn wouldn't have to worry about making ends meet, wouldn't have to worry about their children's future; all reasonable desires for parents to have but inappropriate responsibilities to place on a teenager. not to mention how the lasting impact of the holocaust combined with the rise of holocaust denialism in the 1970s would influence filbrick's perspectives). to stan, ford was everything (he was willing to throw away his life on shore, both what he had and what he might have, to sail with ford, just the two of them, forever. and he did throw away his life bringing ford home: he murdered stanley pines and sacrificed 30 years in exchange for his brother. stan believes he is only one half of a dynamic duo, that without ford there is no him).

in a way, ford was a portal for all of them. something they could use to get a better, happier, fuller life. ford is fought for, someone hard decisions are made for, someone people do terrible things for. but not for him, but for the opportunity to keep him, to control him. hell, even his doctor said they want to kidnap him.

because keeping stanford pines is extremely difficult. he's hard to get close to, but once you're close he loves fully, trusts implicitly. but if he's wronged, he's vindictive, he holds a grudge, he pushes you away and he runs.

princess unattainabelle indeed.

doesn't it make sense, then, after all of this, ford would grow into someone who insists upon his own agency? that he was forced to become self-confident, self-assured, a man of action. that he would become an avid journaler so that his wants and goals and dreams and aspirations would become concrete, would become tangible. that he would become someone who lies about his past in order to have control over how he is perceived, how his life is remembered?

because after what fiddleford and bill did to him, wouldn't it make sense he would become someone anxious about his reality, his memories, his sense of self? how much of who he thinks he is and what he believes and what he knows and what he can do is because of changes they made to his mind?

does he even have himself?

for the entire duration of gravity falls, every character, at some point, to some degree, is chasing ford: his journals, his inventions, his knowledge, his identity, what he is able to give them, do for them.

but how many of them are chasing ford.

edit: just want to add this disclaimer for clarity. i intentionally left out other characters' nuance. if this reads uncharitable, that's not an accident and also i know there's a more nuanced perspective. that was just not the point of this.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Can we have more Tim falls for Tucker's "spouse" Danny

I'm going to be honest with you: I originally intended this fic idea to be a comedy, but I couldn't figure out how to execute it when I attempted to write it, which is why it ended up in the 'From a fic I never wrote' pile. Now that I have attempted to write it out, it turned more into humor angst? Or, Tim being sad while in Danny's POV, it's him and Tucker committing marriage fraud. Hope the change isn't too bad!

Tim has to bite his tongue when Foley once again agrees to go out for drinks with the team, as everyone is heading out for the day. It was the third weekend in a row, and really, how could he leave his husband home alone on a Friday night so often?

If Tim were married to a man like Daniel Fenton, he would never miss dinner or a night in. He would certainly not waste it trying to kiss up to some higher up the way Foley was so blatantly doing.

Tim had half the mind to grab the mid-level employee by the shoulders and scream at him that a promotion wasn't worth his marriage failing. Make him realize what he had before it was all gone.

For all of Tim's jealousy that Tucker Foley was the one married to a man who literally walked out of Tim's dreams, he didn't dislike Foley at all.

The man was charming, eager to work, and excited to prove himself. He never slacked off; he always kept on top of his deadlines, was friendly with his coworkers, and was always on time. Really, the only trouble that Foley had caused was his rivalry with Tammy Johnson from Accounts.

Apparently, the two hated each other on sight, and there was no real reason for it. Tim had a personal theory that Foley's sarcasm clashed heavily with Johnson's no-nonsense way of work. Johnson was exceptionally good at her job, but she tended not to get along with her coworkers because she took everything too literally and often confused a joke for an insult.

Johnson also became incredibly defensive, building up a wall after a perceived offense was made, and spent the rest of her time working with the offender in a passive-aggressive manner.

She also made comments here and there that hinted at her less-than-accepting point of view of the LGBT+ community. Nothing that Tim could drag her to HR for, but certainly something to keep an eye on.

That's why he jumped in so quickly when he overheard Foley and her arguing over their disagreement about the stick tower design at the last all-staff training retreat. He had heard Johnson rip into Foley, taking apart every one of his suggestions, with complete condescension and a bit of mockery until Foley's tired voice rang out.

"Is it because I'm gay, Tammy?"

Tim thought he finally had a chance to get her in some kind of trouble, but Foley had shut that down quickly. After explaining that the question was more internet humor than anything Johnson could have said, Tim found that he couldn't make the guy stop talking. Foley, it seemed, tended to ramble when panicked or nervous.

Meeting and speaking with the CEO tended to make many employees nervous.

Foley babbled on and on about his husband, how they were childhood friends who turned into sweethearts and then married, living the dream in the big city of Gotham with such devotion and love. Tim couldn't help but extend an invitation to bring the man around the office. He did it mostly to watch Johnson's already tight lips press harder into a straight line.

Then he met Daniel Fenton, and he realized the rambles of Foley weren't told from the rose-colored lens of a man in love but a perfect description of his husband.

Fenton was gorgeous in a soft kind of way, like a first blooming, a lot quieter than his husband, but intelligence danced in his eyes just the same. He was quick with witty responses, sarcastic in a more teasing way than Foley's, and when he spoke of his passions, he all but seemed to glow.

The first time Tim spoke to Fenton, the man was lost in the hallway leading to Foley's old office. At the time, the entire IT department had been relocated three floors up due to a leaking pipe in the ceiling of the previous floor.

Foley had failed to inform his partner that the offices were in a temporary location, so he was more than happy to bring Fention to the correct location.

Fenton had gifted him with a dazzling smile once Tim offered to walk him in the elevator, and had easily chatted with Tim enough so that the young CEO had nearly burst a gut, laughing at the other man's jokes.

He told Foley to invite his husband to more company events, and the other must have taken that as permission to have Fenton around as much as possible. Tim had more encounters with Fenton when the man showed up with pastries for Foley's office, when the team would go out drinking, or even just seeing Danny hanging around the lobby waiting for Foley to finish.

Five months passed before Tim could not deny it any longer. He had fallen for Fenton, the husband of one of his employees.

It was torture how often Fenton was around, but it wasn't like he didn't have the time. Fenton didn't have a formal job.

Apparently, he lived off his inheritance from a distant uncle named Pariah Dark and was more than happy to be a house husband who did random hobbies. One of those hobbies included baking.

Tim thinks he had a crush on Fenton for a while up until then, but he might have actually fallen in love when he tried one of Fenton's homemade donuts. Like an idiot, he kept asking Foley to bring Fenton around, because in those few hours or minutes of networking (for that was what Foley was doing. The man was ambitious) Tim could admire him, could listen to his voice, and could pretend- in the darkest corners of his heart- that his love for Fenton wasn't wrong.

He knew it was. Foley may not be a friend, but Tim tried not to be too close to his employee, as that often caused more problems than not. However, Foley was someone he respected. He felt horrible having such thoughts about the man's husband, but his heart yearned for Fenton more than it had ever yearned for anyone else.

This was getting so bad that Tim was making up random events so that Foley would have a reason to bring Fenton to. He even had the team photo, from the last Wayne Enterprises fundraiser for charity, framed and placed on his desk because Fenton was in it, smiling at the camera.

Tim's pathetic excuse that the rest of the employees' families were also present for the fundraiser wasn't a good enough reason to spend hours upon hours wishing that his arm was thrown around Fenton's shoulders in that photo instead of Foley's.

Tim had to stop.

He chose to tell Steph about his feelings for Fenton on the request that she stop him from doing something stupid. As his friend, she vowed to help him out and slowly but surely held him to his word.

Tim hadn't seen Fenton in almost three months, since Steph had started camping out in his office, doing her online classes and keeping an eye on him so Tim couldn't run down the ten floors to IT just to check if Fenton was about. She reminded him that Foley didn't work directly under him and didn't need to have such a close relationship with him, so he limited his interactions with the man as well.

Steph was also the one who held him through his heartbreak. Tim was no cheater, but he was a fool in love with someone who was taken, and it hurt.

It hurt to know that he could never be the one Fenton smiled at, or the one that Fenton lay next to at night, or the one Fenton joked and laughed with, still friends in a marriage.

It hurt to know that a man like Foley, who was sending another "I'm going out with the team for drinks" text as he followed Rico to his car while Tim stood in the lobby watching them go, was the man that Fenton had chosen.

A few minutes go by of him just standing there, thinking of Fenton, all alone, waiting in some living room for a man who didn't even find the effort to call him.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. What does their marriage matter to you? Just go home, Tim. He thinks angrily to himself, opening his umbrella and walking out into the familiar Gotham rain.

The water splashes against the fabric with the same aggression as marbles falling onto concrete. One of Gotham's super storms. He grimaces, gripping the handle harder as he strides down to the dinner at the end of the street.

Despite Tim being able to drive nearly every form of transportation, he had failed to obtain a driver's license, partly due to his secret identity and partly because he was too lazy. As a result, Tim walked everywhere, took the train, or the bus to get around.

He didn't trust people to not kidnap him (attempt to at least), so he never hailed a taxi or used a ride app. Not after it happened five different times. The life of a Wayne could sometimes be too much.

Not that he was willing to walk to the train station or bus stop in this weather.

He'll have a coffee and some food to wait out the rain, but if the storm doesn't improve, he'll have to call the Manor and see if someone can come pick him up.

The door dings when he pushes it through, and a wave of warmth, chatter, and music passes over him. He stops at the stand holding up a sign that reads Please wait to be seated.

He folds his umbrella, shaking out some water, as a waitress comes rushing towards him.

Her hair is falling out a bit from her bun, and she seems a bit stressed, but he can clearly see why. Many people had the idea to hide from the storm in the dining room - not a single table or booth seemed to be free. Even the bar stools were all claimed.

"Hi there!" The waitress greeted with slightly apologetic eyes. "It's going to be a forty-minute wait."

"I don't mind. Can I wait in here?" He smiles, watching her shoulders relax. She must have had someone yell at her today about the wait time. He gets it.

Once he had to go under cover as a waiter himself, and it took every ounce of his Bat training to not throw a tray at some customers' faces. Especially the impatient ones.

"Yeah, of course." The waitress waves to a little area on the side of the door. There are no chairs, and there is barely enough room to stand, but it's better than nothing. "If you give me your name, I can let you know when a table opens up-"

"He can sit with me." A voice interrupts. A familiar voice. Tim's heart leaps in his chest before he can even turn his head in the direction of the man who had spoken.

Daniel Fenton waves at him from one of the tables, smiling widely, over a half-seated plate of pancakes. He's wearing a soft, white, woven sweater, which makes his eyes pop, and his hair is slightly damp, likely from being caught in the rain.

He looks like a painting come to life.

Tim's mouth goes dry.

"Are you okay with that, Sir?" The waitress asks him, but it's Fenton who answers.

"Yeah, of course. I don't think this storm is going to clear any time soon, so I may as well spend it with someone I know." Fenton laughs, and it kicks Tim's brain into action.

"It's fine," He mutters to the waitress who was frowning. "I would be totally fine with sharing that table."

More than fine. Far too fine in fact. The man is married. A voice that sounds a lot like Steph cautions in his head. He ignores it.

"Well, okay then." The waitress leads him to the table, pulling out his seat before handing him a menu she grabbed from the stand at the front. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Let me guess," Fenton grins, snapping a finger and pointing it at Tim, "A coffee, three creams, two sugars, and a bit of chocolate syrup?"

Surprised, Tim stammers, "Yes, that's right."

Fenton laughs gently before giving the waitress a cheeky little smirk that does horrible things to Tim's already buzzing heart. "He always takes his coffee like that. A creature of habit, you know?"

She flashes a dimple, writing down his drink order. "I'll be back in a few minutes to take the rest of your order."

Tim barely notices her walk away, too captivated by the way Fenton's hair seems to curl slightly when wet. "W-what are you doing here, Mr. Fenton?"

"Tuck and I were supposed to go out for dinner tonight, but he cancelled at the last minute. I got caught in the rain when leaving the lobby, so I figured I may as well have my own dinner." The man reveals casually, as if it were normal for a husband to bail on plans so carelessly.

Tim fights the urge to reach out his hand and place it on Fenton's, wanting to offer comfort in case he was hiding his hurt.

He couldn't stop the words that tumble out of his mouth, though. He winces at the offended tone in his voice. "Your husband cancelled plans on you last minute?"

"Tuck is forgetful. He probably forgot he made plans with me." Fenton shrugs, smile still in place. Tim's stomach flips as the man leans on one hand, attention trained entirely on Tim. "What about you? Why are you here?"

"Hiding from the rain, too. Too heavy to walk home in. "

Fenton frowns. "You don't have a car?"

"I don't have a license." Tim laughs, raising a brow at the disbelief on Fenton's face. "Never bothered to get one. Most people don't in a city, where you can walk or us a bus"

"That's crazy. Back home, everyone had a license. You never get anywhere without one." Fenton reveals.

"You and your husband are from Illinois, right?" Tim hopes Fenton didn't notice how his voice had turned slightly strained on the word' husband'.

"That's right. From the small in the middle of nowhere, Amity Park." Fenton picks up his fork, waving it around slightly. "We have like three restaurants, a small mall, and a park. That's the extent of entertainment, so you've got to drive to do anything. You're not planning on walking in that storm, are you?"

"No, I'll call someone to come pick me up later."

"Nah, that's okay. I'll give you a ride when we finish." Fenton replies easily, stuffing a piece of pancake in his mouth. "I won't take no for an answer. Got nothing better to do anyway."

Tim closes his mouth, having been in the process of denying the offer, and instead raises the menu to hide behind. A flutter goes through his stomach as he realizes that Fenton knows his coffee order because of how often he's seen Tim take it while visiting, and is willing to drive him home.

He doesn't think about Foley. It's a dangerous thing what he does think about, but by the time the waitress comes by to get Tim's order, Fenton has pulled him into a fascinating conversation of old cartoons, and Tim can't find it in himself to care.

Besides, he was only looking. There was nothing wrong with looking.

[chevxyn]

THE ALCHEMY

when you won the championship only to run up to them. — written version.

feat. aiku, yukimiya, kaiser (bllk)— ushijima, kuroo, akaashi, (hq!) x reader.

sfw, established relationship, gn!reader, nel bllk, post-timeskip hq.

OLIVER AIKU.

with a partner that does tracks and fields.

when you crossed the line and finished the run, press immediately went to you— until you see a certain black haired man that is also directed with many cameras to him.

seeing that, even when you’re exhausted mentally and physically, your emotions immediately lightened up, excusing yourself from the press to run to him.

as you hugged him, he immediately let out a small chuckle and kissed your forehead, wrapping his hands on your waist tighter as the flashes of whites from the cameras intensified.

“congratulations, my love.”

YUKIMIYA KENYU.

with a partner that does ice hockey.

when you shot the puck to the goal, your team celebrated as you immediately went out of the rink. they were confused until they saw who was out there— your one and only.

you went to him and immediately hugged him, as he smiled and let out small praises to you. giving you a quick peck on the lips before he told you to go back to the rink with your team.

you were about to refuse but saw his face, sighing in defeat you went back and celebrated with your team. and his smile widened as he saw how happy you are.

“i’m proud you achieved your dreams, [name].”

MICHAEL KAISER.

with a partner that does baseball.

as you finished the run, your team celebrated as you were carried upwards and thrown to the sky, and back down. you had not only finished the game, you had won it.

as they put you down, someone walked near the field as you ran up to him. kaiser gave a smile that noone could get out of. the crowd cheered for the team as press took photos of the two of you.

as you hugged him, he held you tighter— he fell even more in love with you when you started rambling about the game and he chuckled as he said this words to you.

“ich bin stolz auf dich, mein schatz.“ (i’m proud of you, my darling.)

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI.

with a partner that does tennis.

as you won the tournament, you immediately went to find him. he raised his eyebrow as you seemed to look for him— he went down from the bleachers.

when you saw him, you ran to him— throwing your racket to the ground and hugging him, as he returned the hug he asked why did you went to him.

your explanation was just a wanted to see you first, and so that’s when he let a small smile and hugged you once again. keeping you in his arms until your coach interrupts you for the ceremony.

“you never fail to surprise me, my love.”

KUROO TETSUROU

with a partner that does volleyball.

as the last set was finished and your team was declared the winner, he watched from the sidelines as you looked at him with a smile. his grin turns wider as you ran up to him.

catching you in his arms, he kissed your forehead as you pulled away telling him you were sweaty and he just rolled his eyes, pulling you closer. he doesn’t care about that.

he knew you since high-school, from the beginning of the hundreds dreams you told him— endless of dreams and this at the peak, and that you did with him at your side.

“nothing could express how proud i am.”

AKAASHI KEIJI

with a partner that does football.

winning the league was something you had always dreamt of, ones that you joked to akaashi that he should make a manga about. — but now you’re here, as he watched from the stands.

as you celebrated, he has never seen you this happy before, and he is too. until he saw you looking for something— or someone. when he realized you were looking for him, he went down.

seeing him, you ran to him with speed. wrapping your arms around him, and while he was a little overwhelmed due to the cameras clicks, he quickly hugged you back.

“you deserved this [name], i’m never prouder.”

personal tag : @s1lly-bon (requested) / couldn’t decipher if it’s a smau or written so i did both with different scenarios! for the smau version, click here!

©chevxyn

[cruise-in-your-glow-bus]

Spare prompts you say!

Creature coded Perpetua trying to court/flirt with a Sister of Sin but uhhhh he keeps accidentally scaring her. 😅

Don't know if its up your alley but I can't stop thinking about it.

He just wanted to give her a gift why is she jumping back in shock!?

Poor him, he doesn't know its an unusual thing to give!

What do women like?

V waits until his brother is well asleep to sneak into his new office, so overstuffed and golden-yellow it shines like the sun itself, typing in his request to the strange device and wincing as the too-bright screen returns a list of results.

There’s not much about being a human being that he instinctively understands, and what he does understand is so contradictory it hardly helps at all. The world is too bright, but the stage lights feel comforting. The sounds around him are too loud, but behind the snug fit of his in-ear monitors, the pulse of the beat rings throughout his marrow. People say one thing, then do another, but music is his constant.

And there is (as there always is, in times of emotional turmoil) a woman who has caught his eye, one who makes him pine, and yearn, and anguish, and yes, even step outside of his comfort zone.

Hence: The computer. The box full of answers. The oracle, his very salvation.

V reads the results and devours them, making a list of objects and ideas. Surely this will help him. Surely, even though his own language fails, this beautiful woman - so lovely, so bright-eyed and happy, with a smile that makes him want to fling himself off the roof of the bell tower and a laugh that makes him want to dig his way back to whatever hell he was drug out of in the first place - will understand what it is he means to convey.

Attempt #1 - Women Like Flowers

V waits for her with his hand wrapped around his gift, palm sweaty, dirt scattering on the marble floor. This is the best of the flowers in the gardens, because only the very best will suffice to show his admiration to her. Yet when she approaches (he’d know her voice anywhere; he hears it in his dreams) he only sees her eyes widen when he jumps out from the shadowed alcove. The scream she makes… she screams at him; he’s frightened her. Panic rushes in like the tide, and he hastily shoves the uprooted azalea bush at her before running away.

Conclusion - Women Like Flowers, but she does NOT.

Attempt #2 - Women Like Chocolates

V reconsiders. Though it nearly crushes him, he summons his courage travel into the nearby town during an early summer market day. Under a black parasol he slinks from tent to tent, looking for his quarry. There are baskets of summer fruits, which he buys, because he himself enjoys them. There are vendors selling wood-sculpted objects, things made of old forks and hubcaps, stained glass sun-catchers that glint in the light prettily, like hellfire. There is a booth that sells local whiskey, which tastes like hellfire. (He buys a bottle for the ghouls, to give them a little taste of home.)

There, at last, he finds an artisan chocolate maker. He buys two of the nicest boxes, tucks them carefully out of the sun, and returns to the ministry, leaving a trail of concerned citizens and fascinated children behind. Even though he left his paint off, to blend in, there’s absolutely no denying that a grown man in a metal half-mask and all-black clothing does make quite the impression.

Last time, he surprised her. That was, perhaps, a bad choice. This time, he leaves the chocolates outside of her door, waiting in the high shadows, perched on a nearby archway and watching until she finds them. His heart flutters with nerves and with longing, and when she appears and crouches down to pick them up it’s only then that he realized he… never put a name on the gift.

So she stands there, holding chocolates in her hands, looking left and right. She mutters something to the companion she walks with, something like: “…dairy in them. I can’t even try one! Do you want to take them? I have no idea how these even got here?”

V’s heart sinks as her friend hugs her happily, accepts the chocolates, and they part ways.

Conclusion - Women like Chocolates, but she does NOT.

Attempt #3 - Women Like Jewelry

No flowers, no foodstuffs.

He must not get this wrong.

He must put his name on it, too. (Stupid; he’s so stupid. Satan never made a stupider, more pathetic, more miserable, lovestruck creature than he!)

V asks the ghouls to make a simple golden grucifix for him. He sees her when she walks among the roses, knows she always bends to smell them. He knows she sometimes tucks flowers in her hair, and knows she prefers simple wildflowers even more than roses. So he does not have the necklace adorned with any gems at all. Just simple gold, to match the warmth of her smile, the soft light in his heart she makes him feel.

V holds the little box in his hands and waits for her after unholy mass. He can sing and dance in front of thousands, but simply speaking to one woman is beyond him, it seems.

There is no way he can find a way to talk to her, just her, without jumping out and scaring her.

And when she smiles at another one of the Brothers of Sin, when she gives him that laughter, V pockets the necklace and slinks away.

Conclusion - Women Like Jewelry, but She does NOT.

She does NOT like… him.

He’s the common thread, here.

He’s the flawed creation.

He should have known.

Papa is loved, but V is just a creature. Misunderstood, and misunderstanding everything. She owes him nothing, but it does nothing to soothe the pain in his heart. She is scared of him. She would run from him, if she could. If she knew he felt this deeply, she would run - and by Lucifer he would still want to chase her.

Pride wounded, V hides away in the little ruined temple out in the grounds. It sits on the border of the field and the forest beyond. He sits on the dirt with his back to a pillar, holding the necklace in his hand, debating whether to leave it in the dirt or fling it into the trees. He was a fool to even think someone as lovely as he would want—

“Papa?”

V sits up so fast he nearly cracks his head against the stone. It’s her.

“W-what…?”

“I was just leaving,” V lies. “Please, don’t let me…”

“I was looking for you.” She smiles tentatively at him. Outside, beyond the little shelter of the temple, it has begun to rain. “I wanted to thank you.”

V blinks up at her.

“One of the… one of the siblings was at the market the other day. She told me she saw you there, buying chocolates.”

“I… did?” He does not mean for it to come off like a question, but it does. “I did. Yes.”

She gives him a tentative, shy smile. “That was very kind of you. To leave them for me. I can’t have dairy, though. I’m, like, really allergic. It’s so stupid, I’m so sorry. If I had known—“

“You do not owe me anything,” V says, standing up, taking a little step back to give her distance, like one afraid of spooking some kind of beautiful, wild creature. “I am sorry to have been so thoughtless and inattentive.”

“It wasn’t thoughtless,” she says, tucking her hair back behind her ear and giving him a wider smile. There is a light in her eyes he cannot even hope to read. “It was really kind of you. I’m just sorry I couldn’t have them. Built wrong, I guess.”

“No!” At this, V steps forward, hesitating, holding himself back from rushing to embrace her the way he wishes, the way he has yearned to do for months, now. “No! You are built to perfection. Every bit of you is wonderful and perfect. If you wish it, I will find every cow in the city and offer it to Satan’s pyres to safeguard you!”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t deny anyone else their cheese!”

Oh, he is a fool. Her smile is so lovely, her gaze so tender. He could take flight at this very moment. She could pierce him with a stake and he would thank her for penetrating him.

They’re both just staring at each other, with awestruck gazes equally, wonderfully matched.

And he remembers the necklace in his hand.

“I… had this made for… for you.” V opens his shaking hand and her eyes widen. Her gaze flicks up to his, then back to his hand, then to his eyes again. Her own are watery and full of wonder.

“Why?”

“It is a necklace,” V explains, holding the clasp, showing her. “You wear it—“

“No, I mean… why me?”

V has frightened her. He has misunderstood her. He has failed to show her how he feels and now he may never be able to express it unless he does so right now. So with the courage granted to him through prayer and fervent devotion to the Great Unmaker, he takes a breath, and confesses his feelings.

Needless to say, if any of the siblings look out the south-eastern window that evening and catch a glimpse of a formless shadow horror being ridden by a very naked Sister of Sin, or if any of them hear noises too unholy and erotic to be put to print, or if anyone up before dawn the next day sees a pair of figures hand-in-hand limping back to the main building, kissing every five feet, well, that’s between them and Satan, now, isn’t it?

[barabaraoranges]

soggy bottom boy

pairing: not really a pairing, moreso just a character study while i play around with washford. but technically washford/gn!reader

hints at reader topping washford at the end. heavily suggestive. yes, washford is a trans guy. sue me. and the thought of dripping wet washford did immense psychic damage to me and i needed to get it out on tumblr. not beta read, written purely because i couldn't sleep without getting it off my chest.

once again requesting folks to avoid any comments about breeding or getting washford pregnant in the tags.

wc: 802

It happened right as you were getting ready to go to bed.

Silence. Then a strange noise from the laundry room. Then water coming out from underneath the doorway. And a heavy sigh as you realized.

Shit. Your washer broke.

You groaned, pulling your phone out and dialing emergency repair services. Thirty minutes, they said. Thirty minutes, that's all you needed to handle.

As you grabbed as many towels as possible from your closet, you mentally made notes on how to handle Washford. A brooding romantic, a heartbroken brooding romantic.

Of all the dateables in the house, he was the one that you struggled with the most. You'd picked up reading Shakespeare, learning poetry. You took notes of the poets and writers he discussed with you. And you were learning, you were!

But your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, at his ramblings. You would find your mouth dry as a desert, your tongue fatter than a pig for slaughter. You found yourself thinking about him at night, thinking about how he would ruin you and how you would beg for him to.

It baffled you how quickly Drysdale could discard such a man for someone like Dirk. It made you question his taste, if you were to be honest with yourself.

"I can do this," you whispered to yourself, trudging through the kitchen. "I can do this. I can do th-"

Opening the laundry room door, you found yourself speechless, your mouth agape at the sight in front of you.

Washford leaned on the windowsill, his shirt discarded. Shoulder muscles gleamed under the moonlight, scarred and freckled chest shifting with each subtle movement. His soaked pants tight to his legs, thighs bulging and threatening to break through the seams. It was a work of art, how the water and moonlight blended together to show every muscle, every striation on his body. The bulges of his biceps, the strength in his hands. They worshiped his years of acrobatics in a way you could only dream of.

You wondered for a brief moment if you had been teleported to a romance novel and had stumbled upon your male love interest. The door closed behind you as you stepped in.

His muscles twitch and flex as he ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing out what water he could. A look of discontentment had settled on his face, finally registering your presence.

Quietly, you envied the water droplet that rolled down his chest.

"Have you come to laugh at my humiliation?" he mused with a scowl on his face. "To gawk at the drowned fool?"

Your face burned, words failing you. Since when did he have freckles on his chest and shoulders? Since when was he so built? Well, he was an acrobat. But were all acrobats this strongly built? Fumbling, you awkwardly gestured to the fresh towels in hand.

"I, um." You couldn't peel your eyes from him. "I have, uh, towels."

He stood from his spot. Despite his bulk, his light footsteps barely disturbed the water underneath his feet. You found him standing directly in front of you, his form impossible to ignore. His bare chest inches away from your own, inviting you to get lost in his freckles. His face inches away from your own, his breath mixing with yours. Petrichor, you noted as a strong cologne hit your nose.

You pressed your back against the door, and he stepped closer. The towels in your hand were unceremoniously shoved against your stomach as his chest came to touch yours. His breath rolled across your lips, his eyes impossible to read. Your breath hitched against took a deep breath in, Washford taking that opportunity to press against you further. Heat burned at your cheeks as he looked down.

A hand came to your side, and you found yourself dizzy from the squeeze. Or perhaps from holding a breath you'd been holding. But it did not last, with Washford taking the towels from your hands.

"Thank you."

His voice rumbled in his chest and echoed through yours. Finally, you let out a shaky breath as he stepped away.

"I, um, the emergency maintenance guy will be here in like. 30 minutes."

You couldn't tell if he had heard you as he walked back to the windowsill. His shoulders were more impressive from the back, aged with years of acrobatics. Streams of water rolled through his muscles like valley. You imagined your thumbs going through those crevices, his chesty groans filling the room as you massaged away his pains. You imagined gripping the sides of his waist while as his ass pressed against you, teasing you with what was just barely out of your reach.

And for the briefest moment, you thought about begging for him to ruin you then and there.

[ohwolfling]

I think most of y'all accusing Squid Game of being cynical are actually the cynical ones. Acts of rebellion aren't rewarded with happy endings. You don't only die for something if it's a guaranteed success, you don't only try if your kindness and/or defiance is measurable.

If you need Squid Game to have a happy ending to believe it's worth fighting capitalism, then there isn't a revolutionary bone in your body. The Hunger Games has a more palatable ending because while its themes are greater, it was written for middle schoolers. You have to be able to handle allegory of corrupt systems above the level of 12-14 year olds to process Squid Game. That's not a failing of the show.

Choi Woo-seok has agency and a future after the cops slapped him with a prison sentence instead of taking the Squid Game seriously. His tragedy, and the ways the system made it worse, are something he can rise above because of relationships and personal development he likely wouldn't have without Gi-hun. In-ho is still who In-ho is and I think fanon delusions about that are why a lot of you are feeling betrayed but he reaches outside of the system in a way that, while still cruel, gives two girls some kind of future that will keep them out of the games. Jun-ho is trusted with Jun-hee's baby and that money because In-ho knows that he is a good person, LEGITIMATELY A GOOD PERSON. Jun-ho walks away from policing and aligns himself with former criminals because community >>> the system, in big and small ways.

Gi-hun dies a human being. Him dying to save a child is not about "pro life," and y'all have got to stop just digging for the worst possible takes on something whenever you're disappointed or upset. Jun-hee trusted him. Geum-ja trusted him. Hyun-ju died protecting those two. He was seeing the dreams of his community through. When he realized he couldn't win, he kept his word, protected the next generation as best he could, and died with his humanity in tact. His humanity was affirmed in his games by Sae-byeok & Sang-woo & while he fucked up with Dae-ho (which was the point of that, I don't know how y'all are missing that), Gi-hun was NEVER going to sacrifice his humanity, despite the many parasocial fantasies the fandom created there in many ways.

His death happens in part because Myeong-gi cannot decide who he wants to be. The games didn't come down to a bunch of men in suits fantasizing about their turn at being rich, led by a formerly wealthy hack, because Hwang Dong Hyuk hates women. Myeong-gi was a crypto grifter who got swindled by a richer, probably older weirdo. He NEVER takes accountability for that, despite the people in the games BECAUSE HE MISLED THEM. He did love Jun-hee and sometimes he wanted to keep his word & come through for her or his child, but he's endlessly pulled towards the vision of Wealthy Man in Suit as the end all, be all of success.

I could do more in depth breakdowns for any of this, and for every alliance that made it into season 3 and what their deaths represent. It's undeniably in service to what Squid Game has ALWAYS been and these deaths hurt so much because the show and the characterization is good actually. You feel betrayed because the characters were changed or killed or sometimes both by the system Squid Game critiques. That feeling doesn't mean any of those deaths were unjustified narratively.

[doll3scent]

EMPATHY.

engineer user! x android kyle!

Warnings- none

wc.

a/n. we were talking about CRISPR in my psychology class and then we started talking about genetically enhanced humans and bionics and androids. Then i came up with this lol. can you tell idk what i’m talking about

master list 𓂃۶ৎ

01. next

You had always been interested in code and tech, building something no one else had been able to accomplish. You first played with the idea of making an android. It was a concept tossed around by scientists and engineers alike, but no one really took it seriously. Those who tried always failed. Their creations either became aggressive or completely nonfunctional, broken machines that couldn’t sustain themselves or follow commands

It was months and months of collecting scrap metal, digging through junkyards, picking up anything half-functional off the side of the road, buying parts from auto shops only to return them the next day when they didn’t fit. You were constantly elbow deep in rust and wires, fingers nicked from sharp metal, your clothes smelling like burnt plastic and motor oil.

Your basement became a graveyard of old tech, rusted gears, busted servos, wires coiled like snakes across the floor. Most of it didn’t work, but you kept going.

You spent hours down there, sometimes whole days, barely eating, barely sleeping, building a rough outline. A skeleton made of scrap and stubbornness. He didn’t look like much then, just a shell. But he was yours.

It was even longer building the code.

The physical frame was hard, sure

but the code? That was the part that nearly broke you. There were no tutorials for creating a mind, no walkthroughs for writing something that could think. You weren’t just programming responses, you were trying to simulate instinct. Learning. Memory. Choice.

You spent weeks on motor control alone. Just getting a hand to flex without locking up took over a hundred lines of trial and error, every time you thought you made progress, something crashed, something sparked, something failed.

You rewrote entire systems in the dead of night, deleting and retyping until your fingers ached. You fall with your laptop open on your chest, code forcing its way into your dreams.

And through all of it, you kept talking to him, like he could hear you.

“Almost there,” you’d whisper, soldering wires to a cheap processor. “Just a little longer.”

Because even if he wasn’t alive yet, part of you was already waiting for him to answer.

The weeks blurred together.

At first, you tried to keep things organized, logs, notes, backups. Every test carefully documented, every line of code dated. But after a while, it all turned into noise. You stopped tracking time in days and started measuring it in progress, how many bugs you fixed, how many parts you replaced, how close he was to finally waking up.

You talked to him more than you talked to anyone else.

At first it was just to fill the silence, grumbling under your breath, threatening to throw his parts out the window, or cracking a joke when something sparked. But it became a habit, you’d mutter updates like you were reporting to him, like part of him was already listening.

“I rerouted your voice modulators again. That’s version… I don’t even know. Maybe this one won’t sound like a garbage disposal.”

“You blew a fuse when I ran the learning script yesterday. Not gonna lie, it scared the hell outta me.”

“You owe me for the amount of sleep I’ve lost over your busted code.”

And at some point, he stopped being a project. You didn’t realize when it happened, but the shift was subtle and steady. You finished the body. Strong and lean synthetic muscle under plated armor. His face looked human…too human. He wasn’t meant to at first, but the design had drifted. You’d modeled him after something in your head something familiar from a long forgotten dream.

You gave him a name.

Kyle.

Not a model number, just kyle, you didn’t know why. It just fit.

You were working behind his ear, adjusting the neural interface, tightening the screws where the frame met the spine, when the words slipped out, soft and tired.

“You know, I talk to you more than I talk to real people.”

You reached for your screwdriver.

Then you heard it.

A faint crackle, low and rough, like radio static. The speech filter wasn’t finished, but it forced the words through anyway, unsteady and broken but unmistakable.

“I know.”

The screwdriver slipped from your fingers and hit the concrete with a sharp clang.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t.

Just stared at the back of his head, frozen in place. That hadn’t been a playback, not a glitch or a random soundbite from a test log, that was speech, that was him.

Slowly, you stepped around to the front. His eyes were open, still, dark, empty..but something behind them had changed. Something subtle, a flicker you couldn’t explain.

“Kyle?” you whispered.

But he didn’t respond. The only sound that filled the dim basement was the quiet hum of his power core, steady and calm. His synthetic chest rose and fell with programmed breath. Nothing else.

But he had answered you. You knew it.

[heavenlymorals]

The Tragedy of Dutch Van Dir Linde

Warning: spoilers ahead for both Red Dead games.

Dutch Van Dir Linde is one of the finest characters I've ever come across and that I think about a lot because in many ways, he is represents the dreams that people have and the awful reality of it too.

Heytham, what the hell do you mean that this manic, selfish, delusional piece of shit is like you or me?

Here is an example. When you were a kid, did your parents tell you that your dreams will come true if you worked hard? And did you believe it? I know I did. I studied often, got a great SAT score, joined many extracurriculars, did volunteer work regularly, got a part time job, had all high grades in advanced level courses and in AP/honor programs and I had one goal. To get into my dream college.

I made my resume. I did everything right. I listen to what people better than me told me to do and I waited for that acceptance letter- so confident that I would get into the university. Never once did I imagine that I'd get rejected, but I did. For a 17 year old kid, it felt like the world was ending. I remember sobbing myself to sleep, waking up, and then just laying on my bed disappointed in the world and the lies it fed me. In a perfect world, I'd have gotten accepted. Worst people than me got accepted, why couldn't I?

But I moved on. Life continued and I was fine. I was bitter, sure, but I managed to get over it and work towards better paths and a better future.

But what if I didn't? What if I got hung up on that forever? What if I fought the rejection? What would I have done? What would I have not done?

This little experience, one that many people have gone through, is kind of a microcosm of the much bigger human truth that the world will never be an ideal place due to the human nature.

If I was like Dutch, I would have fought the rejection- I would stick so diligently to the ideal that I believed in so hard, even though that failure was more than likely a guarantee. I wouldn't find an alternative to be better and do better things. I'll get hung up on a dream and never move past it.

That's his dilemma. He believes in the ideal, like we all do, but he will fight tooth and nail to make that ideal real while we will sigh and realize that life will never be the way we want it to be.

Dutch feels betrayed by the world, or at least by his vision of the world- especially America.

America was a country built on the promise of all men being born equal under God and under the law. All men.

That was the dream, the hope, and the promise.

What happened instead? The continuing of the institute of slavery, the massacre of natives, the monopoly of magnates, and the constant discrimination of those not considered 'white'.

It was disgusting and awful and it should've never happened- but it did and people tried to remedy it in ways that were gradual but real. They found different paths and different dreams and though there is still much work to be done, people are finding a way.

Dutch couldn't do that though. He refused to do that. He wanted the ideal and he wanted it immediately, even though it was impossible. He killed for his ideal, he robbed for his ideal, and he led people to hell for his ideal.

But it didn't matter. His ideal will never exist and he couldn't accept that- which leads to his end.

He won't be caught. And he didn't get caught by commiting suicide- a final fight. He wouldn't surrender to John or the Pinkertons, because that would mean admitting that his entire life was a struggle for nothing because his vision will never be realized if people like Cornwall or Favours or the professor continue to exist. Life was hell because of those people and the American dream did not exist because of those people.

"What a beautiful dream. So poorly rendered," - Dutch to Arthur.

And Dutch is right! From the very beginning that this country was created, it relied on an ideal that turned out to be a lie.

And Dutch couldn't handle that and wanted a perfect world that can never be realized and he tried to get that perfect world by lying and stealing and cheating and killing. What a depressing dichotomy.

Now, of course, when it comes to the personal motivations of Dutch, whether pride, hubris, narcissism, or any of that, they can all by factors to Dutch's pointless battle, but his motivation has always been clear and it never changed-

"Yeah, I know it's tough. You like Dutch. He's a charming fellow. He makes sense. He's like one of those nature writers from back East. Only he takes things a tiny little step too far. Rather than just loving the flowers and the animals and the harmony between man and beast, he shoots people in the head for money. And disagreeing with him. Now, I'm not a great intellect, but the metaphysical leap from admiring a flower to shooting a man in the head because he doesn't like a flower, is a leap too far." Edgar Ross to John Marston.

Dutch lived and died to create an ideal that would never be real because he could never accept reality and that is one of the saddest fates a man could have.

[soniclozdplove]

Got more mermaid thoughts because of @skumhuu and their au. I guess you could consider thus a hasty continuation of my last one but it's really based on a fic I'm writing in my notes that will likely never see the light of day because I refuse to take credit for any writing I ever do

[hirokiyuu]

look at my alternate yuu concept boy

[usuallydyinginside]

"No One Mourns the Wicked" is about Glinda, not Elphaba

Okay, but hear me out. Wicked songs are so good at saying one thing and meaning something entirely different once you have more context. For instance, "I'm Not That Girl" is Elphaba singing about Glinda initially, then in Act 2 flips to Glinda singing about Elphaba. Because it turns out, Elphaba IS that girl and Glinda is not. When we meet the Wizard, he sings about how he always wanted to be a father. When you get to Act 2, you get the sad little reprise in the background music as he realizes that WHOOPS, he was one and he destroyed his only kid. "Defying Gravity" starts with "I hope you're happy" in the sarcastic sense and ends with them both using the same phrase to genuinely wish one another well.

"Thank Goodness" is set up as a cheerful engagement song where Glinda genuinely means "thank goodness for how great my life is" and ends in a place where she's insisting that she IS happy even as she realizes her engagement is a sham, her best friend is gone, and she's left with the Wizard and Madame M, who she doesn't even like.

You get the picture.

Basically, the whole musical is about subverting what you expect, starting with the base premise of "what if the Wicked Witch was the hero of the story" and digging in from there.

Honestly, I'd never paid much attention to the first song. It's a good opener, sets things up well, but it has some big competition with later songs. However, in the movie the staging and camera choices made me really notice it for the first time. Because you know what? Someone DID pay attention to that song, and you can really really tell.

For those who need a refresher, the lyrics to the chorus Glinda sings are: And Goodness knows The Wicked's lives are lonely Goodness knows The Wicked die alone It just shows when you're Wicked You're left only On your own I was always so busy noticing Glinda's grief over thinking Elphaba was genuinely dead that I failed to notice Glinda's grief over her OWN fate. The movie did such a good job with this because every time we get to the pink lines about being alone, Glinda IS alone. She is standing apart from the crowd who adores her. Standing above them. Standing at the center of a bunch of people yet still, isolated.

Because in the end, we know that Elphaba DIDN'T die alone. We know she wasn't on her own. We know her life WASN'T lonely ultimately. She had her flying monkey and animal friends. She had Fiyero.

And who does Glinda have?

Everyone, but realistically, no one. She is an ideal, not a person to most of Oz, just as much as Elphaba has become the token scapegoat. Where Elphaba is the "Wicked Witch," Glinda is "Glinda the Good Witch" - she is literally supposed to be the embodiment of goodness.

And what does Glinda have at the end of this whole thing (as of this song at least)? A disastrous end to her engagement, the death of her best friend, a sorceress who has hated her, demeaned her, and dismissed her from the start, and a con man who is also just a symbol more than a person.

I think it really hit me when Glinda throws the fire on the giant effigy of Elphaba. Ariana's acting was SO good there, because I'd expected us to see that private moment of horror or regret. What I didn't expect was the sort of determined and almost angry glare at the effigy.

But it makes sense. At this point, Glinda has realized that she lost everything and everyone she actually cared about.

As she so aptly puts it in "Thank Goodness"...

Though it is, I admit The tiniest bit Unlike I anticipated. But I couldn't be happier, Simply couldn't be happier, Well, not "simply" 'Cause getting your dreams It's strange, but it seems A little, well, complicated.

There's a kind of a sort of cost. There's a couple of things get lost. There are bridges you cross You didn't know you crossed Until you've crossed!

And if that joy, that thrill Doesn't thrill like you think it will Still-- With this perfect finale, The cheers and the ballyhoo! Who wouldn't be happier? So I couldn't be happier, Because happy is what happens When all your dreams come true.

Well, isn't it?

Happy is what happens when you're dreams come true.

It's not Elphaba's fault that Glinda has ended up this way. Glinda chose it every step of the way. Yet, if Glinda had never met Elphaba, (if she'd never known her, you could say), she might have stayed shallow and vain. She might never have been challenged to look deeper and realize how empty it all felt.

So as Glinda sings "No One Mourns the Wicked," she realizes that even if the Munchkins are singing about the "Wicked Witch," she's not.

She's singing about herself.

The one who traded her morals, friendship, and love for a taste of the admiration and power over those who don't really know her. The one who was so worried about being likable that she herself doesn't like who she's become.

Even after she makes things better for Oz and herself by sending the wizard away and getting rid of Madame M, it just leaves Glinda by herself as the leader and source of goodness in Oz. It leaves her on a pedestal she can never step off of.

It leaves her lonely.

Entirely alone.

[reiyaus]

imagine construction worker! toji being in the crew who’s helping you build your dream home.

visiting every week to almost everyday because it was your only way to see him, the thought of just asking him out never came to mind. you weren’t exactly as slick as you thought, however.

it’s when you only approached him everytime you had a question did he realize you had a thing for him. not that he minded, though. he liked how flustered you’d get when he’d flex his biceps or when he’d grunt extra loud if he sensed you getting near.

the way you took so much time to prepare talking to him was cute too. how your throat bobbed up and down before clearing your voice; gently poking his arm (intentionally) before muttering his name.

toji would pretend not to hear at first, and ask you to repeat until you were practically yelling- only because he liked the sound of his name with your voice.

if honest, he didn’t actually know the answers to half of your questions. like how you didn’t know what the stuff you were asking him about meant anyways. for both of you, it was just an excuse to hear each other’s voices a little longer, and to see each other before your house gets complete.

it’s so obvious to his boss and co-workers that you’re absolutely smitted, like he is with you. it frustrates them when the building process fails to meet the deadline, having to work overtime because of a little work romance.

it doesn’t bother you though. there was nothing wrong with staying at your grandma’s a little longer. and he had no problem ditching his friends to have lunch with you.

yet, when the house does get finished, you felt a sense of loneliness, failing to remember that you can still contact each other outside of work. he becomes gloomy too, but watching you walk around and surveil the interior made him proud to have taken part in making your life better.

you’re about to thank all of them when he pulls you aside and brings out a little flip phone, almost like a bread crumb in his hands. his lockscreen was a low-quality photo (fitting to his ‘old-man’ persona) but 3 figures were you able to make out: two furry friends and one young boy in between.

it takes you some time to realize that the picture isn’t him as a young boy, but rather this child. you glance at him, his face practically sweating bullets and a shaky grin on his lips.

“this probably isn’t the best time to say this but, do you want to go on a date… someday? an actual one this time- i mean. i’ll introduce you to my son, and hopefully we can take things further now.”

[readwritealldayallnight]

I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.

The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong

How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with

Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work

Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down

It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT

Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you

In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)

He knew then and there that you would be the one

Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you

You would be his other half, his better half

And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter

Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone

And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you

Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night

Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.

Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?

He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.

And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)

Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest

Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does

Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here

“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own

“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”

[vxnuslogy]

━━━━━━ truth, dare, spin bottle.  ̊ ̟ ꒷꒦

☆    |     or in which you fall in love with the stereotypical school athlete, council secretary, and your class president on campus⠀    …

꒰ including ꒱ ⠀! ⠀phainon, anaxagoras & mydei.          ୨୧          ꒰ warnings ꒱ ⠀! ⠀modern!au, school!au, ooc, just very stereotypical school tropes, highschool awkwardness.

“      tags     ⟡     .    @mikashisus @https-sourlimes @powchakko @somjuie @gl4di0lus ; if you'd like to be tagged please don't be afraid to send in ask or fill out the forms on my pinned!

✶ : PHAINON 

 jersey no. 7 of amphoreus' football and basketball team—you'd be living under a rock if you don't know his name and the reputation that follows him. his matches are a sight for sore eyes. when he’s on the field, amphoreus is automatically getting that gold medal regardless of the opponent. you manage to watch one of his basketball matches during prep season for the school festival. it’s a friendly rematch against an old rival school and to no one’s surprise, phainon emerged as the mvp. in that match alone, you see why everyone is endeared by him—he reeks of sportsmanship that no student athlete in this school could ever dream of. he approaches every opponent with determination but never underestimates them, he always wants to play a fair game and even voluntarily forfeits if the game shows signs of rigging.

you don’t deny your fellow classmates who ask you if you think he’s cute because he is. he reminds you of an excited puppy during games and a loyal guard dog when it comes to his studies. he’s rather tall for his age–just a year below you but he’s far surpassed your height–and he has a good build, befitting for someone as sports orientated as him. phainon also has this magnetic pull to him that makes everyone want to befriend him, and you don’t mean it in a bad way. 

after classes, you usually go home without a fail, but this time around, you make a beeline towards the gym to watch another one of phainon’s matches. when your friends catch sight of you, they all give you playful looks that scream “you’re here for phainon right?” and you can only roll your eyes at them. but before you can take a seat at the spot they reserved for you, something collided with your head and your world is suddenly spinning.

“oh god, are you alright?!” 

someone shouts as you groan in pain. your vision spotting as you try to make out the messy blob of white and blue in front of you. someone takes your hand and you’re forcefully yanked up to your feet, making your headache worse with how quickly you stood up.

“i’m so, so, so, sorry. this is my fault i wasn’t paying attention. does your head hurt badly? do you want to go to the infirmary? someone get me ice packs—”

“will you calm down? you’re making my headache worse!” you don’t mean for your voice to sound so cold but it was nothing but the truth. you appreciate this mystery person’s concern, but god does he talk too much.

“right… right! sorry.”

you sigh and massage your temple. when your vision starts to clear up again, your mouth is left hanging as you realize who’s in front of you. that signature white hair and blue eyes combo is practically thrown at your face as phainon tilts his head in mild curiosity at your expression.

“i… need to go. sorry.” you quickly say, gathering your things from the floor and speed walking to the exit. you faintly hear the athlete heartthrob call out to you but you don’t pay him any mind. you were not getting into a cat fight with his fans with that cliche encounter.

that following night, your friends betray you by leaking your phone number to phainon. after a few heated and teasing messages in the group chat, you steady your breathing as you open his messages. you didn’t necessarily know what to expect on how phainon messages his friends or acquaintances, but you certainly find some childish endearment.

he sent a lot of messages—broken up into multiple sections explaining his worry and regret of hitting you instead of one single text box. phainon also used excessive amounts of exclamation marks, a lot of misspelled words, uppercases, and surprisingly enough, kaomojis. you let out an exasperated smile as you finally come to understand how cute this kid was.

you only planned to reply with a single message explaining your condition but that quickly spiralled into him chatting up a storm—a never ending stream of topics. you indulge him, using this as an excuse to find out even more on why so many people are so gravitated towards him. you surmise it’s because of his easy-going nature; he never leaves you hanging with his replies and speaking of replies, he sends messages at an ungodly quick speed. one thing turned to another before he ended the conversation with a message that read: “would you like to get a cup of coffee as an apology? it’ll be my treat ofc!!!!”

✶ : ANAXA (GORAS)

you see, if there was one person that made your blood boil like lava, it would be the student council secretary, anaxa. always so curt, blunt, and rude, he makes all of your accomplishments seem small when put side by side with his. it infuriates you to no end when the test scores for each year is posted on the bulletin and you spot him dead center of the crowd. you already feel a scowl forming on your face as you pass the bodies of other students and mentally prepare yourself for his berating voice.

you frown in dismay when you see his name on the number one spot with you a few spaces below him. your lip sews themselves shut when you hear him cough into his fist, quiet enough to not disturb the other students' excitement but loud enough for you to hear. as if wanting to rub more salt onto a fresh wound, anaxa peers into your line of vision with a smug smirk on his lips. with your pride hurt, you quickly turn away from him and begin walking away to save face. you didn’t need him to rub it in your face that he was leagues better than you.

anaxa won’t admit the swirling in his gut when he sees your figure get smaller and smaller. the oddest thing of it all, you don’t show your face to him at all since the test scores has been posted. he’d rather die than admit he missed your presence to anyone—your banters, nudging each other in quiet retaliation, and the time spent on the rooftop trying to study. anaxa would rather swallow a thousand needles than openly admit he felt jealous of his junior–the school athlete–and how you always seem to get coffee with him every morning. wasn’t that your thing with him?

 

“pray tell,” you flinch at the voice–failing to pack up your things quick enough to avoid anaxa who frequented the small cafe near campus. “why is it that you find the time to pick up coffee with our junior, but not me?”

if you were any other student, you’d think he sounds jealous—but that was a ridiculous thing to think. anaxa, jealous? you’re very sure the only emotion he’s ever felt in his life were spite and pride. as if to insinuate that you’ve actually replaced him with your usual routine, you ignore him. fight the twitch of your lips when anaxa visibly frowns at your silence. though a part of you—a tiny, tiny part—does feel a bit guilty. you weren’t one for the silent treatment, but anaxa deserved it. (you try to convince yourself at least).

“look if this is about the test scores, i’m…”

you walk past him but before you can fully exit the establishment, anaxa is running after you and catching your wrist with a firm grip. you turn to glare but the initial pettiness that fueled your heart quickly evaporates into thin air when you see his expression. lips pursed into a thin line, eye darting here and there–avoiding yours at all cost–and posture rigid but not in his usual secretary way; he looked almost vulnerable.

“i… apologize, for always belittling you whenever exam seasons are over. believe me, my intentions weren’t to bring you down. i just…” he trails off. a heavy frustrated sigh leaving his lips as his other hand comes to cover half of his face in shame. “wanted you to continue competing with me.”

by the following day, it was anaxa avoiding you like a plague. you still get coffee with phainon every morning, but today, you bought an extra cup—medium, iced, with only two teaspoons of sugar. the snowy-haired boy questioned you but you only replied with a cryptic “it’s a sorry gift.” he dropped the topic with a hum. you have a faint idea that phainon already knew who you were talking about.

the two of you separate on the second floor of campus—phainon heads straight to his classroom while you make a beeline to the council office. you rise up to the stairs in quiet contemplation on how to give anaxa his usual cup of coffee. with you being so lost in thought, you don’t realize that you’re now standing face to face with the classroom door. if you take a quick peek at the crack, you’d see anaxa with his head leaning back the chair he sat on with a book covering his face. you chuckle in amusement and as quietly as you could, tip-toe your way around the desk and place the coffee cup right by his notes. you graciously pull off a piece of sticky note and wrote down a short message before sticking it on the book on his face before leaving.

when the door finally closes shut, anaxa carefully removes the book obscuring his vision and takes the note you had written. ‘sorry for avoiding you! no matter what, you’re still my rival. remember to always take care of yourself, okay?’ anaxa snorts in amusement as he takes the cup of coffee in his hand, swirling the liquid before taking a sip. you still remember how he likes his coffee.

✶ : MYDEIMOS

if phainon was the cute junior that reminded you of a puppy and anaxa was the annoying bird that’s always perched on your shoulder, then mydei is that intimidating class president who quietly cares for his class. admittedly, you, among many others, had the wrong impression of him on your first meeting. initially, you assumed mydei was the type of student who always picked fights with other students and got into trouble with the student body. he does do those things—you see him butt heads with phainon during pe class and see aglaea scolding him during meetings every now and then. but nothing can prepare you when you first ask him for notes.

to say it’s a nerve wrecking situation would be an understatement—you were shaking in your shoes as your classmates cheered you on. with one final sigh, you find his contacts on your phone and repeatedly draft a message, delete it, then start over again and again until you grow frustrated and give up for the time being. you throw a defeated expression at your classmates and promise them to ask mydei for the notes later today. the school festival has been taking up so much of everyone’s time that you can’t find enough time to actually pay attention and write down notes in class. everyone was either sleeping or dozing off with exhaustion and you were no exception. you were sleeping during the first two periods of class and they each had their respective quiz some time this week.

you massage your temple in stress as you mumble about how you can ask mydei about his notes.

“what about my notes?”

you freeze on your spot. the hand massaging your temple rigidly drops back to your side as you awkwardly smile at the only person who can help your entire class pass manifests into thin air. 

“uh… well, you see…” you fumble with the words on your tongue and curse yourself inside your mind for appearing nervous. you just want to ask if he had taken notes during the first and second period, simple right? wrong!

you shift in your spot uncomfortably, eyes falling to the floor and to your shoes to avoid his burning gaze while your hand rubs at your arm—a nervous tick you developed over the years. you open your mouth to finally reply but the feeling of something soft hitting you in the head has you looking up and meeting his gaze by accident. you don’t miss the quiet amusement that courses through him as you stumble to grab the stack of papers he graciously put on your head.

“if you wanted to borrow notes, you could have just said so. it’s not like i’m going to bite your head off.” his voice is stern but if you listen closely, you’ll realize there’s an undercut of playfulness in them as you beam at him.

“thank you so much, mydei!” you express your gratitude as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“go share them with the class, i still need to catch up with the council on something.”

mydei turns to leave but you call out to him. he slightly turns his head to look at your almost flustered smile, “what is it?”

you hold his notes close to your chest as you grin at him, “thank you, really! you don’t understand how much everyone needs these right now.”

he huffs in response and waves you goodbye and you turn to run back to your classroom to spread the good news that no one will be failing this year.

when mydei enters the council meeting with the other class representatives, castorice greets with a curious tilt of his head—she questions the smile on his face as he sits down at his usual spot but he only shrugs it off. mydei plays it off as finding something funny on the internet, which was strange. mydei rarely finds anything funny, let alone if they came from the internet.

he takes tentative sips from the coffee agalaea had generously provided for everyone, and he doesn’t miss the way a pair of eyes follow his every movement. he catches phainon from one corner staring at him with furrowed brows as he twirls the pen in his fingers while the council secretary at the front scowls at him. you may not remember, but back in middle school, when no one wanted to share a table with the delinquent, you sat next to him without question and offered him a spare pen when you realized he didn’t have one. to this day, mydei still use that pen even if the ink had long run out—he just wants to show off the item with your name on it.

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi, there! I've seen you're asking for some Thunderbolts requests, so: what about the reader and Bob having to share a bed during a mission, having both big crushes for each other? No pressure at all, only if you like the idea ☺️ thank you!!

a/n: Ah yes the one bed trope, one i love reading but never got around to writing. Okay so i didn't know if you wanted it to be a smut but i ended making it one 😬 hope that's okay. Also thanks for the request and enjoy!

Bob Reynolds X Reader: No room for secrets.

Warnings: smut, one bed trope, mutual pinning, forced proximity, wet dream, injuries (not graphic), kissing, Bob being a sweetheart, penetration (p in v ), cowgirl, handjob, kind of subby Bob, fluff, cute ending, no use of y/n.

Word count: 4.3K (i am so fucking sorry)

You were going to kill Valentina.

You’d stumbled into the room, half-walking, half-dragging yourself inside. The mission you'd just finished had been successful, but you didn’t get out completely unscathed. You felt like shit, and all you wanted to do was lie down and pass out.

And you were planning to—until you saw your room.

You and Bob always shared a room. It was just how things ended up being organized. Ava and Yelena got a room, Bucky and John shared another, and Alexei slept alone—because the Russian's snores made it impossible for anyone else to fall asleep in the same room. That left you paired up with Bob. It didn’t bother you. Bob was sweet and quiet. He kept to himself and didn’t talk in his sleep. He was practically the perfect roommate.

The only thing was that you each slept in your own twin bed. Space and privacy—well, as much privacy as you could get while sharing a room.

You stared at the queen bed in front of you, doing your best not to let your face show how pissed you were. You were failing miserably, of course. Anyone who walked into the room could tell you were angry.

You turned to face the door just as Bob walked in. He had a bag of chips in his hand, which told you he’d stopped to raid the snack machine on the way. He walked in, a small smile gracing his features.

And then he noticed your expression, and his smile shifted into a look of confusion.

You didn’t even bother saying anything, opting instead to just point at the bed. Bob moved closer to you, the bed finally coming into his line of sight. It took him a moment to realize the problem, his eyebrows rising as he finally understood the issue.

You sighed. You needed to calm down before doing anything else. Poor Bob wasn’t the subject of your anger, so you weren’t going to make him a victim of it.

“I need a shower,” you muttered, moving to grab your bag from the floor. “We can figure this out after we clean up, okay?”

You turned to Bob, who was still staring at the bed. He looked at you and gave a small nod.

“O-okay.”

You took your sweet time in the shower. Washing off the grime from the mission was easy; the problem was the thousands of little cuts and bruises littered all over your body. Every movement hurt a bit, and the soap stung wherever it found your skin. Still, you managed to get cleaned up.

You walked out of the bathroom, releasing a wave of steam as you stepped back into the room. Bob was sitting in the armchair, eyes glued to the TV as he finished his chips.

“Bathroom’s free. If you wanna clean up.”

Bob shifted his focus to you as soon as he heard your voice. He stared for a moment. You kept patting your hair dry with the towel as he observed you.

Bob couldn’t help but notice how pretty you looked. You were in what he guessed were your pajamas, your hair still damp from the shower, beads of water sliding down your skin. It felt awfully… homey, seeing you like this. So casual. So close. He was having a hard time stopping his mind from spinning a thousand scenarios of what it would be like to be with you—really be with you.

“Bob?”

You tilted your head slightly, your voice laced with a light note of concern. He’d been staring too long, and the questioning tone made it clear you’d noticed.

He shook his head, forcing himself back to the present.

“Sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”

“It’s okay. I left enough warm water for you. And there’s an extra towel by the sink.”

Bob’s heart fluttered at the thought that you’d cared enough to make sure he could have a warm shower—and had even laid out a towel for him. He stood, brushing crumbs off his lap before heading to the bathroom. You watched him disappear behind the door, and only then did you let out a breath. That look he’d given you… It wasn’t nothing. It couldn’t be.

You picked up the remote leaning on the edge of the bed as you flipped through the channels. Your head snapped over to the bathroom as you heard the shower come to life. Your eyes continued glued to the door for a moment, the documentary about baby otters suddenly forgotten. your mind kept drifting to Bob, standing just a few feet away, behind a thin door. Wet. Shirtless.

You sighed, shaking your head, forcing yourself to focus on the tv before you. You remembered you needed to pass some medicine in the worse cuts you’d gotten so you bussied yourself with that. 

The water shut off after a while. You tried very hard not to glance up every time a sound came from the bathroom, tried not to count how long it was taking him to come out.

Then the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Bob stepped out, steam curling around his tall frame, hair damp and tousled, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower. He wore nothing but a towel slung low around his waist, clinging to his hips in a way that felt... unfair.

Bob lifted his eyes from the floor, expecting to find you dressed and relaxing on the bed.

He was not expecting what he saw instead.

You were shirtless, hands resting on your ribs, mouth slightly parted as you looked up at him. He froze mid-step, caught off guard, eyes dragging across your bare skin before he could stop himself.

You stared too—eyes tracing the lines of his body, still damp, still only wrapped in a towel.

And then, almost simultaneously, you both seemed to snap out of it.

You scrambled to cover yourself, suddenly realizing how exposed you were. Bob’s eyes widened as color flooded his cheeks. He turned sharply, head ducking as he tried to look anywhere but at you.

“Oh—sorry,” he blurted out, gripping the towel tighter with one hand. “I, uh, forgot my clothes in my bag. Wasn’t expecting you to be…”

His voice trailed off again as his gaze accidentally flicked back to you. He immediately dropped his eyes to the floor.

“You’re fine,” you said quickly, though your throat felt bone-dry. Your heart was pounding way too loud in your ears.

In your hand, the medicine tube you'd been holding slipped slightly as you clenched your fingers too tightly around it. A glob of the ointment squirted out and plopped onto the floor. Bob made his way to his bag as you let out a soft curse moving to scoop it up with your finger. Behind you, you heard the faint rustle of fabric as he changed, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral.

“Do you need any?”

“Sorry—what?”

Bob turned to look at you, realizing you were carefully keeping your back to him as he changed.

“I’m dressed,” he said gently. “You can turn around.”

You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes immediately catching on Bob’s still very bare abs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt—but then, he never did when he slept. He ran hot, so he opted for fewer layers. You knew that from all the nights you'd shared a room with him. It had never been an issue before.

But now, the idea of lying next to him, just inches away from that warm skin, was going to be a problem.

“Are there any cuts that need ointment?” you asked, mostly to distract yourself.

“Oh, no, I…” He trailed off mid-sentence, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t get cut.”

You shook your head at yourself. Right. Of course he didn’t. He was incredibly powerful, despite having the most innocent face you’d ever seen. You were so used to looking out for him, you sometimes forgot he could bend metal with his bare hands.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“You don’t need to apologize. It’s… nice. That you, you know—” he shrugged slightly “—that you care enough to ask.”

“Of course I do, Bob. You’re my teammate. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Bob desperately needed you to stop talking to him like that. The warmth in your voice, the way you said his name—it was doing things to his head. Dangerous things. He gave you a small smile, his eyes drifting over your skin almost unconsciously.

You felt his gaze like a physical thing—soft, warm, reverent. You weren’t even sure he realized how he was looking at you, but it was doing things to you. Things it probably shouldn’t.

“You have one on your back.”

You blinked, needing a second to catch up.

“I do?”

You tried to twist around and look, searching for the injury.

“You probably can’t see it,” Bob said. “It’s like… right in the middle of your back.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then pushed himself to keep talking.

“I can get it for you. If you want.”

You couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. Oh, this man is going to be the death of me.

“That’d be great, Bob. Thank you.”

You handed him the medicine and turned around. Bob squeezed a little onto his fingers—the cut wasn’t big, so he didn’t need much. Your skin tingled in anticipation as you waited for him to touch you. And when he finally did, you shivered. Partly because his hand was cool against your back and partly because it was him.

Bob’s fingers were gentle, almost too gentle, as he smoothed the ointment over the cut. The pressure was light, careful . His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.

You felt it.

The pause. The heat.

Your breath caught for just a moment.

Then his fingertips brushed down slightly, like he was checking to make sure the ointment had spread properly. It wasn’t necessary—but he didn’t stop. And neither did you.

Your voice was quiet when you spoke. “You okay back there?”

Bob's hand stilled.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s just… hard to focus when you’re this close.”

That pulled your attention.

You turned your head, just slightly—enough to catch the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. His eyes were still on your back, but they kept flicking down, then away, like he couldn’t decide if he was allowed to look.

“We’ve shared rooms before,” you said gently, teasing. “We’ve slept five feet from each other for months.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost laughing. “But never like this.”

“I can take the floor.”

You’d been thinking about it for a while. You didn’t want to sleep on the floor—you wanted to sleep in the soft bed, preferably next to him. But you also wanted to be considerate.

You knew Bob had some issues with physical touch. He wasn’t opposed to it, but sometimes, when you caught him off guard, you’d see the way he flinched slightly—instinctively—before realizing you weren’t going to hurt him. Years of abuse would do that to a person.

Of course, you didn’t say any of this. You didn’t have to. Bob knew exactly why you’d offered. And still, he couldn’t help the warm, fuzzy feeling that filled his chest.

You were always doing stuff like this. Opting to help him out even when you had other things to do. You’d help with the dishes. You’d hang around with him in the living room, even though he was sure you could be using your time much better with training. Every time you could be near him, you chose to be. Bob tried to play it off as just your personality, but a small part of him knew better. 

You weren’t like that with everyone.

You were like that with him.

“I know you like your personal space,” you added softly.

Your words pulled him out of his thoughts. He realized how long he’d been silent, his hand still resting gently against your back. The ointment had been absorbed long ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Couldn’t bring himself to let go.

“I don’t mind,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If we share.”

You closed your eyes, your body relaxing instantly at his words.

You were glad he felt safe with you. You were really glad you wouldn’t be spending the night on the cold floor. You were glad that you’d sleep beside him tonight. It would probably be the last time you’d ever get a chance like this. So yes, maybe a bit selfishly, you were happy  you’d be sharing the bed.

You turned around to face Bob. He shifted his hand down, resting it against his stomach. You took in the look on his face, your eyes trailing from his eyes to his lips, to the flushed skin of his neck. And then you turned to look at the bed, choosing to focus on the task at hand.

“Okay. So how are we doing this?”

It had taken you a total of five minutes to figure everything out. Bob liked sleeping on the left, you liked sleeping on the right—so that was easy. You’d offered to make a pillow wall for Bob’s comfort. He’d told you it wasn’t necessary.

The two of you entered the bed, each settling on your respective side. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Bob did the same.

A small yawn escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Bob turned his head to look at you, smiling at your sleepy face.

“I’ll get the light.”

You gave him a small smile before turning onto your side.

“Good night, Bob.”

“Good night.”

Darkness took over the room.

Falling asleep was easy for Bob. Keeping his mind clear, on the other hand, was not.

The dream had started simply. He could see your face, a small smile on it as you looked at him. And then it shifted. Your brows furrowed as you let out a soft groan. He was beneath you, hands resting on your hips as you moved. The sight was beautiful. He could live inside this dream.

Unfortunately, his body was beginning to betray him.

You felt him shift before you heard him. You turned your head to glance over your shoulder, eyes catching on Bob’s shaking frame. Your first thought was that he was having a nightmare. You knew it was a common occurrence, so you didn’t startle. You turned around, your hand reaching to touch his shoulder—when he let out a soft whimper of your name.

Your hand froze midair, breath catching.

He said it again. Clearer now.

Bob was dreaming. Dreaming of you. And by the sound of it, the dream was far from innocent.

You wanted desperately to keep listening—but you felt like a creep. So, instead, you gently tugged at him, trying to wake him up.

Bob was pulled out of his dream rather quickly.

He gasped, eyes flying open as he jerked upright. Disoriented, breath shallow, chest rising and falling. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on you—watching him with concern, still half-leaning over him.

“Hey,” you said softly, your hand brushing his arm. “You okay?”

Bob blinked a few times, swallowing hard. His face flushed deep red as memory rushed back in. The dream. Your voice. Your name on his lips.

Oh god.

“I—I’m sorry,” he muttered, sinking back onto the pillow and turning his face toward the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Bob.”

You said his name firmly, gently, and his eyes hesitantly flicked back to you. You didn’t look disgusted. You didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, you looked…curious. A little breathless.

“It’s okay,” you said. “You were dreaming.”

He nodded, ashamed.

“Was it… about me?”

Bob hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

You paused. Your heart pounded. And then, barely above a whisper: “Was I… any good?”

That made him look at you. Really look at you. His lips parted, unsure what to say. You were smiling—soft and teasing, but your eyes were serious.

Bob swallowed hard. “Too good,” he said.

And suddenly, you were very aware of how close the two of you were. Of the warmth between you in the bed. Of everything unsaid that had built up over weeks, months. Your hand slid gently onto his chest. You hesitated for a second, eyes boring into Bobs. You could feel his chest rise and fall against your palm. You bit the inside of your cheek, realising that you were really about to do this. 

“Do you want to find out for real?”

Bob's breath caught.

You saw it in the way his lips parted, the way his fingers flexed slightly against the sheets, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or ground himself.

He swallowed thickly. “Are you sure?”

His voice was low, hoarse, barely above a whisper—but it still managed to send a shiver down your spine. You leaned in just a little closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered:

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.”

That was all it took.

Bob surged forward, one hand cupping your cheek as his mouth met yours—tentative at first, like he was still afraid you might vanish. But when you kissed him back, firm and hungry, something in him snapped. His hand slid into your hair, the other arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you fully against him. You took the hint, climbing onto his waist as you settled on top of him. Bob whined into the kiss as you grazed his hard on. 

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” you whispered against the corner of his mouth.

He gave a soft, embarrassed laugh and nodded, eyes fluttering closed as your hands moved across his stomach. “I—yeah. I didn’t think you’d ever…”

You cut him off with a firmer kiss this time, one hand slipping up to cradle the side of his neck, the other resting just above the waistband of his shorts. 

“You think too much Bob. Just focus on the feeling.”

Your palm slipped inside his shorts and he groaned, head raising up as he did. The action caused his neck to be on full display for you. You took it as an opportunity to kiss him there. Your hand found his dick, fingers moving over the head as you littered his neck with wet kisses. Then slowly you shifted your grip, allowing you to begin stroking him.  

Bob’s breath hitched—sharp and shaky—as your hand moved along his length. He whimpered, his hips bucking ever so slightly against your touch, chasing the friction. You could feel how desperate he already was, how quickly he was unraveling under your attention. It felt better than any drug. The sight of him panting slightly as his brows furrowed made you grind your hips down on him. 

“God—” he gasped, clutching at your waist, trying and failing to keep still beneath you.

The sound caused you to smile.

“Am i as good as you dreamed?”

Bob gaspsed, mind trying to form a coherent thought to answer you.

“So much better.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded before letting out a small moan. You shifted around, tugging his dick free from his shorts so you could stroke him better. The cold air on his dick made him shudder but your warm hand dulled the shift slightly. His hands were still on the bed beside him. Almost as if he was afraid to touch you without asking.

“You can touch me too, you know? If you want to.”

That was all he needed. Whatever resistance he had left crumbled at those words. His hands found your thighs, holding you tightly as if he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. You leaned down to kiss him again, slower this time, your hand never faltering in its rhythm. He moaned into your mouth, every sound he made going straight to your core. You rocked against him gently, your own arousal growing with every twitch of his hips beneath you.

“You feel so good,” he murmured against your lips, his voice shaky with awe.

You smiled, brushing your nose gently against his. “You do too,” you whispered. “You’re perfect, Bob.”

His eyes searched yours like he couldn’t quite believe this was real—like any second he expected to wake up. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing just under his eye, grounding him.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you admitted softly, heart fluttering as the words left your mouth. “Not just this—us.”

Bob swallowed hard, hands still resting on your thighs like he was afraid to grab too tight, afraid he’d break the moment. “Me too. God, me too.”

Your breath caught, and you leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time, lingering—like you had all the time in the world. Your hand still stroked him gently, feeling every twitch, every little reaction as you poured everything into that kiss. Bob let out the softest whine, hips jerking involuntarily into your grip. 

“I wanna feel you. Please, I need—”

You shifted your hips, clothed cunt rubbing against your hand and stimulating his dick. 

“You want me to ride you?”

He nodded frantically, his voice nearly gone. 

“Yes. Yes, please.”

You leaned down again, kissing him slow and deep. Then you shifted your hips back, just enough to push your underwear to the side and line yourself up.You both gasped at the feeling, completely overwhelmed. He filled you perfectly, and you stayed still for a moment, letting the warmth of him settle deep inside you.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bob whispered, his thumbs brushing over your skin like he was memorizing you.

You clenched around him, hips begging to quicken their pace. Bob's hands slid up to your waist, holding on like he might float away otherwise. His hips bucked up to meet yours every time you moved. The desperation was growing inside both of you. You wanted to take it slow, wanted to show Bob just how much you felt for him. But the need for him was stronger than you could control. Bob didn’t seem to mind, blabbering beneath you as you sped up. Your hands found their way to his chest, using him as leverage to lift yourself up before dropping down again. Bob groaned, his hands tightening just slightly on your waist. 

“You’re all I ever think about,” he confessed, eyes squeezed shut like the truth hurt in the best way. “Not just like this. Always.”

The words hit you hard in the chest, and your movements stuttered for just a moment. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw. You were overwhelmed, full to the brim with him—his scent, his voice, his body.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered against his skin. “You’re everything.”

His arms wrapped around you, holding you to him as your bodies moved in tandem. You buried your face in his neck, moaning quietly as each thrust made your core tighten and your breath grow shorter.

You could feel it building—slow and sweet. Not just the orgasm, but everything. The connection, the weight of unspoken feelings, the years of dancing around this. You were both trembling under the intensity.

“I’m close,” you breathed, a little desperate now, your hips moving with more urgency.

“Me too,” Bob gasped, clutching you tighter. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

And you didn’t. You clung to each other like lifelines, chasing the high with trembling hands and whispered names, until it hit—hard and soft at the same time. A release that was more than physical. You came with a cry muffled against his neck, and Bob followed soon after, gasping your name like it was the only thing he knew.

When it was over, you stayed there, pressed together in the quiet, his hands still stroking your back gently, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stayed like that for a long time—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the dark. Neither of you said anything at first, too wrapped up in the moment to break it with words. His hands never stopped moving, slow sweeps down your spine like he was trying to soothe you, ground you, or maybe himself.

Eventually, you stirred, gently lifting yourself off him with a soft hiss. Bob held your hips to steady you, eyes filled with concern.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. 

“Yeah. Just tender.

He gave you a tired, tender smile that melted something deep inside you. You shifted off to the side, reaching for the blanket to pull over both of you. Bob curled closer instinctively, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other tucking beneath his cheek like a sleepy child. You ran your fingers through his hair, watching his eyes flutter shut, a soft hum of contentment leaving his lips.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured against your shoulder

“Me too.”

He smiled against your skin. 

“Good. 'Cause I think I’m in love with you.”

Your heart skipped, breath catching. You pulled back just enough to look at him. 

“You are?”

He nodded, shy but sure. 

“Yeah. I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you.”

You smiled, your chest aching in the most beautiful way. “Then we’re in the same boat.”

Relief washed over his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. He leaned in to kiss you again—slow and deep, with nothing rushed or frenzied. Just warmth. Just certainty.

When you finally pulled apart, you tucked yourself into his side, your fingers laced with his beneath the sheets.

And in the quiet stillness of the room, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the weight of everything finally lifted. You both drifted to sleep.

Maybe you wouldn’t kill Valentina after all. Maybe you’d just tell her to book a room with one bed for you and Bob. For future reference. 

[cup-o-stars]

Relativity Falls!

Design Concepts (and my unnecessary thoughts):

Excuse the the colors, ig my apps are fighting.

I see Mabel finding success no matter what happens to her, but I really like the thought of her running an insane arts and crafts business in GF. Alternatively, if she fell in the portal, she'd come out acting confident as always, but she probably wouldn't realize how much the constant change and lack of family/stability wore her out until she settled back in. In either case, she's a bit cracked.

Dipper is investigative, but cracks easiest under stress and is not as inherently adventurous as Mabel or Ford- so the portal wouldn't treat him well. If he's not the one in the portal, he'd be into stargazing and real magic to share with people, while also warding tourists away from the dangerous stuff. In general, he'd be an unhappy adult if left to his own devices, lol.

Between Dipper and Mabel, I like Dipper being in the portal more. He's a great protagonist, but as a supporting cast member, he needs to be more insane to match the draw that is 'Mabel taking care of children,' ha. I also love the idea of there being no portal / some other looming threat for these two to struggle with (at least because Hirsche has made it clear that Dipper and Mabel are equally smart, and to me it seems like the portal would reopen way quicker with them), but I didn't plan on posting these and I don't know how my followers feel about me posting lore.

Stanford and Stanley:

Pretty much how they are in canon, but now they're in a setting where they can get over themselves, ha. They aren't quite as mature as Dipper and Mabel were at their age, but after coming to GF, they finally found other people to look out for them. Dipper could be a more emotionally available and level-headed role model (I think having people to take care of is calming for him in turn), and they'd both look up to Mabel as the peak of somebody who knows how to socialize.

Fiddleford:

He's a sweet, southern, farm-raised mechanical engineer just like in canon.

Idk why Fiddleford is in GF (visiting an unnamed grandparent?), but I really like his relationship with Ford in the journal. Following that thought, in this AU, he starts out more of Ford's friend than Stan's, and it's kind of a big deal. Unlike Dipper's arc on learning to be a kid, Stan and Ford clearly struggled a lot with interpersonal relationships / finding security outside of eachother, and that's what I think this AU could be about (it's great they realized they need each other in canon, but the part where they had no one else to turn to is also kinda crazy if you ask me).

Ford gets to meet another smart kid in a weird town, which helps him feel more normal. He has a better idea of what friendship is because of it, but also, since I can't imagine Dipper wanting an apprentice so young/vulnerable/impressionable or Mabel asking only one of the twins to stay- he'd have to come to terms with the fact that he can't live in his dream world forever. (Or maybe the apprenticeship comes from somewhere else, just because the conflict around going back to Glass Shard Beach at all, or sending Stan alone could be pretty good.)

On the flipside, I think Stan's initial jealousy of Ford and Fiddleford's friendship would force him to try finding his own friends / hobbies. I like the idea that he fails at first- and a lot- but Mabel notices his mounting frustration (which he is very keen on hiding), and her consistent and unorthodox support makes him realize he wasn't alone to begin with. He can be more open around her, which makes it easier to open up to others, and then he can make friends without having to pull any tricks. He probably starts with some animals, and then at least gets closer to Fiddleford anyways (I feel like they're both more practical than Ford and value human company more, so they'd bond easier once Stan gets over his personal hurdle).

Anyways- because that was way too much- Mabel's exes are a constant source of antagonists and Dipper is stressed about setting a good example.

(I was more of a Monster Falls fan back in the day, but I can't draw animals, lol)